“If I thought there was any money in it, I might,” said my employer, leaning back in his chair. “But I haven’t gotten a nickel for my detecting, and I reckon I won’t anytime soon. As far as the glory, I can do without it. There’s only so much excitement a man my age can take. Maybe a young rascal like Cabot can enjoy fistfights and getting thrown in jail, but I’d just as soon save my energy for something a little less strenuous. Smoking cigars, for example.”
Finally, we were ready to return to our hotel. And while the restaurant owner had undoubtedly been pleased to see us ordering up his best brandy, and keeping other diners buying food and drink while they stayed to listen to Mr. Clemens, it was clear he was ready to close his doors for the evening. But when we came to the front of the restaurant, we discovered several of the other patrons huddled in the entryway, peering anxiously into the street. The reason was not far to seek: Rain was falling in sheets, and a flash of lightning threw the empty streets into stark relief. “We’ll never find a cab in this weather,” said Mr. Clemens. “Anyone with a lick of sense is going to be indoors. We’ll have to wait it out.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Kipling. “And we’ll have to wait our turn after these people already here. If I know the signs, this storm won’t let up any time soon.”
Even as he finished speaking, a stylish double brougham—clearly someone’s private conveyance—stopped in front of the restaurant, pulled by a nicely matched span of bays. The driver, dressed in oilskins against the weather, leapt down from the seat, holding a large umbrella for his passengers, a prosperous-looking middle-aged couple who were standing in the doorway just in front of us. “It’s too bad that one’s not for hire,” said Mr. Clemens. “There’d be room for all four of us, and we’d be at the hotel in five minutes.”
“Five minutes?” The gentleman had begun to step forward toward his coach, but now he turned to look at us. “Why, I think I can solve your problem. Louise, would you be willing to wait ten minutes while Roger takes Mr. Clemens and his party to their hotel?”
“I could hardly object, seeing as how he’s been so kind as to provide our evening’s entertainment,” said the lady, smiling at my employer. She wore a fox coat and matching cap; the head of one of the animals peered over her shoulder, glassy-eyed.
“Well, that’s settled, then,” said the gentleman. “Roger, take Mr. Clemens and his friends wherever they’re going, and then come straight back for me and Mrs. Babson.”
“I hardly expected this, but I’m mighty pleased,” said Mr. Clemens, extending his right hand. “You have my hearty thanks, Mr. . . . ?”
“Julius Babson, of Philadelphia,” said the gentleman, shaking Mr. Clemens’s hand. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, and his silk top hat made him appear even taller. “The pleasure is all mine, believe me.”
“Well, if I can return the favor in any way, be sure to let me know,” said my employer. “Much obliged, Mr. Babson.” With the driver holding an umbrella for us, we thanked our benefactor and hurried into the coach. We managed to get back to our hotel without getting more than a little damp. Not for the first time, I reflected on the benefits of having a well-loved celebrity for my employer, and decided that I had made the right choice of career, after all.
3
The next few days passed rapidly. Mr. Clemens was finishing a magazine article about our journey down the Mississippi, and I was kept busy running errands connected with our upcoming sea voyage. I had never had a passport, and I spent more time than I would have thought possible at a government office, filling out forms and waiting. Luckily, Mr. Clemens had a few acquaintances he could call on to expedite matters, and I eventually had my papers well before our sailing date. Meanwhile, I was responsible for getting our baggage to the ship before sailing, for arranging mail forwarding, and for finding accommodations at the other end of our voyage. My experience as Mr. Clemens’s secretary on our Mississippi tour stood me well, but there were whole new dimensions called up by international travel. I was greatly relieved when we finally found ourselves on the dock at Pier 43, ready to board the City of Baltimore en route to Southampton, England.
You could easily have persuaded me that the entire population of New York City had taken a holiday to come down to the docks that morning. The crowd was so thick that one could barely breathe, and little mountains of luggage spaced about the pier made free movement for more than a few steps in any direction an impossibility. Every few minutes another cart or cab would pull up and discharge more passengers and luggage, with their retinues of porters and servants, all of whom crowded forward in the deluded expectation that they would be allowed to board the boat the instant they arrived. And without exception, when they learned they would be required to wait their turn, they began to complain bitterly—whether anyone would listen or not.
Mr. Clemens, an experienced traveler, turned a weary eye upon the scene. “It never fails, Wentworth,” he said. “They’ve had two or three days to get this ship ready to leave, and they still aren’t ready to let anybody on board. And when they finally do start letting us on, half the damn-fool passengers will charge the gangplank as if they were staking out mining claims, instead of going to cabins they’ve already reserved. We’ll be lucky if nobody gets drowned. Any man with a lick of sense would find a quiet place to sit, so he won’t get knocked down and stepped on. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
I followed him to a corner of the dock, somewhat out of the press, where he sat down on a wooden box and began loading his corncob pipe. From here we had a fine view of the ship, and I realized just how large she was. While City of Baltimore was not the American Line’s largest or fastest ship (City of New York and City of Paris shared those distinctions), she measured close to five hundred feet long. And, as I knew from the steamship line’s advertisements, she could comfortably house over a thousand souls, counting passengers and crew, for the week-long Atlantic crossing.
But I was more surprised to find that a machine—for that is all a giant ocean liner really is—could appear so graceful. Having grown up by a seaport, I had been around ships and boats all my life, from the humblest of fishing dories to the blue-blooded racing yachts that used to come down from Newport in the summer, not to forget the ferryboats and freighters plying New London Harbor. I had seen a different style of nautical design out on the Mississippi, where the riverboat builders had outdone one another in the search for baroque splendor. But nothing had quite prepared me for the sleek elegance of City of Baltimore. For size, power and pure geometrical beauty, she outdid anything I had ever seen. (I later learned that she was considered a mere drudge in comparison to her sister ship, City of Rome.)
In contrast, the crowd gathering to board her seemed to be made up of tiny, unruly beings, scrambling about between their piles of luggage, pushing and shoving and bawling in an amazingly heterogenous mixture of languages. On the face of it, one could hardly credit that the great ship had been designed and built by such creatures, and existed only for their convenience in crossing the ocean. And yet, for the most part this was the cream of our American society, captains of industry and leading professional men (with their families and servants) on their way to visit the Old World, whether for enjoyment or for trade and profit. Relatively few passengers were likely to travel in steerage on an eastward crossing—the Land of Opportunity lay on this side of the Atlantic.
As often when looking at a large crowd, I began to wonder whether anyone I knew might be among the group. I would not have been surprised to find some of my schoolfellows along the dock. In fact, the crowd included a fair number of young men and women of about my age, and I began to reflect with some pleasure on the prospect of having agreeable companionship for the voyage. While Mr. Clemens’s company was by no means onerous, one shares a certain bond with others of one’s own age and class. It struck me that my mother would be much mollified to learn that, despite my having betrayed her hopes of a respectable career, I would at least be traveling with exactly the sort of
person she most approved of.
Then my eye lit on a familiar face—and not one I was pleased to see. Not fifteen feet away, wearing a dramatic cape and scowling through a monocle, stood Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten, who had made such a nuisance of himself during my previous visit to the docks. Evidently he had decided to travel on City of Baltimore after all. Most likely, he would be on the same first-class deck as Mr. Clemens and I. Well, with any luck, he would leave us alone, and we could make the crossing without any unpleasant encounters with this particular fellow traveler.
But as the prince swept his gaze over the crowd, he turned to look in our direction, and to my dismay, his eye fell on Mr. Clemens and his face lit up in a smile. As he stepped in our direction, I bent over and whispered to my employer, “Be careful with this fellow—I’m afraid he’s going to be difficult.” But Mr. Clemens merely nodded and held his ground, puffing on the corncob pipe.
“Meinherr Mark Twain!” said the prince, stopping in front of us and making a little half-bow. “I am Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten, at your service. Am I correct in assuming we are to have the honor of your presence on the crossing to England?”
“I’m not sure how much honor there’ll be to it,” said Mr. Clemens, raising his bushy white eyebrows. “According to the New York papers, I’m a failure in business, and according to the Boston press, I’m a corrupter of American youth. I haven’t read the reports from New Orleans, but after my last visit I wouldn’t be surprised if they listed me as an enemy of polite society. I’ll be on board the Baltimore, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The prince threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh, much to my surprise—I wouldn’t have expected him to have the least sense of humor. “Oho, Herr Twain!” he said, still chuckling. “You are every bit as amusing as I could have asked. I am very much pleased to know you will be one of the company. I had feared the voyage would be ever so tedious, but now I know otherwise.” His countenance was measurably less obnoxious with a smile upon it. Perhaps the fellow’s display of temper at the ticket office had been an aberration. If he were this jovial most of the time, he might not be such bad company after all.
“Well, I hope I don’t disappoint you,” said my employer. “I don’t plan to exert myself any. I’ll have to spend a lot of time in my cabin, finishing up a book. Other than that, I’ll do as little as I can get away with. I’ve just come off a long lecture tour, and I plan to take it easy.” Even so, I could see from Mr. Clemens’s smile that the man’s flattery had hit its target.
“An excellent plan,” said the German, nodding. “With your permission, I will see that a bottle of the best champagne on board is sent to your cabin, so you can begin your voyage in a proper state of relaxation. Please call me Karl—all the men in my family are named Heinrich, so the second name I use with friends, so to avoid confusion. Oho, I do look forward to our ocean voyage, Mark Twain.” He gave another of his little bows, spun on his heel, and strode off purposively in the direction of the ship.
Mr. Clemens looked after him with a surprised expression for a moment, then said, “Well, that fellow may be a bit stiff, but he introduces himself graciously enough, and doesn’t intrude or linger. I doubt he’s going to be as difficult as you say, Wentworth. Nothing like a taste of champagne to start off an ocean voyage, especially when somebody else pays for it!”
“I suppose you’re right,” I replied. But privately, I wondered what Prinz Karl might want in return for his generosity.
At last City of Baltimore blew her whistle, signaling that it was time for boarding. As my employer had predicted, there was a great rush among the throng lining the dock, with everyone shouting and trying to push forward at once. I was ready to grab my bag and make my way forward, until Mr. Clemens said, “Feel free to join in the riot, if you want. You can get a black eye or a broken nose as easily here as on the football field, so maybe you’ll enjoy it. I used to get up and scuffle with the best of ’em, but I’m too old for that kind of entertainment.”
Somewhat reluctantly, I sat back down. While I could understand his disinclination to shove his way through a large crowd, I had no reason to believe it would be any thinner if we waited to board. At least I’d had the foresight to send our heavy trunks ahead, to be loaded by the crew, so we each had only a small carpetbag to carry. Even so, I didn’t fancy the notion of struggling aboard in the middle of a last-minute rush.
But it only took twenty minutes for the crowding to subside, and then Mr. Clemens knocked out his pipe and said, “Well, I reckon we can get on the boat, now.” I had to admit that he had gauged the situation exactly.
We took our carpetbags and walked toward the gangplank, actually a long stairway leading from the pier to a large door well up the side of the ship. But even before we got there, I could see there was some sort of trouble in the boarding area. At the foot of the gangplank I could hear raised voices. I knew the signs of an argument when I saw them, and as I might well have expected, Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten was right in the middle of it. I was surprised to see another familiar face: Mr. Julius Babson, the man who had so graciously lent us his coach a few days ago in the rainstorm.
Prinz Karl was standing chest to chest with a young man about my own age, who was dressed in the sort of casual elegance that bespoke considerable affluence. Even as we drew close, Prinz Karl shook his fist and shouted, “I will not give way to persons of no merit or importance. Have the courtesy to stand aside and let a gentleman board, and you will have your turn.”
The young man did not back down. “We were here first, I’ll have you know,” he said. “First come, first served, is the rule in this country. If you won’t stand back, I’ll push you back.”
“Robert, please,” said Mrs. Babson, who stood next to her husband, a nervous look on her face. Mr. Babson stood stiffly, looking down his nose in the general direction of the prince. From their attitudes, it was easy to guess that young Robert must be their son, and his next words confirmed it.
“Don’t worry, Mother,” he said. “This pompous tub of lard may be used to cowing the peasants back home, but if he hasn’t learned not to tread on an American’s toes, it’s time somebody taught him the lesson.” Young Babson turned back to the prince. “Stand aside, mister. This is the last chance I’m giving you.”
I was convinced the two men were about to exchange blows, and wondering whether I ought to intervene to keep the peace—although experience had taught me that the man who steps between two others determined to fight often takes a harder blow than either. I had no reason to take either man’s side. I took one step forward, holding out my hand to keep Mr. Clemens from straying too close to the altercation. For myself, I intended to stay clear, but I was ready to do whatever became necessary.
I was saved from any such necessity by an authoritative voice from the deck above. “Ahoy! We’ll have none of that. Both you men, step off the gangplank and let the other passengers board.” The speaker was a tall, bearded man, in a blue uniform covered with gold braid: one of the ship’s officers, I decided. When neither Prinz Karl nor young Babson gave a sign of moving, the officer frowned and said, “Mr. Gallagher, will you please clear the gangplank!”
A wiry fellow with a weather-beaten face and a short-trimmed black beard stepped out of the ship and onto the gangplank. He was not much more than five foot six, and cocky as a bantam rooster in his uniform, though it was far plainer than the officer’s. Behind him were two burly seamen, neither of whom I would have been pleased to see across the line from me on a football field. They stepped down the gangplank in a purposeful manner, with that curious sway in their step that is the hallmark of a sailor. “You heard the captain,” said Gallagher, conveying a clear sense of menace without particularly raising his voice. “Step aside, now.”
Prinz Karl looked as if he might be ready to contest this order, but a look at the crewmen changed his mind. He stepped backward off the gangplank, still holding himself arrogantly erect. Young Babson stood
his ground a moment longer, looking at the three men calmly advancing toward him. “Come on, lad, we don’t want any trouble,” said Gallagher, with a half-smile that suggested that while he mightn’t want trouble, he was fully prepared to deal with it.
Then Mrs. Babson said, “Robert! Come here this instant!” Her husband had been supervising two servants collecting their luggage; now he strode back to the gangplank and spoke in the tone of one used to being obeyed: “Robert, this is absurd. Come down and help your mother board the ship.” Looking somewhat peeved, the young fellow backed down, going to his mother’s side. His expression bespoke resentment, but the confrontation was over. Mr. Gallagher looked around, spotted Mr. Clemens, and smiled. “Here, I know that face,” he said. “You’re Mark Twain, aren’t you? No reason for you to wait here. Come aboard, and I’ll sort the rest of this out.”
And so we strolled up the gangplank onto the City of Baltimore, leaving Gallagher and his crewmen to resolve the question of precedence between Prinz Karl and the Babsons. I was just as glad to leave it in his hands; I’d had more than my share of fights and confrontations during my brief employment with Mr. Clemens, and had no interest in any more. For now, all I cared for was to find our cabin and pursue the exact same course of action as Mr. Clemens had planned for the voyage: sit on the deck, relax, and do as little as possible.
4
A businesslike man wearing an officer’s uniform and carrying a clipboard met us at the top of the gangplank. He introduced himself as Mr. Leslie, the ship’s purser. After a quick but thorough inspection of our tickets and passports he detailed a steward to lead Mr. Clemens and me to our cabin.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 3