“Maybe it will,” I said, somewhat skeptically. I remembered Prinz Karl’s tale about his drunken English Channel crossing—evidently a full load of drink hadn’t prevented him from feeling the effects of the waves and weather. “I’ll let you try the experiment and tell me the results.” I winked at him.
“Have no fear,” said Johnny Dewitt, grinning. “If he can spare a sip or two for a fellow Christian in need, I’ll try to duplicate the experiment.” He laughed; then his expression changed as he looked over my shoulder and said, “Oh, hell—here comes that bothersome fellow again!”
“Which bothersome fellow?” I asked apprehensively; my friends’ expressions were unreadable.
But before they could answer, a firm hand landed on my shoulder and a voice bellowed: “Now, haven’t I told you imps to stay in your own part of the ship? You’re paying for steerage and nothing more, and I’ll be blasted if I let you walk all over the ship as if you owned it. Back down below decks with you, now!”
I turned to see a little dark-bearded man in a ship’s uniform glaring up at me. I vaguely remembered seeing him the previous day when Prinz Karl and Robert Babson had squabbled about which of them would board the ship first. I stood perhaps eight inches taller than he, but there was something about him that suggested he would not be afraid to take on a bigger man in a test of strength.
“Excuse me, sir, but I am a first-class passenger,” I said. “These fellows are my friends. They certainly weren’t causing any disturbance . . .”
“Sure, and did I ask for any of your mouth?” he said. The hand gripping my shoulder was remarkably strong. “I’ve seen the three of you together before, and I know your tricks and dodges better than your own mothers do. You conniving college boys think you can pay for steerage and then sneak upstairs to socialize with the quality. Well, you’ll not put anything over on Patrick Gallagher, I’ll have you know.”
“Easy, now, old fellow,” Bertie began, but Gallagher cut him off.
“You want easy? I’ll tell you easy. Easy would be if all the passengers stayed on their own deck. Every damned crossing there’s somebody who tries to play fast and loose with the regulations—slick-talking rabble trying to make love to the women in steerage, or crooked gamblers trying to get the crew into card games, or smart alecks like you three who don’t know their proper place. Back down below with you, before I kick the three of you downstairs all by myself!”
Small as he was, I had very little doubt that he could do as he threatened; in any case, I was reluctant to put him to the test. Johnny and Bertie hurried for the nearest stairway down, and I went with them—I’m sure my expression was every bit as sheepish as theirs. Gallagher followed close behind us, making certain we didn’t dodge back up to the first-class decks. Then, when we were well away from first-class passengers who might be disturbed, he gave us a profanity-laden description of exactly what lay in store for us if he found us out of our proper place again.
I tried to interrupt. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gallagher, but I really am traveling in first class. I am Mr. Samuel Clemens’s secretary. I have to meet my employer in the smoking lounge. . .”
“Aye, and I’m going directly there myself to borrow a pinch of snuff from the bloody Duke of York,” the crewman growled. He reached up and grabbed me by the lapels and pulled my face down close to his, barking out, “If you fast-talking college boys think you can outsmart me, you’re in for a rude awakening. I’ll tell you one last time, if I see hide nor hair of you three above this deck again, I’ll lock your arses in the brig and feed you nothing but bread and water for the rest of the way across. And that goes double for anybody I find trying to bribe my crewmen. That’s your last warning.”
Gallagher let go my lapels, turned on his heel, and stalked off to a stairway leading up to the region we had just left. Partway up the stair, he turned and favored us with one final glare, and from his expression I had little doubt that he would not hesitate to carry out his threats. While I knew that Mr. Clemens would promptly get me out of the brig should I end up there, I had no desire to be locked up even briefly. And I had begun to understand exactly how it felt to be accused of being an impostor. Of course, in my case the accusation was unjust. Inevitably, I wondered whether the same was true of Prinz Karl von Ruckgarten.
11
“Well, that’s a nuisance,” said Johnny DeWitt, after Mr. Gallagher had left us. “There’s a young lady I know on board—she’s from Smith College. I saw her with her family on the dock, yesterday before we boarded, and I thought it would be fun to look her up again. It’ll be a rotten bore if we have to stay down here the whole journey.”
“Oh, don’t let that ignorant little lout spoil all the fun,” said Bertie Parsons. “Give him twenty minutes, and he’ll be off somewhere splicing rope or whatever it is these fellows do aboard ship, and forget all about us. Then we’ll stroll back upstairs, and get Cabot to his meeting, and you can look up your Smith girl. Perhaps she’ll have a friend along.”
We passed the next half-hour in catching up on the news of our old Yale friends, then sneaked up a different stairway to the first-class decks. Every step of the way, I had to fight the impulse to keep looking over my shoulder to see if Gallagher was following us, but we reached the cabin deck unchallenged by any of the crew. By my watch, it was time for me to join Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling in the smoking lounge, and so my friends and I congratulated ourselves on giving Gallagher the slip, and went our separate ways.
I walked into the lounge, with an involuntary wince as I nearly collided with a man in uniform—but it was merely a harried-looking waiter, taking out a tray of empty glasses. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said deferentially, and held the door as I went through. I nodded to him and stepped inside, looking for my employer. A burst of laughter revealed his presence at the center of a group of passengers, undoubtedly regaling them with one or another of his preposterous stories.
I moved quickly to join the group, perhaps still worried that Mr. Gallagher would appear and challenge my right to mingle with the first-class passengers. Too quickly: Before I was aware of any obstacle, I had collided with another passenger, knocking him off balance and jostling a glass of wine he was carrying. I grabbed his shoulder to steady him, and for the first time I caught a look at the fellow. It was Robert Babson.
“I’m sorry . . .” I began.
“You clumsy ape, why don’t you watch where you’re going? You’ve spilled wine all over my trousers,” Babson said, his eyes narrowed. It was true; the red wine had spattered the leg of his trousers; almost as much had landed on the cuffs of mine, as well. I was uncomfortably aware that the conversation had stopped, and everyone in the lounge was looking at me and Babson.
“I am very sorry,” I said again. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention. Here, let me buy you another glass of wine.” I reached for my wallet.
“I’ve a good mind to teach you proper manners,” said Babson, not at all appeased. He set the wineglass down on a nearby table and turned to face me, hands on hips. “I know who you are, and I’m surprised they let the likes of you in a private lounge with your betters. You don’t see any other servants here, do you?”
“Mr. Babson, I will excuse your last remark on account of your ignorance of the facts,” I said, as coolly as I could manage. “I have no desire to offend you. If you will remember, I offered to replace the drink I spilled. Will you accept that, with my sincere apologies?”
“Damn you, will you call me ignorant?” he said, his face turning bright red. “I’ve a good mind to call you outside and give you a thrashing despite your size.” He raised his fist, and I feared he was about to try to strike me. I had no doubt I could defend myself, but I thought it stupid to allow such a trivial matter to lead to blows.
“Robert, that’ll be enough!” It was Mr. Babson senior. He strode over to us, interposing a shoulder between me and his son, his back to me. “It is not your place to question Mr. Clemens’s reasons for asking his secretar
y to attend him here. And it does you no credit to issue challenges to another gentleman’s retainers. He has tried to apologize, and what’s more he has offered to replace the drink he spilled. I am sure Mr. Clemens will stand behind the offer.”
Robert Babson glared at me, then looked away and shrugged. “Oh, very well, Father. I suppose the fellow’s not worth losing my temper over. Besides, I need to change my trousers before lunch. Excuse me.” He walked past me as if I had ceased to exist, and left the lounge. Around me, I heard the buzz of conversation begin again.
“I am sorry, Mr. Babson,” I said, but the lawyer had already turned away. I was left with no other choice but to continue on my way to join Mr. Clemens, who had risen to his feet when the disturbance began but was evidently satisfied that it would not require his intervention.
“Damnation, Wentworth, I thought you were going to get into another duel for a minute there,” he said as I joined him and Mr. Kipling. “Have a seat. I reckon you ought to have a drink to settle you down.” I am not in the habit of imbibing before noon, but for once I decided to take him up on his offer.
Mr. Clemens ordered me a whisky and soda, then asked the group of onlookers to excuse us, since we had business to discuss, and they were quick to take the hint. While we were waiting for my drink to arrive, we compared the results of our search for Prinz Karl. Neither Mr. Clemens nor Mr. Kipling had had any more success than I in finding him. Either he was in his cabin, or he was somewhere else we didn’t think to look. When I told Mr. Clemens of my encounter with Mr. Gallagher, and my Yale friends in steerage, he laughed. “If I’d known you Yale men were so unwelcome in polite company, I’d have hired a couple more of you. Remind me to send a bottle of champagne down to those poor rascals, so they don’t have to suffer the whole way over.”
“Well, they already have a bottle of rye whisky,” I told him. “My friend Bertie claims it’s for seasickness.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Clemens. “Snakebite’s the usual justification, though it’s uncommon in mid-ocean. Still, in my opinion you can never be too careful about such things. Has it worked so far?”
“Bertie seems well enough,” I said, “but Tom DeWitt has had a bit of seasickness, poor fellow.”
“He won’t be the only one aboard, if I know the sea,” said Mr. Kipling. “I spoke to Mr. Leslie, the purser, and he thinks we’re in for a real blow by tonight.”
“Well, then, this fellow’s brought Wentworth’s medicine just in time,” said Mr. Clemens, as the waiter arrived with my whisky and soda. He glanced at his watch. “Drink up, boys. It’s almost time for lunch. I reckon we’ll need a good meal as well as a stiff drink under our belts when we put the prince to the inquisition.”
As we had expected, Prinz Karl made his appearance for lunch at the usual time. Mr. Clemens went over to his table and quietly made the appointment to speak with him in our cabin afterwards; I saw the prince nod in agreement. Knowing we would need our wits about us for the delicate task of questioning the prince without giving offense should his credentials turn out to be genuine, I limited myself to a single glass of wine at lunch, and I noticed that Mr. Kipling did the same.
Robert Babson arrived several minutes late, wearing clean trousers, and shot a menacing look in my direction as he took his seat. That did not especially disturb me; I had apologized for my clumsiness, and his refusal to accept it in good faith reflected on him, rather than on me. What did bother me was that he promptly began grousing about the incident to his tablemates. I did not hear his exact words, but the general thrust of what he was saying was abundantly clear when several of them—including (to my distress) his sister Rebecca—turned to look in my direction. Well, perhaps I would have an opportunity to explain myself to her.
Despite my annoyance at being the object of Babson’s slander, luncheon passed quickly and pleasantly. During the meal announcement was made of various activities and entertainments planned for the afternoon and evening. These included a band concert on the open deck, a tug of war, a shuffleboard tournament, a lecture on art by Signor Rubbia, and (to my puzzlement) horse racing on the foredeck. I had not seen any horses being brought on board, and I was almost certain that there was no place on the deck with sufficient room for even one horse to run freely. But when I asked my tablemates about it, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Kipling laughed, and told me I would have to find out for myself. My curiosity was piqued, and I promised myself that I would do exactly that.
Also, Mr. Leslie, the purser, announced the winner and runner-up in the “mileage pool” for the previous day. This was a bet on the distance the ship would cover in a given time. The City of Baltimore was hardly a competitor for the Blue Riband, the prize for the quickest Atlantic crossing, currently held by the Cunard liner Campania. Still, our ship could put on a respectable turn of speed: She had managed over 260 miles in her first “day,” at a speed in excess of eighteen knots. Mr. Leslie encouraged interested passengers to place their wagers with him immediately after the meal, when the betting on today’s run would be closing. To judge by the excited babble of conversation that followed his announcement, there was considerable interest in the pool among the seasoned travelers in our midst.
But the meal was soon over. As Mr. Kipling rose from the table, he said, “I’ll just take Carrie back to our cabin, and I’ll see you and Clemens directly after.”
“Very well,” I said, and turned to make my way back to Mr. Clemens’s cabin, already thinking whether I might be able to contribute anything useful to the task ahead, or whether to let the two older and presumably wiser men ask the question, and confine my role to careful listening.
I had gone only a few steps when a light hand fell on my elbow, and a quiet voice said, “Excuse me, Mr. Cabot.” I turned to see Rebecca Babson standing by my side.
“Good afternoon, Miss Babson,” I said, somewhat apprehensively. If her brother had sufficiently exaggerated his story of my bumping into him and spilling his wine, she might have arrived at a low opinion of me. But then, why would she have sought me out?
She looked up at me with concern on her face, and said, “I think you should know that my brother has been painting a very unflattering picture of you.” She nodded in the direction of the doorway, where I could see Robert Babson’s back as he filed out with the rest of the lunch-time crowd.
“I feared as much,” I said. “I realize that we are barely acquainted, but I hope you will credit me with better behavior than I suspect he has ascribed to me.”
“Some of our friends are ready to believe him, but I know Bobby too well,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. “Alan Mercer, Tess’s brother, said that you tried to apologize, and I believe him, although Bobby claimed it was insufficient.”
“I did try to apologize,” I said. “It was an unfortunate accident, and I’m sorry to have caused it. I hope he doesn’t hold it against me.” In fact, it little mattered to me whether Robert Babson held it against me, as long as his sister was willing to be reasonable.
“I’m afraid my brother does not easily forget what he perceives as slights or injuries, Mr. Cabot,” she said. She glanced around, as if to make certain no one was listening, then continued. “From what Bobby was saying at the table, I think he might try to play some sort of prank on you by way of revenge. I tried to dissuade him from going through with it, although he did not pay me much attention. If I learn what he plans, I will warn you. For now, at least I can tell you to be on your guard.”
“Thank you for the warning,” I said. “I appreciate it. If something happens, I shall do my best to ignore it. The ship is too small to make an enemy over spilled wine, and in any case I should hope not to make an enemy of someone to whom you are closely related.” I gave her my best smile.
“Why, Mr. Cabot,” she said, blushing slightly. “I shall take that as a compliment, though I don’t think I have done anything beyond returning your favor this morning, when you helped me in the library. But I should not stay here any longer. Bobby wi
ll certainly not tell me anything he plans if he learns that I have been talking to you. Take care, Mr. Cabot.”
“Thank you again, Miss Babson,” I said. She gave a little curtsy and turned away. I watched her go for a moment, then looked around the room and realized that both Prinz Karl and Mr. Clemens had already left their tables, and so I hastened my steps in the direction of our cabin.
I had gone only a short distance down the passageway when a trio of uniformed men emerged from a side corridor ahead of me: Mr. Gallagher and two burly crew members. Gallagher saw me at once, and pointed directly at me, crying out: “There’s the scurvy rascal—get him, lads!”
The two sailors began moving purposefully toward me. There were several other passengers between us, looking around in puzzlement at Gallagher’s shout. Understandably, the crewmen were reluctant to charge forcefully through a crowd of well-dressed gentlemen and ladies to apprehend me, so I had a moment to decide whether to stand my ground or try to escape and go to Mr. Clemens’s cabin by an indirect route. I glanced behind me, only to see the passageway blocked by an elderly couple, the woman leaning heavily on her husband’s arm as they made their slow progress toward me. At the noise, the couple had come to an uncertain halt, and I suddenly realized that the wife was blind. To run in that direction would be to risk knocking her down. I turned to face Gallagher and his crewmen.
The seamen grabbed me roughly, and I was uncomfortably aware of the passengers in the corridor staring at me. Gallagher swaggered up to look me in the face. “Well, some fellows never learn their lesson,” he said smugly. “Your partners gave us the slip, but that’s all right. We’ll make you an example, and maybe that’ll teach them to stay in their place.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 11
