If you’ve read my novel Sheltering Angel, you’ve met Andrew Cunningham, first-class steward aboard Titanic. Writing the novel, I cut sections to shorten the word count, because the scene didn’t support the plot of the story, and sometimes, as with the following outtake, because the episode is entirely made up. With historical fiction, imagination plays a role, but it’s important to stick close enough to the facts that the book doesn’t get trashed by critics for being outside the realm of possibility.

The scene with Andrew and J. Pierpont Morgan below takes place on Oceanic, where Andrew was a steward before signing on with Titanic. Morgan, one of the wealthiest men in the world, owned White Star Line, which produced both ships, and he was known to have sailed on Oceanic several times. It’s true that Oceanic had masts to be used in case of engine failure. It’s also true that the ship encountered a severe storm during which the top of a mast was struck by lightning and fell to the deck. Whether Morgan was on the deck during the storm is unknown, but other details about him come directly from research.

Please leave a comment to let me know your reaction to “Pierpont—1907.” Sheltering Angel is available from online booksellers.

Pierpont ~ 1907

Outside the porthole, I could see the horizon sparking with light. The lightning was too far away to hear its thunder, but if the storm bore down on the Oceanic, we’d be in for it.

When J. Pierpont Morgan’s bell rang, I knocked softly on his stateroom door. Murmuring came from inside the chamber, but I couldn’t make out the words. Snapping my heels together, I tugged at my jacket. I was required to have three uniforms, a dark coat and two white jackets for serving in the saloon, one to wear while the other was being cleaned. I had to keep them starched and pressed, not a drop of duck fat from the foie gras or a molecule of Bordeaux splashed on a lapel. I had earned nothing less than “very good” on my reports and made sure that Sid toed the line as well. There were complaints about some of the other stewards, but my own record was as spotless as my uniform and I intended to keep it that way.

When the door opened, I straightened myself. In his vest and shirtsleeves, Mr. Morgan looked like an ordinary man, not one of the richest in the world. Spectacles hung on a gold chain around his neck. At his age he probably needed them for reading. My father never wore glasses, not even when he did fine finish work. Morgan was bulkier than Da, too. The padding of privilege.

The older man stared at me, his lips drawn down under his thick mustache.

“Who is it, Pierpont?” a woman’s voice.

“The steward I rang for.”

Pierpont, was it? Stewards had pet names for some of the passengers. From that moment, Mr. Morgan would be Pierpont when we talked in the stewards’ lounge.

Pierpont’s mistress was assigned to a separate first-class cabin. I had seen the tycoon slip out of his own cabin and saunter down the hallway to hers where he would stay for an hour, sometimes less. I serviced the staterooms while the passengers were at meals, and twice Pierpont had left an article of clothing in his mistress’s chamber—a cravat and a bowler. Discreetly I had returned the items to the room he occupied with his wife.

The tycoon stood staring me up and down, appraising me. I had dotted every i and crossed every t to be sure I passed inspection.

“May I be of service, Mr. Morgan?”

Behind Pierpont, I could see the mahogany wainscoting and red wool rug. His stateroom was one of the best on the ship with velvet privacy curtains around the bed, silk coverlets, and chairs upholstered in brocade fabrics—the sort of excess a Croesus like Pierpont deemed necessities. From years of waiting on the rich, I had learned the weight of extravagance. The French overfed their geese to produce those fatty livers so prized at the best tables, but that did not make for happy birds. The secret to happiness, I’d decided, was being content with what one has.

“I’m going to stretch my legs on the upper deck in case there are any messages,” Pierpont said.

I forced myself to keep a neutral expression. “Stretch his legs” usually meant a visit to his mistress, but Pierpont had returned from the paramour not long ago. I suspected the young lady was sleeping. The steamer rocked gently, and she must have felt like a baby in a cradle. If I could only rest so well. I managed a few winks at odd times, falling asleep suddenly, as one falls off a precipice. At other times I tossed from fatigue or had nightmares of sea wrecks and drowning.

A steward was trained always to be respectful, but I remembered to look the passengers in the eyes, even a man like John Pierpont Morgan. A corporate financier, he controlled over twenty-two billion dollars in cash and investments. The newspapers reported that Pierpont had offered a gold bond to the U.S. government to end the depression and had bailed New York City out of financial troubles. If it could be bought, there was nothing Pierpont Morgan couldn’t buy.

I steeled myself for the courage to say what I was about to utter.

“Wind’s picking up, sir. December’s weather can be unpredictable.” I stopped short of accusing him of using bad judgment in wishing to walk around the top deck. But if he went overboard, I would feel a twinge of guilt for not cautioning the millionaire.

“You will accompany me, then.” Pierpont was a walrus of a man and although I was on call to answer bells, the business tycoon would not be denied. My fellow steward Sid Siebert could tend to the others.

“I will be glad to go with you, Mr. Morgan,” I said.

Pierpont went back into his stateroom, took his overcoat and bowler from a chair, and picked up the silver-tipped cane he carried. I heard him say to his wife, “I won’t be long, Fanny.” Then he stepped into the alleyway.

“Cunningham’s your name, isn’t it?” Pierpont said.

“Yes, sir—Andrew.” Too familiar—try again. “Andrew Cunningham.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Cunningham. If you marry for physical gratification, the marriage will fail. If you marry for love, the marriage will last considerably longer.”

In spite of the situation we had gotten ourselves into, Emily and I had loved each other when we married. Since then, my love for her had grown even stronger. I was sure she felt the same.

I glanced toward Pierpont, a step ahead of me. All I could see of his profile was his large, deformed nose.

“If you marry at all,” he said, “stay married for money.”

“I am married, sir,” I ventured.

“Good for you, young man. I hope your wife has the means to support herself. Better that way.”

 “We manage, sir.” I wondered if Pierpont’s mistress supported herself. The tycoon glanced at her cabin as we passed by.

“Women are like drink,” he said. “A man needs a small glass of orange juice in the morning, a tall beer with his lunch, a double martini before supper, and a quick nightcap. Otherwise, women, even fetching ones, should be contained and tightly capped behind closed doors.” He turned his head toward me and winked. According to reports, Pierpont was a church-going Episcopalian and kept himself honorable in his business life. On the matter of young women, however, his baser impulses took charge. At least Pierpont had a generous heart when it came to his paramours, indicated by the expensive accessories spilling out of the current mistress’s trunk.

I followed the millionaire into the smoking room, its two domes looking down on me like great irises. Classic paintings depicting the life of Columbus overlooked velvet settees facing each other in the center of the room.

From the smoking room, we wandered into the library, and I slowed down at the gracefully curved alcove scrolled with gilt borders. The dark wood tables and bookcases lighted with electric lamps gave the room a peaceful feeling. This was my favorite area on the ship. Over my months in service, I had read most of the books on the shelves.

“Ismay, the founder of this line of ships, is a man of vision, Mr. Cunningham.” Pierpont glanced up at the high glass dome spilling evening light onto the wool carpet. “His steamers make a good profit running mail between Europe and New York. He charges an impressive fee for first class travel, but it is well worth the price. I almost wish the voyage were a bit longer.”

I tilted my head to show I was listening. “Speed is one of the ship’s attributes,” I offered, trying not to sound contradictory. As far as I was concerned, the shorter the trip, the better.

When we reached the grand staircase, Pierpont twisted his chin my way.

“Scottish are you, Mr. Cunningham?”

“Does my accent give me away?”

“I’d say you hail from somewhere between Glasgow and Edinburgh.”

“Lanarkshire, sir. Do you know it?”

“Been through there, yes. Picturesque country. It sounds as if you’ve had some education, and from your manners you are well bred.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pierpont was observant, that was sure. He was speaking with me in a casual manner, as if I were one of his wealthy associates. I appreciated that kind of respect.

When we reached the portal to the deck, I could hear the wind whistling outside the thick metal. The weighty portal resisted when I tried to open it, and I had to lean against it.

“It’s rough out, sir.” I raised my voice over the bellow of the wind. “If I may offer a word to the wise—”

“Blustery weather won’t ruffle my feathers,” Pierpont interrupted. “Sea air clears a man’s thoughts.”

“Of course, sir.” Who was I to tell a toff what to do?

Pierpont put his head down, held onto his hat, and stepped into the elements.

“It would be well to keep an eye on the clouds, Mr. Morgan,” I called out, but Pierpont ignored me and staggered to the railing, grasping it with one hand, holding his hat with the other.

It was even windier than I had anticipated. But when a man like Pierpont commits himself, he sees it through. Standing against the door, I watched his finely tailored coat whip in the wind. The metal was cold on my back, and spray from the billows soaked into my uniform. I shivered and wished to raise my coat collar around my neck, but that would be against regulations. Lounge chairs scraped across the deck as the ship rolled over billows that seemed to inflate by the moment. But if Pierpont could suffer the elements, so could I.

Behind a cloud, the outline of the moon formed a crescent that looked like a sidewise sneer. An old man shouldn’t be out in such weather, it seemed to chide. Then a north wind shooed the cloud away as if it were a spurned child, and the moon glowed a pale yellow-green. In between the ocean and sky, Pierpont seemed like an ordinary man. He was certainly ordinary in that he had been born some seventy years ago and one day in the not-too-distant future would die, but he would leave behind a legacy that would long be remembered. For generations—maybe even centuries—no one would remember the name Andrew Cunningham, but nearly everyone would know of J. Pierpont Morgan.

Suddenly a gray pall moved across the sky, swallowing the moon. The mist turned to drizzle, and still the elderly gentleman stood at the railing. Lightning stabbed an electric finger into the water and Pierpont jumped at the thud of thunder following it. Counting seconds, the strike was one-two-three miles away. I could see rain disturbing the water, but the storm had not yet reached the ship—or the ship had not plunged into the storm, which at this point looked to be inevitable. We ought to have gone inside. But not yet. Pierpont had not fulfilled his obligation.

“Mr. Morgan, sir,” I said. Pierpont ignored me at first, flaunting his stature as an elder. “Mr. Morgan, we’re heading for bad weather.” I heard a crack, and thunder followed before I could count to one.

Rain began to pelt down. I turned my back to the wind but felt wet pellets shooting into me. Above us, Oceanic’s two fat towers belched smoke from the churning engines. Three cross-tree masts stood fore and aft of the chimneys so that if the engines failed, sails could be hoisted. A sailor who crewed for these ships had to have many skills.

I hunkered into my uniform jacket, but I would not budge until my passenger did.

Another crack, and the sky lit up like fireworks. Then a sickening crunch echoed into the night. I looked up and saw the nearest cross-tree bend at an awkward angle. The top ten feet broke from the rest of the post and fell in a swan dive toward the deck—toward Pierpont.

I leaped toward the man and tackled him around the waist. Pierpont outweighed me by five stone yet somehow I threw the fellow out of the path of the lunging missile. The mast crashed to the deck, sending shards of wood into the air. I grasped Pierpont’s fine wool coat, dragged him toward the door, and wrestled it open. Together we lurched inside, both of us drenched and winded.

Pierpont regarded me for a second then straightened his overcoat and regained his composure. There were no thanks extended, no reproach for roughing up the gentleman. One thing was certain, however—Pierpont was a determined chap, sometimes to a fault. This time, at least, the damage was minimal.

~

“Old J. P. Morgan left the stamp of his cigar on the air.” Siebert sniffed and examined the ashtray by the bed.

“With an undertone of his wife’s French perfume,” I added.   

Sid plucked the cigar stub from the ashtray. “A Cuban, if I’m not mistaken. Must’ve set him back a five note. I find it revolting how their aroma lingers after they’ve left the ship.”

I opened the window to let in fresh air. “Once they’re gone, I’m well rid of them and thinking about the next lot vying for attention.”

Sid lifted an envelope off the bureau. “This has your name on it, Cunningham.” He handed the envelope to me. “Is he offering you a job in the oil industry? Fifty quid a week?”

 “Ha—why would I give up the privilege of serving the rich?” When I tore open the envelope, an American ten-dollar bill fell out.

“Bloody hell,” Sid said, picking up the bill. “That’s three months’ salary. What’d you do, bugger him?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Sid. Pierpont’s a generous bloke.”

 “Pierpont, is it now? You’ve turned into a proper toff, have you?” He threw a pillow at me.

 “Courtesy is rewarded, my friend.” I caught the pillow, pulled off the case, and stuffed it into the laundry bag.