With no other opportunities, Andrew continued working aboard RMS Campania and mustered the good manners to be genial to his passengers. A steward was butler, dustman, and whipping boy, but he dared not let on he minded the duties—he needed the job. For him, the ship had become nothing more than the illusion of opulence and grandeur. In reality, she was just a clumsy mass of steel and wood threatening anything in her way.
During crossings, he lost himself in the lives of his passengers—a military officer, a journalist, a politician, a dilettante. Inevitably, when the mollycoddled travelers stepped off the ship, he was face-to-face with Andrew Cunningham again, a poor working lad who lived between here and there, anchored nowhere.
On westward crossings, after what seemed weeks instead of days, New York’s skyline came into view. By the time the last of his passengers crossed onto the dock, Andrew had six American dollars in gratuities tucked into his pocket, more than enough to pay his boardinghouse rent. He itched to get off the ship and see a bit of the city. Staterooms and galley cleaned and readied for the next passengers, at last the chief steward granted him leave to go ashore. For the first time in a week, he felt like a dog let off its leash.
Without a clue about where to go, he wandered into Manhattan where pedestrians hurried along sidewalks. Vendors sold fruits and vegetables from wagons and women carried baskets overflowing with goods they had purchased. He could afford a splurge, and for three cents he bought a hot frankfurter and a vanilla ice cream. In the shadow of the towering World Building, the modest dinner tasted as gloriously delicious as any steak aboard the Campania.
On Park Avenue, ladies paraded down the sidewalks wearing wide-brimmed hats spouting plumes of feathers. Carriages waited at the curb on Fifth Avenue to ferry visitors around Central Park, and horse-car trolleys carried riders along tracks in the middle of Broadway.Everywhere the walkways were filled with bustling people. Liverpool was shabby compared to New York.
In the East Village the Astor Library stood like a great stone cube. He meandered into the grand South Hall, crowned three stories above by a glass ceiling held up by lofty arches. There he settled into a chair and scrolled through his thoughts, the ups and downs of stewarding. If he regretted signing up to be nothing more than a drudge and a hireling, the ocean shimmering with light or a halo of stars overhead made him grateful for his decision to work on a cruise ship rather than being chained to a saw and chisel like his Da. His bank account would never be as fat as the Astors, but if he studied the successful travelers, maybe he could figure out how they’d gotten lucky enough to wander the globe and splurge on whatever caught their whimsy. For now, though, a ponderous hulk of steel sailed him between New York’s millionaires and Liverpool’s working classes, and the glittering emerald sea held his destiny.
