The bandleader turned and bowed to the audience, then faced his men again and struck up a new tune, this one in waltz time: the sentimental “After the Ball.” Prinz Karl turned to Mr. Kipling and asked his permission to dance with his wife. “Why, certainly, if Carrie would like to,” said Mr. Kipling, and to my surprise the two of them began waltzing gracefully across the deck. Several other couples followed their example, and soon the deck resembled nothing so much as an open-air ballroom. The sense of fun was contagious, and I began to think that the whole voyage would be one continuous party.
But as I looked around, I realized that not everyone found the scene as charming as I did. Mrs. Mercer, the banker’s wife, curled her lip, as if she found the spontaneous outbreak of dancing somehow distasteful. Some of the other ladies seemed to share her feeling; I saw one or two of them give a sniff of displeasure. Nor was Signor Rubbia impressed; as soon as Prinz Karl had begun dancing with Mrs. Kipling, he rolled his eyes ostentatiously, turned his back, and strode away from the scene. I wondered briefly whether it was the dancing or the dancer he found so little to his liking. Then the band swung into another tune, “The Sidewalks of New York,” and I turned my attention back to the music.
Prinz Karl proved to be an excellent dancer. I could see that Mrs. Mercer’s reaction to the dancing was by no means the prevailing sentiment among the ladies. When the band had concluded its medley, the prince led Mrs. Kipling back to her husband, bowing as he handed her over. Then the musicians struck up “Daisy Bell,” and the next thing I knew, the prince was waltzing with another lady—evidently a perfect stranger!—while Mr. Kipling led his wife out on the floor and showed himself a very smooth and stylish dancer in his own right. I found myself a bit envious of Prinz Karl’s easy grace and continental manners, and wished for an introduction to some of the young ladies on board so I might find a dancing partner of my own. Perhaps the opportunity would present itself soon.
At last, the impromptu party was interrupted by a double blast of the ship’s whistle—loud enough to drown out the band for a moment. This was evidently a signal that we were about to cast off, for it was followed by a cry of “All ashore that’s going ashore” by an officer with a megaphone. This unambiguous (if not entirely grammatical) order led to a hasty exodus of those who had come aboard to bid their friends “bon voyage.” For the next few minutes, departing visitors crowded the gangplank, and the passengers moved to the rail to wave farewell to those ashore as the great ship prepared to set out on its voyage. The bandleader, recognizing that the time for dancing on deck had passed, had his fellows strike up a lively march again.
Mr. Clemens and I moved to a position with a clear view of the dockside, and watched the crew busy itself with the details of casting off the sturdy hawsers that tied us to the dock. The engines throbbed more purposefully and, guided by a little red and green tugboat that seemed barely adequate to the task, City of Baltimore backed away from the dock. A cheer went up from the passengers, and the crowd ashore began to wave and blow kisses even more frantically. Then, as we cleared the dock, the tugboat moved up to point our bow downstream, and the band echoed our mood of excitement with the strains of “Ta-Ra-Ra Boom-De-Ay!” I felt a quickening in my blood; at last, I was on my way to Europe!
We were not far down the Hudson when the clouds that had loomed so threateningly over New Jersey began to sprinkle us with rain. The bandleader dismissed his men, and—as much as I wanted to enjoy the last sight of my native country I expected to have for many weeks—I followed Mr. Clemens into our cabin for a little rest before dinner. We had both been up since early in the day, and after partaking of Prinz Karl’s gift of champagne, it was hardly surprising that we felt somewhat fatigued.
Inside, Mr. Clemens seated himself in an easy chair, took off his shoes, and propped his feet on the table in front of him. “Well, I’m looking forward to this,” he said. “A chance to sit back and smoke a few cigars and tell lies, and do nothing in particular until we’re in England. And it looks as if the company won’t be entirely boring, either.”
“I should think not,” I said, settling into a chair opposite him. “Prinz Karl is a lively fellow, for one.”
“Yes, I wonder what his game is. I won’t object to a fellow buying me a bottle of champagne, mind you. But he’s got something up his sleeve, and I’d like to know what it is before it costs me more than just a little time and breath.”
“What on earth do you mean? Are you suggesting he isn’t really a prince?”
“Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. Even if he does have a drop or two of royal blood, he might still be a fraud. Why, I’d bet you two bucks of my own money he’s a fraud, though I grant you he’s an entertaining one.”
“How long have you suspected this?” I asked.
“I smelled a rat almost as soon as he started talking about where he comes from. I find it mighty interesting that I lived in Germany for several months, and never heard tell of Ruckgarten until just this afternoon.”
I was astonished. “Why, that’s incredible . . . isn’t it?” I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of such a place, but my geographical knowledge was too spotty to provide the information.
“Maybe,” he said, cupping his chin in his hand. “I suppose it could be some backwoods place of no interest to anybody from the outside world—like Arkansas, say. But the name’s a bit strange, too. Do you know any German?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. Languages had never been my strong suit, although I had struggled manfully through the requisite courses in Latin.
Mr. Clemens shook his head. “To think a fellow could graduate from Yale, and know so little of any real use . . . Well, I can’t pretend to speak German very fluently, myself, so I shouldn’t give myself airs about it. It can be a real jawbreaker if you’re used to a sensibly organized language like English. But unless I’m mistaken, Ruckgarten means something like ‘back garden.’ Not a likely name for what the prince says used to be an independent principality. I’ll have to ask Kipling about it—if he hasn’t heard of it, there’s no such animal.”
“But what could Prinz Karl expect to accomplish by such a blatant imposture—assuming that’s what it is? Surely, he can’t believe he won’t be exposed!” I rose to my feet, and went to look out our porthole; the rain was still falling, and the sky was darker than ever. Vaguely I could make out the shoreline, and a few buildings in the distance, so we were evidently still within the confines of New York harbor.
I looked back at Mr. Clemens, who spread his hands and shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s up to. That Italian artist, now—he’s as transparent as plate glass. He’s bamboozling the Philadelphians by setting up as an expert in something they don’t know enough about to spot him as a fraud, and getting a free tour of Europe out of it. But Prinz Karl’s got some other game going—and until I figure it out, I’m not about to play high-stakes poker with him.”
“He bought us a magnum of champagne,” I said, trying to reconcile the prince’s generosity with Mr. Clemens’s doubt of his genuineness—a doubt I had no way to refute. My employer had shown himself to be an astute judge of character during the time I had known him. Even so, I liked to think I was a bit more seasoned than the naive young fellow who had come down from Yale to offer himself to Mr. Clemens as a traveling secretary a few short months ago. I could look back with some amusement on my willingness to accept my fellow passengers at face value during our riverboat journey. A certain young lady had pulled the wool over my eyes quite effectively . . . then again, I recalled that she had managed to fool Mr. Clemens as well.
“I haven’t forgotten the champagne,” said my employer. “Hell, I’ll buy the prince a drink or two in return, as long as he doesn’t do anything