"April 11, 1912
I now have a bit of free time, so I shall write a bit.
We are now westward bound from Queenstown and headed for the open ocean. It was wonderful to watch the third class boarding…so much happiness and hope on their faces. It is not only taking the wealthy and titled to New York and back that makes me happy and deeply content; it is seeing those looks on the faces of the less well-off as they board and knowing that my taking them to the New World will help some of their dreams come true, perhaps, as well.
Wilde has been acting a bit 'off' this trip and I suspect it has to do with the death of his wife and youngest children, poor soul. I do not know what I can do to ease his way now that I am leaving the sea, but well, he has been given command of Cymric and whilst it will not replace his loss, I pray that he will find some peace and happiness in commanding her. What an unspeakably heavy cross he was given in the passing of three whom I know he held so dear…I must say he has borne up magnificently under it all…I can only wonder how well I would bear up should something happen to Eleanor or Mel."
Smith sighed as he laid his pen aside. The blow Wilde had suffered had to be the worst imaginable blow for any man, especially Wilde, who had been very in love with his late wife. Wilde and he and their wives had been friends for many years now and Smith had done his best to make things easier for Wilde. That would end when they reached Southampton. Still, Wilde would do well…of that Smith was certain. The man was one of those sorts who had been literally born to sail ships, born to command them.
Well, now, time to go down for a spot of tea and hobnob with the first class for a bit before coming back up to dress for dinner. That was a comforting thing about ship life if one were a creature of habit. First morning report, then daily inspection—except for Sundays when it was replaced with a prayer service—then, the noon "shooting with sextant to determine their position and the number of miles travelled since the previous noon, followed by what could be termed a "navigational conference, at least by the bureautcratically-minded, followed by lunch, a stint on the bridge, then tea, dressing in his formal uniform, succeeded by dinner, a postprandial smoke, a last visit to the bridge and finally, bed. It really was very comforting to adhere to a schedule that had likely been followed in one form or another for hundreds of years.