Alexander York the Steamship

Mark Tempe stood on the deck of the steamship Alexander York, leaning against the wooden railing. His gaze was fixed on the vast distance where the waters of the Charles River shimmered. Golden rays of the sun fell on the surface, reflecting in elusive sparks, and the river, as always, moved forward unhurriedly, unhurriedly, as if not noticing the time. The wind played with his hair, and the air was rich with the smell of water and salt, bringing with it the promise of travel and adventure.

The Alexander York, despite its name, was not a young ship, not at all - its hull, painted dark green with white stripes, looked like a relic from the early twentieth century, an era when steamships were still the most important mode of transportation on the waterways. With its tall funnels, somewhat lost in the white haze rising above them, and its massive, slightly lopsided rudders, it seemed to be steeped in the past, but with each passing day, more and more enveloped in modernity. Its wooden decks creaked underfoot, and on board you could hear the constant growl of the steam engine, accompanied by white clouds of steam rising into the air.

As the steamer moved slowly along the shore, the ancient clockwork mechanisms adjusted its speed with a characteristic grinding sound, and Mark again plunged into contemplation. The water of the river was calm, but even in its calm there was hidden power, creating the impression that the Charles River could at any moment come to life, filling everything around. The stone banks washed by time looked as if they were washed away, like those who had long since disappeared into the shadows of history.

Mark looked around the ship again: the ancient wooden railings, the shabby cabin on the lower deck, the rust streaks barely visible on the metal parts. It didn't seem like much, but it all created an atmosphere of some kind of journey through time - as if the Alexander York itself were a bridge between eras.

The whistle of the steam engine was clearly audible, and Mark Tempe, a little tired of thinking, slowly glanced at the city, hidden in the distance behind a curtain of morning fog. Boston, with its narrow streets and stately buildings, gradually disappeared over the horizon, leaving only barely discernible outlines against the gray sky. He felt a light wind blowing around his face, and for a moment his thoughts rushed to what awaited him further, already outside the city, on the open sea. He squeezed his fingers on the rail, but soon turned his gaze downwards and, with a light sigh, decided to go down to the cabins.

As he descended the ancient staircase, he heard the hum of the steam engine again, the muffled noise of conversations, and the quiet footsteps of other passengers, whom he could barely see in the dim light. Halfway down, he heard the disgruntled voice of an old man coming from the wardroom. It was the voice of one of the crew, breaking into a shout:

"Only first class passengers are allowed into the wardroom!"

Mark slowed his pace, listening. The old man's voice was sharp and stern, almost irritated, as if the habit of commanding and seeing subordinates was in his blood. He looked around and noticed that he was addressing a short, bearded man. The man stood a little further away, looking a little confused. His gaze was uncertain, as if he did not know how to deal with this sudden resistance. His strong shoulders and thick beard could not hide the confusion in his eyes, and he tried to say something, but the words did not form.

"I… I thought that…" the man tried to answer, but his voice trembled, and the old man continued to look down at him, as if confident that his words were not subject to discussion.

Mark walked past the two and suddenly stopped. The soft rustle of footsteps on the wooden stairs turned to silence, and as if by instinct, he turned, deciding to intervene. The crew member, who had not yet noticed Mark, continued to lecture the bearded man in a reserved, commanding tone, as if he were a naughty child.

"I beg you," he said, "to observe decorum and not to create disturbances. This is no place for discontent. Obey the rules, otherwise it will be unpleasant."

Mark couldn't help but feel the old man's tone offended him. He knew what power was, but her arrogance always irritated him, especially in situations where it was clearly out of place. He exhaled, looked at the couple, and interrupted sharply:

"Who knows," he said, "sometimes a scandal is the only way to bring back the flavor of life. Without it, everything becomes simply bland."

The crew member froze, his words cut off mid-sentence, and the bearded man, although clearly embarrassed, could not help but notice how the old man's reaction changed from confidence to uncertainty. The old man immediately stopped short, noticeably bending over, and, almost losing his steadfastness, hurried to justify himself:

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, lowering his head. "I did not mean to cause inconvenience. It is all official duty, you understand..."

Mark, feeling the air around him fill with tension again, took a step back and could not resist continuing his attack. His gaze became increasingly cold, and his words became hot, full of the kind of force he usually did not allow himself to use. He turned again to the crew member, who was clearly losing confidence and looking increasingly embarrassed.

"Oh, you're on duty?" said Mark with obvious contempt. "All the more so! Do you think your place here is justified? Class privileges are, sir, the most shameful pages of American reality," he added, waving a finger in front of his face, as if he were just a child who had forgotten his duties.

The crew member tried to straighten up again, but Mark's gaze literally penetrated his soul, making him blush even more. He opened his mouth, trying to say something in his defense, but the words did not come, and instead of answering, he lowered his gaze again, modestly pursing his lips.