Lewis also participated in Staff Captain Jock Anderson’s daily inspections of the entire ship, which began every morning at 10:30. Four other men typically went along as well: the ship’s senior surgeon, the assistant surgeon, the purser, and the chief steward. They gathered outside the purser’s office, or “Purser’s Bureau,” at the center of B Deck, opposite the ship’s two electric elevators, then set off to tour the ship. They checked a sample of cabins and the ship’s dining rooms, lounges, lavatories, boilers, and passages, from A Deck to steerage, to “see that everything was clean and in order,” Lewis said. They paid particular attention to whether any portholes—“air ports,” Lewis called them—had been left open, especially in the lower decks.
The inspections, drills, and other activities of the crew provided an element of diversion for passengers. Seaman Leslie Morton became something of an attraction aboard ship because of his skill at tying complex knots. “I remember putting an eye splice in an eight stranded wire hawser on the fore deck, with a crowd of admiring passengers watching me, which called forth all my latent histrionic abilities,” Morton wrote. The performance, at least according to his own recollection, drew “ ‘Oos’ and ‘Ahs’ and gasps.”
NO ONE ABOARD knew, as yet, about the May 1 torpedoing of the American oil tanker Gulflight or that in Washington the incident had sparked concern as to the safety of the Lusitania itself. The attack, coming as it did on the same day as publication of Germany’s advisory against travel through the war zone, suggested that the warning was more than mere bluff. The Washington Times, without identifying sources, stated, “The liner Lusitania, with several hundred prominent Americans on board, is steaming toward England despite anonymous warnings to individual passengers and a formally signed warning published in the advertising columns of American newspapers—warnings, which, in view of late developments in the sea war zone, it is beginning to be feared, may prove far from empty.” The article noted further that “hundreds of Americans are holding their breaths lest relatives on board such vessels go down.”
It reported that federal officials were perplexed about Germany’s intentions. One question seemed to be on everyone’s mind: “What is the German government driving at? Is it bent on incurring war with the United States?”
No one had any doubts that the Gulflight incident would be resolved through diplomacy, the article said. “But what is worrying everybody is the accumulation of evidence that Germany is either looking for trouble with the United States or that her authorities are reckless of the possibilities of incurring trouble.”
AS THE LUSITANIA steamed on, the usual shipboard tedium began to set in, and meals became increasingly important. In these first days of the voyage, passengers adapted themselves to their assigned table mates. For Charles Lauriat, this was simple: his friend Withington was his dining companion. For Liverpool police detective Pierpoint, it was even simpler: he dined alone. Unaccompanied travelers, however, faced the potential of being seated among tiresome souls with whom they had nothing in common. Invariably one encountered charmers and boors, sheep and braggarts; one young woman found herself seated beside “a very dyspeptic sort of fellow.” Sparks flew, or got damped. Romances got kindled.
But the food was always good and plentiful, even in third class, where blue marrowfat peas were a staple, as were Wiltshire cheeses and tinned pears, peaches, apricots, and pineapples. In first class, the food was beyond good. Lavish. First-class passengers were offered soups, hors d’oeuvres, and a multitude of entrées at each meal. On one voyage the menu for a single dinner included halibut in a sauce Orleans, mignons de sole souchet, and broiled sea bass Choron (a sauce of white wine, shallots, tarragon, tomato paste, and eggs); veal cutlets, tournedos of beef Bordelaise, baked Virginia ham, saddle of mutton, roast teal duck, celery-fed duckling, roast guinea chicken, sirloin and ribs of beef; and five desserts—a Tyrollean soufflé, chocolate cake, apple tart, Bavaroise au citron, and ice cream, two kinds: strawberry and Neapolitan. There were so many items on the menu that Cunard felt obliged to print a separate sheet with suggested combinations, lest one starve from befuddlement.
Passengers drank and smoked. Both; a lot. This was a significant source of profit for Cunard. The company laid in a supply of 150 cases of Black & White Whiskey, 50 cases of Canadian Club Whiskey, and 50 of Plymouth Gin; also, 15 cases each of an eleven-year-old French red wine, a Chambertin, and an eleven-year-old French white, a Chablis, and twelve barrels of stout and ten of ale. Cunard stockpiled thirty thousand “Three Castles” cigarettes and ten thousand Manila cigars. The ship also sold cigars from Havana and American cigarettes made by Phillip Morris. For the many passengers who brought pipes, Cunard acquired 560 pounds of loose Capstan tobacco—“navy cut”—and 200 pounds of Lord Nelson Flake, both in 4-ounce tins. Passengers also brought their own. Michael Byrne, a retired New York merchant and former deputy sheriff traveling in first class, apparently planned to spend a good deal of the voyage smoking. He packed 11 pounds of Old Rover Tobacco and three hundred cigars. During the voyage, the scent of combusted tobacco was ever present, especially after dinner.