Captain Woolward went to sea at age 14 as an apprentice. His indentures were transferred to Joseph Somes and he sailed to China in La Belle Alliance, reaching the China coast in time to savour the spoils from the Siege of Nankin. He joined RMSP at age 18, appointed 4th officer of the Tweed in 1844. His commands were Medway, Clyde, Trent, Thames, Solent, Teviot, Atrato, Shannon, Magdalena, Parana, Rhone, Don and the second Atrato. This extract from his autobiography is from his time as a junior officer in the Tweed, during the 1840s: We did not remain many days at Southampton, as the ship required docking, and there was no dry-dock there. We accordingly went up to London and were placed in Messrs Wigram's dock at Blackwall. Steamships of the size of the Tweed were still considered worth visiting, and we had many visits from first-class people, and one midshipman was told off each day to conduct them round the ship. . . I was not allowed to remain long idle, for I was promoted to be third officer of the Medway, and had to return to Southampton to join her. The Medway was commanded by Captain Andrews, a much younger man than the captain of the Tweed. He must have got in by strong interest, for he had seen very little sea service, and that only in yachts, and was about as well fitted to command a ship like the Medway as I was to be Archbishop of Canterbury. It was fortunate he had such a chief officer to nurse him as Mr Moss. The second officer was an old sea-dog, Stoddart by name; he had but one eye, and if only trouble had been taken to reckon up from his yarns the time he had put in at sea, I should say he must have first started with Noah. He went by the name, on board, of Boreas Albin, who is said, by sailors, to have been chief-mate of the Ark! . . . The steward of the ship was a Dutchman, Julius Price by name. In those days the meat and fish for the outward passage was mostly carried in ice, and stowed for each day's consumption. This was taken out of the ice-house at 9.30am daily by the butcher and chief steward. One morning there was a difference of opinion between the steward and the butcher, the latter being inside the ice-room. The altercation getting stronger, the steward said to the butcher, - 'I shall not put up with this!' thereupon he shut the door to, locked it and went away, leaving the butcher inside! The steward must have forgotten all about this occurrence, and it was not till the butcher was wanted in the afternoon, at 3.30, to give water to the sheep, that he was missed, and a hunt made for him, when it was generally supposed he had gone overboard. The steward now recollected that he had left him locked up, and exclaimed, - 'Mein Gott! I has left him in the ice-house, this morning.' It was fortunate this had been discovered, for, if the man had been left much longer, he would have died. As it was, it took all the doctor knew to bring him to, after having been five and a half hours in the intense cold and in a place almost air-tight. The steward, fearing the consequences, left the ship at St Thomas, and settled there as a storekeeper.

His 48 years at sea began as a 13-year-old apprentice in the barque Loweswater on a voyage to South Australia. After service in various sailing ships he joined The Pacific Steam Navigation Company; he later transferred to that firm's ships on the Orient-Pacific Line to Australia. He was with them when RMSP bought PSN's interest in the service. After many years with Royal Mail he was transferred again, within the group, to White Star Line. His career ended as master of White Star's Olympic. This extract from his autobiography involves the Orient-Pacific liner Oroya, in which he was serving as chief officer in 1906: I found the Oroya, under Captain W J Jenks, all that I could desire, and with a chief engineer like G T Greig and Purser J A Lawrenson, both capable and agreeable men of large experience, I settled down to my job quite happily. . . Towards the end of the voyage [Captain Jenks] mentioned that he had not enjoyed a holiday for four years, and intended to apply for a voyage off on arrival home, observing that, since we suited each other so well, he proposed recommending that I should take command for the voyage he was away. . . I did not in myself build much hope on the success of his recommendation, in fact I thought no more about it. . . I was busy one morning, superintending the slinging, unstepping and hoisting out the mainmast, when a message came from the Dock Office that the RMSP Head Office wished to see me in London. . . I hurriedly dressed for the beach, in silk hat and frock coat (a mode de rigeuer at that time for all Orient Line officers to repair to the office in) and sped to 18 Moorgate. Mr Bennett, head of the Marine Department, said: 'Well, I suppose you know why you have been sent for?' I replied that I had not the faintest idea (neither had I). He then informed me that the Directors and Management wished to see me, with the view of giving me command of the Oroya for a voyage, while Captain Jenks was on leave. . . It used to be the practice in the Royal Mail Steam Packet Co for the commanders of the mail steamers, on the eve of sailing, to take leave of the Court of Directors assembled in the Board Room at 18 Moorgate. It was, as in my own case, I think, always a merely formal interview - any small question might be briefly discussed and settled, and the chairman would give any verbal instructions he thought fit, concluding by shaking hands, and wishing the commander a pleasant voyage, each director in turn doing the same. Thus, with an encouraging pat on the back - as it were - from one and another, he left their presence, happy. On the eve of my first voyage in command of the Oroya, Mr Owen Philipps - now Lord Kylsant - was in the chair, and having given me some precise instructions relative to the comfort of the passengers, with a good deal of latitude in the way I might exert myself on their behalf, he, followed by all the directors, shook hands and wished me a safe and pleasant voyage. The last director I came to - a rather short, elderly gentleman - as he shook hands said, 'Are you a Royal Naval Reserve officer, captain?' I replied, 'Yes, sir!' 'Oh, where have you served?' I told him, mentioning that I had served through the Boxer Rising in China. 'Oh!' he said, 'did you meet my boy, John, there? John Jellicoe?' I replied that I knew Captain Jellicoe, Flag Captain of the Centurian, by sight only. 'Yes, that's him! That's him! Good boy, John!' smiling. 'He's an Admiral now! Well, good-bye captain' - patting me on the back - 'a pleasant voyage to you!' This was the first and only time I ever had the honour of meeting old Captain Jellicoe - for some years Commodore of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Co, and a director for some years after he retired from active service afloat. He died during the Great War - a tough old sea-dog of the finest type - a fitting father for the illustrious Admiral of the Fleet, his son.

Captain Fletcher served as a cadet with The Pacific Steam Navigation Co and as third officer with Leyland Line before joining RMSP in 1924. His first command came in 1947 and his career culminated in command of the Andes spanning the period when she was converted to a full-time cruise liner. His father, Captain Robert Fletcher, commanded ships in the Orient-Pacific Line to Australia before moving to RMSP - he died at sea whilst in command of Darro in 1915. His eldest brother, Captain Robert Norman Fletcher, joined RMSP after World War I and commanded several of the Company's ships. He died in 1955. Another brother, Captain C V Fletcher, joined RMSP in the Drina in 1914. He was in command of the Sambre when he resigned in 1938. This is a short extract from reminiscences penned by Geoffrey Fletcher in 1971, relating to his years of service in the Andes. I started my time in the Andes as Staff Captain. This was not very easy because, for one thing, there had not been such a rank in Royal Mail for a very long time, if ever, and no-one was very clear as to my duties, including myself. If I was to be simply social, this was doubly difficult for me, as it happened, because any aptitude for this is acquired, as a rule, during the time of Chief Officer of a passenger ship, and I had never been that; when I had been Chief Officer of those ships, they had been carrying troops during the war. If I was to be social and useful, I would have to tread a narrow path between the Commodore and the Chief Officer, being careful not to tread on either of their toes. There was, perhaps, an added incubus in my case as I think it became known pretty soon that I was to succeed the Commodore as captain when he retired at the end of this Winter Cruise; this was a matter of some importance to the passengers, who were mostly 'old hands' and naturally interested in who was to be there in the future. The crew, too, were just as interested and, you might say, suspicious and critical. To this, add the fact that I had only had a short voyage, a run-in you might say, in command of a large passenger ship before coming to the Andes, and you may imagine that it was something of an ordeal for me, especially as I have never been very confident of my ability, strange as that may seem to some. The Winter Cruise, in those days before she actually started her cruising life, was something very special, the numbers being kept down to add to the comfort of those who travelled and who were paying, for those days, a high price. Even so, the first class saloon was not large enough to accommodate everyone at one sitting (considered a must), so what was the second class saloon was used to seat the over-flow. This was by no means so ornate or comfortable as the main dining room, nor was it air conditioned; also, being near the waterline, the ports had to be kept closed on occasion which, at times, made it uncomfortably hot. All this made it really appear second class as compared to the other and was a cause of dissatisfaction and murmering to many seated there, as there was, of course, not supposed to be (nor was there otherwise) any distinction. In consequence, it was a rule that at least one of the senior officers should have his meal there with the hope that the occupants would not think they were being neglected. This was a blessing in disguise to me for it did give me a chance of a definite function. However, any doubts I had were to be resolved before too long. One of the highlights of this particular cruise was the Mardi Gras at New Orleans; the ship was due to arrive there the day before this event. As we approached New Orleans, the Commodore was laid low with a fever and I had to take over. We arrived off the port to find the entrance to the Mississippi shrouded in thick fog so we had to join the assembly of ships already anchored there. The fogs at this time of year are particularly enfuriating as they are, generally speaking, confined to the actual river, the banks on either side being comparatively clear but, of course, we were interested in the river only. The reason, I believe, is that as the snows melt in the upper reaches, a volume of cold water comes down river and meets the warm air above it, and there you are. We remained at anchor for the rest of the day and the following night, with no hope of moving. A pilot did come off in the early hours of the morning but, as he was obviously not at all anxious to take the ship up, and I didn't much like the cut of his jib, he departed again. However, soon after day-break there were signs of a slight lifting of the fog and another pilot came off who imparted greater confidence. Conditions even now were by no means pleasant and there was an obvious risk in attempting to enter the river. The decision was not made any easier for me (and I had to make it, as the Commodore was in no fit state) as I had never been up the Mississippi before and I would hazard a guess that such a large ship as the Andes had never been as far up it. Well, we set off and all went well, though there were many tense moments but progress was so slow that it took all day and the Mardi Gras was well over by the time we arrived. I must say that the passengers took their disappointment very well, for which I was very grateful, and we had at least shown willing. Leaving was a nightmare to me, for there is a very strong current running down, of course, and it is difficult to turn a ship of that size in those conditions. The ship was surrounded by small tugs but all we managed was to drift broadside down the river. There was a right-angled bend just below the berth and I remember remarking to the pilot that if the worst came to the worst, when we got to that we could go full ahead and chance it. To my horror, at this stage another ship coming up-river rounded the bend. I fully expected her to slow down and wait to give us a chance, but she came on and it was a very near thing. The Second Officer was signalling frantically from the stern that we should go ahead, and the Chief Officer on the bow was equally insistent that we should go astern. In the end, the ship passed under our bows at such a distance, the Chief Officer swore he could have tossed the proverbial biscuit aboard her. We just managed to get her round the corner and I came back to life. The episode convinced me that the local authorities certainly did not realise the problem of a ship that size or they would have stopped that ship coming on. There was one bonus, though, for it provided a certain amount of excitement for the passengers watching from every vantage point. It also gave me a lot more confidence and stood me in good stead.