Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale

by Robin Lloyd

  In the flickering yellow light of the forecastle, all eyes, including Morgan’s, were now on Jeremiah, who was talking like a biblical prophet. The old tar’s deeply creased face looked like a badly rutted country road. A thin white scar ran across the bridge of his nose, crisscrossing the deep fissures that traveled across his forehead. On his head he wore a headband and a leather hat. His stone blue eyes were sunken into his head, and in that yellow light, with his imposing gray beard, he seemed to Morgan to be a man possessed.

  “The storm petrels done come alongside the ship and are riding the wind with us,” he muttered. “I reckon they’re warning us about this here storm.”

  The lantern’s light reflected onto Jeremiah’s face, as he ominously held up a small dark bird with white plumage on its tail. Its head was bloody, its eyes still and lifeless. He paused for a few moments as if for dramatic effect.

  “I ’ave found one of them petrels lying on the deck. It’s dead.”

  The men stared at the lifeless bird. They had just come off watch. A heavy rain had driven them into the safety of the damp forecastle. Most of them were still in their dripping oilskins. They were wet and hungry. Within minutes, most of them were reaching into their hiding places and pulling out the rum bottles that were forbidden on board ship. The forecastle was filled with the gray haze of tobacco smoke, adding to a sense of foreboding.

  “It’s no good that dead bird ain’t,” Jeremiah intoned. “I’ll warrant it means considerable misfortune. Any of you men know of any dead sailors who had something troubling their souls?”

  Instead of the swearing and coughing that usually filled this damp, dark underworld, there was a strange silence. Morgan thought how cursed this voyage had been. They had been becalmed for days in the English Channel. The ground swell and the pull of the tide had carried them into the Sea of Iroise near the coast of France. They had almost run up on the rocks off the deadly coast of Brittany near the islands of Ouessant and Molène. Now a bad sea had kicked up, and it was clear to all aboard that a big storm was brewing. The captain had tried to reach across the English Channel toward the Scilly Islands, but the winds and the waves had knocked them down to the south, forcing them far off course into the Bay of Biscay. It was as if the Devil himself didn’t want them to complete this voyage.

  This passage had started well under fair skies and freshening wind just one week ago on the first of July. The Hudson had floated down the Thames, the stars and stripes fluttering over the mizzen peak, colorful pennants streaming from her masts and rigging. It was the official inaugural voyage of the new London Line, a loose-knit business partnership between Grinnell and Minturn’s Red Swallowtail Line and John Griswold’s company, the Black X Line. The X was for express, signifying fast, dependable delivery of the mailbags, passengers, and cargo across the Atlantic between London and New York. Along with the Red Swallowtail Line, the Black X Line now joined the other American packet lines to England—the Red Star, the Blue Swallowtail, and the Black Ball. There were other American ships, of course, that traveled to Liverpool and London, but they were freighters, not packets. Morgan had felt a surge of pride run through him.

  Now as he sat in the forecastle listening to Jeremiah speak about strange superstitions and ominous signs of misfortune on the sea, he felt a cold sensation crawl up the back of his neck, giving him goose bumps. He started to shiver. It was almost as if they had fallen under a sorcerer’s spell. A large wave slammed into the midsection and thundered over the bow. He could hear loud cracks. The hull’s crossbeams shook and trembled in protest. The seas crashing on the deck and the waves on either side of the ship mingled together in a frightening roar.

  Morgan could hear the wailing and moaning of the emigrants over the howl of the wind. They had about thirty people in the adjacent steerage compartment. He had been told that most of them were simple cottagers from the Salisbury Plains area of southern England. A few others were tenant farmers from Ireland. None of them had ever been on a ship before, and so not surprisingly they were terrified by stormy weather. The ship’s carpenter had hammered shut their hatchway to keep the compartment watertight. There was no way for any of them to reach the open air, no escape if the ship went down. He imagined them piled together: men, women, and children, clutching the wooden bunk beds in desperation in the total darkness of the upper hold, their boxes and chests hurtling from one end of the ship to the other.

  Morgan put aside for the moment his empathy for the steerage passengers and looked around the forecastle, slowly retreating behind most of the other men. Not a smile offered, and not a word spoken. He had learned to keep his mouth shut in these cramped quarters. Some of these tough men did things to one another that were best not talked about. They were quick to anger, and once angered hard to control. Resentments among sailors on board became permanent shackles. He knew the dangers of drawing attention to himself.

  Old Jeremiah was looking for someone to blame for the bad weather. Several new sailors had come aboard in London. The suspicious eyes darting around eventually landed on these newcomers. Morgan looked at the turned heads, the reluctant glances, and the downcast eyes. Even the old hands had something to hide, he thought to himself. They all had something they didn’t want the others to know. After moments of silence where only the howling wind could be heard outside, Jeremiah lifted his bearded chin as he raised his voice to a higher pitch.

  “Men, I fear that no-account Irishman who we cast off in Ouessant is not our sole source of misfortune. There is another problem,” he declared with solemn authority.

  “What might that be?” Curly Jim asked as he stroked his bald head. “Is there someone else who we should cast off the ship?”

  Morgan thought of the man they’d left behind on the French island of Ouessant, an Irish emigrant by the name of Peter Corrigan. The sailors had forced the captain to run him ashore. He had kicked the ship’s cat overboard, a sure sign of bad luck. Sure enough, shortly afterward the wind had died. Some had muttered that the ship was cursed on account of that black cat being drowned. Someone was to blame for this strange weather, they said. It’s the emigrant’s fault, they had whispered to one another. He needs to go. Corrigan had cried, begging them to let him stay on board because his entire savings had been spent to purchase the fare to America. Morgan remembered as the Hudson set sail, seeing the man standing on the treeless, rocky bluffs of Ouessant looking out at the ship, his red hair waving in the wind. The small, forlorn figure on the cliffs had been as still as a statue, his arms hanging at his sides.

  Now Jeremiah told the men that the curse was still with them. The dead bird was a bad omen, he warned as he stood up, and began walking around the cramped forecastle, pulling and stroking his beard. A haunting silence hung in the air. No one spoke. Morgan noticed one of the new sailors who seemed to be frozen in fear. The man moved to the back of the room further into the shadows as Jeremiah raised his voice again, his pale blue eyes, now big and staring, bulging out of their red-rimmed sockets.

  “We have a Jonah in our midst, men. I am loath to tell you this, but tell you I will. I am as certain of this as I am about the Scripture. Unless we find him, misfortune is going to find us. So it is written in the Book of Jonah.”

  The forecastle was filled with a flurry of urgent angry cries to find the Jonah and remove the curse. The noise increased. There was a sense of frenzy in the air.

  “A life for a life,” Jeremiah shouted. “So says the Bible.”

  Morgan kept his eyes on that one sailor. In the light from the hanging lantern, he could see him clearly. He was a tall man, hollow cheeked with a weak jaw that fell inward toward his long thin neck. His dark eyes had an inward gaze of someone lost in thought. The dark shadows under his eyes gave him a haunted, gaunt appearance. He looked to be just a few years older than he was. His name was John Dobbs. He had shipped on board at the last minute. He told the mates that his normal vessel had left port without him and he needed to get to New York. The officers had welcomed him ab
oard as they always needed an extra hand. He was an odd sort. He mostly kept to himself, but in the sailors’ lonely world that was not that strange. People just left him alone.

  A stony silence now pervaded the cramped forecastle. Old Jeremiah had delivered his sermon and the men had much to think about as they took careful measure of their situation and of one another. The ship was pitching and heaving more heavily now, and the sailors retreated to their bunks. Morgan made his way through the narrow aisles past the hanging bundles of dripping wet clothes and gear. He decided to escape from the madness that surrounded him. Lying in his bunk, he took out the last letter he had received from home and began reading it again in the dim candlelight. It was a letter from his brother Josiah, who was the only one who wrote him. The words were a comfort, a link to the life he had left behind.

  “My dear brother, For now, all is well on the farm, although with your absence we have had to cut back on the number of hogs and cows. We’ve been growing less barley too, as it is too hard to harvest. The apple trees are thriving.”

  Morgan tried to imagine the farm as the ship pitched and heaved.

  “Our sister Asenath is well,” wrote Josiah. “She says that she has never enjoyed such good health as she has since she married. Young Jesse and Maria Louisa are growing up quickly and are a big help to mother with the farm chores, even though Maria Louisa likes to torment the dog.”

  Morgan thought of his sisters and smiled. He wished at that moment that he was together with them and his mother, watching them all making dinner in the warmth of the kitchen. He resumed his reading.

  “Rest assured brother, all of us, especially our dear mother, want to hear how you’re faring. It’s just father who vents his gall by cursing all sailors. Sadly, he says he wants to hear no news from any who have chosen the life of the sea. He has forbidden mother or any of us to write to you, and I am sad to say he tears up your letters if he intercepts them before we do.”

  Reading those words again left a bittersweet taste in his mouth like biting into a tart green apple. He loved reading about the family, but the news of his father only tied his stomach in knots. The thought of his father’s glowering face with his bushy silver eyebrows just made him more determined than ever to find out what had happened to Abraham.

  As he clutched his letter and thought of home, Morgan could feel the wind pick up sharply. It was midnight, time for the watch to change. The gale was intensifying and soon the mates were banging on the forecastle hatch, delivering the captain’s orders to shorten sail. Morgan was actually glad for the excuse to go aloft and escape the fearful atmosphere in the forecastle.

  “All hands reef topsails,” came the shout from Mr. Toothacher.

  The forecastle emptied out and nearly all the sailors on board the Hudson were soon aloft in the dark, clambering out on the yards, manhandling the canvas sails and securing them with gaskets. With the ship beginning a more pronounced pitch and roll, Morgan struggled to hold his balance as he leaned out on his stomach on the yard. The wind was whistling through the rigging, the masts creaking as the ship strained to meet the rush of wind and sea. He looked down to see the ship’s lee rail disappear under surging black water and white foam. He held on as tightly as he could. The Hudson was now heeling sharply to one side. Suddenly, the sheets and braces were eased to save the masts from splintering, and he found himself dangling out on a swinging yard. If he hadn’t secured himself on the jackstay, he might have hurtled overboard. As it was, he would have fallen if several sailors hadn’t pulled tight the loose brace and secured the yard. Then came the order: “All hands on deck!” Morgan swung out from the topsail yard, dropped down to the mast doublings, grabbed the backstay, and slid down to the deck, all in a matter of seconds. This was relatively easy for him to do on the windward side when the packet was heeled over with the tips of the masts tilting toward the sea.

  “Stand by to come about,” cried out Mr. Toothacher using a trumpet so that he could be heard above the wind noise.

  Along with several others, Morgan was hard at work on deck unfastening sheets and braces on the starboard side. The yards for the main swung around, the blocks clattering, the canvas thrashing. He could see Ochoa and Icelander fastening the braces on the port side.

  “Release foresail!”

  Morgan let go of the foresail to help the bluff bow of the Hudson swing across the wind. He watched as Ochoa wrestled with the thrashing lines as he adjusted and trimmed the sails. On the new tack, the packet was now pointed on a northerly heading toward Greenland, what some sailors called the uphill road. The storm had blown them way to the south, some six hundred miles off the coast of Ireland. At this rate, with the wind and the waves on their nose, the best they could hope for would be to make thirty to forty miles a day. Just then, Morgan felt the hot breath of someone standing closely behind him. He turned abruptly, and jumped back, as Mr. Brown thrust his bushy black whiskers into his face, his beady eyes glistening with malice.

  “You’re on my watch tonight, Morgan.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied a startled Morgan.

  “Where’s Smith?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “You tell that two-bit nancy boy to report to me, ye hear!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  That night Morgan and Hiram were ordered to report to the pump station just forward of the mainmast. All night long, they pumped ship, their hands moving back and forth in unison as the bilge water from the belly of the ship spewed out into the ocean.

  6

  On that rough westward passage, Morgan often thought of Old Jeremiah’s warnings. He took more notice of John Dobbs, the hollow-cheeked man with the droopy jaw. It wasn’t just the worry in his eyes and the unsmiling face. Dobbs kept looking over at Morgan as if he wanted to tell him something, but when Morgan returned his gaze the man would look away. One morning, Morgan was walking the deck on his watch when he spotted Dobbs looking over the side, his clothes hanging loose on his body like baggy old sails. The man seemed to be in a trance as he looked forlornly at the jagged landscape of whitecaps before him.

  Without warning, Dobbs grabbed hold of one of the topsail halyards and climbed up onto the waist-high bulwark on the side of the ship. Morgan began to move toward the sailor to try to say something, but the foaming seawater sweeping the decks prevented him. A tremendous wave crashed over the side with a thundering roar. All he could do was to catch a proper handhold and brace himself for the impact of the next wave. To his horror, Dobbs looked back at him with eyes flat and expressionless and then, zombie-like, he leaped over the side without making a sound. It took Morgan several seconds to realize that John Dobbs had jumped into the ocean.

  He shouted in desperation, “Man overboard!” Morgan quickly turned to go aft to man the falls of the quarter boat, the waves sweeping him down the decks with such force he could barely keep his footing.

  The helmsman turned the wheel sharply. “Bring the ship’s head round!” the first mate yelled out. Slowly the Hudson turned back into the wind, pitching and heaving as the vessel hove to. By this time, several sailors had come to Morgan’s assistance, lowering the quarter boat so that it was hanging just above the surging sea. The clouds of flying spindrift made it difficult to see. Several men finally spotted the man’s head floating above water, rapidly coming toward them in the waves. Morgan positioned himself with both feet squarely in the middle of the boat and threw a rope at the bobbing head approaching.

  “Catch it, man. Catch it!”

  The rope had reached its mark, but Dobbs seemed unable or unwilling to grab it. Morgan could see his head and his fear-stricken eyes disappear below the waves and then pop up again. Dobbs floated by and Morgan swung the rope again and this time the man grabbed it. He called on him to hold on.

  “He’s got it,” yelled Morgan as he started to pull Dobbs in. Hand over hand, he pulled the frightened sailor through the water until he could haul him onto the edge of the quarter boat. At that point, Morgan yell
ed, “Man the falls! Pull us up!”

  Slowly the quarter boat was lifted upward toward the bulwarks. Morgan kept pulling underneath the limp shoulders of the gasping man until most of his body was safely inside. Finally, as the quarter boat was raised even with the deck, Morgan succeeded in hauling the shivering man into the boat. He spotted Captain Champlin and the cluster of cabin passengers that stood behind him. He caught a glimpse of the cold, hostile eyes of Jeremiah and Curly Jim. Dobbs was pulled onto the deck of the Hudson, wrapped in warm woolen blankets, and taken into the cook’s quarters, where Scuttles tried to pour hot soup into him.

  Morgan stayed with the cook to help keep the man warm. Dobbs was in shock, shaking and shivering uncontrollably. Morgan and Scuttles started to undress the emaciated man, stripping him of his shirt, and it was then that Morgan saw something unexpected. There on Dobbs’s bare back, framed by his two protruding shoulder bones, was a large tattoo with two anchors intertwined. Beneath it was written something oddly familiar: “Bosom friend and Brother.”

  Morgan looked at these words on the man’s back, letting them slowly resonate in his mouth. Scuttles tried to feed him more pea soup with a spoon, but the man vomited it up. The cook made him drink some water and he fell back onto the table. He tried to speak, but he opened his mouth and no words came out. Dobbs’s skin was a deathly blue. Morgan couldn’t take his eyes off his back. How strange that he knew those words. Something connected him with this man. What was it? At that moment, the first officer came down below to check on the nearly drowned man and told Morgan to go and get his clothes in the forecastle. Scuttles volunteered his observations.

  “Ain’t no way about it, Mister Toothacher. Sir, from the looks of Dobbs, he’ll have to bunk here in the sick bay. If we put him back in the forecastle, he’ll either die on his own or they’ll do it for him.”