Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale

by Robin Lloyd

  But for Morgan those concerns were only half his troubles. The new unaccustomed demands below deck were far greater than he had imagined. It was only when the weather cleared once they left the stormy Grand Banks that his two separate jobs began to merge ever so slightly. With the ocean calming, one by one the sickly passengers came up on deck to take in some fresh air. The stormy seas and the boarding waves sweeping over the decks had kept most of them below. Morgan spotted one of the packets that had left New York about the same time as they had, and the somber faces faded away. It was the Erie, bound for Havre. The two ships sailed side by side, sometimes in a single-reefed topsail breeze for a short while. Finally, with the winds piping up, the Hudson edged up closer to the wind to take a more northerly course, and all the passengers waved good-bye to the unknown passengers on board the France-bound packet.

  The passengers were now promenading regularly around the ship. They had learned how to walk on a slanted, slippery deck, clutching the rails or the bulwarks to keep themselves upright. A daily routine began to settle in. Some of the more enterprising men got up early for a six o’clock bath on deck, which consisted of two buckets of cold seawater thrown over them by one of the crew. Morgan had smiled as a grim-looking Icelander had tossed bucket after bucket of icy water on several naked men, who were cursing the giant sailor as they stomped up and down on the deck. By seven o’clock, one of the sailors was milking the cow, the kettle was screeching, and the smells of hot rolls and sizzling bacon filled the cabin with the aroma of breakfast. An hour later at eight o’clock, Lowery sounded the handbell, and a full meal of broiled ham, chicken, eggs, frizzled bacon, and mutton cutlets was served. The pots de chambre in each stateroom were emptied while the passengers ate their breakfast. That was a moment when all the sailors moved to the windward side of the ship. Afterward, if the weather was not too rough, the shuffleboard players came out on the slanted deck to try their luck at sliding the biscuit.

  Luncheon was delivered several hours later, and before the sun set around six o’clock a three-course dinner was offered, followed by a walk on the deck, a cup of coffee or tea, and a glass of port. All this socializing, eating, and drinking was new to Morgan. He wasn’t used to the niceties of parlor discussions, the trivial conversation, and the rigorous rules of proper dining etiquette around the eating table. He often thought of Champlin’s warning to him that his well-heeled passengers would find fault with his salty table manners. He’d already sensed the disapproval of some of the older ladies during the meals. He had heard the tut-tutting and the quiet whispering even as they stole glances in his direction. He kept wiping his face with a napkin, thinking that he must have food around his cheeks. Then he thought he may have said something inappropriate. As he had no one else to turn to, he asked Lowery what he thought. The gray-eyed, brown-skinned steward looked at him with a cryptic glance, and then told him in a hushed voice that he’d heard some of the passengers critique his eating habits.

  “Excuse me, Cap’n, but those ladies say you eatin’ too fast. They say you got your face in your plate, and you talk with your mouth full. I don’t want to rile you, Captain, and I don’t mean no disrespect, but they say you have bad table manners.”

  Morgan stood by quietly as his colored steward reported these overheard complaints. He was furious that he had received this embarrassing rebuke from Lowery, but he said nothing. He thought about what Lowery had told him about his early life in New Orleans. It hadn’t been easy. Caiphus had grown up sleeping in the same room with his mother, except for the nights when the master came to see her and he was told to go elsewhere. It was from her that he picked up his cooking skills and basic knowledge of some African dialects. French and English were spoken around the house, so he was comfortable with both languages. His mother died when he was only fourteen. The master, a local merchant by the name of Francois Lowery, freed him at that time, and Caiphus found himself alone in New Orleans’s Congo Square amidst the drums and the singing. He told Morgan it was natural for him to go shipboard because he knew he could use his cooking skills. “Tain’ got too many places for a freed black man ashore, Cap’n,” he’d said. “At least at sea, we all are in the same boat, black and white together. If the Lawd takes the ship down, He’s takin’ all of us.”

  After Lowery’s revealing information about his table manners, Morgan made a point of following the example of the passenger seated across from him. He soon learned to keep his back straight and take small spoonfuls, never eat when someone was talking to him, and to wait until everyone was served before eating. As difficult as it was for him to learn some of these rules, Morgan did not envy his steward’s job. Lowery was always being summoned.

  “Hello steward, my good fellow,” cried out a white-haired barrister from London. “How far from land are we now?”

  “Oh, your lordship, we’re closer than ever, only another two thousand miles.”

  Lowery didn’t know the difference between an earl, a duke, or a viscount, so he just called all the Englishmen your lordship, a fact that amused Morgan, so he made no effort to correct him. He himself was just beginning to grow accustomed to these puzzling titles. As an American, he did not take them seriously, finding the whole notion of titles to be pompous and affected, but he knew if he wanted to keep his job he had to show some deference to English customs.

  The litany of demands usually went on for much of the morning, and Morgan began making a habit of being on deck until lunchtime. Even there in the safety of the rigging and the sails, he couldn’t escape the problems of tending to his needy passengers. One windless day in the middle of the Atlantic when the ship floundered, rolling back and forth with the sails flapping and the yards braced tightly, tempers started to flare. He watched as two of his passengers argued with each other over the rules of shuffleboard. As he walked closer he got the gist of the dispute. It seemed that they had learned different rules. The Baltimore salesman was yelling at one of the younger Englishmen on board, a thin, tall man with long, slender fingers and a flair for speaking in a dramatic tone.

  “You bloody fool. You Americans always get it wrong,” remarked the Englishman in a disdainful, sententious tone, standing tall and erect. “This is a game first played by Henry VIII. As I told you before,” he proclaimed as he wagged his finger at the Baltimore man, “the biscuit has to land squarely within the triangle. It cannot touch any of the lines!”

  The man from Baltimore, a dark-haired, medium-sized man with a drooping moustache, responded in a strident way by accusing the Englishman of cheating and making up rules.

  This remark incensed the slightly effeminate Englishman, who was a traveling Shakespearean actor. His name was Peter Ward. He had left New York embittered because he had been poorly treated by what he called unappreciative and coarse audiences.

  “You Americans break all the rules and standards of a civilized country,” he cried out dramatically, his hands on his hips.

  “What do you mean by that crude remark?” retorted the man from Baltimore angrily.

  “You call yourselves the land of liberty,” replied the actor, now quite unrestrained in his remarks, “yet you enslave the black man.”

  The Baltimore salesman, named Sam Wilkins, had his own strong opinions about that topic. It was clear that he didn’t much care for the rights of the black man.

  “The slaves are different. They are an exception,” he declared.

  “How so?” asked an indignant Mr. Ward.

  “That’s a matter of states’ rights,” replied Mr. Wilkins, his voice now full of conviction. “Slaves are property, nothing more. A nigger is a nigger just like a cow is a cow. They come in different shades and different sizes, but they’re bought and sold just like all property.”

  “You don’t say,” retorted a now irate, red-faced Mr. Ward with distinct animosity. “I would say that equality means equality, and either you are for it or you are not. You say all men are equal, yet you worship those with money, no matter how ill-gotten the gains. Yo
u Americans are nothing but a bunch of devious, hypocritical hucksters.”

  “And you, sir, are a prune-faced, frothy Englishman. I would like to block you one!” Seething with anger, the Baltimore man drew his clenched fists to his face.

  Other passengers were looking to see what the young captain would do. Morgan was about to step in when one of the other passengers intervened. It was the stout-chested Lord Nanvers. He walked right up to both men and introduced himself as an authority on the rules of shuffleboard. Morgan took stock of the well-dressed man with a large pale face and red hair slightly thinning on the top. He wore a fashionable, dark, long-skirted coat, dark cravat, and cream-colored pants with a flat-brimmed brown straw hat. He quickly mediated the dispute with his pleasant manner and calming voice. He told a few disarming anecdotes about King Henry VIII and his many wives and, surprisingly, the tensions evaporated over cigars and snuff.

  Afterward, Morgan approached the English lord and personally thanked him.

  “Think nothing of it, old man,” replied Lord Nanvers as he took off his hat and patted Morgan on the back with his other hand. “I was glad to help. It was the least I could do to patch up the ongoing quarrel between the two transatlantic cousins. No need for more misunderstandings. Hey, hey, isn’t that right, Captain?”

  Lord Nanvers laughed with a self-confident chuckle and as a token symbol of friendship offered the captain some snuff. When Morgan refused, the English lord took a pinch or two for himself before speaking again.

  “Tell me, Captain, please forgive any inappropriate forwardness on my part, but everyone on board ship has remarked that you seem young.”

  Morgan smiled but said nothing.

  “Might I be so impertinent to ask if this is your first command?”

  “Yes it is,” Morgan testily replied, “but I have been sailing on this ship before the mast these past ten years. Rest assured, your lordship, you are in good hands.”

  Lord Nanvers applied another pinch of snuff to his twitching nose and replied, “I have no doubt of that, Captain. I have heard said that you are a talented sailor and a worthy navigator.”

  It was during one of those airless days when the sails were slack that Mrs. Bullfinch, who liked to walk the deck with her newfound sea legs, approached the captain.

  “Is there an explanation as to why these hideous flies are so abundant and so difficult to be rid of? Presumably they come from that filthy cow you have on deck.”

  Morgan’s eyes fixated on her prominent jaw, hawk eyes, and beaklike nose. She was wearing a white dress with a fully decorated straw bonnet over a frilled cap with brown curls poking out from underneath. The woman was relentless. He was thinking about telling her that the flies were probably attracted to her own fragrantly perfumed vinaigrette, but he bit his lip. He remembered Captain Champlin’s advice to be packet-polite at all times.

  That evening at dinner, she arrived dressed in an elegant velvet gown with pleated panels trimmed in such a way to reveal a formidable bust, her hair done in a beehive of braids and curls, and her neckline decorated with several strands of pearls. Morgan was worried that Mrs. Bullfinch would spot him using the wrong fork or spoon and would report this breach of good manners to the entire table. He was careful to watch the other passengers before he picked up the next utensil. Dinner was a three-course, two-hour affair. As Mr. Lowery served a generous meal of duck, pickled oysters, and ham, Mrs. Bullfinch held forth by critiquing American speech.

  “I’m tired of hearing ‘ain’ts’ and ‘hadn’t ought to.’ Have you not read, Captain Morgan, what the erudite Sydney Smith has written about America?”

  Morgan shook his head. He had no idea who Sydney Smith was.

  “Well, Captain, he is a fine English clergyman and a brilliant speaker, so full of wit and charm. I believe it was over ten years ago that he wrote, ‘In the four corners of the globe, who reads an American book, or goes to an American play, or looks at an American statue?’”

  She smiled at him knowingly. He bit his lip as he thought unpleasant thoughts about her. He was just thinking that the English, even those who were friendly, wore many faces when it came to the controversial topic of America. This was his first encounter with the socially prominent English, and he was quickly learning that despite a thin veneer of congeniality, they seemed to harbor an inherent hostility to all things American. He wondered to himself if their air of superiority masked some hidden insecurity about their own cultural identity.

  Mr. Bullfinch, who was seated next to his wife, wanted to know if Morgan had read Captain Basil Hall. The older man’s watery eyes, with deep dark shadows beneath them, revealed the signs of another sleepless night. He was still fighting off a persistent bout of mal de mer. Morgan politely shook his head and glared at the man. His ignorance about the writings of Smith and Hall was softened somewhat by the arrival of a platter of peas and onions. Mrs. Bullfinch looked up at the smiling brown face of Lowery as he made his rounds, and then turned back to the captain, whispering loudly.

  “Why, Captain Morgan, your Negro steward is exceptionally dutiful, and I might add, so exotic in appearance. I have been meaning to ask you from the beginning of the voyage, does he have a little white blood in him?”

  Morgan stiffened at this tactless question but said nothing. He noticed Lowery wincing, a clear sign that he had overheard the remark.

  “Excuse me for asking this rather delicate question, Captain, but is the steward a free man? He has the same features as some of the slaves who served us during our stay in Richmond.”

  Lowery abruptly turned away and swiftly walked back to the pantry as if he had forgotten something. Morgan remained silent, squirming in his seat, counting the minutes until this dinner would be over. He was saved from responding by the surprise arrival of another course, a platter of simmering turtle steaks framed by mashed turnips. The turtle had been snagged with a hook and line that same morning. This unexpected delicacy was greeted with great joy by most of the table, and much raising of glasses to the captain’s health. His eyes lingered on Lowery, who had emerged from the pantry and was now serving Mrs. Bullfinch scalloped potatoes from a bowl that looked disturbingly familiar. Morgan realized with sudden horror that it was one of the ship’s bowls that Lowery used at the outset of the trip when the mal de mer was at its peak. It was probably Mr. Bullfinch’s bowl, he thought to himself, as the Englishman was only just now convalescing. Lowery seemed unaware of his mistake, or at least was refusing to look the captain in the eye.

  “Please help yurself, your ladyship,” Lowery said in a melodious deferential voice, switching effortlessly into French with a languid creole accent. “C’est pommes de terre au gratin. Préparé avec crème fraîche et fromage de notre vache ici à bord.”

  The English woman looked up uncomfortably at the gray-eyed steward, slightly taken aback by a brown-skinned man speaking French. She smiled at Lowery, clearly not understanding a word. Morgan didn’t know whether to be horrified or to laugh. He was about to stammer an apology and send the potatoes back to the cook when Mrs. Bullfinch interjected her views forcefully as she heaped a generous helping of creamy potatoes onto her plate without even looking at the suspiciously crusty edges on the side of the bowl.

  “It is quite a popular book in London,” she said as she now turned her attention to her plate and carefully sliced the ham.

  Morgan looked at her inquiringly. He had already forgotten what book she was talking about.

  “You should have it in your ship’s library, Captain. It’s quite revealing. Captain Hall at one point described meeting your scholar, Mr. Webster, who said something so typically American. He told Captain Hall that to stop Americans from changing the English language would be like stopping the flow of the Mississippi. Quite impossible, he said. What do you think of that, Captain?”

  Morgan’s mind was elsewhere. He watched with a sense of dread as Lowery made his way around the table. He was waiting for one of the passengers to sound the alarm that would reverbe
rate far beyond the saloon of his ship. It would not be good business for the Black X Line if it were known that they served their guests dinner from uncleaned vomit bowls. He stared in fascination as the voracious Mrs. Bullfinch now swallowed a generous forkful of creamy potatoes. His initial impulse to intervene had now gone away. Somewhat to his surprise, he realized that he was enjoying the sight of this pompous woman eating large spoonfuls of vomit-seasoned potatoes with such evident relish.

  He smiled mischievously, but when he realized he was starting to chuckle, he quickly looked away to the other side of the table where one of the two shuffleboard combatants was holding court. The English actor, Peter Ward, was flirting with the pretty eighteen-year-old daughter of the Philadelphia minister. Her hair was tied up in braids with an eye-catching gilded headband. Morgan had admired her, a tall, thin girl with an oval face and light, sparkling brown eyes that seemed to yearn for adventure. The man’s long fingers were like swirling paintbrushes creating imaginary artwork in the air. Morgan hadn’t noticed him much since the shuffleboard incident and now he got a better look at his sharply cut jaw, rigid nose, and thin, clean-shaven face that seemed to have moveable parts. Just a few days earlier he had been excoriating all Americans, but now, here he was openly flirting with one of them.