by Robin Lloyd
“Miss Holloway, you will certainly be pleased with the refinement and luxury in London. What will your American eyes be most desirous of feasting on? Westminster Abbey? The Tower of London?”
The young woman was clearly flattered at the Englishman’s attentions. She spoke of hoping to see some Shakespeare in the London theaters, or some of the sculptures from ancient Greece.
“Let me suggest a small amateur theater near Covent Gardens where, if my memory serves, they may be performing a play about Icarus,” Mr. Ward said, lifting his eyebrows and straightening his posture as he reached for another slice of bread.
Seeing Morgan looking in their direction, he attempted to bring the captain into the conversation.
“Captain, I am sure you are aware of many Greek mythological figures. Icarus, for instance, was a man who didn’t follow his father’s instructions, and fell from the sky as a result. Then there was Prometheus and Sisyphus, destined to their tragic fates. As a seaman you will have heard of Odysseus, naturally?”
Morgan bit his lip and nodded.
“But here is one you may not know. A nautical figure from the ancient Greeks that not many people are familiar with. Let me quote from the Aeneid.”
With a shake of his head, and a florid wave of his long hand, the actor began speaking in deep, rolling tones, his eyes now looking appreciatively at Miss Holloway:
“A sordid God down from his hairy chin
A length of beard descends, uncombed, uncleaned;
His eyes like hollow furnaces on fire.”
“I will wager you haven’t heard of Charon, have you Captain?”
At the mention of Charon, Morgan was startled and jumped out of his chair. He tried to cover up his surprise, but his head was reeling.
“Yes, yes,” he said with strong conviction, his face contorting in disgust. “I have heard of Charon.”
The English actor raised his eyebrows and stroked his chin, nodding with approval.
“I am indeed surprised, Captain. What have you heard?”
“Someone once told me it was a blood boat, but they never explained what they meant. Tell me, what does the name signify?”
“Why, Captain,” declared Mr. Ward, still slightly puzzled by the captain’s sudden interest. “Actually, Charon is the name of the boatman who carries the newly dead across the River Styx. Isn’t that right, Lord Nanvers?”
“Indeed so,” replied the English lord, who was now leaning in closer to hear the conversation. “All those who cross the River Styx with Charon never return.”
“All except Heracles,” added Mr. Ward quickly. “Remember, he was the one who slew the Hydra, the nine-headed serpent, and he tricked Charon more than once, I believe.”
A violent shaking of the ship rescued the captain that evening. The plum pudding was just being served. Rough weather had struck, as it often did during a meal. Every time someone reached for a dish on the table, the ship lurched sideways and the contents spilled. Plates now slid across the table, glasses tumbled over, and the creamy pudding toppled onto Mrs. Bullfinch’s lap, causing the woman to scream at Lowery that her velvet gown was ruined. Morgan heard the mate calling out to the men to get a pull on the weather braces. He heard the men singing out, and he used that moment when the sailors were hauling in the weather main braces to leave the table, just as the topic had switched to a debate about which was best, a monarchy or a republic. He could hear the last strands of the argument as Mr. Bullfinch proudly stated that as an Englishman he was quite pleased with his representation in Parliament.
“Is that so?” came a distinctly American voice. “I have heard that in England only one man in five has a vote. Do you call that a fair system of representation, Mr. Bullfinch?”
The weather was so bad by late that night that the ship could only stand double-reefed topsails and the outer jib. The packet would ride up the high mountain swells, ease off slightly at the crest, then plunge downward into the troughs, only to rise upward again. They were some 90 miles to the south of Cape Clear on a safe course to the Scilly Islands, or so he thought. Over the past week he had taken periodic midday readings with the sextant. He was confident with his arithmetic, and he thought himself to be a competent navigator, but this was the first trip he’d made where the navigation was solely his responsibility. At first he dismissed Icelander’s concerns. The big sailor, who was then on night watch and was doing a turn at the helm, was worried about their position.
“Better to head further south, Captain. These winds have pushed us far to the north. Earlier today I saw far too many land birds. I think we might be closer to Ireland than we realize.”
If these cautionary words had come from another sailor, he would have ignored them. He might have even rebuked the sailor, but over many years Morgan had learned to trust Rasmussen’s instincts. To play it safe, he reluctantly gave the order to change course. Hours later with the sun breaking over the horizon, they were surprised to see the clifftops of the Irish coast just to the north off their port side. If they had not changed to a more southeasterly course when they did, they might have run ashore.
Morgan couldn’t figure out what had happened. The past two days had been overcast, and as a result he’d been unable to take the noon sightings. But he was skilled at dead reckoning. How had he made this mistake? He thought of Hiram at that moment and his disdain for packet ship captains who spent too much time below with their passengers. It was true. He had spent too much time tending to the demanding cabin passengers. He hadn’t noticed how much the strong southerly winds had pushed them to the north. That was his error, not paying attention.
As it turned out, that wasn’t his only mistake. He hadn’t checked his watch with the ship’s chronometer. His longitude calculations had been off as well. What would Hiram have said? He was becoming a lady captain, he thought to himself, more nurse than sailor.
It was an important lesson for Morgan. He looked out at the sea and the cresting waves. He had found his calling on the ocean and it had made him what he was. It had given him work, and pride in his profession, a sense of his own strength and a belief in his abilities. And now because of his own hubris and carelessness, he had almost let it destroy him, his ship, and his passengers.
He went to his cabin to write into his log.
Passed through a blue devil night with stormy winds. Saw several land birds. Altered course which saved us from shipwreck and a watery grave off the coast of Ireland. Wet, foggy, but a stiff breeze this morning. Ship going about ten knots. Coming on deck in the morning saw two or three ships through the fog. Scilly Islands out of sight to the southeast.
Morgan made a small offering of rum to Neptune that morning as a way of acknowledging his good fortune. The passengers below decks emerged later that day as the weather improved, knowing nothing of their narrow escape. However, some of the sailors were well aware that their young captain had almost driven them onto the rocks. As he paced the decks, Morgan could sense their eyes looking at him, distrustful and fearful. That night as he stood watch by the main mast, he thought he could hear voices. Some sailor was humming the chantey “Blow the Man Down.” He pulled out a cigar and lit it. The whispering from the shadows and the humming then stopped, only to be replaced by a profound silence, broken intermittently by the sound of a creaking block, a splash of a wave, and a man snoring from the forecastle. With the glowing cigar in his teeth, Morgan stared out into the black void, his mind filled with self-doubt and broken self-confidence.
Just then the man on watch yelled out, “Light on the port bow!” It was the Lizard lighthouse in Cornwall. The ship was now well into the English Channel, and Morgan puffed on his cigar appreciably as he looked forward to landfall even more than he had savored their departure three weeks earlier. He wanted someplace to hide from the critical eyes on board ship that followed him both above and below deck. He hadn’t felt so unsure of himself since those first voyages when he was a cabin boy and the vile Mr. Brown forced him up into the higher yards
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PART VI
I find the sea-life, an acquired taste, like that for tomatoes and olives. The confinement, cold, motion, noise, and odor are not to be dispensed with. The floor of your room is sloped at an angle [of] twenty or thirty degrees, and I waked every morning with the belief that some one was tipping my berth.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, English Traits
14
1834
The distant bells of many churches were striking the hour as the cabriolet left St. Katherine’s Docks on its way to the Old Jerusalem Coffee House in the commercial part of London known as Change Alley. The cool morning air on that sparkling June day refreshed Morgan and gave him a sense of well-being. He lit his first cigar of the day and listened to the comforting clopping of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones, still wet from an early morning rain shower. He had been a shipmaster for three years, but he still wasn’t accustomed to many of the different business tasks he was expected to perform while in London. One such job was to promote his ship with shipping agents in London’s Change Alley. He was dressed formally in a long-skirted blue coat, a white shirt with a dark cravat, and his polished Wellington boots. As he fondled his black top hat, he thought about how much had changed in his life. Dressed as formally as he was, it seemed as if he was overreaching his station in life. He almost didn’t recognize himself. He knew he had changed, but these fine clothes he wore still seemed a mask. He reached into his coat pocket and touched Abraham’s old pennywhistle, stroking the smooth lead surface. This is my compass, he said to himself softly.
As they neared Gracechurch Street, Morgan could see the tip of the lofty dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral in the distance. His mind wandered back to that difficult passage three years earlier when he first became shipmaster of the old Hudson. He felt the same way now as he did then, awkward and strange. He smiled at his naivete, thinking about how much older he felt now, but also more experienced. It had taken time, but he had gradually won the men’s respect. Even his first mate, Mr. Nyles, had a grudging admiration for his abilities now. He started calling him a lucky captain ever since they had avoided running aground two years ago by kedging their way out of a tight spot off the Irish coast with several small anchors even as a strong headwind threatened to blow them ashore. If it hadn’t been for a helpful ebb tide that pulled them away from the rocks, events might have turned out differently.
Below deck, he had learned many of the skills of being packet-polite. He could now sit at the head of the table, smiling and chatting his way through multiple courses. He still had trouble giving elaborate toasts, but he’d learned to keep his well-heeled passengers entertained by telling wild sea tales and sailors’ jokes and offering to play backgammon and chess. The secret of being packet-polite, he had decided, was to have a ready smile, a quick wit, a helping hand for the ladies, and a plentiful supply of port and sherry. Still, relations with some of his more arrogant English passengers posed special challenges. At times he had trouble controlling his temper. A particularly cutting remark would transport him back to that fearful night as a boy on the river. Back then he had seen the British as the enemy. Now as a captain and one of the Black X Line’s ship owners, he had come to appreciate the benefits of trade and commerce with England. That thought helped him temper a dark feeling about the English that occasionally swept over him.
As he puffed on his cigar, listening to the cab driver coax his horse along, he thought about the day two years ago when his new ship, the Philadelphia, was launched into the East River from the Bergh shipyard on Water Street. The Hudson had just arrived in port, and he had left the unloading of the ship in the hands of his first mate. He wanted to see the newest ship that Henry Champlin would soon be commanding. It was a summer not easily forgotten. As he watched the 542-ton Philadelphia slide off the ways into the river, one of the carpenters pointed out to him the plumes of black smoke rising above the city.
“It’s the cholera,” the man said. “It’s raging here.”
Morgan looked alarmed.
“They’re burning the clothes and bedding of the sick and the dead. That’s what the smoke is.”
During the three-week layover, Morgan had seen cartloads of bodies leaving the city and daily black plumes of smoke rise above the buildings. He’d written home telling Josiah and his mother not to worry. He mostly was staying aboard ship to keep from being contaminated. He wrote how each day he saw the somber sight of horses and wagons carrying the dead to the cemeteries. They would hear the latest from some of the newsboys each morning. People were abandoning the city by the thousands. He had never been happier to set sail and head out to the open sea. By the end of the summer more than 3,500 had died in the city of 250,000.
Clouds of tobacco smoke greeted him as he stepped into the noisy hum of the central meeting room of the Old Jerusalem. He liked to visit this coffeehouse because the latest shipping news was always posted inside. The Old Jerusalem was a favorite of ship captains from all over the world. Morgan never missed an opportunity to listen and discreetly ask questions. He always kept his eyes out for any mention of the Charon or the name Blackwood. In fact, he had specifically asked a couple of shipping agents he had just met a few weeks earlier to make some inquiries about the Charon, saying he thought she was an opium trader. These agents always kept track of the ships and the captains that sailed up the Thames. They had told him to come back before he left London and they might have more information.
Morgan took a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the large room. Men dressed liked him in dark coats and top hats were clustered around tables, some standing, some seated. He scanned the room to see if there was anyone he recognized. A few people were reading the morning newspaper while others were glancing at some of the bulletins posted on the wall. He looked around, but didn’t see any familiar faces that morning. There was no sign of any of the shipping agents he dealt with, so he posted a promotional handbill on the wall that read simply: “Passage to America with the new packet ship Philadelphia of the Black X Line: experienced navigators, beds, wines, and foods are of the best description. Apply to Captain E. E. Morgan, St. Katherine’s Docks. First-class cabin fare, thirty guineas. Steerage fare, five pounds.”
At this time, Morgan looked young despite his many years at sea. He was almost thirty, and his tanned, weathered, clean-shaven face had few wrinkles other than the first signs of crow’s-feet on either side of his light hazel green eyes. His reddish-brown hair was combed back to reveal a smooth forehead. He laughed comfortably and walked with a light and easy step. Perhaps it was that carefree attitude and winning smile that drew a particular solicitous man to his side, or perhaps it was the way he walked, like he was still on a ship’s deck.
“Mornin’ to you, squire,” the stranger piped up, removing his top hat to reveal a head of curly black hair. “What brings you to the Old Jerusalem? You won’t find any ladybirds or high-priced toffers here, if that’s what you’re seeking.”
At the sound of the man’s voice Morgan turned and introduced himself as captain of a New York–London liner. The man who spoke was a round fellow who Morgan guessed was about forty years old. He had a large sallow-skinned face with a long, bulbous nose that pointed down to a double chin. The man was dressed with an eye-catching green vest, but otherwise he wore a conventional white shirt, black cravat, and black coat. Morgan gave him one of the handbills advertising the Philadelphia and began to extol the attributes of his ship as well as the merits of the shipping line. The Englishman pushed his left hand through his hair and peered at the pamphlet through his reading spectacles. He then asked with a wry smile, “I see yer name is Morgan. Are ye the Yankee captain who is lookin’ for William Blackwood?”
Morgan tried to control his surprise and excitement.
“Yes, yes. Do you know him?”
“Not personally, but I know of ’im. Some of the other agents ’ere told me to keep my eye out for you. They told me ye was looking for Blackwood.”
Morgan nodd
ed.
“Where can I find him?”
“What business do ye ’av with ’im?”
“Personal business.”
“I see.”
The man smiled as he unbuttoned the midsection of his black coat.
“No, I haven’t seen William Blackwood for some time now. Let me introduce meself, Captain. My name is Fleming, William Fleming. I am a stockjobber in sugar, spices, and tea, and a shipping agent handling all types of cargo.”
Morgan knew the type. The London coffeehouses in Change Alley were full of these fast-talking traders selling their quick-rich schemes, some of them honorable, many of them not.
“Captain, ye and me are experienced men of the world, am I right? Whatever your business dealings are with William Blackwood, I can offer ye some fine trading opportunities. I know a few well-dressed gentlemen with several trading firms right ’ere in this room who may be looking for a fast Yankee ship.”
The man had sharp and penetrating black eyes, which Morgan thought reminded him of a hungry crow. Mr. Fleming placed his shiny top hat on a table nearby and smiled at him in an insinuating manner that revealed a row of brown-stained teeth. Morgan was repulsed by this man, but in the interest of promoting his ship, he forced himself to inquire more about his proposal.
“What, then, are your well-dressed gentlemen looking for?” Morgan asked as he lit his cigar.
“They need to move some human cargo,” was the terse reply. “And they’re looking for a fast Yankee ship.”
“That so,” Morgan replied, thinking that the man might be posturing to try to charter his ship for the Atlantic voyage. “Well, we could carry as many as one hundred, maybe two hundred in steerage on the Philadelphia. Up to twenty-four passengers in the first-class cabin. We can make the westward passage to New York in twenty days or less.”