Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale

by Robin Lloyd

  In an effort to be conciliatory but firm he said, “Miss Robinson, I must warn you. This is not allowed on board ship. I will not have one of my passengers getting hurt.”

  “Captain, I want you to know I am not a fragile piece of china to be kept safely in a cupboard.”

  At that, Eliza walked off with her head held high and her scowling mother marching close behind. Morgan was annoyed he had been spoken to this way in front of all the other cabin passengers. He could tell from the smirks on some of the sailors’ faces that his frustrated efforts to control this strong-willed young woman had made him look foolish.

  They sailed two hundred miles on June 22, which turned out to be their fastest day. They were now approaching the Grand Banks. Morgan remembered that day for the fine wind, but also for the creamed potato soup, the roast pig, and the apple pie. All afternoon long the quarterdeck was filled with comforting smells of roast pork wafting up the companionway hatch. Scuttles was hard at work in the galley preparing lunch. When the lunch bell rang, Lord Nanvers was in a fine humor at the sight of the feast laid out on large platters atop the saloon’s long dining table, everything from stewed chicken to boiled codfish to a fine macaroni pie. He took a seat next to Morgan. Rubbing the palms of his hands together in hungry anticipation, he remarked, “Now there’s a sight for a Rubens’ painting, eh Captain.” He pointed to the large platter where the pig’s head had been placed as the centerpiece of the table. “Nothing I like better than the smell of roast pig.”

  With that, the barrel-chested English lord wasted no time in spearing a large slice of roast pork and serving himself a generous amount of mashed potatoes and corned beef. He then passed the pickled oysters to his lovely young wife. Morgan allowed his gaze to wander over to Lady Nanvers, a striking blonde with large blue eyes whose tall, voluptuous body was a constant distraction for most of the men on board. Her ever-present vapid smile, Morgan suspected, cloaked a far more complex character. She had the look of a woman with a strong appetite for men and had sampled many before she chose the stout-chested English lord. She was his second wife, as his first had died in childbirth, leaving him no heirs. He was hoping that they would have a son soon. Morgan discovered all of this from another of the English passengers who’d confided in him that Lord Nanvers might not have a legal heir, but it was rumored around London that “the old devil considered himself quite the swordsman and had many illegitimate children from several different women, who were not from the gentle class.”

  Morgan had hardly been listening to Lord Nanvers as he looked in the direction of Eliza Robinson, who was sitting at the other end of the dining room table. Her hair was done up in the same corkscrew curls that made him admire her attractively thin neck. He had to admit she was pretty, not voluptuous like Lady Nanvers, but a head turner nonetheless. He was still miffed that she had disobeyed his orders and undermined his authority, but there had been no further incidents on the passage and he kept finding his eyes shifting in her direction. She had annoyed him at first, but now he found her spirited nature to be strangely alluring.

  No sooner had he looked over at her than he noticed her stealing a glance away from her three companions, who were all loudly competing for her attention. Her eyes briefly encountered Morgan’s. He looked away, a little flustered and embarrassed that he’d been so bold and blatant in revealing his interest in the young woman. The thin-faced, curly-haired French count was mentioning how much he admired America, quoting something from Lafayette in French. The young American from Philadelphia, Buckley Norris, whose demeanor Morgan found to be both dull and arrogant, was bragging about his illustrious English ancestors, and how he was descended from King Arthur.

  Morgan wondered if anyone else had seen him looking at Eliza Robinson. He glanced over at Mrs. Robinson and thought she had noticed when she abruptly looked in his direction, but then she turned away and appeared engrossed in a conversation with the well-to-do Sir Charles Molesworth. Sir Charles was busy mopping his brow with a handkerchief and combing back his thinning gray hair with his hand even as he expounded on the fine quality of American cotton and the efficiency of his cotton mills.

  It was at this awkward moment that Lord Nanvers surprised Morgan with an unexpected question. He was pretending to listen, but his attentions were still focused on the girl at the other end of the table.

  “Captain, the mutiny was certainly a shock to all of us. How did those men get on your ship? Were they known to you?”

  Morgan abruptly turned to Lord Nanvers, explaining that many of his regular sailors had mysteriously taken sick. At that point Lady Nanvers, with her silky, sultry voice, turned her attentions to the young captain. Morgan’s eyes couldn’t help but notice a sapphire and ruby brooch in the shape of a serpent that strategically spiraled downward so as to draw the eye to her bosom.

  “Captain, we are all so appreciative of your bravery. Has this ever happened to you before?”

  “I’ve had my share of fights and deckside brawls, but I never have had to contend with a mutiny, Lady Nanvers.”

  Lord Nanvers put his fork down and rubbed his chin with his right hand.

  “I have always been curious, Captain, about men who decide to take on the sea as their calling. I may have asked you before, but tell me again, what made you decide to become a sailor on the New York to London run?”

  Morgan was again surprised at the directness and the personal nature of the English lord’s question, but he answered it as truthfully as he could. He explained about his brother Abraham and how his mysterious disappearance at sea years ago was still unsolved. He had always been drawn to the sea, he told Lord and Lady Nanvers, but when his brother went missing, he knew he had to find him. He still had hope, although it was fading, that his brother was alive somewhere.

  Loud voices at the other end of the table prevented Lord Nanvers from asking another question. Morgan heard the name of Frances Trollope come up with angry protests from many of the Americans at the table, who cursed that awful English woman who wrote such dreadful lies about the Americans. The English were mostly silent, their faces smug. At that point, Lowery was clearing the plates and bringing in a dessert of apple pie and molasses gingerbread. Soon the feasting began all over again. At the other end of the table, Morgan could hear Eliza Robinson expounding on her views about slavery. She had grown up in Petersburg, Virginia, but her family had moved to New York four or five years ago. Her father was a businessman, originally from Massachusetts, and as a result had never felt at home culturally in the South. She was praising the British for their moral act of freeing the slaves in the West Indies, and explaining to her English and Continental luncheon companions that there were many Americans who favored abolition and she was one of them.

  He could just make out her conversation with the French count.

  “It is indeed tragic, Mademoiselle Robinson. En France, many of us now realize slavery is like a serpent. Il faut couper la tête. You must cut off its head.”

  The days passed by with favorable summer weather, ideal for romantic walks on deck, shuffleboard games, and decoy shooting for the gentlemen. Invariably, the sight of Eliza striding along the ship’s rail with one or two suitors on either side became the talk of the ship. In the roundhouse, at the head of the companionway where the shipboard gossip gathered like rockweed on a tidal shoreline, all the ladies could talk about was which gentleman the spirited Miss Robinson would pick. Morgan often heard such conversations as he walked by groups of women crocheting and reading. He listened with interest as one woman jokingly commented that the captain should preside over a contest where the three suitors would compete for Eliza’s hand.

  “What are you suggesting?” another woman asked. “A boxing match or shooting competition?”

  “Perhaps Miss Robinson’s suitors should be made to rescue her.”

  Morgan stopped and pretended to monitor the work of the men aloft.

  “Who do you think she should choose?” another woman questioned.


  “Why, the Frenchman, of course. He has a title, and besides, did you see the way he kisses her hand every night before dinner? He’s like a prince.”

  “I think I would choose Sir Charles. He may be older and a little round around the edges, but he would be a safe choice. My friends in London say he has plenty of money.”

  All of this romantic drama was also playing out in the main saloon of the Philadelphia. There was no doubt this was an elegant setting for romance with soft carpets and comfortable mahogany sofas and cushions. But it was the piano that made Eliza’s courtship memorable. She was an accomplished pianist and often showed off her skills after dinner. There were two violinists among the passengers who would accompany her in a series of Mozart piano concertos and Bach sonatas. Morgan remembered how her three suitors applauded the loudest when the trio played from Haydn’s Lo speziale. The evenings usually ended with much singing around the piano and each of Eliza’s three suitors trying to outdo the other with their voices.

  When they neared the outer tributaries of the Gulf Stream, the weather was unusually sultry. Captain Morgan ordered Lowery to bring around champagne to all the staterooms with a note saying the journey was almost over and that he predicted fair winds to New York.

  One evening after dinner when Morgan was alone by the stern rail, Eliza approached him. She was dressed in a white empire-waisted dress with a gold faux buckle under her bosom. A gauzy black-laced shawl covering her shoulders fluttered in the breeze.

  “May I have a word, Captain,” she whispered demurely. His voice was locked in momentary paralysis and his skin began to tingle at the sight of her. She had smiled at him one time earlier that day, but then had turned away quickly when her mother approached. He wondered if he had misinterpreted that gesture.

  “Well, of course, Miss Robinson,” he stammered. “Pray tell, what can I do for you at this late hour?”

  He wasn’t sure what her intentions were. He knew he should be pleased she was there standing next to him. But he was worried someone might see the two of them together and get the wrong impression. He would rather have been confronted by a black bear than Mrs. Robinson.

  “Could we go for a stroll on deck, Captain?”

  Morgan nodded. “Of course, it’s a fine night with a near full moon.”

  The sight of the red moon hanging on the horizon made Morgan feel as if he were dreaming. The wind was light and the moonlight, with its strange color, lit up the lines of foam caused by the ship moving through the water. The packet was leaning to leeward, riding the gentle swells as if she were dancing to one of the Mozart sonatas Eliza liked to play. They both discussed the voyage. Eliza spoke of how much she had enjoyed being on the ship. Then there was an awkward silence. She broke the silence by suddenly talking about the dramatic sighting of the whales and the dolphins, and they joked about her clambering up the ratlines. She apologized for her impetuous behavior. Then more silence until she blurted out a question.

  “Do you always smile when you speak, Captain?”

  Morgan was slightly taken aback at first, but realized this was her manner, direct and straightforward.

  “No, only to the cabin passengers,” he said with a playful smile.

  “Is your pleasant demeanor just an act for all of your passengers then?” she asked, her eyes sparking flirtatiously. “Am I to believe your smile is just a mask? Are you really a mean sea ogre in disguise?”

  Morgan laughed.

  “Most assuredly, Miss Robinson. Haven’t you noticed my growl when I speak to the sailors?”

  “Well, I was impressed with the way you handled those mutineers, Captain,” she said. She was now looking at him earnestly. Then smiling, she spoke in a more seductive tone, “I certainly saw some of the growling there. I was really quite impressed, Captain.”

  Morgan didn’t say anything. His feelings were in a state of confusion. He wondered what he was doing. He felt her eyes fix upon him as they continued to walk around the deck.

  “Do you believe in fate, Captain?” she asked with a coaxing intonation. She stopped by the mainmast shrouds, turning away from him as she looked out at the dark seascape with the moonlight dancing on the surface.

  “I suppose I do, Miss Robinson. Although I suppose we all make our own luck to a certain extent.”

  “And what do you mean by that, Captain?”

  “Well, I guess I mean to say that like an observation for longitude and latitude, if it’s well calculated, it will all come right in the quotient. If it’s poorly calculated, then you can expect the reverse.”

  “You sound like a properly strict Congregationalist, Captain. You mean to say we get what we deserve?”

  “Not exactly, but I suppose there is some truth in that.”

  Morgan was smiling now. This girl, whom he didn’t know until two weeks ago, seemed to have a greater sense of his own nature than he did. He looked directly into her amber eyes even as he tried to gain the upper hand.

  “You ask so many questions, Miss Robinson. You act as a magistrate. Have I committed some crime?”

  He looked at her with a fixed gaze to which she smiled faintly, lowered her eyelids, and turned her head away again. She stood still and finally said in a gentle voice, “I like your smile, Captain. Would you say you are an optimist?”

  He paused. “Yes, I suppose I am. Like any sailor, I know the wind eventually comes right. What about you, Miss Robinson?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as a realist, Captain, but I also enjoy taking risks. Life would be so boring if you did not take chances.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, she continued with her questioning.

  “Some women do sail before the mast, don’t they, Captain? I think I have heard of women sailors.”

  Bewildered, Morgan shook his head. “Not that I know of. The forecastle wouldn’t be any place for a woman.”

  He thought of the men stripped naked in the forecastle and the jokes about whoring in London. No, he thought to himself, a woman could not join in with this group, not a gentle woman at any rate. Not a lady. A square-rigger was definitely a man’s world.

  “What about a captain’s wife?” she asked. “Don’t packet ship captains take their wives to Europe?”

  He seemed taken back by her persistence and a little surprised at her interest in women aboard ships.

  “That’s different. The sailors don’t mind if the captain brings along his wife. Nor do the ship owners. Why, this was before my time as a sailor, but the man who taught me to sail, Captain Henry Champlin, took along his wife, Amelia, on many trips to France and England.”

  Just then the bell was sounded for a change in the watch and the quiet they had enjoyed was interrupted by men’s voices and thudding feet. Eliza used the noise to speak with a sudden urgency.

  “Captain,” she said with her soft-spoken voice. “I am in a most terrible predicament. I find myself with several suitors on board your ship. I’m quite prepared to marry one of them, but what shall I do? How shall I know which one to choose?”

  Morgan’s heart sank at this news. He felt dismayed and dispirited, but then a plan began to form in his mind.

  “Miss Robinson, what if your suitors all had to compete in some way to show their chivalry as well as their bravery?”

  “I would like that very much,” she said. “What did you have in mind, Captain?”

  “Are you a swimmer, Miss Robinson?”

  “I learned to swim as a young girl. Why do you ask?”

  He paused for a moment.

  “Well, Miss Robinson, we’re now approaching the warm Gulf Stream waters. Suppose by accident you should fall overboard? I’d have the quarter boat already lowered ready to pick you up, so there would be no real danger. You can be sure the man who truly loves you will jump in after you.”

  “Why, Captain, I believe that is a most splendid idea!” she replied, her face lighting up with pleasure. “When will we do this?”

  “As soon as the winds have died down,” he
replied. “Be sure to wear a light cotton dress and your slippers.”

  Two days later, Morgan woke early to discover a beautiful morning without a ripple in sight. The ship was drifting along under full sail, hardly making any headway in the warm Gulf Stream waters. The ocean was a clear turquoise blue, calm and sedate, the sunlight sparkling on the surface like thousands of tiny diamonds. For most of the morning, the ship cruised along on the glassy water at a speed of less than two knots, the sails limp and lifeless. Fertile seaweed brought from the Gulf Stream filled with tiny fish and shells drifted by like floating islands. The passengers were bored and restless as they sat in the roundhouse and on the quarterdeck chairs. They listened to the sails and the yards backing and filling and complained about the fickle air and the lack of forward progress.

  When Eliza came up on deck followed by her suitors, Morgan winked at her, turned his head toward the quarter boat in the midsection of the ship, and motioned for her to move in that direction. Morgan had already brought several of the sailors in on his plan, including Icelander and Whipple, who were stationed at the rope tackle to release the rowboat in seconds. Lowery had distracted the normally attentive Mrs. Robinson in the saloon with some of his New Orleans recipes so she had no idea what her daughter was up to directly above her. Eliza played her part expertly. With her three suitors following closely behind, she enticed them over to the side of the ship by flirtatiously suggesting they should all play a game. Once she reached the bulwarks, she took off her slippers, grabbed the lower shrouds at the base of the mizzenmast, and jumped out onto the chain-wale on the vessel’s outer hull, where the deadeyes of the lower rigging were attached.

  “Look, I’m standing in the chains!” she cried out with delight. Her light cotton dress made her seem even more youthful than she was. “This is where the leadsman stands to throw his long line into the sea to determine the depth of the water. Who will join me?”

  Eliza pretended to hurl the blue pigeon as the sailors called the lead, shouting out a fictional number of fathoms. Her gentlemen friends were laughing at the courage and foolishness of this lively young woman even as they reached out to try to bring her back aboard.