by Robin Lloyd
He had been told that this would be an informal visit with little fanfare, but the crowds within the docks began cheering loudly as soon as the small woman dressed in a white ruffled dress was helped out of her carriage. The man with the high-collared coat followed closely behind her. Morgan was surprised at how young she seemed, but then he reminded himself that she was only twenty-four years old. It was hard for him to fathom that the Queen of England, the sovereign of the world’s richest and most powerful country, had come to visit his ship, which bore her name.
Morgan was waiting to receive the queen and the crown prince in the center of the Victoria’s quarterdeck. His mouth was dry, and his stomach churned. The royal couple seemed relaxed as they made their way across the quarterdeck, smiling and joking with each other. As he watched the small queen come down the companionway stairs, Morgan looked more closely at this illustrious young woman. Her high forehead and long brown hair, parted in the middle and partially tied up in a bun, reminded him somewhat of Eliza. Her lower face and small mouth narrowed and seemed pinched, giving the impression of a stubborn, independent young woman, but her lively laugh suggested a fun-loving personality. She wore a large diamond that dangled down low on her pale open neck, but it was her eyes that caught his attention. Her blue, oval-shaped eyes seemed to sparkle with life.
At her side was Prince Albert, his chestnut hair slicked back on his head, his small moustache slightly waxed. Even Morgan had to admit he cut a striking figure. He carried himself like a well-trained military man on parade with a protruding chin and a stiff carriage, but like her he seemed to reveal a slightly more informal side as they emerged in the satinwood-paneled saloon with its zebrawood trim and he scanned his new surroundings.
“Tell me about your new ship, Captain,” Prince Albert asked. “How big is she?”
“The Victoria is almost 1,000 tons, 156 feet in length, and 36 feet in width,” Morgan proudly explained to the royal couple as he led them around the saloon. The stewards had decorated the small tables with vases of clove-scented Sweet Williams, and Lowery had placed a large gilded cake in the shape of a crown in the center of the dining table.
“She can carry almost an acre of canvas,” Morgan continued. “It took twenty-four tons of hemp to make her rigging. And from the royals to the keelson, the main mast is 155 feet high.”
The crown prince politely nodded his head.
“How many passengers can she carry, Captain?”
“We have twenty-two first-class cabin suites here in the saloon, each with two berths, and a new second-class cabin amidships for another thirty passengers.”
Prince Albert again nodded with interest even as Queen Victoria peered into one of the open staterooms. He escorted the royal party into the carpeted ladies cabin with its white and gold ceiling, where Queen Victoria was seated on a light blue and white silk damask-upholstered couch facing a white marble table. Her face lit up with pleasure at the sight of the ground glass windowpanes decorated with views of Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace. As Lowery passed around a tray of cool drinks, she began to question Morgan about the Sketching Club. She wanted to hear how an American ship captain had fallen in with these well-known English artists.
“It is through Mr. Leslie and Mr. Landseer that I heard about your fine ship! I am quite familiar with the London Sketching Club. I have many of those artists’ sketches. Several of the men in your club taught me watercolors over the years. In fact, many of them, including your good friend Mr. Leslie, have executed portraits of myself and the crown prince which we are quite fond of. One evening at one of their meetings I was even invited to give them themes for their sketches.”
“Really! I wasn’t aware of that, Your Majesty. What were the topics?”
“‘Danger’ was one. ‘Elevation’ the other,” she replied enthusiastically.
“I can think of several places right here on the Victoria, Your Majesty, where you might find both, particularly out on the Atlantic highway.”
The queen smiled. “Perhaps you can point those out, Captain, but from the safety of the deck.” They both laughed.
“Are you an artist as well, Captain? I don’t detect any trace of oil and varnish on you.”
“No, Your Majesty, I can’t say that I am. Although Mr. Leslie once told me that sailing a packet ship with its many sails is like a painter with brushes and colors in hand.”
“Indeed,” she replied. “Then Edwin Landseer should make a good sailor. Did you know, Captain, he has the ability to paint with both hands at the same time? He is a particular favorite of mine. He taught Albert and me how to do etchings.”
It was while Lowery and the new steward, Sam Junkett, were serving cucumber sandwiches to the royal entourage that the Duke of Newcastle smugly asked the captain why he had never called one of his ships after Her Majesty before.
“After all, Captain, Her Majesty has been on the throne for nearly six years. Why have you been so slow to recognize and honor the queen?”
Morgan was smart enough to know that the old duke, who was known as an outspoken conservative, was trying to trip him up. All conversation came to a stop at the table. Even the stewards stopped passing the platter of tea sandwiches. Morgan’s mind was working quickly. He could either apologize, and say something embarrassing about his own shipping line, or he could say something the English would interpret as demeaning to their queen and to England. After a few seconds pause, he looked back at the smiling face of the duke and responded smoothly: “Because, Your Lordship, we never built a ship before that was worthy of Her Majesty.”
Queen Victoria’s face beamed with pleasure. As if on cue everyone surrounding the royal couple began smiling as well. The duke was quite aware he was now on the defensive.
“Well, quite right, Captain,” he responded. “It is indeed a fine ship and most worthy of Her Majesty.”
He then abruptly changed the topic.
“If I may be so bold to ask, Captain, how fast have you made it across on the difficult westbound passage?”
Morgan paused for a second before answering.
“Twenty days, Your Lordship, I believe is my fastest crossing on the run westbound to New York.”
“If I am not mistaken, Captain, the Great Western and the English Cunard Line paddle steamers are considerably faster. They can make it over in fourteen days, no matter that they are traveling east or west. Is that not so?”
Morgan’s head dropped as he felt the sting of the Englishman’s comment, but then he recovered.
“I readily admit, Your Lordship, a steamer is oftentimes faster, particularly on the westward passage, but most nautical experts acknowledge the risks are greater. You would have to ask yourself which you prefer, fourteen days of danger at sea on a sooty steamship or twenty days of relative safety on board a sailing packet. We in the packet shipping business think that there is room for both steam and sail on the Atlantic.”
That ended the conversation. Even two years after the dramatic sinking of the British steamship the President, where 136 people perished, among them the popular Irish comedian Tyrone Power, the safety of traveling the Atlantic by paddle wheeler was still questioned by many travelers. The duke turned his attention elsewhere.
When the luncheon and tour were over and the carriages had left the docks, Morgan went below to congratulate Lowery and his new assistant, Sam Junkett, and then in the privacy of his own cabin savored the moment. He let out a deep breath. The afternoon sun had warmed his cabin, so he opened one of the portholes. He scanned the captain’s quarters, and without thinking picked up one of the ivory figures on the chessboard and rubbed it with his fingers. This time it was the queen. The touch of the ivory figure at first was reassuring, but then it triggered an unexpected measure of unease. His mind drifted back to the British raid on the Connecticut River when he and Abraham were two frightened boys rowing for their lives. They’d raced away from certain death at the hands of the British redcoats. Now here he was so many years later entertaini
ng the British queen whose grandfather was King George III. Had he forgotten who he was and where he came from? His mind wandered back to his days on the foredeck and he thought of his old friend Hiram. No doubt his old shipmate would have viewed his elevated status with disdain. He might have called him a “frothy lady’s captain.” That was the way he used to refer to Henry Champlin, when the captain spent all of his time below entertaining his guests rather than tending to the sailing of the ship.
Morgan put the figure of the queen back down on the chessboard and picked up one of the small pawns, holding it in his hand, squeezing it as hard as he could. The feelings of guilt that now enveloped him shifted to memories of Abraham. He felt a wave of self-doubt sweep over him. He squeezed the ivory pawn again. Then he shook his head and told himself he needed to look ahead. He had his own family to think of. He sat down at his desk to write a letter to Eliza to tell her all about Queen Victoria’s visit. He thought of the chubby faces of his two children and he smiled. Then he thought of Eliza’s condition. He wrote that he would do his best to be back by early November for the due date and that he would be spending Thanksgiving at home this year. He continued writing:
It made me feel bad when I left you with Ruth crying and William teary eyed. You must tell the children that they must keep up good courage, and you, my dear, must keep up a strong heart. Give them all a kiss for me. I have bought Ruth a doll, and a storybook for William. Tell them that I will be coming home as soon as my ship comes back. I will have a story for them about their Papa meeting the Queen. Tell them I will try to stay longer this time.
24
1845
With the late afternoon summer sun shining directly in his eyes, Morgan struggled to make out who was in this incoming lugger. He was standing on the large quarterdeck of the Victoria with a spyglass held to his left eye. Beyond the small boat, he could just make out the glistening tips of the masts of Nelson’s old ship, Victory, from the Battle of Trafalgar, barely visible over some of the roofs in Portsmouth. The harbor was full of Royal Navy ships, everything from corvettes and sloops of war to frigates and three-deckers. He’d seen the fleet come in earlier, their translucent sails extending across the Solent like a giant white curtain. He had stood there on deck powerless as they bore down on the anchored Victoria, veering off at the last minute. They had come so close he could see the barrels of the cannons and the leering faces of the British sailors. At the sound of a cannon, dozens of sails dropped simultaneously in a perfect display of naval discipline, the ships’ anchors dropping into the water with a rumbling crescendo that resembled thunder. Morgan had stood silently, his eyes scanning the variety of ships until his gaze stopped at one in particular. It was a three-masted sloop of war, one of those fast ballyhoos that had run him down off the coast of Africa years ago. It looked like the same ship, but he couldn’t be sure.
He now turned his attention back to the small one-masted boat. It was definitely sailing in the direction of the Victoria. His cabin passengers weren’t due to arrive until the following morning, so he was puzzled as to whom this could be. The one passenger was wearing a pea jacket with the collar pulled up over his face. A wide-brimmed white hat was pulled down low over his ears, a strap fastened under his chin. His first thought was that the stewards were taking on a fresh supply of meat and vegetables, but a check with Mr. Lowery discounted that possibility. He then thought that perhaps this was one of Portsmouth’s police officers, who was preparing to search the packet in pursuit of criminals in steerage. But as he looked through his spyglass at this passenger, it seemed unlikely that this hunched-over figure was a policeman. He looked more like a sailor.
As the small lugger neared the Victoria’s anchorage near the sloping shore of the Isle of Wight, he could see the spray splatter on the man’s face as the lee rail dived in the water. Suddenly, the mystery passenger moved over to the windward side of the boat, and Morgan got a good look at his profile for the first time. “My Lord,” he breathed out slowly. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He had to look several times before he acknowledged that his first impression was right. The man coming to see him had changed a great deal. The full beard was gone. His round face was now framed by bushy whiskers that extended down to his jaw. He was wearing a white duck frock, and blue pants typical of some Royal Navy sailors. As the boat got closer and closer there was no doubt that it was his old friend, Hiram Smith, alive and to all appearances well.
With the practice of hundreds of boardings, the waterman at the tiller luffed the small lugger into the wind, the single sail flapping and banging, and before the two ships touched, Hiram grabbed the rope ladder with the firm grip of a sailor and began climbing up the fifteen-foot-high sides of the packet. Morgan was there with an outstretched hand to pull his friend over the bulwarks and onto the deck. He couldn’t believe his old bunkmate in the fo’c’sle was alive.
“I’ll be dammed if I ever thought I’d set eyes on you again, Hiram,” Morgan stammered with a slight quiver in his voice.
“I’m greatly pleased to see you, Ely,” Hiram said, before correcting himself, “or Captain Morgan, I should say.”
The two of them gave each other a prolonged bear hug and then stood apart looking at each other. Morgan silently stared at his old friend unable to speak. Conflicting emotions swept over him. So many years had passed. Hiram had changed. There were flecks of gray in his temples and his brown, weathered face was now lined and creased with wrinkles. He was still the same man with his stocky torso and muscular, tattooed arms, the round, snub-nosed face and dimpled chin, but the deep furrows on his forehead and the dark bags under his eyes told the story of a hard life.
Morgan suddenly was overwhelmed with guilt.
“How many years has it been, Hiram?”
“Near on seventeen I would say.”
“Way too long. I can’t believe it,” Morgan said with a smile, looking at his old friend quizzically, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes had that droopy, rum-filled look he’d seen on many veteran sailors.
“Hiram, I want you to know I never meant for you to be in harm’s way.”
“That was long ago, Ely. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was my decision to go into that tavern, Hiram. I have blamed myself for whatever happened to you there.”
Before Hiram could answer, he was surrounded by some of his old shipmates. A small group clustered around him, slapping him on his back, pushing and shoving him playfully. There was much joking when they discovered he was now sailing British. There weren’t that many of the old crew who had sailed with him on board the Hudson. Old Scuttles was still there, but on the foredeck, the only veterans who had sailed with him were Icelander, the Spaniard, and Whipple. Dan Stark, the first mate, and Josiah Lord, the second mate, both from the Connecticut River, were new arrivals.
After Hiram caught up with some of his old mates, Morgan invited him down into his cabin. Hiram was looking all around as he stepped inside. Morgan studied his old friend. He seemed nervous and edgy. There was a bitter, sad smile on his lips that Morgan didn’t recognize, a look of faded hopes, perhaps. Morgan motioned to him to sit down in the armchair on the other side of the cabin, but he ignored that offer and continued to walk around, his gaze wandering from cabin sole to the overhead skylight. Morgan pulled out his box of Havana cigars and offered one to Hiram before taking one himself.
“Sit yourself down and tell me your story. Why don’t you start by telling me what happened all those years ago when they grabbed you in the White Bull.”
Hiram’s gaze seemed disconnected. He scratched his head and pulled at his side-whiskers before he responded.
“When the fighting started, Ely, all I remember is the sharp pain in my head and then everything went dark. They must have drugged me. When I woke up I was in a cold, dark fo’c’sle on a British Indiaman headed for Canton.”
“What about Blackwood? Did you meet him?” asked Morgan incredulously.
Hiram shook his head.
“Never saw who it was that crimped me.”
There was an awkward silence as Morgan studied his old friend, observing how his eyes wandered around the cabin as if he was purposely trying to avoid looking at him closely. Morgan felt a pang of guilt as he thought about Hiram’s life of roaming. He imagined the hardships he had suffered, and he held himself responsible. Hiram would probably still be with the Black X Line if it weren’t for him. He felt sympathetic as he looked at his changed old friend.
Finally Hiram stopped his nervous pacing around the cabin and looked out the porthole. He rolled a cigar in his fingers and lit it.
“Did you ever find out what happened to your brother, Ely?” he asked dispassionately. “Or have you given up that search?”
Morgan explained about the journal that Taylor had given him, and how he now knew that Abraham had been shanghaied onto a slaving ship. He described the accounts of the storm in the diary, saying he assumed this was probably the last he would hear about his brother.
Hiram listened restlessly but didn’t seem overly curious.
“You got any rum, Ely?” he asked bluntly, while smiling in a gratuitous way. “I have a sudden hankering for some grog.”
Morgan poured him a generous drink and watched his friend grab the glass.
“A man’s not a sailor without his rum.”
In one thirsty motion he gulped it down, wiping his chin with his trembling hands.
“Of course, you being a shipmaster now you might have changed?”
“I reckon we all have changed, Hiram.”
“Not me, Ely. I’m a foredeck sailor, always been one. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He held out his mug. “Just a bit more, what do you say?”
Morgan poured him another drink.
“Why don’t you tell me how you come to be sailing British in the Royal Navy of all places.”