by Robin Lloyd
Hiram now seemed more relaxed after the rum began to numb his brain.
“It’s a long story, Ely. I ended up staying with that British merchantman. Wasn’t too bad. Then did the opium smuggling trade for many years. Wandered around the West Indies on trading schooners. I been with the Royal Navy’s West Africa Squadron now for a spell, currently on a ship called the H.M.S. Resolve, one of them fast Bermuda-built sloops of war they call ballyhoos. We’ve been chasing down blackbirders these last few years from the Gulf of Guinea down to the south of the West African coast toward Benguela.”
“I know that ship,” Morgan exclaimed excitedly.
“How so?”
Morgan volunteered his own story about his encounter with the H.M.S. Resolve so many years ago. He told Hiram how Captain James Stryker had run down the old Philadelphia with the rescued African slaves on the deck.
“He fired cannon at us to make us square our yards. He thought our ship was a blackbirder.”
Hiram didn’t comment. An awkward silence filled the cabin.
“How is it that you are here in Portsmouth now?” Morgan asked.
“We are on maneuvers,” Hiram replied, “part of the Royal Navy’s Experimental Squadron.” He puffed on his cigar and then smiled suddenly, his voice becoming more energetic.
“Man alive, it is sure good to see you, Ely! I was looking for you once a few years back when I came to New York. You wasn’t there, but that’s when they told me you’d gone and made shipmaster. I also heard you’ve gotten hitched and now have a fine comely missus.”
They both laughed, and after congratulating him on “getting hitched,” Hiram continued his story. Morgan thought he saw a glimpse of the old friend he had known and trusted. He looked expectantly at him. Hiram paused and started to say something. His face turned more somber, but when he took another drink he seemed to retreat back into some other private place. Morgan again tried to encourage him to talk. He thought about the group waiting for him in the saloon. Some of the Sketching Club artists and their friends had accompanied him on the two-day passage from London to Portsmouth. Leslie, Stanfield, Landseer, the Chalon brothers, Stumps, and Uwins were on board. So were Thackeray and Lord Nanvers. Dickens, who had just returned from Italy, had been too busy “trodding the boards” with his amateur theater group.
“I have a group of English friends waiting for me in the saloon who I know would want to hear your story, Hiram. They are fervent in their antislavery zeal. What do you say? How about a few words about the West Africa Squadron and the British crusade against slavery?”
Hiram looked dubious, in fact somewhat fearful, but Morgan was insistent so he reluctantly agreed to follow him into the saloon. The main course was just arriving at the table as they walked in. Lowery was carrying in a large platter of roasted English grouse cooked whole, heads and all, even as Sam Junkett was removing the bowls of cold potato soup. Landseer was expounding on the famine in Ireland, and how he felt the ungrateful Irish cats deserved their misery and hardship. Leslie was expressing his concerns over the growing tensions between England and America over the Oregon Territory. He asked Thackeray about the saber-rattling salvos in Punch. The writers had warned that if America dared to seize the Oregon Territory, the English would arm the slaves. At that point, Lord Nanvers jumped in.
“Arm the slaves! Those are fighting words, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Thackeray? Imagine England arming America’s slaves. I must say that’s a terrible thought.”
The conversation stopped as Morgan and Hiram entered the saloon. Hiram looked around at the well-dressed men seated at the table. He didn’t say anything, his gaze traveling from face to face, and then he sat down. Morgan again could see the discomfort and suspicion in Hiram’s smeary, rum-soaked eyes. He could also see the surprise in the faces of his English friends, who were clearly not expecting a common sailor to come into their midst.
Lord Nanvers, whose appetite seemed to be stimulated by the sight of the roasted grouse, had already speared one of the tiny bird’s heads with his fork and was crunching and chewing in contentment. Morgan raised his glass to toast the end of the voyage for his passengers, praising them for braving the discomforts of the North Sea, and then he introduced his old friend.
“Gentlemen, this is Hiram Smith. He and I started sailing together when we were boys. We came in through the hawse holes as they say. We’ve slushed masts and been slushed ourselves by some bucko mates. We’ve slid down the forestays and swung out on the yards more times than we care to remember. We’ve seen our share of ice fields and Atlantic storms. Hiram saved my life at least once when I almost fell from a yard, and I did the same for him when we fought off some scuffle hunters on the Thames. He may be sailing British, but he’s a Yankee tar from down Penobscot way as they say back home. Anyway, we haven’t seen each other for quite a long time. It has been more than fifteen years since we last sailed together, hasn’t it, Hiram?”
“Yup, I suppose that’s about right.”
“The reason I brought Hiram down to the saloon is that he has come here tonight to tell you about the gallant mission of the famous British cruisers that patrol the Guinea coastline to try to end the slave trade. He is a sailor on one of the Royal Navy sloops of war in the harbor.”
“Hear, hear!” they shouted, raising their glasses in unison. “Truer words were never spoken.”
The stewards then arrived with the next course of boiled potatoes and creamed peas and onions. Lord Nanvers directed his attention to the incoming dishes, sniffing appreciatively and giving them careful scrutiny before raising his glass to Morgan.
“To you, sir, Captain Morgan. This certainly is a most excellent meal and it promises to be a most provocative dinner topic. I am most intrigued to hear about England’s war on slavery, as there is much ongoing debate in Parliament about its effectiveness. Let us hear what your salty friend has to say.”
Hiram paused for a moment as he swallowed some rum from the bottle he was given by Lowery. He bit off a plug of tobacco, and began chewing it with obvious relish as he started telling his story about how he came to be sailing on a British sloop of war.
“I reckon my story should begin when I was picked up in Havana by a ship captain who offered me forty dollars a month, more money than I had ever made before.”
Morgan watched the intent, eager faces all around the table, a receptive audience.
“Wa’al, she was fast, that ship was, all legs and wings. We sailed out that narrow entrance under the fortified walls of Moro Castle like a bird coming out of a cage with our staysails set, our kites flying. With the wind abeam she would do fourteen knots. The men on board were a swarthy set of rascals. Most of them were Spanish anyway, at least that’s the language they spoke. We had a group of passengers from Brazil who I soon learned were the agents.”
Hiram paused for another drink of rum, smacking his lips before he resumed his story.
“I gradually gained the confidence of the first mate, he was the only American, a fellow from New Bedford. Turns out he sold the ship to them Portuguese and Spaniards. He told me we were headed for Whydah in the Gulf of Guinea. That’s when I guessed I had gotten myself on a slaver. I knew I had made a mistake.”
Morgan winced at this unexpected twist. At the mention of slave ships, the English artists now crowded a little closer so as not to miss a word spoken. To them, Hiram was an example of the type of man with whom they never came into contact, a wandering, hard-drinking sailor who had more adventures than they could ever dream about. There wasn’t a sound in the dark saloon, not even a rustle of clothes or the scraping of a chair. Hiram’s blue eyes looked around the room and studied the intent faces surrounding him.
“I jumped ship the first opportunity I could in Porto Praya. They sent out their men to try to find me, but I hid out until they finally gave up and left. A few days later, an English frigate, a sloop of war, and one of them fast three-masted Bermuda boats, came into port. Turns out they were looking for sailors. I told them
I was British from Halifax and they took me on.”
“What was the name of your ship?” Leslie asked.
“The H.M.S. Resolve. The captain’s name is Stryker, Captain James Stryker, one of the Royal Navy’s best slave catchers. He is something of a hero, being as he rescued some British marines who were being held by Portuguese slavers a while back.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan thought he saw Lord Nanvers twitch suddenly, but it could have simply been a piece of the grouse’s head stuck in his throat. He wasn’t sure.
The story continued.
“Anyhow that’s how I came to be sailing British. I signed on with Stryker and the Resolve. That was back in 1836, a couple of years after all them slaves were freed in the British islands.”
Hiram turned toward Morgan, shaking his head.
“Ely, I’ve seen sights that would move the hardiest human heart. During a chase, I’ve seen them toss the slaves overboard. They’d throw their human cargo overboard a few at a time, hoping we would give up the chase and stop and pick them up.”
“Do you?” asked Lord Nanvers. “Do you stop?”
“Captain Stryker, he won’t stop,” Hiram responded matter-of-factly. “He says what is important is to bring an end to the slave trade, and if he stops to rescue every drowning African, the slave traffickers escape. Naturally he would prefer to capture a full ship. That way he and all of us in the crew get our share of the prize money. Head money, we call it.”
Morgan watched Nanvers as he looked at Hiram with a stony gaze.
“But you’ve had great success, have you not?” asked Stanfield.
Hiram stared at his empty glass in glum resignation. Finally, Lowery complied, refilling his glass, and Hiram continued.
“Wa’al, I would say chasing these slavers is like catching fish with your hands. For every one you snare, another hundred get away. I’ve heard tell that some ten to twenty thousand slaves are landed in Cuba each year, and that’s with thirty Royal Navy warships patrolling the African coastline trying to stop ’em.”
There was a heavy silence in the cabin interrupted finally by Clarkson Stanfield.
“But you are winning the freedom of many African slaves, are you not?”
Hiram let out a snort.
“As far as the slaves we rescue, we sometimes land them in Freetown, but oftentimes we send them on British merchant ships to the islands to work as emigrant laborers on the English sugar plantations. We call that freedom, but I am not sure those Africans do, once they get to the islands and see what’s in store for them.”
Hiram gave a half chuckle at what he thought was a clever remark, but one look at the serious faces around the table told Morgan that his English friends didn’t see any humor. At that moment, he used a sudden noise up on deck to excuse himself, taking Hiram along with him. Once they reached the quarterdeck, Morgan pulled out a Havana, rolling it in his hand as he spoke to his old friend in a concerned voice. The two of them walked back to a dark corner at the stern of the ship. Morgan lit his cigar and blew the white smoke into the night.
“Given your generous criticism of the West Africa Squadron, I reckon you probably have something to tell me?”
Hiram laughed nervously, coughed and sputtered a bit, and then nodded.
“Yup, I was meaning to tell you earlier. I need your help. You see, I’m not on shore leave.”
“What brings you here then?”
“I’ve jumped ship.”
Morgan’s eyes grew wider. He knew Hiram was capable of some bad decisions, but even he wasn’t expecting this news from his old friend.
“Desertion is no small offense in the British Navy, Hiram. Are you aware of the consequences?”
“I had to jump ship, Ely.”
“Why?”
“If I hadn’t, I might soon be fighting my own countrymen.”
“What do you mean?” Morgan asked incredulously. “How so? Why would you be fighting Americans?”
“I’ve overheard plans, you see. I was outside the captain’s cabin and I listened in. I heard Captain Stryker tell another captain that this assembled war fleet here in Portsmouth is prepared to set sail. As soon as they’re given the word, their orders are to sail westward and blockade New York and Boston, the whole east coast in fact. Stryker says they aim to teach Brother Jonathan a lesson.”
Morgan gasped. “Is this over the Oregon dispute?”
Hiram nodded.
Morgan looked at him. He was stunned by this news. He blew out a mouthful of smoke as he turned away from Hiram and looked up into the night sky.
Hiram pleaded his case.
“Ely, I have no option. They’ve probably got marines looking for me right now. I am afraid they’ll kill me with a flogging, a hundred lashes or more. That is the penalty for desertion. I need your help. Can you give me a berth? Aren’t you sailing with the tides early tomorrow?”
Morgan didn’t say anything as he looked at the glowing tip of his cigar.
“I will give it some thought, Hiram.”
He had a sense Hiram was still not telling him everything. Still, he owed him. For old times’ sake, if for nothing else, he knew that he must help Hiram.
Shortly afterward, the sound of a steamer chugging and clanking nearby broke the silence of the night. The small steam ferry had come to take the artists ashore. They were all a little drunk and they were reminiscing about the late Sydney Smith, who had died earlier that year. Leslie said how much his witty remarks would be missed. Thackeray, with his deep melodious voice, decided to pay homage to Smith by reciting the first few lines of his famous recipe for potato salad.
“Two large potatoes passed through the kitchen sieve
Unwonted softness to the salad give.”
Laughing good humoredly, Leslie quickly joined in.
“Of mordant mustard, add a single spoon:
Distrust the condiment which bites so soon.”
When the steamer bumped alongside the Victoria, Morgan accompanied his friends up on deck and bid them farewell, even as he made plans for a quick getaway the next morning.
25
As the first rays of sunlight crept above the horizon, Morgan had already sent his boat ashore to notify the incoming cabin passengers that the packet ship would be leaving earlier than expected. The skies were clear with westerly winds. Morgan wiped the sweat off his brow. It was only June, but the summer heat had arrived. He told Mr. Lowery privately to hide Hiram in the barrel filled with potatoes in the dark, dimly lit storeroom beside the galley.
“Make sure it has a false bottom, Lowery. I know you’ve used one before to fool the inspectors at the docks. Put Hiram underneath that. Mark my words, we are likely to have a Royal Navy boarding. Tell no one that Hiram is aboard ship.”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n.”
“Mr. Stark, make ready for lifting the anchor as soon as the passengers come aboard.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And Mr. Stark.”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“Make sure that all the sailors on board know that our guest last night, Mr. Smith, has left the ship.”
The first mate looked puzzled for a moment and then nodded. There was nothing to be read from the laconic expression on his face, but Morgan trusted him. He was a young man from the river who showed great promise.
“Stand by with buntlines!” he yelled up to the men high in the yards.
Even before the cabin passengers arrived from the docks at Portsmouth, Morgan spied the Admiralty sloop of war headed his way. It was the same ship he had seen years ago, an unusual sight in British waters. Sleek, raked-back masts with no square-rigged sails, and a fore and aft rig, which he knew from experience could overtake him on a windward passage. He looked through his telescope and was not surprised at what he saw. There was Captain Stryker standing erect by the gangway, his face now weathered after years of sailing in African waters, his hair graying at the temples. The shiny epaulettes on either shoulder of his blue coat glit
tered in the early morning sun. The three-masted sloop of war came up fast, rounding up into the wind with her sails flapping in the light early morning breeze.
The English captain held a trumpet and identified himself formally as if they’d never met. Morgan grabbed his trumpet from his first mate and stepped to the rail.
“As you can see we have a full ship and our cabin passengers are due shortly. We are anxious to be off with the tide. What is your business?”
“I am sorry to inform you, Captain, that we must ask you to stand by until we can board and search your ship.”
“Might I ask why?”
“You are suspected of harboring a British Navy deserter.”
Morgan grudgingly gave his assent. There was not much he could do with his ship anchored just off Portsmouth. Within five minutes, the English sloop of war had luffed off to the eastward and dropped anchor. A quarter boat was lowered and shortly thereafter the English commander and his men climbed the Victoria’s ladder. Morgan was again surprised that this captain had chosen to come himself, breaking with normal Royal Navy protocol. Up close Captain James Stryker had changed little over the past decade, the same well-defined, handsomely chiseled face, his black hair and whiskers now dusted with gray. Even Morgan had to admit the man was trim looking, a picture of strict naval discipline with his dark-blue-buttoned naval coat and its shiny epaulettes. He noticed he was wearing a silver-handled sword hanging from his belt, a reminder he had come armed.
“I believe I have the honor of having met you before, Captain,” Morgan said as he extended his hand.
“Yes, Captain Morgan,” he replied with a brusque voice. “I recall our past meeting.”
“As do I,” replied Morgan quickly with a note of sarcasm in his voice. “Did you ever find those slavers?”
“No, I am afraid we did not. They proved to be too elusive.”
Stryker did not even feign the slightest hint of pleasantry. He glanced over at the forward section of the ship where the emigrants were clustered together, looking in their direction. Youthful faces, bearded faces, faces weathered by years of labor and sacrifice, all were looking at them worriedly. The English captain waved his hand contemptuously in the direction of his own countrymen.