Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale

by Robin Lloyd

  Most sincerely,

  Captain James Stryker, R.N.

  H.M.S. Hydra

  After reading it again, Morgan remained as astonished as he was the first time he read it. Stryker had nabbed Hiram. He was arresting him not only as a deserter, but as a spy, presumably because he had posed as a British sailor. It would mean a hanging, almost certainly. Morgan was determined he would try to get to England as soon as possible, perhaps even before the British Navy steamship. His idea was to try to enlist support from some of Leslie’s influential friends in the nobility. He thought of Lord Nanvers. Nanvers had met Hiram. Perhaps the English Lord would try to help sway the Admiralty judges to be lenient.

  Morgan had decided to take the far northern route across the roof of the Atlantic as sailors called it. This was slightly further to the north than the packet ship’s normal route on the eastward passage. It was the shortest and most direct way to cross the Atlantic, a distance of approximately 2,800 miles. This route would take him north of the Grand Banks into possible ice fields, but he was quite familiar with the hazards.

  He knew the steamer would choose the standard shipping lane along the southern route. It was considered the safer path, and most of the steamers chose this track because they would travel far away from the dangers of the shallow waters off the North American coast, and well south of the foul weather and ice to the north. But it was longer, roughly 3,100 miles. He calculated that if the steamer left at first light, it had a twelve-hour head start. He knew these paddle wheelers could only steam along at eleven to twelve knots, so with the right winds he thought the Southampton might be able to even overtake the H.M.S. Hydra before they reached the English Channel. He knew what was important was to get to London as soon as possible.

  Morgan folded the letter and put it into his pocket. The Southampton’s bow rose to meet the ocean swells. He barked out orders for more canvas.

  “Aloft there some of you and loose all sails.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Royals and skysails as well?”

  “Yes, and loose all head sails.”

  The new first mate, Richard Moore, joined in.

  “You men over there, look alive! Take in those clewlines at the main. Clap a watch tackle on the starboard topsail sheet and rouse her home. Sheet home the topsails. Look alive there!”

  The ship’s large prominent bowsprit rose to meet the dark, oncoming waves like a steeplechase horse leaping over a looming fence. Morgan faced forward into the night and gazed at the bright tip of his glowing cigar. His mind shifted to Taylor’s startling revelations. He was still stunned. He knew now what had happened to his brother, yet along with Taylor’s grisly story had come so many questions, so many puzzling mysteries. Taylor had said Blackwood had given him Stryker’s letter. It didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t grasp what would have brought Blackwood and Stryker together. A committed Royal Navy captain in the West African Squadron and a man he should be pursuing were an unlikely pair. He shook his head as he walked toward the main mast at the center of the ship and gazed out into the deep blackness of the night.

  By the morning of June 14, the Southampton had cleared the Grand Banks, having been at sea for five and a half days. Ominously, as the sun slowly slipped down below the western horizon, Morgan looked ahead and saw a frozen expanse. Against the now dark and overcast sky, the blue ocean had suddenly disappeared into a sea of white. One vast ice field lay before them. It was a frightening but thrilling sight. The thick hull of the Southampton shuddered as it hit the thin crust of ice head on and began plowing through it. The hideous sound of the ice crackling and crunching exploded on either side of the ship. Soon they were well into the ice field as night descended on them. The ship was trembling like a frozen twig in a winter storm, the wooden beams and planks moaning under the stress.

  A shout arose from below.

  “Water in the hold. Man the pumps!”

  Whipple went down below to assess the damage. Water was beginning to seep up into the lower cargo hold. A quick inspection showed some of the trenails he’d hammered in the day before had given way, but he soon discovered an even bigger problem. The ship was taking in water on the port side. The water level was already knee deep in parts of the bilge. Morgan set the crew to work pumping and jettisoning cargo as he reassured his passengers that the leak was nothing to worry about. This went on for nearly an hour as the ship continued to plow its way through the expansive field, peeling back and breaking off large, thin shards of ice.

  Whipple waded into the freezing water at the bottom of the ship and began looking for cracks or breaks in the planking. He soon discovered the problem. Besides the holes near the keel, Taylor had perforated the ship’s hull on the port side directly under the waterline, holes which Whipple had not detected. The friction from the ice had compromised the thin veneer of wood Taylor left in the planking. Water was pouring in. Whipple stuffed towels and rags into the holes. As the crew continued to pump and throw more cargo overboard to further lighten the ship, the water level slowly receded, allowing Whipple to plug the holes more permanently with large makeshift trenails, oakum, and tar.

  With the winds still strong, the Southampton powered its way out of the ice pack. It took two hours to do so. Morgan squared the yards. He saw several black-and-white shearwaters dancing across the surface of the water, gliding and dipping over the waves, a sign that Ireland might be as close as two days away. The birds made him think of Old Jeremiah, and he remembered how that old superstitious tar had labeled John Taylor a Jonah. Maybe he was right. Taylor was cursed. He had almost succeeded in sinking the ship. In a moment of sympathy before departing, he had thought of bringing him on board, but now after this close call, he was glad to have left the opium addict behind to lose himself in the streets of New York. John Taylor needed to face his own demons now, but not on board the Southampton.

  Over the next few days, the winds of the North Atlantic favored the packet ship and they were able to make up for lost time. The breeze stayed constant, eventually settling in from the southwest. The weather conditions were excellent, with cloudless skies and cool air. The tributaries of the Gulf Stream, moving at half a knot, were also helping to pull them eastward. With every possible sail set, the packet ticked off the miles as she sped eastward toward the continent at fourteen knots. It was about one hundred miles from the southwestern edge of Ireland that the cry came out from the lookout on the mainmast.

  “Smoke on the horizon!”

  Morgan grabbed his spyglass and sure enough he could see a trail of black smoke hanging over the far eastern horizon. A steamship was no more than ten miles ahead of them. The sun was just setting to the west, ominously coloring the skies a brilliant red.

  The next morning Morgan could barely make out the Royal Navy flag flying off the steamship’s mizzenmast. The first mate held the spyglass to his eye, and then turned toward him.

  “Something strange there, Cap’n,” he whispered. “That steamship. It almost seems like she slowed down overnight. Might be she’s having engine trouble?”

  A seed of doubt crept into Morgan’s mind. If this steamship ahead of them was Stryker’s ship, the Hydra, he couldn’t possibly hope to accomplish anything by coming closer. His instincts told him to raise even more sails and give the steamship a wide berth, but some force he didn’t understand wanted to see if this was Stryker’s ship. Anger, pride, revenge, friendship, and loyalty were all bubbling inside of him. He reached into his pocket with his left hand and felt his brother’s old pennywhistle, and in that moment he put his doubts aside. Like a sudden strong wind taking control of the sails, he felt unable to resist where he was being pulled. At that moment, it was Abraham, not Hiram, who was on the Royal Navy steamer ahead of him.

  “Let’s swing closer, Mr. Moore.”

  Within a few hours, they had moved to the windward of the paddle wheeler, still trailing by a mile. Morgan calculated that the steamer was moving along at about nine knots, slower than usual. The two ships were almost
at the western edge of Ireland now. In the distance he could see the breakers crashing onto the rocky shoreline of the islands near Dunmore Head, with the bright green edge of the cliffs and mountains in the distance. The Southampton had left New York slightly more than eleven and a half days earlier. It was not just a fast passage. It had the makings of a record passage.

  Morgan could see the individual paddles churning in the water and hear the roar and thumping of the engine arising from the guts of the steam frigate. With the spyglass, he could just make out the name of the ship on its transom. It was the Hydra. At the sight of the packet outracing the bigger 208-foot-long steamship, the delighted American passengers on board the Southampton were now singing “Yankee Doodle” and waving their white handkerchiefs triumphantly to signal that they would soon be saying good-bye to the smoky steamship.

  The packet ship came even with the steamship’s paddle wheels on the windward side. The two big ships were now just three hundred yards apart. If Morgan hadn’t come that close, it’s possible he might not have seen the scuffle on deck. A man dressed in a simple work shirt with blue dungarees was swinging an oar he’d picked up from one of the lifeboats. The man was surrounded by the frigate’s officers, who were ducking and weaving.

  “Bring us closer, Icelander. There’s something strange happening on the deck of the Navy ship.”

  Morgan held the spyglass firmly to his left eye and tried to follow the action occurring at the stern of the Hydra. It took him several attempts to steady the glass, but he was finally able to focus on the man who was causing so much trouble. His face and arms were black with soot, and he was wielding the oar like a sailor who had rowed many a dory in a rough sea. He’d already knocked down two men. The ghostly vision of Abraham faded as Morgan looked more closely. It was definitely Hiram. He had grown a full beard since he’d seen him last.

  At that moment, he saw the image of Stryker appear in his bouncing lens. The man’s face was livid with rage. Next to him was another man he knew. His large head and body and his small, black eyes hidden beneath fleshy eyelids made him unmistakable. It was the same man who had led the attempted mutiny against him on the Philadelphia years ago. He breathed out slowly even as he felt a chill go down his spine. “Blackwood.” The man’s black hair was now streaked with silver, but otherwise he was unchanged. Standing next to him was a man with beet-red hair and an eye patch. “Big Red,” he whispered.

  “What did you say, Cap’n?” asked the mate.

  “Nothing, Mr. Moore. Nothing. Steady on.”

  He kept his eye to the spyglass. Blackwood and Big Red were both armed with clubs and were trying to get close to the sooty-faced, bearded sailor. Just as they appeared to be cornering him, he watched in astonishment as the man either jumped off or fell overboard into the ocean. Morgan didn’t hesitate. He immediately ordered the first mate to back the yards, and then signaled for the lifeboats to be lowered on either side of the ship. In water below forty degrees, a man could be dead within fifteen minutes of striking the water of the North Atlantic. Sailors called the paralyzing freezing water the “cold locker.” Fortunately, in June the water temperatures were not anywhere near as cold as forty degrees, but the temperatures were frigid enough to make someone lose consciousness if they were not rescued quickly.

  Soon the Southampton’s lifeboats were afloat, the men rowing vigorously through the waves back to where the man had jumped. Morgan followed the action with his spyglass and watched as they approached an unmoving figure afloat, slumped across a barely visible oar. For a moment he looked up to see what was happening with the steamship. The Hydra had slowed momentarily, altering its course, and appeared to be in the process of turning around. The Southampton’s lifeboats rescued the trembling man. Morgan couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched a shivering, bedraggled Hiram lifted aboard the packet ship.

  He quickly turned his attention back to the ship and the helmsman. The Royal Navy frigate had turned around and was steaming its way toward the packet ship, raising her sails to add power to the large paddlewheels churning up the water. Morgan quickly gave the order to get underway.

  “Mr. Moore. Belay the headsails port side. Sheets and braces, men.”

  “Shouldn’t we hove to, Cap’n?”

  “Steady on, Mr. Moore. Signal the Royal Navy frigate that we will be turning this man over to the proper authorities in Falmouth.”

  “But Cap’n, I don’t . . .”

  “A Yankee liner stays on schedule, Mr. Moore, and our next stop is Falmouth.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” replied the first mate, even as his frowning face clearly revealed his doubts.

  With the backed headsails slowly turning the ship’s bow, and the topsails high up the mast flapping and then filling with wind, the packet slid through the water, resuming its easterly direction. The Southampton’s wide yards were braced to the wind; the main, the topsails, the topgallants, and the royals were now stretched and straining with the force of the strengthening breeze. Morgan noticed that the sailors on board the Hydra were frantically raising the ship’s flags.

  “What are they signaling, Mr. Moore?” asked Morgan.

  “They are informing us that we will be boarded in Falmouth where they will take custody of the sailor. How should we respond, Cap’n?”

  “Tell them we intend to fully comply,” Morgan replied simply. He wanted to avoid any possible incident with the warship, but he also wanted to buy time until he could figure out what to do with Hiram.

  The two ships sailed in tandem all day, never too far apart, the steamship following close behind the fast packet. Off to the port side was the rugged coast of Ireland surrounded by gray, overcast skies. Squall bands were moving in, promising a stormy night. They passed the tiny islands of the Bull and the Cow at the tip of Dursey Head. It was growing dark by the time they passed Mizen Head and Fastnet Rock, headed for the Scilly Islands. The next morning brought more dark skies and steep, confused seas with the crests of the waves crashing into each other. The winds were now picking up sharply, and Morgan charted a course keeping Round Island and the outer edge of the Scillies off to starboard and Wolf Rock ahead of them to port. He was familiar with the course and knew he would get through, but he was hoping coming this close to the cliffs of Land’s End would force the larger Navy ship to bear off. The stormy weather had now given him an idea. His plan was to get Hiram off the ship in Falmouth before the Hydra could anchor. He could claim Hiram had escaped. All he needed to do was to beat the Navy steamer into port. With these heavy winds he thought he might be able to do that.

  Down below, a pathetic Hiram began to tell his story. He’d been picked up by Stryker’s men when he was in Jamaica. That’s where he had been in hiding. He was trying to get a berth to New York when they found him.

  “Stryker sent me a letter in New York informing me that he had arrested you,” Morgan told Hiram.

  Hiram shook his head. He hadn’t known that.

  “It was like he was challenging me to pursue him,” Morgan said in a puzzled voice. “And then when we sighted your smokestack near the coast of Ireland, we noticed that the steamer had slowed down. It seemed almost as if he was waiting for us.”

  Morgan was fishing for any information Hiram might have, but his old friend scratched his head and pulled at his beard.

  “I don’t know, Ely. All I know is I was shoveling coal in the furnace room when they told me they were giving me some fresh air. They took my foot manacles off, and led me up on deck.”

  “Had they done this before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “No, nothing. When I stepped out into the sunlight, my eyes were at first blinded. Then I spied your ship right alongside us and spotted the red pennant and the Black X streaked across the topgallants. I knew it was your packet, and I grabbed one of the quarter boat’s oars that was stored on deck and started swinging and then jumped overboard.”

  A horrible thought passed through M
organ’s mind. What if they wanted Hiram to jump because they knew Morgan would rescue him? Stryker could be toying with him for the pleasure of the chase. He wondered if by picking up Hiram he had just fallen into an elaborate trap. Stryker could simply tell any Navy tribunal that Morgan was Hiram’s accomplice. He was well aware that Hiram Smith was being brought to England to face trial for desertion and espionage. If he didn’t turn Hiram over, he could be charged and his ship might be seized. The dark thought in the back of his mind was still the vision of Blackwood and Big Red on the deck of that Royal Navy frigate.

  Hours later, the Southampton was running before a strengthening southwest gale at the speed of fourteen knots. The Hydra was trailing a half mile back, its tall funnel spewing out black smoke and black embers. Morgan could barely see the solitary figure of the blue-coated captain standing on the top of the half moon-shaped paddle-wheel box. The weather was so rough the ship could only stand double-reefed topgallants and single-reefed main topsails with the mainsail furled.

  Visibility was getting worse and Morgan decided to bear off, charting a course over to France on the other side of the English Channel. This was the safest way for him to avoid the treacherous rocks of Lizard Point, which guarded the entrance to Falmouth. He also calculated that by crossing over toward France, he would be able to tack back across the channel and sail directly into Falmouth. With the strong winds on their back, the Southampton was now running at fifteen knots, and the steamship could not keep up. Soon they lost sight of the steamer frigate even though they could hear the faint, churning drone of the paddle wheeler in the distance.

  They continued on toward France that stormy night, headed toward the island of Ouessant, the eastern edge of the English Channel. Morgan was quite aware that these were dangerous waters filled with powerful crosscurrents, deadly tides, and underwater ledges. Amongst sailors, the islands of Ouessant and Molène were known as a ship’s graveyard. “He who sees Ouessant sees his blood” was the old saying. Morgan took careful measure to estimate his speed and distance across the Channel. He had a man stationed at the tip of the bowsprit listening for the roaring of the sea lashing against rocks just in case he had miscalculated, but to be cautious, he gave the order to tack back toward England well before they got to the westward edge of Ouessant.