by Robin Lloyd
“It was the H.M.S. Hydra, just returning from a tour of duty in the West Indies,” exclaimed Leslie. “She crashed onto the rocky shore of the French island of Ushant. I think the French call it Ouessant!”
“What!” Morgan exclaimed. “Are you sure? What happened?”
Leslie’s eyes glistened with the excitement of this horrific story.
“Some local people standing on the southwestern edge of the island said they saw men being swept off the decks by crashing waves that engulfed the entire ship.”
“Were there survivors?” Morgan asked, his voice quavering.
“The local fishermen couldn’t help them. They were afraid the high waves battering the coastline would sweep them away.”
“Were there any survivors?” Morgan asked again more emphatically. Leslie quickly found that day’s copy of the Times and read it to him.
“It says here ‘no survivors, but amazingly the ship’s hull remained intact. The Admiralty has sent a special team to investigate, and see what they can recover.’”
Leslie dropped the paper and looked directly at the captain.
“Can you imagine that, Morgan, watching all of those people die?”
“Oh, my Lord!” Morgan gasped.
“Did you see that ship by chance on your way up the Channel?”
Morgan winced slightly. “We did see a ship steam up from the south as we entered the Channel,” he said cautiously, tugging at his earlobe. “It followed us past the Scillies and Wolf Rock. Then it disappeared.”
Leslie nodded soberly as he continued to look at the newspaper.
“It says here that this ship was in Bermuda and had been newly assigned to the West Africa Squadron. It had gone to New York to refuel at the coaling station over in New Jersey.”
Morgan kept his feelings to himself, not wanting to reveal too much, even to Leslie. He was reeling with the horror of the news. He felt so badly for all those sailors. His mind was awash with contradictory emotions of shock and sadness, mixed with relief and triumph. He imagined all those men being swept off the decks into the churning water. He felt a wave of nausea, but then he saw the faces of Blackwood, Big Red, and Stryker, and he felt no empathy, only a strange sense of freedom. He decided to change the topic. Soon they were talking about the Royal Academy and how Leslie’s son Robert had exhibited at the academy this year with a painting called A Sailor’s Yarn inspired by one of his passages across the Atlantic with Morgan.
“It was one of the few contemporary paintings at this year’s exhibit,” the artist rattled on.
Morgan nodded with only moderate interest. He was used to Leslie chattering on for hours about the London art world. He was reading the newspaper’s account of the shipwreck, wondering what information about his own complicated life and the dangers he faced he could share with Leslie.
“One of the academy’s best patrons has just asked me to do a painting from a Greek myth. I am not sure whether I want to do it or not. As you know, I really prefer scenes from classic works like Cervantes and Molière.”
Morgan looked up with a distracted expression. He hadn’t been listening.
“The commission, Morgan. Should I take it? It is a Greek creation myth, the story of Eurynome and Ophion.”
Morgan’s eyes grew wide.
“What was that you said, Leslie?” he asked cautiously. “Did you say Ophion?”
“Yes, Ophion,” replied the artist nonchalantly. “No reason you should know that name. Ophion is not one of the better-known figures in Greek mythology. Why, have you heard of it?”
“No, or, maybe I have. I’m not sure. Please go on,” Morgan replied.
Leslie got up to walk around his studio to a bookshelf where he pulled out a large book on the gods of ancient Greece. He opened it to a page with an illustration of a serpent wrapped around a mermaid’s arm and handed it to Morgan.
“Look at the first chapter. Ophion was at the very center of the ancient Greek creation myth. This was at the dawn of time when Eurynome, the goddess of all things, held sway on Olympus. As the myth goes, Eurynome rose up from chaos and divided the sea from the sky. She created a giant snake called Ophion and together they ruled the universe until he became unruly. Then she banished the serpent into the underworld.”
Morgan was stroking his chin as he pondered the connection of this myth, if any, to Ophion Trading Partners. “Reminds me a little of Queen Victoria banishing the serpent of slavery from England and creating a new era. It was Queen Victoria who presided over the final act of freeing the slaves when the apprenticeship program ended in 1838. Isn’t that right, Leslie?”
The artist’s face lit up with excitement, and he grabbed the book from Morgan, slapping the illustration of Ophion and Eurynome with the back of his hand.
“That’s brilliant, Morgan! I never thought of that before. That could be the answer. I could paint Her Majesty in her coronation robes, seated on the throne with her scepter, banishing a vile-looking serpent into the ground. I will have to suggest that to my patron. The comparison is perfect. It will transform the Ophion myth into a contemporary topic.”
“Who is commissioning the painting, if I may ask?” queried Morgan.
“Well, I usually don’t divulge for whom I am painting unless, of course, it is a portrait, but I am sure it is all right to tell you as he is an old acquaintance of yours as well. It is none other than our friend Lord Nanvers.”
Morgan felt the air being sucked out of his lungs, and almost unconsciously he breathed out the name, “Nanvers.”
“Yes, it is Nanvers.”
“Why do you think Lord Nanvers wants a painting of the Ophion myth?” Morgan asked quietly.
“I wondered that as well,” replied Leslie. “I think he is becoming more reflective. He is sixty years old now, even though he doesn’t seem it. His family crest is a coiled serpent, you know.”
“Oh yes, I remember,” replied Morgan. “Nanvers has a ring with a serpent’s design, quite distinctive.”
“Yes, I think he is proud of his family heritage. He has always been an avid admirer of the sculpture of ancient Greece.”
“I don’t know much about Lord Nanvers’s family heritage, or business, Leslie. What can you tell me?”
Eager to show his familiarity with the Nanvers name, Leslie volunteered more information.
“As you know, Morgan, Lord Nanvers is George Wilberton, the third Earl of Nanvers.” His voice changed in tone as he began speaking in a whisper. “Nanvers is what they call in London’s finer circles ‘a West Indian.’ Did you know that?”
“A West Indian?” Morgan replied with a puzzled voice. “What do you mean?”
“Just a generation ago, the Wilbertons were looked down upon by some of the more established members of the landed aristocracy. I believe they were treated quite poorly because their family fortune came from the West Indies. New money, if you know what I mean. But now that the family is so ensconced in the landed aristocracy, that has changed. The transformation really began with Nanvers’s father. He tried to distance the family name from the original source of their wealth, and now I would say our good friend Nanvers has succeeded in being accepted even among some of the more snobbish aristocrats here in London.”
“Does the family still have financial interests in the West Indies?” Morgan asked in a barely restrained voice.
“I believe so. At one point, the Wilberton family had more than five working plantations in Jamaica, Nevis, and Barbados with thousands of slaves. They owned these properties for more than a century. Naturally the family owned their own ships, and were involved in transporting not only sugar but rum to England. Of course, once slavery was abolished all that changed. The family was generously compensated by the Crown for all their slaves, and as I understand it, they reduced their landholdings in the West Indies. Since then I believe they have diversified substantially, even with interests in manufacturing.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” Morgan replied with feigned dis
interest, even though a stream of new, random thoughts were tumbling through his mind.
“But enough of that, Morgan,” Leslie said with a big smile on his face. “You look far too serious. Suffice to say, Lord Nanvers is a very wealthy man and very generous to those of us in the arts. He is always praising you. Just the other day he asked me about that sailor friend of yours who was sailing with the West Africa Squadron. What was his name, Horace? Henry? Remember, he came to speak to us in the cabin of your ship.”
“Hiram, Hiram Smith,” replied Morgan.
“Right,” said Leslie. “Well, he wanted to know how that sailor had fared and whether you had heard from him recently.”
“Nice of him to show such interest in a simple sailor,” Morgan said, trying to hide the sarcasm in his voice as well as the concern.
“Is he still sailing with the West Africa Squadron?”
“No, I believe he’s left the Royal Navy. I think he’s looking for another ship.”
“Oh,” replied Leslie simply, his mind already shifting to another topic. “Say, I have an idea, Morgan.” Leslie looked at him expectantly, his face beaming with pleasure. “Why don’t you come with me to Nanvers’s estate? He’s just back today from a long hunting trip in Scotland. He took Landseer with him to do some sketches of the hunt. I heard all about it. Landseer says Nanvers is now anxious to be back in the whirl and mix of London activities. I was due to visit him shortly anyway to discuss this project, but now that you have given me this brilliant idea, I will travel there this afternoon. Nanvers House is just north of London in the rolling hills of Hertfordshire. Why don’t you come?”
A few hours later Leslie and Morgan were escorted into Nanvers House by the footman and told to wait at the front entrance. It was a stone house built in the eighteenth century with the vast sugar fortune of Nanvers’s father, Edmund Wilberton, the second Earl of Nanvers. The front entrance was framed by several Greek statues amidst a colorful mixture of white lilies, roses, and miniature box bushes. Morgan had a chance to look around the front hallway. The walls were old walnut wainscoting covered with large hunting tapestries that reached as high as the ornate white ceilings. The floors were covered with thick Indian rugs and life-size paintings of the Wilberton ancestors, who looked down at them from the walls with condescending stares.
Nanvers appeared suddenly, entering the room in a leisurely and autocratic manner. “Why, Leslie, what a wonderful surprise,” he exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome. Do come in. As you know I am just back from the highlands and I have been miserably out of touch. I have not even glimpsed at a newspaper in days. You will have to tell me what’s happening in London.”
Just then he spotted the captain. For a fleeting moment Morgan thought he caught a glimpse of a dark side, but then an impassive mask with a tepid smile once again seemed to emerge on the English lord’s face.
“Captain Morgan,” Nanvers said with a surprised tone in his voice. “What are you doing here in London so soon? I thought you would still be at sea on your packet ship. I am honored.”
Nanvers ushered them into his library with its floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, amply cushioned leather chairs and sofas, and a lovely writing desk that looked out onto terraced gardens outside. A large oil painting of his father standing beside two greyhounds in a forest setting hung over the mantle. Nanvers offered them sherry and motioned for them to sit down in the leather chairs. Leslie excitedly told him about the idea to transform the Greek creation myth project into a symbolic painting of Queen Victoria.
“What do you think, Lord Nanvers? Her Majesty would love the symbolism. I think she would be pleased to be depicted as the Greek Mother Goddess who banished the unruly serpent into the underworld. Do you agree? As the Punch reviewers wrote recently, ‘If art is vital, it needs to find food among living events.’”
Nanvers didn’t comment immediately, but then rose from his chair and said in a deliberate voice, “I like your creative thoughts, Leslie.”
“It was actually Morgan’s idea,” Leslie persisted eagerly. “The captain even came up with the brilliant thought that Ophion becomes a convenient symbol of slavery and Queen Victoria, the heroic figure of emancipation. What do you think, Lord Nanvers? Ophion, the serpent?”
Morgan had been watching the English lord in thoughtful silence, but when Leslie stated Nanvers’s name followed by Ophion, the serpent, he saw him flinch, his mouth twisting to one side as if he had a toothache. Nanvers turned toward the captain and stared at him, his hardened face lingering. Instead of answering Leslie, he got up and paced around the library. After several minutes, which seemed like hours to Morgan, their host finally spoke.
“Leslie, I am not thinking clearly. I have a great many business obligations to catch up with. Would you excuse me? Don’t rush off. Please finish your sherry and make yourself at home here in the library.”
He turned to leave, but then, as if he had abruptly changed his mind, he walked back toward Leslie and Morgan, his eyes now cold and businesslike.
“Oh, Captain Morgan, I wondered if you wouldn’t mind giving me just a few minutes of your time before you leave. I would greatly value your advice. I need to consult with you on a business matter. Leslie, would you mind terribly if I take Morgan away for just a short time.”
“Not at all, your Lordship.”
“Good man!” said Lord Nanvers, patting the artist on his back.
Nanvers led Morgan into a small room across the hallway from the library, which he clearly used as an office. A large mahogany desk occupied most of the room with just a few straight-backed wooden chairs. On the walls, hung a painting of a sugar windmill on a hilltop with bare-breasted slave women walking alongside a donkey cart amidst some palm trees, an old map of Africa and the West Indies, and an oil painting, presumably by Landseer, of a pack of hunting dogs surrounding the carcass of a recently killed elk. Nanvers closed the door behind them and turned to Morgan with that same cold stare.
His menacing eyes bore into Morgan’s face.
“Enough pleasantries! What is your game, Captain?” Nanvers hissed fiercely, his eyebrows rising.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Lord Nanvers,” replied Morgan defensively.
“We have always understood each other well, Captain. It appears we both share something. Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about Ophion.”
Steeling himself for a confrontation, Morgan answered in a calm tone with a sharp edge to it.
“I have only suspicions and questions, Lord Nanvers. That is all.”
“I like questions,” exclaimed Nanvers with a dry, haughty laugh. “But as for suspicions, Captain . . .”
Nanvers paused as he walked around the room. Morgan thought about what he should do. He wondered about excusing himself and backing away from this confrontation. He considered staying silent, refusing to reveal what he knew. But his curiosity, anger, and a certain mindless courage combined in convincing him to take a risk. He cleared his throat.
“Do you deny, Lord Nanvers, that you have been pursuing certain illegal opportunities right under the nose of the Royal Navy’s admirals?”
“What kind of opportunities are you referring to?” Nanvers replied, his mouth twisting to one side. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
The chilly, arrogant tone in the man’s voice was too much for Morgan. He felt an unknown force boil up inside of him. He threw all caution aside. Despite his emotional state, he spoke evenly and clearly, as if he had been rehearsing this moment for most of his life. His eyes never wavered as they locked on to Lord Nanvers’s face.
“What I have surmised is that you are the head of a well-established slaving syndicate called Ophion Trading Partners, and you have used at least one of Her Majesty’s warships stationed off of Africa to promote your illegal business dealings in the slave trade. Your associates are responsible for murdering hundreds of Africans and no doubt countless numbers of sailors, including Abraham Morgan. That would be my brother, who as you well kno
w, I have been looking for . . .”
Nanvers cut him off. His face had grown red. “Slaving syndicate,” he snorted. “What utter nonsense, Morgan. You are such an innocent, like some of these Wilberforce reformers here in London. Why do you object, Captain, to something the world needs? Cheaper sugar. Cheaper clothing. You should know that is what everyone wants in today’s world. To do that you need cheap labor, and there is no more efficient way to provide that largesse than with slavery. Who else will do that work but the Africans? At least America is doing that right. Your country is indeed the land of the free, Morgan . . . free labor, that is.”
Nanvers laughed and resumed his walk around the room, his jowly face more serious. He stopped to pick up his walking cane and began slapping his palm with the gilded handle. Morgan noticed it was a serpent’s head. Nanvers suddenly whirled around and turned to Morgan, speaking in a subdued, hushed tone.
“What if I am running a slave syndicate, Morgan? Isn’t that what the hypocritical world wants? Even some of these navy admirals you speak of, they know it is useless to stop slaving. They can try, but it can’t be done. It is as simple as the laws of supply and demand, Morgan. As a ship captain, you should know those laws.”
Morgan hardly dared to breathe as he listened to this startling confession from a man he thought he knew.
“Aren’t you bothered by so flagrantly breaking your own country’s laws?” Morgan asked. “You, sir, are betraying England!”
“How dare you suggest such a thing, Morgan!” Nanvers replied explosively as he slammed the palm of his hand on his desk, then pointed a trembling forefinger at him. “How dare you suggest that I am betraying England! My forefathers endured hardship. They left England to build plantations in those pestilent islands well over a century ago. They sacrificed to give England what she needed. And now, look at how we have been repaid all these decades later. The compensation money we received was a pittance. We cared for our slaves, and look at how we have been repaid by an ungrateful Parliament in the hands of liberal reformers and those meddling missionaries and self-righteous women in the Anti-Slavery Society. They have banned slavery, but not the import of slave-grown sugar. When the duties on foreign sugar were repealed a few years ago, all in the name of free trade, I knew we planters in the English islands were doomed. Parliament ruined us, even as those sanctimonious fools have no scruples or qualms about allowing England to swallow slave-grown sugar from Cuba. As for the Africans, I would say that they are better off away from that indecent continent where they can be civilized properly. As a Christian nation, we in England should take care of these black heathen. We can give them religion. We need to teach them about the sanctity of marriage and the teachings of the Bible. That is what my family has done for well over a century. We cared for our African slaves. We did it all for the good of England.”