Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale

by Robin Lloyd

  Nanvers paused for a second as he collected his thoughts. He walked over to Morgan and leaned toward him, pointing the head of his cane at his face.

  “You listen to me, Morgan. I don’t think you should be so moralizing on the subject of slavery, particularly as you are American born. You American merchants have been shipping slave-grown cotton to us for years. It has been your lifeblood, so do not put on a morally righteous air with me. No, Captain Morgan. I have no regrets about my human trade. Simply put, I cannot run a sugar plantation with indentured laborers. I plan to move my investments and operations to Cuba. With nearly half a million slaves, and more arriving every week, Cuba is already becoming England’s new sugar provider. It is the future, a place where sugar can be produced affordably and profits made. Why don’t you be realistic and join my operation? I could use an experienced ship captain like you.”

  “Now it’s my turn to be offended, Lord Nanvers,” Morgan exclaimed as he stood up abruptly, his face coming just inches away from Nanvers’s nose. He gestured at Landseer’s painting. “You had me fooled all these years. I thought you were a lover of the arts. I never suspected you to be the murderous scoundrel you are. No, I have no interest in trafficking in the human trade. Whips and manacles are not to my liking either.”

  “I am sorry you feel that way. I have always liked you, Morgan,” Nanvers said in a more hospitable voice as he twirled his cane.

  The captain’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “Is that why your man Blackwood sent his opium-addicted lacky to drill holes into my ship?” Morgan asked tartly, making no effort to stifle his disgust. “In fact, you were there years ago during the mutiny on the Philadelphia. That vermin Blackwood and his fellow rodents wanted to sink us then too. What was your plan, Nanvers? Join the mutineers had they succeeded?”

  The effort to keep his voice under control was causing Morgan to clench his fists. He stormed around the room to try to calm himself down. Nanvers opened a box on his desk and pulled out a cigar, slamming the lid shut with a bang. He didn’t offer one to Morgan. With a small silver knife he pulled from his vest pocket, he snipped off the tip, and then struck one of the new, highly flammable Euperion matches. He held the bright flame up to the tip of his cigar, and began puffing vigorously.

  “Do not think of me as an evil creature, Captain. I regret Mr. Blackwood’s impulsivity. He has always been hard to control. He wanted to kill you from the beginning. He sent that pretty toffer in the East End to spy on you and find out why you were looking for him. He knew he could be hanged, so of course he wanted you dead. He kept telling me you were going to be trouble. I decided to find out for myself just how compromised our operation was so I booked a passage on your ship. A fine ship indeed, the Philadelphia. I greatly enjoyed the voyage. Blackwood was instructed to wait for a signal from me, but he was too impatient. We had our words after that. He was angry, but he agreed to leave you alone. I told him I would keep my eyes on you. We both wanted to make sure you didn’t find out anything about our operation. I became a loyal patron of the Sketching Club artists so I could find out if you knew anything about our operation. That was working well. You were left alone all those many years until we realized your old shipmate, Hiram Smith, was trying to fly out of his gilded cage. I learned with alarm from Stryker that he could possibly know every detail of our operation. He was to be disposed of, but when he escaped on your ship in Portsmouth. . . . Well, that complicated matters. I began to see you would eventually find out about our operation. Still, I held off.”

  Morgan listened to this confession with silent, rapt attention. He allowed the silence to fill the room. Nanvers blew out a cloud of smoke that billowed around his head as he fondled the snake’s head on his cane.

  “Let me be candid, Captain Morgan,” he exclaimed in a weary but autocratic tone. “You are either with us or against us.”

  “That sounds more like a threat than a proposal to me.”

  “Interpret it as you will, Captain. We are in the process of silencing those that can harm us. I have received word that your friend Hiram Smith has been captured. He will face the stern hand of English justice shortly, I have no doubt. Now you, Morgan! What shall we do with you? Blackwood and Stryker are due here shortly. Unlike Smith, you have a choice. I need a good captain.”

  Morgan breathed in sharply. He quickly averted his gaze down to the floor to try to conceal his surprise that Nanvers had not yet heard about the shipwreck. He then smiled calmly, and looked up engagingly at the man.

  “How did you meet, Blackwood, Edgars, and Stryker?”

  The English lord seemed surprised at this question at first, but then responded.

  “William Blackwood,” he said with a huge sigh. “He was trouble for me from the beginning, ever since he was a boy. I should tell you the story, Captain, as I know it would interest you. Blackwood is more than just an employee or business associate. He is my son. Yes, my son, an illegitimate son, but still my son. His mother was a Creole whom I had intimate relations with when I was just sixteen years old. Not black, mind you. She was a mulatto, a shapely one I might add, who worked as my mother’s house slave at the plantation in Jamaica. I gave her some money each year, of course, to keep her from telling my mother, and I also persuaded my father to free the boy. Later, when William was nearly grown, she begged me to do something with him. It was about that time that the second war with America broke out. William looked white, so I found him a position on one of the Royal Navy ships patrolling Long Island Sound as part of the blockade. That’s where he met James Stryker and Tom Edgars. They were all navy sailors.”

  Morgan’s face twitched in sudden surprise. For a brief moment he was that frightened boy again hiding in the tree watching the British raiding party pull in to shore. He could see their faces. He suddenly remembered the name, Stryker. He was the one. The two men under the tree. Blackwood was there. Edgars too. They had fired on him and Abraham. They had all tried to kill them. Nanvers smiled sardonically and then continued to ramble on as Morgan’s thoughts spun.

  “During the war, I was based in Bermuda as a naval supplies administrator serving under Admiral Cochrane. You see, I was the younger son and was expected to have an occupation, but then my older brother, Richard, died unexpectedly, falling off a horse while jumping over a fence. As the only remaining son, I was now in line to inherit the Wilberton fortune and the title. When my father died shortly after my brother’s fatal accident, I became the third Earl of Nanvers. Among my landholdings were the family’s remaining plantations in Jamaica. Like many of the sugar estates on the island, they were in financial trouble, and I knew I would need money to keep them going. Because of my job, I was able to acquire one of the captured American privateers, and we renamed it the Charon. You see, I have always had a passion for Greek mythology. I met my son and his two friends in Hamilton after the war ended and I persuaded them to join a slaving operation. I could see William’s two friends were looking for opportunities. We had a challenge as Mother England was strengthening her effort to stop slave trafficking, setting up a blockade. I devised a plan where Stryker stayed in the Royal Navy, rising to captain because he was ruthless and knew no fear. He was in dire need of money at the time so he was receptive to my proposal. He became the key to our success, helping us to get across with our shipments of human cargo on the speedy Charon and giving us information, which helped us elude Royal Navy ships. When the old Charon sank, we simply had another one built in Baltimore, and we gave the new ship the same name.”

  Nanvers paused as he puffed vigorously on his cigar.

  “So you see, all of this was done with a great deal of thought. Oh, but I am boring you, Captain. Shall I continue?”

  “Please, go ahead,” Morgan replied. He had calmed down ever since he realized that Nanvers did not know about the shipwreck of the Hydra. “I would like to know when you first heard about my brother?”

  Nanvers took a long drag on his cigar as he suddenly appeared more philosophical.


  “When I think that all of your interest in my affairs, Morgan, began with your search for your brother . . . It is quite a coincidence, is it not? I was always touched by that story. Brother searching for brother. Just like Hiram Smith, your brother Abraham stumbled on some accounting papers he was not supposed to see. Blackwood caught him in his cabin. It was unfortunate. We couldn’t let that stand. One way or the other, he had to be eliminated. For a good while we actually thought your brother might be alive. Stryker heard tales of a blind white man who was shipwrecked years earlier on the offshore reefs of Morant to the east of Jamaica. A missionary told him about it and even had the name of our ship. The rumor was that he lived with runaway slaves up in the rugged Cockpit Country. We looked, but there were no roads, only footpaths. We couldn’t find him. We were worried that if it was Abraham, he might have gone to America. I actually sent Tom Edgars to your hometown of Lyme to inquire whether anyone had seen your brother. When we couldn’t find him, we soon concluded that the story of the blind white man was some cockeyed missionary tale.”

  Morgan stared intently at Nanvers. “You actually thought my brother was alive, and that he survived the shipwreck?”

  “We thought it highly unlikely, but we couldn’t take the chance.”

  “Why was he so important? Surely there are others who knew your secrets.”

  “None who knew my name. Unfortunately, your brother Abraham stumbled on papers which mentioned my name as the purchaser of slave cargoes. No one else knew that or knows that today, not even our trading partners.”

  “Still, what harm could a blind man possibly have done to you, Lord Nanvers?”

  “I am surprised that you don’t know the answer to that, Morgan. It is very simple really. The answer is . . .” He paused as he slapped the head of his cane on the palm of his hand. “The answer, my dear Captain Morgan, is you.”

  Nanvers smiled at the confused look on Morgan’s face. “If somehow Abraham were alive, we knew you might eventually find him and then we would have a problem. You would not have been content to keep a secret. Am I right, Captain?”

  Morgan was silent.

  “Now that I have been so candid with you, Captain, and divulged all of our secrets, I think you understand the seriousness of my proposal. You are a smart man, Morgan. You must realize you have no choice but to join our business syndicate. Am I being perfectly clear, Captain?”

  Morgan was boiling inside. He looked up at Nanvers and said firmly, “It does sound like you are not aware, Lord Nanvers, that the Hydra was shipwrecked on the rocky shoreline of the French island of Ouessant. All on board are reported lost. That includes your son, William Blackwood, and your two business associates, Captain James Stryker and Tom Edgars. If you don’t believe me, look in today’s paper.”

  There was a deathly silence in the room as the two men stared at each other with long penetrating looks, each taking careful measure of the other. Morgan took some satisfaction in noticing that Lord Nanvers’s lips were quivering and his hands were shaking.

  30

  Morgan caught a cab early in the morning for the docks. As was customary, he had stayed at the Queens Hotel, where many of the American packet ship captains lodged when they came ashore in London. The coolness of the morning air rejuvenated him, and he took off his black beaver top hat to feel the breeze on his head. The driver slapped the reins, and soon the clattering hooves of the horses and the already busy streets of London jolted him awake. More than two weeks had passed since his confrontation with Lord Nanvers. At first, he didn’t think he would survive another day. He was sure he would be killed. He had said nothing about Nanvers’s confession to Leslie. He knew he was in serious danger, but he had tried to put that fear out of his mind. He still felt guilty about the Hydra, sad for all the innocent sailors who had died. But he also felt relieved that there were fewer men who wanted him dead. With Stryker, Edgars, and Blackwood gone, he guessed Nanvers would be uncertain about his next move.

  Today was departure day. He was looking forward to going home to see his family. It was becoming harder for him to be away. The children always plaintively asked their mother when their father would be home. He had invited the usual group for the daylong cruise down the Thames, everyone except Nanvers. A late breakfast with plenty of refreshments would be served on the quarterdeck. Only a handful of the Sketching Club artists could make it. Dickens wrote to Morgan that he would be bringing some artists he worked with, including Frank Stone and Hablot Browne. They were going to do sketches of the emigrants. Thackeray was also coming with the well-known illustrator Richard Doyle from Punch and his editor, Tom Taylor. Leslie had sent word he would be there even though he was busy with commissioned paintings. Morgan didn’t have the courage to tell his old friend that this might well be one of his last regular journeys down the Thames as a packet ship captain. He was seriously thinking of accepting Griswold’s offer to join him as a manager for the Black X shipping line. He would be coming ashore for the sake of Eliza and the children.

  As his cab pulled up to his ship, Morgan was alarmed at the sight of Constable Pinkleton with his small battalion of police officers. They were ready to begin their inspection of what looked like a full shipload of emigrants. Pinkleton was already writing down a list of all the sailors and the emigrants. Morgan wondered if perhaps he was looking for Hiram. Worse still, he could be looking for him. To his surprise, he learned that Pinkleton seemed more interested in the whereabouts of Lord Nanvers than he was about the sailors and the emigrants. He asked why, but the policeman didn’t answer. It was at this point Morgan became aware of a small man dressed formally in a long black coat, white shirt, and cravat who was clearly waiting to speak with him at the gangway.

  “Captain Morgan, I presume?” he asked politely.

  “Yes, indeed. What can I do for you, sir?”

  Morgan noticed the man’s hands, clasped together in front of him.

  “My name is Reverend John Wall, and I am just back in London after many years of service as a Baptist missionary in the West Indies.”

  “Are you in need of a stateroom? We may still have availability.”

  “No, Captain, that is not why I am here. I have a story to tell you and a message to deliver. I know you are extremely busy, but could I have a few moments of your time, perhaps in your quarters?”

  Morgan nodded brusquely and motioned him to come up the gangway and to follow him. He offered the man a chair in the seating area outside his cabin. The small man with thinning gray hair wasted no time in beginning his story.

  “Captain, I am someone who has dedicated his life to baptizing and bringing the word of God to the unfortunate African laborers who were enslaved and brutally treated in the English islands. I worked with William Knibb, who once said that sugar is sweet, but the liberty of man is much more sweet. Those words have been my life’s compass. My colleagues and I have opened scores of missions and churches in Jamaica alone, and helped to establish free Negro villages deep in the mountains where few white men go. Now these past few months I am back here in London to tell those interested about how the planters have established a new form of slavery with emigrant laborers. The fight for liberty and justice is far from over.”

  Morgan nodded impatiently. He had a ship to prepare for departure and he was uncertain as to how any of this pertained to him. The man seemed unaware of Morgan’s restlessness as he continued speaking.

  “I was addressing the London Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society a week ago, and I mentioned several touching human stories of courage and defiance against the institution of slavery. One story in particular about a blind man caused considerable interest. A woman who was introduced to me as Harriet Leslie approached me and suggested I contact you right away.”

  The mention of Harriet Leslie caused Morgan to put his growing impatience in check, but it was the detail about the blind man that triggered his curiosity.

  “What did he look like, this blind man?”

  The minister
paused, and looked at Morgan intently.

  “A man about your height, stockier, bearded face, hair thinning and gray, a good-looking man I would say, with a straight forehead and a strong chin. You can’t see his eyes. His eyelids are closed shut. Why do you ask?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “It’s probably nothing, just a notion I had. Please go on.”

  “I should give you a little bit of background, Captain. My missionary work began in Jamaica at the time just before emancipation, just after the bloody Sharpe Rebellion where hundreds were killed. One of the areas the runaway slaves fled to was a remote mountainous region in the western end of the island called the Land of Look Behind. It was named long ago for the soldiers who rode two in the saddle, back to back, to make sure they could see any possible attackers from all directions. Now it is more commonly called Cockpit Country because of the pockmarked terrain riddled with sinkholes reminiscent of cockfighting pits. Maybe you have heard of this part of Jamaica, Captain?”