Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale

by Robin Lloyd

  Morgan didn’t say anything. He shook his head.

  “This is an uncharted place with no roads, only narrow footpaths that wind their way up steep forested slopes. Believe me, it is rugged terrain, an easy place to get lost in or to elude your hunters. There are dozens of hidden caverns and sinkholes filled with water, lush forests, and waterfalls. It is a veritable Garden of Eden, Captain. Birds you have never seen before, and yes, many poisonous snakes. The frightful fer-de-lance is actually prevalent there. The people who have lived there for centuries are called Maroons, the descendants of runaway slaves who first defied the Spanish and then the English.”

  Wall paused as Lowery brought in some coffee.

  “It was here in this lost land that I found the blind man, his eyelids sealed over his eyes. He was a white man living amidst these African souls in one of the thatch huts in the village. These settlements are so well hidden in the forest that you can walk right by them and not know they are there. I found this white man, his skin bronzed and leathery from years in the sun, seated on a small stool weaving a hammock. He was talking with a group of barefoot children. He spoke the patois that these people speak, a rich stew of English mixed with some Spanish and African words, all spoken in a lilting voice.”

  Morgan pulled out one of his Havanas, his first of the day, and lit it with the lantern on the table.

  “I went over to this man and spoke to him. He seemed surprised to hear my English voice, and once I explained who I was he began to speak in a halting way. His accent was American. I asked him where he was from, and he just shook his head and said he had no memory of the past. I offered to take him with me to the nearest Baptist mission, but he seemed disinterested. I sat and read the Bible with him, and I knew he came from a Christian home because he seemed familiar with many of the scriptures I read. Before I left, I asked the village elder about the white man and he told me he had come to them with a group of African slaves who had been shipwrecked off the coast of Jamaica. This was many years ago, he said. He pointed to a tall black woman who was talking with several other women who were weaving baskets. He told me she was his wife. Her name was Adeola. She was a Yoruba princess from somewhere north of the Kingdom of Dahomey.”

  “What was his name?” Morgan whispered.”

  “In the village they called him Enitan,” the man replied. “I was told that in the Yoruba dialect that means a person with an important story.”

  Morgan sat transfixed as the tale unraveled. Reverend Wall looked up at one of the glass skylights above him, and then turned his glance back to the captain’s face.

  “Please continue, Reverend. I am most interested in your story.”

  The man clasped his hands together and placed them on his lap.

  “I went over to the woman named Adeola and attempted to talk with her, but she only spoke her African dialect mixed with the Jamaican patois and I couldn’t understand exactly what she said. All I could decipher was that they were in a shipwreck and had escaped from a slave ship. They lived on some uninhabited sandy islands off the eastern end of Jamaica until they built a raft from the wreckage and paddled their way to the big island. They walked up into the mountains and wound their way up the footpaths until they came to where they are now. She pointed to the blind man and indicated that at that time he could still see, and she pointed to her own eyes, which were partially closed. It was clear to me they had been stricken with some kind of eye disease, Captain. Strangely enough, she remembered the name of the ship, something like the Karen or Charon.”

  At that point, Morgan jumped to attention.

  “The Charon! When did this shipwreck occur?”

  “As I said, the village elder told me it was many years before emancipation, possibly ten to fifteen years before I arrived in Jamaica.”

  “What was the blind man’s Christian name?” Morgan asked breathlessly.

  The Baptist minister smiled. “I do not know, but your reaction was exactly the same as the one I received when I first told this story to a Royal Navy captain. He was there visiting Jamaica as part of the West Africa Squadron. When he heard the ship’s name he wanted to go to that village immediately. He said the blind man was a criminal, a slave trafficker, and needed to be arrested.”

  “Did you tell him where the man was?” Morgan asked with a note of urgency in his voice.

  The minister shook his head.

  “I was about to reveal the location of the village when I looked into this man’s face and suddenly felt like I should not. He had a reckless look, dare I say it, a ruthless look, and the simple fact was I could not accept his assertion that the blind man had ever been a slaver. He seemed too gentle a man, and he was clearly familiar with Scripture. So may God forgive me, I lied, and told him I had put the blind man on a trading schooner leaving for America.”

  Morgan now suspected he knew the reason why Lord Nanvers had sent Edgars to Lyme to inquire about Abraham all those many years ago. Hope rose up deep inside of him like a sharp gust of wind filling a sail.

  “Go on, please tell me more. Did you ever see this blind man again?”

  “Years later, I went back to that same village. This was during the period before 1838 when slaves were desperate. They had been freed, but England had allowed a new form of slavery even worse than the old system. We abolitionists campaigned hard to have this fiction of apprenticeship repealed. Planters flogged slaves at random and put women on the treadmill, all in a desperate move to keep the slaves working. Scores of runaway slaves were leaving the plantations and seeking refuge in the caves and the forested hillsides of Cockpit Country. I saw him again then. He was still blind, but working in the fields. He seemed to understand many things about farming and how to till the land even though he was blind. He had several children then. His wife was pregnant with another. I asked him again if he remembered anything more about the past, but he just shook his head.”

  Morgan looked perplexed.

  “Is the man still there?”

  “I believe so,” he replied. “And that is the reason why I am here telling you this story.”

  “Please go on,” Morgan said.

  “Before I left just a few months ago, I went back to that village and to my surprise I learned from one of the village elders that the blind man had recovered some parts of his memory. I rushed over to talk to him. I asked him what his Christian name was. He didn’t respond, but he began to tell me about the harrowing voyage that had brought him to Jamaica so many years ago. He even remembered the year, 1816. It was an extraordinary story. He was young and had only been to sea for one year. He told me how he had been shanghaied by slavers, English slavers, to my shame, and that his entire ship had been infected by an eye disease.”

  Morgan was mesmerized at the story that was unfolding.

  “We walked down to one of the nearby waterfalls not too far from the Quick Step Trail. It was familiar to him because he walked without fear, using a cane to make his way along the footpath. Several of the village boys followed along behind. It was lucky they did too. I have never forgotten that walk because he suddenly stopped, and whispered for me to stop as well. He talked to one of the boys in patois and pointed with his cane. I still hadn’t seen anything. A brownish mottled snake about eight feet long slithered out onto the path, lifting its arrow-shaped head up as if to strike us. I had seen them before. It was a fer-de-lance, which I knew was deadly. The boys had picked up rocks and started throwing them at the snake. One of them produced a machete from the cane fields and he eventually cut its head off.”

  “How did he know where that snake was?” asked Morgan.

  “I think because he was blind he must have developed especially keen hearing. That was the only explanation I could think of, but the boys clearly thought he was a magic man. ‘Obeah,’ they called him.”

  “Tell me more,” said Morgan, now totally engaged in the minister’s story.

  “Shortly after we had killed the snake, Enitan continued recalling and recounting th
at fateful voyage so many years ago, how he had refused the captain’s orders to drown some two hundred of the blind slaves. He was beaten and locked in a cell. A terrible storm came up and then one night he heard the wrenching noise of the ship slamming into a reef, the wooden hull splintering, water pouring in. He was freed by about a dozen of the slaves, who somehow had worked themselves free of their manacles. They all grabbed onto some of the spare yards and spars stored in the cargo holds and on deck and threw themselves into the sea. The next thing he remembered was the burning hot sun, the scalding sand, and a black woman’s face looking down at him. He was on a small spit of land in the midst of reefs. He could barely see; his eyes were crusting over as the disease was progressing. In the distance, he could make out the blue mountains of what turned out to be Jamaica. They greeted him as a friend because they had seen him defy the captain and the mate. He helped the others build a raft and paddles from the remains of the ship, which had drifted ashore. They even found some canvas remnants of the sails, and they set out for the nearby mountainous island. With the prevailing trade winds now blowing behind them, they landed the next day on the southeastern coast of the island and started climbing.”

  “Did you ask him what his Christian name was?” Morgan asked again.

  “I did, Captain, but unfortunately he wasn’t certain, but he did tell me something, and that is why Mrs. Leslie thought I should come and see you. He said he thinks his name was Morgan, or something like that, and he sometimes dreams of a place by a big river called Lyme. When I mentioned this story to the ladies’ group, and told them I was carrying a letter addressed to his family, Mrs. Leslie said I should contact you. You would know what to do.”

  It was hard to describe his sensations. Morgan’s head was reeling. He had no sense of time or place.

  “Here is the letter. See for yourself. It is addressed simply to ‘A shipwrecked sailor’s family, Lyme.’ That is my handwriting. I helped him write it. I did not know how else to advise him.”

  Morgan picked up the letter, gingerly holding it as if it were the most valuable piece of jewelry in the world. He opened it slowly and began reading.

  To Whomever May Read This Letter:

  I am a shipwrecked sailor. I believe my last name is Morgan, or some name similar to that. My home was once on the banks alongside a wide river in a place called Lyme. I have given this letter to a good man who knows my story and how I came to be shipwrecked on an offshore reef near Jamaica in the summer of 1816. Sadly, I have lived all these years with a failed memory. I am blind, but I have learned to see in other ways. The sounds of the forest paint pictures for me. The birds speak to me with their songs, sometimes warning me, other times guiding me. I am told by the missionaries who come here that God will visit the earth in judgment of the many sins of the slave traders who brought me here against my will. I know the man of the cloth who is carrying this letter will explain that to you. If this should fall into the hands of my family, I want them to know I am safe here. My wife, Adeola, and I are blessed with four children. Beyond the painful memories of my voyage, I have no recollection of my early years.

  My dear family, should you read this letter, and you recognize who I am, may the kind Providence bring us together again in this life.

  Enitan

  Morgan stood there for what seemed like an eternity rereading the letter over and over again after the Baptist minister had left. He was too emotional to even speak so he just nodded to himself, gulped, and bit his lip. Tears streamed down his face and he tried to wipe them away. His mind was lost as he tried to imagine this world of shadows the letter described, the sounds of the forest, the singing birds. Finally he heard his name being called out, and he surfaced on deck to the chorus of competing orders from the mates readying the ship. The dockmaster was loading last-minute cargo into the ship’s hold. He scanned the hardworking faces of the emigrants on deck, their belongings all around them, infants crying and children screaming.

  Morgan’s mind was far away as he watched his well-dressed friends walk up the wooden gangway onto the quarterdeck. Landseer’s silver-gray, bushy head bobbed up and down in the mix of people. Behind them came the large and rotund Clarkson Stanfield and the tall and slim Charles Leslie, followed by his lovely daughter, Harriet, who was now twenty-one years old and catching the attention of many roving eyes, including those of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray. He was sad to hear Leslie say that the old club might soon fade away. There were fewer members of the Sketching Club, and now many of the older members, including Leslie, often didn’t attend. Old Turner was too ill now to even go to the Royal Academy. They were all getting older, and many of them were painting less.

  He spotted Dickens, who was wearing a new top hat and had a jaunty look on his thin, angular face. His illustrator friends followed close behind, their expressions filled with amazement at the chaos on board the ship. The giant figure of Thackeray with his distinctive glasses also followed this group up the gangway.

  “That’ll do, Mr. Moore, with your ’ead line,” yelled the garrulous dockmaster. “If you’ll be good enough to ’aul yer stern line to port and ’ave those sailors tail on to that quarter line, we’ll ’ave you cleared and ready for departure.”

  Minutes later, the Southampton gently moved out of the enclosed St. Katherine’s Docks where two steamers were waiting. Morgan ordered some of the men high up in the yards to release the fore topsail with the large Black X on it, more for looks than anything else, as there was little wind. His guests were milling about the quarterdeck around Dickens and Thackeray, who were the center of the large group’s attention.

  The banks of the Thames were cloaked with mist and coal smoke, a gloomy, gray riverscape that Morgan thought had an odd beauty about it, much like one of Turner’s paintings. From the forecastle, he could hear the men singing. A Creole bones player, Ben Sheets, clicked out a rhythm. He recognized the sound of Ochoa strumming and thumping on his guitar. A wailing fiddle and a pulsating accordion quickly joined in. He could hear Icelander and Whipple belt out a familiar chorus, their voices soaring and swooping like birds in flight.

  “At St. Katherine’s Dock I bade adieu

  To Poll and Bet and lovely Sue,

  The anchor’s weighed, the sails unfurled

  We’re bound to plough the watery world

  Don’t you see we’re homeward bound?”

  He walked over to the group surrounding Dickens and Thackeray, who now had serious looks on their faces.

  “No one seems to have seen him for days,” Landseer said.

  “Where could he have gone?” asked Dickens.

  Richard Doyle from Punch then chimed in. “I have heard that the Admiralty is trying to question him, apparently something to do with the wreck of the Hydra off the coast of France. They found some suspicious papers on board that ship.”

  “You don’t think Nanvers is in any trouble do you?” asked Leslie incredulously. “I was just there at his house two weeks ago. Captain Morgan was with me. What did he tell you when he met with you privately?”

  Morgan pulled at one of his earlobes before answering as he thought about what he should say.

  “Lord Nanvers had some business matters to discuss. He seemed to have some financial concerns and wondered if I could help him captain one of his ships. I thanked him, of course, but told him I had no interest in leaving the Black X Line. Why, what has happened to Nanvers?”

  “He seems to have disappeared,” replied Dickens, his eyebrows arching upward. “He hasn’t been seen for days, and he left no word with his staff at the estate about any travel plans. I am sure he will show up in good time. It is not like Nanvers to miss one of your river cruises, Captain.”

  “It is strange though,” remarked Leslie with a puzzled shake of his head. “Maybe he has been called away to one of his landholdings in Jamaica,” he said in a hopeful tone.

  Lowery was making his rounds with glass decanters of sherry and claret. Sam Junkett followed behind with glasses of
Leslie’s favorite punch, an old recipe from Philadelphia called Fish House Punch, a powerful concoction of peach brandy, cognac, and dark rum. As he sipped appreciably on his punch, Dickens turned to Morgan with a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

  “Is it fair to say, Captain, that I have once again stepped onto American soil?”

  Morgan paused a moment and laughed.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Dickens. I suppose you have.”

  “Does that make me subject to the laws of your United States?”

  Packet-polite as always, Morgan responded diplomatically.

  “I am not a legal scholar, Mr. Dickens, but I would say as master of this American flagged vessel you can consider yourself free to express your opinion, whatever that may be.”

  The two men laughed. They had become fast friends over the past few years. Morgan pulled out a cigar and offered one to Dickens. The English author beamed as he rolled the cigar in his wide mouth. Soon the pungent smell of Havanas enveloped the quarterdeck, the wispy clouds of smoke drifting out over the Thames.

  Dickens didn’t say anything at first as he puffed appreciably on his cigar, but then turned to the captain.

  “Captain Morgan, this is a good cigar indeed. On a more serious note, a good cigar requires a good yarn. You know I have always enjoyed your stories. I hope you don’t mind that I have repeated them on several occasions, sometimes to great effect. The one about the ‘wet lovers and the dry one’ is a personal favorite. Have you another for me?”

  “How much time do you have, Mr. Dickens?” Morgan asked. “The tale I am thinking of is a long one.”

  “Indeed, Captain Morgan.” Dickens took another pleasurable puff on his cigar. His expressive eyebrows inched upward. “Does the story have a happy ending?”