Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale
Rough Passage to London
Elisha Ely Morgan. Charles Robert Leslie, R.A., 1847.
Rough Passage to London
A Sea Captain’s Tale, A Novel
Robin Lloyd
SHERIDAN HOUSE
Published by Sheridan House
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom
Distributed by National Book Network
Copyright © 2013 by Robin Lloyd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lloyd, Robin, 1950–
Rough passage to London : a sea captain’s tale, a novel / Robin Lloyd.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-57409-320-9 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-57409-321-6 (electronic) 1. Sea stories. I. Title.
PS3612.L69R68 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013013851
™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
For Marisa and Samantha Lloyd,
great-great-great-great-granddaughters of Elisha Ely Morgan
“Wouldst thou,”—so the helmsman answered,
“Learn the secret of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers
Comprehend its mystery!”
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Secret of the Sea”
Contents
Preface
This is a novel about the seafaring life of Elisha Ely Morgan. Although Morgan was a historical figure, most of the book’s characters and situations are invented. That being said, a great deal of effort has been made to accurately depict the world of the American transatlantic packet ships in the early to mid-nineteenth century. The packet ships mentioned in this book are the actual vessels Morgan sailed on and commanded. Morgan made over one hundred voyages across the Atlantic in nearly thirty years at sea. As far as could be determined by this author, he left behind no detailed records of what transpired on these passages.
Elisha Ely Morgan is my direct ancestor. This story is the way I have imagined him based on what is known about his life and personality from family records and extracts in books and articles. As a child, I often looked at his portrait hanging in the living room of my grandmother’s house. A faint hint of a smile on his lips implied a touch of whimsy. I was told simply that he was a famous ship captain who sailed to London and was a close friend of Charles Dickens. Much later, when I began researching his history, I learned that Dickens had written a short story where the central character was closely modeled after Morgan. The story was called “A Message from the Sea.” I was motivated to find out more. I hope that this ancestor of mine, who entertained Dickens and many others in London with his seafaring yarns, has passed down to me some of his storytelling ability.
PART I
You must know your road well to travel among these shoals on such a night as this.
—
James Fenimore Cooper,
The Pilot
1
April 7, 1814
Darkness descended as the British sailors leaned their backs into the rowing. Weathered faces grimaced as they pulled in unison. Four heavy rowing barges weighted down with men, and weapons, and two lighter rowing pinnaces pulled away from the dimly lit Royal Navy warships anchored in Long Island Sound. It was ten o’clock in the evening. They headed toward the mouth of the Connecticut River, passing the sandy bar that protected the town of Saybrook. Loaded aboard were lightweight cannons, bayoneted rifles, gunpowder, boarding lines, and grappling hooks.
The young British officer in charge kept his eyes peeled on the shadowy banks looming ahead, looking for any signs of movement. He had 136 men on this expedition. His informants ashore had assured him they would face no resistance, but he was taking no chances. Some five miles of hard rowing lay ahead until they reached their target, the town of Potapoug, home to one of the biggest shipbuilding yards on the Connecticut River. The British had spied on the shipyard for weeks and seen how many armed vessels were being built there. Five of those American gunships would soon head to sea to attack British supply ships unless this raid was successful. The captain knew there was a lot at stake, particularly as British forces had already suffered too many losses in the nearly two years of war.
Fortified against the nighttime chill by an additional tot of rum, the sailors were keen on rowing. The men were eager for action after months of frustrating duty where nimble Yankee schooners continued to dodge and weave their way through the British blockade. Ever since the war began in 1812, American privately owned armed ships, or privateers, had wreaked havoc on British supply vessels.
As the British forces slowly rowed up the river, passing the open fields and pastures of outer Lyme, they were unaware that they were being watched. It was about three o’clock, and the night was so black that hardly anything could be seen more than twenty feet away. Two boys crouched in the muddy reeds alongside the river, too frightened to move. One of them was only eight years old, a wiry, skinny boy who was small for his age. His older brother was almost thirteen and was already stocky and muscular. They both had covered their curly hair with small, dark caps. Their linen shirts and coarse overalls were now covered with river mud. They were farm boys from Lyme who had escaped from home on a nighttime dare. They had just poled and rowed their way over to the northern tip of Nott Island in a small, flat-bottom skiff, when they heard noises coming from the middle of the river.
“What’s that, Abraham?” whispered Ely to his older brother, his voice cracking nervously. “Sounds like a boat.” The young boy’s biggest fear was that he’d be caught by his father, who, he well knew, had little tolerance for misbehavior. Ely Morgan had felt the wrath of his father’s whipping belt too many times for what seemed like the smallest of infractions.
Abraham listened intently but said nothing. The creaking of oars and the muffled voices of men were now easily heard floating across the water, making them sound much closer than they were.
“That ain’t Pa coming to get us, is it, Abraham?”
“Ely, if it is, I reckon he’s bringing the whole Lyme militia with him,” murmured Abraham with a nervous half chuckle. “There’s a pack of boats under weigh out there, and from all that grunting and whispering and them rowing without a light, I’ll warrant they don’t want to be found out.”
With that, the boys quietly hid their shallow-draft rowing boat behind some shoreline bushes and a stand of willows in the soggy marsh. They climbed an old solitary maple tree, scrambling to hide behind some of the larger branches. For weeks now these two boys had gone over the details of this nighttime adventure. Their plan had been to cross the river and board the newly built brig, which would soon be equipped with eighteen guns and was at anchor off the town of Potapoug, just across the river from their farm. It was no secret that Captain Hayden’s newest ship was ready to go to sea with plans to seize British ships, but there was still no crew so the ship was empty. They thought a nighttime visit would surely go unnoticed. They waited until their whole family was asleep before they crawled out their window and slipped away into the night. The two boys wanted bragging rights that they had trod the decks of the newest American privateer built at the famous Hayden yard.
They could now hear the gruff voices of dozens of men and more splashes of oars breaking the surface of the water. The boys clutched the coarse bark of the tree as they tried to melt into the branches. That’s when they heard a man’s voice call out.
“Pull hard, men! Pull hard! Almost there. Soon we’ll give these Yankees a taste of their own medicine.”
The dim shape of four heavy rowing barges filled with men and weapons and two smaller rowing vessels slowly emerged from the darkness down river as they came near the shore. To the horror of the boys, a man with a black tricorn hat gave orders for the small flotilla to pull into shore, just fifty yards from where they were hiding. The six rowing boats slid in among the reeds, one of them landing with a muffled thud just feet from where they’d hidden their boat.
“Take a rest here, men. We are close. Our target lies just across the river, less than a quarter of a mile from here.”
He then turned to the man next to him.
“Mr. Stryker, give the men another tot of rum each, for tonight their labors have just begun, and light that lantern. No one will see us on this island.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
With the glow of the lantern, the two boys could just make out the shadowy faces of the huddled men, and the dull gleam of the bayonets on the rifles. These weren’t the blue-coated Connecticut militia. These men were English redcoats, the enemy, and there was no question what the purpose of their trip was, a raid on the town of Potapoug. Ely felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine as he looked at all of these armed men. There were so many. There were scores of redcoats, all clutching their rifles. The ones who were manning the oars wore no uniforms, but they all had knives, axes, and pistols. He supposed they were the sailors. He gulped, and struggled to take a deep breath. He watched wide-eyed and petrified as the officer with his high black boots stepped ashore and addressed both the sailors and armed marines clumped together in the barges.
“Men, all ships we find are to be torched. That’s our main objective here. Every ship in the harbor must be destroyed. I will land with the marines to seize and commandeer the town. Once the town has been secured, we will burn their ships, even those being built on the yards. Sailors, prepare your hooks and your torches!”
The men, who had been resting on their oars, looked up at their commanding officer with a mixture of fear and patriotic fervor in their eyes, and then responded with a muffled chant, calling out, “God bless the King! God bless England!” like devout members of a church congregation. Ely Morgan looked over at his brother in desperation. He couldn’t make out Abraham’s expression in the darkness, but he knew they must stay absolutely quiet.
The British officer then turned to the sailors in his own boat and the young midshipman who was acting as coxswain.
“Mr. Stryker, you will stay here with your pinnace. You are to make sure that no boats come by here. If one does, you will shoot to kill. We want no informants.”
On hearing that order, Ely hugged the tree where he was hiding more tightly. The British officer then began to chuckle to himself.
“And Mr. Stryker, when you see the harbor lit up like two dozen torches, you’ll know we are celebrating Guy Fawkes early this year. Then you must come and join us.”
“Aye, sir,” Stryker responded, a wide, careless grin breaking out across his clean-shaven face.
With those firm orders, the five other rowing boats pulled away into the night. The darkness momentarily revealed the wake of the small fleet in the open river, but the ripples from the oars soon faded, and the water’s surface returned to glass. The man called Stryker and his men watched silently from the shore. He ordered the marines to take up scouting positions at the tip of the marshy island. Ely held his breath as two of the British redcoats, their rifles ready, walked directly underneath the tree where they were hiding before disappearing into the bush. Two other shadowy figures moved slowly toward them, and sat down almost directly under their tree. They lit a small lantern and placed it on the ground between them. Ely could just make out their faces. He was surprised at how young they seemed, maybe just a few years older than Abraham, he thought to himself. He could barely hear them. One of them whose name was Bill had a bushy head of hair. The other had curly red hair. They both spoke with an English accent that Ely found hard to understand.
Just then the smudgy gray of predawn was pierced by the loud thud of cannons and peppery musket fire. It was much closer than Ely had expected. There was a flickering of lights across the river like tiny jack-o’-lanterns followed by faint shouts and shrieks.
“Abraham,” whispered Ely. “What should we do?”
“Hush up and stay quiet,” Abraham breathed out in a hoarse whisper. “There ain’t nothin’ we can do.”
“I don’t hear a call to arms, Abraham. No bells. You suppose they killed everybody?”
“Quiet, Ely. You’ll get us caught.”
Then there was silence from across the river. Moments later, the boys watched as the first of the ships in the harbor went up in flames. Soon this was followed by another ship exploding, and crackling in the gray light. The tightly furled sails on the yards ignited first followed by the masts, which were swallowed up in a ball of yellow fire like giant torches. White smoke billowed upward, and with each new fireball the harbor and the village houses were lit up more brightly. Ely’s heart was pounding and beating so fast he thought for sure the British sailors below would notice, but their faces, dimly lit by the flames, remained firmly locked on this fiery inferno across the river. He looked over at his brother, whose face was frozen in shock.
Ely could see the silhouette of the British barges moving from ship to ship, the nimble sailors clambering aboard with their grappling hooks and lines and then moments later, another explosion of flames. The crackle of wood and the crash of timbers filled the air along with the sooty smell of burning ships. The noisy spectacle was so dramatic Ely momentarily lost his grip and almost fell out of the tree, catching himself at the last minute, his gasp snapping Abraham out of his trance.
“We’ve got to make a run for it. Daylight’s coming soon and they’ll spot us up here.”
To the southeast, the sky was already a lighter shade of gray. Ely noticed that the redcoated marines were now walking back to their barge. The two sailors beneath them stood upright, looked to the right and left, and then swept their gaze out to the river. The diffused light revealed the wooden stock of a gun and the handle of a pistol. As soon as the pinnace filled with marines and sailors pulled out from shore, Abraham and Ely slid down from the tree and crawled over to where their rowing boat was hidden. Carefully, they pushed it out from behind the reeds and bushes into the current and gave it a shove, pulling themselves on board at the same time. By now the British pinnace was working its way toward the burning ships, the oarsmen pulling hard into the current. In the faint dawn, Ely could now see their faces more clearly. Both boys began to row furiously upstream to round the northern tip of Nott Island and head east into the safety of the marshes near Lord’s Cove on the other side of the river.
“They’ve spotted us!” Ely yelled.
He could see commotion in the pinnace, arms pointing and men yelling.
In a desperate panic, the two boys rowed unevenly, their oars wildly slapping and splashing the surface of the water. Their small boat soon ran aground in a shallow, muddy area. Abraham jumped up, grabbed the pole, and began frantically pushing the small flat-bottom boat forward.
“You keep rowing, Ely. Let me know when they stand up to fire,” yelled Abraham, “or if they turn around and come at us, hammer and tongs.”
Shots rang out, but Ely was too intent with his rowing to pay any attention to how good the marksmanship was. Then there were more shots. This time Ely could see the bullets hit the water around them.
“Get down, Abraham!” he yelled as he threw himself into the bottom of the boat. Ely hugged the wet floor planks, anticipating that he would soon be shot. He was imagining the painful sensation of a lead bullet tearing through his skin when a spectacular burst of sunshine rose over the surrounding marshes. The blinding early morning sun sent sparkles across the surface of the water like a scattering of tiny diamonds. Ely peeked over the side of the boat, and he could now clearly see the Englishmen with their rifles, the vibrant red of their coats glistening in the brilliant sunlight. Strangely, they had put their rifles down. They were cupping their hands over their eyes, and were looking due east, directly at them. Ely was confused, but Abraham understood what had happened.
“Row, Ely! Row! They can’t see us anymore!”
The low-lying sun was shining directly into the eyes of the British riflemen, allowing the boys to grab their oars and begin rowing away. As they put their backs into the rowing, Ely looked across the river to the west and sighed with relief as he saw the British pinnace splashing its way in the other direction, toward the harbor. Their flat-bottom boat soon slipped into the marshes along the muddy banks of the river, and they jumped out and pulled it into the reeds. Ely wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he realized how narrow their escape had been. Across the river less than half a mile away, he could see flames from burning boats and black smoke billowing high above the harbor. He wondered if the British were torching the village as well as the ships.