Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (14 page)

“Captain, what will happen to my porcelain?” Mrs. Bullfinch cried out. Morgan looked at this formidable picture of English femininity. She was a short, stocky woman with broad shoulders and ample hips. A prominent jaw jutted from her face like a ship’s bowsprit. Flustered, annoyed, and distracted by all the confusion on deck, Morgan answered in his own plainspoken way.

“All in good time, ma’am. As soon as we hoist the cow up and the pigs, we’ll be able to get your porcelain down the hatchway.”

“What!” she wailed, her voice turning into a more pronounced whine.

To escape this annoying woman, Morgan retreated to the stern and stood by the helmsman. There he sought refuge until the ship was fully loaded, the hatches closed, and the cabin passengers comfortably situated down below in the saloon.

“All hands, man the windlass!” Morgan shouted out to the first mate in the midsection of the ship.

“Heave away there forward,” yelled Mr. Nyles to the foredeck.

The crew began heaving at the windlass and breaking into a chorus of “Sally Brown.” Tattooed arms and calloused hands moved in unison in a blur of soggy ropes and gristly beards.

“Sheet home, the foretop’s’l,” Morgan yelled as the breeze fanned his cheek. The bow of the ship now tugged at its anchor chain as it slowly fell off to the starboard side, anxious to be back at sea. Even before the sailors cleared the heavy, unwieldy anchor out of the water, the
Hudson
was already underway. Morgan could feel the ship shudder and then take off in a sudden surge as the hull heeled to port and the big sails filled out. He looked around him with a critical eye, his feet wide apart, his hands fondling his cigar. Even as first mate, he always looked for any weak links in the ship’s rigging, any signs of chafing or wear. He carefully examined all the hemp lines used to trim and shape the sails, and then moved to the shrouds and stays that supported the masts to keep them stable in heavy winds. He walked forward toward the mainmast, his eye following some of the heavy lines descending onto the deck leading to the pin rails and the fife rails.

“Keep the sails full and drawing, Mr. Nyles.”

“Good full, sir,” came the reply.

Morgan continued taking stock of the ship. In the center of the boat the animals were all secured. The waist-high bulwarks had a fresh coat of green paint. The bleached decks leading up to the cargo hatches were scrubbed and cleaned. The first mate was shouting out orders as the men pulled up and released the sails, the foredeck men hauling in the sheets. He looked up as more and more sails were set and began to fill as the ship slowly spread her white wings. Like other captains, he wanted his ship to stand out in New York harbor. That wasn’t easy as the nearly ten-year-old
Hudson
was now one of the older and smaller of the transatlantic packets.

The packet was soon flying toward the sloping hills of Staten Island. Morgan looked over the leeward rail with satisfaction, the water flowing by the hull, hissing and gurgling. Just ahead was the Red Star packet called the
John
Jay
that had the reputation of being one of the slowest packets. A chorus of competing chanteys filled the air from the different ships. The banging of the yards and the clatter of the sails dropping and filling made Morgan feel glad to be alive, even though he could feel butterflies fluttering inside of him. He looked out at the hazy highlands of Navesink, where the remnants of an old fort from the last war with England could still be seen on top of a cliff. He took out his spyglass and spotted some goats gazing out to sea as if they were still on watch for any sign of a British man o’ war. Departure and landfall, he thought to himself, the two bookends of his life. Departure usually brought sadness in leaving the comforts of shore, but on this voyage Morgan walked the deck with a springy yet nervous step. Following his instructions to the mate, he turned from his above-deck duties to his new untried and unknown responsibilities below deck.

Most of the passengers were sick those first nights out as they encountered stormy weather off Long Island and New England. Morgan was now accustomed to walking down the thirty-foot-long saloon used by all the passengers, listening to the plaintive cries from one stateroom after another. All their cabins opened out onto the saloon, in effect, a long narrow common room only fourteen feet in width with finely polished wooden sides. A mahogany table ran down the center. Passengers in their own way lamented about the misery of sea travel. Morgan could hear Champlin’s voice warning him to keep “his salty opinions to himself and be packet-polite to the cabin passengers.”

Lowery, dressed in a checked shirt and white apron, rushed from one stateroom to the next even as the ship plunged, lurched, and climbed. The steward’s head and bushy hair were wrapped with a red bandanna, and he walked like a man comfortable at sea, his feet squarely apart, his body leaning forward. He had ginger lozenges, baked apples, and slices of lemon, all three remedies for seasickness, on a tray in one hand. Wet towels and fresh blankets were in the other. Morgan thought to himself that he had made a good choice in selecting this man.

Above deck, he could hear the noisy cries of the men and the stampeding rush of their feet. He could hear the mate’s call to tack the ship. Down below, he watched as the long steady heel of everything switched from one side to the other. Unfastened cabin doors on the windward side flew open while they shut with a bang on the leeward side. Inside one of the cabins, he spotted a man in a contorted position on his berth with his heels over his head. They would now be clear of land and be on a course well east of the dangerous Nantucket Shoals. Sable Island and the foggy Grand Banks lay ahead.

A hoarse voice from a stateroom cried out, “Steward, bring me the bowl again. I’m going to be sick. Hurry, steward!”

Lowery opened the varnished, maplewood-latticed door with its white handle, and through the arched entrance Morgan couldn’t help but see one of the older Englishmen leaning over the wash stand in his eight-by-eight-foot stateroom, his body wrapped in bedsheets, his mottled red face revealing abject misery. The man’s head was almost completely bald except for a strand of gray hair that hung limply down into the washbowl like a strand of Spanish moss from the limb of a tree. His cabin was in a dreadful mess, the floor covered with vomit. It was Mr. William Bullfinch. His wife was in the upper bunk rolling in agony. When he saw the captain, he turned to smile with his fleshy jowls and tried to make the best of his frail condition.

“I am afraid I have little self-respect remaining. Please do forgive me, Captain, as I am in the depths of despair. Sadly, my poor wife is in a similarly poor condition.”

Without stepping inside, Morgan could see the white-faced Mrs. Bullfinch popping multiple ginger lozenges into her mouth. He gagged at the acrid smell emanating from the small cabin. He noticed with surprise that Lowery handed the man one of the ship’s fine porcelain serving bowls from the pantry. He supposed the chamber pots were all in use. He wished the man and his wife well as he continued to make his rounds. Those stormy conditions continued for the next two days. The passengers were all in a sorry state, some moaning that the ship would soon sink to the bottom. The chairs and the furniture, which were not fastened to the cabin sole, were rolling and sliding from one end of the saloon to the other. He tried to reassure everyone he spoke with that the gale was subsiding, but his words were not very convincing. The noxious odors that filled the saloon were even enough to make him feel ill. After spending many hours of the first two days down below engaged in polite conversations with his suffering passengers, he decided to leave the nursing and the caretaking to Lowery and Scuttles. He felt like a doctor in a busy hospital ward. He knew he was neglecting his duties above deck.

That night in his cabin he wrote down the noon reading into the ship’s log, something he normally did during the day.

Hudson
’s position at 1300, Tuesday April 23rd.

42 degrees 10’ latitude by 70 degrees 55’ longitude.

Course: Northeast, some 400 miles from Sable Island.

Falling barometer. High winds from the southwest accompanied by squalls, ten-foot seas. Under topsails, reefed spanker and inner jib. A regular gale of wind. Most passengers sick. All types of complaints heard from the staterooms. We are surging along, averaging almost ten knots since we passed the shoals off Nantucket.

13

By the end of the first week, Morgan was tired. He took the early morning watch for himself from four to eight, but between nursing his passengers back to health below deck and asserting his authority above deck, he spent little time in his own cabin. The lack of sleep had taken its toll. He found himself nodding off. One night he did a double watch. He was standing by the stern rail. He must have fallen asleep because he woke with a start to the sound of men yelling. He thought it was the end when a huge, dark shape emerged out of the blackness. He felt the taste of fear in his mouth as he shook himself awake, and saw a faint spark of light frantically waving back and forth from another vessel. The men from the other ship were shouting over the sound of the wind and the waves. It happened so fast he just stood there, unable to react, not certain if he was dreaming or not. The other ship flew by missing the
Hudson
’s stern by only twenty feet. He saw the shadowy, fear-stricken faces staring at him. He stood there paralyzed, waving his own lantern back and forth as the other ship disappeared into the void. He knew that the sailors were watching him now. They were whispering that the captain couldn’t be trusted. He could feel their accusatory eyes. He was on trial. They were judging him, whispering behind his back, and he knew it.

But for Morgan those concerns were only half his troubles. The new unaccustomed demands below deck were far greater than he had imagined. It was only when the weather cleared once they left the stormy Grand Banks that his two separate jobs began to merge ever so slightly. With the ocean calming, one by one the sickly passengers came up on deck to take in some fresh air. The stormy seas and the boarding waves sweeping over the decks had kept most of them below. Morgan spotted one of the packets that had left New York about the same time as they had, and the somber faces faded away. It was the
Erie
, bound for Havre. The two ships sailed side by side, sometimes in a single-reefed topsail breeze for a short while. Finally, with the winds piping up, the
Hudson
edged up closer to the wind to take a more northerly course, and all the passengers waved good-bye to the unknown passengers on board the France-bound packet.

The passengers were now promenading regularly around the ship. They had learned how to walk on a slanted, slippery deck, clutching the rails or the bulwarks to keep themselves upright. A daily routine began to settle in. Some of the more enterprising men got up early for a six o’clock bath on deck, which consisted of two buckets of cold seawater thrown over them by one of the crew. Morgan had smiled as a grim-looking Icelander had tossed bucket after bucket of icy water on several naked men, who were cursing the giant sailor as they stomped up and down on the deck. By seven o’clock, one of the sailors was milking the cow, the kettle was screeching, and the smells of hot rolls and sizzling bacon filled the cabin with the aroma of breakfast. An hour later at eight o’clock, Lowery sounded the handbell, and a full meal of broiled ham, chicken, eggs, frizzled bacon, and mutton cutlets was served. The
pots de chambre
in each stateroom were emptied while the passengers ate their breakfast. That was a moment when all the sailors moved to the windward side of the ship. Afterward, if the weather was not too rough, the shuffleboard players came out on the slanted deck to try their luck at sliding the biscuit.

Luncheon was delivered several hours later, and before the sun set around six o’clock a three-course dinner was offered, followed by a walk on the deck, a cup of coffee or tea, and a glass of port. All this socializing, eating, and drinking was new to Morgan. He wasn’t used to the niceties of parlor discussions, the trivial conversation, and the rigorous rules of proper dining etiquette around the eating table. He often thought of Champlin’s warning to him that his well-heeled passengers would find fault with his salty table manners. He’d already sensed the disapproval of some of the older ladies during the meals. He had heard the tut-tutting and the quiet whispering even as they stole glances in his direction. He kept wiping his face with a napkin, thinking that he must have food around his cheeks. Then he thought he may have said something inappropriate. As he had no one else to turn to, he asked Lowery what he thought. The gray-eyed, brown-skinned steward looked at him with a cryptic glance, and then told him in a hushed voice that he’d heard some of the passengers critique his eating habits.

“Excuse me, Cap’n, but those ladies say you eatin’ too fast. They say you got your face in your plate, and you talk with your mouth full. I don’t want to rile you, Captain, and I don’t mean no disrespect, but they say you have bad table manners.”

Morgan stood by quietly as his colored steward reported these overheard complaints. He was furious that he had received this embarrassing rebuke from Lowery, but he said nothing. He thought about what Lowery had told him about his early life in New Orleans. It hadn’t been easy. Caiphus had grown up sleeping in the same room with his mother, except for the nights when the master came to see her and he was told to go elsewhere. It was from her that he picked up his cooking skills and basic knowledge of some African dialects. French and English were spoken around the house, so he was comfortable with both languages. His mother died when he was only fourteen. The master, a local merchant by the name of Francois Lowery, freed him at that time, and Caiphus found himself alone in New Orleans’s Congo Square amidst the drums and the singing. He told Morgan it was natural for him to go shipboard because he knew he could use his cooking skills. “Tain’ got too many places for a freed black man ashore, Cap’n,” he’d said. “At least at sea, we all are in the same boat, black and white together. If the Lawd takes the ship down, He’s takin’ all of us.”

After Lowery’s revealing information about his table manners, Morgan made a point of following the example of the passenger seated across from him. He soon learned to keep his back straight and take small spoonfuls, never eat when someone was talking to him, and to wait until everyone was served before eating. As difficult as it was for him to learn some of these rules, Morgan did not envy his steward’s job. Lowery was always being summoned.

“Hello steward, my good fellow,” cried out a white-haired barrister from London. “How far from land are we now?”

“Oh, your lordship, we’re closer than ever, only another two thousand miles.”

Lowery didn’t know the difference between an earl, a duke, or a viscount, so he just called all the Englishmen your lordship, a fact that amused Morgan, so he made no effort to correct him. He himself was just beginning to grow accustomed to these puzzling titles. As an American, he did not take them seriously, finding the whole notion of titles to be pompous and affected, but he knew if he wanted to keep his job he had to show some deference to English customs.

The litany of demands usually went on for much of the morning, and Morgan began making a habit of being on deck until lunchtime. Even there in the safety of the rigging and the sails, he couldn’t escape the problems of tending to his needy passengers. One windless day in the middle of the Atlantic when the ship floundered, rolling back and forth with the sails flapping and the yards braced tightly, tempers started to flare. He watched as two of his passengers argued with each other over the rules of shuffleboard. As he walked closer he got the gist of the dispute. It seemed that they had learned different rules. The Baltimore salesman was yelling at one of the younger Englishmen on board, a thin, tall man with long, slender fingers and a flair for speaking in a dramatic tone.

“You bloody fool. You Americans always get it wrong,” remarked the Englishman in a disdainful, sententious tone, standing tall and erect. “This is a game first played by Henry VIII. As I told you before,” he proclaimed as he wagged his finger at the Baltimore man, “the biscuit has to land squarely within the triangle. It cannot touch any of the lines!”

The man from Baltimore, a dark-haired, medium-sized man with a drooping moustache, responded in a strident way by accusing the Englishman of cheating and making up rules.

This remark incensed the slightly effeminate Englishman, who was a traveling Shakespearean actor. His name was Peter Ward. He had left New York embittered because he had been poorly treated by what he called unappreciative and coarse audiences.

“You Americans break all the rules and standards of a civilized country,” he cried out dramatically, his hands on his hips.

“What do you mean by that crude remark?” retorted the man from Baltimore angrily.

“You call yourselves the land of liberty,” replied the actor, now quite unrestrained in his remarks, “yet you enslave the black man.”

The Baltimore salesman, named Sam Wilkins, had his own strong opinions about that topic. It was clear that he didn’t much care for the rights of the black man.

“The slaves are different. They are an exception,” he declared.

“How so?” asked an indignant Mr. Ward.

“That’s a matter of states’ rights,” replied Mr. Wilkins, his voice now full of conviction. “Slaves are property, nothing more. A nigger is a nigger just like a cow is a cow. They come in different shades and different sizes, but they’re bought and sold just like all property.”

“You don’t say,” retorted a now irate, red-faced Mr. Ward with distinct animosity. “I would say that equality means equality, and either you are for it or you are not. You say all men are equal, yet you worship those with money, no matter how ill-gotten the gains. You Americans are nothing but a bunch of devious, hypocritical hucksters.”

“And you, sir, are a prune-faced, frothy Englishman. I would like to block you one!” Seething with anger, the Baltimore man drew his clenched fists to his face.

Other passengers were looking to see what the young captain would do. Morgan was about to step in when one of the other passengers intervened. It was the stout-chested Lord Nanvers. He walked right up to both men and introduced himself as an authority on the rules of shuffleboard. Morgan took stock of the well-dressed man with a large pale face and red hair slightly thinning on the top. He wore a fashionable, dark, long-skirted coat, dark cravat, and cream-colored pants with a flat-brimmed brown straw hat. He quickly mediated the dispute with his pleasant manner and calming voice. He told a few disarming anecdotes about King Henry VIII and his many wives and, surprisingly, the tensions evaporated over cigars and snuff.

Afterward, Morgan approached the English lord and personally thanked him.

“Think nothing of it, old man,” replied Lord Nanvers as he took off his hat and patted Morgan on the back with his other hand. “I was glad to help. It was the least I could do to patch up the ongoing quarrel between the two transatlantic cousins. No need for more misunderstandings. Hey, hey, isn’t that right, Captain?”

Lord Nanvers laughed with a self-confident chuckle and as a token symbol of friendship offered the captain some snuff. When Morgan refused, the English lord took a pinch or two for himself before speaking again.

“Tell me, Captain, please forgive any inappropriate forwardness on my part, but everyone on board ship has remarked that you seem young.”

Morgan smiled but said nothing.

“Might I be so impertinent to ask if this is your first command?”

“Yes it is,” Morgan testily replied, “but I have been sailing on this ship before the mast these past ten years. Rest assured, your lordship, you are in good hands.”

Lord Nanvers applied another pinch of snuff to his twitching nose and replied, “I have no doubt of that, Captain. I have heard said that you are a talented sailor and a worthy navigator.”

It was during one of those airless days when the sails were slack that Mrs. Bullfinch, who liked to walk the deck with her newfound sea legs, approached the captain.

“Is there an explanation as to why these hideous flies are so abundant and so difficult to be rid of? Presumably they come from that filthy cow you have on deck.”

Morgan’s eyes fixated on her prominent jaw, hawk eyes, and beaklike nose. She was wearing a white dress with a fully decorated straw bonnet over a frilled cap with brown curls poking out from underneath. The woman was relentless. He was thinking about telling her that the flies were probably attracted to her own fragrantly perfumed vinaigrette, but he bit his lip. He remembered Captain Champlin’s advice to be packet-polite at all times.

That evening at dinner, she arrived dressed in an elegant velvet gown with pleated panels trimmed in such a way to reveal a formidable bust, her hair done in a beehive of braids and curls, and her neckline decorated with several strands of pearls. Morgan was worried that Mrs. Bullfinch would spot him using the wrong fork or spoon and would report this breach of good manners to the entire table. He was careful to watch the other passengers before he picked up the next utensil. Dinner was a three-course, two-hour affair. As Mr. Lowery served a generous meal of duck, pickled oysters, and ham, Mrs. Bullfinch held forth by critiquing American speech.

“I’m tired of hearing ‘ain’ts’ and ‘hadn’t ought to.’ Have you not read, Captain Morgan, what the erudite Sydney Smith has written about America?”