Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (15 page)

Morgan shook his head. He had no idea who Sydney Smith was.

“Well, Captain, he is a fine English clergyman and a brilliant speaker, so full of wit and charm. I believe it was over ten years ago that he wrote, ‘In the four corners of the globe, who reads an American book, or goes to an American play, or looks at an American statue?’”

She smiled at him knowingly. He bit his lip as he thought unpleasant thoughts about her. He was just thinking that the English, even those who were friendly, wore many faces when it came to the controversial topic of America. This was his first encounter with the socially prominent English, and he was quickly learning that despite a thin veneer of congeniality, they seemed to harbor an inherent hostility to all things American. He wondered to himself if their air of superiority masked some hidden insecurity about their own cultural identity.

Mr. Bullfinch, who was seated next to his wife, wanted to know if Morgan had read Captain Basil Hall. The older man’s watery eyes, with deep dark shadows beneath them, revealed the signs of another sleepless night. He was still fighting off a persistent bout of mal de mer. Morgan politely shook his head and glared at the man. His ignorance about the writings of Smith and Hall was softened somewhat by the arrival of a platter of peas and onions. Mrs. Bullfinch looked up at the smiling brown face of Lowery as he made his rounds, and then turned back to the captain, whispering loudly.

“Why, Captain Morgan, your Negro steward is exceptionally dutiful, and I might add, so exotic in appearance. I have been meaning to ask you from the beginning of the voyage, does he have a little white blood in him?”

Morgan stiffened at this tactless question but said nothing. He noticed Lowery wincing, a clear sign that he had overheard the remark.

“Excuse me for asking this rather delicate question, Captain, but is the steward a free man? He has the same features as some of the slaves who served us during our stay in Richmond.”

Lowery abruptly turned away and swiftly walked back to the pantry as if he had forgotten something. Morgan remained silent, squirming in his seat, counting the minutes until this dinner would be over. He was saved from responding by the surprise arrival of another course, a platter of simmering turtle steaks framed by mashed turnips. The turtle had been snagged with a hook and line that same morning. This unexpected delicacy was greeted with great joy by most of the table, and much raising of glasses to the captain’s health. His eyes lingered on Lowery, who had emerged from the pantry and was now serving Mrs. Bullfinch scalloped potatoes from a bowl that looked disturbingly familiar. Morgan realized with sudden horror that it was one of the ship’s bowls that Lowery used at the outset of the trip when the mal de mer was at its peak. It was probably Mr. Bullfinch’s bowl, he thought to himself, as the Englishman was only just now convalescing. Lowery seemed unaware of his mistake, or at least was refusing to look the captain in the eye.

“Please help yurself, your ladyship,” Lowery said in a melodious deferential voice, switching effortlessly into French with a languid creole accent. “C’est pommes de terre au gratin. Préparé avec crème fraîche et fromage de notre vache ici à bord.”

The English woman looked up uncomfortably at the gray-eyed steward, slightly taken aback by a brown-skinned man speaking French. She smiled at Lowery, clearly not understanding a word. Morgan didn’t know whether to be horrified or to laugh. He was about to stammer an apology and send the potatoes back to the cook when Mrs. Bullfinch interjected her views forcefully as she heaped a generous helping of creamy potatoes onto her plate without even looking at the suspiciously crusty edges on the side of the bowl.

“It is quite a popular book in London,” she said as she now turned her attention to her plate and carefully sliced the ham.

Morgan looked at her inquiringly. He had already forgotten what book she was talking about.

“You should have it in your ship’s library, Captain. It’s quite revealing. Captain Hall at one point described meeting your scholar, Mr. Webster, who said something so typically American. He told Captain Hall that to stop Americans from changing the English language would be like stopping the flow of the Mississippi. Quite impossible, he said. What do you think of that, Captain?”

Morgan’s mind was elsewhere. He watched with a sense of dread as Lowery made his way around the table. He was waiting for one of the passengers to sound the alarm that would reverberate far beyond the saloon of his ship. It would not be good business for the Black X Line if it were known that they served their guests dinner from uncleaned vomit bowls. He stared in fascination as the voracious Mrs. Bullfinch now swallowed a generous forkful of creamy potatoes. His initial impulse to intervene had now gone away. Somewhat to his surprise, he realized that he was enjoying the sight of this pompous woman eating large spoonfuls of vomit-seasoned potatoes with such evident relish.

He smiled mischievously, but when he realized he was starting to chuckle, he quickly looked away to the other side of the table where one of the two shuffleboard combatants was holding court. The English actor, Peter Ward, was flirting with the pretty eighteen-year-old daughter of the Philadelphia minister. Her hair was tied up in braids with an eye-catching gilded headband. Morgan had admired her, a tall, thin girl with an oval face and light, sparkling brown eyes that seemed to yearn for adventure. The man’s long fingers were like swirling paintbrushes creating imaginary artwork in the air. Morgan hadn’t noticed him much since the shuffleboard incident and now he got a better look at his sharply cut jaw, rigid nose, and thin, clean-shaven face that seemed to have moveable parts. Just a few days earlier he had been excoriating all Americans, but now, here he was openly flirting with one of them.

“Miss Holloway, you will certainly be pleased with the refinement and luxury in London. What will your American eyes be most desirous of feasting on? Westminster Abbey? The Tower of London?”

The young woman was clearly flattered at the Englishman’s attentions. She spoke of hoping to see some Shakespeare in the London theaters, or some of the sculptures from ancient Greece.

“Let me suggest a small amateur theater near Covent Gardens where, if my memory serves, they may be performing a play about Icarus,” Mr. Ward said, lifting his eyebrows and straightening his posture as he reached for another slice of bread.

Seeing Morgan looking in their direction, he attempted to bring the captain into the conversation.

“Captain, I am sure you are aware of many Greek mythological figures. Icarus, for instance, was a man who didn’t follow his father’s instructions, and fell from the sky as a result. Then there was Prometheus and Sisyphus, destined to their tragic fates. As a seaman you will have heard of Odysseus, naturally?”

Morgan bit his lip and nodded.

“But here is one you may not know. A nautical figure from the ancient Greeks that not many people are familiar with. Let me quote from the Aeneid.”

With a shake of his head, and a florid wave of his long hand, the actor began speaking in deep, rolling tones, his eyes now looking appreciatively at Miss Holloway:

“A sordid God down from his hairy chin

A length of beard descends, uncombed, uncleaned;

His eyes like hollow furnaces on fire.”

“I will wager you haven’t heard of Charon, have you Captain?”

At the mention of Charon, Morgan was startled and jumped out of his chair. He tried to cover up his surprise, but his head was reeling.

“Yes, yes,” he said with strong conviction, his face contorting in disgust. “I have heard of Charon.”

The English actor raised his eyebrows and stroked his chin, nodding with approval.

“I am indeed surprised, Captain. What have you heard?”

“Someone once told me it was a blood boat, but they never explained what they meant. Tell me, what does the name signify?”

“Why, Captain,” declared Mr. Ward, still slightly puzzled by the captain’s sudden interest. “Actually, Charon is the name of the boatman who carries the newly dead across the River Styx. Isn’t that right, Lord Nanvers?”

“Indeed so,” replied the English lord, who was now leaning in closer to hear the conversation. “All those who cross the River Styx with Charon never return.”

“All except Heracles,” added Mr. Ward quickly. “Remember, he was the one who slew the Hydra, the nine-headed serpent, and he tricked Charon more than once, I believe.”

A violent shaking of the ship rescued the captain that evening. The plum pudding was just being served. Rough weather had struck, as it often did during a meal. Every time someone reached for a dish on the table, the ship lurched sideways and the contents spilled. Plates now slid across the table, glasses tumbled over, and the creamy pudding toppled onto Mrs. Bullfinch’s lap, causing the woman to scream at Lowery that her velvet gown was ruined. Morgan heard the mate calling out to the men to get a pull on the weather braces. He heard the men singing out, and he used that moment when the sailors were hauling in the weather main braces to leave the table, just as the topic had switched to a debate about which was best, a monarchy or a republic. He could hear the last strands of the argument as Mr. Bullfinch proudly stated that as an Englishman he was quite pleased with his representation in Parliament.

“Is that so?” came a distinctly American voice. “I have heard that in England only one man in five has a vote. Do you call that a fair system of representation, Mr. Bullfinch?”

The weather was so bad by late that night that the ship could only stand double-reefed topsails and the outer jib. The packet would ride up the high mountain swells, ease off slightly at the crest, then plunge downward into the troughs, only to rise upward again. They were some 90 miles to the south of Cape Clear on a safe course to the Scilly Islands, or so he thought. Over the past week he had taken periodic midday readings with the sextant. He was confident with his arithmetic, and he thought himself to be a competent navigator, but this was the first trip he’d made where the navigation was solely his responsibility. At first he dismissed Icelander’s concerns. The big sailor, who was then on night watch and was doing a turn at the helm, was worried about their position.

“Better to head further south, Captain. These winds have pushed us far to the north. Earlier today I saw far too many land birds. I think we might be closer to Ireland than we realize.”

If these cautionary words had come from another sailor, he would have ignored them. He might have even rebuked the sailor, but over many years Morgan had learned to trust Rasmussen’s instincts. To play it safe, he reluctantly gave the order to change course. Hours later with the sun breaking over the horizon, they were surprised to see the clifftops of the Irish coast just to the north off their port side. If they had not changed to a more southeasterly course when they did, they might have run ashore.

Morgan couldn’t figure out what had happened. The past two days had been overcast, and as a result he’d been unable to take the noon sightings. But he was skilled at dead reckoning. How had he made this mistake? He thought of Hiram at that moment and his disdain for packet ship captains who spent too much time below with their passengers. It was true. He had spent too much time tending to the demanding cabin passengers. He hadn’t noticed how much the strong southerly winds had pushed them to the north. That was his error, not paying attention.

As it turned out, that wasn’t his only mistake. He hadn’t checked his watch with the ship’s chronometer. His longitude calculations had been off as well. What would Hiram have said? He was becoming a lady captain, he thought to himself, more nurse than sailor.

It was an important lesson for Morgan. He looked out at the sea and the cresting waves. He had found his calling on the ocean and it had made him what he was. It had given him work, and pride in his profession, a sense of his own strength and a belief in his abilities. And now because of his own hubris and carelessness, he had almost let it destroy him, his ship, and his passengers.

He went to his cabin to write into his log.

Passed through a blue devil night with stormy winds. Saw several land birds. Altered course which saved us from shipwreck and a watery grave off the coast of Ireland. Wet, foggy, but a stiff breeze this morning. Ship going about ten knots. Coming on deck in the morning saw two or three ships through the fog. Scilly Islands out of sight to the southeast.

Morgan made a small offering of rum to Neptune that morning as a way of acknowledging his good fortune. The passengers below decks emerged later that day as the weather improved, knowing nothing of their narrow escape. However, some of the sailors were well aware that their young captain had almost driven them onto the rocks. As he paced the decks, Morgan could sense their eyes looking at him, distrustful and fearful. That night as he stood watch by the main mast, he thought he could hear voices. Some sailor was humming the chantey “Blow the Man Down.” He pulled out a cigar and lit it. The whispering from the shadows and the humming then stopped, only to be replaced by a profound silence, broken intermittently by the sound of a creaking block, a splash of a wave, and a man snoring from the forecastle. With the glowing cigar in his teeth, Morgan stared out into the black void, his mind filled with self-doubt and broken self-confidence.

Just then the man on watch yelled out, “Light on the port bow!” It was the Lizard lighthouse in Cornwall. The ship was now well into the English Channel, and Morgan puffed on his cigar appreciably as he looked forward to landfall even more than he had savored their departure three weeks earlier. He wanted someplace to hide from the critical eyes on board ship that followed him both above and below deck. He hadn’t felt so unsure of himself since those first voyages when he was a cabin boy and the vile Mr. Brown forced him up into the higher yards.

PART VI

I find the sea-life, an acquired taste, like that for tomatoes and olives. The confinement, cold, motion, noise, and odor are not to be dispensed with. The floor of your room is sloped at an angle [of] twenty or thirty degrees, and I waked every morning with the belief that some one was tipping my berth.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson,
English Traits