Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (24 page)

“Mr. Nyles, I trust the necessary repairs have been made.”

“Yes sir, Cap’n. What do you propose, Cap’n?” asked the first mate anxiously.

“We’ll wait and see if he can outsail us. Make ready the topgallant staysails as well as the jigger topmast staysail and the jigger topgallant staysail.”

Sail after sail was raised as Morgan tried to boost his ship’s speed by as much as a knot. He was taking a risk as the rigging had been severely strained by the storm. He could tell that despite the extra sails, the pursuing ship was gaining ground. He climbed up into the rigging with the spyglass and looked at the triangular sails that were headed his way. An unusual ship, he thought to himself, with the elegant look of a French corvette. She had three masts and lateen-style sails that rose to the highest point, and she appeared to be moving along to windward as fast or faster than a Baltimore clipper. He turned to Mr. Nyles.

“Whoever that is, he’ll be on top of us soon enough, and I warrant it’s not a merchant ship.”

The breeze was still relatively mild and Morgan called for more sail. He looked through his spyglass and gulped as he spotted the British colors flying off the mizzen sail.

“That’s a British sloop of war, Mr. Nyles.”

“Yes, sir,” Nyles replied. “Lately the British navy ships seem to have a particular fondness for anything flying the stars and stripes, no matter what the cargo.”

Morgan looked again through the spyglass, admiring the ship’s sleek hull steadily carving her way to windward.

“What kind of sloop of war is that, Mr. Nyles? I don’t recognize it.”

“I reckon that’s one of the Royal Navy’s experimental fore and aft rigs. They call it a ballyhoo. They were named after the garfish in the West Indies, hard to spot and hard to catch. Well named I would say.”

Morgan had never heard of these ships.

The three-masted sloop of war was coming up fast, heeled over sharply, the lee rail buried and the spray flying over the windward rail. He could now see that she was reasonably well armed. There was one long gun on a pivot in the ship’s bow, from the looks of it a long-barreled nine pounder. He could see the shiny epaulettes on either shoulder of the captain’s blue coat glittering in the morning sun. On the sides and the bow of the ship he saw the dull glare of the black cast-iron carronades mounted on slides fixed to the deck. From the looks of them, he thought there could be as many as six twelve pounders. Mr. Nyles had made the same observation. Suddenly a puff of white smoke emerged from the port bow off the British warship, followed quickly by a boom of cannon and then a splash of water one hundred yards in front of them.

“Looks like we have trouble here, Mr. Nyles.”

“Yes, sir. They’re firing that bow chaser. What are you aimin’ to do, Captain? As you can see, as soon as they come broadsides, they got the smashers ready to fire at close range.”

The sloop of war soon rounded up into the wind with her sails flapping in the light, early morning breeze like a swan’s wings. Her short, smooth-bore carronades amidships were now clearly visible and pointed directly at them, the gunners ready to fire. They were twelve pounders. He knew a broadside swipe from these powerful short-range guns would reduce the starboard side of the
Philadelphia
into a rainstorm of deadly wooden splinters.

“Back the yards, Mr. Nyles!”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

The English captain held a trumpet and began speaking in a stiff and official voice.

“I am Captain James Stryker of His Majesty’s sloop of war the
Resolve
with the West African Squadron. Stand by for boarding.”

Morgan grabbed the trumpet from his first mate and stepped to the rail.

“I am Captain Elisha Morgan, and this is the American packet ship, the
Philadelphia
of the Black X Line, and we are bound for London. What is your business, Captain?”

“I am sorry to inform you that we must search your ship,” Captain Stryker replied formally.

“Might I ask why, Captain?”

“Yes, you are a suspected American slaver.”

Morgan had anticipated this accusation, just because the Africans were clearly visible on the
Philadelphia
’s deck, but it still infuriated him.

“Mr. Nyles. Lower the ladder. We have no choice but to allow the lion and his bloodhounds on board.”

Soon enough, the six-oared boat from the sloop of war pulled alongside the
Philadelphia
. The sailors and some of the passengers were leaning over the rails to see what was happening. Morgan watched the armed English sailors wearing man-of-war caps and the captain with his blue coat and silver buttons begin climbing the ladder. He knew this was unusual for a Royal Navy captain to leave his ship. Normally the captain would delegate the boarding of another ship to the first lieutenant. Morgan wondered why he was breaking with the Royal Navy’s customary procedures, but that question was left dangling as the faces of the English sailors emerged over the bulwarks.

On the quarterdeck, the two ship captains stood, each taking careful measure of the other. Stryker was a slightly older man than Morgan, but he was a handsome man with square, broad shoulders, a well-defined, chiseled face framed by curling whiskers, and black hair cut short to reveal a smooth, wide forehead. Morgan thought he was the picture of an English ship commander with his stance and poise both disciplined and haughty. He was no doubt a highly ambitious naval commander eager to carry out his orders to seize slave ships with biblical zeal. Stryker’s eyes, small and restless, scanned the decks as he began to address Morgan.

“Good day to you, Captain. By orders of the Crown, we will be searching your ship. I would ask you to let me see your ship’s papers.”

He gave Morgan a cold stare.

Morgan was incensed, but he kept quiet. He had learned to dislike this show of force by the British Royal Navy ever since he was a boy, but he was well aware he had few options.

“I regret delaying you on your long voyage, Captain, but we have orders to pursue and seize any slaving ships, and as you well know the foul ships that carry on this illegal trade all too frequently fly the stars and stripes of your country from their masts.”

As if to emphasize the point, Stryker looked up scornfully at the American flag flying off the spanker. Morgan was indignant. The cigar moved from one side of his mouth to the other as he fought to control his anger. He explained the situation as best he could, describing the sinking of the ship and their efforts to save the few survivors. He patiently showed the cocky British captain the ship’s papers along with the manifest and invited the captain to interview each and every one of the passengers separately to see if his story matched theirs. After reviewing the ship’s papers, searching the ship, and interviewing the passengers, Stryker examined the Africans on deck, taking note of the scars from the branding, and at last seemed satisfied. He walked up to the fife rail where Morgan was standing with Eliza by his side. Stryker tipped his hat to Eliza.

“By all rights, I should seize your ship, Captain, but it appears you are telling the truth. I will be taking these liberated Africans to Freetown in Sierra Leone.”

Stryker’s eyes bore into Morgan’s face with an interrogator’s intensity.

“What was the name of the slaver, Captain? Did you see the name?”

“It was a Portuguese name,” replied Morgan.

“
Serpente Preta
?” Stryker inquired.

“Yes, that was it. Do you know the ship?”

“I am afraid we do,” replied Captain Stryker. “We were waiting for her outside the Bonny River, but she tricked us by picking up these slaves further to the west at Whydah.”

“Will you catch the slavers?” asked Eliza. “It appears that they fled during the storm in the ship’s quarter boats.”

“We will make our best effort, madam, to find and bring them to justice,” Stryker replied with a smile, tipping his hat again.

Morgan took a long, hard look at the British captain. Something about his face was familiar. It seemed like he’d seen the man before. Some distant memory stirred momentarily, but then he turned to watch the frightened faces of the Africans as they were loaded into the six-oared longboats and ordered to squat in the center of the boats. He wondered if these unfortunate men and women would be any better off in the hands of the British in the muddy, malaria-filled streets of Freetown. He spotted the frightened face of the young African with Blackwood’s sundial compass. He had his treasure firmly clenched in his hand. His gaze shifted to the Royal Navy ship where the British sailors were hanging over the bulwarks as they awaited the return of their captain. For a fleeting second he thought he saw a familiar face. One of the men looked a little like Hiram. He grabbed the spyglass and held it up to his eye, scanning the line of sailors now preparing for the arrival of the longboats. There was nothing. He shook his head as he realized how tired he was. He knew he needed rest.

Four days later, with a burning sun beating down on the ship, they passed the dreaded northern coast of Africa with its barren, treeless coastline, sandy hills, and remote mountains in the distance. To the north, Morgan could barely make out the hazy outline of the nearly mile-high peak on Gomera Island in the Canaries. He estimated that they were now 1,600 miles to the south of England. Morgan stood by the weather rail lost in thought about that bronze sundial compass. He wondered what his young wife would do when she reached England. He decided that the first thing he must do besides seeing to the repair of the ship’s spars and rigging was to buy a new piano for the
Philadelphia
.

PART VIII

And the mother at home says, “Hark!

For his voice I listen and yearn;

It is growing late and dark,

And my boy does not return!”

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
“The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz”

20

1835

In the gray light of predawn, Morgan pulled his coat more tightly around him. A chilly late September breeze had blown away the last of the summer winds. He’d been on deck standing by Icelander at the helm for several hours now, so he was hungry and getting tired. They’d been at sea for twenty-five days. The only noticeable sounds to be heard were the occasional mournful cries of seagulls. He watched as a figure emerged from the companionway and a big smile lit his face. It was Eliza, bringing him the first early morning brew of Lowery’s hot coffee and some of the cook’s freshly baked johnnycake.

She looked refreshed and wide awake, neatly dressed as always. She wore a woolen shawl over a loose-fitting cotton petticoat and a drawn bonnet of gingham to keep her hair in place. Lately she had taken to tying her hair back in a tightly wound bun, a look that made him notice her attractive, thin neck. He smiled at her, then scolded her in a gentle teasing way for not coming sooner. She made a funny scowling face at him, and then, placing her hands on her hips, asked about their current location. He told her he thought they were somewhere off the Georges Bank bearing down on Cape Cod. He watched her stride across the quarterdeck with confidence and disappear down the companionway. He had to admit she had earned her sea legs after making five ocean passages with him. He was happy, but he knew that this wouldn’t last forever.

His mind wandered back to a year ago. When they arrived at St. Katherine’s Docks after that first fateful voyage as a married couple, her tough reserve had evaporated like boiling water from a kettle. She had collapsed in tears in their cabin. He had held her in his arms, trying to comfort her. Sobbing, she confessed to him how terrified she’d been during the storm. She spoke of the recurring nightmares she was having, and how she was not looking forward to the rough passage back to New York. He bought a new ship’s piano made with rosewood veneer, mahogany, and a finely scalloped ivory keyboard to replace the one that had been thrown overboard. That had helped her mood, but he could tell that she was anxious and unhappy.

He often thought that if it hadn’t been for the Leslies and their kind hospitality, she would not still be making these passages across the Atlantic with him. Certainly the unexpected and welcome invitation of the Leslies had changed things for the better. At first, Eliza didn’t want to go. She said she didn’t feel like socializing, but he had insisted. They had taken a hackney cab from the docks, clip-clopping their way along the banks of the Thames, sightseeing and gawking at the mansions along Piccadilly, passing Hyde Park and the Duke of Wellington’s stately mansion at Apsley House. The first sight of Edgware Road, with its sweet-smelling hayfields, the hedgerows, and the long line of oak trees, had been a delight. As they stepped out of their cab, they’d encountered the tall, amiable figure of Leslie just coming in from his afternoon walk with a handful of honeysuckle and roses, smiling and waving at them. Eliza was at first apprehensive around this older English couple, but she relaxed when she saw the three children, nine-year-old Robert and his two little sisters, Harriet and Mary.

At lunch that day, Morgan had looked over at her. She and Harriet Leslie were chatting away like sisters or old friends. They talked about gardens and recipes, laughing at the antics of young Robert, who was pretending a bootjack was a vicious dog. He overheard the two women comparing notes about life aboard an American packet ship. They were chuckling as they traded stories, announcing that the lack of fresh bathwater was the most serious of the many privations women were expected to endure on board ship, but that lack of privacy was a close second.

After lunch, Leslie showed the Morgans around his small cramped studio, where he hung paintings from some of his friends, including John Constable and J. M. W. Turner. Tea, hot muffins, and crumpets were served in the small garden. Charles Leslie told them the latest social gossip he had collected from some of his wealthy patrons, while Morgan recounted the details of their harrowing voyage. Both Leslies showered Eliza with much praise for her courage to be sailing with her husband.

That same day, as late afternoon tea drifted into presupper drinks, they met some of Leslie’s artist friends, most of whom Morgan had met earlier at the Sketching Club meeting. Eliza had played some Bach and Mozart on the Leslies’ piano. The ever-smiling Clarkson Stanfield with his wiry, muttonchop whiskers, bulldog face, and wide girth reminisced about his time at sea as a boy. Morgan told some amusing sea tales, including the story of an American ship captain by the name of Preserved Fish who was almost arrested by a government tax collector because he claimed to be carrying a cargo of pickled fish on board his ship,
Flying Fish
. Leslie’s friends stared at him with disbelief. “Yes, gentlemen, this was his real, God-given name. That revenue man couldn’t believe it either. He had to make an apology to Captain Fish.” The small group at the Leslie house roared their approval at this tale and demanded more “Down East” stories from the American captain. Morgan warmed to his appreciative audience and the sea tales he’d heard in the fo’c’sle for years began pouring out.

“There was an old ship captain on the China run by the name of Grimshaw. He always seemed to know when a storm was brewing so the other captains would try to anchor next to his ship. They knew he would start making preparations a day or so before a storm would roll in. ‘Close to Grimshaw was close to God,’ they used to say. No one knew his secret until he retired from the sea. He became knarled and crippled. Every day he began shouting, ‘Weigh anchor, typhoon’s comin’!’ No one could figure it out. There weren’t any storms. That’s when they discovered Captain Grimshaw’s secret.”

“What was it?” cried Stanfield.

“It was his arthritis.”

Leslie’s friends roared with laughter. The evening had ended with another round of charades and some drunken refrains from the sad sea chantey called “Tom Bowling” in honor of Leslie’s new friend from the sea.

Over the next year, the Morgans were invited several times to Pine Apple Place, as the Leslies’ house was called. They were introduced to more of his artist friends, including Constable and Turner. Morgan remembered how Leslie whispered to him in confidence that Constable was his best friend, but Turner was the greatest painter he had ever known. He thought of that first visit to Turner’s Queen Anne studio with Leslie. They had walked into the dusty, dilapidated studio and there in the far corner of the room was the gray-haired Turner with his well-worn beaver hat perched on his head. He was standing by his easel and canvas, his brush and palate in one hand, hair askew, dressed in an overcoat and baggy trousers covered with paint. He had immediately wanted Morgan’s opinion about one of the misty seascapes he was working on. Morgan had invited Turner to visit him on the
Philadelphia
.

He laughed to himself as he remembered the short, stout Turner walking the decks of the
Philadelphia
, duck footed, talking to himself distractedly like a drunken fisherman. The man had been so taken with the details of the rigging Morgan invited him to come with them on the voyage back to New York.

“Sometime you must come with us, at least as far as Portsmouth,” Morgan said. “We’ll give you a sea cruise.”

To his surprise, just prior to embarking on this voyage, Turner had showed up at St. Katherine’s Docks, asking for a berth. They had taken on a load of flannels, velvet, and carpeting in the upper hold so there were no steerage passengers to distract the painter. Turner had the ship’s deck to himself, and he wandered back and forth from bow to stern. On the river journey, he continued showing interest in the sails and the rigging. Eliza bragged that she had been up the ratlines and seen the views from the topmast. The painter was so intrigued that after they dropped the pilot off at Gravesend and were approaching Margate, he insisted he be allowed to climb the ratlines as far as the main topmast so he could feel the sway and roll of the ship just as Mrs. Morgan had done. Two sailors had to pull the barrel-shaped Englishman around the futtock shrouds because he was too large to fit through the narrow lubber’s hole. They actually tied a rope around him and used a block and tackle to get him up to the topmast.

After they reached the rolling North Sea, Turner insisted he be left there, tied to the mast. He stayed that way for several hours, oftentimes closing his eyes, his mind turned inward and from time to time looking up toward the sun like some sort of mystical man of the cloth. After they had safely lowered him to the deck, he spent the rest of the voyage to Portsmouth immersed in his watercolors and sketchbook. While Turner was scratching and painting away in his book Eliza gave Morgan the first hint that change was in the air in their relationship. She had turned to him, her face thoughtful and pensive, and said how sorry she was to leave London.

“Do you ever wonder, Ely, what it would be like to have a home of our own like the Leslies?”

He had looked at her with surprise. The comforts of the Leslie villa had been a welcome palliative for Eliza after each passage. When in London, she could always look forward to a crackling fireplace, a warm meal at a dining room table, and the sound of the Leslies’ laughing children. Now it seemed those simple rewards of domestic life had taken root and Eliza’s nesting instincts had sprouted. He had sighed, “I don’t know, Eliza. We’ll have to see.”

Eliza hadn’t raised the topic of a house since they left the English Channel, but he knew that she would soon bring it up again. As the skies lightened with dawn, the wind veered to the northwest. Morgan could see powerful crosscurrents swirling off to the starboard, signaling a possible shoaly area. He ordered the helmsman to steer a few points to the south. He guessed that they were not far from a shallow area of sandbars fanning southeast from Nantucket Island that extended more than forty miles.

He was thinking once again about his wife’s request and what his response should be. It had caught him by surprise. A home in New York would certainly change things. He knew what it would mean. She would want children, and she would make fewer and fewer trips with him. He thought about their time together this past year. Having her on board had proved to be an unexpected asset in the packet-polite world of the cabin passengers. She catered to their many demands with a woman’s gentler touch. She had become the perfect hostess, working closely with Lowery and Scuttles to prepare the menus. She had made sure that his table manners improved and given him useful tips about initiating polite conversation. He had become used to her glowering at him whenever he tried to take too large a bite of food. Her skills on the piano were also much admired. Several of the passengers on this voyage had complimented him on his wife’s soft touch with the ivories, particularly with Bach’s keyboard
Partitas
and Schubert’s
Impromptus
. He thought to himself that he’d never been happier. But he knew change was in the air. Eliza was a woman who was ready to have a home that didn’t move under her feet.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud trumpet blast. A thick bank of cold fog now enveloped them, robbing them of good visibility. Several sailors on the foredeck began yelling, “Fall off! Fall off!”

The fog trumpet blew and blew again. Morgan climbed up the ratlines so he could better see over the fog-shrouded bow of the ship. Before he could even react, the big packet flew by a cod fisherman in a large, open dory. A stooped older man and two young boys dressed in oilskins were pulling in long lines loaded with cod into their open boat. That sight of what looked like a father and two sons working together caused him to swallow hard. He thought of his old family home. Last year’s planned visit to introduce his parents to Eliza had not come to pass because of the pressing needs of the shipping line.

It was more than just demands from the shipping company that had kept him from taking time off last year. He’d almost lost his job. He’d had a fiery altercation with Mr. Griswold and some of the other owners as soon as he got back to New York. They’d already heard the news about the storm and they had taken him to task for jettisoning most of the cargo, most particularly the valuable mahogany clock cases. They had grumbled at their losses. “Why couldn’t you have thrown out something of less value,” Mr. Griswold had asked brusquely in the business meeting. The others, Jacob Westervelt, Christian Bergh, and Robert Carnley, all wealthy shipbuilders and part owners of the
Philadelphia
, had nodded in agreement. Morgan’s mind had shot back to the high seas crashing over the ship, the sight of Eliza’s fear-stricken eyes, and his own near-death experience. Something clicked. He exploded and told them all to sail the ship themselves. “I wish you gentlemen would try your hand at ocean sailing. See how you do in a hurricane.”

He had stormed out of the meeting. His request for family time was denied. At first he’d been disappointed about not going home, then relieved. Now with the passing of several months, tempers had cooled. At last the company was granting him extensive shore leave. He and Eliza were planning to travel to Lyme over the Thanksgiving holidays. His family would meet his new wife, and after thirteen years of being away from home, he would return to the Connecticut River like a wandering salmon finally coming in from the ocean.