We woke up from a stupor as the ship sailed out of the harbor, the wind blowing from eastward. Our heads hurt something fierce. They started on us again. They beat Taylor and I fairly regul’r these past few days.
Then more writing smudged from the water stains. It was clear Abraham did not know what cargo his ship was carrying or their final destination. The ship picked up some passengers in Havana who only spoke Spanish. Abraham called them the Dons.
The Dons stay back in the quarterdeck. No one speaks much to Taylor and me up in the foredeck, no one except that Bucko mate they call Big Red, and he just wants an excuse to pummel us. Am still in pain from the beating I gut. The men on board are as ill tempered and as foul a set of rascals as I’ve ever come across.
They stopped in Cape Verde, where the ship’s name was changed to something in Portuguese. Morgan slowly turned page after page of the small book, trying to decipher the smudged writing on the yellowed pages. It was hard to believe his brother had written these words some twenty years ago. He would have been just sixteen years old. In the middle of the book, he described landing in a remote place with rivers and lagoons filled with palm trees. There was a vivid description of going up some river in the ship’s gig. They had been told to search for coconuts and hunt for wild pig. They grounded on a dark, sandy beach. The bush was swampy and impenetrable and filled with crocodiles. They came upon a creek and had spotted a schooner run ashore alongside a bank. There was nothing to identify her, no number, no name. Inside they found the dried-up bones and skulls of the crew, picked over by wild animals who had been there before them.
The pages after this passage were mostly unreadable. Morgan touched the creased and worn paper carefully, almost reverently. Most certainly, these were his brother’s last words written in his hand. He could tell from the poor handwriting and the bad spelling. He held the open book tightly and felt like Abraham was sitting there next to him. It was not until the very end that he found a section that had somehow managed to remain dry. The writing was different, almost a child’s scrawl, and it soon became apparent why. Abraham described himself as a prisoner in a dimly lit hold with only one porthole that let in light.
Day after day in this dark hole, I am blest with dry biscuit and cup of water. The disease is ragin’. Many of the crew are blind, lie helpless on the deck. I can hear their moaning. My eyes are very bad. I am all down to the foot of the hill and I don’t suppose I shall soon git better.
More smudges and smears of ink. Morgan held the book closer as he read a legible paragraph on another page.
We had a very heavy gale of wind two nights ago. I fear the ship has lost its rudder and no hand is at the helm as the ship lunges with little purpose. We are like a phantom ship now on the ocean. We are truly at God’s mercy. Who knows what will happen to us. Below me, I can hear the cries of despair and the wailing of the sick. I no longer have the strength to tolerate this cruelty. This is truly the Devil’s own ship from hell. . . . So many have died already. I wish that I could be at home. I fear the trials I soon shall have to pass through. The flogging and beating I received was nothing. May we ever remember, whether in pain or suffering, prosperity or adversity that we all have to die.
The next page was made days later. Morgan read on.
I slept none all night. I woke with a bad case of the fidgets and hysterics. There is no help for it. I don’t know if John Taylor is still unaffected by this cursed disease. I will give him this journal the next time he comes to see me. I hope he will bring it to my mother if I am never to leave this place and he is to survive.
At that point the writing stopped. The next page was blank. Morgan poured himself another glass of rum. His eyes began to tear up as he pictured his brother in the dark hold of that ship. “Poor Abraham,” he moaned. “Oh, my God, my poor brother.” He held his head down between his hands. He felt a wall of grief overwhelm him as he began to feel the thin strand of hope that had maintained him all these years slip away.
21
The steamboat’s whistle was deafening. As the old Connecticut River side-wheeler, the
Water Witch
, approached the landing area, Morgan scanned the docks where a small crowd was waiting. Only a few brown leaves were clinging to the branches of the oak trees scattered around the riverbanks. The temperatures seemed to be dropping, not surprising for late November. He could see the square-bowed sailing barge crossing the river ahead of them with a full load of livestock. He told Eliza that the Whittlesey family had been running that ferry service for well over one hundred years. He buttoned his coat tightly and put his arm around her, pulling her close. He’d been away for so long, he wondered if Lyme would seem like a foreign place. No one would recognize him. It had been thirteen years since he’d left.
His brother had written him that they were all eagerly awaiting his arrival over Thanksgiving. Some of his sisters might be there. He was looking forward to seeing them, but then he thought of his father and his emotions deadened, and he braced himself. Soon he would have to confront him and face that critical stare filled with disapproval. His guilt over abandoning the family farm so many years ago suddenly swept over him like a fast-moving wave. The thought of that coming encounter made him want to turn around and go back to New York. It was Eliza’s smiling face that restored his sense of optimism.
The steamboat’s crew hurled the docking lines onto the wharf, and some of the locals fastened the thick strands of heavy rope to the posts. Morgan spotted his brother in the crowd. It was an emotional moment for him. Josiah was standing atop the family’s wagon scanning the crowd on deck and waving his handkerchief. Next to him was a woman dressed in a long cotton dress with a calico bonnet. Morgan pointed them out to Eliza.
“Look, there’s my brother. That must be his wife, Amanda.”
Both of them waved back, and upon seeing them Josiah immediately turned to another woman in a gingham bonnet, who looked up at the steamship for several seconds and then also began waving her white handkerchief enthusiastically. He almost hadn’t recognized her because of her silver hair, and how much she had aged.
“My mother!” he told Eliza excitedly. With a mixture of disappointment and relief, he added, “I don’t see anyone else.”
There were scores of people waiting to pick up family members returning from New York or to load much-needed supplies onto their wagons. The arrival of the steamboat was a major event. He and Eliza picked their way through the crowd. When his mother caught sight of him, her hands went up to her mouth and she ran toward him. She hugged him for what seemed like an eternity before she turned to Eliza, holding her daughter-in-law’s hands tightly as she welcomed her to the Connecticut River Valley. She then turned back to Ely, her hands touching his weathered rough cheeks and said, “Now let me look at you long and hard to make sure this is not a dream. My son, a packet shipmaster of a London liner, home at last!”
She sighed, long and deep, as she looked into his eyes.
“I have waited for this moment for such a long time.”
Behind her, Morgan spotted his brother, who was holding the reins of the horse. Quietly they embraced, conveying to each other what words could not express.
“Where is father?” Morgan asked his mother, as they walked away from the noisy crowded docks.
“Your father is at home, Ely. The doctor is seeing him now. He has not been well for several months. I know that Josiah has written you that your father and I are now living with him and Amanda at their farm on Low Point north of here, near Hamburg Cove. Josiah built a separate wing onto the main house, which is where we are living.”
Morgan nodded slowly while studying his mother. She was much changed since he’d seen her last. Her thin face had sagged considerably with lines and wrinkles. Her hair was now almost all silver, pulled back tightly into a bun. There was a sadness in her eyes, a toughness as well. He realized she was sixty-seven years old now. “I’m sorry to hear about father,” he finally said. “What ails him?”
“He’s just not himself,” she replied. “He is faint and has difficulty breathing. The doctor says it’s all just part of getting old. You know he’s going to be seventy-nine this year.”
Morgan had not kept track of his father’s age that closely. Somehow he’d just assumed he would stay much the same as when he had last seen him. It was Sally Morgan who suggested that Ely sit up front with Josiah so the women could sit in the backseat of the wagon and talk. He guessed that his mother wanted to take serious measure of this new addition to the family. Morgan took the reins from his brother. It had been a long time since he’d held the reins of a horse, and he was amazed to find out that this bay filly was a granddaughter of the chestnut mare the family used to own. So much time had passed. They stopped to pick up some supplies at the village store. This took them through the center of Lyme, where Morgan realized his return to the river was a well-publicized event. As they trotted down the main street, he could see the tall spire of the church in the distance. People stopped and waved, many of whom he didn’t even recognize.
“Welcome home, Captain!” they shouted. He could see people whispering and pointing in his direction. He hadn’t realized it, but news of his career was followed on both sides of the river. A packet captain in the London line was viewed as a position of great prestige. His success as one of the elect of the seagoing community had been touted by some of the older captains like Daniel Chadwick of the Red Swallowtail Line and Henry Champlin of the Black X Line. Morgan had to rely on Josiah to tell him who many of these strangers were. He’d forgotten so many of the names.
The farm that Josiah bought with his help two years earlier was every bit as well situated as Ely had imagined. Part of it sat up on Low Point Hill where it commanded an excellent view of the river. The land was several hundred acres, but only a fraction of it was under cultivation with buckwheat, rye, corn, tobacco, and hay. The old country road wound its way past a pasture where a small herd of milking cows lazily chewed their cuds under the shade of a large oak tree. Off to the side, several horses were grazing. In the distance, he could hear a confused rooster crowing. The farmhouse soon came into view. The two-storied wooden house was originally built early in the previous century, and most of the beams had been hand hewn with an adze. The floorboards were wide pine planks stained a dark brown. When they walked into the kitchen, his father was seated by the large fireplace reading the Bible. The old man looked up, his face stern and rigid, his eyes locking onto him like a hawk spotting its prey. The bushy eyebrows, once stormy black, were now snowy white, as was his once thick, curly head of hair. Morgan stood there silently until his father broke the awkward moment.
“Finally decided to come home, eh?”
Morgan choked back his anger at this brusque remark but said nothing.
“I was wondering if your mother and I would ever lay eyes on you again.”
Morgan felt a knot in his throat move down into his chest.
“We had to sell the old farm, you know,” he said. “It was too much for your mother and me.”
Morgan remained silent.
“We might have kept it if you’d stayed on.” His voice now had a slight edge to it. “But I reckon you had other aspirations.”
Morgan’s fists closed as he fought back his anger.
“I reckon what happened was for the best, father. That was your farm, not mine. We were never meant to work together. You know that. Let’s leave the past behind us.”
Abraham Morgan scowled at his son but said nothing. Fortunately for both men, Eliza bounced through the door at that moment with a broad smile and a light step. The old man’s face seemed to soften. “Tell me, young lady, how you came to become a member of this family.”
That first evening home for Morgan was a blur of emotions. His father, whose hawklike stare and stern countenance used to terrify him as a boy, now seemed to be somehow diminished. His back was hunched over, his body frail and thin, his face gaunt. He sat up rigid in the high-backed chair. He was an old man now. The chilly reception when they first greeted each other soon gave way to more conviviality. Morgan sat down next to his father by the fire and began to tell him about their journey from New York on board the steamship. He seemed so different. Some of the anger and the bitterness appeared to have gone out of him like a sudden gust of wind in the summer, which fills the sails and then leaves them limp. Even the old man’s voice seemed different. His thunderous shout was replaced with a softer, more balanced tone of voice. His strident manner also seemed quieter and more relaxed.
To his surprise, the vitriolic hatred Abraham Morgan used to have toward all sailors and the seagoing community seemed to have been replaced by an interest, even a curiosity, in hearing about his son’s adventures. He wanted to know about London, the packet trade, and the stormy weather in the Atlantic. In turn, Morgan asked him about Josiah’s new farm, the changes along the river, and all of his brothers and sisters, most of whom were now married. Maria Louisa and Jesse were the holdouts. They lived on the farm and helped with the many errands and chores. His father told him proudly about his many grandchildren. All three of Morgan’s older sisters, Sarah, Asenath, and Nancy, had married deacons in various Congregational meetinghouses in the valley, and all but Nancy had a handful of children now.
His father clearly thought highly of his sons-in-law. Asenath’s Deacon Talcott, Sarah’s Deacon Lord, and Nancy’s Deacon Bushnell were all prominent figures in their communities. Abraham Morgan’s face filled with boyish joy as he talked about Asenath’s and Sarah’s pack of boys along with Josiah’s two children, all of whom he liked to take on hayrides in the summer. Morgan could see that his father was now quite a different person to his grandchildren than he had been with his sons. He even smiled and laughed at their games, which was something he’d never seen him do before.
As Morgan watched his father rub noses and make faces with Josiah’s youngest child, Walter, talking to the little boy about pony rides and cherry pie, he marveled that this was the same man who had raised him. It was almost as if his father was making amends for the cruelty and anger he’d demonstrated toward his own sons in their youth. All that rage seemed to have been silenced. Morgan became aware that his eyes were moist. He wiped them dry with the back of his hand and walked outside onto the porch to breathe in some fresh air. Two of Asenath’s young sons, Will and Sam, ran after him, pulling at the tails of his long coat. “Uncle Ely! Uncle Ely!” they both cried out. He jumped in surprise. He’d never been called that before. He looked down at these two freckle-faced boys, his nephews, and for a moment he saw Abraham and himself years ago. For a moment, he was transported back in time. He and his brother were sitting on the rough-hewn wooden floor of the Lyme country store listening to an old tar tell his adventurous sea tales. Abraham had leaned over, his face flushed with excitement, and whispered that one day he would be a deep-water man just like that sailor.
“Tell us about crossing the ocean! Tell us about pirates and sea monsters.”
Morgan’s gaze lingered on the smiling faces of his two nephews. He held up his hand to his chin to show that he was giving their request some serious thought.
“Have you boys heard about the old ship merchant who felt he was cursed?” Morgan asked with a flourish.
“No, no, we haven’t heard that one. Tell us that story, Uncle Ely!”
Morgan sat down on the rocking chair outside on the porch and motioned for the two boys to share a nearby bench.
“You see there was a proud, rich old gentleman ship merchant who was having his troubles. None of his ships was coming in on time. He was convinced that Satan held a grudge against him. His ships were always running into strong headwinds. So this clever old merchant devised a plan to trick the Devil.”
Morgan raised his eyebrows and contorted his face so that he looked like he was a clever merchant plotting against the Devil. He rubbed his hands together as he continued to play the part of the scheming merchant. His voice now turned into a hushed whisper. “The old gentleman devised a strategy where four of his homeward bound ships would sail simultaneously from the four quarters of the compass. He thought the Devil couldn’t possibly harm him now. At least one of his ships would be in luck and get favorable winds. That’s what the shipping merchant reckoned. He went out and celebrated his clever plan, telling all his fellow merchants he’d outsmarted the Devil.”
“Did it work?” asked the two boys, their eyes wide with wonder.
“That old gentleman may have been too clever by half because for the next six weeks, there was no wind. There was a dead calm across the entire ocean. Not even a slight breeze. His four ships floated along with their sails limp and lifeless, and he was forced to cancel all his contracts. He went to church the next day and told the minister he never should have tried to outwit the Devil.”
Morgan laughed at the sight of the puzzled faces of the two boys. They ran off to tell their cousins about this story from the sea they had just heard from their Uncle Ely.