Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (32 page)

Brandishing the augur in his hand, Morgan asked, “Why did you do this?”

“I ain’t talking. He’ll kill me if I say anything.”

“Who?”

“No matter what you do to me, I got nothing to tell you.”

Morgan turned to Lowery.

“Mr. Junkett, I am sure Scuttles has some rancid slush in his bucket in the galley. Bring that. I hear tell Mr. Taylor has a love of rats.”

Taylor’s eyes bulged out with horror and fear. Morgan then turned to Lowery.

“Blindfold him, gag him with a cloth, and get me a hog-bristle brush.”

An hour later, Morgan watched as Lowery and Junkett coated Taylor’s face and body with a thick coat of the slobbery mess. The man was squirming and struggling in his chair as the two stewards spread thick gobs over his face and hair. The smell of rancid grease filled the cargo hold, and it wasn’t long before the rustle and scurrying of small feet could be heard in the dark corners of the hold. Along with that came the high-pitched squeals of hungry rats.

“Do you hear that, Taylor? They’re starting to squeak with pleasure in anticipation of their feast. They can smell the grease. I reckon there are scores of rats in this ship. We’re going to leave you here now, alone, so you can meet your new friends.”

The blindfolded man struggled spasmodically to get free of the rope that bound him to the chair. Even with the gag, he was making terrible sounds as he tried to scream. Within minutes, a dozen rats appeared and began crawling over his body, starting at his feet and working their way up to his face, squeaking and snarling as they gorged themselves. Their bodies and tails wiggled and twisted as they happily bit into the man’s slushy face, his head, and open neck. Taylor’s body was in convulsions. He grunted and heaved, struggling to breathe as he tried to shake off his attackers.

Soon the man’s face and arms were covered with squirming and squeaking rodents, hungrily nipping and tearing into the exposed flesh. After five minutes of listening to his muffled screams, Morgan reappeared, swatting away the rodents, kicking the persistent ones that were reluctant to leave their feast. He pulled off the man’s gag. Taylor screamed, loud and long, his body still twitching with terror.

“Mercy. Have mercy,” he gasped. “It was Blackwood. He told me to do it,” cried out the still-blindfolded man. “For the love of God, set me free.”

At the mention of Blackwood’s name, Morgan was silent. He still made no move to untie the man or remove the blindfold.

“Is he the one giving you opium?”

“He promised me if I did this one job for him I could spend my days chasing the dragon.”

Morgan glared at Taylor.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Have mercy, Captain. The pipe is the only thing that helps me. Liquor was my salvation at first, but then I fell into the terrors and I began having horrible visions. Then I heard voices. They wouldn’t stop. The pipe gave me a way to forget. When I smoke the voices go away.”

“Where is Blackwood?” Morgan asked sharply. He pulled off the blindfold. Taylor’s eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to adjust to his surroundings.

“I don’t know. He finds me. I don’t find him.”

Morgan slowly took a Havana cigar out of his pocket, rolling it in his mouth. He picked up the lantern and lit it. After the first puff, he began speaking in a more strident voice.

“Well, Taylor, you are not leaving this ship until you tell me what you alone know. What happened to my brother all those years ago? He was your friend and you betrayed him. I already know that the
Charon
was a slave ship. Most of the crew were blind and the captain was losing his eyesight. Abraham was put in the hold. Why? Did he die there?”

Taylor looked shocked, but said nothing, lowering his head at first as if refusing to speak. His hands were noticeably trembling as he began speaking slowly with great hesitation.

“We were in the middle of the Atlantic. The captain ordered the hatches battened down. Those Africans in the lower hold got no air, only a little bit of hard biscuit thrown down at them. No one wanted to go down into that dark cavern. It reeked of sickness and death. Blackwood and his mate, Tom Edgars, we called him Big Red, they were having a discussion about what to do. Blackwood ordered us to get those sick Negroes up on deck. He kept telling Abraham and me that we Yankee seal pups needed to get to know the ship’s cargo. He would laugh and tell us, ‘Learn the trade, boys. Ye ’ave to learn the skill of handlin’ black ebony.’”

Taylor paused as he gulped several times and pulled nervously at his stringy, dirty hair.

“It was too awful a sight to look at. Most of them Africans were infected, their eyes already crusty and closed. They were diseased. They couldn’t see. The women were moaning and shrieking. Blackwood took a whip to them, prodding the noisy ones in their privates. ‘That’s ’ow ye make ’em respect yer,’ he said. They were all manacled together, chains clanking away on their ankles and their wrists. He separated the healthier ones, but kept them up on deck. He summoned Abraham over and told him to shackle all two hundred slaves who were going blind to the anchor hawse line.”

“He did what?” Morgan asked, his voice shocked and horrified.

“Abraham refused. Blackwood grabbed him and picked him up by the neck. ‘Ye follow orders ye Yankee pig-dog,’ he said. Those were his very words, Captain. Then it got worse.”

Taylor looked up at Morgan with pleading eyes.

“Go on,” said Morgan coldly as he braced himself for gruesome details he knew he didn’t want to hear.

“He threw your brother down on the deck and drew his clenched fist back and slammed it into his face, telling him to crawl on his knees like an animal. ‘Filthy Guinea lover,’ he called him. Abraham struggled, but Blackwood kicked him and then brought out a rope with a knot at the end of it and started to beat and thrash him until he passed out. He fell flat on the deck. Blackwood ordered two of the men to take Abraham below deck and lock him in the hold.”

Morgan said nothing, too astonished to react. His knuckles tightened on the augur he was still holding.

As if he was recounting a bad dream, Taylor continued, his eyes now becoming moist. He began speaking faster, his voice strained.

“Blackwood then turned on me and ordered me to do it. All the men were crowded around. They wanted to see what I would do. All those eyes were looking at me, Captain. I was so frightened. I tied that hawse line around the chains on the first slave and then ran it back through the long line of Africans, finally attaching the end to the kedge anchor. The slaves were moaning and wailing. Blackwood then ordered me to throw the anchor overboard, and ‘make the sharks ’appy.’ That’s what he said.”

“Make the sharks happy?” Morgan repeated in disbelief. “What kind of animal . . . ?” He shook his head in amazement at this tale of human brutality. “What did you do?”

“I told him I wouldn’t do it, but he came at me with his rope, laughing like a madman.” Taylor’s face was now moist with perspiration. His body trembled and shook. He started weeping. His voice cracked.

“To my eternal shame, I did what he asked.”

“Lord sakes” was all Morgan could say.

“The anchor fell like a boulder with a loud splash. I watched spellbound as those slaves, screaming and wailing, were pulled over the bulwarks, their eyes white with fear. I watched as one by one, all two hundred of them fell to their death, the splash of each body hitting the water, the sharks swarming around the ship turning the sea red, and then finally silence.”

“Did the other slaves see this?”

Taylor nodded slowly.

“I have never forgotten the way they looked at me as they shuffled by, their chains clanking on the deck, their eyes piercing into my soul like sharp daggers. I can still hear the women sobbing and moaning.”

He paused before continuing.

“I tried to tell you before, but I couldn’t bring myself to confess.”

Taylor looked over at Morgan, his eyes seeming to plead for forgiveness. Despite his revulsion of this pitiful, broken man, Morgan began to feel sorry for him. He took the cigar out of his mouth, and looked down at its glowing tip. His voice softened somewhat.

“What happened next?” he asked.

Taylor looked down at his hands, which were shaking uncontrollably, and continued with his story.

“That foul disease spread all over the ship. We were cursed. Soon enough, it was mostly Blackwood and me sailing the ship along with a few other men.”

“How did you avoid getting it?”

“I drenched my hands and face with rum and put tarred mittens on my hands.”

“What about Abraham?”

“I gave him food and water in the hold each day. Most of the other sailors were lying on the deck with bandannas around their eyes. Even Big Red, the mate, was of little use. Blackwood told me where to steer. Toward the end, he was losing his eyesight, which made me all the more important to him.”

“What about the storm? Where were you when it struck?”

“We thought we were somewhere to the north of Puerto Rico when it started blowing hard. I was clutching onto the wheel as tight as a barnacle on a whale’s back. The wind was howling and the waves rolling across the ship. They were like mountains. Must have been twenty feet high. We sailed westerly under one topsail, we thought, toward Jamaica, the winds coming in hard from the north. I spotted Cape Mole and I could barely see the mountains of Haiti as we laid a course through the Windward Passage. All the time, I could hear the moaning down below decks. That was the last time I ever saw Abraham. I gave him some hard biscuit that morning and he handed me his journal, making me swear I would give it to his mother.”

Taylor paused, stumbled, and then lowered his eyes.

“Go on,” Morgan said impatiently.

“It was in the middle of the night when we felt the first jolt. The ship reared up like a horse, and then came crashing down. That was when we heard the breakers. Blackwood told me to bear off. I did as he asked, but it was too late. The ship drove right onto the reef, the keel lodging itself in between rocks and coral. I could hear the cracking and splintering of wood and the cries of desperation from inside the ship. We were slanted over like a sloping hillside due to the force of the waves and Blackwood told me to lower the quarter boat. He grabbed Big Red and a couple of the other sailors who could still see and told me to load them up. We left behind most of the blind sailors on deck, crawling on all fours pleading for help, clutching any rope they could find. All the time I could hear the wailing from the belly of the ship. It was like the ship itself was crying out.”

“What about Abraham?” Morgan asked slowly, as he tried to control his emotions.

“Blackwood had a pistol to my head. I had no choice but to row away. I am sorry, Captain. That was how your brother died. We left him trapped inside the hold along with all those Africans and the blind sailors with the ship taking on water. I am sorry. Not a day passes that I don’t hear those cries for help and imagine those eyes staring at me in fear and hatred. Not a day passes that I don’t imagine Abraham lying there in that wet holding locker, blind and unable to move with the water rising.”

Morgan felt a sudden helplessness sweep over him. So that was it. He was glad his mother had never found out the truth. It had been better she had died with the faint hope that one of her two sons lost at sea was still alive.

“Did you make it ashore?”

“We survived the waves that stormy night. When daybreak came, we saw these huge mountains off to the west and we rode the breakers onto the beach near a place called Morant Bay. It turned out we were on the southeastern shore of Jamaica in the parish of St. Thomas. As soon as I got ashore, I ran away and kept running ever since.”

“You never got the eye disease?”

“No. Blackwood and Big Red weren’t so lucky. By the time we got to land, Blackwood’s eyes were infected. To this day he bears those scars and Big Red lost one eye to that disease.”

“Where did you hide out all these years, Taylor?”

“Many places. For many years it was the White Goose Tavern down on Water Street, you know where the blood sports pit is located. That was my hideaway. O’Leary, the Rat Man, put me to work collecting rats down at the wharf. I would come in at night with a fresh supply in a bag. Weasel bait we called it. One night I was about to make my delivery when I thought I saw Big Red. He had a patch on his eye. I ducked out of sight, but I think he spotted me then.”

“When did they catch you?”

“It was only a few months ago that Blackwood tracked me down in the Blow-Hole Tavern over on Cherry Street.”

Taylor reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter.

“Before I forget, Captain, Blackwood said I was to leave this by your cabin door before I left. You were supposed to find it in the morning.”

Morgan took it from the man. The letter was addressed simply to Captain Morgan, the
Southampton
. It had no return address. He opened it and began reading a card. The handwriting was small, but clearly came from an educated hand. It was from Captain James Stryker on the H.M.S.
Hydra
, one of the paddle-wheel steam frigates of the Royal Navy.

27

Morgan straightened up as he stood beside the giant form of Icelander at the helm. It was pitch dark, just shy of midnight. The
Southampton
had cleared the markers outside the protected waters of Sandy Hook, and the force of the wind now filled the ship’s sails. The Black X packet had a full load of first-class passengers. There was a sense of urgency on board. Morgan had informed the crew that the ship would be pushed to its limits. To reassure himself he was making the right decision, he pulled out the letter he had received from Stryker and read it again under the lantern light by the binnacle.

Dear Captain Morgan,

I am writing you from across the Hudson River in New Jersey at the Cunard Docks. It gives me great satisfaction to inform you that we have in our custody the runaway sailor and deserter Hiram Smith. We apprehended him in the West Indies. He is now a prisoner of the Royal Navy. He will be brought to justice before the Admiralty when we get back to England. The charges will be desertion from one of Her Majesty’s ships, and espionage. I am thoroughly confident that he will receive the full taste of English justice which a foreign spy so richly deserves. After recoaling, we leave for England at first light.

Most sincerely,

Captain James Stryker, R.N.

H.M.S. Hydra

After reading it again, Morgan remained as astonished as he was the first time he read it. Stryker had nabbed Hiram. He was arresting him not only as a deserter, but as a spy, presumably because he had posed as a British sailor. It would mean a hanging, almost certainly. Morgan was determined he would try to get to England as soon as possible, perhaps even before the British Navy steamship. His idea was to try to enlist support from some of Leslie’s influential friends in the nobility. He thought of Lord Nanvers. Nanvers had met Hiram. Perhaps the English Lord would try to help sway the Admiralty judges to be lenient.

Morgan had decided to take the far northern route across the roof of the Atlantic as sailors called it. This was slightly further to the north than the packet ship’s normal route on the eastward passage. It was the shortest and most direct way to cross the Atlantic, a distance of approximately 2,800 miles. This route would take him north of the Grand Banks into possible ice fields, but he was quite familiar with the hazards.

He knew the steamer would choose the standard shipping lane along the southern route. It was considered the safer path, and most of the steamers chose this track because they would travel far away from the dangers of the shallow waters off the North American coast, and well south of the foul weather and ice to the north. But it was longer, roughly 3,100 miles. He calculated that if the steamer left at first light, it had a twelve-hour head start. He knew these paddle wheelers could only steam along at eleven to twelve knots, so with the right winds he thought the
Southampton
might be able to even overtake the H.M.S.
Hydra
before they reached the English Channel. He knew what was important was to get to London as soon as possible.

Morgan folded the letter and put it into his pocket. The
Southampton
’s bow rose to meet the ocean swells. He barked out orders for more canvas.

“Aloft there some of you and loose all sails.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Royals and skysails as well?”

“Yes, and loose all head sails.”

The new first mate, Richard Moore, joined in.

“You men over there, look alive! Take in those clewlines at the main. Clap a watch tackle on the starboard topsail sheet and rouse her home. Sheet home the topsails. Look alive there!”

The ship’s large prominent bowsprit rose to meet the dark, oncoming waves like a steeplechase horse leaping over a looming fence. Morgan faced forward into the night and gazed at the bright tip of his glowing cigar. His mind shifted to Taylor’s startling revelations. He was still stunned. He knew now what had happened to his brother, yet along with Taylor’s grisly story had come so many questions, so many puzzling mysteries. Taylor had said Blackwood had given him Stryker’s letter. It didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t grasp what would have brought Blackwood and Stryker together. A committed Royal Navy captain in the West African Squadron and a man he should be pursuing were an unlikely pair. He shook his head as he walked toward the main mast at the center of the ship and gazed out into the deep blackness of the night.

By the morning of June 14, the
Southampton
had cleared the Grand Banks, having been at sea for five and a half days. Ominously, as the sun slowly slipped down below the western horizon, Morgan looked ahead and saw a frozen expanse. Against the now dark and overcast sky, the blue ocean had suddenly disappeared into a sea of white. One vast ice field lay before them. It was a frightening but thrilling sight. The thick hull of the
Southampton
shuddered as it hit the thin crust of ice head on and began plowing through it. The hideous sound of the ice crackling and crunching exploded on either side of the ship. Soon they were well into the ice field as night descended on them. The ship was trembling like a frozen twig in a winter storm, the wooden beams and planks moaning under the stress.

A shout arose from below.

“Water in the hold. Man the pumps!”

Whipple went down below to assess the damage. Water was beginning to seep up into the lower cargo hold. A quick inspection showed some of the trenails he’d hammered in the day before had given way, but he soon discovered an even bigger problem. The ship was taking in water on the port side. The water level was already knee deep in parts of the bilge. Morgan set the crew to work pumping and jettisoning cargo as he reassured his passengers that the leak was nothing to worry about. This went on for nearly an hour as the ship continued to plow its way through the expansive field, peeling back and breaking off large, thin shards of ice.

Whipple waded into the freezing water at the bottom of the ship and began looking for cracks or breaks in the planking. He soon discovered the problem. Besides the holes near the keel, Taylor had perforated the ship’s hull on the port side directly under the waterline, holes which Whipple had not detected. The friction from the ice had compromised the thin veneer of wood Taylor left in the planking. Water was pouring in. Whipple stuffed towels and rags into the holes. As the crew continued to pump and throw more cargo overboard to further lighten the ship, the water level slowly receded, allowing Whipple to plug the holes more permanently with large makeshift trenails, oakum, and tar.

With the winds still strong, the
Southampton
powered its way out of the ice pack. It took two hours to do so. Morgan squared the yards. He saw several black-and-white shearwaters dancing across the surface of the water, gliding and dipping over the waves, a sign that Ireland might be as close as two days away. The birds made him think of Old Jeremiah, and he remembered how that old superstitious tar had labeled John Taylor a Jonah. Maybe he was right. Taylor was cursed. He had almost succeeded in sinking the ship. In a moment of sympathy before departing, he had thought of bringing him on board, but now after this close call, he was glad to have left the opium addict behind to lose himself in the streets of New York. John Taylor needed to face his own demons now, but not on board the
Southampton
.

Over the next few days, the winds of the North Atlantic favored the packet ship and they were able to make up for lost time. The breeze stayed constant, eventually settling in from the southwest. The weather conditions were excellent, with cloudless skies and cool air. The tributaries of the Gulf Stream, moving at half a knot, were also helping to pull them eastward. With every possible sail set, the packet ticked off the miles as she sped eastward toward the continent at fourteen knots. It was about one hundred miles from the southwestern edge of Ireland that the cry came out from the lookout on the mainmast.

“Smoke on the horizon!”

Morgan grabbed his spyglass and sure enough he could see a trail of black smoke hanging over the far eastern horizon. A steamship was no more than ten miles ahead of them. The sun was just setting to the west, ominously coloring the skies a brilliant red.

The next morning Morgan could barely make out the Royal Navy flag flying off the steamship’s mizzenmast. The first mate held the spyglass to his eye, and then turned toward him.

“Something strange there, Cap’n,” he whispered. “That steamship. It almost seems like she slowed down overnight. Might be she’s having engine trouble?”

A seed of doubt crept into Morgan’s mind. If this steamship ahead of them was Stryker’s ship, the
Hydra
, he couldn’t possibly hope to accomplish anything by coming closer. His instincts told him to raise even more sails and give the steamship a wide berth, but some force he didn’t understand wanted to see if this was Stryker’s ship. Anger, pride, revenge, friendship, and loyalty were all bubbling inside of him. He reached into his pocket with his left hand and felt his brother’s old pennywhistle, and in that moment he put his doubts aside. Like a sudden strong wind taking control of the sails, he felt unable to resist where he was being pulled. At that moment, it was Abraham, not Hiram, who was on the Royal Navy steamer ahead of him.

“Let’s swing closer, Mr. Moore.”

Within a few hours, they had moved to the windward of the paddle wheeler, still trailing by a mile. Morgan calculated that the steamer was moving along at about nine knots, slower than usual. The two ships were almost at the western edge of Ireland now. In the distance he could see the breakers crashing onto the rocky shoreline of the islands near Dunmore Head, with the bright green edge of the cliffs and mountains in the distance. The
Southampton
had left New York slightly more than eleven and a half days earlier. It was not just a fast passage. It had the makings of a record passage.

Morgan could see the individual paddles churning in the water and hear the roar and thumping of the engine arising from the guts of the steam frigate. With the spyglass, he could just make out the name of the ship on its transom. It was the
Hydra
. At the sight of the packet outracing the bigger 208-foot-long steamship, the delighted American passengers on board the
Southampton
were now singing “Yankee Doodle” and waving their white handkerchiefs triumphantly to signal that they would soon be saying good-bye to the smoky steamship.

The packet ship came even with the steamship’s paddle wheels on the windward side. The two big ships were now just three hundred yards apart. If Morgan hadn’t come that close, it’s possible he might not have seen the scuffle on deck. A man dressed in a simple work shirt with blue dungarees was swinging an oar he’d picked up from one of the lifeboats. The man was surrounded by the frigate’s officers, who were ducking and weaving.

“Bring us closer, Icelander. There’s something strange happening on the deck of the Navy ship.”

Morgan held the spyglass firmly to his left eye and tried to follow the action occurring at the stern of the
Hydra
. It took him several attempts to steady the glass, but he was finally able to focus on the man who was causing so much trouble. His face and arms were black with soot, and he was wielding the oar like a sailor who had rowed many a dory in a rough sea. He’d already knocked down two men. The ghostly vision of Abraham faded as Morgan looked more closely. It was definitely Hiram. He had grown a full beard since he’d seen him last.

At that moment, he saw the image of Stryker appear in his bouncing lens. The man’s face was livid with rage. Next to him was another man he knew. His large head and body and his small, black eyes hidden beneath fleshy eyelids made him unmistakable. It was the same man who had led the attempted mutiny against him on the
Philadelphia
years ago. He breathed out slowly even as he felt a chill go down his spine. “Blackwood.” The man’s black hair was now streaked with silver, but otherwise he was unchanged. Standing next to him was a man with beet-red hair and an eye patch. “Big Red,” he whispered.