Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (34 page)

Morgan looked over at the quarterdeck. The celebrations on board were still going on. A noisy squadron of seagulls was hovering and squawking overhead. There were calls for more champagne and a speech from the captain, but Morgan politely declined and went back to his cabin to think about what his next step should be.

As he tried to distill all the information he’d just heard, Hiram’s conversation with Blackwood kept coming back to him. One of his friends had ordered Blackwood to kill him. This was too shocking, too amazing, to even comprehend. He wondered how much he could believe of Hiram’s story. It made no sense. Surely this was a fabrication. It just didn’t seem feasible that a thug like Blackwood would know any of his London acquaintances.

He stopped to think of all his friends in the Sketching Club. They were gentle spirits incapable of harming anyone. Thackeray and Dickens were both so witty and socially adept at traveling the London social world. They were all sympathetic to the abolitionist cause and hated the slave trade, or at least that’s what they professed. Of course, over the years he had met dozens of other acquaintances in London, many of whom were high up in the social order, or influential in politics. Some were unsavory shipping contacts. He remembered that repellent stockjobber named Fleming who had tried to charter the
Philadelphia
as a slave ship. He wondered if there were other acquaintances of his who shared Fleming’s views about the acceptability of slavery.

Just then he heard a shout from his first mate.

“Steamer ho!”

A plume of black smoke billowing up from a ship signaled trouble. A steamer flying the British colors headed straight for them, her bow covered with armed British sailors. Morgan picked up his spyglass, fearing the worst. He looked for the faces of Stryker and Blackwood on the ship’s deck, but he couldn’t find them. The ship steamed into the harbor at close to her full speed. Morgan could now see the figure of the ship’s captain standing up on the arched paddle wheel, the smoking funnel directly behind him. He expected the steamship to come alongside, but instead the frigate steamed by, hardly noticing them. It wasn’t Stryker’s ship, the
Hydra
. It was another Royal Navy paddle-wheel frigate built to the same specifications. Once all the passengers were brought to shore, Morgan wasted no time in calling for the
Southampton
’s anchor to be raised.

29

Morgan arrived at Pine Apple Place just as his friend Charles Leslie was coming in from the garden. After a three-day-long passage from Falmouth, he had docked the
Southampton
at St. Katherine’s that morning, and had decided to consult with Leslie about the events in this last horrendous passage to London. The cheery, beaming face of Leslie greeted him at the front gate. He had a basket of fresh lettuce and tomatoes from his garden under his arm. The artist was busy painting a scene from
Much Ado About Nothing
, one of several Shakespearean-inspired paintings he had been commissioned to work on that year. Leslie showed him the almost completed portrait of the Morgan family and promised him that it would be done when he returned in the fall. Leslie was eager to hear the captain’s news about his record-breaking passage. He said they would throw him a party to celebrate his accomplishment. But it was Leslie’s news that filled most of their conversation. Had Morgan heard about the shipwreck of a Royal Navy steam paddle-wheel frigate off the coast of France?

“It was the H.M.S.
Hydra
, just returning from a tour of duty in the West Indies,” exclaimed Leslie. “She crashed onto the rocky shore of the French island of Ushant. I think the French call it Ouessant!”

“What!” Morgan exclaimed. “Are you sure? What happened?”

Leslie’s eyes glistened with the excitement of this horrific story.

“Some local people standing on the southwestern edge of the island said they saw men being swept off the decks by crashing waves that engulfed the entire ship.”

“Were there survivors?” Morgan asked, his voice quavering.

“The local fishermen couldn’t help them. They were afraid the high waves battering the coastline would sweep them away.”

“Were there any survivors?” Morgan asked again more emphatically. Leslie quickly found that day’s copy of the
Times
and read it to him.

“It says here ‘no survivors, but amazingly the ship’s hull remained intact. The Admiralty has sent a special team to investigate, and see what they can recover.’”

Leslie dropped the paper and looked directly at the captain.

“Can you imagine that, Morgan, watching all of those people die?”

“Oh, my Lord!” Morgan gasped.

“Did you see that ship by chance on your way up the Channel?”

Morgan winced slightly. “We did see a ship steam up from the south as we entered the Channel,” he said cautiously, tugging at his earlobe. “It followed us past the Scillies and Wolf Rock. Then it disappeared.”

Leslie nodded soberly as he continued to look at the newspaper.

“It says here that this ship was in Bermuda and had been newly assigned to the West Africa Squadron. It had gone to New York to refuel at the coaling station over in New Jersey.”

Morgan kept his feelings to himself, not wanting to reveal too much, even to Leslie. He was reeling with the horror of the news. He felt so badly for all those sailors. His mind was awash with contradictory emotions of shock and sadness, mixed with relief and triumph. He imagined all those men being swept off the decks into the churning water. He felt a wave of nausea, but then he saw the faces of Blackwood, Big Red, and Stryker, and he felt no empathy, only a strange sense of freedom. He decided to change the topic. Soon they were talking about the Royal Academy and how Leslie’s son Robert had exhibited at the academy this year with a painting called
A Sailor’s Yarn
inspired by one of his passages across the Atlantic with Morgan.

“It was one of the few contemporary paintings at this year’s exhibit,” the artist rattled on.

Morgan nodded with only moderate interest. He was used to Leslie chattering on for hours about the London art world. He was reading the newspaper’s account of the shipwreck, wondering what information about his own complicated life and the dangers he faced he could share with Leslie.

“One of the academy’s best patrons has just asked me to do a painting from a Greek myth. I am not sure whether I want to do it or not. As you know, I really prefer scenes from classic works like Cervantes and Molière.”

Morgan looked up with a distracted expression. He hadn’t been listening.

“The commission, Morgan. Should I take it? It is a Greek creation myth, the story of Eurynome and Ophion.”

Morgan’s eyes grew wide.

“What was that you said, Leslie?” he asked cautiously. “Did you say Ophion?”

“Yes, Ophion,” replied the artist nonchalantly. “No reason you should know that name. Ophion is not one of the better-known figures in Greek mythology. Why, have you heard of it?”

“No, or, maybe I have. I’m not sure. Please go on,” Morgan replied.

Leslie got up to walk around his studio to a bookshelf where he pulled out a large book on the gods of ancient Greece. He opened it to a page with an illustration of a serpent wrapped around a mermaid’s arm and handed it to Morgan.

“Look at the first chapter. Ophion was at the very center of the ancient Greek creation myth. This was at the dawn of time when Eurynome, the goddess of all things, held sway on Olympus. As the myth goes, Eurynome rose up from chaos and divided the sea from the sky. She created a giant snake called Ophion and together they ruled the universe until he became unruly. Then she banished the serpent into the underworld.”

Morgan was stroking his chin as he pondered the connection of this myth, if any, to Ophion Trading Partners. “Reminds me a little of Queen Victoria banishing the serpent of slavery from England and creating a new era. It was Queen Victoria who presided over the final act of freeing the slaves when the apprenticeship program ended in 1838. Isn’t that right, Leslie?”

The artist’s face lit up with excitement, and he grabbed the book from Morgan, slapping the illustration of Ophion and Eurynome with the back of his hand.

“That’s brilliant, Morgan! I never thought of that before. That could be the answer. I could paint Her Majesty in her coronation robes, seated on the throne with her scepter, banishing a vile-looking serpent into the ground. I will have to suggest that to my patron. The comparison is perfect. It will transform the Ophion myth into a contemporary topic.”

“Who is commissioning the painting, if I may ask?” queried Morgan.

“Well, I usually don’t divulge for whom I am painting unless, of course, it is a portrait, but I am sure it is all right to tell you as he is an old acquaintance of yours as well. It is none other than our friend Lord Nanvers.”

Morgan felt the air being sucked out of his lungs, and almost unconsciously he breathed out the name, “Nanvers.”

“Yes, it is Nanvers.”

“Why do you think Lord Nanvers wants a painting of the Ophion myth?” Morgan asked quietly.

“I wondered that as well,” replied Leslie. “I think he is becoming more reflective. He is sixty years old now, even though he doesn’t seem it. His family crest is a coiled serpent, you know.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” replied Morgan. “Nanvers has a ring with a serpent’s design, quite distinctive.”

“Yes, I think he is proud of his family heritage. He has always been an avid admirer of the sculpture of ancient Greece.”

“I don’t know much about Lord Nanvers’s family heritage, or business, Leslie. What can you tell me?”

Eager to show his familiarity with the Nanvers name, Leslie volunteered more information.

“As you know, Morgan, Lord Nanvers is George Wilberton, the third Earl of Nanvers.” His voice changed in tone as he began speaking in a whisper. “Nanvers is what they call in London’s finer circles ‘a West Indian.’ Did you know that?”

“A West Indian?” Morgan replied with a puzzled voice. “What do you mean?”

“Just a generation ago, the Wilbertons were looked down upon by some of the more established members of the landed aristocracy. I believe they were treated quite poorly because their family fortune came from the West Indies. New money, if you know what I mean. But now that the family is so ensconced in the landed aristocracy, that has changed. The transformation really began with Nanvers’s father. He tried to distance the family name from the original source of their wealth, and now I would say our good friend Nanvers has succeeded in being accepted even among some of the more snobbish aristocrats here in London.”

“Does the family still have financial interests in the West Indies?” Morgan asked in a barely restrained voice.

“I believe so. At one point, the Wilberton family had more than five working plantations in Jamaica, Nevis, and Barbados with thousands of slaves. They owned these properties for more than a century. Naturally the family owned their own ships, and were involved in transporting not only sugar but rum to England. Of course, once slavery was abolished all that changed. The family was generously compensated by the Crown for all their slaves, and as I understand it, they reduced their landholdings in the West Indies. Since then I believe they have diversified substantially, even with interests in manufacturing.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” Morgan replied with feigned disinterest, even though a stream of new, random thoughts were tumbling through his mind.

“But enough of that, Morgan,” Leslie said with a big smile on his face. “You look far too serious. Suffice to say, Lord Nanvers is a very wealthy man and very generous to those of us in the arts. He is always praising you. Just the other day he asked me about that sailor friend of yours who was sailing with the West Africa Squadron. What was his name, Horace? Henry? Remember, he came to speak to us in the cabin of your ship.”

“Hiram, Hiram Smith,” replied Morgan.

“Right,” said Leslie. “Well, he wanted to know how that sailor had fared and whether you had heard from him recently.”

“Nice of him to show such interest in a simple sailor,” Morgan said, trying to hide the sarcasm in his voice as well as the concern.

“Is he still sailing with the West Africa Squadron?”

“No, I believe he’s left the Royal Navy. I think he’s looking for another ship.”

“Oh,” replied Leslie simply, his mind already shifting to another topic. “Say, I have an idea, Morgan.” Leslie looked at him expectantly, his face beaming with pleasure. “Why don’t you come with me to Nanvers’s estate? He’s just back today from a long hunting trip in Scotland. He took Landseer with him to do some sketches of the hunt. I heard all about it. Landseer says Nanvers is now anxious to be back in the whirl and mix of London activities. I was due to visit him shortly anyway to discuss this project, but now that you have given me this brilliant idea, I will travel there this afternoon. Nanvers House is just north of London in the rolling hills of Hertfordshire. Why don’t you come?”

A few hours later Leslie and Morgan were escorted into Nanvers House by the footman and told to wait at the front entrance. It was a stone house built in the eighteenth century with the vast sugar fortune of Nanvers’s father, Edmund Wilberton, the second Earl of Nanvers. The front entrance was framed by several Greek statues amidst a colorful mixture of white lilies, roses, and miniature box bushes. Morgan had a chance to look around the front hallway. The walls were old walnut wainscoting covered with large hunting tapestries that reached as high as the ornate white ceilings. The floors were covered with thick Indian rugs and life-size paintings of the Wilberton ancestors, who looked down at them from the walls with condescending stares.

Nanvers appeared suddenly, entering the room in a leisurely and autocratic manner. “Why, Leslie, what a wonderful surprise,” he exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome. Do come in. As you know I am just back from the highlands and I have been miserably out of touch. I have not even glimpsed at a newspaper in days. You will have to tell me what’s happening in London.”

Just then he spotted the captain. For a fleeting moment Morgan thought he caught a glimpse of a dark side, but then an impassive mask with a tepid smile once again seemed to emerge on the English lord’s face.

“Captain Morgan,” Nanvers said with a surprised tone in his voice. “What are you doing here in London so soon? I thought you would still be at sea on your packet ship. I am honored.”

Nanvers ushered them into his library with its floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, amply cushioned leather chairs and sofas, and a lovely writing desk that looked out onto terraced gardens outside. A large oil painting of his father standing beside two greyhounds in a forest setting hung over the mantle. Nanvers offered them sherry and motioned for them to sit down in the leather chairs. Leslie excitedly told him about the idea to transform the Greek creation myth project into a symbolic painting of Queen Victoria.

“What do you think, Lord Nanvers? Her Majesty would love the symbolism. I think she would be pleased to be depicted as the Greek Mother Goddess who banished the unruly serpent into the underworld. Do you agree? As the
Punch
reviewers wrote recently, ‘If art is vital, it needs to find food among living events.’”

Nanvers didn’t comment immediately, but then rose from his chair and said in a deliberate voice, “I like your creative thoughts, Leslie.”

“It was actually Morgan’s idea,” Leslie persisted eagerly. “The captain even came up with the brilliant thought that Ophion becomes a convenient symbol of slavery and Queen Victoria, the heroic figure of emancipation. What do you think, Lord Nanvers? Ophion, the serpent?”