Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (6 page)

“Hiram, help me!” Morgan cried out. “It’s slipping! The bucket, it’s falling!”

Hiram was on the other side of the mast, but he was quick to react as he saw the impending disaster unfolding. He stepped over to Morgan’s side and sidled toward him, being careful to keep one hand on the shrouds. Morgan reached for the rope with his other hand, but he lost his balance, and started to fall backward. Hiram was close enough to grab him by his belt while he held onto the rigging with the other hand. Morgan was now precariously hanging in the air, his hands frantically trying to grab the shrouds, his feet barely touching the ratlines. By this time, the bucket with its foul and greasy contents was in free fall. The slobbery mess landed on top of the unsuspecting second mate’s head like generous dollops of pig fat on a skillet. The bucket hit the mate squarely on the shoulder. The blow was enough to knock him down onto the deck.

Hiram called out for help. His hand on Morgan’s belt was beginning to slip.

“Hurry!” Hiram yelled. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

Like a nimble monkey, the wiry Spaniard was the first up the mast, climbing around the futtock shrouds for speed and then up the rope ladder to the topsail area where the boys were dangling. The taller Icelander was right behind him, carrying a thick hemp rope. Morgan’s head was now facing downward, his hands clutching at thin air. He was attempting to grip the ratlines with his feet and legs, but to no avail. The Spaniard climbed up above the two boys, wrapped his legs around the topsail yard’s foot rope, and then like a monkey swung upside down to grab one of Morgan’s feet with both his hands, allowing Hiram to let go of his belt. At the same time, Icelander tied a bowline at one end of the rope and tossed the knotted loop to Morgan’s outstretched hands. He then passed the other end of the rope over the topsail yard and wrapped the line two or three times around the mast to secure it.

“Put both your hands through the loop and hold,” he yelled. Morgan did as he was told and wrapped his wrist in and around the loop, grabbing the area above the bulging bowline knot. At a signal from Icelander, the Spaniard let go of his hold on Morgan’s foot, and his body catapulted downward toward the deck. His free fall was quickly arrested by the rope, leaving him dangling, swinging back and forth, hanging by his wrists and hands, but safe. Icelander slowly lowered him to the safety of the deck to the cheers of the onlookers down below.

Captain Champlin came over to check on the condition of his second officer. Jack Brown’s pride was the gravest injury. He made sure that Morgan not only holystoned the decks but scrubbed the pigpen. This punishment went on for days until Brown’s wrath was eventually redirected to another greenhand.

Because of Morgan’s miraculous escape from almost certain death, some of the more superstitious men now saw him as a lucky sailor. Sighting a pod of dolphins was considered a harbinger of good fortune. A black cat on board ship was good luck, and now young Morgan was finding himself accepted as a member of the crew because he was viewed as a good omen.

Days later, Ely and Hiram were down on their knees, holystoning the cold decks late one morning when the cry came out from aloft that land was in sight. Earlier they’d already seen some black-and-white seabirds, their stiff wingtips dipping from one side to another as they skimmed the water in search of schools of herring or other small fish. They had been twenty-five days at sea.

“Can’t be long now to Mizen Head,” cried out one old sailor who was pointing to the northeast. The man was tall and skinny, his bony shoulders drooping like the broken wings of a bird. Morgan couldn’t see anything but a white haze on the horizon. He looked at the man’s craggy features. His long, gray beard hung down like strands of Spanish moss from the limbs of a tree. The scarred and furrowed face and well-defined crow’s-feet at the corners of his light blue eyes were all a testament to a man who had been at sea for most of his life. His name was Jeremiah Watkins. Most of the sailors just called him Old Jeremiah. He was one of the veteran sailors on board who was both superstitious and religious. In his youth, he had attained the rank of a harpooner on one of the Nantucket whalers. He had traveled as far as China and Bombay. At night, when some of the men were off watch and spinning yarn in the forecastle, he would tell tales about the East India trade and “them Oriental monkeys in Bombay who don’t wear no togs, nothing but a white bandana around their privates.” Because of his knowledge of Scripture and legends, good and bad omens, the sailors on board the
Hudson
looked to him for guidance.

“Why do you say we are close to Mizen Head?” Morgan asked respectfully.

“See those black-and-white birds darting about?”

Morgan nodded as he followed the direction of the sailor’s long extended arm and pointed finger.

“Those are shearwaters, and they’re the first to welcome us across. They nest on the rocky cliffs of Ireland. That’s how I know we’re getting close to Mizen Head.”

Jeremiah’s voice was hoarse with the cold weather, and Morgan detected that his breath was tainted with the smell of rum.

“The Scripture contains considerable amount of teachings, but so do the old legends. Both harrow up important truths out here in the open sea. Who’s to say why storm petrels are said to protect sailors? Some believe these birds carry the souls of drowned sailors. Some say any sailor who kills one of them birds will die. Who’s to say?”

The old sailor pointed again at one of the shearwaters, which twirled to one side, exposing its white underside, while its wings were rigid and unmoving.

“You see, the shearwater looks like a flying cross, calling on all sinful sailors to repent.”

Morgan’s eyes followed the bird as it flew out of sight, thinking how much he had to learn. He wasn’t superstitious by nature, or overly mystical, but he had enough respect for old sailors and their beliefs not to discount anything.

As the
Hudson
began to heel sharply with a sudden gust of wind, Mr. Brown sent the two cabin boys aloft to check on some of the buntlines and clewlines. There, dangling from the stirrup with his arms draped over the topgallant yards on the main mast, Morgan looked down at the well-dressed cabin passengers gathered in the quarterdeck. The men sported their black top hats, their long overcoats, and their finely polished boots. There were only two women, both seated, bundled up with blankets pulled tightly around their shoulders. A steward was passing refreshments. It looked like hot cups of tea and a platter of small sandwiches. Captain Champlin was looking through his spyglass. He said something to one of the male passengers, and suddenly they were all gesturing wildly, pointing off to the northeast.

Morgan swiveled around and in the far distance he caught his first sight of the cliffs of Mizen Head, the southwesternmost tip of Ireland. He looked across a meadow of whitecaps to the dark, windswept cliffs, and the tufts of green beyond. It had taken them over three weeks to cross the Atlantic, and the intensity of this moment left him without words. With an easterly wind, they were forced to tack back and forth along the south coast of Ireland, passing Glandore Harbor and Galley Head in the Celtic Sea. In the distance, they could see another prominent point of land with a lighthouse. He watched as Old Jeremiah poured a tot of rum over the side and asked Hiram what the sailor was doing.

“That’s an offering to Neptune,” Hiram replied curtly. “Just six months ago one of the Black Ball packet ships, the
Albion
, went up on the rocks off this coast here in a terrible storm. Twenty persons were clinging to the wreck until finally the ship broke apart and the sea claimed her. The captain was lost along with almost all the crew and the passengers. They say the heavy surf and waves pounded the ship to pieces.”

Morgan stared out at the inhospitable coastline and the rolling waves of the Atlantic crashing onto shore, the white foam of the sea swirling in whirlpools around the rocks. He thought of William, whose ship had gone down at sea and was never heard of again. His mind turned to the mystery of Abraham’s death, which he was determined to solve. It was too hard for him to accept that both his older brothers had been called away early from this life. Abraham must be alive. He thought of his smile, his cheery optimism, and some of his quirks, like his passion for collecting sailors’ pennywhistles. He pulled out a small one made of lead that his brother had given him before he left home, and fingered its smooth surface for good luck.

“Why don’t you ask Jeremiah Watkins about it yourself,” Hiram said. “He’s heard the tale of the
Albion
.”

Just then the mate called out to mind the braces. Morgan could feel the big ship veer off the wind. They were now on a southwesterly course toward the western edge of the Scilly Islands.

A day later Morgan took Hiram’s advice. He walked over to Old Jeremiah and began first asking him about the wreck, and then decided to confide in the old sailor and tell him all about his quest to find his brother, and what he had heard about how Abraham had been a victim of “foul play of the worst kind, the Devil’s own mischief.”

Jeremiah Watkins, his smoky blue eyes suddenly intense, looked down at Morgan.

“It ain’t for me, an old sailor, to describe the ways of the Devil. He takes a grip on all of us and has many disguises. They say when a shark follows a ship someone on board will die. When rats leave a ship that’s a definite sign you have to look sharp because the Devil will have you afore morning.”

Morgan persisted.

“But this old salt who found me spoke with the sailor who sailed with my brother. He told me that this John Taylor quoted scripture, something from Jonah.”

Old Jeremiah stroked the long strands of his gray beard. He said nothing as he continued to look out at the sea, his thin nostrils moving, sniffing the breeze like a dog.

“Now that’s a different pannikin of wine altogether. There’s the Devil’s mischief in those hogsheads. Do you know what a Jonah is, son?”

Morgan shook his head.

“A Jonah is a sailor who brings bad luck. Sometimes the only way to overcome that misfortune is to sacrifice that sailor.”

5

1824

Morgan looked around the darkness of the forecastle. The wet sailors dressed in their damp oilskins were silent, gathered in small groups under the glow of a single gimbaled lantern. The ship was pitching and heaving. The summer storm had pushed them far off course into the Bay of Biscay, and as a result the mood was grim. As he scanned the weathered faces of the men in the gloom of the dark forecastle, Morgan’s mind wandered back. Two years had passed since he first had stepped on board the
Hudson
. After eight voyages across the Atlantic, he was now an apprentice sailor. He was strong and nimble as a squirrel in the rigging. The bristly stubble on his face and the thickness of his neck were testament to his growth from boy to man. His muscular arms and shoulders were tattooed, a compass rose on his left shoulder and an anchor on his right. Two signs of hope, he had told Hiram. His friend had scoffed at him and proudly showed off the big-breasted mermaids he had tattooed on his two shoulders. “These doxies are all the hope I need,” he said. Like many of the sailors, they both chewed tobacco now, regularly sharing each other’s quids as a sign of their friendship.

In the flickering yellow light of the forecastle, all eyes, including Morgan’s, were now on Jeremiah, who was talking like a biblical prophet. The old tar’s deeply creased face looked like a badly rutted country road. A thin white scar ran across the bridge of his nose, crisscrossing the deep fissures that traveled across his forehead. On his head he wore a headband and a leather hat. His stone blue eyes were sunken into his head, and in that yellow light, with his imposing gray beard, he seemed to Morgan to be a man possessed.

“The storm petrels done come alongside the ship and are riding the wind with us,” he muttered. “I reckon they’re warning us about this here storm.”

The lantern’s light reflected onto Jeremiah’s face, as he ominously held up a small dark bird with white plumage on its tail. Its head was bloody, its eyes still and lifeless. He paused for a few moments as if for dramatic effect.

“I ’ave found one of them petrels lying on the deck. It’s dead.”

The men stared at the lifeless bird. They had just come off watch. A heavy rain had driven them into the safety of the damp forecastle. Most of them were still in their dripping oilskins. They were wet and hungry. Within minutes, most of them were reaching into their hiding places and pulling out the rum bottles that were forbidden on board ship. The forecastle was filled with the gray haze of tobacco smoke, adding to a sense of foreboding.

“It’s no good that dead bird ain’t,” Jeremiah intoned. “I’ll warrant it means considerable misfortune. Any of you men know of any dead sailors who had something troubling their souls?”

Instead of the swearing and coughing that usually filled this damp, dark underworld, there was a strange silence. Morgan thought how cursed this voyage had been. They had been becalmed for days in the English Channel. The ground swell and the pull of the tide had carried them into the Sea of Iroise near the coast of France. They had almost run up on the rocks off the deadly coast of Brittany near the islands of Ouessant and Molène. Now a bad sea had kicked up, and it was clear to all aboard that a big storm was brewing. The captain had tried to reach across the English Channel toward the Scilly Islands, but the winds and the waves had knocked them down to the south, forcing them far off course into the Bay of Biscay. It was as if the Devil himself didn’t want them to complete this voyage.

This passage had started well under fair skies and freshening wind just one week ago on the first of July. The
Hudson
had floated down the Thames, the stars and stripes fluttering over the mizzen peak, colorful pennants streaming from her masts and rigging. It was the official inaugural voyage of the new London Line, a loose-knit business partnership between Grinnell and Minturn’s Red Swallowtail Line and John Griswold’s company, the Black X Line. The
X
was for express, signifying fast, dependable delivery of the mailbags, passengers, and cargo across the Atlantic between London and New York. Along with the Red Swallowtail Line, the Black X Line now joined the other American packet lines to England—the Red Star, the Blue Swallowtail, and the Black Ball. There were other American ships, of course, that traveled to Liverpool and London, but they were freighters, not packets. Morgan had felt a surge of pride run through him.

Now as he sat in the forecastle listening to Jeremiah speak about strange superstitions and ominous signs of misfortune on the sea, he felt a cold sensation crawl up the back of his neck, giving him goose bumps. He started to shiver. It was almost as if they had fallen under a sorcerer’s spell. A large wave slammed into the midsection and thundered over the bow. He could hear loud cracks. The hull’s crossbeams shook and trembled in protest. The seas crashing on the deck and the waves on either side of the ship mingled together in a frightening roar.

Morgan could hear the wailing and moaning of the emigrants over the howl of the wind. They had about thirty people in the adjacent steerage compartment. He had been told that most of them were simple cottagers from the Salisbury Plains area of southern England. A few others were tenant farmers from Ireland. None of them had ever been on a ship before, and so not surprisingly they were terrified by stormy weather. The ship’s carpenter had hammered shut their hatchway to keep the compartment watertight. There was no way for any of them to reach the open air, no escape if the ship went down. He imagined them piled together: men, women, and children, clutching the wooden bunk beds in desperation in the total darkness of the upper hold, their boxes and chests hurtling from one end of the ship to the other.

Morgan put aside for the moment his empathy for the steerage passengers and looked around the forecastle, slowly retreating behind most of the other men. Not a smile offered, and not a word spoken. He had learned to keep his mouth shut in these cramped quarters. Some of these tough men did things to one another that were best not talked about. They were quick to anger, and once angered hard to control. Resentments among sailors on board became permanent shackles. He knew the dangers of drawing attention to himself.

Old Jeremiah was looking for someone to blame for the bad weather. Several new sailors had come aboard in London. The suspicious eyes darting around eventually landed on these newcomers. Morgan looked at the turned heads, the reluctant glances, and the downcast eyes. Even the old hands had something to hide, he thought to himself. They all had something they didn’t want the others to know. After moments of silence where only the howling wind could be heard outside, Jeremiah lifted his bearded chin as he raised his voice to a higher pitch.

“Men, I fear that no-account Irishman who we cast off in Ouessant is not our sole source of misfortune. There is another problem,” he declared with solemn authority.

“What might that be?” Curly Jim asked as he stroked his bald head. “Is there someone else who we should cast off the ship?”

Morgan thought of the man they’d left behind on the French island of Ouessant, an Irish emigrant by the name of Peter Corrigan. The sailors had forced the captain to run him ashore. He had kicked the ship’s cat overboard, a sure sign of bad luck. Sure enough, shortly afterward the wind had died. Some had muttered that the ship was cursed on account of that black cat being drowned. Someone was to blame for this strange weather, they said. It’s the emigrant’s fault, they had whispered to one another. He needs to go. Corrigan had cried, begging them to let him stay on board because his entire savings had been spent to purchase the fare to America. Morgan remembered as the
Hudson
set sail, seeing the man standing on the treeless, rocky bluffs of Ouessant looking out at the ship, his red hair waving in the wind. The small, forlorn figure on the cliffs had been as still as a statue, his arms hanging at his sides.

Now Jeremiah told the men that the curse was still with them. The dead bird was a bad omen, he warned as he stood up, and began walking around the cramped forecastle, pulling and stroking his beard. A haunting silence hung in the air. No one spoke. Morgan noticed one of the new sailors who seemed to be frozen in fear. The man moved to the back of the room further into the shadows as Jeremiah raised his voice again, his pale blue eyes, now big and staring, bulging out of their red-rimmed sockets.

“We have a Jonah in our midst, men. I am loath to tell you this, but tell you I will. I am as certain of this as I am about the Scripture. Unless we find him, misfortune is going to find us. So it is written in the Book of Jonah.”

The forecastle was filled with a flurry of urgent angry cries to find the Jonah and remove the curse. The noise increased. There was a sense of frenzy in the air.

“A life for a life,” Jeremiah shouted. “So says the Bible.”

Morgan kept his eyes on that one sailor. In the light from the hanging lantern, he could see him clearly. He was a tall man, hollow cheeked with a weak jaw that fell inward toward his long thin neck. His dark eyes had an inward gaze of someone lost in thought. The dark shadows under his eyes gave him a haunted, gaunt appearance. He looked to be just a few years older than he was. His name was John Dobbs. He had shipped on board at the last minute. He told the mates that his normal vessel had left port without him and he needed to get to New York. The officers had welcomed him aboard as they always needed an extra hand. He was an odd sort. He mostly kept to himself, but in the sailors’ lonely world that was not that strange. People just left him alone.

A stony silence now pervaded the cramped forecastle. Old Jeremiah had delivered his sermon and the men had much to think about as they took careful measure of their situation and of one another. The ship was pitching and heaving more heavily now, and the sailors retreated to their bunks. Morgan made his way through the narrow aisles past the hanging bundles of dripping wet clothes and gear. He decided to escape from the madness that surrounded him. Lying in his bunk, he took out the last letter he had received from home and began reading it again in the dim candlelight. It was a letter from his brother Josiah, who was the only one who wrote him. The words were a comfort, a link to the life he had left behind.

“My dear brother, For now, all is well on the farm, although with your absence we have had to cut back on the number of hogs and cows. We’ve been growing less barley too, as it is too hard to harvest. The apple trees are thriving.”

Morgan tried to imagine the farm as the ship pitched and heaved.

“Our sister Asenath is well,” wrote Josiah. “She says that she has never enjoyed such good health as she has since she married. Young Jesse and Maria Louisa are growing up quickly and are a big help to mother with the farm chores, even though Maria Louisa likes to torment the dog.”

Morgan thought of his sisters and smiled. He wished at that moment that he was together with them and his mother, watching them all making dinner in the warmth of the kitchen. He resumed his reading.

“Rest assured brother, all of us, especially our dear mother, want to hear how you’re faring. It’s just father who vents his gall by cursing all sailors. Sadly, he says he wants to hear no news from any who have chosen the life of the sea. He has forbidden mother or any of us to write to you, and I am sad to say he tears up your letters if he intercepts them before we do.”

Reading those words again left a bittersweet taste in his mouth like biting into a tart green apple. He loved reading about the family, but the news of his father only tied his stomach in knots. The thought of his father’s glowering face with his bushy silver eyebrows just made him more determined than ever to find out what had happened to Abraham.

As he clutched his letter and thought of home, Morgan could feel the wind pick up sharply. It was midnight, time for the watch to change. The gale was intensifying and soon the mates were banging on the forecastle hatch, delivering the captain’s orders to shorten sail. Morgan was actually glad for the excuse to go aloft and escape the fearful atmosphere in the forecastle.