Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (16 page)

14

1834

The distant bells of many churches were striking the hour as the cabriolet left St. Katherine’s Docks on its way to the Old Jerusalem Coffee House in the commercial part of London known as Change Alley. The cool morning air on that sparkling June day refreshed Morgan and gave him a sense of well-being. He lit his first cigar of the day and listened to the comforting clopping of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones, still wet from an early morning rain shower. He had been a shipmaster for three years, but he still wasn’t accustomed to many of the different business tasks he was expected to perform while in London. One such job was to promote his ship with shipping agents in London’s Change Alley. He was dressed formally in a long-skirted blue coat, a white shirt with a dark cravat, and his polished Wellington boots. As he fondled his black top hat, he thought about how much had changed in his life. Dressed as formally as he was, it seemed as if he was overreaching his station in life. He almost didn’t recognize himself. He knew he had changed, but these fine clothes he wore still seemed a mask. He reached into his coat pocket and touched Abraham’s old pennywhistle, stroking the smooth lead surface. This is my compass, he said to himself softly.

As they neared Gracechurch Street, Morgan could see the tip of the lofty dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral in the distance. His mind wandered back to that difficult passage three years earlier when he first became shipmaster of the old
Hudson
. He felt the same way now as he did then, awkward and strange. He smiled at his naivete, thinking about how much older he felt now, but also more experienced. It had taken time, but he had gradually won the men’s respect. Even his first mate, Mr. Nyles, had a grudging admiration for his abilities now. He started calling him a lucky captain ever since they had avoided running aground two years ago by kedging their way out of a tight spot off the Irish coast with several small anchors even as a strong headwind threatened to blow them ashore. If it hadn’t been for a helpful ebb tide that pulled them away from the rocks, events might have turned out differently.

Below deck, he had learned many of the skills of being packet-polite. He could now sit at the head of the table, smiling and chatting his way through multiple courses. He still had trouble giving elaborate toasts, but he’d learned to keep his well-heeled passengers entertained by telling wild sea tales and sailors’ jokes and offering to play backgammon and chess. The secret of being packet-polite, he had decided, was to have a ready smile, a quick wit, a helping hand for the ladies, and a plentiful supply of port and sherry. Still, relations with some of his more arrogant English passengers posed special challenges. At times he had trouble controlling his temper. A particularly cutting remark would transport him back to that fearful night as a boy on the river. Back then he had seen the British as the enemy. Now as a captain and one of the Black X Line’s ship owners, he had come to appreciate the benefits of trade and commerce with England. That thought helped him temper a dark feeling about the English that occasionally swept over him.

As he puffed on his cigar, listening to the cab driver coax his horse along, he thought about the day two years ago when his new ship, the
Philadelphia
, was launched into the East River from the Bergh shipyard on Water Street. The
Hudson
had just arrived in port, and he had left the unloading of the ship in the hands of his first mate. He wanted to see the newest ship that Henry Champlin would soon be commanding. It was a summer not easily forgotten. As he watched the 542-ton
Philadelphia
slide off the ways into the river, one of the carpenters pointed out to him the plumes of black smoke rising above the city.

“It’s the cholera,” the man said. “It’s raging here.”

Morgan looked alarmed.

“They’re burning the clothes and bedding of the sick and the dead. That’s what the smoke is.”

During the three-week layover, Morgan had seen cartloads of bodies leaving the city and daily black plumes of smoke rise above the buildings. He’d written home telling Josiah and his mother not to worry. He mostly was staying aboard ship to keep from being contaminated. He wrote how each day he saw the somber sight of horses and wagons carrying the dead to the cemeteries. They would hear the latest from some of the newsboys each morning. People were abandoning the city by the thousands. He had never been happier to set sail and head out to the open sea. By the end of the summer more than 3,500 had died in the city of 250,000.

Clouds of tobacco smoke greeted him as he stepped into the noisy hum of the central meeting room of the Old Jerusalem. He liked to visit this coffeehouse because the latest shipping news was always posted inside. The Old Jerusalem was a favorite of ship captains from all over the world. Morgan never missed an opportunity to listen and discreetly ask questions. He always kept his eyes out for any mention of the
Charon
or the name
Blackwood
. In fact, he had specifically asked a couple of shipping agents he had just met a few weeks earlier to make some inquiries about the
Charon
, saying he thought she was an opium trader. These agents always kept track of the ships and the captains that sailed up the Thames. They had told him to come back before he left London and they might have more information.

Morgan took a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the large room. Men dressed liked him in dark coats and top hats were clustered around tables, some standing, some seated. He scanned the room to see if there was anyone he recognized. A few people were reading the morning newspaper while others were glancing at some of the bulletins posted on the wall. He looked around, but didn’t see any familiar faces that morning. There was no sign of any of the shipping agents he dealt with, so he posted a promotional handbill on the wall that read simply: “Passage to America with the new packet ship
Philadelphia
of the Black X Line: experienced navigators, beds, wines, and foods are of the best description. Apply to Captain E. E. Morgan, St. Katherine’s Docks. First-class cabin fare, thirty guineas. Steerage fare, five pounds.”

At this time, Morgan looked young despite his many years at sea. He was almost thirty, and his tanned, weathered, clean-shaven face had few wrinkles other than the first signs of crow’s-feet on either side of his light hazel green eyes. His reddish-brown hair was combed back to reveal a smooth forehead. He laughed comfortably and walked with a light and easy step. Perhaps it was that carefree attitude and winning smile that drew a particular solicitous man to his side, or perhaps it was the way he walked, like he was still on a ship’s deck.

“Mornin’ to you, squire,” the stranger piped up, removing his top hat to reveal a head of curly black hair. “What brings you to the Old Jerusalem? You won’t find any ladybirds or high-priced toffers here, if that’s what you’re seeking.”

At the sound of the man’s voice Morgan turned and introduced himself as captain of a New York–London liner. The man who spoke was a round fellow who Morgan guessed was about forty years old. He had a large sallow-skinned face with a long, bulbous nose that pointed down to a double chin. The man was dressed with an eye-catching green vest, but otherwise he wore a conventional white shirt, black cravat, and black coat. Morgan gave him one of the handbills advertising the
Philadelphia
and began to extol the attributes of his ship as well as the merits of the shipping line. The Englishman pushed his left hand through his hair and peered at the pamphlet through his reading spectacles. He then asked with a wry smile, “I see yer name is Morgan. Are ye the Yankee captain who is lookin’ for William Blackwood?”

Morgan tried to control his surprise and excitement.

“Yes, yes. Do you know him?”

“Not personally, but I know of ’im. Some of the other agents ’ere told me to keep my eye out for you. They told me ye was looking for Blackwood.”

Morgan nodded.

“Where can I find him?”

“What business do ye ’av with ’im?”

“Personal business.”

“I see.”

The man smiled as he unbuttoned the midsection of his black coat.

“No, I haven’t seen William Blackwood for some time now. Let me introduce meself, Captain. My name is Fleming, William Fleming. I am a stockjobber in sugar, spices, and tea, and a shipping agent handling all types of cargo.”

Morgan knew the type. The London coffeehouses in Change Alley were full of these fast-talking traders selling their quick-rich schemes, some of them honorable, many of them not.

“Captain, ye and me are experienced men of the world, am I right? Whatever your business dealings are with William Blackwood, I can offer ye some fine trading opportunities. I know a few well-dressed gentlemen with several trading firms right ’ere in this room who may be looking for a fast Yankee ship.”

The man had sharp and penetrating black eyes, which Morgan thought reminded him of a hungry crow. Mr. Fleming placed his shiny top hat on a table nearby and smiled at him in an insinuating manner that revealed a row of brown-stained teeth. Morgan was repulsed by this man, but in the interest of promoting his ship, he forced himself to inquire more about his proposal.

“What, then, are your well-dressed gentlemen looking for?” Morgan asked as he lit his cigar.

“They need to move some human cargo,” was the terse reply. “And they’re looking for a fast Yankee ship.”

“That so,” Morgan replied, thinking that the man might be posturing to try to charter his ship for the Atlantic voyage. “Well, we could carry as many as one hundred, maybe two hundred in steerage on the
Philadelphia
. Up to twenty-four passengers in the first-class cabin. We can make the westward passage to New York in twenty days or less.”

“Indeed, then yer ship should be perfectly suited for the kind of work my clients are seeking.”

“And what might that be?” Morgan asked, his suspicions rising.

Mr. Fleming rubbed his hand over his fleshy double chin and then looked at Morgan with a slanting, restless glance. He leaned closer and in a husky whisper said, “It is what we call ’ere in England the ebony trade. You Americans call it black ivory.” He paused for a second before continuing. “Most British shipmasters won’t risk eboneering anymore because of the penalties handed out by the Admiralty of one hundred pounds per slave. Think about it, Captain.”

“Blackbirding?” Morgan asked in disbelief, repulsed by this proposal.

The man held his stubby index finger up to his lips and nodded.

“These men would pay well, Captain, one-eighth interest in the profits.”

Still reeling in surprise by this loathsome offer, Morgan now went on the offensive after he took a step backward from Mr. Fleming.

“I thought you English had banned slave trafficking. And if I’m not mistaken, a new law goes into effect just weeks from now that will end all slavery in most of the English colonies?”

“Yer well-informed, Captain. England is close to abolishing slavery. This place is filled with talk of sugarcane rotting in the fields of Jamaica, the fear of guinea slaves rising up in anger, killing their masters and raping their wives and daughters. Remember the rebellion in Jamaica couple of years back? Twenty thousand of those blackies rose up and set fire to plantations and estates.”

The man pressed his oily face and bulbous nose closer to Morgan’s ear.

“For those who are clever, like ye and me, there is opportunity here.”

“I don’t follow your line of thinking,” Morgan responded while pondering whether to abruptly walk away.

“Let me explain, Captain. The English planters in the West Indies quite rightly are fearful of the future. Many of them are of high social standing here in London. They have their landed fortunes to protect. Under the Emancipation Act, Parliament will compensate them. That much is certain. There is some talk of each planter getting twenty pounds per slave. My point, Captain, is there is money to be had. In Jamaica alone, there are over three hundred thousand slaves. Those slaveholders will be getting millions of pounds of compensation money, all thanks to Parliament. Why, there are a few notable lords, even a venerable bishop, quite respected I might add, who own slaves. Hundreds of them. Then there are some of the merchant class in Bristol, even a minister of parliament or two. No names, of course. Yes indeed, there are many people of high social standing who stand to earn a lot from the Emancipation Act. Those are just a few examples of the high price of freedom.”

Morgan stepped back in disgust.

He put his hat back on, irritated that he had wasted so much time talking to this wretch. Sensing failure, Mr. Fleming straightened his back and thrust his large stomach forward. “Evidently ye have failed to comprehend my meaning, Captain,” the man replied with a note of arrogance and hurt indignation in his voice.

“No, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Fleming,” Morgan said as he moved away. “I comprehend your meaning only too well.”

“Quite right. Quite right,” Mr. Fleming replied in a subdued tone. He paused as he rubbed his nose, and then snipped at Morgan with a sarcastic rejoinder. “I guess ye blooming Yankees are the last stronghold for liberty and equality then, aren’t ye?”