Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (21 page)

“Well, Miss Robinson, we’re now approaching the warm Gulf Stream waters. Suppose by accident you should fall overboard? I’d have the quarter boat already lowered ready to pick you up, so there would be no real danger. You can be sure the man who truly loves you will jump in after you.”

“Why, Captain, I believe that is a most splendid idea!” she replied, her face lighting up with pleasure. “When will we do this?”

“As soon as the winds have died down,” he replied. “Be sure to wear a light cotton dress and your slippers.”

Two days later, Morgan woke early to discover a beautiful morning without a ripple in sight. The ship was drifting along under full sail, hardly making any headway in the warm Gulf Stream waters. The ocean was a clear turquoise blue, calm and sedate, the sunlight sparkling on the surface like thousands of tiny diamonds. For most of the morning, the ship cruised along on the glassy water at a speed of less than two knots, the sails limp and lifeless. Fertile seaweed brought from the Gulf Stream filled with tiny fish and shells drifted by like floating islands. The passengers were bored and restless as they sat in the roundhouse and on the quarterdeck chairs. They listened to the sails and the yards backing and filling and complained about the fickle air and the lack of forward progress.

When Eliza came up on deck followed by her suitors, Morgan winked at her, turned his head toward the quarter boat in the midsection of the ship, and motioned for her to move in that direction. Morgan had already brought several of the sailors in on his plan, including Icelander and Whipple, who were stationed at the rope tackle to release the rowboat in seconds. Lowery had distracted the normally attentive Mrs. Robinson in the saloon with some of his New Orleans recipes so she had no idea what her daughter was up to directly above her. Eliza played her part expertly. With her three suitors following closely behind, she enticed them over to the side of the ship by flirtatiously suggesting they should all play a game. Once she reached the bulwarks, she took off her slippers, grabbed the lower shrouds at the base of the mizzenmast, and jumped out onto the chain-wale on the vessel’s outer hull, where the deadeyes of the lower rigging were attached.

“Look, I’m standing in the chains!” she cried out with delight. Her light cotton dress made her seem even more youthful than she was. “This is where the leadsman stands to throw his long line into the sea to determine the depth of the water. Who will join me?”

Eliza pretended to hurl the blue pigeon as the sailors called the lead, shouting out a fictional number of fathoms. Her gentlemen friends were laughing at the courage and foolishness of this lively young woman even as they reached out to try to bring her back aboard.

“Mon Dieu!” cried the French count. “Elle est incroyable. Une femme avec le coeur d’un lion.” Sir Charles Molesworth and young Mr. Norris, clearly more alarmed at the risks Eliza was taking, were struggling to pull themselves up onto the bulwarks when suddenly she let out a scream.

Her hands slipped their grip on the shrouds and her feet slid off the chain-wale as she fell backward. She hit the water with a loud splash, immediately triggering the sailors high atop the yards to give out the warning.

“Man overboard!”

There was a scramble on deck as passengers and crew rushed to the side to see what had happened. Some sixteen feet below them, Eliza’s head with her calico bonnet still attached was bobbing up and down, her arms thrashing about.

“Help! Help! I can’t swim!”

This was a lie, of course, but none of her suitors knew that. The French count was the first one to dive in after her, followed closely by the American. Sir Charles Molesworth clearly gave it a few seconds of thought, but seeing his competitors already swimming toward her, he took the plunge, jumping in feet first with a huge splash. Morgan looked down at this scene with great amusement while most of his passengers were caught up in the drama. Even before she jumped, he had signaled Whipple and Icelander to lower the quarter boat to retrieve Eliza. The plan seemed like an excellent idea, but there were some unexpected results.

None of the men, it turned out, were good swimmers. All three were dressed in a full suit of clothes with heavy black boots. Count D’Aubusson was soon floundering and thrashing about in the ocean. Sir Charles wasn’t able to make any headway and, alarmingly, he began to sink like a stone. Mr. Norris’s arms and kicking feet were whirling about, stirring up the water like a paddlewheel steamer making its way up the Mississippi River.

Icelander and Whipple first picked up Eliza and then rescued the swimmers. Sir Charles was so overweight he had to be held up on the side of the quarter boat until the sailors on deck could lift him up by block and tackle. When they were finally all safely aboard, all three of the dripping trio presented themselves on the ship’s deck in front of an equally wet Eliza. She’d lost her bonnet, and her long brown hair, normally neatly drawn back, was now hanging down in stringy strands. Morgan looked into her eyes, but didn’t know what to say, so he turned to the three dripping men and gave each of them a pat on the back.

“Miss Robinson should count herself a lucky woman indeed to have so many chivalrous gentlemen ready to jump to rescue her. I don’t know which one of you I would commend the most.”

Morgan was savoring the moment. The three suitors were a picture of misery, their fine cotton and satin clothes ruined, their boots filled with water. Eliza thanked each of them for their bravery, apologized for her clumsiness, and then quickly left for her cabin, where she stayed throughout the two-hour-long dinner. Later, she sent a message with Lowery to the captain, asking him to escort her on a stroll around the deck.

That night they walked to a shadowy corner on the leeward side of the taffrail where they could have privacy. The deck was quiet, and only a few faint voices could be heard below in the saloon. It was a dark night with not a star in the sky, no gleam on the water, just a fitful puff of wind driving the ship forward. No one had seen them, not even the helmsman.

“What am I to do now, Captain,” she cried in despair. “What am I to do?” After sweeping her hand across her face to wipe her tears, she continued, “Those were not the results I expected from your little contest. You have just made things worse than they already were. How will I ever choose?”

“Ah, my dear,” replied Morgan with a twinkle in his eye as he reached out to grab the varnished rail. “It is indeed a difficult decision. Those are three brave, chivalrous men, and as I said, if I were you, I don’t know which one of your wet suitors I would choose. They all passed the test, and you can’t marry all three.”

Eliza looked at him with a repugnant stare as she angrily shook her head. She drew her shawl closely around her shoulders.

“You are a cruel man, Captain. You are mocking me. I think it is time for you to leave me in my misery.”

At this point, he was having a hard time restraining his laughter at the vision of the three sodden suitors on deck.

“Each of your gentlemen friends has his respective merits, but, as I seriously ponder your dilemma, I think, if you truly want a sensible husband, why I think I would pick the dry one.”

His normally deadpan face broke out in a hopeful but playful smile. Eliza stared at him in surprise, puzzled at first by this reference to the “dry one,” but as his words slowly sunk in she realized the portent of what he was saying. Her frown disappeared and she smiled coquettishly.

“Why, Captain Morgan,” she replied, “may I be so bold to ask if the dry one might be the master of the packet ship
Philadelphia
?”

His face became flushed at this direct question. Even in the black stillness that surrounded them, she seemed to sense his vulnerability. Whether by instinct or guesswork, she seemed to have the answer she had hoped for, and she edged closer to him.

“Well then, I think I will take the dry one,” she said with a beaming smile. “I’ve always wanted a sensible husband.”

She was now close enough that he could hear her breathing and smell the lavender in her hair. She seemed more desirable than ever before, a creature so determined and headstrong, yet so delicate and small. He looked down at this tiny powerhouse of a young woman with her finely shaped nose and high cheekbones. In the darkness of the night, he couldn’t see well, but he could sense her smile. All caution seemed to abandon him. He placed his fingers on her still-wet hair, gently stroking it, and allowed his hand to fall down the back of her neck to her shoulders. Their faces grew closer and Morgan’s hands moved lower down to her back as he pulled her to him. His eyes locked with hers. She moved her head upward and closed her eyes as Morgan pressed his lips against hers. She reciprocated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer to her.

PART VII

The institution exists, perhaps, in its least repulsive and most mitigated form in such a town as this; but it is slavery; and though I was, with respect to it, an innocent man, its presence filled me with a sense of shame and self-reproach.

—Charles Dickens (commenting about slavery in Baltimore, Maryland),
American Notes

17

Morgan turned away from the ship’s busy deck where the crew was securing lines and looked down at the faces lined up on the South Street docks below him. The ship had just arrived after more than four weeks at sea. There was a phalanx of horse-drawn cabbies and hotel brokers lined up, a crush of porters and newsmen eager for business and information from the packet’s passengers. The hum of voices, laughter, shouting, and yelling drifted up to the ship’s deck. A blend of sausage, onions, and spices wafted up from one of the food vendors on the wharf assaulting Morgan’s nose and whetting his appetite for shore leave. The baggage wagons drawn by mules were already being loaded. A newsboy was hawking the latest sensationalist headlines about the second day of rioting underway in New York. “Read all about it! Mobs target homes of abolitionists!”

The riots were supposedly triggered by an anti-American remark from an Englishman by the name of George Farren, the stage manager of the Bowery Theater. He was known to be an outspoken abolitionist and had no love for Americans. Farren was quoted as publicly saying that Americans were “a damn set of jackasses and fit to be gulled.” Mobs were angered by that remark, and turned their rage on many of the nearby antislavery churches. They were dunking white abolitionists in hogsheads of black ink and targeting anyone of color. They’d stormed the Bowery Theater and demanded an apology from Farren.

Morgan handed the newspaper to Lowery and said to his steward, “Better stay aboard, Mr. Lowery. With this thuggery going on you’re a good deal safer in the London docklands than you are here in New York.”

Lowery excitedly showed the newspaper to Scuttles and another colored sailor, Ben Sheets, who had recently signed on board as a foredeck sailor. Morgan watched Lowery run off clutching the newspaper tightly in his hand. In London, he’d seen his steward dressed in a fancy suit with a good-looking English woman holding on to his arm, his head held high. This wasn’t possible in New York. If he tried to do that here, he would have been beaten by a mob.

As the passengers lined up at the gangway ready to disembark, Morgan stood ready to shake their hands. Lord Nanvers was dressed in a long-skirted coat with an eye-catching red vest. He escorted the swaying Lady Nanvers to the gangway, where he thanked Morgan for the safe voyage, assuring him that they would travel aboard the
Philadelphia
again. They were off to Baltimore, he said, to attend to some business and see some of the fine, fast clippers being built there. When the time came for Eliza and her mother to leave the ship, Morgan knew all was not well. He and Eliza had been discreet by staying apart from each other during the last few days of the voyage, exchanging warm glances but little else. Eliza had kept her suitors at arm’s length by spending more time with her mother on deck and in their cabin. He’d assumed she’d told her mother about their romance and that Mrs. Robinson would approve. After all, he was a packet ship captain with a London liner and Eliza’s mother had seemed to enjoy his company.

Instead, Mrs. Robinson, stern-faced and unsmiling, had studiously avoided his glance as she stepped off the ship onto the busy Pine Street wharf, holding Eliza’s hand tightly. Eliza had gazed back at him with a panicked look as she and her mother disappeared into the crowded docks. Morgan watched from the top of the gangway as mobs of people swallowed them like a swarming hive of bees. He wondered what could have happened to make Mrs. Robinson so unfriendly. They had shared warm recollections about Connecticut as he had discovered late in the voyage that she had grown up in the town of Durham, twenty miles to the west of Lyme. He told himself that maybe she was just eager to get on land after the long passage.

Taking a wife had never seemed practical to him. He was more connected to the sea than the land. He knew he would be spending most of his life on board a ship. But he had been lonely and Eliza seemed a perfect match. She loved the ocean and she was fearless. Even the mutiny did not appear to have fazed her. He was certain this young woman had captured his heart. When he looked at her, he forgot where he was. He couldn’t stop hearing her feisty voice, her infectious laugh, so willful and irreverent, the smell of lavender in her hair, her bare neck, her tiny hands in his grasp, so warm, so real. All of that had awakened his sensations. Hours after she and her mother left the ship, Eliza’s sparkling, amber-colored eyes were still with him, as was the memory of the light touch of her lips. The very next day a lovesick Morgan sent her a letter, professing his devotion to her, asking when they could see each other again. Each morning for the next few days, he waited shipside for the mailman to deliver a reply, but none came. He began to despair. At first he was puzzled, as she had seemed genuinely drawn to him. Then he fell into a much darker mood. He began to wonder if she had deceived him like Laura. He cursed himself for being so gullible. He was such a fool. Perhaps she had simply used him to make one of her other suitors jealous? He began to suspect that all women were naturally skilled at the art of deceiving men. His mood grew darker.

Finally, three days later, a small, sealed letter in her handwriting came to him. He opened it with trepidation, his hands shaking. His heart sank as he read the blunt words telling him she wasn’t sure that she loved him, but then a few lines later he found reason for hope.

By not responding promptly to your affectionate letter, my dear Captain, you may have thought I have forgotten you entirely. I can assure you that is not the case. Perhaps you have even questioned my sincerity? Let me affirm to you it is entirely impossible for my heart to forget our evening embrace on the deck of the Philadelphia.

She asked him to meet her at the Battery the next day. She would find a way to free herself from her mother.

When he saw her seated on a bench looking out at the anchored ships off the Battery, she was wearing the same white empire-waisted dress she’d had on that evening on the ship’s deck, the same black Spanish lace draped across her shoulders. Her hair was drawn back underneath a broad-rimmed bonnet. He grabbed her hands and looked at her reassuringly. They embraced and kissed, but he knew something was wrong. Her shoulders were tense, her face downcast, and the edges of her eyes were red. Her hands were clutching a moist handkerchief. He quickly realized he was sailing into stronger headwinds than he had anticipated. Eliza didn’t know what to do. She told him how her mother had approached her on the ship with news that Sir Charles was so taken with her that he wanted to ask for her hand in marriage. Her mother was overjoyed, bubbling with excitement. She’d burst into Eliza’s stateroom and blurted out the news that she had won over the old Englishman. Eliza became distraught, saying she wouldn’t have him. Her mother couldn’t understand why her daughter wasn’t glowing about this enviable catch.

“Who is it?” she had asked breathlessly. “Is it that gracious, delightful French count? Is it that nice young man from Philadelphia?”

“None of the above, Mother. It’s someone else. I love someone else.”

“Who is it?” She paused and then her nostrils began to flare. “It’s not . . .” She stopped midsentence. “No, it can’t be. You haven’t fallen for that ship captain, have you? I saw you looking at him.”

Eliza’s silence gave her feelings away. Her mother’s face became red as she looked at her daughter with a pained expression.

“What did that ship captain do? He didn’t kiss you, did he?”

“How can you say that? No, Mother.”

“Tell me the truth, Eliza.”

“We just walked on the deck, that’s all.”

“How could you, Eliza? A ship captain? There’s nothing worse for any woman than a sailor. You should know that and certainly he should have spared you this. With marriage you need to be practical, dear. Consider the lives of these sailormen. They’re coarse men who eventually end up at the other end of a bottle. Human driftwood, they call them, worthy of no shore. Who knows how many wicked girls that man has had in his life? Who knows how many he has right here in New York? Be sensible, Eliza.”

The explosive fireworks had only continued at the Robinson home on Houston Street, with her father threatening to cut her off from any inheritance. Samuel Robinson was a self-made man who was a successful shoe and boot merchant. Now in New York, he had formed a new partnership under the name of Robinson & Olds. He was wealthy, but not excessively so. Most of his money was tied up in his growing company. Eliza was the youngest and the only one of his four daughters not yet married. He was insisting she marry Sir Charles and wanted her to commit to the English gentleman as soon as possible. Sir Charles had even paid him a visit to make his case and look favorably upon his suit. Eliza would have none of it. She said she would rather live on the street than marry that old toad of an Englishman with his fat stomach and balding head.

“He’s dull as a butter knife and all he wants to talk about is his cotton mills and old English castles. I will marry Captain Morgan,” Eliza had replied defiantly. “He is witty and smart and adventurous, unlike the stodgy, lecherous Sir Charles whom you are so keen about.”

“Please reconsider, dear,” her mother had said solicitously, even though her glowering eyes revealed a considerably less tolerant frame of mind.

Eliza just shook her head.

“Why are you so mule headed about this?” her mother demanded, mystified by her daughter’s stubbornness. “Can’t you see that a marriage with Sir Charles is in your best interest? A British husband with a title is the best way to win social acceptability. A duke or a marquis would be a better catch followed by an earl or a viscount naturally, but Sir Charles has a significant estate. Why can’t you be reasonable?”

Her father had been emphatic and told Eliza that he had assured Sir Charles that he could sway her mind, but the standoff had continued for days with Eliza stubbornly refusing to listen to her parents’ pleas. They would have locked her up if they knew she was meeting him.

“So what do I do, Captain?”

The two of them were walking on the well-groomed pathways by the Battery alongside elegantly dressed gentlemen escorting their lady friends or wives with their colorful bonnets. Just off the breakwater, a tugboat steamed out to one of the incoming three-masted ships. Morgan had listened quietly throughout but remained silent, causing Eliza to continue on in a defeated whimper.

“Sir Charles has been invited over for tea the day after tomorrow and my mother says he is going to make his formal proposal.”

A steam whistle went off from the tug as it now began pulling the incoming square-rigger into port. Sailors were yelling off in the distance. Morgan tried to be as nonchalant as he could.

“As every sailor knows, when a storm’s threatening it’s always best to shorten sail and be prepared. I was going to wait, but given the circumstances I could, with your permission, talk to your father sooner than Sir Charles? Would you allow me to do that?” he asked with a hopeful smile.

That same day, Morgan penned a letter to Eliza’s father. Eliza had told him her father was very knowledgeable with accounting and financial matters. She described him as ambitious, hardworking, a risk taker, who just recently had decided to invest a good portion of his money into building a new boot and shoe factory on Water Street. He was an optimist, she said, who tended to stress the positive. Morgan knew the Robinsons objected to him because he was a sailor. Even worse, he didn’t have a place for her to live. As he wrote the letter, he thought of his own father, which helped him decide what to say. He described how he already owned a one-eighth share of the
Philadelphia
and how he wanted to invest in ownership shares in some of the other Black X ships. He talked about the growing trade between England and America. He explained his own plan, that the Black X Line would be reaping the benefits of transatlantic commerce. He spoke of his family and his part in his brother’s purchase of farmland overlooking the Connecticut River. He was careful not to mention he hadn’t ever seen the land, much less returned home in all the years he’d been away at sea. He decided not to mention the relatively sparse boarding house accommodations he rented just off Cherry Street. In conclusion, he wrote, he would greatly appreciate Mr. Robinson’s advice on matters of business. He never once mentioned Eliza, knowing full well that Mr. Robinson was quite aware of the real reason he was writing.