Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale (22 page)

The next day he waited all day at the ship, but no message arrived. He knew Sir Charles was scheduled to come for tea at the Robinson’s house the following day, so he’d made up his mind he would go, message or no message. In the morning, he dressed in his best business attire, the long-skirted blue coat and matching pants, shiny black boots, a silk cravat, and his top hat. He walked up to the front door of the Robinsons’ brownstone at 219 Houston Street, where he was met by an expressionless butler. He gave his name, fully anticipating that he would be turned away. He already had plans to barge in and demand a hearing with Mr. Robinson. To his surprise, the butler seemed to have been expecting him. He was escorted through the house with its walnut, wainscoted walls to Mr. Robinson’s well-appointed library. There he was asked to wait outside.

After several minutes, a well-dressed man of medium height with a fine, chiseled face, neatly combed, thinning hair, and well-trimmed silver whiskers emerged from the library. He had the same prominent chin and rigid nose as Eliza, only longer. Morgan guessed he was in his late forties or early fifties. His gaze under prominent silver eyebrows was penetrating and direct, his manner taciturn and morose. He looked at Morgan with a slight note of disdain, shook his hand, and ushered him into the library toward an amply cushioned easy chair. Morgan felt like he was a cabin boy once again, being dressed down by one of the ship’s officers. He remembered being reprimanded by Captain Champlin, and the sight of the angry face of his own father flashed before him. Robinson had a steely stare that was unrelenting and unsympathetic.

“I read your letter, Captain Morgan, with some interest.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Morgan managed to stammer.

“You spoke of discussing business matters. What did you have in mind?”

The man poured out a glass of sherry and handed it to Morgan.

“Well, sir, business is just one of the topics that I wanted to discuss.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows arched up.

“Is that so?” he replied. “Pray tell, Captain, what else did you have in mind?”

Morgan’s hands were sweating and he felt short of breath. He gulped, and nervously took a sip of sherry, deciding to sail directly into the storm.

“Yes, sir,” he stammered. He took a deep breath. “Mr. Robinson, I am in love with your daughter. I believe Eliza shares those same sentiments. With utmost respect and humility, I would like to ask you for her hand in marriage.”

Morgan looked at Mr. Robinson with a weak smile. There was no welcoming gesture returned from the older man. Samuel Robinson got up from his chair, holding his cane, his face expressionless, and turned his back. Morgan thought he was going to leave the room, but then he stooped to pull two cigars out of a mahogany humidor.

“Will you have a cigar, Captain?” he asked in a businesslike tone as he turned back in Morgan’s direction.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Robinson,” Morgan responded, surprised.

“Tell me about the London Line, Captain. Is it a good business?”

Morgan explained that the Black X Line and the Red Swallowtail Line, both servicing the London–New York route, were still running ships in conjunction with each other. They were separate companies, but together they provided a fleet of ten ships traveling to London and there were future plans for an even bigger fleet.

“How much money do you make in a year, Captain?” Eliza’s father asked brusquely.

Morgan gripped the wooden armrest, “With this new ship of mine I should make over five thousand dollars a year.”

“And how much does your ship make for the company, Captain?”

Morgan paused as he did some quick arithmetic in his head.

“Mr. Robinson, I reckon the
Philadelphia
makes around twenty thousand dollars a year with the freight and steerage passengers she carries. With the mail, another one thousand dollars. Of course, the captain keeps most of whatever is received from carrying the mail. The cabin passengers, why that’s another nine thousand dollars. The captain gets about twenty-five percent of that. Adding up freight, steerage passengers, and cabin passengers, I calculate Mr. Griswold and the shipping line make twenty five thousand dollars a year off the
Philadelphia
, give or take a few thousand.”

“What about the ship’s expenses?”

By now, Morgan sensed he was being tested for his business skills by a schoolmaster who was not inclined to give him a good grade.

“The firm has to pay about four thousand dollars for wages, I figure, two thousand five hundred dollars for insurance, another few thousand for food, repairs, port charges. Probably adds up to about ten thousand dollars of costs, so I suppose the owners are making upward of ten thousand dollars on each ship.”

“Each year?” Mr. Robinson asked incredulously. “That’s a good return. That means your share is one-eighth of that?”

“Yes sir. That would be a good estimation. Of course, that’s over and above what I make as ship captain.”

Mr. Robinson was silent, so Morgan continued to speak.

“As I wrote to you in my letter, this is why I hope to become a part owner of several of the ships, sir. Investing in packet ships is better than gold. Be assured, Mr. Robinson, I intend to provide well for your daughter.”

Robinson stroked his chin for a moment and took a long satisfactory pull on his cigar. He watched the plumes of smoke drift upward to the high ceilings. The uplifted eyebrows and the momentary silence revealed his doubts.

“I understand there is opportunity there, Captain, but tell me, exactly how will you take care of my daughter? How can my daughter possibly look forward to a good life as the wife of a shipmaster? Where will you live, other than your ship, of course?”

To calm his nerves, Morgan puffed on his cigar, and then began to talk about how the dangers of a life at sea were greatly exaggerated. He told Mr. Robinson how Eliza would come to know the beauty of Old England, and the many attractions of London. Morgan mentioned how she would be meeting important people on his ship from both sides of the Atlantic. Then he mentioned the case of Henry Champlin’s wife, Amelia, who had accompanied him on many trips across the Atlantic, and how her health had been better at sea than it was on shore.

It may have been Morgan’s meeting with Samuel Robinson, or it may have been the sight of their young, headstrong daughter laughing and joking with the captain, holding his arm as she walked light as a feather through the front door of their brownstone, that changed their minds. Whatever it was, the Robinsons gave up trying to sway their stubborn youngest daughter away from what they considered to be a questionable marriage. She had steadfastly refused to marry the Englishman, and they knew her well enough to know that she would not change her mind. It was not what they had hoped for by any means. Days later, the couple reluctantly gave their blessings to the marriage.

Eliza was barely eighteen when she and Elisha Ely Morgan were married at Trinity Church in Manhattan on July 28. It was a simple service with only Eliza’s parents and a few friends of the Robinson family there. Morgan hadn’t had time to contact his brother or notify his parents before the wedding. He wrote his brother a quick note before boarding the
Philadelphia
, promising that he and his new bride would come visit over Thanksgiving. They were married at six in the morning because Morgan had to ready the ship for departure that same day. It had all happened rather suddenly, with the final decision coming just a day before the wedding. The newly married couple had rushed from the altar to South Street, where Morgan presented his new bride to the astonished sailors of the ship. He had Mr. Nyles muster the crew and announce to them that the
Philadelphia
would now have the shipmaster’s wife on board, and they were to behave with better manners. One of the men picked up a fiddle, another a banjo, and they were soon playing a popular tune at the time called “Take Your Time, Miss Lucy,” about a young woman pleading with her father to let her have a beau.

Indeed my dear you’re joking

You’re still too young to know;

So take your time, Miss Lucy

Miss Lucy, Lucy oh.

The entire crew was soon clapping their hands and stomping their feet on the deck as they all got into the spirit of the occasion. Hours later, with the passengers all aboard, the
Philadelphia
was towed out of the East River by a small steamer. Morgan turned to look at Eliza’s beaming face. Her eyes were sparkling. She had taken off her bonnet and was tilting her face up toward the sun and the sails. The crew, still in high spirits, sang a saltier song as they began hauling on the halyards. The Verrazano Narrows was busy as usual with all types of ships, from incoming sailing packets to shapely coastal schooners under full sail, carving their way into New York harbor. Among the cabin passengers aboard were two Catholic priests from Ireland, Father Flannigan and Father O’Toole. They had come to New York to tend to the growing population of Irish immigrants. Morgan was comforted in having two men of the cloth on board because as he told Eliza, you never know when you might need the power of prayer. By midafternoon, the open ocean lay ahead, the Sandy Hook lighthouse just astern.

“Wind come to our port aft, Captain,” reported the first mate, Mr. Nyles.

“We’re under topsails, topgallant sails, and a forecourse.”

With the wind freshening from the northwest, Morgan called for the full entourage of sails to be raised.

“No humbugging men, haul away!” shouted Mr. Nyles.

Morgan turned to Icelander, who was at the helm.

“Steer due east and keep the buoy off the weather side.”

That night after dinner, as Lowery was passing around generous portions of shoofly pie for dessert, Eliza found good company with some of the other passengers. The melodious strains of the ship’s piano accompanied by a cello and a violin soon filled the saloon. Eliza and the two other musicians were playing some of Chopin’s new waltzes. Two young couples began waltzing in the main saloon while the others played cards. They were laughing as they tried to keep their balance on the moving dance floor. The ship gently swayed back and forth, obligingly pushing the dancing partners closer together. Two spinsters from Philadelphia, along with one of the Irish priests, accosted Morgan to say how distressed they were because he was allowing such vulgar and sinful dancing music to be played on his ship.

But all eyes in the saloon were riveted on the dancers and the musicians, and no one made a move to stop the revelry. Soon another couple began waltzing. The three pairs of dancers were now twirling in the saloon, clutching their partners tightly, their faces flushed with the mixture of the dancing and generous helpings from the punch bowl.

“A shocking display,” one woman said loudly enough for Morgan to hear. “Why, just look at that young couple. The way he’s holding her. It’s coarse.”

“This younger generation has no morals,” declared another woman named Eleanor Howell. “What do you think of these new waltzes, Captain Morgan? Don’t you think they should be banned?”

“Can’t say I know the answer to that question, Mrs. Howell,” Morgan replied cautiously. “I’m just a seafaring man, you know.”

The older woman glowered at him.

18

Seven days later, the seas started to build and the skies darkened, a sure sign of a storm approaching. Morgan had charted a more southerly course than normal because of the danger of icebergs to the north, a threat even in July. From his last reading he calculated they were about six hundred miles southeast of the eastern tip of Newfoundland. Morgan knew they were in for a blow because the previous morning he’d seen the entire eastern sky turn a brilliant red, a warning for all sailors to expect unsettled weather. Then this morning he noticed the barometer had plummeted, losing more than three quarters of an inch of mercury. It was a troubling sign.

Eight bells struck as he walked up the companionway, marking the end of the early morning watch. With the weather worsening, he was pleased to see that Icelander would be taking over at the helm. Ominously he spotted a pair of dark brown storm petrels riding the wind alongside the ship. As he watched these birds with their splashes of white in their tail feathers weave and glide overhead, his mind flashed back to Old Jeremiah Watkins and his many superstitions. The old sailor had believed storm petrels not only signaled bad weather ahead, but carried the souls of drowned sailors. Morgan shook his head as he put that dark thought out of his mind. He turned toward some of the cabin passengers who had taken shelter in the roundhouse on the quarterdeck. The two priests dressed in long black gowns and hats with rims fingered their rosary beads and said their Hail Marys as they watched the ship crash into one wave after another. Morgan told them to go below.

“No need to worry as long as the seamen are cursing,” he told Father O’Toole and Father Flannigan. “As long as you hear these men saying horrible blasphemous things, you need not apprehend any danger, but if you suddenly hear silence, then you may need to start praying.”

Morgan was anxious to get the two nervous men of the cloth safely down below and out of the way. He made sure Mr. Lowery gave all the passengers generous amounts of claret along with lemons. Sucking lemons and ginger lozenges was a favorite remedy of Lowery’s for seasickness. The cabin’s saloon was filled with pallid faces looking for reassurance. With the ship pitching and heaving, Lowery, dressed in a checked shirt and white apron, was holding a crystal carafe of claret and a small tray of glasses. His head and shoulders were extended forward, his legs stretching far behind him. Morgan continued to be amazed at the man’s balance and dexterity. As far as he could see, not a drop of claret had been spilled.

With winds now gusting over thirty knots, he gave the order to reef topsails. Lowery brought him some hot coffee, half of which spilled out of the cup before he could drink any of it. Eliza wanted to stay up topsides, but he told her she must go below with the other passengers.

“I don’t see why I have to go below,” she said with a sullen face.

“Believe me, Eliza, it would be better. It will be safer below.”

“I want to be with you,” she pleaded. “This is our honeymoon.”

“I know and I am sorry, but I don’t control the wind and the waves and they’re threatening to produce quite a blow.”

He watched as she cautiously walked toward the companionway, holding on to some of the lines to avoid falling and stumbling. He was quickly learning that his young, headstrong wife wanted to be involved in running the ship. The past few days had been pleasant ones with fair wind and calm seas. He’d been teaching her how to chart their course by using the heavy brass sextant to shoot the sun and take the noon reading.

They had laughed a great deal. He had been pleasantly surprised at the reaction aboard ship to Eliza in these first few days. Despite their rough appearance and crude manners, most of the sailors tipped their hats and wished her a good mornin’ or a good day when they passed her on the quarterdeck. They called her the captain’s missus. Her bustling petticoats and plucky nature must have triggered some hidden memory of good manners. Icelander had told him jokingly that “she’d be the one wearing the breeches” pretty soon.

With the storm coming on, Mr. Whipple began to secure the deadlights in the upper stern ports and batten down heavy canvas tarps over the skylights. At noon, Morgan gave the order to furl the mizzen topsails. Hours later, he sent two of the younger men aloft to bring down the fore royal and main royal yards. He left the forestaysail and one of the jibs out on the jib boom to keep the ship balanced. Down below, he could hear the sound of dishes crashing as they fell to the cabin floor. There was also a cry running through the cabin that the ship was sinking. His face wet with salt water and oilskins glistening, he poked his head down the companionway to assure his passengers there was no need for any worry. He looked for Eliza to comfort her, but he couldn’t spot her. Lowery was busy picking up the broken dishes from the cabin floor as they slid from one end of the saloon to the other. Some of the men were still attempting to play card games like whist and vingt-et-un under a thick, white layer of cigar smoke that hovered over their table. Morgan finally caught a glimpse of Eliza, who was clutching one of the poles. She avoided his glance. He could see that she was staring at the swinging lanterns with great misgiving.

One of the black-robed priests looked up at him as his hand clutched the crucifix dangling from his neck. It was the older Father Flannigan.

“Are your men still swearing, Captain?”

“Yes, Father, the men are still saying terrible things, the Devil’s own blasphemy up topside.”

“Then the Lord be praised for it,” replied a clearly relieved Father Flannigan. “We are still safe.”

Soon the
Philadelphia
was battling into the midst of a gale with huge rolling seas looming up ahead of her. Sheets of rain were now lashing the ship’s deck, adding to the torrents of seawater sweeping across the quarterdeck. Morgan was glad they had filled the steerage compartment with a full cargo of mahogany clock cases and boxes and crates of cheese instead of passengers on this passage. Still the ship was heavily loaded. In the lower hold they carried four hundred barrels of flour, three hundred barrels of potash, fifteen bales of wool, and fifty barrels of turpentine. Because of all that cargo, the ship was riding low in the water. Long streams of spray came off the crests of the waves, and Morgan decided to prepare for even stronger winds by setting up additional stays and preventer braces to reinforce the masts and the yards, particularly the topmasts.

The men on watch, led by Mr. Pratt, struggled up the rigging, the wind flattening them against the shrouds and the ratlines as they tried to fasten and tighten the tangled ropes. To further strengthen the masts, Morgan ordered them to catharpin the shrouds by means of capstan bars lashed just below the futtock shrouds. These were then tightened by means of blocks on lines passed through bars placed on the opposite end of the ship.

“Keep tightening, Mr. Pratt. Pull on those lines and make ’em fast. We’ll need all the support we can. Looks like this is one of them hurricanes from the West Indies.”

Rain was slicing down even as the winds accelerated and the skies turned black. Jagged branches of lightning could be seen in the distance. As the storm intensified in strength, the ship began to steer wildly with the rudder slamming to one side. Morgan gave the order for more men to go aloft, this time to furl almost all the sails. He yelled out to Icelander at the helm to dig his knees into the wheel box and hang on.

“Starboard! Starboard! Meet her quick! Steady! Now. Port, a spoke, port!”

“Fall off! Fall off!”

The ship was riding headfirst into a rolling wall of waves, climbing upward and upward. She soared up swiftly like a bird taking flight and then, on the downward slope, dove into another mountainous wave, the water sweeping across the decks. Morgan watched as a big roller caught the bow under the weather side and the ship lurched to leeward. It looked like she was toppling over to one side. One of the lifeboats had broken loose, crashing against the deckhouse, almost hitting Ochoa, before being swept overboard. Some of the sailors in the foredeck were knocked off their feet and were slipping to leeward, trying to clutch on to anything as they slid toward the leeward bulwarks.

Morgan struggled to stand up as he held on to the windward stays with both hands. He could feel the ship trembling under the weight of the seas toppling on the deck. The tips of the windward yardarms were now pointed upward and the tall masts were leaning over to one side, reaching out to the horizon. The barely visible Mr. Nyles standing amidships, his oilskins streaming with water, yelled something, but Morgan couldn’t hear him over the terrific howl of the wind, the straining of canvas, and the rattling of blocks.

He turned to Icelander, “What did Mr. Nyles shout?”

“I believe he wants you to bear off!”

Icelander’s face was now a pale blue color. Morgan pulled out a cigar and began rolling it back and forth in his mouth to calm his nerves. He ordered Rasmussen to alter their course in the direction the seas wanted to take the ship. Icelander swung the spokes of the big wheel over so the waves were lifting the
Philadelphia
from the stern and propelling her forward. The ship now moved like a wide-beamed toboggan speeding downhill over broken terrain. Their new course was southeasterly, somewhere to the south of the Azores in the direction of North Africa. It was all open ocean for hundreds of miles. The waves were rising up and cresting behind them now. The ship steadied herself, but the new danger lay in being swamped by a fast-moving wave looming up unseen over the ship’s stern. He turned to the man on watch on the weather side of the poop deck and told him to hold on to the mizzen rigging and look out for pursuing seas.

Then he shouted a warning to Icelander, who was standing rigidly still, his arms moving crosswise to check and then urge the wheel’s rapidly moving spokes.

“Watch yerself, Rasmussen. Don’t get us pooped. We’re heavy loaded with freight like a sand barge. We only have about eight feet of freeboard, and I don’t want to lose you to a wall of water.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

As night fell, flashes of lightning revealed the chaotic scene. Crashing seas swept across the deck, lifting anything and everything not tied down. Morgan stood by the helm and looked ahead at the whole battered length of his ship as she propelled herself forward in a rolling rush. He could see the cabin below decks was now in total blackness and guessed that all the hanging lanterns were shattered. Breaking seas were thudding and whacking the topsides of the ship like a battering ram hitting a castle’s thick doors.

He wondered what Eliza was doing. He gulped at this thought. There was nothing he could do to help her. It was all he could do to hold on and try to help Icelander steer a course. He imagined her huddled below clutching one of the iron supports, the chairs upturned, broken plates all over the cabin floor. He hoped Lowery was keeping a clear head.

The
Philadelphia
was now sailing into the darkness with just two sails, the reefed main topsail in the center of the boat and one small jib on the ship’s bowsprit. Fearful sailors in their boots and oilskins clambered up the rigging to escape being swept away by immense volumes of water sweeping the decks. Others crouched by the windward rigging amidships staring upward at the swaying masts above them. Morgan held on to the wheelhouse and yelled out to Mr. Nyles to tighten the lines between the shrouds, but even he couldn’t hear his own voice. Another bolt of lightning illuminated the sky. Morgan turned his face streaming with water to windward and nervously looked at a big, foaming wave climbing and rising high up over the ship’s stern. It seemed at any moment the ocean would swallow the ship and all who were aboard.

The next morning the winds and the rain had slackened, but the ship was still in the midst of the gale, riding enormous waves, and flying along at thirteen knots. Morgan knew the sun had risen because the sky had turned a lighter shade of shadowy gray. He could see the drained faces of the sailors around him, ragged and beaten men looking back at him with bloodshot, sleepless eyes. He wondered if he looked like them. He felt numb and cold. He was soaked through and shaking. They had all gone without sleep or food for twenty-four hours. Many of the men were gripping rails for support. Others had lashed themselves to the rigging. They were silent, tight-lipped, awe-stricken by the ocean’s power. He knew all of them dreaded any call by the mates to go high up into the yards with the masts swaying back and forth from horizon to horizon. Mr. Nyles reported to him that the jib boom on the bowsprit had broken off overnight, ripping the jib to shreds. Morgan nodded. It could have been much worse. The wind and rain had also carried away one of the yards on the foremast. Otherwise, the ship appeared to be sound. No one had been lost either off the deck or from the yard, and they had avoided a demasting.

It was shortly after Nyles gave him that largely positive report that the sailor on watch yelled out a warning. Wild, startled eyes turned toward the stern of the ship in stunned disbelief as a dark green wall of water rose up behind them like a giant curtain blocking out the light. “Grab hold and look out for yourselves,” Morgan yelled. Moments later, a towering wave some thirty feet high crashed over the stern with a loud boom and swamped the boat. Morgan felt his feet give way as he fell with a bang on the deck, the water sweeping him toward the leeward bulwarks on the port side. He felt himself being carried by the rush of water. The heavy weight of tons of water plunged the ship downward to a wrenching stop. The three masts whipped back and forth, threatening to snap and break off. Morgan’s head was submerged. He was powerless to help himself. He felt sure that he was going to be swept out to sea.