Morgan finished washing up and dressed quickly after brushing his hair and smoothing his coat. His thoughts turned to his business life as he sat down in his chair where a pool of sunlight had gathered. His life had certainly changed beyond his wildest imagination. He was a top packet ship captain, well known and well respected in both New York and London. He picked up the copy of the Illustrated London News from earlier that month. The August 12 article had referred to his new ship, which had made its first passage in April, as a “magnificent vessel” and a “superb work of structure and design.” The lavish Saturday luncheon on the ship’s quarterdeck had been well attended by leading English nobility, including the Duke of Sutherland, Lord Blantyre, several members of the corps diplomatique from the continent, as well as the American minister, Edward Everett. The event had been a great success and the newspaper reporter had given his new ship a rave review.
Morgan sat quietly and allowed his mind to wander back in time. So much had changed since the arrival of the ocean steamships in 1838, when the Sirius and the Great Western had steamed into New York harbor. Two years later the steamships of Samuel Cunard, financed by the British government, inaugurated service from Liverpool to Halifax and Boston. A new era had begun. The ocean’s horizons were now filled with the funnels of steamships belching out black, coal-fired smoke. The mails now mostly came by steamship, and the cabin passengers were increasingly lured away from the sailing packet lines by the promise and hope of the quickest way across. Paddle wheelers, particularly the British Cunarders, were often beating the American sailing packets. The steamships could keep up a steady speed and travel in a straight line. They weren’t dependent on the wind.
He thought again how fortunate it had been for him to meet Charles Leslie all those years ago. That friendship had changed his life. This past May after the opening of the annual Royal Academy exhibition, Morgan had been surprised as all his artist friends in the London Sketching Club had voted unanimously to make him an honorary member of their club. It was a heartfelt gesture. He sensed he had won their friendship and their trust, which had touched him. This was the only time in the exclusive London Sketching Club’s forty-year history that, not only had a nonartist been chosen, but an American. He remembered Leslie’s kind words when he made the announcement with all the club members present in his studio.
“Fellow members, we have in our midst a cousin from across the Atlantic who is from another England, a New England.”
“Hear, hear!” they had shouted.
“Although it is not our club’s custom to admit foreigners or nonartists, I believe we should break our rule and admit our own ship captain into this fine family of artists. Are there any objections?”
“Nay. Nay.”
“Then with no objections, I hereby welcome Captain Morgan into the distinguished ranks of the London Sketching Club.”
“Hear, hear! Drinks all around!”
He’d been invited to dinner later that week at Clarkson Stanfield’s house at 49 Mornington Place along with several of the other artists in the Sketching Club. Leslie’s friends from Punch, Tom Taylor and William Thackeray, had come as well, as had the prickly but witty Sydney Smith, who was then railing about money he’d lost by investing it in Pennsylvania bonds. He had appeased Smith by bringing him a barrel of Connecticut-grown apples and assuring him that, unlike Pennsylvania, these New England apples were from a solvent state. The imposing, hawklike Duke of Wellington was there. So was the jolly Lord Nanvers, who had recently been commissioning work from some of the club’s artists.
Charles Dickens, who was a good friend of Stanfield’s, had shown up unexpectedly. Dickens was in high spirits as his American Notes had won huge acclaim on this side of the Atlantic, and he was just finishing a new Christmas story. His keen blue eyes darted about the room until they landed unexpectedly on Morgan. He remembered how Dickens had started walking toward him, catching him off guard. Here was the man who had just written so critically of Americans, questioning their character, their morals, and their manners in his latest book. Many thin-skinned Americans had taken serious offense at his biting commentary, particularly on the topic of American equality. Here he was coming to introduce himself.
“You must be Leslie’s good friend, the American captain?”
Morgan nodded. “Indeed, I am.” He held out his hand. “Captain Elisha Ely Morgan of the Black X Line at your service.”
Dickens extended his hand with a sardonic smile spreading across his face. “Pleased to meet you. Charles Dickens of the Royal Stinkpot Line.”