Rough Passage to London(105)

Queen Victoria’s face beamed with pleasure. As if on cue everyone surrounding the royal couple began smiling as well. The duke was quite aware he was now on the defensive.

“Well, quite right, Captain,” he responded. “It is indeed a fine ship and most worthy of Her Majesty.”

He then abruptly changed the topic.

“If I may be so bold to ask, Captain, how fast have you made it across on the difficult westbound passage?”

Morgan paused for a second before answering.

“Twenty days, Your Lordship, I believe is my fastest crossing on the run westbound to New York.”

“If I am not mistaken, Captain, the Great Western and the English Cunard Line paddle steamers are considerably faster. They can make it over in fourteen days, no matter that they are traveling east or west. Is that not so?”

Morgan’s head dropped as he felt the sting of the Englishman’s comment, but then he recovered.

“I readily admit, Your Lordship, a steamer is oftentimes faster, particularly on the westward passage, but most nautical experts acknowledge the risks are greater. You would have to ask yourself which you prefer, fourteen days of danger at sea on a sooty steamship or twenty days of relative safety on board a sailing packet. We in the packet shipping business think that there is room for both steam and sail on the Atlantic.”

That ended the conversation. Even two years after the dramatic sinking of the British steamship the President, where 136 people perished, among them the popular Irish comedian Tyrone Power, the safety of traveling the Atlantic by paddle wheeler was still questioned by many travelers. The duke turned his attention elsewhere.





When the luncheon and tour were over and the carriages had left the docks, Morgan went below to congratulate Lowery and his new assistant, Sam Junkett, and then in the privacy of his own cabin savored the moment. He let out a deep breath. The afternoon sun had warmed his cabin, so he opened one of the portholes. He scanned the captain’s quarters, and without thinking picked up one of the ivory figures on the chessboard and rubbed it with his fingers. This time it was the queen. The touch of the ivory figure at first was reassuring, but then it triggered an unexpected measure of unease. His mind drifted back to the British raid on the Connecticut River when he and Abraham were two frightened boys rowing for their lives. They’d raced away from certain death at the hands of the British redcoats. Now here he was so many years later entertaining the British queen whose grandfather was King George III. Had he forgotten who he was and where he came from? His mind wandered back to his days on the foredeck and he thought of his old friend Hiram. No doubt his old shipmate would have viewed his elevated status with disdain. He might have called him a “frothy lady’s captain.” That was the way he used to refer to Henry Champlin, when the captain spent all of his time below entertaining his guests rather than tending to the sailing of the ship.

Morgan put the figure of the queen back down on the chessboard and picked up one of the small pawns, holding it in his hand, squeezing it as hard as he could. The feelings of guilt that now enveloped him shifted to memories of Abraham. He felt a wave of self-doubt sweep over him. He squeezed the ivory pawn again. Then he shook his head and told himself he needed to look ahead. He had his own family to think of. He sat down at his desk to write a letter to Eliza to tell her all about Queen Victoria’s visit. He thought of the chubby faces of his two children and he smiled. Then he thought of Eliza’s condition. He wrote that he would do his best to be back by early November for the due date and that he would be spending Thanksgiving at home this year. He continued writing:

It made me feel bad when I left you with Ruth crying and William teary eyed. You must tell the children that they must keep up good courage, and you, my dear, must keep up a strong heart. Give them all a kiss for me. I have bought Ruth a doll, and a storybook for William. Tell them that I will be coming home as soon as my ship comes back. I will have a story for them about their Papa meeting the Queen. Tell them I will try to stay longer this time.





24





1845

With the late afternoon summer sun shining directly in his eyes, Morgan struggled to make out who was in this incoming lugger. He was standing on the large quarterdeck of the Victoria with a spyglass held to his left eye. Beyond the small boat, he could just make out the glistening tips of the masts of Nelson’s old ship, Victory, from the Battle of Trafalgar, barely visible over some of the roofs in Portsmouth. The harbor was full of Royal Navy ships, everything from corvettes and sloops of war to frigates and three-deckers. He’d seen the fleet come in earlier, their translucent sails extending across the Solent like a giant white curtain. He had stood there on deck powerless as they bore down on the anchored Victoria, veering off at the last minute. They had come so close he could see the barrels of the cannons and the leering faces of the British sailors. At the sound of a cannon, dozens of sails dropped simultaneously in a perfect display of naval discipline, the ships’ anchors dropping into the water with a rumbling crescendo that resembled thunder. Morgan had stood silently, his eyes scanning the variety of ships until his gaze stopped at one in particular. It was a three-masted sloop of war, one of those fast ballyhoos that had run him down off the coast of Africa years ago. It looked like the same ship, but he couldn’t be sure.