Rough Passage to London(106)

He now turned his attention back to the small one-masted boat. It was definitely sailing in the direction of the Victoria. His cabin passengers weren’t due to arrive until the following morning, so he was puzzled as to whom this could be. The one passenger was wearing a pea jacket with the collar pulled up over his face. A wide-brimmed white hat was pulled down low over his ears, a strap fastened under his chin. His first thought was that the stewards were taking on a fresh supply of meat and vegetables, but a check with Mr. Lowery discounted that possibility. He then thought that perhaps this was one of Portsmouth’s police officers, who was preparing to search the packet in pursuit of criminals in steerage. But as he looked through his spyglass at this passenger, it seemed unlikely that this hunched-over figure was a policeman. He looked more like a sailor.

As the small lugger neared the Victoria’s anchorage near the sloping shore of the Isle of Wight, he could see the spray splatter on the man’s face as the lee rail dived in the water. Suddenly, the mystery passenger moved over to the windward side of the boat, and Morgan got a good look at his profile for the first time. “My Lord,” he breathed out slowly. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He had to look several times before he acknowledged that his first impression was right. The man coming to see him had changed a great deal. The full beard was gone. His round face was now framed by bushy whiskers that extended down to his jaw. He was wearing a white duck frock, and blue pants typical of some Royal Navy sailors. As the boat got closer and closer there was no doubt that it was his old friend, Hiram Smith, alive and to all appearances well.

With the practice of hundreds of boardings, the waterman at the tiller luffed the small lugger into the wind, the single sail flapping and banging, and before the two ships touched, Hiram grabbed the rope ladder with the firm grip of a sailor and began climbing up the fifteen-foot-high sides of the packet. Morgan was there with an outstretched hand to pull his friend over the bulwarks and onto the deck. He couldn’t believe his old bunkmate in the fo’c’sle was alive.

“I’ll be dammed if I ever thought I’d set eyes on you again, Hiram,” Morgan stammered with a slight quiver in his voice.

“I’m greatly pleased to see you, Ely,” Hiram said, before correcting himself, “or Captain Morgan, I should say.”

The two of them gave each other a prolonged bear hug and then stood apart looking at each other. Morgan silently stared at his old friend unable to speak. Conflicting emotions swept over him. So many years had passed. Hiram had changed. There were flecks of gray in his temples and his brown, weathered face was now lined and creased with wrinkles. He was still the same man with his stocky torso and muscular, tattooed arms, the round, snub-nosed face and dimpled chin, but the deep furrows on his forehead and the dark bags under his eyes told the story of a hard life.

Morgan suddenly was overwhelmed with guilt.

“How many years has it been, Hiram?”

“Near on seventeen I would say.”

“Way too long. I can’t believe it,” Morgan said with a smile, looking at his old friend quizzically, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes had that droopy, rum-filled look he’d seen on many veteran sailors.

“Hiram, I want you to know I never meant for you to be in harm’s way.”

“That was long ago, Ely. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was my decision to go into that tavern, Hiram. I have blamed myself for whatever happened to you there.”

Before Hiram could answer, he was surrounded by some of his old shipmates. A small group clustered around him, slapping him on his back, pushing and shoving him playfully. There was much joking when they discovered he was now sailing British. There weren’t that many of the old crew who had sailed with him on board the Hudson. Old Scuttles was still there, but on the foredeck, the only veterans who had sailed with him were Icelander, the Spaniard, and Whipple. Dan Stark, the first mate, and Josiah Lord, the second mate, both from the Connecticut River, were new arrivals.

After Hiram caught up with some of his old mates, Morgan invited him down into his cabin. Hiram was looking all around as he stepped inside. Morgan studied his old friend. He seemed nervous and edgy. There was a bitter, sad smile on his lips that Morgan didn’t recognize, a look of faded hopes, perhaps. Morgan motioned to him to sit down in the armchair on the other side of the cabin, but he ignored that offer and continued to walk around, his gaze wandering from cabin sole to the overhead skylight. Morgan pulled out his box of Havana cigars and offered one to Hiram before taking one himself.

“Sit yourself down and tell me your story. Why don’t you start by telling me what happened all those years ago when they grabbed you in the White Bull.”