“I have a group of English friends waiting for me in the saloon who I know would want to hear your story, Hiram. They are fervent in their antislavery zeal. What do you say? How about a few words about the West Africa Squadron and the British crusade against slavery?”
Hiram looked dubious, in fact somewhat fearful, but Morgan was insistent so he reluctantly agreed to follow him into the saloon. The main course was just arriving at the table as they walked in. Lowery was carrying in a large platter of roasted English grouse cooked whole, heads and all, even as Sam Junkett was removing the bowls of cold potato soup. Landseer was expounding on the famine in Ireland, and how he felt the ungrateful Irish cats deserved their misery and hardship. Leslie was expressing his concerns over the growing tensions between England and America over the Oregon Territory. He asked Thackeray about the saber-rattling salvos in Punch. The writers had warned that if America dared to seize the Oregon Territory, the English would arm the slaves. At that point, Lord Nanvers jumped in.
“Arm the slaves! Those are fighting words, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Thackeray? Imagine England arming America’s slaves. I must say that’s a terrible thought.”
The conversation stopped as Morgan and Hiram entered the saloon. Hiram looked around at the well-dressed men seated at the table. He didn’t say anything, his gaze traveling from face to face, and then he sat down. Morgan again could see the discomfort and suspicion in Hiram’s smeary, rum-soaked eyes. He could also see the surprise in the faces of his English friends, who were clearly not expecting a common sailor to come into their midst.
Lord Nanvers, whose appetite seemed to be stimulated by the sight of the roasted grouse, had already speared one of the tiny bird’s heads with his fork and was crunching and chewing in contentment. Morgan raised his glass to toast the end of the voyage for his passengers, praising them for braving the discomforts of the North Sea, and then he introduced his old friend.
“Gentlemen, this is Hiram Smith. He and I started sailing together when we were boys. We came in through the hawse holes as they say. We’ve slushed masts and been slushed ourselves by some bucko mates. We’ve slid down the forestays and swung out on the yards more times than we care to remember. We’ve seen our share of ice fields and Atlantic storms. Hiram saved my life at least once when I almost fell from a yard, and I did the same for him when we fought off some scuffle hunters on the Thames. He may be sailing British, but he’s a Yankee tar from down Penobscot way as they say back home. Anyway, we haven’t seen each other for quite a long time. It has been more than fifteen years since we last sailed together, hasn’t it, Hiram?”
“Yup, I suppose that’s about right.”
“The reason I brought Hiram down to the saloon is that he has come here tonight to tell you about the gallant mission of the famous British cruisers that patrol the Guinea coastline to try to end the slave trade. He is a sailor on one of the Royal Navy sloops of war in the harbor.”
“Hear, hear!” they shouted, raising their glasses in unison. “Truer words were never spoken.”
The stewards then arrived with the next course of boiled potatoes and creamed peas and onions. Lord Nanvers directed his attention to the incoming dishes, sniffing appreciatively and giving them careful scrutiny before raising his glass to Morgan.
“To you, sir, Captain Morgan. This certainly is a most excellent meal and it promises to be a most provocative dinner topic. I am most intrigued to hear about England’s war on slavery, as there is much ongoing debate in Parliament about its effectiveness. Let us hear what your salty friend has to say.”
Hiram paused for a moment as he swallowed some rum from the bottle he was given by Lowery. He bit off a plug of tobacco, and began chewing it with obvious relish as he started telling his story about how he came to be sailing on a British sloop of war.
“I reckon my story should begin when I was picked up in Havana by a ship captain who offered me forty dollars a month, more money than I had ever made before.”
Morgan watched the intent, eager faces all around the table, a receptive audience.
“Wa’al, she was fast, that ship was, all legs and wings. We sailed out that narrow entrance under the fortified walls of Moro Castle like a bird coming out of a cage with our staysails set, our kites flying. With the wind abeam she would do fourteen knots. The men on board were a swarthy set of rascals. Most of them were Spanish anyway, at least that’s the language they spoke. We had a group of passengers from Brazil who I soon learned were the agents.”
Hiram paused for another drink of rum, smacking his lips before he resumed his story.