Rough Passage to London(109)

“I gradually gained the confidence of the first mate, he was the only American, a fellow from New Bedford. Turns out he sold the ship to them Portuguese and Spaniards. He told me we were headed for Whydah in the Gulf of Guinea. That’s when I guessed I had gotten myself on a slaver. I knew I had made a mistake.”

Morgan winced at this unexpected twist. At the mention of slave ships, the English artists now crowded a little closer so as not to miss a word spoken. To them, Hiram was an example of the type of man with whom they never came into contact, a wandering, hard-drinking sailor who had more adventures than they could ever dream about. There wasn’t a sound in the dark saloon, not even a rustle of clothes or the scraping of a chair. Hiram’s blue eyes looked around the room and studied the intent faces surrounding him.

“I jumped ship the first opportunity I could in Porto Praya. They sent out their men to try to find me, but I hid out until they finally gave up and left. A few days later, an English frigate, a sloop of war, and one of them fast three-masted Bermuda boats, came into port. Turns out they were looking for sailors. I told them I was British from Halifax and they took me on.”

“What was the name of your ship?” Leslie asked.

“The H.M.S. Resolve. The captain’s name is Stryker, Captain James Stryker, one of the Royal Navy’s best slave catchers. He is something of a hero, being as he rescued some British marines who were being held by Portuguese slavers a while back.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan thought he saw Lord Nanvers twitch suddenly, but it could have simply been a piece of the grouse’s head stuck in his throat. He wasn’t sure.

The story continued.

“Anyhow that’s how I came to be sailing British. I signed on with Stryker and the Resolve. That was back in 1836, a couple of years after all them slaves were freed in the British islands.”

Hiram turned toward Morgan, shaking his head.

“Ely, I’ve seen sights that would move the hardiest human heart. During a chase, I’ve seen them toss the slaves overboard. They’d throw their human cargo overboard a few at a time, hoping we would give up the chase and stop and pick them up.”

“Do you?” asked Lord Nanvers. “Do you stop?”

“Captain Stryker, he won’t stop,” Hiram responded matter-of-factly. “He says what is important is to bring an end to the slave trade, and if he stops to rescue every drowning African, the slave traffickers escape. Naturally he would prefer to capture a full ship. That way he and all of us in the crew get our share of the prize money. Head money, we call it.”

Morgan watched Nanvers as he looked at Hiram with a stony gaze.

“But you’ve had great success, have you not?” asked Stanfield.

Hiram stared at his empty glass in glum resignation. Finally, Lowery complied, refilling his glass, and Hiram continued.

“Wa’al, I would say chasing these slavers is like catching fish with your hands. For every one you snare, another hundred get away. I’ve heard tell that some ten to twenty thousand slaves are landed in Cuba each year, and that’s with thirty Royal Navy warships patrolling the African coastline trying to stop ’em.”

There was a heavy silence in the cabin interrupted finally by Clarkson Stanfield.

“But you are winning the freedom of many African slaves, are you not?”

Hiram let out a snort.

“As far as the slaves we rescue, we sometimes land them in Freetown, but oftentimes we send them on British merchant ships to the islands to work as emigrant laborers on the English sugar plantations. We call that freedom, but I am not sure those Africans do, once they get to the islands and see what’s in store for them.”

Hiram gave a half chuckle at what he thought was a clever remark, but one look at the serious faces around the table told Morgan that his English friends didn’t see any humor. At that moment, he used a sudden noise up on deck to excuse himself, taking Hiram along with him. Once they reached the quarterdeck, Morgan pulled out a Havana, rolling it in his hand as he spoke to his old friend in a concerned voice. The two of them walked back to a dark corner at the stern of the ship. Morgan lit his cigar and blew the white smoke into the night.

“Given your generous criticism of the West Africa Squadron, I reckon you probably have something to tell me?”

Hiram laughed nervously, coughed and sputtered a bit, and then nodded.

“Yup, I was meaning to tell you earlier. I need your help. You see, I’m not on shore leave.”

“What brings you here then?”

“I’ve jumped ship.”

Morgan’s eyes grew wider. He knew Hiram was capable of some bad decisions, but even he wasn’t expecting this news from his old friend.