Rough Passage to London(110)

“Desertion is no small offense in the British Navy, Hiram. Are you aware of the consequences?”

“I had to jump ship, Ely.”

“Why?”

“If I hadn’t, I might soon be fighting my own countrymen.”

“What do you mean?” Morgan asked incredulously. “How so? Why would you be fighting Americans?”

“I’ve overheard plans, you see. I was outside the captain’s cabin and I listened in. I heard Captain Stryker tell another captain that this assembled war fleet here in Portsmouth is prepared to set sail. As soon as they’re given the word, their orders are to sail westward and blockade New York and Boston, the whole east coast in fact. Stryker says they aim to teach Brother Jonathan a lesson.”

Morgan gasped. “Is this over the Oregon dispute?”

Hiram nodded.

Morgan looked at him. He was stunned by this news. He blew out a mouthful of smoke as he turned away from Hiram and looked up into the night sky.

Hiram pleaded his case.

“Ely, I have no option. They’ve probably got marines looking for me right now. I am afraid they’ll kill me with a flogging, a hundred lashes or more. That is the penalty for desertion. I need your help. Can you give me a berth? Aren’t you sailing with the tides early tomorrow?”

Morgan didn’t say anything as he looked at the glowing tip of his cigar.

“I will give it some thought, Hiram.”

He had a sense Hiram was still not telling him everything. Still, he owed him. For old times’ sake, if for nothing else, he knew that he must help Hiram.

Shortly afterward, the sound of a steamer chugging and clanking nearby broke the silence of the night. The small steam ferry had come to take the artists ashore. They were all a little drunk and they were reminiscing about the late Sydney Smith, who had died earlier that year. Leslie said how much his witty remarks would be missed. Thackeray, with his deep melodious voice, decided to pay homage to Smith by reciting the first few lines of his famous recipe for potato salad.

“Two large potatoes passed through the kitchen sieve

Unwonted softness to the salad give.”

Laughing good humoredly, Leslie quickly joined in.

“Of mordant mustard, add a single spoon:

Distrust the condiment which bites so soon.”

When the steamer bumped alongside the Victoria, Morgan accompanied his friends up on deck and bid them farewell, even as he made plans for a quick getaway the next morning.





25





As the first rays of sunlight crept above the horizon, Morgan had already sent his boat ashore to notify the incoming cabin passengers that the packet ship would be leaving earlier than expected. The skies were clear with westerly winds. Morgan wiped the sweat off his brow. It was only June, but the summer heat had arrived. He told Mr. Lowery privately to hide Hiram in the barrel filled with potatoes in the dark, dimly lit storeroom beside the galley.

“Make sure it has a false bottom, Lowery. I know you’ve used one before to fool the inspectors at the docks. Put Hiram underneath that. Mark my words, we are likely to have a Royal Navy boarding. Tell no one that Hiram is aboard ship.”

“Yes, sir, Cap’n.”

“Mr. Stark, make ready for lifting the anchor as soon as the passengers come aboard.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And Mr. Stark.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“Make sure that all the sailors on board know that our guest last night, Mr. Smith, has left the ship.”

The first mate looked puzzled for a moment and then nodded. There was nothing to be read from the laconic expression on his face, but Morgan trusted him. He was a young man from the river who showed great promise.

“Stand by with buntlines!” he yelled up to the men high in the yards.

Even before the cabin passengers arrived from the docks at Portsmouth, Morgan spied the Admiralty sloop of war headed his way. It was the same ship he had seen years ago, an unusual sight in British waters. Sleek, raked-back masts with no square-rigged sails, and a fore and aft rig, which he knew from experience could overtake him on a windward passage. He looked through his telescope and was not surprised at what he saw. There was Captain Stryker standing erect by the gangway, his face now weathered after years of sailing in African waters, his hair graying at the temples. The shiny epaulettes on either shoulder of his blue coat glittered in the early morning sun. The three-masted sloop of war came up fast, rounding up into the wind with her sails flapping in the light early morning breeze.

The English captain held a trumpet and identified himself formally as if they’d never met. Morgan grabbed his trumpet from his first mate and stepped to the rail.

“As you can see we have a full ship and our cabin passengers are due shortly. We are anxious to be off with the tide. What is your business?”