Rough Passage to London(111)

“I am sorry to inform you, Captain, that we must ask you to stand by until we can board and search your ship.”

“Might I ask why?”

“You are suspected of harboring a British Navy deserter.”

Morgan grudgingly gave his assent. There was not much he could do with his ship anchored just off Portsmouth. Within five minutes, the English sloop of war had luffed off to the eastward and dropped anchor. A quarter boat was lowered and shortly thereafter the English commander and his men climbed the Victoria’s ladder. Morgan was again surprised that this captain had chosen to come himself, breaking with normal Royal Navy protocol. Up close Captain James Stryker had changed little over the past decade, the same well-defined, handsomely chiseled face, his black hair and whiskers now dusted with gray. Even Morgan had to admit the man was trim looking, a picture of strict naval discipline with his dark-blue-buttoned naval coat and its shiny epaulettes. He noticed he was wearing a silver-handled sword hanging from his belt, a reminder he had come armed.

“I believe I have the honor of having met you before, Captain,” Morgan said as he extended his hand.

“Yes, Captain Morgan,” he replied with a brusque voice. “I recall our past meeting.”

“As do I,” replied Morgan quickly with a note of sarcasm in his voice. “Did you ever find those slavers?”

“No, I am afraid we did not. They proved to be too elusive.”

Stryker did not even feign the slightest hint of pleasantry. He glanced over at the forward section of the ship where the emigrants were clustered together, looking in their direction. Youthful faces, bearded faces, faces weathered by years of labor and sacrifice, all were looking at them worriedly. The English captain waved his hand contemptuously in the direction of his own countrymen.

“I see you have plenty of human cargo, Captain. The usual motley assortment of villains headed for the promised land of America, or should I say the promised land of disappointment?”

Morgan restrained himself as he felt a sudden impulsive urge to hit this man. Instead he bit his lip and pulled out one of his cigars. Again he felt a strange sense of foreboding that he had seen this man’s face once before long ago.

“We’re taking only people who want to leave your country, Captain. If there are thieves aboard, I reckon they’ve learned their trade well here in England. As for deserters, I regret to inform you that we have no British Royal Navy sailor on board.”

Morgan stood silently by as he watched the armed British sailors scurry off to all corners of the ship, the forecastle, the lower cargo holds, the steerage, the bilge, the anchor chain locker in the bow, all dark, shadowy places where a man could hide. Quietly he was fuming at the insult of having his ship searched and his men questioned, but he took particular delight in his denial of harboring a British Navy sailor. After all, he hadn’t told a lie, he said to himself. Hiram was an American even if he had masqueraded as a British sailor.

Morgan escorted the English captain to the saloon and sat him down at the long dining table, calling on Lowery to bring in a tray with coffee. He took stock of the man in front of him, proud, arrogant, distrustful, but also clearly concerned. Hiram must be important to him, he thought. Perhaps there is some truth to what he had told him about the Royal Navy’s plans to blockade New York and Boston? Morgan wondered why Stryker seemed so sure that Hiram was on board the Victoria. Perhaps someone in Portsmouth had given him the information. Perhaps it was another sailor. It could have been the waterman who had ferried Hiram out to the Victoria. It could have been one of the wharf rats the British used as informants. He didn’t like to think of the other alternative, but he knew it could have been one of his passengers. They were his friends, but they were English. They would not have refused giving information to a Royal Navy captain, particularly if they were told this was information vital to the queen’s interest.

As Lowery poured the coffee, Morgan turned to Stryker, speaking with a controlled voice, hiding the contempt he felt for the man.

“Captain Stryker, I reckon it must be a most unpleasant duty for a British commander to be forced to board an American packet ship and look for a runaway sailor.”

Stryker’s face was tense and rigid as he took a sip of coffee.

“I’m sure this doesn’t happen often, Captain, does it?” Morgan asked.

Stryker angrily dropped his coffee cup on the table, pushed it away, and stood up.

“Let’s start with your personal quarters, Captain,” Stryker said with a controlled businesslike voice as he glanced at the closed doors of the staterooms on all sides.