Rough Passage to London(112)

Morgan showed the English captain his own cabin, and then gave him a tour of the staterooms, making sure he mentioned the room that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had visited. He did not hesitate to go over every detail, adopting the tone he used when he was welcoming his first-class passengers. His primary purpose was to avoid too many inquiries.

“Over there is the sleeping quarters for the cook and the stewards. And now we’ll have a look at the galley,” Morgan said as he walked ahead of Stryker, gesturing with his hands. “This is my steward, Mr. Lowery, his assistant, Mr. Junkett, and the cook, Mr. Scuttles.”

Stryker nodded with disinterest as he walked by the three colored men and stepped into the ship’s galley area. Lowery seemed to be trying to tell him something, but Morgan couldn’t comprehend his facial gestures. Stryker’s eyes roamed from one door to the next. He looked closely at Lowery with obvious distrust. Morgan invited the captain to have a look around and then walked intentionally with undue heavy steps beside the dark section of the pantry where the potatoes were kept and where Hiram was hidden.

“Very spacious, don’t you agree?” Morgan continued, reaching over to the storeroom door and opening it with a flourish. There were dozens of barrels inside the storeroom with everything from apples and turnips, carrots and peas, to onions and potatoes. Stryker took another oblique step, lifting up the tops of some of the barrels. He held his nose at the sight and smell of the oily, greasy slush in one barrel. Lowery, who was standing behind Stryker, was now madly jerking his head up and down and rolling his eyes. Morgan looked at him with a puzzled face as he quickly turned back to attend to Stryker, who was opening each and every container.

The English captain poked his head into the onion barrel, and then unexpectedly withdrew his sword from his belt and began sticking it into the onions with small jabs and then thrusting it downward. He did the same with a barrel of apples and finally he reached the potatoes. Morgan almost called out a warning, but then quickly stifled it. Stryker raised his sword high above his head and thrust it down into the potatoes, all the way to the hilt. Morgan choked back a gasp as he waited for a noise, any noise, coming from inside the barrel, but there was none, just a prolonged silence. He imagined Hiram curled up inside, bleeding, writhing in pain. After a weighty pause, he asked if Stryker was satisfied with his tour of the first-class cabin area and would he now care to tour the more basic second-class area.

An hour later with the search over, Morgan showed the disappointed English captain out onto the quarterdeck and Stryker turned to him with a stony face, the backs of his hands resting on his hips.

“It may be we were given bad information, Captain. We were told by a very reliable source that the deserter was seen boarding your ship. If you find the man, Captain Morgan, I would ask you to arrest him and hand him over to the authorities in the nearest English port. I am sure you realize that failure to do so would have serious consequences for yourself and your ship.”

“Thank you for that sober advice, Commander. It’s been our pleasure to accommodate your search, but remember, when this ship leaves port, the next stop will be New York.”

Morgan’s boldness had the desired result. Stryker’s face grew red with anger and disgust.

“Your disrespect for the Crown does not go unnoticed, Captain.”

At the ladder the disgruntled English captain lingered.

“We will investigate this matter further, and if we find anything that implicates you or your ship, rest assured we will pursue you.”

Stryker then turned his back to Morgan and left as quickly as he came without even a farewell. As the British sailors bent their shoulders into pulling the oars of their quarter boat, the Victoria’s cabin passengers were arriving on a small steamer. Soon the quarterdeck of the packet ship was swarming with top hats, swallowtail coats, billowy ankle-length dresses, ruffling petticoats, and brightly colored bonnets.

Morgan wiped the sweat off his brow. He wasted no time in getting the packet ship underway.

As the first mate, Mr. Stark yelled, “Anchor aweigh,” Morgan rushed below and confronted Lowery.

“Is he dead?”

“No sir. He’s alive.”

“How is that possible? The man drove his sword to the bottom of the barrel, right to the hilt.”

“He ain’t in the potatoes, Cap’n. He’s in here.”

Lowery pointed to another barrel adjacent to the potatoes that was filled with beets.

“Is that what you were trying to signal me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Morgan heard some banging and pounding. Scuttles opened the barrel, and pulled out a false bottom only two feet from the top, revealing a brown head of hair, the smiling, whiskery face of Hiram Smith quickly emerging amidst the beets.