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Rough Passage to London(118)

By:Robin Lloyd


“What about Abraham?” Morgan asked slowly, as he tried to control his emotions.

“Blackwood had a pistol to my head. I had no choice but to row away. I am sorry, Captain. That was how your brother died. We left him trapped inside the hold along with all those Africans and the blind sailors with the ship taking on water. I am sorry. Not a day passes that I don’t hear those cries for help and imagine those eyes staring at me in fear and hatred. Not a day passes that I don’t imagine Abraham lying there in that wet holding locker, blind and unable to move with the water rising.”

Morgan felt a sudden helplessness sweep over him. So that was it. He was glad his mother had never found out the truth. It had been better she had died with the faint hope that one of her two sons lost at sea was still alive.

“Did you make it ashore?”

“We survived the waves that stormy night. When daybreak came, we saw these huge mountains off to the west and we rode the breakers onto the beach near a place called Morant Bay. It turned out we were on the southeastern shore of Jamaica in the parish of St. Thomas. As soon as I got ashore, I ran away and kept running ever since.”

“You never got the eye disease?”

“No. Blackwood and Big Red weren’t so lucky. By the time we got to land, Blackwood’s eyes were infected. To this day he bears those scars and Big Red lost one eye to that disease.”

“Where did you hide out all these years, Taylor?”

“Many places. For many years it was the White Goose Tavern down on Water Street, you know where the blood sports pit is located. That was my hideaway. O’Leary, the Rat Man, put me to work collecting rats down at the wharf. I would come in at night with a fresh supply in a bag. Weasel bait we called it. One night I was about to make my delivery when I thought I saw Big Red. He had a patch on his eye. I ducked out of sight, but I think he spotted me then.”

“When did they catch you?”

“It was only a few months ago that Blackwood tracked me down in the Blow-Hole Tavern over on Cherry Street.”

Taylor reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter.

“Before I forget, Captain, Blackwood said I was to leave this by your cabin door before I left. You were supposed to find it in the morning.”

Morgan took it from the man. The letter was addressed simply to Captain Morgan, the Southampton. It had no return address. He opened it and began reading a card. The handwriting was small, but clearly came from an educated hand. It was from Captain James Stryker on the H.M.S. Hydra, one of the paddle-wheel steam frigates of the Royal Navy.





27





Morgan straightened up as he stood beside the giant form of Icelander at the helm. It was pitch dark, just shy of midnight. The Southampton had cleared the markers outside the protected waters of Sandy Hook, and the force of the wind now filled the ship’s sails. The Black X packet had a full load of first-class passengers. There was a sense of urgency on board. Morgan had informed the crew that the ship would be pushed to its limits. To reassure himself he was making the right decision, he pulled out the letter he had received from Stryker and read it again under the lantern light by the binnacle.

Dear Captain Morgan,

I am writing you from across the Hudson River in New Jersey at the Cunard Docks. It gives me great satisfaction to inform you that we have in our custody the runaway sailor and deserter Hiram Smith. We apprehended him in the West Indies. He is now a prisoner of the Royal Navy. He will be brought to justice before the Admiralty when we get back to England. The charges will be desertion from one of Her Majesty’s ships, and espionage. I am thoroughly confident that he will receive the full taste of English justice which a foreign spy so richly deserves. After recoaling, we leave for England at first light.

Most sincerely,

Captain James Stryker, R.N.

H.M.S. Hydra

After reading it again, Morgan remained as astonished as he was the first time he read it. Stryker had nabbed Hiram. He was arresting him not only as a deserter, but as a spy, presumably because he had posed as a British sailor. It would mean a hanging, almost certainly. Morgan was determined he would try to get to England as soon as possible, perhaps even before the British Navy steamship. His idea was to try to enlist support from some of Leslie’s influential friends in the nobility. He thought of Lord Nanvers. Nanvers had met Hiram. Perhaps the English Lord would try to help sway the Admiralty judges to be lenient.

Morgan had decided to take the far northern route across the roof of the Atlantic as sailors called it. This was slightly further to the north than the packet ship’s normal route on the eastward passage. It was the shortest and most direct way to cross the Atlantic, a distance of approximately 2,800 miles. This route would take him north of the Grand Banks into possible ice fields, but he was quite familiar with the hazards.