He knew the steamer would choose the standard shipping lane along the southern route. It was considered the safer path, and most of the steamers chose this track because they would travel far away from the dangers of the shallow waters off the North American coast, and well south of the foul weather and ice to the north. But it was longer, roughly 3,100 miles. He calculated that if the steamer left at first light, it had a twelve-hour head start. He knew these paddle wheelers could only steam along at eleven to twelve knots, so with the right winds he thought the Southampton might be able to even overtake the H.M.S. Hydra before they reached the English Channel. He knew what was important was to get to London as soon as possible.
Morgan folded the letter and put it into his pocket. The Southampton’s bow rose to meet the ocean swells. He barked out orders for more canvas.
“Aloft there some of you and loose all sails.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Royals and skysails as well?”
“Yes, and loose all head sails.”
The new first mate, Richard Moore, joined in.
“You men over there, look alive! Take in those clewlines at the main. Clap a watch tackle on the starboard topsail sheet and rouse her home. Sheet home the topsails. Look alive there!”
The ship’s large prominent bowsprit rose to meet the dark, oncoming waves like a steeplechase horse leaping over a looming fence. Morgan faced forward into the night and gazed at the bright tip of his glowing cigar. His mind shifted to Taylor’s startling revelations. He was still stunned. He knew now what had happened to his brother, yet along with Taylor’s grisly story had come so many questions, so many puzzling mysteries. Taylor had said Blackwood had given him Stryker’s letter. It didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t grasp what would have brought Blackwood and Stryker together. A committed Royal Navy captain in the West African Squadron and a man he should be pursuing were an unlikely pair. He shook his head as he walked toward the main mast at the center of the ship and gazed out into the deep blackness of the night.
By the morning of June 14, the Southampton had cleared the Grand Banks, having been at sea for five and a half days. Ominously, as the sun slowly slipped down below the western horizon, Morgan looked ahead and saw a frozen expanse. Against the now dark and overcast sky, the blue ocean had suddenly disappeared into a sea of white. One vast ice field lay before them. It was a frightening but thrilling sight. The thick hull of the Southampton shuddered as it hit the thin crust of ice head on and began plowing through it. The hideous sound of the ice crackling and crunching exploded on either side of the ship. Soon they were well into the ice field as night descended on them. The ship was trembling like a frozen twig in a winter storm, the wooden beams and planks moaning under the stress.
A shout arose from below.
“Water in the hold. Man the pumps!”
Whipple went down below to assess the damage. Water was beginning to seep up into the lower cargo hold. A quick inspection showed some of the trenails he’d hammered in the day before had given way, but he soon discovered an even bigger problem. The ship was taking in water on the port side. The water level was already knee deep in parts of the bilge. Morgan set the crew to work pumping and jettisoning cargo as he reassured his passengers that the leak was nothing to worry about. This went on for nearly an hour as the ship continued to plow its way through the expansive field, peeling back and breaking off large, thin shards of ice.
Whipple waded into the freezing water at the bottom of the ship and began looking for cracks or breaks in the planking. He soon discovered the problem. Besides the holes near the keel, Taylor had perforated the ship’s hull on the port side directly under the waterline, holes which Whipple had not detected. The friction from the ice had compromised the thin veneer of wood Taylor left in the planking. Water was pouring in. Whipple stuffed towels and rags into the holes. As the crew continued to pump and throw more cargo overboard to further lighten the ship, the water level slowly receded, allowing Whipple to plug the holes more permanently with large makeshift trenails, oakum, and tar.
With the winds still strong, the Southampton powered its way out of the ice pack. It took two hours to do so. Morgan squared the yards. He saw several black-and-white shearwaters dancing across the surface of the water, gliding and dipping over the waves, a sign that Ireland might be as close as two days away. The birds made him think of Old Jeremiah, and he remembered how that old superstitious tar had labeled John Taylor a Jonah. Maybe he was right. Taylor was cursed. He had almost succeeded in sinking the ship. In a moment of sympathy before departing, he had thought of bringing him on board, but now after this close call, he was glad to have left the opium addict behind to lose himself in the streets of New York. John Taylor needed to face his own demons now, but not on board the Southampton.