Rough Passage to London(122)
Morgan was fishing for any information Hiram might have, but his old friend scratched his head and pulled at his beard.
“I don’t know, Ely. All I know is I was shoveling coal in the furnace room when they told me they were giving me some fresh air. They took my foot manacles off, and led me up on deck.”
“Had they done this before?”
“No, never.”
“Did they say anything?”
“No, nothing. When I stepped out into the sunlight, my eyes were at first blinded. Then I spied your ship right alongside us and spotted the red pennant and the Black X streaked across the topgallants. I knew it was your packet, and I grabbed one of the quarter boat’s oars that was stored on deck and started swinging and then jumped overboard.”
A horrible thought passed through Morgan’s mind. What if they wanted Hiram to jump because they knew Morgan would rescue him? Stryker could be toying with him for the pleasure of the chase. He wondered if by picking up Hiram he had just fallen into an elaborate trap. Stryker could simply tell any Navy tribunal that Morgan was Hiram’s accomplice. He was well aware that Hiram Smith was being brought to England to face trial for desertion and espionage. If he didn’t turn Hiram over, he could be charged and his ship might be seized. The dark thought in the back of his mind was still the vision of Blackwood and Big Red on the deck of that Royal Navy frigate.
Hours later, the Southampton was running before a strengthening southwest gale at the speed of fourteen knots. The Hydra was trailing a half mile back, its tall funnel spewing out black smoke and black embers. Morgan could barely see the solitary figure of the blue-coated captain standing on the top of the half moon-shaped paddle-wheel box. The weather was so rough the ship could only stand double-reefed topgallants and single-reefed main topsails with the mainsail furled.
Visibility was getting worse and Morgan decided to bear off, charting a course over to France on the other side of the English Channel. This was the safest way for him to avoid the treacherous rocks of Lizard Point, which guarded the entrance to Falmouth. He also calculated that by crossing over toward France, he would be able to tack back across the channel and sail directly into Falmouth. With the strong winds on their back, the Southampton was now running at fifteen knots, and the steamship could not keep up. Soon they lost sight of the steamer frigate even though they could hear the faint, churning drone of the paddle wheeler in the distance.
They continued on toward France that stormy night, headed toward the island of Ouessant, the eastern edge of the English Channel. Morgan was quite aware that these were dangerous waters filled with powerful crosscurrents, deadly tides, and underwater ledges. Amongst sailors, the islands of Ouessant and Molène were known as a ship’s graveyard. “He who sees Ouessant sees his blood” was the old saying. Morgan took careful measure to estimate his speed and distance across the Channel. He had a man stationed at the tip of the bowsprit listening for the roaring of the sea lashing against rocks just in case he had miscalculated, but to be cautious, he gave the order to tack back toward England well before they got to the westward edge of Ouessant.
With the Black X packet now sailing hard to the wind back across the English Channel, Morgan heard the steamship passing them off to port a half mile away, still holding her course. He told Lowery to douse the lights below decks, and told the bow lookout to shutter the lantern on the bowsprit. He could just make out the faint sparks of coal embers rising up from the ship’s tall funnel. He could hear the British sailors’ agitated voices shouting through the stormy night, causing him to travel back in time. Suddenly he was a terror-stricken boy again, immobilized, lying flat on the wet floorboards of the rowboat, waiting for the lead bullets to tear through his skin. The hushed voice of the first mate, asking him for the course, snapped him back to the present.
“North-northwest,” he whispered back. “Full sail to Falmouth.”
He was expecting the Royal Navy ship to change course, but the paddle wheels kept moving in the same direction. Amazingly, they hadn’t spotted them. For the longest time, he stood at the stern of the ship listening to the churn of the paddles fading away into the dark gloom of the night. Finally, there was silence. Morgan wondered if Stryker was confused at his exact position. He knew well enough if the Royal Navy ship did not change her course, she would run ashore on the deadly rocks off Ouessant and Molène.
28
At first light, Morgan scanned the horizon off to the east for any sign of smoke, but there was nothing, only a few coastal schooners working their way up and down the English Channel. The storm had cleared and the sky was clear. A few hours later, the Southampton finally coasted into Falmouth harbor. The passengers were celebrating with a chorus of hip-hip-hoorays. The sailors threw their hats in the air. The stewards banged pots and pans and waved their white serving jackets over their heads. It was not just a fast passage, but a transatlantic record for a sailing ship. Captain Morgan had crossed the Atlantic, going from New York to England, in thirteen days, twelve hours. Despite all the problems in the voyage, the Southampton could claim to be the fastest of the transatlantic wind packets, at least for the moment.