Rough Passage to London(123)

But Morgan had little time to celebrate. He was worried the Navy ship would soon surface on the horizon. He told his first mate, Mr. Moore, to keep his spyglass focused on the English Channel and notify him if he saw any signs of smoke on the horizon. With all the singing and laughter going on in the quarterdeck and the center of the ship, Morgan lost no time in pulling Hiram aside. They both walked over to the wheelhouse, where they found a quiet corner by the stern rail.

Morgan looked at him expectantly.

“Time is short, Hiram. That Navy ship will be here before you know it. What do you have to tell me?”

Hiram fidgeted back and forth, stroking his beard. He shuffled his feet as he seemed to be thinking how to respond. Morgan tapped his finger impatiently on the rail.

“They are still looking for Abraham.”

“What?” Morgan gave a start of disbelief. “Who do you mean?”

“Blackwood. Blackwood and Stryker. When they were searching for me in Jamaica, my mates in the taverns told me their men were also making inquiries about Abraham.”

Morgan stared at Hiram with a perplexed, incomprehensive look.

“How is that possible, Hiram? Abraham’s dead. John Taylor told me what happened.”

Hiram seemed genuinely surprised.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I thought maybe . . .”

“No, he’s dead. That’s what Taylor said. My brother was trapped in that cursed ship along with those slaves. There was no way out. He drowned.”

Hiram pulled at his beard, giving Morgan an uneasy stare.

“I am sorry. I am sorry, Ely.”

Hiram coughed into his fist in clear discomfort.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” Morgan asked.

“I wanted to . . .”

Hiram looked at him, and gave a nervous shrug.

“This is hard for me. Don’t get riled, Ely.” His voice became hushed. “When they captured me at the White Bull that night all those many years ago, I met Blackwood.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“He wanted to know what you knew about his operation. I told him you didn’t know much of anything, but he said I had to come with him. I wish I hadn’t but I did.”

“You sailed with Blackwood?” Morgan asked in a state of incomprehension. He looked at his friend and shook his head in dismay.

“You were on a slaver?”

“No, no, not exactly. He put me on Stryker’s ship, the H.M.S. Resolve. You see, they were in it together. They still are.”

Morgan shook his head in amazement.

“How can that be, Hiram? I don’t understand.”

“I swear, in the beginning I didn’t know what I was doing. All that blackbird chasing we did on the Resolve was a cover. We all would have been hanged if the admirals had discovered what we were really doing.”

“Which was . . . ?”

Hiram could not bring himself to meet Morgan’s stern gaze. Instead, he looked beyond him as he continued his startling confession.

“Every three months or so we would rendezvous on the African coastline with one specific slave ship. This meeting was as regular as the comings and goings of one of your packets. Stryker seemed to know where to sail the Resolve. We would find the slave ship, somewhere between Lopez and Benguela in a hidden lagoon or up some river. The Bonny River area with all its many hideaways was a common destination.”

“Was it Blackwood?” asked Morgan.

“It was. The ship always had a Portuguese name, but it was the same ship with a snake figurehead under the bowsprit.”

“Was that the Charon we spotted years ago in the West India Docks, only with a changed name? Do you remember, Hiram?”

“I can’t say for sure. I suspect there were many slave ships that were all made to look the same. They were all topsail schooners built in Baltimore. We would watch as canoe loads of guinea slaves were loaded onto that ship like human cattle, the overseer’s whip cracking through the humid air, that whistling sound always followed by human cries. Blackwood was usually there on the deck, examining the walking cargo like a farmer examining his livestock.”

Just then Morgan heard shouts coming from the quarterdeck. He looked nervously over his shoulder, shading his eyes with his hands, expecting to see a Royal Navy paddle wheeler steaming their way. Instead, he saw Lowery and Junkett passing out more champagne to the passengers. He shouted out to Mr. Moore.

“Any sign of that steamship?”

“No, sir, not as yet.”

Morgan turned back to find Hiram looking forlornly down at his feet.

“Go ahead,” Morgan said as he stepped up to stand closer to Hiram at the rail. Hiram squirted a mouthful of tobacco juice over the side.