Rough Passage to London(135)

“How did he know where that snake was?” asked Morgan.

“I think because he was blind he must have developed especially keen hearing. That was the only explanation I could think of, but the boys clearly thought he was a magic man. ‘Obeah,’ they called him.”

“Tell me more,” said Morgan, now totally engaged in the minister’s story.

“Shortly after we had killed the snake, Enitan continued recalling and recounting that fateful voyage so many years ago, how he had refused the captain’s orders to drown some two hundred of the blind slaves. He was beaten and locked in a cell. A terrible storm came up and then one night he heard the wrenching noise of the ship slamming into a reef, the wooden hull splintering, water pouring in. He was freed by about a dozen of the slaves, who somehow had worked themselves free of their manacles. They all grabbed onto some of the spare yards and spars stored in the cargo holds and on deck and threw themselves into the sea. The next thing he remembered was the burning hot sun, the scalding sand, and a black woman’s face looking down at him. He was on a small spit of land in the midst of reefs. He could barely see; his eyes were crusting over as the disease was progressing. In the distance, he could make out the blue mountains of what turned out to be Jamaica. They greeted him as a friend because they had seen him defy the captain and the mate. He helped the others build a raft and paddles from the remains of the ship, which had drifted ashore. They even found some canvas remnants of the sails, and they set out for the nearby mountainous island. With the prevailing trade winds now blowing behind them, they landed the next day on the southeastern coast of the island and started climbing.”

“Did you ask him what his Christian name was?” Morgan asked again.

“I did, Captain, but unfortunately he wasn’t certain, but he did tell me something, and that is why Mrs. Leslie thought I should come and see you. He said he thinks his name was Morgan, or something like that, and he sometimes dreams of a place by a big river called Lyme. When I mentioned this story to the ladies’ group, and told them I was carrying a letter addressed to his family, Mrs. Leslie said I should contact you. You would know what to do.”

It was hard to describe his sensations. Morgan’s head was reeling. He had no sense of time or place.

“Here is the letter. See for yourself. It is addressed simply to ‘A shipwrecked sailor’s family, Lyme.’ That is my handwriting. I helped him write it. I did not know how else to advise him.”

Morgan picked up the letter, gingerly holding it as if it were the most valuable piece of jewelry in the world. He opened it slowly and began reading.

To Whomever May Read This Letter:

I am a shipwrecked sailor. I believe my last name is Morgan, or some name similar to that. My home was once on the banks alongside a wide river in a place called Lyme. I have given this letter to a good man who knows my story and how I came to be shipwrecked on an offshore reef near Jamaica in the summer of 1816. Sadly, I have lived all these years with a failed memory. I am blind, but I have learned to see in other ways. The sounds of the forest paint pictures for me. The birds speak to me with their songs, sometimes warning me, other times guiding me. I am told by the missionaries who come here that God will visit the earth in judgment of the many sins of the slave traders who brought me here against my will. I know the man of the cloth who is carrying this letter will explain that to you. If this should fall into the hands of my family, I want them to know I am safe here. My wife, Adeola, and I are blessed with four children. Beyond the painful memories of my voyage, I have no recollection of my early years.

My dear family, should you read this letter, and you recognize who I am, may the kind Providence bring us together again in this life.

Enitan

Morgan stood there for what seemed like an eternity rereading the letter over and over again after the Baptist minister had left. He was too emotional to even speak so he just nodded to himself, gulped, and bit his lip. Tears streamed down his face and he tried to wipe them away. His mind was lost as he tried to imagine this world of shadows the letter described, the sounds of the forest, the singing birds. Finally he heard his name being called out, and he surfaced on deck to the chorus of competing orders from the mates readying the ship. The dockmaster was loading last-minute cargo into the ship’s hold. He scanned the hardworking faces of the emigrants on deck, their belongings all around them, infants crying and children screaming.

Morgan’s mind was far away as he watched his well-dressed friends walk up the wooden gangway onto the quarterdeck. Landseer’s silver-gray, bushy head bobbed up and down in the mix of people. Behind them came the large and rotund Clarkson Stanfield and the tall and slim Charles Leslie, followed by his lovely daughter, Harriet, who was now twenty-one years old and catching the attention of many roving eyes, including those of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray. He was sad to hear Leslie say that the old club might soon fade away. There were fewer members of the Sketching Club, and now many of the older members, including Leslie, often didn’t attend. Old Turner was too ill now to even go to the Royal Academy. They were all getting older, and many of them were painting less.