Rough Passage to London(136)
He spotted Dickens, who was wearing a new top hat and had a jaunty look on his thin, angular face. His illustrator friends followed close behind, their expressions filled with amazement at the chaos on board the ship. The giant figure of Thackeray with his distinctive glasses also followed this group up the gangway.
“That’ll do, Mr. Moore, with your ’ead line,” yelled the garrulous dockmaster. “If you’ll be good enough to ’aul yer stern line to port and ’ave those sailors tail on to that quarter line, we’ll ’ave you cleared and ready for departure.”
Minutes later, the Southampton gently moved out of the enclosed St. Katherine’s Docks where two steamers were waiting. Morgan ordered some of the men high up in the yards to release the fore topsail with the large Black X on it, more for looks than anything else, as there was little wind. His guests were milling about the quarterdeck around Dickens and Thackeray, who were the center of the large group’s attention.
The banks of the Thames were cloaked with mist and coal smoke, a gloomy, gray riverscape that Morgan thought had an odd beauty about it, much like one of Turner’s paintings. From the forecastle, he could hear the men singing. A Creole bones player, Ben Sheets, clicked out a rhythm. He recognized the sound of Ochoa strumming and thumping on his guitar. A wailing fiddle and a pulsating accordion quickly joined in. He could hear Icelander and Whipple belt out a familiar chorus, their voices soaring and swooping like birds in flight.
“At St. Katherine’s Dock I bade adieu
To Poll and Bet and lovely Sue,
The anchor’s weighed, the sails unfurled
We’re bound to plough the watery world
Don’t you see we’re homeward bound?”
He walked over to the group surrounding Dickens and Thackeray, who now had serious looks on their faces.
“No one seems to have seen him for days,” Landseer said.
“Where could he have gone?” asked Dickens.
Richard Doyle from Punch then chimed in. “I have heard that the Admiralty is trying to question him, apparently something to do with the wreck of the Hydra off the coast of France. They found some suspicious papers on board that ship.”
“You don’t think Nanvers is in any trouble do you?” asked Leslie incredulously. “I was just there at his house two weeks ago. Captain Morgan was with me. What did he tell you when he met with you privately?”
Morgan pulled at one of his earlobes before answering as he thought about what he should say.
“Lord Nanvers had some business matters to discuss. He seemed to have some financial concerns and wondered if I could help him captain one of his ships. I thanked him, of course, but told him I had no interest in leaving the Black X Line. Why, what has happened to Nanvers?”
“He seems to have disappeared,” replied Dickens, his eyebrows arching upward. “He hasn’t been seen for days, and he left no word with his staff at the estate about any travel plans. I am sure he will show up in good time. It is not like Nanvers to miss one of your river cruises, Captain.”
“It is strange though,” remarked Leslie with a puzzled shake of his head. “Maybe he has been called away to one of his landholdings in Jamaica,” he said in a hopeful tone.
Lowery was making his rounds with glass decanters of sherry and claret. Sam Junkett followed behind with glasses of Leslie’s favorite punch, an old recipe from Philadelphia called Fish House Punch, a powerful concoction of peach brandy, cognac, and dark rum. As he sipped appreciably on his punch, Dickens turned to Morgan with a mischievous sparkle in his eye.
“Is it fair to say, Captain, that I have once again stepped onto American soil?”
Morgan paused a moment and laughed.
“Yes sir, Mr. Dickens. I suppose you have.”
“Does that make me subject to the laws of your United States?”
Packet-polite as always, Morgan responded diplomatically.
“I am not a legal scholar, Mr. Dickens, but I would say as master of this American flagged vessel you can consider yourself free to express your opinion, whatever that may be.”
The two men laughed. They had become fast friends over the past few years. Morgan pulled out a cigar and offered one to Dickens. The English author beamed as he rolled the cigar in his wide mouth. Soon the pungent smell of Havanas enveloped the quarterdeck, the wispy clouds of smoke drifting out over the Thames.
Dickens didn’t say anything at first as he puffed appreciably on his cigar, but then turned to the captain.
“Captain Morgan, this is a good cigar indeed. On a more serious note, a good cigar requires a good yarn. You know I have always enjoyed your stories. I hope you don’t mind that I have repeated them on several occasions, sometimes to great effect. The one about the ‘wet lovers and the dry one’ is a personal favorite. Have you another for me?”