Rough Passage to London(20)

A stony silence now pervaded the cramped forecastle. Old Jeremiah had delivered his sermon and the men had much to think about as they took careful measure of their situation and of one another. The ship was pitching and heaving more heavily now, and the sailors retreated to their bunks. Morgan made his way through the narrow aisles past the hanging bundles of dripping wet clothes and gear. He decided to escape from the madness that surrounded him. Lying in his bunk, he took out the last letter he had received from home and began reading it again in the dim candlelight. It was a letter from his brother Josiah, who was the only one who wrote him. The words were a comfort, a link to the life he had left behind.

“My dear brother, For now, all is well on the farm, although with your absence we have had to cut back on the number of hogs and cows. We’ve been growing less barley too, as it is too hard to harvest. The apple trees are thriving.”

Morgan tried to imagine the farm as the ship pitched and heaved.

“Our sister Asenath is well,” wrote Josiah. “She says that she has never enjoyed such good health as she has since she married. Young Jesse and Maria Louisa are growing up quickly and are a big help to mother with the farm chores, even though Maria Louisa likes to torment the dog.”

Morgan thought of his sisters and smiled. He wished at that moment that he was together with them and his mother, watching them all making dinner in the warmth of the kitchen. He resumed his reading.

“Rest assured brother, all of us, especially our dear mother, want to hear how you’re faring. It’s just father who vents his gall by cursing all sailors. Sadly, he says he wants to hear no news from any who have chosen the life of the sea. He has forbidden mother or any of us to write to you, and I am sad to say he tears up your letters if he intercepts them before we do.”

Reading those words again left a bittersweet taste in his mouth like biting into a tart green apple. He loved reading about the family, but the news of his father only tied his stomach in knots. The thought of his father’s glowering face with his bushy silver eyebrows just made him more determined than ever to find out what had happened to Abraham.





As he clutched his letter and thought of home, Morgan could feel the wind pick up sharply. It was midnight, time for the watch to change. The gale was intensifying and soon the mates were banging on the forecastle hatch, delivering the captain’s orders to shorten sail. Morgan was actually glad for the excuse to go aloft and escape the fearful atmosphere in the forecastle.

“All hands reef topsails,” came the shout from Mr. Toothacher.

The forecastle emptied out and nearly all the sailors on board the Hudson were soon aloft in the dark, clambering out on the yards, manhandling the canvas sails and securing them with gaskets. With the ship beginning a more pronounced pitch and roll, Morgan struggled to hold his balance as he leaned out on his stomach on the yard. The wind was whistling through the rigging, the masts creaking as the ship strained to meet the rush of wind and sea. He looked down to see the ship’s lee rail disappear under surging black water and white foam. He held on as tightly as he could. The Hudson was now heeling sharply to one side. Suddenly, the sheets and braces were eased to save the masts from splintering, and he found himself dangling out on a swinging yard. If he hadn’t secured himself on the jackstay, he might have hurtled overboard. As it was, he would have fallen if several sailors hadn’t pulled tight the loose brace and secured the yard. Then came the order: “All hands on deck!” Morgan swung out from the topsail yard, dropped down to the mast doublings, grabbed the backstay, and slid down to the deck, all in a matter of seconds. This was relatively easy for him to do on the windward side when the packet was heeled over with the tips of the masts tilting toward the sea.

“Stand by to come about,” cried out Mr. Toothacher using a trumpet so that he could be heard above the wind noise.

Along with several others, Morgan was hard at work on deck unfastening sheets and braces on the starboard side. The yards for the main swung around, the blocks clattering, the canvas thrashing. He could see Ochoa and Icelander fastening the braces on the port side.

“Release foresail!”

Morgan let go of the foresail to help the bluff bow of the Hudson swing across the wind. He watched as Ochoa wrestled with the thrashing lines as he adjusted and trimmed the sails. On the new tack, the packet was now pointed on a northerly heading toward Greenland, what some sailors called the uphill road. The storm had blown them way to the south, some six hundred miles off the coast of Ireland. At this rate, with the wind and the waves on their nose, the best they could hope for would be to make thirty to forty miles a day. Just then, Morgan felt the hot breath of someone standing closely behind him. He turned abruptly, and jumped back, as Mr. Brown thrust his bushy black whiskers into his face, his beady eyes glistening with malice.