Morgan looked at the square pale face of the melancholy sailor with the thin lips and the strange, white eyelashes. He wondered about his own family. His decision to go to sea left him isolated like Olaf Rasmussen, a wandering sailor who, like a piece of driftwood, never comes farther inland than the shoreline.
As the early morning sky lightened on the horizon, Morgan had run up the ratlines to help with the foremast topgallant sail. The air was strangely filled with the smell of mountain lake water, not the salty smell of just the day before. All around the ship were white mountaintops peeking out of the ocean waves like frozen pyramids. It was from his high perch that he spotted something enormous and bluish. It was just a vague shape concealed in one of the black cresting waves. At first he thought it was a shark or a whale. He rubbed his eyes with his fist. It was still there, a pale, translucent blue object coming directly at them. He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing. One of the bluish edges of the object broke the surface. It was sharp and jagged, and then he knew for sure what it was. Morgan sounded the alarm, which was echoed back to the mate. The helmsman spun the wheel around so that the ship narrowly missed the sunken block of ice, its uneven edges scraping up against the ship’s sides with a wrenching sound. Had it occurred an hour before in the dark of the night, nothing could have saved the Hudson. The underwater iceberg would have punctured a hole in the bottom of the ship’s hull. Champlin approached him later and personally thanked him. It was the first time that had ever happened. The captain had actually spoken to him and congratulated him, something he rarely did with the younger, less experienced sailors.
“What do you think, Morgan, does prayer bring good luck?”
“I don’t know, Captain,” he replied, somewhat surprised by his question.
Champlin pushed his hand through his disheveled head of hair as he looked out at the cold blue ocean. He seemed strangely shaken.
“One thing’s certain about this life, Morgan. It comes to an end. Out here in the ocean, the Creator reminds me of that fairly regular. Thank you for your vigilance.”
With that comment, he walked away.
The next day dawned with bright sunlight and light air. Looking back to the north, there were no signs of the lethal icebergs. The forecastle was alive with storytelling and chanteys. The dark tension of the past few days seemed to have lifted, and Morgan joined a small group of sailors on deck who began singing “Fire Down Below.” He watched as Ochoa pulled out his guitar and began playing, his calloused, ring-covered fingers strumming the chords lightly and quickly. Along with Hiram and Icelander, Ochoa had become one of his closest friends on the ship. He supposed the common bond they shared was that they were all the favored targets of the second mate’s rages. They had banded together to help one another. He didn’t know much at first about Ochoa, but then when he realized that the Spaniard understood and spoke more English than he let on, he came to hear the man’s tragic story. When he was only ten years old, his family traveled from Cadiz to Cuba. Their ship was only one day away from reaching Havana when a pirate ship boarded them. All aboard were shot or hung. He had watched as his parents were killed, shot at close range while they were on their knees. His sisters were taken by a few of the men on board the prize ship and he was forced to join the pirates. He never forgot their fear-stricken faces just before they were pushed down the companionway into the hold.
It was then, amidst much foot stomping, singing, and yelling from the sailors, that Morgan remembered the letter that he had stuffed into his pocket. He’d asked earlier about Dobbs, the jumper, and he’d been told by another sailor that the sick man was still talking incoherently in a semiconscious state. He went off to a dark corner on the other side of the livestock shed and sat down to read the letter he’d picked up from the man’s bunk area. He was always happy when he could slip away and read in seclusion, and this was one of his hideouts. There was no way to describe the extent of his astonishment as he unfolded the piece of paper. The handwriting was shaky and jagged, the lettering uncertain, a sign of the writer’s weak and trembling hand. Dobbs had not finished it, but that wasn’t what left Morgan speechless.
Dear Morgan,
When I first Spied you high up in the yards after we cleared Margate and headed into the North Sea, I thought I had seen a Ghost. I thought it was Abraham as your appearances are similar. Then when I heard your name spoken, I realized you must be his Brother. It was then that I knew the heavy hand of Fate had directed me to this Ship for a purpose. It was my Time. I know that I failed to fulfill my Promise to write your Mother, and now I embrace this Opportunity to inform you. Your brother deserved better from me, his friend John Taylor. I find myself unable to easily relate to you what happened, but I must try to make you understand. I did all I could . . .