Rough Passage to London(28)

Morgan walked back to the stern of the ship, shifting his weight effortlessly from one foot to the other. The repetitive motion of the waves, the slant of the deck, and the wind on his face all spoke to him now in a wordless language. He waited respectfully until the captain signaled him to replace the man at the wheel.

“Your turn at the helm, Morgan.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Morgan stepped up to the wheel and wrapped his fingers around the well-worn, braided twine on each of the spokes. He looked over at the man standing next to the captain. He had unruly dark hair and a high forehead with deep-set eyes. His squared-off jaw hinted at a proud, determined character. His formal dress, a white cravat and a dark jacket, made him appear to be a landed gentleman, but the way he stood with his legs straddled wide for balance, caused Morgan to think he was a seafaring man.

He stood silently at the helm, first looking up at the trim of the sails, then glancing down at the binnacle to check on his course, north-northeast. The fog was thickening and the wind was strengthening. He could feel the tug of the rudder as the ship began to heel over more sharply. The two men were studying the performance of the ship, and he could feel their eyes on him. He kept waiting for a critical comment, but none came. Champlin was boasting that two new ships were being built for the Black X Line. They would soon have four ships, which would help make the London Line more competitive with the Liverpool shipping lines. Morgan soon realized that it was James Fenimore Cooper. He was quite familiar with Cooper’s work as Scuttles had given him a copy of The Pioneers from the ship’s library, as well as Cooper’s highly successful seafaring novel, The Pilot.

At one point, the topic of conversation switched to the Crisis, and the author began asking questions about what could have happened to the Black X packet. Morgan watched as Champlin’s mood darkened even as he shuffled his feet on the deck defensively.

“Most likely she ran into a floating iceberg at night.” Champlin replied sadly. “Being as you were once a sailor and a midshipman in the United States Navy, Mr. Cooper, you well know the ocean gives and she takes. She is both kind and cruel.”

Cooper nodded soberly. Sensing the captain’s discomfort, he changed the topic to ask about the fast-growing packet trade with England and France. It was well known that American packet ships were now carrying over not just the mail, but ninety percent of the freight going both ways, as well as most of the passengers. There were now four sailings a month from New York to Liverpool, two to Havre, and one to London.

“Some of my shipping friends in New York say steamships are the future on the Atlantic. What do you think of that notion, Captain?”

Champlin laughed.

“Those stinkpots?” he snorted in disgust. “I venture to say that if I were a passenger, I would not risk my life crossing the stormy Atlantic on one of those smoky tinder boxes.”

After the two men tired of talking about ships, Champlin left the quarterdeck to go below and tend to some of his more demanding passengers. Morgan remained quiet, feeling awkward with so important a man as Cooper standing next to him. He looked over at the flush-cheeked author, who was clearly enjoying the motion of the ship and the cool, misty fog on his face. Finally he broke the silence and told Mr. Cooper that he had enjoyed reading his sea novel.

Clearly surprised by this sudden remark from the quiet young sailor at the helm, Cooper smiled at Morgan skeptically.

“A keen-eyed critic of the sea, are you?”

“Yes sir. I liked the part about them escaping through the Devil’s Grip, and I greatly admired Mr. Gray, the pilot. Reminded me of some of the American privateering captains who fought the British in the last war.”

Cooper’s dark eyebrows lifted slowly as he studied Morgan’s face more closely.

“You seem a little young, sailor, to know much about that war. What did you say your name was?”

“Morgan, sir. Ely Morgan. I was a farm boy from the Connecticut River, a little town called Lyme, during the war. My brother and I, we were there when the English torched our fleet in old Potapoug. We saw those redcoats close up. We were fortunate we didn’t get killed.”

Cooper’s smile broadened as he listened. He wanted to know more about this young sailor’s life. Morgan told him about his search for Abraham. He told him about John Taylor. He didn’t know why he divulged all of this, but the author’s deep-set eyes, although stern and inquiring, seemed trusting. Perhaps he just needed someone to confide in.

Cooper’s interest was piqued at the mention of the mysterious Englishman named William Blackwood.

“What will you do if you find this man, Blackwood, Mr. Morgan, what then?” asked Cooper provocatively.