Rough Passage to London(4)

The captain was a Block Island man with a loud voice, a thick head of silver curly hair, deep-set eyes, and a bony, whiskery face. He was telling them to hurry up as the tide was falling. He turned to face the young man who had walked up to the boat’s gangway and stood beside him. He sized him up quickly like a farmer does a hog. He was younger than he’d thought, a good-looking boy, medium size in stature but athletic in build, with light hazel green eyes under dark eyebrows, a smooth and square forehead, a well-rounded chin. His reddish hair hung uncombed from a broad-brimmed canvas hat. He wore stitched and patched overalls and a dark woolen jacket. Definitely a farm boy, he thought to himself.

“What did you say your name was, boy?”

“Ely, Ely Morgan.”

“Pleased to have you aboard, Morgan. The name is Captain Foster.”

The man extended a large, calloused hand to help Morgan aboard and with the other took the three dimes that Ely gave him for the fare. He then turned back to the men loading the boat.

“Hurry up, you villains, or I’ll put the boot to you! The tide’s ebbin’ now and the current is strong.”

So it was on that cool October day, with the first taste of fall in the air, that Ely Morgan left home on a coastal schooner to take up his new life as an ocean sailor. He was sixteen years old. It had taken him months of working at a nearby farm on Sunday afternoons to save the money for the fare. He reached into his pocket and rubbed the remaining quarter. That was all he had. Captain Henry Champlin, a well-known ship captain from the Connecticut River, who worked with the John Griswold firm out of New York, had promised him a berth on his new ship being built on the East River. Champlin told him to come to the firm’s offices at 68 South Street on the corner of Pine and ask for him once he got there.

To avoid anyone recognizing him, Ely had picked a small, unknown schooner named the Angelita that worked the Connecticut coastline bringing fresh produce and vegetables to New York. Moments after he arrived, the lines were cast off, the sails hoisted, and the heavily laden schooner, riding low in the water, began to run down the swiftly moving Connecticut River. The dark gray sky over the river was decorated with several formations of Canada geese moving in tandem, honking their warning that winter was coming as they flew south from Middletown over old Potapoug. The small river town that the British had attacked years ago was now known as Essex. The townspeople had only recently changed its name as a way to forget the painful memories of that fateful raid.

Ely looked out at the swirls and ripples in the river. He thought back to that night of the Good Friday Blaze, and the danger that he and Abraham had faced. The charred remains of some of the American ships that were burned by the British were still visible at low tide. Twenty-seven American ships were torched, vessels capable of carrying more than 130 cannons. The town of Potapoug was spared because the surprised villagers agreed not to resist if the British would not burn their homes. Many on the river were embarrassed by this defeat at the hands of the British. Even worse, the raiding party escaped with few casualties, only two dead and two wounded. The whole incident was a major blow to the pride of the Connecticut River militia, but for Abraham and Ely, it was their special bond, their secret adventure that was never discovered by their father.

Six years had gone by since his brother Abraham had left home to become a sailor, following in the footsteps of their older brother, William. They both had left shortly after the war ended. For a restless younger generation, not content with the ways of the past, a berth on an ocean-bound brig was like a siren call. Their departure had made life difficult at home, but it was the arrival of that fateful letter during the summer of 1816 that had changed the Morgan family forever. Like a cold winter’s wind, it had swept away hopes and dreams. A dark cloud had settled over the family, leaving his mother with no trace of her once familiar warm smile.

Ely’s mind drifted back to that day when he and his brother Josiah had raced home with the letter. The entire family had gathered around Sally Morgan as she broke the wax seal and unfolded the small letter. It was from New York and the date July 12, 1816, was stamped on it. Ely was squirming with anticipation at what he was sure would be exciting news from one of his brothers. The older girls—Asenath, Sarah, and Nancy—each picked up the two younger children, Maria Louisa and Jesse, so they could see what was happening. Abraham Morgan looked over his wife’s shoulder as she unfolded the letter written on a plain sheet of paper. The older man’s gaunt face was glowering. In his mind, his two older sons had abandoned their obligations by going off to sea. They are “the Devil’s own,” he would say. “No doubt they do their worshiping in a grogshop.”