11
Morgan was half expecting a squadron of the London Marine Police to show up shipside to arrest him and Hiram the next morning, but nothing happened to break up the tedium of the day. They had walked through the opening gates at St. Katherine’s that morning along with hundreds of dockworkers and scores of drunken sailors. No one knew that they had stolen a boat and been pursued on the Thames River. Morgan was already making plans to go back to the West India Docks as soon as he could.
After the decks had been thoroughly scrubbed, Morgan’s stomach turned when one of the dock constables came on board ship asking to see him. It was Constable Pinkleton. The police officer was English to the core, stout-chested with ruddy cheeks and a muttonchop beard. He was a stubby man with large ears sprouting so much hair it was a wonder that he didn’t try to keep them better groomed. He was usually in search of someone who had forged a signature, stolen money outright, or run off with somebody else’s wife. But in many cases, he simply wanted to eyeball the ship and see if he saw something suspicious. It was Pinkleton who had told Morgan that in England they had a special name for every type of criminal. A dipper or a flimp was a pickpocket. A duffer was someone who sold stolen goods. A mughunter, a street robber. A dragsman, a highway robber. A screever, a forger. A snakesman, a specialized house burglar. A snoozer, a thief specializing in robbing hotel rooms. As far as Pinkleton was concerned, all of the above were potentially trying to flee English justice on board American packet ships. Morgan kept his disdain for British authority as well as his own personal concerns to himself as he walked up to the officer.
“Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, officer.”
“A young lady dropped this off at this gate and said it was important.”
Morgan breathed a sigh of relief when the officer had disappeared out of sight. It was a letter from Laura. She had sent him a note that she would meet him at her sister’s tavern. She said Blackwood was still holed up with Mary upstairs above the bar. Her sister Molly, who ran the tavern with her husband, would help him get upstairs to see Blackwood.
It was a noisy din that evening as Morgan and the five other Hudson sailors walked into the White Bull Tavern. Morgan should have known something was amiss as the entire tavern of rowdy sailors went silent as soon as they walked through the door. Each of the Hudson’s sailors had a knife or a belaying pin tucked into the outside pocket of their woolen pea jackets. Morgan had taken the ship’s pistols in case there was serious trouble. With his hands in his coat pockets, he fingered the wooden handles of the two pistols for reassurance. He looked around and spotted Molly passing drinks. She looked like an older Laura, which is how he recognized her. She was a well-built, buxom woman, about thirty he guessed, wearing an airy cotton blouse. Her hair was black, her eyes blue. She wasn’t as good looking as Laura, but attractive nonetheless. The way she walked, with her feet and shoulders squared, clearly demonstrated that she wasn’t afraid of anybody. He waved his hand at her, expecting that she would signal him by waving back. Instead she turned away. There wasn’t even a greeting, not even a subtle acknowledgment. Maybe she didn’t know who they were?
After the first few minutes of awkward silence that greeted their entrance, the small tavern slowly resumed its noisy hum. The sailors returned to their drinks and their conversations. Morgan quickly scanned the dimly lit room with its low-timbered ceiling and its chipped walls. There was only one window and a small side door leading into a narrow alleyway. He looked out the window and noticed a ladder lying on the cobblestones. He wondered what it had been used for. Inside, every bench, chair, and table was occupied by about two dozen men scattered about in various dark corners and alcoves. Morgan could feel the cold, hostile stare of eyes following them as they walked further inside toward the bar. He could see that the sailors were a particularly rough bunch even for the lowly East End, where ignorance and cruelty were close relatives.
“I don’t like the looks of this, Ely,” Hiram murmured under his breath. “There’s an abundance of vermin and land sharks in this room.”
Morgan continued to take in his noisy surroundings. Two servant girls were running about with tankards of swipes. There was no sign of Laura. Hiram walked up to the bar. Morgan could see that he was talking with a man who was serving grog and swilling down swipes. He guessed that this was Molly’s husband from the description Laura had given him. Bull Bailey was his name, she had said. He was a portly man of medium size, with an oily red face and hawk eyes peering out of a balding head. Morgan could just overhear Hiram introducing himself as a friend of Laura’s. Bailey nodded and then shouted a greeting so the whole tavern could hear.