Champlin paused, his eyes boring into Morgan’s face.
“I ought to have you put in irons.”
A humbled Morgan handed over the pistols, and speaking in a subdued voice, began telling Champlin about his quest to find out what had happened to his brother.
“I thought I’d found the man who did harm to my brother, Captain. It was something I needed to do, and the men wanted to help me. Hiram is my friend. There isn’t anyone who feels more deeply troubled about him than me.”
Champlin listened quietly, and then paced around the room, his voice steadily rising as his anger mounted.
“Listen up, Morgan. I’ll only tell you this once. You’re the first officer on my packet ship, and that’s all I care about. I’ve got a ship to run, I’ve got a schedule to keep, cargo to load, and passengers to look after. I don’t give a donkey’s ass about your ill-founded quest for your brother. That’s your business. If you want to go looking for trouble down in the East End, go ahead, all-possessed, limber and lively as the Devil, you go ahead, but not from my ship. Have you got that, Mr. Morgan?”
Morgan nodded.
“From now on, those whoremongering taverns in the East End and quim-filled boarding houses are off limits for you. When we’re in London you’re confined to the ship.”
“But what about Hiram, sir? He might be in danger. I’ve got to find him.”
“I reckon Smith is either dead with his throat slit or in the fo’c’sle of a British merchant ship headed for Calcutta. Either way there’s not much you can do for him.”
A chastened Ely Morgan turned to leave Champlin’s cabin with a heavy step when Champlin called him back.
“I need to know, Mr. Morgan, that nothing like this will happen again.”
Morgan paused as he shuffled his feet. He didn’t say anything.
“I need to know, Morgan, do you hear?” he said emphatically. “I need that guarantee!” He stood up with his red face inches from Morgan’s nose. “If you don’t have the answer by the time we back our sails off Sandy Hook, then I reckon you’ll be looking for work on another ship.”
On that cold January voyage back to New York, Morgan went about his duties like a man in a trance. He felt guilty that he had left London without looking for Hiram. He could have chosen to leave the ship and stay in London to look for him, but he hadn’t. What kind of friend was that? But then what could he have done? He didn’t know where to begin to look. For all he knew, like the captain said, Hiram had been crimped and dumped aboard another ship bound for a distant port. It was Icelander who talked him through his problems during one late-night watch. They were somewhere east of Newfoundland. The weather had turned cold and miserable with the winds blowing from the west and forcing them to double-reef the topsails. Morgan had put several men on watch up in the bow of the ship. The rigging and the ratlines were lined with a sheath of ice, and the decks were covered with a thin coating of freshly fallen snow.
Morgan was smoking a cigar amidships on the lee side as he thought about whether to give the order to tack to the south. He felt the bitter cold bite into his skin, but he didn’t care. After nearly three weeks at sea, his face was unshaven, his hair covered with salt, and his canvas trousers stained with tar and grease. He leaned up against the bulwarks and looked down in the blackness, where he could hear but not see the rush of the waves against the side of the ship. His mood was as dark and as bitter as the cold night wind. In between his weighing the decision whether or not to change course, he was also thinking about whether he should quit the trade. His despair was real even if his thinking was filled with uncertainty. His life had been filled with conflict. He had always met challenges that confronted him head-on, but this was something different. This time the conflict was within himself as he struggled to grapple with an enemy inside. He had always believed in himself, in his own strength, but now he was facing crippling self-doubts. Perhaps he should return to Lyme and seek penance from his father. He wondered if it was too late for that. What did he want to do with his life? Maybe his father was right after all. A life at sea can only lead to tragic loss, pain, and suffering. He thought of his mother, her drawn face, so empty and so tired, and he wondered if he was risking his life in the cruelest way.
Just then, a familiar voice penetrated the darkness and interrupted his thoughts.
“These are perilous conditions, Mr. Morgan, and if we continue further to the north the weather will likely get worse.”
He turned to see a large form looming over him. It was Icelander. To conform to the ship’s rules governing the relationship between sailors and ship’s officers, he now called his old shipmate Mister, but it was a formality. The two men had close bonds after so many years sailing together. Morgan didn’t say anything, continuing to smoke his Havana.