“Icelander, wait for the end of the watch when we have all men on deck and we’ll tack southward as you suggest.”
The quiet giant nodded, his white eyelashes blinking quickly. He started to move away when Morgan asked him a question, uncharacteristically using the man’s real name, perhaps as a way to show him mutual respect.
“What do you do, Mr. Rasmussen, when fate deals you a sharp blow?” Icelander was surprised by this unexpected, probing question and didn’t answer. Morgan continued with a follow-up question. “What do you do when your actions have caused terrible consequences for others? What do you do when someone you thought you cared for betrays you?”
An awkward silence followed. Morgan was one of the few sailors that Icelander had confided with about his own personal trauma that had sent him into painful exile. After a few more minutes of silence he finally spoke, his thin lips barely moving.
“There are always detours on a man’s road which may seem to take him in a direction he doesn’t want to go,” he said.
“Pray tell, what is that supposed to mean, Rasmussen?” asked Morgan impatiently. “Stop speaking in riddles, man.”
Icelander lowered his voice to a whisper, an indication that this was intended as a private conversation.
“You’ve told me what Captain Champlin said to you. It may be that you don’t want to listen to him. That’s understandable. He’s only interested in his ship. I suppose what I am trying to say is, if one day you were to become captain, Ely, then you wouldn’t have so many detours. You could do pretty much as you pleased.”
Morgan didn’t say anything, so it was Icelander who finished the conversation.
“What I mean to say, Ely, as someone who has worked beside you for many years, in many storms, on many rough passages, is that your road in life lies on the Atlantic highway. You are drawn to it. Just like some men are rooted in the earth, you are a creature of the sea. That’s my way of thinking anyhow. That’s what your brother would have wanted you to do. He would not have wanted to see you quit. Maybe he’s somewhere up there looking down on you wishing he could do what you’re doing right now. Maybe he’s still alive and he needs your help. Did you ever reflect, Ely, on what your brother might want you to do?”
Morgan said nothing, but continued puffing on his Havana, looking down over the leeward side of the ship into the cold dark river of rushing water several feet from his face.
PART V
The captain, in the first place, is lord paramount. He stands no watch, comes and goes as he pleases, and is accountable to no one, and must be obeyed in everything, without a question even from his chief officer.
—Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
12
1831
Morgan looked out at the murky molasses-colored East River and the harbor beyond. He spotted the Hudson among a fleet of towering ships, the Black X flag flying from the main mast. It hardly seemed possible to him that he was now the Hudson’s commander. He was the master of his own ship at the young age of twenty-five, a rare accomplishment in the packet trade. He pushed his way past anxious hotelkeepers trying to quickly settle accounts while newspaper boys shouted out the headlines of the latest edition. A cacophony of tearful farewells, hysterical sobbing, and nervous laughter surrounded him. The cool April air was alive with men yelling, horn blasts, and whistles from ships. That morning, New York’s South Street docks were filled with rushed arrivals and hurried departures as mule-drawn wagons and pull carts crossed paths with finely varnished carriages.
The clatter of wheels and clop of hooves echoed in his ears. Coachmen helped finely dressed ladies with their colorful bonnets and shawls step out onto the cobblestone streets. Many of them were bound for Europe in search of the latest spring fashions. Morgan had been told his ship was full. Not only did he have a main cabin of twenty passengers, but the ship was loaded with nearly one hundred tons of cargo. He was carrying everything from casks of hides and horn tips, to several hundred hogsheads of flaxseed, to more than a hundred bales of cotton. They would be riding low on the water this trip, his first voyage as captain.
The Hudson’s departure had been delayed now for days because the winds had been easterly. Now that they’d come round to the southwest, he hoped to be off soon. All this delay due to the unfavorable winds created more chaos down at the docks. There were many ships ready to sail outward bound, some more anxious than others. The Havre packet Francois I was berthed near Old Slip; the Black Ball Line’s new ship, the Hibernia, at the foot of Beekman Street; and the Blue Swallowtail Liner the Napoleon had just pulled into Peck’s Slip. All were tied up at their docks loading freight and passengers, and would be ready to depart soon for England and France. New York’s shipyards were building ten new packet ships that spring, all bigger and faster than the old Hudson.