Morgan squeezed his way among carts and wagons filled with luggage until he reached the small steamer that would take him out to the ship. He took a deep breath of ocean air. For the first time in his life, he actually could look forward to earning several thousand dollars a year. He had never thought of himself as overly ambitious, but after his run-in with Captain Champlin and the stern warning he had received, he had made up his mind to be a shipmaster and become his own boss. A cold wind gusted in from the East River, causing him to tighten up his jacket. He wondered if his family in Lyme were getting this same weather. Josiah had written, “Word around here is that you’re going to go master pretty soon and have your own ship. Everyone in town is congratulating father. He doesn’t say anything. Mother is so proud.” He suddenly felt lonely as he thought about how much he missed his family.
Josiah had written him that he was intending to buy his own farm, and he had his eye on some land owned by Judge Noyes overlooking the river. He was waiting to see if the judge would sell at a more favorable price than forty dollars an acre. He’d gotten married a few years back to Amanda Maynard, and Morgan had already written him back that he would help with the purchase of the land. Now that he was a captain he could afford to do so. As first mate he had been making forty dollars a month, but as captain he was entitled to five percent of all freight earnings, twenty-five percent of cabin passenger fares, and whatever was received from carrying any mail. At two cents a letter, that usually amounted to about one hundred dollars a voyage.
He looked out across the East River to Brooklyn and then out to the harbor. Two incoming ships from China carrying the blue-and-white checkered flag of Nathaniel and George Griswold at their mastheads were waiting to dock. A tug, clouds of black soot spouting out of its smokestack, was on its way to tow one of them into the docking area. Several coastal packets from New Orleans and Savannah were also in line to unload their cargoes of cotton by the slip at the foot of Wall Street.
He picked out Christopher Champlin’s new ship, the Sovereign, just in from London, already tied up at the Pine Street docking area. The Sovereign was twenty feet longer than the Hudson and slightly wider. Morgan had heard that her posh interior with polished mahogany tables, brass and mahogany railings, and carpeted floors was a far cry from the Hudson’s more spartan cabin area.
He spotted the familiar figure of Captain Christopher Champlin now walking down the gangway as he headed for the offices at 68 South Street. He remembered what Champlin had told him the day he’d given him the surprising news that he was turning the Hudson over to him.
“Mr. Morgan,” he said, “in my mind, you need a good deal more seasoning, but my brother and the other owners have decided to make you a captain. I’ve been overruled. With the ownership shares my brother has in almost all the ships, he has more clout than I do. I will say that you have a lot yet to learn. You’ll soon find out that a packet shipmaster’s job is as much about people as it is about the wind and the waves. I reckon that’s why the owners picked you from all the others. You have a way with people and they think the cabin passengers will like you. Maybe so, but I venture to say after a few voyages you may prefer to stay above deck than face the stormy complaints from the passengers down below. You will be serving a good many of the English on your voyages. Can you handle that Morgan?”
Then he’d laughed and patted him on the back.
“Who knows, Morgan? Maybe now that you’ve abandoned that foolhardy mission of yours to find your brother, you’ve developed the sound judgment to be captain. We’ll see. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
Morgan had thanked him, never mentioning that he hadn’t forgotten his mission. To do so in his mind would have made him a quitter. He’d merely become more discreet in his search. In fact he was still more determined than ever to find Blackwood, but the man had disappeared, leaving no trace. It was as if he’d dreamed the whole chain of events leading up to the attack at the White Bull. He’d tried to find Hiram, but he had come up empty-handed.
Several months after the incident, he’d gone back to the tavern disguised as a fish porter from Billingsgate Market. He wore a stiff flat leather hat with an upturned brim pulled down tightly over his face, and a coat that smelled like ripe haddock. The smell alone served to deflect any overly inquiring glances. He sat for hours alone in a dark corner drinking swipes, looking for any of the men who had attacked them. From this shadowy corner, he watched as the tavern’s customers stumbled out onto the street. He waited until Molly left with the servant girls and then walked over to the bar, where a perspiring, oily-faced Bull Bailey was wiping the bar counter. He grabbed the portly, bald-headed man by the shirt and pressed the tip of a knife blade into his rib cage.