Rough Passage to London(50)

As the twenty passengers came on board he was introduced to them one by one as they emerged above the bulwarks. Most of them clambered up the ladder on the ship’s steep sides as he had done, but some of the ladies had to be lifted on board, their long dresses billowing up to reveal their ruffled undergarments in a moment of temporary embarrassment. They were the usual mixture of well-dressed men and women, many of whom traveled with servants. Just by their puckered expressions and the stiffness in their step, he could pick out the Englishmen. Most of them were in America seeing to their investments in the cotton industry and the canals. A few even came over on hunting trips for moose and bear in the woods of Maine.

A stout, red-haired man of imposing height who gave his name as George Wilberton, the third Earl of Nanvers, introduced himself as if an important event had just occurred. Dressed in a mustard-colored vest, cream-colored pants, and a green coat, he strutted on board like a proud peacock. He was traveling alone on business, he told Morgan, and was now anxious to get home to “good Old England.” There were only a few Americans: a minister, his wife, and daughter from Philadelphia and a salesman from Baltimore. One loquacious, middle-aged English woman by the name of Mrs. Elizabeth Bullfinch, who had come to America on a business trip with her much older husband, was complaining that the crates containing her delicate porcelain china plates and tea set were still on deck. The center of the ship was already cluttered with human beings, baggage, and animals.

“Captain, what will happen to my porcelain?” Mrs. Bullfinch cried out. Morgan looked at this formidable picture of English femininity. She was a short, stocky woman with broad shoulders and ample hips. A prominent jaw jutted from her face like a ship’s bowsprit. Flustered, annoyed, and distracted by all the confusion on deck, Morgan answered in his own plainspoken way.

“All in good time, ma’am. As soon as we hoist the cow up and the pigs, we’ll be able to get your porcelain down the hatchway.”

“What!” she wailed, her voice turning into a more pronounced whine.

To escape this annoying woman, Morgan retreated to the stern and stood by the helmsman. There he sought refuge until the ship was fully loaded, the hatches closed, and the cabin passengers comfortably situated down below in the saloon.

“All hands, man the windlass!” Morgan shouted out to the first mate in the midsection of the ship.

“Heave away there forward,” yelled Mr. Nyles to the foredeck.

The crew began heaving at the windlass and breaking into a chorus of “Sally Brown.” Tattooed arms and calloused hands moved in unison in a blur of soggy ropes and gristly beards.

“Sheet home, the foretop’s’l,” Morgan yelled as the breeze fanned his cheek. The bow of the ship now tugged at its anchor chain as it slowly fell off to the starboard side, anxious to be back at sea. Even before the sailors cleared the heavy, unwieldy anchor out of the water, the Hudson was already underway. Morgan could feel the ship shudder and then take off in a sudden surge as the hull heeled to port and the big sails filled out. He looked around him with a critical eye, his feet wide apart, his hands fondling his cigar. Even as first mate, he always looked for any weak links in the ship’s rigging, any signs of chafing or wear. He carefully examined all the hemp lines used to trim and shape the sails, and then moved to the shrouds and stays that supported the masts to keep them stable in heavy winds. He walked forward toward the mainmast, his eye following some of the heavy lines descending onto the deck leading to the pin rails and the fife rails.

“Keep the sails full and drawing, Mr. Nyles.”

“Good full, sir,” came the reply.

Morgan continued taking stock of the ship. In the center of the boat the animals were all secured. The waist-high bulwarks had a fresh coat of green paint. The bleached decks leading up to the cargo hatches were scrubbed and cleaned. The first mate was shouting out orders as the men pulled up and released the sails, the foredeck men hauling in the sheets. He looked up as more and more sails were set and began to fill as the ship slowly spread her white wings. Like other captains, he wanted his ship to stand out in New York harbor. That wasn’t easy as the nearly ten-year-old Hudson was now one of the older and smaller of the transatlantic packets.

The packet was soon flying toward the sloping hills of Staten Island. Morgan looked over the leeward rail with satisfaction, the water flowing by the hull, hissing and gurgling. Just ahead was the Red Star packet called the John Jay that had the reputation of being one of the slowest packets. A chorus of competing chanteys filled the air from the different ships. The banging of the yards and the clatter of the sails dropping and filling made Morgan feel glad to be alive, even though he could feel butterflies fluttering inside of him. He looked out at the hazy highlands of Navesink, where the remnants of an old fort from the last war with England could still be seen on top of a cliff. He took out his spyglass and spotted some goats gazing out to sea as if they were still on watch for any sign of a British man o’ war. Departure and landfall, he thought to himself, the two bookends of his life. Departure usually brought sadness in leaving the comforts of shore, but on this voyage Morgan walked the deck with a springy yet nervous step. Following his instructions to the mate, he turned from his above-deck duties to his new untried and unknown responsibilities below deck.