Most of the passengers were sick those first nights out as they encountered stormy weather off Long Island and New England. Morgan was now accustomed to walking down the thirty-foot-long saloon used by all the passengers, listening to the plaintive cries from one stateroom after another. All their cabins opened out onto the saloon, in effect, a long narrow common room only fourteen feet in width with finely polished wooden sides. A mahogany table ran down the center. Passengers in their own way lamented about the misery of sea travel. Morgan could hear Champlin’s voice warning him to keep “his salty opinions to himself and be packet-polite to the cabin passengers.”
Lowery, dressed in a checked shirt and white apron, rushed from one stateroom to the next even as the ship plunged, lurched, and climbed. The steward’s head and bushy hair were wrapped with a red bandanna, and he walked like a man comfortable at sea, his feet squarely apart, his body leaning forward. He had ginger lozenges, baked apples, and slices of lemon, all three remedies for seasickness, on a tray in one hand. Wet towels and fresh blankets were in the other. Morgan thought to himself that he had made a good choice in selecting this man.
Above deck, he could hear the noisy cries of the men and the stampeding rush of their feet. He could hear the mate’s call to tack the ship. Down below, he watched as the long steady heel of everything switched from one side to the other. Unfastened cabin doors on the windward side flew open while they shut with a bang on the leeward side. Inside one of the cabins, he spotted a man in a contorted position on his berth with his heels over his head. They would now be clear of land and be on a course well east of the dangerous Nantucket Shoals. Sable Island and the foggy Grand Banks lay ahead.
A hoarse voice from a stateroom cried out, “Steward, bring me the bowl again. I’m going to be sick. Hurry, steward!”
Lowery opened the varnished, maplewood-latticed door with its white handle, and through the arched entrance Morgan couldn’t help but see one of the older Englishmen leaning over the wash stand in his eight-by-eight-foot stateroom, his body wrapped in bedsheets, his mottled red face revealing abject misery. The man’s head was almost completely bald except for a strand of gray hair that hung limply down into the washbowl like a strand of Spanish moss from the limb of a tree. His cabin was in a dreadful mess, the floor covered with vomit. It was Mr. William Bullfinch. His wife was in the upper bunk rolling in agony. When he saw the captain, he turned to smile with his fleshy jowls and tried to make the best of his frail condition.
“I am afraid I have little self-respect remaining. Please do forgive me, Captain, as I am in the depths of despair. Sadly, my poor wife is in a similarly poor condition.”
Without stepping inside, Morgan could see the white-faced Mrs. Bullfinch popping multiple ginger lozenges into her mouth. He gagged at the acrid smell emanating from the small cabin. He noticed with surprise that Lowery handed the man one of the ship’s fine porcelain serving bowls from the pantry. He supposed the chamber pots were all in use. He wished the man and his wife well as he continued to make his rounds. Those stormy conditions continued for the next two days. The passengers were all in a sorry state, some moaning that the ship would soon sink to the bottom. The chairs and the furniture, which were not fastened to the cabin sole, were rolling and sliding from one end of the saloon to the other. He tried to reassure everyone he spoke with that the gale was subsiding, but his words were not very convincing. The noxious odors that filled the saloon were even enough to make him feel ill. After spending many hours of the first two days down below engaged in polite conversations with his suffering passengers, he decided to leave the nursing and the caretaking to Lowery and Scuttles. He felt like a doctor in a busy hospital ward. He knew he was neglecting his duties above deck.
That night in his cabin he wrote down the noon reading into the ship’s log, something he normally did during the day.
Hudson’s position at 1300, Tuesday April 23rd.
42 degrees 10’ latitude by 70 degrees 55’ longitude.
Course: Northeast, some 400 miles from Sable Island.
Falling barometer. High winds from the southwest accompanied by squalls, ten-foot seas. Under topsails, reefed spanker and inner jib. A regular gale of wind. Most passengers sick. All types of complaints heard from the staterooms. We are surging along, averaging almost ten knots since we passed the shoals off Nantucket.
13
By the end of the first week, Morgan was tired. He took the early morning watch for himself from four to eight, but between nursing his passengers back to health below deck and asserting his authority above deck, he spent little time in his own cabin. The lack of sleep had taken its toll. He found himself nodding off. One night he did a double watch. He was standing by the stern rail. He must have fallen asleep because he woke with a start to the sound of men yelling. He thought it was the end when a huge, dark shape emerged out of the blackness. He felt the taste of fear in his mouth as he shook himself awake, and saw a faint spark of light frantically waving back and forth from another vessel. The men from the other ship were shouting over the sound of the wind and the waves. It happened so fast he just stood there, unable to react, not certain if he was dreaming or not. The other ship flew by missing the Hudson’s stern by only twenty feet. He saw the shadowy, fear-stricken faces staring at him. He stood there paralyzed, waving his own lantern back and forth as the other ship disappeared into the void. He knew that the sailors were watching him now. They were whispering that the captain couldn’t be trusted. He could feel their accusatory eyes. He was on trial. They were judging him, whispering behind his back, and he knew it.