“Hello steward, my good fellow,” cried out a white-haired barrister from London. “How far from land are we now?”
“Oh, your lordship, we’re closer than ever, only another two thousand miles.”
Lowery didn’t know the difference between an earl, a duke, or a viscount, so he just called all the Englishmen your lordship, a fact that amused Morgan, so he made no effort to correct him. He himself was just beginning to grow accustomed to these puzzling titles. As an American, he did not take them seriously, finding the whole notion of titles to be pompous and affected, but he knew if he wanted to keep his job he had to show some deference to English customs.
The litany of demands usually went on for much of the morning, and Morgan began making a habit of being on deck until lunchtime. Even there in the safety of the rigging and the sails, he couldn’t escape the problems of tending to his needy passengers. One windless day in the middle of the Atlantic when the ship floundered, rolling back and forth with the sails flapping and the yards braced tightly, tempers started to flare. He watched as two of his passengers argued with each other over the rules of shuffleboard. As he walked closer he got the gist of the dispute. It seemed that they had learned different rules. The Baltimore salesman was yelling at one of the younger Englishmen on board, a thin, tall man with long, slender fingers and a flair for speaking in a dramatic tone.
“You bloody fool. You Americans always get it wrong,” remarked the Englishman in a disdainful, sententious tone, standing tall and erect. “This is a game first played by Henry VIII. As I told you before,” he proclaimed as he wagged his finger at the Baltimore man, “the biscuit has to land squarely within the triangle. It cannot touch any of the lines!”
The man from Baltimore, a dark-haired, medium-sized man with a drooping moustache, responded in a strident way by accusing the Englishman of cheating and making up rules.
This remark incensed the slightly effeminate Englishman, who was a traveling Shakespearean actor. His name was Peter Ward. He had left New York embittered because he had been poorly treated by what he called unappreciative and coarse audiences.
“You Americans break all the rules and standards of a civilized country,” he cried out dramatically, his hands on his hips.
“What do you mean by that crude remark?” retorted the man from Baltimore angrily.
“You call yourselves the land of liberty,” replied the actor, now quite unrestrained in his remarks, “yet you enslave the black man.”
The Baltimore salesman, named Sam Wilkins, had his own strong opinions about that topic. It was clear that he didn’t much care for the rights of the black man.
“The slaves are different. They are an exception,” he declared.
“How so?” asked an indignant Mr. Ward.
“That’s a matter of states’ rights,” replied Mr. Wilkins, his voice now full of conviction. “Slaves are property, nothing more. A nigger is a nigger just like a cow is a cow. They come in different shades and different sizes, but they’re bought and sold just like all property.”
“You don’t say,” retorted a now irate, red-faced Mr. Ward with distinct animosity. “I would say that equality means equality, and either you are for it or you are not. You say all men are equal, yet you worship those with money, no matter how ill-gotten the gains. You Americans are nothing but a bunch of devious, hypocritical hucksters.”
“And you, sir, are a prune-faced, frothy Englishman. I would like to block you one!” Seething with anger, the Baltimore man drew his clenched fists to his face.
Other passengers were looking to see what the young captain would do. Morgan was about to step in when one of the other passengers intervened. It was the stout-chested Lord Nanvers. He walked right up to both men and introduced himself as an authority on the rules of shuffleboard. Morgan took stock of the well-dressed man with a large pale face and red hair slightly thinning on the top. He wore a fashionable, dark, long-skirted coat, dark cravat, and cream-colored pants with a flat-brimmed brown straw hat. He quickly mediated the dispute with his pleasant manner and calming voice. He told a few disarming anecdotes about King Henry VIII and his many wives and, surprisingly, the tensions evaporated over cigars and snuff.
Afterward, Morgan approached the English lord and personally thanked him.
“Think nothing of it, old man,” replied Lord Nanvers as he took off his hat and patted Morgan on the back with his other hand. “I was glad to help. It was the least I could do to patch up the ongoing quarrel between the two transatlantic cousins. No need for more misunderstandings. Hey, hey, isn’t that right, Captain?”