Lord Nanvers laughed with a self-confident chuckle and as a token symbol of friendship offered the captain some snuff. When Morgan refused, the English lord took a pinch or two for himself before speaking again.
“Tell me, Captain, please forgive any inappropriate forwardness on my part, but everyone on board ship has remarked that you seem young.”
Morgan smiled but said nothing.
“Might I be so impertinent to ask if this is your first command?”
“Yes it is,” Morgan testily replied, “but I have been sailing on this ship before the mast these past ten years. Rest assured, your lordship, you are in good hands.”
Lord Nanvers applied another pinch of snuff to his twitching nose and replied, “I have no doubt of that, Captain. I have heard said that you are a talented sailor and a worthy navigator.”
It was during one of those airless days when the sails were slack that Mrs. Bullfinch, who liked to walk the deck with her newfound sea legs, approached the captain.
“Is there an explanation as to why these hideous flies are so abundant and so difficult to be rid of? Presumably they come from that filthy cow you have on deck.”
Morgan’s eyes fixated on her prominent jaw, hawk eyes, and beaklike nose. She was wearing a white dress with a fully decorated straw bonnet over a frilled cap with brown curls poking out from underneath. The woman was relentless. He was thinking about telling her that the flies were probably attracted to her own fragrantly perfumed vinaigrette, but he bit his lip. He remembered Captain Champlin’s advice to be packet-polite at all times.
That evening at dinner, she arrived dressed in an elegant velvet gown with pleated panels trimmed in such a way to reveal a formidable bust, her hair done in a beehive of braids and curls, and her neckline decorated with several strands of pearls. Morgan was worried that Mrs. Bullfinch would spot him using the wrong fork or spoon and would report this breach of good manners to the entire table. He was careful to watch the other passengers before he picked up the next utensil. Dinner was a three-course, two-hour affair. As Mr. Lowery served a generous meal of duck, pickled oysters, and ham, Mrs. Bullfinch held forth by critiquing American speech.
“I’m tired of hearing ‘ain’ts’ and ‘hadn’t ought to.’ Have you not read, Captain Morgan, what the erudite Sydney Smith has written about America?”
Morgan shook his head. He had no idea who Sydney Smith was.
“Well, Captain, he is a fine English clergyman and a brilliant speaker, so full of wit and charm. I believe it was over ten years ago that he wrote, ‘In the four corners of the globe, who reads an American book, or goes to an American play, or looks at an American statue?’”
She smiled at him knowingly. He bit his lip as he thought unpleasant thoughts about her. He was just thinking that the English, even those who were friendly, wore many faces when it came to the controversial topic of America. This was his first encounter with the socially prominent English, and he was quickly learning that despite a thin veneer of congeniality, they seemed to harbor an inherent hostility to all things American. He wondered to himself if their air of superiority masked some hidden insecurity about their own cultural identity.
Mr. Bullfinch, who was seated next to his wife, wanted to know if Morgan had read Captain Basil Hall. The older man’s watery eyes, with deep dark shadows beneath them, revealed the signs of another sleepless night. He was still fighting off a persistent bout of mal de mer. Morgan politely shook his head and glared at the man. His ignorance about the writings of Smith and Hall was softened somewhat by the arrival of a platter of peas and onions. Mrs. Bullfinch looked up at the smiling brown face of Lowery as he made his rounds, and then turned back to the captain, whispering loudly.
“Why, Captain Morgan, your Negro steward is exceptionally dutiful, and I might add, so exotic in appearance. I have been meaning to ask you from the beginning of the voyage, does he have a little white blood in him?”
Morgan stiffened at this tactless question but said nothing. He noticed Lowery wincing, a clear sign that he had overheard the remark.
“Excuse me for asking this rather delicate question, Captain, but is the steward a free man? He has the same features as some of the slaves who served us during our stay in Richmond.”
Lowery abruptly turned away and swiftly walked back to the pantry as if he had forgotten something. Morgan remained silent, squirming in his seat, counting the minutes until this dinner would be over. He was saved from responding by the surprise arrival of another course, a platter of simmering turtle steaks framed by mashed turnips. The turtle had been snagged with a hook and line that same morning. This unexpected delicacy was greeted with great joy by most of the table, and much raising of glasses to the captain’s health. His eyes lingered on Lowery, who had emerged from the pantry and was now serving Mrs. Bullfinch scalloped potatoes from a bowl that looked disturbingly familiar. Morgan realized with sudden horror that it was one of the ship’s bowls that Lowery used at the outset of the trip when the mal de mer was at its peak. It was probably Mr. Bullfinch’s bowl, he thought to himself, as the Englishman was only just now convalescing. Lowery seemed unaware of his mistake, or at least was refusing to look the captain in the eye.