“Please help yurself, your ladyship,” Lowery said in a melodious deferential voice, switching effortlessly into French with a languid creole accent. “C’est pommes de terre au gratin. Préparé avec crème fraîche et fromage de notre vache ici à bord.”
The English woman looked up uncomfortably at the gray-eyed steward, slightly taken aback by a brown-skinned man speaking French. She smiled at Lowery, clearly not understanding a word. Morgan didn’t know whether to be horrified or to laugh. He was about to stammer an apology and send the potatoes back to the cook when Mrs. Bullfinch interjected her views forcefully as she heaped a generous helping of creamy potatoes onto her plate without even looking at the suspiciously crusty edges on the side of the bowl.
“It is quite a popular book in London,” she said as she now turned her attention to her plate and carefully sliced the ham.
Morgan looked at her inquiringly. He had already forgotten what book she was talking about.
“You should have it in your ship’s library, Captain. It’s quite revealing. Captain Hall at one point described meeting your scholar, Mr. Webster, who said something so typically American. He told Captain Hall that to stop Americans from changing the English language would be like stopping the flow of the Mississippi. Quite impossible, he said. What do you think of that, Captain?”
Morgan’s mind was elsewhere. He watched with a sense of dread as Lowery made his way around the table. He was waiting for one of the passengers to sound the alarm that would reverberate far beyond the saloon of his ship. It would not be good business for the Black X Line if it were known that they served their guests dinner from uncleaned vomit bowls. He stared in fascination as the voracious Mrs. Bullfinch now swallowed a generous forkful of creamy potatoes. His initial impulse to intervene had now gone away. Somewhat to his surprise, he realized that he was enjoying the sight of this pompous woman eating large spoonfuls of vomit-seasoned potatoes with such evident relish.
He smiled mischievously, but when he realized he was starting to chuckle, he quickly looked away to the other side of the table where one of the two shuffleboard combatants was holding court. The English actor, Peter Ward, was flirting with the pretty eighteen-year-old daughter of the Philadelphia minister. Her hair was tied up in braids with an eye-catching gilded headband. Morgan had admired her, a tall, thin girl with an oval face and light, sparkling brown eyes that seemed to yearn for adventure. The man’s long fingers were like swirling paintbrushes creating imaginary artwork in the air. Morgan hadn’t noticed him much since the shuffleboard incident and now he got a better look at his sharply cut jaw, rigid nose, and thin, clean-shaven face that seemed to have moveable parts. Just a few days earlier he had been excoriating all Americans, but now, here he was openly flirting with one of them.
“Miss Holloway, you will certainly be pleased with the refinement and luxury in London. What will your American eyes be most desirous of feasting on? Westminster Abbey? The Tower of London?”
The young woman was clearly flattered at the Englishman’s attentions. She spoke of hoping to see some Shakespeare in the London theaters, or some of the sculptures from ancient Greece.
“Let me suggest a small amateur theater near Covent Gardens where, if my memory serves, they may be performing a play about Icarus,” Mr. Ward said, lifting his eyebrows and straightening his posture as he reached for another slice of bread.
Seeing Morgan looking in their direction, he attempted to bring the captain into the conversation.
“Captain, I am sure you are aware of many Greek mythological figures. Icarus, for instance, was a man who didn’t follow his father’s instructions, and fell from the sky as a result. Then there was Prometheus and Sisyphus, destined to their tragic fates. As a seaman you will have heard of Odysseus, naturally?”
Morgan bit his lip and nodded.
“But here is one you may not know. A nautical figure from the ancient Greeks that not many people are familiar with. Let me quote from the Aeneid.”
With a shake of his head, and a florid wave of his long hand, the actor began speaking in deep, rolling tones, his eyes now looking appreciatively at Miss Holloway:
“A sordid God down from his hairy chin
A length of beard descends, uncombed, uncleaned;
His eyes like hollow furnaces on fire.”
“I will wager you haven’t heard of Charon, have you Captain?”
At the mention of Charon, Morgan was startled and jumped out of his chair. He tried to cover up his surprise, but his head was reeling.
“Yes, yes,” he said with strong conviction, his face contorting in disgust. “I have heard of Charon.”