Rough Passage to London(58)

As he puffed on his cigar, listening to the cab driver coax his horse along, he thought about the day two years ago when his new ship, the Philadelphia, was launched into the East River from the Bergh shipyard on Water Street. The Hudson had just arrived in port, and he had left the unloading of the ship in the hands of his first mate. He wanted to see the newest ship that Henry Champlin would soon be commanding. It was a summer not easily forgotten. As he watched the 542-ton Philadelphia slide off the ways into the river, one of the carpenters pointed out to him the plumes of black smoke rising above the city.

“It’s the cholera,” the man said. “It’s raging here.”

Morgan looked alarmed.

“They’re burning the clothes and bedding of the sick and the dead. That’s what the smoke is.”

During the three-week layover, Morgan had seen cartloads of bodies leaving the city and daily black plumes of smoke rise above the buildings. He’d written home telling Josiah and his mother not to worry. He mostly was staying aboard ship to keep from being contaminated. He wrote how each day he saw the somber sight of horses and wagons carrying the dead to the cemeteries. They would hear the latest from some of the newsboys each morning. People were abandoning the city by the thousands. He had never been happier to set sail and head out to the open sea. By the end of the summer more than 3,500 had died in the city of 250,000.





Clouds of tobacco smoke greeted him as he stepped into the noisy hum of the central meeting room of the Old Jerusalem. He liked to visit this coffeehouse because the latest shipping news was always posted inside. The Old Jerusalem was a favorite of ship captains from all over the world. Morgan never missed an opportunity to listen and discreetly ask questions. He always kept his eyes out for any mention of the Charon or the name Blackwood. In fact, he had specifically asked a couple of shipping agents he had just met a few weeks earlier to make some inquiries about the Charon, saying he thought she was an opium trader. These agents always kept track of the ships and the captains that sailed up the Thames. They had told him to come back before he left London and they might have more information.

Morgan took a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the large room. Men dressed liked him in dark coats and top hats were clustered around tables, some standing, some seated. He scanned the room to see if there was anyone he recognized. A few people were reading the morning newspaper while others were glancing at some of the bulletins posted on the wall. He looked around, but didn’t see any familiar faces that morning. There was no sign of any of the shipping agents he dealt with, so he posted a promotional handbill on the wall that read simply: “Passage to America with the new packet ship Philadelphia of the Black X Line: experienced navigators, beds, wines, and foods are of the best description. Apply to Captain E. E. Morgan, St. Katherine’s Docks. First-class cabin fare, thirty guineas. Steerage fare, five pounds.”

At this time, Morgan looked young despite his many years at sea. He was almost thirty, and his tanned, weathered, clean-shaven face had few wrinkles other than the first signs of crow’s-feet on either side of his light hazel green eyes. His reddish-brown hair was combed back to reveal a smooth forehead. He laughed comfortably and walked with a light and easy step. Perhaps it was that carefree attitude and winning smile that drew a particular solicitous man to his side, or perhaps it was the way he walked, like he was still on a ship’s deck.

“Mornin’ to you, squire,” the stranger piped up, removing his top hat to reveal a head of curly black hair. “What brings you to the Old Jerusalem? You won’t find any ladybirds or high-priced toffers here, if that’s what you’re seeking.”

At the sound of the man’s voice Morgan turned and introduced himself as captain of a New York–London liner. The man who spoke was a round fellow who Morgan guessed was about forty years old. He had a large sallow-skinned face with a long, bulbous nose that pointed down to a double chin. The man was dressed with an eye-catching green vest, but otherwise he wore a conventional white shirt, black cravat, and black coat. Morgan gave him one of the handbills advertising the Philadelphia and began to extol the attributes of his ship as well as the merits of the shipping line. The Englishman pushed his left hand through his hair and peered at the pamphlet through his reading spectacles. He then asked with a wry smile, “I see yer name is Morgan. Are ye the Yankee captain who is lookin’ for William Blackwood?”

Morgan tried to control his surprise and excitement.

“Yes, yes. Do you know him?”

“Not personally, but I know of ’im. Some of the other agents ’ere told me to keep my eye out for you. They told me ye was looking for Blackwood.”