The first mate, who rarely spoke, volunteered his own comment.
“Those are sea ogres if ever I saw ’em, Cap’n. Worst kind of packet rats. They’re sure to give us trouble.”
“That may be, Mr. Nyles, but we need tough men who don’t mind filthy weather. We don’t have the time to be too picky.”
Still, they’d sailed here on the two-day passage down the English coast from the mouth of the Thames and there hadn’t been an incident. They’d obeyed orders even under tough conditions. He’d run up all the sails from the royals to the topgallant staysails and watched with satisfaction as these new men scrambled out on the yards, overhauling the clewlines and buntlines while sheeting in the sails.
“Passengers on the way, Captain!” shouted the whisky sodden Mr. Nyles as he handed the spyglass over to Morgan. He put the telescope up to his eye and watched a broad-beamed lugger with a fore lug and a mizzen meet the waves as the sailors manned the oars. He knew that all of these cabin passengers had taken the horse-drawn coach from London the day before. They would have spent the night in Portsmouth and would now be eager to get on their way. The sight of the well-dressed passengers in the lugger, the men in their top hats and the women in their long, billowing dresses, made him think of Charles Robert Leslie, his wife, Harriet, and their three young children. Leslie was an English painter who had traveled on the Philadelphia to New York last October to take a job as an art teacher at the military academy at West Point. As unlikely as it might have seemed, he and this refined English artist had become fast friends.
Morgan’s mind drifted back to the voyage over with the Leslies. It had been a rough passage westward. He remembered how Harriet Leslie had gripped the long table in the ship’s saloon every time the Philadelphia lurched or heeled over. He had laughed and told her jokingly, “Let her go, Mrs. Leslie. Let her go. You can’t hold up five hundred tons of ship.” She had responded with a weak smile, still clutching the table at each sudden movement.
Morgan had liked Charles Leslie immediately. He was a tall, striking man ten years his senior with a gracious, easygoing manner. He had a good-natured, boyish face with an ever-present smile that signaled his enthusiasm for life. What Morgan liked the most about him was that he was a positive thinker. The painter never complained about anything or anyone, and his friendly nature immediately brought forth smiles all around. The voyage to America had been a chance for him to reacquaint himself with his family. His parents were Americans from Cecil County in Maryland, but he had been born in England and had spent most of his life there.
As with most of his passengers, Morgan never expected to see the Leslie family again, but they had reappeared at the South Street docks six months later. They hadn’t liked America much and had decided to return home to England. Harriet Leslie had been sick for most of that cold winter and Charles had missed the art world and his friends in London. They had greeted him like a long-lost relative. As much as Harriet Leslie didn’t like ships or sailing, she had told Morgan as she walked across the wooden gangway onto the deck that she was never happier to see the Philadelphia. “Take me home to England, Captain Morgan,” she had said simply. “I cannot abide the long cold winters here in America.”
Fortunately, that spring passage back to London had seen ideal weather, with westerly winds allowing for a full complement of sails. Morgan had spent many hours talking with Leslie about England and America. In some ways, that was the glue in their friendship. Leslie, who understood both countries, helped him comprehend some of the British sensibilities. He explained that many of the British aristocrats still viewed Americans as unruly rebels who were uncouth and unsophisticated. They needed to be taught a lesson was the view of many in England. The Americans’ directness unnerved polite society in London even as their plainspoken mannerisms offended. Leslie told him that many of his friends in London high society were delighted over Mrs. Trollope’s scathing review of the lowly state of American culture. Her book Domestic Manners of the Americans had created quite a stir and sensation in England, particularly her vivid descriptions of all “those Americans’ remorseless spitting.”
Morgan smiled as he remembered one specific moment on that passage back to England. Leslie had spotted him shouting at some of the men high up in the yards, yelling at them with his hands cupped to raise the stunsails and the skysails. Sailors aloft were busy releasing buntlines and clewlines for the many different sails while others climbed from the foremast to the mainmast, sliding down the shrouds with their strong hands. Leslie had looked up in awe at the cloud of snapping, billowing canvas that now enveloped the ship and the graceful ballet movements of the sailors. He had turned back to Morgan, who was now examining his handiwork.