“I can recognize an artist when I see one, Captain. In London, you will have to come and meet my friends. Stanfield and Turner will wish to speak with you at length, I am sure. You will see that the English are more friendly than you realize. They aren’t all determined to set America on fire. We will discuss the art of sailing a packet ship. How a ship captain can draw as much inspiration from the wind and the sea as any man who ever put a brush to canvas. You will see. I think you will like them.”
To his surprise, shortly after the Philadelphia arrived in London, Morgan had received an invitation to Leslie’s house on Edgware Road to attend the weekly meeting of the London Sketching Club. He had walked into the Leslies’ full house around six o’clock to find a noisy group of nine painters sipping punch around the fireplace in the living room. They were all formally dressed in long dark coats, white shirts, and cravats. Morgan had dressed in the same formal attire he used when he went to Change Alley. They had been expecting him.
Leslie wasted no time in introducing him as his new friend, the American ship captain. The names and smiling faces were still a confusing whirl of bald heads, curly red hair, gray muttonchop whiskers, and bushy eyebrows. Cristall, Stump, Uwins, Stanfield, Landseer, Chalon, Bone, and Partridge were the names. Turner couldn’t make it, Leslie said. He had given them the topic for the evening, “friendship,” and the artists immediately sat down by their easels with charcoal and crayons to begin blocking out their versions of the subject. They had three hours to complete their watercolor sketches. Morgan watched the different styles and different interpretations: a shepherd with his dog, a boy giving a flower to a girl, a ship rescue. Then time was up and they were served a modest supper of cold roast beef, potato salad, and pudding, with brandy and cigars afterward. This was followed by a game of charades where one of the artists, a shaggy-haired man named Landseer, came grunting into the living room on all fours. Morgan recognized him as the artist who painted with a brush in each hand. Another artist with a thin face and deep-set eyes, Robert Bone, whom Leslie called Bibbitty Bob, pretended to be a farmer scrubbing a grunting hog. Morgan couldn’t remember laughing as much as he had that night.
His pleasant reverie was interrupted by the growl of his first mate.
“Stand by for boarding, Cap’n.”
One by one, the male passengers clambered up the sides of the ship with the tails of their long coats dangling behind them. The ladies, holding onto their bonnets, were placed in wooden bucket slings and slowly hoisted aboard ship from the small lugger by rope and tackle, a journey punctuated with shrieks and squeals of fearful delight. They were the usual mixture of well-dressed men and women, many of whom traveled with servants. Morgan greeted his passengers at the quarterdeck with his customary warm handshake for the men and a tip of his hat for the ladies. He noted with subtle interest that some of the younger women were wearing revealing low-cut dresses with tight corsets, their hair in fashionable corkscrew curls and braids. The older ladies, with their slightly rouged cheeks, wore black-print dresses with semicircular brimmed bonnets tied under their chins with colored ribbons.
One young woman caught his eye as she sprung out from the wooden bucket sling onto the deck as gracefully as a cat jumps off a chair. She had the look of someone who enjoyed adventure.
“What a lark!” she cried out as she quickly surveyed her new surroundings on board ship. “I felt like I was flying!” She strode with a confident gait across the quarterdeck, a pleated skirt accentuating her tiny corseted waist. She was a small woman, barely over five feet tall, with a thin nose and sparkling amber-colored eyes. Her high forehead and long neck led his gaze down to her bare shoulders and slender figure. Behind her was an older, square, short woman wearing a black dress and a frilled white day cap. Morgan was soon introduced to Mrs. Ruth Robinson and her daughter, Miss Eliza Robinson, from New York. The younger woman’s unabashed gaze and prominent chin suggested a strong-willed, independent character. The older woman had looked at him attentively and asked if there would be storms ahead. He replied that it wasn’t the season for rough, stormy weather.
He was now directed elsewhere and began talking with some of the other passengers. He shook hands with each one as he welcomed them aboard like a proud deacon greeting his parishioners at a Congregationalist Church meeting. It turned out that one of the Englishmen had traveled with him before, a smiling stout-chested man with thinning red hair, George Wilberton, the third Earl of Nanvers. After a momentary lapse, Morgan remembered the robust, cheery-faced man when the English lord mentioned the shuffleboard incident on board the Hudson. He introduced him to his new wife, Lady Nanvers. He was taking her to America to show her this new experiment in democracy. They were going to visit Niagara Falls before attending to some business matters in Baltimore. Morgan’s gaze lingered on the flirtatious, fair-haired Lady Nanvers, whose tight-fitted waist, wide low neckline, and bare white shoulders were already attracting attention.