Rough Passage to London(65)

Much later that same night, after a strong run across the Celtic Sea, Morgan lay on his bunk listening for any strange noises. The westerly winds had pushed them farther to the north and closer to Ireland than he would have liked. He guessed that they must be forty miles from Galley Head south of Old Kinsale. His senses were at a fine pitch of alertness because of his concerns about the ugly mood on the foredeck. The passengers had all retired to their staterooms. The winds had died down, and the packet was now loafing along at barely three knots.

The only sound he could hear was the lapping of the water against the hull, and his concerns that trouble was afoot began to subside. His thoughts turned to the young woman who had sat next to him at dinner that night. Her full name was Eliza Ann Robinson. She was attractive, but not overly so, and he guessed she was not too far from her eighteenth birthday. With her blue silk dress and single strand of pearls, she seemed bright and lively, but he also found her to be somewhat arrogant and overly self-assured. She wanted to know if she could climb up the rigging and crawl through the lubber’s hole to try to spot any whales. Persistent and willful, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Even though he politely told her that women weren’t allowed up into the rigging, she persisted with her request. The more he tried to say no, the more stubborn and truculent she became. After dinner she walked away with an aggressive gait, clearly indicating her displeasure with him. She began playing the piano, her fingers flying over the keys, which brought a cluster of three men around her. He concluded she was a spoiled rich girl who was used to getting her way.

The cabin was dark after he put out his lamp. Just as he was dozing off, a sudden firm knock on the door caused him to jump out of bed.

“Who is it?” he called out in alarm.

The cabin door sprung open and there stood the first mate, Horace Nyles, his silhouette and whiskery face framed in the doorway. He had a sharp-tipped handspike in his hand. Morgan felt a cold tingle down his back.

“It’s a mutiny, Captain! Mutiny! Come quick!”

“Who are they?”

“It’s all those new recruits we took on in London, Cap’n.”

“How many?”

“All six of them, I’m guessing. Two of them tried to nab Icelander at the helm, but he knew something was up ’cause they smelled of rum.”

“Did they harm him?”

“No. They pulled a knife, but he knocked the man flat. The other critter came at Icelander from behind, but Mr. Pratt and Ochoa got to him before he could reach Rasmussen. They knocked him into the bulwarks where half his body was hanging overboard.”

Morgan grabbed his two pistols and pushed his way out the door. The Spaniard, a knife clenched in his teeth, was just coming down the companionway with the two rebel sailors. Their hands were manacled behind them, their cotton shirts torn exposing their bony chests, their faces bruised.

“Aquí están Capitán. Piratas, hijos de puta que no valen mierda.”

Ochoa cursed and swore as he kicked them down the last few steps, his face intense, his manner purposeful.

“¿Quiere que les mate, Capitán? Do you want me to rip them open from head to heel?”

Morgan shook his head and told Ochoa to lock them up in the ice room where the meat was kept. He watched as the Spaniard kneed the two prisoners in the back and pushed them into the cold storage room where they fell with a heavy thud. Morgan had noticed these two before. One was a tall, shaggy-haired man with a bulldog jaw and deep-set eyes that glowered under a heavily furrowed brow. The other smaller one had a pale, drawn English face with a droopy nose and eyes that blinked continuously. They reminded him of the mud-covered clammers they would pass on their way up the Thames whose upturned faces were devoid of even the faintest hope. They stood there shivering among the blocks of ice and slabs of meat. Morgan stared at them defiantly, closed the door, grabbed a board, and thrust it in between the two looped handles. He told Mr. Pratt to get their story even if he had to inflict bodily harm.

With his two pistols primed and ready to fire, he climbed up the companionway steps and ran to the stern of the ship where Icelander was still at the helm. The packet ship was headed for Cape Clear off the southern coast of Ireland. It was a dark, moonless night so the land just two miles away was invisible in the darkness. The gentle southerly winds barely moved the big ship forward. Morgan could feel the cat paws filling and emptying the sails. Icelander and the second mate quickly told him the trouble was far from over. The two captured sailors’ defiant shipmates had taken over the forecastle and had tied up Whipple and many of the other sailors loyal to the Captain.