After several minutes, a well-dressed man of medium height with a fine, chiseled face, neatly combed, thinning hair, and well-trimmed silver whiskers emerged from the library. He had the same prominent chin and rigid nose as Eliza, only longer. Morgan guessed he was in his late forties or early fifties. His gaze under prominent silver eyebrows was penetrating and direct, his manner taciturn and morose. He looked at Morgan with a slight note of disdain, shook his hand, and ushered him into the library toward an amply cushioned easy chair. Morgan felt like he was a cabin boy once again, being dressed down by one of the ship’s officers. He remembered being reprimanded by Captain Champlin, and the sight of the angry face of his own father flashed before him. Robinson had a steely stare that was unrelenting and unsympathetic.
“I read your letter, Captain Morgan, with some interest.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Morgan managed to stammer.
“You spoke of discussing business matters. What did you have in mind?”
The man poured out a glass of sherry and handed it to Morgan.
“Well, sir, business is just one of the topics that I wanted to discuss.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows arched up.
“Is that so?” he replied. “Pray tell, Captain, what else did you have in mind?”
Morgan’s hands were sweating and he felt short of breath. He gulped, and nervously took a sip of sherry, deciding to sail directly into the storm.
“Yes, sir,” he stammered. He took a deep breath. “Mr. Robinson, I am in love with your daughter. I believe Eliza shares those same sentiments. With utmost respect and humility, I would like to ask you for her hand in marriage.”
Morgan looked at Mr. Robinson with a weak smile. There was no welcoming gesture returned from the older man. Samuel Robinson got up from his chair, holding his cane, his face expressionless, and turned his back. Morgan thought he was going to leave the room, but then he stooped to pull two cigars out of a mahogany humidor.
“Will you have a cigar, Captain?” he asked in a businesslike tone as he turned back in Morgan’s direction.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Robinson,” Morgan responded, surprised.
“Tell me about the London Line, Captain. Is it a good business?”
Morgan explained that the Black X Line and the Red Swallowtail Line, both servicing the London–New York route, were still running ships in conjunction with each other. They were separate companies, but together they provided a fleet of ten ships traveling to London and there were future plans for an even bigger fleet.
“How much money do you make in a year, Captain?” Eliza’s father asked brusquely.
Morgan gripped the wooden armrest, “With this new ship of mine I should make over five thousand dollars a year.”
“And how much does your ship make for the company, Captain?”
Morgan paused as he did some quick arithmetic in his head.
“Mr. Robinson, I reckon the Philadelphia makes around twenty thousand dollars a year with the freight and steerage passengers she carries. With the mail, another one thousand dollars. Of course, the captain keeps most of whatever is received from carrying the mail. The cabin passengers, why that’s another nine thousand dollars. The captain gets about twenty-five percent of that. Adding up freight, steerage passengers, and cabin passengers, I calculate Mr. Griswold and the shipping line make twenty five thousand dollars a year off the Philadelphia, give or take a few thousand.”
“What about the ship’s expenses?”
By now, Morgan sensed he was being tested for his business skills by a schoolmaster who was not inclined to give him a good grade.
“The firm has to pay about four thousand dollars for wages, I figure, two thousand five hundred dollars for insurance, another few thousand for food, repairs, port charges. Probably adds up to about ten thousand dollars of costs, so I suppose the owners are making upward of ten thousand dollars on each ship.”
“Each year?” Mr. Robinson asked incredulously. “That’s a good return. That means your share is one-eighth of that?”
“Yes sir. That would be a good estimation. Of course, that’s over and above what I make as ship captain.”
Mr. Robinson was silent, so Morgan continued to speak.
“As I wrote to you in my letter, this is why I hope to become a part owner of several of the ships, sir. Investing in packet ships is better than gold. Be assured, Mr. Robinson, I intend to provide well for your daughter.”
Robinson stroked his chin for a moment and took a long satisfactory pull on his cigar. He watched the plumes of smoke drift upward to the high ceilings. The uplifted eyebrows and the momentary silence revealed his doubts.