Rough Passage to London(80)
But all eyes in the saloon were riveted on the dancers and the musicians, and no one made a move to stop the revelry. Soon another couple began waltzing. The three pairs of dancers were now twirling in the saloon, clutching their partners tightly, their faces flushed with the mixture of the dancing and generous helpings from the punch bowl.
“A shocking display,” one woman said loudly enough for Morgan to hear. “Why, just look at that young couple. The way he’s holding her. It’s coarse.”
“This younger generation has no morals,” declared another woman named Eleanor Howell. “What do you think of these new waltzes, Captain Morgan? Don’t you think they should be banned?”
“Can’t say I know the answer to that question, Mrs. Howell,” Morgan replied cautiously. “I’m just a seafaring man, you know.”
The older woman glowered at him.
18
Seven days later, the seas started to build and the skies darkened, a sure sign of a storm approaching. Morgan had charted a more southerly course than normal because of the danger of icebergs to the north, a threat even in July. From his last reading he calculated they were about six hundred miles southeast of the eastern tip of Newfoundland. Morgan knew they were in for a blow because the previous morning he’d seen the entire eastern sky turn a brilliant red, a warning for all sailors to expect unsettled weather. Then this morning he noticed the barometer had plummeted, losing more than three quarters of an inch of mercury. It was a troubling sign.
Eight bells struck as he walked up the companionway, marking the end of the early morning watch. With the weather worsening, he was pleased to see that Icelander would be taking over at the helm. Ominously he spotted a pair of dark brown storm petrels riding the wind alongside the ship. As he watched these birds with their splashes of white in their tail feathers weave and glide overhead, his mind flashed back to Old Jeremiah Watkins and his many superstitions. The old sailor had believed storm petrels not only signaled bad weather ahead, but carried the souls of drowned sailors. Morgan shook his head as he put that dark thought out of his mind. He turned toward some of the cabin passengers who had taken shelter in the roundhouse on the quarterdeck. The two priests dressed in long black gowns and hats with rims fingered their rosary beads and said their Hail Marys as they watched the ship crash into one wave after another. Morgan told them to go below.
“No need to worry as long as the seamen are cursing,” he told Father O’Toole and Father Flannigan. “As long as you hear these men saying horrible blasphemous things, you need not apprehend any danger, but if you suddenly hear silence, then you may need to start praying.”
Morgan was anxious to get the two nervous men of the cloth safely down below and out of the way. He made sure Mr. Lowery gave all the passengers generous amounts of claret along with lemons. Sucking lemons and ginger lozenges was a favorite remedy of Lowery’s for seasickness. The cabin’s saloon was filled with pallid faces looking for reassurance. With the ship pitching and heaving, Lowery, dressed in a checked shirt and white apron, was holding a crystal carafe of claret and a small tray of glasses. His head and shoulders were extended forward, his legs stretching far behind him. Morgan continued to be amazed at the man’s balance and dexterity. As far as he could see, not a drop of claret had been spilled.
With winds now gusting over thirty knots, he gave the order to reef topsails. Lowery brought him some hot coffee, half of which spilled out of the cup before he could drink any of it. Eliza wanted to stay up topsides, but he told her she must go below with the other passengers.
“I don’t see why I have to go below,” she said with a sullen face.
“Believe me, Eliza, it would be better. It will be safer below.”
“I want to be with you,” she pleaded. “This is our honeymoon.”
“I know and I am sorry, but I don’t control the wind and the waves and they’re threatening to produce quite a blow.”
He watched as she cautiously walked toward the companionway, holding on to some of the lines to avoid falling and stumbling. He was quickly learning that his young, headstrong wife wanted to be involved in running the ship. The past few days had been pleasant ones with fair wind and calm seas. He’d been teaching her how to chart their course by using the heavy brass sextant to shoot the sun and take the noon reading.
They had laughed a great deal. He had been pleasantly surprised at the reaction aboard ship to Eliza in these first few days. Despite their rough appearance and crude manners, most of the sailors tipped their hats and wished her a good mornin’ or a good day when they passed her on the quarterdeck. They called her the captain’s missus. Her bustling petticoats and plucky nature must have triggered some hidden memory of good manners. Icelander had told him jokingly that “she’d be the one wearing the breeches” pretty soon.