“Looks like we have trouble here, Mr. Nyles.”
“Yes, sir. They’re firing that bow chaser. What are you aimin’ to do, Captain? As you can see, as soon as they come broadsides, they got the smashers ready to fire at close range.”
The sloop of war soon rounded up into the wind with her sails flapping in the light, early morning breeze like a swan’s wings. Her short, smooth-bore carronades amidships were now clearly visible and pointed directly at them, the gunners ready to fire. They were twelve pounders. He knew a broadside swipe from these powerful short-range guns would reduce the starboard side of the Philadelphia into a rainstorm of deadly wooden splinters.
“Back the yards, Mr. Nyles!”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
The English captain held a trumpet and began speaking in a stiff and official voice.
“I am Captain James Stryker of His Majesty’s sloop of war the Resolve with the West African Squadron. Stand by for boarding.”
Morgan grabbed the trumpet from his first mate and stepped to the rail.
“I am Captain Elisha Morgan, and this is the American packet ship, the Philadelphia of the Black X Line, and we are bound for London. What is your business, Captain?”
“I am sorry to inform you that we must search your ship,” Captain Stryker replied formally.
“Might I ask why, Captain?”
“Yes, you are a suspected American slaver.”
Morgan had anticipated this accusation, just because the Africans were clearly visible on the Philadelphia’s deck, but it still infuriated him.
“Mr. Nyles. Lower the ladder. We have no choice but to allow the lion and his bloodhounds on board.”
Soon enough, the six-oared boat from the sloop of war pulled alongside the Philadelphia. The sailors and some of the passengers were leaning over the rails to see what was happening. Morgan watched the armed English sailors wearing man-of-war caps and the captain with his blue coat and silver buttons begin climbing the ladder. He knew this was unusual for a Royal Navy captain to leave his ship. Normally the captain would delegate the boarding of another ship to the first lieutenant. Morgan wondered why he was breaking with the Royal Navy’s customary procedures, but that question was left dangling as the faces of the English sailors emerged over the bulwarks.
On the quarterdeck, the two ship captains stood, each taking careful measure of the other. Stryker was a slightly older man than Morgan, but he was a handsome man with square, broad shoulders, a well-defined, chiseled face framed by curling whiskers, and black hair cut short to reveal a smooth, wide forehead. Morgan thought he was the picture of an English ship commander with his stance and poise both disciplined and haughty. He was no doubt a highly ambitious naval commander eager to carry out his orders to seize slave ships with biblical zeal. Stryker’s eyes, small and restless, scanned the decks as he began to address Morgan.
“Good day to you, Captain. By orders of the Crown, we will be searching your ship. I would ask you to let me see your ship’s papers.”
He gave Morgan a cold stare.
Morgan was incensed, but he kept quiet. He had learned to dislike this show of force by the British Royal Navy ever since he was a boy, but he was well aware he had few options.
“I regret delaying you on your long voyage, Captain, but we have orders to pursue and seize any slaving ships, and as you well know the foul ships that carry on this illegal trade all too frequently fly the stars and stripes of your country from their masts.”
As if to emphasize the point, Stryker looked up scornfully at the American flag flying off the spanker. Morgan was indignant. The cigar moved from one side of his mouth to the other as he fought to control his anger. He explained the situation as best he could, describing the sinking of the ship and their efforts to save the few survivors. He patiently showed the cocky British captain the ship’s papers along with the manifest and invited the captain to interview each and every one of the passengers separately to see if his story matched theirs. After reviewing the ship’s papers, searching the ship, and interviewing the passengers, Stryker examined the Africans on deck, taking note of the scars from the branding, and at last seemed satisfied. He walked up to the fife rail where Morgan was standing with Eliza by his side. Stryker tipped his hat to Eliza.
“By all rights, I should seize your ship, Captain, but it appears you are telling the truth. I will be taking these liberated Africans to Freetown in Sierra Leone.”
Stryker’s eyes bore into Morgan’s face with an interrogator’s intensity.
“What was the name of the slaver, Captain? Did you see the name?”
“It was a Portuguese name,” replied Morgan.