“Serpente Preta?” Stryker inquired.
“Yes, that was it. Do you know the ship?”
“I am afraid we do,” replied Captain Stryker. “We were waiting for her outside the Bonny River, but she tricked us by picking up these slaves further to the west at Whydah.”
“Will you catch the slavers?” asked Eliza. “It appears that they fled during the storm in the ship’s quarter boats.”
“We will make our best effort, madam, to find and bring them to justice,” Stryker replied with a smile, tipping his hat again.
Morgan took a long, hard look at the British captain. Something about his face was familiar. It seemed like he’d seen the man before. Some distant memory stirred momentarily, but then he turned to watch the frightened faces of the Africans as they were loaded into the six-oared longboats and ordered to squat in the center of the boats. He wondered if these unfortunate men and women would be any better off in the hands of the British in the muddy, malaria-filled streets of Freetown. He spotted the frightened face of the young African with Blackwood’s sundial compass. He had his treasure firmly clenched in his hand. His gaze shifted to the Royal Navy ship where the British sailors were hanging over the bulwarks as they awaited the return of their captain. For a fleeting second he thought he saw a familiar face. One of the men looked a little like Hiram. He grabbed the spyglass and held it up to his eye, scanning the line of sailors now preparing for the arrival of the longboats. There was nothing. He shook his head as he realized how tired he was. He knew he needed rest.
Four days later, with a burning sun beating down on the ship, they passed the dreaded northern coast of Africa with its barren, treeless coastline, sandy hills, and remote mountains in the distance. To the north, Morgan could barely make out the hazy outline of the nearly mile-high peak on Gomera Island in the Canaries. He estimated that they were now 1,600 miles to the south of England. Morgan stood by the weather rail lost in thought about that bronze sundial compass. He wondered what his young wife would do when she reached England. He decided that the first thing he must do besides seeing to the repair of the ship’s spars and rigging was to buy a new piano for the Philadelphia.
PART VIII
And the mother at home says, “Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn;
It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return!”
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz”
20
1835
In the gray light of predawn, Morgan pulled his coat more tightly around him. A chilly late September breeze had blown away the last of the summer winds. He’d been on deck standing by Icelander at the helm for several hours now, so he was hungry and getting tired. They’d been at sea for twenty-five days. The only noticeable sounds to be heard were the occasional mournful cries of seagulls. He watched as a figure emerged from the companionway and a big smile lit his face. It was Eliza, bringing him the first early morning brew of Lowery’s hot coffee and some of the cook’s freshly baked johnnycake.
She looked refreshed and wide awake, neatly dressed as always. She wore a woolen shawl over a loose-fitting cotton petticoat and a drawn bonnet of gingham to keep her hair in place. Lately she had taken to tying her hair back in a tightly wound bun, a look that made him notice her attractive, thin neck. He smiled at her, then scolded her in a gentle teasing way for not coming sooner. She made a funny scowling face at him, and then, placing her hands on her hips, asked about their current location. He told her he thought they were somewhere off the Georges Bank bearing down on Cape Cod. He watched her stride across the quarterdeck with confidence and disappear down the companionway. He had to admit she had earned her sea legs after making five ocean passages with him. He was happy, but he knew that this wouldn’t last forever.
His mind wandered back to a year ago. When they arrived at St. Katherine’s Docks after that first fateful voyage as a married couple, her tough reserve had evaporated like boiling water from a kettle. She had collapsed in tears in their cabin. He had held her in his arms, trying to comfort her. Sobbing, she confessed to him how terrified she’d been during the storm. She spoke of the recurring nightmares she was having, and how she was not looking forward to the rough passage back to New York. He bought a new ship’s piano made with rosewood veneer, mahogany, and a finely scalloped ivory keyboard to replace the one that had been thrown overboard. That had helped her mood, but he could tell that she was anxious and unhappy.
He often thought that if it hadn’t been for the Leslies and their kind hospitality, she would not still be making these passages across the Atlantic with him. Certainly the unexpected and welcome invitation of the Leslies had changed things for the better. At first, Eliza didn’t want to go. She said she didn’t feel like socializing, but he had insisted. They had taken a hackney cab from the docks, clip-clopping their way along the banks of the Thames, sightseeing and gawking at the mansions along Piccadilly, passing Hyde Park and the Duke of Wellington’s stately mansion at Apsley House. The first sight of Edgware Road, with its sweet-smelling hayfields, the hedgerows, and the long line of oak trees, had been a delight. As they stepped out of their cab, they’d encountered the tall, amiable figure of Leslie just coming in from his afternoon walk with a handful of honeysuckle and roses, smiling and waving at them. Eliza was at first apprehensive around this older English couple, but she relaxed when she saw the three children, nine-year-old Robert and his two little sisters, Harriet and Mary.