The thought of seeing his father again made him anxious. Eliza had not stopped asking questions about his family. She wanted to know all about his sisters and his brother Josiah, and what life had been like growing up in Lyme. Without telling her about the conflict-ridden relationship he’d had with his father, he’d tried to let her know that his return home would not be without its emotional complications. He had told her about his search for Abraham and how disappointing it had been. He thought how little he really knew about what had happened to Abraham. So many years of searching for his brother and all he had were more suspicions of foul play. Josiah would certainly want to hear about any new information. What could he tell him? He didn’t even know what had happened to John Taylor. He had searched for the man over the years, mentioning Taylor’s name at some of the New York boarding houses more commonly frequented by sailors, but there was no trace of him. He supposed that the sickly man had most likely died in some hidden alleyway, his dark secrets forever lost.
The breakfast bell interrupted his thoughts. Lowery was just going below with the milk pail. Eliza now reemerged on deck, taking a look at the misty gray world that they were sailing through. Visibility was less than half a mile. He could see from her furrowed expression as she looked toward the bow of the ship that she was hoping to catch a glimpse of land.
When the Philadelphia arrived in New York after twenty-seven days at sea, Eliza rushed off to see her parents while Morgan oversaw the unloading of the cargo of fine woolens and cottons and assorted farm tools and hardware. The night before they arrived, when the ship was off Long Island, she had asked him again about establishing a residence in New York, and sensing that he had no choice, he had agreed.
“I’ll still be sailing with you,” she had reassured him, “just not on all the passages.” Then she repeated again, “It would mean so much for me if we have our own home, just like the Leslies.”
The thought of sailing without her made him sad, but Morgan chose not to think about that. While the dockworkers loaded up the wagons, he walked over to inspect one of the Black X Line’s newest ships built by Bergh & Company that spring. She was called the Toronto. He now held ownership shares in this 630-ton ship, as well as in the Philadelphia and one other. As soon as this new ship set sail, and he received his share of the earnings, he told himself, it would mean that he and Eliza could begin looking for a residence ashore. It also would mean he would now be viewed by some of the other owners as not just a ship captain, but as an important investor in the Black X Line. They would have to see him as one of them.
It was later that week, after a late-night meeting with Mr. Griswold and some shipping agents at a local tavern, that he saw a shadowy, solitary figure on the other side of the street. The man had a southwester cap over his head and a sailor’s pea jacket. He was standing at the corner of South William Street underneath a street lantern looking directly at him. Morgan noticed him when he walked into the tavern where they were meeting and then later at ten o’clock when he came out. At first he paid little attention. Just another drunk, he thought, but then some instinct told him he should be careful. At night, the wharf area around South Street, with its many alleyways and dark corners, was thick with thieves. He looked back over his shoulder and then quickened his pace. He thought the man was following him.
Morgan walked toward Wall Street and then turned down toward Coenties Alley, where he hoped he would lose the man in the crowds. He stayed mostly in the shadows, avoiding the streetlights. The horse-drawn wagons were already arriving to unload the ships on the piers, so the streets adjacent to the docks were filled with noisy activity. He slipped behind a wagon being pulled by a large mule, ducked underneath another, and came out on the other side of the street. He hunched over as he walked beside a horse, turning onto a small alley, which took him to Cherry Street. He kept looking back. Perhaps he was just imagining this man following him. After all, the streets were filled with people. He looked again. There was nothing, but he quickened his pace all the same.
On the corner of Fulton and Water Streets the noise of scraping fiddles, strumming banjos, and screeching parrots spilled out of a brightly painted building with the name Jolly Tar hanging from the doorway. A man holding a drunken woman under his arm, muttering senseless gibberish, passed close by him. He kept his distance and walked even faster, pulling his hat down more firmly over his head. He passed a brick house known for some of the more popular blood sports at the time, dogfighting and rat baiting. He could hear the shouts and yelling of wagers inside.