Rough Passage to London: A Sea Captain's Tale by Robin Lloyd Page B
Authors: Robin Lloyd
Tags: Historical
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That’s how I know we’re getting close to Mizen Head.”
Jeremiah’s voice was hoarse with the cold weather, and Morgan detected that his breath was tainted with the smell of rum.
“The Scripture contains considerable amount of teachings, but so do the old legends. Both harrow up important truths out here in the open sea. Who’s to say why storm petrels are said to protect sailors? Some believe these birds carry the souls of drowned sailors. Some say any sailor who kills one of them birds will die. Who’s to say?”
The old sailor pointed again at one of the shearwaters, which twirled to one side, exposing its white underside, while its wings were rigid and unmoving.
“You see, the shearwater looks like a flying cross, calling on all sinful sailors to repent.”
Morgan’s eyes followed the bird as it flew out of sight, thinking how much he had to learn. He wasn’t superstitious by nature, or overly mystical, but he had enough respect for old sailors and their beliefs not to discount anything.
As the Hudson began to heel sharply with a sudden gust of wind, Mr. Brown sent the two cabin boys aloft to check on some of the buntlines and clewlines. There, dangling from the stirrup with his arms draped over the topgallant yards on the main mast, Morgan looked down at the well-dressed cabin passengers gathered in the quarterdeck. The men sported their black top hats, their long overcoats, and their finely polished boots. There were only two women, both seated, bundled up with blankets pulled tightly around their shoulders. A steward was passing refreshments. It looked like hot cups of tea and a platter of small sandwiches. Captain Champlin was looking through his spyglass. He said something to one of the male passengers, and suddenly they were all gesturing wildly, pointing off to the northeast.
Morgan swiveled around and in the far distance he caught his first sight of the cliffs of Mizen Head, the southwesternmost tip of Ireland. He looked across a meadow of whitecaps to the dark, windswept cliffs, and the tufts of green beyond. It had taken them over three weeks to cross the Atlantic, and the intensity of this moment left him without words. With an easterly wind, they were forced to tack back and forth along the south coast of Ireland, passing Glandore Harbor and Galley Head in the Celtic Sea. In the distance, they could see another prominent point of land with a lighthouse. He watched as Old Jeremiah poured a tot of rum over the side and asked Hiram what the sailor was doing.
“That’s an offering to Neptune,” Hiram replied curtly. “Just six months ago one of the Black Ball packet ships, the Albion , went up on the rocks off this coast here in a terrible storm. Twenty persons were clinging to the wreck until finally the ship broke apart and the sea claimed her. The captain was lost along with almost all the crew and the passengers. They say the heavy surf and waves pounded the ship to pieces.”
Morgan stared out at the inhospitable coastline and the rolling waves of the Atlantic crashing onto shore, the white foam of the sea swirling in whirlpools around the rocks. He thought of William, whose ship had gone down at sea and was never heard of again. His mind turned to the mystery of Abraham’s death, which he was determined to solve. It was too hard for him to accept that both his older brothers had been called away early from this life. Abraham must be alive. He thought of his smile, his cheery optimism, and some of his quirks, like his passion for collecting sailors’ pennywhistles. He pulled out a small one made of lead that his brother had given him before he left home, and fingered its smooth surface for good luck.
“Why don’t you ask Jeremiah Watkins about it yourself,” Hiram said. “He’s heard the tale of the Albion .”
Just then the mate called out to mind the braces. Morgan could feel the big ship veer off the wind. They were now on a southwesterly course toward the western edge of
Jeremiah’s voice was hoarse with the cold weather, and Morgan detected that his breath was tainted with the smell of rum.
“The Scripture contains considerable amount of teachings, but so do the old legends. Both harrow up important truths out here in the open sea. Who’s to say why storm petrels are said to protect sailors? Some believe these birds carry the souls of drowned sailors. Some say any sailor who kills one of them birds will die. Who’s to say?”
The old sailor pointed again at one of the shearwaters, which twirled to one side, exposing its white underside, while its wings were rigid and unmoving.
“You see, the shearwater looks like a flying cross, calling on all sinful sailors to repent.”
Morgan’s eyes followed the bird as it flew out of sight, thinking how much he had to learn. He wasn’t superstitious by nature, or overly mystical, but he had enough respect for old sailors and their beliefs not to discount anything.
As the Hudson began to heel sharply with a sudden gust of wind, Mr. Brown sent the two cabin boys aloft to check on some of the buntlines and clewlines. There, dangling from the stirrup with his arms draped over the topgallant yards on the main mast, Morgan looked down at the well-dressed cabin passengers gathered in the quarterdeck. The men sported their black top hats, their long overcoats, and their finely polished boots. There were only two women, both seated, bundled up with blankets pulled tightly around their shoulders. A steward was passing refreshments. It looked like hot cups of tea and a platter of small sandwiches. Captain Champlin was looking through his spyglass. He said something to one of the male passengers, and suddenly they were all gesturing wildly, pointing off to the northeast.
Morgan swiveled around and in the far distance he caught his first sight of the cliffs of Mizen Head, the southwesternmost tip of Ireland. He looked across a meadow of whitecaps to the dark, windswept cliffs, and the tufts of green beyond. It had taken them over three weeks to cross the Atlantic, and the intensity of this moment left him without words. With an easterly wind, they were forced to tack back and forth along the south coast of Ireland, passing Glandore Harbor and Galley Head in the Celtic Sea. In the distance, they could see another prominent point of land with a lighthouse. He watched as Old Jeremiah poured a tot of rum over the side and asked Hiram what the sailor was doing.
“That’s an offering to Neptune,” Hiram replied curtly. “Just six months ago one of the Black Ball packet ships, the Albion , went up on the rocks off this coast here in a terrible storm. Twenty persons were clinging to the wreck until finally the ship broke apart and the sea claimed her. The captain was lost along with almost all the crew and the passengers. They say the heavy surf and waves pounded the ship to pieces.”
Morgan stared out at the inhospitable coastline and the rolling waves of the Atlantic crashing onto shore, the white foam of the sea swirling in whirlpools around the rocks. He thought of William, whose ship had gone down at sea and was never heard of again. His mind turned to the mystery of Abraham’s death, which he was determined to solve. It was too hard for him to accept that both his older brothers had been called away early from this life. Abraham must be alive. He thought of his smile, his cheery optimism, and some of his quirks, like his passion for collecting sailors’ pennywhistles. He pulled out a small one made of lead that his brother had given him before he left home, and fingered its smooth surface for good luck.
“Why don’t you ask Jeremiah Watkins about it yourself,” Hiram said. “He’s heard the tale of the Albion .”
Just then the mate called out to mind the braces. Morgan could feel the big ship veer off the wind. They were now on a southwesterly course toward the western edge of
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