Morgan Hall, the lavish country estate of the Morgan family, was disputed territory between two generations of Morgans. Built during the glory days of Queen Elizabeth and financed with pirated gold from Spanish ships—a practice encouraged by the queen— Morgan Hall was originally designed to reflect the personality of its seafaring owner. However, in recent years the stately mansion was systematically being refurbished to suit the tastes of a new generation of Morgans who were more concerned with wealth and status than with the wishes of the original builder.
Admiral Amos Bronson Morgan, one of England’s most revered naval heroes, built Morgan Hall in 1590. The unschooled son of a Plymouth shipbuilder, Amos was an articulate man, his education coming from extensive reading. He was an expert on modern ship design and Greek classical literature.
Amos Morgan’s vast knowledge could be attributed to his father; some his father taught him directly, and some Amos learned because his father forbade him to learn it.
A self-made businessman, Edward Morgan thought book learning a waste of time. He refused to let Amos attend public school and took it upon himself to give his son a practical education. The boy learned math by adding price columns of supply lists and workers’ pay slips; he graduated to higher math by calculating ships’ buoyancy distributions. Lessons in logic involved solving management resource problems on the docking berth. Amos’s reading primer was a stack of production orders, timber schedules, and delivery invoices. By the time he was fifteen, Amos knew every aspect of his father’s shipbuilding business.
In spite of his father’s restricted syllabus, Amos developed a penchant for reading; by the time he was a teenager he craved books like most boys his age craved the opposite sex. He dreamed of matriculating at Oxford University with its magnificent libraries and robed professors, but Edward Morgan wouldn’t hear of it. The boy had all the learning he needed to run the family business. Subject closed.
Edward Morgan had violated a principle of parenting—forbid a boy to do something, even if it’s studying, and that’s exactly what he will want to do. Such was the case with Amos Morgan.
Amos used almost all the money he earned to purchase books from the local bookseller in Plymouth. At night or whenever he could steal a few minutes away from the docks, he pored over his forbidden purchases. He quickly developed a fascination with Greek literature. Homer was his favorite, especially the voyages of Ulysses. Amos read the Odyssey so many times he could close his eyes and recite lengthy portions of it word for word. It was Homer who convinced the boy his destiny was in sailing ships, not in building them.
Amos Morgan’s first taste of nautical adventure came aboard the Minion. John Hawkins, the Minion’s skipper, was the son of an English family that made its fortune trading African slaves.
One spring afternoon, while the senior Morgan negotiated a contract to build four new ships for the senior Hawkins, Amos negotiated his future with the younger Hawkins. Impressed with the boy’s determination, John Hawkins signed Amos on as a member of his crew. When Edward Morgan learned of the deal between the younger men, he was so furious he nearly scuttled the shipbuilding contract. But Amos was of age, and there was nothing his father could do short of physical violence to prevent him from going. Amos Morgan paid a high price for his change of career: his father never spoke to him again.
Although John Hawkins was twenty-six years his senior, he and Amos became close friends. Their friendship was based on shared danger, like the time they put in for repairs at San Juan de Ulua.
There were ten English ships in all. For months they had been on a slaving expedition in the Caribbean, exchanging Africans for West Indian sugar, gold, and hides in defiance of Spanish commercial regulations. The Spanish thought they owned the New World and made regulations accordingly. The English had little regard for Spanish claims or regulations. If there was anything an English seaman liked as much as raiding Spanish territories, it was breaking Spanish regulations.
The day after John Hawkins’ ships dropped anchor at San Juan de Ulua, Spanish ships appeared. The Spanish captain relayed a note to Hawkins that his ships needed supplies; would Hawkins be so kind as to make room for them in the harbor? Since the Spanish fleet was already blocking the entrance to the harbor, Hawkins didn’t see that he had much choice. He maneuvered his ships close together, and the Spanish proceeded to squeeze into the harbor next to them. No sooner had they dropped anchor than armed Spanish sailors began pouring over the sides of their ships. The English were overwhelmed.
It was Amos Morgan’s first battle; it was also the first day he ever killed a man; by sunset he was quite experienced at it.
The day did not go well for the English sailors. Only two ships escaped, the Minion and Drake’s Judith.
For months afterward, the incident at San Juan de Ulua worked in Amos’s belly like a bad potato. He lost several friends that day. He also developed a hearty hatred for Spanish arrogance and was constantly formulating ideas and schemes for revenge. However, there was little he could do about it—until John Hawkins was appointed treasurer of the English navy. When the new treasurer called upon his shipbuilding knowledge to settle the score with the Spanish, Amos responded eagerly.
John Hawkins and Amos Morgan developed a new class of English ships. The design was risky. To begin with, the ships were smaller than the Spanish galleons. All the guns were moved broadside and toward the center line, thus improving stability. Then the ships’ sides were sloped inward from the lowest gun deck up to the weather deck. The result was that these ships were lower, faster, and more seaworthy than any others sailing the ocean.
Reducing the size of the ship meant reducing the size of her guns as well. Hawkins and Morgan equipped the ships with a long range culverin type of gun, with shot ranging from nine to thirty-two pounders. The guns were much smaller than the Spanish fifty pounders but had greater range and accuracy.
The new design called for new strategy. The standard naval warfare tactic was to run at the enemy, fire the guns, ram the ship, and loose a boarding party. These new English ships, however, were designed for off fighting. They would be no match for the Spanish if they used traditional tactics. For a new battle plan, Hawkins called upon Sir Francis Drake who devised a strategy for the English fleet. When the strategy was complete, everything was in place. All that was needed was an opportunity to put their new ideas to the test. The opportunity came in July 1588.
The great Spanish fleet was first sighted off Cornwall, heading toward England. Philip II of Spain, with the blessing of the pope, had sent his seemingly invincible armada to conquer England and return the country to the benevolent fold of Roman Catholicism. Neither Philip nor the pope cared that England didn’t want to be returned to the fold; they had decided it was God’s will and set out to accomplish it.
The alarm sounded. Amos Morgan, now captain of his own ship, the Dutton, responded with the rest of the captains. Charles Howard, commander of the English fleet, summoned the ships to assemble at Portsmouth. It was nearly a fatal mistake. The converging Spanish ships almost succeeded in trapping the English fleet in the harbor. With the ships bottled up in the harbor, the English would be forced to fight a close battle, one they would most certainly lose. It was the new ship design that saved the day.
The lighter, faster English fleet bolted from the harbor and tacked westward across the bows of the Spanish ships, which were not fast enough to cut them off. Upon reaching open sea, the English now had the wind advantage and could implement Sir Francis Drake’s new strategy.
In three encounters, the smaller, faster English ships danced out of reach of the heavy Spanish guns. The long range culverin guns peppered the tightly bunched Spanish ships with shot. The smaller guns weren’t large enough to destroy the Spanish ships outright, but like bees they swarmed and stung the ships repeatedly. Powerless to hinder the assault, the Spanish ships retreated to the Calais harbor.
For days the Spanish sat there, hoping to lure the English into the harbor where they could fight a traditional battle. The battle was a stalemate, at least until Sir Francis Drake came up with another plan.
Just after midnight, six English ships were set on fire and sailed into the harbor of Calais. The Spanish captains were forced to cut loose their anchors and flee the harbor, sailing right into the guns of the waiting English ships. The Spanish Armada was routed; they never again regained their fighting formation.
Even the winds turned against the Spanish fleet. “The winds of God,” Drake called them, as if God Himself were fighting for the English cause. The Spanish fleet was scattered and largely wrecked. Of their 130 ships that sailed for England, only 76 ever made it back to Spain. For the English it was a total victory. They suffered fewer than 100 casualties, and not a single ship was sunk by the once invincible Spanish Armada.
The Spanish threat thwarted, people and queen were eager to show their gratitude to the daring Englishmen who had saved them. John Hawkins, Francis Drake, and Amos Morgan became national heroes. Among other rewards, Amos was promoted to admiral. He soon became a regular at court functions and was showered with adulation and wealth—more wealth than he could possibly spend in a lifetime, especially considering the fact that he led an austere life centered around his ship and a growing library of books.
It was Queen Elizabeth herself who suggested an investment for his growing estate. Buy some land and build a house, she advised. When he expressed little desire to own a house he would seldom occupy, the queen predicted that things would change as he got older, that one day he would welcome a place where he could sit comfortably in front of the fire and read his books. More out of politeness than desire to own a home, Amos Morgan began looking at houses and land. The more he looked, the more interested he became.
It was the idea of a personal library that most captivated him, a desire for a repository for his growing number of volumes and a place to which he could escape when he was not sailing. So Amos Morgan purchased a large tract of rolling acreage just east of Winchester, not far from Portsmouth where his ship was docked.
Maybe it was his shipbuilding skills rising to the surface or maybe the wisdom of the queen’s words were taking hold, but for the first time in his life Amos Morgan was consumed with a personal building project. He involved himself in every aspect of the house, from design to interior detail. When Morgan Hall was finished, Amos Morgan’s creation proudly took its place alongside England’s finest country homes.
There was Longleat, a glorious Italian Renaissance home constructed in 1580, known for its magnificent tapestries, paintings, porcelain, and furniture, and, of course, its great hall with massive wooden beams and giant Irish elk antlers mounted on the walls.
And there was Theobalds, with its woodland motif—King James’ favorite retreat. It had indoor trees, bushes, and branches so natural looking that when the doors were left open birds flew in and roosted in them. Theobalds also had garish touches of the spectacular, notably the room displaying the stars of the universe on its ceiling, complete with a clockwork mechanism that moved the sun and planets in keeping with the seasons.
Morgan Hall was a handsome addition to the stately manors. Like the others, it reflected its builder’s interests. The mansion was a mixture of Amos Morgan’s three great loves: classical Greece, the ocean, and the printed word.
A visitor to Morgan Hall would ascend eight marble steps formed in a half-circle to reach the twelve foot arched doorway, passing between six majestic Corinthian columns.
Inside, he would find himself in a domed entryway with three identical open arched doorways leading to different parts of the house. Between the arches stood twin pillars, these too of marble and of ancient origin, having been discovered and excavated from the bed of the Tiber River in Rome.
Glancing up, the visitor would look past the railings of the second floor to the dome overhead where there was a painting of God in His heavens, surrounded by the seemingly mandatory cherubs and half-clothed women so prominent in classical art.
Passing through the northern archway, the visitor would find himself in the drawing room. Continuing farther, he would be in a cedar dining hall.
The eastern archway led to two sets of stairs, one against the wall on the right and one against the left wall, each with a corner landing. The left stairway was for women, the right stairway for men; the difference between the two was the panels of the railings. The men’s panel was an elaborate cut wood design. The women’s panel had the same design, but only in relief, protecting the ladies’ ankles from the crude stares of men. The admiral was more of a gentleman than most of those who sailed under his command.
The south portal in the entryway was the one used most often by guests. It led to the great hall where parties, balls, and banquets were held. The hall was long and expansive with a wooden floor so shiny that details of the wall hangings could be clearly seen in its reflection. The walls were adorned with huge panoramas— tapestries as well as paintings—of ships at sea. The ceiling had several circular bas-relief designs which featured oval paintings of blue sky and friendly clouds in their centers. Standing in the room one always had the feeling of fair weather and good sailing.
In the middle of the eastern wall of this great hall, two heavy oak doors led to the admiral’s favorite room, his personal library. It was here that he kept his most treasured possessions—his books, mementos from the queen, and a variety of weapons, including his first cutlass, the one that saved his life so many times in the bay of San Juan de Ulua. His book collection included Cicero, Livy, Suetonius, and Diodorus Siculus. He also owned Gerard’s Herbal, Elyot’s The Governour, and the poems of Sidney.
Three of the four walls of the library were lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The eastern wall was a series of double glass doors leading to a covered walkway and then out to the gardens. Except in inclement weather, these doors were always open, flooding the room with light and fresh air. When the weather was bad, the admiral could still enjoy the outdoor light as it streamed through the glass panes. Morgan Hall was one of the first houses in England to use glass for windows, let alone for doors. The glass had been imported from the Continent at great expense. The thick square panes were set in lead casings, and the glass itself was not very clear; one could see only vague shapes moving on the other side of the doors when they were closed, but they were clear enough to let the light in, and that’s what the admiral wanted.
In the private living quarters upstairs, the rooms were in the center of the house, without outside windows or doorways. A hallway along the perimeter of the house and glass doors led to small balconies at regular intervals around the circumference. Often, the admiral walked the perimeter of the house, spyglass in hand, surveying his property, much the same way he walked the decks of his ship at night before turning in.
Morgan Hall was the admiral’s retreat and the site of the occasional party required of a man in his position. To everyone’s surprise, especially the admiral’s, Morgan Hall also became a newlyweds’ love nest.
The admiral wasn’t looking for a wife. He had always thought it unfair for a woman to be married to a sailor, since her husband would be gone for months or possibly years at a time. His philosophy regarding the fairer sex was rational, considerate, and typical for a confirmed bachelor. Its fatal flaw was that it neglected to factor love into the equation.
Georgiana Reynolds was serendipity. Or, as the admiral would tell it, she was a sailor’s dream—a tropical paradise that unexpectedly crested the horizon of his life.
Their meeting was not by accident. A powerful force, Queen Elizabeth, brought them together. The queen had always liked the admiral; he was modest, kind, and not self-seeking, thus a rarity in the English court. It was her royal opinion that such a man needed a good wife, so she took it upon herself to find him one. When she settled on Georgiana Reynolds, the queen all but decreed they get married, an action that was unnecessary since the two were smitten with each other from the moment they met.
Georgiana was as fair as a sunny day. The young, modest daughter of an English nobleman, she became the light and life of Amos Morgan’s existence. Two months after they met, Amos and Georgiana were married. Life at Morgan Hall had never been so sweet. The couple shared a love of books and the outdoors. Morgan Hall was always open to the wind and sun, and each evening the giddy couple strolled arm in arm around the grounds.
Amos Morgan’s new bride expanded her lover’s horizons by introducing him to the wonders of their native isle. Amos discovered that traveling in a coach with Georgiana was better than the best day at sea. Knowing his love of history, Georgiana charted a tour that took in several major historical sites. In the north they saw Housestead’s Roman Fort along Hadrian’s Wall and remnants of the Fosse Way in the south. They visited Stonehenge, Scarfell Pike, and Land’s End. For five months the couple toured in wedded bliss. Then, quite suddenly, their tour came to an abrupt halt. Georgiana took to her bed. She was with child.
The admiral had never really thought about being a father. The more he thought about it now, the less he liked the idea. A baby would be an intrusion, an unwanted rival for Georgiana’s attention and affection. He knew he was being selfish, but he didn’t care. His beloved wife had become the center of his existence. It wouldn’t be the same with a baby in the house.
Georgiana, on the other hand, couldn’t have been happier. She was excited to bear the admiral’s child and took the pain of pregnancy in stride. She knew of the admiral’s reservations about the child but had convinced herself that once the child was born, he would change his mind.
Some women are not equipped to bear children, and Georgiana was one of these. Her pregnancy was difficult from the start. As the months passed, her sunny countenance faded. At the time of birth, Georgiana was weak and sickly.
For over eighteen hours Georgiana labored to deliver her baby. She writhed and screamed and clutched the hand of her midwife and gritted her teeth in agony. The baby wouldn’t come. Twice her wet bedding had to be replaced with fresh sheets. She was exhausted. As one attendant described it, “She was more worn out than a bar of soap after a hard day’s wash.” Even so, Georgiana refused to give up. Nothing was going to stop her from delivering her child.
The attending midwife described the birth as an exchange of life. Throughout the ordeal it was clear that there would be only one survivor—either mother or child. When the moment of birth came, to hear the midwife tell the story, it was as if Georgiana willed her life into the body of her infant son, for the moment the baby was born, Georgiana died.
If Amos Morgan had known no greater joy than when he met Georgiana, he knew no greater sorrow than when she died. His life was shipwrecked.
To take his mind off his sorrow, he retreated into the bosom of his first love—the sea. He hired nannies and tutors to raise his son in his absence. From the time Percy was two months old until he came of age, he and his father were together for little more than occasional holidays and a few special days each year. As a result, the two were not close. This was never more evident than when Percy chose a bride and brought her home to Morgan Hall.
Percy Morgan married Evelyn North—one of the Norths. He didn’t marry her because he loved her. In fact, there was no romance between them at all; their marriage was a meticulously negotiated alliance designed to benefit both sides. But it was a marriage the romantic admiral never understood, let alone approved. Both the groom and bride were ambitious opportunists, and each had something the other wanted. Although the Norths were quite wealthy, their empire was endangered by an insufficient cash flow. That’s where the Morgans came in. The admiral was flush with cash. On the other hand, the Norths had what Percy coveted most—a higher level of nobility. Queen Elizabeth was dead, and the king on the throne knew not Amos Morgan. It’s true, the admiral was still respected by the court, but at a polite distance; he could move among them, but he wasn’t one of them. In the marriage negotiations, Percy Morgan bargained with his father’s cash for the Norths’ nobility.
From the moment Evelyn Morgan became the lady of the house, she set out to change things. The admiral, feeling his age and no longer able to sail, spent his days in his library retreat. He had no great love for his new daughter-in-law but tried his best to tolerate her. When she spoke of making changes in Morgan Hall, he politely but dogmatically refused every proposal. And that, in the admiral’s opinion, was the end of it. However, he underestimated his daughter-in-law’s determination and guile.
When it came to getting her way, Evelyn was a bloodhound; she never let up until she had what she wanted, and when it came to her new house, she wasn’t about to back down to some washed-up sailor. On every opportunity that presented itself, and in many she created, Lady Morgan voiced her displeasure over room colors, paintings, and furniture. Whenever guests came to Morgan Hall, she would rail about the complaint du jour. She nagged her husband every night in bed until Percy started sleeping in another room. During the day she indoctrinated the servants about everything that was wrong with Morgan Hall. In short, whoever had ears to hear heard how much Evelyn Morgan despised the house Amos Morgan built.
Her favorite target was the dark wood paneling of the drawing room.
“It makes me absolutely depressed!” she would rail.
Evelyn’s opinions were always stated in the absolute; there were no gray areas in her tastes.
“It’s absolutely as dark as a dungeon in here. I swear I can’t live another day with this room like this!”
When guests arrived, she would always show them the drawing room first, to set the tone and subject for the evening.
“Isn’t this absolutely ghastly?” she would ask. “Don’t you think this room would look more attractive in light oak or ash?”
When her guests politely agreed, she would make it a point to bring it to the admiral’s attention in their presence.
“Now see, dear,” she would say, touching his arm in the same way an adult would touch a child, “Margaret agrees with me. All that dark wood in the drawing room is absolutely impossible. Something has to be done about it.”
Like the steady drip, drip, drip of water against rock, Evelyn Morgan began to wear away the admiral’s resolve.
It was late spring of 1625 when Lady Evelyn Morgan won the battle of the drawing room and had it re-paneled with oak. For the admiral it was a tactical blunder. He thought that by allowing her a victory, he could have some peace; but just the opposite was true. The bloodhound was on the scent and forged ahead with greater intensity. Her next target was the sea paintings in the great hall.
“All these pictures of heaving waves and silly boats make me absolutely nauseous,” she would say, holding a dainty white hand across her midriff. “Why, I turn green every time I look at them. Don’t they affect you that way too? Something must be done about them.”
She replaced the seascapes with paintings typical of the period—plump, pink naked women lounging on sofas or being abducted by satyrs while horrified cherubs hovered overhead.
“It looks like a brothel,” the admiral spit disgustedly.
Picture by picture, panel by panel, room by room, Lady Evelyn Morgan stole Morgan Hall from Amos until all he had left was his library. It was there he took his stand.
Drew was fourteen at the time. He remembered his grandfather arming himself with his cutlass, the one that had tasted the blood of Spaniards at San Juan de Ulua, and threatening Lady Morgan with bodily harm should she ever attempt to enter his library without his permission. Flush with victory, Lady Morgan responded one evening barging into the room uninvited and unannounced. Amos went wild. There were several moments when Drew thought for sure his mother was going to be run through as the admiral’s blade slashed within inches of her. That night the admiral drove Lady Morgan out of the library just as he had driven his enemies off the deck of his ship. She never ventured into the room again in his lifetime.
For the rest of his life the admiral spent his days in seclusion. His health was too frail to fight the sea or to sustain an extended battle with his daughter-in-law. He withdrew to his world of books.
Drew often spent whole days in the library with his grandfather, sometimes to escape his mother’s moods, sometimes to hear his grandfather’s sea stories. A special kinship developed between grandfather and grandson. They provided each other a balance in life. With his sea tales Admiral Morgan brought adventure to Drew’s otherwise drab life; and Drew brought hope to the admiral that with the next generation Morgan Hall would be back in the possession of someone who shared his values and priorities. Their special relationship made life bearable.
Drew was still brooding when the family entourage arrived home from its Windsor Castle excursion. Philip was the first out of the carriage, with Lady Morgan close behind. Lord Morgan, anxious to check on his expensive ponds of tropical fish, went directly to the garden without going into the house.
Drew eased himself down from Pirate, who had plodded all the way from Basingstoke, matching his rider’s depressed state of mind. He loaded himself down with his bags from the carriage, the bishop’s wounded book, the thieves’ dagger, and, of course, Geoffrey Berber’s The Days of the Knights. Even from out here he could hear his mother and brother yelling inside, something about windows and servants and a drunk, or was that a trunk? How could I ever think of leaving my happy home? Drew mumbled.
The massive oak door hit something and stopped midway when he pushed it with his hip. He poked his head through the opening and saw an old sea chest blocking the door. What’s that doing there? Drew pushed harder. The chest moved with surprising ease. Must be empty, he thought as he squeezed by it.
To his right in the great hall his mother was screaming and banging on the closed double doors that led to the admiral’s library.
“You’ve been swinging that sword again, haven’t you, you old dog!” She pounded the doors with her fists. “It’s freezing in here, thanks to you!”
“Leave Grandpa alone!” Drew shouted at her. “It’s his house!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” Lady Morgan turned on him, her face flushed with anger. “You’re in more trouble than he is,” she screamed. “Go to your room!” Turning back to the door, she shouted, “And if you think you can barricade the door with your stupid sea chest, you’re sadly mistaken! It was a feeble attempt, old man!”
Lady Morgan paused, expecting a response. There was none. The admiral had never been shy about cursing back at Lady Morgan before. Drew moved toward the doors, listening for any sound from behind them. Still nothing.
“Maybe he’s sick,” Drew said.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Lady Morgan replied. Then, liking the sound of her words, a grin lit up her face then quickly faded. “Not possible. I’m not that lucky.”
“Grandpa?” Drew shouted.
No answer.
He tried the doors. They were locked.
“Grandpa!”
Drew glanced at his mother with mounting horror. Her expression sickened him. The grin was back, accented by the heavy paint on her face. It was a grin of triumph.
Dropping his armload of things on the floor, Drew yanked at the doors with both hands. They wouldn’t open.
Running out of the hall, he circled around toward the library’s glass doors through the domed entryway, between the twin stairways, and out the back door. He could see his father on his hands and knees bending over his fishpond, his face inches from the water. Drew sprinted toward the library doors. They were open— every one of them. Drew’s momentum carried him past the doors; he smashed against a doorjamb trying to make the turn into the library.
“Grandpa!” he yelled.
Drew scanned the room. Over the back of his grandfather’s favorite chair, situated in front of the fireplace, Drew could see the old man’s head. Single strands of gray hair arched up from a smooth surface, much like grass poking through cracks in granite rock. And just like a rock, his grandfather was motionless. The only movement Drew could see was the dance of the flames in the fireplace.
Drew approached the unmoving form of his grandfather.
“Grandpa?”
No answer.
He hesitated. If his grandfather was dead, he didn’t want to know it. But what if he needed help? Slowly, Drew peeked around the edge of the chair. Admiral Morgan’s eyes were closed. A big grin covered the rest of his face.
“Have a good trip, boy?” Admiral Morgan asked.
The news that the admiral was still alive ruined the rest of Lady Morgan’s day. Drew remained in the library with his grandfather, the only place where he felt safe from his mother’s needling gibes.
“Disgusting!”
Propping himself up with his cutlass, the admiral stood by an open glass door, watching his son, Lord Morgan, peer into the fishponds. Drew slouched idly in a chair, with one leg draped over the side, flipping through the pages of a book.
“Is he kissing those fish?”
Drew glanced up. “He talks to them.”
The admiral shook his head. “He’s kissing them!”
With a lazy groan Drew got up and wandered over by his grandfather. Lord Morgan was still on his hands and knees, his face less than an inch from the water. His lips were moving. On the other side of the surface there was a wavy splash of bright orange color.
“He’s kissing them,” Drew agreed.
The gardens were Lord Percy Morgan’s addition to Morgan Hall. He had personally directed a staff of gardeners in transforming a lazy meadow into a maze of hedges, walkways, and waterfalls.
Lord Morgan divided his magnificent garden into what he called “lands.” There was a land of fruit where oranges, apples, and a half-dozen different kinds of berries grew. There was a wooded land that featured a miniature forest patterned after the fabled Sherwood Forest. A valley of grass featuring a covered table with benches was called the land of the spring meadow. All of this was impressive even by nobility’s standards, but Lord Morgan’s most ambitious and impressive project was his land of tropical fish.
Throughout this land was a series of cascading saltwater ponds. It took Lord Morgan and his gardeners over three years to devise a system that would sustain saltwater tropical fish. The system had to be replenished twice a month with fresh saltwater carted by wagon from the sea. To populate the water, Lord Morgan had standing orders with several ships’ captains for tropical fish from the Caribbean. This was profitable for the owners of the ships: it gave them return cargo after unloading their cargo of African slaves in the West Indies. The fish loving lord of Morgan Hall was known to spend as much for a rare fish as the merchant could get for a sturdy young male slave.
“That’s the difference between us,” Admiral Morgan said to Drew, his cutlass poking the air toward his son beside the fishponds. “In my day Englishmen battled Spanish aggression. Today’s Englishman battles fish fungus.”
With a loud snort, the admiral hobbled back to his chair in front of the fire, using his cutlass as a cane. Drew watched him with concern. Am I overreacting to the recent scare, or is Grandpa moving more slowly than usual? Upon reaching the chair, the admiral navigated his backside toward the seat, much like a ship approaching a dock. His bottom hovered for a moment over its target.
Then, with a “humph” he plopped into his chair. Seventy-one years old and ancient by the world’s standards he sat with his eyes closed, catching his breath.
“You see before you the ruins of time,” he said with tired, raspy voice. “My boy, my day is fast coming to a close. And I’m glad it is. I don’t want to live any longer in this miserable age.”
Drew said nothing. It wasn’t the first time the admiral had spoken like this. The fact that he was talking about death didn’t disturb Drew; sometimes he was most alive when he was talking about it. That’s why Drew remained silent, hoping his grandfather would leap into a tale of the past and take him along.
The admiral continued, “Drake is dead. Hawkins is dead. The days of English glory are dead and buried.” He sighed a deep, long sigh. “Dead is best. It’s a curse to live too long. At least Drake and Hawkins aren’t forced to watch their beloved England rot before their very eyes.”
Well, Drew thought, it’s a start. At least he’s talking about John Hawkins and Sir Francis Drake. Maybe he just needs a little help.
“Grandpa, why didn’t some people like Sir Francis Drake?”
The admiral opened one eye and peered through it suspiciously. He recognized Drew’s attempt for what it was. Nonetheless, he smirked, closed his eye, and laid his head back against the chair.
Success! This was his grandfather’s standard storytelling posture. Drew waited while the admiral conjured up images of the past; he would have given anything to be able to see the things his grandfather could see on the other side of those wrinkled eyelids.
“Most men hated Drake,” the admiral said. “Parvenu they called him.” He pronounced the word with an exaggerated French accent.
“Parvenu?”
“Upstart. Bounder. Drake was never known for his social graces. Always had that West Country accent.” The admiral smiled. “If he hadn’t been kin to Hawkins, the great Drake would have lived and died a penniless dirt farmer.” Amos let out a laugh that sent him into a coughing spasm, then wiped his mouth with a handkerchief before continuing. “But didn’t he have the gall! That parvenu got us out of more scrapes because he would do things that no sane man would think of doing.”
Another coughing spasm, this one more violent. When it passed, the admiral slumped back into his chair, weak and sweaty.
“But now Drake’s dead,” he murmured breathlessly. “Hawkins too.” A pause. “So why am I still here?”
“Maybe,” Drew said hesitantly, “because I need you.”
Amos smiled at that. He reached over and patted his grandson’s hand. “We’ve been good for each other, haven’t we?” he said. “But your time has come. It’s time for you to go and live your own adventures.”
Drew was reminded of his recent encounter with thieves outside London.
“I almost forgot! I did have an adventure!”
Drew leaped up and retrieved the bishop’s book and the dagger from the other side of the double doors. Displaying them with pride, he narrated the adventure to his grandfather who listened intently. The admiral held the knife close to his failing eyes and meticulously examined the book, asking questions and congratulating Drew on his ingenuity of using the book as a weapon. Drew also related Bishop Laud’s invitation for him to come to London.
“The bishop of London?” The admiral winced. “Never had much use for those religious types myself. What exactly would you be doing for him?”
“The bishop says I’ll be protecting England against internal enemies. I’ll report to him, and he reports directly to King Charles.”
“Internal enemies, huh?”
The admiral leafed through the pages of the wounded book, looking to see how deep the dagger had pierced.
“Good book,” he announced. “I like Layfield. Gives you plenty of facts, but doesn’t let ’em get in the way of the story.”
He handed the book back to Drew and then continued.
“Internal enemies … they’re the hardest to spot. It was easier in my day. You knew who your enemies were. They were the ugly ones swarming over the side of your ship, cursing in Spanish, and trying to run you through with a sword.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t go to London?” Drew asked.
The admiral pondered for a moment, started to speak, then was racked with another coughing fit. When the coughing finally subsided, he was left gasping for air.
Finally, he said, “No, I didn’t say that. In fact, I think you should go. Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Why not?”
“I can’t go now. If I go now, Father will give Morgan Hall to Philip. I don’t want to lose Morgan Hall, especially to Philip. I want to save it for you, Grandpa, restore the sea paintings, make it like you once had it.”
The admiral leaned back in his chair and fought for a breath of air.
“No one knows better than I how hard it is to leave Morgan Hall,” he wheezed. “But there’s more to life than Morgan Hall. And sometimes when you allow yourself to wander from the things you love, you find something you love even more. Like my Georgiana.”
At the mention of his wife, the admiral’s eyes turned moist.
“You know, we had a system, Georgiana and I, whenever we’d leave Morgan Hall. I’d set out the trunk. She’d pack. Then we’d go on a holiday. Whenever I was with her, I forgot all about ships and adventures. I even forgot about Morgan Hall.”
As he turned to Drew, a single tear worked its way down a wrinkled ravine on his cheek.
“Nothing in this world means more to me than Morgan Hall. Except you. Drew, don’t stay here for me. Go. Tonight. Discover your own adventures. Build your own Morgan Hall. Go out there and find your Georgiana.”
“No, Grandpa. I can always go later—”
The old man raised his hand to stop Drew from saying anymore.
“Every captain worth his salt would willingly give his life to save his ship. But there are times when the ship can’t be saved, and it takes a wise captain to recognize that time and to give the command, ‘Abandon ship.’ My son, Drew, the battle is lost. Abandon ship.”
Drew was torn. He wanted to go to London, but he didn’t want to leave his grandfather. And the thought of Philip inheriting Morgan Hall was unbearable.
“I want you to have this.” Admiral Morgan held out his sheathed cutlass.
“Grandpa! Your cutlass? I can’t take that!”
“Nonsense! You’ll need it if you’re going to protect England from her internal enemies. I’d like to give you my books.”
His eyes gazed lovingly over the rows of volumes.
“But there are too many of them. This you can carry with you. And it will always remind you of me.”
Reverently, Drew accepted his grandfather’s cutlass.
“I’ll try to make you proud of me,” he said. Then he added, “But I still haven’t said I’m going yet.”
That night Drew was awakened by coughing noises in the hallway outside his room. It was the admiral. Drew listened as the sound made its way slowly past his door. He started to get up, then stopped. Maybe Grandpa was resuming his nightly inspection ritual. If so, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.
Drew listened as the twin sounds of shuffling feet and coughing made their way to the end of the hallway, turned the corner, and proceeded along the far side of the house. As the sound grew distant, Drew could no longer hear the shuffling sound, but the cough was still clear. His grandfather apparently had rounded the far corner and was on his way back, because the cough was getting louder.
Then there were voices. Curses, actually. Both Lord and Lady Morgan were yelling at once. Lord Morgan called the admiral stupid for wandering around at night, and Lady Morgan screamed at him for opening all the doors and windows along his route. The shouting continued as they took the old man back to his room. Drew heard a door slam, then nothing.
The next morning, Drew rose late. He wandered downstairs to the kitchen to find a servant to get him something to eat. No one was there. He wandered down the hall past the servants’ quarters. They were vacant. The dining room, the drawing room, still no one. It wasn’t until he was through the entryway and into the great hall that he saw something that alarmed him.
The double doors leading into the library were standing wide open. Grandpa rarely kept those doors open. As Drew approached the doorway, he saw that the library was darker than normal, because the garden doors were closed.
He walked closer and saw the first sign of life that morning. Alicia, the maid, was dusting the bookshelves. All the other servants were scurrying about, moving things and cleaning. Standing in the center of the room was his mother, hands on hips, directing the servant traffic.
“What are you doing in Grandpa’s library?” he shouted. “He told you never to come in here!”
“It’s my library now,” she said coolly.
“It’ll never be your library! Not while Grandpa’s still—”
Drew couldn’t finish the sentence. The smile on his mother’s face was the same painted smile she wore yesterday when she thought the admiral had died.
“He can’t be dead!” Drew shouted. “I heard him in the hallway last night!”
“You heard an old man dying.” she said curtly, then ordered two of the male servants to remove Grandpa’s chair from in front of the fireplace and put it in storage.
Drew couldn’t witness any more desecration of his grandfather’s library. He wheeled around and ran from the room. Up the stairs he flew to his grandfather’s room.
The admiral lay uncovered on his bed when Drew entered his room. He was in his nightclothes, cold and still on top of the bedclothes. No one was attending him, no one mourning him. His son was probably in the garden, feeding his fish. Who knew where Philip was? And his daughter-in-law was busily removing the last vestiges of the admiral from Morgan Hall.
Drew found a blanket and covered his grandfather. Drew had never felt much need for religion, but now he wished he knew a prayer to say. He struggled to formulate some appropriate words in his mind, but his thoughts were far from anything resembling a prayer. They were thoughts of mounting fury. Drew Morgan looked at his grandfather’s covered form one last time and knew what he had to do.
Driven by his rage, he ran to his own room, grabbed the admiral’s cutlass, and headed downstairs to the library. He burst into the room like a one-man army attacking a stronghold.
“Out! Everyone get out!” he shouted, slashing the cutlass at frightened servants who dropped books and whatever else they were carrying and ran in horror.
“Drew Morgan! Just what do you think you’re doing?” his mother screamed.
Drew whirled to face her. Years of hatred welled up inside him. Later when he would think back on this incident, Drew would testify that he had murder in his heart and that the only thing that kept him from killing his mother was the restraining hand of God.
“You!” he leveled the tip of the blade at his mother. “Get out of this room! This isn’t your room. This will never be your room! Get out!”
“How dare you!” she screamed.
She not only stood her ground, but also took a defiant step toward Drew.
Drew countered with a swipe of the sword, clearing the top of the table with one stroke. A vase, a couple of books, and an empty cup flew halfway across the room.
“If you’re not out of here by the time I count to five,” he threatened, “you’ll join Grandpa on the count of six! One!”
“Drew, don’t be stupid.” She didn’t retreat, but she didn’t advance either.
“Two!”
All the servants fled the room.
“Three!”
Drew took a step toward his mother. She began inching her way toward the double doors leading to the hall.
“Four!”
Just inside the doorway, she planted her feet and took a last stand.
“Five!”
Drew charged at her, sword raised. Lady Morgan fled, but not before vowing to return with Drew’s father.
Drew slammed the double doors behind her and locked them. Then he locked doors leading to the garden and stationed himself in the middle of the room, prepared for the siege he knew would come.
A barrage of threats and curses from behind the doors followed. For hours Lord and Lady Morgan screamed and shouted at the doors of the library. Philip let loose an occasional taunt, but he tired quickly, and the battle came down to Drew and his parents. Late into the night they grew hoarse and finally retreated.
There, in the silence of the library, Drew mourned the death of his grandfather. He ran a reverent hand across books on the shelves as he whispered the titles; for some of them he remembered his grandfather’s assessment of the authors’ abilities or lack of them. He sat in a chair and recalled stories he had heard in this room, expecting to look up and see the storyteller—head back, eyes closed, in his usual storytelling position; then, at times, he sat on the floor in the middle of the library, his arms wrapped around his knees, and just wept.
Shortly before morning, as the dark on the other side of the glass doors grew lighter, Drew evaluated his position. He had no food, no supplies of any kind. How long could he hold out? Then what? Reclaiming the library seemed the right thing to do, but holding on to it was a completely different matter. Now that rational thought regained a foothold in his thinking, holing up in a library seemed rather ridiculous, unwise …
“It takes a wise captain to recognize the time to give the command, ‘Abandon ship.’” Isn’t that what Grandpa said? The battle is lost. Abandon ship. Abandon ship.
As the first rays of the day slipped over the eastern horizon, Drew went up to his room and gathered his things, including the bishop’s book and the dagger. With his grandfather’s cutlass leading the way, he crept downstairs and out the servants’ door toward the stable. He saddled Pirate, careful not to awaken the stable workers, and rode away from Morgan Hall.
Looking back one last time, he saw the sea chest sitting on the front porch next to one of the huge Corinthian columns. In all the commotion of the day, the servants hadn’t found time to put it away. Just then his grandfather’s words came to him:
We had a system, Georgiana and I, whenever we’d leave Morgan Hall. I’d set out the trunk. She’d pack. Then we’d go on a holiday. Whenever I was with her I forgot all about ships and adventures. I even forgot about Morgan Hall.
The admiral had left Morgan Hall for the last time. He was with Georgiana again. Undoubtedly enjoying a holiday.