by Jody Hedlund
“Halt.” Susanna held out an arm, steadying Polly.
“Susanna, why are we running? What have you done?”
“Not now. For mercy’s sake, be silent and hide.”
Susanna crouched behind an ash tree, but the hoops at her hips made concealment impossible behind the trunk. Polly slunk to a fuller hedge that was still covered with a smattering of dried leaves. Her hoops were cumbersome too, but she bent low nonetheless. Thankfully the falling darkness would veil them more than the woodland did.
The rapid thudding of her heart and her labored breaths momentarily drowned out the approaching horse. As the rider came nigh and slowed the horse’s gait, Polly held herself motionless, praying the newcomer would pass by.
When the rider reined his horse on the road in front of them, she sucked in a breath at the same time as Susanna. For a long moment, he sat silently atop the beast and surveyed the woodland on either side. When he seemed to turn and look directly at Polly, she stiffened. She didn’t know if he could see her through the thick growth and darkness, but when he hopped down from his saddle, her body tensed. He began to move to the edge of the woods. She ducked her head and glanced at Susanna for some indication of what to do. Should they attempt to run, perhaps deeper into the woods?
Susanna merely put a finger to her lips and gave her head an imperceptible shake.
He stopped at the side of the road and tipped up the pointed brim of his hat revealing his face. Polly sucked in another breath. His features weren’t clear in the deepening shadows, but she could see enough of his strong jaw and broad shoulders to recognize him. It was the young man who’d leaned against the Blue Anchor Inn and watched her sing.
At the thundering of more horse hooves, the man pivoted away and bounded to the other side of the road. His easy swagger and hair tied back in a queue identified him as a sailor. He fumbled at the clasp of his trousers, and within seconds Polly thought she heard a distinct splatter of rain against dry leaves. Only it wasn’t rain…
Was the man relieving himself ?
Polly had to cup her hand over her mouth to catch her surprise. With the approach of darkness, the moon had made its appearance and illuminated him, but thankfully his horse sidled into the middle of the road, shielding her from the display. Nevertheless, she was mortified.
To make matters worse, the man began to whistle a ribald folk song. Seemingly without a care in the world, he whistled the merry tune, even as two men on horseback came upon him and reined abruptly, causing his horse to shy sideways and nicker.
The sailor glanced over his shoulder at the newcomers. His whistle tapered off as did the other sound. “If you’re thinking of robbing me,” he said in a slurred voice, “you’re in for a sore disappointment. I gambled away my last halfpence at the inn.”
“I don’t care the devil about robbing you.” Polly recognized the square face of the farmer at the home where they’d just been wassailing.
The sailor gave an unsteady laugh. “Good that, since all I have to give you is the shirt off my back.”
The farmer and his companion didn’t laugh. Instead, they surveyed the woods. “We’re looking for a group of women that came a-wassailing by the farm.”
Again the sailor laughed and lurched toward his horse, grappling for the reins but missing and nearly falling to the ground. “If you find them, let me know; I’ll join you in the fun.”
Polly’s muscles turned rigid at his implication.
“Then you haven’t seen any women?” the farmer demanded, examining the road that led to Luton.
Polly wasn’t sure if the sailor had seen them, but she readied herself to bolt should he divulge their location.
“Women? I sure wish I had seen some,” the sailor said finally, maintaining a grip on the reins of his horse. “But alas, if my game of hijinks is any indication, then this looks to be my unlucky night.”
Polly didn’t know much about alehouse games, but she’d heard enough criticism of the dice and drinking game to know it was one of the bawdiest.
The farmer spoke to his companion in low tones before addressing the sailor again. “If you see the women, you’ll earn yourself another cup of ale at the Blue Anchor if you report back to me.”
“Aye. I like that bargain,” the sailor said. “Make it two cups and a bed for the night, and if I find them, I’ll bring them to you myself.”
Polly could only pray that he was too drunk to be any threat. From the farmer’s snort, she surmised he was rapidly concluding for himself that the sailor wouldn’t be of much help. Within moments, the night air echoed with the clomp of retreating horses.
The sailor made a show of stretching his arms high in the air with an obnoxious yawn before scratching his belly. Then for several long moments, he adjusted the length of his stirrup.
Except for the soft neigh of the horse, silence hung in the air. Polly’s legs had begun to cramp from staying in one position for so long. Slowly she straightened and arched her back to work out a kink, but in the process her foot shifted against a twig, causing it to snap.
Polly froze and turned her attention back to the sailor. But thankfully, he didn’t appear to have heard and was now fiddling with the leather strap and buckle of the bridle. She glanced at Susanna, who remained motionless. Polly cocked her head toward the deep woods behind them, hoping Susanna would follow her lead in sneaking away.
Before she could move, however, the sailor spoke in a surprisingly clear voice that hinted at humor. “I think it’s safe for you to come out now. I give you my word I won’t hurt you.” The sailor finally turned around and once again looked through the shrubs. Although darkness had now almost completely fallen, his eyes found Polly first and then Susanna.
Susanna remained motionless, apparently still not intending to show herself until the stranger passed by. Polly hesitated, but then took a step away from her hiding spot.
“I saw everything that happened back at the farmhouse,” the sailor continued. “And it was a clever plan. Freeing those slaves during the singing.”
“Freeing slaves?” Polly’s ire rose as swiftly as a breeze on the North Sea. She spun on Susanna. “Are you mad?” Such an exploit was not only a theft and illegal but could—already had—put them in grave danger.
“We were just wassailing,” Susanna chided. “This drunken fool is speaking utter nonsense.”
At that the young man laughed. “I suppose a farmhouse so close to the River Medway is in just the right location to hide smuggled goods. I have no doubt some local gang unloads their goods on the dock behind the Blue Anchor and pays that farmer a hefty amount to store their overflow in his barn, including a couple of young slave boys smuggled into Kent. The singing was a nice diversion to draw everyone away from the barn. I doubt anyone else saw the Quaker man leading those boys in chains to his waiting shallop.”
There was nothing slurred in the man’s speech now. Obviously, he’d put on a drunken show for the farmer. And everything he said made perfect sense. If only Polly had acted upon her unease earlier and left before singing the last couple of songs.
Even as she rebuked herself, she conceded that Susanna was stubborn. Though her aunt was only three years older than her own fifteen years, once determined to do something, Susanna was difficult to sway. Usually her activities were relegated to temperance meetings or peaceful demonstrations. Even the delivery of the antislavery pamphlets had been relatively harmless. But this time Susanna had gone too far. Those slaves had been someone’s property, and abetting in their escape was equivalent to stealing. English laws were strict concerning stealing of private property. If they were caught and implicated in thievery, they could be hung for their crime.
Although the large majority of slaves were shipped to British plantations in the West Indies, according to Susanna there were still plenty of the rich in England who kept slaves too. She’d disparaged some of her London friends for keeping slave boys, especially the darkest skinned, like little pets in order to have a decora
tive contrast to their own fashionable white skin.
While Polly certainly didn’t condone such practices, she hadn’t figured it was her place to work at eradicating an institution that had been in progress for her entire lifetime and beyond.
“We were wassailing,” Susanna said more firmly, finally moving from her hiding spot. “And now, if you please, we need to be on our way home.”
The young man only laughed again and stood back as Susanna stepped onto the road. Susanna’s parents had made no secret that they’d hoped in Chatham, Susanna would mature and stay out of the trouble she often stirred up in London. If only they could see their daughter tonight.
Polly followed Susanna until she was free of the woods and out in the open. The sky overhead was bright with the first stars, and the moon gave off enough light that she could see the sailor’s features more clearly.
His face was deeply tanned as was befitting a man who spent weeks at a time under the sun on the open sea. The slight bend in his nose spoke of a past brawl. But rather than marring his strongly lined features, it only added a rugged appeal.
At the same moment she perused him, she realized that he too was studying her face. She expected he’d turn his stare to Susanna and scrutinize her equally, but his attention stayed riveted to her. She wasn’t accustomed to men taking a second glance, especially when she was with the vivacious Susanna, who drew the interest of men the way the queen drew a crowd.
“Where are you ladies headed?” He directed his question to Polly. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I allowed you to continue your journey without making sure you arrive safely to your destination.”
“We shall be just fine without an escort.” Susanna grabbed Polly’s arm and moved forward in jerking steps.
The sailor fell into step next to them, deftly handling his horse’s reins and leading the creature with a gentle tug. “Would you deprive me of peace of mind?” His cocked smile showed even white teeth.
“We’ve only a short distance to go,” Susanna responded.
“Short?” Polly started.
“It may seem long since you’re cold. But our home in Luton isn’t overly far.” Susanna’s tone warned Polly not to contradict her again.
Apparently Susanna wasn’t planning to trust this man. And perhaps she was right. After all, he’d agreed to turn them over to the farmer for two cups of ale and a bed for the night. What if even now he was plotting how he might lure them back to the farmhouse?
Polly glanced sideways at the young sailor. His smile faltered as though he sensed their mistrust. “I hope you know I’m neither drunk nor planning to inform the farmer of your whereabouts.”
“You have nothing about which to inform the farmer,” Susanna insisted. “Unless, of course, wassailing has become a crime. Now let us be on our way without further hindrance. I wish you good evening.”
The sailor shrugged. “Aye, then. Have it your way.” He came to a halt as did his horse, allowing them to move ahead of him.
Polly’s footsteps slowed. The man seemed to be kinder than Susanna was allowing, but Susanna clung to Polly’s arm, forcing her to keep the brisk pace. As they rounded a bend in the road, Polly couldn’t resist taking one final look at the sailor over her shoulder.
He’d angled his head and was watching them with an amused smile. When the curve in the road rapidly took him from her sights, she hurried to keep up with Susanna.
“Let’s run,” Susanna whispered once they were alone. As Polly lifted the thick layers of her skirt and petticoats and began to race forward, one thought almost stopped her.
The sailor had intercepted their discovery when he’d distracted their pursuers with his theatrical performance. He’d quite possibly saved their lives.
And she’d neglected to thank him.
The crumpled paper in John Newton’s inner coat pocket shouted for his attention. He’d ignored it there for the past several days. But its voice had grown steadily louder over the last hour until he could no longer hear much else.
He blew a hot breath against his leather gloves trying to loosen his frozen fingers, and then he nudged his father’s steed away from the shadows along the River Medway where he’d found a secluded spot to watch the comings and goings of the farm and Blue Anchor Inn.
His limbs ached with cold, and his toes were numb. His belly rumbled for want of a meal. And his temples throbbed with the intensity of his scrutiny.
“All for naught,” he grumbled under his breath, urging his horse onto the road. His disappointment was keen. He hadn’t wanted to lose track of the two young women, particularly the one with the face and voice of an angel. He only thought to let the women travel ahead of him a bit before following at a safe distance. With the coming of night and all the danger that came out to play, he’d decided two pretty young ladies needed an escort whether they wanted one or not.
But when he finally rounded the bend in the road to creep along after them, they had disappeared. At first he thought mayhap they’d walked far ahead of him. So he’d ridden all the way to Luton. After wandering the streets there, he’d realized that either they’d already gone inside or they had deceived him into thinking that’s where they lived.
Deciding it was the latter, he’d scoured the road on the way back to Chatham. Without a lantern to guide his search, the darkness had prevented him from tracking broken branches, footprints, crushed foliage, anything that might have shown him where the young women had veered off the road. All the while he searched, a strange fear had seized him, the fear that perhaps the smugglers had caught up to the women and captured them after all.
His only recourse had been to return to the farm and Blue Anchor and see if the women were being held there. He’d waited in the shadows and hadn’t noticed anything unusual. When finally several men, including the farmer, returned empty-handed, Newton allowed himself to relax in his saddle. He was fairly certain all the members of the wassailing group had escaped to safety.
Even so, he was disappointed. He couldn’t deny that he’d wanted to see the golden angel again. There was something about her singing that made his chest ache in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Aye, her singing could make the coarsest seafarer cry.
“All for naught,” he said again, spitting into the gravelly mixture of dirt and pebbles that filled the ruts in the road. He turned his horse toward London and home, home for Christmas before he set sail for Jamaica, where he would be trained as a manager of a sugar plantation. The dark shadows that splayed across the road warned him of the danger he’d face from highway robbers and press gangs if he attempted his journey now.
His father had expected him to ride directly home from Maidstone after visiting an elderly uncle. And he could have easily been home by dusk. But he’d lost track of time at the gaming table that afternoon. Then he had to stop to listen to the wassailers. When he finally readied his horse, the farmer had burst out of his barn yelling about his missing slaves. Of course, the Quaker and his shallop had slipped into the river mist as if they’d never existed, leaving the wassailers to take the blame. Another clever move of deception. If any of the women were stopped, there would be nothing to link them to the missing slave boys except speculation. Nevertheless, Newton didn’t have any choice but to warn the women that their ploy had been discovered. One thing led to another, and now here he was, hours past when he was due home.
He may as well stay in Chatham for the night and leave at first light. Whether he went home tonight or left in the morning, either way he’d earn his father’s censure for being late.
He touched a hand to his breast and felt the paper crinkle beneath his fingers, and the voice of the letter spoke to him again. “Dear John, We received news that you are now home after your many years away. It would give me great pleasure to see you again. Your mother was not only my closest cousin, but she was my dearest friend. Please visit us so that we might make your acquaintance and so that I might have peace in light of the vow I made to your mother to chec
k on you from time to time.”
Newton tugged the reins of his horse, and the beast shifted away from London and tossed its head toward Chatham. He hadn’t planned on visiting his mother’s cousin. But these relatives might be the solution he needed for the night. At the very least he’d have a warm meal and bed. The visit would also provide an excuse to give his father for why he was late.
He nudged his horse forward toward High Street but then hesitated. Chatham with its strategic location on the River Medway had been commissioned by Queen Elizabeth I to host the Royal Navy Dockyard nearly two hundred years ago. Now the shipbuilding yard employed hundreds of men and launched many of England’s finest vessels. Not only that, but the winding river provided a safe place for both merchant and navy vessels to anchor away from the harsh conditions of the North Sea. The defense fortifications of Upnor Castle and the batteries at Cockham Wood Fort in Gillingham also made Chatham a protective place for ships to moor away from French warships.
None of the merchant vessels he’d served on had ever anchored there, but like most seafaring men, he was familiar enough with Chatham to know the town wasn’t necessarily a safe place for a man like him. One wrong step and he could end up impressed on a navy ship, forced into the king’s service.
If he was completely honest with himself, he knew that wasn’t the real reason he hadn’t planned to accept this cousin’s invitation to call. The truth was, he had no desire to visit the place that had taken his mother from him. Ten years ago his mother had come to Chatham for help and healing, but she’d been returned to London in a wooden box.
His stomach gnawed at itself, reminding him that he hadn’t had anything to eat since he’d left his uncle’s home in Maidstone at midday.
“Ahoy the ship.” He dug his heels into his horse and urged it onward. He may as well pay the call. He had no better options. The directions at the bottom of the letter indicated the house wasn’t too far off the highroad, at the edge of Chatham on one of the chalk ridges.