by Jody Hedlund
“Nice and easy suits me.” Newton pretended to submit. But as the man reached for the chain hanging at his belt, Newton attempted to make another dash for the back exit. His feet wouldn’t work the way he needed them to. His body had lost its speed and agility. Before he could take two steps, something long and narrow crashed into his back. It came with such speed and fury that Newton cried out from the excruciating pain and sank to his knees.
He glanced behind him in time to see the stout sailor lifting his wooden club again. Newton crouched and covered his head with his arms just as the club came down a second time. A crack against his forearms had protected his head, but the bruising pain in his arms was unbearable. Instinctively he curled into a ball, tucking his head low and trying to protect himself from a concussion or worse.
The blows rained down on his back, battering his flesh and bones with such force that for a moment Newton thought he must have passed out. The next thing he knew, the stout sailor had chains around both of his wrists and was dragging him across the tavern floor slickened by blood and spilled ale.
When they reached the tavern doorway, the sailor jerked Newton to his feet mindless of the chains digging into his wrists. He propelled Newton toward several other men who were bleeding and battered and chained, standing with their heads down in clear dejection.
“We were told we’d find at least one sailor here among the lot of ye,” Newton’s captor said, giving him a shove toward the others.
Were told?
Through his pain and dizziness, Newton tried to make sense of the sailor’s words. Had someone purposefully tipped off the press gang to his presence inside the tavern?
“But none of ye look sturdy enough for the sailing life,” continued the sailor, “except for ye.” He jabbed Newton with this club.
Newton didn’t respond. Press gangs prized men with previous sailing experience over landlubbers. If he admitted he was a sailor, his chances of escape would dwindle to nil. He’d do best to say nothing and to act completely ignorant of sailing or the sea. Then at least he might have a chance of freeing himself. Although ignorance wouldn’t mean much if the navy was desperate for men to fill the ships.
He took his place at the back of the short line and hung his head like the rest of the men. As the sailors of the press gang shoved them forward with their clubs, Newton stumbled. Although his mind was still numb from the effects of all his drinking, he knew he’d gotten himself into a terrible predicament.
He hadn’t thought he could sink any lower or that things could get any worse. But they had. Much, much worse.
Newton huddled in a corner of the twelve-foot-square gaol and folded his arms across his chest, attempting to find some warmth in the unheated stone building. The small barred window was open to the elements, allowing in not only the daylight but also a cold dampness typical of February. His fingers and toes ached from the cold, and his entire body shivered uncontrollably.
The two men who’d been thrown into the gaol in the wee hours of the morning moaned. They lay on the dirt floor in front of the door where they’d been dumped. Their faces were as bludgeoned and bloody as the other men. He guessed from the way one of his eyes was swollen shut that his face was just as bruised.
In spite of his conscience telling him to reach out a hand and at least help the new prisoners sit up, Newton couldn’t make himself move. Like the four who’d been caught with him, he’d had no food or water since he’d been shoved into the holding room yesterday. And a gong hadn’t stopped resounding in his head since he’d woken up at dawn.
His mind was finally clearing enough to know exactly what had happened. He’d gotten himself so inebriated that he’d lost his ability to think clearly. As a result, he’d been the perfect candidate for capture by a Royal Navy press gang.
Newton beat his palm against his forehead. Why had he been so careless? Why had he allowed himself to get so drunk? Especially in Chatham so close to the naval ships? He should have gone to visit his great-uncle in Maidstone as his father had encouraged him to do again this year. Of course, his father only wanted him to stay in his uncle’s good graces and so set himself in a position to inherit something. But Newton had been too excited to see Polly to heed his father’s instructions.
He should have left Chatham. Or at the very least he should have stopped imbibing earlier. Or he shouldn’t have started in the first place. Then he would have had his wits about him when the sailors barged into the tavern. He was quick enough to elude any man. And certainly strong enough to fight back.
Now here he was stuck in a holding cell until the press gang had caught enough unsuspecting men to fulfill their captain’s quota. Some of the men said that the HMS Harwich was riding at anchor just outside the port and that her lower deck was undermanned.
Even as they lay in the dark, foul-smelling gaol, the shouts and bawdy calls of sailors along with the waft of the damp sea air, told him the hovel was near the river, likely next to the Victualling Yard. Most of the Chatham ships were dependent upon Deptford, which had the largest Victualling Yard due to its close proximity to London wharves and markets. But Chatham still managed to retain a small yard with enough stores so that some of the naval ships due to set sail could be loaded up with provisions and preserved foodstuffs like hardtack, salted beef and pork, peas, oatmeal, butter, cheese, and beer.
“Fool,” he murmured to himself.
“What did you call me?” the man next to him said in a gravelly voice, his body visibly stiffening.
“I’m calling myself a fool,” Newton said, tempted to bang his head into the stone wall instead of his palm. “I should have known not to be anywhere near the waterfront.”
Hadn’t he recently spoken with Mr. Catlett of the imminence of the invasion from France? He’d known the king was preparing for battle and outfitting his ships. And he’d been a complete fool to take a chance at showing himself publicly anywhere in the area. Not when every captain of every naval vessel was in search of more men, especially men with sailing experience.
No matter how hated the practice of impressment was, and no matter how much people complained, recruitment of sailors by force had been lawful in England since the days of Queen Elizabeth. Once impressed upon a Royal Navy vessel, there was no way to leave. Except by desertion, which was an offense punishable by death.
Of course in recent years, Parliament had passed some legislation attempting to regulate the practice of impressment to make it more humane. Newton glanced at the man closest to the door lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit. He gave a snort of derision.
Humane? He wouldn’t live to see the day when press gangs were humane. The navy wasn’t concerned about treating any man with dignity. They simply needed more hands for their guns along with all the heavy lifting and hauling of supplies, powder, cartridges, and canons.
“If only Prince Charles, that pretender, would stay in France where he belongs,” Newton muttered under his breath.
“It’s the Scottish Jacobites stirring up the trouble,” said the man next to him. “It’s always the Highland Scots.”
Newton rubbed his arms for warmth and blew the heat of his breath into his hands. And now the Scots and the French were ruining his life.
“We’ll have to say extra prayers that young prince slinks back to his mummy with his tail between his legs,” said another of the men. “Then the navy won’t need us and will release us.”
Newton nodded, needing to cling to any hope he could get.
But the man next to him cackled. “Even if there’s no war with France, the navy won’t let us go. No how, no way. They’ll put us to work and keep us until we die or desert. Whichever comes first.”
Newton stared at the door handle and wished he had some way to break it open. Then he’d run far away, which is what he should have done yesterday. But even as he thought of all that had transpired during his last moments with Polly and being forced to leave her home, heaviness settled over him, twisting his heart.
He hadn’t intended for things to turn out with her the way they had. He’d wanted to prove himself worthy of her love. He’d wanted to win the favor of the Catletts. He’d wanted them to love him like a son.
Now he’d earned their displeasure. He could only imagine what Mr. Catlett would say to him if they reclined together in those worn chairs in his study, how disappointed he’d be. Mr. Catlett had warned him not to hurt Polly. And now he’d done the very thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t do.
Why had he sat down on the blasted bench next to Polly? He’d noticed when Eliza left the drawing room, and he’d taken quick advantage of the opportunity to be alone with Polly. He wanted a chance to be near her for just a minute. After all the days of being around her but always at a safe distance, he wanted a moment of being close. He never meant to kiss her.
If only he’d been a stronger man. If only he had resisted the temptation.
He lowered his face into his hands. The truth was, he’d never been very good at resisting temptations. He always gave in to his desires too easily. And this time, look where it had gotten him.
“John Newton.”
He thought for a moment he heard her sweet voice speaking his name. Perhaps the beating, his hangover, and his lack of food and water were making him hallucinate.
“Is John Newton still being held here?” That was no hallucination.
Newton sat up. The four other lucid men were staring at the window. Was it possible that Polly was here?
With an energy borne of desperation, he dragged himself off the floor and stood on shaky legs. Every inch of his body ached, and he could hardly make his feet work to hobble toward the window. He forced down a groan at the pain radiating up and down his back and shoulders where he’d taken the worst of the beating.
When he reached the window, he grasped the bars to keep himself from sinking to his knees. There on the other side, beginning to walk away, was Polly. Her head was down, and she was hurrying as though she didn’t want anyone to see her near the gaol.
“Polly,” he called, hoarse and desperate.
At the mention of her name, she spun. Her coat hung open, revealing a robin’s-egg blue bodice and overskirt. Her hair was pinned loosely, and her flat-crowned straw hat was tilted as though she’d hastily donned it. She carried the basket she normally used for delivering her father’s noon meal but had neglected to don her gloves.
“John!” she cried, her beautiful angelic features drawn with worry. When she ran back to the window, his heart gave a thump of relief that she was eager to see him, that she wasn’t rejecting him just because her mother had.
She stopped abruptly a foot away, and her eyes widened at the sight of him.
He knew he looked like a monster with dried blood caked on his face, his eye swollen shut, and the bruises discoloring his skin.
“Oh John.” She hid her trembling lips behind her hand, but she couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes.
“I look worse than I feel,” he lied. He’d never felt so awful, but he wouldn’t distress her any more than she already was. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t make myself more presentable,” he said, trying to form a grin, but even that movement was too painful.
She dropped her hand from her mouth and seemed to silently chastise herself to be strong. She took a deep breath and then forced her lips into a tremulous smile. “We just got the news that you were pressed. Our servant heard it at market this morning.”
“Aye, I was foolish enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He hoped she couldn’t smell the stink of rum on him and guess that he’d been drunk.
“Isn’t there anything you can do to get out of it?” A thread of desperation wound through her voice and lined her face.
The desperation flowed into him, reminding him of the helplessness of his situation. “Could you send a message to my father?” he asked. “Mayhap he can free me.” He wasn’t sure what his father could do, but surely with his connections in the shipping industry, the captain could find a way to get him out of this predicament somehow.
“I’ll send a note to him at once,” Polly said, stepping closer to the barred window. She lifted the linen draped across the basket and pulled out a small jug. “I’ve brought you warm milk.” She handed the jug to him, but it wouldn’t fit between the bars.
He slanted the mouth of the jug in as far as it would go and bent his head to drink from it. He guzzled the milk, letting the creamy liquid soothe his burning throat and relieve the bitterness in his mouth. He took several long swigs until nothing more remained.
“Thank you,” he said when he relinquished the jug back into her hands.
“I also brought you bread and cheese.” She lifted the items out of the basket and passed them through the bars.
He was tempted to devour them both on the spot. But he held himself back. He’d already embarrassed himself enough with her and wanted to maintain some of his dignity. Besides, he wanted to share what he had with his fellow prisoners. He couldn’t allow them to suffer while he filled his belly.
As if sensing his thoughts, she retrieved another loaf of bread from the basket. “For the others,” she said, handing it to him.
His affection for her rose swiftly and made his throat ache with the pressure. He’d never met a woman like Polly Catlett. And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. “No matter what happens, promise you’ll never forget about me.”
“You’ll be set free,” she said. “You have to be. Your father will find a way.”
“Mayhap.” Or mayhap once his father learned that he’d skipped out on the merchant-ship job, he’d be so livid that he’d decide to let him rot in prison.
Polly glanced over her shoulder as though to gauge who else might be nearby. Only Eliza stood a discreet distance away near a stone wall and stairway that likely led down to the wharves and the Customs House.
As much as he wanted Polly to stay and talk with him, she and Eliza weren’t safe, not with scores of sailors roaming about the area. “You should go,” he said reluctantly.
“Charlie Baldock and his gang left the area,” she said. “That’s why Billy came by yesterday. To let us know that we’re safe.”
Newton tried to make sense of what Polly was telling him through the lingering hangover haze. Charlie and his men had likely gone away when they learned that the press gangs were out in full force in the area. They’d gone farther inland for the time being to avoid any run-ins. At least Polly could walk about town again without worrying about Charlie.
Apparently Billy had known about the press gangs yesterday…
Newton’s mind scrambled to make sense of the news and to remember all the things Billy had said to him during their heated encounter. Hadn’t Billy told him his days were numbered in Chatham, that he was planning to send Charlie’s thugs down on him? But if Billy had already known that the smuggler gang had left Chatham, then mayhap Billy had been plotting something else.
A sickening lump formed in the pit of Newton’s stomach. Somewhere in the fog of his mind, he recalled hearing that someone had informed the press gang that a sailor was at the Old Neptune Tavern. Had that someone been Billy? After all, Billy had seen him enter, had known he was a sailor, and had obviously wanted him to leave Chatham.
“Billy said that with the chance of war with France, Charlie will have to lay low for a while,” Polly continued. “And that I won’t have anything to worry about.”
The sickening lump only grew larger until the weight of it threatened to drag Newton down. The more he pondered all that had happened, the more sense it made that Billy had been the one to point the press gang in his direction. Of course Billy would have nothing to worry about since he was working for the Customs House and thus the king. He didn’t have to fear impressment and so could easily have spoken with members of the press gang.
Newton had the sudden urge to blurt out his suspicions to Polly, to warn her to stay away from Billy, to at the very least ruin her good favor of the donkey
. But uncertainty held him back. He couldn’t be sure that Billy had indeed turned him in. And besides, while he was gone, Billy would watch over Polly. For all his faults, Billy would never let any harm come to her.
“Polly, listen,” he said. “You’re still not safe here, not even with Eliza. There are too many sailors in the area for you to be down here unchaperoned.”
“Eliza and I are just fine—”
“Nay.” There were too many sailors like him, who’d be getting drunk in the taverns. It was much too dangerous for two beautiful, innocent young women to be wandering around, even in daylight hours. “Don’t come back to the gaol unless you have Billy or your father with you.”
His voice must have been serious enough to give her pause, for her lips stalled around her rebuttal. He grabbed hold of the window bars, wishing he could rip them away and reach for her. But he was in no condition to hold or touch her, not when he was so filthy and foul.
“Go on now,” he quietly urged her, though his heart longed for her to stay.
She surprised him by reaching up to the bars and wrapping her fingers around his. The warmth of her flesh enveloped his. The softness, the tenderness, the smoothness…For an instant he was back in the drawing room with her lips against his.
Her pretty blue eyes focused on his mouth for just an instant. It was enough for him to realize she was thinking about their kiss too. A flush rose in her cheeks. She broke her contact with his hands and folded her arms across her chest.
“I’ll bring you anything you need.” She stepped back. “What do you need the most?”
He was tempted to shout out that he needed her more than food or drink, more than freedom, more than life itself. But he could feel the eyes of his fellow prisoners upon his back. They were listening to every word he spoke and were likely anxious to have some of the provisions she’d brought.