by Jody Hedlund
The other midshipman in charge of the second longboat agreed to allow the men an hour’s rest and warmth at the nearest pub before they began loading the waiting barrels into their boats.
“I need to post a letter,” Newton told his fellow officer, “then I’ll meet you at the pub.”
The man nodded at him curtly before following the sailors as they sauntered toward the tavern, a new lightness to their steps and grins on their faces.
Newton spun and began walking toward the victualling office. He’d find someone there who knew his father personally and would be willing to make arrangements to send word of his predicament. As he neared the imposing brick building, his steps slowed with uncertainty. Even if he did locate an ally, what if the Harwich set sail before his father could help him?
Mayhap he should deliver the letter himself. He could find a horse, ride to Torbay, and be back to the ship by morning. If he rode nonstop, he’d make it. Even by foot he could do it if he kept a good pace.
He stood frozen in place for an endless moment. The bay and all the ships spread out before him. Dozens of ships and longboats were coming and going, some with sails all standing, others like the distant Harwich with sails furled. He was just one man among thousands. Surely he wouldn’t be missed for one night. And if things went his way and his father got him transferred, then he wouldn’t have to return at all.
He glanced at the road leading up through town. He guessed the path would cut across South Devon and eventually take him to the coastal town of Torbay. Even if it didn’t, how hard would it be to find his way there?
With a deep breath, he ducked his head and started away from the pub, away from the Harwich, and hopefully away from his life in the navy.
Newton stumbled over a rock in the road but caught himself. His head throbbed and his eyes ached from lack of sleep. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, and more than anything he wanted to find an old barn or large grove of thick woodland, any hiding place where he could lie down and sleep for a little while.
But for the past hour, he’d traversed the moorland landscape of South Devon, filled with newly plowed fields bordered with blackthorn and an occasional ash or poplar. He didn’t see any safe place to hide. And even if he could locate a haven, the growing wariness in his gut told him he should keep going. In the distance a hamlet began to emerge with the outline of houses and the thin tendrils of smoke rising from early morning hearth fires.
The morning sun was hazy behind low clouds, and fog dusted the hills and poured into the valleys. The cool temperature of the long night still surrounded him, but he’d run on and off throughout the early morning hours to keep himself warm and to keep fatigue at bay.
Thankfully, the road had been deserted except for a lone shepherd he’d met before daybreak. He didn’t want to meet anyone and chance them wondering why he was traveling alone in the middle of nowhere at such an early hour. He couldn’t risk locals thinking he’d deserted. For he hadn’t.
Had he?
The thought had pounded louder with each hour that had passed. Yesterday he’d made an impulsive decision. He’d been rash. And mayhap too arrogant. Because after having time to think through his plan during the dark hours of the night, he’d realized that mayhap his father wouldn’t want to help him get the transfer. After all, the last time he saw his father, Newton wasn’t exactly congenial. And even if his father attempted to wield his influence for him, what if he failed again? Where would that leave Newton? Charged with desertion?
The rational part of his mind told him to return to the Harwich before it was too late. But he only had to remind himself of the fact that the Harwich would be gone for five years, and he kept walking. Besides now that he’d traveled hours away from Plymouth and his ship, what kind of explanation could he give the captain for his absence, especially after his unexcused leave at Christmas? His only course of action was to move forward and attempt to find his father.
As he drew nearer the village, he debated the possibility of skirting wide to avoid any questions or raised brows. But the rumble in his stomach and his growing thirst won out. Besides, he wanted to make sure he was still headed in the direction of Brixham and Torbay. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was and didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary.
He plodded forward and wished he wasn’t attired in his filthy sailor garb. Like most seamen he didn’t bother to wash his garments often. Shipboard life seldom provided the opportunity or means. That meant he not only looked like he’d jumped ship, but he smelled it too.
Ahead, the street flowed between a short row of connected buildings that lined both sides before tapering off again to farm fields and hedges. Across from a low, ancient stone building covered in moss and lichens stood several newer but weathered terraced structures. Newton directed his weary steps toward the one in the middle with the sign hanging above the door that said Moreleigh Inn. He had several coins in his purse that would be enough to buy a meal and drink. Surely a few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt him. He’d eat and then be on his way with renewed energy.
He hesitated at the door. The sound of voices on the other side gave him pause for only a second. He wouldn’t stay, he told himself before pushing open the door. Only one drink and no gambling.
At the sight of him stepping into the tavern, the voices came to an abrupt halt. Newton nodded at the few patrons awake and eating, a table of four men in one corner and two others conversing near the barrels of ale.
“Top o’ the morning to you,” said one of the men at the barrels. He wore an apron around his rotund middle and gave Newton a welcoming smile that told him he was the proprietor.
“I’d be obliged for a drink and meal,” Newton said, eyeing the table of four men who’d paused in their eating to watch him.
“Where you from?” asked the tavern owner as he filled a mug from the tap on one of the barrels.
“On my way to Torbay,” Newton replied, avoiding the question. “And hoping I’m still on the right road.”
The tavern owner happily made sure Newton knew about every route possible between Moreleigh and Torbay, even every cow path. Newton was relieved when the four men in the corner took their leave and left him in peace.
One drink turned into two, and when the innkeeper offered him a third, Newton was proud of himself for pushing away from the table and declining even though his tongue was heavy with the need for it.
Once he was back on the road, the sun had risen higher and had burned away the fog. Although he was still tired, the ale had taken the edge off his worry. He ambled along whistling to himself, confident he’d made the right decision to leave Plymouth and look for his father. According to directions the proprietor had given him for the most direct route, Newton figured he had a half-day’s walk left. Then he’d locate his father, get the transfer off the Harwich, and finally be able to set his own course for his life.
He crossed a footbridge leading across a swollen stream and relished the cool morning breeze as he climbed up a rise. When he reached the top, he stopped short at the sight of the four men from the tavern. Three were astride horses, and the fourth was driving a team and wagon. They blocked the path in front of him. From the way all four pairs of eyes were trained upon him, something told him they’d been waiting for him.
Thieves? Mayhap smugglers? He didn’t know exactly, except that he’d fallen into a trap.
“Don’t have much left to give you,” he said as casually as he could, patting his nearly empty purse with one hand and inching his other to the small of his back where he kept his knife strapped.
“No worries,” said the man positioned in front. “We don’t need your pennies.” His hair was greasy and pulled into a loose queue. His face had a long, thin scar running from his eye to his jaw.
“Good that.” Newton’s fingers closed around his hilt. “Then I suppose you mates will let me pass without any trouble?”
“You’re a stranger to these parts. State your business, and the
n maybe we’ll think about letting you pass.”
Newton studied the leader more closely, noting the club at his belt. Was this another press gang? “I’m dispatching a letter.” He said the first thing that came to his mind and reached in his pocket to retrieve the paper. He waved it as proof.
“Most couriers travel the coastal roads.” The man’s tone was laced with an accusation Newton didn’t understand.
“I opted for the scenic route.” Newton nodded at the newly budding leaves, his mind spinning. He couldn’t risk capture by another press gang. He had to make it to his father. “Can you blame me?”
The man’s eyes narrowed upon Newton. “I think you’re a deserter.”
A cannon ball seemed to barrel into his stomach and filled him with both dread and panic. He’d been discovered. This was no press gang. This was most likely a platoon that had been sent out by the navy to scout the area for deserters since recently there had been so many.
Newton tried to remain calm, but all he could think about was getting away. “Like I said, I’m delivering a letter. I only planned to be gone for a couple of days.”
“I suppose you can show us the leave papers from your captain?” the leader demanded.
“He didn’t have time to write them up.”
“We have instructions to arrest any naval sailor who doesn’t produce written leave-of-absence papers or orders from his captain. Unless you can show us your papers, then we have to haul you to Plymouth.”
He had to get away while he still could. He couldn’t turn around and run the way he’d come. The men on their horses would easily overtake him. His only chance was to cut across country and hope for some luck in finding a hiding spot.
He hesitated only a moment longer before darting into the thick brush. He crashed through the sharp branches and brambles. Thorns clawed his body and twigs whipped his face. But he plunged forward and forced his way through the growth. His boots snagged roots. And fallen branches tripped him. Behind him came the shouts of the naval platoon and the crushing and breaking of brush.
A horse thrashed nearby, gaining ground. He could almost feel the hot snorting of the beast upon his neck. In the next moment, a club came down across one of his shoulders. The power and pain of the blast nearly sent him to his knees. He stumbled but then caught himself and kept moving. He couldn’t stop. If he did, his life would be over. Literally. Many a recaptured deserter had been court-martialed and then hung from the yardarm of his ship. Newton had witnessed it several times during his life at sea.
The wooden club slammed into his back jolting him forward and throwing him off balance. He grabbed for the nearest tree to hold himself up. But the officer and horse trailing him were already on top of him. The weight forced him to his knees, and horse hoofs battered him. He cried out and tried to cover himself, but the club swung hard and fast toward his head, and the last thing he felt was searing agony before blackness enveloped him.
When Newton awoke, he found himself chained and in a gaol similar to the one in Chatham. While he couldn’t see much of the town from the barred window, he surmised he was back in Plymouth. There were several other battered sailors in the hovel with him, and he guessed they were recaptured deserters. He insisted to the captain of the guard that he wasn’t like the others, that he’d had every intention of returning to his ship after he delivered his letter. He cajoled, bribed, and demanded that he be given the chance to explain himself. But on the third day after he’d left the Harwich, he was led to a longboat. Lewis was the midshipman in charge of the crew, and at the sight of Newton bloodied, bruised, and in chains, he shook his head sadly.
“I don’t need your pity,” Newton said wishing he could pound his fist into Lewis’s self-righteous face. Instead, he spat at the man’s feet and lowered himself to a bench. With each dip of the oars leading him back to the Harwich, Newton’s gut flamed with growing fear.
When he was hauled aboard the Harwich, no one spoke to him. He was dragged like a common criminal past the middle and lower decks to the hold, where he was finally manacled to the bulwarks. Except for the rats and cockroaches, he was alone in the dark.
Other than a sailor sent to deliver water and bread twice a day, he had no visitors. All he could think about was the fact that he’d ruined everything. He almost wished he could still believe in God. Then at least there would be someone to blame for his misfortune besides himself.
After what felt like an eternity, two men descended the ladder. The taller of the two carried a lantern, and as he approached Newton recognized him. Mitchell, the captain’s clerk. He braced himself against the rough boards waiting for Mitchell to deliver a hard kick to his stomach. He deserved Mitchell’s beating for betraying him.
The clerk stopped in front of him and held the lantern above him, almost blinding him and revealing his squalor. “You look like the devil got ahold of you. And you smell like a cess pit.”
Newton squinted. “I’m sorry I let you down.”
Mitchell shrugged. “You’re the one suffering, not me.”
“Aye.”
Mitchell eyed him with clear disgust. “You’re one lucky dog. Seems your father got word of your arrest, and he made contact with Admiral Medley. The admiral must really like your father.”
Newton sat up straighter. His arms and shoulders ached from being in one position for so long. His backside was numb. And his toes and fingers were stiff with the cold. But for the first time in days, he allowed himself a tiny nugget of hope.
“Seems your father persuaded Admiral Medley to ask Captain Carteret for an exchange.”
“I knew my father could do it,” Newton said, letting triumph rise up and vindicate him. “I can’t wait to get off this stinking piece of flotsam.”
Mitchell laughed harshly. “Don’t start celebrating too soon.”
The clerk’s tone sobered Newton.
“You’re not getting transferred. You’re not that lucky.”
Newton swore softly under his breath, his hope and triumph dissipating.
“No, Captain Carteret wouldn’t even consider a transfer. He’s too livid for that. Besides, what kind of message would that send to any other sailors thinking of deserting? That you can break the rules and then get exactly what you want?”
Newton had angered the captain too many times already. He should have known the man wouldn’t show him any leniency. “Then exactly how am I so lucky?”
Mitchell chortled again. “The captain’s agreed not to court-martial and hang you.”
“How kind of him.” Bitterness made a winding path through Newton’s veins.
Mitchell nodded to the sailor standing behind him. The man came forward and none-too-gently unlocked Newton’s chains from the manacles embedded into the hull. The sailor cursed Newton with every foul breath he had to take. Newton knew he would have done the same if the roles had been reversed; nevertheless he wanted to slap the sailor, at the very least curse him back. He would later, he decided. Once he was topside, back into his position as midshipman, he’d make the sailor pay for his disdain.
When he was finally standing on his shaking, weak legs, he nearly collapsed again. Neither the sailor nor Mitchell made a move to help him. Newton’s stomach cramped and nausea gurgled in his chest. He’d likely consumed contaminated water, and he had the feeling that he was in for a few days of being sick to his stomach.
Well, it would serve the captain right for relegating him to the hold and allowing him to sit in his own waste.
He held out his hands still bound by heavy chains. “You’re not expecting me to get back to work wearing these, are you?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Of course not. An ordinary seaman can’t climb the rigging or holystone the decks in chains.”
Newton’s mind raced with the implication of Mitchell’s words. He was being demoted, degraded in rank.
“Have no fear.” Mitchell shoved him toward the ladder. “We’ll unshackle you after the captain’s made an example of you. He wants
to show the rest of the crew what happens to a dolt who attempts to shirk his duty to king and country.”
So the captain was planning to flog him? While the news sent chills up Newton’s back, he wasn’t surprised. He tried to lift his foot to the first rung of the ladder, but he slipped and bumped his chin. His teeth sliced into his bottom lip, and the warmth of blood oozed onto his tongue. Of course the sailor showed him no mercy, battering and shoving him all the way up.
When he reached the main deck, the slow, solemn rhythm of two drums greeted him. The rest of the crew had already been assembled. They stood with hats off, in perfect silence to show respect for the law. Likely the captain had already read the article of war that Newton had contravened. Even though no one spoke, he sensed the scoffing glances at his condition. He guessed that not a man aboard the ship would be sad to see him flogged. He hadn’t been particularly friendly or kind to anyone. Why would they show him any compassion now?
In spite of the bright sunshine, another chill rippled over his skin. Mitchell maneuvered him to the port gangway where the ladder had been removed, the brass eyebolts empty and waiting for him. The master-at-arms approached Newton, freed him of his chains, and then forced Newton to remove his coat and shirt so that he stood naked to the waist.
Newton guessed with the passage of time that March had turned into April. While the sea breeze was biting, it was decidedly warmer. Several seagulls glided in the cloudless blue sky above them, apparently having returned from their southern migration and ready to scavenge any scraps they could find, maybe even the flesh that would soon be torn from his back. Their laughing calls hung in the air, mocking him.
The master-at-arms forced Newton’s arms upward and tied his wrists to the eyebolts of the gangway so that his arms were well above his head and angled into a wide V. Then he spread Newton’s legs and tied his ankles to a grate on the deck. The ship’s chaplain, Reverend Topham, stood nearby, his prayer book in hand. His eyes were bloodshot from a hangover.