by Jody Hedlund
Footsteps slapped the deck, and before Newton could move out of the way, a boot crashed into his ribs and caught his back. The agony of the contact sent him sprawling. He bumped his chin against the piece of sandstone he’d been using to rub sand and water against the deck.
Coarse laughter came from above him along with another kick. “How’s that feel, you stinking coward?”
Newton gritted his teeth and refrained from raining curses upon the passing sailors, the men once under his control when he’d been midshipman. Many of them relished ridiculing him every opportunity they could.
He couldn’t fight them now, and if he attempted, they’d only beat him until he was a bloody mess again. But he would get revenge at some point. He clenched his hands and let the anger burn a slow flame in his gut. Once he regained his strength and movement, he’d make them wish they’d never touched him.
Slowly and painstakingly, he pushed himself back to his knees, retrieved his sandstone and began to brush it against the filthy deck. The wind blew hard, the coolness barreling into him, taunting and reminding him that the ship was well underway. The Harwich was finally leaving Plymouth and heading toward Madeira near the Canary Islands.
He was tempted to sit back on his heels and look over his shoulder at the fading coastline of England. It would be the last time he would see the shores of his homeland for at least five years. But he kept his head down and refused to give in to the urge. If he did, he’d only hate his life even more—if that were possible.
With every passing day, the thought of putting an end to his miserable existence grew more appealing. He didn’t know what reason he had for living anymore, not when he was conscripted to this water-borne prison, not when he was in so much pain, not when he had absolutely no reason to keep going.
The only thought that had kept him sane over the past year of being in the navy was the prospect of seeing Polly, of being reunited with her, and of someday marrying her. But he couldn’t expect her to wait five years for him to return. She’d surely be swept off her feet by another man and perhaps even married by the time he made it back to England. He’d considered writing to her and asking her to wait. But he loved her too much to ever ask her to make that kind of commitment. And yet, without her in his future, he didn’t want to go on.
“This is all his fault,” Newton murmured, his jaw clenching and his anger flaring. If only his father had tried harder to orchestrate his transfer. Instead, he’d likely stood back and crossed his arms and said to the admiral, “This is just the lesson my irresponsible son needs to make him grow into a man.”
The truth was, he’d never been good enough for his father or for any sort of God. He’d always fallen short in pleasing them both. Being a Christian had been too difficult. So why bother trying—not that he’d tried all that hard in recent years to live an upstanding life. If God existed, he’d abandoned him just as his father had done. Now Newton would do the same to them.
He paused in his slow, halfhearted efforts at scrubbing and spat at the deck. He hated his father. He hated God. Most of all, he hated himself.
December 1746
London, England
The carriage clattered to a stop in front of a towering home. Freshly painted white classical surround decorated the sash windows. The contrast of the white against the red brick was impressive. Then again, every home in the West End was meant to impress. The new homes had always made Polly gawk when she visited Susanna on breaks from boarding school during the past year and a half.
Even Daniel Eversfield’s brand-new landau was striking. Polly ran her gloved fingers over the luxurious red-velvet cushioned seat and inhaled the strong scent of the leather carriage head that had been drawn to keep out the cold December drizzle.
The coachman swung open the door and helped her descend to the cobbled street that was clean and unpolluted for London. Even the air in the West End smelled cleaner and brisker than the stale sourness that pervaded most of the city. Of course, Mrs. Overing’s Boarding School at Bethnal Green near Hackney wasn’t quite as foul as some parts of London, but nothing could compare to the wealthy area where Susanna and Daniel lived.
Polly straightened her wide-brimmed hat and then proceeded up the front walkway. A sharp iron fence that protected the house from burglars also led to a lower entrance that the servants used. And fortunately, Susanna had several servants at her bidding.
Or maybe having extra servants wasn’t fortunate for Susanna. Polly’s steps slowed as she remembered her last visit in the autumn, when she witnessed Susanna slap one of the pretty young maids across the cheek and then tell her to pack her box and leave the premises. Later when Polly prayed by her bed, she heard Daniel and Susanna arguing through the thin walls. Daniel said something about not blaming the maid. And Susanna was crying.
Polly didn’t understand everything, but with each passing visit, she thought she was beginning to make sense of what was really going on in the Eversfield home, and the very insinuation of impropriety was enough to make Polly squirm in discomfort.
Susanna had given her an open invitation to come whenever she wanted. But Polly usually reserved her calls for school breaks and holidays. Even then, she’d grown more reluctant to visit; the tension in the home was something she couldn’t quite get used to.
But besides the fact that her presence seemed to make Susanna happier, Polly couldn’t stay away from Susanna’s six-month-old baby girl, Mary. Even now the image of the sweet baby face melted Polly’s heart, and she didn’t have to force a smile when she rapped against the door.
The door swung open and before she could utter a greeting, Susanna was pulling her into her arms with the ardor of a long-lost friend.
“You’re here at last!” Susanna said hugging Polly tightly, even though their hoops collided and she knocked Polly’s hat off in the process.
Polly laughed. “I missed you too.”
“Not more than I missed you.” Susanna pulled back but didn’t let go of Polly’s arms as she examined her from her elegantly styled hair down to the tips of her shoes poking out beneath her petticoats. “You look lovelier and more grown up every time I see you.”
At almost nineteen, Polly was the oldest girl at Mrs. Overing’s. And her age was something her school mistress, Mrs. Arabella Manly, had been commenting on lately. “It’s time for you to settle on a young man,” the mistress said more than once in recent weeks. “If you don’t find one now, you’ll end up a spinster, and then all our work here will have been in vain.”
The word spinster sent shudders through all the young ladies every time Mrs. Arabella Manly mentioned it. Polly couldn’t keep from thinking about her neighbor back in Chatham, Miss Donovan, and her little white curly-haired dog, Prince.
Polly’s insides curdled at the picture of herself carrying around Pete like a baby, cuddling him and kissing him, the cat sufficing as the closest thing to having a child. No, she wanted to find a loving man who could take care of her and give her a baby like Mary.
Polly peered over Susanna’s shoulder to the glittering hallway with its high ceiling, chandelier, spiraling staircase, and gold gilt everywhere—in the mirror frame, the elaborate curves of the banister, and even the floral design of the wallpaper.
Susanna had outdone herself with the decorations throughout her spacious home. The rooms, like the outer facade of the home, were designed to show off her husband’s wealth and growing status. While the luxurious interior did indeed mirror his position, it lacked warmth and was sterile and impersonal, much like Susanna’s cold, almost impersonal marriage.
Polly listened for the babble or the cries that would direct her to Mary, but Susanna took her hand with a smile. “I can see that I’m no longer the main attraction for your visits.”
“If you were short, bald, and had chubby cheeks, then maybe you’d regain your place.”
Susanna gave a mock gasp. “I always knew you came to see Dopple.”
Polly laughed at Susanna’s jest about her aging
butler, thinking that Mary and Mr. Dopple did indeed share many similarities. But as the smile faded from Susanna’s face and her eyes turned dark and brooding, Polly’s laughter stuck in her throat. She supposed speaking of illicit liaisons with servants only brought to the forefront Daniel’s dalliances—if indeed that was his crime.
“Take me to Mary.” Polly tried to infuse cheer into her voice, something she’d gotten quite accustomed to doing during her visits. “I’m sure she’s been missing me terribly.”
Susanna led Polly up the stairs to a cozy room across from the parlor where one of the servants was feeding Mary tiny spoonfuls of what appeared to be a creamy rice pudding. Polly insisted on finishing the feeding and then changing Mary’s nappy. She’d just settled down into a chair near the hearth with Mary on her lap and had breathed a deep contented sigh, when a servant came to the door.
“I beg your pardon, Madam. I don’t mean to disturb you.” The young servant hung her head and cringed. Polly didn’t recognize the girl from her last visit.
“If you’re sorry,” Susanna said, each word hard and brittle, “then please refrain from doing it in the first place.” She sniffed and started to turn away from the girl.
The servant’s cheeks turned a rosy shade at the slight, but she didn’t move away. The girl wasn’t overly pretty. In fact, she was petite with a long nose and small mouth. Perhaps Susanna had hoped that a plain servant wouldn’t pose a temptation to Daniel. Had it worked?
“A visitor’s come calling for Miss Polly Catlett,” the servant spoke again timidly, as though at any moment she expected Susanna to lash out.
Polly sat up straighter in her comfortable wing chair. “A visitor for me?”
“Aye. He said his name was John Newton.”
John? Polly’s body forgot to function at the name no one spoke anymore. For a moment she could only sit in stunned silence. She’d tried so hard to obey her father and put John from her mind. The task had been excruciating at first, and she experienced too many painful nights when she wept silent sobs into her pillow. But over time she busied herself with all the new endeavors at school: reading classics and even some Shakespeare, memorizing poetry, performing in a play, learning to dance, and experimenting with all kinds of artistic pursuits, including needlework, japanning, paper cutting, and shell grottoes. She particularly relished their instruction in French. Best of all, she thrived with her music instruction, taking her composing to a new level.
Of course there had also been parties and outings with the new friends she’d made. They’d had plenty of suitors come calling. Several men had even paid her attention. Although none of the men had captured her affection, she’d eventually been able to spend time with them without comparing them to John.
Yes, she’d ruthlessly done all she could to eliminate the thoughts and feelings for John from her mind. After a year and a half, she’d almost come to believe she’d moved on, had put him in her past, had relegated him to a childhood crush.
But now, all the memories she’d tried so hard to wipe from her mind came rushing back in one instant, more vibrant than before, bringing back to life his quick grin, his bright green eyes, his swarthy handsome face, his thickly muscled arms and shoulders.
“By Jupiter, John Newton is here?” she heard Susanna asking. Susanna knew every last detail of what had happened with John as well as she did. Susanna knew the HMS Harwich had set sail out of Plymouth. She had even made further inquiries to learn that the ship had made a revictualling stop at Madeira, an important mid-Atlantic port, but had sailed out with the whole fleet of merchant ships and the rest of the naval escort.
“John should be in the East Indies by now,” Susanna said. “There’s no way he could possibly be back in England.”
The servant girl hung her head, apparently unsure how to answer her mistress.
Susanna finally looked at Polly, her eyes reflecting both uncertainty and hope. “Shall I go see first?”
“No. I need to go.” Polly stood, kissed Mary’s downy head, and passed her back to her nursemaid. Then with shaking legs and a trembling heart, she made her way down to the drawing room. She paused outside the door and took a deep shaky breath. Next to her, Susanna patted her arm. Polly gave her a grateful smile. Steeling her shoulders, she tried to glide into the drawing room with as much poise and grace as she’d learned at Mrs. Overing’s.
A tall man with broad shoulders stood peering out the wide front window, his back toward her. The strong stance, the rugged appeal, the set of the shoulders all belonged to John. And yet, he was thinner and not quite as muscular as she remembered.
Even so, she couldn’t prevent her startled gasp at the ghost standing before her.
At her gasp, John turned. Only it wasn’t him. Instead she found herself looking at a much older version, a man with the same build, the same tanned sailor skin, the same rough edges. His eyes were darker, and the lines at the corners and in his forehead were deeper. His features, while somewhat similar to John’s, were decidedly more severe and angular, and his expression contained none of John’s mirth or lightheartedness.
“Miss Catlett, I presume?” He stepped away from the window and faced her attired in a stylish frock coat and leather breeches. His black three-cornered cocked hat was under his arm, and his silver tye-wig with side curls gleamed in the lamplight. While perhaps not as fancy as Daniel Eversfield, he looked every bit a man of substance and means.
Polly nodded. “Yes. How do you do?”
“I’m Captain Newton, John’s father.” His tone was grave, and his eyes much too serious and sad.
Suddenly Polly’s mouth went dry and any inkling of hope fled. She hadn’t meant to harbor hope, had thought she’d extinguished every last trace. But her knees gave way, and if not for Susanna’s quick catch, Polly would have dropped to the floor. There was no other reason for Captain Newton to visit and speak in so somber a tone unless he was delivering dire news. John was dead. That’s what he’d come to tell her. John was dead and would never come to see her again.
“I’m sorry to call upon you unannounced.” He surveyed the room, his sweeping gaze likely taking in the elegance of the new furniture, the thick tapestries, and the intricately woven carpet.
“What can we do for you, Captain Newton?” Susanna’s face was pale, but her voice was unwavering.
Polly tried to remember the things John had said about his father during his visits to Chatham. But other than a few brief negative remarks, he’d rarely spoken of the man. He’d shared more freely about his mother and the love she’d had for him. Polly had surmised that he hadn’t been as close to his father in the years following his mother’s death.
She could understand why. From first appearance Captain Newton was an intimidating man. And when he turned his attention fully upon her and studied her, she had to resist the urge to press her hand to her head and the coiffure with ringlets hanging to the nape of her neck.
As though sensing her fear, he fumbled at the inner pocket of his coat and retrieved what appeared to be several letters, although from the outside they were torn and dirty, the ink smudged and almost illegible.
“Just this week I received letters from John,” he started, but then his voice cracked.
“Letters from John?” she asked almost breathlessly. “Then you haven’t come to tell me he’s dead?”
Captain Newton’s dark brows narrowed together, making his eyes look even sadder. “He was in a great deal of trouble when he wrote this letter to me months ago.” He held up the most battered of the correspondence.
“What kind of trouble, Captain Newton?” Susanna asked, still clutching Polly and helping her stay steady on her feet.
Polly wasn’t sure that she wanted to hear. But at the same time she couldn’t make herself run away.
“It appears he wasn’t on the Harwich very long,” Captain Newton said.
As Captain Newton shared all that he’d learned, Susanna finally invited him to sit down and ordered tea from one of
the servants. Polly could only perch on the edge of a chair as he shared the information he’d gleaned from John’s letters as well as from the captains of passing ships.
Apparently after three weeks of sailing, the HMS Harwich had arrived at Funchal Roads, the chief port in Madeira, which was a Portuguese island colony to the west of Morocco. Since it was the only port of call before Africa, it was an important place to take on additional supplies and to make any necessary minor repairs. While the ship was anchored off the coast along with the rest of the convoy, two merchant seamen had been impressed from a nearby Guinea trading ship, the Pegasus, in exchange for two of the Harwich’s men.
Captain Newton explained that such an exchange was an accepted practice in the Royal Navy, that captains of merchant ships often gladly handed over unruly crew members for impressment. Apparently someone on board the HMS Harwich, perhaps the clerk or one of the midshipmen had taken pity on John and negotiated his discharge. Either that or Captain Carteret of the Harwich had grown tired of John’s irresponsibility and so had given permission to the switch that not long before he’d denied.
Whatever the case, John ended up being discharged from the Royal Navy and placed on board the Pegasus, a slave ship that traded along the dangerous thousand-mile Guinea coast. As it turned out, the captain of the Pegasus, Captain Guy Penrose, was a friend of Captain Newton’s.
“At first Captain Penrose was delighted to have John on board his ship,” Captain Newton said. “I was informed that he reached out to John in kindness, believing that the son of an old friend would prove a loyal and hardworking sailor.”
Polly knew what was coming and tensed.
“Unfortunately my son proved Captain Penrose wrong.” Captain Newton’s shoulders slumped with a discouragement that touched Polly. He loved his son. She could see it.