by Jody Hedlund
They wandered around in the suffocating blackness until the clouds parted, allowing the moon and stars to come out and light their way so he could lead the men back to the ship.
Both times he’d considered himself lucky. But what if Divine Providence had been watching over him? What if God had spared him?
Polly’s words from one of their first meetings came back to him: “It sounds to me like God has intervened in your life in each of the occasions, miraculously saving you from death. Perhaps he deemed that your time on earth isn’t finished, that he has more in store for you yet in this life.”
Her confidence and belief in him had always encouraged him. No one had ever accepted him or loved him as unreservedly as Polly had, although she didn’t know the worst of what he had done. But God did, and certainly God didn’t love him as unconditionally. How could he, after how foul and wretched he’d been? After the horrible life he’d lived, especially during his time in Africa? He was the worst of sinners. There never was nor could there ever be a sinner as depraved as himself. His sins were too great to be forgiven.
“The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in mercy.” The long-buried words of Psalm 103 reverberated in his mind, a passage his mother had made him memorize as a boy, a passage he hadn’t thought about in years. “He has not dealt with us according to our sins, nor punished us according to our iniquities. For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward those who fear Him.”
During the long hours at the helm, other Scriptures he’d once memorized began to come back to him as well. Yet no matter how many verses filled his mind about God’s love and mercy, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unworthiness. God surely wouldn’t save him. Not again.
After navigating the ship for endless hours, he wasn’t sure if the course was growing easier and the waters less turbulent or if he was beginning to suffer delirium from cold and hunger. When the captain finally sent a sailor with orders to relieve him, Newton rubbed a wet sleeve across his eyes only to realize he wasn’t imagining things. The sea was growing calmer. The storm was dissipating.
“It would appear that the pumping and bailing efforts have availed,” the sailor said, his thin body shaking in the cold breeze. “We’re not going to sink.”
At the news, Newton released his grip on the wheel and crumpled to his knees. A cry of relief crowded his throat. He buried his face in his hands with the overwhelming need to weep.
Had God once again rescued him from the clutches of death?
The very thought was too much to comprehend.
“Thank you, God.” Once the words were out, Newton realized it was the first prayer he’d uttered in years.
April 1748
Newton’s stomach rumbled with an ache that burned deep. His limbs were numb and stiff with the constant dampness and cold that came from spring in the North Atlantic. But he didn’t move from his spot at the table in the captain’s cabin, where he’d been reading most of the night since his watch had ended.
What if the Scriptures that he’d long opposed were true? What if they were not only historically accurate, but what if the message of the gospel was real and applicable?
Over the past three weeks since the storm had battered the Greyhound, he’d done little else but pour over the captain’s copy of the Bible. As he read, the messages he’d heard as a boy from both his mother and the pastor of the Dissenters’ chapel in Wapping kept surfacing. Mayhap his mother was even now in heaven smiling down on him, happy to know that all her teaching, all the seeds she planted those long ago years, were still there. They were dormant. But they’d never left him.
His stomach growled angrily, enough that Captain Swanwick across from him glanced up. “Are you sure you won’t take your ration today?”
“You need it more than I do, Captain.” Newton pressed a fist into his gut. “I’m dispensable. You’re not.”
After the storm subsided and they’d taken stock of their supplies, they realized that they faced starvation. Not only had all their livestock been lost during the storm, but the seawater and the violent swaying of the ship had battered and ruined most of their other food stores in the hold. They’d salvaged a few sacks of grain and some pig feed along with the cod that they caught during the fishing expedition in Newfoundland.
Under normal circumstances, such stores would have fed the crew for a week. By careful rationing they’d made them last three. Even so, they were slowly starving to death. And now that the captain had distributed the last remnants of the cod at daybreak, they would have nothing.
At least they had plenty of water, even if the food was gone. Five full casks of water remained in the hold, so they didn’t have to ration that.
The captain sat back in his chair, abandoning his pen and his logbook and studying Newton until he began to squirm. “You’ve changed, son.”
“Aye, sir.” Newton couldn’t deny it. “Guess that’s what a storm will do to a person.”
It wasn’t just the storm, although that had been the catalyst that forced him to think more about God than he had in a long time. Nay, it went deeper than that. It was the deliverance from death time and time again. As though God truly had a grip on him and wasn’t letting go.
But the question always came back to haunt him. Why him, the worst of sinners? Surely God should be busy rescuing other people, righteous men and women who hadn’t ridiculed and profaned him over and over.
He wasn’t worthy of God’s mercy or love.
His cold, stiff fingers moved back to the fifteenth chapter of Luke and the story of the prodigal son. He’d already read the passage numerous times. He could certainly place himself in the role of the wayward son who’d rejected everything he’d known and who’d lived his life as he pleased. He’d blamed his father for so many of his problems when his father had only wanted to help him. Nay, his father hadn’t done everything right. Nevertheless, Newton could see now that the captain had truly only wanted what was best for him.
All along, with each mistake, his father had always been there for him. He’d come to his rescue time after time. Even after Newton had shunned and hated his father, the man hadn’t given up on him. He’d even sent a ship to free him from captivity in Africa.
Even so, how would his father feel about him when he returned? Would he welcome him home with open arms like the father in the parable? The truth was, he didn’t deserve his father opening his arms and receiving him back. He didn’t deserve his father’s kindness any more than he deserved God’s. As much as he longed for forgiveness, he wouldn’t ask. He couldn’t.
At a commotion on the deck above, Captain Swanwick pushed back from the table and stood. He retrieved his pistol from a drawer and then nodded at Newton. “Best to stay below in case the men get any more ideas.”
Newton had heard the whispers, had seen the angry glances his way. In their hunger, the men were growing desperate. They’d even begun to talk of cannibalism.
According to the captain’s compass and calculations, they were on course for Ireland. In fact, they should have reached the coast by now. But because of the gaping hole in the bow and because most of the sails had been damaged or blown away, the Greyhound had limped forward like a wounded and dying horse.
Even though they’d plugged the smaller holes and leaks in the hull, they still were taking on water and had to man the pumps and bail around the clock to keep the flooding below decks under control. Not only that but they were all damp and freezing since they’d used up most of their extra clothes and blankets to make repairs. The temperatures and wind had only added to their misery.
And now the hunger was reaching a crisis point.
The shouts topside grew louder. The thuds against the planks above him indicated a fight.
He stood and glanced at the ceiling. The captain had told him to stay below. But if the crew was mutinying, the captain would need his help.
Newton sprang forward, out of the cabin, and up the ladder. He w
as topside in seconds. The boatswain was holding back one sailor, pinning his arms behind his back. And the captain had his pistol pointed at another.
As Newton straightened, every pair of eyes on deck shifted toward him. The morning was crisp. The sky was cloudless. And the sun was beginning to rise. Maybe today it would finally lend them some warmth.
In the far distance mountainous points seemed to form on the horizon. But no one paid them any attention. They’d already been fooled once during the past three weeks. They’d thought they sighted land, had passed around the last of the brandy to celebrate, and then realized they were only seeing a mirage. As the sun had risen higher, the land had grown redder. Even though they’d wanted to deny what the red meant, any good seafarer knew it was the sign of an illusion created by the sun and clouds. As the morning progressed, the island and mountains vanished. And so did their excitement.
Now all that remained was bitterness, and that bitterness hit him with full force.
“He’s the cause of all our problems,” said the sailor being held back by the boatswain. Through brown-stained teeth the sailor spat at Newton on the deck.
“We decided we need to kill and eat him first,” said another of the sailors whose lean face and skeletal frame beneath his shredded garments attested to the severity of their hunger.
“We’re not killing or eating anyone,” the captain spoke sternly. “Least of all Newton. If not for his quick work at making repairs, this ship would be at the bottom of the ocean and all of you with it. Not to mention that he steered this ship for hours during some of the worst of the storm. Keeping her afloat was no easy feat, something only a skilled seaman could do.”
Newton glanced at the hardened faces staring at him, the very men he’d led astray with his lewdness and profanity during most of the voyage. Where had all his antics led him now? The sailors he’d caroused with certainly didn’t like him any better. In fact, in the face of their worst challenge yet, they valued his life so little that they were willing to sacrifice him to save themselves.
“We’ve got to do something, Captain,” said the ship’s carpenter, “or we’ll all die.”
The captain straightened his shoulders as though to bring dignity back to the situation. His bones poked through his thin shirt showing him to be just as decimated as the rest of them. “If we must die, then we’ll die with honor.”
Newton knew the logical and safe thing for him to do in this situation was retreat to the captain’s cabin, where he should have stayed in the first place. Four weeks ago, maybe even three, he wouldn’t have ventured out. He’d been just like the sailors—thinking only about himself.
But during all his soul searching since the storm, something calm had come over his soul, a peace that had been growing with each passing day, something he couldn’t explain. Mayhap it was the peace he’d been looking for all along.
Now in the face of mutiny and the threat of murder, that calmness held him in place. Even the wind didn’t blow through his scant garments as it had in recent days. If they wanted to sacrifice him, he wouldn’t fight it.
“If you feasted on each other’s flesh,” the captain continued, “you might save your lives now, but you’d forever be haunted by your deed.”
This time only a few grumbles met the captain’s rebuke, and several of the sailors dropped their gazes to the deck.
Only the wind and waves made their unending conversation, except that Newton noticed a softening, a gentling from the harsh noise of past days. He glanced upward to find that the mainsail was shifting. The wind was changing direction. Already he could feel the ship lightening in the waves, which would make it easier to keep the broken bow out of the water.
One by one the other men began to notice the shift. Before any of them could move, a cry came from the lookout above them. “Land, ho!”
The crew moved cautiously to the rails. Newton didn’t join them. He was an outcast among them, but he knew with certainty that he’d done the right thing this time in standing his ground instead of running and cowering below. He hadn’t taken the easy way out as he was prone to do. He’d faced difficulty with honor. And it felt right.
Maybe right living was hard. Maybe at times it was even excruciating. But the reward of knowing he’d lived with integrity made the sacrifice all that much more fulfilling.
With every eye trained upon the distant horizon, not a man dared to breathe. They’d been disappointed once before. As the sun moved in its course, would the mirage vanish like it had last time?
They waited and watched the sun slowly make its way upward in the sky. The streaks of pink and orange reflected against the tattered sails and lit up the sky. As Newton watched, another verse he’d memorized at the knees of his mother pushed to the front of his mind. “Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence?…If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me.”
He’d tried to run away from God. He’d tried to sail as far away from God as he could possibly get. But God had a hold on his life and always had. God had never let go, had never given up, and had never lost hope, even during Newton’s darkest moments of rejection.
A swell of gratitude rose in Newton’s chest. “I’m unworthy of such grace,” he whispered. “So unworthy.”
The murmuring at the rail began to turn into shouts of excitement. Newton peered into the distance along with everyone else. This time there was no mist of red, no disappearing horizon, no mirage. The outline of an island was clearly visible and growing larger. “Ireland!” someone cried.
The gratefulness in Newton’s heart almost hurt. God had saved him from certain death once again.
They passed the island of Tory off Donegal and less than a day later rounded Dunree Head and sailed into the calm inlet of Lough Swilly on the north coast of Ireland. There, on April 8, the battered and barely sailable Greyhound dropped anchor.
Newton attempted to wait patiently for his turn to go ashore in the longboat. When his time came, he sat in front of the captain and pulled at the oars with the little strength he could muster in his exhausted body.
“The wind’s changing,” Captain Swanwick said, glancing to the northwest where the inlet led to the Atlantic. “Another storm’s headed our way.”
Newton followed the captain’s gaze to the dark clouds piled on top of one another that were blowing in from the north. They were ominous, even frightening.
“If we’d stayed another hour at sea,” the captain said in a low voice only Newton could hear, “we likely would have been pushed far out into the Atlantic again.”
Newton shuddered at the prospect. If the Greyhound had been forced to weather another storm, she wouldn’t have been able to survive the blows.
“I didn’t say anything to the rest of the crew,” the captain continued. “But of those five remaining casks of water that we had in the hold, yesterday I discovered they were all empty.”
The oars in Newton’s hands became suddenly too heavy and his stomach hollow. “Devil be hanged. You’re certain?”
Captain Swanwick’s eyes were old and tired. “Aye. They must have cracked open during the storm. We had but a few drops left.”
They’d nearly emptied the cask they’d drunk from that morning. If they’d had no further fresh drinking water, then they most certainly would have died from thirst within days if not hours, even if they’d been able to weather the storm that was currently brewing.
Starvation. Dying of thirst. Another brutal storm. All had been lurking much too close.
Newton plunged the oars deeper into the water for the last few strokes that brought them to the rocky beach of Lough Swilly. With a choking gasp of relief and eagerness, he jumped out of the boat and helped drag it the rest of the short distance to the shore. He didn’t care that his boots and trousers were soaked. He didn’t care that he was impatient. The other sailors in the longboat did the same thing in th
eir frantic need to be on firm ground.
When his feet hit dry land, he fell down, pressed his face to the cold, slippery stones, and breathed in the wet scent of the rocks and soil. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,” he whispered, unable to contain the deep sobs that rose in his chest.
He pressed his face into the earth. He could no longer deny that there was a God in heaven. He couldn’t deny it any more than he could deny the solid ground beneath his body. The blessed solid ground, ground he’d never thought he’d step on again.
“Oh God,” he breathed again, knowing deep in his heart that God had heard and answered his calls for mercy, had in fact answered them when he’d least deserved it.
He lifted his face, and the growing breeze from the stormy north blew across his cheeks, across the tears that wet his flesh. Bright green pasturelands stretched out in the craggy hills before him. Flocks of sheep grazed contentedly, seeming unaware of the dark clouds moving swiftly into the inlet.
His heart opened wide with the need to acknowledge not only the existence of God but also the existence of a merciful and loving God. He’d been an undeserving wretch, but God had saved him—not only from the clutches of dangers, toils, and snares, but from the very brink of hell itself.
“I don’t deserve your amazing grace,” he said as another tight sob rose in his chest at the thought of all his many sins. He wanted to weep over them. The remorse for all he’d done overwhelmed him, and he pressed his hands against his face.
But that was the beauty of the gospel. God could choose to pardon his sins. In fact, God had done that pardoning through the death of Jesus Christ. He offered forgiveness to everyone, even to the vilest sinners.