Newton and Polly

by Jody Hedlund

  Hypocrite, Newton wanted to lash out. Don’t stand there holier than thou and pass judgment on me when you fail to live up to your own standards.

  The boatswain broke through the crowd with the red baize bag. Everyone knew what it contained. The cat-o’-nine-tails. Newton focused his gaze on the porthole directly before him. Under normal circumstances, the hole was used as a means of leaving the ship. The irony of his position was not lost on him.

  Behind him, he knew, the boatswain was pulling the cat out. Each of the nine tails was a rope of equal length as thick as a man’s little finger. The thin whips eventually combined into a thicker cord near the handle. Altogether the whip was as long as a captain’s boy. Newton had seen the devastation it could wreak on a man’s bare back, and his mouth went dry at the realization that in just a few moments, he’d feel the torture across his own flesh.

  The boatswain handed the cat to the chief boatswain’s mate, who was positioned on Newton’s left, his feet already spread wide to give him the most leverage as he swung the whip. The drumming tapered to silence.

  “What the law allows, you shall have,” came Captain Carteret’s voice from above them on the quarterdeck. “But by the eternal God if any one of you disobeys that law, I’ll cut out your backbone.”

  For a moment, Newton could hear the slap of the waves against the hull and the creak of mast and yards above them.

  Then the captain spoke again, the words that all captains spoke at a flogging: “Boatswain’s mate, do your duty, or by God, you shall take his place.”

  Newton swallowed hard and attempted to brace himself for the first blow. The whizzing of the nine tails through the air was followed by a thwack against his back. For a moment, the pain tore the breath from Newton’s lungs so that he couldn’t even utter a cry. The blow was so forceful that if he hadn’t been tied in place, it would have knocked him to the deck.

  He struggled to draw a gasp into his burning lungs. Just as he managed a small breath, the whip whistled through the air again, and the nine thin strands dug into his skin like the claws of a wild animal. This time he couldn’t hold back a cry of agony. The scream was ripped from his lips just as the flesh was ripped from his back.

  With each blow, thereafter, he determined not to utter a sound, to take the punishment without humiliating himself further. By the twelfth lash, his body felt as though it had been covered in tar and set afire. He couldn’t utter a sound even if he tried. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t lift his head.

  For a long moment the cold sea breeze added torture to his back. He waited for another dozen lashes and was surprised when the boatswain began sawing the binding at his wrists. Apparently, the captain was giving him only a dozen lashes, which was the usual amount allowed without a court-martial, although the law didn’t stop more from being issued when a captain thought they were warranted.

  Newton supposed he should be grateful to his father for beseeching the admiral, even if he hadn’t been able to arrange a transfer. The intervention had lessened his punishment significantly. Even so, he couldn’t muster any thankfulness. The only emotion that swirled amid the pain was hatred.

  He hated Captain Carteret for imprisoning him on the Harwich. He hated the rest of the men for allowing such an injustice, for standing back and doing nothing to stop it. He even hated his father for not being able to do more to get him released, for being so weak, so helpless, so ineffective.

  The moment the ropes fell away from the eyebolts, he crumpled to the grate into splatters of his blood. The ship’s surgeon was at his side, ready to transport him to the sick berth, where he would have salt water rubbed in his wounds to aid their healing before having bandages applied.

  Newton wished he had the strength to push the surgeon away, to tell him to leave him. Even though his body would likely live, Newton wanted to die. If he’d had the strength at that moment, he would have risen, climbed through the porthole, and tossed himself into the sea.

  April 1745

  The letter in Polly’s pocket burned against her leg. She shouldn’t have it. Susanna shouldn’t have given it to her. But her spirits had lifted the moment Susanna had secretively slipped it to her after her arrival a short while ago.

  Although everything within her longed to find a private spot to tear it open and devour it, she let her fingers dance over the pianoforte keys, forming the melody of a song she hadn’t played in many months.

  “What a beautiful, cheerful song for this spring evening,” Mother said with a smile from where she sat embroidering near the globe lantern that was already glowing brightly.

  “It’s lovely,” Father added, his head leaned back against his wing chair, his eyes closed. In the oncoming shadows of the night, his face seemed more lined than usual, wearier, sadder.

  “Sing us the words that go with it.” Susanna glanced up from her spot on the settee next to Mother and Eliza. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled with an all too familiar mischief. It was no secret that Susanna was involved in her clandestine activities again. Marriage apparently hadn’t cured her aunt’s wildness after all. In fact, with each visit that spring, Polly had begun to suspect that Susanna relished getting away from London, that she wasn’t as happy in her new marriage as she let on.

  “The song is familiar,” Susanna continued, the gleam in her eyes growing even more mischievous. “Isn’t that one that you wrote with—”

  “I composed it myself.” Polly ducked her head before her family could see embarrassment coloring her cheeks. Even so, she felt her siblings’ gazes turn upon her from where they reclined on the floor playing dominoes.

  She wasn’t being untruthful. She had composed it herself. But ’twas also true that it was the last song she had worked on with John that fateful day when he kissed her for the first time. The day when he’d been impressed.

  She hadn’t played the song since then. Hadn’t wanted to. In fact, since the terrible parting with John at his Christmas leave, she hadn’t wanted to play or sing much at all. Her heart felt flat and dreary like a discordant, off-key chord.

  But somehow tonight with the promise of spring in the air and John’s letter in her pocket, a lightness had returned and a sweet melody was running through her body.

  “Sing to us,” Eliza pleaded.

  Polly smiled, remembering the way John had always been the first to beg her for a song. “If I sing, will you promise to empty the ash bins for me on the morrow?”

  “Perhaps.” Eliza smiled in return, knowing how little Polly enjoyed that particular task.

  Polly’s fingers moved over the familiar smooth ivory keys, but before she could begin the song, a loud knock on the front door brought her hands to a hovering standstill.

  Every time there was a knock, she prayed it would be John coming to visit her again. Even if her father had told him to leave and not come back. Even if he’d told John that he wasn’t the kind of man he wanted for her. Deep inside she hoped they would find a way to be together again. Surely they would.

  She would plead with John to work harder at finding a job, to be more reliable, to be more serious about life. She could help him stop drinking and gaming and become a better man, a man of whom her father would finally approve. Couldn’t she?

  The banging on the front door turned into slamming followed by shouts. Her father rose swiftly from his chair, his features tightening with anxiety.

  “George,” Susanna said, rising from the settee. “The guest at the door is likely for me. Let me answer it.”

  “No, Susanna.” Father stepped into the hallway without a backward glance. “Stay in the drawing room with everyone else. And don’t come out.”

  Susanna pressed her lips together. Even if she remained composed, there was a slight tremor in her fingers as she took several papers from her pocket and stuffed them down behind the settee cushion.

  The door banged open and was followed by an angry curse and “Where are those girls?”

  “What girls?
” Father replied.

  “The two that are responsible for handing out all the pamphlets along the riverfront,” said the gruff voice that sounded vaguely familiar—like the ox of a man who had beaten John outside the cave.

  “My daughters and other female family members of my household are here resting for the evening with us. If you have any complaints, then you’ll have to deal with me.”

  “That’s fine,” the visitor growled. “I’ll be happy to make you pay. After all your past meddling, it could have been you behind it all anyhow.”

  Polly’s pulse slowed with each word the man spoke.

  Her father didn’t respond, clearly willing to take the blame upon himself for whatever Susanna had done.

  “You should know that Charlie Baldock doesn’t like you,” the man said. The hairs on the back of Polly’s neck stood up at the menace in his tone. “He told me to tell you that he punished you once already, but that’ll be nothin’ compared to what he’s gonna do if you and your family don’t stay out of his business.”

  “You can tell him that I take my orders from God and the king,” Father replied tersely. “Not from thugs who break the law so they can fill their pockets with ill-gotten gain.”

  With that, Father closed the door loudly enough to send a message that he was finished with the discussion. After a moment he reappeared in the drawing room. No one spoke. Polly guessed they were praying, just as she was, that Charlie’s man would go away without threatening them anymore.

  The mantel clock ticked away a minute before Father looked directly at Susanna. “You know I admire you for your desire to fight the ills of our society. But I cannot allow you to come here and put us all in danger—especially Polly.”

  Susanna nodded. “I’m sorry—”

  “Charlie Baldock already suspects that Polly is against him. And now whatever you did today will only make matters worse for her.”

  “I didn’t think handing out the pamphlets would put Polly in jeopardy.” Susanna hung her head for only a moment before lifting her chin. “But if we’re able to bring an end to the smuggling and trading of slaves, then isn’t it worth the sacrifice? Look at what you’ve sacrificed for your convictions, George.”

  From their previous discussions about slavery, Polly knew her father wasn’t convinced that the simple act of letting slaves go was the solution to what he believed was a much more complicated issue.

  Mother lifted a weary hand to her forehead. “You have other matters that need your attention now, Susanna. Namely your husband and your home.”

  Susanna’s lush brown eyes sparked with indignation. “My husband seems to be able to take care of himself quite well without me.” Once the words were out, she blanched.

  “Perhaps you’re traveling here too often,” Mother offered more gently. “Maybe if you were home more often…”

  Susanna simply shook her head.

  “You’re newly married, and it takes time to adjust,” Mother added. “Besides, I’m sure children will be coming along soon.”

  Polly squirmed in discomfort and was grateful when Father put an end to the awkward conversation. “Susanna, as much as we enjoy your visits, it’s time for you to return to London and stay there.” Susanna’s eyes flamed with hurt. Before she could contradict Father, he spoke again. “And I’d like Polly to go with you. Perhaps she can live with her grandparents for a while.” He glanced at Mother and she nodded. “Polly has always wanted to go to school in London, but since that’s not possible, at least she can experience some of the cultured life—”

  “I’ll pay for her to go to school.” Susanna stepped to Polly and drew her into a side embrace. Polly’s pulse leaped at the prospect. She couldn’t deny she’d experienced pangs of envy whenever Felicity Baldock and her other friends came home from school and boasted about what a lovely time they were having. They were full of such poise, elegance, and maturity.

  Would she finally get to join them? She couldn’t keep from squeezing Susanna with a new sense of excitement.

  Her father shook his head. “No, we couldn’t allow you—”

  “Why not? I can easily afford it.”

  Her father’s brows arched above troubled eyes. “Your husband may think differently.”

  “He gives me whatever I want. And if I choose to help Polly, he won’t tell me no.” Again Susanna’s voice contained a bitter edge that Polly didn’t understand. “Besides, it’s partly my fault that she needs to leave Chatham. I owe you this, George.”

  Mother’s expression radiated her approval. “Polly can stay with Susanna on her breaks and keep her company. Right, Susanna?”

  “I’d be delighted to have Polly in London so close to me.”

  All eyes turned upon Father. Even the youngest of her siblings watched him expectantly. His astute gaze connected with Polly’s, and it was as if he could see into her soul. “Perhaps London will help you think about other things.”

  Polly refrained from patting her pocket. Did he know about her letter? Even if he didn’t, apparently he was quite aware that her feelings for John were still strong.

  “Then it’s settled,” Mother said. “Polly will move to London. And you will leave as soon as arrangements can be made.”

  The rest of the family seemed to take that as their cue that they should return to their activities. Susanna hurried from the room, probably to begin packing. Polly moved to do likewise, the thrum of excitement radiating louder with each step she took.

  As she crossed into the hallway, she could sense her father watching her. A moment later she heard his voice behind her. “Try to build some new memories, Polly.”

  She stopped halfway up the stairs and turned to face him. She couldn’t pretend that she didn’t understand what he meant. “I know I should, Father. But I can’t keep from thinking he’ll come back.”

  “Yes, I have no doubt he would have defied me and attempted to see you even though I’ve forbidden it.”

  “Would have?” The words sent dread skittering through her.

  Her father’s kind eyes pooled with the same sadness she’d seen there earlier. Even though he’d ordered John from their home, he would never wish John any ill will. “John deserted his ship but was recaptured.”

  “No.” The word was a harsh whisper that contained all her confusion and horror.

  “I’m sorry, Polly. I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Is he—” She couldn’t make herself say the word dead. It was too awful, too final. But everyone knew what happened to deserters. “Did they—”

  “They didn’t hang him,” her father said. “But he was flogged and demoted.”

  Polly shuddered and pressed her hands to her face to hide the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes. Oh John, her heart cried. Pain sliced through her as she pictured the cat-o’-nine-tails ravaging John’s bare back. God have mercy.

  “He’ll live.”

  She nodded at her father’s gentle words but couldn’t speak past the tight ache in her throat. After his unexcused leave at Christmas, she wasn’t entirely surprised by the news of John’s desertion. No, she was more hurt than surprised. Why hadn’t he stayed on his ship like he was supposed to? Why hadn’t he tried harder to please his captain and get promoted? If he loved her as much as he said he did, then why hadn’t he tried to find a way to make a life for them? Didn’t he know a deserter would be hunted, shamed, and cast out? Didn’t he know that as a deserter he’d lose all chances of winning her father’s approval?

  The prospects of having a future with John had been bleak before. But now any chance they may have had to be together completely disappeared.

  Her father didn’t speak the words he had every right to say: I told you so. Instead, she could feel his own deep sorrow at this turn of events.

  She inhaled a shaky breath and blinked back her tears before dropping her hands and looking at her father. From where he stood at the bottom of the stairs, the sorrow in his eyes was almost her undoing again. “What will happen to h
im now?” she managed to whisper without breaking down and sobbing.

  “The HMS Harwich is scheduled to act as a convoy to a fleet of Royal African Company ships that are headed to the East Indies.”

  Polly didn’t know much about the East Indies except that merchant ships returned from the faraway eastern islands carrying expensive spices like pepper, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, and ginger. However, the main goods the merchants traded for were tea and coffee. The merchants could hardly keep up with the high demand for tea in the British Isles and provinces. Even the poor drank tea, buying used tea leaves from cooks of the rich who often used and reused the leaves themselves.

  The voyage to the East Indies would involve months of travel down the coast of Africa and then more months of travel over to India and finally months more to the Far East. All told, John could be gone for years.

  “It’s time for you to go to London,” her father said quietly, climbing the steps toward her. “And finally time to say good-bye to John.”

  She nodded even though the motion pained her. She didn’t know how she’d ever be able to forget John Newton. He’d captured her heart in a way no one ever had and in a way she doubted anyone ever would again.

  Her father stopped on the step beneath her. And when he opened his arms, she flung herself into his embrace. Good-bye, John, her heart whispered as her tears wet her father’s shirt. Good-bye. Forever.

  The sails above Newton flapped as the wind gathered in them. He couldn’t straighten his back to look, but that sound was as familiar to him as his own breathing. His wounds were scabbing over and drying, yet any attempt to sit up pulled the skin taut and caused the welts to crack and bleed. The reopening stung like someone was slitting them open with a knife.

  Holystoning the deck on his hands and knees was a demeaning chore, but at least his back was safe from too much stretching, especially if he didn’t scrub too vigorously.

  All around him were the noises of a ship that was finally underway. “Ship off the port stern,” the boatswain called. There were shouts from sailors high up in the rigging and the swelling crash of the waves as the ship sliced through the water.