Sincerely, Jennifer x

12th November 1828 

My dearest love,

I long for the land, so I may see you again, and be free of my torment.

I write, and I write, yet, as long as I am a slave to the sea, these thoughts may as well remain in my head. 

In fifteen days, my life begins again, for I will be back on land for two weeks, and in your arms again. That is the promise that keeps me strong in my weakest moments, and my sweet one, it pains me to say that there have been many moments of weakness in these last few days. 

I am ever faithful, to you, and to my God, but there are moments when I feel my soul shrink and my body waver. I must confess, I fear I may not return to you as the man you kissed goodbye many moons ago. 

Never shall my devotion to you falter, my darling, but as these days wear on, sweet love, I am beginning to wonder if God truly watches over me. 

I pray, with every spare moment that these doubts and fancies shall find no home in my head, and yet, as surely as the sun returns to the sky when morning comes, I am bound to wonder why God’s light no longer shines upon me. 

I do not say these things to frighten you, my sweet one, but to tell you of my plight, in case our last kiss was truly our last. Please know that I have adored you, and been devoted to you with everything that I am. I only wish that I could have provided a life for you without having left your side. 

A curse upon my Father and his fall from grace, for if he had not fallen out of favour with the fates, perhaps I would never have ended up on this vessel, breaking my back for shillings. Most days, I am aware that he, like many of his brood could not have predicted or stopped the panic and later crash, and if he had his way, my Father would still be a wealthy man, and I would have a future on the land, but there are days, like today, where I wish him dead, and I wish my blood belonged to another. 

Once, I was to own the world, and now, I am but a lowly Seaman, ferrying the cotton that had once made my Father the King of the Earth. 

I do not deserve you. I know in my bones that you could be happier with a man of means, who has not lost his looks to stress and shame, but you, my sweet girl, have stayed by my side through it all. 

All of this is to say, my love, that I miss you more than I could ever describe, and that the sorrowful, swaying boards of this ship make me long for you, more than I ever thought possible. 

If I were in your arms tonight, I am assured that my dreams would be sweet, and that the shadows would chase me no longer. 

Oh, sweet darling, the shadows… I fear they may be the death of me. 

When my eyes close, and the night sets its sights on me, I am plagued with a darkness I cannot escape. Every night, I am haunted by hungry shadows, clutching at my soul with such fury that I fear when I return to you, there shall be nothing left. 

It is as if I am awake as I dream, my feet heavy on the creaky boards of the ship as the cargo calls to me. Every night, I find myself dreaming of the hold, surrounded by shadows as a crate looms up ahead, its shadows spanning long beyond what I can see. 

There are no bales of cotton, as there ought to be, just a crate. One single crate, in the middle of the hold, that seems to take up such space that the room feels microscopic. 

The air is earthy, damp and dripped in decay as I stare at the crate, and the trailing blood that trickles down the cracked wood. 

The wood shakes and splinters as something from inside fights to escape, and in my heart, I know that it shall be my doom. The ocean roars, wild with the winds, and yet, in my ear, I hear a voice, as the shadows seem to command every hair on the back of my neck to attention. 

My blood begins to chill as it whispers a plea, grave and without an ounce of affection or understanding. 

“Let us be free, William, and you shall be spared.”

It knows not what it asks, and to be candid in a way that I can barely bear to be, I fear that I do not know the full truth of what it asks. 

Free? Free from what? 

Spared? Spared from what? 

I cannot know. To know would be the end of everything. It swirls in my mind like a great storm, and I am helpless to the rage of the furious night. 

I awake, but I am still under its spell, never at ease and never free of the thought of what may lay inside. 

I dare not tell anyone what I have been seeing, and I don’t ask questions about what we transport, of course. I have made this journey enough times to know that it would be a foolish action. I do as the Captain asks, from London to the Port of Mobile and back again. I take each day as it comes, and am obedient, always thinking of you, and the things I shall buy you when I return home. 

I don’t want to know what lies in the hold. It isn’t my business, and yet… I fear that soon, I shall know, and it shall consume me. 

Probably cotton. 

It must be cotton, and nothing more. My bad dreams are just bad dreams. There is nothing below these boards but cotton, journeying to the prosperous and welcoming arms of Britain. Just cotton, and nothing more… and yet, I dream of the darkest things, Agatha. 

The others are weary, for we have travelled many miles. I too tire of my surroundings and ache far more than I’d ever let on, but somehow, I feel it is all up to me. I must stay strong, because it speaks to me. 

Perhaps this is nothing but dismal dreams, but… perhaps it is more. I hope for anything but more, but at sea, one must be prepared for anything. 

I pray that soon, I shall return to your side, and this journey will be behind me. Nothing more than a distant, dreary memory I shall endeavour to forget. 

Until then, let your warmest blanket surround your shoulders, and hold you close when I cannot. I shall always remain your loving husband, and I wish with all of my heart, that I could give you a life worthy of you, without leaving the wonder of your soft gaze. 

Ever yours, 

William