The Nautilus Legacy

Book 1: The Nemo Chronicles

by Lewis Crow

Genres: Sea Adventures; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

The stunning revelation that his father became none other than the infamous Captain Nemo shakes a young man's world to its foundation. This fictional memoir recounts his life after a tragic war destroys his family and nearly kills him. Learning the truth about his father years later compels him to make a difficult choice: will he keep his comfortable but unspectacular middle-class Victorian existence or forsake everything to continue Nemo's work of exploring the seas and aiding the oppressed?

Researched to be true to the spirit of Verne's source novels (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Mysterious Island) and his original ideas, The Nautilus Legacy moves from Europe to America to the depths of the sea and beyond. In addition to its literary and adventure themes, it is also the very personal story of an insecure man who struggles with the life of his father and their unfinished relationship.

 

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Release date: March 21, 2018

Publisher: Blackbyrd Press

Print pages: 295

Sample

1

Papa disappeared on May 10th, 1864.  I last saw him when the remaining loyal villagers smuggled him in through the servant’s entrance of our Warsaw home.

“Only for a moment,” he told us.

“Where are you going this time?” Mother asked.

“Back to the mountains.  We have a hideout in the Sudetes, and we’re working on a new strategy.”

“Take us with you!” Tania pleaded.

“Too dangerous.  I can’t stay here, either.  They’re hunting for me.”

“They’ve broken in twice during the last month,” said Mother.

“My aim is to get out of the country and head west.  If I get to England, I’ll do everything possible to bring you out.”

I hugged him and said, “Be careful, Papa.  I want to see you again.”

“You will, Tadeusz.  No matter what the Russians say or what you may hear, know that our fight is not over.  I want you to pray for me every day.”

“I will, I promise.”

He hugged us.  Then he took Mother aside for a few moments.  I couldn’t hear what they said before they kissed.

He turned to Monique, our governess, and squeezed her hands.  “Take good care of them.  They’re all I have left.”

She forced a smile.  “I will, sir.  You can rely on me.”

“Goodbye, everyone.  I love you always.”

With that, he vanished.

Less than half an hour later, the Russians returned.

They kicked open the door to the study where we gathered.  The first two times they searched the house with half a dozen men.  This time they brought at least twenty.

Four of them surrounded us.  Others charged through the servants’ quarters and upstairs.  The sickening, “Wham!  Wham!” of doors breaking open made Mother cry.

We heard a loud commotion and screaming from my grandparents’ room, followed by several shots.  Grandpapa always swore he would die defending his home against the tsar’s forces.

The officer in charge snarled at Mother, “Where is he?”

She shrugged.  “I don’t know.  We haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Lies!”  He slapped her.  “He came here earlier this evening.  Where is he hiding?”

Tania ran up and started hitting him.  “Leave Mommy alone!”

Kicking her away, the officer aimed his pistol and shot her point blank.  She tumbled back like a rag doll.

Mother screamed, “Nooo!” and rushed to her.  Wailing, she picked up her bleeding body and cradled it.

I still feel numb when I replay her death.  To this day, I don’t understand why they shot an innocent child.  I know why Papa hated the Russians.  Barbarians!

The one in command sneered at Mother.  “Tell me where your husband is, or I will also kill your son!”

She kept on crying and said nothing.

One of the soldiers pointed his rifle at Monique.  She started babbling in French and held her head without even appearing to comprehend.

The others finished searching the house and began leaving.  A sergeant stopped and spoke to the officer.  “Nothing.”

The man tore Mother away from Tania.  “Where is your husband?  Tell me!”

We heard a shot in the distance.  Most of the troops immediately cleared out of the house.  A minute later came more shots, then silence.

We figured it had to be Papa.  In shock, I looked at Mother.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.  She glanced at me and nodded, motioning toward the casement window.

I knew she cared more about my survival than her own.  Maybe she thought Papa was dead and she might as well die with him.  I’ll never know for sure.

Only two soldiers remained in the room.  One of them watched Monique as she covered her ears and sat down on the sofa with a look of total bewilderment.  As I tried to move to the window behind me, Mother struck the commander in the back with a heavy vase.

Falling forward, he dropped his pistol, which discharged when it hit the floor.

I felt a strange burning pain in my left shoulder.  Then soldiers appeared everywhere, firing their guns.

Losing my balance, I crashed through the window.  Shards of glass rained down, and my head tingled as I hit the grass.  Mother shrieked, and I could feel blood all over me.  Then I blacked out.

* * *

When I regained consciousness, I noticed I was in a bed and heard people speaking French.  Monique slowly came into focus.

“Welcome to Paris,” she said with a smile.

“What am I doing here?”

She kissed my forehead.  “We’ll talk later.  Rest easy.”

A hundred questions filled my mind, along with the pain in my body.  I wished to speak, yet I could only think about how much I hurt.  I wanted to know about my parents.  Was it all a horrible dream?

No.  I knew something awful happened, but I couldn’t remember much.  One morning Monique told me the whole story.

“They shot you twice.  And you nearly sliced your head open when you fell into the window.”

“How did I get here?”

“That is quite a tale.  I believed you were dead, and so did the soldiers.  They weren’t interested in shooting a poor old woman who offered no resistance and only spoke French.”  She winked.  “They pushed me out of the house and set it on fire.  The man they killed wasn’t your father, so they marched off to search for him.

“I stood on the lawn, weeping like a baby.  Here this wonderful woman and her two children lay murdered before me.  Thinking I could at least try to arrange a decent burial for you, I picked you up and started walking away.  Then I noticed you breathing!  I told God if He let you live, I would spend the rest of my life caring for you.  I said, ‘His parents have been so good to me, let me pay them back by helping him.’ ”

As she wiped away tears, parts of that terrible night came back to me.  My mother and sister were dead.  Papa might be, too.  I began sobbing.  Why was I still alive?  What would I do now?

She continued her narrative.  “Dr. Crizowicz kept you from bleeding to death.  He stitched up your scalp, fought an infection in your shoulder where the bullet passed through, and brought your high fever down.  We hid in his house a few days, but I would not rest until I got you to Paris.  I knew you would be safe here.  When we reached Prussia, I sent a telegram to Madame Helena Duquesne, a sweet friend of many years.  She provided a carriage to meet us at the border and promised you would get the best possible care.  So here you are.”

“What about the Prussian border guards?”

“I still had my French papers with me.  I convinced them you were my son and said a horse trampled you.  I told them my husband was dead and I needed to return to France to my family there.”  She gave me a pat on the foot.  “I did whatever I could to save you.”

I reached out and embraced her.  At that moment, I became the son she never had.

And I knew the answers to all my questions, save one: what really happened to Papa? 

* * *

I was born Tadeusz Wyzinski on November 3, 1853.  My childhood memories are faded, but I remember a home filled with joy.  Until the revolution, life seemed ideal.  Being the son of a count definitely had its advantages.

Although we were wealthy, Papa never allowed us to look down on anybody.  “Beneath our clothes,” he once told me, “we are all human.”  He always cared about other Poles.  “Conditions under the Russians are very poor for most people,” he said, “and we need to remember our blessings.”

School began when I turned six.  Papa made certain I learned plenty of science, literature, and history.  I idolized him so.  He could do no wrong in my eyes.  He was a religious man and insisted I develop a faith in God—something I am glad I did.

I loved learning, but my appetite for knowledge paled in comparison to his.  Despite his insistence on a rigorous education, I think he wanted me to be happy above all.  I wonder how he would react if he knew the extent to which I became like him.

A myriad of people, most a faint remembrance now, played essential parts in my upbringing: teachers, priests, family friends, and of course, Monique.  Originally from Paris, she was in her fifties, the widow of a Polish colonel.  A jolly, plump, red-cheeked lady, she exhibited unending optimism, unwavering energy, and unconditional love.  She helped raise us, as she had no children of her own.  Whenever Mother and Papa welcomed guests, she would entertain us, make certain we behaved like proper Polish children, and tell funny bedtime stories.

Our family spent many holidays together, occasionally traveling in Western Europe.  Monique sometimes took a holiday herself to see friends back in the French capital.

An engineer by training, Papa would make some of my toys.  Together, we built simple boats out of paper, wood, and paint—my favorite thing to do.  How I loved spending time with him.  Unfortunately, there never seemed to be enough.

* * *

Children don’t expect their lives to fall apart, so the 1863 rebellion caught me by surprise.  One more tragic attempt to throw out our Russian conquerors, it began on January 22nd.

Nothing was ever the same again.  We were people in an occupied territory fighting our occupiers.  Skirmishes erupted on city streets as well as in the hillsides.

Papa would be away for weeks, so we never knew how he was, or even if he was still alive.  He aided the Polish Reds with his considerable financial resources and his own body.  Five times he came back wounded.  He often fought on the ever-shifting front lines and led an October ambush outside Lodz.  Fighting beside farmers, craftsmen, and landowners, he always seemed to defy death.

When things went badly for the Reds, he tried to rally the people to continue on.  While he was home recovering or planning the next stage of the struggle, I sometimes overheard views I never heard him utter before.  “Russia is beyond an enemy with whom we must battle, Marisa.  It is a monstrous evil, and I hate it with every fibre of my being.  I would die a contented man if I could put a bullet in that bastard Alexander’s skull!”

Comments like these always frightened me, but the changes in him terrified Mother.  As time went on, she retreated to her private study more often, especially in his absence.  Monique would tell us she felt tired, but I knew it was depression about the war. 

Diplomacy failed to win any concessions from Tsar Alexander II.  Papa called him “a foul tyrant and a reprehensible excuse for a man.  His death could not be more warranted for what he has done to our nation!”

The other European powers never answered Poland’s pleas for support.  “Arrogant hypocrites,” Papa said.  “They speak from both sides of their mouths and pay lip service to the ideals of democracy.”

He saw his dreams dying.  Mother, too, could only watch helplessly as their vision of a strong, independent nation collapsed in ruin.  “Quit the revolution,” she once begged him.  “At least make a future for your family if you can’t make one for your country!”

During the yearlong struggle, the Russians caught and executed some rebel leaders.  Others died in the vicious fighting.  A severe snowstorm in early December brought hostilities to a standstill and gave Papa time to return home.

Then one of our most important conversations took place.  We sat and watched the blizzard outside, and he tried to explain what the war was all about and why his young son’s world turned upside down.  Both blazing fire and deep sorrow filled his eyes.

“Papa, why do you have to fight?  Why can’t things be like they were when Mother was happy?”

“All people were created to live free.  Yet across the globe, unjust rulers have enslaved the bodies of their fellow men.  Nations build empires for vain glory.  Some, like Russia, are in the hands of greedy, power-mad despots who will do anything to hold what they’ve stolen.  We tried to give Poles back their right to freedom, and all we meet is armed oppression.  I hate the killing.  But we must strike down that which oppresses us.  Should we not do whatever we can to remove the yoke that chains any man anywhere?

“If you learn nothing else from the revolution, learn this: people can never reach their potential unless they are free.  And for Poland to be liberated, we must do it alone.  The Europeans won’t help for fear of offending Alexander.  He wants to obliterate us and blot out the name and heritage of Poland.  That cannot happen.  One day, if it takes a thousand years, we will have our freedom.”  He started to cry as he hugged me.  “It is our birthright!”

I watched his vulnerability unmasked in his tears—a man surrounded by a nation which believed, yet utterly alone.  His dream, his ambition, and his pride all collided with the reality of his revolution’s failure.  The rebellion would go on and more men would die, but the battle for independence could never succeed.  I think he knew it, but he had to continue the struggle.  He just had to.

By February 1864, the Reds’ movement lay in total disarray, and only the most fanatical, like Papa, continued to resist.  The Russians controlled the cities, leaving isolated pockets of resistance in rural and southern mountain areas.

When I saw him, he looked thin and ill.  An old man, even in his forties.  “We have little food and no warm clothing.”

I asked him, begged him, to return home for good.  “Please, Papa.  Please come back.  Let’s go to France.  We’ll be together again like we used to.”

“I can’t.  Russian agents would find me.  And I must fight for what is right, even if I’m the only one left.  That way my life will have meant something.”

His words hurt.  I didn’t care about his noble cause.  I wanted my father home, and I wanted him the way he was before the war.  I didn't know you could not turn back time.

The misbegotten revolt ended in April, when the real terror began.  Once the Russians gained total control, they hunted all surviving rebels.  The peasants tried their best to hide men on the lam, but it did little good.  Atrocities occurred frequently.

Alexander upped the ante by putting a bounty on the heads of the most wanted men.  Papa’s name was infamous, and we feared someone might betray or kill him soon.  I had no idea our family would pay the price for his resistance until the terrible night of May 10th.

Over the years, I never encountered one person who saw him after that.  I could only assume he was dead.

* * *

When the hospital released me in mid-June, Monique and I lived with the Duquesnes.  Monsieur Henri made a small fortune as an industrialist, and Madame Helena held an important place in Paris’ social structure.  They had two sons.

In spite of my background and Eastern European looks, they accepted me.   It is impossible to recount every kindness shown to me.  They let us stay for several months while I recuperated.  Furthermore, they enrolled me in a private academy, helped Monique get her widow’s pension, and aided us in purchasing a small home.  No doubt, Mme. Duquesne’s social circle contained the right contacts.  Their lawyer even persuaded the courts to make me a ward in Monique’s custody.

 * * *

As 1865 began, Monique commented on how I matured.  In a year, I went from being a nobleman’s son to an orphan near death to school in France with a loving guardian.

My schoolmate, Bertrand Sommaire, became my best friend.  We studied and played together, and as we matured, our conversations drifted from pranks to politics and history.  The more we learned, the more we had to talk about.

As teenagers, we sought out books on philosophy and political economy, as well as essays on freedom and government.  We devoured Rousseau, Locke, Hobbes, Descartes, Smith, and the works of Thomas Jefferson.  Bertrand even bragged that his grandfather met the former American president during his days as ambassador to France.

Other friends often joined in our learned discussions, and sometimes we would play sports and engage in a political debate simultaneously.  I imagine we discussed many of the same things Papa and his companions did in their day.  Of course, we always made time for pretty girls.  Bertrand had a way with them that I can best describe as the gift of charm.

I was an excellent student, and I am sure Papa would have been proud.  Monique never failed to encourage me and appreciate my success.  Mme. Duquesne told me she once met my father during his youthful European travels.  His intellect impressed her, and she said I surely took after him in that regard.

* * *

I turned sixteen in November of 1869.  Next year I would graduate, so I started thinking seriously about what I would study in university.  Shortly before Christmas, Bertrand and I visited the Duquesnes.

1. Duquesne sat in his drawing room reading a new volume as we passed through, and he stopped us to talk. “You boys might find this book interesting. The author is a professor from the Paris Museum of Natural History.  He tells a remarkable story of some madman who held him and two companions prisoner on a marvelous submarine boat for several months before they escaped.” 

We burst out laughing.  How absurd!

“It is fiction, right, sir?” Bertrand asked.

“No, every word is true.  It’s the talk of the town in all circles.  Even people in England and America are discussing it.”

“I’ve read a little about submarines.  No such fancy craft with a crew of pirates exists,” I scoffed.  “It’s not possible.  The technology is too primitive.”

1. Duquesne said, “Our scientific and political communities do not share your youthful skepticism. I know men who have met Professor Arronax, and they are certain he is not crazy.”

“But a large submarine?” I countered.  “The American Confederacy had limited success in their War of Secession with an eight-man boat.  And it sank.”

He smiled.  “Well, someone has apparently outdone them by quite a distance.  Even if you will not concede its existence, you must concede its possibility.  One of you could someday build an even more complex craft, with the right education.”

“Not me,” answered Bertrand.  “I will study medicine and become a doctor.”

1. Duquesne looked at me. “Perhaps you, Tadeusz? Monique tells me you are starting to read books on engineering.”

“I’m interested in practical machines, not fantasy.”

“Why not consider it?  You could study nautical or mechanical engineering.”

Well, I did think about what he said.  The idea of using my education to make something daring intrigued me.  I wanted to learn more about each field of engineering before making my decision, but I realized then it would be my subject of study.  Just like Papa.

* * *

When Bertrand and I discussed political issues, the conversations often turned to Poland.  I told him as much as I knew of Papa’s views and added my own opinions, but at that time, I did not have Papa’s passion.

Bertrand believed in the absolute freedom of the individual to shape his destiny.  To him, government’s purpose was to secure and protect a man’s right to live however he wanted.  “Everything one does from the time he becomes sentient until he dies is his own choice.”

“Your philosophy leaves little room for God,” I chided.  “Surely, in all you observe, you must see the Creator’s fingerprints.”

“I might agree with a deist like Jefferson, but nothing beyond.  You know, few of this country’s great thinkers would agree with you.  But because you are my friend, I respect your beliefs and have no desire to turn you from them.”

“Spoken like a true believer in free will,” I said with a laugh.

I shared Papa’s conviction that people must be free.  But I did not agree with Bertrand’s laissez-faire extension of it.  “I feel we have a responsibility to make sure our neighbor is free, not just ourselves.  Nations should oppose tyranny and oppression in fellow nations.”

Bertrand countered, “If everyone concerned themselves with living their own lives, no one would have the time or inclination to oppress others or meddle in their affairs.”

We had many such lively talks.  I never could get him to concede that his philosophy was unworkably utopian since we live in a world of unjust governments.

One day he asked me, “Do you think Poland will ever be again?”

Instinctively, I wanted to take Papa’s stand and say, “Not unless there is a successful revolution,” but I paused before answering.  “Only if the European governments will it to happen.  Something would have to force Russia and Prussia to give up the territory.”

“Something like a war, perhaps?  History proves the end of a conflict to be the most frequent reshaper of national boundaries.  A few years ago, Austria lost Venetia to Italy in the Austro-Prussian War.”

“I would not ask countries to go to war simply to carve out a new Poland.”

“After two failed rebellions this century, what else could work?”

“Perhaps a new Enlightenment can sweep the continent—a political one where corrupt regimes inevitably fall, and people yearning for freedom can effect change.”

“What if they have no power to do so?”

“Then those who are able must give them that power.”

“You, mon amie, are an interventionist.”

“I suppose I am,” I conceded.  “It isn’t just Poland’s independence I’d like to see.  I wish all men could be as free as you and I are.  I wish there was someone big enough to stand up to the tyrants and make them see their folly.”

“How about that God of yours?  If he can part the Red Sea, he can make Bismarck and Alexander listen to Him.”

“You’re teasing.  I’m talking about a person.  Or a nation.  If you want me to admit I don’t have all the answers, then I admit it.  I only know what I want to see happen—what is right.”

My friend sat back, shook his head, and said, “I have the feeling you will someday be an important man.  I don’t know in what way, but I am sure you’ll make a mark on this world.”

* * *

I graduated from the academy in May of 1870.  Fall meant the beginning of university, and the Duquesnes offered to pay for it.  I wanted to decline because they had been so generous already, but I possessed no other means of financing my schooling.  I accepted with humble thanks.

I planned to enroll in the University of Paris as a student of mechanical science and engineering.  However, everything changed on July 15th when a French political dispute with the Prussian royal family started the Franco-Prussian War.

By August, Bismarck’s forces swept as far west as Metz.  No one knew whether the Germans would overrun the entire country.  Prussia remained on friendly terms with Tsar Alexander, and as the son of a Polish fugitive, I worried they might hand me over if they found me.

My benefactors also feared for my safety.  Sizing up the situation, they concluded it would be best for me to leave the country.  Mme. Duquesne sent an urgent telegram to some friends in London, the Chadwicks.  Meanwhile, M. Duquesne made preparations for Monique and me to emigrate for England.  The arrangements took some time, of course, so we could not leave before September 10th.

The soggy, cloudy weather on departure day added to our already dreary moods.  With much sorrow, Monique and I bid farewell to the Duquesnes.  We all promised to write often, and the couple reiterated their offer to pay for my education.

“I’ll return when it’s safe,” I vowed, hoping more than believing.  Once again, I fell victim to international squabbles and political games.  I understood why Papa got disillusioned.  The aggressors always seemed to gain the upper hand.

We exchanged tears and embraces before Monique and I boarded the steam ferry from Le Havre to Portsmouth.  We waved goodbye until our hands ached.  I loved this country and its people, especially the Duquesnes and Bertrand.

After docking at Portsmouth, we went through immigration processing.  That intricate business took more than a day.  I saw why Monique guarded her French papers so closely in Poland.  On the 12th, we at last set out for London.

England’s bustling capital was no less rainy than Le Havre, so we must have looked like a soaked, forlorn lot when we set foot on the Chadwick estate outside of town.

As my eyes took in the manicured scenery, I tried to calculate the size of it all.  It looked much larger than the Duquesnes’ estate.   I felt very intimidated as we walked through the iron front gate.

Someone must have seen us from the house, because the door opened, and Lucy Chadwick stood there with a welcome smile.  She was in her late fifties, with a slender figure.

Rain dripping from my coat, I looked up and said, “Madame Chadwick?” not knowing the correct way to address her.

Monique jumped in, introducing us in French.

I cut her off.  “I’m sorry, madam, she does not speak English.”

Lucy Chadwick raised an eyebrow, smiled again, and replied to Monique in flawless French.  She ushered us in from the rain and introduced herself as Lady Chadwick.  “Emma,” she called to a maidservant, “Please get some towels and dry clothes for our guests.”

After we dried and dressed, the servants led us to the drawing room and offered tea.  I never saw so much astounding artwork in one place.  Even though I was sixteen, I felt I needed to behave like a proper Polish child again.

“Since I received Helena’s message, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.  We will be happy to have you with us.”

Her warm reply began to relieve the knot in my stomach.  Before we could thank her, she offered to let us stay in the unused upstairs rooms of the south wing.

“When we heard of the war in France, we were concerned about the Duquesnes.  Helena and I have known each other for ages.  I’m glad they are well.”

I never heard anyone in France, not even her friends, call Mme. Duquesne “Helena.”

We explained our story in more detail than the Duquesnes’ telegram did.  I could tell from the look on her face that the tragedy touched Lady Chadwick.  She asked me, “How is your health?”

“I am quite well, thank you.  I’ve suffered no lasting effects from my injuries.”

She put her teacup down.  “You’ll meet my husband, Edward, at dinner.  He is a wonderful man.  After retiring from the army, he received his peerage and began teaching physics at King’s College.  I should tell you he’s strict but delightful to be around.  When the grandchildren are visiting, he crawls on the floor and plays with them.  And he’s over sixty years old!”

The Chadwicks had three children.  John, the eldest, served in the army.  Phillip, whose oversized clothes I now wore, was a talented violinist who studied at Oxford.

The youngest was beautiful Sarah, with auburn hair like her mother.  I developed an immediate infatuation for her.  My heart sank a few days later when I learned of her engagement to a cousin of Queen Victoria.

Monique and I did what we could to earn our keep, but with a houseful of servants, it proved difficult to find something undone.  Monique started learning English and began volunteer work with a local orphanage, one of Lady Chadwick’s favorite charities.  Six years of raising me made her quite qualified!

I spent many evenings visiting with Lord Chadwick.  We discussed political, economic, and historical issues, much as Bertrand and I did.  We were both surprised at how well we could converse.  Despite our age difference, we spoke on the same level.  Of course, his lengthy military career and experiences kept me coming back with questions.

In all this, he took my measure.  When the subject of education came up, he made his move.  He would recommend me for admission to King’s College in the spring of 1871 if the Duquesnes could still pay for it, which they did.  King’s accepted me right away.

* * *

The preeminent engineering college in England, King’s challenged me academically.  By the time I graduated, my studies forced me to drop out of all extracurricular activities except one, the Debating Club.

Though not an engineer, Lord Chadwick helped me with course material when I needed it, which was more often than I would have liked.  A surrogate father, he instilled self-discipline, persistence, and humor in just the right amounts.

Soon after I started school, France lost the war.  We still received a few letters from the Duquesnes with my tuition money.  They said Prussian artillery actually bombarded Paris before the fighting stopped.  Due to the overthrow of Emperor Napoleon III, France became a republic, and Germany united under Bismarck as a great military power.

The longer I lived, the more truth I saw in Papa’s views, and I expounded on them in the Debating Club.  I had matured, read, and learned much in the past seven years, so I formed plenty of ideas to add to what he taught me.  I came into my own during those debates, and the team elected me captain in 1873.

* * *

One of my favorite instructors, Professor of History Cedric Newberry, was a walking encyclopedia who gave me a sense of historical conscience.  Having strong opinions about freedom or right and wrong proved easy for me, but it wasn’t until I took his classes and got to know him that I developed a broader view of the world. 

I stayed after class on the day he discussed the plight of the Russian population under the tsars.  Knowing only what that nation did to my family, I had never considered the people who lived there.

“Tadeusz, I hope you see that Poles aren’t the only ones who suffered injustice.  I don’t mean to criticize, but your views are too narrow.  They are right, but too sharply focused.  Tell me honestly, until today did it ever occur to you that a country like Russia could subjugate its own citizens?”

“No.”

“Did you realize that oppression is a curse which extends back into history for hundreds and thousands of years?”

I felt chagrined.  “No, sir, not until you lectured on the Spanish crushing the Aztecs.”

He patted me on the shoulder.  “With all you’ve been through, it’s understandable you would think primarily of your homeland.”

“And we aren’t the only people deprived of freedom even now, are we?”

“Quite right, son.  The Candiotes of Crete.  The slaves of the American Civil War.  Frankly, even this country’s treatment of India could be considered a kind of oppression.”

Conversations like these helped me understand and appreciate Papa’s universal condemnation of tyranny.  I saw beyond my own struggles in a vivid, concrete way.  I began to grasp a global view of all the issues we discussed.

* * *

Despite being a foreigner, I enjoyed living in England and think I assimilated into British society as well as I could have.  Because England controlled so many countries of diverse cultures, my ethnicity never became an obstacle.

Between semesters, the Chadwicks often included me in their social gatherings.  I must have done the rounds as Papa did in his time, but I’m certain I made a much smaller impact.  I had the privilege of meeting some of the Royal Family, many members of the House of Lords, and plenty of academicians and industrialists.  Employment would not be a problem once I graduated.  The Chadwicks championed me at every chance.  I felt so appreciative.

At Lord Chadwick’s birthday party, I was chatting with Phillip when the resonant voice of Professor Newberry startled me.

“Tadeusz, please come with me for a moment.  There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  He introduced me to a girl with soft green eyes and beautiful blonde curls.  “Darling, Tadeusz is the one I told you about.  Sometimes I think he could teach my European History class for me!”  He chuckled at his own joke.  “Tadeusz, this is my daughter, Margaret.”

I smiled.  “A pleasure, indeed, to meet one so lovely.”

She blushed.  “Father warned me about you college boys.  All flattery with the young ladies.”

“ ‘Sincerity is the way of heaven,’ ” I replied.

I looked at Professor Newberry, standing behind Margaret.  He winked.

Although she questioned my sincerity at first, I was so taken with her that she saw honesty in my persistence.  We spent a lot of time together in the next two summers doing everything from visiting museums to walking along the Thames.  She often helped care for her four nieces and nephews, and she always seemed happy after being around “the little angels,” as she called them.

              I pondered the prospect of someday having children myself.  Certainly, I did not want any child to endure what I went through, and I wondered what kind of father I would make, anyway, given my background.

Papa remained with me in so many ways.  Was he truly gone?  Would I ever know for sure?  How could I put him to rest, as it were?  I needed some way of letting go.

I attended a Remembrance Day service with Margaret’s family in 1874.  She placed flowers on the grave of her grandfather, who died in the Napoleonic Wars.  As a lone bagpiper played Amazing Grace, I knew what I was missing.  I never formally said goodbye.  No funeral, no eulogy, no memorial service.  I needed to find Papa’s resting place.

It wouldn’t be an easy thing.  No marble tomb inside Polish territory existed.  The Russians would never do that.  They probably dug mass graves wherever they could, if they bothered at all.  But maybe somewhere in the countryside lay a simple plot, one the people would know belonged to him....

I was daydreaming.  At least for the time being, I forced myself to put aside the idea.  All the same, I had to do it.  Someday.

              My own appearance was another ever-present reminder.  Monique would mention how much I resembled him, especially with my recently grown beard and moustache.

* * *

I missed Bertrand terribly, even though we corresponded from time to time.  I did make some good friends at King’s, especially Margaret’s cousin Peter Osgood, the captain of the rugby team and a native of Sydney, Australia.

Peter stood over six and a half feet high, with a lumberjack build.  Measuring six feet myself, I hardly qualified as short.  But around him, I looked small!

He disliked his given name for some reason and referred to himself as Osgood, which I also obligingly did.  Though strong and imposing, he chose to study the gentle science of economics.  As might be expected, we often conversed over brandy about politics, economies, and governments.

He liked my tales of Poland found and lost and enthusiastically supported my belief that she should be free and independent.  He agreed about fighting oppressors with all available means, including economic and military force.  “The free-market system—which, by the by, is the best way to do things—cannot thrive where national or international tyranny exists,” he stated without reserve.

It seems so funny now.  Two young men, keenly political, yet neither of us desired a career in that field, even with our well-rounded educations.  Osgood became an economist for Parliament and I a mechanical engineer.

* * *

I graduated in the spring of 1875.  I possessed a diploma from King’s, a job offer from Cammell, Laird Shipbuilders in Birkenhead, and a mind full of ideas.  I cherished liberty, and I wanted to make a difference.  I hated war, but I wished to fight evil.  I wanted to lead a cause, though I lacked the stomach for political haggling.

If I seemed mixed-up, I really wasn’t.  Margaret understood well enough to keep me on an even keel.  She could fathom my dreams, desires, and demons.  At the same time, she never allowed my dizzying notions to sweep me away.  Her support and love proved unwavering.

For so many reasons, I asked Professor Newberry for her hand in marriage.  She was such a good friend, I could not leave her behind when I moved to Birkenhead.  We married on July 10th in the chapel at King’s College.  While I never considered the professor a “father” to me, I knew I earned his respect.  Osgood, also recently engaged, served as my best man, to keep it in the family.

We honeymooned in Paris.  We were hopelessly in love, and the romantic atmosphere made for a wonderful week.

Despite my inexperience, I threw myself into the work, which became my first exposure to things nautical and marine.  The Royal Navy wanted mightier warships, and steamship lines like Cunard and White Star wanted bigger ocean liners.  Cammell, Laird needed larger facilities to stay competitive, so I was assigned to that unit of the company.

It was a great place to observe the latest in naval thought and design.  I regularly saw the blueprints of interesting new ships.  I enjoyed it and studied up a bit on ships in my spare time.  Quite a change for someone who never before lived near an ocean.

Some of the engineers belonged to a sailing club in Liverpool, just across the Mersey River from Birkenhead.  After some persuading, I joined them one weekend.  We sailed around in the Irish Sea, hugging the shoreline for about three hours.  Much to my surprise, I found it a delightful experience.  I hadn’t had such fun in years!  I couldn’t wait to do it again—and again.

My job paid well enough for me to afford my own small, used sailboat.  By the time I got it, I was on my way to being a true sailor.  The bug certainly bit me hard.  I spent a lot of time with the men from the club and learned a great deal, including the fundamentals of navigation.

* * *

In July 1878, we bought a modest, two-bedroom house in Liverpool.  For the first time in my life, I owned the home in which I lived, something I once could only dream about.  After so many years of relying on the goodwill of others, I could rely on myself!

Life finally became what I considered normal.  I settled into my job, went sailing on occasion, and enjoyed living with Margaret.

Bit by bit, I lost my fire and forgot all those grand philosophical discussions of yesteryear.  I became an average, middle-class citizen.  Nothing wrong with that, of course, but it would not lead to “importance,” as Bertrand might have said.

In retrospect, God was giving me rest.  He brought me through a decade and a half of turmoil, and I needed a break.  Little did I know how short it would be.

* * *

In September 1880, Phillip Chadwick died in a horseback riding accident.  Margaret and I journeyed to London to offer the family our condolences.

Monique also attended.  It had been too long since she and I spent any time together.  She missed me.  I missed her.  She wanted to move to Liverpool to be closer to us but chose to stay in London for a while with the Chadwicks.  His Lordship was seventy-one and in failing health.

Not six months later, we felt crushed when the doctors told us Margaret could not have children.  Fortunately, our love withstood this heavy blow, and our faith gave us strength, though there were difficult days when Margaret could hardly get out of bed.  It reminded me uncomfortably of Mother’s sadness near the revolution’s end.

Once again, Monique came through and stayed with Margaret for a week.  As a woman who also never bore children, she could offer a comfort and solace I could not.  I don’t know what they said to each other, and I suppose I didn’t need to.  I just knew how much better Margaret felt afterward.

We later discussed adopting an orphan, but nothing ever came of it.  Most unfortunate, as she would have made a fine mother to any child.

* * *

A revolutionist assassinated Tsar Alexander II in 1881.  I took immense satisfaction from knowing the man who crushed Poland met a violent end, and I will not apologize for rejoicing at his death.

* * *

In February 1883, Lord Chadwick passed away.  At the reading of his will, I learned he bequeathed me a part of his estate.  After Phillip’s sudden death, the Lord and Lady generously decided to give one-third of what would have been his inheritance to me, since he left no heirs.  It did not make me immediately wealthy, but it allowed us to pay off our house and start a few good investments that ultimately provided handsome dividends.

* * *

For twenty years, the spectre of death shadowed my life too many times.  In the cruelest blow of all, Margaret developed tuberculosis during the summer of 1884 and died that October.  Her passing emotionally destroyed me.  I don’t remember a more devastating experience.  The Russians could not kill me, but this nearly did.  I stayed in bed all day and cried.  I didn’t eat.  I saw no purpose in living.

God became the target of my fury.  “Why did You spare me, just to endure such pain?  Is this how You treat the most precious of Your creation?  How dare You take away the sweetest soul I ever met!”

That emptiness left a gaping hole inside me which never quite healed.  I could not, would not, and cannot understand her death.  The intervening thirty-six years have softened the blow, though, if nothing else.

Monique stayed with me, but she could not bridge the depression I descended into.  One morning, she awoke to find me sitting on the floor in my nightclothes, halfway through a bottle of cognac.  “That only dulls the pain, dear.  It won’t make it go away.”

I poured myself another glass.

Gently, she tried to remove the decanter from my hand.

Shoving her away, I guzzled the rest of the bottle, then hurled it at the wall.  “Take!  Take!  Take!  That’s all everybody wants to do, take from me!  I hate it!”

“Tadeusz, will you please—”

“No!”  I smashed my glass on the floor.  “The Russians took my family.  God took Margaret.  Now you want to take away my comfort!”

“You’ve managed to alienate everybody.  We’re simply trying to help.”

“Then leave me be!  Leave—me—be!”

* * *

Sailing became the only thing I cared to spend time on.  I would provision the boat and sail anywhere.  I spent hours staring into the sea, hoping it held the cure for my misery.  I talked to God as if He were nothing more than a fellow drinker at the bar of despair.  I cried, begged, and prayed, anything to kill the pain that threatened to kill me.

I retreated into the boat to escape my cruel world, but it always followed me.  I soon saw I was trying to escape from myself, something I could never hope to accomplish.

With the help of a local minister, Monique undertook the task of putting me back together again.  Of course, she shouldn’t have had to do it.  I was thirty years old but acting like a petulant child.  And that is how she treated me.  I got strong medicine like, “I didn’t save you from the Russians to let you kill yourself like this!” and, “I’ll sink that stupid boat if you go away one more time!”

Somehow, someway, it all worked.  My job performance picked up, I quit excessive drinking, and I stopped raging at the whole world.  Reverend Munro helped me see how my bitterness devoured me inside.  Little by little, I got right with everyone again.

Even so, a deep emptiness stayed in my life.  No amount of assistance could change the fact that I lost my wife and felt so lonely.  Our warm, happy house became a cold, foreign place.

It changed me forever.  I became a more somber man, and I thought a lot about Papa again.  Was this the kind of void he felt when his grand dreams of a free Poland collapsed?  How much of his personality was in me?  I still had so much I did not know.

Monique decided to make her relocation to Liverpool permanent.  Now past seventy-five, she wanted to be near me, so I let her move into the house.  The place was not so empty now, and we could watch out for one another.  Each was the other’s only real family.

* * *

It was quite a challenge to get on with life.  Everything seemed different.  I wasn’t living for anyone or anything.  I just…existed.  Monique took care of me, and I her.  To keep from going crazy, I read almost every evening: history, political philosophy—anything I had even a casual interest in.  I also read more on ships, sailing, and navigation.

After a while, I decided to rejoin the sailing club.  Their monthly meetings gave me something to look forward to, and learning to be a better sailor helped fill my empty hours.

I spent time in prayer, too.  I could not carry a grudge against God.  The fact that I was alive at all proved He cared for me.

I apologized for my unholy outbursts and repeatedly asked, “Why?” though I got no reply.  I felt comforted, yet neglected.  The silence frustrated me so.  I dreamed things about Papa which I found puzzling.  What was I supposed to do?  When would it happen?  Why did I feel like I was wasting my life?  The only reply came in a verse which crossed my mind periodically: “My grace is sufficient for thee.”

* * *

By 1886, Monique encouraged me to get out to social occasions and meet young ladies.  Her heart lay in the right place, but I would have none of it.  Margaret was too much with me to consider seeing someone else.  I never wanted to marry again.

Monique meant well.  She was in her twilight years and didn’t want me to be lonely when she passed away.  I appreciated her concern, but the prospect of being by myself in the future did not alarm me much.

In some ways, I had been alone, except for her, ever since my parents died.  My friends, the Duquesnes, the Chadwicks, and even Margaret appeared briefly in my life.  It must seem silly viewing them that way, yet I believe it was close to the truth.  I moved on toward whatever destiny lay in store, and as much as I loved the people or marveled at the places, they were temporary.

If something permanent waited up ahead, there must be nothing to hold me back.  It was necessary for me to be alone.  Yes, that was part of the explanation I sought.  Slowly I began to understand this, but not why.  Why was life so cruel to me?  Why did Margaret have to die young?  I would be better off if I had never met her. 

* * *

On July 11, 1888, Monique passed peacefully in her sleep.  She had been ill, and though her death was not unexpected, it was no less sorrowful.  I notified Lady Chadwick and the Duquesnes by telegraph, and they came right away.

I did feel profound loneliness.  She was right about that.  The world lost a unique, special person.  She touched the lives of everyone she knew, and her kind is so rare.  She was my governess, friend, surrogate mother, confidante, and more.  I owed her my very life.  I am who I am because of Papa, but I am what I am because of Monique.  May she rest in eternal peace.

By age thirty-four, I lost nearly everyone who mattered to me.  Those who remained, like Bertrand and Osgood, had long since gone their own ways.  I prayed my streak of tragedies would soon end.  Something good had to happen.  It must.  I did not feel destined for a life of misery.

A couple of weeks after the funeral, the Chadwicks’ daughter Sarah and her husband, Baron Stafford, came to visit for the weekend with their children.  Lady Chadwick told them of my situation, and they gladly paid me a call.  They invited me to spend a weekend with them every few months, which made me feel less isolated. 

Sarah told me, “I remember how quickly you came when Father died.  You really cared for him.  I consider you part of my family.  You’ve had it rough, and my heart goes out to you.  If you ever need any kind of help, be it next week or next year, please let us know.  We’re here for you.”

I tucked her offer away in my mind.  Perhaps I was not as alone as I thought.