Willoughby heard about this the following month, and believing the Royalist cause to be far from lost, determined on resistance in spite of the contrary advice of his wife in England. ‘If ever they get the Island’, he wrote to her, ‘it shall cost them more than it is worth before they have it.’ In the meantime, he raised men, improved the island’s coastal fortifications, and bought weapons and ammunition, mainly from the Dutch, but also from smugglers from New England. He also made an extraordinary pronouncement of colonial autonomy that now seems strikingly similar to the American Declaration of Independence of 140 years later. Why should Barbados obey ‘a Parliament in which we have no Representatives, or persons chosen by us?’ he asked, continuing: ‘In truth this would be a slavery far exceeding all that the English nation hath yet suffered.’
Tied up with operations against Royalist privateers, the English navy took a long time before it sailed against Barbados. At last, in August 1651, under the command of Sir George Ayscue, it left Plymouth, having been joined by five merchant ships organised by the exiled Barbados planters. Loath to let armed conflict get in the way of easy profit, Drax, Alleyne, Hilliard (who had started as a Royalist, then switched sides) and others had successfully petitioned to be allowed to join the armada to take goods to Barbados and bring back sugar. Drax’s cargo consisted of a valuable consignment of horses. As well as the merchantmen – almost certainly armed – the fleet had seven warships carrying 238 guns and somewhere near 1,000 men. Roundhead refugees had reported that conquest of the island would be easy.
In fact, Willoughby now had a considerably larger force at his disposal – some 6,000 foot and 400 horse – and the early part of October 1651 saw him in a confident mood. Prince Rupert’s Royalist flotilla was on the way to the West Indies, it was believed. Wildly inaccurate news had just arrived via a Dutch ship that Charles II was at the head of a victorious army only 40 miles from London, that the population had risen to support him, and that Cromwell was dead. The Ayscue fleet, it was reported, now consisted of nothing more than desperate refugees from a defeated cause. On 15 October there were widespread celebrations across the island, with bonfires, dancing and feasting. Willoughby enjoyed himself at a huge evening banquet at a plantation some 12 miles from Bridgetown.
But while the Governor was feasting, the Commonwealth fleet had arrived in the darkness beyond the beaches of the west coast. Having heaved to for the night, early the next morning three ships from the fleet, under its second-in-command, Captain Michael Pack, sailed into Carlisle Bay, Bridgetown’s harbour. There, they found at least 11 Dutch merchantmen illegally trading with the island. Although most were heavily armed, such was their surprise that almost all surrendered straight away. Hearing the news, Willoughby rushed to the town, and communicated to Ayscue that he would not surrender the island without a fight. The rest of the fleet then sailed into Carlisle Bay, right up to the main fort, where an exchange of fire took place.
Emboldened by his success, Ayscue ordered an amphibious attack on the main fort in the bay. A large number of longboats, packed with troops, was launched from the ships, but, as an eye-witness’s account has it, ‘so great was the repulse which they received, that they was inforced to make good their Retreat, with the loss of 15 men, and to betake themselves for sanctuary to their ships again’. This resistance was ascribed to the personal influence of Willoughby, who ‘Rides the Rounds in person … from Fort to Fort’. So it was stalemate, with the Parliamentarians dominant at sea and the Royalists clearly superior in land forces.
Ayscue now opted for a policy of blockade and persuasion. The former was instantly successful, with no vessel able to approach the island and trade brought to a standstill; however, on 4 November, the council and assembly backed Willoughby’s defiance, resolving to ‘manfully fight’ ‘with our utmost power’ for ‘ye defence of this Island’. But Ayscue chipped away: swimmers were sent ashore by night to collect intelligence, get in touch with Roundhead sympathisers and, by raising the alarm, keep the defenders in a state of constant, wearying readiness; leaflets were distributed urging the island’s inhabitants to come to their senses; Drax himself was sent ashore to contact Thomas Modyford in the hope of dividing the moderate Royalists from the diehards under Willoughby and the Walronds. On 8 November a letter arrived for Ayscue detailing the rout of the Scots at Worcester on 3 September, a defeat that signalled the final failure of the Royalist cause in England. This news was quickly conveyed to Willoughby, for whom, although he remained defiant, it must have been a hard blow.
But Ayscue now had his own problems. He reported that ‘want of necessary refreshment brought our men into ye scurvye’, so that ‘we had not men Enough to rule our shipps much lesse to annoye ye Enemye on shore’. A more active policy was signalled by the launch of a surprise attack on 22 November against Royalist positions around Holetown. Two hundred men landed by night and got the better of a detachment of militia, spiking guns and taking 30 prisoners. Pressure on Willoughy further mounted when on 1 December Ayscue was joined off shore by a large force of 15 vessels on its way to Virginia to suppress Royalist rebellion there. The Commonwealth commander must have hoped that this would overawe the defenders, and again demanded Willoughby’s surrender. Once more the Royalist was defiant, but each time he sounded less sure of himself.
In fact, the Virginia task force was in a sorry state, suffering severe sickness on board, but Ayscue was still determined to use its soldiers, many of whom were Scots captured at Worcester. On the night of 17 December, 450 men landed at Speightstown under the command of Colonel Reynold Alleyne. The Royalists responded quickly, engaging the raiders with 1,200 foot as well as a troop of horse. During fierce fighting, Alleyne himself was killed by a musket ball, but in the confusion of darkness, the defenders overestimated the size of the landing party, and, in the words of Ayscue, ‘ye Seamen runninge in upon ye Enemye wth halloweinge and whoopinge in such a ffeirce disorder yt ye Enemye was soe amazed yt after a short dispute they all ran’. A hundred Royalists were killed, and 80 taken prisoner, along with guns, small arms and a quantity of gunpowder.
But the Virginia detachment could not linger due to their lack of water and provisions, and Ayscue could still not risk facing Willoughby in a pitched battle. However, his propaganda and the efforts of Drax were at last paying dividends. Moderates now demanded in the legislature that Willoughby come to terms. This effort was seen off, but Modyford seems to have made up his mind, helped, no doubt, by the generous terms Ayscue was offering in return for surrender. On 6 January, he drew up his regiment of 1,000 musketeers and 120 horse, and persuaded them to declare for Parliament rather than continue to submit to the tyranny of the Walronds. Contact was made with Ayscue, who then landed his army at Oistins Bay, whence Modyford marched to meet him. Together they had about 1,500 foot and 150 horse. Willoughby advanced towards them. The stage was set for a tropical Marston Moor among the palm trees and sugar cane.
On paper, Willoughby’s forces were still far superior, but Ayscue’s attritional blockade and propaganda had done their work. Nearly half of the Royalist army had melted away, leaving about 3,000 foot and a couple of hundred horse. Morale in the surviving ranks was low: they were tired out by constant night-time deployment; it was unbearably hot and humid. After brief contact, Willoughby fell back a couple of miles, then suddenly a torrential tropical downpour began. The long-awaited battle was a washout. According to Captain Pack, ‘the soldiers could scarce keep a match lighted’. Ayscue was unable to advance to engage the Royalist forces, but at last Willoughby’s resolve failed. After three days of almost constant heavy rain, Willoughby, ‘seeing that the fire is now dispersed in the bowels of the island’, asked for a ceasefire.
On 11 January, over drinks at the Mermaid Tavern in Oistins, a settlement was agreed whereby the island accepted the suzerainty of Parliament, and the imposition of a new Roundhead governor, Daniel Searle. The terms offered in return were generous: indemnity for all, and a return to ‘as great freedom of trade as
ever’. Willoughby, in particular, was favoured. His confiscated lands in England were restored, and he was allowed to keep the acreage he had recently acquired in Antigua, and in Surinam on the South American mainland, where, two years earlier, he had dispatched settlers to form a daughter colony for Barbados. Two months later, however, a new Roundhead-dominated legislature had their revenge on the Cavaliers, overturning the Mermaid Tavern agreement. Willoughby, the Walronds, Byam and a handful of other Royalist leaders were banished from the island. Willoughby returned to England, where he spent much of the next eight years a prisoner in the Tower of London, as a result of his dabbling in Royalist plots, but nonetheless survived to return to the Caribbean. Humphrey Walrond went to work for the Spanish emperor, while William Byam set off for the Surinam colony, which he thereafter ran for Willoughby as a personal fiefdom.
The agreement to allow free trade had on it the fingerprints of negotiators Drax and Modyford, planters who had benefited enormously from commerce with the Dutch. But soon after the agreement, it was made clear by Parliament in London that a new approach was now in place, based in part on the terms of the embargo of October 1650. In keeping with the dominant economic orthodoxy of the time, mercantilism, the First Navigation Act demanded that no colonial produce be shipped to England except in vessels owned and for the most part manned by Englishmen or colonials, and that European goods could not be imported by the colonies except in English ships or those of the country where the goods were produced. It was a measure to ensure that the English colonies benefited no one but the English at home, and was aimed directly at the great carriers the Dutch, showing the influence of the powerful London merchants who had underwritten the Ayscue expedition.
The Act was widely ignored; even Governor Searle profited from trading with all comers. When an English naval force arrived in Barbados five years later, they would find the harbour packed with Dutch vessels. But the Navigation Act of 1651 remains immensely important as a marker for a new imperial direction. Before this time, the English colonies had been an informal association, bound together only by trade, families and shared cultural background. Business was in the hands of a rickety structure of royal monopolies, private individuals of many nationalities, and private charters. Now trade and empire were to be regulated – and vigorously expanded – ‘in the national interest’. The Navigation Act pointed towards a new formal system, where the colonies provided for the metropolis an exclusive source of supply and a monopoly of shipment and marketing for the home country’s vessels and ports. It also constituted the first instance of international commercial policy from London, as well as clear intent for English dominance in the Caribbean.
In this new climate of economic nationalism, Parliament was prepared to go to war to defend or expand the commercial interests of England. This is precisely what happened in July 1652, when conflict broke out with the Dutch. Soon, commercial advantage was replacing religious or dynastic differences as the main cause of wars between the great powers, with the Caribbean their constant theatre.
As intended, the Navigation Act marked the beginning of a process that saw England’s merchant marine rise to international pre-eminence, and the resulting pool of skilled seamen man the world’s most powerful navy. At last London began to rival Amsterdam as a centre of commerce. But the cost of this mercantile policy was borne by the English consumer, who paid higher prices for imported goods, and by the unity of the young empire. The restrictions of the Act and its successors not only caused a nightmare for those charged with enforcement; it also sowed the seeds for conflict between the colonies and the metropolis.
7
THE PLANTATION: LIFE AND DEATH
‘[To work in a sugar boiling house] in short, ’tis to live in a perpetual Noise and Hurry, and the only way to render a person Angry, and Tyrannical, too; since the Climate is so hot, and the labour so constant.’
Thomas Tyron, 1684.
The Roundhead leader James Drax and the turncoat Thomas Modyford did well out of the new order. Their status enhanced by the chaotic events of the previous year, both were asked to join the new, slimmed-down six-man council. Drax, now a colonel in the militia, resumed his place as the host-in-chief of the island, and started work on a spectacular new residence to underpin his pre-eminent social position.
Drax Hall, built, it seems, some time in the early 1650s, still stands, the oldest surviving Jacobean mansion in the Americas. On the next-door estate, Ligon had designed a wooden house for Thomas Middleton, with airy spaces to catch the cooling breeze. But James Drax was having none of this. His house would be in the English manor-house style of the time, as befitting an English gentleman. The building was originally three storeys, with steep gables, stucco walls, and casement windows in the Jacobean style. It was primarily constructed of coral stone blocks, covered with plaster. There were five rooms on the ground floor, which was dominated by the main hall, with a handsomely carved arched opening leading to a stately, intricately carved staircase. Both were of local mastic wood. This staircase was the dominating feature of the house, and to a visitor in the hall gave the whole estate, the entire Drax undertaking, an almost tangible air of ancient prerogative and deserved riches, as it was designed to do (up the stairs and out of sight of the hall, and the banisters immediately reverted to normal and serviceable).
Drax Hall was small by later plantation house standards, particularly those of boom-time eighteenth-century Jamaica, and poorly suited to the climate. The ceilings were low, and although perched on a breezy hill with a vista all the way to the coast, the house was hot and stuffy. Nonetheless, it remains the first ‘great house’ of the Americas, a loud declaration that, less than 10 years after the advent of sugar, a new colonial aristocracy had arrived.
After a period buying and selling hundreds of acres, in 1654 Drax had some 200 slaves working a fertile, integrated plantation of something over 700 acres. This made him the richest planter in Barbados, if not all of the West Indies. With his sugar production, it seems, well managed for him, he branched out into commerce and shipping. We know that he had shares in a number of ships trading slaves and sugar between London, West Africa and the West Indies.7 His enforced exile seems to have widened his scope from Barbados to the entire Atlantic.
With the construction of his ‘Great House’, Drax had affirmed his gentry status on Barbados; but at the same time, he seems to have outgrown the small island. In August 1653, the Governor, Daniel Searle, removed him from the council and stripped him of his rank as colonel in the militia. Thomas Modyford and a couple of others suffered the same fate at the same time. Perhaps Drax and Modyford had overreached themselves. Searle described them as ‘unsatisfied spirits’, and as among the ‘more violent’. Maybe they been too blatant in their illegal trading, even for the corrupt Searle, or had become too serious a threat to his authority. Neither took it lightly: from January 1654, both Drax and Modyford were organising petitions to Cromwell to be allowed to be reinstated to their former militia and political positions on the island.
Then, in the spring of 1654, quite abruptly, James Drax left Barbados, apparently never to return to the island that had been his home for nearly 20 years, and which he had taken such a hand in transforming. From the scanty and often contradictory information that survives – wills, court documents, inscriptions copied before they were lost – it is impossible to be sure of exactly why he left Barbados at this time, or whether he had intended to return to his new Drax Hall mansion. Some time in late 1653 his wife Meliora died, almost certainly in childbirth, with their third daughter, Plulateas. Her second son Henry, who many years later would commission an artist to make a likeness of his mother, was 12 years old. The resulting bust, whose accuracy cannot, of course, be guaranteed, shows a strong-featured, determined but kindly woman, an overlarge nose and slightly squinty eyes softened by a generous fleshiness around the neck. Certainly she must have been tough. In the space of 14 years, she had produced eight children who survived infancy, quite an achi
evement in Barbados at the time.
That said, she appears to have been in London when she died; it is likely that she and the children, or certainly the young ones, had stayed in England after Drax’s expulsion, rather than return with him with the Ayscue fleet. His fourth son, Samuel, almost certainly went to school in England from about the mid-1650s, as he matriculated at St John’s, Oxford, in 1661. We can be less sure of the location of the three eldest sons, James, aged about 15, Henry, about 12, and John, 11. Presumably they too were now in England being schooled there, and the Drax Hall estate run by attorneys or friends.
James Drax’s first business in England was to find a new wife. With almost improper haste, an arrangement was made with another Somerset girl, many years Drax’s junior, called Margaret Bamfield. From Drax’s will, which has survived, it appears that the marriage involved several large financial transactions. James Drax and his brother William (in London since at least June 1653) borrowed the large sum of £5,000 from Colonel Alexander Popham, a Civil War officer and former Deputy Lieutenant of Somerset, who had become a senior politician of the Protectorate (now best remembered as an early patron of John Locke). In return, James Drax promised in a pre-nuptial agreement to will his new wife £300 a year after his death or a lump sum of £2,400. The deal shows the calibre of Drax’s political contacts and also the immense scale of his business dealings. A loan of £1,000 to two of Margaret’s brothers, one an ardent Royalist, might also have sweetened the romance. Margaret gave birth to a stillborn child, Bamfield, before the end of the year. In the meantime, James Drax started buying up land in various parts of England.
The Sugar Barons Page 10