The one prisoner whose hands had been untied on deck pulled the rag from Thomas’s mouth and released his hands. Then the two of them did the same for the other men. Not a word was exchanged between any of them. It was as if they had abandoned hope and resigned themselves to their fate. Even the man who had prayed for death was silent. Thomas longed to shout, to demand a fair trial, to rail against the injustice, to force someone to listen. But it was too late. He was trapped in the hold of a dank, stinking ship and no one was going to listen to him now. He found a hammock in which he could lie with his back to the side of the ship, and, shaking with shock, hoisted himself into it, closed his eyes and tried to calm himself by lying still and breathing deeply.
During the night the hatch was opened three times and more prisoners were pushed down into the hold. Thomas lay quietly, listening to their oaths, sensing their fear and wondering what the morning would bring.
When at last it came, morning brought a clanking of chains as the Dolphin’s anchor was weighed, the thump of sailors’ feet on the deck, voices raised and a lurch of the ship away from the quay, followed by a slow turn out of the harbour. When Thomas heard sails being raised and the ship started to rise and dip on the waves, he knew they were on the open sea.
Some time later, the hatch was opened again and a sailor shouted at the prisoners to come on deck. One by one they climbed the ladder and emerged into daylight. Thomas was the last of them. Two armed guards stood at the top of the hatch, counting. ‘Twenty-three. That’s the lot,’ said one, a mean-looking rat of a man in a filthy shirt and threadbare trousers cut off at the knee.
‘Won’t be twenty-three when we get there,’ replied the other. ‘More like twelve, I reckon.’
Thomas ignored them and stumbled out on to the deck. It was early in the season for an Atlantic crossing or even a short voyage to Ireland, and, despite his two shirts and thick coat, he shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest. He had taken two unsteady steps when the ship rolled, he lost his footing and only just grabbed a thick coil of rope in time to stop himself being thrown against a mast. Around him, all the other prisoners were slipping and sliding about the deck, hanging on to whatever or whoever they could find and cursing loudly while their guards stood and laughed. Thomas peered around. Behind them, the coastline was just visible; in front he could see nothing but an endless expanse of grey water.
Gradually, the prisoners became more accustomed to the movement of the ship and were able to make their way to the middle of the deck, where buckets of fresh water and a few loaves of bread and scraps of meat in old boxes set out beside the mainmast were being guarded by two more sailors armed with short swords and pistols tucked into their belts. They looked for all the world like pirates. Using his hands as a cup, Thomas took his turn to scoop water into his mouth, then tore off a lump of bread and a piece of meat and found a place on the deck to sit. The bread was stale and the meat rotten and he could only swallow them in tiny mouthfuls. But taking his time and returning frequently to the water, he made himself eat it all. No point in dying of hunger while waiting for justice to be done.
Quite suddenly the wind strengthened. The square sails on each of the three masts responded and the ship picked up speed. It bucked and rolled, once again hurling men to the deck. Timbers creaked and waves splashed over the sides. Thomas, still sitting on the deck, looped his arm through a length of rope tied to the ship’s side and hoped that the Dolphin was as sturdy as she looked. Around him, prisoners were flailing about, swearing lustily and demanding God’s assistance in keeping them safe, while the ship’s crew, showing no sign of discomfort or surprise, pointed at them and laughed. Suddenly an elderly man came careening down the deck on his backside. With his free hand, Thomas grabbed a leg and held on until the fellow could right himself and find a handhold. He nodded his thanks to Thomas and promptly threw up over his arm. Not wanting to risk losing his grip on the rope, Thomas made no effort to wipe the stuff off.
Gradually most of the prisoners were able to regain their footing and stumble to the hatch. Thomas helped the old man to the ladder and then lay on his stomach to lower him down. He was about to stand up and climb down himself when his ankles were seized and he was tipped headfirst into the hold. He managed to break the worst of the fall with his forearms and found himself in a heap at the bottom. He looked up to see a sailor’s face grinning down at him.
‘There you are,’ shouted the sailor over the roar of the waves, ‘safely back in your hole. No need to thank me. Always happy to help.’
Thomas picked himself up and stumbled to his hammock, scraping the vomit off his arm. He shut his eyes. How in the name of heaven was he going to survive this?
He tried in vain to wipe the sweat from his eyes and the image of Margaret and the girls from his mind, and lay listening to the wind turn from a stiff breeze to a howling storm. He could only imagine the scene on deck – sailors scrambling up the rigging to reduce sail and frantically tying down whatever could be tied down, while officers yelled at them to make haste. He hung on to his hammock and waited for the storm to die down or the ship to sink. If it did, would he find wood for a raft and be blown to land by the wind? Or would he be trapped in the hold and drown?
More than once the Dolphin listed so sharply that he was sure it would tip on to its side, but each time it somehow righted itself. While they lay helpless in the hold the storm went on and on through the rest of the day and the night until, as dawn shed a little light through the cracks in the timbers of the deck above them, its power waned enough for the hardiest of the prisoners to tumble out of their hammocks and get to a bucket. To Thomas’s sensitive nose, the stench was unspeakable. He pressed his face to the side of the ship and tried to smell timber. When that did not work, he buried his face in his coat and thought of lavender.
It was still breezy when at last the hatch was opened and a sailor peered in. ‘Any fish food down there?’ he shouted cheerfully. There was none. All the prisoners had survived the night. They filed unsteadily up the ladder and into the sea air, clinging on to whatever they could for safety. The buckets were taken up and emptied over the side. The masts were still bare of sails and the deck was a jumble of rope, canvas and crates. The sailor divided them into two groups, each overseen by three guards. Thomas’s group was put to sorting out the tangled ropes, then washing down the hold with buckets of seawater. All the time the wind still blew strongly enough to make the work dangerous and each man took at least one tumble.
The nimbleness that had made Thomas a much sought-after dancing partner while a student at Oxford stood him in good stead. He fell only once and was quickly back on his feet. After an hour of unravelling ropes and climbing up and down the steps with buckets, they were herded back into the hold. Having slept not at all during the night, most of them were snoring within minutes. Thomas lay awake and urged the wind to blow harder. The harder it blew, the sooner they would arrive in Barbados and the sooner he would get home.
CHAPTER 3
FOR TWO MORE days and nights the Dolphin battled her way westwards along the south coast of England towards the Lizard. Twice each day the hatch was opened and the prisoners climbed the ladder to the deck, where they were given hard bread and biscuits, scraps of meat and bits of maggoty cheese, and allowed to stretch their legs. They were guarded by sailors with short swords and pistols. There were about twenty sailors in the crew, each as rough as the next. Thomas assumed that their quarters were in the other half of the hold. As he did with his fellow prisoners, Thomas spoke to them only when he had to.
In between the hours on deck and bouts of vomiting, he lay in his hammock and seethed. Like an African slave, he had been torn from his home on another man’s whim, leaving his family to fend for themselves, and thrown on to this stinking ship on the way to a distant island where he would doubtless be worked to death in a matter of weeks. He had heard accounts of the Caribbean islands, of the heat and sickness and of the landowners’ treatment of their slaves and indent
ured servants, and he knew he would not last long. He must find a way to get home and he must find out who had done this to him and why.
Once they had rounded the Lizard, the wind picked up again and they flew across the Irish Sea to Cork, where they picked up another twenty men – Catholics imprisoned by the army of Parliament and by all accounts savagely treated. Several carried the scars of torture, one had lost an eye, another wore the black habit of a Dominican. The youngest was a boy of no more than fourteen. The priest took the empty hammock beside Thomas’s, and spent his time mouthing silent prayers and crossing himself. Fortunately he was as disinclined to talk as Thomas was.
At first, the Irishmen kept to themselves. Then they started to mix with the other prisoners and a hierarchy of sorts emerged. Its currencies were food and knowledge. Despite the meagre food, the weakest were willing to trade some of their ration in return for protection. Two squat Irishmen set themselves up as protectors and offered, for payment in food, to keep predators at bay. Among forty-three men, all taken from some foul gaol, there were a good number of rogues and scoundrels and one or two who would, if they had the chance, use a younger man like a woman. Thomas saw all this, said nothing and kept out of trouble. The two Irishmen, for some reason, did not bother him. Perhaps they haven’t noticed me, he thought, or perhaps they think a little fellow with receding hair has no hope of lasting more than a week. And they might be right.
From his position at the side of the ship, Thomas noticed that barriers were breaking down and the prisoners were beginning to make friends. It occurred to him that in such an environment man’s instinct to survive takes over. Some, like him, withdrew into their private worlds, others formed alliances. Much like the solitary cat on one hand and the pack-loving hound on the other. Thomas Hill, philosopher, devoted uncle and erstwhile cryptographer at the king’s court in Oxford, was very much the cat.
He forced himself to use the hours on deck to walk and stretch. This not only helped to keep his legs from stiffening up but also cleared his head of the sounds and smells of men forced to live cheek by jowl for twenty-two hours a day. He did his best to keep clean, although with only seawater to wash in it was a losing battle. His scalp and beard itched and his clothes were filthy. He picked lice from his hair and nits from his skin. Sometimes he had the feeling that he was being watched by the guards but he put it out of his mind. Of course he was being watched; they all were.
He saw no captain, although there must have been one. Perhaps the man never left his cabin. Perhaps he passed the time in a drunken stupor. Perhaps he was an unearthly creature of the night who emerged only during darkness. Perhaps he was a pirate. Perhaps … Your wits are addled, Thomas. Pull yourself together and concentrate on staying alive.
Despite himself, on a good day when the sun was shining and the wind was fair, Thomas could almost enjoy the thrill of the ship skipping over the waves. On such a day, his spirits rose and he could persuade himself that, once in Barbados, he would be able to appeal to the authorities and have his absurd indenture overturned immediately. On such a day he willed the wind to blow and the Dolphin to pick up speed. The sooner they reached their destination, the sooner he would be on his way home. But the moment he was back in the hold his spirits sank again and he could see before him only seven intolerable years of separation from his family and raging frustration at what had been done to him.
One calm day a group had gathered by the mainmast. As Thomas approached, he heard them discussing how long they would be on the ship. Having already given this some thought, he reckoned that with a fair wind it would take them five or six weeks to reach Barbados. So far, the wind had been fair and they had been at sea for three. For the first time, he felt the need to talk.
‘Barbados is the most easterly of the Caribbean islands,’ he ventured. ‘I think we have another two or three weeks to look forward to, just as long as we’re not detained by a privateer. That would do none of us any good, so if you happen to see a suspicious-looking sail on the horizon be sure to shout as loudly as you can.’
‘How do we know if it’s suspicious?’ demanded a huge red-haired Irishman. The question was sharp and Thomas immediately regretted speaking. The man looked dangerous and might resent Thomas’s interference. He tried to laugh it off.
‘Best treat them all as the enemy. There may be Spaniards about, too.’
The giant eyed him suspiciously, as if looking for pretence. ‘Who are you, Englishman?’
‘My name is Thomas Hill.’
‘And what do you know of Barbados, Hill? Are there savages?’ asked another man.
‘I think not, although perhaps there once were. There’ll be black men, though. Slaves from Africa to work in the plantations. Many of them.’
‘I saw a black man once,’ said a dwarfish Irishman. ‘A servant he was, in the manor house. Eight feet tall and never said a word.’
‘What about snakes? I heard that some of them can swallow a man whole.’
Thomas smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. One thing I do know is that Barbados is like Ireland. There are no snakes at all.’
‘Thank the blessed virgin for that. She must have sent Saint Patrick there too. I wouldn’t mind savages or wild beasts – you’d see them coming – but not snakes. Snakes are the devil’s creatures.’
‘No wild beasts either. Just hogs and monkeys, I believe.’
‘How do you know this, Hill?’ growled the giant. ‘Seems to me you know more than an honest man should.’ He advanced on Thomas, his fists bunched and his huge head thrust forward. ‘One of Cromwell’s spies, are you?’
Thomas held his ground. ‘Certainly not. I was unjustly arrested and will be indentured like everyone else on this ship.’ God forbid, he thought, but to say anything else would have been asking for trouble. The Irishman was unconvinced.
‘I don’t believe you, Hill. You’re a dirty spy, put here to tell tales to the guards.’
Before Thomas could move, a huge pair of hands had grasped him by the throat. In vain he tried to reach the giant’s face, but it made no difference. The giant held on and the breath was squeezed out of him. His eyes closed and he was on the point of passing out when, without warning, the hands around his neck loosened their grip and he was dropped in a heap on to the deck. When he could see clearly again he looked up and saw two guards with pistols pointing at the giant’s head.
‘Another trick like that, Irishman,’ hissed one of them – the rat-faced man who had counted them on their first morning, ‘and you’ll feed the sharks.’
The giant scowled and spat. ‘Shitten little English worm. He won’t last the voyage. Why bother to keep him alive?’
‘He will last the voyage, Irishman,’ replied the other guard, pushing his pistol into the giant’s ear, ‘because you’re going to make sure he does. And if he doesn’t, neither will you. Is that clear enough for your heathen brain to understand?’
The giant spat again, stared at Thomas still sitting on the deck and nodded. For a moment none of the watching group moved, then a hand reached down to help Thomas to his feet. The guard spoke again. ‘That goes for all of you. This man has been paid for in advance and if he isn’t delivered as ordered, you’ll all pay.’ He turned to the giant. ‘Especially you, Irishman. Guard him carefully.’ The two guards lowered their pistols. For a moment the giant looked as if he might hit out at them, then he shrugged and slouched off towards the bow.
The guards returned to their posts and the prisoners were left alone. ‘And who’s paid for you in advance, Hill?’ asked one of them.
‘I have no idea. As I said, I was unjustly arrested. Someone must have wanted to get rid of me. God knows who.’
‘You sound like a Hampshire man. And you do know a lot. How is that?’
‘I am a Hampshire man. I come from Romsey. I have a bookshop. I read a lot.’
That seemed to satisfy them. The questions started up again, so it was just as well that, like many a clever man, Thomas had long ago mastered th
e art of making a little knowledge go a long way. ‘What about the white men, Hill?’
‘I know little about them except that the island is small, much smaller than Jamaica, so there won’t be many of them. They used to grow tobacco and cotton but I think it’s mostly sugar now. Perhaps the climate is more suited to sugar.’
‘So we’ll be indentured to sugar planters then? Working in the fields, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Is it hot?’
‘Much hotter than Ireland, but the Caribbean islands are wet too, so it’ll be humid.’
The questions continued even after they were sent below. Thomas could answer some of them and guessed at others. In truth, however, he didn’t know what to expect any more than the next man. What he did know was that the instant he set foot on dry land, he would find a way to plead his case. He would tell the authorities exactly what he had written in the pamphlet, explain that his arrest had been a mistake and demand to be put straight back on a ship sailing for England. He would go home to Romsey, life would return to normal, on long winter evenings he would tell stories about the voyage and they would all laugh.
When the questions finished he thought about what the guard had said. Must arrive safely. Paid for in advance. By whom and why? If only he knew, he could better prepare his appeal. But he had not the slightest inkling. He would have to wait until they reached Barbados.
For three weeks they saw no other ships, privateers or otherwise, and each day it grew warmer. At first that was a comfort and Thomas discarded his coat and extra shirt and used them as bedding. But as they sailed southwards each night in the hold was hotter and nastier than the last. Men grew sick and lay in their hammocks, some having lost control of their bowels but too feeble to get to a bucket, others thrashing about and cursing the pain of distended stomachs and swollen joints. Four bodies went to feed the fish without so much as a piece of sacking to cover them, the Dominican priest among them. Thomas carried on answering questions as best he could, being careful to avoid taking sides. Although the Irish giant kept his distance, he knew the man was watching him. It was unnerving. Guarded by a fellow prisoner who would happily throw him over the side if he could, and not an inkling as to why.
The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) Page 2