The Mermaid Inn, which Thomas had passed when he was led away by Samuel Gibbes on the day he arrived, had just a single storey built of stone and timber, and stood beside a popular brothel. After six weeks at sea, Thomas had taken in very little. Led by the black brute, he had ridden past the brothel, past the Mermaid, past a row of mean hovels and could barely remember any of them.
Today, he noticed everything. The inn was overflowing with customers and some had spilled outside on to the road. A continuous supply of strong drink was being sloshed into jugs and mugs by the innkeeper and carried precariously by his serving girls, who flounced about promising themselves to anyone with a guinea to spend.
It’s an ill wind, thought Thomas, as they approached. The innkeeper was doing well. He tethered their ponies and followed the Gibbes to the inn. When they disappeared inside, he waited at the edge of the crowd and gazed at the harbour. Was the place where he had first set foot on the island the very setting for a daring dash to freedom? Dash to where? To the forest, where he would be hunted down and returned to the brutes for punishment? To a ship whose captain would like as not hand him straight back to the brutes? No, Thomas, no. There must be another way.
He noticed Charles Carrington and Adam Lyte and worked his way around the crowd in the hope of overhearing what they had to say. These two were as likely as any to talk sense at such a time. Neither of them noticed him among the drinkers.
‘What do you make of this dreadful news?’ asked Adam.
‘No more than you, I daresay. Perhaps we shall learn more from Drax.’
‘Let’s hope so. And that this isn’t the match that lights the powder. Hotheads and extremists will shout and scream and we shall sorely need wise heads in the Assembly.’
‘That we shall,’ agreed Charles, and, looking around, ‘Modyford and Middleton are here. Ah, here’s Drax.’
Colonel James Drax marched purposefully towards the inn. Over six feet tall, slim, dark of hair and eye, clean-shaven but for a small pointed beard and elegantly turned out in blue cloak and broad-brimmed hat, Drax was a man of notable presence. The crowd grew silent as he approached and made way for him to enter the inn. But he preferred to remain outside, declined the offer of drink and spoke loudly enough for all to hear. Most of those inside came out, including four disgruntled dice players, not at all happy at having their game interrupted; all talk ceased and every head turned towards him. Thomas stayed where he was and listened.
‘Gentlemen,’ began Drax, ‘I thank you all for coming. I know you would rather be about your business but the news from England is so grave that the members of the Assembly have asked me to call a meeting of our leading landowners to prevent rumour and falsehood growing and festering among us.’
There were murmurs of assent. When he was sure that he had the full attention of his audience, Drax continued. As accomplished speakers and actors do, he spoke without undue emphasis and at a level that forced his audience to remain quiet and listen carefully.
‘Let me begin with the facts. On the twenty-first day of January, King Charles was brought to trial in Westminster Hall before sixty-seven judges, on charges of high treason and high mis-demeanours. The king declined to recognize the authority of the court to try him but on the twenty-seventh of January he was unanimously found guilty of the charges and at just after two o’clock on the thirtieth of January, outside the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall, he was executed by a single stroke of the axe.’ Drax paused to let the facts sink in.
‘As you know, I have supported the cause of Parliament during the war in England but have put the peace and prosperity of Barbados before my political views.’ At this, there were a few ‘Hear, hear’s. He went on, ‘Nor do I choose to comment today on the legality or otherwise of the king’s execution. What I want to say is this. Now is not the time for hasty words or actions. Let us continue to observe the agreement to remain neutral which we all made four years ago. Let us put our families and our fortunes first and await developments in England.’ That’s all very fine if you have a family and fortune on this island, thought Thomas, but what if you’re an unjustly indentured wretch who has nothing?
Charles and Adam joined in the applause with relief. ‘Well,’ said Adam quietly, ‘that’s a blessing. I thought he might come out in favour of Parliament and advise us to do the same. Can we trust him?’
‘I think so. Perhaps he thinks Parliament would stop us trading with the Dutch. With seven hundred acres and two hundred slaves, he stands to lose more than any of us. He’s taking a commercial view.’
‘He might also fear a Royalist backlash. The Walrond brothers are forever threatening to raise a militia. This may force their hands. That would be dangerous for him.’
‘For us all, I daresay.’
The reaction of the crowd was mixed. ‘God save the king.’
‘Has England a king any more?’
‘Of course she has. Charles Stuart is his father’s heir so now he’s our king.’
‘The king is dead. Long live the king.’
‘Where is he then? In London or skulking in France with his mother?’
‘The army’s running the country now. The army and Parliament.’
‘Where’s our governor? What does he think?’
‘Yes, where’s Bell?’
‘We need slaves and we need servants. Who’s going to get them for us?’
‘And we need the Dutch. Will Parliament stop us trading with them?’
Just as it looked as if the meeting was about to break up in disorder, Charles Carrington stepped forward. Like Drax, he commanded the attention of the crowd with ease. He raised his arms for silence and spoke slowly. ‘Gentlemen, unlike my friend Colonel Drax, I have supported the king throughout the war in England. But I agree entirely with what Colonel Drax has said. Are we now to jeopardize our trade by reacting to today’s news without proper thought? It may be that Barbados will, at some future time, have to face the prospect of declaring for one side or the other, but let us not take that awful step until we have to. Today we do not have to. Let there be no talk of militias. Let our heads rule our hearts and let us return to our estates in peace.’
Carrington had barely finished when the door of the inn was flung open and a shrill voice, a voice filled with righteous passion and indignation, called for silence. All conversation ceased and all heads turned to the door. A diminutive figure emerged and pushed his way through the crowd, brandishing a Bible and calling for silence in God’s name. He wore the black of an Anglican churchman, stood little more than five feet tall and sported on his bare head only a very few strands of wispy hair. His face was not one that had spent much time in the Caribbean sun and he squinted at the crowd through watery blue eyes.
‘I am the Reverend Simeon Strange,’ he began, ‘and I am here on the Lord’s work.’ This did not go down well with a congregation of tough sugar planters who had heard enough speeches and were suffering from heat and thirst. Thomas was astonished. The little reverend was either a brave man or a very foolish one.
‘Put him on a table where we can see him.’
‘Not now, parson, we’re thirsty.’
‘Strange by name, strange by nature.’
‘No sermons, Reverend. It’s only Wednesday.’
‘Don’t go on about church on the sabbath again, Strange. Cane grows on the sabbath and it needs cutting.’
But Strange would not be silenced. ‘It is not politics we should be discussing, brothers, not trade, not sugar, not money. IT IS THE WILL OF GOD.’ He bellowed this so loudly that even those who were drifting away stopped and took notice. ‘The will of God, I say. Each day I observe drunkenness, debauchery, blasphemy and ungodly acts of every description. Almighty God looks down upon you in his wisdom and despairs. When the day of reckoning comes, his punishment will be severe. Two years ago, in his mercy, he sent the yellow fever to you as a warning but his warning went unheeded. And now to this depraved island have come representatives of the most heinous and bes
tial men and women in Christendom – PAGANS, ADULTERERS AND FORNICATORS. I speak not of the Irish Catholics and their whores nor of the Quakers, though they are accursed enough. No, brothers, I speak of a new pestilence that has now inflicted itself upon us – that vile, base disease that calls itself THE RANTERS.’ Again, Simeon Strange delivered the words with a force that belied his meagre stature. ‘The Ranters, I say. Libertines and heretics every one of them, and now come among us with their profane and immoral habits. These animals CAVORT NAKED IN THE FIELDS.’
Strange had been straining so hard for volume and effect that the veins in his neck and face looked as if they might burst. He had to pause for breath or run the risk of a seizure. Those of his audience who were still listening took the opportunity to ask if anyone had any idea what he was talking about. Ranters? What were they? After a few deep breaths, Strange was off again.
‘Listen carefully to me, brothers. If we do not act at once to rid Barbados of this dangerous depravity, we shall all be doomed to everlasting purgatory and neither sugar nor slaves will save us. Let us banish these abominable Ranters from our shores for ever.’
And with that, the Reverend Simeon Strange, having given his all, collapsed, eyes bulging and breath labouring, on to his scrawny backside. Thomas feared that the little man might have suffered a fit and was about to offer his help when the reverend appeared to recover his composure.
‘Where might one find these Ranters, Mr Strange?’ came a voice from the back.
‘They are given to practising their foul rituals on the ridge above Oistins. There you will find them and I urge you to do so without delay.’ Fortunately, perhaps, Strange was so full of the Holy Spirit and so short-sighted that he did not notice the winks and grins exchanged at this information and appeared heartened by the reply.
‘You may be sure that we shall, Reverend, and we thank you warmly for alerting us to this matter.’
While the little reverend had been giving his all, Charles Carrington had been talking quietly with Adam Lyte and James Drax. When the Gibbes emerged from the inn, Adam was shoved roughly aside by Samuel, who planted his face inches from Charles’s. ‘It doesn’t matter a barrel of shit how many Royalists come here,’ he spat, poking a filth-encrusted finger into Charles’s face. ‘You can stuff the Assembly full of them, but we’re the ones who’ve grown the sugar and made the money and we’ll say who’s to govern us. And it won’t be any Royalist fairies.’
Charles peered down his aristocratic nose. His voice was icy. ‘In that case, it’s as well that Colonel Walrond is talking of raising a militia. We may well need it to keep the peace.’
‘That isn’t what you said earlier, Carrington. You said we didn’t want militias. Didn’t you, Carrington?’
‘I did, sir. And what of it?
‘What of it? What of it?’ Yellow spittle flew from Gibbes’s mouth and his eyes bulged in fury. ‘You’re a liar, Carrington, a fairy, a coward and a liar. That’s what of it.’
Charles was unmoved. ‘I was provoked, sir. When confronted by a rabid dog I find it best to take action to avoid its teeth and claws. That does not, I think, make me a coward.’ Thomas, keeping well out of the way, swallowed a laugh.
It took a moment to sink into Samuel’s addled brain but when it did, he lurched at Carrington as if to throttle him. Carrington stepped nimbly aside, stuck out a leg, helped Gibbes on his way with a shove in the small of his back and watched him crash into a table before collapsing, winded, in a heap on the ground.
John Gibbes, too drunk to have joined in their exchange, now seemed to sense that he ought to do something. He pulled a knife from inside his shirt and lunged at Samuel’s tormentor, aiming at his stomach. This time, Charles took just half a step aside, extended his arm and thrust his knuckles into Gibbes’s throat. With no more than a strangled gurgle, Gibbes joined his brother in the dust. ‘My apologies, gentlemen. I deplore unnecessary violence but there seemed no better way.’ Quite unruffled, Charles turned back to Drax. ‘The cause of Parliament is not helped by such people, James. Would you be kind enough to have them removed and sent on their way?’
Drax laughed. ‘It will be my pleasure. And remind me not to face you if it comes to a battle.’ And with the help of two large planters, Drax marched the Gibbes away. Thomas, still trying not to laugh, followed at a sensible distance. He had much enjoyed the exchange and the sight of both brutes so easily dealt with by Charles Carrington, but it would be wiser not to show it.
Drax spoke quietly but the menace was unmistakable. ‘Take my advice, you two. Keep your foul mouths shut and don’t come back here again. Neither Barbados nor Parliament needs your kind.’ One doubled up in agony and the other clutching his throat, neither Gibbes managed a reply. Enraged and humiliated, they staggered off to find their ponies.
Neither of them spoke on the journey back to the estate. When they arrived, John stuck his face into Thomas’s and hissed, ‘Not a word, Hill, or you’ll be sorry.’
Samuel fished into a pocket and brought out a wad of pamphlets. ‘Take the ponies to the field, Hill, then put those in the privy.’ Thomas took the pamphlets and did as he was told but not before slipping one under his shirt.
In the safety of his hut, Thomas retrieved the pamphlet and brushed the dust off it. It was headed ‘Vivat Rex’ and had been written by none other than Colonel Humphrey Walrond. It consisted of a diatribe against Parliament and all who supported its cause, demanded that the Assembly make a formal declaration in favour of the king and urged loyal Royalists to raise militias to defend their property against the likes of James Drax and Thomas Middleton, two well-known Parliamentarians. Now that he has learned that the king has been executed, thought Thomas, God knows what Walrond will have to say. Barbados could become a very dangerous place and not just for me. He stuffed the pamphlet under his mattress with the list of adjectives.
When a visitor arrived at the house a week later, Thomas, labouring in the kitchen, heard him shout a greeting and went out to see who it was. The Gibbes did not receive many visitors and he was surprised to find that this one was Adam Lyte. He wondered what could be important enough to bring him to the brutes’ house so soon after their humiliation at the Mermaid Inn.
‘Good morning, Mr Lyte. An unexpected pleasure.’
‘Good morning, Thomas. Is Samuel Gibbes here?’
‘He and his brother are at the boiling house. There’s been an accident. Mr Sprot is there.’ Thomas assumed that Adam would prefer not to encounter Robert Sprot at work. Sprot’s dubious skills were much in demand and he charged more or less what he liked for them. On one of his frequent visits he had proudly explained that he had worked out his tariff on sound business principles – the price for removal of an arm or leg doubled during the cane-cutting season and mangled fingers caught in a mill could be detached at a shilling each or four for three shillings; thumbs carried a surcharge of two shillings.
His speciality, however, and one of which he was mightily proud, was the removal of impediments from within the body. The Sprot Saviour, designed by himself, was a very long, very thin pair of forceps which could, with a little manipulation, be inserted into the bladder, gall bladder or incised scrotum. He claimed it at least doubled the chances of success. Whether success was measured by the number of stones removed or the number of patients who survived the treatment, he did not say, but in the market Thomas had heard it said that a wise man would endure any pain, how ever vicious, rather than seek relief from Mr Sprot. Luckily for Mr Sprot there were many unwise men in Barbados and he had built a busy and lucrative practice, being careful always to request payment in advance.
Screams of agony were coming from the direction of the boiling house. ‘Perhaps I’ll sit here until he’s finished,’ Adam said thoughtfully.
‘Very well, sir,’ replied Thomas. ‘I can offer you some plantain juice. Or a glass of wine?’
‘Thank you, Thomas. A cup of plantain juice would be welcome.’
With the drink Thomas broug
ht a copy of the pamphlet which the brutes had brought back from Oistins. ‘I thought you might not have seen it, Mr Lyte. I would much appreciate your opinion.’
Adam read the pamphlet carefully and then read it again. ‘Oddly, I have not seen this before. I take it you’ve read it, Thomas?’
‘I have, sir. It’s serious, is it not?’
‘It is. With the king dead, the last thing we need is Humphrey Walrond stirring up trouble. It’s exactly what Charles Carrington warned against and I agree with him.’
‘The Walronds are a Devon family, aren’t they?’
‘They are. Colonel Walrond retired here to his estate at Fontabelle two years ago. He and his brother Edward are powerful men with powerful connections. When did this appear?’
‘I saw it on the day of the meeting in the Mermaid.’
‘Well, Thomas, in my opinion this is a dangerous thing. It will inflame feelings and revive old enmities. And what is your opinion?’
‘I have learned to my cost that all such pamphlets cause trouble, sir, and if I were governor I would not permit them to be published. I was foolish enough to put my name to one a great deal less threatening and this is where it got me. I thought my views were harmless but I was wrong. They were used to cause me great harm. And this pamphlet is something quite different. It’s deliberately inflammatory. Colonel Walrond wants confrontation. But why? Is it really his beliefs driving him or an eye to profit? Is it loyalty he wants or land?’
‘Thomas, wouldn’t banning free expression of opinion be a restriction on a man’s liberty? Isn’t that why Cromwell and his like are so hated?’
‘Is society itself not a restriction on a man’s liberty, sir? Is it any more than a set of laws restricting individual freedom in the interests of the community? Different societies may have different laws and a man may have different rights and duties conferred by them, but aren’t they all restrictions on individual liberty? What restrictions are justified and what are not must be a matter of opinion. And, in my opinion, a man should be restricted from expressing a view of a nature or in a manner likely to cause confrontation and perhaps bloodshed. That is why I would ban it.’
The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) Page 9