The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2)

by Andrew Swanston

  In a matter of seconds, the battle changed. Lines of infantry firing at each other from a distance were replaced by slashing, thrusting swordsmen, each one intent upon hacking off an arm or piercing a throat. In the mêlée Adam saw one of his men make a clean kill with a thrust to the heart, only to have his knees cut from under him and his exposed neck severed from behind. The man’s blood stained the sand and splattered his killer. The defenders’ attack was fast and brutal, yet the rigid discipline of men trained and hardened in Cromwell’s army proved up to it. After the initial impetus of their charge, white platoon on one flank and Captain Brown’s platoon on the other found their advance blocked.

  Thomas moved from body to body, searching for any he could help. It was mostly futile. Bodies, dead and maimed, lay on the beach and in the water and any wounded man foolish enough to call for help was likely to find himself swiftly despatched by an enemy sword. One man who had taken a ball in the leg Thomas was able to assist to the cover of the trees. From there he saw that the landing party were adept at protecting each other by fighting back to back, ensuring that an attack could only come head-on, and that in this fashion they were gradually gaining the advantage. Captain Brown’s platoon was losing men and giving ground. The invaders were slashing and hacking their way along the beach, forcing the defenders back. If they gave way, the entire force of the enemy would turn on white platoon and the battle would be lost.

  Thomas was about to rejoin the fray when a troop of screeching swordsmen, a familiar tall figure to the fore, charged out of the trees and joined the fight. Crack soldiers though they were, fifty fresh men with fifty-one fresh swords – Charles had judged the situation to warrant two – were too much for the landing party. Retreating hastily, they splashed through the shallow water to find the comparative safety of their boats and Charles was soon able to give the order for his men to disengage. There was no point in risking more lives if the enemy were leaving and could be sent on their way with musket fire. Watching from the northern end, Captain Brown followed suit. His men stepped gratefully back and let the muskets do their work.

  Thomas joined the swordsmen who stood on the shore and cheered while the musketeers continued firing. They were more parting shots than anything else but a few hit home as the boats struggled to get back out to sea. Only two were still within musket range when a wild figure, bearded and dishevelled and shouting incoherently, ran out of the trees frantically waving his arms at the departing boats. Adam and Charles watched in astonishment.

  ‘What in the name of God is that?’ exclaimed Charles.

  ‘A man either drunk or demented or both. He seems to be trying to reach a boat,’ replied Adam, shaking his head in astonishment.

  Thomas squinted at the figure. It looked familiar. Shots rang out and the man fell to the sand. ‘He won’t reach one now. Must have escaped from Bedlam.’

  Adam turned to Charles. ‘Good of you to join us, Charles, although you were scarcely needed.’

  ‘No indeed. I could see that the battle was as good as won but could not restrain my troop. My apologies, gentlemen.’

  ‘Charles, is that your blood on your shirt or someone else’s?’ Charles had not noticed that his sleeve was drenched in blood but now realized that he had been wounded. A ball must have taken him in the forearm.

  ‘Here, let me look,’ said Thomas, rolling back the sleeve. Charles grimaced. ‘It’s gone straight through, leaving a neat but bloody hole. It’ll hurt and you’ll need a sling, but it should mend. I don’t think we’ll require Sprot.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ replied Charles. ‘Now that you’ve told me it’ll hurt, it does.’

  The cleaning up began as soon as the departing boats were out of range. Thomas supervised the movement of the wounded of both sides to the Serpent, and of the dead for burial once they had been stripped of armour and weapons. He walked along the beach with Adam and Charles, counting the casualties and giving instructions for their care. Crabs were already emerging from their holes in the sand to examine the flesh and guts that lay all about. They would be feasting for days.

  Charles held his wounded arm to his chest. In due course they came upon the bearded lunatic unmoving and face down on the sand. He had taken at least one musket ball in the back. Idly, Adam turned the body with his foot. He had also taken at least one in the front. ‘Shot by both sides,’ he said. ‘Most unfortunate.’

  The body groaned weakly. It was still alive. Adam stooped to be sure he had not been mistaken and peered at the man’s face. ‘God’s wounds, it’s one of the Gibbes and he’s still breathing.’

  Charles too stooped to look. ‘By God, it is. Samuel Gibbes. And shot front and back. One bird with two stones, you might say.’

  Thomas said nothing. It was Captain Brown who called for help. ‘This man lives. Take him to the inn.’

  One of the soldiers who stepped forward pointed at Gibbes. ‘This is the madman who tried to reach the boats. He was shouting something about oaths and sugar. Must have been at the rum. Deserves to be left here to rot.’

  ‘Possibly, private. But take him to the Serpent. He can die there.’

  ‘Well done, captain,’ said Charles, clapping the young soldier on the back, ‘you did well. When you’ve cleared the beach, issue a decent tot of rum to the men. And issue one to yourself, too.’

  Captain Brown was pleased. ‘Thank you, sir. Let’s hope that every battle goes as well.’

  ‘I fear they won’t. I heard last night that Bridgetown was attacked yesterday. We lost fifty men and a hundred taken prisoner.’

  ‘A hundred prisoners? Did they surrender?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Lord Willoughby has ordered me south with two hundred men. I’ll send Skeete and as soon as my wound has been attended to I must join him. Your men have done enough, captain. I won’t trouble you for a contribution to my company. But keep close watch. There’s no saying they won’t try again.’

  ‘Depend upon us, Mr Carrington, and good fortune in the south.’

  ‘And what of white platoon, Charles?’ asked Adam. ‘Are we dismissed?’

  ‘Certainly not. Take Thomas and return to Mary for now. I shall go home and have my steward attend to my scratch. We’ll go south in a day or two. I’ve an idea we’ll be needed again.’

  Before they left, Thomas went to inspect the wounded and to make an accurate count of numbers. Outside the Serpent they had been laid out in neat rows. A dozen victors to one side and three times that number of the vanquished to the other.

  Women from nearby villages moved up and down the rows, offering comfort, swabbing wounds and mopping brows. There was no surgeon among them so there was nothing but rum and water to be done for those with musket balls lodged in flesh or organs. One or two might survive, no more. Sword wounds were more easily treated. They could be cleaned and bound.

  If the victors received more attention, the vanquished were not ignored. They too were given what little help there was. Thomas walked up and down the lines, offering advice to the women and counting the injured.

  He did not go inside the inn. If he had, he would have found John Gibbes sitting miserably in one corner, tears running down his festering cheeks. Samuel lay outside, not clearly in one row or the other, mortally wounded and unconscious. Without his brother John would be lost. He had never had to fend for himself. He sat in the corner and wept.

  A woman had told John that there were three musket balls inside his brother. Two had entered from the front and one from the rear. All three were lodged somewhere in his chest and any one of them could kill him. He had tried to stop Samuel but Samuel would not be stopped. They had a great deal of capital tied up in barrels of sugar sitting in a warehouse waiting for an end to the blockade and Samuel was getting worried. He was also worried that they had sworn the oath. What if Ayscue demanded they pay for their crime? What if he sequestered their estate and took their gold? They had lost enough from the blockade already. They would be broken.

  Samuel had conv
inced himself that he must make contact with Ayscue’s men to assure them of his loyalty to the cause of Cromwell and Parliament and had been waiting for the right moment to do so. It had come when they heard musket fire from the direction of Six Mens Bay. Samuel had leapt on to a horse and galloped off, shouting to his brother to follow. They had left the horses in Speightstown and crept up to the bay, where they watched the battle from the safety of the outcrop of rocks.

  When the swordsmen had arrived and the invaders had to retreat, Samuel feared their chance had gone. He had left his hiding place in the rocks and run out along the beach. John had seen him fall but, fearing for himself, had stayed hidden until the battle was over. He could see where his brother lay and assumed he was dead. With no better idea of what to do, he had sloped off to the Serpent. He would find Samuel’s body later. He would not leave it to the crabs.

  But Samuel was alive and had been brought up to the inn with the others. A woman had said he would be dead before dusk. Thomas did not notice two women among those tending to the wounded, much alike in looks, both with auburn hair and green eyes. They moved from body to body, gently wiping off blood, dripping water on to parched lips and silently assessing each man’s chances. When they came to the black-bearded man set apart from the others, they found him alive but unconscious. The older woman looked at his face and jumped back, startled. ‘Is it him?’ she whispered.

  ‘It is. The other is inside.’

  ‘Stand there,’ said the older woman, indicating a spot between the man’s head and his nearest neighbour. Then, with a quick look to be sure she was not observed, she bunched a wet cloth and held it tightly over the man’s nose and mouth. For two minutes she held the cloth in place. When she removed it the man did not move or utter a sound. She felt for a pulse in his neck and put her hand over his heart. She nodded to the younger woman and they moved on to the next man.

  When John Gibbes eventually stirred himself and went outside, his brother was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where is the man who was here?’ he asked the younger woman.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she replied with the ghost of a smile. ‘The body has been taken. No one claimed him so he’ll be buried with the others. The grave’s being dug now.’

  John Gibbes turned and went back inside the inn.

  Six hours later, when the sun was setting, he was still sitting in the corner. He had said nothing, eaten nothing and barely moved except to lift a bottle to his mouth. The landlord thought he must have drunk twelve pints of claret and showed no surprise when he eventually passed out on the floor.

  Helped by two strong customers, the landlord dragged him outside with the wounded, and there he lay until morning.

  The inventory of casualties taken, Thomas and Adam left for home. Sitting in the parlour, Adam described the battle to Mary, neglecting to mention Charles’s wound until the end.

  Mary was horrified. ‘Wounded? Charles is wounded? Why didn’t you tell me this before? Is it serious? Where is he wounded?’

  ‘Calm down, sister. It’s not serious. A clean wound in the arm. Nothing much. It’ll mend quickly and his steward will take good care of him. You could visit him if you wish.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Good of you to tell me, Adam. Anything else you’d like to reveal?’

  ‘There is one thing. Samuel Gibbes was shot. By both sides. He ran out of the rocks waving his arms about like a lunatic. We didn’t know what on earth he was up to. Nor did the soldiers. He’ll be dead by now.’

  ‘Now that is good news,’ said Mary. ‘Any sign of the other one?’

  ‘I didn’t see him. Might be dead too, I suppose.’

  ‘I do hope so. It would save us all trouble.’

  ‘One left is more than enough, Mary,’ said Thomas, ‘but probably not as much as half of two. They fed off each other. John Gibbes on his own is much less of a danger.’

  ‘Indeed. And now I’m going to visit Charles.’

  ‘Take Thomas with you.’

  ‘If you wish. Would you care to accompany me, Thomas? I prefer not to leave the estate alone.’

  At the Carrington house, Mary asked Thomas to wait outside while she went in. She thought she might be with the patient for an hour. She did not bother to announce herself in any way and simply walked straight in. As there was no sign of Charles’s steward, Thomas led their horses to a tethering post and sat down under a flambeau tree to wait.

  Compared to Newbury, the skirmish at Six Mens Bay had been a minor affair but it was the most serious clash yet. Things were getting worse. There had now been two bloody battles and the list of dead and injured could only get longer. Ayscue said he wanted to take control of the island peacefully and Willoughby wanted to keep it peacefully. One claimed the commission of Parliament, the other of the king. Neither wanted to fight but both had to do their duty. It was hard to see a compromise.

  After a little over an hour, Mary emerged from the house. She looked elated. ‘How did you find him, Mary?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘He’ll be as good as new in no time. And what have you been thinking about?’

  ‘After long and thorough consideration, madam, I have concluded that I am against war, cruelty and intolerance, and am for peace, good health and good food.’

  ‘What about love?’ There was a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Essential. As often as possible.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Although I should be grateful for your discretion.’

  ‘Of course. On condition that you marry him.’

  ‘I intend to, Perkins or no Perkins.’

  The following evening, when Adam had taken his platoon to join Willoughby in the south, Thomas dined with Mary and Patrick. Mary preferred not to eat alone, so when her brother was away Patrick joined her. For an hour afterwards they sat and talked. Mary spoke of her love of Barbados and her fear of being sent back to England, Thomas of his love of Romsey and his fear of never getting back to England. Actually doing something more than sit about feeling sorry for himself had lifted his spirits.

  Patrick listened and said little. Fond as he was of both these people, he knew only what he had been told of England and he confessed that he could not picture it clearly in his mind. They were interrupted by an urgent knocking on the door.

  Mary looked up sharply. ‘Patrick, please answer it. More news, I expect.’

  But the news Patrick brought was not news any of them expected. ‘A man is at the door, Miss Lyte. He gives his name as John Gibbes. He asks to see you.’

  Thomas was on his feet immediately. ‘Hell’s hounds. Surely not.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Thomas. Patrick, please tell Mr Gibbes that it is late and I am not inclined to receive visitors at this hour. He may return in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Lyte.’

  ‘That will give us time to think of something.’

  Patrick was soon back. ‘He is most insistent, Miss Lyte, and not entirely sober. He says that if he is not admitted, he will admit himself. He carries a pistol.’

  ‘In that case I shall get rid of him myself. Come with me, Patrick, please. Keep out of sight, Thomas.’

  ‘Mary …’

  ‘Go, Thomas.’ Reluctantly, Thomas disappeared into the kitchen. He slipped quietly out of the kitchen door and around the side of the house, to a small window from where he could see and hear without being seen or heard.

  When Mary opened the door, Gibbes was standing outside, even more revolting than she remembered him. Matted red beard, carbuncles and warts, bleary eyes, filthy clothes and reeking of something foul. So foul that Mary took a step backwards.

  ‘Mr Gibbes, I am Mary Lyte.’ For all her courage, Thomas heard a slight tremble in her voice. ‘You are not welcome here.’

  Gibbes shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. He clutched in both hands a small sack tied with a length of rope. It looked heavy. ‘My brother is dead, killed at Six Mens Bay. That is why I have come.’

  ‘I do not see how that concerns me.’

  ‘I am a r
ich man.’ He held up the evil-smelling bag. ‘This bag is full of gold. I have come to give it to you.’

  Expecting a demand for Thomas to be handed over, Mary was taken by surprise. ‘That is absurd, Mr Gibbes. Why would I wish to take your gold?’

  He ignored the question. ‘There is one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You will be my wife.’

  Mary stared at him in astonishment. Before she could say anything, Gibbes went on, ‘You are of marriageable age, I am the owner of a good estate and a wealthy man. Now my brother is dead, I wish to take a wife. Why would you refuse me?’ Thomas knew that there were at least a hundred reasons, none of which Mary cared to offer him.

  ‘Kindly leave my estate at once. If you come here again, I shall instruct my servants to shoot you.’ Now she was shouting.

  ‘Your servants are away,’ said Gibbes slyly.

  ‘This unwelcome meeting is over. Go, Mr Gibbes. Now.’

  She made to close the door. But for all the rum inside him, Gibbes moved quickly. Before Mary or Patrick could stop him, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, slamming it behind him. Putting himself in front of Mary, Patrick shot a fist into Gibbes’s face. Ignoring the blood streaming from his nose, Gibbes dropped the bag, pulled a knife from inside his shirt, grabbed Patrick’s hair and with a single backhand slash opened his throat.

  As Patrick fell, blood spurting from the wound, Mary screamed. Stepping over him, Gibbes jammed the knife into the doorpost and reached for her throat. Again she screamed. He got his hands around her neck and thrust his face into hers. ‘Now you’re going to learn what happens to a woman who defies John Gibbes. If you won’t be my wife, you won’t be the first whore who’s learned her lesson.’

  Mary wriggled and struggled and beat at his shoulders with her fists. Blind with rage and lust, Gibbes barely flinched. He forced her on to her back and straddled her. She was pinned under his weight, but her arms were free. Desperately, she thrust both hands into his groin, twisted and squeezed. Gibbes shrieked, but kept one hand around her throat and punched her hard in the face. Again she twisted and squeezed and again he hit her, this time with enough force to knock her senseless.