Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

On the day that news of the king’s execution arrived in Barbados, there were nearly thirty rows of notches on the table and Thomas had added more adjectives to his list, including lewd, inhuman and grotesque. He had been in his island prison for the best part of a year. So far he had resisted the urge to run. Runaways lived their lives out in the forest. They did not get home. For that, he needed help.

He had not seen Patrick in the market for weeks and he had given up hope of Adam Lyte offering to help. Each time he looked at himself in the inkwell, he saw a hollower, rougher, more haggard face. His thin hair and straggly beard were streaked with grey and his eyes were red and sore. The manual work and meagre diet had removed every ounce of fat from his body so that his ribs stuck out. If Polly and Lucy could see him, he doubted they would recognize him.

He had woken, as always, at dawn, splashed his face with water from the well, pulled on his only shirt and prepared to brave another day in hell. To his surprise a messenger had arrived and was tethering his horse. The messenger strode up to the house, knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again, this time more loudly. Knowing better than to interfere, Thomas stood in the shadows and watched. Eventually, the door was opened by a bleary-eyed Samuel Gibbes.

‘Good morning, Mr Gibbes,’ said the messenger politely. ‘I come from Colonel Drax.’

‘And what does Drax want at this hour?’ grunted Samuel, rubbing his eyes.

‘A boat from Plymouth arrived yesterday evening, sir. It carried copies of an announcement made by Parliament. The king has been executed. Colonel Drax has called a meeting of landowners in the Mermaid Inn at midday today.’

‘What for? If the fairy’s dead, a meeting won’t bring him back.’

‘I know,’ said John, who had joined his brother at the door, ‘it’s a banquet. A banquet to drink to the fairy’s death. Excellent. Tell Drax we’ll be there and we’ll be thirsty.’ Duty done, the messenger left.

‘Best give Hill the news, eh, brother?’ asked John, with a foul leer. ‘It’d be cruel not to.’

‘Come on, then.’ And off they lumbered up the path. Thomas made a quick retreat through the woods to his hut and came out to meet them.

‘Hill, we’ve got news for you,’ shouted John as they approached. ‘We’re going out and you’re coming with us.’

‘Don’t you want to know where we’re going, Hill?’ demanded Samuel. Thomas held his tongue. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. We’re going to Oistins. There’s to be a meeting. Your precious king is dead.’ The Gibbes laughed. ‘We thought you’d like to be there.’

Thomas found himself oddly unmoved by the news. The regicide was an act of barbarism, to be sure, but in Oxford he had found the king an odd little man with his pointed beard, stammer and limp; not a man one could warm to. The king he might have been, but it was difficult to mourn for him and change brings opportunity. Clutching at straws, Thomas? he asked himself. Well, why not? There’s little else to clutch at.

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.’