Andrew Swanston: The King's Exile

Happily, one of the prisoners, an innkeeper from Hursley, was a natural jester. He was a large man, red of face and loud of voice, who stood accused of saying that he would rather serve Oliver Cromwell for dinner than serve him with it. Unfortunately for him, he had been overheard by an informer and reported. He claimed that he was looking forward to his trial when he would offer the defence that he had said no such thing and, if he had, he must have been speaking in jest because he made a point of serving only the very best meat and no customer of his would want anything as mean as Cromwell. Listening to him, Thomas thought that the innkeeper was just the kind of man he’d want beside him in times of trouble but that his chances of avoiding a spell in prison were remote.

Thomas tried to keep his spirits up by examining the crime of which he stood accused. A simple pamphlet, criticizing no one and inciting no one to violence, just proposing a rational, workable system of government. He would have no difficulty in persuading a magistrate to release him, and would be home in a day or two. He would keep quiet and rely upon justice being done. Tomorrow would bring better news.

The night-time noises of five fellow prisoners and no breakfast did nothing to strengthen Thomas’s resolve. And by noon the next day there had been no news. Margaret would be expecting him home soon, and anyway, what could she do to help? The first of his doubts were starting to creep in.

Overnight the spirits of all the men had dropped — even the Hursley innkeeper had run out of stories — and they were not revived by the arrival of dinner. A bucket of brown water, crusts of stale bread and lumps of maggoty cheese were dumped on the floor by a silent gaoler, leaving each of them to help himself to what he could stomach. For Thomas that was a small crust and a mouthful of water.

None of the prisoners knew how long they could expect to be kept there. The Winchester petty sessions would be held regularly, but when? When asked, the silent gaoler just grunted. Nor did they have much idea of how a magistrate would view the crimes of which they were accused. What were the penalties for a jest about Cromwell, falling down drunk in church, selling rotten meat, writing a political pamphlet? The stocks, a fine? Surely not prison. No one knew.

Thomas’s doubts became more serious. Four soldiers had been sent to Romsey to escort him to Winchester. Four armed men — for just one unarmed, peaceful prisoner. Why? Since then, there had been no information and no contact from outside. What if there was some sort of conspiracy? Someone holding a grudge against him? A more serious charge might be concocted. He was cold and hungry and by the evening he was frightened. Separation from his family and ignorance of what was happening or still to come were punishment enough, never mind the noisome cell and gruesome scraps of food.

After another foul, sleepless night Thomas’s mind was wandering. Some malicious ne’er-do-well with an axe to grind had shown the pamphlet to a magistrate and demanded that its author be arrested and brought to justice. And the magistrate had obliged. If so, Thomas was in trouble. He would be lucky to avoid a few days in the stocks or even a spell in gaol.

At dawn, Thomas heard orders being given, doors being opened and men being taken out. Soon his own cell was unlocked and the gaoler, accompanied by two armed guards, stood at the door. ‘These men come with me,’ he ordered and called out four names, of which Thomas’s was the third. Thank God, action at last and his ordeal would soon be over. Face the magistrate, explain himself, take his punishment if he must, and go home.

The four men were led to a small courtyard where a larger group of prisoners was waiting. Gaunt and filthy, and trying to shield their eyes from the light, these were not new prisoners. The magistrate would be having a busy day.

A short, fat man, in a grey woollen coat and a broad-brimmed hat, entered the yard and stood before them. In his hand, he held a sheet of paper. ‘I am Captain Fortescue,’ he announced. ‘I have a licence to remove you from this place and to transport you to the island of Barbados in the Caribbean, where you will be sold as indentured men. We will travel immediately to Southampton where my ship is anchored, and proceed from there to the Irish port of Cork where we will take on board more prisoners to be indentured. Your indenture terms will be seven years.’ Two of the prisoners charged at the guards. They were instantly felled by blows to the head with the butt of a musket and dragged back into line. One screamed that he was an honest man, unjustly accused, and another fell to his knees and prayed for death.

Thomas’s legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground. Arrested for nothing, thrown into gaol and deported without trial? It was the stuff of nightmares. It could not be. He struggled to his feet and spoke with as much authority as he could muster. ‘Captain, my name is Thomas Hill. I stand accused of who knows what and I demand to be heard.’

‘Hill?’ replied Fortescue, consulting his list. ‘Ah yes, Thomas Hill. Hold your tongue, Hill, or it’ll be the worse for you. Your indenture has been arranged and you’d best get used to the idea.’

Indenture arranged? How and by whom and for what? It was impossible. ‘And I demand justice.’

‘Enough, Hill. One more word and you’ll pay.’

‘This is absurd. Of what am I charged? By whom am I accused?’

‘Stop his mouth, Jethro. This one could be trouble.’

A filthy rag stuffed into his mouth, Thomas was led away with the others to a large cart drawn by two shire horses and on to which they were loaded like sheep. Their hands and feet were tied with ropes looped through iron rings set into the sides of the cart. Two guards sat at the front, one holding the reins, the other a loaded musket, while Captain Fortescue rode behind them.

Unable to speak, Thomas sat in misery, ready to explode with frustration and anger. As none of his fellow prisoners spoke to him he had only his own thoughts for company. He thought of escape, of Margaret, of an England that had come to this, of the monstrous injustice. Seven years of indenture. Impossible. Treated like a common criminal. Ridiculous. The mistake would be discovered at Southampton and he would be released. That would be the way of it.

When they arrived that evening in Southampton, Thomas’s head throbbed and his backside was bruised from the constant juddering of the cart on the rutted road. The ropes around their feet were untied and each man was hauled upright and made to stumble to the quay where Captain Fortescue’s ship, the Dolphin , was anchored in the harbour. Although its keel could not have been very deep, it looked a stout vessel, almost pear-shaped, with three masts and a narrow deck, and about eighty feet long from bow to stern. Even though he was in such a miserable state, Thomas’s mathematical mind was at work. He counted places for only six cannon, which he assumed meant a mere twelve in total. The Dolphin was a ship designed for trade rather than warfare. And he and his companions were part of the trade.

The two guards marched them to the ship. Thomas looked about, expecting to see a friendly face with papers for his release. There was none. Bare-chested labourers were unloading barrels and crates from carts and carrying them on board, sailors were hauling on ropes and shouting instructions and a small group of well-dressed men, merchants probably, had gathered at one end of the quay to see that their goods were safely loaded. Not one of them took any notice of the prisoners being herded on to the ship.

Thomas’s hands were still bound and the rag was still in his mouth. He could not cry out for help nor could he hope to escape by making a run for it. Still disbelieving, he was forced to clamber on board with the others and led to a hatch in the deck towards the bow. With difficulty they climbed down a short ladder to the hold. There was just enough light to see that they were in a section partitioned off from the cargo bay and fitted with rows of narrow canvas hammocks fixed to the beams which supported the deck above them and no more than a foot apart.