Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

‘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 bestial 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?’