Andrew Swanston: The King's Exile

It was the first time Thomas had been on board a ship. He could only just stand upright, the air was fetid and it stank. It was a dire place, reeking of rats and human waste, cold, dark and threatening. With a terrible clunk the hatch was shut behind them and twelve miserable, frightened men had no choice but to find a hammock and await events. At that moment, Thomas knew he was trapped. Someone, God alone knew who, had used the pamphlet, innocuous though it was, to have him arrested and deported. Someone who hated him enough to do such a thing, someone with enough influence to make it happen. Who?

The one prisoner whose hands had been untied on deck pulled the rag from Thomas’s mouth and released his hands. Then the two of them did the same for the other men. Not a word was exchanged between any of them. It was as if they had abandoned hope and resigned themselves to their fate. Even the man who had prayed for death was silent. Thomas longed to shout, to demand a fair trial, to rail against the injustice, to force someone to listen. But it was too late. He was trapped in the hold of a dank, stinking ship and no one was going to listen to him now. He found a hammock in which he could lie with his back to the side of the ship, and, shaking with shock, hoisted himself into it, closed his eyes and tried to calm himself by lying still and breathing deeply.

During the night the hatch was opened three times and more prisoners were pushed down into the hold. Thomas lay quietly, listening to their oaths, sensing their fear and wondering what the morning would bring.

When at last it came, morning brought a clanking of chains as the Dolphin ’s anchor was weighed, the thump of sailors’ feet on the deck, voices raised and a lurch of the ship away from the quay, followed by a slow turn out of the harbour. When Thomas heard sails being raised and the ship started to rise and dip on the waves, he knew they were on the open sea.

Some time later, the hatch was opened again and a sailor shouted at the prisoners to come on deck. One by one they climbed the ladder and emerged into daylight. Thomas was the last of them. Two armed guards stood at the top of the hatch, counting. ‘Twenty-three. That’s the lot,’ said one, a mean-looking rat of a man in a filthy shirt and threadbare trousers cut off at the knee.

‘Won’t be twenty-three when we get there,’ replied the other. ‘More like twelve, I reckon.’

Thomas ignored them and stumbled out on to the deck. It was early in the season for an Atlantic crossing or even a short voyage to Ireland, and, despite his two shirts and thick coat, he shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest. He had taken two unsteady steps when the ship rolled, he lost his footing and only just grabbed a thick coil of rope in time to stop himself being thrown against a mast. Around him, all the other prisoners were slipping and sliding about the deck, hanging on to whatever or whoever they could find and cursing loudly while their guards stood and laughed. Thomas peered around. Behind them, the coastline was just visible; in front he could see nothing but an endless expanse of grey water.

Gradually, the prisoners became more accustomed to the movement of the ship and were able to make their way to the middle of the deck, where buckets of fresh water and a few loaves of bread and scraps of meat in old boxes set out beside the mainmast were being guarded by two more sailors armed with short swords and pistols tucked into their belts. They looked for all the world like pirates. Using his hands as a cup, Thomas took his turn to scoop water into his mouth, then tore off a lump of bread and a piece of meat and found a place on the deck to sit. The bread was stale and the meat rotten and he could only swallow them in tiny mouthfuls. But taking his time and returning frequently to the water, he made himself eat it all. No point in dying of hunger while waiting for justice to be done.

Quite suddenly the wind strengthened. The square sails on each of the three masts responded and the ship picked up speed. It bucked and rolled, once again hurling men to the deck. Timbers creaked and waves splashed over the sides. Thomas, still sitting on the deck, looped his arm through a length of rope tied to the ship’s side and hoped that the Dolphin was as sturdy as she looked. Around him, prisoners were flailing about, swearing lustily and demanding God’s assistance in keeping them safe, while the ship’s crew, showing no sign of discomfort or surprise, pointed at them and laughed. Suddenly an elderly man came careening down the deck on his backside. With his free hand, Thomas grabbed a leg and held on until the fellow could right himself and find a handhold. He nodded his thanks to Thomas and promptly threw up over his arm. Not wanting to risk losing his grip on the rope, Thomas made no effort to wipe the stuff off.

Gradually most of the prisoners were able to regain their footing and stumble to the hatch. Thomas helped the old man to the ladder and then lay on his stomach to lower him down. He was about to stand up and climb down himself when his ankles were seized and he was tipped headfirst into the hold. He managed to break the worst of the fall with his forearms and found himself in a heap at the bottom. He looked up to see a sailor’s face grinning down at him.

‘There you are,’ shouted the sailor over the roar of the waves, ‘safely back in your hole. No need to thank me. Always happy to help.’

Thomas picked himself up and stumbled to his hammock, scraping the vomit off his arm. He shut his eyes. How in the name of heaven was he going to survive this?

He tried in vain to wipe the sweat from his eyes and the image of Margaret and the girls from his mind, and lay listening to the wind turn from a stiff breeze to a howling storm. He could only imagine the scene on deck — sailors scrambling up the rigging to reduce sail and frantically tying down whatever could be tied down, while officers yelled at them to make haste. He hung on to his hammock and waited for the storm to die down or the ship to sink. If it did, would he find wood for a raft and be blown to land by the wind? Or would he be trapped in the hold and drown?

More than once the Dolphin listed so sharply that he was sure it would tip on to its side, but each time it somehow righted itself. While they lay helpless in the hold the storm went on and on through the rest of the day and the night until, as dawn shed a little light through the cracks in the timbers of the deck above them, its power waned enough for the hardiest of the prisoners to tumble out of their hammocks and get to a bucket. To Thomas’s sensitive nose, the stench was unspeakable. He pressed his face to the side of the ship and tried to smell timber. When that did not work, he buried his face in his coat and thought of lavender.

It was still breezy when at last the hatch was opened and a sailor peered in. ‘Any fish food down there?’ he shouted cheerfully. There was none. All the prisoners had survived the night. They filed unsteadily up the ladder and into the sea air, clinging on to whatever they could for safety. The buckets were taken up and emptied over the side. The masts were still bare of sails and the deck was a jumble of rope, canvas and crates. The sailor divided them into two groups, each overseen by three guards. Thomas’s group was put to sorting out the tangled ropes, then washing down the hold with buckets of seawater. All the time the wind still blew strongly enough to make the work dangerous and each man took at least one tumble.

The nimbleness that had made Thomas a much sought-after dancing partner while a student at Oxford stood him in good stead. He fell only once and was quickly back on his feet. After an hour of unravelling ropes and climbing up and down the steps with buckets, they were herded back into the hold. Having slept not at all during the night, most of them were snoring within minutes. Thomas lay awake and urged the wind to blow harder. The harder it blew, the sooner they would arrive in Barbados and the sooner he would get home.