Andrew Swanston: The King's Exile

For two more days and nights the Dolphin battled her way westwards along the south coast of England towards the Lizard. Twice each day the hatch was opened and the prisoners climbed the ladder to the deck, where they were given hard bread and biscuits, scraps of meat and bits of maggoty cheese, and allowed to stretch their legs. They were guarded by sailors with short swords and pistols. There were about twenty sailors in the crew, each as rough as the next. Thomas assumed that their quarters were in the other half of the hold. As he did with his fellow prisoners, Thomas spoke to them only when he had to.

In between the hours on deck and bouts of vomiting, he lay in his hammock and seethed. Like an African slave, he had been torn from his home on another man’s whim, leaving his family to fend for themselves, and thrown on to this stinking ship on the way to a distant island where he would doubtless be worked to death in a matter of weeks. He had heard accounts of the Caribbean islands, of the heat and sickness and of the landowners’ treatment of their slaves and indentured servants, and he knew he would not last long. He must find a way to get home and he must find out who had done this to him and why.

Once they had rounded the Lizard, the wind picked up again and they flew across the Irish Sea to Cork, where they picked up another twenty men — Catholics imprisoned by the army of Parliament and by all accounts savagely treated. Several carried the scars of torture, one had lost an eye, another wore the black habit of a Dominican. The youngest was a boy of no more than fourteen. The priest took the empty hammock beside Thomas’s, and spent his time mouthing silent prayers and crossing himself. Fortunately he was as disinclined to talk as Thomas was.

At first, the Irishmen kept to themselves. Then they started to mix with the other prisoners and a hierarchy of sorts emerged. Its currencies were food and knowledge. Despite the meagre food, the weakest were willing to trade some of their ration in return for protection. Two squat Irishmen set themselves up as protectors and offered, for payment in food, to keep predators at bay. Among forty-three men, all taken from some foul gaol, there were a good number of rogues and scoundrels and one or two who would, if they had the chance, use a younger man like a woman. Thomas saw all this, said nothing and kept out of trouble. The two Irishmen, for some reason, did not bother him. Perhaps they haven’t noticed me, he thought, or perhaps they think a little fellow with receding hair has no hope of lasting more than a week. And they might be right.

From his position at the side of the ship, Thomas noticed that barriers were breaking down and the prisoners were beginning to make friends. It occurred to him that in such an environment man’s instinct to survive takes over. Some, like him, withdrew into their private worlds, others formed alliances. Much like the solitary cat on one hand and the pack-loving hound on the other. Thomas Hill, philosopher, devoted uncle and erstwhile cryptographer at the king’s court in Oxford, was very much the cat.

He forced himself to use the hours on deck to walk and stretch. This not only helped to keep his legs from stiffening up but also cleared his head of the sounds and smells of men forced to live cheek by jowl for twenty-two hours a day. He did his best to keep clean, although with only seawater to wash in it was a losing battle. His scalp and beard itched and his clothes were filthy. He picked lice from his hair and nits from his skin. Sometimes he had the feeling that he was being watched by the guards but he put it out of his mind. Of course he was being watched; they all were.

He saw no captain, although there must have been one. Perhaps the man never left his cabin. Perhaps he passed the time in a drunken stupor. Perhaps he was an unearthly creature of the night who emerged only during darkness. Perhaps he was a pirate. Perhaps … Your wits are addled, Thomas. Pull yourself together and concentrate on staying alive.

Despite himself, on a good day when the sun was shining and the wind was fair, Thomas could almost enjoy the thrill of the ship skipping over the waves. On such a day, his spirits rose and he could persuade himself that, once in Barbados, he would be able to appeal to the authorities and have his absurd indenture overturned immediately. On such a day he willed the wind to blow and the Dolphin to pick up speed. The sooner they reached their destination, the sooner he would be on his way home. But the moment he was back in the hold his spirits sank again and he could see before him only seven intolerable years of separation from his family and raging frustration at what had been done to him.

One calm day a group had gathered by the mainmast. As Thomas approached, he heard them discussing how long they would be on the ship. Having already given this some thought, he reckoned that with a fair wind it would take them five or six weeks to reach Barbados. So far, the wind had been fair and they had been at sea for three. For the first time, he felt the need to talk.

‘Barbados is the most easterly of the Caribbean islands,’ he ventured. ‘I think we have another two or three weeks to look forward to, just as long as we’re not detained by a privateer. That would do none of us any good, so if you happen to see a suspicious-looking sail on the horizon be sure to shout as loudly as you can.’

‘How do we know if it’s suspicious?’ demanded a huge red-haired Irishman. The question was sharp and Thomas immediately regretted speaking. The man looked dangerous and might resent Thomas’s interference. He tried to laugh it off.

‘Best treat them all as the enemy. There may be Spaniards about, too.’

The giant eyed him suspiciously, as if looking for pretence. ‘Who are you, Englishman?’

‘My name is Thomas Hill.’

‘And what do you know of Barbados, Hill? Are there savages?’ asked another man.

‘I think not, although perhaps there once were. There’ll be black men, though. Slaves from Africa to work in the plantations. Many of them.’

‘I saw a black man once,’ said a dwarfish Irishman. ‘A servant he was, in the manor house. Eight feet tall and never said a word.’

‘What about snakes? I heard that some of them can swallow a man whole.’

Thomas smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. One thing I do know is that Barbados is like Ireland. There are no snakes at all.’

‘Thank the blessed virgin for that. She must have sent Saint Patrick there too. I wouldn’t mind savages or wild beasts — you’d see them coming — but not snakes. Snakes are the devil’s creatures.’

‘No wild beasts either. Just hogs and monkeys, I believe.’

‘How do you know this, Hill?’ growled the giant. ‘Seems to me you know more than an honest man should.’ He advanced on Thomas, his fists bunched and his huge head thrust forward. ‘One of Cromwell’s spies, are you?’

Thomas held his ground. ‘Certainly not. I was unjustly arrested and will be indentured like everyone else on this ship.’ God forbid, he thought, but to say anything else would have been asking for trouble. The Irishman was unconvinced.

‘I don’t believe you, Hill. You’re a dirty spy, put here to tell tales to the guards.’

Before Thomas could move, a huge pair of hands had grasped him by the throat. In vain he tried to reach the giant’s face, but it made no difference. The giant held on and the breath was squeezed out of him. His eyes closed and he was on the point of passing out when, without warning, the hands around his neck loosened their grip and he was dropped in a heap on to the deck. When he could see clearly again he looked up and saw two guards with pistols pointing at the giant’s head.