Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

The exception sat alone in a corner. Having spent the best part of two days in the Mermaid waiting for news that battle had commenced, Robert Sprot looked less than his usual smiling self. No doubt he imagined that four thousand men trying to kill each other would provide plenty of lucrative work for a skilled surgeon without particular political affiliation, but judging by the mood of these men a battle was now unlikely.

Perhaps, thought Thomas, he’s hoping for a fist fight to break out, providing at least a broken bone or a bloody nose. But there was no mood that day for fighting. These were men who wanted to laugh and drink, not fight. Before long Sprot picked up his precious satchel and left.

The singing broke out soon after Sprot had gone. A tall Scot, encouraged by his comrades, hoisted himself on to a table and launched into a revolting song about the ladies of Fife. He was followed by a fat planter who used much the same words to describe his experiences in Holetown and before long the whole inn was in lusty voice. The singing continued while the serving girls sloshed drink into mugs and glasses, fended off unwelcome hands and collected whatever coins they could from the drinkers.

By two o’clock, however, the Mermaid was deserted. The landlord had run out of beer, wine, ale and rum, and Adam Lyte, Charles Carrington and Lord Willoughby’s principal secretary, none of them entirely sober, had followed grown men splashing like children through puddles in the streets of Oistins, singing as they went and for once not minding the soaking they were getting from above and below. Some walked arm in arm, others held on to each other for support.

When the party reached a fork in the road at the bottom of the hill, one of the Scots was so enamoured of his new friends that he tried to accompany them back to their lines rather than his own. Only with great difficulty, and a clout on the head with a bottle, was he persuaded by his colleagues to stay with them.

The dripping sentries turned blind eyes to the returning soldiers. Many did not try to locate their platoons but simply lay down under the trees near the cavalry horses at the rear of the camp and went to sleep in the rain. Having reached his tent, Thomas’s last thought before passing out was that men who drank and sang together would not relish blowing each other’s heads off or sticking swords into each other’s stomachs.

The next morning, Willoughby sent for the three of them again. Heads covered, they splashed their way past artillery pieces stuck fast in the mud, abandoned muskets and sodden barrels of powder to his cottage, where they were given breakfast. His lordship had news.

A squadron of six ships had been sighted approaching from the north-east. They were too far away to be identified with certainty but from their look they might have come from Virginia. If so, they were either settlers or reinforcements for the blockading fleet. Lured by the promise of prosperity in a more agreeable climate, settlers from the American colonies were arriving in numbers to start new lives in the Caribbean. Barbados, for its society and its wealth, had become their most favoured destination. But Cromwell might have sent a fleet to take control of Virginia and having done so, it might have had orders to join Ayscue. The squadron had anchored outside Oistins harbour.

‘We must find out who they are,’ declared Willoughby. ‘If they are reinforcements, Ayscue will be even more reluctant to agree a truce. I imagine there is no risk of his being able to attack today any more than we could?’

‘None,’ replied Charles. ‘If anything, he’s even wetter than we are. Modyford’s troops came ill-prepared and have been sleeping in the open. Their rations are poor and if they haven’t drowned, they certainly won’t be up to fighting.’

‘How do you know this, Charles?’

Charles coughed lightly. ‘Information to that effect fortunately came to our notice.’

‘Have you heard any more from Colonel Walrond, my lord?’ asked Adam, quickly. None of them wanted to be drawn on the source of the information.

‘He’s as bellicose as ever,’ replied Willoughby. ‘He asked my permission to lead a troop of two hundred men in a surprise attack on their flank. I refused it. Ayscue may yet change his mind and we should do nothing to provoke him. Are we still adequately provisioned, Charles?’

‘For the present, yes. Supplies are brought daily from Oistins and Bridgetown. The meat is not always fresh and the bread often stale but as long as it continues to arrive, we need have no fear of starvation. Of water, we have an abundance.’

‘What about the enemy? Who’s supplying them?’

‘Much the same merchants, I daresay. I doubt they’re particular about their customers, as long as they can pay.’

‘Is there any more we can do?’

‘Other than keep dry, I can think of nothing.’

‘My lord, if you will forgive me, would it not be wiser to seek a settlement?’ ventured Thomas. ‘Once we’ve started hacking each other to pieces, it might be difficult to stop. And our position will be gravely weakened if we suffer heavy losses.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘If I may, my lord, that we send a message to Sir George Ayscue to the effect that we are prepared to fight but would rather find a peaceful solution. His response may tell us more about the squadron.’

‘It would have to be done in secret. Walrond must not hear of it.’

‘That, my lord, is why I, not Charles or Adam, should carry the message. Colonel Walrond will not note my absence. With your consent, I will go tonight.’

Willoughby considered. ‘I am not happy about this, Thomas. You might be in danger.’

‘That I am quite used to. I have found Barbados to be a dangerous place.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Unless there is a better idea, my lord, quite sure.’

Willoughby looked at the other two, who both shrugged. ‘Very well, Thomas. The Lord had a purpose when he sent you here. Again it is you to whom I turn for help. I shall await your report.’

Thomas approached the Parliamentary lines from the direction of Oistins. He had taken a path which wound round below the plateau and climbed the hill behind them. He was unarmed. The first sentries he met were stationed in bushes fifty yards down the hill. In answer to their warning, he gave his name, stated his purpose and asked to be taken to Sir George Ayscue. The sentries made him wait while one of them went to deliver the message.

The man finally returned to say that Sir George Ayscue was at dinner with Colonel Modyford and Colonel Drax and that he was to escort Master Hill to them.

At the rear of the Parliamentary lines, Thomas found the three men seated at a small table in Ayscue’s tent, working their way through a hearty dinner. Modyford’s comfortable house had been abandoned as battle headquarters in favour of a tent on the plateau. They looked up when he entered.

‘Thomas Hill, sent by Lord Willoughby, I understand,’ said Ayscue, ‘and for what purpose, pray?’

Thomas presented the document he had himself written and which Lord Willoughby had signed. It confirmed that Master Thomas Hill, principal secretary to Lord Willoughby, had come at his lordship’s command. ‘Lord Willoughby wishes me to advise you that he carries the commission of the king to govern Barbados and that he does not intend to relinquish it.’

Ayscue’s response was sharp. ‘We recognize no authority but that of Parliament. Charles Stuart, the man to whom you refer as king, is at present in Holland and holds no sway in England.’

‘Lord Willoughby believes otherwise and if necessary will fight in the name of King Charles.’

Modyford shrugged. ‘There’s nothing new in this. It’s what Willoughby has been saying for weeks. It’s got us nowhere, which is why I have allied myself to Sir George. With the Virginia squadron we now easily outnumber you. Willoughby must know that he cannot defeat us and would be well advised to sue for peace. The terms would be more favourable now than after he has been defeated.’