The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (3 page)

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.

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.

‘Another trick like that, Irishman,’ hissed one of them – the rat-faced man who had counted them on their first morning, ‘and you’ll feed the sharks.’

The giant scowled and spat. ‘Shitten little English worm. He won’t last the voyage. Why bother to keep him alive?’

‘He will last the voyage, Irishman,’ replied the other guard, pushing his pistol into the giant’s ear, ‘because you’re going to make sure he does. And if he doesn’t, neither will you. Is that clear enough for your heathen brain to understand?’

The giant spat again, stared at Thomas still sitting on the deck and nodded. For a moment none of the watching group moved, then a hand reached down to help Thomas to his feet. The guard spoke again. ‘That goes for all of you. This man has been paid for in advance and if he isn’t delivered as ordered, you’ll all pay.’ He turned to the giant. ‘Especially you, Irishman. Guard him carefully.’ The two guards lowered their pistols. For a moment the giant looked as if he might hit out at them, then he shrugged and slouched off towards the bow.

The guards returned to their posts and the prisoners were left alone. ‘And who’s paid for you in advance, Hill?’ asked one of them.

‘I have no idea. As I said, I was unjustly arrested. Someone must have wanted to get rid of me. God knows who.’

‘You sound like a Hampshire man. And you do know a lot. How is that?’

‘I am a Hampshire man. I come from Romsey. I have a bookshop. I read a lot.’

That seemed to satisfy them. The questions started up again, so it was just as well that, like many a clever man, Thomas had long ago mastered the art of making a little knowledge go a long way. ‘What about the white men, Hill?’

‘I know little about them except that the island is small, much smaller than Jamaica, so there won’t be many of them. They used to grow tobacco and cotton but I think it’s mostly sugar now. Perhaps the climate is more suited to sugar.’

‘So we’ll be indentured to sugar planters then? Working in the fields, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Is it hot?’

‘Much hotter than Ireland, but the Caribbean islands are wet too, so it’ll be humid.’

The questions continued even after they were sent below. Thomas could answer some of them and guessed at others. In truth, however, he didn’t know what to expect any more than the next man. What he did know was that the instant he set foot on dry land, he would find a way to plead his case. He would tell the authorities exactly what he had written in the pamphlet, explain that his arrest had been a mistake and demand to be put straight back on a ship sailing for England. He would go home to Romsey, life would return to normal, on long winter evenings he would tell stories about the voyage and they would all laugh.

When the questions finished he thought about what the guard had said. Must arrive safely. Paid for in advance. By whom and why? If only he knew, he could better prepare his appeal. But he had not the slightest inkling. He would have to wait until they reached Barbados.

For three weeks they saw no other ships, privateers or otherwise, and each day it grew warmer. At first that was a comfort and Thomas discarded his coat and extra shirt and used them as bedding. But as they sailed southwards each night in the hold was hotter and nastier than the last. Men grew sick and lay in their hammocks, some having lost control of their bowels but too feeble to get to a bucket, others thrashing about and cursing the pain of distended stomachs and swollen joints. Four bodies went to feed the fish without so much as a piece of sacking to cover them, the
Dominican priest among them. Thomas carried on answering questions as best he could, being careful to avoid taking sides. Although the Irish giant kept his distance, he knew the man was watching him. It was unnerving. Guarded by a fellow prisoner who would happily throw him over the side if he could, and not an inkling as to why.

Being cooped up on the ship made him think of his time in Oxford with the king, of being thrown into Oxford gaol and narrowly escaping death from gaol fever. And what of Margaret and the girls? Two blonde bundles of energy, forever plying Uncle Thomas with questions, jumping on his back, teasing him for his thinning hair, tickling him, insisting on a story. Since their father’s death they had all lived with him. There was a little money tucked away but it would not last forever. If he did not return soon Margaret might have to find work, unless she could run the bookshop on her own. In his mind’s eye, he saw her washing and cleaning and scrubbing floors and had to press the balls of his thumbs into his eyes to make the image go away.

For Thomas, time lost its meaning. Each day the same as the last one and the next one. Lie sweating and scratching in his hammock in the fetid heat of the hold, feel the ship rising and falling with the swell of the sea, listen to the curses and prayers of the frightened, suffering men around him, climb the ladder on to the deck, swallow what food and drink what water he could, keep out of trouble, climb back into the hold, stay alive.

Stay alive.