The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (13 page)

In the safety of his hut, Thomas retrieved the pamphlet and brushed the dust off it. It was headed ‘Vivat Rex’ and had been written by none other than Colonel Humphrey Walrond. It consisted of a diatribe against Parliament and all who supported its cause, demanded that the Assembly make a formal declaration in favour of the king and urged loyal Royalists to raise militias to defend their property against the likes of James Drax and Thomas Middleton, two well-known Parliamentarians. Now that he has learned that the king has been executed, thought Thomas, God knows what Walrond will have to say. Barbados could become a very dangerous place and not just for me. He stuffed the pamphlet under his mattress with the list of adjectives.

When a visitor arrived at the house a week later, Thomas, labouring in the kitchen, heard him shout a greeting and went out to see who it was. The Gibbes did not receive many visitors and he was surprised to find that this one was Adam Lyte. He wondered what could be important enough to bring him to the brutes’ house so soon after their humiliation at the Mermaid Inn.

‘Good morning, Mr Lyte. An unexpected pleasure.’

‘Good morning, Thomas. Is Samuel Gibbes here?’

‘He and his brother are at the boiling house. There’s been an accident. Mr Sprot is there.’ Thomas assumed that Adam would prefer not to encounter Robert Sprot at work. Sprot’s dubious skills were much in demand and he charged more or less what he liked for them. On one of his frequent visits he had proudly explained that he had worked out his tariff on sound business principles – the price for removal of an arm or leg doubled during the cane-cutting season and mangled fingers caught in a mill could be detached at a shilling each or four for three shillings; thumbs carried a surcharge of two shillings.

His speciality, however, and one of which he was mightily proud, was the removal of impediments from within the body. The Sprot Saviour, designed by himself, was a very long, very thin pair of forceps which could, with a little manipulation, be inserted into the bladder, gall bladder or incised scrotum. He claimed it at least doubled the chances of success. Whether success was measured by the number of stones removed or the number of patients who survived the treatment, he did not say, but in the market Thomas had heard it said that a wise man would endure any pain, how ever vicious, rather than seek relief from Mr Sprot. Luckily for Mr Sprot there were many unwise men in Barbados and he had built a busy and lucrative practice, being careful always to request payment in advance.

Screams of agony were coming from the direction of the boiling house. ‘Perhaps I’ll sit here until he’s finished,’ Adam said thoughtfully.

‘Very well, sir,’ replied Thomas. ‘I can offer you some plantain juice. Or a glass of wine?’

‘Thank you, Thomas. A cup of plantain juice would be welcome.’

With the drink Thomas brought a copy of the pamphlet which the brutes had brought back from Oistins. ‘I thought you might not have seen it, Mr Lyte. I would much appreciate your opinion.’

Adam read the pamphlet carefully and then read it again. ‘Oddly, I have not seen this before. I take it you’ve read it, Thomas?’

‘I have, sir. It’s serious, is it not?’

‘It is. With the king dead, the last thing we need is Humphrey Walrond stirring up trouble. It’s exactly what Charles Carrington warned against and I agree with him.’

‘The Walronds are a Devon family, aren’t they?’

‘They are. Colonel Walrond retired here to his estate at Fontabelle two years ago. He and his brother Edward are powerful men with powerful connections. When did this appear?’

‘I saw it on the day of the meeting in the Mermaid.’

‘Well, Thomas, in my opinion this is a dangerous thing. It will inflame feelings and revive old enmities. And what is your opinion?’

‘I have learned to my cost that all such pamphlets cause trouble, sir, and if I were governor I would not permit them to be published. I was foolish enough to put my name to one a great deal less threatening and this is where it got me. I thought my views were harmless but I was wrong. They were used to cause me great harm. And this pamphlet is something quite different. It’s deliberately inflammatory. Colonel Walrond wants confrontation. But why? Is it really his beliefs driving him or an eye to profit? Is it loyalty he wants or land?’

‘Thomas, wouldn’t banning free expression of opinion be a restriction on a man’s liberty? Isn’t that why Cromwell and his like are so hated?’

‘Is society itself not a restriction on a man’s liberty, sir? Is it any more than a set of laws restricting individual freedom in the interests of the community? Different societies may have different laws and a man may have different rights and duties conferred by them, but aren’t they all restrictions on individual liberty? What restrictions are justified and what are not must be a matter of opinion. And, in my opinion, a man should be restricted from expressing a view of a nature or in a manner likely to cause confrontation and perhaps bloodshed. That is why I would ban it.’

‘What do you mean by “in a manner”, Thomas?’

‘I mean, for example, by means of a pamphlet like this – circulated widely and likely to be read by or to men disposed to take one extreme position or another. The same view expressed privately, mind you, may be quite acceptable.’

‘So it’s the manner of its expressing rather than the view itself that you would restrict?’

‘In this case, it is both.’

Adam changed the subject. ‘Thomas, Patrick has told me how you came to be indentured. He asked me to help, but in these delicate times and as a member of the Assembly I did not feel that I could. The laws of indenture are clear. Whatever the reason for a man’s indenture, voluntary or forced, once here he must serve his term. It would be wrong of me to argue otherwise.’ He paused. ‘However, the behaviour of the Gibbes at the meeting made me think again and Patrick has suggested another approach, which is why I am here.’ The screaming had stopped. ‘Perhaps I’ll walk up to the boiling house. You might care to accompany me.’

At the boiling house, a smiling Sprot, his bald head protected as ever from the Caribbean sun by a large straw hat, was packing
away the tools of his trade in a battered leather bag. He saw the two men approaching.

‘Mr Lyte, good morning,’ he greeted Adam warmly, ignoring Thomas altogether.

‘Good morning, Sprot. I see you’ve been busy.’ The brown stains on Sprot’s jacket were mixed with bright red ones – a sure sign of recent custom.

‘Just a routine affair, Mr Lyte. The man got his arm caught in the mill. I thought I might save it and just took the hand off first, but then I observed that the forearm would have to go sooner or later, so off it came. I have only charged for one cut, mind you; I don’t care to profit unduly from another’s misfortune, as you gentlemen will vouch. I’m quick with the saw though I say so myself and the man is alive. They have taken him to the slave quarters. He’ll have a sore head when he wakes up with all the rum he swallowed but he should survive. I don’t know what they’ll do with him, though. One-armed slaves aren’t worth much.’ Thomas dreaded to think what the brutes would do with the poor wretch.

Sprot went on cheerily, ‘Good day, Mr Lyte. You know where I am if you need me. Free men, indentured or slaves, and I’ll make you a good price. And between ourselves, I have just received a consignment of a most efficacious new medicine from London, should you have need of it. It comes highly recommended by the distinguished apothecary Nathaniel Foot, as a sovereign cure for various ills including headaches, vomiting, gout and fatigue. And I am able to offer it to my best customers at only a guinea a bottle. Be sure to look lively, though, my stock won’t last long.’ Sprot lowered his voice. ‘And, if I may, a word of warning. There are charlatans about. I have come across one who claims that a cup of the late king’s blood, taken with seawater, will cure the scrofula.
And so it may, but the late king’s body must have held a deal of blood and been shipped here with great speed. The man has sold gallons of it.’

Sprot had just left when the Gibbes returned from the slave quarters. ‘Well, well. Look who it is, brother. Good day, Mr Lyte. Come to tell us the king has come back to life or for another turkey and shoat? I thought it was your turn.’

‘Good day, gentlemen,’ replied Lyte politely. ‘No, not looking for dinner today and my apologies for not giving you notice of my visit. There’s something I want to ask you both.’

‘How to make his slaves work harder, eh, Samuel? The whip, Lyte, the whip, and as often as you please. Or where to find the choicest women? No, no, he must know that by now. I have it. Where to find a good husband for his sister? That’ll be it. Well, look no further, sir. John Gibbes is your man.’

Thomas saw the disgust in Adam Lyte’s face and the effort it took him to ignore the remark. ‘No, gentlemen, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I wanted a word about Thomas here.’

‘Hill? What have you done, you puffed-up little prick? Something serious, I hope. It’s time you had a thrashing.’

‘No, no. He’s done nothing wrong, as far as I know,’ said Lyte quickly. ‘I just wanted to make you a business proposition.’

At this all four bloodshot Gibbes eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘About the windmill?’

‘No, something else.’

‘Best go down to the house then. Back to your hut, Hill, while we listen to what Mr Lyte has to say.’

Thomas waited until they had rounded the bend in the path down to the house, and then quietly followed them. Whatever Patrick had suggested, he wanted to know. He crept through the
woods and round to his listening tree in time to see them sit down at the battered oak table on which the turkey and shoat had been served. ‘Right then, Lyte. What is it?’ Samuel asked impatiently. ‘We’ve wasted too much time already today.’

‘Mary and I would like to buy Hill from you. We’ll use him to keep our records and accounts.’

Again the Gibbes’s eyes narrowed. ‘And how much had you thought of paying?’ asked John Gibbes.

‘Thirty guineas we thought would be a fair price.’

It was a huge price. Two or three new men could be bought for that. The Gibbes hesitated, but not for long. ‘Thirty guineas? I don’t think we’d sell him for that, would we, brother? He’s a good cook as you know yourself, and well trained. Stronger than he looks, too. Works hard with a little persuasion. He’d not be easy to replace. Thirty guineas wouldn’t do it, sir, not by a distance.’

‘I could go to thirty-five.’

‘Nor thirty-five.’

‘Forty is my final offer.’

The brothers exchanged glances as if they suspected a trick. ‘We’ll discuss the matter and send word. Good day.’

Adam rose and left. Thomas, behind his tree, kept listening. So that was Patrick’s idea. A perfectly legal transaction. Simple. And forty guineas. Surely the brutes would be tempted.

The brutes were smug. ‘That’ll teach the devious scab not to come here and try lording it over us. Forty guineas? It’s a good price.’

‘Let’s go and find Hill and tell him the news.’

‘Ha. Excellent idea, brother. We’ll take a drink first.’

By the time they came thundering up the path Thomas was back in his hut. ‘Hill, come here,’ shouted Samuel. ‘Lyte has an
offer for us. We thought you’d like to know what it is.’ I do know, thought Thomas. What I want to know is whether you’re going to accept it. ‘The pompous toad wants to buy you. Any idea why?’

‘None.’

‘Want to know how much he was willing to pay for you? Forty guineas, that’s how much.’ Thomas pretended to be astonished, which at the price he was. ‘We thought you’d be pleased to know how much he thinks you’re worth. We’re pleased too.’ John had a sly look about him. Thomas held his breath and waited. John jabbed a finger into Thomas’s chest. ‘But we’re not going to sell you. The Lytes can go and hang themselves. You’re not up to much but we’re not letting you go to be pampered by a pair of prissy king-lovers.’ The Gibbes laughed. ‘Now get back to the books. The magistrate would be only too pleased to order a public flogging if we asked for one. And don’t even think of running off. We’ll make sure you can’t run anywhere again if you do. Even Lyte won’t want a gelded cripple.’

ON A BRIGHT
spring morning the black coach emblazoned with the monogram TR drew up at the coaching inn outside Romsey. The brutal winter was at last over and the roads were passable again. As before, Rush left his coachman to take care of stabling for the horses and accommodation for himself and walked into the town. The market square, bustling and busy when he had last been there, was deserted. There were no drinkers outside the Romsey Arms and no children in the streets. It was as if the whole miserable place was still in mourning for the late king.

Business and the weather had detained Rush in London longer than he would have liked and he was impatient to see the woman again. Reports from his agent had been satisfactory enough but he wanted to check for himself that all was well. He strode up Love Lane to the bookshop.

There were no customers inside so Rush went straight in. Margaret Taylor was sitting behind her desk, writing in a ledger.
From upstairs he could hear children’s voices. She looked up from her writing and stared at him. ‘I know where my brother is and I want proof that he is alive.’