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

THE NIGHT-TIME NOISES
of five fellow prisoners and no breakfast did nothing to strengthen Thomas’s resolve. And by noon the next day there had been no news. Margaret would be expecting him home soon, and anyway, what could she do to help? The first of his doubts were starting to creep in.

Overnight the spirits of all the men had dropped – even the Hursley innkeeper had run out of stories – and they were not revived by the arrival of dinner. A bucket of brown water, crusts of stale bread and lumps of maggoty cheese were dumped on the floor by a silent gaoler, leaving each of them to help himself to what he could stomach. For Thomas that was a small crust and a mouthful of water.

None of the prisoners knew how long they could expect to be kept there. The Winchester petty sessions would be held regularly, but when? When asked, the silent gaoler just grunted. Nor did they have much idea of how a magistrate would view the crimes of which they were accused. What were the penalties for a
jest about Cromwell, falling down drunk in church, selling rotten meat, writing a political pamphlet? The stocks, a fine? Surely not prison. No one knew.

Thomas’s doubts became more serious. Four soldiers had been sent to Romsey to escort him to Winchester. Four armed men – for just one unarmed, peaceful prisoner. Why? Since then, there had been no information and no contact from outside. What if there was some sort of conspiracy? Someone holding a grudge against him? A more serious charge might be concocted. He was cold and hungry and by the evening he was frightened. Separation from his family and ignorance of what was happening or still to come were punishment enough, never mind the noisome cell and gruesome scraps of food.

After another foul, sleepless night Thomas’s mind was wandering. Some malicious ne’er-do-well with an axe to grind had shown the pamphlet to a magistrate and demanded that its author be arrested and brought to justice. And the magistrate had obliged. If so, Thomas was in trouble. He would be lucky to avoid a few days in the stocks or even a spell in gaol.

At dawn, Thomas heard orders being given, doors being opened and men being taken out. Soon his own cell was unlocked and the gaoler, accompanied by two armed guards, stood at the door. ‘These men come with me,’ he ordered and called out four names, of which Thomas’s was the third. Thank God, action at last and his ordeal would soon be over. Face the magistrate, explain himself, take his punishment if he must, and go home.

The four men were led to a small courtyard where a larger group of prisoners was waiting. Gaunt and filthy, and trying to shield their eyes from the light, these were not new prisoners. The magistrate would be having a busy day.

A short, fat man, in a grey woollen coat and a broad-brimmed hat, entered the yard and stood before them. In his hand, he held a sheet of paper. ‘I am Captain Fortescue,’ he announced. ‘I have a licence to remove you from this place and to transport you to the island of Barbados in the Caribbean, where you will be sold as indentured men. We will travel immediately to Southampton where my ship is anchored, and proceed from there to the Irish port of Cork where we will take on board more prisoners to be indentured. Your indenture terms will be seven years.’ Two of the prisoners charged at the guards. They were instantly felled by blows to the head with the butt of a musket and dragged back into line. One screamed that he was an honest man, unjustly accused, and another fell to his knees and prayed for death.

Thomas’s legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground. Arrested for nothing, thrown into gaol and deported without trial? It was the stuff of nightmares. It could not be. He struggled to his feet and spoke with as much authority as he could muster. ‘Captain, my name is Thomas Hill. I stand accused of who knows what and I demand to be heard.’

‘Hill?’ replied Fortescue, consulting his list. ‘Ah yes, Thomas Hill. Hold your tongue, Hill, or it’ll be the worse for you. Your indenture has been arranged and you’d best get used to the idea.’

Indenture arranged? How and by whom and for what? It was impossible. ‘And I demand justice.’

‘Enough, Hill. One more word and you’ll pay.’

‘This is absurd. Of what am I charged? By whom am I accused?’

‘Stop his mouth, Jethro. This one could be trouble.’

A filthy rag stuffed into his mouth, Thomas was led away with the others to a large cart drawn by two shire horses and on to which
they were loaded like sheep. Their hands and feet were tied with ropes looped through iron rings set into the sides of the cart. Two guards sat at the front, one holding the reins, the other a loaded musket, while Captain Fortescue rode behind them.

Unable to speak, Thomas sat in misery, ready to explode with frustration and anger. As none of his fellow prisoners spoke to him he had only his own thoughts for company. He thought of escape, of Margaret, of an England that had come to this, of the monstrous injustice. Seven years of indenture. Impossible. Treated like a common criminal. Ridiculous. The mistake would be discovered at Southampton and he would be released. That would be the way of it.

When they arrived that evening in Southampton, Thomas’s head throbbed and his backside was bruised from the constant juddering of the cart on the rutted road. The ropes around their feet were untied and each man was hauled upright and made to stumble to the quay where Captain Fortescue’s ship, the
Dolphin
, was anchored in the harbour. Although its keel could not have been very deep, it looked a stout vessel, almost pear-shaped, with three masts and a narrow deck, and about eighty feet long from bow to stern. Even though he was in such a miserable state, Thomas’s mathematical mind was at work. He counted places for only six cannon, which he assumed meant a mere twelve in total. The
Dolphin
was a ship designed for trade rather than warfare. And he and his companions were part of the trade.

The two guards marched them to the ship. Thomas looked about, expecting to see a friendly face with papers for his release. There was none. Bare-chested labourers were unloading barrels and crates from carts and carrying them on board, sailors were hauling on ropes and shouting instructions and a small group of
well-dressed men, merchants probably, had gathered at one end of the quay to see that their goods were safely loaded. Not one of them took any notice of the prisoners being herded on to the ship.

Thomas’s hands were still bound and the rag was still in his mouth. He could not cry out for help nor could he hope to escape by making a run for it. Still disbelieving, he was forced to clamber on board with the others and led to a hatch in the deck towards the bow. With difficulty they climbed down a short ladder to the hold. There was just enough light to see that they were in a section partitioned off from the cargo bay and fitted with rows of narrow canvas hammocks fixed to the beams which supported the deck above them and no more than a foot apart.

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.