About the Book
Spring, 1648.
When Thomas Hill, a bookseller living in rural Hampshire, publishes a political pamphlet he has little idea of the trouble that will follow. He is quickly arrested, forced on a boat to Barbados and condemned to life as a slave to two of the island’s most notoriously violent brothers.
In England war has erupted again, with London under threat of attack. When news of the king’s execution reaches the island, political stability is threatened and a fleet commanded by Sir George Ayscue arrives to take control of the island for Cromwell. The threat of violence increases. Thomas finds himself witness to abuse, poison, rape and savage brutality.
When a coded message from Ayscue to a sympathiser on the island is intercepted, Thomas is asked to decipher it. A disastrous battle seems inevitable.
But nothing turns out as planned. And as the death toll mounts, the escape Thomas has been relying on seems ever more unlikely…
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Select Bibliography
About the Author
Also by Andrew Swanston
Copyright
The King’s Exile
Andrew Swanston
For Mel, Laura and Tom
CHAPTER 1
1648
ON A FROSTY March morning the soldiers came at dawn. Thomas Hill, asleep above his bookshop in Love Lane, was woken by the crack of their boots on the frozen cobblestones. One of the soldiers hammered on the bookshop door and demanded it be opened in the name of Parliament.
Thomas jumped out of bed and pulled on a woollen shirt and thick trousers and stockings. It would not do to answer the door in his nightshirt, especially to soldiers. With King Charles held in Carisbrooke Castle while politicians and generals argued about what to do with him, there were stories of houses being broken into and men dragged off for no more reason than a word out of place or a feather in the cap. No sensible man welcomed a visit from a troop of soldiers of any kind.
He ran down the stairs and through the shop. He unlocked the door and stood in the doorway. There were four soldiers, three of them wearing the woollen caps, red coats and grey breeches of Parliamentary infantrymen and the fourth, their captain, a jacket of buff leather. All four were armed with pistols and swords.
‘Are you Thomas Hill?’ demanded the captain.
‘I am.’
The captain took several sheets of paper from inside his jacket. ‘Thomas Hill, are you the author of this?’
Thomas took the papers from the captain and glanced at them. There were any number of political pamphlets circulating but he could guess which one this was – the only one to which he had ever put his name. A few on mathematics and philosophy but only one which touched on politics, and even that was more philosophical than political. ‘I am. What of it?’
‘Thomas Hill, in the name of the people I arrest you for inciting actions against Parliament.’
‘Can you read, captain?’
‘I am obeying orders.’
‘I thought not. If you could you would be aware that this pamphlet, written by me some months ago, argues for a strong Parliament to represent the people and for that Parliament to work in conjunction with the king for the common good. Am I to be arrested for that?’
The three soldiers, who had been standing to attention behind their captain and staring straight ahead, shuffled their feet and looked sheepish.
‘My orders are to arrest you and take you to Winchester gaol to await trial,’ replied the captain.
‘This is absurd.’
‘Those are my orders. You are to come with us.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then you will be taken by force. My orders are clear.’
Orders, orders – the soldier’s conscience. Thomas studied the captain’s weather-beaten face. It was impassive. There was to be no argument and resistance would be foolish – merely an invitation to violence. Better to do as he was told and get this nonsense over with. ‘My sister and nieces are upstairs. Am I permitted to say goodbye?’
The captain hesitated. ‘Very well. Two minutes, no more.’
Thomas ran back upstairs. The girls were crying and Margaret was ashen. They too had been woken and had heard everything. He hugged each of them. ‘Now don’t fret. This is nothing. Just a mistake. I’ll be home again in no time. I’ll send word. Pass me that shirt, my dear. I may need a spare.’ He put it on over the other. ‘There. That should keep me warm. Now kiss your uncle, girls, and look after your mother while I’m gone. I’ll see you again very soon.’ He turned to Margaret. She too was weeping. ‘It’s really a harmless pamphlet, my dear. They can’t keep me locked up for long.’ Since her husband had been killed six years earlier at the start of the war, Margaret and her daughters had lived in Romsey with Thomas.
‘I wish you hadn’t written it, Thomas. I knew it would bring trouble.’
Thomas kissed her cheek. ‘Indeed, you said as much. But it’s really nothing. Best if I go with them for now. I’ll be home tomorrow, just you see if I’m not.’ He put on his boots and his thickest coat and hurried back down the stairs. He stuffed a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese from the kitchen into a pocket and went back through the shop. The soldiers were waiting outside.
‘Right. Bind his hands, Jethro – tightly, mind, we don’t want him escaping – and we’ll be on our way.’ The captain was impatient to be gone.
The rope was bad enough, the indignity worse. More embarrassed than frightened, Thomas was marched down Love Lane and across Market Square, with only the clothes and boots he was wearing. Although it was early, the soldiers had been heard and as they clattered over the cobbles, he was aware of shutters being opened and faces peeking out. Thomas Hill, bookseller, philosopher and once adviser to the king, was well known in Romsey. News of his arrest would be around the town by noon.
Thomas squared his shoulders and fixed his eyes on the back of the soldier’s head in front of him so that if a tear did come to his eye, it would not be seen by a watching friend. He told himself that he would be home again soon, the whole thing forgotten.
The four soldiers, with Thomas between them, marched out of the town on the Winchester road. The hedgerows were white with frost and the ground frozen hard. After another icy winter, the oaks and elms of the New Forest stood tall and stark against a pale sky, their bare branches showing no promise of spring. Thomas stamped his feet and blew on his bound hands. It was a good ten miles to Winchester. God’s wounds, how unspeakably grim. The cold was bad enough, but arrested and marched off to gaol to await trial? He shivered at the thought.
And for what? Even in these uncertain times, surely no magistrate would pay much heed to an innocuous pamphlet written by a R
omsey bookseller, albeit one who four years earlier had served the king at his court in Oxford. True, he was now an imprisoned king, increasingly short of friends. True, there had been news of renewed fighting in Wales and the north. True, England was a country divided – by faith, by political opinion, by ideas of morality – but to be sent for trial for expressing a balanced, neutral view? A view, what was more, shared by many of the men who had fought most fiercely against the king. Had men been killed in their thousands and families destroyed for such an injustice? What would John Pym, the fiercest of all critics of the king’s intolerance, have made of it if he had been alive?
At the village of Ampfield they stopped for a brief rest. A milky sun had melted the ice on the village pond and blunted the sharpness of the early morning chill. Three of the soldiers disappeared into an inn leaving one outside to guard Thomas. ‘How long will I be held?’ he asked the guard.
The man shrugged and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘We just take you to the gaol. After that, you’re someone else’s problem.’ Not very reassuring, Thomas thought, and tried no more questions.
They were soon on their way again, marching through Hursley and on towards Winchester. As they neared the town, the road became busier and Thomas had to endure the stares of tradesmen, farmers and travellers, doubtless wondering what terrible crime the prisoner had committed to be in the charge of four armed soldiers.
They went straight to Winchester prison, where Thomas was handed over to a gaoler and shoved roughly into a cell that already held five others. Six men in one small cell was bad enough; filthy straw on the floor and a bucket in the corner made it worse. Compared to Oxford Castle, however, the memory of which still made Thomas shudder, it was almost comfortable.
Aching and exhausted, he backed into a corner and forced down what was left of his food. Without water it was not easy to swallow but he had to keep up what little strength he had left. He listened and answered questions when he had to, but volunteered nothing and took no part in the general banter, which was in any case more bravado than bravery.
Happily, one of the prisoners, an innkeeper from Hursley, was a natural jester. He was a large man, red of face and loud of voice, who stood accused of saying that he would rather serve Oliver Cromwell for dinner than serve him with it. Unfortunately for him, he had been overheard by an informer and reported. He claimed that he was looking forward to his trial when he would offer the defence that he had said no such thing and, if he had, he must have been speaking in jest because he made a point of serving only the very best meat and no customer of his would want anything as mean as Cromwell. Listening to him, Thomas thought that the innkeeper was just the kind of man he’d want beside him in times of trouble but that his chances of avoiding a spell in prison were remote.
Thomas tried to keep his spirits up by examining the crime of which he stood accused. A simple pamphlet, criticizing no one and inciting no one to violence, just proposing a rational, workable system of government. He would have no difficulty in persuading a magistrate to release him, and would be home in a day or two. He would keep quiet and rely upon justice being done. Tomorrow would bring better news.
CHAPTER 2
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. Trea
ted 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?
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