There were murmurs of assent. When he was sure that he had the full attention of his audience, Drax continued. As accomplished speakers and actors do, he spoke without undue emphasis and at a level that forced his audience to remain quiet and listen carefully.
‘Let me begin with the facts. On the twenty-first day of January, King Charles was brought to trial in Westminster Hall before sixty-seven judges, on charges of high treason and high mis-demeanours. The king declined to recognize the authority of the court to try him but on the twenty-seventh of January he was unanimously found guilty of the charges and at just after two o’clock on the thirtieth of January, outside the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall, he was executed by a single stroke of the axe.’ Drax paused to let the facts sink in.
‘As you know, I have supported the cause of Parliament during the war in England but have put the peace and prosperity of Barbados before my political views.’ At this, there were a few ‘Hear, hear’s. He went on, ‘Nor do I choose to comment today on the legality or otherwise of the king’s execution. What I want to say is this. Now is not the time for hasty words or actions. Let us continue to observe the agreement to remain neutral which we all made four years ago. Let us put our families and our fortunes first and await developments in England.’ That’s all very fine if you have a family and fortune on this island, thought Thomas, but what if you’re an unjustly indentured wretch who has nothing?
Charles and Adam joined in the applause with relief. ‘Well,’ said Adam quietly, ‘that’s a blessing. I thought he might come out in favour of Parliament and advise us to do the same. Can we trust him?’
‘I think so. Perhaps he thinks Parliament would stop us trading with the Dutch. With seven hundred acres and two hundred slaves, he stands to lose more than any of us. He’s taking a commercial view.’
‘He might also fear a Royalist backlash. The Walrond brothers are forever threatening to raise a militia. This may force their hands. That would be dangerous for him.’
‘For us all, I daresay.’
The reaction of the crowd was mixed. ‘God save the king.’
‘Has England a king any more?’
‘Of course she has. Charles Stuart is his father’s heir so now he’s our king.’
‘The king is dead. Long live the king.’
‘Where is he then? In London or skulking in France with his mother?’
‘The army’s running the country now. The army and Parliament.’
‘Where’s our governor? What does he think?’
‘Yes, where’s Bell?’
‘We need slaves and we need servants. Who’s going to get them for us?’
‘And we need the Dutch. Will Parliament stop us trading with them?’
Just as it looked as if the meeting was about to break up in disorder, Charles Carrington stepped forward. Like Drax, he commanded the attention of the crowd with ease. He raised his arms for silence and spoke slowly. ‘Gentlemen, unlike my friend Colonel Drax, I have supported the king throughout the war in England. But I agree entirely with what Colonel Drax has said. Are we now to jeopardize our trade by reacting to today’s news without proper thought? It may be that Barbados will, at some future time, have to face the prospect of declaring for one side or the other, but let us not take that awful step until we have to. Today we do not have to. Let there be no talk of militias. Let our heads rule our hearts and let us return to our estates in peace.’
Carrington had barely finished when the door of the inn was flung open and a shrill voice, a voice filled with righteous passion and indignation, called for silence. All conversation ceased and all heads turned to the door. A diminutive figure emerged and pushed his way through the crowd, brandishing a Bible and calling for silence in God’s name. He wore the black of an Anglican churchman, stood little more than five feet tall and sported on his bare head only a very few strands of wispy hair. His face was not one that had spent much time in the Caribbean sun and he squinted at the crowd through watery blue eyes.
‘I am the Reverend Simeon Strange,’ he began, ‘and I am here on the Lord’s work.’ This did not go down well with a congregation of tough sugar planters who had heard enough speeches and were suffering from heat and thirst. Thomas was astonished. The little reverend was either a brave man or a very foolish one.
‘Put him on a table where we can see him.’
‘Not now, parson, we’re thirsty.’
‘Strange by name, strange by nature.’
‘No sermons, Reverend. It’s only Wednesday.’
‘Don’t go on about church on the sabbath again, Strange. Cane grows on the sabbath and it needs cutting.’
But Strange would not be silenced. ‘It is not politics we should be discussing, brothers, not trade, not sugar, not money. IT IS THE WILL OF GOD.’ He bellowed this so loudly that even those who were drifting away stopped and took notice. ‘The will of God, I say. Each day I observe drunkenness, debauchery, blasphemy and ungodly acts of every description. Almighty God looks down upon you in his wisdom and despairs. When the day of reckoning comes, his punishment will be severe. Two years ago, in his mercy, he sent the yellow fever to you as a warning but his warning went unheeded. And now to this depraved island have come representatives of the most heinous and bestial men and women in Christendom – PAGANS, ADULTERERS AND FORNICATORS. I speak not of the Irish Catholics and their whores nor of the Quakers, though they are accursed enough. No, brothers, I speak of a new pestilence that has now inflicted itself upon us – that vile, base disease that calls itself THE RANTERS.’ Again, Simeon Strange delivered the words with a force that belied his meagre stature. ‘The Ranters, I say. Libertines and heretics every one of them, and now come among us with their profane and immoral habits. These animals CAVORT NAKED IN THE FIELDS.’
Strange had been straining so hard for volume and effect that the veins in his neck and face looked as if they might burst. He had to pause for breath or run the risk of a seizure. Those of his audience who were still listening took the opportunity to ask if anyone had any idea what he was talking about. Ranters? What were they? After a few deep breaths, Strange was off again.
‘Listen carefully to me, brothers. If we do not act at once to rid Barbados of this dangerous depravity, we shall all be doomed to everlasting purgatory and neither sugar nor slaves will save us. Let us banish these abominable Ranters from our shores for ever.’
And with that, the Reverend Simeon Strange, having given his all, collapsed, eyes bulging and breath labouring, on to his scrawny backside. Thomas feared that the little man might have suffered a fit and was about to offer his help when the reverend appeared to recover his composure.
‘Where might one find these Ranters, Mr Strange?’ came a voice from the back.
‘They are given to practising their foul rituals on the ridge above Oistins. There you will find them and I urge you to do so without delay.’ Fortunately, perhaps, Strange was so full of the Holy Spirit and so short-sighted that he did not notice the winks and grins exchanged at this information and appeared heartened by the reply.
‘You may be sure that we shall, Reverend, and we thank you warmly for alerting us to this matter.’
While the little reverend had been giving his all, Charles Carrington had been talking quietly with Adam Lyte and James Drax. When the Gibbes emerged from the inn, Adam was shoved roughly aside by Samuel, who planted his face inches from Charles’s. ‘It doesn’t matter a barrel of shit how many Royalists come here,’ he spat, poking a filth-encrusted finger into Charles’s face. ‘You can stuff the Assembly full of them, but we’re the ones who’ve grown the sugar and made the money and we’ll say who’s to govern us. And it won’t be any Royalist fairies.’