Charles peered down his aristocratic nose. His voice was icy. ‘In that case, it’s as well that Colonel Walrond is talking of raising a militia. We may well need it to keep the peace.’
‘That isn’t what you said earlier, Carrington. You said we didn’t want militias. Didn’t you, Carrington?’
‘I did, sir. And what of it?
‘What of it? What of it?’ Yellow spittle flew from Gibbes’s mouth and his eyes bulged in fury. ‘You’re a liar, Carrington, a fairy, a coward and a liar. That’s what of it.’
Charles was unmoved. ‘I was provoked, sir. When confronted by a rabid dog I find it best to take action to avoid its teeth and claws. That does not, I think, make me a coward.’ Thomas, keeping well out of the way, swallowed a laugh.
It took a moment to sink into Samuel’s addled brain but when it did, he lurched at Carrington as if to throttle him. Carrington stepped nimbly aside, stuck out a leg, helped Gibbes on his way with a shove in the small of his back and watched him crash into a table before collapsing, winded, in a heap on the ground.
John Gibbes, too drunk to have joined in their exchange, now seemed to sense that he ought to do something. He pulled a knife from inside his shirt and lunged at Samuel’s tormentor, aiming at his stomach. This time, Charles took just half a step aside, extended his arm and thrust his knuckles into Gibbes’s throat. With no more than a strangled gurgle, Gibbes joined his brother in the dust. ‘My apologies, gentlemen. I deplore unnecessary violence but there seemed no better way.’ Quite unruffled, Charles turned back to Drax. ‘The cause of Parliament is not helped by such people, James. Would you be kind enough to have them removed and sent on their way?’
Drax laughed. ‘It will be my pleasure. And remind me not to face you if it comes to a battle.’ And with the help of two large planters, Drax marched the Gibbes away. Thomas, still trying not to laugh, followed at a sensible distance. He had much enjoyed the exchange and the sight of both brutes so easily dealt with by Charles Carrington, but it would be wiser not to show it.
Drax spoke quietly but the menace was unmistakable. ‘Take my advice, you two. Keep your foul mouths shut and don’t come back here again. Neither Barbados nor Parliament needs your kind.’ One doubled up in agony and the other clutching his throat, neither Gibbes managed a reply. Enraged and humiliated, they staggered off to find their ponies.
Neither of them spoke on the journey back to the estate. When they arrived, John stuck his face into Thomas’s and hissed, ‘Not a word, Hill, or you’ll be sorry.’
Samuel fished into a pocket and brought out a wad of pamphlets. ‘Take the ponies to the field, Hill, then put those in the privy.’ Thomas took the pamphlets and did as he was told but not before slipping one under his shirt.
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.’