Caribbean (34 page)

Now, at Tatum’s fine news that a new slave ship had arrived, Oldmixon cried: “Capital! But we’ve got to get there before the sale starts,” and with his turkey feather flowing in the breeze he kicked his horse in the ribs and the two men galloped off for Bridgetown.

At the halfway point the horses fell back to an easy canter, and Isaac felt that the time had come when he could best reveal the complications which beset his personal life: “Clarissa and I lost our three slaves in the uprising. But we’ve saved what money we’ve been able to
get our hands on and we face a ticklish problem, one we don’t know how to resolve.”

“Such as?” Oldmixon asked, turning in his saddle.

“I’m torn by two desires. Spend it on more slaves? Or more land?”

Oldmixon took so long to reply that Tatum wondered if the big man had heard, but then the planter surprised him with an answer of remarkable probity: “Young feller, I think you’re preparin’ to broach me for a loan, and I don’t make loans. Too many complications. So you’ll have to make up your own mind about how you want to apply your funds, and I’m pleased to learn that you have some. You must be thrifty.”

To hide his disappointment, Isaac said: “It’s my wife who tends the money, and she is thrifty, I can assure you.”

“Excellent. More I hear about you, Tatum, more I like you. Your father wasn’t really a bad sort. Just lazy. So here’s my proposal. I’m convertin’ to sugar in a big way, three-fourths of my fields. Now, it would help me mightily if some of you other men would plant cane and make sugar too, ’cause then we could combine our yield and send it to England as a full cargo.”

“But doesn’t sugar require slaves … absolute necessity?”

“It does. So what I want you to do, buy up as much land as your funds allow, and borrow on it to buy more and plant it all in sugar.”

“How can I raise sugar with no slaves?”

“You can’t, and that’s why I’m going to buy you seven. Keep the title in my name until you can pay me with your first crop. You board and feed them and use them in your fields like they were your own.”

Isaac dropped his head, almost in prayer, for an offer like this exceeded even his most extravagant hopes, and when he looked sideways at Oldmixon and saw the big man nod and then wink as if to say: “That’s what I promised,” he cried out: “It’s help I never expected,” and Oldmixon corrected him: “No, you’ll be the one helpin’ me if we can get sugar started on Barbados.”

Having said this, he looked over Tatum’s shoulder and cried out in a petulant voice: “Well, here comes Saltonstall with his damned beasts,” and Isaac turned to see a sight which never ceased to amaze him. From the plantation of Henry Saltonstall came that tall, dour man perched atop a huge camel, behind which lumbered in an orderly fashion six others, all laden with produce from the Saltonstall lands and headed to Captain Brongersma’s
Stadhouder
for transport to European markets. It was a dramatic caravan, which children
cheered as they ran behind the huge-footed beasts, so well suited to heavy work on plantations.

But Oldmixon and Tatum were concerned not with camels but with what for them was a much more important matter: the auction of the forty-seven slaves Captain Piet Brongersma had brought in cages belowdecks from Africa. The captain had not come ashore to conduct the sale, but his first mate, an able Dutchman who spoke English, was ready to start the auction, when he saw Oldmixon approaching. Bowing low, he asked, from former experience: “Do you wish to buy the entire lot, Mr. Oldmixon?” and smaller planters who had hoped to acquire a few slaves groaned, but Oldmixon said: “No, my friend here wants seven, and I want fifteen. More than enough left for you men,” and he indicated the others, who cheered.

Oldmixon, impressed with the crafty manner in which young Tatum chose his seven, said: “You know slaves, young feller,” but Isaac said: “I know which men and women will be able to work,” at which Oldmixon said: “Pick my fifteen,” and with equal skill Isaac passed among the frightened slaves, trying to select for Oldmixon fifteen as good as the seven he had chosen for himself.

Then came the shocking moment of this bright March day. Captain Brongersma was rowed ashore, and when he landed he came forward gravely, his big bulletlike head and square face creating an ominous impression. He moved directly and silently to Thomas Oldmixon, whom he had known favorably as a planter to be trusted. Not greeting Oldmixon in his accustomed way, he came close and whispered in a heavy Dutch accent: “Assemble the other leaders,” and when this was done, he announced, as if informing each man of the death of a brother: “On the thirtieth day of January past, Cromwell’s men beheaded your King Charles.”

“No, by heavens! It can’t be,” shouted Oldmixon, grabbing Brongersma by the jacket, and the other leading planters whom Oldmixon had brought into the shed joined him in averring that no loyal Englishmen, not even cravens like Oliver Cromwell, would dare to strike their king, let alone behead him.

“What proof have you?” one planter cried, and Brongersma had to admit: “None. I was already in the Channel … no chance to buy a newssheet.”

“Then how do you know, if you weren’t even on land?” Oldmixon demanded, and the Dutchman replied: “An English ship spoke me and over the horn gave me the news.” Others began to pester him, but
even though he lacked visible proof, he stuck to the report as he had heard it: “On thirty January last, Cromwell’s men beheaded your king. All is chaos.”

And then Henry Saltonstall joined the crowd to which he had not been invited. “You were busy unloading your camels,” Oldmixon said as if apologizing, and Saltonstall, a man of sharp wisdom, perceived from the faces of his friends that something devastating had happened, and he asked bluntly: “What is it? War again with the Dutch?” and Brongersma replied: “Those days are past. Your King Charles has been beheaded,” and Saltonstall said instantly: “It was bound to happen.” The other planters in the shed looked at him with abhorrence, their manner foretelling the angry days that were about to engulf Barbados.

The next few days were the finest in Will Tatum’s life so far, for now that his brother had seven slaves, he, Will, often sneaked away from the fields, and he spent the time aboard the
Stadhouder
, mostly in Captain Brongersma’s cabin, for the Dutchman not only enjoyed talking with the boy but also found him useful as a source of information about doings on Barbados.

In turn, Brongersma threw out fascinating bits of information: “Our hold is filled with salt we collected after a running fight at the great flats of Cumaná on the Spanish Main.”

“Where’s the Spanish Main?”

“The coastline of Central and South America, where the Caribbean touches the mainland.”

“Why did you have to fight for the salt?”

“The Spaniards never want us to take it away. It’s theirs, they say.”

“Then why do you take it?”

“To salt our herring. And you know what herring is to a Dutchman? The same as a shilling is to an Englishman.”

“Do you fight the Spanish often?”

Brongersma reflected for some moments before answering this ticklish question, then said: “I suppose it’s time you knew, Will. We make our living three ways. Capturing salt at Cumaná, running contraband into Barbados and the other English islands, and best of all, tracking down some rich Spanish ship, boarding her and winning ourselves a fortune.”

“Are you pirates, then?”

“That’s not a word we fancy. We’re legal pirates, you may say, freebooters with papers giving us the right to attack Spanish ships wherever we meet them.”

“Don’t the Spaniards ever fight back?” Will asked, and Brongersma burst into laughter: “Do they ever fight back! Look at that scar on my wrist—from a handsome Spanish ship laden with Potosí silver out of Havana on her way to Sevilla. Part of a great armada she was, protected by four warships of the line, but we cut her out, boarded her, and would have won ourselves a fortune except …”

“What happened?” Will was on the edge of his chair as the Dutchman said glumly in recollection of that sad day: “One of their warships spotted us, what we were doing, came roaring back, and we were lucky to escape with our skins.”

“Are the Spaniards good fighters?”

“Never believe the English fairy tale that one Englishman is better than three Spaniards. The well-armed Don from Sevilla with a sharp Toledo blade is a match for any fighting man on any ship. Halloo, Franz! Show us your face,” he shouted as into the cabin came a big Dutchman with a long scar, scarcely healed, across his right chin. “He’s our best swordsman, none better,” the captain said, “but a Spaniard with a Toledo would have killed him for sure, except one of our men shot the Spaniard dead as he was about to do so.”

The next time Will returned to the ship, Brongersma said: “I wish I’d had a son like you,” and Will asked: “Would you have taken me to sea with you? To fight the Spaniards?”

“Now, that’s a difficult question, lad. As a father I’d agree with your mother, that you ought to stay in Amsterdam and learn your letters. But as captain of the
Stadhouder
, I’d want you at my side when we took on the Spaniards, for there’s nothing nobler in this world that a Dutchman can do than wage sea war against those swine.”

“Why do you call them that?” and the captain became quite grave, there in the hot cabin, and spoke with an intensity Will had not heard before: “My grandfather, his grandfather before him were hanged by Spaniards ruling the Low Countries, and no man like me can ever forget that.”

“Why were they hanged?”

“They were Protestants … followers of Luther. But the Duke of Alva … the Duke of Parma … they were strong Catholics, and the quarrel between the two religions could be settled only by hangings, endless hangings.” He looked at the floor as he said quietly: “So if
you sailed with me as my son, we’d have eight or nine Spanish ships to burn before my rage was quenched.”

On their last day together Brongersma was in a more relaxed mood: “This was a profitable stop, lad. We bought our slaves from the Portuguese at nine pounds and sold them at thirty. We bought six new camels for Mr. Saltonstall at eleven each and sold them at thirty-three. We sail home with a ballast of pure salt and casks topside with brown sugar, which will bring a fortune.” He tapped his pipe against his left hand, and said: “On a day like this, with a calm sea out there, and a fast run home, and always the chance of catching a Spaniard laden with gold or silver …” He paused, not knowing how to end his sentence, then concluded quietly: “A man could sail on forever … forever till the final darkness comes.”

“You love sailing your ship, don’t you?” and Brongersma said: “I’ll sail the
Stadhouder
till her bottom is eaten through by the worms and my bottom is ready for its return to dust.”

Will asked: “Why do you get angry when someone calls you a pirate? Are you not one?” and Brongersma replied: “There’s a difference, I’m an honorable Dutch captain who fights the Spaniard. I shall be unhappy if you call me pirate.” And next morning at dawn, when Will scouted the sea, the
Stadhouder
was gone.

For the next eleven days the men and women of Barbados had no solid information about their king, only those rumors brought by Captain Brongersma, but then a trading ship arrived from Bristol with printed confirmation. King Charles I, beloved of the island’s Royalists, had actually been beheaded at Whitehall by a common axeman who executed ordinary criminals.

The shock was profound, and in the days of tension that followed, the islanders divided into the two camps that would contest for the right to govern. On Barbados, as in England, each side adopted a name for itself: the conservatives elected to be called
Cavaliers
, which implied men of breeding, substance and unquestioned loyalty to the king, while liberals elected to be called
Roundheads
, which described sturdy men of middle position socially possessed with business acumen, common sense and a preference for rule by Parliament.

Derivations for the two names were interesting: the
Cavaliers
took theirs from the gaudily dressed, bewigged and flamboyant
cavalry officers who fought so bravely in defense of the king, and
Roundheads
came from men with a preference for an austere haircut that made their heads seem like ugly round pumpkins when compared to the elaborate locks of their opponents.

A contemporary, who knew members of both sides well, described them in this way: “Cavaliers comprise the gentry, the Church of England clergy and the loyal peasants. Your Roundheads are apt to be men from the middle class, the rich merchants and a surprising number of great nobles; you might say, all who can read and write.”

The archetypal Cavalier was dashing Prince Rupert, nephew of the king and probably the greatest cavalry officer who ever fought one major battle after another, winning most; the quintessential Roundhead was the blind poet John Milton, austere in person but with a pen that scattered fiery diamonds, especially in his prose essays dealing with politics.