Caribbean

  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 w
as 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.

  On Barbados the Cavaliers were led by robust Thomas Oldmixon, who announced: ‘I’ve always been loyal only to the king and shall remain so, and if Charles I is truly dead, his son Charles II is my king and I’ll fight to protect his claim,’ and men of similar loyalties began to cluster about Oldmixon and look to him for leadership.

  Control of the Roundheads, fewer in number but equally dedicated to their cause, devolved naturally upon Henry Saltonstall, who approved of the deposition of the king though not his murder, and who believed that Parliament could rule England more effectively than royalty had done.

  The effect of all this on the Tatum brothers was especially divisive. Isaac was a young man who intuitively liked royalty and its attendant nobility; secretly he hoped that one day he would, through increase in the size of his plantation, his slave holdings and the consequent amount of sugar produced, amass a fortune. Then he planned to donate large sums to enterprises in which the king was interested and thus win attention in London, and who knows, perhaps even a title.

  Roustabout Will would not have known what to do with a title had it been offered him. In fact, he had already shown certain tendencies which greatly disturbed Isaac and Clarissa: he had been overly familiar with the slaves; he sometimes ridiculed Thomas Oldmixon’s pompous ways; twice he had absented himself on Sundays from the parish church, when everyone knew that attendance was required by law; and most distressing, he had frequented the waterfront, palling around with Captain Brongersma, who only a few years before had been at war with England.

  As the political debate intensified, Clarissa warned Isaac: ‘Your brother isn’t a person to be trusted. Next thing you know, he’ll be announcing that he’s siding with Saltonstall.’ She proved a good prophet, because a few nights later at supper Will made bold to say, even though he knew the loyalties of the older Tatums: ‘I think Saltonstall and his Roundheads make a lot of sense. Does England really need a king?’ The question was so bluntly asked that Isaac and Clarissa were too stunned to respond.

  As the turmoil on the island spread, Isaac became increasingly concerned that his favorable start with Oldmixon might grind to a halt. As he explained to his wife: ‘With the execution of the king, anything can happen,’ but she advised steadiness: ‘Don’t falter now. All’s at chance.’ When she learned that Oldmixon had declared for the king, she told Isaac, leading him to his horse and spurring him on: ‘Now’s the time to strike. Ride up there and tell him you’re with him.’

  Bursting into Oldmixon’s hall, Isaac cried in the deep voice he cultivated: ‘I’m for the new king,’ and the wealthy owner clasped him warmly: ‘You’re a welcome volunteer to the Cavaliers, Tatum.’ Then he drew back, studied the man he had only recently come to know, and cried: ‘Egad, Tatum! You have done me three favors. Forestalling the slave rebellion, planting sugar, and now joining me for the king. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.’ Even in his enthusiasm, Oldmixon took care to say egad, because blasphemy was severely punished on this island, which led men to use old, safe forms like egad as a substitute for ah God, ’sblood for by God’s blood and zounds for God’s wounds.

  When Isaac Tatum returned home he told Clarissa: ‘I did what you said. We’re in this together now.’ They did not say anything to Will, but that evening the Tatums had a serious conversation, started by the wife: ‘If Will persists in his sentiments, I can’t be happy having him share quarters with us.’

  ‘Half the house is his, my love. Half the fields.’

  ‘Can we buy him out?’

  ‘With what?’

  After a long silence Clarissa said: ‘Will’s a hothead, we’ve seen that. He’s a rebel, and if this island remains loyal to the new king, as I’m sure it will, he’ll do something that will drive him from Barbados. His land will be forfeit …’

  ‘My love, there’s no way we can ask him to leave now. I need his help with the new slaves and the sugar.’

  Petulantly she said: ‘Isaac! I’m not happy with him around. Answer me this. Why did that Naomi tell him about the plot? Why didn’t she tell us? What was there between them?’

  Isaac had to lay down the law: ‘We need him. We need his share of the land. And we must have his share of the work.’ When she began to cry, he promised: ‘As soon as things are steady, we’ll ask him to leave. He can always stay with the Pennyfeathers,’ referring to the Tatum sister, Nell, who had married a fairly worthless shopkeeper, Timothy Pennyfeather. The thought set Isaac’s mind to working: ‘On one thing you’re right, Clarissa. Will’s share of the land must come to us, because the secret of wealth on this island is control of land, and I aim to accumulate a great deal of it.’

  And then, as the year closed with the island divided into two almost warring factions and with the split in families like the Tatums, an event transpired which demonstrated the unique quality of Barbados, for when it was announced in the various churches that a hunting party would be setting forth for the island of All Saints, one hundred and fifty miles to the west, men of every persuasion flocked to the little ship that would convey them there. Thomas Oldmixon, head of the Cavaliers and a master shot, had nineteen of his supporters at his side, while Henry Saltonstall, armed with two fine guns, led the Roundheads. Isaac Tatum stood with Oldmixon, brother Will with Saltonstall.

  When the ship hove to on the western side of the glorious bay of All Saints, its small boat ferried the hunters ashore, with leaders Oldmixon and Saltonstall sharing the same small craft and the Tatum brothers riding side by side on a later trip. When the party was assembled, Oldmixon issued instructions in his hearty voice: ‘Men, Saltonstall, a fine shot, will lead his half in that direction, rest come with me—and we’ll see if we can finish with these buggers.’

  What would they be hunting? Carib Indians who had fanned out from their original home on Dominica to the neighboring islands of All Saints and St. Vincent, where the cannibals had proved murderously dangerous to any English or French sailors shipwrecked on their shores. They were an implacable foe who so belligerently refused any overtures for peaceful sharing of their islands that European settlers deemed extermination to be the only policy. This was not the first huntin
g party sent after them, but it was the largest, and the Englishmen with their long muskets set out at a merry clip, with many cries of self-encouragement to battle with the savages. It was by no means a one-sided fight. Venal Dutch and French and English traders—pirates, really, of whom Brongersma of the Stadhouder was one of the worst—had provided the Caribs with guns fabricated in the American colonies and ample shot and shell to go with them, so the Barbadian hunting party and its intended prey started about even; the English shooters knew they were going to be shot at.

  Thus, in only a few centuries, the fierce Caribs who had uttered wild war cries as they swept down to annihilate the Arawaks, now heard those same cries shouted against themselves.

  In the first half-hour Thomas Oldmixon, with Isaac Tatum at his side as kind of gun-bearer, killed two Caribs and dodged Indian bullets as they rattled back at him. Saltonstall’s team, containing many Roundheads who tended to be fine shots, also killed its share of Caribs, and for about two hours the hunt continued, with Barbadians shouting in triumph whenever they brought down an Indian and keeping score as they might have done at a pigeon shoot, for it was wildly exciting to see a brown form scuttling through the low brush and to hit him dead-on and see him turn and twist as he fell. Of course, sometimes the running figure was a woman or a child, but the shooting continued, and during the entire hunt not one Barbadian expressed concern about gunning down the savages, male or female, and certainly no remorse.

  At the end of the third hour, when light was beginning to fade, both teams put on an extra drive, and because they were attacking from different directions, they forced the Indians into a defensive position at the far end of the beautiful bay that gave this island its distinctive character, and there they hammered at the Caribs with a deadly crossfire until some nineteen men and women, plus a handful of children, were exterminated. That night the Barbadians returned temporarily to their ship, and there was considerable celebration in which Cavaliers and Roundheads toasted each other with good English ale.