The Curse of Glenn Hall

WAR AND PIRACY
CHAPTER FIVE
The invasion came in the month of May in the year 1658. Cristoval de Ysasi recruited his forces from Mexico, and landed at Rio Nuevo, not far from Dunn’s River. His forces were much bigger than the small band that erected a laughable stockade two years before. Ysasi and his men instead built a strong fort on a cliff near the river’s west bank, and included a number of powerful cannon.

Owen Glenn’s hand actually trembled as he read the document sent to him by Captain Jonathan Barnett. He glanced at the sergeant in front of him, standing at attention, and hoped silently that he had not betrayed his fear. Where was Morgan? He missed his countryman, with whom he could have shared his fears and concerns. But the Welshman had quit the militia, and the last Owen had heard of him, Morgan had joined the crew of a trading vessel operating off the south coast of the island.

His eyes returned to the document, and he noted that Colonel Edward D’Oyley had summoned all officers to an emergency meeting at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He returned the brief to the sergeant, exchanged salutes, and watched as the soldier marched out of his living room.

Owen turned, and walked slowly into the bedroom, casting his eyes towards the bed. Molly stirred, took her eyes off the wall, and met his. But the fire was not there in her black, piercing eyes. As Owen knelt at the bedside and took her thin hand in his, he observed that she was a shadow of the woman he had met in that pub a couple of years ago.

Molly forced a smile. “What was that about, Owen?”

Her voice was hoarse and weak. Owen tried to match her smile.

“These Spanish curs are coming back for another whipping. They have landed on the north coast.”

A look of concern came over her face.

“Do be careful, darling. Those Spaniards are dangerous men.”

“I will,” he promised, gently squeezing her hand. It was a sign of her weak state of mind that led to her stating the obvious. He was more concerned about the health of his mistress. She had taken ill with a fever, and the doctors were at a loss to explain it. Over the whole island, English men and women were dropping like flies, succumbing to one unknown fever after another. It was just two Christmases since Luke Stokes and have his settlers from Nevis were wiped out within months by unknown diseases. That horror story remained embedded in his memory, and Owen was fearful that Molly might have caught one of these deadly diseases.

“Go, Owen,” she implored him. “You are needed by your country. I will be all right, my love.”

Owen blinked as he fought back the tears. But, deep down, he knew she was right, and he knew that he really wanted to fight the Spaniards. He was just in his early twenties, but he felt like a war veteran. As a child, he had experienced the English Civil War. His four years as an indentured servant in Barbados were a hellish experience, and he felt liberated when he was able to join the army of General Venables, and then Colonel D’Oyley. Disturbingly, he was beginning to enjoy killing Spaniards. He had a lot of pent-up rage, accumulated during his time on a Barbadian plantation. Fighting the Spanish enemy seemed to be the most therapeutic way of letting it out. He relished seeing blood, guts and brains spewing from Spanish bodies. The thrill he derived from war even surpassed the joy of making love to Molly.

He was still thinking about these things when D’Oyley called the meeting to order the next morning. Once again, D’Oyley insisted on sailing around the island. However, Major Samuel Barry said that the element of surprise was gone, and that Ysasi had cannon that could rip their ships to shreds. D’Oyley countered by pointing out that a march through the formidable Blue Mountains was a far worse prospect. D’Oyley then called out seven hundred and fifty of the best-trained men, and a month later, they took to their ships to take on the Spaniards.

They arrived at the mouth of Rio Nuevo on the morning of the twenty-fifth of June, and from the deck of their ships they could see the impressively-built Spanish fort. It was made of wood, but it was much bigger and clearly much harder to storm than the stockade a couple of years earlier. D’Oyley was clearly in the mood for bravery, for he issued the order to sail into the small harbour. The cannon rang out, and Lieutenant Owen Glenn gripped the rail on deck out of nervousness. He saw the splash of water in front of him as a cannonball fell just short of the ship. Owen watched the fort, and felt a tightening of his stomach as he saw a group of Spaniards working feverishly at reloading the cannon. In the meantime, as the English ships sailed swiftly towards land, they came closer to the fort. Located on the edge of a cliff, the fort looked down on them, and Owen felt as if he was staring up at the cannon. They fired a second time….

This time, Owen flinched and closed his eyes. He heard a sailor scream in agony as the cannonball ripped into the deck a couple of yards from where he stood. The ship rocked under the blast, but raced on regardless, and the sailor’s screams faded as his life slipped away. With a foreboding sense of dread, Owen watched as more Spaniards hurriedly reloaded the cannon once more. By the time they were ready to fire again, the ship had just passed the fort, but the blast caused almost as much damage as the previous onslaught. Soldiers and sailors ducked and dived for cover while two cannonballs struck the hull of the ship, rocking it once more on the waves. Owen feared for a moment that it would sink, but instead it steadied itself and made its way towards the shore. The young lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief, realising that they had weathered the storm from the fort. Another ship was behind them now, and they were bearing the brunt of the latest assault from the fort’s cannon.

Owen’s attention was distracted by one of the ship’s senior officers, who handed him a long, cylindrical instrument.

“A message from the flagship, sir.”

“In this?”

Owen eyed the gadget suspiciously.

“It’s a telescope,” the ship’s officer explained. “I captured it from one of the Dutch traders. It is used to see things that are far away. The magic glass inside makes small things look bigger.”

Reluctantly, young Owen put the telescope to his eye, and to his surprise he found that he could see D’Oyley’s ship much larger than it really was to the naked eye. The flagship was making its way towards land, the soldiers on board were getting their weapons together, and one of the ship’s officers was gesticulating towards land. Clearly, other officers had heard of this magic glass cylinder, Owen mused. He exhaled slowly, and lowered the telescope. His eyes returned to the ship’s officer.

“Did you see the message,” Owen asked.

“Aye, sir.”

“So, do you know what it says?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Well, let us make preparations to land. Please alert Major Tyson.”

“Aye, sir,” the sailor said a third time, and disappeared into the hold while Owen focussed his telescope on the coastline. He inhaled sharply as he saw a number of Spanish soldiers on the beach, accompanied by fierce-looking Negro Maroon warriors. D’Oyley clearly intended to take the beach, a prospect that was not particularly thrilling to the young Welshman. Where the hell was Major Tyson, he mentally asked himself, trying to contain his annoyance. That was when he saw Tyson stumbling towards him, holding his stomach, with a queasy look on his face.

“Are you sea-sick, sir,” Owen asked, with a grin on his face.

“I do not believe so,” Tyson muttered, leaning on the rail. “I have sailed with Penn and Venables throughout the Antilles. I have been through the disasters of Hispaniola, and I sailed from there to Jamaica, and not once was I sick. No rolling of the waves can do this to me. It must be a touch of the fever.”

“Everyone gets sick on the seas eventually. It happened to me when we were just outside St Christopher’s,” Owen explained, when he suddenly remembered D’Oyley’s order. “In any case, we have been given the order to make land.”

Tyson rubbed his eyes. “Egad, how did I miss that? I must have been in the hold. I need to marshal the forces.”

Owen put a hand on his friend’s forearm.

“John,” he said quietly, “you are ill.”

“That is of no consequence. I have to….”

“It is of consequence. If you go into the water in this condition, you will end up a corpse before afternoon. Please, stay on board, while I lead the first charge, and then, if I fail, you can take the second.”

Tyson leaned over, and rested his forehead on the railing, fighting the urge to retch. “All right,” he said quietly.

The lifeboats were lowered into the calm, blue waters, and Owen could feel his heart racing wildly. He checked his musket, and ordered the other soldiers in his lifeboat to do the same. The two sailors in the boat pulled at the oars. Then, the Welsh officer focussed his attention on the Spaniards standing on the shore.

“Wait for my order to shoot,” Owen said quietly.

He did not want to fire first, because that would immediately provoke a reaction. He wanted to delay engaging the enemy until as late as possible, since the Englishmen were on the boats and at an obvious disadvantage. But curiously, though they had the ground under their feet, the Spaniards were not firing. He wondered if the Spaniards had been ordered not to shoot until they saw the whites of their opponents’ eyes. Or maybe ammunition supplies were low, so they wanted to ensure that it was not wasted before the Englishmen came close enough for a more accurate shot. The air was thick with tension, and to make sure there were no trigger-happy soldiers in the boat, he repeated his instructions to his men. His second-in-command was a sergeant, and Owen recalled seeing him as a new recruit during the first Spanish invasion on the north coast.

“What is your name, sergeant?”

“Sergeant Richard Guy, sir.”

“Well, sergeant, I want you to make certain that my order is followed. I will hold you responsible if anyone shoots his musket before I give the order.”

“Aye, sir.”

They were getting closer now. Owen could now make out the features on the faces of a lot of the Spaniards. However, all the Maroons looked alike to him. They were barefoot, wore tattered clothes that only barely obscured their bulging muscles, and their faces were shining black. They looked fearsome, and once again Owen had a foreboding sense of doom. But that was just for a moment. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a musket, coming from the shore. Then came another, and another, and in the barrage that followed, a young soldier collapsed in Owen’s lap, blood streaming from a facial wound. It did not make sense holding out any longer.

“Fire,” Owen screamed.

The Welshman watched as some Spaniards went down after being hit by English musket-balls, and they momentarily stopped their assault. However, they soon reloaded again, and they were matching fire with their combatants. Owen’s attention was quickly diverted by a splash in the water just next to him, and he saw the body of a dead English soldier floating away from the boat. He quickly realised that the Spaniards had a clear advantage so long as the English remained in their boats. The time for a change of plan was now.

“Sergeant,” Owen bellowed.

“Aye, sir,” Guy replied, as he poured gunpowder into his musket.

“How deep is the water?”

Guy looked at the dead soldier sinking slowly towards the shallow sea floor.

“I do believe it is four feet deep, sir.”

Owen nodded to himself. That was what he thought, too. The young officer unsheathed his sword, and moved towards the side of the boat. He raised his sword, and loudly shouted, “Chaaaaaaaaaaarge!”

Lieutenant Glenn jumped into the water, and he was momentarily taken aback as he felt the water level rise to his chin. For a moment, he feared that his head might have been submerged, too. Four feet indeed, he muttered irritably to himself, and made a mental note to have Guy drowned in a tub of wine when all this was over. During a breaststroke motion with his left hand, and keeping his sword raised with his right, Owen continued to shout as he half-ran, half-swam towards the beach. But as he did so, he was nervously aware that he and many other English soldiers were target practice for the Spanish musketeers on the beach. He quickly forced those thoughts from his head.

Owen tried to recall which historical character was drowned in a tub of wine for his crimes. Could it have been the brother of the hump-backed King Richard of York? He was known as the Duke of Clarence, if he recalled his history lesson properly, and he was drowned on the orders of evil King Richard. The water level was receding now, reaching his waist, making him able to run more freely. He became a little more conscious of musket-balls whistling around his ears, but he still refused to allow himself to worry about the missiles. Instead, he only allowed one thing to bother him. What was the Duke of Clarence’s real name?

Suddenly, it came to him. His name was George, and he was the younger brother of King Edward of York, but the older brother of evil Richard. Also, he was executed for leading a rebellion against Edward, and it was King Edward, not Richard, who put him to death. He should have been put to death for being named George! No right king of England would bear that ghastly name….

Owen reached closer to the beach, and decided to shift his focus from the War of the Roses to a Spaniard clad in loose clothing, who stood near the water’s edge. His history lesson had served its purpose. It kept the nerves at bay while the musketballs were flying around him. Several of the English soldiers who had followed him into the water were now floating corpses, but Owen was oblivious to that. The object of his attention was the Spaniard. His only protection was a chestplate and a helmet. But as Owen pushed through the waves, he felt the sinews of his muscles straining at the effort. Owen broke through the surf, and saw that the man was struggling to reload his musket. The Welshman made a beeline towards him, screaming something about the Red Rose of Lancaster as he did so. The poor Spaniard had no idea what Owen was saying, but the noise jarred him, and he fumbled with the gunpowder, finally getting it right just as the Welsh officer was upon him. Owen’s blade came down in an arc, and severed the arm at the elbow.

The Spaniard screamed in pain, and fell to the ground. But Owen could not follow up. Instead, he tripped and fell flat on his face. God, how he felt tired! He was almost too tired to fight. He just lay there, on the ground, his face buried in the white sand, waiting for the killer blow to come from a Spanish assailant. He remembered that there were many of them on the beach. Surely, this was the end of a short and brutish life.

But, somehow, the death knell never came. Instead, there was a lot of shouting, and striking of metal. As he pulled himself to his feet, Owen saw that he was in the middle of a pitched battle, and British soldiers were involved in hand-to-hand combat with their Spanish opponents.

“Glenn,” he heard a man shout. Turning slowly, he saw Major Raymond brandishing his blade ferociously in the face of a retreating Spaniard. “Pick up your sword, lieutenant! Your country needs you.”

Owen looked around him quickly, and saw his sabre next to the blubbering Spaniard with an amputated arm. He snatched up the weapon, and sunk the blade into the Spaniard’s chest, putting an immediate end to his misery.

“Feel the righteous wrath of Lancaster,” the Welsh lieutenant shouted at the confused Iberian, as he watched the life ebb from the man’s body. Owen babbled on about the War of the Roses, working himself into a warlike frenzy as he did so, feeling a rising excitement in his loins. God, how he enjoyed war!

Gone was the tiredness, replaced by the adrenalin that gave him a second wind. He imagined he was a soldier in the army of Henry Tudor fighting against evil King Richard at the Battle of Bosworth. He felt the sword crunch against Spanish bone, and he could taste the blood and gristle in his mouth as the dismembered hand of his assailant flew past his face. Instead of feeling disgusted, Owen was inspired, and took his fight to another assailant.

“I am a Welshman,” he screamed, “like Henry Tudor, who vanquished the White Rose of York!”

However, as soon as his blade met that of the Spaniard, a horn was sounded, and the Spanish forces fell back. The Spaniard looked at him, his eyes filled with fear, and then he turned on his heels and ran like the wind.

Owen rubbed the blood from his face, and Raymond walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“What is this nonsense you keep chanting about Lancaster,” the major asked, mopping at the Spanish bloodstains that covered his tunic with his free hand. The hand on the shoulder was just for balance, Owen realised.

Owen spat out a piece of gristle, and grinned broadly. “It’s just something I say to get myself into the mood for war.”

Raymond returned the grin. “The War of the Roses was almost two hundred years ago.”

Owen said proudly, “Henry Tudor was a Welshman, like me. My family fought under the Red Rose. We still remember those days.”

Raymond raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“Aye, sir. It has even influenced the names we gave our menfolk. Henry Tudor’s father was Owen Tudor. I am Owen, and my father was a Henry.”

Raymond smiled. “You Welsh have always been fanatical maniacs.”

That night, D’Oyley set up camp, and the dead were counted, and the wounded treated. Fortunately for the British, there was not much of either. Most of the casualties were incurred during the taking of the beach itself, after which the Spaniards panicked. The next target was the large fort built by Ysasi at the top of the hill. D’Oyley called up the drummer and gave him a letter, with orders to deliver it to Ysasi. The letter contained terms of surrender, and the offer of a passage back to Cuba. Owen himself thought the terms were bold, considering that this time around Ysasi’s forces outnumbered D’Oyley’s, and that the Spaniards were in command of a strong fort.

It did not take long for the drummer to return to the camp. Ysasi sent him back with a jar of sweetmeats, and a politely written letter, turning down the terms of surrender. The business of letter-writing was now behind them, and it was down to planning battle strategies. The next day saw D’Oyley and his senior officers discussing ways of laying siege to the fort. Owen was extremely anxious, because his commander seemed to be leaning towards the most reckless way of attacking the fort. D’Oyley was advocating a frontal assault under cover from the fire of cannon currently in the English camp. Majors Raymond and Tyson strongly argued that such an attack ran the risk of decimating the English troops, especially since the Spanish troops outnumbered their opponents, and fought from the advantage of higher ground, and the security of a well-built fort. But D’Oyley overruled them, and the two majors went away, muttering to themselves, predicting doom and gloom.

That night, Owen slept fitfully, waking up periodically, with the fear that Spaniards would be invading the camp. But that invasion never came. After a while, he settled into a comfortable sleep, only to be rudely awakened by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. Owen rubbed his bleary eyes and focussed on the offender, who had his finger to his lips. It was Major Tyson.

“What the deuce…,” muttered Owen, as he looked at the darkness around him.

“D’Oyley wants to storm the fortress now.”

Owen frowned. “But I thought we would attack at the noon hour. That is what we agreed upon.”

Tyson nodded. “I know. But apparently that was just a ruse to throw a red herring at the spies. D’Oyley believes that Ysasi has spies amongst us. He wants to catch them by surprise.”

“What o’clock is it?”

“It is four o’clock. In the early morning hours.”

“I can see it is not after noon,” Owen muttered under his breath, getting to his feet, and walking over to where Sergeant Guy lay sleeping peacefully. He was almost sleeping too peacefully, Owen thought, enviously. He kicked the young sergeant savagely on his leg, and told him to get his regiment ready. Over the next half an hour, a lot of grumbling English soldiers donned their armour, and waited for D’Oyley’s order to attack. As Owen lay among the bushes, straining his eyes against the moon-less night, he stifled the urge to yawn loudly. He wondered idly if he was going to fall asleep during the assault on the fort. He needed a way to motivate himself, to keep himself awake and alert….

Then came D’Oyley’s order, passed through the ranks in a hushed voice from one officer to the next. The young lieutenant jumped to his feet, raised his sword, and stealthily ran up the hill. There were no shouts about the demise of the House of York. The fort seemed a long way away, and any moment now he expected to see a Spaniard pop up between the turrets, and put a musket-ball between his eyes. But as he struggled up the hill, and the fort grew bigger to his night-accustomed eyes, he realised that the enemy really did not seem to be expecting a pre-dawn attack. They had just reached the walls when a horn rang out within the fort, and some Spaniards began to appear on top of the turrets. Owen could not believe that Ysasi could have been so unprepared for this assault!

That was when a number of ladders were thrown against the walls, and Owen was one of the first soldiers to tackle the ropes. With the blade of his sword between his teeth, he pulled himself up rung by rung, and was about to lay a hand on the top of the wall itself, when a helmeted Spaniard sporting fierce black eyes and a large red beard appeared above him. His sword was raised and ready to fall. Owen closed his eyes, convinced once again that he had breathed his last, and muttered a quick farewell to Molly. There was a lot of noise now, with gunshots ringing around his ears, as he waited for the fatal blow. But seconds passed, and nothing happened. He slowly opened his eyes. The Spaniard lay sprawled out in front of him, teetering on the edge of the wall, his forehead shattered by the impact of a musket-ball. Owen whispered a quick prayer of thanks, and resumed his climb. He discovered afterwards that D’Oyley had employed snipers to ensure that the first wave of invaders got over the walls successfully.

Over the wall, Owen raised his sword, and proceeded to engage the next Spaniard to come his way, muttering about avenging the deaths of the Princes in the Tower. Owen blocked his thrust, deflected his opponent’s blade, and disembowelled the man with a single swing of his sword. The man fell to his knees, clutching his bloodied midriff, and Owen moved on to the next man on the wall. He took a stab at the man, who clumsily struggled to get out of the way.

“Stand up and fight,” Owen shouted, “you hump-backed murderer!”

Then, the Welshman paused, and looked into the man’s face, which was heavily lined. He was not a hunchback by any stretch of the imagination, and his hair was speckled with grey, while his eyes looked tired and lacked fire, giving Owen the impression that he was older than he really was. But what caught Owen’s attention was the man’s leg, which was cut off at the knee, and in its place was a wooden stump.

“I know you, Spaniard,” the lieutenant said slowly.

“Si, senyor,” the man whispered. “And I know you, though my back is not humped.”

“Forget that,” Owen muttered, slightly embarrassed about his fighting fantasy. “You speak English. You were in Spanish Town during the invasion.”

The man smiled weakly. “Not Spanish Town. You mean, Santiago de la Vega.”

“It does not matter what it is called. You are now my prisoner.”

“Why do you not kill me, senyor?”

Owen shook his head and said nothing, leading his captive back to the camp at swordpoint. As the sun made its way over the mountains, and the first rays of sunshine bathed the battlefield, Colonel Edward D’Oyley proudly surveyed the scene of the fighting. The English soldiers clearly had the upper hand. The Colonel walked over to where his junior officer was questioning his captive.

“Who is this, lieutenant?”

“He can speak English, sir. I thought he would be more useful to us alive, sir.”

D’Oyley nodded slowly. “Very good, lieutenant. Tie him up, and put him in one of the tents.”

By the time Owen was ready to return to the fray, all he needed to do was participate in the mopping-up operations. Because of the element of surprise, the English soldiers had defeated the Spaniards, even though they were fighting with a numerical disadvantage. More than three hunded Spaniards were killed, and even more important than that, they had captured valuable supplies of food and arms. In addition, they had taken the Spanish royal standard, along with ten colours.

Despite the overwhelming victory, D’Oyley’s face was dark with anger.

“Damn,” he shouted, as he kicked the body of a dead Spanish officer. “Ysasi has escaped. There will be no peace until we have dealt with Ysasi.”

Owen did not realise how right D’Oyley would be….

The Curse of Glenn Hall

WAR AND PIRACY

CHAPTER FOUR

His name was Lieutenant Thomas Clarke. He was conducting a routine expedition into the interior, looking to flush out Spanish opposition, and he found what he was looking for. There was a brief excursion, and the Spaniards were killed. But when the dead man’s clothes were searched, most likely for spoils, Clarke found some letters on the body of a sergeant-major. Fluent in Spanish, Clarke was able to read the document, which gave details about a proposed invasion of Jamaica. Clarke might have questioned its authenticity, but he saw that it was signed by Bayona, the Governor of Cuba. A much larger Spanish colony, Cuba lay less than a hundred miles to the north of Jamaica, and the nascent English colony in Jamaica lived in fear of such an impending invasion.

D’Oyley called an emergency meeting with his senior officers, to discuss how they needed to respond.

“They are landing on the north coast,” D’Oyley was saying, “directly to the north of us.”

The English colonel was prodding at a crudely drawn map of Jamaica, and his finger stabbed at a spot on the coast directly north of Spanish Town. Owen Glenn wondered about the accuracy of this map, which seemed extremely vague about most of the island. The only spots on the map that had any proper names were in the southern harbour, at Spanish Town, and a few scattered markings on the north coast. It was a map found in the governor’s office, written in Spanish, which made it hard to decipher. Aside from Spanish Town, which they called St Jago de la Vega, there were several place names on the north coast, stretching from east to west, with names such as Puerto Anton, Las Chorreras, Santa Gloria, Sevilla la Nueva, and Bahia de Manteca. On the south-west coast, there were ports called Savanna-la-mar and Oristan, while on the south coast, there were villages named Esquivel, Morante, Ayala, Lezama, Liguanea, and Guanaboa. But none of these settlements reached the size of Spanish Town, which Owen guessed had about five hundred houses, six grand churches or chapels, and a Franciscan monastery. Now that the English were living there, they had to carry out reconstruction work on the buildings they damaged.

“We need to strike early, before they have a chance to strike,” D’Oyley insisted.

“But the jungle is thick in the mountains of the interior,” Barnett protested. “It will take us a long time to get through that forest.”

Owen had some horrible recollections of their bad experiences in Hispaniola, where a lot of men succumbed to fever and other forms of disease, while trying to swat away mosquitoes, as they drank foul-smelling water. He was not looking forward to another trek like that again. Looking around the room, he could see that same fear on every officer’s face. D’Oyley spoke as if he had read their minds.

“We are not going to go through the hills, captain. Santo Domingo taught us that.”

“Then, what else are we going to do,” asked Major Samuel Barry. “How else can we fight the Spaniards? We can’t wait for them to come to us.”

D’Oyley smiled, and leaned back in his chair.

“The same way we took Jamaica – by sea.”

D’Oyley paused to let his announcement sink in, and then he continued, “Admiral Penn is no longer with us, but his fleet is still at our disposal. We will sail around the island to the north coast, and we will take them by surprise.”

And that is what they did. The Englishmen landed near Rio Blanco, which they now called the White River. The Spaniards had constructed a stockade close to a waterfall, which later came to be known as Dunn’s River Falls. The warm, sparkling water caressed the rocks, as it made its way towards the sparkling blue Caribbean Sea, surrounded at each side by the soft, white sand of the gentle beach. The Englishmen felt as if they could make this place their home. It was that appealing! But, instead, they stayed in the bushes, and made their way slowly towards the amateurishly-built fortress, which, although small, was a hive of activity. From their vantage points at the top of high tries, the English sentries could watch Spanish soldiers and their Negro maroons carrying food and clothing supplies inside.

They observed the stockade, and it became clear to every Englishman that they not only outnumbered the Spaniards, but they were also better armed. They waited with some amount of impatience for Colonel Edward D’Oyley to give the order to attack. They did not have to wait too long, and when it came, the Englishmen poured out of the bushes like a rushing river, and charged at the stockade with a huge rallying cry. The attack took the Spaniards by surprise, and only a handful of muskets rang out in reply to the invasion.

Owen felt the breeze of a musket ball whizzing past him, and a soldier fell to the ground just behind him. He sharply inhaled, realising that he had just had a close brush with death. His eyes met those of his lieutenant, Henry Morgan, and they then turned their attention to the stockade. As things turned out, this was their only real moment of alarm. In a matter of minutes, they were scaling the small walls of the stockade, and engaging the Spaniards in hand-to-hand combat. There was no enemy soldier to prevent Owen from climbing over the wall, but as soon as he found his feet back on solid ground, a Spaniard rushed at him, sword raised above his head. Owen quickly drew his own sabre, and fended off the blow. The Spaniard tried to attack again and again, but on each occasion Owen was able to match his thrust, backing against the wall in the face of his Latin opponent’s fury. Owen realised that he could not go back any more, so he planted a foot against the stockade wall, and propelled himself forward, knocking his enemy to the ground. Both swords went flying, and each man reached to his belt for a knife, while struggling to get a grip on his opponent’s clothes with the free hand. Owen struck paydirt first, pulling his weapon free, and sinking it into the chest of the Spaniard, killing him instantly.

Relieved at surviving that encounter, Owen retrieved his sword, and surveyed the scene of the battle. In start contrast to the experience of Hispaniola, Spaniards were running everywhere, and instead of that previous experience of fear, Owen was overcome with elation. A young, enemy soldier was running his way, trying to get away from the fray, but because he was looking behind him, he did not know that he was running straight into the hands of the enemy. Owen paused, lifted his right hand, and skilfully split the Spaniard’s head as soon as he was at arm’s length.

The Welshman licked his lips. He really enjoyed that. He turned around, and saw another scared Spaniard lunging half-heartedly at him with his sword. He smartly side-stepped the blow, and looked into the Spaniard’s fear-filled face. Owen pushed the sword deep into his opponent’s bowels. The fear was replaced by a glassy, glazed look, as the dead man slowly slid to the ground. The lieutenant looked around for more game, but he soon realised with a twinge of disappointment that the battle was over almost as quickly as it had begun.

Morgan came over to Owen, and shook his hand. They both had blood-splattered tunics, and they sat down wearily on the ground, breathing heavily.

“I am tiring of all this soldiering,” Morgan muttered between deep breaths. “I am just fighting to keep D’Oyley in a position of power. It is time I sought my own fortune.”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “How do you plan to do that?”

Morgan smiled. “There is a lot of Spanish wealth out there, just waiting for me.”

“Will you become a privateer?”

Morgan laughed. “Who knows? I will tell you, if I do.”

D’Oyley was delighted with his victory, and he decided to reward his officers with small plots of land. Owen received ten acres, but the award was in a place he had not seen, and had only seen mentioned once or twice on a map. It was on the north-west coast, and he had to consult a couple of Spanish maps to confirm its location. Even the name of the place was a matter of debate, with one map calling it Montevias, and another Bahia de Manteca. Whatever the place was called, Owen had no intention of claiming that land any time soon, not with all those black Maroon warriors roaming the hills.

Owen was more than a little relieved to return to Spanish Town, because even though there were charred buildings everywhere, at least he could recognise some vestiges of civilization there. He strolled into a pub and ordered a drink from the bartender, looking forward to clearing the dust out of his dry throat. He was more than a little pleased to see a young, shapely dark-haired girl delivering his ale to him.

“Here is your drink, officer,” she said, in a sweet, rolling lilt.

“Thank you,” Owen replied, and gulped down half his drink. “You have no idea how much I have been looking forward to this ale.”

She sat down next to him, and looked thoughtfully into his face with her dark, piercing eyes.

“You sound English, officer, but not quite. Are you from Cornwall?”

“That is a good guess, lass,” Owen grinned, trying to hide his nervousness. “Close, but not quite.”

“What is your name?”

“Owen. My full name is Owen Henry Glenn.”

“Ah, with a name like that, you could only come from one place,” she stated, with her sing-song accent. “You must be from Wales.”

He smiled again. “And you come from Ireland.”

“Aye. My name is Molly McCarthy. I am from Dublin.”

“How long have you been a waitress in this bar?”

“Too long,” she muttered. “I was one of many Irish girls shipped to Jamaica by that butcher, Cromwell. This is the only job I could find. Fortunately, my shift is finishing, so if you desire the pleasure of my company, you can leave with me.”

Owen needed no second invitation. He donned his hat, and followed the Irish girl towards the door. The large, fat bartender blocked her departure, as she made her way to the door.

“And where do you think you are going,” the fat man snarled, in a deep gravelly voice.

“I have done my time for today,” Molly protested. “Let me be. I have to come in early tomorrow.”

“I have a lot of glasses that need washing. Put back on your apron!”

“I think the lady has done enough,” Owen suggested, in a quiet voice.

“Stay out of this, lad,” the bartender snapped, grabbing her arm with his fat, greasy hand.

“Let her go,” Owen shouted, reaching for his sword.

The fat man took one glance at Owen’s fingers on the sword’s hilt, and slowly withdrew his hand from Molly’s arm. Stepping aside, he allowed the two youngsters to leave the pub. Once they were through the door and in the streets, Molly threw her arms around Owen and hugged him.

“Thank you, Owen. Nobody has ever done something like that for me before.”

And that was how it started. That night, Owen lost his virginity, in the arms of a loving and caring woman. At first, Molly found it hard to believe that she was his first love, until he explained to her how he came to the West Indies. At fourteen years old, he had helped his father fight the Roundheads, and at sixteen he was deported to Barbados as an indentured labourer, and how, on his release, he went straight from the plantation to the invasion army of Penn and Venables. His life was one of either war or work. He had neither the time nor the opportunity to get close to a woman, until now.

He was so heavily involved in his first love that he took little notice of the events unfolding around him. He was in the army barracks at Spanish Town, whistling cheerfully as he cleaned his musket, when he saw Captain Jonathan Barnett wander in with a gloomy expression on his face.

“Is anything wrong, sir?”

“Indeed, lieutenant! Just when you think you are over one problem, another one surfaces.”

“I do not understand, sir.”

Barnett sighed and sat down, rubbing his eyes.

“We just got news that the King of Spain has now officially appointed Ysasi as the governor of Jamaica.”

Owen frowned. “How can that be? Jamaica now belongs to England, not Spain.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you, lieutenant,” Barnett snapped irritably. “It is simple. If Ysasi is the official governor of Jamaica, he will want to claim what he feels is rightfully his. We can expect an invasion from Ysasi some time soon.”

Ysasi was the man who had organised the Maroons into a credible guerrilla fighting force. Any invasion force led by Ysasi was bound to be better than the last one.

The Curse of Glenn Hall

WAR AND PIRACY

CHAPTER THREE

“Men, we are about to go into battle once again,” Venables was saying, speaking loudly in a speech to his officers on board the flagship. “Where we failed in Hispaniola, we will succeed in Jamaica. We cannot afford another act of cowardice like the one we had outside Santo Domingo. Let me say that you have the authority to shoot any man next to you who turns his back on the enemy. Please tell this to your men.”

It was the tenth of May, and Penn’s fleet was sailing into the largest harbour on the south coast of the island of Jamaica. While they made their way into the bay, Owen Glenn was surprised to see that all it had was a small fort made of red brick and wood at one of the entrance points. This fort was no larger than the smallest ship in the fleet, even though there were several cannon poking between the turrets.

Admiral Penn gave the order to fire, and all thirty eight ships sent cannon-balls hurtling towards the Spanish fort. Brick and wood crumbled under the assault. The Spaniards replied with shots of their own, but the noise was a squeak compared with the previous blast from the English. There were far less cannon on the island than the Englishmen expected. Then came Penn’s order again, and the fort was under siege. When the smoke cleared, Owen could see Spaniards running for cover. It was then that Penn gave the order to attack the mainland.

Owen was among the first group of soldiers to feel the earth of Jamaica under his feet. He waded through the water on to the beach, a musket in his hand, and with a sword swinging at his side, while a step behind him walked Henry Morgan, similarly attired, and with a burning fire in his eyes. With Morgan behind him, seemingly unafraid of impending danger, Glenn felt safe and secure, almost invincible. With the anticipation of potential conflict, he felt a rising excitement in his bowels. He followed Captain Barnett as they stormed the fort. They kicked down the main door with ease, the rusty hinges giving way after barely an effort. There were no Spanish lancers waiting for them this time. Instead, the Spaniards were already in full flight.

“I want prisoners,” Barnett hollered.

This time, the Englishmen enjoyed the reversed roles, and they tried to catch as many Spaniards as they could. The fort was apparently only sparsely occupied, and the able-bodied men had already fled. Those that were left behind were the elderly and the infirm – Spaniards who could not move so quickly. Barnett rounded up a few of them, and summoned Glenn.

“Lieutenant, find a Spaniard who can speak English.”

Glenn’s jaw dropped. How was he to go about carrying out that task?

He grabbed one old man, and said, “Do you speak English?”

The elderly Spaniard looked puzzled. Morgan moved up beside him, and said, “Habla Ingles?”

The old man shook his head, so they moved on to the next one. The ritual was repeated three times before they struck lucky. One lame, middle-aged man answered Morgan’s question, “Si, senyor.”

“Como te llama,” Morgan asked.

“Roberto de Souza,” the captive muttered.

He was not as old as most of the other captives, but his mobility was affected by an infirmity. He had only one leg, with the other cut off at the knee, and its place was taken by a wooden stump. He was probably in his mid-thirties, though his face was drawn as a result of hardships felt and experienced, and Glenn guessed that he looked older than he really was. They took him to Barnett, who immediately started an interrogation of his own.

“Can you speak English,” Barnett shouted, as if the man was deaf.

Owen frowned at the question. Surely he had already established that for Barnett. Still, maybe it was his way of saying hello.

The frightened man nodded.

“Si, senyor,” he said feebly.

“What is your name?”

“Roberto de Souza.”

“Well, Roberto, who is the governor of Jamaica?”

“Don Juan Ramirez.”

“And where can we find him, Roberto,” asked Owen, his first and only question.

“In the capital, senyor.”

“Where is the capital, Roberto,” queried Barnett.

“To the west, about dos, tres horas ride by horse. Dos, if you ride fast.”

Barnett looked puzzled, and Morgan interjected, “Two or three hours.”

Barnett raised an eyebrow. “Can you speak Spanish, Morgan?”

Morgan shrugged, and allowed himself a small smile.

“A little, captain. Just a little.”

At that moment, Venables entered the room, flanked by several senior officers. The General immediately took over the interrogation, relegating Barnett and Owen to the background. From the subsequent question-and-answer session, the Englishmen found out that there were no more than one thousand five hundred Spaniards on the whole island, and of that number, only a third could bear arms. They also realised that Ramirez was now an old man, and seriously ill at the time of the invasion. Venables wrote down the terms of the surrender, and told de Souza to deliver them to old Ramirez.

“What shall we do while we wait, sir,” D’Oyley asked of Venables, who coughed, and waved away the query.

“Under my terms, those who want to leave the island will be allowed to get their things together, and do so. They think we are here for plunder. They did not realise that we are not buccaneers. We are here to conquer.”

“That is ridiculous, General,” Penn countered. “By giving them time, you will lose the advantage.”

“Don’t you dare contradict me, you damned Quaker,” shouted Venables. “I am the soldier here. Go and play with your boats!”

“The soldier, indeed! There are times when I doubt that.”

With that, Admiral Penn turned on his heels and left the small fortress, cursing Venables with every breath he took.

“Let him go,” Venables snickered. “There will be lots of spoils for us when we march into the Spanish town. The Spaniards will be so keen to save their own skins that they will hand over Ramirez to us, and the town will be ours.”

“I believe it is called Saint Jago de la Vega, sir,” Barnett suggested.

“What does it matter,” Venables asked irritably. “It is ours now, and no Englishman will call it Saint Jago, or Santiago. We will just call it Spanish Town, after we take all its jewels.”

As the Englishmen marched on Saint Jago, they could not help feeling that this island would be more hospitable than Hispaniola. They camped outside the town, and waited for word from the governor about their terms for surrender. They camped for a day before de Souza rode out to meet them, looking much more relaxed than when he was their captive.

“What word do you bring for us,” asked Barnett.

“The governor’s word,” de Souza replied, giving the captain a letter.

Barnett handed the letter to Venables, who opened it.

“It is in English,” Venables said, slightly surprised.

“I translated it for them,” de Souza said.

Venables frowned. “It is not signed by Ramirez.”

“He is ill. His affairs are being handled by Don Cristoval de Ysasi and Don Duarte de Acosta.”

Those names rattled past Venables ears without registering.

“Don whoever and Don whatever – have they agreed to our terms?”

“Si, senyor,” de Souza said, and rode back towards the town.

The Englishmen followed de Souza into the town, and they soon realised that the settlement was deserted. There were more cows in the Spanish town than people. When the English soldiers raided the Catholic churches and the places of business, they found that there was no booty to be had. The inhabitants had escaped with all their valuables. Venables marched into the governor’s residence in a rage, and put Ramirez in chains. But there was no sign of either Ysasi or Acosta.

Morgan was furious. He vented his anger in Glenn’s ear.

“General Venables is incompetent,” Morgan fumed. “If I was in charge, I would never have given them the chance to escape with their valuables. Mark my words….”

These were all valuable lessons that Morgan would take on board for future endeavours. In the meantime, the English soldiers were in a foul mood. Deprived of their loot, they went on the rampage. Before nightfall, the entire town was on fire, as soldiers burnt buildings in frustration, and melted church bells for shot.

While they watched the charred buildings collapse under the blaze, a despondent Venables and his officers planned their next move. Venables sent soldiers into the hills to flush out the resistance, but instead they encountered fierce fighting from freed Spanish slaves. Ysasi himself had taken command of the freed slaves, and had organised them into a guerrilla force to resist the English invasion. Trained by Ysasi himself, this formidable fighting force came to be known as the Maroons. Venables found that he was making little headway trying to fight the Maroons in the hilly interior of Jamaica.

So, the English invasion force had to find ways to survive until the island could be properly secured by the Commonwealth. Venables ordered his men to raise crops until the English ships came to take them off ‘this God-forsaken island’, but instead of planting, the English soldiers took to slaughtering the wild cattle for food. The rations of clothing and medicine had run out, and many men were falling like flies to the ravages of unknown diseases and deadly fevers.

William Penn, who had been critical of Venables’ failure to secure the booty, also voiced his approval of Ysasi’s decision to free the slaves. Venables turned on him, calling him a Quaker who was a threat to the Commonwealth for voicing such treasonable statements. It was well-known that the Quakers were opposed to slavery in principle, and Venables was accusing Penn of not being patriotic for criticising a system that was supported by the Commonwealth. The battle-lines were drawn. Shortly afterwards, Penn left for England to explain the state of affairs to Cromwell. Fearful of the slant Penn might present to the Lord Protector, Robert Venables decided to write a letter to Cromwell explaining his side of the story. Still nervous about being in Jamaica while Penn was in London, General Venables decided to set sail for England. But he only took a small group of ships and soldiers with him. The majority he left in the newly-conquered territory of Jamaica.

During this period of confusion, Owen Glenn stayed in Spanish Town, occasionally participating in excursions into the hills for wild cattle. As more and more were slaughtered, wild cattle was becoming increasingly harder to find. So now the British soldiers were forced to forage in the hills north of Spanish Town for beef. Shortly after Venables left, Major General William Brayne led an expedition into the hills, with Captain Barnett as his deputy, and Owen as his third in command. It was there that Owen had a close encounter with Juan de Bolas.

One of the men had just brought down a cow with a musket, when the Maroons hit them. They came out of the bushes swiftly and silently. A large, muscular black man, clad only in a pair of trousers cut off at the knees, appeared in front of Owen, and felled the man next to him with a single swing of his machete. Owen drew his sword, and fended off the Maroon’s next blow. As the black ex-slave pressed against him, Owen could see his bright, white teeth, his menacing smile, and large angry eyes. Owen tried to push the Maroon away, but found that he was no match for the black man’s strength. Losing ground, he quickly stepped to the left, and watched as the Maroon lost his balance and fell forward, staggering to keep his footing. Swinging his sword in an arc, Owen severed the black man’s head with a single blow.

Looking up, Owen saw that his men had suffered serious losses against the Maroons. They were in a narrow pass, surrounded by thickets on either side, and while the Englishmen relied on the path, the Maroons thrived in the jungle. The Maroons were attacking his men with great ferocity. Then, out of the bushes jumped another Maroon, wearing a faded white shirt, and tattered dark blue trousers, and a white bandana was wrapped around his forehead. He had bulging biceps, and he swung his sword with great ability, killing two Englishmen with remarkable ease. Overcome with anger, Owen raised his sword and charged at the Maroon. There was a clash of steel, as the Maroon backed down in the face of Owen’s relentless onslaught. Then, the Maroon sidestepped a blow, and Owen watched in horror as his weapon buried itself in the bark of a large tree, and refused to budge. Owen then felt a strong, black hand roughly grab him by the neck, and the metal of the blade pricked his side.

“I could keel you, blanco,” the Maroon sneered. “But I will not. Remember, my name is Juan Lubolo. You will hear from me soon.”

Owen expected to meet his maker any moment now, despite what the Maroon just told him. Instead, he felt a strong hand push him from behind, and he collapsed on the ground. There was the sound of a horn, and the Maroons retreated into the bushes as swiftly as they had come. Owen felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and he looked up into the eyes of Jonathan Barnett.

“Are you hurt, Glenn?”

“Nay, sir,” Owen replied, shaking his head. “But I think I was nearly killed by a man called Juan de Bolas.”

“Juan de Bolas? Really? I think he’s supposed to be one of Ysasi’s deputies.”

The trip back was a long and arduous one, carrying the sick and the wounded. Several more died along the way, and the Maroons picked off the stragglers. When they arrived back at Spanish Town, Colonel Edward D’Oyley called Owen into his office.

“What happened, Glenn?”

“It was Juan de Bolas, sir. The Maroons ambushed us.”

D’Oyley raised an eyebrow.

“Juan de Bolas? Are you sure that’s his name?”

“Aye, sir. He told me his name.”

D’Oyley was now smiling broadly. “He told you his name? Are you good friends now?”

“Nay, sir.”

“Relax, Glenn. I am only jesting. You never know. This might be an introduction you can use in the future.”

Owen was never sure how to respond to D’Oyley. He was normally serious and strict. To see him in a jovial mood was unsettling. The Welshman decided to play it safe.

“Aye, sir.”

“By the way, did you hear that both Penn and Venables have gone to England to tell the Lord Protector their versions of the invasion of Jamaica and Hispaniola?”

Warning bells were ringing again.

“Aye, sir.”

“Well, did you know that Cromwell had them both thrown into the Tower of London?”

“Nay, sir.”

“Aye, that he did. And it serves them right, too. Tell me, Glenn, was your father a Royalist?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Well, I am too, which is why the Lord Protector does not trust me. But fret not, for Cromwell cannot live forever, and when he dies, the Commonwealth will die with him, and the Stuarts will be back on the throne. England cannot put up with the puritanical tyranny for much longer. We just have to bide our time.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Listen, Butler is dying of fever, and already the letters have been dispatched from London appointing Brayne as the new Commissioner. I am telling you this, Glenn, because I happen to know that Brayne will be trying to set up a permanent settlement here in Jamaica. My advice to you, Glenn, is to take advantage of the offer.”

D’Oyley was right. Oliver Cromwell was disappointed at not getting Hispaniola, but decided to make the most of Jamaica. He offered several concessions for settlers willing to migrate to the island, painting a glorious picture of Jamaica, as a place where futures could be made. However, while this was being done, men were now dying of famine. The Commonwealth gave away grants of land, rights to mining and fishing, exemption from custom duties, and rights equal to those in Great Britain. A number of Irish and Scottish immigrants arrived, including white bondsmen, but the latter fell ill rapidly in the harsh tropical climate. It was then that Brayne applied to Cromwell for permission to import slaves from Africa.

More and more settlers came in, but many did not last the year. The elderly governor of Nevis, Luke Stokes, migrated to Jamaica, settling in the eastern end of the island with his family and nearly two thousand colonists. Within three months, Stokes, his wife, and more than half the immigrants were dead. The fever also claimed the life of Brayne, and he was mourned by the entire island, because he had added stability to life in early Jamaica. For the third time, D’Oyley was appointed interim governor by Cromwell, who was still suspicious of the Royalist.

But while D’Oyley went through the local rituals of being sworn in, Morgan, who was now a lieutenant in the militia, approached Owen with a letter. Morgan had a very concerned look on his face. Owen opened the letter, and noticed that it was hastily written, without care for penmanship. However, he was captivated by its contents. As he read it, his jaw dropped, and his face went white.

“Where did you get this,” he asked Morgan.

“A messenger just rode into town with it.”

Colonel D’Oyley had to see this as soon as possible, Owen told himself. We are in great danger. The Spaniards had invaded Jamaica….

-----------------------

The Curse of Glenn Hall

PART ONE: OWEN – WAR AND PIRACY

CHAPTER ONE
The sun was scorching hot, cracking the young white man’s red, burnt skin. He was slowly going through the motions, swinging a machete at the bushes in an attempt to clear the land. He was attired in a torn, faded pair of trousers, and wore nothing above the waist, revealing the strong muscles that decorated his torso and his arms. On his feet, he had a pair of battered sandals, held together by a couple of pieces of string. He paused briefly to wipe the sweat from his face with a rag he had stuck into his back pocket, and he then wrapped it around his calloused, blistered right hand. Closing the injured hand around the machete’s handle, he raised his left hand to his eyes, and shielded them from the brilliant sun. He then smiled slowly and gratefully at the hills, as they slowly embraced the golden orb that had tormented his back regularly over the past four years.

Then, as if inspired by the generosity of the hills of the parish of St Andrew, the young man returned to his work with a renewed vigour, and chopped at the bushes as if they were his worst enemies. As he worked away at the forbidding underbrush, a wizened old man strolled up to him, more sufficiently attired than the young man. The old man wore a large, loose-fitting shirt, and silk trousers, sported a wide-brimmed straw hat, and brandishing a forbidding whip in one hand. His wrinkled face hid his sharp, black, cunning eyes, as they tried to probe those of the young man before him.

“Well, Glenn,” rasped the old man, “it has been a long time since you worked so hard. Are you not pleased that the day’s end draws nigh?”

Glenn allowed a faint smile to creep onto his lips, barely altering his strong jaw, and his soft, brown eyes twinkled under his long, curly brown hair.

“Aye,” he responded in a deep voice, as he leaned on to his machete, in the shade of a nearby tree. “Today took a long time to come, Browne. But, ‘tis here, and for that I am pleased.”

“And what will you do now, young Glenn?”

Glenn watched the sun sinking behind the hills, and then his eyes returned warily to the whip in the hands of old Browne.

“I believe the day is done, Browne. You can no longer use that weapon on me.”

Browne let out a loud cackle, throwing his head back in the process. Finally, he wiped the foam from his mouth, and patted Glenn on the back.

“There are more bondsmen on Cumberbatch’s plantation than I care to count, young man. You will be quickly forgotten. Go with haste, for I sense Cumberbatch will not be long in his office this evening.”

Glenn frowned. “Why do you speak in riddles, old man?”

Browne shook his head slowly. “Are you dull as well? Cumberbatch has his eyes on a young wench who just came on to the estate this morning, and I believe he desires to pass the night with lusty enjoyment. Move quickly, or you will not see him.”

The young man nodded his assent, put his machete in Browne’s outstretched hand, and quickly walked towards the office, which was situated right in the centre of the coffee plantation. He did not have a time-piece, but he knew that in January the sun set marginally earlier than it did at other times of the year, even if in the tropics the time differences were not as stark as they were back in England. He calculated that by sunset his four-year bond with Robert Cumberbatch would be at an end. Walking proudly, head held high, he pushed open the door to see a slim, wiry, middle-aged man packing his papers into a carrying bag. He seemed surprised to see the young man in his office.

“Mr Cumberbatch,” Glenn said, bowing respectfully, “I am Owen Henry Glenn. Today, my four-year bond with you comes to an end. I have come to collect what’s mine.”

Cumberbatch settled back into his seat and arched his fingers together. A sly grin crossed his face.

“What is yours, you say. Pray, tell me, young man, what is yours?”

Glenn frowned, and clenched his fists.

“Ten pounds are my reward for my four years of servitude to you. ‘Tis a miserable sum for so much labour, but ‘tis mine, and I want it.”

Cumberbatch ran a hand through his thinning hair as his furtive eyes surveyed the bondsman in front of him.

“What right do you have to take what you say is yours? Did you say your name was Glenn?”

“Aye,” Glenn mumbled, trying hard to contain his anger.

“If my recollections serve me well,” Cumberbatch mused, as he leafed through one of his books, “you were a Royalist, serving in the army of King Charles, during the War. Well, we are a Commonwealth now, and our Lord Protector sent you, and many others like you, to the West Indies for your crimes. Your bond is a punishment, not a profession.”

“My father died honourably, fighting for our king at Preston in fourty-eight,” countered Glenn. “I was a page in the service of the Cavaliers, a mere stripling of thirteen. But your Cromwell is a cruel and hard man. We were rounded up like cattle, herded on to a ship bound for Barbados, all because we served our king well. Still, I did not protest. I worked off my bond in your service, and I now desire to be set free.”

“You dirty Welshman,” Cumberbatch snapped. “You lazy, cozening thief! You want freedom? Take it! Get out of my office now!”

But Glenn did not leave. Instead, he moved slowly towards Cumberbatch, and planted his hands on the desk, glaring into the plantation owner’s eyes.

“I will not leave until you give me my ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds,” Cumberbatch chortled. “I do not have ten pounds in my possession, Welshman. The tobacco has not been selling well in London. I am on the verge of foreclosure.”

“Lying dog! For the last month, Browne has made me cut down bushes, so that you can make your plantation bigger. Your business is doing well enough, Mr Cumberbatch. Do not cheat me out of my just rewards.”

Cumberbatch’s eyes narrowed as his gaze met that of the angry young man in front of him.

“If you do not leave now, I will have to call Browne….”

But he did not get to finish his sentence. Glenn felt his face flush red with anger, and he stammered to hold back his fury. However, the Welshman’s anger got the better of him, and feeling furious at his own impotence, Glenn’s mind went blank. In his anger, Glenn had his strong hands wrapped around the smaller man’s neck.

“If you do not give me my ten pounds,” Glenn hissed, “I will kill you.”

Cumberbatch nervously fumbled at his waistcoat pocket, whileGlenn’s grip tightened. He pulled out a handful of coins out of his pocket, and dropped them on the table in front of him. Glenn released his grip on the middle-aged man’s neck, leaving Cumberbatch gasping for breath. The Welshman counted out ten pounds, and pocketed the money. But as he moved to the door, Cumberbatch had recovered his voice.

“Browne! Get Glenn! He’s one of Willoughby’s rebels!”

Glenn glanced up to see Cumberbatch at the window, bellowing for assistance. He knew better than to wait around. He had collected what was due to him, and he did not want to wait on Cumberbatch to put him in the brig. He hurriedly walked through the front door, and by the time Browne reached the office, Glenn was by the plantation gates. The young man broke into a run only when he heard Browne’s whistle. He ran into the nearby forest of trees, and ran until his feet could carry him no more. He had been running for hours, and he felt as if his lungs would burst, but he knew he had to put several miles between himself and Cumberbatch’s estate.

Once he was confident that he was out of Cumberbatch’s clutches, he looked for, and found, a well-worn footpath through the woods. All paths led to Bridgetown, and Glenn followed it to the small island’s capital. As he walked, his mind relived the incidents of the day. Cumberbatch had called him one of Willoughby’s rebels, which was not true at all, even though he sympathisized with the former governor. In fact, Glenn was shipped to Barbados just as the crisis surrounding Francis Lord Willoughby was reaching its climax.

Barbados had been settled by Englishmen two dozen years before Glenn’s arrival, and like young Owen, many of the settlers were ardent Royalists, and found it hard to support Oliver Cromwell and his Roundheads during the English Civil War. Then, when King Charles I was beheaded in 1649, the Barbadian planters were in uproar, declaring their allegiance to the Royalist cause. Willoughby promptly threw in his lot with the planters, and they proceeded to counter the Commonwealth parliament on a number of trade issues.

Prior to Cromwell, most Barbadian planters conducted their trade with Dutch merchant vessels, who visited Bridgetown more regularly than their English counterparts, and offered them better prices too. They sold a variety of sought-after items in the colonies, such as wide-brimmed hats, thread, shoes, pins, linen, and even anchors. Then, along came Cromwell, and the Anglo-Dutch wars, and merchants were banned from trading with Barbados, and because these English ships came into port far too infrequently, they could not meet the settlers’ demands, and constantly frustrated the Barbadians. What annoyed the settlers even more was the ban on trade with the young American colonies, which also fell under English control. Apparently, trade with the colonies could only occur through English ships, and not through ships operated by the colonists.

In February of 1651, Governor Willoughby, as well as the Council and the Assembly of Barbados, issued a declaration, saying, “We, the present inhabitants of this island…who with great danger to our persons, and with great change and trouble, have settled the island in its condition, and inhabited the same, and shall we therefore be subjected to the will and command of those that stay at home?”

The declaration went on to say that to do so, “would be a slavery far exceeding all that the English nation hath suffered…” and that the Barbadian Assembly could rule for itself, as it, “is the nearest model of conformity to that under which our predecessors of the English nation have lived and flourished for above a thousand years.”

However, Cromwell disagreed, and he had sent a fleet under Sir George Ayscue to the Caribbean to restore order in this small island towards the end of that year. Owen Glenn remembered that incident well, because it was shortly after Cumberbatch had Owen Glenn and several other indentured servants brought into the island to labour on his plantation. Ayscue quickly and easily reasserted the authority of Cromwell and the Commonwealth with a minimum of resistance, and with very little bloodshed. However, though they were subdued, a lot of Barbadians still secretly sympathised with the Royalist cause. But they did so in secret, and now that Cumberbatch had branded him as one of Willoughby’s supporters, Glenn felt that he might become the target of one of Cromwell’s soldiers, who still patrolled Bridgetown.

Glenn knew he would have to tread warily. During his four years in the small Caribbean island, he had learnt all the dirt tracks, and he had no problem following this one into the busy coastal port. Once in Bridgetown, he told himself, he would figure out what to do next.

It was not until midnight before his tired, blistered feet brought him into the small port of Bridgetown. Even at this late hour, there was some activity in the town, and Glenn assumed it must be because a Dutch trader was in port. The Dutch still traded, but often did so under cover of darkness, to avoid being caught by over-zealous Roundheads. Glenn made a mental note to check out the trader, but his more immediate priority was to find a bed at a nearby inn. He dodged a man on a horse, and glimpsed a sign that proudly claimed to be Ye Royale Inn. But it looked anything but royal, with a modest rotting board structure, and a missing plank here and there.

Glenn knocked at the door, and it was promptly answered by a large, matronly woman, who eyed him suspiciously.

“You knocked, knave?”

“Aye. May I have lodgings within?”

She eyed him suspiciously, and brushed a greying lock of hair out of her face. Still, she refused to budge.

“Are you a bondsman?”

“Nay,” Glenn replied, shaking his head. “I was, but I am no more. My four-year bond has ended, and I am now a free man. I wish to pay for a room for the night.”

Her eyes widened, and a gleeful look crossed her face. “Did you say you have money, sire?”

Glenn flashed some coins. “Indeed I do, madam.”

She stepped aside to let him in. “I believe I can find a room for you.”

For the first time since he left England four years ago, Glenn slept in a proper bed. It was a vast improvement on his nights on Cumberbatch Estate, which had been spent on a mat made from coconut leaves, and provided no comfort from the hard ground beneath it. His sleep was in the main troubled by the large mosquitoes that constantly buzzed around his ears on the tobacco plantation. He dreamt longingly of the days he spent with his father in the bustling port of Bristol on the west coast of England. His mother had died when he was an infant, and young Owen was raised by his father, Henry Glenn, who was a skilled shipbuilder. His father made a decent living, and they were able to live fairly comfortably in the busy Bristol port. Bristol was much cooler than the sweltering heat of Barbados. Only a few businesses existed in small Bridgetown, in contrast with the flourishing business sector in his hometown, which he missed so much. He hated Barbados. All he wanted was to go home.

Glenn slept late that morning, and when he woke, the inn-keeper prepared a hearty breakfast for him. He ate well, paid the inn-keeper, and went into the street to find a clothes-store. He paused, and took a deep breath, cherishing the warm sunshine now that he was a free man. He allowed a horse-drawn buggy to pass in front of him, and then made his way across the road to patronise one of the stalls that outwardly exhibited a number of garments for sale. He selected some clothes and shoes, changed into them, and then made his way towards the port.

Barbados had a small harbour, much smaller than his beloved Bristol. But there was a lot of activity in the port that surrounded the bay itself, and Glenn estimated that there were more than half a thousand people doing business in Bridgetown that morning. From where he stood, Glenn counted ten Dutch traders in port, and he assumed that they must be trading goods with the colonists on the shore. He was thinking about pushing into the throng when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see a militiaman, with a pencil-thin moustache, staring inquiringly at him, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Excuse me, sire,” the man said gruffly. “Do you have any papers on you?”

Glenn frowned. “Nay, I do not. Why do you ask?”

“What is your name,” the soldier persisted.

Warning bells rang inside Glenn’s head, and his heart began to race. “Henry… Henry Jones.”

The militiaman raised an eyebrow. “Are you Welsh?”

Glenn nodded, his throat now parched and dry.

“Aye,” Glenn replied testily. “Now, will you answer my question? Why do you ask?”

It was the soldier’s turn to nod. “We are looking for a Welshman, who goes by the name of Owen Glenn. He tried to choke the life out of a gentleman before fleeing the estate.”

Glenn shook his head solemnly. “That is bad.”

The militiaman’s gaze turned into a glare, as he suspiciously looked over the young Welshman. Glenn tried hard to hide his nervousness. Attempting to throttle a ‘gentleman’ was a crime that could end with him hanging at the end of a noose.

“Sire,” the soldier said, “I would like to come with you while you retrieve your papers.”

Glenn’s heart sank, but he put on a good show, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

“As you wish.”

With the militiaman on his heels, Glenn pushed through the crowd, moving towards the harbour, and into the throng of buyers and sellers in Bridgetown’s market. They managed to dodge a woman who nearly barged into them, carrying a basket of oranges, and almost collided with a dirty man, who struggled to hold a number of loaves of bread in his grubby hands. The crowd was getting thick, and Glenn could feel the soldier’s grip tighten around his forearm. The young man took a deep breath. He knew that it was now or never….

Swivelling suddenly, Glenn punched the militiaman hard on the jaw, and as the lawman collapsed, the younger man pushed his way through the crowd, running and trying to shut out the screams and shouts of the maddening crowd. Dozens of hands reached out to grab him, but somehow he evaded them, and sprinted down to the waterfront. Pretty soon, he was lost in the crowd again, mingling with the colonists as they bartered with another Dutch trader. Though nobody noticed him any more, his mind was still racing, and his eyes quickly searched every nook and cranny, fearing that the long arm of the law might suddenly make an appearance. He did not want to end up in the brig, under any circumstances. His mind drifted back to thoughts of Jack Denny.

During his entire tenure on Cumberbatch Estate, Glenn made only one friend, a big Cockney thug who was sent to Barbados to serve out a bond as an indentured servant for stealing a loaf of bread. A year ago, Denny got fed up with Browne’s excessive use of the whip, and beat the old man to within an inch of his life, using just his bare fists. The militia came for the big man, and they locked Glenn’s friend in the brig. Two weeks later, but Denny was dead, yet another European casualty of that feared menace, malaria. Denny’s fate was not going to take him too, Glenn swore softly.

Already tiring of this furtive existence, Glenn ducked into an ale-house, and ordered a pint of beer. As he sipped his ale, he became conscious of two people pulling up seats next to him. Glenn stole a glance to his right, and saw a plump, white man with a large beard, and sunburnt red skin that set him apart as a recent visitor to Barbados, unlike those who lived here many years, and had acquired a regular tanned complexion. He was opulently dressed, bedecked with jewellery, and talked loudly. He was clearly one of the Dutch merchants, Glenn thought, reflecting on both his accent and his dress. But the man he was really interested in was the Dutchman’s companion.

He was naked, except for a loincloth, and his skin was dark, so dark that it reflected the light from the lamps in the alehouse. He was obviously little more than twenty years old, judging from his youthful facial features, and his young frame rippled with muscles, all over his well-sculptured body. Despite the strength exhibited by this specimen of manhood, his facial expression was sullen and dejected, his large lips protruding more than normal. He had tightly-knit, kinky hair, and a heavy chain that bound his neck and wrists.

It was Glenn’s first encounter with an African. He did not realise it then, but his descendants and their fortunes were destined to be tied to the lives of men and women who were captured from the same region this powerfully-built man came from.

“Your pardon, sire,” Glenn ventured, “but are you one of those Dutch traders?”

“Ja, ja, I am a Dutchman. What will you buy?“

Glenn smiled, and shook her head.

“I do not think you have any wares to interest me. But I am interested in the beast in your possession.”

The Dutchman’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the Negro. He is strong, and he will work good.”

Glenn raised an eyebrow. “How will you sell him?”

The foreignor grinned broadly. “He is yours for five pieces of eight.”

Glenn shook his head. “That is not the currency that I use. You are talking about the currency of the Spaniards.”

“You colonists have very little currency of your own,” the merchant snorted. “Still, I have seen English settlers with pieces of eight. Let me see, one piece of eight is worth four shillings. You work it out.”

“Twenty shillings,” Glenn mused. “Do they buy these Negroes here?”

The trader regarded the young man curiously. “You do not work on a plantation? By my last count, there are one thousand Negro slaves working on plantations in Barbados.”

“Surely you jest! I did not see any Negroes on the tobacco plantation where I worked.”

The Dutchman smiled. “Ja, but they work on the sugar plantations. That is harder work, too hard for the Europeans. Tobacco will soon be gone. Sugar is what matters.”

Glenn returned his smile, and extended his hand. “My name is Owen Glenn.”

“And I am Willem de Arendt. I must sell my Negro today, because we sail this evening.”

Glenn’s ears perked up. “This evening? Mister Arendt, it is my desire to leave Barbados. What must I do to join your crew?”

The merchant looked disappointed that Glenn had not turned out to be a prospective buyer after all.

“On that, you will have to talk to the captain. Come, and I will take you.”

Glenn followed de Arendt and his sullen Negro outside the alehouse, and they made their way towards the trading ship. But there was a lot of commotion outside, and Glenn could see that the Dutchman’s eyes were nervously darting all over the place. He was no longer a confident salesman, but looked like a cornered rabbit. As they reached closer to the ship, Glenn realized why the merchant was so troubled. Several British naval officers were on deck, and others were patrolling the waterfront, apparently trying to restore order. Realising that de Arendt could not help him any more, Glenn drifted towards one of the British officers, who was talking loudly to a throng of Barbadians on a section of the waterfront. Glenn craned his neck, and struggled to catch what the officer was saying.

“…So, we are looking for able-bodied men, to join the services of the Commonwealth. We will be embarking on an exhibition shortly, to strike a blow at the King of Spain. If you wish to join the service, step forward.”

Glenn had arrived too late to hear how they were going to bring down King Philip, the fourth of that name, by this venture. But he thought briefly about the militiaman who was looking for him, and needed no further prompting. He stepped forward. The young officer looked him over critically.

“Name?”

“Owen Glenn, sire.”

“Where have you fought before?”

“As a young stripling, I fought for his royal highness, King Charles, at Preston.”

The young officer frowned, and brushed a lock of light brown hair from his bushy eyebrows. He was an inch taller than the Welshman, but slighter in frame.

“You will be fighting for the Commonwealth now. Do you understand that, Glenn?”

“Aye, sire.”

“How old are you, Glenn?”

“Eighteen years of age, sire.”

Glenn knew he could not be much younger than the well-to-do officer, who was grilling him. However, as he spoke, he could see that several other young Barbadians were stepping forward as well, volunteering for the venture.

“Very well. You will be assigned as an orderly to Major General Haynes. Report aboard now, Glenn.”

“Aye, sire.”

In less than an hour, Glenn was outfitted in a uniform, and was on board one of the confiscated Dutch traders at the side of Haynes, who was a strong, well-built man, with an aggressive and yet infectious personality. Approaching middle-age, Haynes had a shock of uncombed, dark brown hair, and a couple of scars down his battle-worn face. He took Glenn to his quarters, and told the young man to sit down.

“I understand you were a Royalist. Is that true?”

Glenn nodded nervously, not sure how the officer would react. He was surprised to see the warrior’s face break out into a grin.

“So was I, young man. But now we fight for Old Noll. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Nay, sire,” Glenn replied quickly.

“That is good. You will be at my side during battle, so tell me about yourself. Your name, once more?”

“Owen Glenn, sire.”

“You fought at Preston, you say.”

“Aye, sire.”

“Well, we are not fighting each other any more. We are fighting for England now. But I repeat myself. I need to know something about this island, Barbados. Tell me, how many Englishmen live here?”

“I heard it said that there are some forty thousand Englishmen living in Barbados, sire.”

“I have seen some Negroes slaves. How many are here?”

Glenn thought back to his conversation with de Arendt. “Just about one thousand Negroes, sire. They work on the sugar plantations.”

Haynes frowned, and furrowed his brow.

“We colonized Barbados in sixteen twenty-seven. They first started growing tobacco, but now they are moving towards sugar. Potatoes, maize and cotton are also grown here, I hear. Is that not true?”

“It is indeed true, sire.”

“We need food and provisions for our invasion. We need some more arms from the militia in Barbados. There is so much sugar on these Dutch ships. Why is that, Glenn?”

“Currency is in short supply in Barbados, sire. The Dutch trade iron and steel, tools and clothes with the colonists for sugar. The barter arrangement works quite well.”

“I see, I see,” Haynes said, nodding thoughtfully. “But times have changed, Glenn. We were at war with the Dutch. They can no longer control the trade with the colonies. The Lord Protector decreed that all trade must be carried out in English ships. Admiral Blake went to war with those Dutch demons, Marten van Tromp and Michiel de Ruyter, over these issues. It was a hard war, but we won eventually. That is why we commandeered these eleven ships, because they were trading illegally.”

“I beg your pardon, sire, but there are not enough English traders to supply Barbados and St Christopher with what we need. And I do recall, on my infrequent trips to London when I was a small lad, that Flemish traders abound in our fair capital.”

Haynes smiled wryly. “I know that, young man. But that is how it must be. It cannot and will not change. I am sure of that, as sure as I am that sugar will eventually rule the West Indies.”

“But what of tobacco, sire?”

“Ah, tobacco will soon be gone. Barbadian tobacco is worthless, and it gets little or no returns in England. Planters are now moving towards sugar, where the returns are much greater. When I get my plot of land, I will plant sugar on it.”

Glenn nodded thoughtfully. So, that was why Cumberbatch was clearing the land. He was thinking of moving away from tobacco to the planting of sugar cane, which demands greater acreage. And Barbados was not a big island. He had heard Browne saying that Barbados was no more than two hundred and fifty square miles, though a lot of it was still unsettled, so he did not know how the old overseer came to that conclusion. But was Cumberbatch planning to buy Negro slaves to replace the European indentured servants?

Glenn’s musings were interrupted by the appearance of the young officer who had initially recruited him.

“Major General, sire!”

Haynes turned his attention to the young officer.

“What is it, Lieutenant Barnett?”

“The recruits from Barbados, sire,” Barnett said. “They are common thieves, unfit to wear uniforms. We cannot fight Spain with these unfortunates, sire.”

Haynes nodded knowingly. “They are a sorry bunch, lieutenant. But they are all we have. We will have to do what we can with them. How many men did we get here in Barbados?”

“About four thousand, sire.”

“I will advise the general to stop at St Christopher. We should be able to get some better quality men there.”

As the orderly to Haynes, Glenn was at the officers’ dinner, where they discussed the impending invasion of Hispaniola. The military leader of the expedition was General Robert Venables, a large overweight military officer, who seemed quite fed up and bored with his command. His hair was completely white, and he had an air of tiredness about him, giving Glenn the impression that his heart was not in the expedition. The naval leader of the invasion force was Admiral William Penn, who was slimmer, younger, and much more enthusiastic about the venture than Venables. One thing they did have in common, though, was a concern about the quality of the Barbadian recruits.

Venables’ wife was a talkative shrew, filled with a sense of her own importance, and constantly trying to push her husband to the forefront, a past-time that always put her in conflict with Penn. She complained, out loud, about the number of, “common cheats, thieves, cut-purses, and such lewd persons,” now on board from Barbados. Venables accepted Haynes’ suggestion to stop in the Leeward Islands to pick up further recruits. There was a little bickering between Penn and Venables as to whether it made more sense to visit St Christopher or Antigua, but Glenn soon lost interest in the petty wrangling. Later, Glenn found out that this was a joint venture, and that neither one was in sole command. He had an impending sense of doom when he realized that there was no single leader of the invasion force. As the quarrelling continued, Glenn gleaned that Hispaniola was the ultimate destination. He whistled softly. Hispaniola was the pearl of the Spanish Caribbean. However, it was a well-kept secret outside of the dining room, despite the bickering of Penn and Venables. Unfortunately, this secret bred a lot of mistrust among the indisciplined, poorly-armed recruits on board.

As the fleet of ships left Bridgetown’s harbour, Glenn stood on deck, silently bidding farewell to the small island that held him prisoner for all of four years. He was embarking on a new adventure, to conquer Hispaniola, but with a woefully ill-equipped army. As he watched Barbados disappear over the horizon, Owen Glenn wondered if he would regret leaving the island which was fondly called Little England by its wealthier inhabitants.

He did not know that he would never see Barbados again in his lifetime.

-----------------

The Curse of Glenn Hall

WAR AND PIRACY

CHAPTER TWO
Owen felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement, as they neared Hispaniola. He was thrilled at the idea of taking on the Spaniards in battle, but on the other hand he was nervous about the battle-readiness of his comrades. Would they be up to the task of taking the island that the Spaniards considered to be the prize of their West Indies Empire? He seriously doubted that they had the capability to fulfil the ambitions of the Lord Protector, and that worried him immensely.

Now that Oliver Cromwell was in complete control in England, he wanted to show the world that England was more than a match for Spain. His Puritan Roundhead army had routed the Royalist Cavaliers at Preston in 1648, a battle that young Glenn remembered well. The Rump parliament had ordered the execution of King Charles a year later. Having established his authority in England, Cromwell then declared war on the Dutch, and after a two-year conflict that ended in 1654, he broke their hold on trade in the English colonies. It was now 1655, and Cromwell now wanted to implement his Western Design, through which he sought to establish England’s might as a colonial power. The lynch-pin of this grand Western Design was the capture of Spain’s favoured colony, after Cuba the biggest island in the Caribbean, and the place where discoverer Christopher Columbus set up the first European colony in the western world.

Penn and Venables landed some distance away from the island’s capital, Santo Domingo, under instructions to take the city after an overland assault. By now, they had a large army, over twelve thousand men, but they were all poorly armed, and to Owen Glenn’s eyes, a lot of them were not even properly clothed for the tropical weather and forested vegetation that lay between them and Santo Domingo. And, as things turned out, Glenn’s observations were eventually proven right.

As the orderly to Major General Haynes, Glenn was in the company of officers such as Lieutenant Jonathan Barnett and Lieutenant Colonel Edward D’Oyley, who were both firm men who commanded respect. Glenn accompanied D’Oyley and Barnett as they surveyed their troops prior to the march on Santo Domingo. It was noon, and the way ahead was thick and forested. A number of Barbadians were armed with machetes, under orders to clear the brush for the English army. As Glenn walked past them, he could see the dark scowls on their faces, and heard the discontented rumblings.

“We should never have left Barbados,” muttered one man attired in tattered clothes. “We came looking for freedom and a new life. Instead, we are stuck with the life of a bondsman. At least in Barbados we had a roof over our heads.”

There was a loud murmur of assent from the others around him, who equally resented their new-found role in the invasion army. Glenn took a good, long hard look at the man, because he also had a Welsh accent. The vocal Welshman was shorter than Owen, with long, brown, curly hair. He had the beginnings of a thin moustache forming just above his top lip, and he was slim and strong, but looked slightly pudgy around his waist. However, the most impressive feature was his steel, blue eyes, which burned with a fierce determination which made Glenn shiver involuntarily.

There was something about this loud Welshman which made you sit up and notice him. Could he be destined for greatness, Owen idly asked himself. This loud-mouthed common soldier was beginning to get on D’Oyley’s nerves. D’Oyley ordered them to get back to work, and slowly, as if under protest, the Barbadians lifted their machetes, and resumed hacking at the vines. But it was tedious progress. Eventually, the Welshman dropped his machete, and stepped out of line.

He said quietly, but firmly, “Colonel, we desire to be sent back home.”

D’Oyley stopped suddenly, and turned slowly to look at the young man who dared to address him. A faint smile crossed his lips, as he glared at the offender. Barnett bit his lip anxiously, but he was quick to find his place beside his superior officer.

“What is your name, young man,” D’Oyley aside quietly. He hissed the question, through clenched teeth, and Glenn felt a shiver go down his spine.

The Welshman stirred nervously, but focussed his steel, blue eyes bravely and unwaveringly on D’Oyley’s face. He had not expected D’Oyley to answer him.

“Henry Morgan, sire,” he said in a calm, firm voice.

Glenn was to hear that name many times in the years to come.

But D’Oyley was unimpressed. Instead, his smile grew broader.

“Morgan, did you know that you are not to address an officer if he has not identified you? If you desire to speak to me, you are to approach me with more decorum. Is that understood?”

“A-aye, aye, sire.”

Morgan was feeling less sure of himself now.

D’Oyley then turned to his lieutenant, whose long face and wispy brown hair took on the air of an executioner.

“Lieutenant Barnett, see to it that Morgan receives twenty lashes, in front of the others. Then, maybe he and this rabble will learn the value of respecting authority.”

Young Owen Glenn watched with frightened eyes as Barnett and two other soldiers grabbed a defiant Morgan and had him soundly flogged with a whip in full view of the stony-faced crew. Morgan put on a brave face at first, but by the end he was weeping silently. Glenn did not need to look beyond the eyes of the men to know that their thoughts were filled with hatred for D’Oyley. For a moment, it seemed, they had forgotten that the enemy was Spanish, and instead seemed to be plotting the demise of the lieutenant colonel.

When the last blow was delivered, Morgan crumpled onto the ground, weeping softly, his back red with lashes, as blood streaming down his trousers. Slowly, he raised his eyes, and glared at D’Oyley with burning hatred. Glenn stepped forward, and gave Morgan a helping hand.

“I will live to see the day when you get sent home, Colonel,” Morgan whispered quietly, in a voice that only Glenn heard. Instead, the men silently went about their tasks, chopping through the vines, negotiating the jungles of Hispaniola, while officers camped out a fair distance behind them.

It was dinner time, and the officers listened to the night noises as they ate. There were many an insect that had a tune to play in the cacophony of a tropical orchestra, and while Owen had become used to the Caribbean nocturnal sounds, it still unsettled the new English recruits. Barnett was seated next to D’Oyley, and the troubled look on the lieutenant’s face had nothing to do with the unusual noises. The young officer cleared his throat.

“Begging your pardon, colonel, but I have a question to ask. I know that I have much to learn, and this is my first overseas expedition, but why was it necessary to flog the soldier?”

The familiar faint smile crossed the face of the lieutenant colonel.

“Discipline, my lad. Without discipline, the whole expedition falls apart.”

This comment pricked the ears of Venables.

“What is this flogging that you are talking about?”

D’Oyley dismissed it with a wave.

“Nothing, general. A recruit spoke out of turn, and he was punished for it.”

“For speaking out of turn,” bellowed the fat, ageing general.

“Aye, sire. He questioned my authority.”

“D’Oyley, this is my expedition,” Venables snapped. “I will not have you jeopardizing it by flying off half-cocked, trying to fulfil your obsession for discipline. Before you flog anybody, you must get my permission first. Is that understood?”

“Aye, sire,” D’Oyley replied quietly, but Owen could see that his eyes were red with anger, and his clenched fists squeezed at the utensils.

Across the table, Admiral Penn smiled at Venables.

“General, it is likely that the officer had been forced to act in such a drastic way. After all, the quality of the recruits is poor.”

“Most of them are common cheats, thieves, cut-purses, and such lewd persons,” grumbled adjunct-general Richard Rutledge. Venables glared at Rutledge, knowing very well who he was quoting.

“Hold your tongue, Rutledge,” snarled Venables. “Admiral, you are in charge of the fleet. This part of the invasion in my domain. I will deal with my men as I see fit. My wife did tell me that she thought it was a wicked army, but it is my command, and I will not have anyone subverting my authority.”

The next day, they marched some more, and they lost quite a few recruits to disease. A high fever took them, and as their temperatures rose, they lost their strength and became feeble. Then, they just faded away and died, as one by one each of them became the victim of the dreaded malaria. Most of the men were now parched with thirst, and when they came across a stream, they quickly lapped up its contents. Nobody cared to find out whether the water was good or bad. As it turned out, it was a foul, stagnant pool of water, a breeding ground for mosquitoes, who irritated and bit the soldiers regularly. Before long, many members of the band were falling ill, either of malaria, or of another ailment picked up from drinking bad water.

Owen was in the company of Haynes when Rutledge came up beside him.

“Haynes,” the black-haired Rutledge said, in a high-pitched voice. “We have lost quite a few men. The river was diseased, and now we are fighting a plague of illnesses as well. Mutiny is in the air. We had better reach Santo Domingo soon.”

“Aye,” Haynes grunted. “The General made a mistake when he landed the men so far from Santo Domingo. The plague will kill us all before we reach the port.”

“D’Oyley was right, Haynes. The only way we can hold this rabble together is through good discipline.”

Just then, their deliberations were interrupted by a loud noise, and an army of screaming Spaniards crashed through the foliage. Among them were lancers, well-shod and bearing solid plates of armour on their torsos. Their heads were covered with helmets, that stretched down the sides and covered their ears. They were supported by local cattle-farmers, many of them barefoot, and carrying an assortment of home-fashioned weapons. These included axes, pitchforks and clubs. The cattle-hunters were as ill-equipped as many in the army of Venables, but they had a clear advantage. They were healthy, well-fed, well-rested, and hungry for victory.

Haynes pulled out his sword, and cut down a cattle hunter as he lunged at him. As the man fell at Owen’s feet, the boy could see that the major-general had practically severed the Spaniard’s head.

“The sword, boy,” Haynes hollered. “Pick up the sword!”

Owen saw it there, lying in the dead man’s limp hand. Reluctantly, he stretched out a hand for the weapon, and grabbed the handle with his right hand, gently caressing the blade with his left. He was in dreamland, remembering his minor forays on the battlefield at Preston. However, the boy was quickly dragged out of his dream, rudely slammed into the present, when a rough hand shoved him to the ground. He looked up to see a Spaniard standing over him, ready to ram a large garden fork into his chest. Owen rolled sharply to his left, as the fork hit the ground inches from his elbow. Reacting quickly, Owen pushed the sword deep into the side of the cattle-hunter, and watched as the man screamed in pain. The Spaniard sank to the ground bearing the impassive face of death.

Owen quickly looked around him, and all he saw were Englishmen fleeing in terror. The Spanish onslaught continued. Even Rutledge was running, fleeing for his life. The Welsh boy watched in a stupor as he saw Barnett angrily grab Rutledge by the arm, and, swinging him around, broke a sword over his fellow-officer’s head. Since it was the flat of the blade, Rutledge was shaken but unhurt. While this went on, Haynes was still there, swinging his sword violently, and another Spaniard went down under his blade. But as his men retreated, he found that he had more and more Spaniards to fight.

“Come, boy,” he shouted to Owen.

The young man jumped to his side, just as a Spaniard was about to stab Haynes with a spear. The major-general deftly avoided the thrust, and split his opponent’s skull with one blow. Inspired, Owen charged at a cattle-hunter, who was only armed with a knife, and swung the sword at him. The Spaniard stepped back, and the blade missed its mark. As the momentum carried Owen’s arm with it, the hunter stabbed at the boy with the knife. Owen felt a burning sensation in his right shoulder as the knife-blade broke skin and drew blood. With his free hand, Owen grabbed the knife-hand of his assailant, and pulled the Spaniard towards him. The knifeman wildly flailed his free hand, trying in vain to prevent Owen from sinking the blade of the sword into his stomach.

Owen’s second kill fell to the ground, and the boy looked up to see Haynes hacking at the body of a dead Spanish lancer. Now, there were four cattle-hunters surrounding the major-general, with various weapons in their hands. Owen saw more and more Spaniards streaming towards them, and the Englishmen retreated before their advance.

“Where is everybody,” Haynes shouted. “If only six men would stand by me, I could force the enemy to retreat!”

With a wild flourish, Haynes inserted his sword into the chest of one of the Spanish peasants. But while he pulled out his blade, watching the blood spraying from the Spaniard’s mouth, another cattle-hunter pushed his spear deep into the major-general’s back, breaking the wood as he did so.

“Sire!”

Owen screamed out the word, as if he had felt the injury himself. He ran towards the wounded officer, while his assailants pursued other game. He cradled Haynes’ head in his arms, watching with tears streaming down his face as a trickle of blood seeped out of the older man’s mouth.

“Ah, Glenn,” the major-general groaned weakly, the powerful bellow no longer a part of his voice. “To be marked to die in this manner brings me great sadness. To be a brave man in the midst of cowardice. You fought well, my lad.”

With that, the brave officer choked and died. Owen felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and looked up, half-expecting to see a Spaniard brandishing a weapon. But it was Morgan, brandishing a sword in the other hand, and with a face fiercely set for war. Owen wiped away the tears and grabbed his own sword, with rage flowing through his veins. He charged the nearest Spaniard, and disembowelled him with a forceful thrust. However, the blade broke in his adversary’s stomach, and Owen was now left without a weapon. He looked around, just in time to see an armoured lancer charging at him, and his manhood deserted him. Without a weapon, he felt like a boy once more. But Morgan stepped in, and cut down the lancer with one quick movement. They glanced around them, and saw that the charging Spaniards were passing them by now.

They took flight and ran. In less than no time, they were in English ranks once more, and Glenn was pleased to see that a number of Penn’s sailors had landed. The sailors had more stomach for the fight, and they held off the Spaniards long enough for the beaten English soldiers to get back to their ships.

The medicine men were very busy, taking care of the wounded and dying. So busy, that Morgan had to help them, by patching up the minor superficial wound suffered by Glenn in his arm. Once Morgan realised that Glenn was a Welshman too, he opened up to his countryman about himself.

“Both my uncles fought in the War,” Morgan was saying. “One fought for Cromwell, while the other fought for the King.”

“So, where did your allegiances lie?”

Morgan smiled slyly. “I am afraid I won’t be telling you that.”

“I fought alongside my father at Preston, in the service of the king.”

“Is that why you are in the Caribbean?”

“How long was your period of indenture?”

“Four years.”

“You are lucky. Many royalists were sentenced to periods of indenture lasting ten years.”

“Maybe they were lenient with me because of my youth.”

Glenn nodded. “I was transported to Barbados as an indentured servant.”

Morgan applied the finishing touches to the bandage. “There was nothing for me at home. I decided to travel to the Caribbean to seek my fortune. That is why I am here.”

“It is very hard to get your fortune here in the Caribbean,” Glenn said sadly, shaking his head. “The rich jealously guard their fortunes.”

Morgan’s eyes turned cold. “Well, if that’s the way they will play their cards, I will take their fortunes away from them. There is enough here for everyone to enjoy the wealth that is on offer.”

And with that, Morgan disappeared. Glenn gingerly pulled himself to his feet, and went in search of Barnett. Now that Haynes was dead, he needed to find out what his role was to be now. He found the officers looking grim-faced, as they surveyed the results of the disastrous defeat in Hispaniola. The officer corps held a meeting in the hold of the flagship of their thirty-eight ship fleet.

“These men,” Venables was screaming, “are so loose as not to be kept under discipline, and so cowardly as not to be made to fight!”

“But the recruits were not the only ones to behave in a cowardly manner,” Penn observed.

Venables turned sharply towards his joint commanding officer, his face red with anger.

“What do you mean by that, Admiral?”

“Some of your officers ran like rabbits, General.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, the Admiral is right,” Venables grumbled. “Officers such as you, Rutledge, are a disgrace to the Commonwealth!”

“Aye, sir,” Rutledge muttered, in a barely audible voice.

“You deserve to be shot!”

The prospect of a court-martial emboldened Rutledge. He saw that his life was now on the line.

“Aye, it is true that I was a coward in battle, and, aye, it is true that Lieutenant Barnett broke my sword over my head for my cowardice. But if every man who behaved as I did had his sword broken over his head, there would be no more swords left in the army!”

Rutledge sat down to silence, and let the words sink in. Each and every officer around the table guiltily felt that his words applied, in some measure, to his own behaviour on the island. Eventually, Venables sighed and broke off a piece of bread, and proceeded to stuff the contents into his mouth.

“It is during such trying times,” the General grumbled, crumbs spraying all over the table, “that you must acknowledge the efforts of those brave ones around you. Major-General Haynes shone like a beacon, and shamed us all with his bravery. Sadly, he fell in battle, but he will not be forgotten. I will see that he gets an honourable mention when we return home.

There was a universal murmur of assent from around the room.

“I would also like to recognise several other acts of bravery,” Venables continued. “Lieutenant-Colonel D’Oyley fought gallantly, and for his bravery, I am promoting him to the rank of colonel.”

Of course, it helped D’Oyley’s cause that the colonel he was replacing was killed in Hispaniola. As the applause subsided, Venables announced that Barnett was also being promoted from lieutenant to captain for his gallantry. And then, he turned his attention back to Haynes.

“Major-General Haynes had one brave soul at his side when he slew so many Spaniards. If we had six more like him, the Spaniards would be in retreat now. But alas, he had only one, a mere boy who is not yet twenty years old. This boy was braver than most men, and for his bravery, I would like to promote young Owen Glenn to the rank of lieutenant.”

Owen felt a lump in his throat, as he rose to accept his commission from General Venables, cognisant of the round of applause that enveloped him. Did he deserve it, he asked himself. After all, he ran from the Spaniards after Haynes was killed. He sat down again, thinking on these things, and felt Morgan’s reassuring hand on his shoulder once more. The Welshman was smiling at his fellow countryman this time.

“Well done, Glenn,” Morgan said. “You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Morgan. But how did they know?”

Morgan smiled knowingly, and moved off. For a moment, Glenn felt that he should recommend Morgan for his bravery in battle, but the discussion had moved on to other matters. This time it was one of the three Commissioners appointed by Cromwell, Edward Winslow, who had the floor.

“The Lord Protector will not be pleased,” Winslow was saying. “We have failed to capture Hispaniola. The Lord Protector does not suffer failures gladly.”

And Winslow should know. The three Commissioners were sent out to rule Hispaniola once it had been conquered, such was Cromwell’s confidence that the objective would be achieved. He would not be pleased to hear of such a failure.

“We cannot go back empty-handed,” agreed another Commissioner, Captain Gregory Butler. “Especially after all the money that was invested in this expedition.”

“We need a secondary target,” suggested Penn. “Something not as great, but good enough to appease the Lord Protector.”

“What is the nearest island to Hispaniola,” asked Venables.

“To the west, there is a smaller island, thinly populated by Spaniards, used primarily by pig-herders,” Penn explained. “They occasionally auction African slaves there, but there is no thriving colony as such. The Spaniards use it only as a port to sort and buy Africans, and to purchase meat for long journeys.”

“What is the island called?”

“Jamaica.”

“Then Jamaica it is,” Venables said gruffly. “Rutledge, what are our casualties?”

“They were bad, sir. Before the invasion of Hispaniola, we had twelve thousand men. Now, we have eight thousand.”

There was another silence around the table as the information sank in. All of four thousand men had died in the abortive raid on Santo Domingo. Slowly and quietly, the meeting broke up, and preparations were made for the invasion of Jamaica.