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.

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