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.