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.