Caribbean (38 page)

During the next few years Will, taking the place of his brother-in-law, assumed responsibility for Tim’s family and business, and though he still hoped one day to marry Betsy, could make no plans toward that end.

Then, in 1658, joyous word arrived. Oliver Cromwell was dead, and although the island’s Cavaliers were infuriated to learn that their remorseless enemy had been buried in Westminster Abbey, they rejoiced that this menace was at last removed. Feasts were held, and Thomas Oldmixon invited as many of his neighbors as could borrow a horse to come and dine at his expense from long wooden tables set up under his trees. An improvised band played marches, and selected friends, the Isaac Tatums among them, gathered with him in the
quiet of a back room to toast an event which now seemed not far removed: “To King Charles II in France, soon to be in England!” and there was levity on Barbados.

In fact, the resurgence of the Cavaliers gave Isaac Tatum such confidence that when he and Clarissa returned to the former Saltonstall big house, he asked her to sit with him in the spacious garden overlooking the distant sea: “Cromwell’s dead. The king is surely on his way back to London. We have the land we needed and sixty-nine slaves to tend the cane. The price of sugar was never higher. All’s in order, except one thing.”

“What worries you?”

“Will. Nell told me the other day when I took a present to her son that Will was finally to marry that pretty little girl from across the street, father runs that strange shop where you can buy anything the last ship smuggled in. I forget her name.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m afraid of Will. He becomes stronger in the community. People respect him. He could become a danger to us if he’s listened to.”

“But what can he do?”

“He’ll never surrender on this house, these lands. I’m sure he’s been in contact with Saltonstall, wherever he is.”

“That’s been settled, Isaac. We have more than enough papers.”

“Never enough if Saltonstall should gain the ear of the new king.”

“Not likely. He was too strong a Roundhead.”

“Look at the Roundheads here in Barbados. You’d think they won the war.”

“I believe I know a way to get rid of Will,” and some days later she rode into Bridgetown to accost her brother-in-law at the drapery shop. After paying respects to Nell and her well-behaved seven-year old, Clarissa took Will aside and told him bluntly: “Will, there’s no future for you on this island. You really should move on to London. There’s more of your kind there.” When he scorned this suggestion, she said ominously: “All right, Will, you’ve had your chance,” and off she flounced.

She did not return to the plantation, storming instead to the parish church, where she sought the clergyman already subservient to her because of her wealth: “I have grievous news, Father, which I’m most loath to report, but my husband’s brother, Will …”

“I know him, a most uncertain fellow.”

“He’s taken to blasphemy. Abuses the Lord’s name most wantonly.”

“That’s a grave charge, ma’am. Do you wish to lodge it formally?”

“I do,” she said sternly, and after reflection the clergyman replied hesitantly: “You appreciate that this will mean the pillory for your brother?” She shocked him by adding with an obvious lust for vengeance: “I think he should be stigmatized, too, to make him mind his manners.”

At the utterance of the terrible word the churchman actually shuddered, for he could not support it: “No, ma’am, that would be too harsh.” But when she insisted, the clergyman had to bethink her position in the community as well as his own, and supinely he consented: “I will propose it to the authorities.”

When she reached home that evening she assured her husband: “I’m sure we’ve scotched that snake. Never again will your brother be able to show his face in Barbados.”

The established church in the English islands enjoyed a special and important role. It was the guardian of both orthodoxy and propriety; it supported the government, especially when it involved royalty; since none of the islands had a press, it served as the disseminator of official news decisions, which is why the phrase “Ordered to be read for three Sundays in all Parish Churches” appeared at the foot of documents; and in an age when blasphemy was a major sin, it was the protector of public morals.

So when Clarissa Tatum accused her brother-in-law of blasphemy, the elders of the church in St. Michael’s Parish had to listen, and when they had accumulated enough evidence against the young man they presented it to the magistrates, who sentenced him to “stigmatism and two hours in the public pillory where the main roads cross in Bridgetown.” There, on a hot Wednesday at ten in the morning, a bonfire was prepared with so many short sticks of kindling that it would be sure to form a lively blaze, and when the flames were reassuringly high, Will Tatum was led to the nearby pillory and his head and wrists were thrust into the frame that would keep his face immovable. Then, while the townspeople watched, some in horror, some with grim satisfaction, an officer of the church thrust the iron brand B, for blasphemer, into the flames, waited till it became red hot, then pressed it strongly into Will’s left cheek, where it hissed until it drew blood and produced the permanent scar of the stigmata.
Will fainted as some cried out in horror, and others in celebration of virtue’s triumph.

Will remained unconscious for half an hour, but then the flies tormenting his wound and eyes revived him, and the throbbing pain resumed. Forced to listen to the scorn of the public and see his own brother Isaac and sister-in-law Clarissa riding past at a distance to mock him, he remained in the sun, head exposed, and suffered a public agony that had not been intended for minor dissidents like him. His wretchedness was alleviated by Nell and Betsy, two brave women who dared public censure by attending to him, bringing cloths to wipe his face and unguents to soothe the scar. They also brought drafts of cold water to ease his parched lips. Nell was at his side first, and after she was gone, with protests sounding in her ears, Betsy came by with salves and a look of tenderness to let him know she loved him.

At two in the afternoon he was released by a verger of the parish church, and some watchers wondered what he might do. On certain memorable occasions men punished like this had gone straight to the church officials who had consigned them to the pillory and thumped them roundly, and in one case a man had struck the person responsible for denouncing him so viciously that death resulted. Then there had to be a hanging, and as that doomed man approached the gallows he shouted for all to hear: “May this whole island rot in hell,” and he would have cursed more had not the black hood been drawn tight about his head.

Will Tatum did nothing like that. With a tight, fixed smile on his scarred and aching face he stalked through the silent crowd to his sister’s shop, climbed the stairs, kissed Nell and thanked her, then shook hands with young Ned, and said: “I’ll be back to watch over you,” and disappeared down the stairs, walking straight down the street to the waterfront without having the courage to say farewell to Betsy Bigsby. With his cheek marked forever with the hideous B, he called for rowers from the
Stadhouder
still in the harbor, climbed aboard, and reported to Captain Brongersma: “I want to fight Spaniards,” and he was seen no more on Barbados.

In the long years ahead he would sometimes think of Betsy before attacking a Spanish treasure ship, or in a jail in Spain, or even when slogging through a swamp-ridden jungle, and in his mind’s eye she would be forever a beautiful girl of twenty with slim waist,
braided hair and sparkling eyes. She would be with him in a hundred different scenes, always the same, always a burning memory, and for him she would never age. He would cherish her as the purest memory of an island which had not treated him well, perhaps because he did not treat it with the respect his brother did. He realized that night as he left Barbados that he was making a decision of profound importance. He was losing Betsy Bigsby, and might never see her again.

In 1660 the news that Barbados longed for arrived. Charles II was anointed King of England while perched upon the Stone of Scone, symbolizing the fact that he was also King of Scotland. Great celebrations were held which even reluctant Roundheads joined and there was general relief that things in Little England were back to normal.

As proof of everyone’s desire to forget old animosities, a document arrived in Bridgetown in the latter part of 1661 that gave great joy to the island: “His Majesty King Charles II has been pleased to award his faithful servants in Barbados seven baronetcies and six knighthoods,” and people clustered about Government House to learn who would henceforth be called “Sir,” with older citizens explaining to younger: “A baronetcy can be passed in the family from generation to generation forever; but a knighthood expires at the death of the recipient.”

The seven baronetcies caused quite a stir, because four of them honored Cavaliers who had from the first moment been loyal to the king, while the last three went to Roundheads who had served their parliamentary cause honorably, bowing at last to the popular will. If any gesture in this troubled period gave evidence of England’s desire to bind up old wounds, it was this bestowing of honors equally between victors and losers.

First on the list of baronets was, of course, Sir Thomas Oldmixon, who had never wavered in his loyalty, never drawn back from defense of his king’s name, whether in debate or war. His selection was loudly applauded, as was that of Sir Geoffrey Wrentham, another valiant defender of the king, but there was almost equal praise for the first of the Roundheads, Sir Henry Saltonstall, present whereabouts unknown.

When the reading of the six ordinary knights began, Isaac Tatum
and his wife stood transfixed. They knew they had been stalwart defenders of the king, and both their social and economic position on the island entitled them to recognition. Their plantation was one of the biggest, and their yearly shipment of clayed sugar to England was surpassed by that of no other Caribbean planter. In the war they had fought bravely though briefly for the king, so it was not preposterous for them to hope, but they knew that things did sometimes go awry.

The first two names were those of well-known Cavaliers: “Sir John Witham, Sir Robert Le Gard.” No surprises there, but the next two were of former Roundheads, and the Tatums’ brows began to show perspiration. But then came the clear voice of the clerk: “Sir Isaac Tatum,” and he might have swooned had not his wife held him upright with a firm grip on his arm.

Some weeks later another bit of news arrived from London to gladden the hearts of Cavalier Barbadians: “The mob’s fury could not be contained. Shouting ‘The Abbey is contaminated!’ the people rushed into Westminster Abbey, uprooted the grave of Oliver Cromwell, dug out his corpse, and dragged it through the streets until they came to a gibbet, where they hanged it for the crimes its former owner had committed.” When the news was confirmed and it was learned that the tale of vengeance was accurate, church bells rang and in certain parishes prayers of deliverance were offered.

It is difficult to explain how this little island, so fraught with differing loyalties, had been able to escape civil war, but a local official did suggest some interesting hints: “From the start we wanted Barbados to be a refuge for people offering new ideas, whether in religion or business, so we welcomed the Dutch traders, and the Quakers, a contentious lot, and invited Huguenots, an industrious people when France expelled them. Saltonstall before he left us was responsible for the law which admitted even Catholics and Jews, although he did add the warning, ‘providing they did not commit public scandal on our days of worship.’ ” Proof of this compatibility occurred at a gala dinner held shortly after the hanging of Cromwell’s corpse.

For years the island had faced war and invasion, and its citizens were at each other’s throats, with all suffering real privation, yet it was possible, only a short time after hostilities, to hold this dazzling feast. It was best described by a French visitor, who, being neither Cavalier nor Roundhead, submitted a report which can be accepted as accurate: