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scratching his head, a habit he had when thinking hard, as though his brains needed the stimulation of fingernails, and looked attentive as Yorke suddenly unfolded the letter on the table in front of him.
    “What I am going to say, Saxby, is for your ears alone. My father has written. He has finally refused to compound with Parliament, so our two estates in Kent have been forfeited. There’s a third one, smaller, in Sussex, and that will have gone, too. So he and my brother have fled to France, for their own safety.”
    “Aye,” Saxby said, “they’d have had their blood, one way or t’other.”
    “And he warns me that Cromwell is sending out a fleet to attack Spanish possessions, but it will call here first to strip us of men to make up an army for them. How they’ll train them, I don’t know, but we’ll lose our labour. And they’ll ‘detain’ me. Mr Alston’s news is that this fleet, commanded by Admiral Penn, is likely to arrive within a few days, carrying the army of General Venables.”
    Saxby could picture the fleet. Many years had passed since he deserted from the Navy, but he had spent just as many years at sea until that fateful day.
    “How many men do you think will volunteer to serve with General Venables?”
    Saxby did not have to think twice. “Five hundred scoundrels. The lazy rascals always trying to stow away in the Dutch sloops. But if the Assembly agrees to press men – well, I suppose there are three thousand servants available, now the Dutch are increasing the supply of negroes.”
    “Do you think many of our men will volunteer?”
    “No, sir; don’t forget Cromwell shipped ’em out as little more than slaves. They hate the Roundheads. Those that desert from other plantations do so because they are wild men; even in England they would not want regular work.”
    “So, if we don’t want to be swept away by Cromwell’s pressgangs, we must sail by tomorrow night,” Yorke said, as though talking to himself. He slid the page from the stock book across to Saxby. “Can we have the Griffin loaded in time?”
    “Providing the servants don’t bolt.”
    “Do you think they will?”
    Saxby scratched his head. “Some might. It depends.”
    “Depends on what ?” Yorke asked irritably.
    “Depends on them knowing why they’re doing whatever it is, sir, and what the alternatives are.”
    Yorke suddenly realized that although he knew most things about every man, woman and boy indentured to him, as well as those who had stayed on after their indentures had expired, he had no real idea of their politics. Most men must regard Cromwell as the devil, because he had had them transported to the Caribbee islands after taking them prisoner in battles where they fought for the King. But a long time had passed since then, and did life in Barbados seem any better? The King for whom they had fought had been beheaded by this same Cromwell; the son who succeeded was said to be in France, paying too much court to the Papists, and apparently never likely to be powerful enough to overthrow Cromwell and his New Model Army. Could any of these indentured servants ever return to England, except as Parliament’s reward for helping it?
    Yorke looked out of the door and saw from the sun’s shadow that it must be about eleven o’clock. “Have every person on the estate assemble by the well as soon as possible. Ring the bell, Saxby; this is as bad as a fire or an attack by the Spanish!”
    They came hurrying from all parts of the estate, still holding hoes and shovels, faces shiny with perspiration and streaked with dust. Mrs Judd and her women from the kitchens still wore wide pinafores, their hair covered with scarves. All they knew was that the bell was an alarm; that when it tolled they were to assemble at the well (if one of the buildings was on fire) or otherwise at the main house. This time there was no fire, but Saxby’s raucous voice called them to the well.
    The well was surrounded by a four-foot-high