Gentleman Captain

by J. D. Davies

  The moment passed. Gale ate a little more bacon and drank a little more whisky. I took a long draught from a flagon of small beer.

  'Attending on the nuncio was one of their own,' he said at length. 'An Irish bishop who had been selected as a promising young postulant, and trained up by the Vatican and the Inquisition. He had a fierce reputation even then as the best politician amongst the Irish papists. Some said, though, that he followed the teachings of Signor Machiavelli rather better than those of Our Lord. I met him too, that same time in Kilkenny town, and I'd concur with them. Shocking red hair, though it must be grey now, I should think. He had probably the sharpest mind I've ever met. His name,' Gale paused, looked at me, 'was O'Daragh. Ardal O'Daragh. Younger brother to the titular Earl of Connaught of that time, and so uncle to your lady.'

  I listened with a mounting sense of unease. I had known that the lady was popish, of course; most of the people thereabouts were, but then, so was half of King Charles's court. Furthermore, even in those early days of his reign, there were already rumours concerning the king's own true faith. My own feelings on the matter were relaxed. To my mother, popery had always been more acceptable than the king-killing hydra of dissent, the multitude of strange Protestant sects that flourished under Cromwell and the Commonwealth, and I had inherited her beliefs. Even if I had not, there was my grandmother; the former Louise-Marie de Monconseil de Bragelonne, Dowager Countess of Ravensden, had died with the rosary in her hands, having spent much time in her last years trying fruitlessly to convert her favourite grandson to her faith. No, I had none of the hysterical fear of Rome that drove so many of my countrymen. My dislike of the purser Stafford Peverell had been driven not by his faith, but by his very being. But what Francis Gale was telling me was of a very different order, and I feared his peroration.

  He took some more bread to soak up the whisky and said, 'He's far grander these days, the man I knew as Bishop Ardal O'Daragh of Rathmullen. A red-robed prince of the Church, indeed. The Cardinal-Archbishop of Frascona, he is called now. That's a fine archdiocese in Sicily, rich with crops and wine and a good trade by sea, or so the books in the library at Inverlarich tell me. He must be a very rich man, the Cardinal O'Daragh. Not as rich as his closest friend, though.' Gale pushed his plate away and sat back, hands resting on his round stomach. 'You'll have heard of Fabio Chigi, of course.' I shook my head and stiffened to interrupt, but he must have sensed that he had savoured his moment for long enough, that my patience with Irish and prelatical history was not limitless, and raised a hand to halt me.

  'The House of Chigi, Captain, is one of the greatest banking houses in Europe, and has been for many centuries. Which, along with the machinations in conclave of his dear friend Cardinal Ardal O'Daragh, no doubt explains why His Eminence Cardinal Fabio Chigi is now His Holiness Pope Alexander the Seventh.'

  After Gale left the cabin I sat alone for perhaps an hour. I even turned Musk away. My head spun with thoughts of popes, cardinals, armies, and the very bowels of Hell. Above my head, I could hear the larboard watch bringing the ship to life, busy with cleaning, attending to ropes and blocks, and the myriad tasks aboard a man-of-war. I was vaguely aware of the smell of tar, for it is holy writ to seamen that each day there is something aboard that demands the application of tar, whether it requires it or not. I could concentrate on none of it. I stared at the pages of my captain's journal, still awaiting my entry for the previous day; I could not even read the words already written. I picked up my waggoner, looked at the chart, and recalled as much as I could of my voyages in the Lady Macdonald's birlinn and young Macferran's fishing boat. I went to my larboard stern window, opened my grandfather's compendium dial, took bearings with it and made a series of calculations. I studied the tide table and measured distances upon the chart. Perhaps I concentrated more intently than I had on anything since I memorized, years ago, old Mervyn's Latin primer from beginning to end out of fear of the birch. For the first time in my life, I studied the business of the waters as if my very life depended on it.

  Then I sent for Kit Farrell.

  At first, I did not truly know why. I could not share with him the new direction of the thoughts that raced through my head. He was not my equal, and I could not confide in him about the Countess of Connaught, or her uncle, or the dread that began to stir in my mind. I could not share with him the fear that tightened my stomach and brought bile to my throat: the fear that another crew of mine would die, that another ship of mine would finish on the floor of the sea. And at bottom, gnawing away beneath it all, was the darkest fear of all: the fear of my own death without honour, and with it the extinction of the House of Quinton. I wished that Cornelia or Charles, my brother, could be spirited magically across the hundreds of miles to listen to my anguish. I even wished for the return of Godsgift Judge, puzzling though I found his character to be. In them at least I could confide.

  Instead, I had only Kit Farrell. But he, at least, had skills that my wife and brother did not possess, and could offer advice that they could not. I wished to conceal my mood and intentions from him, and yet to gain this advice. I thought for a minute, then turned to him with as clear an expression as I could muster.

  'Mister Farrell,' I said lightly, 'today, if you allow, I would turn from the theory of navigation and ship handling to a hypothesis.' Kit's bemused expression prompted my first genuine smile. 'What I mean is, imagine a ship of war with the same number of guns as, say, the Jupiter here. Now, let us suppose such a ship faces a much larger ship of force, in confined waters full of islands such as these, and that the enemy ship has the weather gage. Let us also suppose that the larger ship has a superior captain, a stronger crew and a greater weight of broadside. Let us further suppose that this enemy has allies ashore, so striking the colours, abandoning your ship and fleeing overland is impossible: your men would be cut to pieces. So what would you do, Mister Farrell? What would you do to survive, and get your ship and crew clear?'

  Farrell was not a man of letters but his wits were quick enough for all that. Despite my conceit, he plainly understood at least a little of my purpose. He sat down without my permission, and thought hard on the matter, his face grave and attentive.

  'Could not,' he said at length, 'the lesser ship attempt to seek out a channel deep enough for her to navigate, but too shallow for the greater ship?'

  I told him peremptorily that such a course did not exist; I knew from my waggoner, and from observation, that it did not.

  He considered the matter for a few moments further. 'In such a case, Captain,' he said, 'your position appears impossible. It would seem that you are doomed.' This was not the counsel I wished for, but before I could interrupt Kit continued. 'My father's ship was in almost such a position, once, back in '52, in the winter battle where we lost to the Dutch off Dungeness. Bad shoals and sandbanks in those waters, Captain, hemming them in just as you describe.' He stopped, seemed to search his memory. 'He was on one of the old Whelps, as top heavy and awkward as an elephant on a footstool. They were trapped between sands by a nimble Frieslander with double their broadside. The last night Father and I spent together in our alehouse, Captain–the night that I told you of once before–he told me of that fight, and he taught me this.' Kit looked up, held my eye. 'In such a situation, Captain Quinton, there is one thing, just one thing alone, that you can do.'

  When Kit had gone, I settled down and began another round of letter-writing. Even in those days, many of my fellow captains were employing clerks to do this for them. However the only candidate available for the role would have been Phineas Musk, and though he was probably amply qualified, he ruled enough of my life as it was.

  To Mister Pepys and his colleagues of the Navy Board, I wrote of the state of the ship and in praise of the willingness of the Scots to supply us with good victuals, albeit not necessarily at the cheapest of prices. To the Duke of York, I wrote of Captain Judge's voyage to intercept the arms ship, of my fear that it had slipped by him and of my suspicion that it was t
he same mysterious vessel I had seen from the Lady Macdonald's birlinn. To the king, I could write nothing beyond Your Majesty. What could I say of the thoughts that had raced through my head since Francis Gale informed me of his genealogical discoveries? As it was, I included all my worries and thoughts in the letters that I eventually wrote to Cornelia and my brother, though I guiltily refrained from all but the most cursory descriptions of the Countess of Connaught.

  ***

  I was visited at regular intervals. This was part of command, I realized; others reckon that they always have a right to one's time, never seeing that the sum of all their calls leaves their captain with little time for himself. The odious Peverell was at my door once more, keen to prove that there were no errors or manipulations in the ship's books. I had no time for his desperate half-truths and sent him away. Stanton, the gunner, was next, reporting that damp had got into two barrels of powder. I was too distracted to do more than nod sympathetically which, judging from Stanton's sidelong glances, was not quite the proper response.

  James Vyvyan afforded the next interruption. To my dismay he was once again on the trail of his uncle's murderer. He stammered that one of our men had received a letter in the last mail from Dunstaffnage from his mother, who happened to know the mother of Pengelley, Captain Harker's murdered clerk. The men had been talking of it, and James had overheard. The man in question–Berry, I think his name was–was currently ashore, one of a party fetching broom to replenish the carpenter's stores. Vyvyan intended to interview him on his return. I humoured my young lieutenant in his quest to make sense of his uncle's death, yet it was but an old story and this new tale was as like to be a goose-chase as any of the others. Thankfully the interview was brought to a close by the arrival of Penbaron. I smiled reassuringly at Vyvyan then turned with relief to the carpenter. Penbaron had come to report on the dire state of the whipstaff, or perhaps the rudder, or possibly both. I duly added it as a postscript to my letter to Mister Pepys, and then returned in some perplexity to my letter to the king. So my afternoon passed, and through it all I remained preoccupied and anxious.

  It was a little after eight bells in the afternoon, or four o'clock. The crew had just begun the first dog watch: one of two short, two-hour watches that break up the regular pattern, ensuring that each man aboard gets his fair distribution of duties in the morning, afternoon and night. There came a routine call from one of our lookouts, telling of yet another small boat approaching us. I ignored it. A few minutes later, though, one of Landon's mates came to report that the boat was young Macferran's, and it was bearing Lanherne, Carvell and a cargo of some sort. This was strange: I hardly thought that they would have caught up with the Royal Martyr and made their return so quickly. I went out on deck and watched as the boat manoeuvred skilfully alongside. Coxswain Lanherne came on deck and saluted me, while Macferran and Carvell struggled to haul up their cargo, wrapped in one of the boat's sails.

  'Captain, sir,' said Laherne, and took a deep breath. 'We never found the Martyr, but we found this.' He gestured to the bundle without looking at it. 'Macferran, there, he's good eyes. He saw it washed up on a beach in...'

  'Moidart,' Macferran said, after a pause.

  Lanherne nodded. 'Thought it best to bring it back right away, sir.'

  The bundle was lying on the deck. Julian Carvell undid the knots that tied it together and pushed the sailcloth apart. I could not refrain from a gasp of horror, for there lay a corpse. It was bloated from the sea, and the fish had been feasting upon it. But I recognized the buff tunic, and there was enough of the dour face left for the identity to be beyond doubt. I was looking down upon the mortal remains of Nathan Warrender, lieutenant of the Royal Martyr.

  We took the body below to the orlop deck where Surgeon Skeen attended to it. One of the men went to fetch the Reverend Gale. There was no need for me to ask Skeen how Warrender had died, even if the surgeon's judgement was worth a whit. This was not the result of some great sea-fight between Royal Martyr and the mysterious dark ship; that much was clear. I had seen enough drowned men to know the signs well enough; but what made the crew recoil in horror, and my mind race, and Skeen falter over his inspection, were the cords that bound his wrists and ankles. It was not the end that should have befallen this man who had fought honourably against my father at Naseby, and who had behaved with equal honour towards me, the son. I shuddered as I thought upon his last words to me: May God have mercy on those whose day is done.

  It was in a mood of bleak melancholy that I retired to my cabin to add postscripts to all my letters, informing the recipients of this new development. I did so with a heavy heart, for I was convinced that if Cornelia ever read my words I would already be long dead, feeding the fish as Nathan Warrender had done. I sealed the letters and gave them to Macferran, who was to sail them down to Dunstaffnage Castle where they would join the Mail Royal.

  Not long after, James Vyvyan knocked at my cabin door. In truth, I had forgotten all about my lieutenant and his latest line of enquiry. Reluctantly, I called on him to enter. The face that he displayed when he entered my cabin was etched with fear and uncertainty. He suddenly seemed but a child, far younger than his eighteen years.

  'Sir, this of Captain Warrender's death...' He came to a whispering halt, then began again, but was little better. I poured him some small beer, which he took.

  'Captain Warrender was a staunch man, Mister Vyvyan,' I said. 'The manner of his dying is a shock to us all.'

  'No, sir–not that–sir, it was him...' and again he faltered, fell silent.

  I waited patiently, painting an encouraging expression upon my face, but in reality I was more than frustrated by this ongoing obsession. I had almost reached the end of my ability to tolerate it. Finally he took a shuddering breath and managed to describe, in coherent fashion, how he had passed his afternoon. The man he wished to examine over Pengelley's death had returned from the shore party, he said. This was one of our few Devon men, William Berry by name, a close and sly rogue unpopular on the lower deck. He had exhibited profound and uncharacteristic shock when he heard of Warrender's dire fate, and had apparently asked to speak to James Vyvyan before his lieutenant even had a chance to seek him out on his own account.

  Vyvyan was shaking so much and his tale so broken and incoherent that my patience was wearing thin. I was sharp with him, telling him to speak more directly. He looked up at me, and I saw the confusion shrouding his face. Without saying anything he held out his hand. In it was a crumpled letter. I looked at him, questioningly. He nodded, still holding the letter out to me, and I took it.

  Beloved son. The words were written in a crabbed, stunted hand.

  Forgive your Ma this letter, writ for me by the constable, but the terrible matter is all around the village and I could not but send you word. It concerns Goodwife Rose, as came up as a widow from Cornwall to marry old Isaac Rose that farmed Calhele, if you recall, though you were but a buye then to be sure. It is dreadful doings concerning her son, who is called Pengelley, who was apprenticed to a merchant of Truro when she came here. May God have mercy on his soul, she has heard of his most terrible end, cut up like a gelt pig upon the roadside in Hamptonshire. And she speaks too of his last master, who was your own captain Harker. Another murder, says she. I am so affeard, you must forgive your old Ma, but in our dearest saviour's name, write to me son, for these grave events do weigh mightily upon my heart and I must know you are safe. Goodwife Rose is overcome with grief and cries out in her troubles for her brother, aboard the other ship that sails with ye. An officer, she says, one Warrender by name, though mayhap she is distracted, for I had heard he was of Chudleigh's cavalry in the wars...

  'Sir, it was Pengelley's mother,' said Vyvyan, unable to contain himself as I read. 'Her name at birth was Warrender.'

  The secrets of men are fallible, for our names are immutable, but the secrets of women can lurk forever behind the names they assume with each new marriage. I learned that lesson twice in one day, there in the f
ar western fastnesses of Scotland, and since have had ample cause to affirm its worth. MacDonald and O'Daragh, Pengelley, Rose, Warrender; the truths long concealed. I stood facing James Vyvyan, the names repeating themselves over and again in my head.

  Then, and only then, did the scales fall at last from my eyes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We buried Nathan Warrender very early the next morning, Good Friday, in the churchyard of an ancient, dilapidated kirk–the Scots word for church–that stood on one of the headlands overlooking our anchorage. Macferran had located its minister, a senile old man who seemed convinced that I was the Marquis of Montrose resurrected and who had no objection to the service being conducted by the Reverend Francis Gale. Indeed, it was Gale himself who offered objections. Warrender had been a rebel, he said, and no doubt a dissenter, violent against king and Church. He had fought in arms against the Lord's Anointed. True, said I. But whatever else he had been in life, Nathan Warrender died holding the King of England's commission as an officer in his navy and was entitled to the honours due his rank. Moreover, he had not fought only against his king, for he had also been present at my father's death and had done honour to his memory. Francis Gale may not wish to forgive or forget, I told him, but Matthew Quinton could.

  Warrender's body, shrouded in canvas, was brought up from the beach by an honour guard of seamen headed by James Vyvyan. Martin Lanherne followed the corpse and Carvell, Le Blanc, Polzeath and Treninnick were the four pallbearers. They placed the body at the side of the grave and Gale took out his new prayer book, reading aloud from the service for the dead. He spoke the words of Psalm 90, the glorious Domine Refugium, with passion, but I knew he thought of his own life rather than that of Nathan Warrender.