Gentleman Captain

by J. D. Davies

  'A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday; seeing that is past as a watch in the night. As soon as thou scatterest them, they are even as a sleep; and fade away suddenly like the grass. In the morning it is green, and groweth up; but in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and withered. Comfort us again now after the time that thou hast plagued us: and for the years wherein we have suffered adversity...'

  I stood in the pale and watery sunlight of that Good Friday and thought of other deaths, past, present and future. It was profoundly still in that quiet, ruined churchyard on the hill. The wind was gentle and carried the scent of spring inside it, and the murmur of the sea filled the air. I felt overwhelmingly alive, but full of sorrow. I turned my thoughts back to the lonely soldier we were burying so far from his home, and tried to concentrate on the words of the service.

  'Man that is born of a woman,' Gale was intoning, 'hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death...'

  Though the words were altered, I remembered suddenly the first time I had heard them read from the old and now abandoned prayer book of Queen Elizabeth. It was at the burial of my grandfather in Ravensden Abbey. Even as a child of five I had thought how false it sounded: but a short time to live, and is full of misery, when it seemed to me that my grandfather had lived for ever, and been full of careless joy until his dying day. But when I heard those words again just a few weeks later at the funeral of my father, I thought upon them differently. Perhaps I grew up more in the course of those two burial services, so short a time apart, than most children of five years are wont to do.

  James Vyvyan, Warrender's fellow lieutenant, cast earth onto the canvas, and as it was lowered into the hard Scottish earth Gale continued to deliver the order of service. 'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust...'

  I looked out over the waters beyond the churchyard, and thought of those whom I had loved who were now of that dust, my grandparents, my father and my sister. Soon they shall be saying those words over me, for I shall not be leaving these waters alive.

  The service was over. Lanherne brought his honour guard to attention. Muskets ever sit uneasily in the hands of seamen, but several of the guard were veterans of Grenville's Cornish infantry. There had been none finer, and they knew their drill. On the coxswain's command, they fired a smart volley in salute as the mortal remains of Nathan Warrender disappeared forever beneath the ground. Down in the roadstead, the Jupiter fired a mourning-salute of five guns, the muffled cannonade echoing off the Scottish hills.

  It was James Vyvyan who pointed out the small party of horsemen riding towards the church. There were six of them, with two spare mounts running behind. One rider was taller than the rest, sitting easy and confident on a horse that seemed far too small for him; I recognized him as Simic the Croat. He rode behind a horse that, conversely, seemed unduly large for the little man that it bore. Glenrannoch.

  The party reined in at the kirk's boundary wall. The general dismounted, walked over to us and paid his respects at the graveside, saluting sombrely with his sword.

  'I heard of the death,' he said quietly to me. 'I presumed you would be loath to stray too far from your ship, so I suggest we ride hereabouts. I have something I would show you, but a few miles hence.'

  I was reluctant. The dark vessel might still be lurking nearby, Judge and the Royal Martyr had vanished and the nature of Warrender's death had sounded an alarum through my ship. What business had the Jupiter's captain ashore in the company of a man like Glenrannoch? And yet ... I found it was impossible to deny the force of this man's presence. I hesitated but a moment, then called James Vyvyan to me, and told him in a low voice that if there appeared any threat to the ship, he was to fire one gun. Glenrannoch, standing close by and overhearing my words and Vyvyan's surprised reply, said that one of his riders would lead me quickly back to the ship on such a signal. The winds were light, we would not go far, and with the warning that our lookouts would give us, no attack could come against the Jupiter before I was back on board.

  Then Glenrannoch asked who I wished to accompany me on the second horse. I considered this. Vyvyan could not be spared from the ship. Musk and Kit Farrell were still aboard, and it would take too long to send for them; besides, it was unlikely that Kit could ride well–certainly not on such rough terrain as this–and Musk was but an indifferent horseman for all his bluster. Of all my men at the old kirk, only one could ride for certain: Francis Gale, a gentleman's son and a soldierly priest.

  But perhaps there was one other there who could ride. In fact, I was certain of it.

  I called out, 'Monsieur Le Blanc!' He looked around, a little startled. 'You can ride, I take it?'

  'Mais non, monsieur le capitaine. A tailor of Rouen, what would I have to do with riding?'

  'I would have you accompany me on this expedition with the general, Monsieur Le Blanc. As my personal attendant, if you will.'

  Le Blanc's face fell. 'But, Captain—'

  Matters were truly serious for Roger Le Blanc to give my rank in English. It amused me even as I ignored his objections, saying airily, 'It is an order, Monsieur Le Blanc. I would have you ride with me.'

  'Very well, mon capitaine. But I will bring my knapsack.' He gave the word a preposterous English ring. 'I do not trust any of these Cornish.'

  Lanherne and Polzeath laughed at that and slapped him rudely on the back. The Frenchman picked up the largest knapsack I had ever seen, and moved reluctantly towards one of the general's spare horses. As I had suspected, he mounted with the easy movements of a man born to horseback, and reined in his steed with assurance. I smiled at him but he merely shrugged, as the French do. Thus mounted we moved off, and I rode up to the shoulder of Colin Campbell of Glenrannoch.

  We rode across a wild, bleak land of rough hills and moorland. Glenrannoch was a good horseman, as I might have expected from one who had ridden the length and breadth of war-torn Europe. Le Blanc, too, rode exceedingly well, despite his protestations to the contrary. For my part, I could not help but revel in the freedom of being on horseback once again. My mount was an excellent one, albeit not the equal of my Zephyr, and as we cantered along I felt the accumulated hours of anxiety and sea-discipline slough away. Indeed I almost felt, for a moment, like any young man of twenty and two, out for an exhilarating ride on a spring day. I urged my horse faster and gave myself up to the vigorous pleasure of being alive.

  We reached the top of a steep slope and I reined in my mount, pausing to admire the sweeping bleakness and beauty of the land. Glenrannoch stopped beside me. 'So, Captain Quinton,' he said easily, 'I gather that the lieutenant of Royal Martyr was murdered?'

  It was hardly a surprise that he knew. This was his land, as far as the eye could see, and little would happen here without him knowing of it. Perhaps young Macferran reported to him. I told him how Warrender's body had been found. He asked if I had any suspects for the murder, and I answered neutrally. It would not do to share my suspicions with this man.

  We rode on further up the hill a little way, and then he said quite suddenly to me, 'I am not your enemy, Matthew.' His directness unnerved me, and I made no reply. 'I had to be discreet when you and Captain Judge were at my tower. I had to be discreet until I was certain of ... well, no matter. Let us say, of a number of things.'

  'I have not looked on you as my enemy, sir,' said I, dissembling with some awkwardness.

  Glenrannoch smiled. 'Perhaps not, Captain, though I have little doubt that the king has. But there are many matters of which Charles Stuart is unaware. Of these lands he has always been profoundly ignorant, for his northern kingdom is of but small concern to him as he sits in his Palace of Whitehall, surrounded by sycophants and mistresses. I can underst
and this in some part, for my cousin of Argyll treated him abominably while he was here. Perhaps our sovereign lord can be forgiven for remembering Scotland with detestation. But there are other matters that he should know better.' He looked away from me, gazing out over his territory. 'In my experience, Captain,' he said quietly, 'wars are made when clever men act stupidly, or when stupid men think they are clever. They tell me King Charles is a clever man.' He turned and looked intently into my eyes. 'But believe me, Matthew, in the business that you are now about, he has acted more stupidly than I would have imagined possible.'

  Nowadays, every street urchin speaks of our illustrious German George in such terms, or worse. Thus far has the divine mystery of royalty departed from Britain. Back then, though, I was not accustomed to hearing the king spoken of in this way, even by those who, like my brother-in-law Sir Venner Garvey, privately despised him.

  I was still groping for the right words to defend His Majesty against Glenrannoch's unforgivable words as we breasted the hill; a second later, all was forgotten. I reined my horse to a halt, astonished at the sight that lay before me. There, on the level ground below, stood an army. Two, perhaps three thousand men, all at attention, all armed. Many had the great basket-hilted swords of those parts, but whole regiments bore pikes, others muskets. All wore Highland garb, and most were in colours that I recognized from Glenrannoch's retainers. The same colours adorned the black-and-yellow flags that flew proudly before them.

  The general looked at me. 'The host of Clan Campbell, Captain,' he said, and turning his horse he began to pick his way down the slope towards his remarkable private army.

  I sat for a moment, my heart hammering in my chest. I could hear the others clattering up the track, then a sharp intake of breath from Le Blanc. With mounting trepidation, I urged my horse on down the steep track towards Glenrannoch, a slight figure dismounting before his men. There were no cheers, no movement. This was not a rabble of wild clansmen; this was an army, trained and disciplined.

  The general was waiting for me. I dismounted, and we turned to walk in review along each line.

  'As you see, Captain, I have no need to wait for an arsenal from Flanders.' Then he does know. 'If I so ordered, this army could be in Edinburgh in days. Nothing under Charles Stuart's control could stand against me. Certainly not poor old Willie Douglas and his regiment–who spent last night under the walls of Kilchurn Castle, incidentally. I pray they didn't suffer more desertions overnight. Twenty-three since setting out,' said Glenrannoch, and frowned. 'But, Matthew, you must understand one thing: that whatever His Majesty may think of my loyalty, he has it; without precondition, and in full degree.'

  I wished to believe this quiet, plausible man. I wished to trust him. But the silent army seemed menacing and unnatural. And, too, I recalled how quiet and plausible Lucifer had seemed to Eve when he took the form of the serpent in Eden.

  We moved to the head of the second line. Glenrannoch straightened one man's pike and spoke to another about the state of his sheiling. As we walked on, he turned to me once more.

  'I've witnessed enough of war, Matthew Quinton. I have seen horrors that would turn the stomach of any man. I witnessed the Sack of Magdeburg, and in my day I have ordered atrocities that were almost its equal.' He looked away, over the hills to the east, as though seeking a glimpse of the blood-drenched graves of Germany. In that quiet, almost timid voice, he continued. 'I vowed that I would never lead another army, nor order more young men to their deaths in pointless wars decreed by idiots. But fate forces me to march one last time, to fight one last battle.'

  We reached the end of the second line and turned to review the third. I now knew, or thought I knew, the enemy against whom Glenrannoch would fight. But if I was to believe this man, and trust him, I had at last to know the answer to the question that had haunted me since our first meeting in his Tower of Rannoch.

  'How is it, General, that you know my mother?'

  He stopped to chide the next soldier in line. Only then did he turn his scarred face directly toward me. 'Your mother, and her mother, and your father, and his father and mother. I knew them all. It was a different age, Matthew. A better age. We old people are too prone to say such things, I know. But perhaps few young men would dispute my case, after all these years of war and death.' He smiled faintly. 'And there are others of your family that I have come to know, that would surprise you.'

  As we walked, Glenrannoch began to speak of himself and I listened with equal measures of apprehension and anticipation. He had come to England, he said, in the winter of the year '24, when he was the same age that I was. A faction at court wished to set up a new favourite to bring down the king's great love, and the young Colin Campbell was to play the part.

  'But although I looked comely enough in those days, as most young Scots do before the whisky takes hold, old King James favoured a different breed. Long legs, above all. How height and looks can change history, Matthew.' The portrait in the hall of the Tower of Rannoch: the handsome young courtier, unscarred and bright of countenance, would be the young Colin Campbell himself. 'My rival remained unassailable, although he soon became a good friend to me. He had the height and the legs, did Geordie Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham.'

  A faint memory stirred. Remember his grace... the mysterious note found upon the dead Harker. Vyvyan had been convinced that it referred to the Duke of Buckingham–himself most foully murdered in a Portsmouth tavern–and that it served as a warning. A warning Harker ignored with fatal consequences. Or was there more to it? Could there have been a link between Harker's death and Buckingham's? They had known each other, once–and Glenrannoch, too ... I thrust the thought away impatiently. This was neither the time nor the place to dwell on Vyvyan's mad delusions, nor on deaths long ago. I had fresher prospects of death before me, my own among them.

  The general was oblivious to my thoughts and continued the story of his youth. The young Colin Campbell stayed on at the English court, he said, even after the old king died. Buckingham, at once royal favourite, chief minister and Lord High Admiral, identified a military streak in him that he had never known existed, and found him a useful adjutant in the campaigns he was planning against France and Spain. It was in this way that Campbell came to know my grandfather, almost a demigod to the military men of those days, as were all those who had fought with Drake and against the Armada. I eagerly asked him for his memories of the grand old earl. He smiled then, and told me he remembered a large, lusty man, always quick to laugh off the pomposities of the court.

  Glenrannoch had also come to know my father. They were of the same age. My father had been about to fight his first campaign on the disastrous Cadiz expedition. A good man, Glenrannoch said: firm and steady, less extravagant in all things than my grandfather; a man who favoured the book and the sonnet over the sword.

  And my mother? I asked then. Yes, he said, he did indeed become acquainted with the woman my father was courting: the Lady Anne Longhurst, one of the many daughters of the Dowager Lady Thornavon. I asked him to describe her to me as she was in those days, but Glenrannoch would say only that she was a paragon of that court, an intelligent beauty who attracted the ardour of any man with blood in his veins.

  'Your father was away for some months. I had few other friends at Whitehall, so many hundreds of miles from this, my home. Your mother was ... she was good. Sympathetic. Do not misunderstand me, Matthew,' he said, carefully. 'Nothing on which the scriptures frown passed between us. But if on the day of judgement, when the last trump sounds and the dead rise to face the east...' He paused, closed his eyes. 'If on that day the archangels asked me to name one person on this earth whom I trust and love, I would name your mother.'

  Then everything changed, he said. My father came back from the war and married my mother. But that brief and hopeless campaign, the fiasco that was Cadiz, had changed the then Lord Caldecote, my father. He had seen enough good men die and enough incompetent men in government order yet more war; and so he vowed
never to take up the sword again. My mother, who even then believed that those who fought and died for their king were exalted for all eternity, found this a strange and alienating belief, and for a time, Glenrannoch said, there was an estrangement between them.

  Meanwhile the new king, Charles Stuart, who was only a little older than my father and Glenrannoch, was also newly married–to the French princess, Henrietta Maria. Theirs, too, was a cold and uncertain union in those days, for Charles was still too much in awe–or more, perhaps–of his father's late favourite and his own closest friend, the Duke of Buckingham.

  All men err, Matthew Quinton, and I erred more than most. The new queen was frightened and alone, in a strange country. I understood more than a little of that. We became close companions, she and I, for a time. But at a court, nothing is private. There are eyes and ears everywhere, and mouths that are incapable of staying closed, and soon our friendship was laid before the king. I was banished the court. Many spoke up for me, your grandfather and your mother at the head of them, for their word counted mightily with that king in those days. But nothing availed.' He turned to me, at last. 'All Europe was at war, Matthew. I had Buckingham's recommendation to get me a commission in any army I chose, and I had learned during my work for him that I possessed a certain aptitude for war. The next spring, I was campaigning as a raw captain in the Rhineland, and my course was set. Soon Buckingham himself was dead at an assassin's knife, and my only patrons were the Dutchmen and Germans who paid me to do their killing for them. I have not seen your mother since those days. I often think how, if fate had taken a different turn, I could so easily have been...'

  At that, the general fell silent. He said no more as we started back toward our small mounted party. Le Blanc was slumped in his saddle looking ineffably bored. Simic, the giant Croat, was receiving a message from a Highland man mounted on a garron. Just before we reached them, Glenrannoch turned to me. His eyes, always cold and impassive, were alive for once, and full of emotion.