Gentleman Captain

by J. D. Davies

  We crossed into England above Lanercost, where we heard of the arrival of the new queen in England and of her marriage to our king in the old garrison church of Portsmouth. The inns improved, but not our reception; not, at least, until we were well south of Coventry, and once more into a land of civilized speech and behaviour. I contemplated a route to London by way of Ravensden, where I could have spent the last night of the old month and still kept my rendezvous with the king on the morrow. But for all my desperate desire to see my Cornelia, there was the more troubling prospect of seeing my mother. Much as I longed to speak with her, I would have to tell her of my meetings with Glenrannoch and of his eventual fate. I had raked over the general's words more often than I could have wished in the cold, quiet nights of the Hebrides. What lay between them remained a mystery. It was important, perhaps. But something in me did not wish, quite yet, to think too hard upon their joint past. These were matters for another day, I decided, so we took the road through Stony Stratford, where I sent Musk off: first to the abbey to give my women a suitable account of events, and thence to Portsmouth to retrieve my horse, Zephyr, who no doubt had spent all this time contentedly siring mares in the stable yard of the Dolphin Inn. Bassett and I pressed on, and spent the last night of our journey at a pestilentially foul tavern in Barnet.

  The next day, not long after noon, we came to the Palace of Hampton Court. This monstrous brick testament to the vanity of Cardinal Wolsey–and the rapacity of King Henry who stole it from him–was no longer a favoured royal residence; perhaps because, unaccountably, Noll Cromwell had liked it. Despite this taint, our noble King Charles had chosen it for his honeymoon. A peaceful interlude, thought I ruefully, before he introduced his queen to the tumult of scandal, politics and indecency that shook the windows of old Whitehall. Bassett disappeared to report our arrival while I stood alone in the great courtyard, uncomfortably unaware of the grime and dirt of my travelling clothes. It was not long before he returned with Tom Chiffinch, who acknowledged me curtly. Bassett made but a brief farewell, for he was a pompous, unsmiling lad; I never met him again, and I heard that although he bade fair to become the creature of a great man, the plague and a lime-filled grave-pit did for him barely three years afterward.

  Chiffinch led me through the corridors of Hampton Court, so ancient yet ordered, and utterly unlike the chaotic warren that was Whitehall. The usual coterie of courtiers and petitioners lined the walls, made peevish at having to decamp so far from the comforts of London. There were not a few suspicious glances aimed at me; I must have seemed a young, saddle-dirty upstart. Young women, elaborately perfumed, elaborately gowned, and just as elaborately bosomed, looked curiously and sometimes keenly at me. Then we were beyond them, and out into the gardens behind the palace.

  As was his habit wherever he lodged, the king was taking a brisk stroll amidst the trees and greenery, modestly attired in a light frock-coat, a great black wig and an equally great black hat. His dogs scampered around, keeping up with the lofty monarch while his morose entourage trailed him at a distance. On seeing me, he raised his hand, an unspoken command to the rest of his attendants to fall even further behind him, well out of earshot. I bowed, and he beckoned me to him.

  'Well, Matt,' he said grimly, 'you almost lost my ship, after all.'

  I looked at him levelly, for I was one of the few men at his court tall enough to look the king in the eye. Charles Stuart's ineffably ugly face remained bleak and impassive for a second more, then broke into the broadest of smiles. His eyes twinkled and he grasped my shoulder.

  'Well done, Captain. God's fish, well done indeed.' His hand squeezed my shoulder a moment more then dropped away. 'What a God-awful mess we bequeathed you. And of our own making.'

  He walked on, bidding me to fall in alongside him. The courtiers followed at a respectful distance, an interval enforced by the glowering presence of Tom Chiffinch, a few paces behind us.

  'Bad business, Matt,' he said, matter-of-factly. 'Captain Judge a traitor. Murdered poor Harker, eh? Those who recommended him are abashed indeed. You know, he even turned down a plum command in the Mediterranean, confident that his friends would ensure we learned just enough about the plot in Scotland to despatch a squadron there? He knew he would be the only man qualified to command it. Ingenious, Matt. Devilish, but ingenious.' The king sighed. 'Then there's the Dutch, of course. I detest being crowed over by Meinheer de Witt, but for once I think he has a case against me. Thank God he had the wit to dispatch your good-brother and his ship when he learned of the conspiracy. Yes indeed, the wit of Witt, one might say. I like that, by damnation.' He laughed loudly and slapped his knee. 'Must tell the queen that one–though heaven knows she'll not grasp the jest. But then, maybe she'd grasp it better than Jamie, even though she can't speak English yet.'

  'Both my good-brother and my lady of Connaught told me something of the machinations of the Dutch, Your Majesty,' I said quietly.

  Charles Stuart's good temper suddenly evaporated. 'There is no Countess of Connaught, Captain Quinton. She has no title recognized by my royal father of blessed memory, or by myself, beyond that of the Lady Macdonald of Ardverran.' His black eyes glittered with frosty malevolence. 'In any event, she is safe in her uncle's archdiocese, far beyond my reach.' I learned only much later that the king had tried more than once to bring her within his reach in the most direct manner possible; but in their own land, Cardinal O'Daragh's Italian killers were more than a match for their English counterparts.

  A long-eared dog snapped at the king's heel and gave a raffish bark. At once the amiable mask reappeared on the royal face. He threw a branch for the dog to chase, and said distractedly, 'You know, Matt, that I must be in Portugal again tonight? My lady Castlemaine is furious, but she is so big with child that she has not the strength to throw her fists at me. Though God knows what price I shall have to pay after she is birthed.' The king's mistress was ever noted for her temper. Charles Stuart looked moodily around him, at the great formal garden, at the courtiers, and finally at me. He seemed to recollect himself, and said, 'Poor Campbell. I would have liked to have met him. He could have been a useful man for me, you know. I regret that I wrongly judged him for a traitor.' He turned and looked at me directly, a sad, solemn expression on his swarthy features. His dog sat panting at his feet, waiting patiently for the game to recommence. 'Even kings are fallible, Matt. Some, alas, are more fallible than others. But I shall learn. God's breeches, yes. I shall learn.'

  I knew that any audience with a monarch is short, and that whatever time remained to me was limited. Matters had been pressing on my mind, and I had to address them while my moment lasted.

  'Majesty,' I began, 'if I may, my crew—'

  'The survivors of your crew have already been granted substantial royal bounties,' he said briskly. 'All of them, of course, come with one condition, the same that I impose on you. Silence, Matt.'

  'Your Majesty?'

  'Silence.' He turned, walked slowly on and I followed. 'Your brother can explain more of my reasoning when you see him next. Charlie knows far greater secrets than these, as Christ in Heaven knows. But these events,' he waved a jewelled hand absently in the air, 'they never happened, Captain. What comfort my enemies would take, if they knew of this threat to my Scottish kingdom. That Captain Judge had deluded me and my most trusted councillors, and that a full-scale sea battle had taken place in my own waters, between two ships supposedly my own! How weak would I seem, Matt? I am back barely two years on the throne of my ancestors, and if I am determined of one thing above all else, it is that I will not go on my travels again.' He stopped and stepped closer to me, a few inches from my face.

  'And what of my wish to reconcile the two sides that fought against each other so recently,' he said in a harsh whisper, 'if it becomes public knowledge that they have fought each other yet again? No, Matthew Quinton. Here is your new truth: the Royal Martyr and the Jupiter were ordered to Scottish waters on a surveying mission. There, they had the misfortune to ventur
e into dangerous waters during a great storm. The Jupiter was damaged and many of her crew died, but she survived. Alas, the Royal Martyr was lost in the whirlpool of Corryvreckan with all hands, including her loyal and much lamented captain.'

  A new truth indeed. Now I am an old man, the oldest that I know, as my grandfather was in his time. I live in a world where there are new truths every few weeks–a new war, or a new minister, or a new king. A new religion, even, for religion seems but a very temporary truth these days. Truth is whatever men in power declare it to be, even if it is the highest treason of lies. Whoever is unfortunate enough to remember the old truths has to forget, for they are told to forget; and the real truth, the one abiding truth which we learn from the scriptures, is buried beneath all the rest. The last sixty years of my life, since that day at Whitehall, are proof of this: that it is possible to change, or cancel, or rearrange the history of nations to suit a purpose, especially if it is to suit the purposes of men of power. I learned that lesson for the first time, that afternoon in the garden at Hampton Court. I have learned it again many times since that day. I have even done it myself, more than once.

  I saw the king looking for his dogs and turning toward his courtiers, and knew that his patience was almost gone. I asked him quickly what would befall those who had so inconveniently survived the destruction of the Royal Martyr. Their fate was already disposed of, it seemed: shortly, they would be shipped to the Indies, where they would be kept as slaves on the most distant plantations, along with the bog-Irish and men of Carvell's kind.

  'There will be whispers and stories, of course,' said King Charles. 'But at bottom, Matt, who in London will give credence to such wild tales from the Scottish islands? All too far away, among people prone to exaggeration and myths, in a land about which few Englishmen care a jot. A battle in those parts, and a castle brought to ruin, in a land where blood feuds bring about such occurrences almost weekly?' His ugly face broke into a black-toothed smile. 'No, none will care, or at least, none that matter. It will all become the rumour of a passing hour, as long as no testimony comes forward to support it from men of good credit. From a noble ship's captain, above all.'

  With that, the king extended his right hand. I paused but a moment, then bent to kiss the great gold signet ring he had been given at his coronation.

  Today, I would react differently if a king asked me to lie, especially if the request came from one of those idiot Germans. Then, I was young, and believed as young men do in the purity of good and evil, not seeing that those two are but sides of the same coin, with much base metal between the faces. I bowed deeply to my sovereign who smiled with satisfaction and summoned Chiffinch with a clap of his hands.

  Chiffinch stepped forward with alacrity, producing a paper from his frock coat which he handed to me. Wonderingly, I opened it: therein lay a commission, signed and sealed by the king, to a rank in his Horse Guards. I stared at my life's ambition. I could almost hear the pride in the voices of Cornelia and my mother when they learned of it. But I heard, or sensed, other voices, too. A decision had been made, either by me or for me. I took a breath and looked at my king.

  'I am a seaman, Your Majesty,' I said as evenly as I could, 'like my grandfather before me.'

  Charles Stuart cocked an eyebrow, amused.

  'I thank you, Sire. But I would ask...' I took a breath and went on, 'I would ask only that you give me another ship.'

  The End

  * * *

  Historical Note

  Matthew Quinton is a fictional character, but he is based on a very real historical type, the 'gentleman captain' of Charles Il's navy. At the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660, the king faced the difficult task of creating a new officer corps out of two wholly disparate elements. During the 1650s, the low-born professional seamen–the 'tarpaulins' who commanded the Commonwealth's ships–built up a formidable reputation for competence and victory in battle, particularly in the First Anglo-Dutch War (1652–54). That war, caused by competition for domination of the maritime carrying trades and by mutual suspicion of each other's political and religious principles, witnessed an increasingly comprehensive series of British victories consequent upon their adoption of the 'line of battle', the system of broadside fire described by Matthew Quinton following the Jupiter's disastrous gunnery practice off Islay.

  After the Restoration, many of the Commonwealth's victorious captains were considered to have suspect political and religious loyalties, so to counterbalance them, and to reward his own staunch supporters, Charles II and his brother James, the Lord High Admiral (later King James II of England, VII of Scotland), gave commissions to young men of good birth, even if they had little or no seagoing experience. Inevitably, in the early years there was much conflict between the two kinds of captain, and the royal brothers' attempts to suppress past differences were not entirely successful.

  The naval career of Matthew Quinton is essentially an amalgam of those a number of real gentleman captains of the 1660s. In this, the first of his adventures, the most influential real-life models for Matthew were Captains Francis Digby, second son of the Earl of Bristol; William Jennens (an uncle of Sarah, the future Duchess of Marlborough); and George Legge, later Lord Dartmouth, who (like Matthew) lost his first command within weeks. The character of Godsgift Judge is equally fictitious, but again, he is based on a very real type: the former Commonwealth captain, trying desperately to convince the new royal authorities of his loyalty, appears frequently in the pages of Pepys's diary. Judge is based most closely on Richard Haddock and John Lawson, both of whom had radical antecedents but conformed to the restored monarchy. Unlike Judge, neither betrayed their new loyalty; both died as knights of the realm. I explored the tensions within the Stuart officer corps in some detail in my two non-fiction books, Pepys's Navy: Ships, Men and Warfare, 1649–89 (2008) and Gentlemen and Tarpaulins: The Officers and Men of the Restoration Navy (1991).

  There was no conspiracy to unseat King Charles II and restore the Lordship of the Isles, the history of which (and of its downfall) is as described by the Countess of Connaught. Nevertheless, in the tense and profoundly unstable years between 1660 and 1663, there were many real or rumoured conspiracies to overthrow the restored monarch and bring back the Republic. The most serious was the Fifth Monarchist rising in London in January 1661, which anticipated the imminent rule of Christ on Earth. The period is well described in Ronald Hutton's The Restoration, while contemporary London itself is splendidly evoked in Lisa Picard's Restoration London.

  The tensions between the Clans Campbell and Macdonald following the execution of the Earl of Argyll, and the history of the lordship of the Isles, were essentially as they are described in this book (leaving aside my invention of an entirely fictitious Ardverran sept). Colin Campbell of Glenrannoch is also an invention, but he was intended to be a rather older and more martial incarnation of John Campbell, later the first Earl of Breadalbane. There are many accounts of the tragic conflict between Campbell and Macdonald: I used Oliver Thomson's The Great Feud and various older histories of the individual clans. Glenrannoch is also a representative of two very real historical types, the young Scots who flocked south to the court of King James I and VI, and the Scots who served with distinction in all the great European armies during the 'Thirty Years War' of 1618 to 1648. The Countess of Connaught is based on no particular historical character (although the 'flight of the earls' in 1607 remains one of the most important and poignant moments in Irish history). However her home, Ardverran Castle, was inspired by four very real fortresses on or near the Sound of Mull:: Ardtornish, Duart, Tioram, and above all Mingary, where the remains of a Commonwealth warship only a little smaller than the Jupiter, wrecked during the little-known 'Glencairn rebellion' of 1653–54, still lie among the rocks beneath its walls.

  The birlinn is well described in The West Highland Galley by Denis Rixson; these direct descendants of Norse longships were still being built in the eighteenth century. Unlikely though it may seem, the free
library in the depths of the Highlands, where Francis Gale learned of the Countess's significant connection to the papal curia, actually existed (although it was not founded until 1680). It still does, although I have taken the liberty of transplanting it some hundred miles west from its actual location at Innerpeffray in Perthshire.

  Prince Rupert's charge at Naseby, and the storming of Drogheda, both happened essentially as described, although the latter in particular causes controversy to this day: recent 'revisionism suggesting that Cromwell did not order the massacre of the women and children in the town, the line taken by Francis Gale, has caused considerable soul-searching in the Irish Republic and beyond. Tom Reilly's Cromwell: An Honourable Enemy is at the centre of this controversy.

  The Byzantine structure and politics of the Dutch state during the seventeenth century were essentially as I have described them, although for the sake of clarity, I have simplified some of the even more complex realities of the situation. Good guides to the subject are Maarten Prak's and Diane Webb's The Dutch Republic in the Seventeenth Century: The Golden Age and Jonathan Israel's monumental The Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness and Fall.

  Matthew Quintons grandfather and father, the eighth and ninth Earls of Ravensden, are both based to an extent on real people: the former equally upon George Clifford, fourth Earl of Cumberland, and John Sheffield, second Earl of Mulgrave, both of whom sailed against the Spanish Armada; the latter upon Lucius Carey of Great Tew in Oxfordshire, the second Viscount Falkland. Earl Matthew's extraordinary folding compendium is based on the so-called 'Drake's Dial', an exhibit at the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich. Ravensden Abbey, the Quinton family's crumbling hotchpotch of a mansion built out of an erstwhile monastery, really exists: I have been there. Unfortunately it is not in the real Ravensden, a quiet and pleasant Bedfordshire village, but in approximately half a dozen other locations scattered across England and Wales, each of which provided one aspect of the whole.