Sam lies shivering in his cot, clinging on to its edges to avoid falling to the deck or slamming the ceiling. He is drenched. All his clothes are drenched. Where he is dry, he itches from the salt. His stomach feels completely empty, and his mouth is parched. They are on half-rations of what cold food can be rummaged – no lighting the galley fires in this weather. He pulls the thin blanket over his head. Prayer will have to substitute for sleep, and he mutters the Lord’s name again and again, until he is not sure if he is blaspheming or praying.
A ship’s boy appears at his door.
‘Please, sir. Your watch, sir.’
Sam looks up. The boy is ashen, ridiculously small. One of the poor little mites the master preyed on, no doubt. He looks thoroughly and utterly miserable.
Sam sways himself up. He reaches for his boat cloak, which is stiff with salt where it is not still dripping wet. He grunts his acknowledgement at the boy. Lord, but the effort it takes to rise. The bare bones of him are crying to lie down again. To give up. They will not survive this. Better to be below, suffocating under tons of water, than be offered the false hope of that open sea.
But he sees the small face looking at him, and he makes himself smile, and he makes his legs creak straight so that he is standing. He makes himself take the two steps towards the cabin door. He makes himself climb the ladders, to emerge on the deck into the howling, murderous wind.
He reaches for a lifeline and half walks, half pulls himself forward to where Prince Rupert is standing next to the binnacle. Every time he has come on deck, the prince has been here. God alone knows when the man sleeps. Sam nods at him; the general smiles back tightly.
‘You must rest, sir,’ he shouts. Rupert shakes his head impatiently. The wet curls of his hair stick to his forehead. Sam turns and looks along the run of the ship, at the huge forecourse straining at its reefs, at the towering wave ahead of them. Up they climb, up and up, and at the top, where the force of the wind is unchecked, there is suddenly a new sound. A shrieking, tearing, ripping sound that promises new horror.
The foremast course is splitting. The wild end of it flaps, flicking an unfortunate sailor over the side of the ship. His white face is visible for one heartbeat, before he disappears. The ship falters, the bow quivers.
Rupert is screaming at the men nearest – they need to get some sail on the stump of the mizzenmast; something, anything to help keep some steerage on her. Behind him, the whipstaff groans at its tackles and the bosun sends men running to clap on. They must fight the sea, fight the bare-rigged Swallow’s desire to turn beam-on to the wind, letting the sea curl over their heads and take them all down.
‘Sam!’ screams Rupert. Shit, thinks Sam. Not me. And why is the German bastard using my given name? Rupert points forward.
The great sail must be contained. Its wild contortions are playing with the wind.
Oh Jesus.
Sam gestures in an arc to a bunch of the nearest men, and beckons them on. The bosun, thinking quickly, hands knives and axes to those who reach for them. A few do not move, but shrink back, cowering and refusing to meet his eyes. But the reckoning must wait.
Sam hurries forward, letting the downward slope of the pitching deck help him in his rush, and hoping that at least a few of the bastards are following. His booted feet slip-slide on the planking, and he wishes he were barefoot. He glances behind – a handful of men, thank Christ, including Fowler. The man is naked to the waist, with water clinging to the grey hairs on his chest.
The split in the sail is diagonal, reaching up from the belaying pins near the deck on the port side to the yard itself on the starboard. Sam throws himself upon its trailing edge, trying to get the living, wet mass of it under control. A handful of them now, clawing at the wet canvas, pushing it back towards the bottom of the foremast. There is Fowler at his side, and he is pointing upwards to the starboard, where the tattered sail is still spread towards the wind. Catching it, filling with its howling mass and pushing the Swallow’s head away from safety.
There are not enough of them to hand the mass of sail upon the deck and to haul on the clewlines to pull the bottom of it up to the main yard. How is it hanging on at all? Sam wonders. A sliver of sail is left attached at the top and a broader piece at the bottom. But that sliver is enough to kill them all.
It must be cut.
He looks around to see who he can send, but the men are all grappling with the sail, cutting away awkward lines and using their bodies to weight it down.
It must be him. Oh Lord, oh Jesus.
He runs to the windward side and grasps the rigging, swinging himself up and out. He looks down; he cannot help himself. Down to the black, hungry sea below – so far below. Look up, Sam. He grips the hemp with slick hands, thanking the Lord for the scratch of it, which helps a man hang on when the wind is tearing, tearing at him. Trying to pluck him like a dandelion and send him soaring away.
He climbs as fast as he can. The faster he goes, the quicker he will be down. He is at the yard now, and he manages the awkward swing out and round to find his foothold on the line that runs beneath it. The bucking, leaping wet line that he must inch along. The ragged end of the torn sail flaps below him, so loud it’s like a drum in his head urging him out, out and along. To the very edge of the yard at last. Clinging on with one hand, his feet swinging wildly to and fro on the line, he reaches for the axe in his waistband. He hacks at the sail’s fastenings. He is practically over the sea here. If he falls, he will brain himself on a gun, bounce off and drown quickly, if he is lucky. Hack, Sam.
It is giving! It is working. He whacks one more time with his axe at the tangle of sail and cordage. It gives, and falls, taking a heavy block with it. Sam watches over the top of the yard as the block falls to the deck, pausing on the way to dash out the brains of Fowler, who is below, blood streaming now from his open skull and down his naked chest.
For four days they run before the wind on the scrap of mizzen sail. Four days, with the wind never abating, and the sea never dying, and the men on board parched and starving, and sleeping where they fall in nightmarish huddles.
For four days, the shocked blaze of Fowler’s face through the gloom haunts Sam. The way he still stood there, with half his head gone, and the grey matter leaking. Until, at last, he swayed and bent and toppled. Then his corpse rolled about the pitching deck, bouncing between gun carriages and the mast like an awkward skittle.
At last the wind begins to die from a scream to a bawl. The possibility begins to emerge that they may survive this, if they can get to land and find food and water. Rupert, his face a fatigued skull, releases the pederastic master, promising him his life and making him swear to leave the ship’s boys alone. Just find us a harbour, Rupert commands, and the man nods his head and wets his parched lips with a swollen tongue.
And he does, by God.
They glide one day into a natural harbour. The water is choppy, nothing more. The high peaks surrounding the bay block out the worst of the wind.
It is over. They will live another day. On this night, they will anchor and set a harbour watch and allow all the men that can to sleep. Glorious, longed-for sleep.
Sam, released from duty goes below. His legs are trembling and his eyes are on fire with exhaustion. He longs for his cot, the gentle bob of the quietened sea to lull him to sleep. But when he pulls open the door to his cabin, there is something in there. A shape. He takes the lantern from the wardroom table, and holds it up towards the darkness.
The ship’s boy. He can’t even remember the poor lad’s name. Hanging by the neck.
Sam closes the door. Holmes is on watch – he’ll take his cabin.
LONDON
Autumn 1652
‘THIS WILL BE YOUR HOME, PATIENCE,’ HE SAYS. SHE turns to smile at him, but the low sun is behind him – she cannot see the expression on his face, and she is blinking blind as he pushes open the door. The gloom is palpable, a thick darkness that she blames at first on the sun-blindness. As she steps
across the threshold, she realizes that this is the nature of the house. A place of dark panelling and drawn curtains. Further inside, past the stairs, a shadow moves and a floorboard creaks.
‘Sarah,’ he says, without further explanation. He takes hold of Patience’s hand and grips it tightly. ‘Oh my dear girl,’ he says. ‘How blessed we will be.’
He seems a little giddy, and if she did not know his thoughts on sobriety, she would think him drunk. Gripping her, he leads her from room to room. She is pulled from hall to kitchen – an excited blur of possessions and features. A trunk from his grandfather, a painting of his uncle, a sword – mounted – that Sidrach wore at the Battle of Worcester to defeat that hound Charles Stuart, the Old Tyrant’s son.
He guides her in front of him on the stairs, and then pulls her round to face him. He is on the step below and they are on the same level. His good mood is infectious. That heat and light that can hold a crowd, that can make grown men weep for their Maker – all of that is focused on her, Patience Johnson. To be so chosen! She watches his dark eyes travel over her, and the slow smile that spreads across his face is the greatest affirmation she has ever known.
‘Sidrach,’ she breathes, and he kisses her cheek with cool lips. He moves up past her, and pulls her along, throwing open a door. Inside is a bed, with heavy curtains of embroidered greens.
He leans in to whisper in her ear, and she feels his hot breath on her skin. ‘We will make babies here, Patience.’
She feels a flutter of fear and excitement. The dark mysteries of the marriage bed await. Wraiths bend and flicker in her dreams, but she is not clear on what will actually happen. Sidrach will show her. He will be her teacher.
She is frightened he will kiss her here, with the bed behind them like a promise and a threat. She hopes he will kiss her. But he grabs her hand and pulls her on and on, though a succession of rooms.
‘Please don’t change anything without asking, my darling, my own sweetheart,’ he says. ‘It was my parents’ house, and I have long had it to myself since their death.’
She nods, solemnly.
They come into his study. It is book-lined, with a heavy desk against the wall. If it were her room, she would have the desk by the window. She walks over, and looks towards the street. There is a boy sitting across the road. He is slight and grey-faced. He looks up towards the house, and it seems as if he is looking directly into the room. There is something absurdly touching about the mismatch between the skinny raggedness of his body and the intensity of his stare. What is so absorbing? What draws his eye to this house?
Behind her, Sidrach is talking: ‘Please, Patience. Do not touch my books. What need will you have for books, my own girl?’
He walks behind her, and puts his arms around her. The boy is still staring towards the gape of the windows as Sidrach presses her back against his body. He whispers: ‘I cannot wait to begin our life together. One week, that is all. I will tell you of your duties. How things must be done. Oh my darling Patience. You will be good, will you not, my dear? A good and dutiful wife.’
‘Oh yes, Sidrach,’ she says. She wants to turn and see his face, but he is holding her firmly, arms wrapped around her waist. She looks instead through the window at the little boy, who gazes towards the house as if he would lap the timbers in search of cream.
WHITEHALL, LONDON
December 1652
CROMWELL’S FIST SLAMS INTO THE WOOD. THE DESK shudders. Papers shift and totter. A glass falls, slowly, splashing red wine across the shuffle of papers.
An oath hovers in Cromwell’s mouth, a hard consonant forming. He looks across at Will and smiles, just evading the profanity. He has a ruefulness, apparent, Will knows, when he is caught being less than perfectly godly.
‘No matter, Lord General,’ says Will, stemming the tide of wine with his handkerchief and glancing towards the manservant hovering behind them. ‘No matter. Jem will see to it.’
‘My apologies, my apologies,’ Cromwell mutters as Jem comes forward. He holds up the sodden paper.
‘This is beyond rescue, I fear,’ he says.
The bill is wet and pulpy. Black tears of ink slide down the face of it.
‘It is no great loss, Lord General,’ says Will.
‘No.’ He presses his thumbs to his closed eyelids, as if trying to gouge out the dark circles beneath. They are a permanent smudge now. Marks of work and lack of sleep and windows kept shut against the cold, fresh air.
Jem moves to dab the wine from the general’s plain black jacket. He is waved impatiently away. Retreating to the hearth, he throws a fresh log on the fire. Sparks fly, bright. It is gloomy in here, although it is barely midday. Gloomy outside; the rain is a sad mush of sleet and ice.
Will shivers. His thoughts flit to Blackberry. He hopes the new nursemaid has him wrapped warm against this weather. The boy is feverish and full of cold. Melancholy. He misses his aunt. Mrs Simmonds, as they must think of her now. That man could let her see more of them, he thinks.
Something of his thoughts must show on his face. The general has stopped his pacing and is staring at him.
‘All is well, Johnson?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he says quickly.
‘Hmm. So now. This bill. Another sad fudge. The army will not wear it.’
‘Not the radical soldiers,’ Will agrees. ‘They want complete freedom of worship.’
‘They will not get that.’
‘No. But they will not settle for much less. An end to a state church. No tithes. No parishes.’
‘We can grant them liberty of conscience. Why is that not enough?’
Will shrugs. The general knows as well as he does that the Rump MPs will never offer enough to satisfy the religious sects. The Anabaptists and the Fifth Monarchists. The Enthusiasts and the Griddletonians. The Ranters and the Seekers and the Muggletonians. Even the bloody papists.
‘They have no kindness of spirit, these sectaries. I tell you, Johnson, they rant about freedom but will not extend the same courtesy to one another. They would tear out each other’s throats, were I not standing between them.’
He is working himself into a fury again. Will puts a placatory hand up towards him, and says: ‘It is exhausting, no doubt, to be a bulwark.’
‘It is. It is.’
The lord general sinks heavily into a chair. ‘Set up a meeting, Johnson. Between the officers and some of the more obdurate MPs.’
‘Another one?’
‘Yes, blast it. Another one. At the Speaker’s house, if he’ll host. Neutral ground. Go on, now. Leave me.’
Marchamont Nedham is in his room, hands stretched out towards the fire. His cheeks are crimson. Will notes, for the first time, the suspicion of broken veins in the older man’s nose.
‘Ah, Johnson. And how is Old Noll today?’
‘Frustrated. Irritated by the Rumpers and by the Fifth Monarchists and the rest of them.’
‘Bearing it well, is he? Calm? Song in his heart and a whistle on his lips?’
Will grimaces, and Nedham’s deep laugh echoes in the narrow, cold room.
‘Ah,’ says Nedham. ‘Who can blame him. Vipers. The Rumpers out for themselves. The sects at war with each other. I just theorize about trying to settle it all. That poor bastard has to do it.’
Will nods, moving in towards the fire. He is chilled just from walking the long corridor. He feels his shoulders loosen as the heat finds him.
‘Do you know what I heard?’ says Nedham, looking over his shoulder theatrically.
‘Not being Cassandra, I do not.’
‘Bulstrode Whitelock was heard telling someone – I shall not say who – that Cromwell discussed the post-regicide settlement with him.’
‘So he would. They are friends.’
‘Aye. But Whitelocke says that Cromwell talked of the possibility of a new settlement with “something of the monarchical” in it.’
Will whistles, looking across at Nedham. He sees his glee at being first with the news, and f
eels a rush of affection for his friend.
‘Think about it, Will. The Rump cannot call elections, for it knows that out there in the shires, people will vote for men even more backward-looking than they are. The army will not stand for it – they cannot serve a Parliament made of demi-royalists. But neither will the army support the Rump, as its members prevaricate on religious reform and line their own pockets with confiscated Royalist property. There is no check on the Rump. None at all.’
‘Bar the army.’
‘And its head.’
‘He would not. He could not. Could he?’
‘If not him,’ says Nedham, ‘then who?’
‘The younger son of the late king.’
‘He swore on his father’s severed head that he would not usurp his older brother’s crown. No, Will. If something monarchical is to be our future, then there is only one something monarch possible.’
Will shakes his head. He watches the leaping flames.
‘I do not think he wants it, Nedham.’
Nedham snorts. ‘You are a gentle soul, Will. Just because your worst, most violent nightmare is to be thrust into power . . . well, that means little. Most men are more grasping than you credit them.’
‘Some men are less so than you think.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You are correct in one sense, Nedham. If there is to be a Julius Caesar in our new republic, it can only be him. And even if he does not want it, all men will assume that he does.’
‘Poor old Noll,’ says Nedham.
A rushed knock at the door. Jem bounds in, out of breath. ‘Has changed his mind, he has. Wants you now, Mr Johnson.’
‘Give Caesar my regards, old fellow,’ says Nedham as Will scoops up his ledger and bustles back down the long corridor.
Patience stands in the dark hallway by Sidrach’s door, pulling a thick winter shawl across her shoulders. Our door, she admonishes herself. Not Sidrach’s door – our door.
She feels the sudden weight of the knowledge that this will be her front door until they carry her empty husk out of here. She looks at the heavy panelling and the dark sheen of the wood. The thick and forbidding heft of it. And beyond that wood, a street that smells of grime and smoke and offal, of accumulated filth and splattered piss. Of the sores on the veterans’ festering stumps and the yeasty, hoppy run-off from one thousand breweries. How nonchalantly she made the decision to abandon the countryside and the dreams she once had of her future, which smelled of fresh-cut wheat and the pressing of apples.
The Tyrant’s Shadow Page 6