The King's Chameleon

by Richard Woodman

  The instant Faulkner had finished, Henry broke in, his agitation near manic in its intensity. ‘No, Father! No, no no! And a thousand times no!’

  ‘Damn it, my boy, it is obvious you are into something deeper than you know. You may well hang – think of your mother if such a thing—’

  ‘My mother? My mother would understand!’ Henry said, leaping to his feet. For a moment he stood irresolute while his father sat in silence, not knowing what more he could say without physically restraining his own son – and Henry was a strong young man and likely to throw him off easily enough. Then, quite suddenly, Henry seemed to make up his mind. His demeanour changed on the instant, and he became quite calm, putting out his right hand and laying it upon his father’s shoulder. He looked his father full and spoke.

  ‘Let us sleep on this, Father. I thank you for your concern and will not press you as to your informer. You are right that I run risks; whether I am in danger depends upon events now in train. Your offer of escape by sea is appreciated, but at least allow me the courtesy of resolving the matter over-night to my own satisfaction.’

  Faulkner looked at Henry. The change had been swift; too swift, perhaps. Yet what he suggested was not unreasonable. It was clear Henry was shaken, if not terrified, by his plight. Did the change in attitude indicate Henry was calmed by the offer and would salve his own conscience by a pretence at fully considering the matter during the night? Looking at his son, Faulkner did not think him cut out for some conspiracy; he was strong on rhetoric but, as far as his father could judge, showed no sign of being a man-of-action. Faulkner was inclined to think he had just thrown Henry a lifeline which the young man would seize in the morning.

  ‘Of course, my boy,’ he said, rising with a smile to shake Henry’s hand. ‘And now, I think, to bed.’

  In the morning there was no sign of Henry; nor did he return that evening. After three days a boy turned up on the doorstep bearing a letter. It seemed to have been written at Gravesend and bore only a few lines.

  Father,

  Forgive my unannounced Departure but I could not Accept your Charity. I have, however, taken your Advice and, instead, Shipped out for the East Indies as Captain’s Clerk aboard the Eagle, East Indiaman, of which Edmund Drinkwater is Second Mate.

  Your loving son,

  Hry Faulkner

  ‘Hannah!’ Faulkner roared. When his daughter, her face still drawn with the pain of separation from her lover, peered round the door, he asked peremptorily, ‘What is the name of Edmund’s ship?’

  ‘Oh, Father … why, the Eagle.’

  ‘Your brother has seen fit to solicit the post of captain’s clerk. I assume you knew of this?’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘But I am glad of it, for the connection with Edmund—’

  ‘I’m sure the two will do very well together,’ Faulkner broke in curtly. ‘But remind me who commands her.’

  ‘Why, Captain Bradshaw.’

  ‘John Bradshaw?’

  ‘I think that is his name. He is said to speak highly of Edmund—’ She broke off with a sob.

  ‘I am sure he does, my dear.’ For the first time that morning Faulkner felt for his daughter and held out his arms.

  ‘Oh, Father …’ she sobbed, running into them.

  ‘There, there, my darling girl,’ he soothed, stroking her hair. ‘You will grow accustomed to it. Let us hope he makes his fortune quickly and we can take him into partnership here. We need young blood, and your uncle and I are hoping to invest again in the East India trade.’ It was clear that Hannah cared nothing for these musings, but he did not know what else to say that held out any amelioration of her present woe.

  Fortunately for both father and daughter, Judith chose this moment to enter the room, and she took Hannah into her own arms. Released, Faulkner left them, in order to consult Gooding. There was work to be done, and at least the problem of Henry had been resolved. For a moment Faulkner preened himself; Henry had taken his advice. That was a significant event on its own.

  The matter resolved, Faulkner dismissed Henry from his mind, leaving it to Hannah and Judith to weep over these twin departures. He himself was constantly betwixt Stepney and his own business affairs as events in the capital overwhelmed its entire population.

  In early April, Faulkner was among the Brethren of Trinity House who welcomed General Monck to a dinner held in his honour. Having served under Monck’s flag when the General-at-Sea commanded the fleet against the Dutch, Faulkner was among those selected to welcome him.

  Monck looked older than Faulkner remembered, a thought tempered by consideration of the burden he bore, but the old soldier’s strong and ruddy features lit up when he recognized his former colleague.

  ‘Cap’n Faulkner, how good to see you,’ he said cordially, taking Faulkner’s hand. ‘What business occupies you these days?’

  ‘Matters of less import than occupy yours, sir, though it is kind of you to ask.’

  ‘I hope that you still have an interest in ships, beyond, of course –’ Monck looked about him at the assembled and expectant company – ‘this present gathering.’

  ‘I am an active ship-owner, yes, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Monck, pressing his hand and then releasing it as Faulkner introduced Captain Brian Harrison as his ‘particular friend’ among the Brethren.

  The dinner passed well, and at the toasts Monck rose in response to the Brethren drinking to his health and proposed they raise their glasses ‘to the future peace and prosperity of the Kingdom of England’.

  After Monck had left there was much speculation as to his use of the term ‘Kingdom’. Some saw it as a clear if private declaration of Monck’s intentions; others recalled the term had been used by even the Parliament after its rift with Charles I had become open warfare.

  ‘It is just a convention; he might just have readily said Republic or Commonwealth …’ someone said.

  ‘But he did not,’ responded Harrison, turning to Faulkner. ‘You know him best, Kit, what d’you think?’

  Faulkner shrugged. ‘Honest George is far too circumspect a man to make any declaration until it is made freely. He may be for the King but he may not. I would not attach too much importance to what was a common phrase long after the discomposure of the late King Charles.’

  This was followed by a general nodding of heads with only one or two dissenters. Few in those dangerous weeks wanted to show for one side or the other, and the Brethren were only too well aware of their mutual policy of concord. Such disinterest, however, did not stop the ceaseless speculation on the streets as the inevitable moment of decision crept daily closer. Indubitably driven by Monck’s careful hand, the incremental moves were made to persuade those of influence to recognize the will of the great mass of a people weary of a bullying Army and a power-hungry Rump Parliament. Business denied Faulkner a close following of the ins-and-outs, of the arguments for and against a House of Peers, but the newly elected Parliament met on the twenty-fifth of April, and all the talk was of recalling the exiled Charles to the throne of his fathers, since there were, among the newly returned members, numerous former royalists. Faulkner learned of the communications between Monck and Charles from which it was revealed that the King had made a formal declaration at Breda, the Dutch town at which he was presently resident. This had amounted to an agreement of terms between Charles and the general’s secret envoys. Shortly afterwards the Parliament – now consisting at Monck’s insistence of two houses – issued a proclamation that King Charles would resume the throne ‘by inherent birth-right and lawful succession’. There followed the departure for Breda of the Commissioners appointed to treat with Charles directly and to arrange his speedy return.

  Finally, and without his wife, though in the company of Captain Harrison and other sea-captains among the Brethren, Faulkner stood in the Strand and witnessed the triumphant progress of King Charles. The King made a splendid progress, accompanied by cavalry and infantry to the reported number of 20,000, many of th
e former brandishing their swords and shouting hurrahs as their horses trampled the flowers strewn in the road by the enthusiastic and equally noisy citizens. To add to the din, the church-bells were again rung, while to the glittering cavalcade of nobles and royalists, among them conspicuous exiles who, but a year or two earlier would have had their persons strung up had they appeared in London, was added the garish adornment of tapestries and bright drapery, flags and even bed-sheets upon which were rudely painted words of loyal welcome. At every balcony ladies in their finery, and backed by their maids, threw flowers and longing looks at the dark-visaged King who was, at some six feet and mounted on his charger, a contrast with his diminutive father. The difference prompted enthusiastic comment, eliciting an optimism: ‘Things will be different,’ people said to each other. ‘He is so unlike his father, and his years of exile will have formed a different man.’

  At Temple Bar the Lord Mayor, the Aldermen and the Liverymen of a score of Worshipful Companies stood in their chains and robes to greet the King, while the fountains ran with wine at their expense.

  In the following days London was full of people from all over the country wealthy enough to come and see the King, who daily showed himself to loud and enthusiastic public acclamation. Adulation of such intensity left Faulkner cold. He had known Charles Stuart as a young man, had been instrumental in the fugitive’s escape from his pursuers at the beginning of the Civil War and, on the way, had taught His Royal Highness the elements of handling a vessel under sail. But he had also known Charles in exile and had lost his great love, Katherine Villiers, to the casual vice of the idle prince. Charles was, he mused to himself back in his house in Wapping, both King and libertine, and Faulkner had little doubt but that his court would be corrupted by the King’s pursuit of his courtiers’ wives. Well, well, he thought to himself, he had no need to trouble himself. Despite Bence’s reference to his knighthood, conferred in the dark days of the King’s exile when Faulkner was among a handful of naval commanders willing and able – at their own expense – to wage war on Charles Stuart’s behalf, he was confident that he could now sink into quiet obscurity. The restored monarch would have enough to do repairing his damaged country. The best citizens like Faulkner could do was to advance commerce and thereby help, for the public exchequer was empty and money was needed everywhere. The Army needed paying, as did the Navy, for which the repair and building of ships was a necessity. Notwithstanding the hospitality the Dutch had afforded the exiled prince, the Stadtholder and the wealthy burghers of the Seven United Provinces were not eager to allow the English unfettered access to the Spice Islands.

  The reflection brought Faulkner again to the consideration of trading with the East Indies. He and Gooding had had majority shares in East Indiamen in years past, and now, he thought, was the time to renew their investment in the trade. If, as he supposed, young Edmund Drinkwater stood high in the estimation of the Company’s Committees, a union with Hannah could have advantages to the house of Gooding and Faulkner. Smiling to himself, Faulkner began to formulate plans to build a new ship for the trade and wondered whether young Drinkwater would suit her as commander. It would be a dowry for Hannah and a shrewd enough move for all concerned.

  Later that day he fell into a discussion over the specification for their proposed new ship with Gooding. The two men were deeply into the detail of conforming with the exacting standards demanded by the East India Company, when a messenger arrived with a note. There was nothing unusual in this; such notes were constantly brought to their door, carried from their warehouse or their counting-house. They concerned the business of their ships, or the ships of others for whom they acted as London agents, then lying in the river.

  Faulkner slit the wafer, read it and smiled. Looking up at Gooding he remarked, ‘Well, well. The Brethren are summoned to Deptford for the first time in a dozen years. Honest George Monck has been created Duke of Albemarle, and we are to consider – along with some other candidates for form’s sake, no doubt – electing him our Master.’

  ‘That is no small honour in itself,’ said Gooding ironically, a misunderstanding as to Faulkner’s enthusiastic involvement with the Trinity House being the sole item of disagreement between them, if one set aside their religious incompatibilities. ‘But it is small beer to a man who might have been Protector, was certainly a King-Maker and is now a Duke!’

  ‘That is precisely the reason why I am pleased, my dear Nathan. The Dukedom signifies that Monck’s position is secure, his services esteemed by His Majesty. Should we in turn deserve his patronage, then our position, so shaken by the late civil disorders, is reaffirmed.’

  ‘And that is so important to you?’

  ‘Not to me, Nathan, but to the poor devils who have suffered in the late wars and whose condition we shall be in a better position to ameliorate than of late.’

  ‘One might almost think you a Christian, Kit,’ Gooding said with a wry smile.

  ‘I should not go that far,’ Faulkner responded drily with a laugh.

  ‘There is one thing that is troubling me in all this universal rejoicing,’ Gooding said seriously.

  ‘Only one? Good heavens, Nathan,’ Faulkner said, his mood still light, unaware of the solemn note air Gooding had assumed. ‘I should have thought a Puritan like you would have feared the imminent opening of the gates of Hell itself!’

  ‘I did not note among the King’s returning entourage a certain lady …’ Gooding let the import of the sentence hang in the air.

  A deathly hush fell between the two men. Then Faulkner asked, ‘Has your sister prompted this mention of her?’

  Gooding shook his head. ‘No, but I know the thought is in her mind, and the apprehension of …’ He paused awkwardly.

  Faulkner interjected, ‘Her name is Katherine Villiers, and, if it pleases you, I have neither heard of her, or heard from her, since I abandoned her in Holland. For all I know she is dead. Besides, she is of like age as myself, or nearly so.’

  ‘She is much younger.’

  ‘Only a little … But does your sister say that?’

  Gooding shrugged. ‘I only mean—’

  ‘I know what you mean, Nathan, and I appreciate your concern, but your investment will be safe.’

  ‘I know that; it is not my investment, Kit, it is my peace of mind. I do not think that I could tolerate your absconding a second time.’

  ‘You think I still have feelings for the woman?’

  ‘I do not know. I have never had strong feelings for any woman, but I marvel that those that do succumb to the attractions of the opposite sex are apt – upon occasion – to act like madmen.’

  Faulkner looked at Gooding and laughed. ‘Come, let us decide who is to lay out this Indiaman for us and forget the past. It is like water passed under London Bridge.’

  ‘Perhaps, but the tide brings some, at least, of it back up the stream.’

  That night Faulkner dreamed of building their new East Indiaman. The dream passed pleasantly as the ships rose on the stocks until it came to the day of her launching. Then Judith came screaming, wild-eyed, onto the scene, tearing at her hair which flew about her face. She was followed by Henry, whose face was that of a pallid corpse, and Hannah, holding a posy and who had been given the honour of launching the ship. The great hull, decked out with flags and ensigns, began to move. The King was in attendance, a great honour conferred upon Sir Christopher Faulkner, one among the greatest of the ship-owners of London. On the river in their barges, the Lord Mayor of London, the Aldermen and Liverymen and the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House paid their respects. Other boats crowded the river and, besides the cheering populace, the merchant ships lying in the tiers all fired their guns in salute. But above it all the sharp keening of Judith rent the air and introduced a note of warning. Faulkner began to sweat in his sleep, to twist and turn as the dream reached its climax.

  As the great Indiaman slid down the ways, her transom breasted the dark waters of the Thames and drove a white wave bef
ore it. The great stern had passed before he had read her name, and it now occurred to him that the question of the ship’s name was unresolved. Yet Hannah had launched it. He could not recall what name she had used! They were in the presence of the King, and as Faulkner turned to look at His Majesty he saw the wide grin below the dark eyes and the black mustachios. Something was wrong; something was terribly, terribly wrong. Then the Indiaman’s bow flew past Faulkner. He was now alone and for some inexplicable reason exposed upon an elevated platform level with the passing gun-deck of the ship as, with a roar, she accelerated down the greased slipway. It was then that he knew why Judith wailed so intensely, for the new ship’s figurehead sped past him: it was a superb carving of the beautiful Katherine Villiers.

  Indemnity and Oblivion

  June 1660–May 1661

  ‘I suggest, gentlemen, that you leave your papers with me, and I shall give you a price per ton within the week.’

  ‘She must lade at the standard five hundred tons burthen, Sir Henry,’ Nathan Gooding said firmly. Faulkner looked on; he had deliberately allowed his brother-in-law to lead the negotiations.

  Sir Henry Johnson smiled. ‘I admire your ambition, gentlemen. Five hundred tons is increasingly favoured by the Company’s Court and, if you entertain any misgivings as to the likelihood of your vessel being accepted, I think I can lay such anxieties to rest.’ Johnson looked directly at Faulkner. ‘The past is the past, Captain, and we here at Blackwall look to the future.’ Johnson rose and held out his hand; Faulkner and Gooding scraped back their chairs, shook the master-shipwright’s hand and, donning their hats, passed out into the bustle of the shipyard.