‘I thought him civil enough, in the circumstances,’ Gooding said as they stopped and stared about them. Faulkner merely grunted.
Two ships lay in frame on the slips, their curved futtocks rising high above the ground and prompting Gooding to remark on the activity. ‘He builds remarkably fast, though I cannot see a slip being free for three or four months.’
‘That need not concern us once we have proceeded to contract. I thought him optimistic on our behalf, though he was pointed enough to remind me of my sins.’
‘They were my Indiamen you attacked, brother-in-law,’ Gooding said, good-naturedly seizing the opportunity to get one-up over Faulkner. ‘And good men were killed,’ he added in a sober tone.
‘On both sides, I would remind you, brother-in-law,’ Faulkner responded.
Gooding was minded to remark that his Indiamen had been lying peacefully at anchor when attacked by Faulkner and his royalist pirates, but thought better of it. He possessed the rare good-sense to hold his tongue when no good would come of not so doing.
They stood in the summer sunshine, regarding the two ships and the sparkling river beyond the declivity of the slipways. It was, as always, alive with craft of every size, from riverine stumpie barges and passenger wherries to the dominating form of an ocean-going East Indiaman alongside the sheer-hulk, receiving her mizzen mast.
‘Come, let us go,’ said Gooding, pulling at Faulkner’s sleeve.
‘Wait a moment.’ Faulkner drew away and walked towards the nearer of the two building-slipways. A rickety scaffolding rose round the massive oak frames that stood every few feet, rebated and bolted to the horizontal keel, a huge timber below which lay a false keel. Above the cross-sections of the futtocks lay the equally solid keelson. Men toiled about the half-formed ship, mostly at this stage ship-wrights, their mates and apprentices, drilling holes and driving either copper bolts or wooden pegs, known as trenells, to fasten the rib-like frames to the spinal form of the keel. The smell of pitch, of smoke and steam from the steam chests, the sweet scent of wood shavings mingled in the still summer air. The tonk-tonk of the shipwrights’ mallets, the harder ring of steel maul on copper bolt-head, the whinny of a horse drawing a heavily laden cart into the timber yard and the dull rasp of the saws in the saw-pits filled the air. An occasional shouted order broke through the noise of chaffing and conversation among the men at work, while one man whistled tunelessly as he banged away.
On the sheer-hulk Faulkner could see men at a capstan and an over-seer on the rail, one hand extended and motioning for the men to veer, then to stop. He heard faintly the instruction to: ‘Engage the pawl!’ Then the men at the capstan visibly relaxed their labours. Beyond the ship-yard out on the river the craft moved lazily, their sails barely filled by the wind, driven upstream by the flood-tide. Those bound downstream carried the faint westerly air, their motion painfully slow set against the far side of the river. Some had abandoned the attempt and had laid to an anchor until the tide turned and helped them on their way.
Not for the first time Faulkner wondered at how few collisions there were, recalling sailing down this very river when first appointed to command the King’s Whelp. That had been a long time ago, and he did not like to dwell upon the past, but he could not escape the vivid reality of the dream he had had, even after three days had passed. It was odd, he thought, how a dream, which he knew was a product of nothing more than his own imagination, could nevertheless so unsettle him. He knew he was a fool for thinking of it; even supposing he encountered Katharine Villiers in the street, too much time had passed for either one of them to recognize the other. He threw off the train of thought; he was no love-sick youth, mooning over a lady beyond his reach. There was enough to occupy him in the here-and-now, without reviewing what had long since passed beyond recovery. He turned with a sigh and looked back to Gooding standing at the top of the slipway, patiently waiting for him. There was a good and sound man, Faulkner thought, lifting his hand to him before striding purposefully towards him.
‘Come, Nathan,’ he said brusquely as he drew alongside his partner. ‘We have no time to stand and stare like a pair of loons.’
Used to his partner’s poor taste in jest Gooding made no response but fell in step alongside Faulkner as they made for the gate of the yard, passing Sir Henry’s large private dwelling known by all who knew of it as his mansion-house.
‘He keeps up some style, by God,’ Faulkner remarked as they passed the sentry on the gate who saluted their departure. ‘Even the guards wear his livery.’
‘Johnson is a well-regarded man, as well-regarded as the Petts at Chatham,’ added Gooding.
‘All those who build ships – whether for the King or we merchant-owners – have a curious reluctance to spend much time in them. They dispose of their business so that the poor mariner has no choice in the matter.’
‘If you have any notions it would be as well to voice them.’
‘Oh, I shall, I shall.’
Two days later, on the eighteenth of June, Faulkner joined Harrison, Bence and the other Brethren at the old Trinity Hall at Deptford. Here they elected George Monck, Duke of Albemarle, their Master for the year ahead before processing to church to join their alms-people all assembled from the adjacent alms-houses. From there they returned to the Hall and enjoyed a hearty dinner. On their way back upstream in a wherry, Harrison, knowing of Faulkner’s intention of building an East Indiaman, asked whether Faulkner had decided where to have her built.
‘We have contracted with Johnson’s yard at Blackwall,’ he replied.
‘A good choice,’ Harrison conceded. ‘You will pay a little above the common price elsewhere but will have little trouble getting the ship taken up by the Company in due course.’
‘That is what we supposed,’ Faulkner said, nevertheless pleased with Harrison’s approval.
Six weeks later Johnson’s men laid the keel of the new ship. She was known to be building to the specification laid down by the East India Company, and by the end of ten weeks her frames had begun to rise. The partners were in negotiation with the East India Company’s ship’s husbands who provided the tonnage required for the company’s annual ventures, several of whom were fellow Trinity Brethren of Faulkner’s. He knew these men well, and they placed little obstacle in the way of their adding Faulkner and Gooding’s new ship to those suitable to tender for the Company’s Maritime Service, ventures in which they had previously participated. As the new ship grew upon the stocks, the partners’ walk to Blackwall became part of their weekly routine, and although the work slowed as the winter set in, it nevertheless went forward at a steady pace.
They had put down a deposit on the signing of the contract and, despite Faulkner’s occasional modification to Johnson’s construction, the financing of the new vessel proceeded with equal smoothness.
Christmas came and went, but January brought a sombre event, for on the thirtieth, the anniversary of the late King’s execution, the disinterred corpses of Cromwell, Ireton and Bradshaw were dragged to Tyburn, hanged and buried in a deep pit. Although the event was common knowledge, no-one in the family mentioned it and, as far as Faulkner was aware, none of his relatives witnessed the horrid event. Indeed, the building of the new ship introduced an air of optimism, of looking forward and anticipating a promising future.
‘The past is past and should be left to rot,’ Faulkner was accustomed to growl when any conversation at the dinner-table seemed like growing retrospective.
‘Thank God this is a time of peace,’ Gooding was fond of pointing out, to which Faulkner came to retort that this circumstance was entirely due to the King’s restoration. The word-play became so common a feature of their weekly perambulation that they grew used to laughing at it.
‘Johnson has kept to his compounding at eleven pounds to the ton,’ Gooding said as they discussed their forthcoming payment which fell due several weeks into the New Year. Faulkner nodded, looking down at the papers over which Gooding toiled. ‘We have not
decided what to call her,’ Gooding added, looking up at him.
‘I thought “Wapping” a suitable name.’
‘“Wapping”,’ mused Gooding for a moment before nodding agreement. ‘Then “Wapping” it shall be.’ He made an entry at the foot of a column of figures before writing Wapping across the head of the top-sheet. Laying his quill down, Gooding sanded the wet ink and sat back, wearily rubbing his eyes. ‘Great heavens, but my eyes pain me; my sight is not what it was. He looked up at Faulkner. ‘Shall you pour a glass that we might drink to the East Indiaman Wapping?’
‘With all my heart,’ responded Faulkner, reaching for the flagon of wine.
It was a bright spring forenoon in mid-May of 1661, and Faulkner and Gooding were ambling back from Blackwall after spending some hours at the yard, as the Wapping, nearing completion and being readied for her launch, demanded an increasing amount of their time. They had become familiar with the bustle in the lane, and their faces were known to the regular coster-mongers, carters and itinerant craftsmen that walked hither-and-yon, either in search of work, or proceeding to or from it. The pleasantness of the morning caused them to meander, making intermittent conversation, until Faulkner, keeping a better lookout than his partner, asked, ‘Is that young Hargreaves heading our way?’
He had spotted one of the young clerks they employed in their counting-house. The lad, no older than fourteen, was dodging his way through the steady procession of loaded carts and casual labourers seeking work who almost choked the lane leading to the Blackwall shipyard.
‘Good sirs!’ the youth cried, stopping in front of them and drawing his breath.
‘What on earth is the matter? You sound like an actor declaiming Shakespeare. Has St Paul’s tumbled down?’ Faulkner asked as the lad recovered his breath.
He shook his head and then announced: ‘I am sent to tell you that the Duke of Albemarle attended Goodwife Faulkner, sirs, and is asking for you, Cap’n Faulkner.’
‘Good heavens, what doth he want of you, Kit?’ Gooding rounded on Faulkner.
‘I have no idea. Unless he comes to warn me that the Act of Indemnity and Oblivion has named me as an enemy of the state …’
‘I beg you not to jest thus!’
‘Oh, for the love of the Lord God, Nathan …’ An exasperated and yet half amused Faulkner turned to the lad. ‘Have you any idea, Charlie?’
Charles Hargreaves shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, sir. Only that I was told to tell you that his lordship ought not to be kept waiting and I should run all the way to Blackwall to fetch you as he insisted on speaking with you directly and would leave neither message nor paper.’
‘Then we had better assume the guise of Mercury,’ said Faulkner. ‘Come, Charlie, clear the way for us.’
Honest George had been waiting for over an hour by the time Faulkner reached home; despite his flippancy, Faulkner was embarrassed at keeping Albemarle waiting. He had left Gooding to return to the counting-house with Charlie Hargreaves and come on alone. Now he threw his hat on a chair. ‘I am sorry to have detained you, Your Grace,’ Faulkner began, but Albemarle waved away his apologies, apparently untroubled by the delay.
Albemarle indicated Hannah who sat opposite to him. ‘Your charming daughter has been telling me of a voyage to the East Indies upon which I understand her betrothed is currently embarked in the Eagle, East Indiaman.’
‘I see …’
‘The matter clearly preoccupies her,’ Albemarle said with a smile, nodding at Hannah as she bobbed a curtsey and withdrew, her face scarlet with embarrassment and confusion.
‘We are, Your Grace, so unsympathetic to the young, even though we know the travail they are under,’ remarked Faulkner, pouring two stoups of wine and handing one to Albemarle.
‘You are right, but now that I am here I had better discharge my office, which is to require you to join me tomorrow at Court.’
‘Court, your Grace? You mean the King’s Court, not that of Trinity House?’
‘I mean the King’s Court, Sir Kit, whither I am bidden to convey you by Clarendon.’
Faulkner felt uneasy. Such a summons followed too hard upon the morning’s reverie and his recent dream not to invoke the seaman’s superstitious sense that he privately carried within him. His jest about the Act that had been passed by the Parliament and received the Royal Assent had not been made entirely devoid of self-interest.
‘Are you aware of why I am thus honoured, your Grace? For I must be so honoured if you have been charged to fetch me and have condescended to—’
‘I have not condescended, Captain. I am not risen so far that I would consider you as beyond my regard.’ Albemarle chuckled to himself. ‘These are curious times, Captain; we are forging a new world. Think you that in the old I should have been a duke? Ha! Never! As for you, you are probably to be preferred in some way. I understand the King and his brother are intent upon some sailing; perhaps you are summoned for this reason. You have a pinnace of your own, I understand.’ Albemarle looked at Faulkner. ‘Does that satisfy you?’
Faulkner gave a half bow. ‘I am at the King’s command, your Grace, and at your disposal. Shall you stay to dine with us?’
Albemarle paused to consider the matter. ‘What o’clock is it?’
‘Shortly before two, I believe. We have a saddle of mutton …’
‘I have already divined that, Captain,’ said Albemarle, tapping his nose, ‘and I find it as irresistible as your daughter.’
After dinner, during which the duke was affability itself, even succeeding in winning both smiles and pleasantries out of Judith, Albemarle showed no desire to hurry away. The two men sat with their pipes and, having discussed some matter relative to the charitable disbursements of the Trinity House and the failure of the state to relieve want and penury among seamen injured in its service, Albemarle remarked upon the debate then in progress through the House of Commons.
‘You have heard of the passing of the recent Act of Indemnity and Oblivion?’
‘Indeed, Your Grace. I understand that there are many who regard it as providing indemnity for the King’s enemies and oblivion for his friends.’
Albemarle chuckled. ‘Yes, I had heard that was what the wits were saying, but it restores at a stroke all crown and church lands. Pursuing private claims for recovery of what is rightfully yours will be subject to litigation, but there will be many who lack the deep pockets necessary to go to such an extreme.’
‘An injustice for those who have expended their fortunes in the Royalist cause,’ added Faulkner.
‘There is always a price to progress,’ said Albemarle, ‘but after the cries of outrage have died away, then I do sincerely hope that the business of government can look to the future. The Dutch are again encroaching upon our trade, and we shall, I’ll wager, fight with them again before we are through. ’Tis a pity, for they are much to be admired, but I fear there is no room for both nations without another trial of strength.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘I am in perfect harmony with you there, Your Grace. Moreover, I apprehend we shall have difficulties toppling them. They are better financed than ourselves, pay more attention to trade than to other preoccupations, and have withal a readier fleet. I happened to be at Deptford when deciding where to build a new ship and the King’s Dockyard there seemed scarcely a model for efficiency.’
‘Despite the Petts?’ Albemarle asked, raising one eyebrow.
‘Perhaps because of the Petts,’ Faulkner responded with a smile.
‘Wherever the hand of man turns itself to good employment, it finds itself mired in the stink of corruption. Still, matters are better regulated than in the time of the present King’s father, I think, though you would know more of that than I.’
‘That is very true.’
‘Well, perhaps the Act of Indemnity and Oblivion will draw a much-needed curtain over past misdeeds so that we can move our ravaged country into happier times.’
‘If that is its intention, Your
Grace; but I hear some vengeance is inevitable.’
Albemarle blew a plume of thick blue smoke at the ceiling and nodded. ‘Yes, His Majesty will seek to execute the Regicides still living. The disinterment of Cromwell and his son-in-law was but the beginning.’
‘That was a poor thing.’
‘But we must bow to the inevitable, Sir Kit, and you would do well not to express yourself with such freedom.’
‘I beg Your Grace’s pardon …’
‘Think nothing of it. You are under your own roof, but I would not have so valuable a sea-officer compromise himself in the hearing of some of the toadies that infest all courts.’
‘Your Grace is most considerate.’
Albemarle knocked out his pipe and hove himself to his feet. His leather jack-boots creaked as he stretched himself. ‘I shall present you tomorrow. Make yourself known at Whitehall Palace shortly before ten of the clock.’
Faulkner bowed and saw Albemarle to the street door. Here the duke was joined by his two armed servants who had been in Faulkner’s kitchen and, by the look of them, had quaffed more of Faulkner’s ale than was good for them. Knowing that she would speak of their visitor later when they retired, Faulkner decided not to talk to Judith or to pursue Hannah and tease her on account of Albemarle’s flirting; instead he walked down to the counting-house in anticipation of finding Gooding where he had been left on their way back from Blackwall.
He found Gooding ensconced with Captain John Lamont, a Scots master with whom Gooding had insisted they went into a partnership. Lamont owned a small bilander upon which he wished to raise a mortgage in order to marry. It was a matter of a few hundred pounds, and Faulkner had warned that with the fitting-out of the Wapping imminent, they ought not to over-reach themselves. The matter had raised the temperature between them and had been decided by Judith, who bought into the venture, so that in the end Faulkner had withdrawn his objection. Nevertheless, he considered Gooding owed him a favour.
‘What did My Lord Duke of Albemarle want of you?’ Gooding asked with an air of mild sarcasm.
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