They hastened aboard, and Faulkner had to remind himself of the fiction of their voyage. Bouws grunted a courteous greeting and led them aft, to the cabin which he had vacated under the terms of the charter. Faulkner bundled his entourage below, the two officers standing on deck as their prisoners left the deck. Faulkner followed and cast a quick look round the cabin. It was cosily domestic, the brass lamp glowing warmly, and in other circumstances it would have filled him with delight, but he must now await the arrival of others and hoped they would not be long in coming. ‘Sit down,’ he instructed his charges, ‘and remain silent.’
The English officer who had led the way to the canal, and who Faulkner knew simply as Captain Brown, remained on deck, explaining to Bouws that the English gentleman’s secretary and three servants should already have been aboard and that they would have to wait for them. Bouws made some reply that a man did not need such an entourage and that he was keen to start since as soon as this escapade was over he had a serious living to make. Captain Brown joshed him that he would make more tonight by cozening up to an English gentleman, such as his passenger was, than in a month of Sundays otherwise. Bouws grunted, spat over the side, lit his pipe and shouted something in Frisian to his men standing by on deck.
To Faulkner waiting below, his eyes on his prisoners, his ears trying to divine what was going on on deck, these were moments of renewed tension. He hated the passivity and the reliance upon others. He heard a shouted exchange; was this Downing and the Regicides, or someone else? It was the night-watch, and Faulkner felt his heart lurch, noticing the sudden change of expression on Judith’s face. Henry too had undergone a transformation as the awakening of hope came to him.
‘I’m watching you both,’ Faulkner said balefully, his hand on the butt of his wheel-lock. He drew the heavy weapon and cocked it, pointing its brutal muzzle at first Henry and then his wife. ‘Move beside each other,’ he said.
On deck the leader of the watchmen was demanding to know what was afoot at this late hour and why Bouws intended moving his tjalk after dark. Bouws launched into a complex explanation in which the skipper adopted a sudden change of face, extolling the importance of his mission and the riches and virtues of his passenger. ‘He threw them three guilders to drink to his own health and to be off and leave him to his affairs,’ Brown said when he told Faulkner of the incident next morning as they sailed south towards the River Maas. ‘My, ’tis wonderful what may be wrought with a little gold; it was his own money he ventured. At that point I knew you had chosen well!’
Ignorant of all this at the time, Faulkner kept his eyes on his two prisoners. Eventually, the tone of conversation on deck fell away to a desultory exchange of comments between Brown and Bouws. Then, after what seemed an eternity but was in reality no more than three or four minutes, Faulkner heard Brown’s voice raised, speaking in English.
‘Come on, damn you, you are keeping His Lordship waiting. He expects his servants to precede him, not lag behind like camp-followers.’ Brown switched to Dutch, instructing Bouws to get under way at once, distracting him from noticing anything odd about the new arrivals.
Faulkner heard footfalls on the deck then the knocking sound of hatch-boards being lifted; then came the noise of more steps. It was clear the Regicides were being accommodated in the hold immediately forward of the cosy after-cabin. That would be understandable, though the precipitate manner of their descent might raise suspicions; but the gold – or at least the prospect of it – had done its work. Bouws had cast off and was occupied in the business of getting sweeps out to work astern, out into the main canal. Faulkner felt a gentle movement under his feet and noticed that both Judith and Henry were equally aware that they were under way. They sat thus side by side, confronting Faulkner, the cabin table between them, the barrel of the wheel-lock an accusation of the prisoners’ past conduct and an augury of their future fate.
‘You scum,’ Judith said quietly.
Faulkner was saved the necessity of a response for, with a thud, the companionway slid open and a pair of muddied boots descended. Sir George Downing came below and stared at Judith and Henry. Without taking his eyes off them he said, ‘Well done, Sir Christopher. Our other friends are trussed in the hold. I shall disembark as we turn the corner into the main canal.’ Downing withdrew his right hand from his glove and held it out to Faulkner. ‘Until we meet again,’ he said.
Faulkner was watching the effect Downing’s arrival had on Judith and Henry. He had no idea whether or not they knew who he was, but his confident presence was tangible evidence that they had been caught by an efficient network from which escape was impossible. He shook Downing’s hand, and Downing clambered up on deck. They felt the slight bump as the tjalk scraped the canal bank, presumably as Downing disembarked. A moment later they received a second visitor; it was Armerer, and he carried leg-irons.
He too looked at Faulkner’s prisoners and slowly expelled his breath. Faulkner felt the easing of tension but dared not drop his own guard. Armerer moved round the table, knelt and snapped the leg-irons on each prisoner in turn, padlocking them securely. Then he sat down alongside Faulkner.
‘Our Anglo-Dutch friends have left with Downing,’ he said quite deliberately in front of Judith and Henry, ‘but Sir George has kindly left four of his personal body-servants to act as guards. In an hour or so I shall send one of them down to relieve you. He looks somewhat like an ogre. Now I am going to get something to eat. We have some cold meat and beer with us, and there will be enough for you too. I suggest we leave these people to go hungry for a while. By the way,’ he added conversationally, ‘you have chosen a fine little ship, Sir Christopher.’
Left alone again Faulkner regarded his two charges. ‘You may talk if you wish, but you will oblige me by keeping a civil tongue in your heads,’ he said simply.
‘You scum,’ Judith repeated.
Faulkner affected not to listen. He laid the wheel-lock down on a locker behind him, stood, took off his gloves and hat and scratched his pate vigorously. It was the act of a relaxed man.
‘You scum,’ Judith said yet again.
In one movement Faulkner picked up his gloves, leaned across the table and flicked them in Judith’s face. Her head jerked back and they barely touched her, but her arms flew up and she grabbed at his extended wrist. Faulkner twisted free but Henry had stood and lunged at him only to discover that Armerer had not merely secured his ankles, but had run the chain links through an eye-bolt secured to the deck to restrain the chair upon which he sat. The sudden, unexpected restraint caused him to fall forward, and Faulkner, perceiving him losing his balance, shoved his head hard down against the table with his left hand. His right, meanwhile, savagely twisted Judith’s wrist, all but breaking it as he relinquished his grip and stood back. Henry slowly raised his bruised head from the table and fell back into his chair while Judith slumped into her own.
Faulkner hefted the wheel-lock. ‘Next time …’ he said significantly.
Half an hour later he was on deck, drinking in the cold night air. It had rained, for Bouws stood at the tiller in oiled tarpaulin and the decks were wet, but it had eased and the wind was blowing the sky clear of clouds. Bouws said something like, ‘Goot vind,’ nodding forward where the dark shapes of men were clustered round the foot of the mast, now swung vertical again in its large, solid tabernacle. The great mainsail went creaking up into the sky, its short curved gaff uppermost, its foot stretched along a massive boom the thickness of man’s thigh – of the ogre’s thigh, in fact.
Armerer’s description of Downing’s servant had not been inaccurate. The man was huge, went by the name of Hendricks, and had grinned at his charges as Faulkner had handed them over. He spoke heavily accented and faulty English that, combined with his bulk, sufficiently intimidated both Judith and Henry, who appeared cowed.
Faulkner looked at the mainsail as it caught the stiff breeze that blew over the flat landscape. Although they were now running south under sail, Faulkner grasped the
complexities of moving a small craft in and out of the canal system – complexities which would have occupied Bouws for that long period during which Faulkner waited impatiently for news of the tjalk’s arrival at the rendezvous. Bouws and his crew would have had to use long oars, or sweeps, combined with warping, a tedious business of carrying out a long line, making it fast and then hauling the tjalk along by heaving it in. Longer legs were made by passing a line ashore and man-hauling it, for which task old Bouws had to rely upon the muscular power of his small crew, just as he did now in the hoisting of sail.
They were well clear of Delft now, and the wind, Faulkner guessed, was from the west, broad enough on the bow to allow them to sail on a narrow reach along the canal. In places trees screened them, but these fell back as they scudded south-south-westward towards Vlaardingen. Armerer joined him on deck and drew him out of earshot of Bouws at the helm. ‘D’you think this wind will hold?’ he asked.
Faulkner looked at the sky; it was much clearer now. He could see stars and a hint of moonlight from the new moon, though that still lay behind thinning cloud. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘In fact it may chop round to the nor’-west, which would improve our position. You are concerned that once daylight arrives the alarm will be raised?’
Armerer nodded. ‘Just so. The Dutch were not happy with Sir George; my guess is that legal processes had been started in order to thwart him. The only reason we escaped so easily was that we moved when we did, before the lawyers and advocates woke to our machinations. A relay of horsemen could—’
‘But they think we are for Harwich,’ interrupted Faulkner. ‘If they seek to detain us at Maasluis or The Hook, they will wait all day. It is time we told our friend Bouws that he is not going to Harwich, but to Helvoetsluys. Come, let us deal with the matter at once. Tell him I don’t fancy a crossing of the North Sea in this tub. Have you any more guilders to sweeten him if necessary?’
‘Downing left me some,’ Armerer replied.
‘Good.’ Faulkner led Armerer to the stern where the skipper leaned nonchalantly against his huge curved iron tiller and serenely smoked his pipe.
‘Sir Christopher, my master,’ began Armerer, ‘wishes to change his mind. He does not want to go to Harwich, Mynheer, he wishes to go to Helvoetsluys.’ Faulkner watched as Bouws’s weathered brow furrowed. Armerer affected to look over his shoulder at Faulkner before lowering his voice. ‘He is scared of crossing the North Sea in so small a craft.’
Faulkner heard the recognizable nouns ‘Noord Zee’ and watched as Bouws cast him a glance, removed his pipe and spat to leeward. ‘Helvoetsluys,’ he said slowly.
Armerer nodded. ‘There will be money for you Mynheer,’ he said, adding: ‘A private arrangement.’
Bouws nodded, considered the matter, spat again, then responded. Faulkner recognized several of the words and the names of towns before Armerer turned to him and translated. ‘He doesn’t appear to mind. Perhaps he is as scared of the North Sea as I pretend you to be. He says that the ebb will be running in the Maas and he could run down, double Voorne to get into the Haringvliet that way, but he would rather cross the Maas and use the canal system to reach the Haringvliet.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘That suits our purposes admirably. Do you think he has smoked us?’
‘Hmm. I think he may suspect something, but he isn’t certain.’ Armerer smiled. ‘As long as we are not stopped, I think we may rely upon the persuasive power of gold.’
Faulkner nodded. As long as they were not stopped. ‘It will be daylight in two hours or so. I will breathe easier when we are south of the Maas.’
The dawn lit up the east behind the rooftops and spires of Vlaadingen. The canal had swung towards the south, and they entered the locks in the town before passing into the tidal waters of the River Maas. Bouws said something to Armerer, who remarked that it were best that they went below and left the skipper and his men to handle the lock-keeper.
‘There are tolls to pay and papers to be seen.’
‘Does he have papers?’ Faulkner asked, suddenly alarmed.
‘I doubt it, but he may have obtained clearance for Harwich, though we left him little time for it. Anyway, I doubt he’ll have a problem; he’s a shrewd old bird. Let’s go below and ensure our own birds do not sing too loudly. Come and see the Regicides.’
Faulkner followed Armerer through the open hatch-board and under the corner of the tarpaulin that had been drawn across to keep out the dim light of a half-shuttered lantern. The after end of the hold was occupied by Downing’s servants, the forward end by the Regicides. The three men lay on some loose straw, the remains of an earlier cargo, for it was sparse enough. They were bound, hand and foot, and gagged. Faulkner regarded the restraint overly cruel but held his peace.
‘Here they are,’ said Armerer, ‘John Okey, Miles Corbett and John Barkstead. They do not seem so very terrible, do they, and yet their continued existence threatens the peace of England and the foundations of our King’s throne.’
Armerer spoke with that simple direct conviction that these three Roundheads had once known well. Faulkner, schooled by Sir Henry Mainwaring, and living close to the complexities of first court and later state life, found such dogmatism naive and immature. Would that the world could be regulated like the child’s nursery he had once seen in London at one of the Trinity Brethren’s houses; a small world where everything had its place and all was joyous and happy. But the world was not inhabited by children, unless it was these men with their honest straightforwardness who were the world’s innocents. If so, the world, with its insatiable appetites, was about to consume them.
Faulkner regarded the three wretches. They were trussed like piglets on their way to market. No, they did not look like a threat to King Charles II but, like the other two persons confined abaft the bulkhead in the tjalk’s cabin, they could make mischief enough. One man – Okey, Faulkner thought him to be – seemed asleep, at least his eyes were closed, though how one could sleep in so cramped and awkward a state puzzled Faulkner. The other two regarded him with a burning hatred. Whether or not they knew his identity seemed irrelevant; that he was among their gaolers was sufficient to earn their visceral contempt. He was, he realized, one of the engines moving them inexorably towards the most terrible end.
He would never forget the look in their eyes.
Faulkner slept in his cloak on deck for an hour as they crossed the Maas and entered that complicated system of waterways that wound southwards, past Spijkenisse and Oud-Beijerland to debouche at last into the Haringsvliet – that Herringfleet of the English jack’s Anglicization. The winding nature of the waterway, the now contrary tide and a falling and backing wind confounded Faulkner’s predictions, delaying them. But no horsemen raised any alarm, and the sun was already westering behind low banks of cloud by the time the near-open water of the Herringfleet – bounded on the far side by the low land of Over-Flakke – lay before them.
It would be a hard beat downstream before either the town of Helvoetsluys or the Blackamoor came in sight. Faulkner made periodic visits to the cabin but largely left the duty of guarding Judith and Henry to Downing’s men. It lessened the risk of the prisoners taking advantage of any weakness; besides, he was weary, the strain of the last weeks telling upon him. He was, he told himself, the oldest person involved in this horrid affair.
Once the few light of Helvoetsluys were in sight Faulkner went forward. His eyes, the eyes of an old man and none too certain of what they saw, scanned the darkness until he saw what he was looking for. ‘The next tack will do very nicely,’ he murmured to himself as he turned aft and went to rouse Armerer. ‘Tell our skipper that he may forget about Helvoetsluys; he is to lay us alongside the man-of-war on his larboard bow.’
‘I don’t know the Dutch for “larboard bow”,’ Armerer complained.
‘Try “backboard bow” – but he’ll see her soon enough … Point over there.’ Armerer hurried off, and Faulkner heard the old man expostulating. He strode aft an
d drew his wheel-lock. Bouws saw the dull glint of starlight on gun-metal and fell silent. ‘Tell him to rig fenders and get mooring lines ready. If he wishes, I will take the helm.’
Armerer translated, and Bouws shook his head vigorously, making conciliatory gestures to Faulkner. ‘He’ll comply,’ Armerer said shortly. ‘Downing’s gold will see to that.’
Faulkner went forward, leaned against the tjalk’s larboard rigging and cupped his hands about his mouth. ‘Blackamoor, hoy!’ he bellowed, repeating the hail after a moment. He did not have to wait any longer for a response. Tobias Sackler was aware of his duty.
‘Who goes there?’ came the answer.
‘Captain Sir Christopher Faulkner with diplomatic packages for London!’
‘Come alongside!’
‘We shall need a whip and net at the main yardarm!’
‘Aye, aye!’
There was a nasty chop running in the Herringfleet, and Bouws’s fenders were needed, even against the ample tumblehome of the pink, but the Dutch skipper laid his little craft alongside the man-of-war with accomplished flair while his crew dropped the mainsail and then hurried fore and aft to make fast. From the low whistle which he emitted, Faulkner knew Bouws was enjoying himself. At least he did not have to entangle himself with the authorities at Helvoetsluys; as a packet-port they were likely to be far more efficient than those at Delft. By the time double head and stern ropes had been secured, and springs from bow and stern had been made fast to the Blackamoor’s main and fore chains, three lanterns hung over the pink’s side and a rope net dangled over the broad hatchway, suspended from a line rove at the pink’s main yard-arm. Bouws’s men swiftly ran a lanyard round the lowered mainsail to prevent it flogging over the open corner of the hatchway.
Faulkner looked up at the pink’s gun-wale. He could see Sackler. ‘We have five prisoners, Captain Sackler,’ he called out. ‘Four men and one woman!’
The King's Chameleon Page 16