‘We are fully prepared, sir,’ Sackler called back. ‘Send ’em up!’
The three Regicides were brought on deck one at a time by Downing’s servants. None of them could walk or help themselves. Making a motion for the net to be lowered, Faulkner unhooked it. ‘Spread that canvas,’ he told Armerer, indicating a sheet of sail-cloth thrown into the loose net. Armerer swiftly did as he was bid. The tjalk was bouncing up and down the Blackamoor’s side, occasionally thumping against the little man-of-war, which was herself moving and snubbing at her cable as wind and tide competed with each other as the dominant force ruling the Herringfleet that blustery evening. The man Faulkner thought of as Okey was laid on the canvas.
‘Hoist away,’ he called, and the seamen aboard the Blackamoor ran away with the whip. The net drew tight and, with its inert human cargo, shot into the air; a second line plucked it inboard and, as the seamen slacked back on the whip, John Okey was laid on the deck of His Majesty’s Pink Blackamoor. The operation was repeated twice more before the ogre brought Henry up from the after cabin. Henry was more mobile than the Regicides, but the ogre had not removed the leg-irons and Henry was pushed roughly into the net on the hatch-tarpaulin. Then he too was snatched up, into the custody of King Charles’s Royal Navy.
Armerer had gone below for Judith. Faulkner called out for Sackler to wait and, after Downing’s men had forced Judith into a crouched position on the canvas, he drew Armerer aside. ‘What shall you do now? Get Bouws to carry you back to Delft?’
‘Yes, that was my intention. I shall settle with him then.’
‘Give him my thanks, and ask him the name of his tjalk.’
Armerer called aft and repeated the name Bouws had said. ‘She’s the Velsa,’ Armerer told him. He held out his hand, and Faulkner briefly clasped it. Perhaps he sensed something of Faulkner’s repugnance at the task in which they had been jointly engaged; perhaps he was offering sympathy to a man whose future was uncertain, given the conduct of his wife and son. ‘Downing’s gold maketh all smooth, Sir Christopher,’ Armerer said. ‘Besides that, the end so often justifies the means.’
Faulkner bit his lip, burning to say that both Sir George Downing and King Charles were actually spending money mulcted from Sir Christopher Faulkner, but he forbore the peevish indignity. ‘Give Sir George my compliments,’ he said with a curt courtesy. A moment later he stuck the toes of his boots in the net, grasped the four loops that secured it to the whip’s hook and waved for the seamen to take it up.
He landed awkwardly, but on his feet, bent and handed Judith to hers. He could feel her shaking.
Sackler approached him, one hand at the brim of his hat, the other extended in greeting. ‘A desperate business, sir,’ he said succinctly, regarding Judith with a cold eye. Faulkner guessed it was only partly made up of curiosity; there was a strong prejudice among seamen of all classes against women on board ship. It was only to be expected that this would find an extreme form in a Puritan like Sackler.
Taking Judith’s arm and drawing her close to him, he introduced her. ‘This is my wife, Captain Sackler.’
Even in the fitful light thrown by the lanterns, Sackler’s astonishment was obvious, his eyes gleaming briefly in their cadaverous sockets. He mastered his surprise in a second, with a slight inclination of his head in Judith’s direction. ‘Madam … I have made no arrangements for passengers,’ he said, addressing Faulkner, ‘but you had better have my cabin, Sir Christopher. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get the vessel under way.’ He made to turn away and then swung back, adding in a low voice, ‘Arrangements have been made to secure the others, I can assure you.’ The last gleam of the lanterns hung over the side caught the sincerity of Sackler’s eyes as they were hauled inboard and extinguished. ‘You have my word on it, Sir Christopher.’
‘Very well.’ With the deck plunged into darkness, it took a moment for Faulkner to adjust to his new circumstances. He walked a reluctant Judith to the rail and peered over the side. The Velsa was being cast off. He could make out the faint glow of Bouws’s pipe and heard him bellow his orders as the men at the foot of the mast began work on the halliards. Armerer, Downing’s assortment of thugs and body-servants clustered about him, waved, and Faulkner returned the compliment. Then the wind caught the sail, the main-sheet was paid out and Bouws leaned against his huge tiller. The tide caught the Velsa, she swung away as the foresail drove her head round and she faded into the night.
Aboard the Blackamoor the hands were already tramping round the capstan, the topmen were aloft loosening the topsails and Sackler had taken his post beside the helm. He would have a hard beat out of the Herringfleet, but the tide would soon serve and, in any case, that was Sackler’s problem. Faulkner led Judith below.
The Home-Coming
March 1662
During the passage of the Velsa, Faulkner had consoled himself that his troubles would be over when they boarded the Blackamoor, but the presence of Judith redoubled his woes, bereft as he now was of the assistance of Armerer and his colleagues. Once the cabin door closed behind them Judith exerted all her strength and withdrew her arm with such ferocity that the release sent her reeling across the cabin. It was a confined, tapering and narrow space, sparsely furnished, as one would expect of an impecunious commander like Sackler. A small, lightly-partitioned sleeping-space led off on the starboard side, the small windows were shuttered and a dim lantern threw more shadows than light. As Judith recovered her balance the Blackamoor heeled to the wind: they were under-way. The sensation of movement released a flood of relief throughout Faulkner’s body. Sackler might consider that the older a man was, the less sleep he needed, but Faulkner was dog-weary. He would have injudiciously tossed off a pint of wine had one been to hand, its ownership notwithstanding, but no such supply was visible. Must he sit guard over his wife for the hours it would take to reach Harwich? Were they going to Harwich, or directly to London? He chid himself; he should have asked Sackler. And had he not ordered old Toshack to meet them at Harwich? He expelled his breath in a sigh of utter exhaustion, slumped into a chair, and withdrew the wheel-lock from his belt, placing it beside him and regarded his wife.
Judith stood, one hand against the bulkhead, the other to her mouth. The sight almost brought a smile to his face: Judith was going to be sea-sick! A moment later the Blackamoor came to his assistance and lurched to leeward before coming upright. They were in the process of going about, Faulkner realized; the pink hovered ‘in-stays’ for a short while and then obligingly lay down on the opposite tack. A thin stream of vomit escaped Judith, who gave a short cry of mortification and slumped back into Sackler’s sleeping-space and fell into the crude bunk. Faulkner got to his feet, discovered a pewter bowl and shoved it into her hands. Pulling the curtain across the entrance he resumed his chair. Ten minutes later he was fast asleep.
Faulkner awoke with a start. The lantern had gone out or been extinguished and light filtered through the window shutters. There was a light knocking at the cabin door. His first thought was for Judith. He leapt to his feet, moved swiftly to the sleeping-space and drew the curtain back. She lay asleep, one hand across her mouth, the bowl beside her. She had fouled Sackler’s bed-linen, and the air stank of vomit. The knock came again at the door, and he went to open it. A small man in a serge jacket and frock confronted him.
‘Cap’n Sackler’s compliments, sir, we have made a fast passage. We’re approaching the Sunk, and would you an’ her leddyship require some breakfast?’
Faulkner shook his head to clear it. ‘That would be most kind,’ he said.
‘We’ve some eggs and burgoo, sir.’
It proved a capital breakfast, and Judith stirred as Sackler’s servant brought it into the cabin. It was followed by Sackler himself; his proboscis wrinkled at the smell of vomit.
‘I give you a good morning, Sir Christopher. I trust Her Ladyship’s night was not too uncomfortable.’ Faulkner explained his wife’s plight, but Sackler waved his apologies aside. ‘No ma
tter, I regret your distress, ma’am,’ he said in Judith’s direction before returning his attention to Faulkner. ‘As you probably guessed I am making for Harwich, where I shall land Lieutenant Clarke with despatches as my orders require. I shall then await orders. If the wind serves I am to proceed directly to Deptford, otherwise I am to discharge three of my passengers at Harwich, whither, I am given to understand, a squadron of cavalry will shortly arrive. As I am also expected to serve under your direction, Sir Christopher, perhaps you will tell me what you expect of me.’
‘Of course. I regret that you have been placed in so awkward a position. The fourth man is my own prisoner, a charge I am laid under by the highest authority. As I told you, I have my own vessel at Harwich and should wish to transfer into her on arrival.’ He paused, weighing up Sackler, who thus far had behaved with impeccable propriety. However, it occurred to Faulkner that if he wished, once he had gone, Sackler could weigh anchor and do as he wished with the three Regicides. Both men’s eyes met, and it was clear that Sackler divined Faulkner’s train of thought for he smiled that curiously attractive smile of his and said, ‘I gave you my word, Sir Christopher.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘Yes, you did, but …’ He glanced at Judith. He had once trusted her. She stared back at him, her face pale from her discomfiture. It was clear she had withdrawn into herself, biding her time, Faulkner suspected, until she was ashore and could determine which way the wind blew. ‘Well, no matter. I shall remember Septimus Clarke, Captain Sackler, as I shall remember you.’
Sackler nodded and made his excuses. ‘I am needed on deck, as you will understand.’
To the surprise of both Faulkner and Sackler, a troop of cavalry was already awaiting their arrival in Harwich; so too was the Hawk. By the end of that day the three Regicides had been placed inside a locked coach, surrounded by the troopers, and had left Harwich by the town gate on the Colchester Road. Faulkner, Henry and Judith had been pulled across to the Hawk in the Blackamoor’s boat, and the little pink had slipped out to sea, to resume her duty of protecting the fisheries.
As Faulkner had taken his departure from Sackler, the latter had asked, ‘Who is the fourth man, Sir Christopher?’ Faulkner had looked at him, and Sackler had added, ‘Forgive my curiosity.’
Faulkner had expelled a long sigh. ‘He is my son, Captain Sackler; as to his condition as a prisoner, I beg you not to press me. I recall you too have dependants; sometimes they are a mixed blessing.’
‘They are certainly a burden,’ Sackler had observed drily. ‘I apologize for asking.’
‘Not at all.’ They had shaken hands and taken their leave of one another.
Once aboard the Hawk, where to his annoyance Faulkner found the lively and expectant figure of Charlie Hargreaves, he addressed Toshack without any greeting. ‘Have my son confined amidships, Mr Toshack, and ask me no damned questions.’ He turned to Judith. ‘You are to settle in the after cabin. I will be down shortly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do not try to be clever, Judith. Save all your arguments for later, when we are ashore. I would not have your linen washed in public.’
He watched as she involuntarily bit her lip, the very picture of chagrin.
‘There’s a gale brewing,’ Toshack offered. ‘A good ’un from the sou’-west.’
Faulkner looked up at the western sky. It was full of dark clouds while overhead streamed the harbingers of wind, long white and curling mare’s tails. He cursed under his breath. ‘Watch for the shifting of the wind; the instant it veers I want us under canvas. Why did you bring the lad?’
‘Mr Gooding ordered it, sir.’
The wind veered into the north-west at noon the following day after a twelve-hour blow from the south-west. It came with a clearing of the sky, and Toshack wasted no time; by noon the following day they lay off Blackwall. As they secured to a mooring-buoy Faulkner thought of his splendid Indiaman. Toshack had told him her masts were in and the business of fully rigging her was in hand. He looked upstream for her then postponed the matter.
‘Time enough for that tomorrow,’ he muttered to himself; there were more pressing matters. As he gathered his wits it occurred to him that he had no idea where his wheel-lock was. A visceral fear constricted him as a suspicion formed in his mind: Judith!
He tumbled below into the cabin, his face flushed. She rose at the intrusion and saw the look on his face. ‘I think you left it aboard the Blackamoor,’ she said coolly, guessing exactly what was worrying him.
Faulkner thought for a few moments and then nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. He needed her explanation to be correct. ‘A boat is being made ready. It is time to go on deck, but before we do, I must speak to you and have your agreement.’ He paused, staring at her intently. She remained stubbornly quiescent. ‘You will find things changed at home. Hannah has been mistress of the house since you left. I wish that matters remain so arranged. I shall not restrain you once we are ashore, but your continued freedom rests entirely upon your conforming to my wishes. Your liberty is assured but is conditional upon your obedience. As you are aware, the King has a long arm and I am bound to it. So too are you, if you wish to live in liberty. You have it in your power still to ruin me, but I promise you that I will not submit without a fight. As to Henry, the best I can offer you is that I shall plead that his youthful enthusiasm and indiscretion were regretted … Judith?’
She made no reply, merely making a gesture as of resignation. Faulkner stared at her a moment, willing her to commit to his intention, but there was no sign of compromise, still less of goodwill. ‘Very well, then,’ he said, turning away. He picked his sword and baldric, then glanced at his portmanteau. ‘Hargreaves can follow with my traps,’ he mumbled to himself, then to Judith: ‘Let us go on deck.’
He scrambled up the steep companionway steps and, at the top, laid his sword down, turned about, offering Judith his hand. She seemed to hesitate deliberately, and as the worm of suspicion suddenly uncoiled in his belly, Faulkner felt the ball before he heard the explosion of the wheel-lock’s detonation. He roared with pain and fury, spinning round as the shattered glass of the amidships sky-light fell tinkling to the deck, sparkling in the sunlight. Through the shattered glass Faulkner saw Henry, lowering the wheel-lock. He turned and bent over it, as though re-loading it. Faulkner swung round, Toshack, Hargreaves and the Hawk’s crew staring at him, shocked at the incident. The shock of the sharp pain had passed, and Faulkner felt the onset of the deep throbbing that would require the services of a surgeon to dig the wheel-lock’s large projectile out of his buttock. He could feel the blood streaming down his leg but ignored it.
‘Toshack! Hargreaves! A boat-hook!’ He snatched up his sword and stabbed it down through the skylight. Below, Henry had almost completed reloading and priming the wheel-lock but was out of Faulkner’s reach. Having completed his task, Henry turned, the loaded wheel-lock in his right hand. Instinctively, Faulkner drew back, out of Henry’s line of sight; a split-second later the loud bang of the weapon’s second discharge was ringing in their ears – then there was complete silence.
Cautiously, Faulkner peered down the skylight. A faint coil of smoke rose through the broken glass, the interior of which was splattered by blood. What remained of Henry lay slumped below, and Faulkner could see his brains.
The house in Wapping was an unhappy place for some weeks. Hannah’s welcoming smile froze on her face when she saw her mother and had learned of Henry’s suicide. Judith, expressionless, made no sign of greeting Hannah or of even recognizing her, retiring to her room, while Faulkner had stood awkwardly in the parlour, whither both Hannah and Gooding attended him in the hope of understanding what had happened. He waved their questions aside to demand a surgeon, calling out that Hannah should: ‘Boil water before the rogue touches me with a knife.’
When the man arrived, Faulkner insisted the barber-surgeon washed his instruments before he laid a finger upon his person and then, the others having withdrawn, he dropped his breeches and submitted to the humiliating
probing and extraction of the lead ball.
‘You are lucky, Sir Christopher,’ the man remarked as he suppressed his patient’s groans with professional commentary. ‘Both that your muscles are strong, preventing the ball from going deep, and that the ball does not seem to have found its mark very effectively.’ It did not feel like a ricochet to Faulkner, though he thought of the route it had travelled and told the man to look for glass. After a further debasing struggle, the barber-surgeon straightened up, holding a piece of glass in his forceps. ‘But a single shard, Sir Christopher,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Now, you will likely have a fever for a few days, but if you keep warm, drink regularly and pray that the Almighty will favour you, I have no doubt of your recovery.’
His wound plugged and the surgeon dismissed with yet more money, Faulkner slumped awkwardly into his chair. Hannah came in and slid a cushion under him, for which he kissed her and fondled her hair.
‘Do not cry for Henry, my dearest,’ he said sadly. ‘He is in a far better place and sent there by his own hand before the King’s butchers got to work upon him.’ If his words were meant to comfort Henry’s sister they failed, for Hannah withdrew weeping inconsolably as Faulkner waved aside her demand that he should go to bed. Instead, in defiance of his surgeon and his daughter, Faulkner sat staring into the fire. He would have done what he could for the boy, but the matter had never been certain, a matter of the King’s whimsy. But that was not the King’s fault: Henry had made his own bed and must, perforce, lie upon it.
Except that Judith had made that bed up for her son in every detail, of that Faulkner was now convinced. Judith was obviously caught up in the conspiracy, and whatever she had done herself or persuaded Henry to do, only Judith herself could have possibly seized the wheel-lock, which she must have accomplished when he slept aboard the Blackamoor, assuming she was prostrated by sea-sickness. How she passed it to Henry was as yet a mystery, but she had managed it, as the puncture in his buttocks bore painful testimony.
The King's Chameleon Page 17