She laid aside her point-work to kneel beside him. Taking his hands in hers, she rubbed their backs with her thumbs. ‘You are not old, my love, not to me. Do you not think that following all the tribulations of my life, all the changes of fortune that I have seen in others and undergone myself, I give a fig for the forms that so often bind men and women in fetters stronger and more repulsive than steel. I understand that you cannot abandon Judith; you would not be the man whom I adore had you done so. I am content; it is you who is not.’
He looked at her, his heart full. He found it difficult to speak for a moment, and she smiled as she saw his eyes fill with tears. He smiled back and gave a mighty sniff. ‘The fire of love is unassuaged, my dearest,’ he said, bending towards her.
‘That,’ she breathed in his ear, ‘is as it should be.’
Disaster and Disgrace
June 1667
While youth considers itself eternal and maturity recognizes mortality, old age trembles in fear of death. While youth embraces change, and maturity knows it for the chimera it is, old age fears it and seeks its days of constant quietude. In those months, though Judith remained in the house at Wapping and he and Katherine were a burden upon an uncomplaining Edmund and Hannah, Faulkner sought his own days of restful idleness, pottering about the garden with his grandchildren – Hannah and Edmund had added a second boy to their first. True, he called regularly at the counting-house and made his forays to Blackwall to watch the Katherine Villiers rising on the stocks, but these were leisurely in their character. In the summer, he had promised Edmund, they would take a sea-cruise down to Harwich in the Hawk. Old Toshack was dead, but Faulkner thought himself fit enough to command the little ship and relished the prospect. At Edmund’s suggestion, early in June, he and Faulkner had gone to look over the Hawk, to survey the repairs they had put in hand and admire the repainting undertaken by Shish’s yard at Rotherhithe. As they stood in the sunshine, Faulkner was delighted at the Hawk’s handsome appearance, congratulating himself on his wise purchase all those years earlier. Beside him, Edmund was full of admiration for the little vessel that had been matched against those of the King and a Prince of the blood.
‘I suppose we must now follow the fashion and call her a yacht,’ he remarked.
Faulkner grunted. ‘That’s a damned Dutchman’s description,’ he grumbled.
Their business done, Mister Shish had been called away; the two men lingered, idly regarding the movements of boats, barges and vessels in the river. A fresh north-easterly breeze lifted the flags and pendants of several vessels moored in the stream. They watched with professional interest as a collier worked her way up, through the press of shipping. The direction of the breeze and Edmund’s remark touched an instinctual response in Faulkner, making him think of the Dutch and the risk of de Ruyter putting to sea; he felt a quickening heartbeat before recalling that the war was as good as over and he could rest easy. Thank God the King’s ministers were conferring in Breda with a view to ending the bloody and expensive conflict between the two rival Protestant states. Not that the present condition of the Navy would admit further fighting, by God!
Since its triumphs the previous year, lack of money had resulted in few proper repairs of battle-damage being under-taken, the ships being virtually abandoned at their moorings off Chatham in the River Medway, exactly as their crews had left them. Almost none had been taken into the dock-yard where work had all but ceased and he had heard by word of mouth at the Trinity House that Pett, the Dockyard Commissioner, was being deliberately dilatory in bringing the Royal Charles upstream for repairs. Faulkner chuckled to himself: the Trinity Brethren did not like the Petts, regarding the whole pack of them as troublesome, ill-informed and, worst of all, busybodies, whose interference with their own advice to the Admiralty was an outrage.
Such arguments were amusing enough and should not be taken too seriously, Faulkner mused, but if the neglect of the ships was a cause for concern then that of the seamen was a far worse and more consequential one. Matters stood as badly as they had years earlier, long before the Civil War, when Faulkner had been in the employ of Sir Henry Mainwaring and the dockyard labourers and craftsmen had laid down their tools. It was rumoured, or so Faulkner had again heard at the Trinity House, that large numbers of seamen had offered their services to the Dutch, a horror he did not dare think about. Young Sam Pepys had mentioned it, railing against the practice of paying the seamen off after service with promissory notes instead of hard cash. Once again, as in the bad days of the King’s father and grand-father, and even on occasion in those of Oliver, when the men presented their ‘tickets’ the authorities declined to pay them, pointing to the ravages of the great fire, the dearth of trade and the consequent loss of this most essential mother of wages. Such events undoubtedly had their effect, but the obvious and licentious excesses of the Court seemed equally to blame. No belt-tightening was in evidence in that quarter.
In desperation the seamen who had so lately beaten off a determined enemy were driven to seek out usurers and sell their tickets at a shameful discount. Treated thus, it was hardly surprising that many took boats and slipped out of the country; some of them would make good pilots, if the Dutch or the French decided to send a force against London and its river.
These were sombre thoughts for a lovely, early summer day. He looked at Edmund, who appeared happy and content as he watched the collier take the bend in the river with a half-smile of appreciation on his face. Faulkner consoled himself. What was the Navy to him now? Though he still held his commission, he would never serve at sea again for he was far too old. Besides, the future lay with the merchant shipping moving in the river; and they operated without the interference of the Lords of the Admiralty, aye, and turned in a handsome profit for their owners.
‘At what do you laugh?’ Edmund asked.
Faulkner was unaware that the cheering thought had so altered his mood. ‘Oh, I was just thinking of these ships out here, yours and mine, and the vessels of others of our acquaintance.’
‘And what of them?’
‘Why, that they are of vastly more value to the lives of men and women than are the King’s men-of-war.’
‘Well, that is generally true, but consider the necessity of the man-of-war to the fleet of richly laden Indiamen cowering under the cliffs of the Wight awaiting convoy up-Channel for fear of the Dutch – or the French for that matter. Under such circumstances a man-of-war is a welcome sight and one would gladly pay for her comforting presence.’
‘Ah, but you talk of war …’
‘But we are still at war, Sir Christopher. Peace has not yet been signed.’
‘Pah! It will be, it will be. Come, let us go home. Hannah promised some of last year’s honey.’
Heading for Stepney they fell into step, Edmund matching his own long stride to the less active movements of his father-in-law. Conversation had drifted away from the new ship and the proposed cruise in the Hawk. In consideration of his age, Faulkner had intended speaking to Edmund about the future but in doing so their talk brought a remembrance of Nathaniel to mind.
‘I never really mourned him,’ Faulkner confessed. ‘The death of Henry by his own hand loomed large, and Nathaniel’s own end, being a distant event and a hazard of seafaring, seemed both final and yet incomprehensible. I did not bury him.’ He paused and then went on in a lower tone of voice, ‘I am still persuaded that some day I will hear of his arrival in the river and find him smiling on my threshold.’ He threw up his head and caught Edmund’s eye. ‘Huh! How the old deceive themselves and allow their minds to play tricks upon them.’
‘Hannah speaks of him often,’ Edmund offered. ‘She was very fond of him.’
‘Hannah is a good woman. Perhaps, had life and her husband treated her better, Judith would have been like her.’ He sighed. ‘I have been a great sinner, Edmund … Edmund? What is it?’
Edmund had stopped, and his head was cocked, as if listening to something, something faint and far away.
‘Do you not hear it?’ he said, his right index-finger halfway to his lips.
‘Hear it? Hear what? All I can hear is a damned ringing in my ears!’
‘Shush! There it is again. Surely you can hear it now?’
Faulkner shook his head, and then he thought he caught something, something borne on the fresh wind very like the faint rumbling of distant thunder. ‘Gunfire,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Gunfire off Harwich or in the Wallett. By God, Edmund, the Dutch are at sea!’
The two men stood still, taking stock. ‘Thank God the Duchess is on her mooring,’ Edmund said.
Faulkner nodded, but his face wore an expression of concern. ‘But the Martha, the Speedwell and the Concord are all at sea, and the Judith is expected daily. We thought … no, I thought there would be no further hostilities!’
‘They are not yet lost to the enemy, Sir Christopher,’ Edmund said. ‘Let us wait upon events, at least in respect of the ships at sea. I shall go to the counting-house; we must at least prevent anyone sailing, and we have two agency vessels almost complete in their lading.’
‘Do you do that, Edmund, and I must to the Trinity House.’
The two men separated, agreeing to meet at Stepney that evening with as much news as each could glean. Instead of Water Lane, where lay the blackened ruins of the Trinity House, Faulkner hurried to Ratcliffe, where the Brethren had temporarily installed their Secretary and Ballast Clerks in leased premises. He found the place a-buzz with excitement, news just having come in that a Dutch squadron had been sighted from the Naze of Essex. He sought the familiar face of Brian Harrison until he recalled that Harrison had died. Among the score or so of milling Brethren John Prowd caught his eye; they had become acquainted after Harrison had introduced them and now Prowd was their Deputy Master.
‘They are probably after the new men-of-war Sir Anthony Deane has under construction at Harwich,’ Prowd said to Faulkner. ‘The Rupert is already fitted-out, I hear.’ He showed Faulkner a letter he had clearly only just received.
‘But I thought the King’s ministers were negotiating at Breda,’ Faulkner said, frowning.
‘They are saying that the King, so pleased with the late actions of the fleet, has placed too high a price of peace. As for the Dutch, who would blame them for not conceding? Our last victory was a narrow one, they out-fought us for four days, and after Holmes burnt those merchantmen off Vlieland, why would they not regret agreeing to negotiate in the face of the King’s demands? Damnation, Sir Kit, their best negotiator is de Ruyter and his fleet!’
‘I wish I found reason to argue against you, John,’ Faulkner conceded hopelessly. ‘This could be a bloody business with our own fleet laid up in the Medway.’
Prowd’s eyes widened. ‘Why of course! That’s it!’ Prowd drove his right fist into his left palm to emphasize his conviction. ‘They’ll make for Chatham and requite Holmes’s Bonfire with one of their own, by God!’
Faulkner needed no time to consider the accuracy of this prediction. ‘You are right! By God, a descent in force on the Medway would be an unmitigated disaster!’
The realization of this seemed simultaneous, passing like dry wind through grass. In an instant ‘the Medway’ was on the lips of the entire assembly of old sea-officers.
‘There is no doubt but that we must attend to our duty, Sir Kit,’ said Prowd, assuming his office and calling them all to order. ‘In the absence of Admiral Penn, our Master,’ he said formally, ‘I must request that you recall your obligation to serve. If the Dutch land, then the King will take up all his subjects’ properties that may be seen to save the Kingdom. I need not remind you that, as for us this day, it seems that our chief task must be to arm those ships that lie within our compass in the Pool. Mr Pepys has sent word that he and Sir William Batten have gone to Deptford to meet Admiral Penn. They are preparing fire-ships and we might with advantage send any such suitable vessel thither for conversion. There is no general summons, Brethren, so I advise all those of you not immediately employed to go home, make what preparations you need and to hold yourselves available for sea-service according to your oaths.’
Prowd ended his oration by naming half a dozen Brethren required to assist immediately while the others made their way to the street. Faulkner shook hands with several of his colleagues. ‘And I had thought us too old for all these alarums,’ Faulkner remarked with a grim smile.
‘One is never too old to defend one’s country,’ someone responded as a score of weather-beaten old seamen stepped out into the Highway.
‘There’s an odd comfort in that,’ Faulkner murmured to himself, pulling his hat down hard. ‘But I don’t like that damned wind.’
He was hardly inside the door of the Drinkwaters’ house when Katherine approached, her eyes alight with alarm. For a moment Faulkner thought it was something about Judith, for she could know nothing about the news of the Dutch, and a quick enquiry revealed that Edmund had not yet come home. However, the letter Katherine pressed into his hand came from an unexpected quarter.
‘You know the contents of this?’ he asked, hunting round for his new-fangled spectacles.
She nodded. ‘Yes, the bearer was Albemarle’s man. He was quite open about it: the Dutch are out.’
‘I have heard the same thing.’
‘The King, it appears, places the Kingdom in the Duke’s hands.’
‘Well, he could do no better.’ Faulkner found his spectacles, settled them on his nose and scrutinized Albemarle’s letter. It appeared to be in the Duke’s own hand and the haste and ferocity of the writer’s sentiments showed in the urgent angular scrawl. Albemarle’s pen nib had torn at the paper, thrown small drops of ink ahead of the words, like the thoughts that must have been tumbling out of the old admiral’s head as he summoned help.
Sir Christopher, it read,
Rec’d this day a Report that D’Ruyter is at sea with upwards three score of Sail. Do you repair at once to Chatham with whatever Men you may Muster. Our Fleet is in the gravest Danger. I must leave Powder and Shot to your judgement, likewise Small Arms. I rely upon Y’r Diligence.
Albemarle.
‘What can I do?’ Katherine asked, and Faulkner requested she pack his necessaries.
‘I shall look to my weapons and money.’ He gave up a few moments to gathering his wits.
Hannah came into the room. ‘Katherine has told me; you will need some food before you go.’
‘Bless you, Hannah … Ah! There is Edmund returned.’
The younger man strode into the room. ‘There is a summons out for all available barges to work down to the Lower Hope. They are intending to throw a bridge over the river for the passage of troops.’
‘What troops?’
‘The trained bands are called out on pain of death for failing to muster.’
‘Huh! They will be as useless as they were in Elizabeth’s day,’ Faulkner said contemptuously. He handed Edmund Albemarle’s letter.
Edmund cast his eyes over it; looking up he said, ‘I shall come with you.’
‘No, Edmund, I cannot allow that.’
‘Who else can you muster?’ Edmund asked drily. ‘Six clerks, a few bargemen, a score of watermen and a lumper and ballastmen or two. Come, sir, judging from His Grace’s tone there is little time. I’ll organize horses, Kate will help you muster what small arms and personal effects we shall require while Hannah will provide us with some pies, some wine and any other tit-bits she may shake up – maybe some honey!’
‘The women-folk of this house have anticipated you, Edmund,’ Katherine said, coming back into the room to ask something of Faulkner, who was unable to repress a smile, in spite of the seriousness of the hour.
‘I must gather my effects,’ Edmund said, leaving the room.
Katherine and Faulkner exchanged glances. ‘The enthusiasm of the young for war,’ Faulkner remarked, shaking his head.
‘’Tis what takes our best, both in blood and character,’ she said, her eyes tearful. ‘Hannah will not like it
if Edmund goes.’
‘I would rather Edmund remained here. God knows how this affair will turn out if it is left to the trained bands to defend us.’
‘But my Lords Oxford, Douglass and Albemarle himself all have standing troops under their command …’
‘But they need to be in the correct place at the correct time, Kate. That is why this country is best defended at sea …’ He paused. Advancing such arguments at such a time was a fruitless occupation when there was much to be done. Nevertheless, it seemed impossible to leave Katherine for a moment, for neither wished for another separation. Faulkner sighed. ‘I’m told the King extended his demands at Breda.’
‘Where the Peace terms were being discussed?’
‘Aye. It seems the Dutch lost patience.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What is wrong with the Princes of the House of Stuart, Kate?’
She shook her head. ‘Vain and silly,’ she said, as if discussing children. ‘Both Princes and Princesses.’
He took her in his arms. ‘God help us,’ he murmured against the fragrance of her hair, feeling the fierce clutch of her embrace. ‘Alas, though I wish this moment never to end, I must go.’
‘You must promise to take care of yourself,’ she said, pulling away from him and looking him straight in the eye. ‘Promise me you will take no foolish risks. I could not bear to lose you now, when we have the prospect of some peaceful years ahead of us.’
Faulkner smiled down at her. She seemed to him as lovely as she had the day he had first set eyes upon her, and he told her so.
She pulled away from him, making a face. ‘Don’t be an old fool. You don’t have your spectacles upon your nose. You might look at a melon and think it me without them.’
‘Bah! Nonsense!’
She gripped him firmly by the upper arms and stared at him, her eyes as fierce as a falcon’s. ‘You have not promised.’
‘How can I promise and mean what I say? The vicissitudes of life are not such that I—’
‘Promise me you will take every care, every precaution; that you will not hazard your person for honour or whatever folly tempts you … Promise me!’
The King's Chameleon Page 26