This grandiloquence soared above the wherry as the boatmen worked her closer, against the tide sloshing alongside the huge man-of-war. Faulkner felt the chill as they came in under the looming shadow of the monstrous vessel and then all introspection was driven from his mind as a hail from the entry port had the bow oarsman stow his oars and reach for a boat-hook, making the signal for an officer for the ship. Then they were tossing alongside in the chop and Faulkner, having pressed a shilling and two pence into the warm and horny hand of the boatman and slung the satchel on his back, stumbled clumsily before catching his balance. Stepping lightly upon a thwart he grabbed both baize-covered man-ropes, stepped on to the treads proud of the ship’s side and ascended her sloping tumblehome. A moment later he had passed through the entry-port and stood in the gloom of the middle gun-deck where a young man wearing his sash of office awaited him. Faulkner seemed to be expected.
‘Mr Faulkner, I’ll warrant.’
‘Indeed, sir, yes.’
The young man, his face half hidden in the prevailing gloom by long dark hair, appeared cordial enough and extended his hand.
‘You were expected. I’m Harry Brenton, fifth lieutenant, and we are messmates. I’ll have your gear hauled aboard instanter and then I shall conduct you to Sir Henry. My Lord of Rutland, though he joined us in the Downs, has gone ashore.’ Brenton turned away and summoned a hand to assist. Turning back with a broad grin, he said: ‘He seeks his sea-legs thither for by God he has none here!’ The young man laughed carelessly and a smiling sailor, girded by his frock and an apron, with a red woollen cap upon his head, knuckled his brow and said he would attend to Faulkner’s portmanteau.
Between decks the great ship seemed even larger, the darkness teeming with people of both sexes, many of whom seemed intent upon selling either themselves or their wares to the rest, who were dressed in similar fashion to the sailor now supervising the dragging up the ship’s side of Faulkner’s luggage.
‘Come, sir, follow me. Adams will see your dunnage safely in your cabin.’ Brenton led Faulkner along the deck, shoving aside the whores, the vendors and the usurers with bloody oaths and condemnations, followed by a bewildered Faulkner. He would never have allowed such chaos aboard the Swallow, he thought, his eye caught by a score of impressions in as many seconds, but how could one keep order among such a throng? A drunken face here, a bawd’s leer there, the neat well-dressed appearance of a hirsute Jewish money lender, dim relief in the darkness beyond which there loomed the dull gleam of heavy artillery and the pots and kids of the men’s messes. He felt a pang of misgiving: would he ever be able to master all this? If Brenton was fifth lieutenant he devoutly hoped he himself was the sixth or seventh. How many lieutenants did such a vessel own? He had no idea. Suddenly all his knowledge and experience, all his cunning and skill, seemed worthless in the face of this behemoth. And then they stood beside a door and, a moment later, entered the comparative haven of the captain’s cabin. Certainly there were cannon ranged either side, but the space was carpeted and lit by glazed windows through which streamed daylight, casting the familiar figure of Sir Henry Mainwaring in dark outline against the brilliance as he sat at a long table that ran the beam of the ship. The table was surrounded by chairs at another of which sat an older man who had thrust his wig aside and pored over several charts, wielding dividers and writing in a notebook.
Brenton coughed and in a lower voice than he had just been using said, ‘Excuse me, Sir Henry . . .’
Mainwaring looked up and then, with evident pleasure, rose smiling and holding out his hand. ‘Faulkner, my dear fellow, have you brought my papers?’
‘Aye, Sir Henry.’ Faulkner fished the satchel round and took it off, handing it to Mainwaring.
‘Brenton, pour us all a glass of wine,’ Mainwaring commanded. ‘And were you able to fit yourself out as I instructed?’
‘Indeed I was, thanks to your assistance . . .’
Mainwaring cut him short, waving away his thanks. ‘We’ll hear no more of that. Thank you, Brenton,’ he added as Brenton did duty with a tray and filled glasses. ‘Now, sir, Mr Brenton will show you the ship. He has the advantage of you having served in her before, but he will be junior to you . . .’ Faulkner shot a swift glance at Brenton, alarmed at this news but seeking any sign of resentment on the part of his new colleague. Brenton caught his eye and smiled with a nonchalant shrug. Mainwaring, meanwhile, reached behind him among the litter of papers on the desk and drew out a stiff parchment leaf. ‘Here is your commission as fourth lieutenant.’
Faulkner hid his surprise and apprehension. ‘Thank you, Sir Henry . . .’
‘Now, let me introduce Mr Whiting, the Master. Whiting, this is the young fellow of whom I spoke, Kit Faulkner. You will find him as good as the best of your mates at the traverse, the helm and with a quadrant . . .’
Whiting rose and turned his weathered face towards the young man, making a half-bow. ‘Mr Faulkner,’ he acknowledged. ‘A tarpaulin then,’ he said to Mainwaring, adding pointedly with a barely perceptible and probably involuntary movement towards Brenton, ‘rather than another gentleman.’
‘Both tarpaulin and gentleman, Mr Whiting,’ Mainwaring said with a hint of asperity, ‘as I would hope all my officers are.’
Whiting laughed. ‘No fear of my being mistaken for a gentleman, Sir Henry.’
‘Ah, Whiting, but you are a natural gentleman, which maketh all the difference.’
Having raised his glass perfunctorily to Mainwaring, Whiting went back to his charts and Mainwaring gestured to Faulkner and Brenton to occupy two chairs.
‘Since I have you both here I shall tell you what I have told Mr Whiting. The first lieutenant informs me that we shall complete our stores tomorrow forenoon after which I want the ship cleared of the landlubbers and only the permitted women to remain. They are to be mustered and entered upon the watch and quarter-bills. We will also stand the men to their stations for action. After the noon gun I expect some signal that Lord Rutland is rejoining us, following which I anticipate that we shall put to sea. For that purpose I shall require you, Mr Faulkner, to attend me upon the poop, thereafter keeping your watch as directed by the first lieutenant. You are familiar with your station, Mr Brenton, are you not?’
‘I am, Sir Henry.’
‘Good. Well, stow your gear, Mr Faulkner, and make yourself known to the first lieutenant. Then we shall await the arrival of the admiral and our orders to weigh.’
The two young men lowered their glasses, rose, made their bows and withdrew. As they returned to the chaos of the gun-deck Brenton remarked that the hour of their departure could not come soon enough. Within hours Kit Faulkner was devoutly praying for the same outcome.
In the following weeks Faulkner learned something of the complexities of organizing a naval squadron. The means by which time was wasted seemed infinite: first Rutland sent word that he was unwell and obliged to stay in his house on the Strand in London; then Mainwaring caught an infection that seemed rife in the ship and which affected Faulkner to the extent of a slight quinsy and a shivering fit or two; then a man stole some kit from a messmate and must needs be ducked from the foreyard, then towed behind a ship’s boat, landed and dismissed. The following day there came aboard an odd man who claimed to be rowing a boat down Channel from the Thames with the purpose of visiting the West Country, an occupation that struck Faulkner as being absurd, though Mainwaring warmly welcomed him and introduced him to such of his officers then on board.
‘This gentleman is John Taylor,’ he told them, ‘the well-known Water-Poet of London’s River, to whom we owe much in the matter of advertising the importance of watermen and mariners to the common people and the court.’
The hearty and bluff soul who wore a gentleman’s ruff over a plain doublet bowed, struck a pose and declaimed in a strong voice:
‘From London Town to Bristol City, I pull my scull the Channel to disarm,
And prove a point that Wiltshire’s Avon and the sea could lie as
one,
And thus to Spithead and this mighty ship I come
To find Sir Henry Man’ring and his mighty charm,
Fulfils all expectations of my gratitude, in such a southern latitude.’
There was a silence, as if the gentlemen in range of the poet’s declamation awaited more, and then Mainwaring led a polite clapping.
‘Great Jupiter, is that poesy, or am I a Double-Dutchman?’ asked Brenton in Faulkner’s ear as the assembled officers went their separate ways. ‘What the devil does he mean about the Wiltshire Avon?’
‘Oh, there was some talk in Bristol about digging a canal through from Salisbury to the sea,’ said Faulkner, amused by the ridiculous scene, despite himself. ‘D’you know the fellow?’
‘I know of him,’ replied Brenton, ‘but so does half London. He has a natural wit and much of his verse is tolerable. That execrable piece was no doubt improvised upon the spot, though why he came aboard, Heaven only knows . . . unless he expected the King to be here, it is not beyond his importunity to thrust himself into the royal regard.’
‘The King, here . . . ?’ Faulkner said, surprised.
‘Why not? We are for Spain to recover his son and his . . .’ Brenton shrugged enigmatically. ‘He is presently lodging at Beaulieu.’
This curious interlude was the only event of note that broke the monotony of their waiting time. The Earl of Rutland had still not joined his flagship when Mainwaring ordered her moved to Stokes Bay, a new anchorage closer to the mainland. Here, on the 20th August, King James, attended by numerous Lords and a large retinue, did indeed board the Prince Royal. The occasion was of such dazzling splendour, with a full royal salute fired by the assembled fleet and answered by the guns of the flagship, that Faulkner thought they might have destroyed the entire Barbary fleet by the expenditure of powder. There was, besides, such a hoisting and lowering of flags and standards, that he caught only fleeting impressions. This reaction, it seemed to him as he rolled into his berth that night, characterized naval service as a life of rich idleness interspersed with incomprehensible interludes of almost theatrical portentousness, whether to the point of silliness in the visit of John Taylor, or extravagant grandeur as in the condescension of King James.
Not that Faulkner – assembled among the officers, his sword upon his hip and his new hat upon his head to uncover when presented to His Majesty – even recalled much of the encounter itself. That he was honoured, he was aware, but the need to avoid the King’s eyes and to make his bow at once elegant and deep, almost exhausted his concentration. Even a sly glance as King James spoke with Mainwaring, told Faulkner little beyond the fact that His Majesty had a long, pallid, lugubrious and bearded face, and wore a hat that seemed too tall for him. Somehow the huge royal standard that spent the day at the truck of the Prince Royal’s main-mast seemed more splendid than the King himself – a consequential impression that stuck in Faulkner’s imagination for many a long year.
There was, however, one moment which made a deeper and indelible mark upon him, though he was not yet to realize it. Among the several ladies accompanying the King, and whose embarkation had caused anxiety to the Prince Royal’s people, was the slim, richly dressed figure of a girl. His eye had first been caught by her dainty feet in embroidered shoes as the yard-arm whip had lowered her to the deck. Later Faulkner caught sight of her at dinner in the great cabin, sitting near the King. He was astonished chiefly at her youth and her proximity to King James, but it was the round luminosity of her fine eyes, the colour of which he could not see, that struck him like a blow. She had, he thought, cast him a single glance, before attending to the gentleman on her right, who Faulkner thought was perhaps Lord Pembroke, the Lord Chamberlain. It seemed to him as he later considered of the events of the day, that a vast gulf existed between such as she and the likes of himself. He felt a vague resentment at the inequities of life and wondered whether he would have been so troubled if she had neither had such fine eyes, nor looked his way.
Then he chid himself for a fool; the look she had given him was of no significance, marking – if anything at all – only a general curiosity. Besides, he must remember that he might still be seeking food and employment along Bristol’s waterfront and in the city’s gutter. He reflected that, having come so far, perhaps the inequities of life were not entirely insurmountable. And with that comforting thought, he drifted off to sleep, aware of a faint ringing in his ears that had been caused hours earlier by the combined gunfire of the entire fleet as it saluted the departing royal barge.
The Earl of Rutland did, eventually, hoist his flag and on the day he did so – a few days after King James had dined on board – Faulkner’s life took another strange turn. The long period of enforced idleness at Spithead had at least given him time to take stock; to familiarize himself with the huge ship and her working; to realize that fundamentally she was little different in principle than the little Swallow; to recognize significant members of her crew, particularly among the petty and warrant officers; to grow used to Adams’s solicitations on his and Brenton’s behalf, since they shared Adams’s services between them. He also better understood his own many and varied duties which emerged from the confusion of naval protocols and privileges, discoveries which gradually reduced the apparent chaos of the great ship, slowly and subtly reducing it to something approaching order.
The delay also gave him time to impress his own character upon others. As his own confidence and comprehension grew, he swiftly lost his uncertainty and brought to bear his skills and native good sense to the daily round. Identifying those aspects of his job that tallied with those he had acquired in the service of Strange aboard the Swallow he was able to make his mark, so that when a seaman fouled a line as they hoisted the mizzen lateen yard, Faulkner swiftly cleared the lead before trouble followed, an initiative which drew a grudging appreciation from the boatswain who would otherwise have taken action against the wretched perpetrator of the error. It might not be what a gentleman officer did, but it clearly demonstrated that Lieutenant Faulkner not only appreciated the technicalities of the task, but also the dangers of hesitation; in short, it was clear to all who witnessed the momentary hitch, that he was a thorough-going sailor.
Word reached them one morning that the Earl of Rutland would come off to the ship that day and orders were passed for his barge to be prepared. Brenton was to go in it and embark the admiral whom Faulkner by now knew was a court appointee and no seaman. Under such a titular head, all depended upon Mainwaring and his officers, of whom several others were courtiers or soldiers, rather than men bred to the sea.
At last word was passed to the ship’s company to stand by to receive the admiral and men ran to their preordained posts and an unnatural stillness descended upon the ship. Those on the upper decks could see the approaching barge, its oars rising and falling, the blades flashing in the sunshine, astern of which came a procession of wherries piled with baggage, and another boat with an ornate canopy over the stern.
‘We shall need a chair and a whip at the mainyard, Mr Slessor,’ Mainwaring called to the first lieutenant, indicating the presence of ladies in the Earl of Rutland’s entourage.
‘It won’t be just the Earl and his suite who join us today,’ Brenton had remarked earlier that morning as they were advised of the admiral’s coming while they were shaving and Adams was dressing their hair. ‘There will be a number of courtiers come to provide a fitting welcome for the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Buckingham and that, my dear Kit, is why you and I have to live like rabbits in this hutch.’
The two officers were obliged to share a cabin intended for one for, although the Prince Royal had been built as a flagship and thus carried accommodation for an admiral and his staff, the numerous suites of those considered indispensable to the reception of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Buckingham almost beggared belief. ‘We have to remember,’ Brenton had remarked as they sat over a glass of wine the previous evening, ‘that besides being the King’s favourit
e, My Lord of Muckingham is the Lord High Admiral and therefore his flag will take precedence over Rutland’s.’
‘Muckingham . . . ?’ queried Faulkner.
‘’Tis my name for him,’ Brenton said, lowering his voice, ‘though I shall be hanged yet for saying so . . .’
‘Then why say it?’
‘Because, my dear innocent Kit, I abhor what he is and what he stands for. He is not merely venal to the point of stinking corruption, but is also the King’s catamite.’ Faulkner stared, puzzled. ‘You do not know what a catamite is?’ Faulkner shook his head and Brenton reduced his voice to a whisper. ‘Why, the King’s creature; he who lies with the King for the purposes of carnal lust . . . sodomy . . . buggery . . .’
‘I know what sodomy is,’ Faulkner hissed, ‘and I know that such indiscretions aboard a ship such as this may indeed lead you to the gallows, or a slow disembowelling . . .’
Brenton grinned with an insouciance that Faulkner found profoundly unnerving. Although there was a difference in rank between them, they were of the same age and the previous fortnight had cast them as friends. Nevertheless, Faulkner was compelled to acknowledge the other’s more sophisticated worldliness. ‘Why, ’tis spoken of everywhere,’ Brenton said.
‘But perhaps not so loudly here when the ship is full of courtiers,’ Faulkner remarked.
‘Indeed not, but tonight it is full of honest Jacks and I take thee for an honest Jack, Kit Faulkner.’
‘Indeed, I hope you do, and now, before you preach more sedition I think we ought to get some rest . . .’ And so they had turned in, though Faulkner had lain awake long after the snores of the foolhardy young Brenton filled the stale air and the great ship creaked and groaned about him as she swum, straining to her anchor and cable in the tide.
A Ship for The King Page 5