A Ship for The King

by Richard Woodman

  Faulkner flushed. He did not wish to make small talk with Rutland, though he knew that Mainwaring’s invitation was an act of kindness, an opportunity for him to make a good impression on the admiral after their unfortunate encounter some weeks earlier.

  ‘Sit, Faulkner! I command it.’

  Surprised at the unfamiliar voice, Faulkner squinted against the sunlight and found himself staring at the Duke of Buckingham. He bowed deeply as Mainwaring said, with a touch of irony, ‘His Grace commands as Lord High Admiral, Faulkner.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Buckingham, rising and moving towards Faulkner, one hand braced upon the corner of the table until he reached a chair and drew it out. ‘Come, Mr Faulkner, I pray you sit.’

  The act was of such condescension that it seemed obscene to allow the chair to remain unoccupied a moment more than was absolutely needful to allow Buckingham to return to his own seat. A moment later a servant was at Faulkner’s elbow with a plate of smoked fish and a pot of hot coffee. ‘I am obliged, Your Grace, Sir Henry.’

  ‘You will be hungry after your watch, Faulkner,’ remarked Buckingham with a solicitude that seemed unfeigned, and Faulkner looked up at a face that reminded him of another: the same eyes and almost the same lips – odd on a man, but the curling moustache and the short, pointed beard declared the effeminately beautiful face to be male.

  ‘Aye, Your Grace, and it is a raw morning, though a bright one and the wind—’

  ‘Remains foul. Yes, I heard you report it so to Sir Henry.’

  ‘Just so, Your Grace.’ Faulkner felt crushed.

  ‘Come, eat up your fish else it will spoil.’

  Faulkner picked up knife and fork and suppressed the shaking of his hands. Then, just as he had filled his mouth, Buckingham spoke again. ‘Sir Henry speaks well of you; in fact he tells me you are a coming man and the King has need of good men at sea.’

  Faulkner swallowed and almost coughed. He wondered where on earth Rutland was hiding. ‘That is kind of Sir Henry,’ he managed, his face red and reddening further as he saw Buckingham smile at his discomfiture.

  ‘I am torturing the poor fellow, Sir Henry,’ Buckingham said laughingly.

  ‘I fear you are, Your Grace. I fear too that the Earl of Rutland has worn away Mr Faulkner’s natural armour. He will be himself when he has mastered the herring.’

  Filled with confusion as both older men laughed at him, Faulkner could only mumble his apologies.

  ‘Oh, fie, sir,’ said Buckingham, his tone friendly, ‘you must not mind us. What is the Lord High Admiral to do if not to tweak the noses of junior officers. Besides, I gather you gave the Earl a lesson in manners . . .’

  ‘Good Lord! Not I, Your Grace,’ Faulkner said hurriedly. ‘I should not have dared such an impropriety!’

  ‘He left that to me, Your Grace,’ Mainwaring remarked casually.

  Buckingham chuckled. ‘Well, well, subordination is a necessary thing aboard a man-of-war, as no doubt you would agree, Faulkner.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, I would.’ He paused a moment, shot a glance at Mainwaring who was watching him, it seemed, with an expression denoting encouragement. ‘I trust I have given no offence or committed any impropriety as my Lord of Rutland imputed, Your Grace.’

  Buckingham threw back his head and laughed. The sunlight shimmered off his gorgeous doublet of sky-blue slashed with silver silk, and caught his long locks as he shook his head like an elegant hound. ‘I trust not too, Faulkner, though I am scarce the one to judge. It seems that I upset half the duennas in Madrid and was near banned the entire Escorial, so minor infractions of etiquette . . .’ He let the sentence trail off. ‘No, Mr Faulkner,’ Buckingham resumed after a moment’s consideration, ‘I value a man who sticks to his last. If you are half the sea-officer of which Sir Henry sings, then stand firm, sir, and do your duty.’

  Faulkner sensed dismissal and pushed his chair back. ‘Your Grace; Sir Henry . . . with Your Grace’s permission I have other duties to attend to.’

  ‘Of course.’ Buckingham flicked his left hand dismissively and Faulkner rose. Outside the cabin he paused a moment. Whatever impression he had made on Buckingham seemed less important than the impression Buckingham had made on him – was this the corrupt Duke of Muckingham of whom Brenton was so disparaging? Certainly his manner contained a high-bred hauteur, but there was withal a certain warmth, even an inspiration. Pondering on the complexities of human nature – Brenton’s as much as Buckingham’s – he went in search of his bunk.

  Afterwards, however, the encounter troubled Faulkner. The incident with Rutland had so thoroughly unsettled him that he could not fling it off. He was aware that Mainwaring had gone to some lengths to divert Rutland’s ire, even to the extent of damaging his own relationship with the admiral. Of course, it was common knowledge that Rutland was no seaman, but he possessed enormous influence and it was inconceivable that Mainwaring would not have suffered some damage – now, or later – from his pun on Rutland’s name. That being so, it might have been of some comfort that he had received so encouraging a meeting with Buckingham who, whatever his deficiencies in other directions, remained the Lord High Admiral and therefore Rutland’s senior in the naval hierarchy. On the other hand, it was equally probable that Rutland, with his older lineage, would consider Buckingham a parvenu and any man raised by him, such as it was clear Mainwaring intended for his protégé, risked acquiring a similar name, to which might be added the obloquy of Rutland and his faction at court. These considerations discommoded Faulkner, increasing his misery and blighting his spirit on the homeward passage which otherwise – despite the onset of the season of strong winds – was marked by a good passage.

  Though the wind necessitated the fleet tacking, the weather failed to discourage the royal party from frequently appearing on deck. The Prince and Buckingham promenaded ostentatiously, a little gaggle of courtiers in close and sycophantic attendance, Katherine Villiers among them. On these occasions it became obligatory for all the commissioned officers, irrespective of their routine duties, to appear on deck and gather on the opposite side of the half deck where they were expected to maintain a respectful interest, though what in, Faulkner could not quite comprehend. Despite his discomfiture he was nevertheless anxious that Brenton’s irreverent asides were not heard by anyone other than himself. Unfortunately, Slessor caught Brenton’s aside on one such afternoon, and shot Brenton and Faulkner – into whose left ear the former was so obviously ‘whispering’ – a glare of such fury that would have stopped the heart of a more timorous man. Faulkner, oversensitive, flushed scarlet just as Buckingham, looking up from his discourse with the shorter Prince Charles, saw the knot of be-sashed officers and drew the Prince’s attention to them.

  The two men, braced against the lurch of the ship as she shouldered aside a sea heavier than its predecessors, crossed the deck. The officers uncovered and footed their bows with a sweep of their feathered headgear. Was Brenton sniggering as they executed their dutiful obeisance? Faulkner certainly thought so as they straightened up and he found himself looking directly into the face of the Prince of Wales. He hurriedly lowered his gaze but was left with an indelible impression of sensitive weakness, of a thin, pallid countenance, of deep-set, dark eyes of indeterminate colour set either side of a large nose. A thin, adolescent and drooping moustache bracketed a feminine mouth below which the vertical wisps of a boyish beard bisected a pointed chin. The Prince’s dark-blue doublet was in marked contrast with the Duke’s silver and sky-blue, though the lace collar at his throat was of exquisite workmanship, even to Faulkner’s ignorant eye.

  ‘Allow me to introduce these gallants, Highness,’ purred Buckingham as he guided his charge in a manner that bespoke deferential, but absolute, control. ‘Mr Slessor, the First Lieutenant to Sir Henry . . .’ Slessor bowed again.

  ‘M–M–Mr S–S–Slessor and I have met be–f–f–f–fore,’ stuttered the Prince, smiling wanly and holding out a gloved hand which Slessor took briefly. When it came to
Faulkner’s turn, Buckingham said, ‘Christopher Faulkner, Highness, of whom Sir Henry speaks highly, having employed him in trade.’

  Faulkner wished the deck could have opened up and consumed him. Such particularity would stand him in ill stead among his fellow officers, especially Slessor.

  ‘F–F–Faulkner,’ stammered Prince Charles, ‘trade, eh? Have you been much in action?’

  Faulkner attempted to speak but found he had lost his voice for a moment. Then he managed, ‘Only against the Barbary pirates, Your Highness.’

  ‘Only?’ The royal tone was ironic. ‘W–W–Why, sir, they tell me a man must fight for his life against the Moors . . .’

  ‘At the risk of his foreskin at the least, Highness,’ Buckingham put in, raising a polite titter among the officers.

  ‘I t–trust yours is intact, Faulkner?’

  The harmless ridicule stirred something in Faulkner, paring him to some previous sharpness he appeared to have abandoned since his attempts to become a gentleman. And yet, in losing his paralysing diffidence it suddenly seemed to the others, particularly Slessor, that he was indeed a man to watch. ‘I thank Your Highness for your solicitude and, yes, I am intact, sir.’

  ‘We are glad to hear of it,’ said Buckingham intrusively ending the brief preoccupation of his charge with Faulkner, and moving on to Brenton in whose mouth butter could not have been melted even on the hottest summer’s day.

  On the following Friday, at two bells in the afternoon watch, they came in sight of the Scilly Isles and the outlying reefs stretching south-westwards towards the Bishop Rock. Faulkner had the deck and Whiting was fussing about the bearing of the rocks, which lay, hard-edged and spiky, against the sharp line of the horizon. ‘The tide, Mr Faulkner, has a strong set hereabouts on to the reef.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Whiting, I shall call the watch to tack the ship,’ Faulkner responded and the pipes twittered, calling the hands on deck to their stations as Whiting carefully took a compass bearing of the rocks, which were coming appreciably nearer as the strong flood-tide swept them closer. Faulkner swept his gaze around the horizon, noting the respective positions of the squadron. Calling the duty yeoman to hoist the signal to follow the admiral’s motions, and the duty gunner to prepare a chase-gun in order to draw the attention of the other men-of-war to the impending manoeuvre of the flagship lying in the van, Faulkner sent word below to warn the royal party of the imminent concussion and alteration of course.

  The news brought Prince Charles on deck alone. He approached Faulkner directly and, for a moment, lost his hesitant stammer. ‘You are about to discharge your falconet, sir?’ he queried, standing behind Faulkner, who was preoccupied by the imminent manoeuvre.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Faulkner replied and then, turning, saw to whom he was speaking. He stepped back, uncovered and bowed. ‘Your Highness,’ he murmured.

  ‘P–pray tell me the name of those rocks,’ said the Prince, pointing.

  ‘They are the outer Scillies, your Highness, and you can just see the island of St Agnes,’ he pointed, ‘in the distance beyond.’ From forward came the crack of the gun and the yeoman and his mates ran aloft two brightly coloured flags.

  ‘D–d–d–do lend me your glass, if you please, Mr . . .’

  ‘Faulkner, Your Highness,’ he responded helpfully, forgetful of the Prince’s impediment and thinking his name had slipped the Prince’s memory.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, Mr Faulkner. Your glass, pray.’ The gloved hand extended with a peremptoriness that signalled the Prince’s irritation and Faulkner coloured at the double embarrassment.

  ‘I regret, Your Highness, I do not possess my own glass. Mr Whiting, the Master, has one though. With your permission . . . ?’ The Prince made a second gesture and Faulkner hurriedly crossed the deck to where an anxious Whiting stood awaiting Faulkner’s order to put the helm down. Faulkner held his hand out. ‘May I borrow your glass a moment? His Highness wishes to survey the Scillies.’

  ‘His Highness will be wiping his nose on the Scillies if we do not tack instanter, Mr Faulkner,’ hissed Whiting, fishing his small telescope from his pocket and handing it to him.

  ‘Do give the order immediately then,’ snapped Faulkner, as discomfited as Whiting. He spun on his heel and returned to where the Prince stood gazing at the closing prospect of the jagged reef, surrounded by the breaking swells of the Atlantic. Faulkner held out the glass. ‘With Mr Whiting’s compliments, Your Highness.’

  The Prince took the telescope and, bracing himself against a stay, focussed it upon the reef. ‘Pray thank him for me,’ he said abstractedly as Whiting began shouting orders to the quartermasters at the whip-staff. The Prince Royal dipped her bow and rose, her beakhead slewing to starboard as the helm was put over. Faulkner turned again to the Prince as he slowly brought the glass round with the alteration of the ship’s heading. Meanwhile the men at the braces swung the main yards and, as the Prince Royal paid off on the opposite tack, those on the foremast came round with a rattle of parrel beads and the clicking of the blocks. After a few moments, Prince Charles lowered the telescope and handed it to Faulkner.

  ‘A sublime s–s–sight, Mr Faulkner. Most sublime.’ He paused a moment and then added, ‘Is it not a great inconvenience not having a glass? I m–m–mean an officer without a glass is somewhat like a falconer without his t–tiercel, is he not?’

  ‘Indeed he is, Your Highness,’ said Faulkner, thinking quickly and unwilling to admit that he could not afford one, that Mainwaring had neither advised him to acquire one nor given him the means to do so. ‘I had the misfortune to lose mine overboard on the outward passage,’ he lied smoothly.

  ‘An expensive item to replace, no doubt,’ the Prince remarked conversationally.

  ‘Tolerably so, sir,’ Faulkner said, with only the vaguest notion of what a telescope cost. He had never thought to acquire one previously, having relied upon Strange providing a battered French glass for general use aboard the Swallow. Thankfully the Prince’s attention was distracted as one of his gentlemen came on deck, made a low bow and remarked that His Grace the Duke wondered if His Highness would care to take a hand at a game of chance. After a final bow as the small, almost delicate figure made his way below, Faulkner had a chance to look about him to find the squadron had conformed and followed the Prince Royal’s change of direction. The entire incident had taken no more than a quarter of an hour, but it was to have a profound effect upon Faulkner’s subsequent life.

  Shortly afterwards, however, the squadron came in sight of a number of ships which, as they drew near, were seen to be four Dunkirkers being chased by seven Dutch men-of-war. They came close to the Rainbow and were directed to heave to under the lee of the Prince Royal, which herself hove to for the purpose of receiving their commanders. In a vain attempt to end hostilities in the English Channel, Prince Charles bade them to desist from their actions, which the Dutch admiral refused, so that the Prince was obliged to detain him until the Dunkirkers had got away. The wind now veered again into the north-east and the fleet remained hove-to off the Scillies, the Prince conceiving the notion of landing on the principal island of St Mary’s, since several local pilots, perceiving the royal standard flying from the largest man-of-war, scented pecuniary gain and had come aboard from their boats. A council was held aboard the Prince Royal and it was decided that the Prince and Buckingham would land at St Mary’s. The longboat was launched, the royal party, Captain Mainwaring and Mr Whiting descended into it and it was streamed astern. Here one of the pinnaces came alongside it and, with every man shifting for himself without ceremony, they all embarked, along with a pilot, and made for the islands.

  There was now a further gathering of the Prince Royal’s remaining officers, and Slessor, having consulted with two pilots, decided to follow the pinnace before it grew dark. Accordingly, the other ships in the squadron took their stations and followed the Prince Royal through the rock-strewn sound into St Mary’s Road, all hands touched by the sight of Prince Charles and Bu
ckingham standing on the shore cheering them and waving their hats. A curious interlude ensued, lasting four days, but on 5th October the Prince Royal led her squadron into Spithead and within hours had once again been transformed. Emptied of the Prince and his entourage with a thundering of artillery and much fluttering of standards and other flags, she and the other ships pressed on to the eastwards and anchored in the Downs. Here they were ordered to the Medway for paying off. Void of the presence of the Earl of Rutland and with none but her ship’s company to fill her, she made the short passage. No longer crowded, it seemed all hands heaved a collective sigh of relief; their duty was done and before them was the prospect of laying up for the winter, receiving their pay and discharge, followed by a return to their families. For those, like Faulkner, who had no family the future was less rosy, though it was difficult to resist the sense of accomplishment that accompanied the return of the ship’s boats after Rutland’s guests had left and they had only the passage round the North Foreland into the Thames Estuary ahead of them. The following few days were spent tearing down temporary bulkheads and preparing for the short voyage to the Medway and the ship’s winter berth. This kept them busy and gave Mainwaring time to dine his officers in compliment to their diligence. The invitation was brought by the captain’s manservant as both Faulkner and Brenton returned to the cabins intended for them under the half-deck, vacated now by the courtiers who had left them dirty and untidy.