A Ship for The King

by Richard Woodman

  The Commission reported to King Charles at an assembly in the Star Chamber where its spokesman was Buckingham himself. Mainwaring returned to his lodging at the conclusion of this session, fulminating at the outcome and doubtful of Parliamentary sanction for the raising of sufficient funds to accomplish the task of reconstruction.

  ‘Devil take it, Kit!’ he had said, tearing off his wig and taking from Faulkner the glass of wine extended to him. ‘I think I have asked you to hitch yourself to the wrong cause. There is no sense in this, no sense at all! We have a thousand private ships a-trading to earn our keep, and no confounded fleet capable of seeing the coast is clear! God damn, damn, damn! I’ll warrant that by summer we’ll have not only Barbary and Sallee rovers in the Channel, but the fleet of the French and Spanish off Dover ere long . . .’ He drew deeply on his wine. ‘Gideon tells me the French corsairs are active and Mitchell nearly lost the Garvey to a Malouin last month! Haven’t you shares in her?’

  ‘Aye, four . . .’

  ‘You’d have lost a pretty penny then, had Mitchell not kept his head.’ Mainwaring lapsed into silence for a moment and then looked up at Faulkner. ‘I think we are in peril, Kit; real peril. I have heard that Richelieu has asked the Assembly for a fleet of fifty men-of-war for the Atlantic, many to be armed by some new-fangled gun, and is boasting therewith to hammer the very gates of London.’

  ‘Is the King not alarmed, Sir Henry?’

  ‘The King,’ Mainwaring spluttered, ‘the King is concerned, but leaves all to Buckingham and is content with the Noble Duke’s considerable blandishments. God rot me, Kit, he does not lack nerve in that direction. Listening to his honeyed words one would think that all was well in the world, while it is obvious as pox on a whore’s breath that this damned Cardinal will steal a march on us, and instead of our commanding the Narrow Seas, will see that France, with her ally Spain, does what it is our duty to do!’

  ‘Then we shall—’

  ‘We shall have to fight, Kit. We shall have to fight! And what with, in the name of God?’ Mainwaring tossed off his glass and suddenly tore at the pocket in his coat tails. ‘Heavens, Kit, I quite forgot amid all this damnable turmoil, I have a commission which, despite everything, it gives me great pleasure to execute – and by-the-by, I must ask you to regard my treasonable criticism of His Majesty as the meanderings of an overanxious man, as it seems you may be marked for rapid promotion,’ he laughed, ‘though what in, I hesitate to guess!’ And withdrawing his hand he held a silk package out to Faulkner. ‘I am commanded by His Grace the Duke to present this to you. He spoke of you personally, Kit – a mark of singular condescension – and, furthermore, His Majesty added his own compliments.’

  Faulkner was astonished. ‘What have I done to merit –’ he broke off as he unrolled the silk to reveal a small, silver-mounted telescope round which was a scrap of paper bearing Buckingham’s signature – ‘. . . to merit this favour?’ He finished the query in a whisper.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mainwaring with a wide smile, rising to refill his glass, ‘a certain lady may have spoken in your favour. But if not, you will take my advice and watch your step. The condescension of princes is apt to cut another way – usually when one least expects it.’

  ‘But why, Sir Henry? I . . . I recall mentioning that I had no glass when asked to lend it to His Majesty . . . when His Majesty was Prince of Wales, I mean, but I had no expectation . . .’

  ‘I recall it being mentioned at the time, that Prince Charles had remarked it was a deficiency in a naval officer. Would that he remedied all such faults in the naval service with such personal assiduity, as I am sure that it comes on His Majesty’s prompting.’

  Later, lying in bed musing over the extraordinary and unexpected gift for which he was at a loss to know how to respond, Faulkner wondered whether he might use the circumstance to get in touch with Katherine Villiers. The possibility tantalized him for some time until he recalled that remark of Mainwaring’s, that the favour of princes can ‘cut another way’. Certainly the gift had swept out of his head any sense of the outrage he had felt earlier over the treatment of the men in the fleet at Chatham, or the starving shipwrights, or the elevation of Lords Cecil and Willoughby. Faulkner knew what it was like to starve better than most, and far better than his social superiors. But to what end did Buckingham or King Charles wish to purchase so deep an obligation in him by such a disarming gift? For a moment he enjoyed a flight of fancy that this was a mark of approbation and he was looked kindly upon sufficient to encourage his pursuit of Mistress Villiers. But almost immediately he realized the stupidity of such a hare-brained conclusion, and then his pleasure began to wither and he sensed also a foretaste of gall, that the gift in some way compromised him, took from him some of the independence that he was slowly establishing for himself, and seducing him away from his obligations to Mainwaring.

  This had nothing to do with Katherine; she had no interest in him and he felt a sudden bilious anger rise within, so that he was raised from his torpid, half-fantasizing drowsiness. For months now he had succeeded in expelling all thoughts of Katherine Villiers from his mind. And now he was entertaining ridiculous notions of wild promise again. What a loon he was; he had not spoken to her since that moment Rutland’s interjection had separated them. Even then the admiral had done little, for they had scarcely made each other’s acquaintance. God, he was a purblind fool!

  Perhaps he should suffocate himself in the arms of a doxy just as Harry Brenton had advised. Better still he should resign his commission and return to sea in a merchantman. As a shareholder in several ships, he could make himself master of one of them and thereby abandon all these foolish ideas. It was an idea he mused and matured for several weeks and, in coming to a determination to carry it out, he awaited a favourable opportunity in which the move would seem sensible to his benefactor and not cast himself in the light of ingratitude. Such opportunity was not long in coming. In the wake of the Council of the Sea’s findings and a subsequent inquiry in which the several dockyard officers were examined, without serious consequences, Parliament was asked for money to rebuild the fleet. Partial payment was made to those owed wages from a new and fixed pay-scale. Mainwaring was not therefore proved quite correct in his claim that nothing would be done. On the subject of new men-of-war, however, Parliament was intransigent and little was indeed forthcoming. Only ten small vessels were added to the Royal Navy, individually denominated by number and intended to support one of the only large men-of-war fit for service, the Red Lion, they were collectively known as the Lion’s Whelps. However, significantly, they were to be built at the Duke of Buckingham’s expense, his Lordship thereby securing his position against the various charges of corruption levelled against him and appearing as a great public benefactor. It was a typically shrewd and clever move for the Whelps were actually intended as privateers and as such would pay back their owner.

  Faulkner was with Mainwaring when he received the news of their ordering. That same day they received other, private news which, for Faulkner, proved timely. The letter was addressed to Mainwaring but its content was of equal importance to Faulkner, for Gideon Strange wrote to say he was ill with a wasting disease and the physician he had consulted was not hopeful.

  By this time Buckingham’s malign influence upon the King had provoked war with France for, in spite of his marriage to a French Princess, Henrietta Maria, the Duke had persuaded Charles to come to the aid of the French Huguenots then under siege at La Rochelle by Cardinal Richelieu and the forces of King Louis XIII. Buckingham had hoisted his flag aboard the Triumph, and with a considerable fleet and thousands of soldiers had sailed to establish a base on the île de Rhé from where operations would commence to relieve the beleaguered Protestant forces in La Rochelle. None of this augured well for the two men and, since Faulkner was privately determined to go to Bristol and avoid returning to the King’s service, he seized upon an opportunity in the shape of a second letter from Bristol. It was written by one Gooding
, the counting-house clerk employed by Strange, and warned that his master was gravely ill. As Mainwaring’s Naval Board sought to cope with the logistical problems arising from the appalling mess that Buckingham was, by all accounts, embroiling the King’s forces in before La Rochelle, Faulkner suggested that both their business interests demanded that he at least proceeded to Bristol with all despatch to learn what ailed Gideon Strange.

  Then worse news came from the île de Rhé and, hard on its heels, Mainwaring received a letter from the King. A lack of proper preparation, of stores, men and victuals, combined with the vigorous actions of Richelieu, had quickly bogged Buckingham down and disaster loomed. The Duke sent for urgent reinforcements and the King summoned Mainwaring. Ordered to Plymouth to expedite the sailing of a relieving force, Sir Henry left Faulkner on the road to Bristol.

  ‘I leave matters entirely to your discretion, Kit. As far as I know from what Gideon hath told me, Gooding lives up to his name and may be relied upon.’

  Faulkner took leave of his patron with mixed feelings. The sense of independence, of freedom and a coming-of-age was only tempered by a concern for Captain Strange. He had seen enough of disease and death at sea to know of their horrors but, for the young man riding west that day, such evils beset others. And there was something else lurking in his subconscious, an unacknowledged sense that by returning to Bristol a made man he was finally turning his back not only on the King’s navy, but the shadowy obligation he had placed himself under by accepting the telescope and the whole miserable experience of the Spanish voyage. Mistress Villiers, being nothing but a chit of a spoiled child, was exorcised from his unrequited affections. With a lifting heart he reflected that she was not the world’s only beauty.

  Such frivolous thoughts were, however, soon displaced, for in Bristol Faulkner found Strange abed, a shockingly pallid and thin figure whose face was scarcely recognisable. His woman attended him and she let Faulkner into a room scattered with ledgers and papers. ‘See that my Molly is provided for, Kit,’ Strange said, his voice strained by the pain of his ravaged body. ‘She has been good to me.’

  ‘Of course, sir, but you will recover . . .’

  ‘No,’ Strange said through clenched teeth. ‘But listen, Kit. The books are up to date and the ships are all employed. My confidential clerk, Nathan Gooding, is entirely trustworthy and I have secured his interest by virtue of a bequest in my will . . .’ Strange broke off as a wave of pain wracked him. ‘I know that neither you not Henry can give our affairs . . .’ He stopped and turned his attention to the hovering woman whose loving concern disfigured her otherwise handsome face. ‘Molly, send for Nathan . . .’ Repressing a sniffling, the woman did as she was bid and Strange lapsed into silence, rousing himself every few minutes to issue an instruction to Faulkner regarding one or other of their ships. It was a slow, gasping process; he was painfully telling Faulkner that Captain Mitchell would be due in with the Garvey the following month when Molly returned with Nathan Gooding, a tall youngish man dressed soberly in black, his reddish hair cut short to his shoulders, but with an open countenance that Faulkner immediately took to.

  ‘Explain to Mr Faulkner the present state of affairs in our business, Nathan . . .’

  ‘Certainly, Captain Strange.’ The young man turned to Faulkner with a deferential air, though he was probably some three or four years Faulkner’s senior, and began a lengthy disquisition Faulkner found difficult to follow with Strange so pathetic a figure lying beneath his coverlet and breathing hard. From time-to-time Gooding drew his attention to an entry in a ledger, each of which related to the affairs of one of their ships. At the termination of this Gooding closed the last of the books, that referring to the Bristol Rover, and looked at Strange who, without opening his eyes, said, ‘That was well done, Nathan. Now pray tell Mr Faulkner what provisions are consequent, but contingent on my death.’

  ‘I believe, sir,’ Gooding began, turning to Faulkner, ‘that Captain Strange, knowing your own preoccupations, and having no issue of his own, has settled the greater part of his own shares – with some exceptions in yours and Sir Henry’s favour – upon myself. I also understand that this is to ensure the continuation of the business and that I shall thereby be bound to act in—’

  ‘I understand, Mr Gooding,’ Faulkner interrupted, ‘and this is all as it should be, I have no doubt, but,’ he turned to Strange, addressing the dying man, ‘I am come to Bristol to take up my former trade and to take command of one of our vessels . . .’

  ‘No, no, that is not our purpose, Kit,’ Strange said, struggling to lift himself. ‘Sir Henry . . .’

  ‘I pray you do not upset yourself, Captain Strange. Sir Henry is aware . . .’ Faulkner was almost immediately ashamed of the lie. It was meant to soothe Strange, but Mainwaring was not yet fully aware of his intention to throw up his naval commission.

  ‘But great matters are afoot in France. Your future lies there, not kicking your heels on the waterfront. Besides,’ he said with an effort, ‘you would not dispossess Mitchell, or Simpson, or Willoughby of their livings, would you?’

  Faulkner had not considered such a thing. ‘Well, I, er . . .’

  Strange paused, frowning as he focussed his tired eyes upon Faulkner. ‘You are not yet married, are you?’

  ‘No, no . . .’

  ‘Perhaps we can discuss this matter elsewhere, sir,’ Gooding remarked, indicating the distressed state Strange now appeared to be in. The woman Molly seemed to concur, coming forward and wiping Strange’s sweating forehead with a none-too-clean cloth. Faulkner felt the disapproval, as though he had brought unwanted problems into the sickroom.

  ‘Come sir,’ said Gooding, rising and nodding to Strange and Molly. ‘I shall apprise Mr Faulkner of all our circumstances, Captain Strange. Please do not distress yourself.’

  The two men withdrew to Strange’s counting-house, which occupied the ground floor, where Gooding sent his junior for a jug of cider. ‘Sir, it is none of my affair and I should greatly welcome some help here in Bristol, but I am conversant with the Captain’s business and have kept his books for nigh on ten years without, insofar as I am able to affirm, having given him cause for concern.’ Gooding looked awkward, but struggled on. ‘The Captain has proved a friend to me and I must provide for a sick mother and a sister, and am scarce likely to compromise my position . . .’

  ‘Are you asking me not to poke my nose in where it is not wanted?’ Faulkner asked, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm. He felt bad about his conduct in the sickroom but had no idea how he could have made matters easier for the dying man. Despite his connections he was not able to dissemble – thanks perhaps to Mainwaring’s curiously twisted moral sense – but one white lie was enough. Now Gooding looked as though Faulkner had struck him.

  ‘Good heavens, no, sir! It is not my place to even hint at such a thing. All I am saying is that I hope that you will find me as reliable as Captain Strange has done.’

  ‘You are making a protestation of honesty then?’

  ‘I cannot do that, sir! I am merely anxious that in coming to Bristol you do not assume that I cannot be of service to you.’

  The desperation in Gooding’s voice shamed Faulkner. It suddenly struck him that the good fortune that had lifted him from the gutter had all but prevented him from recognizing Gooding’s desire to please, that a man placed as Gooding was, was insecure. Indeed, the man was terrified that he, Faulkner, was going to sweep with the zeal of a new broom. Whether Strange had confided the story of Faulkner’s origins or not, Gooding was plainly consumed with fear for his future.

  ‘Oh, dear Mr Gooding,’ Faulkner began. ‘This is going fearfully wrong. Please forgive me. I had no idea exactly what to expect on my arrival and I have been unconscionably forward with my own affairs and for that I apologize. Come now, we are shortly to be partners it seems and therefore it is meet that we consider ourselves equals.’ He held out his hand which Gooding seized eagerly. ‘I am known to my friends as Kit.’


  ‘And I as Nat.’

  ‘I am sorry that we find ourselves drawn together in such circumstances,’ Faulkner remarked, ‘but let us establish a comity of purpose between ourselves, if only in our benefactor’s interest.’

  ‘Yes, Captain Strange has been good to me.’

  ‘And I.’

  The two sat for a moment in silence, then Gooding asked, ‘Will you dine with us? I can have Julia – my sister – make up a bed, if you are content to stay with us. You must be tired after your journey.’

  ‘That is kind of you. I have not thought of sleeping, the appearance of poor Captain Strange having driven all such thoughts away from my mind.’

  ‘I will send word. Shall you come immediately? I can close the house now, for we have little business to transact until the Garvey comes in and I already have a full lading awaiting her – or at least promised – for Jamaica . . .’

  Faulkner nodded. ‘That is kind. Give me an hour; I think I should sit awhile with him and make him sensible that he can compose his mind. I have troubled him overmuch. Has he asked for a priest?’

  Gooding shook his head. ‘No. He is not so inclined, though he may change his mind as his end draws nigh.’

  ‘You do not approve?’

  Strange shrugged. ‘It is for Captain Strange to settle his soul’s shriving.’

  ‘Very well.’ Faulkner rose from the bench and made his way back to the sickroom.

  As he left Gooding asked, ‘Where is your horse, Kit?’

  ‘I left it at the King’s Arms, with my portmanteau.’

  ‘I’ll have the horse tended there, and send for the latter and have it taken home, if you wish.’

  ‘That would be a kindness. Thank you.’

  An hour later he had joined Gooding as they walked a few hundred yards to his dwelling. His father had been a haberdasher and although his father’s business was now in the hands of others, its sale necessary to pay his father’s considerable and unsuspected debts, his mother, sister and himself continued to live above their old premises.