A Ship for The King

by Richard Woodman

  All eyes stared at the wooden floor as Their Majesties and their attendants entered the chamber. All Faulkner knew of their progress was the sound of the King’s feet on the floor, followed by those of his gentlemen-in-waiting, while the swish of the Queen’s gown entered and then left the circle of his vision. There followed another, one that he thought he recognized and yet could hardly believe, the embroidered roses of a dress he had seen but yesterday. He dared not look up until at some signal he entirely missed, the shuffle and flutter of the entire assembled court returning to the vertical, told him he could straighten up.

  When he allowed himself to look he saw the King sitting on his throne, his vivacious French consort by his side, her round features pleasantly framed by dark ringlets. Faulkner could not recall anything that transpired in the next few moments with any clarity. The chamberlain seemed to draw several gentlemen from the assembly and lead them forward. Some presented their ladies, others did not. One or two knelt and kissed the King’s hand, one man was dubbed a knight, the King standing for the short ceremony, the sword handed him by a courtier waiting ready behind the throne. The assembled court had begun to talk in low, respectful voices as these transactions took place and, from the same gallery that the trumpets had flourished their fanfare, there came now some light chamber music.

  It seemed that the chamberlain worked a system as from the assembly he plucked – with great deliberation – those granted an audience of the King. After what seemed an age, during which Faulkner failed to locate any sign of Katherine Villiers among the bevy of ladies standing on the left of Queen Henrietta Maria, Mainwaring moved his head towards Faulkner and said in a low voice, ‘Our turn shortly.’

  Then the chamberlain stood before them, Mainwaring bowed his head to the chamberlain and Faulkner, almost by instinct, did the same. Then they were led forward and conducted down the empty spaces between the two sides of the thronged court. Faulkner could not tell whether they were being looked at or not, but he felt horribly exposed. Next to him Mainwaring dropped to one knee and he followed, keeping his eyes lowered, so that the polish on the King’s square-toed shoes shone under his nose.

  ‘Y–y–you have brought y–your protégé, I see, Sir Henry. You are most welcome, Lieutenant Faulkner.’

  He felt a slight nudge from Mainwaring. ‘Your Majesty is most kind,’ he said.

  ‘I would s–sp–speak with you privately. Pray follow when we leave, Sir Henry. Lieutenant Faulkner . . .’ A strong nudge from Mainwaring caused Faulkner to look up and see the gloved, be-ringed hand. He straightened up and touched his lips lightly against it. The faint scent of soft leather entered his nostrils, then he was standing, following Mainwaring as he backed away from the two thrones with lowered head until the chamberlain, with a gentleman in a sober black suit, was being led forward, and then, quite suddenly, as though awakening from a dream, he was again standing amid the crowd and Mainwaring was smiling at him. He felt confused, flustered and gauche.

  ‘That went well,’ Mainwaring muttered. ‘When the royal party leaves, fall in step beside me. You may look up once Their Majesties have passed us . . .’

  They stood for another hour before the proceedings showed signs of winding up. The crowd fell almost magically silent, the King rose and extended his hand to the Queen before stepping down and leading her out the way they had come. As Faulkner raised his eyes after the royal pair had passed, two or three gentlemen followed, each leading a lady on his left side. Suddenly he found himself staring straight into the eyes of Katherine Villiers. Her lips showed that she appreciated his presence and he grinned foolishly back at her, a candid expression that instantly removed her own charmingly flirtatious half-smile. Faulkner felt the red invasion of his face, and then Mainwaring had stepped into the wake of the little procession and this time he knew everyone was staring at him. He could even hear the interrogative murmur of curiosity as to his identity.

  In an antechamber the little procession dissolved and Faulkner, still smarting from Mistress Villiers’s disapproval, was left to watch her withdraw with the Queen and the other ladies. Beside a table upon which lay some papers, pens, ink and sand, the King removed his hat and gloves. Faulkner noted again his smallness of stature but, in contrast to the young man whom he had encountered on the quarterdeck of the Prince Royal, he had acquired a polished hauteur conveyed in the expression of his face and the manner in which he carried his head. It was a fleeting but indelible impression that struck Faulkner – already sensitive over the bungled grin at Katherine – with considerable force, particularly as he recalled Mainwaring’s earlier confidential remark that His Majesty was unreliable.

  Mainwaring and Faulkner awaited the King’s pleasure at some distance from the table at which the King now sat. Close to him, their heads bent in confidential discussion, were two immaculately attired courtiers, one of whom, he afterwards learned, was Sir Edmund Carleton, a private secretary to the King. Once, Carleton looked up and beckoned a waiting gentleman, who was for some moments included in the conversation before purposefully leaving the room. Then Mainwaring and Faulkner were summoned. For a moment the King discussed some matters concerning the ships-of-war at Plymouth with Mainwaring, about which a nervous Faulkner knew nothing. Then Mainwaring straightened up and stepped backwards, so that the King looked directly at Faulkner.

  ‘M–M–Mr F–F–Faulkner,’ the King said, passing his hand across a paper which bore a deal of close-knit handwriting under the King’s signature, and to which was appended a heavy red seal, ‘your commission as Captain.’ Carleton handed the document to Faulkner, followed by a folded and sealed sheet of paper.

  ‘Those are your orders, Captain,’ the King added, ‘and th–th–these–’ again he waved his hand over the table, at which point Carleton picked up a bound and sealed packet and held them for a moment as the King concluded– ‘are despatches for His Grace the Duke of Buckingham which you – at your peradventure – will deliver into his hands.’

  Faulkner, almost faint from the importance of the moment in which he was not only promoted to Captain but personally charged with carrying the King’s despatches to His Majesty’s Commander-in-Chief in the field, muttered his gratitude, stepping backwards clasping the papers to his breast as he bowed and retired.

  Before they had left the antechamber the King was attending to the next matter Carleton laid before him. Of Katherine Villiers, however, there was no sign.

  The following day he was at Deptford to find that Mainwaring had anticipated everything. Quite extraordinarily his command, one of the ten Lion’s Whelps, lay at the buoys stored and manned as fully as was possible – and which proved just sufficient. Even her officers had been appointed. Sir Henry had kept all this quiet, anxious, though Faulkner never knew it, that he might prove fatally reluctant to abandon his Bristol project. In a sense Mainwaring had indeed guessed a woman lay at the heart of his protégé’s motives, though in a different direction to those originally ascribed. Though Mainwaring could not know it, Faulkner’s acceptance of command of a King’s ship rode entirely upon the encounter with Katherine Villiers that evening in Whitehall, which had entirely eclipsed all thoughts of Julia Gooding.

  However, only Faulkner himself could know the queer twist this apparent good fortune had taken by his gaffe in the palace, extinguishing all hopes of making further acquaintance of Mistress Villiers just at the moment they had been rekindled. And now he was charged by King Charles himself to carry despatches to her cousin! In the circumstances he did what he had to and embraced the task to the exclusion of all else. He had no clear idea of the benefit conferred upon him thanks to Mainwaring’s solicitude in readying the Lion’s Whelp, thinking, if he thought about it at all, that Sir Henry had known that he must be off immediately, but he knew how to take advantage of it. Hardly had a dockyard boat taken him on board and an officer and side-party met him, than he sent for his first lieutenant as he made his way aft to the small cabin set aside for the commander. A moment later, to his
surprise and delight, his second-in-command knocked on his door and, without awaiting leave to enter, did so.

  ‘Welcome aboard . . . sir.’

  There was just sufficient of a delay before the term of respect, and just a mocking and familiar tone in the voice to cause Faulkner to spin round. ‘Harry! By Heaven ’tis indeed you!’

  ‘I think, Mr Brenton more becoming, Captain Faulkner, now that rank separates us.’

  ‘You are not bitter?’ Faulkner asked, suddenly concerned at a future riven with bad blood. ‘I had no idea . . .’

  ‘No indeed, Kit,’ Brenton said. ‘In fact I solicited the post from Sir Henry when I got wind of the possibility and probably knew before you did yourself.’

  ‘Well, I am damned glad to see you. Now look, we are under orders, special orders, to sail at once. The ebb starts in four hours, can we be away on this tide?’

  ‘If you don’t mind dropping down river in the dark.’

  ‘What about the hands? Are they . . . ?’

  ‘In accordance with Sir Henry’s orders I mustered them three days ago. We have stood-to at stations twice and manned the great guns once. The sails are in the buntlines . . .’

  ‘I noticed that. Sir Henry seems to have done more than I could have asked.’

  Brenton was grinning at him. ‘If I may presume upon our old friendship, Kit, it is you we have all been waiting for. We’ve poached some damned fine seamen and if we don’t cast off tonight my guess is that half of the damned rogues will have run by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What about food? When did they last eat?’

  ‘They have dined today. All you need is a pilot; that I could not order, not being able to guess your requirements.’

  ‘Sir Henry promised me a pilot from Gravesend. I shall send him a note at the Trinity House whither he has gone. You and I can surely manage the river, it is the estuary I am more wary of.’

  ‘I’ll get young Eagles – he met you at the entry – to take your note to Ratcliffe.’ Brenton was already making for the cabin door but he turned with it half-open. ‘Where is your baggage? And do you have any cabin stores?’

  ‘Cabin stores? No, damn it, I never . . .’

  ‘No matter. I have enough if we are not bound far, enough for a fortnight or three weeks if we are careful.’

  ‘That is civil of you, Harry.’

  Then he was gone and Faulkner called for pen and ink from the purser; his was in his portmanteau just then arriving in his cabin attended by a one-eyed seaman who stood silent until noticed.

  ‘What is it?’ Faulkner looked up from the portmanteau.

  ‘I’m Crowe, sir. Your servant.’

  ‘Very well. As you can see, Crowe, I travel light. We shall have to make do . . .’

  ‘Make do; aye aye, sir.’

  A moment later Lieutenant Eagles was knocking at the door. Faulkner had the note ready for him. ‘To Ratcliffe in all haste, Mr Eagles . . .’

  ‘To Sir Henry at the Trinity House?’

  ‘Indeed, yes.’

  The night was cloudy and the moon had yet to rise as they slipped the mooring and began to move downstream under topsails filled with the light westerly breeze and the thrust of the ebb tide. Faulkner posted Eagles forward to see them safely past the tiers of lighters, the moored colliers and five huge Indiamen lying off Blackwall. They dodged among a handful of swim-headed lighters ghosting along under their sprit-rigs, and so down to Gravesend where a grizzled old pilot who stank of tobacco clambered aboard, stared at the compass and introduced himself as ‘Nairn, Cap’n.’

  Faulkner fell to pacing the deck, sending Brenton below with the off-duty men and leaving the deck to the pilot. He had to confess to a nervous thrill; his vessel was small enough, a pinnace of little more than 120 tons burthen and sixty feet in length, but she bore ten guns: eight culverins and demi-culverins of iron, and two brass sakers as chase guns. What was more, her rig was powerful for her size, her three masts reaching up into the darkness, upon the fore and main of which the pale oblongs of the topsails drew manfully. They had set two headsails and the water chuckled along the side as, aided by the tide, they sped down through the Lower Hope before turning through a right angle and headed a little south of east down Sea Reach and the vast estuary of London’s River.

  Faulkner could not have slept, even had he been able to, for the notion of sole command, notwithstanding the presence of the pilot, caused his heart to beat with a mixture of pride, anxiety and zeal. He had read his orders and knew his business; once clear of The Downs sometime tomorrow forenoon he must press to the westward with all speed, avoiding contact with the enemy until after he had delivered his despatches to the Duke of Buckingham.

  He wished Katherine Villiers might see him now – Captain Christopher Faulkner; a man enjoying the particular favour of his Majesty King Charles I. Might he not grin to his heart’s content, by God? Most certainly he might! And then, just as he was feeling mightily pleased with himself, the thought entered his head that he had yet to get the pinnace out of the estuary which, though seamed with channels, was equally strewn with extensive sandbanks, and although he had brought larger ships out of the Medway bound for Plymouth, he had himself not taken charge of the navigation until beyond the Kentish Forelands. Now the Nore and Knob, the Pansand, the Spaniard, the Last, the Girdler and the Tongue had still to be negotiated. Thank heavens the Whelp drew only a few feet. But should not the pilot have put a man in the chains to sound? The question clawed at him; would the pilot tend to the matter without prompting, or should he take the initiative himself? He was, after all, the commander and the responsibility lay entirely with himself. He walked purposely forward.

  ‘Mr Nairn?’

  ‘Cap’n?’

  ‘I, er, I was considering a leadsman . . .’ He was almost ashamed of the tentative note in his own voice.

  ‘Aye, sir. By my reckoning the watch changes in a few minutes. I was holding my hand until then. We’ll be down by the Nore by that time and . . .’

  ‘That is well, Mr Pilot. Do as you will.’

  A few minutes later the bell struck and he saw the flit of dark shapes as the watch changed, the men exchanging remarks with their reliefs before going below to the warmth of their hammocks. Eagles came aft from his duty at the knightheads and Faulkner ordered him below too. He was content to keep the deck himself on this, his first night at sea in command.

  Suddenly the leadsman’s cry came from forward. ‘By the deep four!’ Every few minutes the call pierced the night air which, apart from the gentle rush of water along the Whelp’s side, the creaking of the gear and the low murmur of voices as the watch huddled out of the way forward, was silent. The pilot was a dark figure lit faintly by the pale light in the binnacle next to which he stood, while the helmsman occasionally leaned upon the great curved tiller, making some minor correction to the ship’s heading. Faulkner did not interfere with the pilot, who from time to time held a small sandglass to the light of the binnacle. Faulkner could hear him muttering, probably subconsciously, as he did his calculations and adjusted the course. Now and again he would move forward and peer ahead on one bow or the other, then march aft with a modestly triumphant air to resume his station beside the binnacle. A few seconds later Faulkner would see the pale shape of a buoy or sometimes a beacon slide past them, and knew that they were holding true in the south channel, bound for the North Foreland and the Gull Stream which led to The Downs off Deal.

  The hours passed and they carried the ebb eastwards; the wind backed a little into the south-west and they braced the yards accordingly. At about three in the morning the pilot cast about and, seeing Faulkner, came over to him.

  ‘You’m lucky, Cap’n. We’ll have the ebb round the Foreland, though it’ll likely die afore we reach The Downs. Are you intending to anchor?’

  ‘No, Pilot. I’m for the westwards . . .’

  ‘In this wind? It may freshen from the sou’west.’

  ‘Then we shall have to beat; stretch over
to the French coast.’

  ‘Huh! You mind them French corsairs, Cap’n. They’d like to snap up a handy little man-o’-war like this’n . . .’ He paused, then added, ‘Well, you can hang out a flag for a punt off Deal an’ I’ll take my leave o’you.’

  They were fortunate in carrying the ebb almost as far as Deal before the flood began. With her fore and main yards braced sharp up, the forenoon found them signalling for a boat and by noon they had discharged the pilot, cleared the danger of the Goodwins and stood offshore, the white cliffs above Dover receding astern. Only then did Faulkner hand over the deck to Brenton and go below to where Crowe had prepared his bed-place. Throwing off his doublet, with Crowe pulling at his boots, he rolled himself in his blankets and fell instantly asleep.

  He had no idea how long he had been sleeping when he felt himself being rudely shaken.

  ‘Cap’n, sir! Cap’n!’

  ‘What the devil . . . ?’

  ‘Cap’n.’ Crowe ceased shaking him. ‘Mr Brenton’s compliments, sir, and he thinks you should be on deck!’ No further explanation was needed. Faulkner tumbled out and drew on his boots. Grabbing the cloak Crowe held out for him he drew it round his shoulders over his shirt and ran out on to the quarterdeck.

  ‘What is it?’ The question was superfluous. Both Brenton and Eagles stood at the taffrail and stared at the man-of-war three miles astern of them. She was not of the largest class, but something equivalent to an English fourth or fifth-rate. Nor was there need to ask what nationality she was, for even though her three masts were in line, they could see the fly of the large white ensign fluttering just beyond the edges of her sails – the white colours of Bourbon France.