He leaned forward, picked up a poker and stabbed at the fire. ‘Principles!’ he growled to himself.
‘He is right.’ Julia’s voice startled him and he spun round. She stood in her nightdress by the door.
‘Is he? Well, well. You and the good Captain Rainsborough are in agreement. Would you have me join the forces of Parliament?’
‘I would have you do what was right.’
‘Which as far as I am concerned means remaining here to attend to my family and my affairs which, by the by, provide for other families. Now let there be no further argument upon the matter. I am a seaman and I served the King in that capacity, otherwise I know nothing of war on land. I sit a horse ill and I possess neither a pike nor an arquebuss. If the King—’
‘You would not answer a summons from the King,’ Julia said in a sudden, indignant assumption.
‘I doubt that the King has the time to sit and write an appeal to me, Julia. Besides, why all this zeal for action, eh? Men are killed and maimed in war; is that the prospect you delight in for your husband?’
‘Of course not! I do not want this war any more than you but . . .’
‘But what?’
She shook her head, remaining silent.
‘But what?’ he persisted.
‘I just know that you will be unable to avoid commitment before all this is laid to rest. I do not ask you to fight, I only ask that you stand for the right cause in this unhappy matter. You do not understand that I, as a woman, must needs have my interests declared by you as my husband. If you declare for the King, I am by association also attached to the King and that is not my inclination. I do not believe the King rules by divine right, that his decisions are infallible and that he is responsible only to God. His decisions are patently fallible, even pretending that he knows his own mind which, by all accounts, he rarely does. You yourself admitted that he is not to be relied upon and that his word is given too lightly, that he promises whatever is expedient and does whatever is in his own interests. That is not kingly.’
‘Go to bed, Julia,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Promise me—’
‘I will promise you nothing beyond allowing you to go to Bristol, if that is your wish, with the children. Is that what you wish?’
She nodded. ‘I think it may be for the better, perhaps for a year, until matters are clearer.’
‘I pray that the matter may be clearer in a year, though I doubt it. And what if Bristol declares for the King? You will be caught there like a rat in a trap, whereas here, in London, it is more certain that, as the home of Parliament and the mob, it will remain resistant even if the King’s arms triumph. He would have to negotiate a peace with London, not take it by storm. Bristol’s fate is less predictable.’
‘I had not thought of that,’ she admitted.
‘No. You had not thought of that.’
‘But . . .’
‘Go to bed. I need some time to think.’ He bent and again poked at the fire. ‘Goodnight,’ he said as she withdrew. Whether or not she replied he did not hear.
The glowing embers of the fire were mesmerizing and he sat staring into them for an hour, fancying he saw odd scenes, all hellishly red and edged with the grey accumulation of ash. Faces, horses, forests came and went before his tired eyes. What was to be done? He felt neither cause of sufficient magnetism to require his devotion, and indeed he had little need to provide further for Julia and the family, for he was of sufficient means for them all if he fell into the arms of death this very night. Perhaps he could send Julia and the children abroad, following the Queen to Holland. He had contacts enough in Lisbon, in Oporto or distant Leghorn. He shook his head; she would not go and he knew the detachment from her religion that he had effectively forced upon her, without serious intent, inclined her to obduracy.
Perhaps, he thought, inverting the problem, that since she was well provided for it was he who should go. She was not intimately party to all his affairs, but she was master of some capital and aware of aspects of his business that, without much awkward formality, she was more than competent to take over. The idea grew until he realized that its impracticality made it a mere fantasy. That he could fantasize tonight was admitted, but how many such nights might be left to him, and in thinking of nights he was aware that they had not lain together for some time, and an ache and an itch was awakening in him that he had not yet sensed in her after the birth of Hannah. After a while he rose and fetched pen, ink, sand and paper, set another candle, made up the fire and wrote at length to Gooding.
When he had finished and had heard the watch call that it was past midnight, he sealed the letter and added a superscription. Then he stared once more at the fire. The letter to Gooding was a form of insurance, it was true, but it ensured some provision of financial stability, at least as far as he could then devise, and it was more than generous to Gooding himself. Faulkner stood and stretched. He was tired, but not yet ready for sleep. He looked about the room, at the sturdy furniture and the dark panelling – not bad for Mr Rat, by God! And now poor Mainwaring was running like a hunted fox – how strange and impermanent were the ways of the world.
He picked up the candle and, as he made his way towards the door, its light fell upon the portrait of Julia that hung close by the door in complement to his own on the other side. It was a fair likeness and he recalled how he had first been stirred by her, yet had known little of her body under her dark and modest habit. Now he knew and the thought pricked his lust. He mounted the stairs content at last with his night’s work, which had advanced matters as far as they might and for which the unknowing Julia ought to be grateful.
He pushed open the bedroom door with its familiar creak and heard her stir before he held the candle to her head. She was asleep and he kicked off his boots and removed his outer garments, and then stripped himself of his small clothes. Then he blew out the candle and lifted the coverlet, lowering his weight on to the mattress. Julia moved at the disturbance and rolled towards him. There was insufficient light for him to see more than the pale form of her face under its lace cap to which he reached out and deftly untied. This woke her and he moved towards her, his hands sliding down so that she quickly divined his intentions and was fully awake.
‘Husband?’ she said. ‘This is not the time . . .’
‘I have a need of you,’ he responded, ‘now.’
‘I think not, Kit. I am neither in the mood nor the season, and I do not wish for another child.’
‘Forgive me, but I am not in need of another child either, but I would have you for my pleasure.’
‘Please, no . . .’
‘Come . . .’
‘No!’ She thrust him aside so that he lay back and for several moments stared at the ceiling. Beside him Julia’s breathing slowly subsided. Then, just when he sensed she might be about to speak, and without a word himself, he rose, fumbled for his clothes and boots and left the bedroom.
For several months matters stood still in the Faulkner household, relative to events in the country at large. Julia had second thoughts about an immediate removal to Bristol, not least because Faulkner declared that he would remain in London, probably until the end of the New Year. He had become withdrawn and though neither of them referred to the incident in the bedroom, its unprecedented nature had nevertheless caused a rupture in their former intimacy. She, uncertain of his temper, therefore preferred to remain in the capital and await the outcome of events. The war meanwhile gained momentum: among the Parliamentary field officers a new name was emerging alongside that of Essex and Fairfax, that of Cromwell, and success crowned the endeavours of this former member of the House of Commons. But the Royalists, though defeated at Newbury, took Bristol and effectively cut off Julia’s retreat. Difficulty was experienced in getting letters through, though a communication of sorts was kept up by sea, and it was soon clear that Gooding and his co-religionists were themselves besieged within the city limits of Bristol. It was a far from easy time, though there
were hopes of a peace when negotiations began at Oxford, though these swiftly broke down. Trade faltered and economic recession began to bite; Faulkner was obliged to call upon his reserves, securing, at Julia’s insistence, the services of a tutor for Henry. The young man, a zealous Puritan of her choosing, ought to have been in harness but he seemed sickly and his appearance caused Faulkner some anxiety for fear that he imported some contagion into the house, but it was not a matter he could do battle over and no ill effects seemed to ensue; both Harry and his siblings seeming robust in health despite the air of the city.
At the year’s end, despite the distant horrors of the war, it seemed that Faulkner’s middle road might ensure a tranquil family life. The following June told of a battle at Cropredy Bridge, which was swiftly followed by a more serious blow to the King’s forces at Marston Moor in July. The Queen was reported to be intriguing on her husband’s behalf in France, and York was taken by the Parliament’s army. Only in the West Country were the King’s arms successful and a Parliamentary force surrendered at Fowey, while a second action at Newbury in late October proved indecisive.
Despite these upheavals Faulkner might have remained relatively unaffected by it all, other than having to accept dwindling profits and the rising costs of ship-owning. The schisms in the country had rent the Fraternity of Trinity House where the senior Elder Brethren took sides, those inclining to the cause of Parliament included several of the Sallee commanders led by Rainsborough, and William Batten, a former colleague and friend of Mainwaring. Many of the Younger Brethren withdrew their presence and looked increasingly to their own affairs. Much saddened by the breakdown in amity among his fellow seafarers, Faulkner was one of those who adopted this course of action, particularly as Sir Henry had disappeared. Thanks to his origins Faulkner lacked the driving political background of many and his unwillingness to engage in the political process was due more to ignorance than disinterest. Ever since Mainwaring and Strange had set him upon his way, his endeavours had been entirely directed to learning the business set immediately before him and, if he imbibed anything of politics, they were the opinions of Sir Henry and chiefly directed at his country’s naval and mercantile might. With this in abeyance – for he had proved quite correct in assuming the ‘Royal’ Navy would abandon the King and declare for Parliament – and the nation turned inwards in search of the answers to its dilemma in civil war, Faulkner had felt himself somehow redundant. Besides these considerations, there were those of Julia and the three children; his wife’s views were well known and generally he deferred to them, except in the matter of religion where he pretended to an adherence to the Anglican faith, though he had as little time for bishops as any puritan. He knew that deep fractures were appearing in his own marriage but Julia was obedient to him and with that he was content. While she ruled within, he continued with his affairs, maintained correspondence with Gooding and between them their ships both from Bristol and London managed to make the occasional profitable voyage.
Nevertheless, convinced that the Parliamentarians would emerge victorious, there were times when Julia attempted to goad him into throwing in his lot with them.
‘Husband,’ she lectured him on one occasion, as they sat late over dinner after the children had been sent to bed, ‘there are men rising in the land. Does not your own ambition prompt you to wish to rise with them?’
‘Men rise and fall, Wife,’ he replied abruptly. ‘Look at Buckingham, look at Laud, look at Strafford.’
‘Things are changing now, changing . . . What of this man Cromwell who is said to be raising a new army?’
Faulkner shrugged. ‘Let us wait and see. Thus far we have been preserved . . .’
‘You are worthy of greater things than all this,’ she said, her argument taking a different direction. ‘You are well known to many as a man competent enough to provide ships . . .’
‘I am content, Julia. We have much to be thankful for,’ he snapped, her remark pricking his conscience, for if her arguments stirred anything within him, it was a sense of having somehow abandoned Mainwaring in his hour of need.
Towards the end of 1644 it seemed as though Faulkner had done the right thing. Both sides in the war appeared, at least from what Faulkner gleaned, to have worn themselves to a standstill. There were rumours of peace talks, notwithstanding others of a new force raised by General Oliver Cromwell, and these auguries were confirmed when delegates met at Uxbridge. This news came as a relief to Faulkner who, in recent weeks, had been troubled by visitors from among the captains who had taken part in the expedition to Sallee. Although it was never admitted, it was clear that they had been sent by Rainsborough and they sought Faulkner’s services in the organization of the navy.
The first of these was Trenchfield, who had been blunt in his recruitment. ‘You are an experienced surveyor, Captain Faulkner, you know Mainwaring’s works and his publications and we would employ these in the country’s service. His Seaman’s Dictionary has been published, you know, and we wish to use it as a manual for the fleet.’
Disturbed, Faulkner promised to consider the proposal, hoping that matters would be settled at Uxbridge before he had to commit himself, but, even as the delegates met, another Trinity House man who had served under Rainsborough off Morocco, Captain Brian Harrison, called on him, urging him with similar reasons to return to the fold where he was sorely missed.
Knowing of these visits, Julia again attempted to persuade him to declare himself for the Parliamentary cause, but he refused. ‘They want to plunder my purse, Wife, that seems to me the chief purpose of the Parliament here.’
But on a frosty morning, late in the month of February 1645, a man arrived at Faulkner’s warehouse asking for him. He was brought into the counting-house where Faulkner was in consultation with Harris, his chief clerk, and old Roger Godwin, a master mariner who deputed as ship’s-husband.
‘There’s a fellow arrived wishing to speak to thee, Cap’n Faulkner,’ one of the junior clerks said respectfully, interrupting the three men. Faulkner looked up. The man wore a large hat which obscured most of his face. Faulkner could see a long beard and hollow cheeks but the eyes were in shadow. He was cloaked against the cold and his boots were bespattered with mud. In deference to the clean-swept floor he stood just inside the door.
‘Ask him his business,’ Faulkner said, turning to Godwin. ‘We must, I fear lay the Phoenix up then. See to the matter, Roger.’ The old man nodded and collected his papers with a sigh. Faulkner turned to Harris. ‘At least the Indiamen are employed.’
‘Indeed, sir. At least for the time being.’
‘Things should improve, I am sure. The Phoenix will not, I think, be idle for long . . . What is it?’
The junior clerk coughed and said, ‘He insists on seeing you alone, sir, and asks that you will walk with him.’
Faulkner looked up at the man and then turned to Harris. ‘Well, there is little to detain me, Harris. I shall see what this fellow wants. Perhaps a cargo for the Phoenix is on offer.’
‘I pray that to be the case.’
The two smiled and Faulkner picked up his hat. As he approached, the stranger turned away and walked towards the door that let on to the narrow street and the stink of the river. A thin mist coiled off the silver streak of the Thames glimpsed down the alleyway. The man waited next to the warehouse doorway for Faulkner to catch him up. At that time of the tide the alley was less crowded than the street, and less cluttered by barrows, though it led down to Wapping stairs.
‘Captain Faulkner . . .’
He thought the voice vaguely familiar, though could not at first place it, then the man briefly lifted his hat before his face was again shadowed by its brim. Again he had that sense of familiarity without clear recognition.
‘You do not recognize me, sir . . .’
‘No, I do not.’
From a satchel slung about his shoulder, the stranger removed a package and held it out to Faulkner. ‘Perhaps you recognize the hand hereon?’
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br /> Faulkner needed only a quick glance and his heart thumped. ‘Sir Henry Mainwaring.’ He looked directly at the man who this time removed his hat entirely. It took a moment for Faulkner to realize that the lined and hollow-cheeked features and the haunted eyes into which he looked were indeed familiar.
‘Eagles? James Eagles . . . By heaven! I . . . I apologize . . . you are much changed . . . older, I mean, I intend no offence . . .’
‘None taken, Captain Faulkner, but is there somewhere we can go?’
For a moment Faulkner did not understand, though the sense of apprehensive urgency in Eagles’s voice was plain enough.
‘I am come from the West Country . . .’
Comprehension dawned on Faulkner. ‘You are with Mainwaring and he is with the King!’
‘Very like, but here is not the place . . .’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Faulkner felt a quickening of his pulse, a rare excitement stirred him. Fear mixed with a deep longing that confused him for a moment until his thoughts cleared and he seemed, at least to Eagles, to remind him of the man who commanded the Perseus in the fight with the Sallee rover off Safi. ‘Come,’ Faulkner said, taking his elbow and turning him round, ‘let us to my house, it is only a short step. Walk leisurely and talk of ships. My ship Phoenix – a stout vessel like the Perseus – is lately in from the Mediterranean and discharged, but we have no lading for her.’
Eagles fell into step beside him as they ascended the alleyway, turned into the street and began shouldering their way through the crowd. ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ He paused, negotiated a dray being backed by a rough waggoner, and asked, ‘What is her armament?’
‘Fourteen culverins and a brace of sakers; she is ship-rigged and handy, and faster than the Perseus, though she was no laggard, even on the wind.’
‘No, indeed. And what of the old Perseus? Does she still turn over a florin or two in your favour?’
A Ship for The King Page 20