A Successful Cruise
Spring – Summer 1649
Having travelled from Helvoetsluys with Mainwaring over a flat landscape bright with the promise of an early summer, Faulkner found Katherine in their lodgings at The Hague. Though thin with privation after a hard winter, her loveliness turned his gut with love and desire. She seemed less subdued than when he had left her, a change in mood he met with a swift resolution to put the past behind them. Her solicitude for him made it the easier for him in the euphoria of his return to forgive her all the agony she had caused him. It was clear from Mainwaring’s casual but pointed remarks that any contacts she had had with Charles’s threadbare court in exile had been fleeting. Faulkner certainly believed her when to his single query as to whether she had seen the King she gave a firm shake of the head.
‘His Majesty was graciously pleased to send Sir James Verney to wait upon me but yesterday,’ she had said in that formal manner that she had been taught, years earlier, as a young girl at the court of King James.
‘Oh? On what business, pray?’ he had asked.
‘To say he had had word that you had damaged the trade in London’s river and was pleased that you had struck a blow for the cause.’ She hesitated a second, then added, ‘As was, or so he told me, the King himself.’
‘How the devil did he acquire that news so fast?’ Faulkner enquired, surprised at the speed of the intelligence.
Katherine had shrugged. ‘The packet boats run regularly and their skippers and mates make free with the news.’
Faulkner had been too intent in bringing the Phoenix safely into the Haringvliet to notice whether a packet boat from Harwich had been lying at the quay at Helvoetsluys, but he thought not. Besides, even had it been so, there had not been time between his raid and any packet’s departure from the Essex port for the news of his exploit to be enshrined in even the most superficial gossip, let alone the hastiest of despatches.
Faulkner shook his head. ‘Even supposing the elapsed time enabled a bulletin to be issued, the Parliament would scarcely broadcast the affair to the satisfaction of its enemies.’
‘Perhaps they are using pigeons,’ she said. ‘There is a loft at the Maritshuis . . . What are you gawping at?’
‘Pigeons?’ he queried with an expression of genuine ignorance and enquiry.
‘Yes. Did you not know? They are a homing breed and may be trained to carry messages tied to their legs. You did not know, did you?’ She was laughing now and the revelation of his ignorance melted the last of the reserve between them.
‘Oh, Kate,’ he admitted, ‘I am such a fool; my education is so wanting. I . . . pigeons! For the Lord’s sake what a notion!’
She was sitting on his knee now and said, ‘This is a land of wonders, Kit; I heard that a tulip bulb can sell here for a hundred guilders and some say far more.’
‘Now you are gulling me and I am not such a fool as to believe that and certainly not among these sober square-headed dullards.’
‘But ’tis true. Men make such utter fools of themselves over money that a tulip is but an extension of the madness. It is said some are set fair to ruin themselves in the business.’
‘You speak the truth there, by God. And that is not confined to these Hollanders.’
‘And we must mind our funds. This cruise’s success may have reached the ears of the King by discommoding the Parliament, but it puts no bread on the table nor tar upon the Phoenix’s stays.’
‘Is that so terrible when we have each other?’
‘We shall not have even lovers’ short commons if one of us should die from hunger, Kate. Thank God the winter is behind us. As for the Phoenix, she is all I have besides thee and my debts, and even she is pledged to the King . . .’
‘As I am not, my love,’ she said, breaking into his tirade with the sudden affirmation.
Faulkner gulped, brought up short, like a curbed horse. ‘And I am grateful for it, Kate,’ he said quietly. They fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment, then she kissed him, slipped from his lap and took a half turn by the table.
‘And shall we take some bread and cheese? I have a little of that, at least, then you can make plans for your Phoenix.’
He brightened. ‘Oh, she is in need of careening, though would to God I had the means to dock her properly.’
‘If you are concerned we could take cheaper lodgings in Helvoetsluys and give these up.’ She gestured round the bare room.
He shook his head. ‘There is nothing cheap to be had there; commerce inflates rents and the English are no longer loved there, unless they have the Parliament’s purse to draw upon.’ He sighed and stretched, watching her bring food from the cupboard to the table. ‘I am bound to say that if I do not take a legitimate prize soon, or loot something and make myself a pirate in the Parliament’s eyes, we shall be in some straits. Anyway, poor Sir Henry, while he may labour occasionally at Helvoetsluys, persuades himself he is the King’s admiral here in The Hague.’
‘Poor Sir Henry,’ she said sympathetically.
‘And what about poor plain Kit?’ he asked, standing up, making a grab for her and kissing her before she had time to respond.
Pulling away from him she looked up into his eyes. Her own were hollowed by hunger, her features fine drawn but her bosom rose and fell alluringly and she pressed her nether parts against his. ‘For you, plain Kit, I have a devilish itch.’
The week that followed was blissful. Katherine’s warmth drove the last remnant of hurt from him and, if he thought of her with Charles at all it was as a victim, trapped by the man’s power and his arbitrary abuse of it. But there were other matters to distract him. The King’s summons kept him kicking his heels overlong at The Hague when the repair and revictualling of the Phoenix required his attention, though he heard no news of it. He accomplished the refitting of the Phoenix with what remained of his slender means, but was obliged to attend Mainwaring in his visits to the money lenders of Amsterdam in order to raise funds for the underwriting of his next cruise. True, his stock had never been higher; the news brought by pigeons or plain conjecture had been confirmed by the outraged tracts that finally spewed out of the London presses about ‘Acts of Piracy’ by the ‘Malignant’s successor’s pretensions to naval puissance’.
As for the Malignant’s successor, the uncrowned, unanointed King Charles II failed to summon the only naval commander available to him in Dutch waters who accomplished the refitting of the Phoenix with what remained of his private funds. Instead Faulkner was sent an order to expedite his departure on a second cruise ‘in order that His Majesty’s cause might be furthered by the utmost exertions to annoy His Majesty’s enemies on the part of his Most Trusty and Well-beloved Captain Christopher Faulkner’.
Conscious of the burden laid upon him, Faulkner tossed the letter aside. The circumstances under which he would undertake his next cruise were very different from those that had attended his earlier venture. The year was sufficiently advanced for the Commonwealth navy to have fully commissioned the Summer Guard, and while Rupert might be active in the far west, the trade of the nation focused attention closer to home. The outrage felt in the City of London and the accusations against the men-of-war in the Medway who had failed to interrupt the raider overcame any reticence and were soon leaked to the exiled court. They encouraged Charles, profligate of the lives of commoners after his father had paid the ultimate sacrifice, to urge Faulkner to greater efforts, but Faulkner himself was only too well aware that while the Commonwealth’s power grew daily, the King’s weakened by the moment.
It was clear that Faulkner, should he fall foul of the Parliamentary authorities, would pay dearly for his insolence and these considerations, grasped only partially by himself, nevertheless made him plan his next cruise with great care, for he had no desire to lose his head like the martyred King.
Despite his congratulations at Helvoetsluys, privately Mainwaring was even less happy than Faulkner himself, for he thought that the exploit of the
Nore had already compromised any compact either of them might in the future make with the Commonwealth. Any further successes could only worsen the situation. The old pragmatist grew daily wearier of the world in which he found himself but Faulkner, heady with Kate’s loving, cast off Mainwaring’s worst predictions.
‘’Tis me they will be after, Sir Henry. I mean no offence but your name is not noticed.’
‘You have become too much the cavalier,’ Mainwaring said, bristling. ‘I am in no wise satisfied that the King’s cause prospers to the extent of offering me the quietude to which – in less clamorous times – my years entitle me.’
‘Then abandon the notion,’ Faulkner advised, revealing an increasing irritation with Mainwaring. ‘Settle for being here.’
‘I cannot settle here. I am not a Dutchman.’ Mainwaring sighed. ‘You are too young to understand.’ Mainwaring paused and then added, ‘You owe me something, Kit, and I cannot go alone.’
‘I owe you what you intended, that I should become a King’s sea officer. If I accompanied you to London they would take my head for payment of lost cargoes while you might be mewed-up in the Tower. I cannot abandon Katherine and if she comes they will revile her for her kinship.’ Faulkner began pacing the room. ‘Must you go at all?’
Mainwaring nodded. ‘D’you think a single success like you have achieved will amount to much in the end? The King’s cause cannot prosper; it can only wither. These Commonwealth men, or whatever they call themselves, have judged and executed a King!’ Mainwaring expostulated indignantly. ‘They are not going to roll on their bellies like a fat cat and have the world tickle them, for Heaven’s sake! Have they not shed enough blood to convince you that they wash their swords in it and will never sheath them while there are those like us to serve the successor to him they have dispatched to Abraham’s bosom?’ Mainwaring paused and then told Faulkner to sit down.
‘Kit, I have secret communication with London.’
‘The devil you have!’
Mainwaring raised a hand for silence. ‘There is a constant to-ing and a fro-ing, Kit. You are a good sea officer but no politician. The nub of it is that I am informed that one might make a compact – there is talk of a composition to end the division in the country – and if this plays out I am desirous of settling my affairs in England before I die. I do not want to die an exile.’
He broke off as Kate came into the room. Talk of defection was dangerous and they had agreed the matter was not to be mentioned in her presence, though it occurred to Faulkner that he would be pulled asunder if Mainwaring did demand that he, Faulkner, accompany him. Kate would never go over to the enemy and would profoundly despise either of them for doing so; Kit feared it would part them. It was a dilemma that he had put from his mind and he hoped now that he would never have to confront it. Better a ragged loyalty to Charles and the security of his love for Katherine than his name be tainted with treachery. Had he become too much of a cavalier? Mainwaring certainly thought so, but then Sir Henry was on the horns of his own dilemma. The thought made him smile inwardly. Mainwaring had turned the course of his own life more than once. As for being a cavalier, he had met a few of those haughty gentry who hung about Rupert’s skirts in their lace, slashed silk and half-armour. Fine-looking men under their wide-brimmed hats, bold as lions in battle but careless of their men, hopeless in discipline and ever ready to take offence at some imagined slight from an upstart. Even Mainwaring, with his long associations with the court, was held a parvenu. Faulkner inwardly dismissed the notion; only at sea, where a proper knowledge of the seaman’s art could guarantee the success of even the most modest enterprise, did a man’s ability graduate him.
‘When shall you sail again?’ Mainwaring asked, jerking him back from introspection. Faulkner guessed Mainwaring meant to steel him against the event of new separation from Katherine, for, sensing the sudden awkward silence, she looked from one to the other and he knew his answer would distress her.
‘In a sennight,’ he said, meeting Kate’s widening eyes. ‘I am sorry for it, Kate, but it must be done.’
‘But a week’s time . . .’ she began and then turned and fled the room.
Faulkner sighed and glared at Mainwaring. ‘That was ill done, Sir Henry, and unkind withal. Now I must placate her.’
And he left the room to Mainwaring who, shaking his head over the business of women, turned his attention to his pipe.
Faulkner’s departure was a month later than he had said but the cruise upon which he embarked, though his most risky, proved to be his most successful. He had planned it with the utmost care and the delay fortunately ensured its success. True, Mainwaring’s energies in assisting Faulkner helped, for the Phoenix was as well prepared as was humanly possible. Far from assuming the role of admiral, he took to that of ship’s husband with all the gusto of a younger man, not least because it reminded him of happier times when he had been a ship owner. Leaving Faulkner to attend to the actual preparations of the ship herself, Mainwaring, having exhausted the resources of The Hague, travelled to Amsterdam with his Dutch servant as interpreter. Here he continued the rounds of the Jewish usurers so that, when the Phoenix dropped downstream on the first of the ebb on a fine sunny morning in late June, she had had the desired dry-docking, her rigging was all a-tanto and half her sails were brand new. During this, Faulkner had had the ship’s name removed from her transom to better confuse any observer. Even better, her crew had been paid a modest advance and Faulkner had engaged a score of brawny Dutch seamen, of whom he had the highest opinion. To these he had added a number of waterfront loafers – mostly destitute English, some of whom were soldiers – whom he thought might beef up his prize-crews if he was fortunate in the matter of captures. Faulkner was less happy about the two additions to the after-guard, both of whom arrived on board the night before they were due to sail brandishing commissions as lieutenants under the King’s sign-manual.
There was no doubt but they were cavaliers, for both men, though yet a year or so short of their majorities, bore notable names: the one a Hervey and the other a Digby. Neither had been to sea before and Faulkner sent them forward to observe the method by which the men, under the direction of White, unshackled the mooring.
‘Captain Faulkner, we have come to fight,’ Hervey protested.
‘You are here to obey orders, Mr Hervey,’ he said curtly, nodding to Lazenby to let fall the topsail bunt and clew lines. ‘The business of a King’s officer at sea is of a thoroughly professional nature. There is no equivalence of a huntsman turning cavalry cornet on the deck of any ship, least of all, my own.’
Hervey stood his ground for a moment, his lantern jaw jutting truculently until, Faulkner was pleased to observe, Digby plucked at his voluminous sleeve and drew him forward. Later, after he had heard the two of them arguing while supposedly observing the mariners’ evolutions, White good naturedly told them that Captain Faulkner had not only burnt several ships off the Nore under the eyes of the Commonwealth navy, but had so distinguished himself when a lieutenant in the Prince Royal that the late and sainted King Charles had given him a telescope. The royal largesse so imprinted itself upon the impressionable minds of the two young men that thereafter they treated their commander with a respect tainted only by the misgivings over his birth. Had they known the truth of that they might not have been so eager to serve under Captain Faulkner, but it had been intimated to them that, having missed Prince Rupert’s departure, they might find favour with the King by serving under the only Royalist naval officer operating out of Helvoetsluys. Besides, the cost of their messing and accommodation, in falling upon the helpless Faulkner, did not fall upon the King.
Happily for all concerned aboard the Phoenix, the two were so soon prostrated by seasickness that all thoughts of aristocratic privilege were eroded by the ill-concealed amusement of the common seamen. Not that the weather at that season in the North Sea was bad, but the sea conditions, under a fresh and helpful south-westerly breeze, were lively enough to cau
se Phoenix to dance a lively dido as Faulkner took her north under Dutch colours, having given the slip to the two of Moulton’s frigates he had left on the lookout by leaving at the dead of night. Faulkner had no intention of advertising his presence until he was far from his bolt-hole in the Haringvliet and it was three weeks before he took his first prize.
Towards the end of July the Phoenix had reached the latitude of Fair Isle and here, early one morning of light airs and fitful mist, they fell in with a homeward-bound whaler. The Amity of Hull was one of the few English whalers still working the Spitsbergen ground, the trade having been falling off prior to the Civil War, which, of itself, effectively killed what remained. Captain Norris, being a Yorkshireman, held firm in his belief that money might be made where others feared to go. Despite the usual presence of the industrious Dutch, which he left well alone, Norris stretched eastwards towards Kvitøya to where – unusually for so early in the season – he found open water and the feeding bowhead whales. In three short weeks he and his men had rapidly filled the Amity’s hogsheads with blubber. Norris landed the Shetlanders, of which his harpooners and most of his crew were recruited for reasons of fiscal prudence, and was soon heading south with only a handful of Hull men to sail the Amity. On the morning of his capture Norris was actually in his cabin calculating the possibility of making a second foray into Arctic waters before the end of the season. Considering this worth the effort he poured himself a glass of rum and sat in self-congratulation. An hour later he was a prisoner, the Amity of Hull was a prize and all Captain Norris’ self-satisfaction had evaporated.
It would be weeks before anyone considered the Amity missing, whaling being such a speculative business and the season so little advanced, that Faulkner decided to continue north, taking two London vessels off the Lofoten Islands, both outbound for Archangel. Both were richly laden and he estimated the damage done to the Muscovy Company by their loss to be upwards of £2,000. Three days later he took a small Dundee ketch also heading for the Gourlo and the White Sea beyond. Holding his course to the north he lay off the North Cape of Norway in expectation of a further outward-bound ship or two, but was rewarded instead by taking a large timber-laden ship, also under charter to the Muscovy Company, which had been nipped in the ice before she could escape the previous winter.
For King or Commonwealth Page 6