‘Is there something troubling you, Captain?’
‘Only, sir, that there are other captains in the fleet of greater seniority and longer service than my own.’
He thought he saw a smile flicker across Monck’s face. If so, it was no more than a fleeting expression. ‘You are concerned about jealousy?’
‘Not personally, General, only in that I should not like to be thought forward . . .’
‘There is no fear of that. You are being charged with this task in secret. The two clerks assigned to you are sworn-confidence men. Your name will not be associated with the final outcome. Are you content?’
Faulkner nodded and murmured his thanks.
‘Very well. I shall expect your return in a week’s time.’
Faulkner found he had been allocated a small room in the Navy Office in Water Lane and two clerks who rejoiced in the names of Black and White. Having long worked in tandem, the two men were wearily aware of the curiosity and seemed gratified when Faulkner put them to work without any comment beyond a raising of his eyebrows as he confirmed their identities. Black, the senior, would take dictation from Faulkner and White would copy the final regulations as he and Black roughed them out.
Having read Monck’s paper, Faulkner was left in no doubt that his was a responsible task, but his crisp intellect soon isolated the requirements of cohesive and disciplined action, insofar as such could be maintained under the conditions of battle, with its smoke, noise, confusion and disruption. Captains should not be permitted wide latitude of action but form a line upon the signal for action being shown by their chief, each forming on his divisional flag officer. If to windward, they should sail in line ahead until in position to attack and then bear down in line abreast, each upon an opponent. No ship was to get upwind of his admiral and should a flagship be disabled, his squadron was to form on the next to be seen to exploit what had become obvious in the ships captured from the Dutch – their superiority in gun-power. It had been this revelation that had led, as Monck and Deane had concluded, to Blake’s fatal overconfidence at the end of the battle that had begun off Portland and terminated with the enemy escaping off Calais.
Three days into his work he had returned to The Ship, a stone’s throw from the Navy Office, and was tucking into a beef pie when the pot-boy announced someone to see him. ‘Who the devil . . .’ Faulkner queried as the pot-boy dodged outside. He had not informed anyone other than Mainwaring of his whereabouts, for there was no one with whom he wished to communicate. Nor did he immediately recognize the newcomer, though there was something about his sober garb that was familiar.
‘Captain Faulkner?’ The voice was hesitant but instantly recognizable with its west-country burr.
‘Nathan! But you have lost your hair!’ His brother-in-law, Nathan Gooding, stood twirling his hat between his hands, his cloak over his arm and a look of excruciating embarrassment on his honest face. Without a second thought Faulkner impulsively thrust out his hand but Gooding, flushing crimson, seemed reluctant to take it.
‘Ah, yes, I had momentarily forgot – Judith.’
Gooding sighed. ‘I am sorry, Captain.’
‘Captain? What is the matter, Nathan, why not plain Kit?’
An expression of utter confusion crossed Gooding’s face and he swallowed so hard that it was almost painfully obvious, ruffling the lace at his throat.
‘Is there something dire that you have to tell me . . . about Judith or the children? What of Nathaniel? Has his ship been seized by the Dutch?’
‘Would you care?’ Gooding asked, clearly finding it difficult to articulate so bald a question.
Faulkner was about to reply but then stopped himself; he recalled the pot-boy, ordered wine and bid Gooding sit down. When he had offered a portion of beef pie to his guest and been refused, he set his own dinner aside, filled two tankards and stared at Gooding.
‘I do not know what you have sought me out for, Nathan, but I would make some things clear. My abandonment of Judith was, as you know, a painful business, mostly for her and the children. I am not a saint and I have – at least in part – paid for my sins. You will doubtless know that Judith came to me when I was imprisoned in the Tower. I see you knew of that. As did Nathaniel, but you knew that too. Events have sundered us and I have not thought it proper to attempt a reconciliation because I did not think it possible and you know well that I made generous provision—’
‘I am not here for this, Kit,’ Gooding suddenly broke in with such a change of mood that Faulkner would have thought him pot-valiant had he taken more than a sip of his wine. ‘True, this encounter is charged by past events and true you have walked with the Malignants and lain with . . . with . . .’
‘Katherine was not a whore, if that is what you are about to say,’ Faulkner said in a low voice.
‘Was not?’
‘I know little or nothing about her present circumstances.’
‘That is all?’
‘That is all there is to tell. My life has been one of incessant turmoil. I did not think it possible or wise to attempt to turn back.’
‘And now you are an established officer in the service of the Commonwealth’s State Navy.’
‘Do you say that as a jealous man, or – as a good Puritan – my moral judge?’
‘Actually, Captain Faulkner,’ Gooding said, recovering the wits that had made him a shrewd ship owner, ‘I say it as a bald statement of fact.’ His face and tone softened. ‘And I say it from pleasure, too.’ He smiled and drank deeply.
Faulkner smiled back. ‘Ahh, that I have come to my senses at last.’
‘Perhaps. But I would not wish you to think that I come here without a motive that is free from family trammels.’
‘Oh? Now you intrigue me.’
‘I imagine that you require a prize agent,’ Gooding said.
Faulkner almost spluttered into his drink. ‘My God, Nathan, you do not miss a trick, do you!’
Faulkner stared at his visitor whose slightly pained expression was a reaction to a blasphemy he must have heard a thousand times on the lips of the ship masters with whom he dealt daily. ‘So, you are not averse to re-associating your name with mine, by way of business, of course?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘And what does Judith think of this proposal?’
Gooding cleared his throat and seemed to resume his cavilling air. Watching him, Faulkner was quick to seize on his discomfiture. ‘This is her idea, is it not?’
Gooding nodded. ‘In part, yes.’
‘In part? What part is there other than the possibility that the house of Gooding profits from my actions in this war against the Dutch?’
‘Do you despise us for that?’
‘What if I do?’
Gooding shrugged, recovering some of his poise. ‘It would be of no matter; where you despise us for what? Cupidity, perhaps, we could despise you for, er, turning your coat.’ Faulkner was aware that Gooding watched for a furious reaction and so he merely smiled.
‘Is that so very unusual in times of civil strife? There are others – General Monck, for example – that began the war in the King’s service, were imprisoned and later released to assume far higher commands than Captain Faulkner. As for you and your cupidity, I should expect nothing less from a man charged with seeing that my estranged wife and her children do not starve. I understand that you have executed that commission to the very letter and, if only for that and forgetting all previous and past associations, would have you again as my friend.’ Faulkner paused, to see what effect his words were having on Gooding. Clearly the man was touched, if embarrassed.
‘I am grown too old for such feelings,’ he muttered.
‘Then accept an appointment as my prize agent and God bless you for it, for I have other matters on my hands.’
Gooding appeared transformed. His face lightened but he asked, ‘you are sure?’
‘I am certain. I can think of no one I would rather have. We were as one in the pa
st and may be so again. But what of Judith? Where does she play in all this?’
‘Ahh.’ Gooding’s mood shifted again and he fished in a pocket, taking out a letter and handing it to Faulkner. ‘She asked me to give this to you.’
‘Would you have me read it now?’
Gooding shook his head. ‘I think not. Study it at your leisure and return an answer in due course.’
‘You know its contents then.’
‘I have some inkling.’
‘Will you dine with me, say two days’ hence? They do good beef pie.’
Gooding agreed and took his leave. After he had gone, Faulkner sat staring at Judith’s letter, almost in fear of its contents. His memory of her visit to him in the Tower was muddled, yet it had left so profound a distaste that he wished for nothing from her and could not understand why she had written. In the light of that last meeting, he could only guess at the extent to which she was behind her brother’s visit to him and, while prey to a torrent of misgivings, he remained reluctant to open the letter with its possibility of answering his questions. In the end he left it and went to bed, only to wake in the middle of the night, determined to read it. Striking a light he finally cracked the seal, crouched over the guttering candle flame, and began to read.
When he had finished he blew out the glim and sat staring for a long time into the darkness.
Faulkner waited on General Monck as he had been bidden, handing over the completed draft meticulously entitled in by Mr White’s elegant script, Fighting Instructions for the Fleet. Waving him to a seat, Monck read the entire paper before nodding his approval.
‘My thanks, Captain Faulkner. I am sure Sir Richard will agree that this is most competently executed.’ Faulkner muttered his thanks and rose to take his leave. ‘A moment if you please, Captain. I had word from Chatham that your own, among a number of other men-of-war, are all but ready and warrants have been issued for impressments. You will receive orders shortly to rejoin and have your ship at the Nore by early April.’
‘I shall remain at my present lodging until I hear from the Commissioners or you, General.’
‘Good.’ Monck gave him a brief smile as he withdrew.
‘You have read the letter?’ Gooding asked as they each tucked into a substantial slice of mutton.
‘I have.’
‘And what conclusion have you come to?’
‘I am touched. You had not said that Hannah was betrothed.’
‘You did not ask after her,’ Gooding responded coolly. ‘Besides, I can only assume responsibility for your business affairs, even when they touch your family,’ he added pointedly.
Faulkner sighed. ‘I deserve your censure, Nathan,’ he admitted, then asked, ‘and have you never thought of marrying yourself?’
Gooding looked up, busily chewing his meat. When he had swallowed it he cleared his throat and observed, ‘Oh, a man thinks of little else until the realities of life confront him. I seem never to have had the time nor met the person with whom I thought it possible to share my life.’
‘That is a pity. You are not ill favoured, even without your hair.’
Gooding bridled. ‘Come, come, I have not lost it all!’
‘True. But speaking as a poor example of either condition, you would have made a good husband and father.’
‘And now Judith offers you a path to redemption.’ Gooding looked up, studying Faulkner’s face. ‘Have you nothing to say? I must tell her something.’
‘I could not read her letter when first you left it with me, for I feared its contents. What lay between us has been washed away by time and other matters have come between us. I understand that your views of Katherine Villiers are coloured not only by your perception of the scarlet woman insinuating herself between your sister and me, but by her name and all that that recalls, besides her association with the Royalist cause . . .’
‘She is a Malignant,’ Gooding said with uncompromising and quiet certainty.
‘True, and these are intolerant times, I might add . . .’
‘Not intolerant, merely honest and God-fearing.’
‘Well most assuredly God-fearing,’ Faulkner said drily, ‘but there is a shadow left by her.’
‘There is a hollow in a mattress where a whore has been but that can be removed and I think that Judith’s intentions towards you are extraordinarily generous.’
‘Is not forgiveness a cardinal point of the Christian faith, Nathan?’
‘If you are worried about abasing yourself, there will be nothing public about any reconciliation.’
‘God forbid it! I should not accept on any such terms.’ Faulkner’s imagination shied away from any public confession before some sanctimonious Puritan congregation. ‘But she mentions only a quiet reconciliation. What am I to understand her as meaning?’
‘A return to our home . . . a place in her bed. She is lonely, Kit.’
‘All human souls are lonely. I would have thought her reconciled to the fact by now. She has adult children, grandchildren and doubtless more in prospect. What does she want with a husband who abandoned her for a woman she conceives a whore and was himself for a while condemned as a pirate?’
‘That is why she wants you quietly, Kit.’
‘But why she wants me in the first place?’
‘She is of an age . . . an itch . . .’ Gooding said vaguely and Faulkner stared at him at first with an air of incredulity until the penny dropped.
‘An itch. Why, my good Nathan, you are not so innocent as you would have me believe, eh? Behind that God-fearing mask you have eschewed marriage in favour of, well, other favours.’
‘Well, I . . .’ Gooding protested.
‘Dost find them among your pious congregation, or root them out from behind a barrow in Cheapside?’ Faulkner was almost laughing now. He held his hand up. ‘No, no, pray do not tell me, I should not like to hear but oh, how good it is to find you have feet of clay!’ Gooding was spluttering with embarrassment. ‘An itch, by God . . . We all have that affliction!’
‘Confound you, Kit, you have still a quick and perceptive wit.’
‘So I am told,’ Faulkner replied drily. ‘But tell me,’ he said, affecting a serious expression, ‘what would Judith say were she to know that I am ordered to my ship? Would she scratch her itch for a few more months?’
‘Why can you not scratch it for her before you depart? Surely you might spend an evening with her and Hannah, even perhaps Henry might be induced to attend, though he holds you in little esteem.’
‘What manner of man is he?’
‘Clever and diligent, Puritan in his religion and devoted to his mother.’
‘And does he have the itch?’ Faulkner asked, smiling.
‘He has a young woman in mind so I suppose he has.’
‘And she has your blessing?’
‘Indeed. She is both accomplished and beautiful. As for money, she has that too. With his present portion of our business, marriage would make Henry a wealthy man.’
‘Then he should proceed without further ado.’
‘Perhaps you would wish to tell him yourself.’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘You should come home. That is the proper place for such things to be discussed.’
Faulkner’s meeting with his estranged family was as awkward as it could have been and he returned to The Ship inwardly cursing Gooding for having mooted the idea. Henry had been chillingly cold and though Faulkner could not blame him, he deeply resented the young man’s sense of overwhelming propriety. Hannah was sweet and conciliatory, obviously delighted at her betrothal and apt to forgive all mankind its sins as she enjoyed her time of happiness. But it was Judith who troubled him most, both during the evening and afterwards. They had had no time together and their conversation, overseen by others, had been stilted and forced. She had expressed her pleasure at seeing him in so much better condition than he had appeared in the Tower, and he had paid her a few compliments as to her health and comple
xion as he presented her with a bunch of violets he had, almost as an afterthought, purchased from a comely wench on Tower Hill.
‘Violets are for faithfulness, husband,’ she said in a low voice, her tone full of irony.
He regretted his ignorance over such subliminal folk messages but managed to murmur, ‘Perhaps, madam, you might accept them as a compliment to your own steadfastness.’
It was the closest they came to any intimate exchange and, in retrospect, he rued the expression, thinking it went further than he meant to over this painful matter of reconciliation. His pride came like a lump between them and although he found himself looking at her enviously, remembering her passionate nature, it was always with the whisper of Katherine’s name in his inner ear.
Perhaps nothing would have come of the matter had not Brenton called upon him one evening. It was a few days before Faulkner was due to depart for Chatham and he was assembling a few personal effects, his thoughts occupied with the composition of the letter he had agreed to send Judith before his departure. Brenton, also on his way to Chatham, insisted they dined together, and dined well. Although not drunk, Faulkner saw Brenton off in a mellow mood. They had enjoyed a convivially pleasant evening, righted most of the world’s wrongs and discussed the new Fighting Instructions, a copy of which Brenton had brought with him. It was clear Brenton had no idea Faulkner was already privy to the contents, though not to the minor modifications Deane and Monck had made to his draft. Nor was he indiscreet enough to tell even a close friend such as Brenton, so the two pored over the document assiduously, discussing the effect it would have on the fighting ability of the fleet.
‘I think,’ said Brenton somewhat thickly as they drew the evening to a close, ‘that the proof of the pudding will be in the eating when we next take on the meneers.’
Faulkner nodded gravely. ‘They will, of course, fail in their intentions if individual commanders do not fall in with them. I conceive overwhelming and mass concentration to be the objective; to make a single striking force out of the whole fleet.’
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