The King's Chameleon (6 page)

Faulkner interjected, ‘Her name is Katherine Villiers, and, if it pleases you, I have neither heard of her, or heard from her, since I abandoned her in Holland. For all I know she is dead. Besides, she is of like age as myself, or nearly so.'

‘She is much younger.'

‘Only a little … But does your sister say that?'

Gooding shrugged. ‘I only mean—'

‘I know what you mean, Nathan, and I appreciate your concern, but your investment will be safe.'

‘I know that; it is not my investment, Kit, it is my peace of mind. I do not think that I could tolerate your absconding a second time.'

‘You think I still have feelings for the woman?'

‘I do not know. I have never had strong feelings for any woman, but I marvel that those that do succumb to the attractions of the opposite sex are apt – upon occasion – to act like madmen.'

Faulkner looked at Gooding and laughed. ‘Come, let us decide who is to lay out this Indiaman for us and forget the past. It is like water passed under London Bridge.'

‘Perhaps, but the tide brings some, at least, of it back up the stream.'

That night Faulkner dreamed of building their new East Indiaman. The dream passed pleasantly as the ships rose on the stocks until it came to the day of her launching. Then Judith came screaming, wild-eyed, onto the scene, tearing at her hair which flew about her face. She was followed by Henry, whose face was that of a pallid corpse, and Hannah, holding a posy and who had been given the honour of launching the ship. The great hull, decked out with flags and ensigns, began to move. The King was in attendance, a great honour conferred upon Sir Christopher Faulkner, one among the greatest of the ship-owners of London. On the river in their barges, the Lord Mayor of London, the Aldermen and Liverymen and the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House paid their respects. Other boats crowded the river and, besides the cheering populace, the merchant ships lying in the tiers all fired their guns in salute. But above it all the sharp keening of Judith rent the air and introduced a note of warning. Faulkner began to sweat in his sleep, to twist and turn as the dream reached its climax.

As the great Indiaman slid down the ways, her transom breasted the dark waters of the Thames and drove a white wave before it. The great stern had passed before he had read her name, and it now occurred to him that the question of the ship's name was unresolved. Yet Hannah had launched it. He could not recall what name she had used! They were in the presence of the King, and as Faulkner turned to look at His Majesty he saw the wide grin below the dark eyes and the black mustachios. Something was wrong; something was terribly, terribly wrong. Then the Indiaman's bow flew past Faulkner. He was now alone and for some inexplicable reason exposed upon an elevated platform level with the passing gun-deck of the ship as, with a roar, she accelerated down the greased slipway. It was then that he knew why Judith wailed so intensely, for the new ship's figurehead sped past him: it was a superb carving of the beautiful Katherine Villiers.

‘I suggest, gentlemen, that you leave your papers with me, and I shall give you a price per ton within the week.'

‘She must lade at the standard five hundred tons burthen, Sir Henry,' Nathan Gooding said firmly. Faulkner looked on; he had deliberately allowed his brother-in-law to lead the negotiations.

Sir Henry Johnson smiled. ‘I admire your ambition, gentlemen. Five hundred tons is increasingly favoured by the Company's Court and, if you entertain any misgivings as to the likelihood of your vessel being accepted, I think I can lay such anxieties to rest.' Johnson looked directly at Faulkner. ‘The past is the past, Captain, and we here at Blackwall look to the future.' Johnson rose and held out his hand; Faulkner and Gooding scraped back their chairs, shook the master-shipwright's hand and, donning their hats, passed out into the bustle of the shipyard.

‘I thought him civil enough, in the circumstances,' Gooding said as they stopped and stared about them. Faulkner merely grunted.

Two ships lay in frame on the slips, their curved futtocks rising high above the ground and prompting Gooding to remark on the activity. ‘He builds remarkably fast, though I cannot see a slip being free for three or four months.'

‘That need not concern us once we have proceeded to contract. I thought him optimistic on our behalf, though he was pointed enough to remind me of my sins.'

‘They were my Indiamen you attacked, brother-in-law,' Gooding said, good-naturedly seizing the opportunity to get one-up over Faulkner. ‘And good men were killed,' he added in a sober tone.

‘On both sides, I would remind you, brother-in-law,' Faulkner responded.

Gooding was minded to remark that his Indiamen had been lying peacefully at anchor when attacked by Faulkner and his royalist pirates, but thought better of it. He possessed the rare good-sense to hold his tongue when no good would come of not so doing.

They stood in the summer sunshine, regarding the two ships and the sparkling river beyond the declivity of the slipways. It was, as always, alive with craft of every size, from riverine stumpie barges and passenger wherries to the dominating form of an ocean-going East Indiaman alongside the sheer-hulk, receiving her mizzen mast.

‘Come, let us go,' said Gooding, pulling at Faulkner's sleeve.

‘Wait a moment.' Faulkner drew away and walked towards the nearer of the two building-slipways. A rickety scaffolding rose round the massive oak frames that stood every few feet, rebated and bolted to the horizontal keel, a huge timber below which lay a false keel. Above the cross-sections of the futtocks lay the equally solid keelson. Men toiled about the half-formed ship, mostly at this stage ship-wrights, their mates and apprentices, drilling holes and driving either copper bolts or wooden pegs, known as trenells, to fasten the rib-like frames to the spinal form of the keel. The smell of pitch, of smoke and steam from the steam chests, the sweet scent of wood shavings mingled in the still summer air. The tonk-tonk of the shipwrights' mallets, the harder ring of steel maul on copper bolt-head, the whinny of a horse drawing a heavily laden cart into the timber yard and the dull rasp of the saws in the saw-pits filled the air. An occasional shouted order broke through the noise of chaffing and conversation among the men at work, while one man whistled tunelessly as he banged away.

On the sheer-hulk Faulkner could see men at a capstan and an over-seer on the rail, one hand extended and motioning for the men to veer, then to stop. He heard faintly the instruction to: ‘Engage the pawl!' Then the men at the capstan visibly relaxed their labours. Beyond the ship-yard out on the river the craft moved lazily, their sails barely filled by the wind, driven upstream by the flood-tide. Those bound downstream carried the faint westerly air, their motion painfully slow set against the far side of the river. Some had abandoned the attempt and had laid to an anchor until the tide turned and helped them on their way.

Not for the first time Faulkner wondered at how few collisions there were, recalling sailing down this very river when first appointed to command the
King's Whelp
. That had been a long time ago, and he did not like to dwell upon the past, but he could not escape the vivid reality of the dream he had had, even after three days had passed. It was odd, he thought, how a dream, which he knew was a product of nothing more than his own imagination, could nevertheless so unsettle him. He knew he was a fool for thinking of it; even supposing he encountered Katharine Villiers in the street, too much time had passed for either one of them to recognize the other. He threw off the train of thought; he was no love-sick youth, mooning over a lady beyond his reach. There was enough to occupy him in the here-and-now, without reviewing what had long since passed beyond recovery. He turned with a sigh and looked back to Gooding standing at the top of the slipway, patiently waiting for him. There was a good and sound man, Faulkner thought, lifting his hand to him before striding purposefully towards him.

‘Come, Nathan,' he said brusquely as he drew alongside his partner. ‘We have no time to stand and stare like a pair of loons.'

Used to his partner's poor taste in jest Gooding made no response but fell in step alongside Faulkner as they made for the gate of the yard, passing Sir Henry's large private dwelling known by all who knew of it as his mansion-house.

‘He keeps up some style, by God,' Faulkner remarked as they passed the sentry on the gate who saluted their departure. ‘Even the guards wear his livery.'

‘Johnson is a well-regarded man, as well-regarded as the Petts at Chatham,' added Gooding.

‘All those who build ships – whether for the King or we merchant-owners – have a curious reluctance to spend much time in them. They dispose of their business so that the poor mariner has no choice in the matter.'

‘If you have any notions it would be as well to voice them.'

‘Oh, I shall, I shall.'

Two days later, on the eighteenth of June, Faulkner joined Harrison, Bence and the other Brethren at the old Trinity Hall at Deptford. Here they elected George Monck, Duke of Albemarle, their Master for the year ahead before processing to church to join their alms-people all assembled from the adjacent alms-houses. From there they returned to the Hall and enjoyed a hearty dinner. On their way back upstream in a wherry, Harrison, knowing of Faulkner's intention of building an East Indiaman, asked whether Faulkner had decided where to have her built.

‘We have contracted with Johnson's yard at Blackwall,' he replied.

‘A good choice,' Harrison conceded. ‘You will pay a little above the common price elsewhere but will have little trouble getting the ship taken up by the Company in due course.'

‘That is what we supposed,' Faulkner said, nevertheless pleased with Harrison's approval.

Six weeks later Johnson's men laid the keel of the new ship. She was known to be building to the specification laid down by the East India Company, and by the end of ten weeks her frames had begun to rise. The partners were in negotiation with the East India Company's ship's husbands who provided the tonnage required for the company's annual ventures, several of whom were fellow Trinity Brethren of Faulkner's. He knew these men well, and they placed little obstacle in the way of their adding Faulkner and Gooding's new ship to those suitable to tender for the Company's Maritime Service, ventures in which they had previously participated. As the new ship grew upon the stocks, the partners' walk to Blackwall became part of their weekly routine, and although the work slowed as the winter set in, it nevertheless went forward at a steady pace.

They had put down a deposit on the signing of the contract and, despite Faulkner's occasional modification to Johnson's construction, the financing of the new vessel proceeded with equal smoothness.

Christmas came and went, but January brought a sombre event, for on the thirtieth, the anniversary of the late King's execution, the disinterred corpses of Cromwell, Ireton and Bradshaw were dragged to Tyburn, hanged and buried in a deep pit. Although the event was common knowledge, no-one in the family mentioned it and, as far as Faulkner was aware, none of his relatives witnessed the horrid event. Indeed, the building of the new ship introduced an air of optimism, of looking forward and anticipating a promising future.

‘The past is past and should be left to rot,' Faulkner was accustomed to growl when any conversation at the dinner-table seemed like growing retrospective.

‘Thank God this is a time of peace,' Gooding was fond of pointing out, to which Faulkner came to retort that this circumstance was entirely due to the King's restoration. The word-play became so common a feature of their weekly perambulation that they grew used to laughing at it.

‘Johnson has kept to his compounding at eleven pounds to the ton,' Gooding said as they discussed their forthcoming payment which fell due several weeks into the New Year. Faulkner nodded, looking down at the papers over which Gooding toiled. ‘We have not decided what to call her,' Gooding added, looking up at him.

‘I thought “Wapping” a suitable name.'

‘“Wapping”,' mused Gooding for a moment before nodding agreement. ‘Then “Wapping” it shall be.' He made an entry at the foot of a column of figures before writing
Wapping
across the head of the top-sheet. Laying his quill down, Gooding sanded the wet ink and sat back, wearily rubbing his eyes. ‘Great heavens, but my eyes pain me; my sight is not what it was. He looked up at Faulkner. ‘Shall you pour a glass that we might drink to the East Indiaman
Wapping
?'

‘With all my heart,' responded Faulkner, reaching for the flagon of wine.

It was a bright spring forenoon in mid-May of 1661, and Faulkner and Gooding were ambling back from Blackwall after spending some hours at the yard, as the
Wapping
, nearing completion and being readied for her launch, demanded an increasing amount of their time. They had become familiar with the bustle in the lane, and their faces were known to the regular coster-mongers, carters and itinerant craftsmen that walked hither-and-yon, either in search of work, or proceeding to or from it. The pleasantness of the morning caused them to meander, making intermittent conversation, until Faulkner, keeping a better lookout than his partner, asked, ‘Is that young Hargreaves heading our way?'

He had spotted one of the young clerks they employed in their counting-house. The lad, no older than fourteen, was dodging his way through the steady procession of loaded carts and casual labourers seeking work who almost choked the lane leading to the Blackwall shipyard.

‘Good sirs!' the youth cried, stopping in front of them and drawing his breath.

‘What on earth is the matter? You sound like an actor declaiming Shakespeare. Has St Paul's tumbled down?' Faulkner asked as the lad recovered his breath.