A Ship for The King (14 page)

‘Oh, dear Mr Gooding,' Faulkner began. ‘This is going fearfully wrong. Please forgive me. I had no idea exactly what to expect on my arrival and I have been unconscionably forward with my own affairs and for that I apologize. Come now, we are shortly to be partners it seems and therefore it is meet that we consider ourselves equals.' He held out his hand which Gooding seized eagerly. ‘I am known to my friends as Kit.'

‘And I as Nat.'

‘I am sorry that we find ourselves drawn together in such circumstances,' Faulkner remarked, ‘but let us establish a comity of purpose between ourselves, if only in our benefactor's interest.'

‘Yes, Captain Strange has been good to me.'

‘And I.'

The two sat for a moment in silence, then Gooding asked, ‘Will you dine with us? I can have Julia – my sister – make up a bed, if you are content to stay with us. You must be tired after your journey.'

‘That is kind of you. I have not thought of sleeping, the appearance of poor Captain Strange having driven all such thoughts away from my mind.'

‘I will send word. Shall you come immediately? I can close the house now, for we have little business to transact until the
Garvey
comes in and I already have a full lading awaiting her – or at least promised – for Jamaica . . .'

Faulkner nodded. ‘That is kind. Give me an hour; I think I should sit awhile with him and make him sensible that he can compose his mind. I have troubled him overmuch. Has he asked for a priest?'

Gooding shook his head. ‘No. He is not so inclined, though he may change his mind as his end draws nigh.'

‘You do not approve?'

Strange shrugged. ‘It is for Captain Strange to settle his soul's shriving.'

‘Very well.' Faulkner rose from the bench and made his way back to the sickroom.

As he left Gooding asked, ‘Where is your horse, Kit?'

‘I left it at the King's Arms, with my portmanteau.'

‘I'll have the horse tended there, and send for the latter and have it taken home, if you wish.'

‘That would be a kindness. Thank you.'

An hour later he had joined Gooding as they walked a few hundred yards to his dwelling. His father had been a haberdasher and although his father's business was now in the hands of others, its sale necessary to pay his father's considerable and unsuspected debts, his mother, sister and himself continued to live above their old premises.

‘We have four rooms,' Gooding explained as they made their way through streets scoured by a raw westerly wind that carried more than a hint of rain to come. ‘We manage to hold on to a single maid to tend my mother. Julia cooks and otherwise runs the house, and I do not know what I shall do when she marries, though my anxiety is eased by Captain Strange's consideration – though I would not have you think I wish him dead . . .' Gooding said with evident and awkward embarrassment.

Faulkner gained the impression that Gooding was preparing him for meeting a pair of dragons and asked, conversationally, ‘Is your sister intending to marry?'

‘Ha! I wish I knew. She has rejected two men of her own age, though none of them could offer her much, but there is an eager suitor, quite unsuitable in my opinion, in the person of a city alderman of ample girth and considerable wealth.'

Faulkner was tempted to ask his name but thought better of it. He did not wish to involve himself, nor to show interest in affairs that were not his business, though he wondered idly why Mistress Gooding should have turned down so many offers of marriage. Nat must have divined his mind, for he volunteered the information that: ‘My sister has strong opinions, political opinions quite unsuitable for a woman . . .' The explanation tailed off. ‘Here we are.'

They entered a door in an old building and immediately ascended a staircase, Gooding's shoes and Faulkner's boots making a thunder of their approach. His host threw open a door and Faulkner hesitated while he announced the arrival of their guest. Then, doffing his hat – which seemed overlarge for the low-ceilinged room – he followed.

‘Mother, Lieutenant Kit Faulkner, a partner of Captain Strange.'

‘Kit, my mother . . .' The old lady was of formidable appearance. Shrunk in a winged armchair, her features were half-lit by the light coming in through a grimy window of paned glass and showed a face of indelible character. Her rheumy eyes were sunk in her skull, her wispy hair was drawn severely back and hidden under a lace mob-cap, and her head was sunk upon a plain collar of white linen. The rest of her shrivelled figure lay under a dark woollen blanket, only two tiny black shoes peeping out upon a low footstool.

Faulkner flourished his feathered hat and footed his most elegant bow. ‘Mistress Gooding, your servant.'

The eyes regarded him with a shrewd light and a claw-like hand emerged from under its covers. Bowing over it he put it to his lips. It was cold, bony and dry. ‘You are welcome, sir . . .' she wheezed. She seemed to scrutinize him, her eyes travelling up and down his travel-stained figure. Wrapped in his cloak in the dark room it was difficult for her to see what manner of man he was, though she had noted the plumed, wide-brimmed hat and the heavy, spurred boots. The claw gestured and she said, ‘Megan, take the gentleman's cloak . . . So, sir, you are a partner of Captain Strange . . . pray give the girl your cloak and sit here beside me.' She indicated a second, higher stool upon which lay an upturned but open book. ‘Nathan, remove the book to the table so that our guest may sit.' Her command was instantly obeyed.

His cloak removed, Faulkner perched awkwardly on the stool. A quick glance about the room revealed no indication of the whereabouts of the sister. Perhaps, he thought, she had lately been sitting where he now was, reading to her mother.

‘Nathan,' she said in a peremptory manner, ‘on receipt of your note which arrived with this gentleman's effects, Julia has gone to Mistress Culver's . . .'

‘That was well done, Mother. And I shall, with your permission of course, open a bottle of Oporto.'

‘I do not approve of strong drink, Mr . . .'

‘Faulkner, ma'am.'

‘Faulkner. It is the ruin of many but perhaps on this occasion . . .' She nodded to her son who briefly left the room.

‘You are a seafaring man, Mr Faulkner? Nathan mentioned a rank, but I supposed that you might have served in the Low Countries.'

‘I am a seafaring man, ma'am . . .'

‘And a partner of Captain Strange?'

‘Indeed, ma'am, I have a small interest in the affairs of Captains Strange and Mainwaring.'

At Mainwaring's name the old lady bristled. ‘Of Captain Mainwaring I have no very high regard, sir. He was a pirate, I am told, and now lies close to the King in whose court untold evil is wrought. It is the devil's work, sir, and will bring down heaven's vengeance upon us all. I am fortunate in being old . . .' She broke off and stared beyond Faulkner who, for a moment, thought that the lucid moment had passed and she had lapsed into some senile reverie. He was wrong; a second later he too heard the rustling of skirts and the light trip of a feminine foot upon the stair. He heard voices too, the female tread followed by that of Gooding, returning with his bottle of port. The door opened and a young woman strode into the room with her brother behind her. Faulkner scrambled to his feet.

‘My sister Julia,' Gooding said soberly.

Faulkner bowed again. ‘Mistress Julia, your brother has kindly asked me to join you.'

She stepped forward and held out her hand. He took it and was about to raise it to his lips when he felt his own shaken vigorously. He looked up into grey eyes and a well-made, evenly featured face. A few pock marks lay on her cheeks but her mouth was wide and smiling, and her expression as open and candid as her brother's.

‘You are most welcome, sir,' she said. ‘Pray do not stand upon ceremony. I have ordered a beef pie from Mistress Culver's and it will be here shortly.' She took off her bonnet and Faulkner saw that, like her mother, her hair was dressed severely, drawn back and tucked into the nape of her neck in an unbecoming style that he had observed increasingly popular among the trading classes. Unlike her mother, however, there was a profusion of it and Faulkner was pricked by the curious question of what it looked like when it was unrestrained, for it was dark but, even in the poor light, betrayed hints of red. Her dress was also dark and unadorned, her collar as plain as her mother's, and he realized, with something of a shock, that he was in a household of Dissenters. His own modest splendour seemed raffish and even coarse, for all its pretensions to fashion. His sleeves over-capacious and his lace – though sober enough by the standards of those among whom he customarily moved these days – profuse. He thanked heaven that he had left his sword and baldric with his portmanteau, and was not obliged to swing it round the furniture in this crowded room.

‘Megan!' the old woman cried and the wretched maid was sent to prepare the table for the imminent arrival of one of Mistress Culver's beef pies and a dish of cabbage. An almost self-effacing Gooding poured two glasses of port into two bumpers that he had taken from a shelf and, filling them, handed one to Faulkner.

‘May we drink to business and friendship?' he asked, holding up his glass expectantly while his mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

‘To friendship and business, I think, Nat,' Faulkner said, adding, ‘with the ladies' permission, of course.'

‘Reluctantly granted,' said Julia, settling herself on the stool beside her mother so that Faulkner was obliged to move and stand next to Gooding. The port warmed him and eased his attitude to these strangers, though he knew not what to make of them, nor what they made of him.

‘He is a seafaring man, Julia,' her mother confided to her daughter in a stage whisper, as if this provided an explanation of the need for wine. She caught Faulkner's eye. ‘I do not disapprove of seafaring men, sir,' she asserted, ‘provided they confine themselves to their business of fetching and carrying. It is when they come ashore and disturb the peace of others' lives that I find them less attractive.'

‘I am sorry for that, ma'am,' Faulkner temporized.

‘You have sailed in Bristol ships, Mr Faulkner? In those belonging to Gideon Strange?'

‘I have, ma'am.'

‘But not lately, I think, else we should have seen thee hereabouts, or at least heard of thee.'

‘I have not lately been in Bristol, no.'

‘Mr Faulkner holds a commission from the King, Julia, as a lieutenant. He has lately been serving . . .' The light of hostility was plainly kindled in Julia's eyes at the mention of the King and clearly Gooding made the remark to make matters plain. Anticipating this Gooding changed tack. ‘Mr Faulkner informs me he is minded to settle here and take a greater interest in the business, being a partner of Captain Strange.'

‘I see,' remarked his sister icily.

The subsequent meal passed in silence and, at its conclusion, the hour drawing on and night approaching, Faulkner pleaded tiredness after his journey and retired to the bed the girl Megan had made ready for him.

He slept well, undisturbed by dreams. Gooding woke him and the two men broke their fast together before walking down to the counting-house to find Strange had passed a difficult night. Molly looked so drawn and exhausted that, after a day going thoroughly through the books with Gooding below, and apprehensive of another encounter with Mistress Gooding and her formidable daughter, he resolved to relieve her that night.

During the evening Strange rallied, sitting up with help from Faulkner, and for two hours engaged him in a conversation which, though desultory, was not without an enlivening spark or two, flashes of the former shipmaster he had known in earlier years. Towards one in the morning, Strange fell back on his pillow and for a while appeared to sleep. Perhaps Faulkner dozed too, for he next recalled feeling chilled and was suddenly aware that Strange had turned his head and wore a puzzled expression. As if forgetful of their earlier exchanges, he asked with a querulous anxiety, ‘Mr Rat? Is that Mr Rat?'

‘Aye, sir. It is indeed, Mr Rat,' Faulkner responded, leaning forward and offering a glass of water to Strange. ‘Be a good boy, Mr Rat, and Henry and I shall look after you . . .'

‘Of course . . .'

‘Mind that you keep our secrets though . . . and bury us both like decent gentlemen . . .'

‘Of course,' Faulkner repeated, and then, summoning his nerve, asked, ‘Do you wish me to send for a priest?'

Strange feebly shook his head and muttered, ‘No, I have made my peace with God long since . . .' He closed his eyes and for several minutes the only sound in the room was his laboured breathing. Then he opened his eyes again and said again, ‘Mr Rat . . .'

Faulkner felt profoundly moved. ‘Thank you for your faith in me, sir,' he whispered.

Strange drew his lips back in a ghastly smile, his breathing a regular, steady labour of his ailing lungs. Faulkner must have slept again, for he woke with a start, cold to the marrow and aware of the first light of day entering the room through a slight gap in the curtains. Beside him Strange still drew breath but his efforts were weaker, shallower. Faulkner sat still for some time until, with a great effort, Strange lifted his body and raised one arm as if seeing something in the far distance. His breath now came in a spasmodic series of gulps and wheezes for some ten seconds as his extended arm wavered, and then he fell back dead. Faulkner waited for a few moments then rose, bent over the emaciated face and drew down the eyelids; then he walked across the room, opened the curtains and threw open the casements. Below, the street was stirring into life, and coming towards him he saw Gooding and beside him the figure of his sister. They saw the movement of the windows and hurried their steps. A moment later they stood beside the deathbed of Captain Strange.