A Ship for The King (25 page)

‘What a pity,' he once remarked with a sigh after a meeting of the Trinity Court, ‘that George Villiers did not act as he should have done and, indeed,
could
have done to reform the navy. You have regulated things so much better in the Indiamen . . .'

‘We make a profit, Sir Henry,' Faulkner responded quietly, as they took a glass of wine with their fellows before dispersing. ‘What is a deficit to the state is as something that makes a deficit in commerce – not to be tolerated.'

‘But what of defence? The Dutch are a nuisance to us as you well know in the Indies – you recall the bloody affair at Amboyna when all our people were massacred? They are to be watched and do not like our expansion. Our trade is increasing, our colonies need guarding, even our coasts are still not entirely safe, for the corsairs from Algiers are about their damnable work again and those from Tunis are said to be as bad. Damn it, I would not be surprised to hear those from Sallee have broken their treaty . . .' Mainwaring broke off and then, perhaps divining Faulkner's thinking, added, ‘We cannot defend ourselves by such means as the expedition to Morocco, relying on the goodwill of those about us this morning. Their pockets are generous and some are said to be deep, but not deep enough.'

Faulkner nodded. ‘No, but you are right, Sir Henry, it is just that the means of paying for a fleet are so imperfect. If the ships are fit, the men are in want; if the men are provided for, the ships or the victuals – or usually both – are rotten and the men will not serve. But you are almost alone in speaking of grand strategy,' Faulkner said with a rueful irony. ‘Everywhere else I hear the noise of faction. These present troubles with the Scots—'

‘Tell me, Kit,' Mainwaring interrupted, dropping his voice and suddenly speaking with some intensity. ‘Tell me, if matters warranted it, would you come back and serve under my flag?' Faulkner hesitated and the hesitation goaded Mainwaring. ‘We may have need of good men, competent men at sea. I cannot insist, but . . .'

‘I know, Sir Henry, I know.' Faulkner shook his head and looked down. He was silent for a moment and then looked Mainwaring directly in the eye. ‘I am bound to you by more than gratitude and loyalty, Sir Henry. I am conscious that our paths have diverged through circumstance but, if you are worried about the Dutch you will find me as ready as the next man to stand in defence of my country and my own.'

Mainwaring put his hand on Faulkner's arm. ‘Well said, Kit. And God bless you for it. Let us hope that it never comes to such a pass but who knows? The world turns and turns – perhaps it will not be the Dutch . . .' and with that Mainwaring patted Faulkner's arm again and moved away. Faulkner stared after him, feeling distinctly uneasy. Mainwaring was an enigma to him no less than to others, despite their years of intimacy. Sometimes Faulkner thought him capable of divination, or necromancy, or some black art that foretold the future, for he knew him to have rarely been wrong in his judgements. He left for home feeling disturbed by the exchange and the mood had not left him when he arrived after a short walk.

‘Husband, you look tired,' Julia had remarked as he cast his hat aside and crossed the room to take her hand and kiss her. She touched his cheek lightly. ‘Something troubles you . . .' she said.

He shook his head and laughed. ‘Nothing more than a flight of geese over my grave.'

‘Please do not speak thus.'

‘Oh come, 'tis only a figure of speech . . .' She remained silent, though her eyes wore an expression of reproach.

‘It is politics, I suppose,' she said with an air of resignation, and he caught at the hint, telling her of news he had also learned that morning.

‘The word is that Parliament is being recalled.'

‘Does the King want more money, or is it the Scottish war?'

‘Both. I cannot conceive of the latter without the former . . .'

‘No.' Julia fell silent, and he smiled and sought to withdraw, but she held him back. ‘I have news, Husband . . .'

‘News?' He frowned. ‘Of a ship? Nathan writes that the
Garvey
is near overdue . . .'

‘No, not a ship. A child. I am with child again, Kit.'

He knelt quickly beside her, seized both her hands and looked up into her face. How strong she seemed, her handsome, even features still remarkably unmarked by age, at least to his eyes. ‘That is wonderful,' he breathed. ‘Oh, Julia my dearest darling . . .' He paused, then collected himself. ‘Are you quite well and feeling strong?'

‘Perfectly,' she responded with an ironic smile.

‘And do you hope for another son, or a daughter?'

She shrugged. ‘I am content with what the Lord has in store for me.'

He nodded. Henry and Nathaniel were fine, active boys and another son would be delightful, but a daughter would, he thought to himself, be quite wonderful. But Julia had not finished with him.

‘Will you come and worship with me. I have yet to settle with the local congregation and I cannot continue to go alone, without my husband . . .'

He sighed, reluctant to commit himself to her faith. He had gone frequently with the Brethren to church and was by the nature of his oath bound to attend services and respect the liturgy of the Church of England. However, he was aware that there were those among the Brethren who were irked by the preaching of Archbishop Laud and spoke warmly in favour of some Parliamentary speeches opposed to the King's policies. ‘Julia, you know how I am situated . . .'

‘I do not like our life here in London,' she said without heat, as a matter of plain, unequivocal fact. And then she rose and left him standing in the middle of the room.

‘Damnation!' he breathed. ‘Hell and damnation!' And again the mood of uncertainty that he had felt since leaving Mainwaring and the Trinity House settled on him. He sat before the fire and pulled off his boots, and stared moodily into the flames, watching as they slowly died and all that was left were glowing embers. Night was upon them and he was hungry. He had not heard anything of the boys and his heart was full of a dark foreboding.

The coming upheaval was preceded by events which, in the manner of portents, did not seriously impinge upon the lives of the Faulkner household. In due course, Julia was brought to bed and presented Faulkner with a bonny baby girl who was christened Hannah and baptized into the Church of England at St Dunstan's, Stepney. This family event went hand in hand with increasing good fortune in Faulkner's shipping enterprises. Events on the Indian coast, though not without cost, returned intermittent profit which showed every sign of settling into a steady return, while the West India and colonial trade improved year by year.

But these private and successful speculations were gradually overshadowed by events elsewhere. The massacre of Protestants in Ireland was followed by a rebellion of Catholics, while the man widely held to be the architect of these troubles, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, entertained the London mob by his execution, having been abandoned by his late master, the King. Matters finally flew out of hand in the following year, 1642, when the King entered Parliament with the intent of arresting several members who had been inveterate in their opposition to the King's imposition of taxes without the sanction of the Lords and Commons. This foolhardy and intemperate act on the part of His Majesty was, in the opinion of many who would otherwise have been loyal, a provocation. Tipped off, the five members escaped and the King was left to look foolish, and in the deteriorating atmosphere in the capital even the Brethren at Trinity House began to divide in their opinions, especially as, that summer, they were approached by Parliament for a loan of money ‘for these great occasions'.

With the news that King Charles had raised his standard in Nottingham and declared his intention of regaining control of London by armed force, Julia presented her husband with an ultimatum: for the sake of the children, she claimed, they must remove at once to Bristol. Julia's hatred of the capital had not lessened since she had given birth to Hannah and her daughter's christening into the established church had troubled her conscience and added to the widening rift between herself and her husband.

‘You are too troubled by your affairs to take notice of my wishes, still less to take notice of your sons' welfare,' she had stormed at him one night.

‘It is precisely for you and my children that I labour, Julia,' he responded angrily. ‘In these unsettled times something must be laid down for the future, whatever that turns out to be . . .' Dissent between them had been unusual but the sense of impending disintegration that had sent tremors through London in those weeks was palpable and several families of their acquaintance had migrated to the country.

‘Confound it, Julia, these are not easy times. The boys are well enough and I rely upon your good sense and character to see them set in the right path. They have nurses and can have a governess when you judge it right for them and we shall see—'

‘Husband, you do not understand! There is more to all this than the education of our children and our happiness. The Temple is being destroyed—'

He rounded on her then. ‘You think I do not understand, that I do not hear the noise of collapse? Why, God damn it, the noise is deafening. I would not expect you to comprehend the consequences but even at the Trinity House we have hardly elected Sir Henry our Master but the Commons declare him a delinquent!'

‘And what are Sir Henry's misfortunes to me, Husband? He is an old man and not likely to much affect us here . . . Where are you going?'

At the door Faulkner turned. ‘I am going to cool my heels. Nothing is profited if you and I argue like this.' And with that he left her.

Matters simmered thus for a day or two, but the row had unsettled Faulkner more than he cared to admit, for there was justice in Julia's complaint. His promise to Mainwaring was brought into sharp focus by events at Trinity House. He had heard that Mainwaring had joined the King and he was certainly not in London where, in early November, he was declared by the Commons as a person debarred to serve as one of the Brethren. This was an unwarranted and illegal intrusion into the Brethren's affairs and provoked even deeper resentment when it was followed by the placing of the Corporation's affairs in the hands of a Parliamentary Commission. The purpose of this was clear: access to the funds of the Brethren, which were held in trust for the relief of the poor, and several of the Fraternity concurred with the resolution of the Commons and thus allied themselves with the Parliamentary faction.

Faulkner regarded these events with sorrow. His own life, though bound up with the Fraternity, was not contingent upon it and he, among others, attempted a neutrality which proved unsustainable. One night, towards the end of that month, he received a visit from Rainsborough.

‘It seems I am fated to come to you by night, like Nicodemus, Kit,' Rainsborough said as he settled himself by Faulkner's fire and gratefully accepted a glass of mulled wine. ‘I apologize for disturbing your household.'

‘My wife has retired,' Faulkner replied. ‘On the last occasion of your coming to see me I had no idea why, now I fear I do . . .'

‘We are in desperate straights, Kit. War will ravage this country, ruin trade, wreck our lives, and it is no longer a question of possibilities, as you well know. By all accounts the fighting at Edgehill was prolonged and bloody, and the Earl of Essex's forces are now, happily, secure hereabouts.'

‘I hear the King makes his headquarters at Oxford,' Faulkner remarked. ‘Is that where our late Master now is?'

‘Sir Henry? I have no positive knowledge of his being there. Certainly he has fled London, but what of you, Kit. I do not know what the fleet's position is, but if the Parliament requires sea-officers . . .' Rainsborough left the implied question hanging. Faulkner preferred not to address it, since he had guessed the purpose of Rainsborough's visit.

‘The fleet will declare for Parliament,' he said, ‘of that there is little doubt, for it was so ill-served by the King.'

‘What, entirely? I can understand resentment among the men but what of the officers?'

Faulkner thought of Brenton. ‘Many of them will repudiate their loyalty to the King's Majesty, William. Of that I have little doubt . . .'

‘Well the argument is clear: the King has by his actions, forfeited their loyalty, any oath being bound by conditions of lawfulness, but I am surprised that you think this movement towards Parliament so wholesale.'

Faulkner shrugged. ‘It is only an opinion.'

‘And what of you? You are a man of loyalty, I know, and firmly attached to Sir Henry, but your wife is of Puritan stock and known for her capacity to think for herself, and you would not have allied yourself with such a woman had you not been in some sympathy with her.'

Faulkner looked at Rainsborough. ‘I know you have come here to discover my allegiance but, to tell truth, I have none other than to myself and my family. The matters of principle lately debated and now tearing our land apart seem altogether too violent, too disruptive to be worthy of espousal if all they achieve is civil war, and that is what we are at the start of . . .'

‘There is no doubt of that,' Rainsborough agreed, a tone of exasperation in his voice.

‘I do not come from land, or money, William,' Faulkner pressed on, though baulking at the prospect of explaining to Rainsborough that he came from nothing. Instead he said, ‘What I lose, I lose irrecoverably. That is not consonant with my duty to my wife and children.'

‘Will you go to America? There are those who think that is the thing to do.'