Gentleman Captain (6 page)

'No, Charles,' said the king, 'we are not certain, but we suspect strongly enough. We think there are no others in Scotland with the resources to pay for such an arsenal, and few with the experience to command the army it could equip. He has ample motive to strike now, while our rule is still relatively new and insecure.' The king stood and walked to the window, where he looked out across the Thames to the dark hull of a fishing smack, just visible near the far bank. She would have been out of place there, so far from her rightful home on the Yarmouth banks, were it not for the fact that she was now a royal warship: the
Royal Escape,
the very boat in which the king had escaped to France after Worcester fight, now moored opposite his palace as a constant reminder to Charles the Second of what had been, and what might be again. After some moments, the king turned back to us. 'Fortunately, Castel Nuovo's factors have been slow in gathering the arsenal from their suppliers. He is happy to take the money for the weapons, of course, but he is also willing enough to assist the King of England at the same time.' The king dropped a scrap of meat from the platter at his side. The little dog sprang forward and took it, but unaccountably gave Prince Rupert as wide a berth as possible. Just in that one moment, I recollected the old stories of the prince's diabolical reputation, of the poodle he carried with him into battle (a poodle damned as a Satanic familiar by all on Parliament's side) and wondered whether the phantom of that poodle could be at Rupert's side still, to terrify the king's dog so.

'Castel Nuovo does not know precisely where the arms will be landed,' the king continued. 'The agents dealing with him have kept their secrets close. We do know that they have employed a
schipper
with experience of the Western Islands. Castel Nuovo has conveniently taken many weeks to load the cargo. This has given us time to order two ships to the west coast of Scotland, there to join a regiment that will set out from Dumbarton once the ships arrive. That should be an ample force to nip this foul conspiracy in the bud, whatever its true object might be. If all goes well, our captains will intercept the arms shipment, deter Glenrannoch and any other malcontents and seek evidence against them all for high treason. There will be no rebellion in Scotland, gentlemen, be it of Campbells, Covenanters or any other variety of malcontent.'

I felt a shiver that might have been fear or hope, and said, 'Our captains, sire?'

James of York, the Lord High Admiral of England, said, 'The senior captain is Godsgift Judge of the
Royal Martyr,
a strong frigate of forty-eight guns. A good man, highly recommended by his grace of Albemarle and my lord of Sandwich. He served in those waters in Cromwell's day.'

Prince Rupert sniffed, and took a long draught of wine. 'Men who served Cromwell ... but you know my feelings on this matter, sirs.' It was strange to think that in this one matter my mother was in perfect accord with the man she damned for the slaughter of her husband.

'Indeed we do, cousin,' said the duke. 'The second ship in the squadron is the
Jupiter,
of thirty-two guns. Her command was given to Captain James Harker, who held our commission throughout the late troubles.'

I knew the name Harker, and had a sudden recollection of a big, happy Cornishman, easy in his surroundings and his skin. I said, 'I met Captain Harker briefly at the Navy Office, last year. An impressive man, sober and businesslike. Common report calls him one of the best of our Cavalier captains.'

Prince Rupert nodded. 'A damnably good man. A captain always loyal to the crown, and to me. It makes it all the more tragic.'

There was a silence before the king said, very slowly, 'Captain James Harker died suddenly on the quarterdeck of the
Jupiter,
the night before last.'

'The best surgeons of Portsmouth have cut open the body,' added York. 'It seems unlikely to be poison, but they cannot be certain. These days, the deadliest poisons can be hidden from detection.'

The king looked directly at me, his dark eyes seeming to bore into mine. 'So now you know why we summoned you here, Matthew Quinton. The mission of the
Jupiter
is urgent, and as important a task as can be. The ship needs a captain, and I need that captain to be a man I can trust. True, Godsgift Judge is a good man–you'll find him very different to what you might expect from his fanatical Christian name.' Even the stiff and humourless Duke of York smiled a little at that, and I wondered how this Judge could possibly differ from the dozens of sanctimonious, sober Puritan captains who had served the old Commonwealth, who wore their command of the sea on their sleeves, and had changed their coats with alacrity to serve the king.

Prince Rupert seemed less than impressed with the argument. 'Of course, we also need a captain for the
Jupiter
immediately, and damned few good men are available, with so many captains in the fleets to southward.'

A pageboy scuttled up to the Duke of York and handed him a document, which he gave to me. I recognized the familiar text, identical but for one detail to that which had been devoured by Irish fish. It was a commission in the name of the duke, as Lord High Admiral of England, appointing me to the command of His Majesty's ship the
Jupiter.

I was a king's captain once more.

I barely had time to register my new circumstances before the Duke of York said, 'There will be no opportunity for you to appoint your own officers, Captain Quinton. The squadron must sail as soon as the wind permits, so you will have to content yourself with Captain Harker's men. Here is a list of the officers, with my annotations for the ones I know, along with your sailing orders.'

He handed me two sheets of paper, and I saw that on the first of them he had written in his own hand next to three of the names.

Lieutenant, James Vyvyan, Harker's nephew. A good man, but very young.

Purser, Stafford Peverell. Haughty and ambitious. A close, cunning fellow.

Chaplain, Francis Gale. A sot, at sea for money.

They were all looking at me. 'Of course, Your Royal Highness. Thank you. If I may be permitted, though, I would request the appointment of one supernumerary master's mate.'

York frowned. 'Mister Pepys will upbraid me for allowing such an irregularity,' he said.

Even the churlish Prince Rupert laughed a little at that, and the king smiled and said, 'We all live in fear of the wrath of young Mister Pepys. The man is inexhaustible, rooting out sloth and inefficiency in everything except his own life, or so Penn and Mennes tell me. However, in the circumstances, I think we can permit you this one indulgence, Captain Quinton. Not even our esteemed Mister Pepys will quibble over one spare master's mate if it comes down to him as a command from both the Lord High Admiral and the king himself.'

King Charles beckoned to a pageboy, who hurried over with pen, ink, and paper. He scribbled a note, on which I only had time to read the superscription: To Samuel Pepys, esquire, Clerk of the Acts to Our Principal Officers and Commissioners of the Navy, Seething Lane. The king said, 'The name of your client, Captain Quinton?'

'Farrell, sir. Christopher Farrell.'

The king nodded, and read aloud the last part of the note: '...to appoint the said Christopher Farrell forthwith as supernumerary master's mate aboard our ship of war the
Jupiter,
Captain Matthew Quinton.' He signed, with a flourish, 'Charles R'. The pageboy poured a little wax onto the paper, the king dipped his ring, and James of York countersigned the document. 'So be it, then, Matt Quinton. Scotland may be as wet as the Thames and full of canting hypocritical Presbyterians, but for us three Stuarts, it's our native country, God help us, and one of my three thrones. I wish still to be King of Scots on my birthday, Captain, so go to it.'

Charles the Second rose to his feet, imperious, ineffably ugly, and as tall as I. He extended his hand, and I bowed to kiss it.

As my brother and I backed out of the room, still bowing, the king said, 'The
Jupiter
is a damn good ship, Captain Quinton. So try not to lose this one, for God's sake.'

I spent the night in Ravensden House, barely sleeping for the noise of the drunks rolling past the window, my excitement at the commission lodged safely in my pocket, and the thought of the princely sum of three pounds and ten shillings a month that the captaincy of a Fifth Rate frigate would bring me (and, more pertinently, Cornelia, who would immediately claim and spend a fair portion of it). Nevertheless, my pride at the trust bestowed on me by my king was tempered by disappointment that he still saw me as a sea officer, and not the commander of cavalry that I longed to be in emulation of my father.

I rose before dawn. My brother despatched Musk back to the abbey to collect my sea chest and transport it to Portsmouth, a prospect that brought forth much audible cursing from the cantankerous and saddle-sore steward. He took with him a letter from me to Cornelia, informing her in broad terms of my commission and imploring her not to be too concerned for me, advice I knew she would entirely ignore. I also wrote a note to Kit Farrell who, as far as I knew, was still at his mother's alehouse in Wapping, where he had been since our ship sank beneath us. I found a messenger who knew how to read, hoping that the few extra pence I paid him would ensure that he read out the correct message to the correct recipient. Then, borrowing sword and cloak from the earl my brother, from whose eternally preoccupied and elusive person I took an emotionless leave, I set out for Portsmouth, and my new command.

I knew it would be a long day's ride, even if I rode hard; most would have attempted the Portsmouth road in two, at a more leisurely pace, and Zephyr had already made a lengthy forced ride on the previous day. But he was a good, strong horse, and willing, and he had the prospect of some weeks of comfortable idleness in a Portsmouth stable ahead of him, so I felt no guilt at making the demand. Thus I rode over London Bridge and out into the barren heaths of Surrey, beyond Kingston, where I had ample enough time to think on all that had been said the night before.

Of course, it was obvious why they had given me the command: as Prince Rupert had so bluntly put it, if they wanted a Cavalier, there was simply no one else, not at such short notice. So the navy's youngest, least experienced, and least successful captain had been given a mission almost as much political as naval, and in waters barely known to most Englishmen. To prevent a mighty arsenal falling into the hands of this mysterious general, Campbell of Glenrabble, or whatever he was called, and forestall the rebellion that would otherwise ensue.

That much was unsurprising matter, for rebellions had been the fashion in our land for a quarter-century, and in that year 1662, when the king was but newly restored to his thrones, black rumours of new plots and rebellions were as much a part of everyday fare as bread, beer and the pisspot. But I shivered a little as I thought upon my task. It was Scotland, after all–then still an independent and a foreign land, albeit one with the same king as dear, sensible England. Even the Scots who spoke English could scarce be understood by those with the refined tones of Bedfordshire, and God knows, we saw enough of them on our county's roads, off to try their fortunes in London town. The region for which we were bound was many times more barbarous–full of men who still spoke the old tongues and wore skirts about their thighs. And it was said that the seas there contained whirlpools that could suck a hundred-gun ship to its doom, and sea caves the size of cathedrals. A captain with forty years more experience than I could own might well baulk at such a task.

Indeed, I recollected suddenly, the
Jupiter
had been given to just such a captain–and now he lay dead! At the moment Zephyr stumbled on the slippery mud. Jolted from my reflections, I looked about. It was the moment before dawn when the night seems darkest, and I shivered in my borrowed cloak. What if this was no natural death, but, as the Duke of York had so ominously implied with his talk of poisoning, a dark and foul murder–perhaps at the hands of those who plotted to raise the rebellion in Scotland? Again I looked about me, and saw the pale glimmer of dawn away to my left.
God's blood, Matthew,
I said to myself,
enough of these womanish fancies.
It was a jealous husband, or–and here I felt my equanimity return as the obvious answer laid itself before me–the apoplexy, or griping of the guts. Men die. Many men die suddenly and unexpectedly, for that can be the way of death, the thief in the night. Thus it was with my grandfather. Because some men die, other men succeed to the command of ships of war, and others succeed to crowns. Or to earldoms—

Zephyr whinnied, as if to say, 'Nay, Master Matthew, neither go thee down that road!'

I bent my thoughts next upon the mysterious Captain Judge, my senior officer. I thought back to a conversation at dinner with Harris of the
Falcon,
when our ships had lain together in Bantry Bay the summer before. Judge's name was mentioned, and there was much laughter from Harris and his lieutenant, but now I could barely remember the evening, let alone the conversation. I dimly recalled falling into our boat and being rowed back to my ship as dawn broke, vomiting several times into the bay as I did so. Harris always kept a good table, and a particularly good stock of old Madeira.