The Battle of All the Ages (14 page)

The service went on; and when it seemed it could go on no more, it went on longer still, grinding into dust the patience of the less Puritanical members of the congregation (namely, ourselves). The incumbent of Saint Andrew’s evidently had a liking for the lengthier psalms and for more collects than a moderate man might consider reasonable. His sermon, upon an obscure passage in the Book of Nehemiah, was interminable. Sir Bernard whispered to me from time to time, naming some of the leading personages of Plymouth. The mayor, it seemed, was a nonentity, entirely in thrall to the black-garbed man sitting to his left: Ludovic Conibear, the navy agent in the town during
Cromwell
’s day, who had enriched himself mightily by serving the usurping
republic and who was casting frequent, suspicious glances in my direction. But although he lost his great landed estate up-river when the king returned, Conibear had somehow managed to retain both his position in the navy and much of his ill-gotten wealth. According to De Gomme, the ‘somehow’ was not unconnected to the fact that the navy agent was a creature of George Monck, Duke of Albemarle. Thus Ludovic Conibear was still a power in Plymouth, and a markedly dangerous man.

At length, Bernard De Gomme exhausted his catalogue of
dignitaries
whose names he felt I needed to know. Yet still the sermon continued. I assumed that Francis’s eyes were closed to enable him to concentrate on following the impenetrable drift of the vicar’s argument; but then he gave out a great snore, and I, along with the rest of the congregation, realised that he was fast asleep. In time my mind, too, drifted away from the vicar’s dreary words. Indeed, it drifted away from the church, and even from Plymouth, seeking solace in a vision of Cornelia unclothed and lying, provocatively spread-eagled, upon our marital bed. If God can truly read our innermost thoughts, and takes account of the time and the place in which we think them, then he must have been especially
outraged
by my contemplation of such undeniable impurity in his own house, as his own Word was expounded by one of his own ordained priests…

‘The hell-hound!’

The shout came from the south porch, and at once every head turned in that direction. The minister of Saint Andrew’s stopped in mid-sentence. Francis woke with a start. I looked around. A youth of perhaps twelve or thirteen stood in the doorway, a tall, gangling lad, evidently out of breath from hard running. He pointed behind him, toward the south: toward the sea.

‘The hell-hound has returned! He has come into the very Sound itself!’

The first to stand was the strong, calm man alongside the mayor. Sir Bernard De Gomme followed suit, then Francis and myself. As the youth turned and ran out of the porch, back in the direction from which he had come, we began to run after him. Running towards the hell-hound.

With much of the congregation hot on our heels, Francis, De Gomme and I followed the running youth through the streets of Plymouth. It was only a matter of yards downhill to the town wall, a pitiful old rampart that displayed tell-tale signs of having been battered by cannon-fire during the civil war, and rebuilt with cheap materials and shoddy workmanship. We ran through the gate tower, then uphill again onto the large area of high, open ground known as the Hoe.

As I reached the crest, I saw an astonishing vista open up before me. Ships of mine had anchored in Plymouth Sound before, but strangely, I had never been up to the famous headland. Thus I had never before
looked in this direction, nor seen this particular view. The Sound was a great, broad bay, with the high coast of Devon stretching away to the east and that of Cornwall to the west, toward Rame Head. The Hoe itself was the promontory of a peninsula jutting out into that bay, flanked by the rivers Plym to the east and Tamar to the west. Fairly close to the shore, towards the mouth of the Tamar, was a prominent island, upon which stood a small fortress. As I drew breath, I saw fire and smoke belch from one of the cannon on its ramparts, and a moment or two later I heard the sound of its firing. The shot was only a gesture, and the gunner on the island would have known it; his target was simply too far out into the bay. And his target, I could now see, was the proverbial hell-hound.

There in the Sound was a man-of-war, cut at a quick estimate for twenty-eight guns. She had all sail set and was steering north-east, very nearly beam on to the stiff breeze from the south-east. She was a sleek, slim craft with no forecastle, but even so, it was easy to recognise her for what she was. Her unmistakeable lines, the familiar colours at the stern, and the large numbers of men lining her rails and in her rigging, gave her away. She was a Dunkirk-built Dutch privateer – a caper, as they called such craft – and she was about to run down two fishing boats that were attempting to flee from her by getting into the mouth of the Plym.

‘Captain Jacob Kranz,’ said De Gomme, ‘and his
Duirel
. They have been plaguing this coast for months, taking prize after prize in sight of land, even raiding ashore. The man’s impudence knows no bounds, and he seems to have an uncanny knowledge of where the King’s forces await him. When ships sail to intercept him in Lyme Bay, going on certain intelligence that he is there, he appears off Fowey instead. When the militia marches to Salcombe, believing him to have landed there, he attacks Bridport. Credulous folk and men in their cups in the taverns say he is in league with the devil. For certain, he has a huge black dog with him aboard the ship, and its howling can be heard off
the coast at night – some even say Kranz and the dog are one and the same creature, witchcraft enabling the one to turn into the other at will.’

Francis rolled his eyes. ‘Dogs that turn into men. Do the folk of Plymouth also still believe that one can create mice by sealing grains of wheat and a dirty shirt in a jar?’

But I was intent only on examining the hell-hound’s ship. The Dunkirk privateers had been famous – or rather, infamous – for a
century
. Swift, well built and heavily armed, they served whichever nation was prepared to grant them letters of marque to attack its enemies. If no such patron came forward, the Dunkirkers served themselves. They fell on the ships of all nations as they made their way through the English Channel, and often roamed further afield. Dunkirk captains were renowned as some of the boldest and best seamen to sail the seas. But Dunkirk was now tamed, having come under the unbending control of France a few years earlier. The port’s fast, sleek ships were either sold on to new owners, or else the crews and captains had gone over en masse to whichever foreign state would employ them. Such, it seemed, was the case with the
Duirel
.

As we watched impotently from the Hoe, the caper, as was
inevitable
, rapidly overhauled the fishing boats, which were forced to heave to. Boarding parties left the
Duirel
to take charge of her new prizes. And on the Hoe, women sobbed and men raged bitterly at this
injustice
, this heinous disgrace, committed in England’s own waters, very nearly under the walls of an English town.

Ludovic Conibear approached us.

‘Well, Sir Bernard,’ he said in a loud, strongly accented Devon voice, ‘where is the king’s power now? What use are your new ramparts against that?’ He pointed out to sea, towards the triumphant
Duirel
. An angry crowd gathered behind him. I heard words spoken against the king, and in praise of Oliver Cromwell. A truly ancient man, bent almost in two, shuffled to the front of the crowd and stared at me
intently. ‘And the king’s ship in the harbour?’ Conibear demanded. ‘Tell me, Sir Bernard, why does she not sail to give battle to the Dunkirker? A nor’easterly, yet her cowardly captain stirs not! Just as he has not all these last weeks!’

This was not my business. The hell-hound was of no concern to me; I was in Plymouth upon a very different affair. A much greater affair, at that, namely discovering the cause of the division of the fleet. Yet I could just see the topmasts of the king’s ship in question away to the east, beyond the shallow ditches, low earthern banks and
scaffolding
that would one day dominate Plymouth Hoe and its Sound: the vast new royal citadel that Sir Bernard De Gomme was building, ostensibly to protect Plymouth from the likes of Kranz, but in truth to overawe the obstreperous town and ensure that never again could it rebel against its rightful king. That distant ship, and the so-called coward who commanded her, was very much a part of my business.

‘Perchance, Mister Conibear,’ I said, ‘the captain is even now
making
his ship ready for sea. Or if he is not, there might be a hundred reasons to detain a royal man-of-war in harbour. If I were you, sir, I would not be so swift in coming to judgement.’

Conibear stepped forward brazenly, until he was barely inches from my face. Behind him, the mob advanced. We were three men, three Cavaliers, against three score.

‘If I were you, swordsman,’ growled Conibear, ‘I would not be so swift in defending a craven and a popinjay. Do not lecture me on what might or might not detain ships in this harbour, for I have known it since before I could walk, long before you were born.’ The mob behind him murmured their approval of his words. ‘And in the year fifty-six, I was aboard the
Marston Moor
down there in the
Cattewater
when she put to sea in half an hour to despatch a Dunkirker seen off the Rame.’ Louder murmurs, and the pointing of fingers at the
Duirel
and the topmasts of the warship in the harbour. Conibear turned to them, nodded, and then turned to face me once again. ‘But
your name, swordsman, if you please? And the yellow uniform that you wear – what strange new confection is that, pray?’

I would have damned the man’s impudence, if not run him through, although that might have led in short order to my being torn apart by the angry mob at his back. But before I could speak, a strange thing happened. The old, bent man, who had been staring at me from the front of the crowd, stepped forward and pointed a gnarled finger at me.

‘Quinton,’ he said in a broken voice. ‘Quinton of Ravensden. Thanks be to God for bringing back my old captain, England’s last true hero.’ He stumbled forward, and I saw that his cheeks were moist with tears. He took my hand and said, ‘Heale, My Lord. Do you not remember? I served with you in the
Constant Esperance
in the year eighty-eight, when I was but a child, a cabin boy. Joined the ship with you at Deptford, and sailed her here with you. I was near this very spot when you and the mighty Drake stood yonder. When you looked out toward the dread Armada’s forest of sails. When the two of you resolved that you had time to finish your game of bowls and beat the Don still. And so you did, My Lord. So you did.’

As he ran his hands over mine, and the mob – aye, even Conibear – looked on in stunned astonishment, the old man’s words suddenly took on meaning.

I took hold of the ancient’s chin, and lifted it gently until we were looking into each other’s eyes. ‘Mister Heale,’ I said, ‘you pay me a great compliment, but I fear you have confused me for my
grandfather
. Although I, too, am named Matthew Quinton.’ I looked toward Conibear, and on that plot of ground, of all the sods of earth in
England
, I knew I could only speak as my grandfather would have done. ‘My uniform is that of a Major of the Lord Admiral’s Regiment,
Mister
Conibear. I was recently captain of His Majesty’s Ship the
Royal Sceptre
in the great four-day fight with the Dutch. I am grandson to the Earl of Ravensden who sailed from this very harbour to defend
England against the Invincible Armada, and brother to the present Earl. Aye, by God, my name is indeed Quinton, Mister Conibear. Sir Matthew Quinton. Mark it well.’

The crowd behind Conibear was startled and confused by these
revelations
. They might still have no love for me, or for the king I served, but my rank, title, and the abiding legend of my grandfather, were sufficient to awe them, if only for the time being. What was more, at least some of them evidently did have a deep well of love for old Heale, who was still looking up at me in wonderment. If he truly had sailed with my grandfather against the Armada, he had to be ninety years old or more. Over the years, I had encountered several who claimed to have been with old Earl Matthew on the
Constant Esperance
in 1588, but they were all swiftly exposed as rogues seeking to wring some coin from my brother or myself. But Heale was different. For one thing, he had knowledge that none of the pretending vagabonds possessed: namely, the strange similarity between my own appearance and that of the only portrait of my grandfather as a young man. Painted shortly after he became Earl, when he was a year or so older than I was then, this adorned the wall of the library at Ravensden Abbey; a room that my mother never entered, for she made every effort to avoid looking upon the image of the father-in-law she detested. Heale could never, ever have seen that portrait, which meant there was only one possible explanation for his mistaking my identity.

Conibear had plainly wrestled with similar thoughts, and had come to a conclusion. He looked at me anew, smiled, and bowed his head. ‘Sir Matthew,’ he said obsequiously, ‘I beg your forgiveness for my most intemperate words. I was distressed by the Dunkirker’s attack – we all were. Plymouth is honoured by your presence, just as it still honours the name of your illustrious grandfather.’

I doubted the truth of every single one of his words, but it was a moment to be gracious. ‘I thank you, Mister Conibear. I trust there shall be no further, ah, misunderstandings between us.’

But as we exchanged further empty pleasantries, I could see the hell-hound sailing away to the south-east, her two prizes following in her wake. Not my business, I reminded myself. Not my business at all.

Francis and I found my three men down on the quayside known as the Barbican. The stallholders, fishermen and whores who thronged the narrow streets were evidently giving my miniature army a wide berth. As had been the case with Conibear, this would have been their first sight of our unfamiliar yellow uniforms, and there was suspicion and downright fear in nearly every pair of eyes. No doubt some feared that we were really a pressing party, come to make up the numbers that the fleet had lost during the four-day fight.

‘Requisitioned rooms at the Turk’s Head, Sir Matthew,’ said Carvell. ‘Took a little persuading, the landlord did. Mighty reluctant to take the King’s gold, and mighty afraid of the King’s uniform. Like everyone else in this town, it seems. And as you requested, I’ve hired a boat. That took some finding, too.’

I nodded, and could well imagine the measures that Carvell and the others had resorted to in order to overcome the reluctance of the good townsfolk of Plymouth.

With a long June evening stretching ahead, I saw no reason to delay the unpleasantness that I had been dreading throughout the journey from London; dreading, indeed, since the moment when the King had given me his written instructions in Westminster Abbey, and I read the name inscribed upon them. I recalled my brother’s words to me later that same night, when he explained the reason for the uncomfortably hot uniform I was now wearing.

‘As you know better than I, Matt, your commission as a King’s captain only has force while you actually have that command. So if you go down to Plymouth as you are, you are but a private individual. Yes, you are a knight and my brother, but neither of those distinctions
will be of much use to you in your dealings with the sort of men you are likely to encounter there – mayors, aldermen, magistrates, army officers, all the puffed-up office holders one finds in any county. In Devon above all, where many of them owe allegiance to the Duke of Albemarle. So you will need a high military rank, both to give you status in the eyes of the good people of Devon, and to make you clearly the superior officer of the man you need to investigate. The man we suspect of having brought about the division of the fleet. Your erstwhile friend, brother.’

‘He will not dispute my authority –’

‘Matt, if you seek to arrest him on a charge of high treason, who knows what he might dispute? Your friendship will count for nought then, I suspect.’

My heart sank at the very thought:
a charge of high treason
. A charge that I would bring against one of my dearest friends, and arrest him for it. An arrest that would inevitably lead to trial, conviction, and if the King was merciful, a swift beheading. And if the King’s mercy was exhausted? The terrible spectacle of hanging, drawing and
quartering
. I had witnessed the regicide Harrison’s execution not long after the Restoration, when that exact sentence was carried out. I saw him hanged, then cut down alive, his guts sliced open, the entrails torn out and flung into the fire, the body decapitated. The memory was hellish; the prospect of the same fate awaiting a good friend, and at my own instigation, was beyond any hell.