A Ship for The King (18 page)

‘No, Pilot. I'm for the westwards . . .'

‘In this wind? It may freshen from the sou'west.'

‘Then we shall have to beat; stretch over to the French coast.'

‘Huh! You mind them French corsairs, Cap'n. They'd like to snap up a handy little man-o'-war like this'n . . .' He paused, then added, ‘Well, you can hang out a flag for a punt off Deal an' I'll take my leave o'you.'

They were fortunate in carrying the ebb almost as far as Deal before the flood began. With her fore and main yards braced sharp up, the forenoon found them signalling for a boat and by noon they had discharged the pilot, cleared the danger of the Goodwins and stood offshore, the white cliffs above Dover receding astern. Only then did Faulkner hand over the deck to Brenton and go below to where Crowe had prepared his bed-place. Throwing off his doublet, with Crowe pulling at his boots, he rolled himself in his blankets and fell instantly asleep.

He had no idea how long he had been sleeping when he felt himself being rudely shaken.

‘Cap'n, sir! Cap'n!'

‘What the devil . . . ?'

‘Cap'n.' Crowe ceased shaking him. ‘Mr Brenton's compliments, sir, and he thinks you should be on deck!' No further explanation was needed. Faulkner tumbled out and drew on his boots. Grabbing the cloak Crowe held out for him he drew it round his shoulders over his shirt and ran out on to the quarterdeck.

‘What is it?' The question was superfluous. Both Brenton and Eagles stood at the taffrail and stared at the man-of-war three miles astern of them. She was not of the largest class, but something equivalent to an English fourth or fifth-rate. Nor was there need to ask what nationality she was, for even though her three masts were in line, they could see the fly of the large white ensign fluttering just beyond the edges of her sails – the white colours of Bourbon France.

Faulkner felt his mouth go dry and cleared his throat. ‘Is she gaining on us, Mr Brenton?'

‘Aye, sir, I am afraid so. And we're on the larboard tack, full and bye. She's almost as weatherly as we are with new sails . . .'

‘And if the wind gets up any more, we'll be labouring . . .'

Faulkner thought a moment, casting about the horizon. He could see the English coast, a faint blue smudge on the northern horizon. How far away was it? Eight, ten miles? An idea occurred to him. ‘Hoist our colours,' he said briskly, ‘then run the jack up to the fore-truck. Send the men to stations. We'll ease the braces and run her off a little . . .'

‘Won't that allow her to—'

‘Do as I say, Mr Brenton, and look lively.' There was an edge to Faulkner's voice that he was not conscious of but both Brenton and Eagles noticed. Brenton met Eagles's eye and he gave an imperceptible shrug.

‘Aye aye, sir.'

‘Mr Eagles!'

‘Sir?'

‘Be so kind as to go below and fetch my glass. Crowe will know where it is stowed.'

A few moments later Faulkner was staring not astern at the man-of-war which had followed them round on to their new course, but ahead to where the coast of England took a damnably long time to look any nearer. Closing the telescope with a sharp snap he fell to pacing the deck, attempting to divert his mind and let time prove whether his gamble would pay off. He conceived the idea that if he did not stare at the chasing enemy he would not find it growing larger, a crazy fancy, but one which allowed him to appear composed. One thing, with the enemy so close dead astern, she would have to veer off her course to open fire and it all depended upon whether the French captain would reserve his fire until he had drawn almost alongside, or whether he would attempt to knock their rig about and disable their quarry so that she fell quickly into their hands. The problem with that was that in order to do so, the French man-of-war would lose ground and there was no guarantee that a quick shot – unless it was extraordinarily lucky – would achieve the objective. Better to hold the chase, which in any case was in the larger ship's favour, allowing overwhelming force to be brought to bear with the inevitable consequence of Faulkner's surrender.

The thought made his blood run cold. The wind was increasing, a chill shower of spray burst against the bow and swept aft, stinging the face as it hit them. Surrender? If he was pushed to that extremity he must destroy the King's despatches. Whatever happened to him, it was most important that nothing of the King's communication with Buckingham fell into French hands. He was about to call Eagles to find the sealed package, but then thought better of it. He looked along the line of the deck. He had forgotten all about the crew and now he saw them all, some of the complement of sixty-three men whose stations required them on the upper deck in action, most crouched about their guns, awaiting the word to cast off the breechings.

‘Cast off the breechings, Mr Brenton, and load with grape and ball.'

He watched the men stand to their task and then raised the glass again. ‘Stand by the braces, Mr Eagles! Steer nor'west a quarter north!'

The
Whelp
steadied on her new course and the men trimmed the yards a little. It was not a large alteration but just sufficient to . . . Had he got it right? He must allow for the tide which was against them, but there was a chance and it was the best they had, given sufficient time. He allowed himself a glance astern and was shocked how the enemy had gained upon them. He turned away again and, to calm himself, raised his telescope and peered ahead. Was that . . . ? No, it was only a tumbling wave-cap, one among innumerable white horses that danced over the sea which, here in the Channel, was a deep blue. He looked up; above them a cloudy sky told of a steady wind and no change before dark.

Faulkner could feel the sweat running under his shirt, yet he felt chilled. He made himself pace up and down, up and down, stilling his nerves and resolutely refusing to look astern again. Damn the Frenchman! Damn him to hell! Up and down: think of something other than black disgrace, possible death, certain imprisonment and dishonour at having to ditch the King's despatches. Why did this have to happen to him? Why did he capitulate to the thought of gaining some regard from the lovely, flirtatious and doubtless faithless Katherine Villiers? Why did he not have the good sense to eschew the court, stay in Bristol, marry Julia Gooding and grow fat and prosperous as a Jamaica merchant? God, what a bloody fool he was! Anything was better than this slow torture, this slow road to obloquy! Why had Mainwaring and Strange lifted him out of the gutter? To be taken on his very first day at sea in independent command by some foul dog of a Frenchman?

Faulkner allowed himself another look astern. Above the heaving rail of the
Whelp
the bowsprit of the Frenchman seemed to loom. It was so close he fancied he could see the cranse iron on the end of the Frenchman's bowsprit itself. He spun and stared ahead. How far now? The coast was perceptibly nearer, but it was still miles away and though there were three or four brown lug-sails under the land they were only fishermen and of no potential use to the harried
Whelp
. Then he thought he could see what he was looking for. It was not yet clear and the tide was high but, nevertheless, they had a chance! He spun round and addressed the man on the tiller.

‘Keep her steady now.'

‘Steady as she goes, sir,' the seaman responded, although he had been tending to his duty assiduously for the last forty minutes as Brenton hovered nearby.

‘What d'you mean to do, sir?' Brenton asked, anxiety written across his usually carefree face.

‘Stand on, Mr Brenton, stand on!' Faulkner replied. ‘Another ten or fifteen minutes . . .'

Brenton turned to Eagles, his expression quizzical. Eagles frowned, stared ahead then shrugged with incomprehension. If Faulkner noticed anything, he ignored it, leaving his officers none the wiser. There was no time for explanations; if his ruse worked, well-and-good; if not it would not be necessary to explain what he was trying to do. For twelve long minutes the chase ran on. The tension was palpable. The men stood patiently to their guns, every now and then one of them would stand up and stare astern, then crouch down again and report the progress of the Frenchman. Only their commander seemed relatively disinterested in the mighty nemesis creeping up on them from astern.

Faulkner was expecting it, but Brenton noticed it first: a change in the
Whelp
's motion as she dashed over the seas which caused her to roll gently on the new course. Suddenly there were more breaking wave-caps and as others realized something odd was happening, few quite understood. Then someone looked astern and saw the Frenchman turn away from the wind, his yards coming round as he stood off to the north-east, leaving the
Whelp
to run on to the north and west. They had outwitted their enemy and the distance between them rapidly increased. Ten minutes later they watched the French man-of-war put up her helm and head away, back towards Boulogne in the far distance.

‘My congratulations, sir,' said Brenton.

‘Thank you, Harry,' Faulkner said quietly. The relief that flooded through him made him feel strangely light-headed, almost weak at the knees. ‘Stand the men down, but mind you keep her going on this course until we're under the land before we tack. Short legs to the westwards until after dark. I'm going below.'

Brenton nodded and watched Faulkner as he left the deck. Then Eagles was beside him.

‘Harry, what the devil did we do?'

Brenton looked at the younger man and grinned. ‘You don't understand?'

Eagles shook his head. ‘No. One minute we were about to be overtaken and the next the whole thing is over.'

‘I must confess, I didn't comprehend it at first but Captain Faulkner took us over the Varne Bank. We draw only nine feet while that fellow will draw nearer twenty . . .' He let the explanation sink in and Eagles's eyes widened with appreciation.

‘The devil,' he breathed, admiringly.

Although the wind remained contrary for the entire passage, it did not freshen and by keeping under the English coast until they were well to the west, the
Whelp
beat her way down Channel, tack by patient tack and using the tide when it served. The encounter with the Frenchman also affected morale for, although the decks were wet and water found its way below so that the pinnace became a thing of damp misery, the mood of the little
Whelp
was sustained by the outcome and men began to mutter that Faulkner was a ‘lucky' man. It would have surprised him to have heard how his cool nonchalance was admired among the simple souls who manned his ship, but all unknowingly he had established a name for himself in a modest way during that anxious hour or two.

Ten days later they had doubled Ushant and, having stood some leagues further south, turned in towards the land, hoping to make a landfall on the île de Rhé.

Six

Buckingham

‘If I may speak frankly, Kit, I like this not at all . . .'

Faulkner looked at Brenton who sat opposite at the table as they finished off a postprandial bottle. The necessity of having to heave to for the night in order to close the French coast in the light of morning suggested to Faulkner that he should invite Brenton to dine with him. So, with the deck left to Eagles, the two old friends relaxed after their meal, the air grew thick with tobacco smoke as the
Whelp
gently breasted the incoming swells from the broad Atlantic and the wind, not more than a gentle westerly, soughed in the rigging.

‘What don't you like?' Faulkner asked, diverting his mind from its preoccupation with his coming meeting with the Duke of Buckingham and the light in which it would cast him. At the bottom of his thoughts lay the troubling image of the lovely Mistress Villiers.

‘These policies of the King's,' Brenton said. ‘Do not mistake my meaning, I beg you. I am as loyal as the next man, but he is in deep trouble with Parliament who resist all attempts to force tax-raising measures through. I have heard that money has been demanded in the form of forced loans and refusal to pay has meant imprisonment for those gentlemen unwilling to comply with the royal will. As for the troops and the seamen, both are ill-paid and word comes from Buckingham's forces that they are mutinous, they hate the Duke, and could not care a fig for the Huguenots, wanting only to get back home. Truly little will come of this policy other than that His Majesty will blight the fortunes of the Palatinate abroad and cause terrible dissent at home.'

During their acquaintance aboard the
Prince Royal
Faulkner had developed a respect for Brenton's independence of thought. Brenton owed his position and commission to the fact that he came from a good family and he in turn had rapidly determined that Faulkner, though a thoroughly able sea-officer, possessed no patronage beyond that of Sir Henry Mainwaring and had no family. Consequently Brenton saw the technically-able but somewhat politically naïve Faulkner in part as a sounding board for his own political opinions, but also as a malleable accomplice, while at the same time being one who was likely to rise in the sea-service. Brenton had no clear objective in thus cultivating Faulkner, but he sensed the rift between the King and Parliament was serious, and knew, far better than either Faulkner or Mainwaring, the mood of the greater part of the English people.

Faulkner frowned. He did not understand the political point of English support of the Palatinate beyond a vague comprehension of the King's sister being the Elector Palatine's wife. As for domestic politics, he was apt to think of them attaching solely to the Court, entirely forgetting the rising power of Parliament, though he recognized well enough the attachment of the Puritans and the Dissenters – like the Gooding family – to the Commons.