The Lion of Midnight (6 page)

‘We could search back to the shoreline, sir, following the horses’ tracks,’ said Kit as we drew breath under the stern of the damaged ship.

‘Our assailants will have long gone, Lieutenant,’ I said, ‘and if they have not, I do not propose to divide the force available to us here in case they make another attempt upon the ships.’

‘Bale, it’ll be,’ said Musk, gasping for breath. Running was not his accustomed condition. ‘That vile regicide and his Dutch friends. Satan’s infernal imps, the whole damn crew of them.’

As Kit organised the crewmen from the
Thomas and Mary
and those from other ships who were not engaged in fire-fighting into a defensive picket, I gave thought to Musk’s words. Bale. He was the likeliest suspect, of course. This scheme to destroy the mast-fleet might have been crude in its execution, depending upon the paths taken by terrified horses and the notoriously random timing of powder fuses, but there was clearly intelligence in its conception. To launch the attack only when all of the captains were gathered together aboard one ship was inspired; it ensured confusion aboard the leaderless ships. Yet our assailants must have known the meeting was taking place, and that could only have been betrayed to them in one of two ways. Either they had been sent the intelligence by a sympathiser in the mast-fleet itself, or they were
cognisant of my order to meet with all the captains. Perhaps they had even followed me from the Landtshere’s residence. For another catalyst had undoubtedly inspired the timing of the attack: me. The arrival of the
Cressy
meant that the time available to our enemies for an attempt on the mast-fleet had suddenly decreased dramatically; when the ice melted we would sail at once, and our foes were aware of that simple fact. But such an immediate attack also sent out a very clear warning to the
Cressy
’s captain. Be on your guard, Sir Matthew: you do not impress us, for see how we greet your arrival?

The assault upon the mast-fleet, the impudence of Landtshere Ter Horst, the malevolent presence of Lord Bale: all demanded a response. And as I stood upon the ice, watching the last remnants of the last
fire-barrel
burn itself out, I knew precisely what that response should be.

I made my way from the captain’s cabin of the
Cressy
, through the
steerage
, and up onto the quarterdeck. Behind me came those with whom I had just been in conference: the Lord Conisbrough (accompanied as always by the pale youth North, who spoke not a word), Captain
Gosling
as representative of the mast-fleet masters, Lieutenant Kit Farrell, Seth Jeary and Phineas Musk, nominally taking the record for my
journal
but as ever acting as my confidential advisor, my very own Father Joseph. Then all of the ship’s warrant officers bar the ancient cook and the carpenter: Blackburn the gunner, Eade the chaplain, Hallam Everett the purser, and, thanks be to God, Martin Lanherne the boatswain, the leader of my Cornish following, whom I had been able to put into the post in exchange for the incontinent eighty-year-old veteran who served as the
Cressy
’s shipkeeper while she lay in ordinary.

It was the morning after the attack on the mast-ships; Kit, Musk and I had snatched a few uncomfortable hours of sleep upon pallets in the hold of the
Thomas and Mary
. Dawn brought a true
reckoning
of the damage caused by the ingenious fire-raft attack. Five men had been killed, all of them aboard the
John and Abigail
. Another five were maimed. But thankfully the ship itself and its precious cargo had survived. The thickness of the ice and the compacted snow on top of it had prevented any damage below the waterline, and Tyndall’s quick
response had ensured that although there was a gaping hole in its hull, the ship was not irreparable. I had already sent across Wat Haydon, the capable carpenter of the
Cressy
, and a number of his crew to assist with the repairs. With them had gone Julian Carvell, the sometime Virginian slave who now served as my coxswain, and twenty men to provide a guard upon the mast-fleet.

Upon the quarterdeck of the
Cressy
, swivel guns were now fastened to the ship’s rail, and the sakers and eight-pounders were fully manned. Muskets had been distributed to the best shots among the crew, several of whom stood at both the larboard and starboard rails, as keen-eyed as any redcoat. Others were stationed in the tops, a perilous and mightily uncomfortable quarter upon such a bitter day. I doubted whether the assailants of the mast fleet would dare attempt anything similar upon the might of the
Cressy
¸ but the show of force would serve another
purpose
. The captain of New Elfsborg would certainly report the news back to Ter Horst, and I wanted the duplicitous Landtshere to hear of a
Cressy
bristling with guns and clearly ready for war.

I turned and looked out upon the waist of the ship, which was filled with most of the men of the
Cressy
. All wore as many clothes as they
possessed
; most had their Monmouth caps pulled well down over their ears, and there was barely a man not in woollen mittens that he had sewn himself. My men were cold and longed to be below decks – or, better, before a log fire in some tavern or in the arms of some naked wench – so there was an powerful imperative upon the captain to keep his speech as short as possible.

‘Cressys!’ I cried. All eyes were upon me. ‘You know me. You know I have a fatherly concern for each and every man of you.’ I looked directly at Luke Ollerenshaw, the ship’s cook, at seventy-three by far the
oldest
man in the crew and thus capable of being his twenty-five year old captain’s great-grandfather. His shipmates jostled him good-naturedly, and I heard a laughing reference to ‘old father Quinton yonder’. ‘Thus I have sought to spare you the manifest temptations and vices of the city
of Gothenburg.’ There was some growling at that; I knew from Kit and Jeary that the failure to grant immediate leave and an opportunity to explore those selfsame temptations and vices was a matter of discontent at the mess tables. ‘But it seems I was mistaken, my friends, and you were right. See what my folly nearly brought upon us! Why, our enemies have even dared to make an attempt upon the masts that will propel our noble fleet to victory over the Dutch, the French and the Danes in the coming campaign! All because they had not seen the true might of the
Cressy
– the might of you, her crew!’ That brought forth a cheer, albeit only a thin one; many were unwilling to stop breathing upon their hands, despite their mittens. ‘So I intend to begin grants of leave immediately, mess by mess, for a day at a time.’ A far louder cheer, and even a few hands punched into the air. ‘We must keep a strong crew aboard lest our enemies attempt something upon the ship itself, but I have no doubt that a mess which overstays its allotted time ashore will be reproved in the very gentlest manner by that which it is meant to relieve.’ Members of not a few rival messes glowered at each other. ‘But I tell you this, men. Ashore, you will behave yourselves as true
Englishmen
. Thus there will be no thieving, no raping, no beatings of the good honest townsfolk of Gothenburg.’ I leaned forward, assuming what I trusted was my most serious air. ‘And if you take too much of the drink of these parts, and enter into brawls – oh, sirs, I assure you the wrath of your captain will be boundless! A man provoked, say, by the insults of a greasy Dutchman or a damnable Covenanting Scots rebel – or a man who came to blows with any acolytes of the foul regicide Bale - or an entire mess that took it upon itself to knock the heads of some of the noble Landtshere’s guards – why, such men, upon the incontrovertible sworn testimony of a sufficient number of stout and loyal Englishmen, could expect the utmost severity, even up to perhaps three lashes!’

I let the words hang in the frozen air. A few of the more quick-
witted
and those who knew well their captain’s humour, like the renegade Moor Ali Reis and the Scot MacFerran, caught my meaning at once,
smiled knowingly and whispered reassurance to those around them. But there was much murmuring elsewhere, with some at the back of the crew, the men furthest toward the forecastle, seemingly convinced that I had warned them of thirty lashes. And in those more innocent and less brutal times, thirty lashes was very nearly the harshest punishment that even a court-martial ever bestowed.

‘Let me be clear,’ I cried. ‘I want every man of every nation in
Gothenburg
to know that in this place, and at this time, there is a power that will not brook the scurvy assaults of foreign knaves and English traitors. There is a power abroad in Gothenburg that will uphold the honour of king and country, of captain and ship. We know the name of that power, do we not, men? The power bears the name of the battle where the flower of England, your very ancestors, cut down the arrogant pride of the rapacious foreigner. It is the name of Cressy!’

The lads at the foot of the quarterdeck rail cheered loudly, and as the acclamation rolled back toward the forecastle, so a chant began to issue forth: at first a menacing bass growl, then louder, more rhythmic, a battle-cry as terrifying as any employed by a barbarian horde against a Roman legion or by English archers against proud French knights on the very field from which the ship took its name.

‘Cressy! Cressy! Cressy!’

Lord Conisbrough leaned over to me and whispered ‘I pray you know what it is that you do, Sir Matthew. It seems to me you have cried havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’

‘Blood. Cracked skulls,’ murmured Musk, who seemed to have entered some kind of delectable private reverie of his own.

‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘I have sailed with many of these brave lads for three or four years now. I can think of no finer body of men to stand up for the honour of England, or to send a signal to our foes that they attack us again at their peril. As you told me earlier, My Lord, Ter Horst will not place a guard around the mast fleet – no doubt pleading strict neutrality, that he cannot guard our ships without granting an equal
right to the Dutchmen in the harbour – and we should not give the man the satisfaction of even applying to him for one. So let us make sure that he and all our other foes in Gothenburg know that we are more than able to defend ourselves.’

Still the chant of ‘Cressy! Cressy!’ went on.

Half a glass later, the crew had dispersed and the first of the messes, as selected by Kit Farrell and Jeary, were going into the boats to make for the shore and twenty-four hours of drinking, whoring and fighting: the time-honoured litany of the English upon a foreign strand. Lord
Conisbrough
, too, made to go ashore at once, and Kit sought to accompany him, as he explained to me somewhat awkwardly during an audience in my cabin.

‘I would – that is, I wish – Sir Matthew, I believe it might be advantageous for me to become better acquainted with this town of Gothenburg.’

His evident embarrassment made me merry. ‘With the town,
Lieutenant
, or with one particular young lady of it?’

Kit blushed. ‘Magdalena – the maiden Ter Horst – and I –’

I laughed and raised a hand. ‘Kit, I would be the last man to stand in the way of your endeavours with the lady. Remember that I, too, found a foreign maiden in a foreign port – one who could speak not a word of English. Now she is the Lady Quinton, so who knows where you and your Magdalena might end? I take it she does not share her father’s antipathy to we English?’

My lieutenant still blushed like a small boy caught stealing from an orchard. ‘No, Sir Matthew. Nor any other of her father’s inclinations. Thank you, Sir Matthew,’ he whispered.

As he departed, Phineas Musk entered with a sheaf of papers in his hand; even he could not put off indefinitely the tedious duties demanded of a captain’s clerk, despite knowing full well that his captain shared his
aversion to the endless manifests and musters that required his attention.

‘Never thought I’d see that one lovestruck,’ said Musk with a
backward
nod toward the door through which Kit Farrell had exited.

‘I trust it does not end badly, Musk,’ I replied. ‘End it surely will when we sail, but I fear her father’s duplicity may play a part in it.’

‘Could see it the other way, of course,’ said Musk.

‘The other way, Musk?’

‘Friends at court, Sir Matthew. Might it not be to our advantage to have friendly eyes and ears in Ter Horst’s house?’

Musk never ceased to astonish me: he, the very rudest of men, ever more inclined to the fist than the quill, could when he wished be as perceptive and Machiavellian as the king himself.

‘Yes, Musk. Yes, indeed. I had not thought of that.’

He piled the papers unceremoniously onto my sea-table. ‘A veritable feast today, Sir Matthew. The pay book to check and countersign, the new muster book to compare with the last one we made up before we sailed, the inventories of the gunner’s and boatswain’s stores to be
examined
. And Purser Everett craves audience when we are done, that you may countersign his letters of credit and bills of exchange so we may commence revictualling the ship.’ Musk piled misery upon misery
without
a glimmer of a smile on his face. ‘But at least you have some letters, too. Delivered to Sir William Warren’s factor not three days past. Should have been delivered to us in Solebay, but missed our sailing. Then got put on a Danziger from Lynn which made a faster passage through the storm than we did. The letters first, I presume, Sir Matthew?’

‘Indeed so, Musk. The letters first.’

There were a half-dozen or thereabouts. One was from Mister Pepys, the Clerk of the Acts to the Navy Board, enjoining me both to report on the sailing qualities of the
Cressy
following her recent refit at Woolwich and, entirely needlessly and pompously, to take especial care of the
preservation
of the mast fleet; as if a king’s captain, already set to the task by his Lord High Admiral, would deliberately neglect such a duty! There
was a missive from my Uncle Tristram, the unlikely Master of
Mauleverer
College, Oxford, reporting among many other things an item of news from the foreign gazettes which he thought might of interest to me in my voyage: namely that Christina, former Queen of Sweden, was said to have left her sumptuous residence at the Palazzo Riario in Rome to recover her health in the Apennines. (Tristram being Tristram, he
speculated
at length upon the likelihood that this was merely a euphemism for her eloping with her alleged lover, Cardinal Azzolino.) Then there were two letters from my dear Cornelia, both of them holding forth at some length upon the iniquity of the landlord of our rented rooms in Hardiman’s Yard near the Tower and making distinctly unsubtle
suggestions
that these quarters were no longer appropriate for a knight of the realm and his lady.

I put down the second of her letters with a sigh. ‘Lady Quinton seems determined to have me seek out a suitable new residence for us upon my return to England, Musk.’

‘They tell me the King wants to sell Nonsuch Palace,’ said Musk. ‘My Lady would think that suitable.’

Of my young servants standing against the bulkhead, the feeble Ives and Upton remained impassive. But the lively Kellett smirked, and Musk shot him a glance akin to that of the Gorgon.

‘Perhaps His Majesty can use the proceeds to pay me the prize money I am still owed for taking the
Oranje
in the Lowestoft fight,’ I replied gloomily. ‘What sort of devils incarnate are Admiralty lawyers when they can take eight months – eight months
at the very least
! – to
determine
whether or not a Dutch man-of-war, taken in battle in a state of formally declared war, is a lawful prize?’

‘Be of good cheer, Sir Matthew. If we’ve now got war with the French and the Danes as well, who knows how many prizes you might take on this very voyage?’

Musk’s attempts to make a man feel cheerful were well-intentioned, but his general demeanour of unremitting gloom meant that they were
delivered with the air of a gravedigger who whistles a cheery air as he works. Hence I shook my head sadly. ‘If we ever sail, Musk. And what prospect of prizes can there be when all I am to do is husband a gaggle of ungrateful tarpaulins back to England?