A Ship for The King (30 page)

With the clearing of the air the men were stood to and both Faulkner and Mainwaring scanned the shoreline. ‘Are the enemy in Pennycomequick?' Mainwaring asked, uncertainly. ‘Eagles cannot command the village or Arwenack House from where he has taken the ground . . .'

‘No, but I can see movement north of the town, where the road runs towards Penrhyn . . . Yes, see there now: mounted troops, dragoons I suppose, and there! Pikemen!'

Mainwaring brought his own glass to bear where Faulkner indicated. ‘And see there, a man on a white horse . . . that is Black Tom himself . . .'

Faulkner swivelled and caught the image in the lens of the telescope: Fairfax, quite clear in black armour on his famous white steed, surrounded by his staff and standard bearer, rode south across the exposed ground towards Pennycomequick. But they were not the only people to spot the Parliamentary commander. Even as both men watched, a rumble from the
St George
, followed by the clouds of white smoke from her broadside, told its own tale. Mainwaring and Faulkner could see the sudden gobbets of earth thrown up by the shot as it ploughed at the end of its range through the sodden grass and mud. The horses of Fairfax's suite plunged wildly, rearing and kicking for a moment before their riders had them under control again and were heading off at a gallop, the standard streaming in gallantly as they made for the shelter of Penrhyn. A cheer from the
St George
was carried on the wind as the gunfire died away, echoing faintly into the distance. ‘Not a single casualty,' Mainwaring remarked, lowering his telescope and turning towards Faulkner. ‘That is hardly a victory.' He screwed up his eyes and seemed to be looking over Faulkner's shoulder. ‘Hello, what have we here?'

Faulkner turned and followed Mainwaring's line of vision. A small sailing lugger was coming in from the sea, running inside the Black Rock and flying a large flag. Mainwaring raised his glass with a sudden jerk and muttered an oath. Only a narrow sector of the distant horizon was visible from their anchorage but, to Faulkner's horror, it was no longer the sharp, empty edge of the world it had hitherto been. Now it was occupied by two, three and perhaps more, sails. Such a concentration of ships, arriving simultaneously, could mean only one thing; they were men-of-war and, with the navy in Parliamentary hands and those few ships raised for the King's service at Jersey or in the Isles of Scilly, that meant a Parliamentary squadron.

‘We are cut off,' murmured Mainwaring. ‘They have outwitted us and Pendennis is invested. That will be Batten, God rot him . . .'

‘What, William Batten? Of Trinity House?' Faulkner's mouth was dry.

‘Very likely. I knew him to be in command at Plymouth. Now, Kit, it is truly Brother against Brother.'

But Faulkner was thinking. He looked over the side and at the sky, then at the mast truck from which the flag of
St George
tugged bravely at its halliards. ‘It is already late afternoon, Sir Henry. The tide is slackening and will shortly be on the ebb. With this wind they will not beat in tonight. We have a chance . . . Ireland . . . Jersey . . .'

‘Scilly!' Mainwaring said decisively. ‘Fetch me a boat!'

‘At once!'

‘And Kit?'

‘Sir?'

‘Make ready such preparations as you think necessary.'

‘Aye, Sir Henry.'

‘Those for ladies, too.'

‘Aye . . . Mr White!'

White bustled up, his eyes flushed with the excitement of seeing Fairfax's party turn-tail. ‘Captain Faulkner?'

‘Have the men fed, tell off the watches and stand by in one hour to receive passengers. We shall weigh at nightfall, but I would have that last kept to yourself for the time being. Let us embark the passengers first.'

‘Very well, Captain, May I ask—'

‘No, you may not, but where this morning you woke the first lieutenant in a man-of-war, tomorrow you will be in the King's household – more-or-less.'

‘The King's household, sir?' White frowned, puzzled. ‘I thought the King in Oxford . . .'

‘But his heir is in Pendennis yonder.'

White looked from Faulkner to the castle and gave a short laugh. ‘Then he is much come down in the world, to be taking a trip in this tub, begging your pardon, Captain.'

‘Well, White, make certain that you do not join him. I shall want the best out of you tonight.' Faulkner turned and indicated the approaching sails. ‘They are likely to stop us if they get the chance. We are to see that they do not.'

It was after dark when the first of the boats came off from the shore, and Faulkner was in a sweat of anxiety to be gone before both the north-westerly wind and the ebb-tide had died. An hour before dark he had been out himself in a boat, to reconnoitre the approach of the enemy squadron and sound in the vicinity of the Black Rock, and ever since he had pounded the quarterdeck, bothering White with queries, eager to be off but beholden to the Prince, and Mainwaring, who had gone to summon him.

But the word came at last and Faulkner had prepared his ship as far as improvisation made possible. With a lantern at the rail and the men mustered in the waist, he and White waited by the entry, new neatly pointed and whipped man-ropes dangling over the side and a scrubbed ladder hanging down for the royal feet. They had found a red sash for White, which he wore with his sword and Faulkner wore his own sash over his blackened cuirass. Both men held their hats and bowed at the first sign of the Prince's head.

‘Captain Faulkner.' Faulkner straightened up. He could see the features of the Prince by the fitful lantern-light. He was as tall as Faulkner himself, his eyes dark, his face well made but in the shadow of black hair, his own by the look of it. He smiled, his beard and moustache already darker and more substantial seeming than his father's, belying his fifteen summers. He held out his hand. ‘I gather we are
in extremis
, Captain, and that our enemies are at the gate, or so Sir Henry informs me.' The voice was unusually deep for so young a man, but his tone was extraordinarily and surprisingly light-hearted, making his tardy arrival almost forgivable, Faulkner thought, as he briefly clasped the Prince's hand.

‘I fear so, Your Highness. We shall endeavour to evade them, nevertheless, and will likely succeed with a little cunning.'

The Prince chuckled. ‘I do hope so, sir. Sir Henry tells me you were with my father on the Spanish voyage.'

‘That is so, Your Highness.'

‘And this is . . . ?'

‘Mr White, sir, my lieutenant . . . My
only
lieutenant, in fact, Your Highness.'

‘You are short-handed.'

‘Regrettably so, Your Highness. We had little time . . . but may I make you welcome to the
Phoenix
.'

‘I am obliged to you, sir. She is your ship, I understand?'

‘She is yours to command, sir, and under charter to the King.'

‘Very well.' The Prince looked about him in the darkness, catching sight of the assembled men whose pale faces showed curiosity. ‘I am obliged to you all,' he said, raising his voice. ‘Perhaps you can make a seaman of me on our voyage.'

A laugh went up among the men. ‘May I show you to your quarters, Your Highness?' Faulkner said. ‘I have, if you will forgive me, given no order for salutes.'

‘Quite so, Captain.'

‘This way, sir. And we must delay no longer if wind and tide are to serve.'

He heard the Prince chuckle beside him. ‘Indeed, please proceed as you see fit. Sir Richard!' The Prince disappeared under the poop and a man Faulkner would later learn was Fanshawe, his military secretary, took over, followed immediately by Mainwaring who stopped alongside Faulkner only long enough to say in a low voice, ‘I shall look to the ladies, Kit.'

‘And I shall get the ship under-weigh.'

In the darkness he was aware of a stream of people, men and women to the number of perhaps twenty or two dozen passing across the deck. Where the devil was Mainwaring going to stow them all? And where the devil were he and Sir Henry – admiral and captain – going to sleep? And which among them was
she
?

The last of the baggage was coming over the side, some of it lifted in the boat as the yard and stay tackles drew tight, and the ship listed a little in response as the weight of the longboat came on them. Then it was settled in the waist and he sent the men to the capstan without a fiddler and orders only to tramp round in silence. On deck White tended the headsails and the topsails while Faulkner remained aft, by the helmsman. He recalled the night he and Brenton had slipped down the Thames and realized that he was much out of practice for this sort of caper. Caper? The Prince's insouciance was infectious and therefore dangerous! He was only a boy, for God's sake, while he, Faulkner, was a grown man with a wife and a family left behind . . .

He forced himself to concentrate as the word came aft that the anchor was a-trip, and then aweigh. He ordered the helm over and the foretopsail dropped. He heard the rasp of the canvas and a faint squeal from the blocks, and then Walker's voice calling the men to the braces. Striding aft, Faulkner stared over the rail. A faint light escaped through the shutters of the cabin and the murmur of voices came up to him, but he was looking for something else and at last he saw the ripples showing the ship had gathered sternway. He returned to the helm and called to White, ‘Brace up!'

Round the ship came so that the backed foretopsail fluttered, was braced round with the wind behind it and the
Phoenix
turned on her heel and gathered headway. ‘Give her the spritsail and the main topsail, Mr White!'

‘Aye aye, sir.'

‘Leadsman in the chains. No calls over five fathoms.'

‘No calls over five fathoms, sir.'

‘Who is it?'

‘Jackson, sir.'

‘That's well, Jackson. You mind you take care to sound true.'

‘Sound true, sir, aye aye.'

Faulkner moved alongside the helmsman, keeping his eyes averted from the dimly lit binnacle to preserve his night vision. ‘How's her head?'

‘East by south, sir.'

‘Keep her so.' He stared out to starboard at the loom of the castle on its height, then crossed the deck and peered north to where the River Fal itself was slowly opening. Ahead the hump of St Mawes grew slowly larger in appearance as they closed the distance. He looked up at the set of the main topsail as White secured the braces. Above it flew the pale shape of the flag of St George.

‘Keep the men handy, we shall brace her round again in a minute or two and strike that flag. We can't risk it catching the eye of anyone offshore.'

‘Very good, sir.'

Faulkner sighed. It had been a long day and was going to be a long night.

‘A tricky business, Captain.' The Prince's deep voice was unmistakable. ‘I am sorry, I startled you.'

‘Not at all, Your Highness.' He paused. Somewhat desperate he blurted out, ‘You will forgive me, sir, but I must needs be active . . .'

‘Of course. Take no notice of me. I merely wish to observe.'

‘Thank you. We are about to turn south and make our way through the entrance. I am anxious that the tide does not set us down upon the Black Rock.'

There was no moon and the cloud that had gathered since sunset remained partial, so that the stars shone against the black heavens with a magnificent glitter. Casting a glance in the Prince's direction, Faulkner walked forward to stand above the starboard bumpkin, judging the moment to turn. The loom of St Anthony's Head was close now; turning aft again he called White's men to the braces and ordered the helm put down, steadying the
Phoenix
on to a course of due south. Above his head as he again went forward, the yards swung and then men came forward to trim the sheets and braces of the little spritsail.

He stared into the darkness at the passage open before him, sensing as much as seeing the cast of the ship in relation to the shores on either side. If he had it right, and a theoretical line had been drawn across the narrows, their track should cut this at the three-quarter point, marked east from Pendennis Point. His eyes began to water from fatigue and strain. Somewhere ahead lay William Batten's ships, hove-to for the night and sure of descending and closing the trap on the morrow. Yet Batten was no fool; he knew as well as Faulkner himself that the tide was ebbing and the now dying north-westerly breeze was favourable for a ship leaving Falmouth Harbour. Would he not have at least one vessel on picquet-duty hard up under the land to seal off a would-be escapee?

Faulkner's mouth was dry again, and his heart thumped in his breast. Once outside he could seek darkness under the Lizard peninsula but even then the Manacles lay in his path. He had been dithering over this point since he first thought about their chances of escape, undecided and confronted by the greater problem of first slipping through the narrows. Now he was almost through, the
Phoenix
steadily passing out under the impetus of wind and the last thrust of the ebb. Already the dark mass of Pendennis was abaft the beam to starboard and to larboard the land was tumbling away, falling to the sea. Suddenly he could see to the eastwards and, as the
Phoenix
began to rise and fall to the Channel swell, the starlight reflected off the vast expanse of the sea. He could see to the eastwards, the shape of a ship, some five miles off. He pulled out his glass and swept the horizon: there was another to the east of south, and yet another due south. No, two! He stared intently to the west of south, down towards where the land ended at the Lizard. There lay the ruins of Sir John Killigrew's abandoned lighthouse that had caused such argument at the Trinity House. He could see no ships and brought his glass steadily along the coast, catching the edge of the land where the Helford River lay: nothing! He waited a moment more, then, as sure of his observations as he could be, he made his way aft.