A Ship for The King (6 page)

‘Tell me, which is the
Prince Royal
?' It was a question he instantly regretted, for he had made it without consideration. The man spat to leeward and raised an eyebrow which, as he leaned forward to ply his oar, gave him the appearance of leering at Faulkner.

‘Why, the flagship, o'course . . .' the man observed with unhelpful contempt.

Faulkner peered over the undulating shoulders of the two boatmen; the anchorage was crowded with shipping. Coasting vessels and tenders slipped between the larger shapes of men-of-war which were in silhouette against the bright sunlight dancing in reflections off the short, choppy seas cut up by a wind blowing over the tide. This contrary quality of nature caused the squadron to lie athwart both wind and tide and lie almost end-on to anyone approaching from Portsmouth. Seeing his passenger's eyes darting about from one man-of-war to another, the boatman spat to leeward again.

‘From London are ye, sir?'

‘Aye . . .' Faulkner answered warily.

‘An' the first time you've joined a ship, eh?'

‘In Portsmouth, yes, but I've seen a deal of service . . .'

‘Have ye now . . .' The boatman seemed to consider this and reassess his passenger. He was anxious to get a good tip beyond the shilling he had already extorted from him. ‘You see the three largest vessels, over against the island, sir . . .'

‘Yes, I do . . .'

‘The westernmost one is the
Swiftsure
, of forty-two guns wearing the flag of Lord Windsor; the easternmost is the
St Andrew
, also of forty-two guns and flying the flag of Vice Admiral Lord Morley. The
Prince Royal
lies between the two, sir, a full fifty-five guns and Sir Henry Mainwaring in command with the Earl of Rutland expected tomorrow, but you'll know that coming from Court, sir,' the man added ingratiatingly.

Faulkner was no longer listening; he was peering at the ship the boatman had identified. She presented her huge stern to the mainland and, as they drew nearer, the vast size of the ship began to impress itself upon him. Why, the
Swallow
might nestle in her waist! She was huge! And he could see as she swung slightly that she sported
four
masts! Something entirely new opened up in the pit of Faulkner's stomach; all fear of seasickness vanished in the face of a naked apprehension: could he cope with handling this monster? Why she must have a crew of . . . of perhaps four hundred men?

Something of this may have betrayed him, for the boatman added, ‘Some twelve hundred tons she measures, sir, and with a crew of five hundred men.'

‘
Five
hundred!' Faulkner was unable to conceal his astonishment: five hundred men! Why, the
Swallow
, even with her crew augmented by gunners to ward off the Sallee Rovers mustered no more than twenty eight!

‘And her guns on three decks, sir,' added the boatman, aware that he was impressing his young passenger and doling out the information as if he himself were the author of all this naval puissance. Faulkner stared at the looming bulk of the great man-of-war as he was pulled past the lesser vessels in the squadron, though even these, except perhaps the pinnaces
Charles
and
Seven Stars
, would dwarf the
Swallow
. He counted the gun-ports in the larboard side of the
Antelope
and, doubling them, guessed her to mount about three dozen pieces, the
Bonaventure
perhaps the same and the
Rainbow
more. Two heavier ships were too distant for him to make any such estimate, nor would he learn their names until later as the
St George
and
Defiance
. They were now closing the
Prince Royal
and Faulkner had only a moment or two to register the enormous height of her poop, richly encrusted with ornate and gilded carvings, of fabled beasts, armorial bearings and acanthus leaves. These surrounded the royal coat of arms and embraced the monogram H.P. –
Henricus Princeps
– the royal prince after whom the great ship had been named before Henry, Prince of Wales, predeceased his father.

This grandiloquence soared above the wherry as the boatmen worked her closer, against the tide sloshing alongside the huge man-of-war. Faulkner felt the chill as they came in under the looming shadow of the monstrous vessel and then all introspection was driven from his mind as a hail from the entry port had the bow oarsman stow his oars and reach for a boat-hook, making the signal for an officer for the ship. Then they were tossing alongside in the chop and Faulkner, having pressed a shilling and two pence into the warm and horny hand of the boatman and slung the satchel on his back, stumbled clumsily before catching his balance. Stepping lightly upon a thwart he grabbed both baize-covered man-ropes, stepped on to the treads proud of the ship's side and ascended her sloping tumblehome. A moment later he had passed through the entry-port and stood in the gloom of the middle gun-deck where a young man wearing his sash of office awaited him. Faulkner seemed to be expected.

‘Mr Faulkner, I'll warrant.'

‘Indeed, sir, yes.'

The young man, his face half hidden in the prevailing gloom by long dark hair, appeared cordial enough and extended his hand.

‘You were expected. I'm Harry Brenton, fifth lieutenant, and we are messmates. I'll have your gear hauled aboard instanter and then I shall conduct you to Sir Henry. My Lord of Rutland, though he joined us in the Downs, has gone ashore.' Brenton turned away and summoned a hand to assist. Turning back with a broad grin, he said: ‘He seeks his sea-legs thither for by God he has none here!' The young man laughed carelessly and a smiling sailor, girded by his frock and an apron, with a red woollen cap upon his head, knuckled his brow and said he would attend to Faulkner's portmanteau.

Between decks the great ship seemed even larger, the darkness teeming with people of both sexes, many of whom seemed intent upon selling either themselves or their wares to the rest, who were dressed in similar fashion to the sailor now supervising the dragging up the ship's side of Faulkner's luggage.

‘Come, sir, follow me. Adams will see your dunnage safely in your cabin.' Brenton led Faulkner along the deck, shoving aside the whores, the vendors and the usurers with bloody oaths and condemnations, followed by a bewildered Faulkner. He would never have allowed such chaos aboard the
Swallow
, he thought, his eye caught by a score of impressions in as many seconds, but how could one keep order among such a throng? A drunken face here, a bawd's leer there, the neat well-dressed appearance of a hirsute Jewish money lender, dim relief in the darkness beyond which there loomed the dull gleam of heavy artillery and the pots and kids of the men's messes. He felt a pang of misgiving: would he ever be able to master all this? If Brenton was fifth lieutenant he devoutly hoped he himself was the sixth or seventh. How many lieutenants did such a vessel own? He had no idea. Suddenly all his knowledge and experience, all his cunning and skill, seemed worthless in the face of this behemoth. And then they stood beside a door and, a moment later, entered the comparative haven of the captain's cabin. Certainly there were cannon ranged either side, but the space was carpeted and lit by glazed windows through which streamed daylight, casting the familiar figure of Sir Henry Mainwaring in dark outline against the brilliance as he sat at a long table that ran the beam of the ship. The table was surrounded by chairs at another of which sat an older man who had thrust his wig aside and pored over several charts, wielding dividers and writing in a notebook.

Brenton coughed and in a lower voice than he had just been using said, ‘Excuse me, Sir Henry . . .'

Mainwaring looked up and then, with evident pleasure, rose smiling and holding out his hand. ‘Faulkner, my dear fellow, have you brought my papers?'

‘Aye, Sir Henry.' Faulkner fished the satchel round and took it off, handing it to Mainwaring.

‘Brenton, pour us all a glass of wine,' Mainwaring commanded. ‘And were you able to fit yourself out as I instructed?'

‘Indeed I was, thanks to your assistance . . .'

Mainwaring cut him short, waving away his thanks. ‘We'll hear no more of that. Thank you, Brenton,' he added as Brenton did duty with a tray and filled glasses. ‘Now, sir, Mr Brenton will show you the ship. He has the advantage of you having served in her before, but he will be junior to you . . .' Faulkner shot a swift glance at Brenton, alarmed at this news but seeking any sign of resentment on the part of his new colleague. Brenton caught his eye and smiled with a nonchalant shrug. Mainwaring, meanwhile, reached behind him among the litter of papers on the desk and drew out a stiff parchment leaf. ‘Here is your commission as fourth lieutenant.'

Faulkner hid his surprise and apprehension. ‘Thank you, Sir Henry . . .'

‘Now, let me introduce Mr Whiting, the Master. Whiting, this is the young fellow of whom I spoke, Kit Faulkner. You will find him as good as the best of your mates at the traverse, the helm and with a quadrant . . .'

Whiting rose and turned his weathered face towards the young man, making a half-bow. ‘Mr Faulkner,' he acknowledged. ‘A tarpaulin then,' he said to Mainwaring, adding pointedly with a barely perceptible and probably involuntary movement towards Brenton, ‘rather than another gentleman.'

‘Both tarpaulin and gentleman, Mr Whiting,' Mainwaring said with a hint of asperity, ‘as I would hope all my officers are.'

Whiting laughed. ‘No fear of
my
being mistaken for a gentleman, Sir Henry.'

‘Ah, Whiting, but you are a
natural
gentleman, which maketh all the difference.'

Having raised his glass perfunctorily to Mainwaring, Whiting went back to his charts and Mainwaring gestured to Faulkner and Brenton to occupy two chairs.

‘Since I have you both here I shall tell you what I have told Mr Whiting. The first lieutenant informs me that we shall complete our stores tomorrow forenoon after which I want the ship cleared of the landlubbers and only the permitted women to remain. They are to be mustered and entered upon the watch and quarter-bills. We will also stand the men to their stations for action. After the noon gun I expect some signal that Lord Rutland is rejoining us, following which I anticipate that we shall put to sea. For that purpose I shall require you, Mr Faulkner, to attend me upon the poop, thereafter keeping your watch as directed by the first lieutenant. You are familiar with your station, Mr Brenton, are you not?'

‘I am, Sir Henry.'

‘Good. Well, stow your gear, Mr Faulkner, and make yourself known to the first lieutenant. Then we shall await the arrival of the admiral and our orders to weigh.'

The two young men lowered their glasses, rose, made their bows and withdrew. As they returned to the chaos of the gun-deck Brenton remarked that the hour of their departure could not come soon enough. Within hours Kit Faulkner was devoutly praying for the same outcome.

In the following weeks Faulkner learned something of the complexities of organizing a naval squadron. The means by which time was wasted seemed infinite: first Rutland sent word that he was unwell and obliged to stay in his house on the Strand in London; then Mainwaring caught an infection that seemed rife in the ship and which affected Faulkner to the extent of a slight quinsy and a shivering fit or two; then a man stole some kit from a messmate and must needs be ducked from the foreyard, then towed behind a ship's boat, landed and dismissed. The following day there came aboard an odd man who claimed to be rowing a boat down Channel from the Thames with the purpose of visiting the West Country, an occupation that struck Faulkner as being absurd, though Mainwaring warmly welcomed him and introduced him to such of his officers then on board.

‘This gentleman is John Taylor,' he told them, ‘the well-known Water-Poet of London's River, to whom we owe much in the matter of advertising the importance of watermen and mariners to the common people and the court.'

The hearty and bluff soul who wore a gentleman's ruff over a plain doublet bowed, struck a pose and declaimed in a strong voice:

There was a silence, as if the gentlemen in range of the poet's declamation awaited more, and then Mainwaring led a polite clapping.

‘Great Jupiter, is that poesy, or am I a Double-Dutchman?' asked Brenton in Faulkner's ear as the assembled officers went their separate ways. ‘What the devil does he mean about the Wiltshire Avon?'

‘Oh, there was some talk in Bristol about digging a canal through from Salisbury to the sea,' said Faulkner, amused by the ridiculous scene, despite himself. ‘D'you know the fellow?'

‘I know
of
him,' replied Brenton, ‘but so does half London. He has a natural wit and much of his verse is tolerable. That execrable piece was no doubt improvised upon the spot, though why he came aboard, Heaven only knows . . . unless he expected the King to be here, it is not beyond his importunity to thrust himself into the royal regard.'

‘The King, here . . . ?' Faulkner said, surprised.

‘Why not? We are for Spain to recover his son and his . . .' Brenton shrugged enigmatically. ‘He is presently lodging at Beaulieu.'

This curious interlude was the only event of note that broke the monotony of their waiting time. The Earl of Rutland had still not joined his flagship when Mainwaring ordered her moved to Stokes Bay, a new anchorage closer to the mainland. Here, on the 20th August, King James, attended by numerous Lords and a large retinue, did indeed board the
Prince Royal
. The occasion was of such dazzling splendour, with a full royal salute fired by the assembled fleet and answered by the guns of the flagship, that Faulkner thought they might have destroyed the entire Barbary fleet by the expenditure of powder. There was, besides, such a hoisting and lowering of flags and standards, that he caught only fleeting impressions. This reaction, it seemed to him as he rolled into his berth that night, characterized naval service as a life of rich idleness interspersed with incomprehensible interludes of almost theatrical portentousness, whether to the point of silliness in the visit of John Taylor, or extravagant grandeur as in the condescension of King James.