The King's Chameleon (4 page)

‘Well, well,' said Faulkner to himself with a chuckle, ‘thus is history reduced to the mundane.'

Later that night, after the explanations and the justifications, and after the name of Hannah's intended had been revealed as one Edmund Drinkwater, the young mate of an East Indiaman, Faulkner lay in bed unable to sleep. Beside him Judith's breathing was slow and regular, for she was as exhausted as her younger son with the passing of these past few eventful days. Faulkner thought of Henry, whose face had worn an apprehensive expression ever since Monck arrived in town. He was, quite obviously, beset by anxiety, and Faulkner was minded to let him mature in the stir he had had a hand in creating. His consideration of Henry's plight amid the welter of political events led him to think of Hannah and the evident happiness his own intervention had brought. As for Nathaniel, he should by now be in the West Indies loading a homeward cargo.

Finally, his thoughts strayed to his own part in the week just past, chiefly of the assembly of the Brethren of the Trinity House in their place at Stepney. The awkwardness of long separation and factive division had melted away as most, thrown back upon their common profession of sea-captains, had recounted their adventures in loud voices oiled by wine. Whatever their part, often in opposition to one another, there was a profound sensation that they had, between them, laid down their arms, metaphorical and real. Faulkner himself had had an encounter with William Batten who, as admiral of a Parliamentary squadron, had sought Faulkner's destruction when off the Isles of Scilly. Batten, a bumptious man, had cordially shaken his hand, aware of Faulkner's later service in command of a man-of-war under Monck and the late lamented Robert Blake.

Alexander Bence, one of the excluded members of Parliament who had assumed the chair, had declared that they should all set aside their differences and, in the interest of the nation, ‘all speak with one tongue and be of one name'. A murmur of agreement and an exchange of mutual smiles had greeted Bence's opening remark. They should, he had gone on to say, ‘forsake all rancours and animosities and build anew from the ashes of the past which must, of necessity and practicality, be condemned'. The assembled company had roared their approval and, turning aside, had shaken hands, each one with his neighbour. Before he finally dropped off to an uneasy slumber, Faulkner wondered what their next and more formal meeting would achieve.

Six weeks prior to the assembly of the newly elected House of Commons, the Brethren of the Trinity House gathered again at Stepney. Assembling in full Court, they elected Bence their new Master, he having access to Parliament, and they resolved to do all in their power to restore their finances in the interest of the poor. After this effusion of good intentions, they retired to dine. Faulkner enjoyed a convivial conversation with Harrison during which the latter congratulated him on the formal betrothal of his daughter to Edmund Drinkwater.

‘Thank you, Brian, but the wench weeps copiously since the lad is for the East Indies in a day or so and has already gone aboard his ship.'

‘Aye, I saw several Indiamen lying in Gravesend Reach two days hence.' Harrison chuckled. ‘Well, she must lie on the bed she has made. It was never easy to be a seaman's wife, but Drinkwater has, I understand, a rare competence, and she has chosen well. If he survives, secures interest and gains command, he may do very well and she with him.'

‘I sincerely hope that to be the case. At least it is better than had she fallen for a mate of a Geordie brig!'

Both men laughed together, Harrison raising his glass in a toast to the pair of lovers. By now they had been at the table some three hours and around them the gathering was breaking up. Faulkner rose from the table, and turning aside found Bence approaching him.

The newly elected Master extended his hand. ‘Captain Faulkner, I have not had the pleasure of wishing you a good day, such has been our business.'

‘Indeed, Master, and my congratulations on your election.'

‘Thank you, thank you.' Bence retained hold of him and drew him aside. Lowering his voice he remarked, ‘Sir Christopher, you must not take this amiss, but I observed your son Henry, who is known to me through Parliament, is strongly in favour of a radical party determined on opposing reconciliation.'

Faulkner was taken aback. The use of his title fell unaccustomed upon his ears and, for a moment, dulled them to the import of Bence's intelligence.

‘You see some danger in this?' he asked sharply, once he had digested Bence's news. ‘I had put it down to youthful enthusiasm.'

‘I hope that is all it is,' Bence said, ‘but I should not dismiss him so lightly. He is, after all, his father's son – and I mean that as a compliment, not a judgement, for you are known from your late triumphs in war against the Dutch.'

‘You flatter me too much.'

‘No matter; heed my words and look to the lad.'

Bence released Faulkner, leaving him to stand stock-still, staring after Bence as he mingled with the dispersing Brethren.

‘Are you well, Kit? Or have you had too much wine?'

Faulkner recovered himself and smiled at Harrison. ‘No, I am content enough and not over-loaded.'

‘You would not be alone, if you were,' Harrison said with a laugh, nodding at Batten who leaned upon William Baddiley, another naval officer. ‘Shall we walk together?'

‘Gladly, Brian, gladly.' He made an effort to chat with Harrison as they strolled through the lanes from Stepney towards Wapping, but Bence's warning had an uncomfortable habit of disturbing his discourse so that on three occasions he broke off what he was saying. When Harrison prompted him to continue he was driven to make an excuse, claiming to have been distracted by something.

When he finally arrived home he sought out Henry.

‘He is not here, husband,' Judith informed him, ‘but he gave me every expectation of his being home for dinner. You will have to possess yourself in patience.' Faulkner grunted, but Judith was in full flood, like the Thames when the moon was new or full. ‘So, have the Brethren resolved on putting the nation in order?' she asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

‘We are resolved to help the wretched victims of the times, if that is what you mean.'

‘And what of the return of the King?'

‘Nothing is certain. We must await the outcome of the election and the decision of the Commons.'

‘I hear they are opposed to the reassembly of an Upper House.'

‘That I understand too, but Monck is a canny man and will, if I am any judge, divine the will of the people and press for mediation and balance. I think that for him the constitution of the Parliament has a special significance, since he has so trenchantly advertised his loyalty to the principle of its supremacy and his opposition to a ruling minority.'

‘You do not think that he swings like a weather-cock?'

Faulkner shook his head. ‘No! He is taciturn and says little. The populace are not used to that. In the absence of chatter, they imagine it in detail; he is rumoured to be vacillating, then rumoured to be about to invite the King to land. As soon as that rumour is abroad, he is all for Parliament again.' He paused. ‘None of it signifies. Monck will act when he senses the moment is right. It is for lesser mortals to swing like a weather-vane.'

‘Some of us hold fast to our faith,' Judith said pointedly. Faulkner stared at her in mock disbelief, knowing that she goaded him. ‘Why do you look at me like that?' she asked, her eyebrows raised.

‘Because you would have issue with me: that I was once the King's, then, when it suited me, a Commonwealth man. Because I was once another's, then yours, then again hers, and now yours. That is what you reproach me with. Being a wind-vane.'

‘But you are not a weather-cock,' she responded sharply, ‘for such a thing is reliable in that it truly indicates the prevailing wind.'

‘In which there is virtue?'

‘In which there is utility. No, you are like unto a chameleon …'

‘A
what
?'

‘A chameleon.'

‘And what pray is a chamer …?' Faulkner asked. ‘Some cousin to the camel? I have heard of a cameleopard but never a camer-lion.'

‘Not camer-lion – a chameleon. It is a kind of lizard of which I have read and which has the peculiarity of changing the colour of its scales according to its place. Thus it is brown when climbing a tree and green when among the leaves.'

Faulkner laughed. ‘Oh, really? Am I to believe such nonsense? You read too much, Judith. Perhaps if not cousin to the camel it is first cousin to the unicorn, no doubt!' he scoffed.

‘'Tis true.'

‘Of course it is true – as true as thy name is Judith.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know very well what I mean. I married a Julia and came home to a Judith. Thou had bent thy name to the changing wind. A Puritan lady must needs have a biblical name …'

‘You had wronged me, deserted me, betrayed me. I felt the need of some counter-vailing alteration in myself. I was not content to be Julia the forsaken lady. Judith was more to my purpose.'

‘Ah ha! Indeed! A woman of vengeance – and my point remains: you changed your colour to suit your condition.'

‘I do not doubt it.'

‘Then thou needs must be Goodwife Chameleon.'

‘Thou art not as smart as you think, Husband.'

‘Never mind that now; I hear Henry on the stair and must have word with him. Pray excuse me.'

Leaving the room, Faulkner caught his younger son removing his cloak and boots before the parlour fire and calling for beer and a slice of beef-pie. He looked up at his father as Faulkner helped him pull his right boot off.

‘Father?'

‘When you have supped, come to my private room. There is something that I must discuss with you.'

With that, Faulkner took up a candle, jabbed it on the spike of an empty holder and lit it before withdrawing. His private room lay under the tiles, a small room intended as a sleeping place for a servant but never used for that purpose. Instead it was where Faulkner kept his sea-chest and portmanteau, his swords, pistols, half-armour and other paraphernalia necessary to his business as a sea-officer. Here a roll of stained charts and a case containing a backstaff gathered dust; a bundle of bedding, some top-boots and three pairs of workaday shoes lay under a tarpaulin coat. Each item revealed itself as he held up the candle. Faulkner stared for a moment at the portmanteau. He wondered if, among its contents, there was some item he could give to Henry as an earnest of his desire to end the rift between them. It contained a number of items, including a telescope given him by the late King Charles many years earlier, when the wretched man had been Prince of Wales and he—

Faulkner dismissed the recollection and ran his finger over the cuirass and noted the fine dust of oxidization among that of the soot that percolated through the interstices of the tiles.

‘Rust,' he muttered to himself, rubbing thumb and forefinger together. Brushing more dust off the rickety chair that he kept there beside a small ship's desk, he set the candle-stick upon the desk and sat down to await Henry. Looking about himself he wondered why he kept all this; it was unlikely that he would ever serve at sea again, for both age and influence were against him, particularly if the King returned with no money – and Faulkner knew well the exiled Charles had no money – and a pack of obligations to fulfil. He recalled he had created this room not merely as a store, but as a refuge. Here he could escape the recriminations that, in the first months of their reconciliation, too frequently issued from Judith. He did not blame her and had long resigned himself to silence; silence, and retreat to this private lair where the appurtenances of past glory reminded him of what he had once been.

He opened the old desk. Inside lay a manuscript book. He pulled it out and opened it. He had not entered a word for over a year: a year in which he had become increasingly involved in his ship-owning partnership with his brother-in-law. It was ironic that it had been Nathan who had saved the marriage between his own sister and Faulkner, but, in a sense, he had.

Hearing Henry upon the creaking stair, Faulkner shoved the book away, closed the desk and turned as the door-latch lifted. ‘Come in, my boy. There is little room but do, pray, sit upon my sea-chest.'

‘What is it, Father?' Perhaps it was the light of the single candle, perhaps it was the change between them, but, for the first time since his home-coming, Faulkner felt a wave of sympathy for his son. Henry possessed the intensity of his mother and the activity of his father. In the circumstances in which he now found himself, this combination could prove fatal. His features were drawn, the darkness of fatigue gathered beneath his eyes and there was a restlessness about him which betrayed great internal agitation.

‘I am as worried about you, Henry, as it is obvious you are about yourself.'

‘I am not worried about myself, Father. I am worried about the future of this country …'

‘Come, let us not beat about the bush, whatever concerns you, I have received a warning about you.'

‘A warning? From whom?'

Faulkner ignored the interruption. ‘I do not enquire what it is you are up to, nor with whom you consort, nor what you might intend, but there are those who, in your own best interest and out of consideration for me, consider what you are about is dangerous.' He held up his hand as Henry tried to interject. ‘I do not wish to know anything, Henry, but I am asking you to withdraw from whatever diabolical plotting you are involved in, and to make this easier for you I propose that we ship you out aboard the
Judith
. Soames is about to take her to Jamaica and will be clearing her outwards at the Custom House tomorrow.' Faulkner took no notice of the violent shaking of Henry's head. ‘You may collect the manifest from your uncle and meet the good captain at the Custom House and quietly board the ship in his company. I will send your dunnage on board, and by the time you return you will have a profession, some pay to your account and here, I devoutly hope, the political situation will have resolved itself.'