For King or Commonwealth Read online

  Table of Contents

  Further Titles by Richard Woodman from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: The Hague and Helvoetsluys

  Part One: The Exile

  The Council of War

  The Affair at The Nore

  A Successful Cruise

  Affairs of the Head and Heart

  A Turn of the Cards

  Part Two: The Prisoner

  The Tower

  Judith

  Mr Fitchett and Mr Fox

  Part Three: In the Service of the State

  The Basilisk

  The Kentish Knock

  Dungeness to Portland

  A Reconciliation

  The Battle of the Gabbard

  Scheveningen and After

  Further Titles by Richard Woodman from Severn House

  The English Civil War Series

  A SHIP FOR THE KING

  FOR KING OR COMMONWEALTH

  DEAD MAN TALKING

  THE EAST INDIAMAN

  THE GUINEAMAN

  THE ICE MASK

  THE PRIVATEERSMAN

  FOR KING OR COMMONWEALTH

  Richard Woodman

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2012

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2012 by Richard Woodman.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Woodman, Richard, 1944–

  For King or Commonwealth.

  1. Great Britain – History – Civil War, 1642–1649 –

  Fiction. 2. Historical fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9'14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-283-2 (Epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8172-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-427-1 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Arlo

  Prologue

  The Hague and Helvoetsluys

  January 1649

  ‘They say there is plague in London.’

  ‘There is a Parliament in London, that is plague enough,’ the younger man responded off-handedly as he worked over some books and papers. After a moment’s silence, he put down his quill-pen with a sigh, rubbed his hands together and blew on them in an attempt to warm his fingers and looked across the room to where Sir Henry Mainwaring sat by the window, smoking his pipe, wrapped in his cloak and staring down at the street below. Even with the wind-rattled casement shut, the noise of the vendor’s guttural Dutch could be heard bawling his wares. After a short pause the younger man asked, ‘You are not thinking the unthinkable, are you?’

  Mainwaring turned shivering from the window. ‘God’s teeth, but it’s cold.’ His flesh hung from his once handsome features, the weathered skin fallen with age and anxiety. He removed the pipe from his mouth, blew a plume of fragrant smoke into the room and nodded, his mouth curling in a sad smile. ‘I am old, Kit, and likely to die soon. I would make my peace with the world.’

  ‘Are you not at peace here? These solid Dutch folk have tolerated us, I’d have said.’

  ‘Perhaps, but they are not my people . . .’ Mainwaring said, his voice thick with sudden emotion, his meaning vague.

  Captain Christopher Faulkner sighed and shook his head, returning his attention to his papers. There was a long silence and then Mainwaring spoke again.

  ‘You give too much notice to those damned documents, Kit.’

  ‘If I do not,’ the younger man said, his eyes and attention firmly on the bills and manifests before him, ‘no one else will. Good God!’ he said, gesturing around the room. ‘There is little enough money as it is and few among this remnant court seem minded to pay the matter the attention it is due . . .’

  ‘It is trade, Kit,’ Mainwaring said, his tone ironic, his expression full of mock disparagement.

  ‘Nonsense; it is war, even if of a kind the Prince’s followers misapprehend. At least these Dutchmen comprehend it, thank Heavens . . .’

  ‘True,’ Mainwaring nodded, ‘but perhaps you should set it aside, even for a while.’

  Faulkner sighed again and pushed aside the heavy ledger before him. ‘If I do not attend to these matters, when the time comes, nothing will be ready for His Majesty’s service . . .’

  ‘To which Majesty do you refer?’

  ‘What?’ Faulkner looked up, faintly exasperated.

  ‘To which Majesty? The King is in the hands of the rebels and unlikely to require either your services or those of your ships.’ Having delivered this final summary of the political situation in London, Mainwaring stuck his pipe back in his mouth and surrendered his attention to the street again.

  Irritated and diverted from his work, Faulkner remarked, ‘I thought the purpose of monarchy was to ensure succession and stability. We have a Prince here in The Hague that would be King if anything ill befell his father.’

  ‘Stability? Hah!’ Mainwaring removed his pipe, but did not turn his head. ‘King Charles has lost the throne of his father; that is scarcely stability.’

  ‘I would caution you against such talk, Sir Henry. There are those who would call it treason.’

  ‘There are those who would call it common sense too,’ Mainwaring said wearily. ‘I am an old man and the future has only one thing in store for me, but men like you, men with a wife and family in London –’ Faulkner swore. Mainwaring was looking directly at him now and added with a hint of remorselessness – ‘and a mistress in The Hague, had best look to their future.’

  ‘You know, Sir Henry,’ Faulkner said, his tone as icy as the wind outside, ‘as my dearly beloved benefactor and a man whom I esteem above all others, whose skill as a seaman I have stood in awe of for more years than I care to count, I have never had the gall to ask you why, in your youth, you turned pirate.’

  Mainwaring smiled. Faulkner, his protégé, possessed all the attributes he could wish for. Even the chill in his voice Mainwaring admired as evidence of the iron soul of the man, and this was indeed a time for iron in the soul. ‘We are,’ he responded with a matching edge, ‘debating your morals, not mine, Captain Faulkner. May I remind you that I am an admiral and deserving of your respect.’

  ‘Which you well know you have, but I divine in your discourse, Admiral Mainwaring, a distinct prejudice against the cause we have spent—’

  ‘Wasted . . .’

  Faulkner ignored the interruption. ‘Spent the last several years – what, four or five? – supporting. Even now I am attempting to muster a squadron capable of bearing your illustrious flag, with all honour due to it, in order to cruise against the King’s enemies.’

  ‘A squadron,’ Mainwaring said, his tone reflective, and ending with a prolonged sigh.
‘A squadron of worn-out armed merchantmen . . . Oh, Kit, do you not see the hopelessness of it? With the King in the hands of Parliament our cause will wither. He will be held prisoner, Parliament will rule in his name and our young gadfly, clever though he is, will succumb to women and, in consequence, the pox. If nothing else those Puritan souls in Westminster know the workings of indulgence and excess; they have only to bide their time. England will prosper and find it is possible to live without a king.’ Mainwaring paused then went on, ‘I thought that all this would happen years ago and if you ask me why I turned pirate it was out of disgust. I thought the wheel would turn in King James’s time but it did not. I came home and made my peace and served the King, and his catamite Buckingham, and his son whose future lies in the hands of his enemies, but what have I got for it, eh? The empty dignity of admiral, unable to fly his flag over an insignificant squadron, which rots in Dutch mud and is, in any case, under the nominal command of Batten . . .’

  ‘Batten! Do not speak of that treacherous villain William Batten! Why, he is the self-same man that harried His Highness off the coast of Cornwall and I hear he has been made knight for abandoning the Parliament and burying his head in Prince Charles’s under-breeches, God rot him!’

  ‘Forget Batten, Kit. His Highness has replaced him with his kinsman Rupert and he is likely to set me aside in Rupert’s favour . . .’

  ‘Rupert,’ scoffed Faulkner. ‘A courtier general of cavalry with scant understanding of the usage of the sea . . .’

  ‘But a doughty name, a tenacity of purpose and the high birth that this world requires of those to whom it bows the knee.’

  ‘Huh! That is not what is happening in England,’ Faulkner remarked. ‘There matters are increasingly governed differently.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Mainwaring snapped, but before Faulkner perceived the way the conversation was drifting, he lowered his voice. ‘But I am tired, Kit, tired and sick of it all. And, above all, I wish to die in England.’

  ‘You are not going to die,’ Faulkner said drily, resuming work at the table. ‘And our few ships are not going to rot in Dutch mud, or any other mud, if I have my way. We have nine men-of-war at Helvoetsluys . . .’

  ‘And how many seamen?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Not for a dozen men-of-war.’

  ‘Five good ships. I can make a competent squadron of five ships and command the Strait and the Thames . . .’

  Mainwaring shook his head. ‘You would sting them, Kit, like a bee may sting a horse, but the horse will still stand and gallop while the bee dies. Do you not see the utter hopelessness of it all? Besides, the decision will not be yours. Prince Rupert—’

  ‘Suppose they kill the King?’ Faulkner said abruptly, interrupting.

  ‘What? They would not dare!’ Mainwaring was outraged.

  ‘Suppose that they did dare. You said yourself his future lay in the hands of his enemies; they have his body and may take his head. I’m damned if I know what there is to stop them.’

  Mainwaring expelled his breath in a long, wheezy sigh at Faulkner’s proposition. ‘It would alter the case,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘It would indeed.’

  ‘But surely . . .?’ Mainwaring hesitated and gave Faulkner a shrewd look. ‘You have heard something?’

  Faulkner nodded. ‘I have. Nothing but a rumour, but a rumour of such portent that I cannot think it a fabrication. We had it from a fishing boat off the Haak Sand. He had come from Yarmouth market where the talk was of an arraignment of the King on charges of treason.’

  ‘Treason? Treason! For God’s sake! How is that possible? How can a King be charged with treason? Why, ’tis like accusing the Pope of being holy! Pah! Preposterous!’

  ‘But Sir Henry, if the court can persuade itself that a king can be charged with treason it can persuade itself of his guilt and, having assumed a legitimacy on behalf of the people, or Parliament, or whatever else these Puritans call upon – God Almighty, I imagine – to justify their actions, then they can condemn him . . .’

  ‘To execution, d’you mean?’

  ‘I think that possible, yes.’

  Mainwaring let his breath out in a long, sibilant and despairing hiss, shaking his head and neglecting his pipe. ‘I had thought,’ he said reflectively, ‘that all this talk of Parliament acting on behalf of the kingdom was clear intent that they would mew him up securely and rule in his name.’

  ‘It seems not,’ said Faulkner, leaving Mainwaring to his dolorous reflection and then, scooping up his papers and putting them away in a large leather satchel, he rang a bell and called for wine.

  ‘Why did you not tell me of this intelligence directly, Kit?’ Mainwaring asked, then added with gentle remonstrance, ‘I am, after all, the King’s admiral.’

  Faulkner nodded, sat back and regarded Mainwaring. ‘You are indeed, Sir Henry, and it was my purpose, before telling you, to ascertain the power of the ships we could assemble in the river’s mouth to demonstrate in His Majesty’s favour.’ He made a gesture of impotence. ‘But now we have Rupert and Batten . . .’ Faulkner sighed. ‘You should have known shortly.’

  ‘I understand,’ Mainwaring said and then they were interrupted by the arrival of the wine. Faulkner rose, poured two glasses and carried them across the room, offering one to Mainwaring.

  ‘And when the King is dead, will you still wish to return to England?’

  Mainwaring took a deep draught of the wine then looked at Faulkner. ‘Kit, you are younger and wiser than me; what do you see of the future?’

  ‘Exile.’

  ‘That is cold comfort.’

  ‘Indeed. Moreover, this wine is expensive. We should drink either Hollands or beer if we are to become Dutchmen.’

  ‘I have no intention of becoming a Dutchman; besides I cannot stand the taste of their Genever and beer is a drink for workmen, draymen and other villains . . .’

  ‘Not admirals,’ Kit remarked with a rueful smile.

  ‘No, not even ragged-arsed admirals with no fleet to speak of . . .’

  ‘Come, come, Sir Henry, we do have some ships of quality.’

  ‘Perhaps, but few to match your own Phoenix and she—’

  ‘Is eating money, Sir Henry, as are the others mewed up in these damned meres by forming ice. They need employment, active employment; if not a cargo then a cruise against our enemies . . .’

  ‘Our countrymen, Kit,’ Mainwaring interjected, though Faulkner took no notice.

  ‘. . . for these burghers are crafty at their business and once they know of our penury will turn against us quicker than our Lord and Master learned to tack the Proud Black Eagle.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mainwaring said uncertainly.

  ‘Sir Henry,’ Faulkner said sharply, accompanying this with a slap of his hand on the leather satchel lying on the table before him, ‘the matter must be resolved today or tomorrow. If not we shall be obliged to sell at least half of the ships to keep us in firewood, let alone beer.’

  ‘How is Kate?’

  ‘What?’ Faulkner frowned. ‘She is well . . . why, you saw her but yesterday. Come, you cannot divert me from my purpose.’

  ‘I heard . . .’

  ‘What did you hear?’ Faulkner’s tone was full of exasperation and he stared at Mainwaring through narrowed eyes. ‘That she miscarried? Well, ’tis true but she is blithe enough. God knows we cannot afford another mouth to feed, still less do I wish to risk her life in childbirth.’

  Mainwaring hesitated before speaking and a man less preoccupied might have divined a change of mind, but all Faulkner heard was the old man’s commiserations. ‘I am sorry to hear the news, Kit. I had thought she looked overly pale.’

  ‘Yes, well, ’tis bad enough to be a King’s man in these troubled times, but to be a woman must be nigh intolerable.’

  ‘Aye. The ships then, what of them?’

  Faulkner counted them off on the fingers of his right hand. ‘The Constant Reformation, Swallow and Convertive a
re ill fitted and least able. Crescent and Satisfaction are in poor condition, and there are others to number of seventeen, I believe. Of them, Antelope, Roebuck, Hind, Pelican and Phoenix will do well enough to keep the sea when the season suits.’

  ‘And their companies?’

  ‘Near enough mutinous but how can one blame them with no pay, the winter upon them and the greater part of their families in penury in England reduced to beggary by lack of income and the hostility of those against them – which, if rumour is to be believed, is most of London and much of the country who want only a return to peaceful living. They are besides upset by the taunts of Warwick’s men when and where the Dutch let them land, who guy them mercilessly, telling them of proper victuals and steady money in the Parliament’s ships. Of them all, the Antelope’s people are the most disaffected.’

  ‘And the Phoenix?’

  Faulkner looked up, a spark in his eye. ‘Thanks to all this –’ he gestured at the ledgers and papers – ‘I have managed to keep my own men loyal – at least, until the spring.’

  ‘The spring.’ Mainwaring’s tone was ruminative. ‘Perhaps too late, if what you say proves true.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You think a demonstration off the Knock . . .’

  ‘Off the Nore . . .’

  ‘The Nore? God’s teeth, Kit, that is bold!’

  ‘Put the stopper in the bottle, Sir Henry, with the first east wind that allows the ships out of the Haringvliet.’

  ‘I took a Moor off the Nore in sixteen,’ Mainwaring mused before recollecting the immediate problem. ‘But what of the ice?’

  ‘Already forming but we might contrive to move them,’ Faulkner said resolutely.

  Mainwaring shook his head. ‘No, the fair east wind you seek will freeze the Haringvliet. Then the men will not muster and will gripe unless they have some liberty. Christmas was bad enough. No Dutchman will move on our behalf for the money we could offer before Christmas, let alone afterwards.’

  ‘Must we have Dutchmen? I’d rather my English dogs.’

  ‘Aye, for a certainty, but needs must when the devil drives and methinks there are too few proper jacks who, with a few square-heads . . .’