A Ship for The King Read online

  Further Titles by Richard Woodman from Severn House

  DEAD MAN TALKING

  THE EAST INDIAMAN

  THE GUINEAMAN

  THE ICE MASK

  THE PRIVATEERSMAN

  A SHIP FOR THE KING

  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 2011

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

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

  Copyright © 2011 by Richard Woodman.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Woodman, Richard, 1944–

  A ship for the king.

  1. Seafaring life – History – 17th century – Fiction.

  2. Sailors – Great Britain – History – 17th century

  Fiction. 3. Great Britain – History – Civil War,

  1642–1649 – Fiction. 4. Historical fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9’14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-144-6 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8078-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-376-2 (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

  Mr Rat

  Bristol, January, 1618

  The youth was cold and hungry.

  Gaunt and filthy, clothed in the ragged remains of a shirt and breeches, his calloused feet black with the slurry on the wet quayside. The rain had stopped and with it the strong wind that had blown relentlessly for several days, but the January air remained damp and cold, so that he shivered uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. Crouching, he waited, partly concealed by two giant hogsheads of sugar, all that was left of the discharged cargo of the ship alongside the quay. In a few moments they would be rolled away into the warehouse close by, and then he would have nowhere to hide and yet keep the two gentlemen under observation. Why were they dawdling? He knew, with the ship now emptied of her lading, one or other of them would return to board her and finish the business of her discharge – always a matter for well-heeled gentlemen – now that the dock-labourers had finished their toil. The ship’s crew had long since been paid-off and the vessel left in the hands of a ship-keeper, a wily old bird who had, besides a raddled wife, a son who looked out for him and took his duties seriously. The hungry lad, who had no liking for a kicking, sensed his physical inferiority to the ship-keeper’s son, who was of roughly his own age, and kept out of sight on that account. There was no sign of the youngster at that moment, only the tantalizingly slow approach of the two gentlemen who had paused alongside the bow of the ship and were regarding some appointment in her rigging. The lad could not hear what they said but their discussion was sufficiently serious to suspend the eating of the apples each held. Those apples were the lad’s objective and his heart was pounding lest the labourers come and roll away the hogsheads before he had secured the core of at least one of them. Suppose one of the gentlemen, on coming no nearer, tossed his into the dock? Suppose . . .

  But no, they had resumed their leisurely stroll slowly towards the ship’s short gangway whose landward end was not ten yards from where he crouched in anticipation. He heard a noise behind him and without looking, knew the labourers were coming for the final hogsheads. Everything now happened quickly. The first gentleman had almost reached the gangway and, regarding the remains of his apple, dropped it with a fastidious gesture. Even as he rushed forward, the youth knew that much remained of the apple’s flesh and it had not rolled on the quay more than once before his hand shot out and grabbed it.

  Just as it did so the brown shoe of the second gentleman pressed his wrist to the ground and, as the lad looked up with a yelp of pain, the shoe’s owner called to his fellow, ‘Had you a mind to let this urchin gowk thee, Gideon?’

  The other, a step on the gangway, turned and looked at his colleague and then down at the squirming boy. ‘What have you there, Harry? A rat?’

  ‘Indeed, so it would seem, though an uncommon large rat.’

  ‘Please, sir, you’re hurting . . .’ the lad pleaded.

  ‘A talking rat, by God!’

  ‘I only want the core, sir . . . I wasn’t about to . . .’ The lad faltered, sensing danger in what he was about to say.

  ‘Weren’t about to what, Mr Rat?’ The two exchanged looks. ‘Weren’t about to rob me? Filch my handkerchief, or were you after my watch, eh?’

  ‘No, I was not, sir!’ the lad protested. ‘Had I wished to I should have got aboard your ship and stolen from her deck; there’s no one about, sir, no one. I could have done that, sir, if I’d wished to, but I have been here awaiting your return for half an hour.’

  This little speech had caused the man named Gideon to cast an eye over the ship’s deserted deck, but the other seemed more interested in the youth. ‘What do you mean you have waited for me? Eh?’ He leaned forward and added a little weight to his foot.

  ‘I knew you’d come back when the cargo was ashore, sir, and then I thought . . .’

  ‘Thought what? Go on.’

  ‘To beg of you, sir, to plead of your charity.’

  ‘But you tried to steal an apple?’

  ‘Only the core, sir, and it wasn’t your’n . . .’

  ‘Was it not? No, it was my friend’s – but it was not yours, was it? You did not pay for it?’

  ‘No sir, but it was dropped . . . your friend had dropped it . . .’

  ‘But suppose that were an accident, eh? Suppose my friend had not finished with his apple. See, I note there is some flesh remaining upon it.’ The boy’s tormentor looked at the other man who had ascended a further step up the gangway and seemed torn between locating his ship-keeper and watching the little drama being staged by the man he had called Harry. ‘Had you finished with your apple, Gideon?’

  ‘Of course,’ the other replied a touch testily.

  ‘See, sir,’ said the trapped lad.

  ‘Now you have spoiled the argument, Gideon,’ the lad’s torturer said in mock exasperation, looking down at his victim. ‘And just when my young friend and I were debating an exquisite point of moral philosophy.’

  ‘Come, Henry,’ said the now impatient Gideon more formally, at which point the ship-keeper emerged on deck and effusively greeted his employers. For a second the lad thought his ordeal was over, that he would be free of the booted foot of the man called Henry and he could break his overlong fast. Somewhere behind him the second of the two hogsheads was being rolled away and on board, hidden now by the ship’s rail, the man called Gideon and the ship-keeper were in conversation.

  ‘When did you last eat, Mr Rat?’

  ‘I found some slops yesterday, sir.’

  ‘Slops?’

  ‘Cast out of a pie-shop . . .’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘You dropped an apple core in
New Street, sir.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Aye, sir. You bought them off the girl on the corner of Union Street and . . .’

  ‘Oh yes. So I did, so I did . . .’ Henry paused a moment, recalling the girl with a brief flash of pleasure. Then his weathered face hardened. ‘It was full of maggots, which these,’ and here he held out his own partly consumed apple which he had not yet finished, ‘these are delicious, as was the girl from whom we purchased them.’

  The youth felt the pressure on his wrist ease; he closed his fist on the dropped apple core. Above him the man Henry sighed and lifted his foot. Gathering himself to escape, the boy said in a rush, ‘If you find a length of leather hose is missing from your vessel, sir, I know who took it.’

  ‘Wait!’ A gloved hand restrained the boy’s retreat. ‘Don’t run away . . . What did you say about leather hose?’

  ‘Aye, sir, and with copper rivets. That devil that belongs to the ship-keeper, he made off with it this morning.’

  ‘Stap me, that’s a new hosepipe! Are you telling lies in the hope of reward, Mr Rat?’

  ‘No, sir. I am telling the truth for the love of it.’

  ‘Are you by God!’ The man smiled, his broad, open countenance revealing a kindly aspect. ‘Well, well, where did you learn such high-mindedness, Mr Rat? Not in these gutters, I think.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘From my mother, before the fever took her.’

  ‘And your father, Mr Rat? What about him? D’you know his name?’

  ‘I’m no bastard, sir. He went to sea and never came back. The ship was lost, sir, some say to the Sallee Rovers, some say she was wrecked on the far Bermudas, sir.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The man raised an eyebrow at this intelligence. ‘And what do you say, Mr Rat, for the love of truth, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but please, sir, may I go and eat this apple?’ The lad lifted the morsel to his mouth but Henry’s hand shot out and prevented him putting it anywhere near his mouth.

  ‘No! It is covered in filth. You cannot eat it, Mr Rat. Come aboard, we shall find you something better to your ratty liking.’ He raised his voice. ‘Hey, Gideon, we are coming aboard and I bring you a guest: Mr Rat!’

  They mounted the gangway and descended to the deck. The youth looked about him and knew the chaos of a discharged ship. He had spent the last three years eking a living along the city’s waterfront and the nickname of Mr Rat was not so far from the truth. Like the rats that filled the warehouses, he had scavenged the surpluses every cargo deposited. What he could not eat, he garnered and sold or bartered, but he alone among the other waifs never took what was not lying about. He was peculiar in that, most peculiar; though why, he could not tell.

  Gideon and the ship-keeper had concluded their business and, as the old man shuffled forward towards the galley, Gideon turned to his friend. ‘Have we to feed this, Henry? Is this another of your acts of charity by which means you intend to prove the Good Book wrong?’

  ‘Unlike you, my dear Gideon, I am not a rich man, so may yet squeeze through the eye of the needle, though why the Good Lord in his infinite wisdom should contrive to make the gates of Heaven so confounded narrow, I am at a loss to know. Let us give our young acquaintance some burgoo, or something of that nature. Hey, sirra!’

  The old ship-keeper turned from the threshold of the companionway.

  ‘Bring me something sustaining and hot,’ Henry called. ‘And be quick about it!’

  The lad could see the old man’s mouth working abusively. Beside him Gideon chuckled. ‘Wait there, Mr Rat,’ he said and followed his colleague under the poop and into the great cabin. The lad crouched on the step of a gun-carriage, drew up his knees and put his arms about him. He was growing cold as the fading day grew chilly. There would be more cold rain by nightfall and he was so hungry. He thought of the food that might be coming his way and began to salivate. Was this a dream? For the first time for three years he felt tears start to his eyes. Then he wiped them away as the old ship-keeper emerged from the forecastle. He held a small tin pan from which a wisp of steam rose. He drew closer and passed the lad, glaring. Just as he raised his hand to knock on the door, it opened and the man named Henry emerged. He had removed his hat and cloak, revealing a dark tunic with slashed sleeves, black hose and thick worsted stockings. The lad recalled he had said he was not rich, but he looked so to the eager starveling, who could smell the cooked food. Taking the bowl the man stared into it and then looked up at the ship-keeper.

  ‘Is this a portion that you would give to your son, Mr Jones?’

  The old man sensed a trap but could not quite fathom it. ‘Why, Captain, I, er . . . er my wife . . .’

  ‘Tell your wife to produce another such pannikin at once. Be off! And bring the boy a spoon, he is not a dog.’

  He handed the lad the pan of thin stew. ‘Eat it before it cools.’

  The youth took it and wolfed it down, slurping at the rim of the pan, scooping up the small lumps of salt meat and sucking on them greedily. When he had finished Henry bent and said, ‘Open your mouth wide.’ He obeyed and the man remarked, ‘Good teeth, by heaven. How the devil did you manage that?’ The lad shrugged. ‘The query was rhetorical, Mr Rat. But, heavens, I cannot call you that. Forgive me. I asked if you knew your father’s name; do you know your own?’

  ‘My mother called me Kit, sir.’

  ‘And your father’s name?’

  ‘Robert Faulkner, and he was married to my mother.’

  ‘So you are Kit . . . no, no, that is not what you were baptised, assuming you were baptised; you are therefore Christopher Faulkner.’ He paused, scrutinizing the thin pale face with its over-large eyes. ‘D’you recognize the cognomen?’

  ‘You mean the name, sir? Christopher Faulkner?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Aye, sir. I do.’ It was the lad’s turn to pause, and then he asked, ‘Is that what cognomen means, sir; my name?’

  ‘Indeed. And where are you from?’

  The lad shrugged. ‘Hereabouts, sir. I live on the waterfront as best I may, sir . . .’

  ‘And what would you do with yourself?’ the man named Henry asked, his tone dallying as he awaited the slow and resentful approach of the ship-keeper with a second pan of stew.

  ‘Why, find somewhere dry and warm, sir, for the night.’

  ‘Eat this and go and curl up in the galley near the stove . . .’

  ‘Cap’n, have I to look after vagabonds?’ the ship-keeper protested.

  ‘Indeed, Jones, you do not. You shall attend this young fellow on your son’s account, payment for which was a length of leather hose fastened by rivets of excellent Welsh copper, which belonged to this ship and which has since passed into the hands of others without the prior knowledge of Captain Gideon Strange, or myself. And if I find one hair of this child’s head has been touched by you or your son tomorrow, I shall see you answer for the crime of theft, even though you instruct your son to recover the hose this night.’

  The ship-keeper visibly cringed at the mention of the word ‘theft’ and indicated to the lad, who had now finished the stew, that he should follow him forward into the warm shelter of the galley.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the lad, half-fearful of following the old man.

  ‘One moment, young Kit. Tell me, had you a wish upon which your life depended, what would it be?’

  ‘Why, sir, to go to sea and make my way like you, sir.’

  A broad grin spread across the gentleman’s face. ‘Like me? Oh, I think not. Not like me at all, but to go to sea is an easy road to which one has only to trim your sails. It is the coming back that proves the greater problem.’

  ‘Would you take me on your ship, sir?’

  ‘Do I have a ship?’

  ‘Is this ship not yours, sir?’

  ‘I am part-owner of her, yes, but I have in mind something better. Have you the stomach for a fight, Mr Kit Faulkner; and perhaps a gamble on l
ife’s hazard?’

  The lad frowned, conscious that he was being dallied with, while the old ship-keeper stood by sucking what remained of his caried teeth, and awaited his release, whereupon, the lad feared, he would receive a beating in exchange for his night’s lodging. ‘I do not understand what you mean, sir . . .’

  ‘Henry, for God’s sake has that boy not had sufficient of your charity that you must make an evening’s entertainment of him?’

  The gentleman turned back to his companion who had emerged from the cabin and, wrapped in his cloak and carrying a satchel under his arm, seemed destined for the shore again. ‘A moment, Gideon,’ the gentleman said fishing in his pocket and withdrawing some silver which he passed to the ship-keeper. ‘Tend this boy, Jones, and tomorrow see him clothed decently and brought to my lodgings by noon. Discharge this and recover our hose and I shall drop the matter of reporting the theft. D’you hear me?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Shall be done as you say, sir.’

  The man named Jones led the youth forward to where a small deckhouse stood; it housed the ship’s galley. Inside it was dark, but the glow of the galley stove threw out a seductive warmth. With much grunting and tongue-clicking Jones drew the galley fire, then indicated that the lad could sleep nearby. Carrying the bucket of hot coals on deck to dump over the ship’s side for fear of fire, and which the port regulations required, he left the lad to himself.

  Kit Faulkner lay down and curled up as close to the warm cast-iron stove as he could. The sudden transformation in his circumstances reminded him of happier times and he was all but overcome with tears for a second time that day. For many months the sheer necessity of staying alive had denied him the indulgence of self-pity and he might have sobbed himself to sleep had not a distraction caused him to rub a hand across his grimy face. The cat’s miaow might have been interpreted in many ways; outrage, perhaps, at finding the hearth occupied, or a welcome to another whose existence was as perilous as its own. Whatever feline logic drove the animal, it nudged up to the adolescent boy and he found himself stroking its inquisitive head. A moment later it curled up beside him and both were soon asleep.