The King's Chameleon Read online

  Faulkner paused and studied his younger son; then he shrugged, leaned back in his chair and reached for his pipe, which he filled with slow deliberation. ‘As you wish,’ he said at last, picking up a taper and inserting it into the small fire of sea-coal that burned in the grate. ‘I had not meant this to seem like an admonition that you must stand thus before me.’

  ‘Indeed, Father? It seems that everything you say to me is an admonition. I am not used to such solicitude.’

  Faulkner drew the flame of the taper down onto the tobacco packed into the pipe-bowl, still taking his time. After he had extinguished the taper with a shake of his hand, he threw out a plume of blue and curling smoke and smiled. ‘You are right,’ he said in a conciliatory tone, ‘we have not seen eye-to-eye, and I blame that upon my own faults. You are in want of curbing, and that is not to be wondered at.’ He held up his hand to stem Henry’s response. ‘I understand all the opprobrium you think attaches to my person—’

  ‘Do you, Father?’ Henry interjected, unable to restrain himself any further. ‘Do you really know what damage you caused my mother by your wanton conduct?’

  Faulkner had heard much in this vein from his censorious son and it no longer goaded him. He contented himself with puffing at his long-stemmed church-warden and let the younger man have his head. When Henry had delivered himself of his moral lecture, Faulkner laid his pipe aside with a sigh and drew himself up to the table.

  ‘I am not going to refute your argument; all you say is true, and I have never denied it. Notwithstanding my guilt in the eyes of God and man you must understand, or try to understand, that it was my misfortune never to have a home, nor a mother beyond the age of eight; that I grew up in rough circumstances and upon occasion let my heart rule my head. After many years in a bleak land, a man plucks at the first fruit he sees; he has yet to know there are other fruits, other occasions … You have that lesson yet to learn, Henry. Man is imperfect and, despite the cant of the Righteous and Godly who presently consider themselves our masters and with whom you are hugger-mugger, he is incapable of the final remedial improvement necessary for redemption …’

  ‘Without God, of course not!’ spluttered Henry in some indignation.

  ‘Let us leave God out of it, at least for the time being, because I wish to propose a course of action that will, perhaps, expose you to wider vicissitudes than you have thus far experienced in your life.’

  ‘You propose sending me to sea.’

  Faulkner nodded. ‘I do.’

  ‘I shall not go.’

  ‘If I command it, you shall. You are yet short of your majority, and your reluctance is evidence that I have too long neglected your education. You eat from my table at my expense and I hear scarce a word of thanks for it.’

  ‘Your own lust sired me, sir. It has a price!’

  The effrontery of this remark struck them both. Henry’s heart lurched as he saw the colour drain from his father’s face so that his eyes were no longer those of an ageing man, for they had become chips of ice. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Faulkner spoke first.

  ‘If you ever take the high tone with me again, sir,’ he said, aping his son’s mock politeness, ‘I shall have you thrown out of the house. I mean what I say, sir. A taste of the gutter will curb your damnable insolence.’

  Henry swallowed hard, aware that he had gone too far. There was something forbidding, even terrifying, about his father; Henry had forgotten – or perhaps had never properly realized – that his father had held high command and disposed of the lives of seamen at his will. Faulkner went on: ‘Such a remark betrays the over-familiarity you have had with this abominable sect of self-righteous, mealy-mouthed hypocrites that set themselves in judgement over us. Are you a Leveller?’

  Unable to speak, Henry shook his head. ‘Father,’ he said, in a croaking whisper, ‘I, er …’

  ‘Speak up, I cannot hear you.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Father, but I cannot go to sea.’

  ‘Why not? I can make it as comfortable for you as possible. You can sail as supercargo; you should know enough of the business from your uncle. I will not send you with your brother, but another of our ship-masters.’

  ‘I cannot go, Father. I will not. That is my last word on the subject.’

  Faulkner frowned. ‘Cannot? Will not? These are words driven by imperatives, yet what imperative has laid you under obligations of such determination, eh?’

  ‘I am … I am engaged to the Parliament.’

  ‘Engaged to the Parliament? In what capacity, pray? A sitting Member? I think not!’ Faulkner paused, but Henry made no response, as though unwilling to say more. Faulkner leaned forward, the suspicion forming in his mind crystallizing into a certainty. ‘You are an agent!’

  Henry said not a word, but the flicker in his eyes as he met the accusation of his father’s told Faulkner everything. London, if not the whole of England, was full of such quasi-spies, tell-tales, gossip-mongers and self-appointed purveyors of intelligence. They formed a network, paid for by the leading Parliamentarians on commission, which informed on decent men, and marked them for casual persecution: not attending church, not agreeing with the policy of the late Lord Protector, not paying dues, even smuggling and moral turpitude. It suddenly occurred to Faulkner that he himself had many times risked apprehension but, thinking he had earned some immunity by his services to the state, had never considered he had more likely hidden behind the political shielding of his younger son.

  ‘You have protected me from arrest, have you not, Henry?’ he said quietly.

  Again the young man said nothing beyond the merest inclination of his head.

  ‘Then I am obliged to you.’

  A silence hung between them, broken at last by Henry, who pulled out a chair and sat down, opposite his father. Faulkner stared at his strong, handsome features, a masculine version of Judith’s face. ‘So you see, Father, I cannot go to sea.’

  ‘I see that you cannot go by your own reckoning.’

  ‘You have been once in the Tower.’

  Faulkner smiled. ‘Aye, and more than once I have stared down a cannon’s mouth; do you seek to frighten me? Besides,’ he said, visibly brightening, ‘with Tumbledown Dick in the gutter, who knows what changes are presently afoot?’

  ‘John Disbrowe—’

  ‘Disbrowe, Heselrige, Lambert, Fleetwood! Pah! Name whom you will, I care not a fig; none will end up in power though the whole devil’s cauldron of them set their bleeding hearts at becoming Lord Protector.’

  ‘I told you there will be a Council …’

  ‘No Council will hold this country in one piece longer than a sennight.’

  ‘Come, Father, that is ridiculous! Pure prejudice! Rest assured there will be no more Kings.’

  ‘I would not be too sure of that, my boy. Kings represent stability, and this country is eager to resume its trade and traffic. It needs stability, firm ground upon which money can grow. Many of us are keen to line our pockets with honest toil, not the ill-garnered taxes of honest men seized on the sword points of the New Model Army.’

  ‘But a King guarantees none of that! Better a republic …’

  ‘I would rather a King that one may curb and lay about with strictures than a republic where any jackanapes may rise to the top through coercion, exploitation, dispossession and damned lies! I have stood close to Kings and know they have feet of clay – no, worse than that, morals that might put the entire Puritan faction to flight overseas in search of a heavenly kingdom – but such immoralities can be held in private camera while the excesses of republicans wreck the lives of ordinary mortals.’

  Henry shook his head vehemently. ‘How can you claim such to be true, having lived in the reigns of two Stuarts, the one perverted, the other of such arrogance that he alienated an entire people?’

  ‘Except those that remained loyal to him,’ Faulkner said, lowering his tone and aware that both their arguments were incompatible and their very dissonance had ripped
England apart for far too long. ‘The country is weary of this bloody debate, Henry. In the end, circumstances will play themselves out and people will settle for what seems to them the best. Perhaps neither of us should predict the outcome, but let matters take their natural course.’

  ‘But I must have a part of that process, Father. I am determined upon a seat in Parliament.’

  Faulkner was about to condemn this ludicrous notion, but he curbed his reaction. For the first time since he had come home to live again with this lad’s mother, Henry was speaking without choler. ‘You would become a Member of Parliament?’ he asked. Henry nodded. ‘But you require money, opportunity, party …’

  ‘That is what I am presently engaged upon.’

  ‘Ingratiating yourself with Disbrowe …?’

  ‘No, not him, but I cannot say with whom. It is a matter of confidence, of honour.’

  ‘And I must perforce respect this?’

  Henry bit his lip. It was clear that he too knew they were in uncharted country. ‘I should be very much obliged to you, Father.’

  ‘And if I respect your position – I cannot at this moment say that I second your endeavours – if I respect your ambition, then …’ He paused to add weight to his words. ‘Then this is a reconciliation.’

  The two stared at each other across the table. Faulkner sighed, smiled and extended his hand. Henry flushed then seized it in a strong grip.

  ‘What on earth are we going to tell your mother?’ Faulkner remarked drolly.

  ‘I don’t know, but I must needs leave that to you.’

  Faulkner nodded. ‘Yes, you must.’

  ‘I am prepared to make my own way in the world, Father.’

  ‘I am not unaware that your uncle has made an allowance for you.’ Henry looked taken aback. ‘You are surprised I know of it?’

  ‘Well, to be candid, yes.’

  Faulkner chuckled. ‘I daresay Nathan would be surprised too, but neither of us need tell him, and besides, I see your mother’s hand at the bottom. Let it lie quiet between us.’

  Henry nodded and rose, then paused, as if recollecting something. ‘There is one other thing, Father …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hannah wishes to marry.’

  ‘Good heavens! You and Hannah are closer than I had thought.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘I discovered her reading a letter. It would be a love-match; Mother does not know yet the object of Hannah’s affections.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘I think not. The matter embarrasses Hannah for some reason that I cannot determine.’

  ‘You know the fellow?’

  ‘Only by sight, but I am inclined to think –’ and here a twinkle of intimacy entered Henry’s expression, a hopeful mark of the changed relationship between father and son – ‘that the young man in question might make a better sea-officer than myself.’

  ‘Indeed. Then we had better make enquiries.’

  Part One

  Restoration

  1660–1662

  Honest George

  February – May 1660

  ‘Wake up, Husband, wake up!’

  ‘What …? What the devil is it, Judith? What o’clock is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, but … There it is again!’

  The knocking at the door was unmistakable, and Faulkner could hear the servants stirring above him. He swore, to his wife’s disapproval, and reached for a robe, wrenching the night-cap from his bare head. A thin light could be seen through the chinks in the shutters, marking the approach of sunrise, as he left the bed-chamber, bumped into a squealing kitchen maid, and descended the stairs, bawling that he was coming as if the person in the street was aloft on the fore-topsail yard and a gale of wind was blowing. Drawing the bolts of the front door he beheld a tall man wrapped in a cloak against the chill, a hat upon his bewigged head and his face in the gloom of its brim. Faulkner had no idea of the man’s identity but this did not arouse his suspicion; his first thought was that one of his ships was on fire in the tiers and this stranger had been sent to bring him the news. His second followed as swiftly: that the deteriorating state of public order, the misconduct of elements in the Army that went wandering about the city demanding taxes at the point of the sword, and the prevailing turbulence of the resentful citizenry had provoked some riot. But the street as far as he could see remained quiet and the man that stood before him clearly had a message only for Faulkner’s abode. The first thought flared up again, the entire circular process having taken no more than a split second.

  ‘Cap’n Faulkner … Kit Faulkner … You don’t recognize me?’ The man snatched off his hat, and in the gloom Faulkner perceived a once familiar face.

  ‘Harrison? Brian Harrison?’

  ‘The same, Kit, the same.’

  ‘Great heavens, what brings you, but come in, sir, come in.’ Faulkner called for mulled wine and drew Harrison into the parlour, shouting for wood and, picking up the poker, stirring a glow amid the embers. In a moment the two men were seated, the maids and the scullery boy fussing about them as flames licked up through the hastily revived fire.

  ‘What brings you here at this hour?’ Faulkner enquired of Harrison, whom he had not seen for some years. Both men had once been Elder Brethren of the Trinity House, and both had, what seemed now to be a lifetime earlier, served together, commanding ships sent against the Sallee Rovers on the coast of Morocco. Here they had maintained a squadron on a lee shore and bombarded the port until a number of Christian slaves had either run away to swim out to the ships or been released by their captors. Not since the outbreak of the Civil War and his own escape from London with Sir Henry Mainwaring and the fugitive Prince of Wales had Faulkner been in touch with the Trinity House. He had heard that its affairs had been suspended by Parliament, the members of which considered it tainted by its loyalist leanings. In consequence its funds had been plundered and its Court replaced by Puritan Commissioners who had neglected much of its business, especially its relief of poor and indigent seamen and their dependants. He had heard of an assembly of some of the Brethren some eighteen months earlier, but their political colour, conforming too closely to the Commonwealth, had dissuaded him from attending. Thus Harrison’s sudden dawn intrusion came as a complete surprise.

  ‘The Brethren are to reconvene. Now that Fleetwood and Lambert are discomfited, the Army has no right to raise taxes and Monck has declared that no power, not even the Army, can subordinate Parliament.’

  ‘Monck?’ queried Faulkner. ‘Where is Monck? I had heard that he was in Scotland.’ Faulkner recalled his old commander, the bluff soldier who served in the State Navy as a General-at-Sea, the Commonwealth’s denomination of a senior admiral.

  ‘He will be in London at the head of his troops this very day. Fairfax is in accord and holds York. These forces are all loyal to the principle of Parliamentary rule of law. The southern Army is undone.’

  ‘That is no bad thing; it had become vastly too large for its own riding boots.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘I had heard Heselrige and others of the Council of State had sent Monck a commission as Commander-in-Chief of all the forces in England and Scotland …’

  ‘And Lawson has declared his loyalty.’

  ‘He commands the fleet in The Downs, does he not?’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘So Monck aims at the Protectorship?’ Faulkner hazarded, adding: ‘He is in my opinion the only man of rectitude at large.’

  ‘Perhaps he is, but I think his intentions are otherwise.’

  Faulkner looked up, meeting Harrison’s eyes. ‘Then he is for the King?’

  ‘That is the scuttlebutt, though it is not yet certain.’

  ‘Ahh, Honest George is playing his cards close to his chest.’

  ‘So would you if you were playing for such high stakes.’

  ‘True. And the Brethren?’

  ‘Must seize the day, Kit. If Monck is for the King, so be it; if not, then we must declare for
Monck – for he is the deliverance for which we have long prayed – or lose what little is left to us. Monck as Protector or Monck as midwife to the King are preferable to the present state of affairs. As for our own part, there is much want among mariners, many of whom have wrecked their constitutions in the state’s service as you have yourself seen, while the shipping in the Thames is much in need of moderation – as you must surely know.’

  ‘True; I have not found a crew worth its pay in two quarters of the year, for jack must be as good as his master, even when he cannot patch his frock!’ The two men laughed and sipped their mulled wine, staring companionably into the fire that now blazed cheerfully in the grate, a symbol of renewed hope.

  ‘So,’ Faulkner said, after a moment’s silence, ‘am I alone in your solicitations, or is the generality of the Brethren recalled?’

  ‘Those the whereabouts of whom we know will be summoned in the next few days,’ Harrison explained. ‘As for yourself, knowing your services to both King and Commonwealth, besides my being acquainted with your good sense …’

  ‘Did your advocacy placate those that held me a turn-coat?’ Faulkner asked.

  Harrison shrugged. ‘There have been those who have sat affairs out atop the fence and thus slid down afterwards with no mishap to their breeches, more’s the pity of it, but there are those who, like you, have acted out of patriotism, espousing the cause they thought best for their country, and shifted their allegiance when circumstances changed.’

  ‘Thank heaven Monck is among that number,’ Faulkner remarked ruefully.

  ‘You served with him, did you not?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘Aye, and with some approval, I am pleased to say. He is an able commander for all his lack of sea-time.’ Faulkner finished his pot of wine. ‘So we – the Brethren, I mean – are summoned this morning then?’

  ‘Aye, at Whitehorse Lane, where we shall determine whether to render taxes as demanded, or join those in the City who refuse until a full Parliament, including the excluded members, has ousted the Rump.’

  ‘Well then, I must repair upstairs and don some apparel while you enjoy another bumper.’ Faulkner summoned the maid, instructed her to refill Captain Harrison’s pot and removed himself. Ten minutes later, as a red and wintry sun rose above the mist lying along the Thames to strike the myriad of masts-trucks of the scores of merchantmen lying at the tiers, the two men left for Whitehorse Lane, Stepney.