Gentleman Captain

by J. D. Davies

  Judge's ship stayed long enough for him to see his son born, she said, and the child was accepted without question by that part of Clan Donald as their new chief, Sir Ian, baronet of Ardverran. For Judge, it must have seemed a fair consolation for a man who knew he would never see his son grow up.

  A fair consolation, perhaps, until a far greater one came within view.

  A kingdom for his own son.

  It was an unreal time, that hour in the great hall of Ardverran Castle. I sat unmoving in my chair, for if my mind could not cope with the enormity of her words, what chance had my limbs? All that time, she paced the hall, sometimes circling me, sometimes stopping so close that I could study the rosary that nestled upon her bosom. There was nothing to do but talk. I wanted the truth, so my questions were unvarnished. But I sensed that she needed to explain, to justify it all to herself as much as to me. Perhaps she, too, felt that in another time, when such a mighty scheme had not already been in train, matters might have stood differently between the heir of Ravensden and the Countess Niamh. So we talked with the openness and honesty of those who know that they have not known each other well enough, and will have no other chance, for they will never know each other again.

  I asked when the conspiracy had first formed, and at whose hand. 'Like most of his kind, the Puritan swordsmen, my Captain Judge saw the return of your king as the end all of his hopes for a better world, of all that he had fought for. Like so many of them, he admitted defeat and surrendered himself to your new royal order, swearing the Oaths of Allegiance and Supremacy with bile in his throat.'

  I had witnessed it myself: the lackeys, the time-servers and the fanatics, all competing with each other to find a tame lawyer or cleric to testify to their undying loyalty to king and Church. It was strange to think of Godsgift Judge among that unholy rabble.

  'At first, his attempts to ingratiate himself with you Cavaliers were real enough. Then, when he saw how readily Charles Stuart trusted those who had so recently fought against him and how blindly intent he was on reconciliation, he began to conceive a great scheme. He wrote to me secretly, and I in turn wrote to my uncle. All this is Judge's doing, Matthew, even if the money comes from Rome and Amsterdam. And now we even have the tacit support of Spain, thanks to your king's idiotic choice of a Portuguese bride–the one marriage above all that could give mortal offence to the court of King Philip. Yes, Matthew. The Lordship of the Isles for the son of Godsgift Judge, triggering a revolution in England to bring down your feeble king. That is how it will be.'

  I resisted her still, though I felt the cold grip of fear in my bones. It seemed both preposterous and yet perfectly likely to succeed. 'Glenrannoch will stand against you,' I said. 'I will stand against you.'

  'Not even the good general and his Campbells will be able to withstand the army we will shortly put into the field. And, dear Matthew, there will soon be a Dutch army to uphold our new independence. So you see, I am not afraid of you, either.' And with that, she stooped and kissed me.

  The Dutch? It all hinged on them. And I knew the Dutch. Something in what she was saying was not right, but I could not place it. I knew the Dutch, I knew their country and the perverse way in which they organized it. My wife was Dutch, her brother commanded a ship for the Dutch, Glenrannoch had been a general for the Dutch, I had lived among the Dutch...

  Of course. Yes, I was informed enough, at last.

  I found my strength again and stood. I looked down at her, so tall and slender in the firelight; then I made my best bow, a courtier's flourish at the end. 'I must congratulate you, my lady. What you have achieved–gaining the support of the whole of the States-General–I had thought impossible. All of their high mightinesses together? Truly, this is so unlike the Dutch way, where one province seems always driven to spite another, that I am amazed.' Her face, the way she clasped her hands together, told me that I had hit home. I stood looking at her and my smile fell away. 'I know the Dutch, my lady. Give them any proposition, and they will divide, as sure as the sun rises and sets. They are not a state, they are a confusion, and you have the support of only a fraction.'

  Every plot, every great conspiracy in history, has some flaw, some fatal weakness; its success or failure depends on whether that flaw reveals itself in a timely fashion. This was their flaw, my countess and her lover, for their whole scheme depended on a state that was not a state, but a hydra. Even so, she recovered herself quickly.

  'Our support is sufficient, Captain. The plot is secret enough, and will be executed swiftly. More swiftly than you realize.'

  She beckoned to me and led me up the spiral staircase, until at last we emerged onto the roof of Ardverran's ancient tower.

  There was the Jupiter, off to the east, bearing down slowly and according to my orders. Her quarry, the arms ship, lay silent and empty off the jetty of Ardverran. And now, too late, I saw her for what she truly was. Bait.

  For there, behind the Jupiter, emerging from the channel and edging round the headland, was the unmistakeable shape of the Royal Martyr. Unmistakeable but for two stark alterations: her royal figurehead had been decapitated, just as its mortal namesake–the late King Charles the First–had been. And the flags that she flew were at once strange and dreadfully familiar. Two of the four quarters bore the red cross against a white background, the sign of St George; the other two the white cross on blue of St Andrew. They were the colours of an older and deadlier Britain, when England and Scotland had been brought together as one by the force of Oliver Cromwell's arms.

  I knew her for what she was. She was the Royal Martyr no more. At last, she bore the name, and the flags, of her true master.

  She was the Republic again.

  The lady moved to my side. My treacherous countess rested her fingers on my arm, but I stepped abruptly away from her.

  'You are still my guest, Matthew,' she said gently. 'The old way and the old laws abide here at Ardverran of the ages. You knew that when you came here tonight; knew that you were safe under the roof of one who had invited you. And you were right. I will not see my guest harmed. You may remain here, or I will see to it that you are taken in safety to England.'

  'And what will safety be, without honour?' I could not help the bitterness in my voice. 'I am the captain of that ship. I am responsible for the one hundred and thirty souls on her. I must account for them to God, and to the king that your precious Captain Judge has forsaken.'

  She looked at me then with sadness. 'Your Jupiter is doomed, Matthew. Judge tells me that you have fewer guns than he, and lesser men manning them. You are no match for him. His ship will destroy yours.' Her hand reached out, her fingers found mine. 'Go back to her, and you are killing yourself.'

  I hated her, then, for the first time. 'We Quintons know how to fight and die in doomed causes. I will put my trust in God and my men. With your leave, my lady?'

  I stepped back and then bowed, more in mockery than courtesy. I could see the tears in her eyes, but I think she had long practice in preventing their further passage.

  'Take your leave, then, Matthew. Take your leave, and die.'

  I stood still a while longer, though. I looked at her without modesty or decorum, for I knew I would never see her again. I studied that face, so pale, and her hair, blowing in the wind toward the sun that claimed it for its own. I looked at her, all the way to her feet, and wished in that moment that fate had not driven us to this. She was the most beautiful woman I ever met in my whole life.

  I bowed my head, as one does at the graveside of a loved one. And then I turned, and left her.

  Lanherne and his crew were still loyally at the jetty, though all of them were looking eastward toward the two ships. They rowed me back to the Jupiter, where silent sailors lined the deck, looking for direction from their captain. I climbed the steps up the ship's side and moved through them to the quarterdeck, where Vyvyan, Landon, Gale, Stanton and Kit Farrell awaited me. The Royal Martyr–the Republic–was perhaps still half a mile away and closing only slowly
on the light south-westerly winds. But there was no time for a council of war, and no time for an explanation.

  I told them briefly that Judge was our enemy now, his ship flying Cromwell's flags and intent on our destruction. I ordered our decks cleared and could soon hear the hammering and clattering beneath as the partitions of the cabins, my own included, were dismantled to give us an unimpeded gun deck for the whole length of the ship. Next, I would order the larboard guns manned.

  Then Kit Farrell came to find me. Very quietly so no others could hear, he admonished me.

  'The men will need an explanation, sir. You can't order them into battle against their own people and not tell them why.'

  He was right. Many of the crew were still milling around on the main deck, talking quietly among themselves, glancing up at the quarterdeck. Boatswain Ap and his mates moved among them, but they, too, were at a loss. I drew a breath, then climbed onto the quarterdeck rail, clinging to a shroud for balance.

  To a man, the crew crowded up before the bulkhead and looked towards me, expectation and fear rivalling each other in their eyes. I tried to imagine the words that my grandfather must have said, as he ordered his own crew against the impregnable crescent formation of the great Armada. I tried to imagine my father's words on Naseby field, as he prepared his troopers to charge against the distant line of Parliament's cavalry. Then, by what means I knew not, I needed to imagine no more. I looked out, over my crew, and spoke to them.

  'Men, the ship we knew as Royal Martyr is lost to us. She's the Republic again, and we face her in what, God willing, will be the last battle of our country's civil wars. At the end of this battle, I would see that ship bearing her name of honour again, the name of the blessed King Charles the First.' Some of the officers nodded gravely. 'I am not a man who knows the sea well. You all know that. But I come from a bloodline that knows how to fight, and the king himself entrusted me with this ship. I intend to do my duty to him, and to my name. So, boys, do your duty too, and even if you don't do it for me, then do it for these others.' I drew my sword, and brought it up to my face in salute to these, my men. I shouted, 'For God, for the King, and for Cornwall!'

  The crew took up my cry, repeating it five or six times. I saw even Ali Reis, the Mahometan, screaming his loyalty to a God he did not serve, and Carvell, the blackamoor, in tears as he pledged himself to Cornwall, a land three thousand miles from his home.

  Then young James Vyvyan stepped up to me and drew his own sword to return my salute. 'Captain,' he said, too quietly for any apart from the others on the quarterdeck to hear, 'we have not always concurred, but from the moment you came aboard this ship–and contrary to what you might have believed–you have had the loyalty and respect of every man on the lower deck.' Then Vyvyan turned, flung up his sword arm and cried loudly, 'Cornwall was true to the last king and to this one, sir, and every Cornishman knows that no man died better in the late king's cause than your father. It is an honour, and a privilege, for us to serve and die alongside the heir to Ravensden.'

  He turned to the assembled crew and gave them the cry.

  'For Captain Quinton, and Ravensden!'

  And they cheered.

  Then Francis Gale stepped forward, for it was time now to address ourselves to the only authority that could save us. I went to the larboard side, hoping they would think I had gone to study the approaching Republic once more. In truth, I hoped that by turning away, I would hide the tears that ran down my face.

  'O most powerful and glorious Lord God, that rulest and commandest all things,' Gale began, his voice carrying over our silent and respectful crew to the waters beyond. 'Thou sittest in the throne judging right, and therefore we make our address to Thy Divine Majesty in this our necessity, that Thou wouldest take the cause into Thine own hand, and judge between us and our enemies. Stir up Thy strength, O Lord, and come and help us; for Thou givest not away the battle to the strong, but canst save by many or by few.' He glanced toward the oncoming Republic, and I saw not a few of our men raise their eyes from their prayers and do the same. 'O let not our sins now cry against us for vengeance; but hear us Thy poor servants begging mercy, and imploring Thy help, and that Thou wouldest be a defence unto us against the face of the enemy.' Gale paused, and lifted his eyes from the text of the prayer book, extemporizing as he did so. 'Lord God, grant us peace from the merciless rage of civil war, and bring us safe in the fullness of time to thy heavenly harbour. O Lord in Thy mercy, bring us the victory. Amen.'

  The crew echoed the amen lustily, not a few of them suddenly discovering a need to cross themselves after the popish fashion. At that moment, James Vyvyan stepped forward once more, offered me his hand, and saluted.

  'Your commands, Captain Quinton?'

  I bowed. Then I straightened and held out my hand. He did not pause, but reached out and shook it.

  'I think I have little need to give commands this day, Mister Vyvyan,' I said. 'All men know their stations, and know their duty. The rest is with God. May He be with you today, James.'

  He smiled. And with you, Matthew.'

  And then Vyvyan turned and simply nodded to the assembled company below us. The warrant and petty officers, in their turns, did the same. At those silent commands, all became commotion, but now it was commotion with a purpose. Our trumpeters and drummer roared out the music of defiance. The guns on the upper deck were manned, and I could hear the shutters of the gunports on the main deck swing open as the larboard guns ran out. Men climbed into the rigging to take in all but our fighting sails: the main, fore and foretop. Others played out the waist-cloth–the yard-wide red cloth fastened around the whole of the ship's rail to conceal our men from the enemy's small arms.

  I turned back to James Vyvyan; he, Malachi Landon, and Kit Farrell were the only officers left on the quarterdeck.

  'Mister Vyvyan,' I said, 'we will hoist our ensign and pendants, if you please. The king's ensign.'

  'By your leave, sir, Captain Harker also brought aboard a flag for which he had a particular affection, as do I and most of the crew. Saint Piran's cross. The flag of Cornwall. Do I have your permission to hoist it at the mizzen, Captain?'

  'By all means, Mister Vyvyan. Let Judge and his traitors know exactly who it is that they fight.'

  Our ensign raced aloft, and at the mizzenmast head the white cross on black broke out proudly, to a great cheer from the men on the upper deck. Thus we waited for the Republic to come down to us. We could have tried to escape, but that would have driven us under the guns of Ardverran and the arms ship, and Lady Macdonald's hospitality did not extend to unmanning them. Rather than be trapped in a crossfire, I preferred to wait, and take my chances against Godsgift Judge, ship to ship.

  Musk appeared at my side, carrying the body armour that my father had worn to his death at Naseby and which (since Charles shunned the inheritance) had become my own. He fastened it around my chest, then stepped back and contemplated me.

  'Well, Captain, it's come to this, then. I saw your grandfather buried, and your father. Not that I'll see you join them, for today the reaper comes for old Musk, I fear.'

  Reaper or no, Musk took his place at my side then, for whatever else he was, he was no coward. He carried two pistols and a dagger in his belt, and I knew that he would use them to protect me before himself.

  I looked out over the deck. My men were ready at their guns, the barrels shotted and awaiting only the gun captains' linstocks to fire the charge. James Vyvyan moved between the gun crews in his station forward of the mainmast, uttering words of encouragement. There was our unofficial new recruit, Macferran, who had somehow not gone ashore when he should, standing instead among the lads who ran powder and shot from the magazine up to the guns. There were Polzeath, Trenance and Treninnick, all manning one gun in the middle of the ship. Carvell in the gun crew next to them turned and smiled, for he had caught sight of their old messmate, the comte d'Andelys. The Frenchman had climbed up to the quarterdeck, his sword drawn and ready, eager to write anot
her bloody chapter in the illustrious annals of his ancient line. Kit Farrell was by my side, as he had been at the death of the Happy Restoration–and since. His eyes moved constantly between our sails, the shore and the Republic, calculating wind, tide, and distance. As was I.

  Suddenly, John Treninnick began to sing. His words were English, learned by rote. His gun crew joined in, then the rest of the upper deck. I could hear the refrain taken up on the deck below. This singing was low, almost mournful. It was the sailor's ancient song of leave-taking, 'Loth to Depart'.

  The bow guns of the Republic fired.

  The sound of glass and wood shattering told me that Judge's guns had found their mark. Musk hurried below to examine the damage. Before he could return, our enemy's bow guns fired again. Two balls smashed into our hull, a little ahead of the quarter gallery. I heard a scream, and knew that we had our first casualty. I hoped it was not Musk.

  'Mister Stanton!' I cried. 'Stern chasers will fire, if you please. Chainshot, high for his rigging!'

  'Aye, aye, Captain!'

  Judge had no interest in firing at our masts and rigging, ever the tactic of the weaker ship trying to disable her opponent so she could escape. Judge had learned his warfare in the floating slaughters that were the English battles with the Dutch: fire straight into the hulls of the weaker, lighter Dutch ships. As were we, now, weaker and lighter against his weight of broadside. The Republic could send over five hundred pounds of shot at us a time. We could fire less than half that, even if we could fire it all at once and in the right direction.

  Jupiter's two stern guns fired. One shot missed the Republic entirely, the other passed harmlessly through her foresail. I ordered a reload, to fire again when ready. Republic fired again first, long before we were ready. Two more shots struck us somewhere in the stern. Stanton sent word that one of the stern chasers was blown off its carriage. Our second gun fired. A second hole appeared in Judge's foresail, but the Republic sailed relentlessly on. Within minutes, she would be alongside us and able to bring almost her whole starboard battery to bear.