The Blast That Tears the Skies (2012) (9 page)

Katherine had resolved the problems posed by the dissolution of her convent by taking herself to the bed of Harry, fourth Earl of Ravensden, a coarse old soldier who had warred across France and Scotland in the wake of that other Henry, the eighth English king of the name. My great-
great-grandmother
outlived all three of her sons, who each became earl in turn, and survived until not far short of her ninety-fifth birthday.

‘Katherine seems to have been unconscionably keen for the title to pass to your grandfather,’ said the present Countess of Ravensden. ‘Why should that have been, I wonder? Earl Edward was such a public figure – Walsingham’s rival as the great queen’s spymaster, was he not? I have seen hints that Earl Edward was somehow involved in the entrapment and execution of Mary, Queen of Scots. And was there not talk that his own death might have been brought about by poison? Do you know anything of these matters, Matthew?’

Inwardly, I gasped at the breadth and depth of this unsettling woman’s knowledge. These were some of the most closely guarded of our many family secrets, and yet her knowledge of them seemed superior to mine. Troublingly superior. For I had read and re-read the same letters when I was a boy of twelve and thirteen, searching for answers to the mysteries alluded to within them; but lads of that age want the whole story, and are impatient if confronted only by fragments which present a puzzle that cannot be solved. Yet my memories of those fading documents were still vivid in my memory, and I knew full well that they contained no reference at all to the legend that my great-grandfather had been poisoned. It seemed a singularly unlikely matter to have been aired in conversation between the Lady Louise and her sickly husband, my brother: so when and how, precisely, had she learned of this?

‘No, madam,’ I said defensively. ‘I know nothing beyond what the letters contain.’

‘Louise. A pity, that. I have a mind to enquire further into these matters. I must visit Tristram, at Oxford.’ My uncle would welcome such a visitation as warmly as the pestilence, I thought. ‘And when I am next at court, I must ask Arlington if the state papers of that time are extant, so that I might learn more.’ Arlington? Was my good-sister somehow connected to him? The coffee houses were full of talk that the Secretary was in the pay of France, but then, it is the business of those who frequent coffee houses and inns to denounce the patriotism, competence and manliness of every minister of the crown. ‘But there is so much of interest among the more recent documents, too,’ said the Countess Louise. She walked to the little writing desk and picked up a small bundle of stained, fading letters; the muniment room was in a part of the building particularly prone to damp. ‘Equally interesting are the letters from your mother to your father, and vice-versa, in the early years of the late king’s reign. Particularly those from the years twenty-seven and twenty-eight, not long after that king married the present Queen Mother and before the murder of His Grace of
Buckingham
. How I have enjoyed the account of your parents’ wedding, the King and Duke themselves in attendance! Why, it is so strange to think of your poor, bent mother as a vivacious young girl – and the court must have been so glittering in those days, so carefree without the memories of civil war that haunt all those of our unhappy generation!’ The countess beamed radiantly at me. When she was in this delightful temper, it was easy to see why men fell under her spell – too easy. ‘There are so many other letters. Some from your mother to a young Scottish courtier – a certain Campbell of Glenrannoch. Was he not later a great general during the wars upon the Continent? I think I know the name, my second husband would have spoken of him. Major-General Gulliver was ever eager for reports of the deeds of his own kind. Perhaps you have heard of this Campbell, too?’

‘No, My Lady,’ I lied, praying that my face did not betray me.
A vivid memory of a Scottish castle being ripped apart by a vast explosion, and of the man who perished within it
– General Colin Campbell of Glenrannoch: a man who had alluded to some secret knowledge that he shared with my mother, at exactly the time of which the countess spoke. That had been not the least of the mysteries revealed to me during my second command, aboard the frigate
Jupiter
in the waters of Scotland, but it had been the most abiding, for it was the only one that still defied explanation.

‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘I did not expect it. An older generation, after all.’ She looked up at me. ‘It is so difficult to get to the bottom of your Quinton history, Matthew – your brother is strangely lacking in curiosity about his ancestors, I find.’ Despite myself, I nodded; that had ever been a marked difference between Charles and I. ‘But I have talked to the old Barcocks, and one day soon, I must speak to Musk. So often, it is the ancient retainers who have all the knowledge of their betters’ foibles!’

‘I wish you well, My Lady,’ I said. ‘Musk is less forthcoming than most rocks.’

I do not know why I made such a jest. Nor do I know why I was suddenly noticing things about the Countess Louise that I had not noticed before: the delicacy of her hands, the innocent way in which she used them to stroke her hair, the clarity of her skin, the elegance of her movements.

I had to turn my eyes away, to look upon anything other than the alluring creature before me. By chance, the first portrait that my eyes settled upon was that of my father. A poet forced to be a warrior, James Quinton, Earl of Ravensden for one hundred and eighteen days before he perished in glory (and utter futility) on Naseby field, looked down upon me. His face was set in that strangely pained half-smile that I just remembered from my early childhood; an expression that my family said I had inherited from him.

My father’s countenance gave me the strength to turn once more to the Countess. ‘I shall leave you to your enquiries, My Lady,’ I said. ‘I wish you well of them.’

‘Matthew,’ she said urgently, ‘be not so hasty. I would ask you much else of your family’s history. For instance, the muniments contain some mentions of an intriguing character named the Lord Percival, but I can find no other reference to him. There are hints that he was a friend of your brother, but Charles denies knowing any such person. Perhaps you have heard the name?’

Swiftly and truthfully I responded, ‘No, My Lady. The name means nothing to me.’

She studied me closely, as though weighing my answer. This of the mysterious ‘Lord Percival’ seemed to matter much to her. ‘A pity. So many mysteries, Matthew. So few answers.’ She lifted her eyes to meet mine. ‘But must you leave so urgently, good-brother? Surely you should stay one last night here in your home, the home of your ancestors, before you go off to war? One last night beneath this roof, where so many Quinton heirs have been begotten.’

Before my eyes, the gallery seemed to break apart into a thousand jagged pieces. I felt myself sway. I had never felt so much a stranger in my own thoughts; for somewhere within them, in the darkest place of all, was a voice insinuating that for the Quinton heir to be fathered by a Quinton would set all to rights.

Somehow, I know not how, I uttered the words, ‘No, Louise. I must for the road, my wife and my ship.’

I am not entirely certain whether my leave-taking was dignified or not. During the next passage of which I was consciously aware, I was already riding at a gallop for London. By Hatfield my poor horse was all but finished, and I exchanged him for a fresh steed.

I rode into Hardiman’s Yard as the dawn was breaking, the light of the sun glinting upon the glass of every east-facing window. I burst into our bedroom, and as Cornelia awoke, sleepy and surprised, I took her more roughly than I had ever done before.

 

 

 

‘Merciful Father in Heaven,’ I said to Francis Gale, ‘have you ever seen such a sorry spectacle?’

We stood upon the wharf at Chatham yard, between the double dry dock and the boat yard. The cacophony of a royal dockyard in wartime surrounded us: above all, shipwrights were hammering timbers into place on the skeletal hull of the
Victory
in the nearby dry dock, for the huge old ship was being rebuilt at vast expense. The stench of tar, newly forged iron, wet rope and freshly sawn wood lay upon the air. For many used to country living, it would have been a vision of hell; but for Captain Matthew Quinton that day, it was as good a place as any to forget his twin nightmares of a scheming, seductive countess and a battle in which he might have to turn his guns upon friends and fellow Englishmen. I should have known better, even in those days of youthful innocence. A nightmare vanishes with the dawn, but nothing is more certain than that dusk will fall again and the nightmare will return, perhaps bringing its fellows along with it for company.

In front of Francis and I stood a hundred or so creatures who could be described as men only by stretching the bounds of the English tongue. Several were evidently boys; seven had limbs missing; one seemed to be quite blind. A good dozen were clearly well past their fiftieth birthdays, and one appeared to be at least eighty. Some scowled at me, for resentment of their situation and hatred of their chief captor must have boiled within them. Others looked about them in blind terror, and it was clear that they never seen a dockyard before – nor, perhaps, ships, nor even tidewater. Several were praying, though to what deity was unclear. Boatswain Pewsey ran his hands through his white hair and shook his head. My men, the likes of Lanherne,
Macferran
and Polzeath, walked up and down the ranks, frowning. Within a matter of a few weeks, perhaps even days, we were to face the most formidable opponents upon the oceans of the world, and we were to do so with a crew who would not even qualify as sturdy beggars. Still, it could have been worse, I reflected: the complements of many of the great ships had been made up with soldiers. At least this motley crew before me ought to contain at least a smattering of capable seamen.

‘All those who have served in a ship of war before – raise your hands!’ cried Martin Lanherne, the bullet-headed coxswain of the
Merhonour
.

No hands went up.

‘All who have served at sea, then, in merchants’ hulls or fishing craft – trows, barges –
anything
– raise your hands!’

Again, no hand rose from the throng.

‘All right, Lanherne,’ I said, ‘you have flogged it enough, so we may conclude with some certainty that the horse is dead.’ I stepped forward, for despite everything, these men were mine, I was their captain, and they needed to identify and respect the font of authority conveyed by my commission. ‘Men!’ I cried, endeavouring to look and sound formidable. ‘Men of His Majesty’s Ship, the
Merhonour
! My name is Matthew Quinton, captain of this ship upon this expedition against His Majesty’s dire enemies, the Dutch! You should be proud –’

A few of the men began to talk to each other in low, quizzical tones.

‘Silence!’ cried Lanherne. ‘Silence, there, for Captain Quinton!’

‘You should be proud,’ I continued, ‘to serve aboard such a famous ship, a ship that has seen off this land’s most implacable enemies, a ship –’

The hubbub did not subside; instead, it grew. Lanherne beat some men with his cane, but it made no difference. My heart sank. I had not even got them aboard the ship, and yet already I had a mutiny on my hands. My boatswain was on the verge of tears, looking out impotently over this rabble that he was meant to shape into an honest crew.

‘Where did Pett say the draft came from?’ asked Francis Gale.

‘Western parts, the last places to send men in. Not Cornwall, that’s for certain – Lanherne would know his own kind – but there were meant to be men from Cumberland and Westmorland, and yet others from Wales.’

‘Ah,’ said Francis, ‘Wales. That will explain it, then.’

‘Francis?’

‘They can’t understand a word you’re saying, Captain. And Cumberland men being able to understand Lanherne’s Cornish lilt? Unlikely, I’d reckon.’

‘God’s teeth,’ I groaned, ‘and this is the King of England’s navy?’

The chatter grew louder, and Lanherne, never usually a man lost for words nor for a means of convincing others of his authority, looked at me in desperation. I had nowhere I could look, other than upon the rabble before me. My prospects of gaining glory in battle, or even of fulfilling my mission to prevent treason in the fleet, were evaporating before my eyes.

I glimpsed two familiar forms approaching from the direction of Commissioner Pett’s house and the dockyard gate. One was the black Virginian Julian Carvell, the other his bosom friend John Treninnick, the bent, shambling Cornishman who, like my new crewmen, could not speak a word of English. Between them was a stocky young lad of perhaps fourteen, distinguished by the reddest cheeks I ever saw upon a boy. He looked familiar, but I could not quite place him.

Then the strangest thing occurred. Treninnick suddenly stopped and stood stock still, apparently listening to the chatter from the mob in front of me. His face suddenly broke into the broadest of smiles – a truly terrifying sight, for he was one of the ugliest men I ever knew – and he ran forward, gabbling furiously. Several of the nearest men of the draft grinned, jabbered at him, and embraced him in their arms.

‘Lanherne!’ I cried. ‘What in the Lord’s name is happening here?’

The coxswain smiled. ‘The Welsh, sir! They can understand
Treninnick
, and he can understand them! The Welsh and Cornish tongues are but two sides of the same coin, after all. I can pick up some of the words, but it’s too fast for me – not for Treninnick, though!’

I exchanged relieved glances with Francis Gale.

‘Then get him to translate, man!’

Thus Lanherne translated my words into the rudimentary Cornish that he knew, and Treninnick converted them into a more fluent version that was evidently intelligible to the Welsh. It transpired that in turn, several of those from north Wales spoke a dialect not dissimilar to that of the men of Cumberland, and were able to translate to them. The question of who had served in a king’s ship before was asked again, this time in a tongue that the men could understand; now a score of hands were raised. Another two dozen or so had served at sea in some capacity, or else upon the river trade of the Severn. Thus half the draft used the sea, and barely fifty were entirely landsmen; it could have been worse, I reflected, albeit not by very much.

In one respect, the sudden emergence of a conduit for conveying my words to the Welsh and vice-versa only made matters worse. Treninnick’s enlightenment of the monoglots as to their new status, as crewmen of His Majesty’s ship the
Merhonour
, exacerbated the resentment that seemed to simmer in the ranks; especially, I noted, among those gathered almost as a phalanx around one short, swarthy creature with a great grey beard, such as had been fashionable at court in the late King James’s time. I sensed at once that this man, whoever he was, might bring us troubles. Treninnick would need to discover more about him and act as my conduit to and from the Welsh, in which case…

‘Mister Lanherne!’ I cried. ‘Tell Treninnick to thank them for me, and to tell them that I will be honoured to serve with them. And I think we will need to promote Treninnick to be a petty officer – a quartermaster’s mate, perhaps – so that he may be our interpreter to and from these brave lads!’

The news of Treninnick’s promotion was cheered by his old and a few of his new shipmates alike, although I suspected that I had just appointed the only officer in the English navy who could not speak a word of its tongue.

At last, I turned to Julian Carvell and the florid lad beside him. ‘Well, Carvell, what is this that you’ve found?’

‘He was lost in the town, sir. Claimed to be seeking the
Merhonour
, although his way of finding it seemed to involve searching every alehouse in Rochester.’

I studied the lad: he had a look and a smell of the bottle about him. ‘I’ve met you somewhere, boy. Before you had the cherry cheeks, I think.’

‘Rushell,’ slurred the lad. ‘Edward Russell. Lord Bedford’s nephew.’

A recollection came back to me: Christmas two winters before, and a call of duty upon the Earl of Bedford and his family at Woburn. There had been a sullen, orphaned little brat… ‘Edward Russell,’ I said. ‘I promised to take you to sea with me, when you were old enough.’

The lad swayed a little. ‘Uncle wrote to the duke. Of York. Got permission. Should have written to you, too.’

Carvell boxed his head. ‘Should have written to you, too,
sir
.’

I sighed. ‘Very well, then, young Cherry Cheeks. Perchance you’ll have your head taken off by a cannon-shot before the month’s out, or else the drink will kill you in much the same space of time. Carvell, get him aboard and get him sober. I suppose we’ll have to find some sort of a decent berth for him. Can’t have the Earl of Bedford’s nephew in a common hammock –’

At that moment, the dockyard bell began to ring. The men’s breakfast time was long past, and there were still some hours before the bell for dinner, which could mean but one thing. An alarm. As one, Francis and I ran toward the commissioner’s house, on the hill above the yard. Commissioner Pett stood at the centre of a frenzy of activity, despatching men hither and thither. We could see the dockyard gate being closed, turning the walled yard into a fortress.

‘Mister Pett!’ I cried. ‘What is the alarm, sir?’

Peter Pett was a thin-faced, sharp-nosed man with grey bags under his eyes. ‘Spies, Captain Quinton! Spies have been arrested in Rochester! Their accomplices might already be in the dockyard. I have ordered patrols – they might intend to fire the yard.’

Having witnessed a fire in a royal dockyard not so very long before, I knew all too well how terrible a calamity it could be. Concentrate incalculable amounts of wood, tar, pitch and gunpowder in one place and then ignite it. Old Fawkes would have thought it a very paradise.

‘They are Dutch spies, then?’ demanded Francis.

‘Undoubtedly, Reverend, though they pretend to be other.’

‘What other?’

‘One French and one English. But it’s known that the Dutchman is a devil who employs many disguises – the French are their friends and enough Englishmen still admire their accursed republic.’ This was rich coming from Pett, one of those who had served England’s version of a republic with some distinction. ‘What is more, Captain Quinton, the good men of Rochester are convinced that these are the villains who blew up the
London
. I fear there will be a lynching before the magistrates have an opportunity to impose order.’

I relaxed. The
Merhonour
, safe in midstream, now had ample men aboard to ensure her own security, and Pett’s men ought to be able to secure the yard. What transpired in Rochester was none of my concern, even if it eventually transpired that two innocent men were hanged by a hysterical mob; such things were common enough, for after all, this was England. Thus I made my compliments to Commissioner Pett and intimated that I would return to my ship.

‘Very well, Captain Quinton,’ said Pett, ‘guard the
Merhonour
well, sir – the last ship that my great-great-grandfather built, that she was.’ The Petts were a veritable dynasty upon the Thames and Medway; indeed, this Pett was accused at regular intervals of filling every available dockyard post with his sons, nephews, cousins, uncles and so forth. It was even said that the dockyard cats were Petts.

As I turned to leave, Pett said, almost to himself, ‘The sheer brazenness of these French, though! The one they have arrested even pretends himself to be a count of France, and yet to have served in our navy –’

I looked at Francis Gale. He looked at me.

Within minutes, and overriding Pett’s despairing protests, the great gate of Chatham yard was flung open by the gang of Merhonours who had commandeered it. Through it, on two hastily requisitioned horses, galloped the captain and chaplain of that great ship, riding in fury for the gates of Rochester.

* * *

The hanging party was already on the high, ruinous, grey curtain wall of Rochester Castle, securing the noosed ropes to the battlements. The battered ruin of a vast square keep rose to the sky behind them. Beneath, a baying mob of several hundred cried out against the Dutch, the French, the Pope, the King of Spain, the Holy Roman Emperor, and – most commonly and most violently of all – against the Earl of Clarendon. Francis and I spurred on our horses, for we now recognised the two men who were just having the nooses put round their necks atop the curtain wall.