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We would strike the rocks, the ship would break apart, and we would alldrown. Of this, I was certain. His Majesty’s ship theHappy Restorationwas beating up to Kinsaleharbour, into the teeth of a hard northerly gale that had blown up withsudden, unforgiving fury. We had weathered the Old Head, somehowavoided smashing ourselves to pieces on Hake Head, and were nowedging toward the chops of the harbour mouth itself. Vast seas drovethe ship every way at once, the timbers screaming against the watersthat sought to tear them apart. On the quarterdeck, we three men tried desperately to keep our feet,clinging to whatever stood fast, fighting the bitter and freezing Irishrain that drove straight into our faces. There was the ship’s master, JohnAldred, splendidly confident in his ability to bring us safe to anchor, asdrunk as Bacchus after a rough night in Southwark. There was the bestof his master’s mates, Kit Farrell, my own age, watching the shore andthe sails and the rigging with a strange dread in his eyes. And there stoodI, or tried to stand, clinging desperately to a part of the ship I couldscarce, in my fright and inexperience, have named if called upon to doso. Matthew Quinton, aged twenty-one, captain of his Majesty’s ship.Strange as it sounds, the prospect of my imminent demise was almostless dreadful to me than the prospect of surviving. Survival would meanhaving to report to my superiors that we had spectacularly missed ourrendezvous with the Virginia and Barbados merchant fleets, which wewere meant to escort to the Downs in that year of grace 1661. Theywere probably still out in the endless ocean, or sunk by the weather, orthe French, or the Spanish, or the Dutch, or the corsairs, or the ghostof Barbarossa. A torrent of spray ended my aimless reflections in time for me to hearAldred’s latest pronouncement. ‘Be not afraid, Captain! Plenty of searoom, if we tack but shortly. Th is breeze will die from the west as fast asit sprang up, as God is my judge.’ Aldred’s eyes were glazed, not from the salt spray that stung us mercilessly,but from too much victualler’s ale and bad port wine. Kit Farrellmoved behind him, braced himself against a huge wave, reached me andshouted above the roar of the sea, ‘Captain, he’s mistaken – if we try totack now, we’ll strike on the rocks for certain – we shouldn’t have had somuch sail still aloft, not even in the wind as it was . . .’ But the tempest relented as he spoke, just a little, and a shout thatAldred would never have heard before now carried to his ears as clear asday. The old man turned and glowered at Farrell. ‘Damn, Master Farrell, and what do you know of it?’ he cried. ‘Howmany times have you brought ships home into Kinsale haven, in far worsethan this?’ We would have thePrince Royalnext, I feared. ‘Don’t you knowI first went to sea on thePrince Royal,back in the year Thirteen, taking thePrincess Elizabeth over to Holland for her marriage? Near fifty years ago,Mister Farrell!’ And next it would be Drake. ‘Don’t you know I learned mytrade under men who’d sailed with Drake? Drake himself!’ And last wouldcome the Armada: Aldred’s drunken litany of self-regard was almost aspredictable as dusk succeeding dawn. ‘Blood of Christ, I’ve messed withmen who were in the Armada fight. So damn me, Master Farrell, I knowmy business! I know the pilotage of Kinsale better than most men alive,I know how to bring us through a mere lively breeze like this, and Godstrike me down if I don’t!’ And as an afterthought, as the wind and thespray rose once more, he leaned over to me, gave me a full measure ofbeer-vapour breath, and said, ‘Begging your pardon, Captain Quinton.’ I was too fearful to give any sort of pardon, or to remind Aldredyet again that my grandfather had also fought the Armada, and sailedwith Drake to boot. Drake was the most vain and obnoxious man heever knew, my grandfather said.After himself, that is,my mother wouldalways add. The ever-strengthening wind struck us in full force once more,snatching a man off the cross-beam that those who knew of such thingscalled the foretopsail yard. He flailed his arms against the mighty gale,and for the briefest of moments it looked as though he had fulfilled thedream of the ancients, and achieved flight. Then the wind drove himinto the next great wave bearing down on us, and he was gone. All thewhile, Farrell and Aldred traded insults about reefs and courses, ironsand stays, all of it the language of the Moon to my ears. Kit Farrell started to rage. ‘Damn yourself to hell, Aldred, you’ll killus all!’ He turned to me. ‘Captain, for God’s sake, order him to bearaway! We’ve too little sea room, for all of Aldred’s bluster. If we bradeup close all our sails and lie at try with our main course, then we canrun back into open sea, or make along the coast for the Cove of Cork orMilford. Easier harbours in a northerly, Captain!’ Uncertainty covered me like a shroud. ‘Our orders are for Kinsale—’ ‘Sir, not at the risk of endangering the ship!’ Still I hesitated. Aldred began to snap his orders through a speakingtrumpet. After eight months at sea, four of them in command of thisship, I was now vaguely aware of the theory and practice of tacking. Iremembered Aldred’s tipsy and relatively patient explanation.No shipcan sail right into the wind, Captain, nor more than six points on either sideof it. To go towards the wind, you must sail on diagonals. Like a comb, sir,like the teeth of a comb. Make your way up the teeth to the head of the comb.I had seen it done often enough, but never in wind that came straightfrom the flatulence of hell’s own bowels. Kit Farrell watched the men on the masts and the yards as theybattled equally with those few of our sails that were not yet reefed, asthey said, and to preserve themselves from the fate of their shipmate,our Icarus. Between the huge waves that struck me and pulled me andblinded me and knocked the breath out of me, I looked on helplesslyat the activity about the ship. I could see only sodden men taking inand letting out sodden canvas in a random fashion. Farrell, bred atsea since he was nine, saw a different scene. ‘Too slow, Captain – thewind’s come on too strong, and too fast – too many raw men, toomuch sail aloft even for a better crew to take in or reef in time – andthe ship’s too old, too crank—’ The spray and rain eased for a moment. I saw the black shore ofCounty Cork, so much closer than it had been a minute before. Wavesthat were suddenly as high as our masts broke themselves on the rockswith a dreadful roaring. I ran my hand through my drenched andthinning hair, for both hat and periwig were long lost to the wind. Aldred was slurring a mixture of oaths and orders, the former rapidlyoutweighing the latter. Farrell turned to me again, his face redfrom whip-lashes of rain. ‘Captain, we’ll strike for sure – we can’tmake the tack, not now – order him to bear away, sir, in the name ofdear heaven—’ I opened my mouth, and closed it. I was captain, and could overrulethe master. But I knew next to nothing of the sea. The master controlledthe movement of the ship and set its course. John Aldred was oneof the most experienced masters in the navy. I knew nothing; I wasa captain but four months. But John Aldred was a deluded drunk,lying unconscious in his cabin long after this sudden storm blew up.I knew nothing, but I was a gentleman. John Aldred was old, withbad eyes even when sober. I knew nothing, but I was an earl’s brother.I was born to command. I was the captain. Farrell’s eyes were onme, begging, imploring. I knew nothing, but I was the captain of theHappy Restoration. I opened my mouth again, ready to order Aldred to bear away as Kithad told me. ‘Mister Ald—’ I began, but got no further. A great wave more monstrous than all that had gone before smashedover the side. I shut my mouth a fraction too late, and what seemed agallon or more of salt water coursed down my throat. My height toldagainst me, for a shorter man would have been able to brace himselfbetter. The ship rolled, I lost my footing and slid across the deck on myback. Farrell pulled me up, but my senses were gone for moments. Icoughed up sea water, then vomited. I heard Farrell say, very quietly, ‘It’stoo late, Captain. We’re dead men.’ As I retched again, I opened my eyes. The men high on the yardswere climbing down with all of God’s speed – and falling, too, I sawwith horror. The few sails we still had spread were loose, mere ragsblowing free on strings. Aldred was clinging to the rail, staring at theshore. He was mouthing something, but I could hear barely anythingabove the roar of wind and the awful crashing of water on rock. Farrelltook hold of me again, and as I lurched forward through the gale, Imade out Aldred’s words. ‘Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me;for my bones are vexed . . .’ The sixth psalm of David. The old wordswere a comfort, now, at what I knew was the moment of my death,and I found myself mouthing them with Aldred, unheard above thethunder of the seas that gathered at last to crush us.For in death thereis no remembrance of thee: in the grave who shall give thee thanks? I amweary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water mycouch with my tears. Mine eye is consumed because of grief . . . A vast wave struck our right broadside and turned the ship almostover, driving the hull across the water. We must have ridden up onto agreat submerged rock, for our frames roared their agony, and I saw thedeals of the deck begin to tear apart as our back broke. The foremastsprang with a loud crack. The force of the water and the impact ofour grounding threw Aldred across into the nearest mast, the one thatseamen call the mizzen, which folded him like paper around itself,crushing his innards and backbone as it did so. I saw one of his mates,Worsley, take the full weight of a cannon that had not been lashedsecure, driving him off the deck and to his maker. I saw these things inwhat I knew to be my last moments, as my feet left the deck and I feltonly water, and wind, and then water. The old mariners on Blackwall shore will tell you that drowning mensee their whole lives flash before them, and see the souls of all the drownedsailors of the earth coming up to meet them, no doubt as Drake’s Drumbeats out its phantom galliard to welcome them to the shore beyond.That day, as theHappy Restorationdied, I learned more of drowning thanmost men. I heard no drum, saw no souls swimming to meet me, and thepathetic apology that was my twenty-one years of life did not flash beforeme. There was only the most unbearable noise, worse than the greatestbroadside in the greatest battle, and the screaming of my chest as it foughtfor just one more breath. Then there was the face and horn of a unicorn,and I knew that I was dead. ‘Take hold, Captain – God in heaven, sir, take hold!’I opened my eyes again, and the unicorn bent upon me the unfalteringstare that only a creature of the dumbest wood can give. Kit Farrellwas holding me fast, his other arm taut around the head of a woodenlion. Between us lay the harp of Ireland, the fleurs-de-lis of France, thelion rampant of Scotland and the lions passant of England. It was oursternpiece. Somehow, the proud wooden emblem of our country hadbroken free from the ship, and become our raft. Somehow – by a miracleof wind and tide or Farrell’s kicks into the sea – we had come into a poolbetween two great rocks and wedged there, safe from the worst blasts ofthe storm. I swallowed air as if it were ambrosia, and gripped my unicorn withall my strength. I looked at Farrell. He was looking beyond me, so Iturned, and saw a sight that is with me to this day, as vivid as it was atthat very moment. My last sight of my first command was her bow. It reared into the air,and a great wave pushed it higher still, pushed it toward the heavens. Ournew figurehead, the crown and oak laurels, was suddenly clear against thesun in the west, as the gale blew itself out and the sky began to brighten.Then the last great gusts blew the bow onto the western shore, where itshattered like so much kindling. A moment before, I saw dark shapestrying to crawl like ants up the deck, up towards our figurehead. Thestrike against the rock threw some into the sea, some against the teeth ofthe shore. The last of our men were gone. His Majesty’s ship theHappyRestoration,formerly theLord Protector,was gone. I see that sight in my dreams, all these distant years later, as vivid nowas it was that October day. I still see the sight, and I still reckon the cost.Upwards of one hundred souls, drowned or broken on the rocks. Godknows how many widows made, and orphans cast onto the streets. Alldamned to oblivion by my ignorance, indecision, and pride.Some hours afterwards, we were sitting on stools and swathed in blanketsin front of a blazing fire. We were in a barracks room of the oldJames Fort, on the west side of Kinsale harbour. There were twenty ninesurvivors from the wreck of theHappy Restoration.Kit Farrell andI were the only officers. The Governor of Kinsale had been attentiveand sympathetic, sending over bowls of broth and jugs of a fiery Irishdrink, both of which burned the throat in equally harsh measure. Butthe victuals served their purpose, and slowly, feeling returned to limbs,my cheeks began to flush, and I finally rediscovered my tongue. I drew breath. ‘Mister Farrell,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ Perhaps I should have said more. This man my own age had savedmy life, perhaps saved far more than he would ever know: the fateof an earldom, at the very least. But my throat and lungs were sorefrom the storm, the seawater, and the governor’s largesse, and I hadno breath for speeches. Nor in truth could I face unburdening myselfto another at that moment, for God knows what depths of anguishand guilt might have spilled forth. Kit Farrell seemed to know this.He pulled himself a little higher on his stool. Struggling to speak, justas I had, he said, ‘It was the sternpiece, sir. It was carried away by thesame wave that swept us from the deck.’ Then he smiled, the proof of asmall private joke, and said, ‘Brazen incompetents, Captain. Corruptas a Roman cardinal. Old treenails, probably, so they could take thenew ones bought for the job down to Southwark market and sell them.Deptford shipwrights, sir. Villains to a man. Deptford yard refittedher when the king came back, and they took down Noll Cromwell’sarms and put up the king’s.’ I took another measure of the increasingly attractive Irish drink. ‘Sothey cheated when they fastened the sternpiece?’ ‘And much else on that curse of a ship, for it to break apart as it did,but they saved our lives by doing so. God bless them, Captain Quinton.’ ‘God bless you, Mister Farrell. But for you, I’d never have caughthold, and never seen this world again.’ I thought of my wife and allthat I had so nearly lost. I thought upon the scores of men who hadperished. I felt an uncontrollable pain; not a wound, but something inmy gut and throat that began to swell and tighten. I fought back myshame, forced myself to look my saviour in the eye. Then I raised mycup to him. ‘My brother is an earl, and friend to the king,’ I said, awkwardly. Thiswas entirely true. ‘We are a rich family, one of the richest in England.’This was entirely untrue, though once, things had been different. ‘I oweyou my life, Mister Farrell. We Quintons, we’ve always been men ofhonour. It’s lifeblood to us. I am in your debt, and my honour demandsthat I repay you.’ He was probably as embarrassed at having to listen to this appallingpomposity as I was in uttering it. A man of my own rank would have calledme a fool, or boxed me about the head. But a man of Kit Farrell’s rankwould have known nothing of gentlemanly honour, although evidently heknew enough of sympathy and discretion. He sat silently for some minutes,gazing into the fire. Then he turned his head towards me and said, ‘Onething I would like, sir. One thing above all others.’ ‘Name it, if it’s in my power.’ ‘Captain, I can’t read or write. I see men like yourself taking pleasurefrom books, and I’d like to know that world. I see that writing makesmen better themselves. Reading and writing, they’re the key to all. I lookaround me, sir, and I see men must have them these days if they’re toadvance in life, be it in the king’s navy or any other way of this world.Knowing words gives men power, so it seems to me. But I’ve neverfound anyone willing to teach me, sir.’ I had a sudden memory of my old schoolmaster at Bedford – Mervyn,the meanest sort of little Welsh pedant – and wondered what he wouldhave made of his worst pupil turning teacher. Then I thought of othermen, of my father and grandfather, and in that moment I knew whatthey would have me say. ‘I’ll teach you reading and writing, MisterFarrell. Gladly. It’s the smallest of prices for my life, so I should notask anything else from you in return.’ I retched up more Irish salt sea,and something grey and indescribable. I reached for the governor’sfire-liquid and burned away the taste. ‘But there’s something I’d haveyou teach me, too.’ ‘Captain?’ ‘Teach me the sea, Mister Farrell. Tell me the names of the ropes,and the ways to steer a course. Teach me of the sun and the stars, andthe currents, and the oceans. Teach me how to be a proper captain fora king’s ship.’ I held out my hand to Kit Farrell. After a moment, he took it, andwe shook.