Gentleman Captain Read Online Free Page A

eightieth birthday by Van Dyck himself was mounted on the east wall of the great hall, directly behind the countess's chair, so that she could eat without ever looking on the old man's face. There he was, arms akimbo and in a breastplate, attempting to look forty years younger and failing utterly, thanks to his own vanity in employing the greatest artist of the day, an artist who caught unerringly every line and wrinkle: this man who had sailed the seas with the likes of Drake, Hawkins and Raleigh, the darling of the London mob, who had won the heart of the great Queen Bess herself, and whose legend had been drummed in to me throughout my childhood years.
    My mother, who had done none of the drumming, drew in her breath, and said, 'Matthew's grandfather was a
mere pirate
–he nearly bankrupted and destroyed the House of Quinton with his lunatic schemes—'
    Cornelia interrupted bravely. 'My lady, Barcock is beckoning. The rhubarb fool, I think.'
    The dowager countess recollected herself. It did not do to tell tales to the servants of their social superiors, even a long-dead one whom Samuel Barcock had served for forty years, and whom he had heartily detested as a dissolute, godless rake. As the uncomfortably liquid rhubarb fool was served, I endeavoured to deflect Cornelis onto safer ground.
    'The king seeks to put behind us all the quarrels of the late unhappy times, brother. Our past differences are forgotten, and not to be brought to mind. Reconciliation is our watchword, now–Cavaliers and Roundheads, all serving together, all loyal to king and England.' My mother sniffed in disapproval, but, kings being infallible in her eyes, it was just possible that her displeasure was directed at the rhubarb fool, and not at Charles the Second. 'Of course, some of those who served under Cromwell and the rest have been condemned—'
    'The regicides, may they rot in hell for signing the death warrant of the blessed royal martyr,' said my mother, straying dangerously close to bringing up her two greatest hates in the space of one dessert course.
    'And justly executed, of course,' I said smoothly, bowing to my mother. 'But the king owes his throne to the likes of Montagu and General Monck, now the Duke of Albemarle. You remember how it was, brother.'
    Vivid in my mind was the garret room in the van der Eide house in Veere, on an April day almost exactly two years before. Cornelia lay asleep in bed alongside me, as naked as a Rubens model, her long brown hair spilling wantonly over the pillow. There was no rush to stir. There never was, for the penniless younger brother of an exiled traitor. Then the deepest bell of the Grote Kerk in Veere had begun to toll, slowly at first, then steadily faster. Guns fired from some of the ships further down the Veerse Meer, then from some of those in the harbour. As the distant cheering started to draw nearer, along the quay beneath our window, I got up and pulled on my breeches. The crowd was running, and shouting, and dancing, English, Scots, Irish and Dutch all riotously happy together. Cornelia awoke, pulled the sheets around herself and joined me at the window. I recognized a few of our fellow exiles. There was Sir Peter Harcourt, worth two thousand a year before the wars, pouring small beer over his dirty face and the rags of his last shirt. Old Stallard, who had once been a cathedral dean and was brother to a viscount, was pulling a protesting tavern wench into an alley, lifting her skirts exultantly. I cried out for the news, but no one could hear. The mob spilled past, some towards the church, others towards the Campveer Tower at the water's edge. Then I saw Cornelis. His ship was at the quay, almost beneath our window, the outermost of three van der Eide vessels readying themselves for a voyage to the Levant. He was in the bow, seemingly attending to a problem in the rigging. He cupped his hands and called out to us.
    'Your English Parliament has voted to recall your king,