Gentleman Captain by J. D. Davies

just as able to fight for old England, whatever name she bears, and the same's true of the likes of me. But no. These days, it's all to do with who you know–who you know about the king, that is. Now, your brother, for instance. My lord of Ravensden is reputed to be one of the king's oldest and closest friends, I understand.'
    'My brother has had the honour of serving His Majesty these fifteen years or more,' I said, 'since they first were in exile together.'
    'Quite so, my dear Matthew. And no doubt your noble brother would have considerable interest with His Majesty, shall we say, when it comes to the weight of his recommendations?'
    And so it went on, Judge trying with little subtlety to recruit the beneficence of the House of Quinton for the advancement of his career. He was interested in my brother-in-law Venner Garvey's connections with some of the great Parliament-men. He was fascinated by my anecdotes of the king (he roared at the story of the shitting dog) and the Duke of York. An hour or more passed in this way, as I tried to fend off Judge without insulting his sumptuous hospitality.
    All this time, Nathan Warrender sat a little way apart, looking glum. During a momentary pause in Judge's endless stream of obsequiousness, I seized the chance to draw his lieutenant into the conversation. 'You were captain of a ship before this, Mister Warrender?'
    I knew that the reduction in the fleet following our peace with the Dutch and Spanish had driven many good captains to take employment in lesser ranks. Some of my fellow Cavaliers, young men like me, found themselves in command of lieutenants, masters, and boatswains twice their age; bluff old Republic-men who had captained great ships in the Dutch war. One of the stories that did the rounds of the London coffee houses held it as gospel truth that the captain who had killed the mighty Admiral Van Tromp was now the cook of a Fourth Rate, and turned out the worst beef stew in the navy.
    Warrender seemed uncomfortable. 'No, sir. I was a captain in the army. The New Model Army.'
    Judge said, 'Warrender, here, was one of the army men brought into the navy by Generals Blake and Deane, to teach us sailors how to fire our guns straight. And to bring us good, tough army discipline, of course.'
    That would explain Warrender's attendants, I thought: former troopers, probably, taken to sea as his servants by their old officer, to give them some employment and keep them out of the gutters, where so many of them had ended up.
    'So you were an artillery captain, Mister Warrender?' I asked.
    'No, sir, not at first. In the early days, I commanded in the cavalry.'
    A chill on my neck, an instinct, call it what you will, impelled me to ask, 'Were you at Naseby field, Captain Warrender?'
    For the first time, Nathan Warrender looked me in the eye. 'Aye, I was, Captain Quinton.' He paused, seemingly wondering whether to say more. Finally, he made his decision, and went on. 'I was on our left flank–on the Parliament army's left flank, that is, under General Ireton. I faced Prince Rupert's charge, sir. The finest sight I ever saw. Irresistible, they were, with great feathers in their hats all blown by the breeze. Down past Okey's dragoons they rode, ignoring the fire from that flank. When they hit us, it was like being struck by a galloping wall. We stood no chance, none at all.'
    As though in a waking dream, I said, 'My father died in that charge, Captain Warrender.'
    'I know he did, sir. I saw him die.'
    There was a profound and awful silence. I saw Judge's face, and it was unreadable.
    'He died well, your father,' said Warrender, at length. 'One of the bravest things I ever saw in my life. If the rest of Rupert's men had followed him, not their wastrel prince, your side would have won the war that day, Captain.'
    It was no longer considered seemly in polite circles to mention the war, or to talk of 'your side' or 'our side'–at least, not in polite circles containing a mixture of