Try as he might, Pepys could not grasp why the Duke of York—Lord High Admiral of England—and Downing were so blithe about the prospect of another war with Holland. Surely they knew that England’s Navy was not ready. Again and again, to the point of becoming a nuisance, Pepys had sought to convince them of this inconvenient yet insistent truth.
Downing was now back in London, having come from The Hague to confer with the Duke. Pepys decided that he must confront him. He felt more comfortable presenting his case to him rather than to the King’s brother. The Clerk of the Acts briskly made his way to Downing’s house in Whitehall.
Lord Downing was not in. His secretary, Flott, told Pepys that his lordship would return shortly. Pepys and Flott were old acquaintances and enjoyed trading morsels of gossip, especially concerning court amours.
They were both fascinated by—and not a little infatuated with—Lady Castlemaine, King Charles’s favorite mistress. She’d now borne him five bastards (some said six). Indeed, she was so fecund the King had installed nurseries for the litter of royal illegitimates at Whitehall Palace. This arrangement did not bring unbridled joy to the Queen, Catherine of Braganza. And now word had it that Lady Castlemaine had secretly become a Catholic. Pepys and Flott discussed this development with greatest relish. At least this should please the devoutly Catholic queen!
Flott pressed Pepys to reveal what he knew about the current subject of titillation—Lord Sandwich’s flagrant delictoes with Mrs. Becke of Chelsey.
Pepys trod carefully on this tricky ground. Sir Edward Montagu, First Earl Sandwich, Lieutenant Admiral in the Royal Navy, was Pepys’s cousin and great patron. But everyone, down to the lowest charwoman and dogsbody in London, knew about Sandwich’s carryings-on with Mrs. Becke. Pepys thought her entirely unsuitable as a mistress for a man as eminent as his cousin. He privately referred to her as “the Chelsey trollop.” He’d remonstrated with Sandwich, not only for his infidelity to his wife, Lady Jemima, whom Pepys loved, but also for risking his reputation and career in the Navy. Pepys’s concern was not entirely disinterested: if Sandwich’s ship went down in a gale of scandal, Pepys could sink with it.
Sam could hardly claim any moral high ground. Marital fidelity was not among his virtues. After a bout of wenching, he would express remorse to his diary, swearing never again to succumb to temptation. And invariably would yield to the next temptation to come along. Expressing remorse to his diary at least provided a simulacrum of repentance. It was something, anyway.
Pepys was not yet aware of another element at play here. Years later, after a particularly stormy marital battle, his wife would inform him that Sandwich had asked her to be his mistress. One can only imagine his lordship’s innermost thoughts when Pepys showed up to berate him for his carnality with Mrs. Becke.
Was it true, Flott asked Sam, that the Chelsey trollop had given his lordship the clap?
Eager to change the subject, Pepys pretended he knew nothing about that unhappy subject. Meanwhile, he remarked that he was surprised Lord Downing had not asked him to do any ciphering for him recently. Pepys enjoyed working at “character”—that is, devising private codes for confidential messages. He told Flott that he felt a bit put out at not having been asked. Had his skill at character been eclipsed by someone else?
Flott replied that he, too, was surprised that Lord Downing hadn’t called on Pepys, for in recent weeks, his lordship had dispatched so many ciphered messages that, “all collected, they would surpass in number the pages of King James’s Bible.”
Pepys was speechless. Why hadn’t Downing called on him?
It could only be that Downing didn’t want Pepys to know about whatever it was. Which meant that whatever it was must concern the Navy. But why, Pepys asked himself, keep a Navy matter secret from the Clerk of the Acts of . . . the Navy—the person most responsible for naval preparedness?
What Navy matter could Downing be keeping from him? Pepys mentally reviewed the roster. He knew the location of every anchored or docked ship in the Navy—not that there were many.
There was Colonel Nicholls, commander of a British force, and his squadron of four ships at Portsmouth, preparing to sail in May for Boston. This was a peaceful undertaking, an administrative review of the New England colonies. The mission itself wasn’t secret, so there would have been no need for a blizzard of ciphered messages. Downing had even alerted the West India Company in Amsterdam about it, so that there would be no misunderstanding should Nicholls’s squadron wander into Dutch waters near New England. Downing even proposed to them that Nicholls pay a courtesy call at New Amsterdam. A gesture of goodwill would go far, at a time of such great tension between the two nations.
Musing on the Nicholls squadron reminded Pepys that he meant to ask Nicholls to inquire after Balty. And to give him letters for Balty from his sister and wife, who’d both been in a swivet since he’d left. How they fretted over their Balty! But how peaceful it had been without Balty barging into Pepys’s office every day, sniffing about for a sinecure or another “loan.”
A bustle approached: the clack of heels on parquet.
“Ah, Mr. Pep-iss.”
“Suivez, suivez.”
Pepys followed Downing into his chambers.
Downing spoke with a distracted air. “Haven’t seen you about, Sam. Where have you been lurking?”
“At the ropeyard, testing hemp. And Waltham Forest, supervising the hewing of timber. And dealing with cheating flag makers.”
“Ah. I trust you made an example of the flag makers.”
“I had them whipped.”
Downing frowned. “I call that lenient. Symbolic things, flags. Sends a bad signal. I’d have had a hand taken off. At least a thumb.”
“I agree. But removing their hands and thumbs would only encumber their stitching.” Enough badinage, Pepys thought. “I wonder, my lord, if we might have a tête-à-tête, vis-à-vis Holland?”
“Holland,” Downing groaned theatrically. “Mr. Pep-iss, I begin to think that Holland is the only thing in your tête.”
“I assure your lordship that it is not my intent to inflict tedium. I merely—”
“Yes, Sam, you merely worry that we are rushing pell-mell into a war for which we are inadequately equipped. Et cetera, et cetera. Your concern has not gone unnoticed. How could it have, it being your only conversation these days.”
Pepys bowed. “Yet again, I marvel at my lord’s ability to distill the quiddity of any matter at hand.”
“As I delight, yet again, in our tête-à-têtes. Do come and see us again. Soon.”
Pepys lingered, unwilling to quit the field. “As I find myself here, is my lord in need of any service? Ciphering?”
“Not at the moment.”
Pepys knew not to press. As a spymaster, Downing would be suspicious if he did. And he must not reveal to Downing what Flott had told him about the recent torrent of ciphered messages. Still, he was reluctant to leave it at this.
“I’m to Portsmouth next week,” Pepys said casually.
“Um. To complete the victualing of Colonel Nicholls’s squadron.”
“Yes? Good.”
Downing was reading, barely listening. Pepys probed for an opening: “I have letters for him to convey to our Mr. St. Michel.”
“Who?”
“My brother-in-law. He whom you dispatched to New England. To arrest the regicides Whalley and Goffe.”
Downing looked up from his desk. “Ah, yes. Our intrepid judge hunter. I’d forgotten him. Any word?”
“No. But it occurs to me that Colonel Nicholls’s mission, his administrative review of the colonies, might intersect with Mr. St. Michel’s undertaking.”
“Intersect?” A flicker of interest.
“Perhaps Mr. St. Michel may have found something of interest to Colonel Nicholls.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think. Anyway, your formidable brother-in-law’s mission is to make a nuisance of himself in New Haven. You did avouch that being a nuisance was his great facility.”
“Yes. No doubt he’s vexed them to the point of making them want to move to New Netherland.”
“No, no,” Downing said, suddenly stern. “We can’t have that.”
“I spoke in jest. Why?”
“New Englanders forging alliances with New Netherlanders? No good could come of that. We’ve had a report that some of the New Haveners, chafing under Connecticut rule, are making plans for a new settlement. New Ark, they’re calling it. Better that they remain in Connecticut, where we can keep a eye on them, rather than having them go making common cause with Peter Stuyvesant.”
“In that case,” Pepys said, “I shall instruct my brother-in-law not to annoy them so greatly as to drive them into the arms of the cheese makers.” Pepys bowed. “To Portsmouth, then. If your lordship has any dispatches for Colonel Nicholls, I should be glad to convey them.”
“It’s no trouble. I am going there, myself.” Pepys smiled. “No task in his majesty’s service can be considered menial.”
“Accommodating of you. Very well. Come back tomorrow morning. Flott will give you a packet for Nicholls.”