As the day wore on and the tide turned, several of the Dutch ships took the ground, but the fire they steadfastly maintained deterred any attempt the English might make to take advantage of them. Such was the wretched situation and lack of either infantry or seamen, that the best that could be accomplished was a constant plying of the guns in the batteries. Satisfied that no landing would be made that night, Monck sent the best of his Guards to assist with the guns, and spent much of the dark hours moving between one battery and another, watching as the Medway’s oily surface prickled with the dancing reflections of an increasing conflagration. Now the dark hulks of the laid-up ships were black, back-lit by fire, row-after-row of them, the pride of England. Half a pistol-shot distant lay the flashing guns of the small Dutch frigates and armed yachts that had followed Van Barkel beyond the shattered boom while all about them moved the dark spots of Dutch pulling-boats busy about the work of destruction.
‘Where… where is the Monmouth?’ he asked, casting about and turning to the two officers. ‘Where is she?’
‘We do not know, Your Grace. These matters are outside…’
Turning his charger’s head he kicked it into a walk. ‘There is nothing further we can do, gentlemen,’ he said tonelessly, riding between his two orderly officers. ‘Nothing.’
*
‘Where is the Monmouth?’ Monck asked of the assembled company as he strode into Commissioner Pett’s dining-room at five the following morning.
‘She is safe, Your Grace, and anchored upstream,’ Pett explained.
‘Safe? Safe! And upstream?’ Monck slammed his cane down upon the table. ‘By the Lord God, that she is safe brings me no comfort, Master Pett! She was supposed to stand guard over the Royal Charles!’
Pett, Spragge, Brouncker, Middleton and Lock hung their heads, unwilling to confront the enraged Monck as he stood at the head of the table.
‘What did they do aboard the Unity, eh? One hundred and fifty fools… And what did they do from Upnor Castle, eh, but fart against the enemy’s thunder…and the Matthias set alight without a fight, likewise the Charles the Fifth…’
‘Your Grace,’ put in Spragge consolingly, ‘the Loyal London, the Royal Oak and the Royal James are undamaged…’
‘There are also sixteen other men-o’-war as yet untouched, Your Grace,’ offered Brouncker.
‘Well, that is something. Nothing further must be lost. D’you hear me? Nothing!’ Monck paused then, turning to Spragge, he added, ‘the London, the James and the Oak must be scuttled where they lie since they cannot be moved.’ Next he addressed Middleton. ‘Last night I ordered up guns from The Tower that were already at Rochester. We can move them in and reinforce all the batteries. See that Scott at Upnor has more powder and shot. My Lord Middleton, have you troops sufficient to reinforce him?’
‘Perhaps fifty men wi’ match-locks.’
‘Twenty artillerists would be better but do what you can. Send an armed party into Chatham. Seize every man and boy to help, you have my authority upon the matter and Master Lock will give it thee in writing. Now, since fate has granted us the three great ships, let us be about our business and salvage what honour we may.’
Monck leaned over the table to point at the chart. ‘Sir Edward, do you sink two of the frigates, those least likely to be of further service, here… and here…’
‘Shall I scuttle the other sixteen unhurt vessels too, Your Grace?’
‘Aye, see to it.’
The meeting dispersed as they went about their duties, energised by Monck’s plan. All that terrible day Monck toiled, riding from one gun-battery to another, placing the guns himself and directing the fields of fire each was to cover. His lack of men troubled him most, though he did what he could, detaching more of his Coldstreamers to direct the guns. Sure of himself where artillery was concerned, he left Spragge to venture afloat and move from one ship to another, exhorting the seamen and the wretched officers placed over them. He sent word across the river to encourage Sir Edward Scott in Upnor, making no reference to the pathetic showing of the previous day in the hope that the garrison commander would redeem himself.
Within hours, as the tide served, the Dutch came on again, their grounded ships refloated, their several admirals’ barges flaunting their flags as cool as if in the Texelstroom off Den Helder. By mid-morning, Dutch fire-ships were seen coming up with the tide, but on this occasion they were met with a savage fire from both sides of the river, that from the ramparts of Upnor Castle being particularly fierce. This and the presence of the additional block-ships scuttled by Spragge dissuaded the Dutch from pressing their attack above Upnor, once their primary objective had been achieved, that of setting on fire the three great battleships that sat immobile on the river’s bed. To this end they acted with a determined courage that drew Monck’s reluctant admiration.
As the Dutch withdrew, Monck, who had spent the period of the attack directing the guns on the Chatham bank, ordered several of the best-served to limber up and sent down the river’s southern bank. Accompanied by what Horse was available, the Dutch were fired upon from every vantage point as they fell downstream but with them they took their greatest prize, the Royal Charles.
She was still flying Admiraal Van Ghent’s flag, a huge Dutch ensign floating languidly over her gilded stern above the Royal Coat of Arms of King Charles II. Monck sat his horse and watched as the Dutch boats towed their booty downstream, rubbing his eyes, overwhelmed by the ferocity of his emotion. Slowly the Royal Charles, once Oliver’s great flag-ship and named for his greatest victory at Naseby, the very ship aboard which the King had been carried home from exile, disappeared from view, a prize of the Mynheers.
That evening, as word reached them that the Dutch were abandoning Sheerness fort and withdrawing from the Medway, Monck called a further meeting at Pett’s house. Exhausted from lack of sleep the previous night and the exertions of the day, he sat heavily, breaking the silence by asking: ‘Well Matthew, cast us the total losses.’
Lock cleared his throat. ‘The Royal Charles and the Unity taken. Burnt or scuttled, the Royal James, the Loyal London, the Royal Oak, the Golden Phoenix, the Vanguard, the Charles the Fifth, the Matthias, the Maria Sancta, the Marmaduke and the Leicester…’ Lock laid down the paper from which he had been reading.
‘But the Monmouth is safe,’ growled Monck. ‘Well, thanks be to Almighty God for that mercy.’ He hauled himself to his feet and went to the window that looked down over the dockyard towards the river. As if framed for his especial benefit the blackened and still burning hulk of the Royal James lay grounded, the stink of her smouldering permeating the room. Monck turned back to the men at the table.
‘I am of a mind to break my sword across my knee,’ he said heavily, lowering his head. Just then Lock, who had been called from the room, re-entered it.
‘This, by an express, just arrived, Your Grace.’ Lock handed Monck the letter. He recognised Clarendon’s hand in the superscription and tore at the seal. The King commanded Monck’s immediate return to London. The banks had closed; credit was not be had; the exchanges were paralysed; coal had risen ten-fold in price and panic was spreading. The Dutch had been in the Thames where men-of-war and merchant ships had been burnt as high as Woolwich. Even now the enemy’s fleet was anchored at the Nore and there was talk of more ships lying off Harwich.
‘There is no rest, Matthew,’ Monck said, passing the letter to Lock, ‘no rest for the weary.’
CHAPTER TEN – NEW HALL, ESSEX
Winter 1667 – Summer 1669
Anne stared from the window overlooking the formal garden that lay to the rear of New Hall. The grandeur of the great Tudor pile mocked her. Here had resided for a short while King Henry VIII; Oliver had been granted the place in recognition of his destruction of Stuart hopes at Worcester, though he had relinquished it later for Hampton Court. Now she, Nan Clarges that was, sat as the chatelaine, the farrier’s daughter now Her Grace The Duchess of Albemarle.
She sighed
and shivered. The place was cold and the frost still lay upon the shrubs and ornamental trees below her. She cast a disinterested glance at the grey December sky and wished, with an involuntary sob, that she and her husband and boy were at Potheridge. For all her ambition, in retrospect she would rather have had the gentle life of a country squire’s wife than the vain-glory of Charles’s luxurious Court. She shivered again; was she contracting a fever? She found she did not care, for her beloved George was dying. A return of the distemper which had laid him low five years earlier had returned and his physician, Doctor Thomas Skinner, held out little hope. ‘He has a dropsy against which no timely care was employed,’ Skinner had said reproachfully.
But what could she have done? Her husband had been worn to this unhappy pass by the King’s ceaseless demands and all her pleas had fallen upon deaf ears. The very thought made her angry, and she had once been such an enthusiastic Royalist!
‘Madam? Your Grace?’
Anne looked up to see Skinner approach. ‘Well, Doctor?’
Skinner shook his head. ‘I regret that he is no better, Your Grace. I fear the worst and for that we must prepare…’
‘Yes.’ She was dry-eyed. It was what she had been expecting; the inevitable.
‘Your Grace, it is cold here. I beseech thee to come into a warmer chamber. There is no sense in contracting a fever yourself.’
Skinner offered his arm and Anne rose to lean upon the young man as he led her into the solar where he left her before a crackling fire. Here Doctor Gumble found her an hour later, the fire nothing but a smoky heap of ash, unmade-up, the room chilling.
‘I did not send for you, Doctor Gumble,’ she remonstrated.
‘I know, Your Grace, but Doctor Skinner expressed his fears for you and I felt it my duty to –’
‘Do not speak to me of duty, sir,’ she said sharply. ‘Duty is even now depriving me of my husband and all the hope of happiness I have in this life.’
‘Come, come, Your Grace, you have the happiness of the hereafter to look forward to,’ Gumble said brightly. ‘His Grace is such a man as the Heavenly Kingdom awaits… His nobility, his selflessness…’
‘And what of his bad deeds, Doctor? What of them?’
‘All men – aye, and all women too – are sinners…’
‘He pulled down Clarendon.’
‘No, Your Grace, he did not do that,’ Gumble’s tone was emphatic.
‘I have heard him mumbling that it was him.’
‘Your Grace is troubled unnecessarily by the ramblings of his fevered mind to which nothing of sense should be attached. I have the truth, should you wish to hear it.’
Anne sighed. ‘If it pleases you.’
‘It pleases me to set your mind at rest, Your Grace, for you need have no apprehensions that His Grace’s conduct was anything other than that of a man of honour.’ Gumble paused, saw that the Duchess made no objection, and entered upon his sermon. ‘You are aware, of course, that after the catastrophic events of recent months an explanation was necessary both to the King and Privy Council, but also to Parliament. Both His Grace and His Highness Prince Rupert fully justified their conduct at sea, His Highness pleading most eloquently that had the Duke of York and My Lord Sandwich better pursued the Dutch fleet after the Lowestoft fight, the conditions for further prosecuting the war would be deprived the Dutch. That matter passed with the thanks of Parliament being heaped upon the two, Rupert and your husband.
‘As for the fiasco in the Medway, His Grace was cleared of any wrong-doing, it being established that he had accomplished all that could be done given the parlous situation there prevailing. Blame was laid upon Commissioner Pett for his gross and prolonged neglect, of his seeking to mislead His Highness The Duke of York as Lord Admiral as to how matters truthfully stood. As for the lack of funds by which mean things might have been the better prepared, the chief culprit in this was the Earl of Clarendon –’
‘But ’twas not true,’ interrupted Anne. ‘Funds were drawn off improperly by sundry persons, not the Earl of Clarendon, this I know for my husband told me this himself. He was outraged that blame should be imputed where it was unjust…’
‘Just so, Your Grace. Your husband being who he is would thus react, and in all the truth of it. No, no, the notion that the Earl was the cause was a calumny, a wicked calumny, for Clarendon was, likewise was your husband, critical of the King’s morals. Both men were the targets of a vicious plot hatched by Milady Castlemaine but which gained support from and was maintained by others, chiefly for gravitas Sir Edward Conway who found in the fall of Clarendon some advantage for himself. As His Grace tells the story it was laid to the charge of the Duke of York to dismiss Clarendon…’
‘His very own father-in-law…’
‘To keep it within the family, so to speak, and to advise him into timely exile, but His Highness developed a smallpox and the task was laid upon His Grace who, in discharging it, purged himself of any taint. That was the element of the affair which vexed your husband and, very likely, brought on this resumption of his former disease.’
Anne sat for a long moment before emitting a long sigh. ‘Thus do great men fall…’
‘If Clarendon was great…’
‘I meant my husband, Doctor.’
‘Your Grace, your husband has not fallen. Even should he die under this present disadvantage, he lies in the happiest opinion of his Sovereign and with all the obligations of a grateful nation.’
‘You do not see the world with a woman’s eyes, Doctor Gumble. ’Twas ever a man’s fault.’
To break the awkward silence that now fell between them, Gumble offered to have a maid sent to make up the fire.
‘No, no, sir. The cost of it is not to be borne. I shall go and sit with him.’
Gumble rose as the Duchess got to her feet, holding the door for her. Then he looked at the cold grate and shook his head. ‘This is parsimony taken unto madness,’ he murmured to himself, following his mistress.
In the great man’s bed-chamber Anne settled beside Monck’s bed while Gumble, seeing that there was nothing more wanted, made his bow and withdrew.
Anne regarded Monck with great tenderness. His immense trunk was propped almost upright by a bank of pillows to ease his breathing, which came labouring out of his wheezing chest. She took his hand and gently squeezed it so that he opened his eyes.
‘I do not sleep, Anne.’
‘You should try,’ she said kindly.
‘Why? I have the whole of eternity for that. I can just see the trees from here and think the drive would benefit from an avenue of limes such as we tried at Dalkeith… What do you think, Nan?’
‘I think that an excellent idea, George. You shall do it in the spring, perhaps.’
‘And if I do not live to do it, you shall, or order Kit to see to it.’ He smiled, ‘even if it were my last wish, eh?’
‘Please, George.’
They remained silent for several minutes, then Monck stirred and said, ‘I was thinking of that fellow Pepys.’
‘Who?’
‘Pepys; a clerk at the Navy Board or the Admiralty. D’you not mind him? He dined with us upon occasion, a conceited fellow full of his own merits and blind to those in others, chiefly me…’ Monck chuckled to himself, a noise emitted more like a rusty cackle than any expression of amusement. He coughed and Anne wiped his mouth clear of spittle. When he had regained his breath he resumed his tale. ‘I met him in the Strand at the time of Clarendon’s dismissal. It was a time when all connected with the business of the Navy were anxious of imputations of misdoings and malfeasances. I could read worry all over Master Pepys’s smooth countenance and I ventured a pass at him which struck home. “Good day to you, Master Pepys,” says I, to be met with an obsequious reciprocation in which there was a good deal of “Your Grace this and Your Grace that,” and “is Your Grace in good health which is that which I most earnestly desire in these trying times, Your Grace.” There was a good deal more too tedious to relate
but by which I judged that he had learned I at least was cleared of all such accusations that might yet fall about his neck as a hangman’s noose. So, says I - for there was something reminiscent of Master Peter Pett, the Chatham Commissioner – so says I: “I hope, Master Pepys, thou hast carried into the country all your plate and monies,” at which point the poor fellow’s face grows as pallid as a bed-sheet and he staggers so that I thought he might faint. Next he mutters: “How dost Your Grace know…” then realising he had confessed and to a man whose wits he thinks inferior to his own, puts his hand to his mouth and stares at me like a bullock awaiting the axe! Ha! Ha!’ Monck’s croaking laugh brought on another fit of coughing which in turn caused Anne to plead for him to speak no more.
But Monck would have none of it, for the yarn was too good to abandon and must be brought to its conclusion. He waved her concern aside. ‘The best bit is yet to be told, Anne… yes, yes, for I had had a day at the Council board and was tired of politicking. So, seeing Master Pepys’s extreme discomfiture, I replied to his query. “Master Pepys,” says I, “I know that thou thinks me a dim wit and, besides, regard me as any young man might an old one, but thou forgets that I know a knave when I see one and have had intelligencers inform me of a great deal. Remember, sir, who ruled Scotland under Oliver…’ Monck paused, turned his head and stared at Anne, as if expecting some reaction.
‘I do not see…’ she began, confused, unable to laugh with her dying husband.
‘Anne, Anne, it showed I had not lost my wits then, nor have I now by this acute remembrance, for all that this damnable illness seeks to enfeeble my brain…’
His head fell back upon the pillows and he closed his eyes and presently his even breathing told her that he slept at last.
*
But just as before, though he lay a-bed sick for many weeks, Monck confounded all expectations and did not die. With the onset of spring, his disease abated and he would rise for an hour or two in the afternoons and see his steward, giving the man orders for the betterment of his estate. From time-to-time, Tom Clarges and Will Morice would pay their kinsfolk a visit and the talk would swirl about the table of politics, of the King’s plethora of mistresses, of York’s Popery endangering the succession, and the King’s secret inclination towards it. They talked, too, of Potheridge and of the works in hand there, leading Monck to say that thither he would go the moment he could travel, for the sight of the Torridge in summer sunshine would restore any man to health, no matter what the ravages of his disease.
Sword of State: The Wielding Page 24