‘Indeed he did, your Grace,’ Faulkner said, finding that he could laugh at the imposition in Honest George’s company.
‘One sometimes wishes more could share the burden of service to the state,’ Albemarle remarked. He was in confidential mood. ‘It seems sometimes that it falls hard upon the shoulders of a few men while others openly offer their wives and lay them before his Majesty’s ever-quivering sceptre. That rogue Palmer, for example, who is to become Lord Cleveland and that whore of a wife – the Villiers woman – will be his Duchess! Pah!’
‘True,’ Faulkner said, grinning, ‘but there are those poor seamen who bear a heavier load …’
‘And their families, who bear the heaviest.’ Albemarle sighed again, then bestirred himself. ‘Come, Sir Kit, we had better be about our business or we shall both be hanged for treason. Who’s your first lieutenant in Albion?’
‘Septimus Clarke, your Grace.’
‘Clarke, Clarke …? No, I do not know him. Is he a good fellow?’
‘He seems so. I have made his acquaintance before. He was with Sackler in the Blackamoor when we brought the Regicides out of Holland.’
‘I would ask you to dine with me but these orders …’ He gestured at the papers on his desk.
‘Not at all, Your Grace, I have my own preparations.’
‘The tide turns to the north at first light; I shall give the signal to weigh then.’
Faulkner put on his cloak and picked up his hat. ‘Your servant, Your Grace.’
As if on cue there came a knock at the cabin door and the admiral’s secretary peeped anxiously into the great cabin. Albemarle beckoned him inside. Albemarle and Faulkner exchanged glances. ‘You have the knack of timing, Sir Christopher,’ Albemarle said grimly. ‘Until we shake hands again here, or in Hell!’
As Faulkner stepped out onto the quarterdeck, he could hear Albemarle already dictating orders. He cast a quick look aloft at the main masthead of the Royal Charles where Albemarle’s flag rippled in the breeze.
‘It’s still in the east, Sir Christopher,’ the officer-of-the-watch remarked. ‘De Ruyter will be on the move by now.’
‘De Ruyter will have been on the move ere now,’ Faulkner said, adding matter-of-factly, ‘would you be so kind as to call my boat.’
During the night the wind changed, and at dawn on the last day of May it was blowing fresh from the south-west. Albemarle’s fleet weighed from The Downs, avoiding the trap the King feared, coming in sight of the Dutch the next morning, the first of June, when off the Longsand Head, some ten miles south-east of Harwich. It seemed to Faulkner, in the days of furious fighting and manoeuvring that followed, that if he ever met Albemarle again, it would undoubtedly be in Hell. For, apart from the brief hours of darkness of the summer nights, the two fleets were embattled upon its very threshold. In after years, Faulkner’s recollection of those subsequent days were confused, far less distinct than his memories of any other action in which he had fought. This was due in part to exhaustion, to the effect of the deafening noise; of the need to assess the constantly shifting situation, interpret Albemarle’s signals and handle the Albion, all of which taxed him mentally and physically. But it was also because of the confusion inherent in a battle that went on for four days, so that one recollection ran into another and the conflation of memories served no purpose other than to confuse a mind already disturbed by the relentless thunder of the guns, the shrieks of the wounded and the imperative necessity of thinking, of dealing with the present moment with no capacity for past or future. Younger men, unwounded, and for whom this was their first fleet action, emerged claiming they had never felt so alive, such was the potency and excitement of the instant. If they too escaped wounds, older and experienced men were more likely to find the prolonged noise and strain simply wore them out. Irrespective of age, however, at the end of each day’s action, as the fleets broke away and moved out of range of each other, no-one left standing on deck could escape the deafness accompanied by tinnitus, the hunger, the thirst or the bone-weariness that engendered an overwhelming desire to sink down where they stood and seek the arms of Morpheus.
What no man forgot was the smell: the stink that gradually overcame the tang of sea-air as each day advanced and left behind the luminous innocence of the dawn. Yet both bore the hint of salt; the morning breeze carried it as did the reek of blood which, compounded with its ferrous smell and the choking salts of sulphur and potassium emanating from the muzzles of the hundreds of belching cannon, filled the lungs of all. Thousands died in the action and, in later life, it was only necessary to discharge a shotgun after game, or pass a butchers’ shambles, for the olfactory nerve to produce the most poignant recollection.
Despite the nightmarish amalgamation of Faulkner’s memories, one or two moments stood out, imprinting themselves vividly on his mind’s eye, though he was afterwards confused as to their chronological order. When first sighted, the Dutch fleet had been at anchor off the Galloper shoal and Albemarle threw out the signal to attack. Led by the van squadron under Vice Admiral Sir William Berkeley, the English fleet bore down upon the enemy, which was swiftly got under way and fell into line, heading south-east led by Tromp. Ayscue led round to run parallel with the Dutch, the entire English fleet following, battering Tromp’s squadron before de Ruyter could come up to his assistance about mid-day. However, although Albemarle’s ships held the weather gauge, such was the strength of the wind and the heeling of his ships that many could not open their lower gun-ports, adding another disadvantage to being out-numbered.
In the years that had passed since the First Dutch War, Johann de Witt, the Dutch Stadtholder, had permitted the building of larger Dutch men-of-war, able to compete with the English ships in weight of metal. These bore more ballast than their opponents, making them stiffer, and thus they fought from leeward to advantage over the English, throwing their shot from all their gun-ports. Among these was de Ruyter’s magnificent new flagship, De Seven Provinciën, mounting eighty guns. During the day the two fleets hammered away at one another relentlessly, each seeking a weakness in their opponent so that some confusion broke the regularity of the twin lines of battle. From time to time, the English found themselves working both broadsides as the rear Dutch squadron under Cornelius Evertsen bore up and crossed to take the windward position. During the long afternoon, Albemarle’s centre squadron – in which lay Faulkner in the Albion – followed by Allin’s rear squadron, was heavily engaged by de Ruyter and Evertsen. As the hours passed, they drew ever closer to the banks of shoals that lay parallel to the Flanders shore, and Albemarle, whose ships were in general of deeper draught than the Dutch, was forced to bear up.
De Ruyter and Evertsen fell upon the turning English men-of-war with deadly effect, particularly the van under Berkeley. Sir William Berkeley was killed, and his flagship, the sixty-four-gun Swiftsure, surrendered, while Berkeley’s rear admiral, Sir John Harman in the Henry, fought his way through Evertsen’s squadron and evaded three fireships sent towards him. Such was the ferocity of his action that with the Henry on fire, Evertsen ranged up alongside and called upon Harman to surrender. Harman refused, his next broadside killing Evertsen and others about him.
Faulkner recalled seeing the Henry on fire and being astonished later that she was still afloat and still fighting. The Loyal George was not so lucky, for she was also lost. As darkness fell and the two fleets drew apart, Faulkner called for the butcher’s bill; he had lost eighteen men, and of the forty-one wounded upwards of a dozen were mortally so. To this number he could, with confidence, add another twenty who would not survive their surgery, though they might languish some weeks yet.
The following dawn was fine and clear, promising a hot June day, as it proved. By now the two fleets were east of the Galloper as they formed line ahead and passed and re-passed on opposing tacks, individual ships, and even squadrons at times, passing through the enemy’s line. It was a long day of ceaseless gun-fire, of station-keeping on the ship ahead, of watching a
nd waiting for the signal to tack and then of carrying out the manoeuvre and falling into station before re-engaging the enemy. As a mark of his faith, Albemarle had ordered Albion into a leading position of the centre division of the fleet, just ahead of the flag-ship. Thus Faulkner had to keep an eye on the ships ahead of him, thereby maintaining the cohesion of the line, yet watch for any signals the Commander-in-Chief might make for tactical reasons. This task was made all the more difficult by the clouds of gun-smoke that obscured the Royal Charles, even though she was but a few hundred yards astern of the Albion.
But it was the Dutch that out-classed the English that day, for when Tromp appeared cut off, de Ruyter came to his rescue and put Albemarle’s ships under increasing pressure. One by one many of the English warships were beaten out of the line of battle and fell back towards the English coast, licking their wounds. So it went on during the third day until, towards the evening, Albemarle’s fleet was reduced to almost half its full strength. Forming fifteen of his heaviest remaining ships in line abreast, he withdrew to the west-north-westwards, his stern chasers holding off the damaged but pursuing Dutch and covering the retreat of his damaged fleet. By this time the manoeuvring of the two fleets, driven hither and thither by the inexorable thrust of the tide, had rendered their reckoning uncertain. The pall of smoke that lay on the surface of the sea, the preoccupations of war and the effect these had on routine, sealed the fate of one of the finest ships in the English navy.
From the Albion, lying in Albemarle’s defensive line, Faulkner was a witness to what turned out to be an incident which touched him personally. This ensured it was among those few vignettes of the long struggle that remained indelibly imprinted on his mind. He recalled the sails of the pursuing Dutch extending from north to south as they chased what they thought was a defeated enemy until, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, unbeknown to Faulkner at the time, distant sails were seen to the south-west. Were they the French … or Rupert?
Faulkner then had little appreciation of this development, his own attention being occupied by the plight of the Royal Prince which, under Sir George Ayscue, had driven hard upon the Galloper Shoal. He bore away in the Albion, intending to assist Ayscue, but anxious to avoid the tail of the Galloper. In his desire to succour Sir George he was too late: de Ruyter was approaching, igniting and sending fire-ships towards the casualty, so terrifying her crew, as was discovered afterwards, that with their fighting spirit in doubt, Ayscue surrendered. Faulkner afterwards recalled this moment poignantly, for not only was the Royal Prince one of the noblest ships in the English fleet, but she had once been the Prince Royal, the ship in which he had served as a lieutenant, had been honoured by the man who would become the ill-fated King Charles I, and had met and fallen in love with Katherine Villiers. The ship had been reconstructed several times at great expense; she had suffered a name-change under the Commonwealth, becoming the Resolution; but she was, nevertheless, a reminder of his own long career. It had almost choked him to see her colours struck and the Dutch boats pull towards her to take possession.
In the face of over-whelming force and the close proximity of a fire-ship to the Albion herself, Faulkner had been obliged to run, but the smoke pall that marked the burning of the Royal Prince had hung over the horizon long after the flames had dropped below it, deeply affecting him. De Ruyter’s act of setting the Royal Prince on fire angered his own men, for they were thereby deprived of a rich prize, but its effect upon the English, particularly when word was later passed that her crew had behaved badly, produced a remarkable consequence.
De Ruyter did not press his pursuit; the arrival of English reinforcements persuaded him to gather his forces and await the morrow. He still possessed the advantage in numbers, by some seventeen serviceable men-of-war, and was in a sanguine frame of mind. He spent the remaining hours of daylight repairing damage, redistributing powder and shot, and tending the wounded. On the English side Albemarle and Rupert conferred, determining to fight on, despite the odds, the damage to the serviceable ships, the exhaustion of commanders and crews, the mounting list of casualties and the falling reserves of powder and shot.
Faulkner could remember little about the fourth of June beyond an utter confusion of noise and weariness, of fear and horror and an increasing anxiety over the expenditure of ammunition. When, days earlier, the Albion had withdrawn from Albemarle’s fleet to land the dead Verney at Sheerness and where Faulkner had joined her, Septimus Clarke had diligently ensured that the opportunity had been taken to refill the ship’s magazines with the regulation forty rounds per gun. Remarkably – the dockyard officers usually resenting any requisition in excess of the bare minimum – an Admiralty order had been received to increase this allowance by an additional ten rounds if a man-of-war had sufficient capacity to safely stow the extra powder and shot. Lieutenant Clarke had consulted with the Albion’s Master, and they had duly taken the extra munitions on board.
But after four days of action, even this generous allowance was looking inadequate as the two fleets, neither doing much in the way of keeping station, engaged in a confused mêlée. With considerable skill, de Ruyter mustered enough ships round his flag to mount an attack upon the main body of what was left of the English fleet, but Rupert’s flagship, the Royal James, was dismasted late in the day, and Albemarle’s Royal Charles was severely damaged. Sir Christopher Myngs, one of the junior admirals, was mortally wounded in the Victory, and the Albion had her fore topmast shattered, her knightheads shot to pieces, her upper gun-deck pierced in three places and eight of her guns dismounted. Faulkner had lost about one third of his ship’s company, killed or badly wounded. Like most of the other men-of-war, the Albion was able to work up to Sheerness, where the fleet recovered its breath, aware that it had suffered a defeat.
But while de Ruyter withdrew – his captains, officers and crews, cock-a-hoop with their success, and convinced that they had beaten their enemy into submission – the Dutch admiral was less euphoric. He was wise not to be; his superiority of numbers had told in his favour, but the more prescient of the observers had noted the discipline in the English fleet and that, for the most part, the English had revealed the power in the relatively new tactic of men-of-war sailing head to tail in line ahead. The Dutch had met them with the same method, but now, as the ships began their repairs, and after Rupert and Albemarle had consulted their commanders, they drew up revised Fighting Instructions. The loss of the Royal Prince, the smell of which still haunted Sir Christopher Faulkner as he regarded his shattered battle-ship and discussed her repairs with her officers, was a potent spur to revenge.
But there were also grave political issues at stake, issues with which Faulkner himself was all too familiar. He was almost unique among the post-captains who had assembled in the great cabin of the flag-ship the night they anchored in the Medway in not belonging to either of the two factions that divided his colleagues. In general there were those who favoured Prince Rupert and deprecated Albemarle, and those for whom Rupert was a cavalry commander of indifferent talent who owed his position entirely to his high birth. Faulkner was therefore almost alone among the assembled company who stood well in the opinion of both admirals. Although there were those who saw it their duty to disgrace Albemarle and intrigue for his removal after the recent defeat, both Rupert and Albemarle, being supremely fitted for their office, spoke with one voice. Like every other captain in that glittering if battered company, Faulkner was aware of the schism, but he was the only one privy to Albemarle’s personal opinion.
‘Well, we have avoided Hell, Your Grace,’ Faulkner had said, taking Albemarle’s hand with a smile as he entered the great cabin.
‘Thus far,’ responded the Duke confidentially, his face grim. ‘They will roast me alive for this,’ he said. ‘We lost sixteen men-of-war besides the Royal Prince, and gained but a paltry handful.’
For a month the combined squadrons of Rupert and Albemarle lay in the Medway repairing damage, recruiting their crews, recharging
their magazines and landing their wounded. Of the last there were many hundreds, almost past the reckoning. Although the flag officers left their flag-ships, few captains did, all being intent on readying the fleet for further service. Sorely tempted to travel to London to see Katherine, Faulkner drove himself and his crew to their work. Young Clarke proved his worth; slightly wounded in his shoulder, which temporarily disabled his right arm, the Albion’s first lieutenant laboured as hard as his commander, inspired by the older man’s example. Having been badly damaged by cannon-shot, the main-mast required replacement, as did the fore top-mast, the long yard on the mizzen, the bowsprit and four upper yards. Of their sails, four had to be unbent, sent down and replaced. There were a score of shot-holes to be properly plugged, and the sections of the upper hull, in way of the upper gun-deck, needed extensive repairs, requiring the services of the dockyard ship-wrights from Chatham. In securing their services, Faulkner was not alone; his fellow commanders of almost every surviving ship in the fleet were clamouring for ship-wrights, so that much of his time was taken up pleading, begging, cajoling and threatening the Master Attendant and the Master Shipwright.
In such circumstances, a visit to London was out of the question and, had he attempted such an adventure, it would have proved impracticable. Such was the demand for coaches, or any other suitable conveyance, that few were to be found, while the recollection of the state of his arse after his ride to and from Oxford put any thoughts of riding on horseback out of Faulkner’s mind. He did, however, find time to write to Katherine, explaining the urgency of the situation, pleading the sense of revenge transfusing the fleet and making particular reference to the loss of the Royal Prince. In this he reminded her that she had once been the Prince Royal. Ignoring the fact that he had in fact suffered several superficial wounds, he reassured her that – in his opinion quite miraculously – he was unwounded. Only one of his four wounds, a laceration from an oak splinter across his left thigh, caused any concern, until he ordered his surgeon to wash out the wound with the contents of a half-empty bottle of wine, roaring at the pain but urging the over-taxed man to: ‘Scour the damn thing out!’ Having then ensured that, instead of a bristle, a waxed thread was left to drain out the excess of ‘yellow bile’, he improved rapidly. This wound, along with a bodily stiffness and mental lassitude occasioned by four days’ near continuous exertion, added to his reluctance to mount a horse, though this last could not affect the repair of the Albion.
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