Faulkner put out a hand. ‘Stay, sir. The fort is in enemy hands. You can achieve nothing except make your mothers weep for loss of your lives …’
The young man drew himself up in his saddle. ‘Sir,’ he declared pretentiously, ‘I cannot bear to look upon that flag!’
‘I forbid it,’ Faulkner began, but the rasp of swords leaving their scabbards reassured the young cavalier of support as he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. A moment later Faulkner, caught off guard, still holding his telescope and with his reins slack, felt his mount jerk forward, excited by the onrush of the others. In an instant he had dropped the glass, grabbed the reins to restrain his horse and found himself galloping in the wake of his escort.
The slope of the island was gentle as it descended to a shoreline of marsh, but the ground was firm on the fort’s approach as the horses got their heads, unrestrained by their riders who stood in their stirrups whooping and waving their swords. Following on his bolting steed Faulkner was aware that they passed a group of armed men hidden in a ditch who looked up with astonished expressions, hollering a warning to them as they swept past.
Ahead of them the gate of the fort was closed, and a head or two could be seen above on the ramparts. Their charge was an utterly futile gesture, Faulkner realized, a piece of stupid bravado in which he had been involuntarily caught up despite his inexpert attempts to master his horse, his endeavours thwarted by the necessity of retaining his seat. He was no practised horseman, unlike the young bloods in whose wake he was dragged. In his struggle to rein in his mount he had failed to draw his sword, but the sight of the men in the ditch, soldiers by the look of them, had persuaded him that what he was about was potentially disastrous.
By now he was some yards behind the hot-heads and his horse was slowing, though the foam flew from its mouth in its fury at being thwarted. It was almost at a standstill when a volley of arquebus balls flew about them. One of the dolts ahead of Faulkner cried out and fell sideways. Another rode alongside and put out an arm to support him as they all tugged at their reins, pulling their horses’ heads round whence they had come. An instant later they were cantering past Faulkner, who was at that moment struck. His hat was whipped from his head and he felt stung. He did not see one of the cavaliers cleverly catch his spinning hat, but he followed their retreat, which did not slacken until they drew rein alongside the armed men in the ditch.
Faulkner’s first thought was for the disobedience that had caused the injury of one of his escort. ‘You should be cashiered, sir!’ he said to the young man who had precipitated the escapade. His voice was cold with fury.
‘Come, come, Sir Christopher, no harm is done and the horses have had good exercise …’
‘No harm? No harm you say? Why you have a wounded officer there!’ He pointed.
‘’Tis nothing. He’ll be fine.’ The young man was grinning and nodding at his companion.
Faulkner looked round and the young man, though pale, smiled back and stared down at his thigh. His breeches were torn, and a red slash in the flesh of his leg showed where a ball had gouged but not penetrated the muscle. Meanwhile, the men in the ditch had all clambered out, covered in mud, some wounded and all of them in obviously low spirits, but their incredulity at what they had just witnessed was plain to see.
‘And who may you bold fellows be?’ one of them asked, half amused despite his scarecrow appearance. Faulkner introduced himself and acknowledged that of the other.
‘I am, alas, the late commander of the Sheerness garrison,’ the officer explained. ‘Most of my men have run after receiving a drubbing from an over-whelming force landed by the Dutch who forced the gate at dawn.’ Faulkner sensed the man had no case to answer and would risk death at his court-martial. ‘You are lucky to have escaped with your lives,’ he added, ‘for there are Englishmen in that place, under one of Cromwell’s colonels, a man named Dolmen. Do you bruit his traitorous name abroad and, if you have any influence, have him share the fate of all traitors.’
Faulkner inclined his head non-committally, but the officer who had led the charge asked for the name to be repeated. ‘I have a little influence,’ he said, smiling, ‘and my sister has the, er, ear of the King.’ His fellows sniggered as the hapless garrison commander looked quizzically at Faulkner.
Embarrassed by this unpleasant exchange, Faulkner bethought himself of his duty. Shaken by both what he had seen of the Dutch and the captured fort, and the folly of the last few minutes, he gestured to the passing men-of-war. ‘Is this the entire Dutch strength?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the garrison commander explained. ‘Another squadron passed north of the Isle of Grain bound up the Thames.’
Faulkner nodded and thought of Edmund; their worst fears were confirmed. ‘Your men are by the ferry,’ Faulkner said. ‘They were in want of discipline. Some of My Lord Duke of Albemarle’s officers have rallied them. I suggest you march with me and join His Grace at Chatham. He will welcome reinforcements.’
‘Even from so unwelcome an origin as ours?’ the officer responded bitterly.
‘There is no dishonour in defeat; it is what one does afterwards that signifies,’ Faulkner answered curtly. He looked about him. The cavaliers looked as if butter would not melt in their mouths, and he was struck by this contrived innocence. Just before they set off one of them rode up holding out Faulkner’s hat.
‘You stopped to pick it up?’ Faulkner asked, astonished.
The young man grinned. ‘I caught it, Sir Christopher,’ he said, emphasizing his adroitness with a flourish of the hat. ‘By the way you have been clipped. Your ear is bleeding.’
‘It is?’ Faulkner put his hand up and found his right ear gored, a small slice of it missing. ‘Good heavens, I had no idea.’
‘Your hat blew towards me,’ the fellow said lightly. ‘’Twas fair bowling along in the wind.’
Faulkner took the proffered hat and slapped it against his thigh, which caused his horse to twitch. It had gipped alongside Albemarle’s large gelding; no wonder it had reacted in company with the spirited mounts his companions sat. He set the creature’s head towards the ferry and, as the officers from the fort followed, settled down to a walking pace, much relieved in his nether parts that he no longer had need to move any faster. His ear was stinging now, and it came to him that he had broken his promise to Katherine: more than that, his lug would betray him. Behind them the number of Dutch ships in the estuary increased.
It was dark by the time they re-joined Albemarle’s headquarters in a cottage on the outskirts of Chatham. Faulkner left the wretched garrison commander to make his peace with the Duke and went in search of something to eat. When he returned from an inn about a mile away he could see reddened smoke rising from the moored fleet as the first ships began to burn. By midnight, as Faulkner accompanied Albemarle and his suite along the low ridge of rising ground they had occupied that morning, it seemed as if the entire river was on fire. The wind still blew fresh from the north-east, fanning the flames and bringing the roar of the conflagration to their ears. Even without a glass they could see sparks rising from the burning ships, accompanied by the occasional small explosion as the flames found some combustible material.
‘Are we to stand here all night and watch this disastrous humiliation?’ Albemarle growled. ‘All our work … All our blood and treasure wasted and gone for nothing, damn my eyes.’
‘What must be said of us, Your Grace? That we went to bed while the fleet burned?’
‘That is exactly what His Majesty will do this night, my dear Sir Christopher,’ Albemarle said, his tone viciously sardonic, leaning from his horse towards Faulkner and lowering his voice. ‘And aren’t these His ships?’
The following morning the Dutch remained in the river, reluctant to leave, though their work was done. A new pall of smoke rose over the distant fort at Sheerness. Those who saw it reported that pin-pricks of bright light had been followed some seconds later by the thunder of explosions. Even at a distance they co
uld see, amid the smoke and flashes, debris flung skywards as the Dutch destroyed the fortification itself. Faulkner thought of the foolish exploit he had been caught up in the previous day. ‘There is,’ he muttered in self-reproach, recalling his broken promise to Katherine, ‘no fool like an old fool.’ He shuddered at the thought of how close he had come to death, putting a tentative finger up to his right ear, where a hard crust of scab had formed.
‘You have a scratch,’ Albemarle had said, noticing the damaged ear. ‘That is truly a mark of honour, Sir Kit,’ he remarked wryly, ‘and more than most will have gotten in defence of our fleet.’
‘We came too close to the enemy, Your Grace.’ There was no need to say more, though Faulkner glared at the young jackanapes who was now grinning at him behind the Captain-General’s shoulder.
During the attack during the night, Albemarle’s guards had stood to their arms, and the Captain-General had gone down to the water’s edge, dismounted, and with a cane in his hand, walked up and down roaring obscenities at the enemy. There were those among his officers that declared his intention was to stop a Dutch ball and die reproaching others but with his own honour intact. Whatever his motives, Albemarle’s mood was foul as he surveyed what was left of the fleet he had so gallantly commanded.
More news came in that morning. Lords Douglas and Middleton had arrived with their forces. They had passed through Rochester in some disorder and there were reports of rape and plundering by Douglas’s soldiers. Similar complaints came from Chatham, and a deputation of the local councillors, led by the Mayor of Rochester, came to express their outrage to ‘Honest George’.
It seemed to Faulkner, kicking his heels among the Duke’s staff, that no further infamy could possibly be visited on his country. It was clear from Albemarle’s face when he came in from meeting the citizens’ representatives that he felt the same.
Later that morning, Albemarle ordered Faulkner to take a preliminary inventory of the damage, and he spent most of the day in the saddle, pocket-book in hand, as he catalogued the disaster. Late in the afternoon he returned to the Duke’s headquarters, shifted now to the dockyard, where Commissioner Pett hovered obsequiously rubbing his hands in his anxiety at being in some way culpable. Calling for pen, ink and paper, Faulkner paced up-and-down impatiently until Pett, now in a fluster, chivvied his clerks with an activity he might better have expended in moving the King’s ships, in accordance with his written instructions.
‘Sir Christopher …’ he said at last, indicating a table, chair and the requisite writing materials. Without a word Faulkner sat down, opened his pocket-book, drew a blank sheet before him and took the quill Pett offered him. He paused before putting pen to paper, recalling the hours in the saddle, then, sighing, he began to write. After a brief account of the forcing of the chain-boom and capture of the fort at Sheerness, he recorded that ‘the land forces were being led, it is said, by Colonel Dolmen late of the Army of the Commonwealth’. After mentioning the advance of the Dutch fire-ships, Faulkner listed the large ships of war which had been either seized or burnt by the Dutch.
Burnt – Royal James, Loyal London, Royal Oak, Vanguard, Charles V, Matthias, Marmaduke, Maria Sancta.
Captured and borne off by the Enemy – Royal Charles & Unity – this last formerly the Dutch Eendracht taken a prize by the Diamond and Yarmouth in the North Sea, April 1665.
He added the details of the Eendracht out of a desire to mitigate the disaster; somehow it made not a scrap of difference. Presenting the result to Albemarle he waited while the Duke looked it over.
‘I desire that you remain here for a few days, Sir Christopher,’ he said, ‘in order to accompany Mister Pett, visit all the vessels once the fires are all dead and to survey the damage in detail. If you have private correspondence to convey to London regarding the delay in your return, I shall be happy to see it delivered.’
Part Four
Redemption
1667–1672
Rupert
June 1667–January 1670
Edmund, hearing of his father-in-law being detained at Chatham, joined him a few days later and assisted in the tedious and depressing task Albemarle had assigned Faulkner and Pett. In an attempt to win over the man with whom he must, perforce spend the next few days, Commissioner Peter Pett, son of the famous Phineas, offered Faulkner hospitality, extending this to Edmund when he, enquiring for Faulkner and being directed to the Commissioner’s house, turned up on his doorstep.
Thus the three of them dined together that evening, being joined by Mistress Pett until she withdrew, leaving the men to talk of the present calamity. They discussed the disgraceful conduct of Lord Douglas’s men and remarked upon the arrival of Lord Middleton with more troops, and the futility of their raising defensive works along the river’s bank.
‘Everything done too late,’ Faulkner growled, an oblique accusation thrown in the embarrassed Pett’s direction.
‘Believe me, Sir Christopher,’ Pett defended himself, ‘I share your sentiments but the fault does not lie with me. You will doubtless charge me for not having moved the Royal Charles as ordered, but the lack of money with which to pay the labourers has led to indiscipline among them. Without the means to pay their rents, their land-lords expel them; the same is true of many seamen who reside hereabouts. They mustered last night in great numbers once they saw with their own eyes what was afoot but, as you say, too late … too late.’ He lowered the palm of his hand on the table in a gesture of despair and shook his head. ‘Besides, the orders to fit out only half a dozen small frigates this spring, and to leave the ships above forty guns laid up in ordinary, must be the cause of their all lying here supine, must it not? The Chancellor and Lord Treasurer are said to have persuaded the King that it was unnecessary: the one said our last victory would dissuade the Dutch from further mischief; the other insisted that no matter what might be desirable, the Exchequer was devoid of funds. Ergo, the thing was impossible and there would be no Summer Guard!’ Pett paused to let the implication of his privileged information sink in. ‘As for His Grace the Duke of Albemarle …’ Pett shrugged. ‘I have heard both that he added his weight to the prevailing opinion and that he did not. I am inclined to believe he said little and abided by the conclusion. I did hear,’ he added confidentially, ‘that His Highness the Lord High Admiral dissented strongly, but his was a minority view within the Council of State, and even Rupert’s opinion, which coincided with the Duke of York’s, carried no weight. In short we were left without a naval force at sea and de Ruyter even now lies anchored off the Nore.’ He shrugged, looking directly at Faulkner. ‘Thus ends my exculpation, Sir Christopher.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘I apologize if I spoke too hastily, Mister Pett,’ he said. ‘At the root of it lies a lack of money. Indeed, only yesterday, His Grace mentioned his regret at not compelling the King to over-rule the other members of the council.’ He paused, adding, ‘Their judgement might have been worth the hazard were it not for the fact that de Ruyter is a formidable opponent. Indeed, all the Dutch admirals are able men; one does not rise to high station in The United Provinces without ability, but de Ruyter is a giant among them.’
Eventually, they turned to Edmund, who thus far had had nothing to contribute to the discussion, asking what he knew of events in the Thames.
‘All I can tell you is that de Ruyter’s second, Admiral Willem van Ghent, attempted to force the river. His ships carried the flood tide as high as they could, intending to take the Indiamen at Gravesend, but we got them shifted in time. Then the ebb came away in our favour so that van Ghent withdrew, the wind then falling light. I saw nothing of this beyond a few sails in the distance, but the King and Duke of York had made their appearance, and ordered ships down from Woolwich and Deptford to be sunk at Barking, which was all done but too late. I heard too that Prince Rupert was at Woolwich and Deptford, very active in placing artillery to cover the upper reaches and protect the Pool, which was well enough done in its way but …’ Edmund shrugged
and left his sentence unfinished. These measures seemed not to have impressed the populace who dwelt by and on the River of Thames.
For the next two days the three men took the Commissioner’s barge and went from ship to ship. Truth to tell there was little to cheer; the burnt-out hulks had most of them broken free of their moorings, some from the burning of their bitts where the mooring chains were secured, others cast adrift by their skeleton crews in order to avoid the approaching fire-ships. Those few whose crews had attempted to save them in this manner had been attacked and set ablaze by armed parties of Dutchmen in their boats, putting off from their men-of-war with combustibles. The burning ships had drifted, to run aground on the copious mud-flats which were exposed at low water. Among them were the Loyal London and the Royal James, their huge hulls reduced to a residual skeleton of massive oak futtocks that smouldered yet as they lay like decomposing whales, heeled over, dead.
‘All the pride of the state reduced to this,’ Pett remarked as their oarsmen lay on their oars and the barge glided towards the Royal Oak, the three gentlemen in her stern regarding the sad wreckage. As they pulled away over the calm waters of a river unruffled by the slightest breeze and running like molten copper over the hot sunlight of the June day, a lone herring gull landed on what was left of the great ship’s beak-head. Opening its gape it let out its cry.
‘I never heard anything more like a great laugh of derision,’ Faulkner said.
Before they left Chatham, Edmund and Faulkner mounted their horses and rode downstream, towards Sheerness, to observe what was left of the fort. Faulkner had some hopes of finding his lost telescope. It was not the long-glass presented to him by the late King, but it was a useful item and he was annoyed at having lost it in such circumstances.
The King's Chameleon Page 28