by Davies, J. D
I sent a message below, requesting the comte d’Andelys and the Reverend Gale to join me. When they were present upon the quarterdeck, I pointed dead ahead.
‘Behold, the navy of England,’ I said to Roger. ‘Tremble, Frenchman!’
My friend laughed with me, but the sight ahead of us was more than sufficient to make any foe tremble. Beyond the West Rocks and within the buoy of the Gunfleet, a great wooden town seemed to rise from the midst of the sea. Or rather three towns, each distinguished by the colours of the ensigns at their sterns: blue, nearest to us; white, furthest away; red, in the centre. At the very heart of the fleet lay a great ship, a vast three-deck First Rate, flying at the mizzen a plain red flag, at the fore the red flag with three golden anchors that signified the presence of the Lord High Admiral of England, and at the main the royal standard that signified the presence of a prince of the blood.
‘The Royal Charles,’ I said to Roger. ‘The Duke of York’s flagship. And see there, the blue ensign at the main? The mighty Prince, the colour signifying that she is Lord Sandwich’s flagship. To the north, the Royal James and Prince Rupert’s white squadron. One hundred ships, more or less. Twenty-five thousand men. The most terrible sight upon God’s earth, My Lord.’
The comte d’Andelys whistled, and stared in silence at the ever-nearing multitude of ships. Roger was impressed, as I had intended. Although the King of France was building a great new navy as rapidly as he could cut down trees and shape them into hulls, he still had barely half of what lay ahead of us in the Gunfleet anchorage. God willing, this was the instrument that would shortly hammer the Dutch from the seas, bringing victory, eternal peace and an end to dissension in Charles the Second’s England. Or else, if the dark tale related by Clarendon and Arlington was true, twenty of these ships would soon be the means by which Charles was swept from his throne, cavaliers like the Quintons would be condemned once more to exile or to death, and England would become yet again a mean, hypocritical, puritan republic, ruled by those who hate the very notion of joy.
As the Merhonour entered the serried ranks of the fleet, we fired off our salutes to the flags and were saluted in our turn. Timid souls ashore might have been forgiven for thinking that the great battle had begun; and in one sense, for Captain Matthew Quinton it had.
A man so various that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind’s epitome.
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
But, in the course of one revolving moon,
Was Chemist, Fiddler, Statesman and Buffoon…
~ John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel
(of George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham)
The great cabin of the Royal Charles was great indeed. A broad and lofty space was made light by a row of stern windows far larger than any I had seen, comfortably dwarfing those of the Merhonour. Through the glass, the navy of England lay at anchor, only the occasional ketch or victualler’s hoy moving between the recumbent hulls riding the slight swell. Above our heads, the deck was adorned with a work of art almost as lavish as that upon the ceiling of the Banqueting House. Nereides, myrmidons, cherubim and the like surrounded a portrait of our sovereign lord the king, yet curiously His Majesty was shown standing upon what was unmistakeably the quarterdeck of this very vessel, a few feet above our heads. The artist was commemorating one memorable day, five years before. I remembered that day well, for Cornelia and I had witnessed it from the shore, having rushed from Veere to Scheveningen. The restored king being rowed out to a navy that was royal once again; the huzzahs of the sailors; the salute booming out from the guns of this very ship, then named Naseby after Cromwell’s greatest victory – aye, and the battle in which my father had fallen – but which within the hour was rechristened Royal Charles. Cornelia and I had hugged for joy upon the beach, for the return of the king meant that England, with all its boundless possibilities for everlasting felicity, was open to us again.
The turning tide meant that the scene within the great cabin was warmed by a rising April sun. A council of war had been summoned, and as was the method in those times, this was confined to the flagmen and captains of the great ships, albeit with certain notable exceptions. Indeed, it was the first council of war I had attended in my life, and would prove to be by far the most memorable. The broad and sturdy oak table at which we sat was crowded with charts, ship-lists and the like. I sat next to Sir Will Berkeley, Rear-Admiral of the Red, whom I still counted a dear friend, despite the gnawing doubt that the words of Clarendon and Arlington had planted in my mind. The dour Earl of Marlborough sat on my other side and Sir John Lawson next to him; all in all, a line of titled dignity that I envied not a little. Further down the table the well-fed Earl of Sandwich, Admiral of the Blue (our rear squadron), was engaged in a lively discussion about the late comet with his subordinate flagmen, the sad-eyed Ayscue and the jovial Teddiman, who sported an inordinately wide moustachio after the Dutch fashion. Across from them sat Myngs and Sansum, Vice-and Rear-Admiral of the White, arguing on some point to do with the ordnance favoured by the Dutch. I cast more than an occasional glance in their direction. Like all the flagmen of the Blue, Myngs and Sansum had been Commonwealth’s men, promoted by Cromwell; indeed, the aquiline Myngs was something of a legend for all the havoc he had wreaked upon the Spaniards in the Carribee. But as I contemplated them, and considered the number of erstwhile servants of the late Lord Protector in that cabin, I felt myself shudder. For if some or all of these men really were about to transfer their allegiance once more, what hope did my few cavalier friends and I have of preventing the outcome?
My Lord of Marlborough, captain of the venerable Old James, said, ‘Good to see you here, Quinton. Knew your father, of course – fought with him briefly in the west in forty-three. Good man. Great loss.’ He was something of an oddity among our nobility, this earl; impoverished in lands but serious, mathematical and inclined to the sea from an early age, he had travelled more widely than most of his kind and had but lately commanded the expedition sent east to take possession of Bombay, part of the dowry that accompanied our barren Queen Catherine. History has forgotten him, unlike that self-promoting mountebank Churchill who later took his title, but I know which of the two Marlboroughs I preferred. ‘An auspicious assembly,’ he said. ‘Men with a proven record of thrashing the Dutch allied to some of the noblest blood in these isles. Royal blood, come to that. The hogen-mogens should be shitting themselves, Quinton, for the seas have never seen the like before.’
I nodded, and studied the royal blood that was already among us. Prince Rupert of the Rhine, Admiral of the White, sat at the starboard head of the table, reading over some papers. The incongruous little spectacles perched upon his ugly hook nose gave him the appearance of an eccentric professor, but this belied his ferocious reputation. I was told once that there were still people in Bolton who believed Rupert to be the devil incarnate following the depredations he wreaked upon that miserable place during the civil war, when he had been the most successful but also the most vicious general for the royal cause. I had reason to share their opinion, for my family blamed the prince’s vainglorious manoeuvres at Naseby for the loss of my father’s life. It was telling that Rupert had acknowledged every other officer in that room with at least a courteous nod, but he studiously avoided my eyes.
That left one member of the council only: by far the youngest, and also the only one who was not a flag officer or a captain. It was quite impossible to mistake the paternity of this handsome sixteen-year-old youth. The thick black eyebrows, the cleft chin, the sparkling eyes were all the same, but the lad had a straighter nose and altogether a more pleasing face than his father. He was evidently not overawed by being in the presence of all these august seamen and mighty admirals; far from it. He looked about him with an air of magisterial superiority fit for a future king. And perhaps, deep in his heart, that was already how James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, saw himself.
‘Well, Matt,’ said Will Berkeley, ‘who would have thought it, eh? You and me, the new Drake and – well, the new Matthew Quinton, I suppose. I expect your grandfather must have attended countless of these occasions.’
‘I cannot imagine he would have had much patience with them,’ I said. ‘And at least you and I agree better than he and Drake ever did.’
My friend smiled. I looked upon that bluff, open face, so much older than its years (for he was only a few months older than I), and inwardly, I prayed yet again that Arlington’s suspicions were misplaced. I had known Rear-Admiral Sir William Berkeley for so long. If he was a traitor, then the very foundations of what I took to be true were shaken.
The door of the cabin opened, and we all stood as one, bowing to the man who strode purposefully to the table and took his place at the head of it. James, Duke of York, was then thirty-two years old. As tall as his brother and with an equally prominent nose, albeit somewhat thinner and straighter than the kingly snout, the duke undoubtedly had the physical presence appropriate to a royal prince. He was the only man in the cabin already clad in a breastplate. He walked in a measured, stately way. His every expression, his every gesture, conveyed gravity. Consciously or unconsciously, he had become very different to his witty, cynical elder brother; and in those early days of the restored Stuarts, many preferred this prince, who seemed more open, more predictable, more straightforward. How different things would be twenty years later, when the long, stern face of James Stuart was imprinted on the coins of the realm.
Behind him hobbled Sir William Penn, the Great Captain Commander. This was a new creation in our navy’s history; indeed, to this day Penn remains the only man ever to have held the rank. His appointment to it solved an impossible mathematical conundrum. In 1665, there were five great men qualified to command the fleet or individual squadrons, and expecting to do so; yet there could be only three squadrons. Rupert and Sandwich were given two of them. The fact that the senior squadron, the Red, was given to the heir to the throne at once rendered the equation workable; the Duke of Albemarle could be ensconced in London as acting head of the Admiralty, and thus with no loss of status or honour, while Penn could be appointed to this new-fangled rank and placed in the Duke of York’s own ship, for no matter how proud our seamen were that the heir presumptive to England was commanding them, none could deny the troubling truth that the duke had never previously commanded anything more than a yacht, let alone a fleet of a hundred ships. Thus Penn would be the power behind the floating throne, the aquatic eminence grise, call him what you will. The fact that this unpopular, unprepossessing, gout-crippled creature would be the true overlord of the fleet concerned not a few, but I had my own very private cause for disquiet at the presence of the Great Captain Commander. For was not he, too, a sometime Commonwealth’s-man, formerly one of Cromwell’s generals-at-sea?
The duke took his place and bade us to sit. Penn slumped down beside him in relief, and at once elevated his swollen foot. ‘Your Highness, Your Grace, My Lords and gentlemen,’ said the duke, ‘I greet you all.’ He looked around the table and acknowledged each man in turn; Matthew Quinton was greeted with a perfunctory nod. ‘What we are upon,’ he said, in his measured, formal way, ‘is the business of England. Our country’s honour and glory lie in our hands. God willing, the issue of this summer’s campaign will be a complete victory for His Majesty’s arms over the perfidious Dutch. And God willing, we will show to the world the full power of His Majesty’s navy royal –’
There seemed to be some sort of commotion beyond the bulkhead. Raised voices could be heard. The cabin door opened. Framed within it was a stocky figure of a man, weak-chinned and tired-eyed, lavishly dressed and sporting a vast periwig that stretched down to his chest.
‘Your Grace,’ said York. ‘You are, perchance, a little lost?’
George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, bowed. ‘Your Royal Highness. No, sir. I merely seek admission to this esteemed council, as is my undoubted right. I presume that my invitation to join your deliberations was – misplaced, perhaps?’
There was a murmur around the table, but the Duke of York ignored it: he continued to stare directly at Buckingham. ‘You are mistaken, Your Grace. There was no invitation. Membership of this council is confined to the flagmen of the fleet and the captains of the great ships.’
This was a barb. All of us present in the cabin knew that Bucking-ham had demanded the command of a great ship; like Beau Harris, he argued that commands should be given to cavaliers regardless of whether they knew the sea or not. But the king had dismissed his boon companion’s pretensions, and Buckingham’s resentment had continued to smoulder beneath the surface. Until now.
‘With respect, Your Royal Highness,’ said Buckingham, with more restraint than he was usually wont to display, ‘it has always been the case that the greatest nobility of England are entitled to a place in such councils. It is our role, sir. Consider our very title, you and I – duke, dux, a leader in war.’
York was unperturbed, although we all knew how much he detested Buckingham, a close ally of Lord Arlington and thus an inveterate opponent of York’s father-in-law Clarendon. ‘That may be true of armies, Your Grace, but it is not the custom of the navy. I defer to those with rather longer experience of the sea than my own – My Lord of Marlborough, for instance.’
Marlborough nodded in concurrence; he, too, had no time for the Duke of Buckingham, whom he later described to me as merely the spoilt runt of a king’s catamite. ‘If that be true, Your Royal Highness,’ said Buckingham, whose cheeks were reddening, ‘then may I ask why His Grace of Monmouth, who has no flag and commands no ship, is present at this council?’
Before York could answer, Monmouth himself intervened, albeit at the price of a reproving frown from his uncle. ‘Why, Your Grace,’ said the young man in his pleasant voice, ‘I sit here by special dispensation, that I may better learn the arts of war prior to making them my trade. A special dispensation provided by my father, the king.’
Buckingham scowled; no doubt he was thinking that the eldest of Charles Stuart’s bastards was unduly indulged by his doting father. ‘But I can offer much to these counsels, Your Royal Highness!’ he protested. ‘My father was Lord High Admiral of England – my father commanded great fleets –’
‘Your Grace,’ said York levelly, ‘you are not your father.’
Buckingham bridled, and the temper that he had barely held in check for so long finally exploded. ‘In the name of God, sir!’ he cried. ‘I am the Duke of Buckingham! Buckingham, do you hear? I demand my right!’
York’s face was stern and humourless: very much its ordinary condition. ‘Your Grace has many rights,’ he said, ‘and many virtues. But for you to sit upon this council, sir, would run counter to all the customs of the navy since time immemorial. And I, as the present Lord High Admiral of England, must uphold those customs in the name of His Majesty the King, my brother.’
Buckingham’s eyes darted hither and thither in desperation. They appealed to Prince Rupert, to no avail. They even settled briefly upon me. Finally, though, even the great duke had to admit defeat. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the cabin.
York watched him go; still he did not smile. ‘So, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘To business.’
* * *
The council of war proceeded to discuss a variety of matters, the most pressing of which was the rampant desertion from the fleet. We lamented the disloyalty of the local authorities, from constables and tithingmen even to the very lords lieutenant, who either turned a blind eye or actively abetted the runaways. Leave was to be stopped, even for volunteers, we decreed, and the Privy Council written to for an order to the mayors and magistrates; but it would do little good, Marlborough whispered, for this had been the way of our English sea-affairs since time immemorial. Then we proceeded to digest the latest reports from our scouts, one of which was Beau Harris’s House of Nassau. The Dutch fleet was still within the Texel a
nchorage, waiting for the ships from the outlying admiralties. All concurred that this was most excellent news, for it meant that the Dutch would have less preparatory time at sea than ourselves. Then there was the equally pleasing intelligence from Lord Arlington’s office, namely that as ever, the Dutch were consumed by jealousies between their seven provinces and five separate admiralties, veritably a body politic concocted by Old Nick. Consequently, they had managed to end up with no fewer than twenty-one flagmen, a revelation that prompted much jesting among us about cooks spoiling broth and the like. Evertsen, Admiral of Zeeland, detested Tromp, Admiral of Holland, and vice-versa; both detested Wassanaer of Obdam, the land general placed above them, who was in any case even more crippled by the gout than our own Great Captain Commander. Not even De Witt, Grand Pensionary of Holland and seemingly the only force capable of holding together the ramshackle edifice of the Dutch state, could bring his admirals to love each other. Best of all, by far the most able Dutch commander, de Ruyter, had not yet returned from the coast of Africa. The prospects seemed auspicious indeed, and Marlborough whispered to me that perhaps the comet had foretold disaster for Holland, not for England, God’s chosen plot.
The Duke of York looked about him. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said gravely, ‘let us not assume from all this that the Dutch will be merely lambs to the slaughter. Sir William, if you will, please explain how we plan to bring the slaughter to the lambs.’
Penn straightened in his chair, a move that caused him no little pain as he adjusted the position of his foot. ‘Your Royal Highness speaks aptly,’ he said in his soft Bristol accent. ‘Those of us who fought in the last war against the Dutch know all too well what formidable foes they are.’ The likes of Lawson, Myngs and Ayscue nodded vigorously. ‘And it was for that very reason that we had to devise a new way of beating them.’ He shifted his leg again, and winced. ‘For the first months of the war, as some here present will recall, we fought as we and the Dutch had always fought, division against division, ship against ship, each side charging abreast at the other like knights of old. And the Dutch are masters of that art, for they bested us time and again. So in the spring of fifty-three we sat down together, Blake, Monck, Deane and I. We discussed what we could do to overcome the Dutch. Now, they were all army men, who had fought for Parliament during – begging your pardon, Your Royal Highness – the sad wars in our country. They had fought in sieges, both from the inside and the outside. Thus they knew the potential of artillery, if best use could be made of it.’ Penn winced again. ‘So we conceived a notion of placing the entire fleet into one great line; aye, a line of battle, divided into three squadrons, Red, White, and Blue. A vast wall of ships, gentlemen, in which almost every gun in our broadsides could bear upon the enemy. Over four thousand guns, firing over a hundred thousand pounds of metal at once – the most fearsome blast in all of history. In the next two battles, we trounced the Dutch, for they had no answer to our line of battle. Their ships have ever been smaller and lighter than ours, and the damage we wrought upon them was most dreadful to behold.’