Delayed some seconds after their own passing, as the air was filled with the screams of the wounded and the cries of horror at the outrage being perpetrated against them, the towed longboat swept alongside the anchored vessel. Into a porthole, opened as Faulkner had anticipated, to air the ship, the longboat’s crew tossed one of their fused packages. Another was lodged on the ship’s starboard main chains so that, as they drew past, Faulkner saw the combustibles burst into flame and the fires take hold.
Faulkner had a clear view of the stern now and saw where a man, probably the ship’s master engaged in the very act of opening his bowels, thrust a pistol muzzle through the glass of the privy to take a potshot at him. He ducked the ill-aimed ball and waved.
‘Damn you!’ came the furious response. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘The Phoenix of the King’s navy!’
‘We have no King you malignant bastard!’
‘Ready, sir!’ Lazenby was calling up from the waist where the guns and coehorn had been reloaded. Faulkner abandoned the fulminating ship-master to his fire and his soiled small clothes, turning his attention to the next ship in the anchorage.
Before the sun had gained sufficient heat and altitude to begin to burn off the sea-smoke so that all possibility of subterfuge had vanished, they had struck four more vessels, two of such substantial size that Faulkner thought them Indiamen. The timing, circumstances and ruthlessness of the attack caused confusion and alarm so that Faulkner boldly stood on, ordering an increase in the charge of the coehorn so that it bombarded another four ships at a range of several hundred yards, supplemented by the broadside guns which, if they did little real harm, shot up rigging and swept the waists clear of opposition. Only one of the Indiamen got a gun into action before the Phoenix had passed out of range. As he looked astern coils of thick black smoke rose from three of their targets, thinner wisps ascended from two more and in one little ketch so fierce a fire was consuming her that her small crew had already taken to their boat.
By the time they were off the Nore the tide was on the turn and Faulkner ordered the longboat’s painter shortened, so that her crew could scramble aboard, and the ship’s yards hauled. Hard on the light wind, her yards braced sharp-up, the Phoenix stood boldly out to sea, this time following the South Channel. Lazenby went forward to look out for the buoy of the Spile. A mile or two to the north and soon moving astern, a pall of smoke hung over the anchorage off Shoeburyness, while not half a mile away to the south-west a small man-of-war was making sail as she weighed her anchor in hot pursuit.
‘He’ll not catch us,’ White remarked contemptuously as the outgoing tide, already ebbing steadily in the South Channel, carried the Phoenix eastwards.
Faulkner was less confident, but held his peace and in the event White proved correct; by noon the pursuing frigate had hauled up and was returning to the Nore. Faulkner stared through his glass at the retreating man-of-war and then shifted his glass. The ships he had attacked that morning were indistinct under their pall of smoke; the small coehorn, a Dutch invention, had been a wise investment.
‘You are wounded, Captain Faulkner,’ White remarked and Faulkner put his hand to his cheek and felt the dried crust of blood.
‘’Tis nothing; a scratch.’
‘It’ll scar though,’ White said in that terse way he had, as though his statements were incontrovertible.
‘Hm,’ Faulkner grunted. ‘What of our own butcher’s bill?’
‘Three men hurt, one badly from that damned Dutch spitfire of yours,’ White reported with evident disapproval. ‘But they’ll all live.’
‘Good. Is that your opinion, Mr White?’
‘Yes, but the surgeon shares it.’
Inwardly Faulkner grinned to himself. ‘I didn’t think you had a very high opinion of our surgeon,’ Faulkner remarked.
‘His barbering is excellent, Captain,’ White replied, his eyes twinkling.
Faulkner hove-to during the hours of darkness and was in the cabin breaking his fast with White when Lazenby, who had the deck-watch, burst through the door.
‘Cap’n Faulkner,’ he said excitedly, ‘there are Commonwealth ships off Goeree!’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Aye, sir. The cross-and-harp at the fore-truck on one and he’s standing towards us . . .’
‘Warwick!’ exclaimed Faulkner, immediately correcting himself. ‘No, that will be the new vice-admiral, Moulton. Very well,’ he said sharply to Lazenby. ‘Hoist Dutch colours.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Lazenby hesitated, then added, ‘There’s something else, sir . . .’
‘And what might that be?’
‘I think I recognized one of our ships in the squadron . . .’
‘The Dutch fleet are at sea and Moulton’s crop-heads have been suborning our men,’ White concluded with his usual conviction. Faulkner, however, had no doubt but that he was right. ‘See to those colours, Mr,’ he snapped, rising from the table.
Lazenby was gone. White followed his commander to his feet. ‘Clear for action,’ Faulkner said. ‘Hold the men out of sight behind closed ports. I’ll try and bluff it out.’
‘If they’ve taken any of our ships we’ll certainly be recognized.’
‘We’ll try, nevertheless.’
‘I hope our men won’t fail us,’ White remarked as they left the cabin.
‘Load your pistols, just in case.’
Faulkner approached Lazenby who handed him his glass and indicated the ships. Ahead lay the low coast, grey-green above its golden strand of sand, and spiked with the spires of distant churches and crossed with the slowly turning sails of windmills. But lying on the grey sea between, many with their main topsails to their masts, were some twenty vessels, mostly men-of-war. Faulkner could see the Commonwealth ensigns and, just as Lazenby had reported, the adapted flag that marked a flag officer flying from the nearest, just herself heaving-to in the grain of the approaching Phoenix: Moulton.
Faulkner looked aloft at the horizontal stripes of the Dutch ensign, then ordered a slight alteration of course that would cross Moulton’s stern. They were closing fast and the Parliamentary admiral, having brought his vessel to a standstill, would now be hoping that Faulkner would not rake him if he opened fire.
‘The first round is mine,’ Faulkner murmured to himself, though with little confidence in the outcome of the bout.
‘Ahoy there! What ship?’
Faulkner ignored the hail. They would see the ship’s name soon enough when they read it across the stern but until then . . . He went to the larboard rail and raised his hat as they made to pass across the flagship’s stern. Already the men were labouring in the waist, hauling the yards for fear the approaching vessel would open fire into her almost defenceless stern.
‘Goedmorgen, Meneer,’ he shouted. ‘Ik ben na een lange zeereis op mijn weg terug van Batavia,’ explaining they had had a long passage from Batavia in the East Indies.
Faulkner’s Dutch was crude and rudimentary but good enough to buy him the respite to pass under the flagship’s stern and head towards the other ships lying between the Phoenix and the shore where the entrance of the Haringvliet lay open to the north of Goeree. Then the shout of recognition as their name was seen was quickly followed by the boom of a gun and the skipping splash of the ricocheting ball passing along their larboard side. But Moulton had left the firing of a broadside too late. Already his ship’s yards were swinging her head as she came round in pursuit.
Faulkner kept the Dutch colours hoisted and boldly held his course. It was clear the other ships were uncertain as to what was going on. The firing of a single gun from a flagship could mean anything, usually signifying a signal from the admiral was not being attended to and setting every quarterdeck abuzz with introspection. All they would see was Moulton’s flagship swinging in the wake of an incoming Dutchman and, although the Phoenix was unmistakably not a Dutch-built ship, the fact that she was carrying full sail and heading confidently for the entrance to the
Haringvliet flying Dutch colours was sufficient to inhibit any captain in the Commonwealth ships from using too much initiative.
What Faulkner did not know until later was that White had been correct and before the Dutch naval squadron departed the Haringvliet, the Dutch authorities had extracted from Moulton an undertaking not to interfere with the safe passage of Dutch merchantmen. Although several of Moulton’s ships had entered Helvoetsluys and their men had suborned most of Prince Rupert’s little fleet, many of the defecting ships had left their commanders ashore, sufficient uncertainty prevailed as to their fate that it was not until the Phoenix had almost worked inshore of the squadron that one vessel woke up to the advantages of her capture. Even now, however, luck favoured Faulkner, for the Commonwealth squadron was in some disarray as a consequence of the defection of the Royalist ships. Each had been assigned one of Moulton’s men-of-war to stand guard over her in case her company changed its collective mind and these contemplated their charges, rather than a maverick King’s ship sailing boldly through them. Added to this was the fact that a large number of Moulton’s men were absent, for the squadron’s boats had been sent into the Haringvliet to cut out the Antelope, as Faulkner would shortly discover.
Thus the Phoenix had almost won through when Faulkner called to his officers to prepare to engage on the larboard side.
‘There’s a ship of twenty or so guns bearing down upon us,’ he called. She looked like one of the Lion’s Whelps, one of which he had himself commanded. If so, while she might outgun the Phoenix, the weight of metal she threw would be less than their own.
‘Make ready,’ he called, holding his course. ‘On no account fire until we are fired into. I have no wish to be branded pirate.’
‘That you already are,’ White called back, referring to their exploit of the previous day. The remark, though technically insolent, heartened the men and raised a cheer so that Faulkner knew its worth and mentally thanked White for it. He watched the approaching Whelp as her commander altered his course to drop across the Phoenix’s bow. A gun was fired to windward, the puff of grey-white smoke hanging in the wind as the concussion followed. The Phoenix stood on, ignoring the signal to heave to.
Faulkner watched as the Whelp drifted slowly to leeward. The distance between the two shrank and the foreshortening of the Whelp’s hull betrayed her commander’s anxiety for her stern.
‘Shift your men over to the starboard guns,’ he called down to Lazenby, watching as the guns’ crews quietly crossed the deck.
Turning on to a parallel course, she made sail as the Phoenix ranged up alongside and, under the muzzles of the Whelp’s larboard battery, they surged alongside for a few moments. Again Faulkner went through his little charade and again it seemed to do the trick until someone aboard the Whelp recognized him.
‘Hey! That’s Captain Faulkner! He’s no Dutchman! He’s a King’s man under false colours!’
Faulkner thought fast. Hailing the Whelp he roared, ‘Aye, this is Captain Faulkner but I am sailing under a warrant of the Seven United Provinces! Fire into me and I’ll respond, as will all seven of the Dutch Admiralties!’
A perfect silence met this false claim and then he watched as the Whelp’s helm went over and she turned sharply, her bowsprit almost raking their rail, to come up into the wind under their stern. A moment later she was standing offshore on the starboard tack, heading to rejoin her consorts.
‘Was that blind man’s bluff, Captain Faulkner?’ White asked with an air of amused whimsy.
One last drama was to beset them before the Phoenix fetched her mooring off Helvoetsluys and gave some clue as to the apparent incompetence of Moulton’s attempt to thwart their entry. Barely a mile inside the Haringvliet as, under reduced sail and with a leadsman in the main chains, the Phoenix crept cautiously through the shallows towards her destination, they encountered the boats of Moulton’s ships surrounding the captured Antelope.
To avoid complaints from the local admiralty, Faulkner had ordered the proper colours hoisted as they entered Dutch waters and, although these were concealed by the main topsail until they were almost abreast of the gaggle of boats surrounding the cut-out Antelope, once they were spotted, they produced shouts of abuse and derision. For a few moments Faulkner feared that the Commonwealth seamen in the boats might pursue and board them, but they were soon past and Faulkner realized that most of the attacking party were occupied carrying the Antelope to sea, Prince Rupert having previously removed her hands and distributed them among his own most trusted ships. Faulkner also realized that in cutting out the Antelope, Moulton’s men had strained their undertaking not to molest the ships of the English Royalist far enough, and the seizure of the Phoenix – should they have achieved it, which was by no means certain – would be a provocation too far. Full comprehension of all these subtle but influential circumstances came much later and the sudden anxieties turned Faulkner’s guts to water for a few fearful minutes. But the incident was soon over and, with beating heart, he gave the orders to make the shallow turn in the channel that brought the elaborate church spires of Helvoetsluys into view.
‘From Hell and Helvoetsluys, Good Lord deliver us,’ White intoned before turning to Faulkner. ‘I’ll go forrard and make ready,’ he said purposefully. ‘And may I congratulate you, Captain Faulkner, on a most successful cruise.’
With his innards still subsiding from the morning’s excitements, Faulkner responded with a wan smile. ‘I hope the men will not be disappointed at the lack of prizes. Moulton’s fleet has had all the luck there.’
‘Oh, they will, depend upon it, but the crop-head navy will soon be blamed for not defending the trade in the Thames and that will carry more weight in London town.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘Stand by to clew up and make ready to moor.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said White turning away and raising his voice as Faulkner moved towards the helmsman. ‘Main an’ fore clewlines!’ White bellowed. ‘And look lively there!’
Later that day Mainwaring clambered wearily aboard. Maintaining the outward flummery of appearing as Faulkner’s admiral the old man eased himself into a chair and gladly accepted an offer of wine. ‘Any news from Ireland?’ Faulkner had asked, as he handed him the charged glass. Mainwaring shook his head.
‘Nothing of import, but you have fared well if what I hear from the scuttlebutt on deck is anything to go by. Now tell me the truth of it . . .’
Faulkner made a verbal report, concluding that he thought he had ‘annoyed the enemy in accordance with His Highness’ desires’.
‘So it would seem, Kit, and it is well done. While we may have lost a significant part of our power here, you have shown we are not without teeth.’
‘Perhaps. But Moulton blockades us and will not let me out as readily as he let me in, distracted as he was with the seizure of the Antelope.’
‘Aye, it was the news of his insolence that brought me here so fortuitously to meet you.’ Mainwaring related how he had been at the head of a small body of cavalier gentlemen turned out of the Antelope as what remained of her defecting crew cheered the incoming boats of Moulton’s squadron. It had been a desultory and futile business, a strutting and posing affair as the ship was seized by their enemy amid taunting cries of ‘Wages and victuals!’ – the promised advantages of serving the English Parliament. Mainwaring’s old shoulders sagged as he related the circumstances. ‘’Tis a sad affair,’ he concluded, ‘and has cost us her purchase price, though Rupert took out her guns before the bill of sale was offered – which is a mercy of sorts, I suppose.’ Mainwaring nodded his gratitude as Faulkner refilled his glass.
‘That means more work for you, I presume.’
‘What, the spoiled purchase?’ Faulkner nodded. Mainwaring shrugged. ‘It never ceases and the thinner our resources the greater the labour.’
‘And what of the King himself, as I suppose we must now call him?’
‘He talks about going to Paris.’
‘Paris? To fall into Louis
’ arms? God save us!’
‘To gain a pension, it is rumoured, or so Kate tells me . . .’
‘And she would know the Royal mind, no doubt,’ Faulkner remarked bitterly.
‘Her lot is not an easy one, Kit,’ Mainwaring said kindly. ‘We outstay our welcome here at Helvoetsluys – there have been some ugly scenes here and the Dutch will be glad when we are gone for many of our men ran wild until Moulton’s crop-heads carried them away. There are a few remaining; you’ll find them begging and protesting their undying loyalty to King Charles, the scum that they are. As for the ladies at The Hague, where we are less and less tolerated, well, they have no option but to bide their time and eat humble pie. You know better than most that a woman, like unto a man, will do anything if her belly is empty.’
Faulkner gave him a sharp look and then his eyes softened. ‘I am sorry, Sir Henry, I spoke . . .’
Mainwaring waved aside his protest. ‘You spake as any man might, but you have to realize affairs have been most difficult of late.’ The old man fell silent and, looking at him, Faulkner realized he was exhausted.
‘What’s to be done, Sir Henry?’ he asked, his tone softer.
With an effort Mainwaring heaved himself to his feet. His flesh seemed to hang from him and he stood with a stoop that Faulkner had never noticed before. ‘When your men have been paid something we must to The Hague. I believe His Majesty has some opinions of his own and there will doubtless be orders . . . We run out of all else, but there is never a shortage of stratagems and orders.’
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