Now, as they approached their objective, the Royalist stronghold of Jersey, it became clear to many, especially the Basilisk’s officers, that Faulkner’s qualities were about to be put to the test. Few among them failed to recognize that landing on the rock-and-reef island in the face of opposition was going to be difficult. Fewer still did not know that those difficulties would be compounded by the late season of the year and the fact that the Channel Islands were not merely surrounded by rocks, but subject to exceedingly strong tides. Not only was there a large rise and fall of water, a matter making the landing of boats uncertain, but the strength and speed of the tidal streams had a profound effect on the conduct of a vessel, particularly if the wind fell light. Not that there seemed much prospect of that at the moment, with a stiff breeze coming up from the south-west. But that in itself posed problems for, while it gave the men-of-war the power of manoeuvrability, when tide and wind ran in contrary directions their opposing forces cut up a vicious hollow sea, making boat operations impossible.
‘We shall be off Grosnez Point in three hours,’ Faulkner remarked to Brenton as he turned to look astern and out on the starboard quarter at the squadron spread out behind them.
‘The post of honour, Kit,’ he said in a low voice, turning back to stare ahead. ‘May I have the use of your glass?’
‘Of course.’ Faulkner handed Brenton his telescope. ‘You will see the white water on Les Pierres de Lecq a little to the left of the end of the land . . .’
They fell to discussing the run of the tide in the coming hours and the best way of making the approach, which they had been worrying over ever since they had received the order issued by the Council of State on 20th September, to take the Channel Islands.
After his release from the Tower of London, Faulkner had spent a week with Mainwaring in Camberwell assembling sufficient clothes, arms and instruments to resume his career at sea. Mainwaring’s prudence in securing a means of accessing his money had greatly eased this task, reminding Faulkner of the older man’s generosity in first equipping him for sea. Divining the Council of State’s likely strategy, it had been Mainwaring who supplied Faulkner with some new charts of the Channel Islands. These had come from ‘some old friends from the Trinity House’, Mainwaring told him when he enquired. But that was not all Mainwaring had done for him, for it became obvious to Faulkner that Mainwaring’s coming over from the Low Countries had been largely dictated by his own situation, and that Mainwaring’s objective had always been the promotion of his protégé.
It was not easy to understand all this, particularly as following the then Prince Charles into exile had been so palpably the wrong course of action. It was only later, when Faulkner had the liberty to consider these things, that he realized that for a man of Mainwaring’s age, background and uncommitted and undeclared religious affiliation, the repudiation of a legitimate monarchy in the face of rebellion had been a step he felt unable to take. That he had repented at leisure, while making the matter more difficult, only made it more necessary. Despite their long intimacy, Faulkner had never fully understood the reasons for his patron’s conduct, especially in respect of himself. Long ago Mainwaring had told him the country was desperately in need of good sea officers, but that was back in the reign of King James when the century was a not a quarter old. Later conversations had been less clear-cut but, on the eve of his return to London to join the Basilisk, Mainwaring had made a remark that Faulkner had turned over in his mind ever since, and was perhaps the best explanation he would ever have from the old man.
Amid a rather emotional eve of leave-taking, after a good dinner during which each of them had downed the better part of two bottles, Mainwaring had stoked up his pipe and lay back in his chair, wreathed in smoke, his voice thick with fine feeling and the slur of wine, musing on the nation’s predicament.
‘Once the Royalists are overcome, we shall likely fight the Dutch,’ he had mused. ‘That will be a tragedy for both countries, for both share a religion and neither has territorial ambitions over the other. We shall fight for trade and, I believe, the victor has the potential to become the most important maritime power in Europe.’
‘What of France?’ Faulkner had asked. ‘Or Spain?’
Mainwaring had considered the question for a long while and then said, ‘Both will be dangerous, especially France as long as Le Roi Soleil governs her, but neither has the same predatory instinct for trade as the Dutch and they have proved that they can measure their swords against both. If they prevail at sea over us, then we shall be nothing but an offshore island with a population that will sink into barbarity watching the ships of others sail past our southern coasts, whose abler sons take to prosecuting piracy like the Irish.’ He had paused again as Faulkner had seen the logic swim out of the blue clouds of tobacco smoke wreathing the old man in the form of the full sails of a score of ships. Wrapped in the fanciful illusion, Faulkner studied the swirls, watching the chimera dissolve with an almost childish delight. Suddenly Mainwaring set aside his pipe, whipped off his full-bottomed wig and flung it on the table beside him. Vigorously scratching his pate he had declared with a conviction that Faulkner was later to recall many times, ‘Kit, if the Commonwealth survives as a strong centre of power, it could achieve great things and it can only achieve great things at sea.’
Now, as he watched the coast of Jersey take on a distinct appearance, the details of its church towers, the grey flecks of cottages, the white of sheep, the autumnal green of a pasture dotted with brown cattle, the rich russets of turning trees, he wondered if they were on the eve of a great thing, or not.
Blake’s operations off Jersey were not helped by the lateness of the Council of State’s order, a demonstration that it was dominated by soldiers rather than men acquainted with operations at sea. True, it had been hoped that the appearance of the squadron would induce Sir George Carteret to surrender and – as they later discovered – it had so rattled the rank and file of the defenders that, in the end, with the exception of Carteret’s withdrawal into Elizabeth Castle, the fortress at St Helier at the extremity of its long mole, once ashore resistance soon crumbled.
It was the landing that proved difficult, calling from the assembled squadron some minor prodigies of seamanship as the squadron anchored first in St Ouen’s Bay. This extended from Le Grande Etacquerel to the south-west corner of the island, Corbière Point, which extended offshore some distance in the form of a jagged series of rocks and reefs. These were exposed at low water and lurked not far beneath the surface at the top of the tide. Rounding the point, one encountered the smaller and easily defended St Breland’s Bay, beyond which was the long curved stretch of St Aubin’s Bay upon the shores of which, behind the dark mass of Elizabeth Castle, lay the principal town of St Helier. But seaward of these bays, cast about the island of Jersey like the devil’s necklace, was an extensive litter of rocks, reefs and shoals, within which an invading force must operate. And while the interposition of this natural barrier broke the worst of the powerful surge of the sea itself, the prevailing wind from the south-west quarter could blow with gale force, making the coast a lee shore.
As the squadron stood inside the outer shoals, passing within long cannon shot of Le Grande Etacquerel, it was immediately obvious that Carteret had fortified the shoreline of St Ouen’s Bay with earthworks. A boat from the flagship, the Happy Entrance, was ordered by Blake to land an officer with a flag of truce, but the offer of terms was rejected by Carteret, who hoped the autumnal weather would defeat Blake. In this he seemed correct, for although the boat bearing the flag of truce got off the beach, all hope of a rapid landing evaporated as the wind increased and Blake ordered Richard Badiley in the Paragon and the two frigates, including the Basilisk, to sail up and down the bay, bombarding the shore.
Had the Commonwealth forces seen the terror this induced among the Royalist troops they might have taken heart, rather than be disappointed at their own frustration. As it was, the provocative bravado of the Royalist office
rs, some of whom ostentatiously caracoled their horses, made a brave enough show to conceal the uncertain state of their men’s morale. At sunset the signal was made to anchor and next day, with Basilisk again in the van, the squadron doubled the Corbière rocks and made as though to land in St Brelade’s Bay. Although commanded and enfiladed – the narrow bay was a death trap – Blake’s bold move induced Carteret to abandon his positions at St Ouen’s and march on St Brelade’s Bay. But Blake had no intention of sending his men into trouble and cruised the whole of that day, 22nd October, under easy sail along Jersey’s south coast, sending the frigates into the anchorages to annoy the anchored merchant shipping there. The Basilisk played her part in this, Faulkner ensuring that at no time did Brenton run his ship into shoal water.
But such manoeuvrings were mere demonstrations and Blake was playing a waiting game, appearing back in St Ouen’s Bay by daylight on the 23rd. Unfortunately, he was matched in cunning by Carteret who had counter-marched his men and was ready for a landing that was, for a second time, abandoned for fear of a rising wind and heavy surf. Instead Blake hoisted his boats and under easy sail the squadron sailed north, passing Le Grande Etacquerel, throwing shot ashore and again drawing off Carteret’s force by detachments. In this Basilisk again led, Faulkner being unequivocally burdened with the pilotage. He knew that were anything to go amiss he would be held responsible and possibly charged with treason. He also knew that there was no one in the squadron as familiar as he was with the coast in question for here, in the autumn of 1648, he had taught Charles, Prince of Wales, the finer points of sailing, and they had several times circumnavigated the island in the craft in which the Prince had escaped from the Isles of Scilly.
The feint to the northwards was carried out under low cloud, with frequent rain squalls and a strong onshore breeze, but at dusk they put about and the Basilisk followed the other men-of-war back to their anchorage off St Ouen’s Bay where the troopships had remained. Soon after dark, the wind began to drop and orders were passed to make ready to land the troops, the men-of-war sending their boats to the transports, but high tide had passed before a boat ran alongside the Basilisk and an officer with a written order came up the side. When he had read it, Brenton sent the men to the capstan and summoned Faulkner.
‘The General has ordered an attack on the ebb,’ he said, clearly anxious. ‘He wants us to stand inshore as close as we dare and give covering fire.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘The tidal stream, though ebbing, loses much of its strength. Besides, with the wind dropping the moment the boats are emptied of troops, their crews will get them off.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Brenton said uncertainly, but it was clear he was both anxious and nervous. Just then, the low call from the bow indicated the anchor was a-trip and then aweigh.
‘Let fall the topsails and sheet home!’ Brenton called and Faulkner went forward to be near the leadsmen who began calling out the diminishing depth. Between the two rocky headlands of Le Grande Etacquerel and Corbière Point, St Ouen’s Bay was a sandy strand that sloped gently into deep water. When they had but ten feet under the keel, Faulkner ran aft and told Brenton they could go no further. The helm was put over and the Basilisk rounded-to and dropped her anchor. A few minutes later she lay brought up to her cable, gently resolving the forces of wind and tide. A lantern was hung to seaward where the pale shapes of other ships’ topsails could be made out against the cloudy night sky and within twenty minutes small black shapes, looking like huge insects, could be seen crawling across the ruffled surface of the sea. The wind had all but fallen away as, led by Captain Dover of the Eagle, the first boats touched the shore. Dover’s forlorn hope consisted entirely of armed seamen sent to secure a beachhead for the less agile troops – a lesson learned after the debacle of landing on Tresco in April.
To his chagrin, Faulkner was left aboard as Brenton, in common with all the captains in the squadron, accompanied their men and the troops embarked in their ships. Aware of the approaching enemy, Carteret had mustered his men, but his infantry’s spirit broke and only a small force of cavalry answered his orders. Cavaliers to a man, they rode down on to the hard sand and slashed left and right among the seamen and crop-head infantry, who scrambled out of their boats as soon as the first scratch of sand was felt under their keels. Some leapt out prematurely and had to swim ashore, or drown in the attempt.
For half an hour vicious fighting went on in the small breakers as horse and foot struggled for mastery of the water’s edge. Dover was wounded, as was a lieutenant supporting him. But when the Royalist cavalry commander, Colonel Bosville, was shot out of his saddle by a matchlock, the exhausted and outnumbered cavaliers withdrew, leaving the strip of sand to the invaders.
‘It was suddenly all over,’ a cold, wet Brenton recounted two days later, nursing a glass of coddled wine back on board the Basilisk as she lay snubbing her anchor while Faulkner was as anxious as Brenton had been on the evening of the assault. ‘Once the horse broke, we struggled up the beach and found the entrenchments all but empty and we marched for St Aubin’s, chasing the Malignants all the way to St Helier.’ Brenton paused, knowing his friend was paying more attention to the view of Elizabeth Castle and St Helier, judging whether the frigate’s anchors still held in the seabed. ‘But you have had your share of troubles, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ Faulkner replied, abstractedly. ‘As you see, the weather worsened while you were enjoying your walk ashore.’ Brenton snorted derisively. ‘And we lost the Tresco, frigate, with all hands.’
‘All hands? Dear God. That means . . .’
‘Aye, Captain Blake, the General’s cousin is lost.’
Blake withdrew the greater number of his ships a few days later. Badiley left for the Mediterranean, another departed for Virginia while the Basilisk remained for a few days to support the siege of Elizabeth Castle in which Carteret had barricaded himself. Lying off and throwing shot at the ramparts, the Basilisk did what she could to harry the few remaining men loyal to Carteret and King Charles. Meanwhile, they learned that the King, crowned in Scotland and at the head of a Scots army had been utterly routed at Worcester in early September. The Royal personage was, once again, a fugitive, and the news caused Faulkner to fret over Katherine, a mark of his general anxiety rather than his true feelings for his erstwhile mistress; or so he thought at the time.
Bad weather drove them off station and they followed Blake to Portsmouth, arriving on the 17th November.
Before he went ashore and his flag as General-at-Sea was hauled down two days later, Robert Blake sent for Captain Brenton and ‘the chief pilot to the squadron’. It was thus that Faulkner followed Brenton up the side of the Happy Entrance as she lay at anchor at Spithead. They were met by Blake’s flag captain, John Coppin, who bid them welcome and pointed out the irony in their recent operations.
‘Did you know, Brenton, that Carteret used to command this ship? Hah! Bet he was less than entranced by the appearance of the Happy Entrance off the Jersey coast, eh?’ Pleased with his own jest, Coppin led them under the poop and into the great cabin where Blake sat at a table covered with papers, a secretary busy writing at one end. Faulkner had heard a great deal about Blake, of his rise in the Parliamentary army and his transfer to the Commonwealth’s navy. He was popular with his crews, but less so with his captains, making stringent demands upon them, unwilling to suffer fools gladly, so he was as anxious as Brenton about the nature of the unusual summons, particularly as he himself had been singled out in such a formal fashion.
Blake was in his shirtsleeves, a plain waistcoat over the white lawn, a bunch of plain lace at his throat. He wore his dark hair long, his round face with its strong features, straight nose and firm mouth looking up at the intrusion.
‘Captain Brenton of the Basilisk and his pilot, General,’ Coppin said, making a small bow as Faulkner followed Brenton’s example, sweeping his hat from his head and footing an elegant bow.
‘Not his pilot, Coppin, the pilot, but thank you. Ple
ase sit down gentlemen.’ Blake indicated two upright chairs that would have served for dinner had Blake invited them to dine with him. As Coppin withdrew, Blake ordered a servant in a side cabin to produce two glasses of oporto and Faulkner recollected he had been at Lisbon the previous spring.
‘So,’ Blake said, raising his glass to the two of them and fixing Faulkner with a steady gaze. ‘This is the infamous Sir Christopher Faulkner.’
Faulkner made no move; no one, least of all himself, had used his title since he had landed in England a prisoner and he returned Blake’s survey, trying to divine the General-at-Sea’s purpose at using it now.
‘You do not use your title. Why is that?’
‘It does not seem appropriate, Your Excellency. Besides, I am more attached to my reputation as to infamy, than to a knighthood awarded me in previous existence.’
He thought a smile briefly crossed Blake’s face. ‘You object to being referred to as infamous?’
‘I did my duty as I saw it at the time.’ He paused a moment, gauging Blake’s mood. Blake was ten or twelve years his senior, but they had seen the same changes and might have some things in common.
‘I have no doubt as to either your courage or your competence, Sir Christopher. I rather thought your reputation for infamy rested upon your moral state.’
‘My moral state, Excellency? Why, what is that to you?’ Brenton stirred uneasily beside him, but Faulkner felt a sudden liberation, as though, despite being freed from the Tower, he had been serving some penance at the direction of dark and nameless men. Now, face to face with a man of the Commonwealth elite, he felt the compulsion to make his mark for better or worse.
‘Those are bold words, Sir Christopher.’
‘Excellency, I do not think—’ Brenton began but Blake held up his hand, the left corner of his lips curling upwards, and Brenton fell silent.
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