Now up with the enemy, the Resolution had altered course to starboard, across the line of the Dutch advance, her yards squared off before the wind and leading Blake’s ships into action. At this distance, the prickling sparks of her gunfire seemed innocuous and nothing could be heard in the thrash of the sea alongside the Basilisk and the soughing of the wind in their own rigging. Smoke clouds began to form and then drift to leeward while answering flashes came from the bow chasers of one or two of the Dutchmen. Then, like distant thunder as the wind carried it away from them, they heard the noise; already men lay dead and dying as the fleets exchanged their opening shots.
‘They’re tacking!’ Stockton called excitedly.
Faulkner raised his glass, watching the leading Dutch ship turn across the wind and head south-south-east. He did not think she was the Brederode, but she was flying De With’s flag from her main truck, the horizontally barred red, white and pale blue of her ensigns flickering brightly from her stern. The last of the sun caught the gilding of bow and high stern, sparkling as she swung, and flecked the fluttering luffs of her topsails and topgallants with pale gold. He heard Stockton, a young man of promise and a romantic bent, mutter, ‘Magnificent!’
Then, her entire windward side belched fire as the starboard batteries responded to the English broadsides. ‘Very well, gentlemen, stand-to and take your posts.’
The order was a formality; they had been at their posts for hours, but the words reminded them, tightened their muscles, sharpened their attention. It was just as well, for events seemed to speed up, the closing rate of the two fleets suddenly increased by the tacking of the Dutch. As De With’s division merged with Blake’s, the ships were enveloped in their own gunsmoke so that, while the tops of their masts with their pennants and standards stood clear, the dark mass of their hulls seemed only vaguely perceptible, picked out by the sparks of gunfire that penetrated the thick obscurity.
But to the east of De With’s division, parallel with him but now passing him as his ships hauled up their courses for the bloody struggle with Blake, came De Ruyter’s squadron.
‘They’re intent on Bourne,’ Faulkner muttered to himself, taking a quick look around the horizon. He had little idea what was happening to the north-west, though he briefly saw the massive bulk of the Sovereign far away and it crossed his mind that she was close to the tail of the Kentish Knock. But that was not his affair; his duty lay in keeping with Bourne and the Basilisk was the leeward-most ship of Bourne’s division, which meant she would receive the full weight of shot of De Ruyter’s van. This consisted, as far as he could see, of a ship of at least fifty guns with a consort on her larboard quarter. Both had crammed on sail, their yards braced sharp up as they made to cut off Bourne and get to windward of the English.
‘Them squareheads have some lubberly ships for leeway, sir,’ Clarkson remarked.
It was vaguely gratifying to know that Clarkson either did not know, or had forgotten, that Faulkner had been intimate with the Dutch. ‘I know, Mr Clarkson, I know.’ But his mind was on the opportunity he saw developing.
‘Hands to the braces! Square away! Larboard your helm!’ he called sharply. Basilisk began to turn to starboard, heading to cross the advancing line of the enemy.
‘Sir . . .?’ Clarkson queried, jolted out of his ruminations on Dutch ship design.
‘I intend you to throw in raking shots. Tell Mr Stockton! Larboard battery when he is ready and at his discretion!’ It did not do to hold the reins too close.
A messenger ran below, bringing back the news that Stockton was all ready. Across the deck, close by the helmsmen, Clarkson was praying out loud and unashamedly. This was, Faulkner had heard, how the Parliamentarians had gone into action at Marston Moor and Naseby. Despite his misgivings he was caught up in the fervour such a bold conviction carried; this was superb! Sublime! Elevating!
He suddenly found himself thinking of Judith, and then in a godless moment recalled the movements of her body beneath his as they roused themselves to the passion that had produced Nathaniel. What fools we men are, he chid himself silently, to think of such things as we stand on the edge of eternity!
He focused his attention on the enemy’s leading ship. Their courses were converging and Clarkson swung their head another two points to starboard in order to carry out Faulkner’s manoeuvre. These were good men, who used their initiative. He peered again at the enemy, watching her bury her bows into the sea as she heeled to the wind. That would make life difficult, throwing her shot high while the Basilisk, more nearly running before the wind, would – at least for the next few moments – present her gunners with a steadier platform. Moreover, with every second that passed, the Basilisk drew further ahead of her quarry. While the enemy’s broadside could not be brought round to confront her with other Dutch ships coming up astern of her on her larboard quarter, all of the Basilisk’s larboard guns could fire the length of the enemy ship.
A puff of smoke surrounded a sharp flame from the enemy’s bow, and then the deck beneath his feet shook and the thunderously rolling concussion of a ragged broadside from the Basilisk’s batteries hurled its iron projectiles at the enemy. Then all was for a moment obscured as the acrid white smoke rolled away towards the enemy, gradually thinning to show a tottering fore-mast following the descent of her sprit topmast and half her bowsprit into the sea under her onrushing bow. A cheer came up from below and Faulkner heard Stockton bawling for silence and for his men to reload.
Faulkner was aware that Clarkson had moved closer in anticipation of new orders.
‘Hold on, Mr Clarkson. She’s got a sister ship coming up her larboard side. Once we’ve given her a like dose of iron, we’ll haul our wind and run ahead, before doubling round to support Bourne’s rear. Is that clear?’
‘Aye, sir. Perfectly’
The Basilisk shuddered as three or four shot from their enemy thudded into her quarter as the wounded ship attempted to hit her tormentor. But now Faulkner was looking at the next Dutch man-of-war, which was coming up hand over fist. Their next broadside did not seem to be as effective, but Clarkson had his helmsmen put over the helm and the yards came up hard against the catharpings as Basilisk swung on to a parallel course with the enemy, running just ahead and throwing shot off on her starboard quarter.
‘Rise tacks and sheets!’
As the courses rose in their gear, the leading two Dutch ships appeared to overtake her until they too began to shorten sail and the nearer, the least affected by the Basilisk’s gunfire, began to turn on the impudent English frigate.
‘Back the sprit topsail and the foreyards!’ Faulkner roared. ‘Up helm! Make ready the larboard broadside!’ He waited a moment as the Basilisk turned on her heel. ‘Mainsail haul!’ Again he waited, his heart thumping in his chest, watching more Dutchmen approaching from the starboard side, the whole of De Ruyter’s division bar his two leading men-of-war. The frigate completed her swing and he bellowed, ‘Haul all!’
If he was lucky he could drive across the sterns of the two leading ships before the other came up, but he would run the gauntlet of the two he had struck at as they came round to fire their own broadsides.
‘God’s wounds!’ he swore, seeing the next ships coming up also swing to starboard so that he had the enemy on either side parallel to him and Basilisk was exposed to the broadsides of four hostile men-of-war. ‘Both batteries,’ he roared even as the guns fired and the smoke and noise enveloped them. For two long minutes it seemed as if the entire Dutch fleet were firing into the Basilisk as she lay among the rushing van of De Ruyter’s division but as the smoke shredded and cleared, just before the guns fired again and while the men serving them toiled at swabbing, reloading and ramming home their charges, Faulkner was aware of two facts. The first was that their main topmast was shattered and the spars, sails and gear above the main top were tottering before they crashed to the deck; the second was that ahead of them and coming towards them on the opposite tack, just as he had conned the Basilisk ac
ross the grain of De Ruyter’s two leading fifty-gun ships, came the entire squadron of Rear-Admiral Nehemiah Bourne.
He heard Clarkson bellow, ‘Stand from under!’ Then the wreckage from aloft came crashing down, some falling on deck and catching men beneath it but most, thanks to the strength of the wind, falling over the starboard side. The Basilisk’s rapid run was over, she slewed to starboard like a drunken horse, exposing the length of her hull to the last shots of her tormentors. Perhaps a dozen raking shots tore through her doing God knew what execution and then De Ruyter’s ships had passed them, leaving the battered frigate wallowing in their wake as the engagement with Bourne’s ships became general.
Faulkner felt unsteady on his feet and staggered towards the rail. What was the matter with him? He felt a childish urge to weep as his eyes filled with unbidden tears; he tried to stiffen his legs but found he could not breathe, nor could he hear other than a loud ringing in his ears. What the devil? And yet it seemed this had all happened a long time ago. He felt his knees buckle. One of the helmsmen, thrown on to the deck by the falling gear was picking himself up, apparently unhurt and Faulkner all but fell on top of him. The two bumped into each other in the confusion.
‘Begging your pardon. Sir, you are hurt!’ Faulkner felt the man’s arms support him. The feeling was an immense relief, like surrendering to the inevitability of death. Was he dying? Surely not; not now . . .
He was aware of others and let his body fall. Expecting to strike the deck he was borne upwards and then, with a vast shuddering intake of breath his head began to clear and he could feel his heart pounding as a seizure of pure involuntary panic caused him to pant in great drafts of breath.
‘A cannon shot,’ Clarkson said, matter-of-factly. ‘Passed him so close it took the wind from him.’
They propped him against the fife rail at the foot of the mizzen mast and he slowly recovered his senses. Stockton was there, paying him scant attention as he and Clarkson passed orders to get the wreckage of the main topmast cleared away and the ship under command again. From time to time he turned and gave Faulkner a reassuring look. Then the surgeon was alongside him with his box but Faulkner’s wits had returned and he waved the man away.
‘Nothing . . . for . . . you . . . here, Bones,’ he said between greedy gasps of air. ‘You’ll . . . have . . . worse . . . cases . . . than . . . mine . . . to . . . attend to, I . . . don’t . . . doubt.’
‘That I have, sir.’
‘Then . . . attend . . . them . . . if . . . you . . . please.’
He began to be aware of the battle raging about them as they drifted to leeward. Out of the smoke a huge ship loomed and for a moment they thought their end had come, for Dutch standards streamed out from her mastheads. But the great man-of-war was in the act of tacking in order to bear down upon Bourne’s flagship, the Andrew, and none among the English fleet were aware of the confusion and near-mutinous condition of the men in the Dutch ships. An occasional shot struck them, ricocheting out of the advancing gloom as the onset of night stole over the battling ships. Somewhere to the north-west, both the Sovereign and Penn’s flagship, the James, had touched on the Knock and had required the efforts of several boats to get them off, but by twilight the Sovereign had engaged a score of Dutch men-of-war and the field was left to the English as the Dutch withdrew.
The Basilisk drifted out of the action until she was able to make sail again and stood in under the lee of the North Foreland and anchored for the remainder of the night.
Dungeness to Portland
September 1652 – February 1653
Once brought up to their anchor, Faulkner pressed his men to further exertions. In the darkness, lit by three or four large lanterns, the officers drove the exhausted crew to prepare for re-rigging the Basilisk the following morning. The wreckage was cleared away, a survey of the damage taken, and some of the materials required for the repair were assembled. Faulkner left the matter largely to his officers. Clarkson, the master, with considerable experience, was ably seconded by another veteran, Whadcoat, the second lieutenant who, unlike Stockton and so many officers in the fleet, including Blake, had not begun his military career as a soldier. A bluff, stocky seaman who nevertheless wore his hair as short as any cavalry trooper in Cromwell’s horse, he seemed possessed of reserves of energy that goaded the men to ever greater efforts. Faulkner was impressed with this quality of inspiriting inspiring leadership that was almost entirely absent from his experience among the Royalists. Certainly Prince Rupert was capable of rousing his men, but not in the same, intimate manner as Whadcoat, who toiled among the seamen, giving them no opportunity to complain. He had been as active during the action, Stockton told Faulkner when the latter remarked upon Whadcoat’s industry, commanding the larboard battery.
At ten o’clock a boat arrived alongside. It was a hired Deal punt and bore an officer from the flagship who came up the ship’s side, his face still bearing the stains of gunsmoke, his hair lank and matted with dried sweat. A young man of perhaps twenty summers, he introduced himself as Humphrey Hodson as he drew a sealed paper from his gauntlet and handed it to Faulkner.
‘Come below, sir, where I have better light and can refresh you. Mr Stockton, see the Deal boatmen get a nip of rum for their trouble, they are like to have a long night.’
‘That is thoughtful of you, Captain Faulkner,’ Hodson said as they entered the cabin and the servant was summoned to reinforce the night-glim that would otherwise have served to illuminate the space. Once he had seen his visitor settled with a full glass, Faulkner gave a brief glance at the superscription to Captain Faulkner, the BASILISK, frigate, Margate Roads, opened the letter and perused its contents. It bore no date, only the time of Seven O’Clock, and Triumph, The Downs. He read on.
Sir,
Having seen you gallantly carry your vessel into action this day and noticed that thou hast received some knocks, I have you appraise the bearer, Lieutenant H. Hodson, of your ability to command your ship further to the Service of the State and the sooner the better to my desire.
Should you consider the possibility of rendering me due assistance by sunset tomorrow, pray without further reference to myself pass over to the coast of Holland and determine the location of our enemy. I am not persuaded that he is yet sufficiently beaten and would have early warning of his intentions.
Knowing you to have knowledge of the Holland coast I place this important Service in your charge the better to have it executed to my wishes.
I am, Sir, your faithful servant,
Robt Blake,
Genl-@-Sea
Faulkner folded the letter and looked up at Hodson. He was fast asleep. A trickle of wine had run from his glass and stained his breeches and the glass would have fallen from his hand, if Faulkner had not rescued it. The sudden movement startled Hodson and he woke with a jerk.
He shook his head and ran his fingers through his filthy hair. ‘I am so sorry, sir, I . . .’ he flushed with embarrassment.
‘Think nothing of it,’ Faulkner said, smiling kindly. ‘It has been a busy day.’
Hodson managed a wan grin. ‘You have read the General’s letter, sir?’
Faulkner nodded. ‘Yes. You are to inform the General that I shall do my utmost to be away before sunset tomorrow and would consider myself remiss if I was not under command sooner.’
Hodson repeated the sentence and then picked his hat from the deck. Standing, he bowed to Faulkner and made to withdraw. After he had gone, Faulkner re-read the letter, then followed Hodson on deck.
‘Mr Clarkson?’ he called and a moment later the master appeared.
‘Sir?’
‘When convenient stand the men down and set an anchor watch. Do you think you can have the ship re-rigged by sunset tomorrow?’
‘I’d be damned sorry if she weren’t ready by noon, Cap’n Faulkner. The second lieutenant has worked a modest miracle with God’s help.’
‘Very well. That being so, we shall proceed to seek out the enemy as
soon as we may.’
They had no trouble locating the Dutch fleet, which, as Faulkner had guessed, had made for Helvoetsluys. They raised the familiar low coastline, spiked with its church spires and windmills, and he felt a sudden pang for Katherine, wondering where she was and how she lived. But the size of the Dutch fleet swept all personal thoughts away as he gave orders to clew up the courses, back the main yards and heave to. His charge from Blake was specific and, he realized, the General was perceptive, even perhaps prescient. Whether Blake had received intelligence of Dutch intentions was impossible to say, but it was clear that something was afoot, for a frigate let fall her topsails and was soon under way, hauling round to intercept the Basilisk and chase her offshore and out of sight.
‘Those are Indiamen,’ Clarkson said standing beside him, his own glass levelled on the outer road.
‘Aye, ’tis a convoy all right.’
‘And a damn big one. D’you think they are going to try and force the Strait, sir?’
‘I think that is what the General thinks.’
‘Then we didn’t drub them t’other day. At least not as hard as we thought we had.’
‘No,’ Faulkner ruminated, shifting his telescope on to the approaching frigate. ‘I think they were merely swatting us aside.’ It would certainly explain a good deal and although Faulkner was incorrect in his assumption, he was not wrong in his conclusion. He shut his glass with a decisive snap. ‘Be so good as to haul the main yards, Mr Clarkson. We must run from this fellow and take the tidings to General Blake.’
The Basilisk reached The Downs three days later, after battling a strong headwind which seemed particularly contrary as it swung within four points of south-west and seemed diabolical in its intent to head them every time they tacked. Fortunately, the Dutch frigate did not pursue them far from the coast and they had lost her by the time that darkness fell that same evening. It was an uncomfortable season to be campaigning at sea but the situation was so uncertain that Faulkner perfectly understood Blake’s reluctance to take his fleet into winter quarters. On boarding the Triumph, Faulkner could see evidence of the damage in the late action off the Kentish Knock. Ushered into the great cabin, Faulkner found Blake at his desk, his secretary, Francis Harvey, scribbling industriously at his elbow while he studied a chart of the Channel.
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