by J. D. Davies
‘My Lord,’ Tom Carver said, after I told him of the dispositions, ‘surely it is a risk to divide so small a fleet—’
‘And equally great to keep both halves on England’s shore, running the risk that Spinola slips past us on the French side, as he did the last time. But this time, the Dutch have squadrons off Dunkirk and Sluys. He knows that. He will come this way, Master Carver.’
Even as I spoke the words, I prayed that God would repay my confidence. And at dawn on the fourth day, it seemed instead as though God was laughing in my face. There was a thick mist, as there was the last time. It was barely possible to make out the shape of the Advantage. But the mist was accompanied by a stiff south-westerly breeze, perfect for any vessels attempting to run the Channel.
I stood upon the quarterdeck, Iles at my side, and cursed my ill fortune. Spinola would make a fool of me yet again.
The Earl of Ravensden was finished.
Nicholas Iles:
A gun fired, somewhere off to the south-east. Then a second, in short order.
‘The signal!’ the Earl cried. ‘Spinola! The fucking galleys! Set the courses, Master Carver! South by east, as close to the wind as we can manage, if you please! Signal the Advantage to fall into our wake! Master gunner, you know your duty, so go to it, man! Master boatswain, put aloft every fucking pennant and ensign we carry – aye, my personal banner at the mizzen! We are the flagship of the Narrow Seas, and General Spinola shall know it!’
The main course was barely set, and the ship slowly beginning to gain speed, when dark shapes began to emerge from the mist. Dark, low shapes. Six of them, in line abreast.
‘Come on, you Don spew-sacks!’ shouted the Earl, hauling himself up onto the ship’s rail while clinging to a shroud. ‘Come on, Federico Spinola, and taste more of the fire that did for you at Sesimbra!’
‘They’re taking in sail, My Lord!’ cried Tom Carver.
‘Oh, you won’t avoid me that easily, General! I know your game!’
Even I could see what their game was. Oars were being deployed all along the sides of the six galleys, and their bows were already swinging round, back toward the south-west. The Spanish were going to go where we could not, directly into the wind. And if they could win the race that was about to begin, they would get to the south of us, toward the French shore, and then turn and run up the Channel to safety.
Just as they did before.
The Earl of Ravensden:
It was not a day to be a man of action.
A man of action craves nothing more than to have his sword in his hand and enemies within reach that can be impaled upon the end of it. A man of action who commands a man-of-war craves the shuddering of the deck beneath his feet as an entire broadside of demi-culverins tear apart a hostile ship at point blank range. A man of action with a score to settle against a certain Genoese general craves to be in the midst of his galleys –
But no, it was not that sort of day.
Instead, it was the sort of day where General Spinola’s six galleys tried to edge south-west, then a little south, then a little south-easterly, then a little more to the south-west, all the while trying to work round to the south of us as we struggled to sail as close to the wind as we possibly could. At her cleanest, straight out of dock or the careen, the Merhonour could sail perhaps seven points from the wind. But as she was then, foul-hulled and slow, she could barely make nine. Carver had men aloft and at the ropes constantly, adjusting this or that halliard or topsail every few minutes. But despite all his efforts, we fell further and further away from the galleys and from the two Dutchmen on the other tack. The Merhonour was stranded in the middle of the English Channel.
Or so it would have seemed to General Spinola.
Nicholas Iles:
‘My Lord! The galleys are hoisting their sails again!’
The lookout’s shout came late in the afternoon. My Lord exchanged glances with Tom Carver, but his face was unreadable. I looked out and saw the six galleys swinging round onto their new course: north-east, into the great gap between the Merhonour and the two Dutch ships, mere specks on the horizon far off to the north-west. The galleys were running back onto their original course, to hug the English coast.
‘Enough of this tiresome nudging of the wind, Master Carver,’ said the Earl. ‘Time to sail large, in pursuit of the galleys, yonder!’
‘Aye, aye, My Lord!’
He turned to me.
‘Well, poet – damn me, do I still call you a poet? Do I call you Iles, or do I call you Musk? At any rate, did you ever see so fine a spectacle?’
He was unconscionably merry. There, in plain sight, history was repeating itself. Yet again, Federico Spinola was taking six galleys directly through the Straits of Dover to wreak havoc upon the coast of Flanders, and perhaps to threaten an invasion of England itself. Yet again, My Lord was being outrun and humiliated. Yet the Earl of Ravensden was grinning like a youth who had just taken his first maidenhead.
‘This is a fine spectacle, My Lord?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, the very finest. Come, now, Captain Musk, you who have commanded a Queen’s man-of-war! Look upon the scene, man, and think. Spinola thinks he has outwitted me, but it is I who have outwitted him. Look out yonder, Nicholas Musk, and tell me why that is so.’
I studied the positions of the galleys, and of the Dutch ships, and of the Merhonour, and of the distant coasts of England to the north and France to the south. I thought of the maps and charts I had seen–
All became clear, like the opening of a door from a darkened room into a beauteous garden.
‘You have forced him into a trap,’ I said. ‘You wished him to think that you were determined to keep him off the English coast. So when he made for that of France, you made as though you would block him from that course, too – trying and failing to follow him, making it look as though you were making every effort to bring the Merhonour as close to the wind as possible. Whereas what you were really doing—’
‘Was creating a gap that Spinola would find irresistible. A gap that he had to make for, as our apparent attempts to sail close to the wind actually took us further and further into the middle of the Channel, blocking him from the French coast. So now the great general is going exactly where I want him to go, but he does not know that yet. Ah, my friend, I tell you this – being an admiral is a truly wonderful thing.’
And with that, he slapped my back; slapped it just as the Merhonour pitched as she gained speed sailing large in pursuit of Spinola’s galleys.
The Earl of Ravensden:
What a spectacle we must have been from Dover in the dying light of evening!
The six galleys close inshore – so close that it was said some of the slaves were able to jump clear and swim ashore to freedom – pursued by the Merhonour, her bow chasers blazing away! And all the while, I kept us far enough out to sea to herd General Spinola where I wished him to go, like a sheepdog guiding a flock into a pen. There he was, clear against the chalk face of the White Cliffs, making inexorably for the Downs.
‘Do you see Walmer Castle?’ I demanded.
‘There, My Lord,’ said Carver, pointing toward a blur upon the shore. ‘His flag-galley is level with the castle now.’
‘Very good, Master Carver. Then we shall fall away, as we discussed. Let us see what General Spinola makes of the surprise that awaits him.’
As the Merhonour took in sail and came round as westerly as she could manage, a succession of flashes blazed out in the north-west, followed by a roaring like thunder.
‘They have fallen into the trap,’ said Iles.
‘Let us pray so,’ I said, watching the fire from Vice-Admiral Cant’s ships.
But at first, it seemed as though papist prayers were proving more efficacious, and that General Spinola had an entire legion of saints interceding for him within the celestial realm. As entire darkness fell, the wind died away. And then, when the breeze got up again, it was north-westerly. The calm would allow the galleys to
row away from Cant’s squadron and get clear of the Goodwin Sands. The new wind would allow them to sail directly for the French coast, and thence, perhaps, inshore of the blockading Dutch squadrons. Spinola would escape again, and he, King Philip and the Inquisition would proclaim it a holy miracle.
‘Damn him! Damn him to fucking hell!’ I bellowed.
‘Galley! Closing the starboard bow!’
‘Sweet Christ in Heaven – God’s blood—’
I could see it, a low, black shape, its lateen sail just visible in the darkness.
‘Master Gunner! Starboard battery to—’
I saw the flash, heard the roar, and knew at once it was a sixty-pounder at very nearly point blank range. The great shot struck the starboard quarter, causing the entire hull to shake. The quarterdeck rail shattered, shrouds tore apart and sprang from their cleets, a saker was blown into the air like a leaf upon an autumn breeze –
A great splinter of oak planking broke from the Merhonour’s desk and struck Tom Carver in the groin, a little above his privates. Had he not been standing where he was, that same fateful piece of wood would have struck me, and the noble house of Quinton would have become extinct there and then.
Carver did not cry out; did not even stumble. Instead, he gripped the shard as though making to pull it out. But he could not see, as I could, that an oaken point was protruding from his back, around the base of his spine. Great stains of blood were soaking down his breeches, front and back. I went to him and gripped his shoulders. He looked at me, and his mouth formed words. But he was no longer speaking to me. He was speaking to another lord, the Lord he was about to meet: the words of the one hundred and eighteenth psalm.
‘I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord…’
‘Tom! Tom Carver! Do not die on me yet, Master Carver!’
‘Open to me the gates of righteousness: I will go into them, and I will praise the Lord—’
He fell forward, into my arms. I trust that his spirit went at once to the Saviour to whom he had prayed so often and so long. For my part, I only had time to offer up the most perfunctory prayer for his soul, for his newly-minted widow at Wapping, and for his eight newly-orphaned children. Then I let the body fall to the deck, and returned to the fight.
Gunner Skipworth had not awaited any order from the quarterdeck. His duty was obvious, and our starboard battery was blazing away, jets of flame from our gun barrels casting a momentary light upon the scene. And now there were other lights, too: the light from fires aboard the galley, which was at so close a range that not even the feeblest gun crew could miss. There were other sounds, and they were unmistakeably the screams of men. Many of them, God help me, were English screams, the death agonies of my own countrymen, slaves chained to the galley’s oars. I still hear their cries, over and over, in my dreams. My only consolation is the knowledge that, in one sense, I delivered those poor souls from the torment of slavery.
Nicholas Iles:
Our victory was brief indeed. Another low, black shape appeared to starboard, then another. One to larboard, and another, and another. We were in the midst of General Spinola’s galleys.
‘Bear away!’ the Earl cried. ‘Bear away now! Master Skipworth, make ready both sides! On my command, Master Gunner! Steady, my lads, steady! Give fire!’
A sea-fight is terrible enough by day, but by night it is as though one has fallen through the portals of hell into the very heart of the satanic furnace. The glow of linstocks in the darkness – the matches taking light – the great spit of flame from the cannon’s mouth – its recoil, the wheels of its carriage screaming – the sound of the blast – the dozens of lesser firings from muskets, like infernal imps emulating the Lucifers of the great guns – the smoke and flame from the black, nearly invisible forms of the galleys – the death-screams of stricken men –
‘Mister Iles – Musk, rather!’
‘My Lord!’
‘It strikes me that this is one instance where a lieutenant might be of some use, especially now that Master Carver has fallen. And you, my friend, who have commanded a Queen’s ship in battle, are amply qualified for the part, I think.’
‘But what does the lieutenant of a man-of-war actually do, My Lord?’
‘The very question I ask every time the Lord Admiral has attempted to saddle me with one. But here, in such darkness that I can barely see beyond the mainmast, the duty is clear. To the forecastle, sir, and do there what you did aboard the Halcyon. Preferably without being shot this time. God be with you, Lieutenant Musk!’
‘And with you, My Lord!’
I ran forward, past the sweating, grunting men heaving upon the tackle of the guns.
‘Keep up your fire, men!’ I cried as I reached the forecastle, waving my sword above my head. ‘The Earl’s orders! For God, England and Ravensden!’
‘God, England and Ravensden!’
One of our sakers fired, and for one fleeting moment, the light of her fire illuminated a galley, barely a hundred yards to larboard. But the same light showed us to them, too, and a volley of musket fire rained down upon the forecastle. A ball struck the man upon one of the swivel guns, who was about to fire. He fell to the deck, clutching his chest as his life-blood drained away. Without a thought, I ran to the gun. I had seen these fired, the shot-canister and powder were already in the breech. I picked up the fallen man’s lighted linstock from the deck, aimed at where I judged the quarterdeck of the galley would be, applied fire to the fuse, and, as the gun fired, I felt as though a giant was shaking every bone in my body, such was the force of the blast. And then there was the thrill, the surging of the blood, and a prayer offered up for my shot to have taken Spinola’s head off his shoulders.
We kept up our fire, but I could also feel the movement of the ship as the Merhonour swung round onto her new course, east by south. Slowly, we moved away from the encircling galleys and the risk of being surrounded and boarded. All the while our batteries kept up a ferocious fire, and I bellowed at the men on the forecastle guns. But after a little while, it was obvious even to me that we were well out of range, and that the galleys were not pursuing us. I returned to the poop deck.
‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘surely our broadsides are firing into empty sea?’
He was calmer now.
‘There are more ways than one for a broadside to sink a fleet,’ he said.
And so there were.
All night, we saw the flashes of gunfire to the north and east, and heard what sounded like collisions amid the cannon fire. For the Merhonour’s furious broadsides had alerted the Dutch squadrons blockading Sluys and Dunkirk, and given the bearing to Cant’s ships coming out of the Downs. In the morning, we encountered the Dutch vice-admiral’s flagship, searching the sea for survivors of the night battle. Cant came aboard, and reported that five of the galleys had been rammed, sunk by gunfire, or run aground by their crews. Only one had escaped, getting into Dunkirk by the skin of its teeth: the San Luis, the flag-galley of Federico Spinola himself.
‘It is a great victory, My Lord,’ said Cant, ‘and much of it your doing. You sprang the trap that forced Spinola into the Downs. You blocked his course to the French coast. You alerted our ships to his whereabouts.’
‘We should have had them all!’ cried the Earl. ‘Spinola has one galley still! I have not killed enough Spaniards. We have not sunk enough galleys! Perhaps there are still fools and cravens in Whitehall who believe that galleys are the future -’
‘No, My Lord,’ I said, as firmly as I dared, ‘no man will cry up the galley in England again. Here, and at Sesimbra, you have blasted their reputation forever. England will yet be a nation of ships, and of ships alone. A nation wedded to the sea. And you have played your part in that, Matthew Quinton of Ravensden. A very great part.’
He looked at me, a hint of disbelief still apparent in his eyes. Perhaps he might have been more accepting of my words if he could only have seen a very few months into the future, when General Federico Spinola
was killed leading one last, desperate attack against the Dutch blockaders: his arm blown off, his stomach full of musket balls, the potential to become a new Hannibal cut off abruptly at the age of thirty one.
‘We should still have had them all,’ My Lord said, in the end.
All around, the crew of the Merhonour were cheering like madmen. All around, the sea was strewn with the corpses of dead Spaniards and the timbers of sunken galleys. The Dutch ships were firing guns in joyous celebration.
Time after time in the previous few months, I had told myself I was done with the quill. I tried to convince myself that I had put the stage behind me. Yet there was something in the scene before me that was irresistible: the contrast between the greatness of the victory and the unbounded celebration of it on the one hand, and a single man’s regret upon the other. Joy. Regret. Range of emotions. Dramatic tension. Yes, this was a poem that had to be written. The words were beginning to form, the stanzas and pentameters beginning to fit together in my mind.
Why, it even had a musical feel to it. Perhaps I would see if young Ielden could turn it into a song.
And I knew its title, too.
I would call it ‘Lord Ravensden’s Lament’.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Nicholas Iles:
My Lord and I were on horseback upon a crest in the hills, looking out over a landscape of vast, empty, high moors. The first light snowfall of the winter lay upon the ground. It had been a ride of several long hours from Alnburgh Castle. The border between England and Scotland ran somewhere across this land, but it was impossible to tell where that border might be, or on which side of it we stood. There was not another soul in sight.
‘He’s not coming, My Lord,’ I said; for it was well past the time appointed for the meeting.
‘Oh, he’s coming. If one thing on God’s earth is certain at this moment, my friend, it’s that he’s coming.’
Sure enough, a small banner appeared above the ridge across the valley, followed in short order by a dozen or so horsemen, riding directly for us. They rode together as a group, but for the flag bearer and the man who rode before him. As their horses splashed through the stream below, it was possible at last to make out the emblem on the flag: a red lion rampant upon a golden field.