‘Very well, I promise you.’
If Faulkner’s ride to Oxford was bad, that to Chatham was worse. Edmund’s horse cast its first shoe shortly after they had crossed the Thames at London Bridge and the second before they were half-way to Maidstone, where they intended crossing the River Medway. On the second occasion the delay in first finding and then knocking up a blacksmith cost them dear, for the hour was late. They reached Maidstone at dawn and broke their fast, giving their mounts and themselves two hours’ rest before pressing-on. The inn was full of people on the move and full too of news, some of which seemed incredible.
The Dutch had burned Harwich. The Dutch were in the Thames. The Dutch were attacking Sheerness. The Dutch had captured Sheerness and were already in the Medway. Chatham was under siege and expected to fall at any moment. The banks had shut their doors. There was daylight robbery on every highway. The King had fled London, and all depended upon Honest George Monck.
Faulkner listened to this flood of hysteria, attempting the impossible task of sifting its reliability. What seemed plausible when uttered by one sounded ridiculous when stated by another. What was one to make of it all? Edmund expressed himself equally confused as they fought their way into the inn parlour and ordered oatmeal and eggs.
‘You’ll have to wait, gennelmen,’ they were told, to which they wearily acquiesced. Faulkner threw his hat on a table, took off his sword and baldric and contemplated removing his boots, but decided against it. The bother of putting them on again dissuaded him. Instead he leaned back and called for a pipe of tobacco.
‘I do not often take the weed nowadays,’ he said conversationally, easing his sore arse, ‘though I used to habitually when in Holland.’ They sat listening to the uproar all about them. Occasionally, someone would sit suddenly beside them and deliver some item of news which, or so they claimed, they had had from a man on the Dover Road who had seen it for himself. As abruptly as they had come, they would be gone, eager to spread the gloom to another group of travellers. A woman was led in screeching with fear, crying out for her daughters’ safety in the face of a rapacious soldiery. The daughters, who followed in her wake, seemed both confused and too young to excite the most brutal Dutchman, while the husband – and presumably the father – consoled his wife while exchanging looks of embarrassment with the men looking on, inviting their solicitude for his circumstances.
‘What would you do?’ Edmund suddenly asked, leaning forward across the table.
‘Me? Why, what do you mean?’
‘I mean, what would you do if you were de Ruyter?’
Faulkner shrugged. ‘Why, there is little argument against a direct attack upon the Medway. All our power lies there so, destroy that and you have rendered the Kingdom impotent. By the time we have mustered another fleet, and we have the ships, it will be too late, for a want of seamen would prejudice it.’
‘Just the Medway, Sir Christopher?’ asked Edmund insistently. ‘Tell me why, with sixty men-of-war, would you not also poke your snout into the River of Thames?’ He paused before running on. ‘You fight fire with fire, except that the fire you bring to your enemy is larger, burns fiercer and has more effect than that which he brought to you. Holmes burned your merchant shipping off Vlie; why not return the compliment and add the King’s ships to your own bonfire? Why would de Ruyter, with sixty odd ships and a nor’-easterly at his back, not carry the flood up the Thames and burn our merchant shipping with half his fleet whilst at the same time sending the other half into the Medway? The latter has a fort at Sheerness; the Thames has a few guns at Tilbury …’
Faulkner had slowly sat up as Edmund delivered himself of his argument and at this point brought a fist crashing down on the table. ‘You are right, Edmund!’
‘If they get into the Thames …’
‘The Duchess …’
‘And the other ships! We must part company. Do you ride directly to Gravesend. Take a boat upstream and, if necessary, move the Duchess further upstream.’
‘And if I find the Dutch already at Gravesend?’
‘Ride on to Deptford.’
‘Very well. But breakfast first, for the horses deserve a rest.’
Faulkner reached Rochester alone late that evening. He had suffered further delay by his horse going lame, and he soundly cursed the livery stable whence Edmund had hired the two mounts. If he had had his own horses, even his own coach, none of this would have happened, but he would have been several hundred pounds the poorer.
Finding a remount took two hours, for the stream of fleeing gentry choked the roads, not to mention the inn-yards. The chorus of gloom and doom increased at every halt so that, half-dead with exhaustion, his arse as sore as he ever recollected it to be on the Oxford ride, he decided to put up in the town for the night. If he was at neighbouring Chatham, Albemarle must wait for the morrow. Calling for food Faulkner supped, pulled off his boots and outer garments and lay down on a hard bed in a flea-ridden chamber which promised him little more than a miserable night.
He woke to hear a church-bell strike one. No other noise could be heard beyond the scratching of mice behind the skirting board, even when he concentrated, trying to suppress the tinnitus in his ears. He lay back and fell into an uneasy sleep, his back sore and his arse red-raw. The light of dawn peeped through the shutters when he next awoke. The day was still young, for it was early June, but he could hear a noise now and he knew it for what it was: gunfire. A second later there came a louder detonation, as of a great explosion.
A sudden and uncharacteristic panic filled his belly. He was too late! Albemarle had charged him to raise men, to muster powder and shot aboard the Albion, and here he was lying in a bed with a stinking mattress in Rochester. He washed, shaved and dressed hurriedly, waving aside offers of breakfast, only insisting that an ostler be chivvied to prepare his horse. An hour later he was in Chatham, asking for the Duke of Albemarle.
He found the Duke on horseback, a little below the dockyard at Chatham on a low ridge of rising ground overlooking the estuary of the Medway. He was furiously waving a cane and cursing with all the ripe vocabulary of the army subaltern he had once been. A small suite, consisting largely of over-dressed and fashionable cavaliers, followed him up and down as he cast a furious gaze over the wide expanse of tidal water that was part uncovered mud-flat and part navigable channel. Galloping up to Albemarle, Faulkner saluted him. The Duke reined in his charger and Faulkner pulled up alongside him.
‘No dispatches for me this time, eh, Sir Kit?’ Albemarle asked bitterly as he chewed a quid of tobacco with a vigour eloquent of his inner feelings.
‘None, Your Grace. Nor men, nor powder, nor shot, I fear.’
‘Just two old men on their horses, by God!’ It was clear Albemarle was furious, a mood reflected by his horse, which shook its head with a jingle of harness, champed at its bit and threw flecks of foam flying. ‘See there!’ Albemarle pointed with his cane. In the distance Faulkner could see a press of sails beyond which a pall of smoke hung over distant Sheerness. ‘They have broken the boom and attacked the fort, God damn it! If they force the block-ships, the whole river is theirs!’ He waved his cane across the sweep of land below them. ‘I dare not take my guardsmen downstream and reinforce the fort at Sheerness, for fear the Dutch will attack Chatham and get among the ships there.’ He pointed to the twin trots of moorings that extended down the Medway where most of the line-of-battleships of the English fleet lay. ‘Laid-up in ordinary’, the phrase had it, but it signified only that they were disarmed and all but defenceless.
‘My God, but we have buggered ourselves and no mistake,’ the old man swore, his face empurpled with rage. He turned his head, surveyed his suite and ejected a squirt of tobacco juice. ‘They are no God-damned use except to be killed,’ he said, referring to the young men, several of whom regarded the Duke’s expectoration with affected disgust. ‘Look at them,’ Albemarle said confidentially, ‘milksops the lot of them.’ He waved his hand along the river bank. ‘Whe
re are the guns the King’s council ordered along the river to defend the dockyard, eh?’ Having delivered himself of his outburst, Albemarle returned to the present. ‘Douglas and Middleton are on their way, but I know not when they will arrive. Did you see anything of their troops upon the road?’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘No … And Oxford has gone up to Harwich with two regiments in the hope of mustering the trained bands at Colchester. By the time he gets there, all the damage will be done here!’ Albemarle pointed his cane to the long line of men-of-war laid-up in twos-and-threes at the heavy mooring buoys, the Albion and Albemarle’s old flag-ship the Royal Charles among them. ‘I rue the day that I allowed the King to acquiesce to the laying up of the fleet as others advised, but such was the lack of money—’ Albemarle broke off his confession before flinging the accusations elsewhere. ‘That scoundrel Pett should have had the flag-ship in the dockyard long since, but there they lie, with hardly a round of cartridge and ball between them. By heaven he should hang for his negligence!’
Faulkner attempted to quieten his own steed which he felt increasingly nervous alongside Albemarle’s excited charger. The thought of getting off his horse’s back led him to suggest to Albemarle that he should get a boat and try and organize a defence.
‘I have already sent others to attend the matter. No, do you hold yourself here, with me. When Douglas and Middleton arrive with men and artillery, I shall decide whether to move in support of Sheerness. In the meantime I shall remain close to my boys, who shall remain where they are, down there.’
Faulkner could see infantrymen loosely formed on the low land he knew as St Mary’s Island, linked by a bridge of boats to the mainland. His ‘boys’ were Albemarle’s old regiment, with which seven years earlier he had marched south to hold London – and hence England – for a restored monarch. Like Oxford’s Regiment of Horse, Albemarle’s troops were now among the King’s guards.
‘My Coldstreamers will decide the fate of Chatham and possibly, once again, the whole damned Kingdom. I’ve thrown half of them into Upnor Castle yonder.’ Albemarle pointed to the grey battlements opposite them on the north bank. ‘And while I fear for the shipping in the river,’ he went on, pointing again at the moored men-of-war, ‘I fear more for the dockyard.’ He paused, looked round then said: ‘I’ve posted the gallopers down there,’ he said, referring to four light field-guns attached to his guards, ‘no more than mere peashooters, damn it, and no match for the Dutchmen’s artillery, but, if Douglas comes in time, we might trap de Ruyter by closing the river against him at Sheerness …’
Both men transferred their attention to the east. ‘I ordered block-ships sunk in the channel but they forced the boom at first light.’
‘I heard the explosion in Rochester.’
‘It will depend upon their luck in the channel. They have the flood tide to help them, but perhaps the block-ships … Well, it was all I could do! Damn de Ruyter and his Dutchmen!’
Something occurred to Faulkner. ‘Where is His Highness, Your Grace?’
‘Rupert? I’m damned if I know, though he was supposed to be establishing a battery at Woolwich.’ Albemarle lowered his voice. ‘I cannot think Rupert is hunting the moth with My Lady Cleveland like his Royal Cousin.’
Despite himself, Faulkner smiled. ‘Not at this hour, surely, Your Grace.’
Albemarle caught his mood and mellowed. ‘Hmm, perhaps not, but at this hour His Majesty will be reaching for a piss-pot in Milady’s bed-chamber before tupping the whore again as a prelude to breaking his fast.’
‘And the Lord High Admiral?’ Faulkner persisted. ‘Where is he?’
‘I know not. He may at least be relied upon to do something, if only to ride up and down!’
They sat their horses for ten minutes in silence, watching the distant sails of the Dutch warships. ‘They say there are English seamen aboard those ships,’ Albemarle growled beside him. ‘Defected for want of pay.’
‘So I had heard.’
‘If there are any among them who know their lodesmanage to add to de Ruyter’s native courage and cunning, they will have little trouble negotiating the block-ships.’ Albemarle fell silent for a while. ‘I fear the King’s Majesty has lost its lustre … Damn me, I’ve changed my mind, Sir Kit,’ Albemarle said, suddenly resolute. ‘Take six of my suite …’ He called out names, and the officers walked their horses forward. Albemarle looked them over and squirted another stream of tobacco juice at their horses’ feet. One reacted, throwing itself on its haunches, its front hooves pawing the air as its rider fought to master it and retain his seat. Several of the other horses jigged aside and grew restless. ‘Do you ride towards Sheerness with Sir Christopher here,’ Albemarle ordered. ‘Reconnoitre the enemy and determine his strength and intentions at Sheerness.’ He turned to Faulkner. ‘It must not be said of us that we did nothing. If the Dutch take the fort I’ll move Douglas against the place the instant he arrives. Do you seek out the best approach. ’Tis all marsh there, I think.’
Faulkner’s heart sank. Another hour in the saddle and he would have not a shred of skin on his arse, but he touched the wide brim of his feathered hat and tugged his horse’s head around to canter off, six officers in his rear. He had long since forgotten his promise to Katherine.
The ride towards Sheerness was agonizing, both physically and mentally, for as they rode eastwards along the roads bordering the river they could see the Dutch fleet debouching into the river through the narrow entrance between Sheerness and the Isle of Grain. Whatever the merits of the block-ships, they appeared to offer no obstacle, and the Dutch advance was inexorably westwards. Leading their fleet Faulkner could see the smaller fire-ships; there was no need to speculate on their objectives.
They rode on, crossing the Swale by commandeering the ferry at Harty. On the far bank they encountered demoralized soldiers who, it turned out, were part of the garrison of Sheerness. Faulkner rode into the milling mass of men. ‘Who commands you?’ Faulkner asked as they rode up to the soldiers. ‘Where are your officers?’
No-one seemed to know. Some thought they had gone to Minster, others were convinced they had crossed the Swale to the mainland, all were agreed that they had gone somewhere. Seeing one man with the red sash of rank and supposing him at least a sergeant, Faulkner summoned him to rally the men. The response was reluctant. Handing this extemporized force over to two of his companions with orders to follow, Faulkner urged the remainder forward, barely registering the fact that, with the garrison ejected from the fort, Sheerness was already lost to the enemy.
Coming in sight of the new fort of Sheerness, Faulkner saw first a huge Dutch ensign flying above the low ramparts. He reined in to a stop, fished in his pistol holster and withdrew the small pocket glass he had stowed there and swept the horizon. Behind him his escort sat their horses, which snickered and blew through their nostrils. As he studied the situation Faulkner ignored their impatience. ‘Time spent in reconnaissance, gentlemen,’ he said without lowering his glass, ‘is seldom wasted.’ He was unaware that in his rear, the young cavaliers were, to a man, judging him as great an old fool as their Captain-General, his Grace the Duke of Albemarle.
Far beyond the fort he could see along the northern horizon the low Essex shore. Between that distant blue line lay the buoy of the Nore where a few of the larger Dutch men-of-war lay at anchor. Here, he recognized de Ruyter’s magnificent flag-ship, De Zeven Provinciën, but to the eastwards there came a score of ships, their topsails filled by the easterly breeze and borne along by the flood tide.
Just to the left of the fort a pair of Dutch yachts, de Ruyter’s despatch vessels, slipped past what had been the defences commanding the narrow entrance of the Medway. They were followed by a man-of-war of perhaps sixty guns. A smaller forty-gun warship lay at anchor off the fort, presumably that which had landed the storming party that had taken the place that morning.
Below them he could see the remains of the boom which, once blown apart and divided
, had washed back along the shore under the impetus of the tide. From his low eminence he could also see the English vessels hurriedly sunk as block-ships in the navigable channel. They had served little purpose: once the chain-boom had been destroyed, the Dutch fleet had begun its passage into the Medway with impunity. To the westwards the river opened up as, with every minute, the flood tide rapidly covered the mud-flats. Even as he watched, the vast estuary seemed full of de Ruyter’s ships, some already at anchor, some ghosting up stream, as if waiting for the right moment to press home their attack in the wake of the fire-ships. In another hour or so the majority of the fleet would have passed the outer defences and, Faulkner had no doubt, the Dutch would soon thereafter make their bold move, for there was nothing now to stop them.
It was a shameful moment for Faulkner. He recalled all the admonitions of old Sir Henry Mainwaring who had recruited him to become a naval officer, so concerned had he been to improve the quality of the English navy. Had all that work been thrown away? If it had been Mainwaring’s life’s work, it had been the greater part of Faulkner’s too. He felt the hot tears of angry frustration start in his eyes. But no, it was the wind, that easterly breeze that yet persisted. See how it caused the Dutch flag to snap and flaunt under its influence.
He was suddenly aware that behind him his gilded escort had become restless. One of their number rode alongside him, a jingle of polished harness, his long ostrich plume nodding in the sunshine.
The young man drew his sword. ‘With your permission, Sir Christopher,’ the cavalier said languidly, clearly intending to ask permission as a mere sop to convention, ‘my friends and I cannot tolerate the sight of foreign colours on English soil. Such is our infuriation that we are determined to show those fellows our mettle.’ The young officer could not have been more than eighteen or twenty years of age. But for his soft moustache, one could have taken him for a girl of pleasing looks. Without awaiting a reply, he asked as he drew his sword: ‘Shall you come with us, Sir Christopher?’
The King's Chameleon Page 27
