The Blast That Tears the Skies (2012)

by Davies, J. D

  ‘I can imagine it – the bucking and rearing of the ship, riding upon a great sea.’ She looked about her. ‘The door yonder?’

  ‘Admits to the lower great cabin, presently the quarters of My Lord of Andelys.’

  ‘An interesting man, the noble comte. Tell me, Matthew, does he spend much time at the court of the Most Christian?’

  A strange thing to ask, even for an avowed agent of that monarch. ‘I believe not, My Lady. Since his return to France, he has been concerned principally with the restoration of his ancestral estates, which were much wasted during the wars of the Fronde.’

  ‘I see.’ She was thoughtful and seemed to be on the verge of asking another question about Roger, but appeared to think better of it. Instead she spied Ali Reis and Julian Carvell before the trunk of the mainmast, and returned the shameless stares with which they favoured her.

  ‘Not only a Frenchman, but a Moor and a blackamoor also! Truly, good-brother, the world sails with you! Tell me, blackamoor, how come you to be aboard?’

  I had never seen the eternally confident and cheerful Julian Carvell lost for words, but now he was almost as tongue-tied as a mute, staring down at the deck and shuffling uncomfortably. ‘Signed aboard a king’s ship in Virginia, M’Lady,’ he mumbled eventually, trying and failing to keep his eyes anywhere other than the countess’s bosom.

  ‘Virginia,’ she said. ‘I know of Virginia. My late husband, General Gulliver, had an estate there. I believe he owned a hundred or two of your kind.’

  ‘I did not take kindly to being owned, M’Lady,’ growled Carvell, recovering his voice and meeting her eyes impudently.

  She eyed him up and down as though inspecting a horse. ‘Had I known he owned such as you, I would have endured the voyage and undertaken a tour,’ said my good-sister, out-brazening him. Ali Reis and the other lads crowded behind him smirked.

  ‘Now, Matthew, what is this device?’

  ‘The warping capstan, My Lady. And a little way ahead lies the jeer capstan, which we use for lifting guns, yards and so forth. This, the warping capstan, is for the anchors, as is the main capstan on the deck beneath. But as its name suggests, this is the capstan we employ when we need to warp – that is, My Lady – say, if we are entering or leaving a harbour, then oft times we need to secure the ship to buoys or pillars ashore to haul her in or out.’

  She seemed aggrieved. ‘I know what warping is, Matthew. I saw it done often enough when I was a child, albeit never performed upon machines so vast.’

  This was an unexpected revelation. I recalled how determined my uncle and wife – aye, and myself, if truth be told – had once been upon laying bare the life of our countess, which seemed shrouded in such mystery. Yet now, unbidden, she offered up this tantalising clue to her past. ‘You grew up near the sea, My Lady?’

  ‘Near enough to it to walk to this harbour or that.’ Which? But with my men so close on every side, all ears, I could hardly press her. ‘Do you know, Matthew, I think that if I had been a man, the sea would have been my trade, too?’

  It was impossible to think of a riposte to such a strange remark. All I could venture was, ‘We are nearly at the very fore part of the ship, My Lady. You have seen enough?’

  ‘There is more, beneath this deck?’

  ‘Another entire gun-deck, but lower and darker. Beneath that, the orlop with the cockpit and many of the officers’ stores, along with the powder room. And lowest of all, the hold. But I fear the heat and stink will overcome Your Ladyship, and the ladders to the lower decks would be too steep and narrow for – for –’

  ‘For my choice of garment.’ She smiled. ‘If I were dressed as you are, good-brother, nothing would deter me from exploring every inch of the ship. But you have the right of it. I fear my present attire was not intended for such as you have described.’

  As we approached the great brick fireplace of the galley, toward the ship’s bow, the tenor of her conversation changed abruptly.

  ‘I must obtain for you an invitation to dine aboard the Royal Charles, Matthew. Why, it is a very miniature of Whitehall! Most excellent company – Her Royal Highness, of course, and dear Harry Brouncker, my very good friends – Lord Falmouth – and last night we had his Grace of Buckingham with us!’

  I recalled another dinner, one that now seemed so very long ago, and vowed that I would do all in my power to avoid being in the company of the loathsome Brouncker and this, his assumed lover. Yet I have to confess I was intrigued by this new proof that, having been rejected by the king, my good-sister seemed successfully to have ingratiated herself with the woman who might one day be queen. After all, what else could explain my good-sister’s presence in the fleet, unless she felt an especially urgent need to be serviced by Harry Brouncker?

  ‘My thanks, My Lady. But there is much to do aboard this ship if we are to be ready for battle.’

  ‘Surely the ship will survive without you for the duration of one meal, Matthew?’ She studied my face too closely for my liking. ‘Why, truly you have turned Puritan in your wooden world, good-brother, as I told you at Ravensden Abbey!’ Many of my men were still within earshot, else I would have reproved the insolent harpy. With difficulty, then, I managed to maintain decorum and merely nodded.

  As we turned, she said casually, ‘Tell me, Matthew – have you heard if My Lord Mordaunt is come to the fleet? I have a matter of import that I wish to discuss with him.’

  Mordaunt. Why the devil should she concern herself with Mordaunt? ‘No, My Lady. But as you have said, the fleet is full of volunteers, and more come out by the day. It may be that the noble lord is somewhere among us, but that his presence is as yet unknown to me.’

  ‘Ah. But then –’

  I heard a message shouted down the hatchway of the stern ladder and watched as it was passed from man to man down the length of the deck. Within moments one of the Welshmen – Morgan, as I recall, who had once been a drover – was turning to me, saluting with a knuckle to the forehead, and saying in heavily accented English, ‘Begging pardon, Captain. Signal aboard the flag – flagmen and senior captains to attend the council of war.’

  O give thanks unto the Lord, because he is gracious: for his mercies endureth for ever. Yet even as I offered up the prayer of Azariah, my good-sister gripped my arm unexpectedly and urgently. ‘Before you abandon me, Matthew, one more thing, I beg – do you know what is become of Tristram?’ The Countess Louise’s mask had slipped; there was a strangeness about her eyes, an uncertainty in her tone, that I had seen only once before, that night of the great reception at Whitehall. ‘He – he promised to supply me with evidence from your family’s history. But he is not at his lodgings in Oxford, nor at the Royal Society, and I do not know what has become of him.’

  ‘No, My Lady,’ I said sharply, eager to be rid of her and to be at the council. ‘I regret I have not heard from my uncle, and have no knowledge of his movements.’

  As I escorted the countess back to the upper deck, I thought upon her curious remarks. Why should she suddenly be so concerned to know the whereabouts of Lord Mordaunt and Doctor Tristram Quinton? And in that moment, I came to a troubling realisation. As I had told her, entirely truthfully, I did not know where Tristram was. I had not received a letter from him for many days, and Cornelia’s troublingly perfunctory epistles from London made no mention of him. And Doctor Tristram Quinton was usually the most frequent and effusive of correspondents to both my wife and myself. Thus it was with something of an unquiet mind that I was rowed across to the Royal Charles.

  * * *

  The council assembled once again in the great cabin of the flagship. The Duke of York and Sir William Penn were already present as we entered; the duke’s face, usually grave, seemed almost elevated.

  ‘My Lords and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I will not detain you long. We have had fresh intelligence from Whitehall. The Dutch fleet is at sea.’ There was much murmuring: the young Duke of Monmouth grinned broadly, evidently eager for the fight. ‘Thanks to Sir
George Downing, his Majesty’s envoy at The Hague, we know they have orders to seek us out upon our own shore and to pursue us up the Thames if they can. All the way to London Bridge, says Downing.’ The fleet’s commanders looked at each other. There was more murmuring.

  ‘Impudent rogues,’ growled the old Earl of Marlborough. ‘The last foreign potentate to sail that far was the Emperor Claudius. I see no reason why he should be supplanted by Meinheer De Witt.’

  The Duke of York gave what might have been one of his ambiguous half-smiles. ‘Indeed, My Lord. Thus I believe we should disabuse their High Mightinesses, and that swiftly. Sir William?’

  Penn, his gout briefly in remission, stood and looked about him. ‘The fleet will sail upon the ebb tomorrow morning,’ he said. This was urgency indeed! I prayed that my makeshift crew could make the Merhonour ready for sea in such an unconscionably short time. ‘With the wind remaining thus, north-easterly, there is a danger that if we remain in this place they will trap us with the sands behind us. Therefore, Her Royal Highness and her retinue are to be landed at Harwich immediately, lest the enemy attempt anything upon the yachts.’ I closed my eyes in relief and offered up a silent prayer of thanks: the means to be rid of my good-sister had been found for me. ‘The fighting and sailing instructions remain as issued previously, nor is there any amendment to the signal book. However, thanks to Downing we have a new list of the enemy fleet. Study it well, gentlemen.’

  One of the Duke of York’s attendants circulated the simple printed broadsheet headed Esquadres van de vloot, die onder den Lieutenant Admirael Generael, Heer Jacob van Wassanaer, Heer van Obdam, uyt Texel in Zee sullen gaen. Later, in the boat carrying me back to the Merhonour, I had time to peruse it. There, Obdam himself in the Eendracht, eighty-four guns; there, Tromp the younger in De Liefde, eighty-two. Seven squadrons, five of Holland, one of Zeeland, one of the Maas, thus retaining their perverse multiplicity of flagmen. The ships generally smaller than those in our fleet, with even the greatest mounting many fewer guns. And so I continued on down the names until I reached the one I sought, in the list of ships of the Admiralty of Zeeland: Oranje, seventy-five guns, four hundred and fifty men; captain, Cornelis van der Eide. Thus it seemed I would be exchanging the embrace of my good-sister for that of my – perchance equally deadly – good-brother.

  I returned to the Merhonour as dusk was falling, to be met at once by an urgent address from Francis Gale. The reply to the letter he had addressed to the Archbishop of Canterbury was finally come, and he wished to act upon its contents at once, before the ship sailed on the morning ebb. I weighed the time that we would lose against the possible efficacy of the remarkable course of action that Francis was proposing, and decided that nothing was to be lost by humouring my friend. After all, I reflected, every man in the fleet from the Duke of York downwards would expect the Merhonour to be tardy in sailing.

  Thus it was that an hour or so later, with the Gunfleet in darkness, that an astonishing scene was played out upon the deck of the Merhonour. The entire ship’s company was crowded into every vantage point in the waist and forecastle. Torches and lanterns had been lit and affixed to the ship’s rail on both sides to illuminate the spectacle, although it was nearly time for the night watch to be set. I stood upon the quarterdeck, resplendent in my breastplate, best jerkin and hat, alongside Gideon Giffard, Kit Farrell and Roger d’Andelys, all similarly attired.

  Francis Gale emerged from the steerage to gasps and murmuring. He was attired in his usual surplice, but over it he wore a vivid purple stole, a garment previously unseen on his person and unknown in any parish church in the land. Upon his head was a square black catercap, a vestment that Francis usually eschewed. The chaplain of the Merhonour strode confidently through the throng and pulled himself up onto the main hatch, at the heart of his congregation.

  The hubbub diminished. Francis looked around, not speaking until he was attended by complete silence.

  ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.’

  The crew amened dutifully, if a little uncertainly.

  Then came something perfectly unexpected – at least, perfectly unexpected by the ship’s captain. Ieuan Goch, standing upon the forehatch, intoned the same words in his own tongue: ‘Yn enw’r Tad, a’r Mab, a’r Yspryd Glân, Amen.’ The Welshmen in the crew amen’d more loudly.

  In a particularly strong and confident tone, even for him, Francis began a prayer that was entirely new to every man aboard the ship, her captain included. ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, illustrious leader of the heavenly army, defend us in the battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of darkness and the spirit of wickedness in high places!’

  Simultaneously, Ieuan Goch translated: ‘Mihangel Sant, arweinydd enwog o’r fyddin nefol…’

  I smiled. I still had no inkling of what Francis was about, but it was clear that he had recruited Ieaun Goch to his cause. An unlikely but formidable alliance indeed, I reflected as the prayer continued. ‘Entreat we beseech thee the Lord God of battles to cast Satan down beneath our feet, so as to keep him from further holding man captive.’ In the flickering torchlight, I could see men looking curiously at each other, then, spellbound, at their chaplain. ‘Michael, bearer of the fiery sword, carry our prayers up to God’s throne, that the mercy of the Lord may descend and lay hold of the beast, the serpent of old, Satan and all his demons, casting him in chains into the abyss, so that he can no longer seduce mankind!’

  Roger whispered, ‘I have heard these prayers, I think. In Latin, naturally, and cast in a very different way – when our priest in Andelys was dealing with some poor peasant girl, said to be possessed by the devil. But it is the same rite, I think.’

  ‘Rite? What rite?’

  He looked at me in surprise. ‘A rite of exorcism, Matthew. You did not know?’

  No, I did not; but even as I gawped in astonishment at Roger, the purpose of Francis’s correspondence with the Lord Archbishop was finally made clear. Only from Sheldon himself, the fount of authority for all naval chaplains, could Francis Gale obtain the special licence necessary to perform such a ceremony.

  ‘Let God arise,’ cried Francis, ‘and let his enemies be scattered! Let them also that hate him flee before them!’

  The sixty-eighth psalm, then, familiar enough to every man aboard for the responses to be uttered lustily. Ieuan Goch’s translation ensured a pious and emphatic echo from the Welsh. The psalm concluded, Francis embarked upon the dread climax of the ritual, his voice rising ever louder, his arms and eyes becoming ever more animated.

  ‘We cast thee out from this ship, every unclean spirit, every satanic power, every legion and onslaught of the infernal adversary, in the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ! We command thee, begone!’

  Now even the dullest man in the crew knew the purpose of this astonishing communion. Everywhere I looked, I saw tension, excitement and fear writ large across men’s faces. The more devout had their eyes closed and were intoning their own prayers. Others urged Francis on, like spectators in an ancient amphitheatre supporting their favourite gladiator.

  The Reverend Gale was equal to it all. Arms raised aloft, he circled upon the spot where he stood, speaking with all the authority that an archbishop could bestow, striking down the curse of the Merhonour and the dark force that lay behind it.

  ‘Begone, Satan, father and master of lies, enemy to the good of mankind! Bow down before God’s mighty hand, tremble and flee as we call on the holy and awesome name of Jesus, before whom the denizens of hell cower, to whom the Cherubim and Seraphim praise with unending cries as they sing: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth!’

  A sudden breeze made the torches flicker. I felt my bones chill; was there truth in all of this? Could that be a sign of a departing malignity?

  I chided myself: Quintons should be made of sterner stuff.

  Francis nodded to Stockbridge, one of the ship’s boys, who stepped forward and presented
him with a large phial. Francis took up a brush, dipped it into the phial, and sprinkled a clear liquid over the men nearest to him. Then he stepped down and strode through the crew, purifying every man and every quarter of the ship. Not a brush, then, I realised: an aspergilla, sprinkling holy water to drown any remaining evil aboard the ship. Some men wept. Others raised their hands in supplication to receive the divine fluid.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Roger. ‘No cardinal could have done it better.’

  ‘Let us hope that it has put paid to the curse of the Merhonour – or for the men’s belief in the curse, at any rate,’ I said, hoping that my rapid breathing and racing pulse were not evident to my interlocutors. ‘And that, gentlemen,’ I said, looking at my officers, ‘we shall have to leave in the hands of God.’

  As I turned to leave the quarterdeck, a thought clad in my grandfather’s unexorcised voice whispered, Aye, boy. God, or the Dutch.

  I see not what your force can do to Penn

  In th’ Royal Charles with all your ships and men.

  Know that the sturdy famous Royal Oak

  Fears not your artificial thunder stroke.

  But if she should miscarry, we could fell

  (If it were lawful) more at Boscobel.

  ~ John Bradshaw, Some Thoughts Upon the Dutch Navies Demurr (1665)

  Noon: the first day of June in the year of grace, Sixteen Hundred and Sixty Five.

  Yardley and his mates were already in place upon the quarterdeck, adjusting the Master’s quadrant. I brought out a much smaller and altogether more curious instrument that resembled a small golden ball, but which, once unlocked, revealed a multiplicity of dials and gauges. This had been my grandfather’s pride and joy, accompanying him on all his voyages across the oceans of the world. I lined up the eighth Earl of Ravensden’s dial to the sun, and at the horizon. I read off the numbers on the gauge, then repeated the process as a failsafe. Finally, I consulted my waggoner, examined the chart, and announced authoritatively, ‘Fifty-two degrees, thirty minutes north.’ I said, ‘Virtually due east of Southwold by three leagues. Or thereabouts.’