by J. D. Davies
‘This one’s for my brother that you killed at Guinea!’
‘For God, King Charles and Mevagissey!’
‘Stick this up De Ruyter’s arse!’
The quarterdeck was a little more refined, but equally warlike. Francis Gale had tucked his cassock beneath a breastplate and was firing his musket with some skill. Musk preferred pistols; there was a persistent rumour within the Quinton family to the effect that he had been a highwayman in his young days, and he was certainly proficient with the road-thief’s weapon of choice. Above all, Musk was a fine judge of distance, invariably sensing the moment when the two ships moved too far apart to be within range of each other. Meanwhile, Lord Rochester had discovered grenados with unconcealed delight, and was cheerfully lobbing them toward the Dutchman. But the noble Earl was hopelessly unco-ordinated. Musk and I both glanced at him in trepidation, fearful that he would release a shell at the wrong moment, or send it in entirely the wrong direction. The possibility of the entire quarterdeck of the Royal Sceptre, including the heir to Ravensden, being obliterated by a disastrous mis-throw from the over-eager young libertine, seemed rather more immediate than the prospect of any serious damage being inflicted by our Dutch opponent.
For my part, I maintained a steady fire with my pistols, reloaded and returned me with brisk efficiency by Kellett and my other young servants, Coleby, Smart and Denton. But the more I fired, the more I doubted the point of doing so. The sea might have been a little quieter, but it was still difficult to steady oneself upon the deck and almost impossible to take an accurate aim – even when we were within range at all, which was only for a few minutes at a time. All the while, though, our culverins and demi-culverins kept up their fire on the smaller North Quarter ship, and the effect on the latter was becoming apparent. Her rate of fire, both from her great guns and from the muskets on her deck and in her tops, started to fall away.
A shout from the lookout at the maintop – a great, deep noise, then the sound of rope and canvas tearing apart…
I ran to the other side of the quarterdeck, taking my telescope from Kellett.
‘What is it, Sir Matthew?’ Rochester demanded.
‘Look yonder, My Lord. There, in the Dutch line. Two of them have collided! Great God – one of them is Tromp himself!’
It was an astonishing sight: two mighty men-of-war locked together, their rigging entangled, the bow of the one wedged onto the bow of the other. Even as we watched, the mainmast of Tromp’s flagship Hollandia came down, taking her tricolour command flag with it. Yet again, good fortune seemed to be carrying the battle the way of the English – or as Musk had put it, turning everything topsy-turvy in the blink of an eye. Collision is always a real possibility in a sea-fight, for ships are often sailing very close to each other; and the Dutch were unaccustomed to the line-of-battle, where each ship was meant to keep station only a very short distance from those ahead or astern of it, to give an enemy no room to break through gaps in the line. But the collision of the two great ships – Tromp’s Hollandia and the Leifde, as we later learned – meant that they were falling away to leeward, helplessly entangled. Thus there was not just a gap in the Dutch line, but a huge, gaping, tempting passageway. An empty avenue of sea presented itself, stretching away to the irresistible target at the end of it, exposed and unable to manoeuvre. The Hollandia. The great Admiral Tromp himself.
‘The Vice-Admiral, Sir Matthew,’ said Kit, pointing ahead and slightly to larboard.
The Swiftsure, with the white command flag streaming from her foretop, was adjusting sail and beginning to fall down with the wind, making for the gap and the crippled Hollandia. Will Berkeley was intent on redeeming himself in the eyes of Albemarle, the fleet and the kingdom. Will was sailing to seize or destroy Tromp.
* * *
‘Your orders, Sir Matthew?’ asked Hardy, the Royal Sceptre’s master.
I said nothing, instead scanning as much of the battle as I could see with my telescope. Will’s opportunity was obvious, but so too was the terrible risk he was taking. He had to get up to Tromp before the Dutch could bring down enough reinforcements to seal the gap in the line. With far fewer ships at his disposal, Albemarle could not similarly reinforce Will, even if he was so inclined. The general was still heavily engaged against De Ruyter, and now there was a new threat. Through the smoke and the great melee of masts, sails and hulls, I caught glimpses of our Blue Squadron, in the Rear. But now there were Dutch flags to the west of the Blue – in other words, to windward. The Dutch rear divisions, strengthened by the ships that had been out of action to the north, but which were now coming into action almost by the minute, had broken through the Blue and gained the weather gage. If Albemarle was going to redeploy his ships in the centre to reinforce anywhere, it would have to be there. And that meant Will Berkeley’s charge at Tromp, unsupported, was likely to be suicidal.
‘Your orders, Sir Matthew?’ Hardy repeated, with a more obvious note of urgency in his voice.
My Royal Sceptre was the Swiftsure’s second. Under the fleet’s orders, and by naval tradition from time immemorial, the second supported the flagship of its division. Will Berkeley was one of my dearest and best friends. Every bone in my body, every feeling in my heart, every last shred of my sense of honour, screamed out the order to go to his aid. But my head knew full well that without further reinforcement, following in Will Berkeley’s wake was simply insane. We and the remaining ships of Will’s Vice-Admiral’s division were too few on our own. If we sailed after our flagship, unsupported – and as the senior captain remaining, I would have to give that order – there was a strong likelihood that we would be overwhelmed. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of the men aboard the King’s Prick and the other ships of our division would be slaughtered. And given the existing disparity in numbers between the fleets, the loss of the six remaining ships of the Vice-Admiral’s division of the White Squadron would almost certainly lose us the battle. No other ships of our fleet showed the slightest sign of sailing to support the Swiftsure or her division. A bitter thought struck me: even if there was no threat from the north, would Albemarle sail in any case to support two young gentlemen captains – representatives of a breed he detested? Even as the thought came to me, I saw the Royal Charles begin to turn into the wind and break out the blue flag at the mizzen peak, the signal for the rest of the fleet to follow in his wake. To follow west-north-west: towards the Blue Squadron, away from the Swiftsure and ourselves.
As I stood alone – desperately alone – at the larboard rail of the quarterdeck, I could see the gap in the Dutch line beginning to close. Slowly but surely, the enemy fleet was swallowing the Swiftsure. Will Berkeley was sailing to his fate, whatever that was to be.
‘Your orders, Sir Matthew?’ demanded Hardy, for a third time.
I could barely speak the words I had to speak, such was the unutterable guilt, grief and sense of dishonour that coursed through me.
‘We tack to follow the general,’ I said.
Chapter Three
THE FIRST DAY: 1 JUNE 1666:
6PM to 8PM
Born each other by in a distant line,
The Sea-built Forts in a dreadful order move;
So vast the noise, as if not Fleets did join,
But lands unfixt, and floating Nations strove.
John Dryden, Annus Mirabilis:
the Year of Wonders, 1666 (1667)
A naval battle is like a prize fight. The protagonists pummel each other mercilessly for hour upon end, but there are moments in the fight when both draw apart, and the action pauses. No word has been spoken, no order given. There is an unspoken understanding that now, for this hour, the two sides will simply stop fighting. In a prize fight, the two men will regain their breath, have their wounds dressed, and get their doxy to wipe the sweat from their bodies. In a sea-fight, the fleets make haste to repair their damage. Carpenter’s crews scuttle aloft to repair or replace yardarms, sails are repaired or new ones hoisted, shattered sheets and shrouds a
re spliced or replaced, blood is washed from the decks, bodies are hastily slung over the side. Boats scurry between the flagships, bearing the admirals’ messages to each other. Officers and men greedily eat and drink whatever victuals can be brought to hand. Such it was that first evening, between about six and seven.
I sat upon the carriage of one of the quarterdeck demi-culverins, chewing on a leg of cold chicken and drinking pungent Essex beer. I had abandoned my breastplate; what little protection and honour it afforded were as nothing to the joy of feeling a relatively cool breeze on one’s chest. Musk, feeling the effects of his old wound, had lain down on the deck without ceremony, and was wheezing like an ancient bull. I could see Francis Gale walking among the men in the ship’s waist, giving a word here, saying a prayer there. Shortly I would join him, to encourage the men and to examine the condition of the wounded: miraculously, as yet we had no deaths among our company. Kit Farrell was below, overseeing repairs on the gundeck. With my other officers occupied, and the Dutch a distant but menacing presence away to the east, I had time to contemplate what had passed. The last sounds of gunfire had died away in the south-east: the gunfire of the Swiftsure, out of sight amidst the vast wooden fortress of the Dutch fleet. The poor, doomed Swiftsure – and there was still a part of me that cursed myself for not defying Albemarle and ordering the Sceptre to sail to her assistance. I tried to mollify my guilt by telling myself that if Will had been fortunate, perhaps he had surrendered in time, or been taken alive. Knowing Will Berkeley, though, the former was unlikely: as he had told me countless times, the Berkeleys could trace their descent even before the Norman Conquest, and no Berkeley had ever surrendered. And I had a strange feeling. Perhaps it was the exhaustion and light-headedness brought on by battle; perhaps it was the beer swilling in my largely empty stomach. But somehow, I knew for certain that I had seen my friend for the last time.
The Earl of Rochester sat by me. He was silent, staring blankly out to sea, sipping occasionally from a pewter tankard filled to the brim with Rhenish wine.
‘Well, My Lord,’ I said, ‘is battle as you expected it to be?’
‘It is hell,’ he said, his voice husky from screaming obscenities at the Dutch. ‘Hell.’
There was a strangeness about him, especially about his stare, that worried me. I had seen men made mad by battle, and did not think the King would forgive me if I brought one of his favourite court wits back from sea as a Bedlam-man.
‘There are yachts and ketches bound up the river with despatches,’ I said. ‘We could easily secure a place for you aboard one of them.’
Rochester smiled, but it was an older, grimmer smile than I had ever seen on his face.
‘You mistake me, Sir Matthew,’ he said. ‘Our bishops and preachers, those mewing killjoy be-cassocked turds, never teach us that is possible for a man to enjoy Hell. The sound of the guns and the smell of the powder – the ships upon the swell – the sight of dying Dutchmen – I have never felt such, such – excitement. I thought I had reached the height of ecstasy inside a tight young pageboy, but that was nothing next to this. I may even write a poem, if I can find the words to describe it all.’
There are many different kinds of madness, of course, and this, too, was a kind I had seen before. Indeed, it was a kind that had tempted me, many times, very nearly drawing me into its seductive clutches. As it would again, all too often. It is a particularly dangerous kind of insanity. For although wars and battles have to be fought, to enjoy them is akin to carving deep cuts into one’s own flesh for pleasure, or deliberately sleeping with whores whom one knows to be pox-ridden: as, indeed, was Lord Rochester’s particular penchant, even more so than buggering his pages.
Still heavy-hearted over the fate of Will Berkeley and the Swiftsure, and unwilling to confront Rochester’ troubling battle-crazedness, I stood up and moved to the captain’s inviolate domain, the starboard side of the quarterdeck. As I did so, I heard a cry from the maintop. I levelled my telescope on the Royal Charles. She was clearly getting under way again, and I knew her intention. That had come in a message from the flagship, delivered by a smack barely half an hour earlier. There was to be no forming of the line of battle. We were going to sail directly against the Dutch in an all-out attack: and for whatever reason, Albemarle had decided that the Royal Sceptre and her despised gentleman captain would lead the Royal Charles into battle. We were to be the flagship’s second, and the vanguard of the fleet.
* * *
‘Now, Sir Matthew?’ asked Burdett.
‘Now, Master Gunner,’ I said.
The wind had fallen away. I gripped the starboard rail, peered over the ship’s side, and saw the lower deck gunports swing open. The muzzles of the vast demi-cannon pushed out. At long last, the sea was calm enough for our proud English ships to bring their main armaments to bear. Only just, admittedly: we had barely four feet of freeboard between the lower battery and the sea. But now, if God willed it, the King’s Prick and the rest of our fleet would finally give the Dutch an almighty reckoning.
We were sailing south-east, with most of the Dutch fleet to windward – that is, to the west – of us, they sailing north-west. De Ruyter, Tromp, Evertsen and their captains obviously had the same intent that we did. This was no time for refined tactics, or rarefied theory: this was a charge, pure and simple, the two mighty fleets going at each other like armoured knights in the lists.
A large two-decker of the Zeeland Admiralty came at us first. She was a fine sight, her beakhead and bowsprit rising and falling with the gentle swell, her great sails set, her ensigns streaming out toward the north-east. And she was well commanded, her captain not deigning to waste powder in futile shots from her bow guns. But as we came parallel with each other, albeit on opposite courses, his broadside blazed away. Flames spurted from muzzles, smoke billowed through the gunports as the great cannon recoiled. Our own gun crews retaliated immediately, Burdett’s gun captains on the lower deck unleashing all their frustration at being impotent for so long. I stood at the starboard rail, sword in hand, screaming encouragement, and watching as our balls hit the Dutchman low, shattering timber around and below her lower battery. Lighter built and with lighter ordnance, she sat higher in the water than we did. Consequently, her own shot played havoc with our upper works. The main sail, a new one hoisted barely an hour earlier, was in shreds by the third broadside. The canvas fights, rigged to give some protection to those on the upper deck, were in tatters. Parks’s Marines exchanged volley after volley of musket fire with their counterparts on the deck and in the tops of the Dutch ship, Ensign Lovell in particular always seeming to be in the thick of things. For all my scepticism about the usefulness of these new-fangled sea-soldiers, I had to admit that they seemed to be proving their worth.
Suddenly a great ball struck amidships, shattering the ship’s rail, ripping one of the starboard culverins from its carriage and upending it. The great gun flipped over as easily as a feather in a breeze. The huge iron weapon fell onto three living members of the gun crew and the bloodied remains of another three, already killed by the shot. Kit Farrell ran from his station in the forecastle, hastily ordering a half-dozen men to assist him. By chance, Lancelot Parks was close to the carnage, but he seemed rooted to the deck, staring at what lay before him. With no thought for my dignity, I ran forward, clearing the elaborately carved quarterdeck stair in a single leap. I knelt and put my shoulder to the gun. The barrel was still hot from its last firing, but my discomfort was nought alongside that of the men trapped underneath.
‘Jesus! Oh, merciful Jesus!’
The screams came from Hollister, a keen lad of Essex whom I had rated an able seaman just the day before. But he was trapped directly beneath the First Reinforce, the heaviest part of the gun, which lay directly across his waist. His pelvis, guts and manhood would all have been crushed beyond repair under the great weight. Kit Farrell and I looked at each other. I nodded. Kit drew his flintlock pistol and blew Hollister’s brains out.
I turned and saw Lancelot Parks’s face. The captain of Marines had turned very pale, and the stink about him suggested that he had soiled himself. He rocked backward and forward, then vomited profusely onto the deck. Some of his men, including young Lovell, witnessed the spectacle, and glanced knowingly at each other.
The other two survivors of the gun crew would live, despite being spattered in the blood, gore and flesh of their fallen comrades, for they were closer to the muzzle. Wethered, a stout man, clearly had both legs shattered, but still he smiled.
‘Sure way to a cook’s place now, Sir Matthew,’ he said. ‘Promotion. More pay.’
As the cannon roared all around us, I clasped his hand. ‘You shall have my recommendation for it, Wethered. You may count on it.’
Proudfoot, the other, was an idle, cheating rogue of a pressed Londoner whom I had ordered to be flogged at the Nore. Fate had decreed that his name would now haunt him for ever: his left foot lay beneath the muzzle, and would have to be taken off by the surgeon’s saw that very hour. I had no words for him. His twisted expression, bitter tears and anguished prayers proved that he was all too aware of the clear proof of God’s intervention in human affairs that he, and his name, now represented.
I returned to the quarterdeck. The Zeelander was past us now, putting on more sail to seek out new and easier targets further back in our fleet. But there was a new threat: not directly to ourselves but to the flagship, the Royal Charles, barely three-hundred yards astern of us. Bearing down on her starboard side was a huge new Dutchman, flying the flag of the lieutenant-admiral of the Maas Admiralty.
‘The Eendracht,’ said Hardy. ‘Aert van Nes. One of their best seamen and hardest fighters. He and the Lord Duke are made for each other.’
‘Eendracht?’ said Lord Rochester. ‘Did she not blow up in the Lowestoft fight, last year? Are the Dutch bringing ghost ships against us now?’
