by J. D. Davies
There was nothing any of us could do. The Duke sent back a few frigates in the hope of taking off the crew, but both wind and tide were against them. As I watched through my telescope, Dutch ships surrounded the Prince. There could only be one outcome.
‘Her flags are coming down,’ I said to those around me on the quarterdeck. ‘She’s surrendered.’
There was an audible groan from the crew of the Royal Sceptre and the ships nearest to us. The Prince symbolised England in a way that no other individual ship did, not even the larger Sovereign. More immediately, she mounted a hundred superb brass guns, and together with those lost with the Swiftsure on the first day, the loss to our fleet’s gunpower was catastrophic. Ayscue, too, was one of our best admirals, and no English sea-officer of his rank had ever surrendered; indeed, to this day, no other has. But worse was to come. The Prince floated off at high tide, but the Dutch seemed unable to do anything with her – Cornelis later told me that they found her rudder too badly shattered, and in any case she was too vast to negotiate the shallow channels of the Dutch coast – and at about three bells of the Last Dog, flames ignited on the upper deck of the great ship. Within a couple of hours, she was alight from stem to stern. At midnight, as I watched from the stern rail of the Sceptre, she blew up.
* * *
During the evening, while the Prince burned astern of us, the joint admirals – now reunited – summoned a Council of War of the flagmen and senior captains aboard the Royal James. I was barely dressed for the part; my best frock coat, which had somehow survived Musk’s improvised fire-dousing during the fireship attack, would not fit over my heavily bandaged shoulder. Rowan, the surgeon, had inspected it, causing me more agony than a sword-wound as he prodded into my flesh, but eventually pronounced it to be badly bruised, not broken. So I was in a fit, if under-dressed, condition to be rowed across to the Prince’s flagship. Kit Farrell accompanied me; the generals-at-sea had sent for him specifically. But in the first instance, he remained outside Prince Rupert’s great cabin while the rest of us clapped old friends on the back and toasted the reuniting of the fleet. Then we set to the serious business of the council, namely thrashing out the new dispositions.
‘My ships to form the new van,’ said the Prince in his strong German accent. ‘They are undamaged, fresh for battle. Kit Myngs to lead with his division. The very approach of the terror of the Spanish Main will have De Ruyter scuttling back to his harbours.’
We laughed – and God knows, we needed humour, with the blazing Prince in plain sight through the windows of the Royal James. Sir Christopher Myngs nodded in acknowledgement. He was a modest man, despite the fame attached to his name: a small, florid Norfolk man with slightly receding hair. His appearance and manner belied his quite astonishing reputation. For years on end, Myngs had wreaked havoc on the Spaniards of the Caribbee, raiding their ports and pillaging their huge treasure ships. I am told that to this day, mothers on Cuba who wish to bring their children to obedience threaten them with Myngs’ ghost coming back to terrorise them. An admiral who loved nothing more than to take part in the seamen’s deck-games, and hated nothing more than hanging them, it was no surprise that Kit Myngs was beloved throughout the fleet.
‘Very well,’ said Albemarle. ‘Now, the question of a successor to poor Ayscue in command of his squadron.’
My ears pricked up; whoever received the vacant flag would be my immediate commanding officer. Somewhere deep inside me, a small devilish voice spoke up: why not me? But I dismissed it immediately. I did not have the seniority for a squadron command, although a division, say as Rear-Admiral of the Blue, might be a different matter. In truth, though, I knew I had no prospect of such a promotion as long as the Duke of Albemarle was in sole, or even only joint, command of the fleet; for even if Prince Rupert, my new patron in the navy, advanced my case, he would hardly prevail against Albemarle’s bitter opposition to gentleman captains. The bad grace with which the Duke accepted the King’s appointment of Will Berkeley as Vice-Admiral of the White had been palpable enough, and poor Will’s fate would surely have confirmed Albemarle in his prejudice.
‘The Duke and I have conferred privately,’ said the Prince, ‘and have decided that by virtue of his great merit, and his gallantry in this battle, the flag should go to Sir Robert Holmes.’
I looked across the table. Sir Thomas Allin, Rupert’s flag captain on the Royal James, a dour old Suffolk Cavalier with vast eyebrows, a haughty demeanour and an unhealthy obsession with the protocols of saluting, looked even more thunderously discontented than was his wont. He was undoubtedly much senior to the new recipient of the flag, and had cause to be angry. But as I shifted my gaze from him to my new admiral, I had equal cause to be well content. I nodded in deference to Sir Robert Holmes, who grinned back at me. We were old friends, having fought together on the African coast. Indeed, Holmes’s depredations there had been one of the principal causes of the war. I dreaded to think just how much my head would ache after Robin Holmes and I found an opportunity to celebrate his elevation.
‘Now, the chief command of the fleet,’ said Albemarle. ‘The original instructions from His Majesty the King and His Royal Highness the Duke of York appointed us as joint admirals, flying one flag, in the same ship –’
‘But in the circumstances,’ Rupert interrupted, ‘we have decided it is fittest that we remain in our respective flagships, each flying the Union at the main. That way, I can exercise better command over the van during tomorrow’s battle.’
There was an awkward moment or two of utter silence. The men around the table looked at each other, unsure what to say. The Duke of Albemarle’s face was a mask; even a kingmaker dared not publicly contradict the son of a king. Was it truly his will that the command should be divided, or was it solely the will of Prince Rupert? But whatever its origin, the decision had clearly been made, and there would be no going back. An English fleet would go into battle with two equal heads in two different ships. The potential for confusion at best, disaster at worst, was obvious to every man in that cabin, but none of us uttered a word. Instead, the meeting resumed its ordinary course, with the talk turning to the precise ordering of each division.
As we left the great cabin an hour or so later, my new admiral took me aside. I offered him joy of his promotion, but that was not what concerned Holmes.
‘So what do you make of it, Matt? Rupert to remain in this ship, the Duke in the Charles?’
I was careful in my answer; although I counted Rob Holmes as a friend, I did not entirely trust him. I do not think I ever found any man who did.
‘His Highness is never happy at being under others, or equal to any,’ I said. ‘You know that better than any man, Rob – you’ve served him longer than any of us.’
I recalled a visit I had paid to the prince in his rooms at Whitehall Palace, not long after he and Albemarle were commissioned as joint admirals. Rupert was a most scientific prince, ever tinkering with machines and mixing chemicals. He had transformed a large chamber into a laboratory, much to the dismay of the palace functionaries, who were convinced he would blow them all to kingdom come at any moment.
‘A dual command,’ said Rupert, pouring a foul-smelling liquid into a jar, where it reacted with the contents to produce a noxious green cloud. ‘Monstrous. Unworkable. My cousins the King and Duke of York have been swayed by Albemarle and Penn and Sandwich, all Cromwell’s generals-at-sea. “Oh,” they say, “look how we triumphed over the Dutch with our commanders in double or even triple harness, all in the same ship!” Madness, Quinton, nought but madness. Englishmen do not like a double-headed monster leading them. I am minded to resign my commission. Let them send out George Monck on his own and see how the fat old turncoat fares. Yes, I am certain I will resign. Now, tell me of your uncle Tristram’s experiment with feeding mercury to a monkey –’
I uttered some flattering words to mollify the prince, but I do not now entirely recall them. In short, though, it was no surprise to me that Rupert was deli
ghted beyond measure when the fleet was divided and he was given his own independent command, sailing off to the west to intercept the French fleet that was believed to be approaching England’s fair shore. None of us could know what that decision would presage. No, none of us could know.
‘Aye, true, the prince isn’t a man who likes constraint,’ said Holmes, whose assessment of Rupert’s opinions was rather more explicit when he was in his cups. ‘But then, neither is Albemarle. He was just as keen for the fleet to be divided in the first place, if not keener. Still, whatever we think of it won’t make one jot of difference – the course is set, and let us pray there’s a safe haven at the end of it. But you’ll come with me over to the Defiance, to toast the hoisting of my flag, Matt? There’s no risk of a night engagement, and I’m mightily thirsty.’
‘Sorry, Rob. The Prince and Duke have requested me to attend them privately, with my lieutenant.’
That lieutenant was pacing the quarterdeck of the Royal James, discussing God knows what with Hart of the Rainbow. I summoned him below, and together we went into the great cabin.
‘Your Highness, your Grace,’ I said, ‘I have the honour to present and name Lieutenant Christopher Farrell.’
‘Lieutenant,’ said Rupert appreciatively. ‘I have returned from my westerly cruise to find your name a byword in the fleet. A byword for initiative, and for valour.’
‘I – I merely did my duty, Your Highness,’ said Kit, who was ever tongue-tied in the presence of the great.
‘Would that every man in the fleet saw such heroism as his duty,’ said Albemarle, growling in his broad Devon brogue. ‘Thus it is only right and proper that your example should be amply rewarded, Lieutenant, so that others will be encouraged to follow you. Especially as you are a true seaman, a good staunch Wapping tar. The sort of man that the navy of England needs, in truth.’
Albemarle glanced at me knowingly, then turned, looking instinctively for his secretary: but he did not find him, for Sir William Clarke’s leg had been shot off during the flagship’s brush with the Eendracht on the first day. He was somewhere below decks at that very moment, dying in agony. Instead, Prince Rupert nodded to his own amanuensis, who handed him a familiar-looking sealed vellum document.
‘You testify to the good qualities of this man, Sir Matthew, beyond the gallantry he displayed in saving the Royal Sceptre?’ Prince Rupert’s question, couched in his familiar, strong German accent, was accompanied by a rare smile. ‘You recommend him without hesitation?’
‘I do, Your Highness. Without hesitation.’
‘Very well, then. Mister Farrell –’ Rupert handed the document to Kit, who was swaying slightly on his feet – ‘we, Rupert, Prince Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Cumberland, and George, Duke of Albemarle, joint admirals of His Majesty’s fleet, hereby appoint and commission you to command His Majesty’s ship the Black Prince, the post being vacant upon the death in battle of Captain Walter Jackson. May your command of her be victorious and prosperous.’
The Black Prince, of Holmes’s old division in the Red Squadron: a fine, nimble Fourth Rate frigate of forty-six guns, sister ship to the Wessex that I had commanded in the Mediterranean some three years earlier. Far better than my first command in the navy – and my second, come to that. It was a dizzying elevation indeed. Kit opened the seal and stared blankly at the words on the vellum. I knew him well enough to know what he would be thinking: that he, who had been but an illiterate master’s mate so very recently, now commanded a mighty royal warship. He could read the words that made him so, too, thanks to the bargain he and I had made with each other in Kinsale fort so few years before. He was a king’s captain now, and that rank alone conferred upon him the status of a gentleman. In both our profession and in society, he was very nearly my equal. Truly, Kit Farrell had gone up in the world, and I was not a little proud of the part I had played in his rise. How proud his widowed mother would be, too. Perhaps there would even be limitless free beer for her customers at the Slaughtered Lamb in Wapping.
I grinned, extended my hand, and spoke the words I had longed to utter since that fateful day when the young Kit had saved my life.
‘I give you joy of your command, Captain Farrell,’ I said.
‘Aye, joy,’ growled Albemarle. ‘Let us trust it is indeed joy for us all tomorrow. For tomorrow, gentlemen, we attack.’
Chapter Seven
THE FOURTH DAY: MONDAY, 4 JUNE 1666:
4 AM TO 4 PM
Thus reinforc’d, against the adverse Fleet,
Still doubling ours, brave Rupert leads the way;
With the first blushes of the Morn they meet,
And bring night back upon the new-born day.
His presence soon blows up the Kindling fight.
And his loud guns speak thick like angry men;
It seem’d as Slaughter had been breath’d all night,
And Death new pointe his dull Dart agen.
Dryden, Annus Mirabilis
The fourth day: cloudy and misty.
At dawn, a delegation approached the quarterdeck. There were twenty or so men, some of them among my oldest and closest followers – the likes of Tremar, Polzeath and Macferran. They seemed unlikely mutineers, and I could not think of anything they might have concerns about: the victuals were no more foul than usual, the decks were mostly scrubbed clean of the blood of their shipmates from the previous days, and we seemed in no greater danger of being slaughtered by the Dutch than we had been at any stage in the battle. So it was with some puzzlement that I stood at the head of the quarterdeck stair, looking down gravely.
It was the tiny Tremar who stepped forward, his Monmouth cap clutched respectfully in his hands.
‘Begging pardon, Sir Matthew,’ he said, ‘but there’s something that mightily concerns us all.’
The rest of them nodded vigorously and murmured assent.
‘Speak, then, Tremar. You know me for a fair man, I trust – a captain who will always listen to his crew’s concerns.’
‘That you are, Sir Matthew. Well, sir, it’s this. We’re all pleased beyond measure that Lieutenant – that is, Captain Farrell, has got his command, sir. Couldn’t be happier, in truth.’
I tried to remain impassive, but I had half-expected this. Kit Farrell was immensely popular on the lower deck: there were bound to be men who wished to follow him into his new command. But for them to include these, men whom I had counted as unfailingly loyal to me – very nearly as friends, indeed…
‘Well, then, John Tremar. If Captain Farrell has sufficient men to exchange for you, I am sure we could accomplish it before we engage the Dutch again –’
‘No, Sir Matthew. You mistake us, sir. No man seeks to go to the Black Prince – we are Sceptres, and until this battle ends, we live and die with you aboard the King’s Prick. But now Mister Farrell has gone to his new ship, we have no lieutenant. And that troubles us, Sir Matthew.’
It troubled me, too, if truth be told, and had done ever since I left the Royal Charles the previous evening with the newly-minted Captain Farrell. Rupert and Albemarle had not seen fit to commission a new lieutenant to the Sceptre, which left me with an immense gap among the officers who were qualified to stand watches. The ship’s master, Urquhart, was new to that role, and I could hardly elevate him to acting lieutenant within a day. If Martin Lanherne had been with us, I would not have hesitated in appointing him. But he was far away in Cornwall, press-ganging men into the King’s navy. I had briefly considered making Ensign Lovell into an acting lieutenant. Although he knew nothing of the sea, he was a brave lad who would have amply filled one of a ship’s lieutenants’ most important roles, namely encouraging the men by his brave example: or, as a cynic like Fresh Holles or Lord Rochester might have put it, by standing out in the open and being shot at. But that would have left the Marine detachment without an officer, and having lost their captain, Parks, in such dire circumstances, that was a risk I dared not take.
‘My thanks to you and the men, Tr
emar, but I see no means of giving us a new lieutenant before we engage again.’
‘That’s what we were thinking about, Sir Matthew. And we reckoned there was one among us whose undaunted courage under fire amply qualifies him to be our lieutenant.’
Musk? I thought. He would be the oldest, fattest lieutenant in the navy, but perhaps there was some merit in the notion – but then I saw some of the men looking toward Lord Rochester. Great God, no. Rochester for lieutenant of a man-of-war’s crew? It would be like placing a satyr in charge of a convent.
‘Aye, Sir Matthew. We all think that our new lieutenant should be Lord Rochester’s monkey.’
For a moment, every single one of the men standing in front of me, and Rochester himself, remained stone-faced and silent. Then the noble earl burst out laughing, followed by the delegation. Even George Polzeath, ever the most serious of men, had tears streaming down his cheeks. I looked around in confusion, but then I, too, began to laugh. Indeed, I doubled up with laughter, only for that to trigger a wave of pain from my damaged shoulder.
‘A noble jest, My Lord,’ I said to Rochester, who was laughing so much that he had to cling on to the ship’s rail to steady himself.
‘A jest, Sir Matthew? How can it be so, when we have found you a lieutenant?’
The beast in question was sitting upon a demi-culverin, looking suspiciously at a cabbage that one of the master’s mates had given it. I went toward it, and it hissed.
‘So be it, then, noble monkey!’ I cried, now enjoying the jest as much as any of the rest. ‘By the powers vested in me by His Highness Prince Rupert and His Grace the Duke of Albemarle, I, Sir Matthew Quinton, do name you – My Lord Rochester, just what is this officer’s name?’
Rochester grinned.
‘Sir Matthew,’ he said, ‘even aboard a man-of-war, I think that the name I call this noble monkey would be too obscene for public consumption.’
