by J. D. Davies
‘So be it, My Lord. I do name you lieutenant of His Majesty’s ship the Royal Sceptre for the remainder of this expedition. Do your duty well, Lieutenant Monkey!’
The beast hissed even more malevolently.
* * *
When we found the Dutch, away to the south-east, they had the weather gage. At first, the fourth day of the battle seemed set to be a repeat of the second: a series of inconclusive passes, the two fleets arrayed in their long lines, firing at each other from a distance. Late in the morning, though, I saw Myngs’s Victory, leading our line, suddenly tack and make directly for the Dutch, followed by the ships nearest him. They cut sharply across the wake of the rearmost ships in the Dutch line, Admiral Tromp’s Amsterdammers, the Victory sailing very nearly under the stern of the last Dutch ship.
‘He’s going for the weather gage!’ I cried.
It was a glorious but heart-stopping sight. The Victory, first built back in the days of the first King James, but newly rebuilt at vast expense into a formidable titan of the oceans, charged directly at the enemy, her starboard broadside blazing away. It was obvious what Myngs was trying to do: get round the Dutch line, get to windward of them, and gain the advantage of the wind. But it was obvious to the enemy, too, and they were determined to stop him. The Dutch line edged further and further to the west, the van tacking and racing south-east to cut off the English attack.
‘God be with you, Kit Myngs,’ I prayed.
We were tacking and closing the enemy too. The two vast lines of ships smashed into each other, each seeking to break through the other. Rupert’s ships, ahead of us, hammered at the Dutch, the mighty Royal James blazing away on both sides of her hull. From our position, a good half-mile or so behind, we could see fireships igniting. But sails, hulls and gunsmoke obscured our vision: it was impossible to see whether the fireships had any effect or not.
‘The Black Prince will be in there somewhere,’ I said to Francis Gale. ‘Let us pray that fortune favours Captain Farrell.’
‘He has always struck me as a young man with an ample measure of good fortune,’ said the Royal Sceptre’s chaplain.
‘Sir Matthew!’ It was Johnson, one of the master’s mates. ‘The flagship is hoisting a signal!’
I had no need to peer through my telescope; the Royal Charles was dead ahead of us, no more than three-hundred yards away. And the flag she was hoisting was a very familiar one.
‘The blue at the mizzen. We are to follow in her wake. She’s starting her turn, gentlemen. We’re going to follow the Royal James, and cut straight through the Dutch fleet.’
This would take us into the very heart of the storm. Within minutes, a sixty-gunner of the Maas Admiralty came up on our larboard quarter, and we began to trade broadsides. The Sceptre’s quarterdeck demi-culverins fired, recoiled, were reloaded. Boys ran up from below with fresh cartridge and shot. Young Lovell’s Marines, and their counterparts on the Dutchman, exchanged musket fire. Musk raised a pistol as though he had no care in the world and were merely discharging it to scare birds off a corn field, then fired it at the Dutchman’s quarterdeck. Denton loaded my own pistol, handed it to me, and I, too, gave fire, revelling in the familiar thrill of the blast and the recoil. Rochester took up a grenado and pulled back his right arm, ready to throw it. But Lieutenant Monkey leapt forward, snatched the little bomb from his grip, jumped onto the larboard rail, and flung it at the Dutch ship. The grenado burst on the quarterdeck. It blew the left arm off the nearest Dutchman, who grabbed at the bleeding stump in shock and agony, tottered to the ship’s side, and fell into the sea. The monkey turned toward us with an expression on its face that could have been construed as a broad grin. Then the ‘lieutenant’ of the Royal Sceptre shat copiously over the deck.
‘I trust you approve the gallantry of your new lieutenant, Sir Matthew!’ laughed Rochester.
‘Alas, My Lord, I shall have to reduce him back to the ranks again for breaking the order against relieving oneself on deck!’
A new threat – a great hull appeared through the gunsmoke, to starboard. An Amsterdammer, by her ensigns. We would have to fight both sides of the ship at once. Burdett already had men running to the starboard guns. A minute or two later, they opened up on our new opponent.
‘She’s coming in close!’ shouted Urquhart. ‘Any closer, and our yards will touch!’
‘Marines, to starboard!’ cried Lovell from the other side of the quarterdeck. ‘Fire at will!’
Our volley was met by an identical response from the Dutch Marines. Orchard, the senior master’s mate, was standing between Urquhart and myself. Suddenly the right side of his skull blew away, and he fell to the deck, groaning and writhing, clutching the remnants of his head. The piece of bone and hair struck my face, bloodying my forehead. Then our demi-cannon thundered on the gundeck below. The Sceptre shook, but it was as nothing to the effect on the Amsterdammer. Her hull shuddered as huge timbers shattered and spiralled into the air. The Dutch ship seemed to physically move across the water, such was the force of the blow. She sheered away, and I saw clear water ahead, both the Royal Charles and ourselves moving into it to follow Prince Rupert’s ships. We were through the Dutch line. We had the weather gage.
For the moment, we were unengaged. I slumped against a gun carriage and began to settle my breathing. I saw young Scobey and Denton emerge from below, carrying jugs of ale for the quarterdeck. There was a shot, the whistling sound of a ball crossing the water, a parting shot from the stern chaser of the Amsterdammer. Denton’s right arm was torn off at the shoulder a moment before the ball shattered Scobey’s chest, driving him back hard onto the stock of a demi-culverin. I ran to him at once, but the loyal young lad was already dead. Denton lived, but his blood was pouring from the terrible wound in his side.
‘Tell,’ he whispered, ‘tell my mother –’
A steam of blood from his mouth put paid to Denton’s last words. Kellett, his close friend, came up from below at that moment. The lad’s face turned white, and he spewed over the deck.
Francis came across, and began reciting the prayers for the dead. As he did so, I looked upon the remains of my two young servants, and damned the world. All those hopes, all those ambitions, snuffed out by a chance shot. Two brave young lives that would be forgotten amongst the greater carnage of this titanic battle.
There was no time for mourning. Urquhart was pointing astern, and I turned my telescope toward what was happening behind us.
‘The Zeelanders,’ I said. ‘They’re going to try to break back through our line!’
We had got through the Dutch by pouring through a gap in their line of battle and getting to windward of them. Now the Zeeland squadron was going to attempt to do exactly the same to us. One of them was sailing directly for the gap of a cable and a half or so between ourselves and the Antelope, directly astern.
‘Hold your position, Fresh,’ I murmured, ‘for God’s sake, hold your position!’
The two broadsides of the Zeelander spat out simultaneously, to be met by an immediate response from the Sceptre and Fresh Holles’s command.
‘Wish we weren’t relying on that man,’ said Musk, who had no time for Holles. ‘What’s it that your Mister Pepys calls him? A wind-fucker? Seems like fair comment to me.’
The Zeelander came on, still aiming for the non-existent gap. If he attempted to force the passage, he would be devastated by our stern chasers and rammed by the Antelope, which would have no sea-room to do anything else. Again our broadsides roared. We were within pistol-shot of the enemy’s beakhead now, and all of us on the quarterdeck, along with Lovell’s Marines, were blazing away. Still the Antelope held her position. But…
‘Damnation! Look there, Musk! Fresh Holles has kept station with us, but by doing so, he’s pulled away from the Ruby, Will Jennens’s ship! Will’s foremast’s nearly gone, by God – he can’t keep his position – and both Antelope and Ruby are only Fourth Rates, and the Dutch can see that –’
Four Zeeland ships,
one of them Vice-Admiral Banckert’s flagship, all of them bigger than our two Fourths, were sailing directly for the widening gap between the Antelope and the Ruby. Our own adversary, seeing the easier course and that the addition of his own strength would tip the scales decisively in favour of the Dutch, fell away and altered course toward the stern of the Antelope. But the change of course turned the quarterdeck of the Zeelander toward us, and as we unleashed one last broadside against her, I spied her captain through my telescope. I could not see his face, but his build was all too familiar.
‘It seems we have traded fire with my good-brother, Musk,’ I said.
‘He’s still alive, then? Damn. Thought I’d heard the last of his sanctimonious Dutch prating. Still, I suppose Lady Quinton will be happy that her twin’s still got his head on his shoulders.’
But I had no time to contemplate my brush with Captain Cornelis van der Eide, my brother-in-law. The Zeeland ships were pouring through the gap astern of the Antelope, and it was apparent at once that our fleet’s position was desperate. The Blue Squadron was now isolated, caught on the wrong side of the Dutch. Meanwhile the Victory and her seconds, all battle-scarred and badly damaged, were falling further and further away to leeward, very nearly out of sight as I peered through my telescope.
I only learned the fate of Sir Christopher Myngs much later, from his lieutenant John Narbrough. The Victory had become embroiled in an almighty duel with a huge Dutch flagship, and early in the engagement, Myngs’s face was shattered by a musket ball. But he stayed on deck, holding together his cheeks with his hands and continuing to direct the fight, until a second shot struck him in the neck. He was taken below and Narbrough took over the command, but even then, the tough little man would not die. He lingered for days, and even seemed set fair for recovery, despite the gruesome wounds he had suffered. At last, though, he succumbed, and England lost one of its greatest heroes. I would have gone to his funeral, but by then I was already embarked upon a dark and desperate mission for my King. Mister Pepys of the Navy Board went, and later, he told me what transpired. He was about to get into the coach of Sir William Coventry, the Duke of York’s secretary, when the two of them were approached by a tearful delegation from Myngs’s crew, who spoke words to this effect:
‘We are here a dozen of us that have long known, loved and served our dead commander, Sir Christopher Myngs, and have now done the last office of laying him in the ground. We would be glad if we had any service we could do for him, and in revenge of him. But all we have is our lives. If you will please to get His Royal Highness to give us a fireship among us all, here are a dozen of us willing to go in it. Choose any one to be her captain, and the rest of us will serve him, whoever he is. Then, if possible, we will honour the memory of our dead commander, and give him the revenge he deserves.’
Such is the true spirit of England.
But such, alas, is also the true nature of England’s government: overwhelmed by the weight of business during wartime, Sir William Coventry simply forgot all about the offer.
* * *
With the fleet in desperate straits, I had only one thought, and only one duty: protect the flag. That meant defending the Royal Charles, and as the Dutch continued to breach the gaps in our line, I had Urquhart con the Sceptre into position off the flagship’s starboard quarter, to protect her from any enemy ships which attempted a raking pass. Tromp himself approached in his mighty Hollandia, but both we and the Royal Charles gave him a hot reception with a shattering broadside.
‘Flagship’s hoisting the blue at the mizzen, Sir Matthew!’
‘Very good, Mister Urquhart! Fall into her wake, as the instructions require!’
‘She’s wearing ship – coming round onto the other tack!’
‘Then we shall do the same!’
My words might have sounded confident, but a dark fear gnawed at my heart. Francis Gale sensed it. As the ships around the Royal Charles wore around onto the other tack until we were bearing roughly south-east again, parallel to the rear of the Dutch, the Sceptre’s chaplain stepped over to me and spoke softly.
‘You seem troubled, Matthew.’
‘They tell us the days of miracles are passed, Francis, and that saints no longer walk the earth. But I think you need to pray for a miracle now, Reverend Gale. This manoeuvre is desperate. The duke clearly means us to sail to relieve the Blue Squadron, but what if Prince Rupert’s ships don’t follow suit, or go off to relieve Myngs and the Victory? I feared this, Francis – we all did. The consequence of having two commanders-in-chief in two separate ships. And what if the Dutch squadrons get to windward of us again and fall down upon us? Our fleet is divided and disorganised – but the Dutch are still in their line of battle. Once De Ruyter tacks back to the north, as he will surely do at any moment, we will be doomed.’
Francis said nothing. Instead he leaned against the starboard rail of the quarterdeck and closed his eyes.
Now, I am no believer in miracles. If they were disregarded then, in the simpler time that was the 1660s, they are ridiculed and reviled now, in these days when a German blockhead calls himself King George the Second and the only people who speak of miracles are the Jacobites, who need an almighty one to restore them to the throne. But whether it was a consequence of prayer, or, more likely, a glorious coincidence, that for the one and only time in their lives Rupert of the Rhine and George Monck had exactly the same thought at exactly the same moment – however it happened, we had our miracle.
‘The Red’s tacking!’ I cried, once I was certain of what the Prince’s ships were doing.
As soon as his ships fell in on their new tack, the tables were turned. Our ships were now sailing parallel to the Dutch – ourselves directly alongside them, firing broadside after broadside into Tromp’s ships, while Rupert’s stood further off to the west, to windward, thus preventing a counter-attack against us by any Dutch ships that tacked back to try to regain the weather gage. Meanwhile the Blue Squadron, which had seemed on the verge of destruction, trapped on the wrong side of the entire Dutch fleet, now lay directly ahead of Tromp, trapping him between them and us. Tromp had no alternative and fell away to leeward; in effect, his ships were dropping out of the battle. Now our tails were up, by God! We Sceptres cheered ourselves hoarse at the sight of one of our fireships grappling on to a big Dutch frigate and igniting her. In what seemed like no time at all, she blew up, and we cheered even louder. I am ashamed to say that only Francis Gale was praying for the souls of all the brave Dutchmen who perished; for my part, I was cheering as loudly as the rest of them. Even Lord Rochester’s monkey clapped and shrieked patriotically.
We joined with the Blue, and slowly reformed ourselves back into a full line of battle. The Dutch, by contrast, remained widely separated, their squadrons in disorder. Now we sailed between them, sometimes engaging a ship to windward of us, next one to leeward. Once again, it was a case of tack and tack again, pass and pass again, the firing at too much of a distance to make much impact. But in the middle of the afternoon, a decisive change occurred. Since being forced out of the battle by Rupert’s and Albemarle’s brilliant simultaneous manoeuvre, Tromp and the other detached Dutch ships to leeward of us had struggled to come back at us, break through, and rejoin De Ruyter. Now they made a concerted effort, but we were ready for them. We happened to be sailing parallel to the Royal Charles, only a cable’s length or less off her starboard quarter, when I saw the unmistakeable stout figure of Albemarle, on the quarterdeck, pick up his voice trumpet and direct it toward me.
‘Sir Matthew!’ The loud Devonian voice carried easily across the water. ‘We will close Admiral Tromp, there, and bring him to close action! Lead and second the Charles, if you please!’
I brought up my sword in salute. We put out studding sails, pulled ahead of the flagship and fell down on the wind toward the Dutch ships. Behind us came the best part of forty English men-of-war, Rupert keeping his ships to windward to deter a relieving attack by De Ruyter. There was no more specu
lative firing from a distance. We hammered into Tromp’s ships, our heavier guns battering their weaker hulls. The Royal Sceptre came up against a smaller, but still substantial, Dutchman, and we unleashed two broadsides into her.
Richardson appeared before me. The carpenter was a rare sight on the quarterdeck, but he had been overseeing repairs to damaged planking on the forecastle.
‘Begging pardon, Sir Matthew,’ he said. Every word seemed to be a struggle for a man who much preferred silence. ‘The Dutchman, yonder. The mainmast. Quivering and shaking, it is. I’ll wager it’s in a bad state. One good shot –’
‘I take your point, Master Carpenter. Very well, then! Orders to Mister Burdett! Upper deck starboard battery to load with chain and bar, and to fire for the mainmast upon the uproll!’
We were approaching the Dutchman on the opposite tack, so there was precious little time. Boys ran up from below with the two different types of shot, and the gun crews on the starboard side loaded furiously. I went down into the ship’s waist and stood next to Burdett. Wait – wait – judge the moment…
‘Give fire!’
Our guns blazed and recoiled. Chain and bar shot whistled across the few dozen yards of water separating us from the Dutchman. Shrouds and sheets snapped and sprang away crazily in all directions. Several shot struck the trunk of the mast. I saw one unfortunate soul, in the wrong place at the wrong time, have his head taken clean away by a chain shot. The bleeding torso continued to stand for a moment, then fell down to the deck behind the ship’s rail.
At first it seemed as though our shot had no effect. But as we sailed on past the Dutchman’s stern, we heard a great crack like a peal of thunder.
‘Well done, Mister Richardson, by God!’ I cried. ‘There she goes!’
Already weakened earlier in the battle, and now with most of the standing rigging that support it shredded by our broadside, the mainmast cracked a few yards up from the deck. It toppled slowly to larboard, pulling at the fore and mizzen masts. Yet more rigging snapped. The mainsail fell across the ship’s waist, making it impossible to work the guns. The Dutch ship was easy prey for the ship following us – and that was the huge Royal Charles. Unable to fight or manoeuvre, and confronted with the titanic broadside of the flagship, the Dutch captain did the only sane thing he could do. His colours came down, and the Dom van Utrecht, as we later discovered her to be, surrendered.
