The Battle of All the Ages

by J. D. Davies

  The Jupiter moved out into the Sound. Her topsails fell, and were made fast. She steered a southerly course, skirting the Devon shore toward Bovisand. Word was out in Plymouth that Beau Harris intended to cruise as far as Guernsey in search of the hell-hound, then back toward Portland. The old seamen in the taverns mocked him, saying he had a better chance of finding El Dorado then the Duirel. But then, they did not know what Ludovic Conibear had said in an attempt to save his miserable skin. They did not know the contents of the urgent message that I had despatched to an ale-house in Bodmin. And above all, they did not know the true reason why I left the Hoe and made my way west by the coast road, as casually as though I were out for a ride in the country. I had given out that I wished to inspect some land over by the river of Hamoaze as a possible site for a new royal dockyard; a prescient lie, as it happened, for that was very nearly the exact place where the present Plymouth yard was established, many years later. Thus I duly rode down to the water’s edge in the lee of a small, rocky peninsula. Close by a ruined fort, a familiar brown-skinned figure emerged from the trees.

  ‘Salaam alaikum, Sir Matthew,’ said Ali Reis.

  ‘Salaam alaikum, Ali Reis. Everything is in hand?’

  ‘Three boats, as you ordered.’

  ‘There looks to be a hellish tide-race in that channel.’

  ‘Hellish enough for the people here abouts to call this place Devil’s Point, Sir Matthew. But on the ebb after dusk, we should launch with no difficulty.’

  I nodded. God willing, the night would herald death and victory.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Britons, strike home!

  Revenge, revenge your Country’s wrong.

  Fight! Fight and record. Fight!

  Fight and record yourselves in Druid’s Song.

  Fight! Fight and record. Fight!

  Fight and record yourselves in Druid’s Song.

  John Fletcher, arr. Henry Purcell, from Bonduca, or The British Heroine (1695)

  Muffled oars cut through the dark waters of Cawsand Bay. The night was black and moonless, ideal both for smugglers and those who sought to intercept them. I could just make out the dark shape of the Duirel, at anchor close in, under the cliffs of Rame. And there, just visible on the pale strand of Cawsand’s beach, was Kranz’s longboat.

  I gesticulated with my hands. The two boats behind us carried straight on, making for the beach, while Julian Carvell steered my own directly for the darkened cottages of Cawsand village. The silence was eerie: it was as if the entire population had fled, or been carried off at once by a sudden plague. But I knew they would be there, cowering in the darkness, fearful of the vengeance of the hellhound.

  A few feet from the shore, I stepped up onto the wale and jumped into the shallow water, then waded onto the beach. The two dozen men with me followed, keeping total silence. Four or five carried muskets, the rest of us blades alone. This was not a night for my father’s sword, a fine old cavalry rapier. Instead, I gripped a cutlass in my right hand and a long dagger in my left. Francis Gale, alongside me, held a distinctly un-clerical back-sword.

  We crept through the narrow lanes of Cawsand, over the hillock, then down toward the beach. I could just make out our two other boats, stealthily approaching the shore. It was a miracle that Kranz’s men had not spotted them – the Dutch had to be asleep…

  There was a shout, a pistol fired in warning, and all was pandemonium. From all along the beach came the flashes and dull blasts of matchlocks being fired. The men on our incoming boats replied.

  I turned and shouted at my men.

  ‘Jupiters, with me!’

  We charged downhill, out onto the beach, hitting the Dutch from the flank just as our other men were starting to come ashore from the boats. I slashed right and left with my cutlass, trading metal with a half-dozen or so. I wounded at least one, caught at the shoulder by the downward slash of my blade. I felt my metal slice into flesh and strike bone, heard the man’s scream as he fell away in agony. I did not tarry over him, or any of my opponents: I was running for the head of the beach. I wanted Kranz.

  I saw him at last, coming down toward the shore, a cutlass in his hand. A score of men massed behind him…

  And then another score. And another.

  ‘He’s landed most of his crew!’ I cried. ‘Conibear must have got word to him!’

  Quite how Conibear had done so from his confines in Plymouth Castle would require investigation, if we won the day; but given how much of the town he had in his pocket, it was perhaps hardly surprising.

  ‘That will make Captain Harris’s task easier, even if ours is harder,’ Francis replied.

  I saw him nod toward the open sea, and glanced across in the same direction. A ship was coming round the headland, her hull just visible in the darkness, her white sails filling with the breeze as she came round. The first of the Jupiter’s bow chasers fired, sending an almighty echo around the bay. The cruise toward Guernsey, word of which had been deliberately disseminated throughout Plymouth, was but a ruse. Beau Harris was bearing down on the Duirel.

  The beach was a battlefield. We were all at close quarters now, fighting hand to hand. Two men came at me, both stabbing with half-pikes. I parried the one with my cutlass, then shifted my weight, rushed in under the guard of the other and stabbed him in the throat with my dagger. Blood spouted over my hand and blade. The Dutchman fell away, clutching his neck.

  But the Dutch had the advantage of numbers. We were tightly packed now, being pressed steadily backwards towards the water’s edge. If the enemy overwhelmed us, Kranz might still have time to get back to the Duirel, which was raising her anchor and starting to unfurl her sails. She was a smaller, nimbler ship than the Jupiter, so it would still be possible for the hell-hound to outrun her inshore and get back out into the Sound, thence to the open sea.

  I could see Kranz, a few feet away, further up the beach. He was directing more of his men into the fight, but there were no others behind them. He had committed his entire shore party to the fight, confident that victory was his.

  ‘Now!’ I cried.

  Ali Reis raised his cornet to his lips and blew two shrill notes.

  Nothing.

  My plan had miscarried. Kranz’s men would cut us all down…

  Then, from just inland, came an answering trumpet note, the same two notes, sounded from a deeper and larger instrument. Some of the men surrounding us turned, looking uncertainly over their shoulders.

  There was a great shout from behind the nearest cottages of Cawsand, and a tide of men erupted onto the beach. Red-coated soldiers and rough-shirted sailors together raced across the sand, swords waving in their hands. Leading them were two unmistakeable figures: Sir Bernard De Gomme, the engineer turned warrior for one night, and the crop-headed Martin Lanherne, unofficial leader of my Cornish following, sometime coxswain of the Jupiter. My letter to the inn at Bodmin had borne fruit in ample measure. Lanherne brought with him not only his own reassuring presence, but some three-dozen sturdy and heavily armed Cornishmen.

  ‘For England and King Charles!’ I shouted, and hacked my way forward. The Dutchmen surrounding us fell away, some of them trying to run for their boats, others throwing down their arms and surrendering.

  But not Kranz. He and some half-dozen of his men were trying to launch a small skiff, perhaps still believing they could reach the Duirel and make their escape. Their ship was getting under way, but there could only have been a skeleton crew aboard, and whoever was in acting command now made a fatal error. He tried to run in closer to the beach, perhaps to cut the distance for boats trying to flee, perhaps trying to turn the tide of the battle by firing a broadside into our ranks. But the Duirel’s bow suddenly rose up out of the water, and a great tearing roar came from her hull.

  ‘He’s struck a rock!’ Carvell bellowed.

  ‘Now, Beau,’ I murmured, ‘prove what my dear ship can do.’

  As the Duirel lay helpless, the Jupiter came up astern of her. It was s
trangely silent on the beach now, the sounds of battle dying away as more and more of the Dutch lay down their arms. So we could clearly hear the sound of the gun-carriage wheels on the deck of the Jupiter as the demi-culverins were run out. A pause – the momentary flash of linstocks – the tongues of flame spewing from fifteen cannon of the Jupiter’s larboard battery – the noise and feel of the blast – the great cloud of smoke, momentarily obscuring the entire bay…

  And when it rolled away, it was obvious that the Duirel was shattered and ablaze. Her mainmast, already weakened by the collision with the rock, toppled into the sea. Flames broke out from stem and stern, illuminating the men jumping into the sea. There was one last, unearthly sound: the howling of a great dog, Kranz’s hell-hound itself, the beast which he had used to sustain his legend. It wailed its lament for one last time. Then the magazine exploded, and the ship was ripped apart. The flames illuminated great timbers, tossed into the air like paper in a breeze, and the remains of men riding the flames that carried them to hell.

  A few yards away, De Gomme, Lanherne and their men were surrounding the last Dutchmen in arms. Both parties were still prodding swords toward each other, but the Dutch were outnumbered ten to one.

  I stepped forward.

  ‘Surrender, Kranz,’ I said in Dutch. ‘The days of the hell-hound are done.’

  ‘Perhaps, Sir Matthew,’ he replied in English. He was a stocky man with a great black beard, after the fashion of half a century before. ‘But perhaps not. Even now, De Ruyter lies in the mouth of the Thames. God willing, we Dutch will conquer England before the summer ends, and I will be a free man again.’

  ‘Then we shall have to hang you quickly,’ said De Gomme. ‘And summer hangings always bring out bigger crowds. The entire town of Plymouth will turn out to see you swing from a noose.’

  Kranz continued to hold his sword in front of him, like a gladiator about to face the final onslaught.

  ‘Do not be so certain, Sir Bernard,’ he said, laughing. ‘Half of Plymouth is in my pocket. Besides, not even England would hang a legitimate privateer, carrying official letters of marque and reprisal from the Admiralty of the North Quarter.’

  ‘Do not be so sure of half of Plymouth,’ I said. ‘Your ally Conibear languishes in prison. It was his false information that brought you here, into our ambush. A trap that he was very willing to collude in, once it was suggested to him that it might be the only way to save his miserable neck from the noose.’

  Kranz shrugged.

  ‘Conibear is weak, and an avaricious fool. You English will call him a traitor, naturally. He served his purpose, but I will be glad to be shot of smuggling, despite all the gold it brought me.’

  ‘So you will testify against him?’

  Kranz laughed.

  ‘And why would I do that, Sir Matthew Quinton? As I say, I am a properly accredited captain of a private man-of-war.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Francis Gale, ‘your precious letters of marque and reprisal from the Admiralty of the North Quarter. And where might those letters be, Captain Kranz? I see no pockets in your shirt or breeches. You have no coat. So might they, perhaps, have been in your cabin aboard your ship?’ Francis nodded toward the blazing remains of the Duirel. ‘Without papers, of course, you are no better than a pirate. True, confirmation of your story might be sent for from the North Quarter Admiralty, but in war, such communications take an eternity. Or it might not be sent for at all. In either case, Captain Kranz, the chance of your being hanged for piracy are high, I would imagine.’

  The confident Kranz was evidently stunned by this revelation. He turned to look at the flames that marked where the Duirel had been, and must have known in that moment that Francis spoke nothing but the perfect truth.

  ‘One thing more,’ I said. ‘Perhaps one last chance for you to save your neck, Captain Kranz. You took on your wine at La Rochelle? And that would be – when?’

  ‘The last cargo?’ The Dutchman was still reluctant, but every second must have served to make his predicament more obvious. He breathed hard, then looked up. ‘About the fifteenth of May – the fifth, by the calendar you English use.’

  ‘And there was a French army at La Rochelle at that time? An army designed to invade Ireland? You will not serve your country or yourself by lying about it, Kranz. But the truth may yet save you.’

  Kranz frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘To invade Ireland? Why –’ He fell silent, and was clearly thinking hard. But Jacob Kranz was a highly intelligent man; the creator of the dark legend of the hell-hound would be no fool. At last, he understood the true significance of the questions posed to him. ‘God in Hemel, is that what you believed? Is that why you English divided your fleet?’ He began to laugh, but the laughter was bitter, and it was directed at me. ‘Yes, Matthew Quinton, there is a French army at La Rochelle. Yes, there is indeed. Oh, you English!’ Tears of mirth were now flowing down Kranz’s cheeks. ‘You think the world revolves around you. King Louis is deploying regiments at Rochelle, so they can only be aimed against your vain, preening apology for a country! But the truth, Sir Matthew? Shall I tell you what the truth is? The men at Rochelle were the honour guard for a wedding, nothing more – the proxy wedding of the Duke of Nemours’ daughter to the King of Portugal. Much good it will do either of them, because he’s impotent and a lunatic. Ask your Queen if you seek confirmation, as she’s his sister!’ For a prisoner with a possible death sentence hanging over his head, Kranz was still extraordinarily merry. ‘The wedding is public knowledge, but the English choose to ignore all of that. Oh, no. The English choose instead to believe that the troops being lined up for nothing more than a ceremonial wedding parade are preparing to set sail to invade and conquer them. Oh, Sir Matthew Quinton – what gullible fools you English are!’

  I raised my hand to strike the impudent Kranz, but stayed it at once; for even in that moment of blind anger, I could see that he was right. Truly, one of the greatest flaws in our English national character is our willingness to believe only that which we wish to believe. One lone sailor – great God, one sailor and one alone – informs the king’s ministers that the army at La Rochelle is intended to invade Ireland, and behold, within the blinking of an eye it becomes a tablet of stone, the foundation for all policy, and for the division of the fleet! Poor Will Berkeley and all the other fallen heroes of the Four Days’ Fight, that they should have died in such a cause.

  ‘And yet, you had Nathaniel Garrett killed for spreading a falsehood that could only benefit your country’s cause!’

  Kranz looked genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Garrett, Sir Matthew? Who is Garrett?’

  The truth came to me then, and I cursed myself at once for my blindness and stupidity. This was what old Heale had wanted me to know; this was what Bella Mendez had hinted at.

  ‘Garrett was not killed for his false intelligence of the French army,’ I said. ‘Conibear had him killed for stumbling across your arrangement with him, while Garrett was at La Rochelle. Your very lucrative arrangement to smuggle French wines into Devon under cover of the legend of the hell-hound, the devil who terrorises the coast. The arrangement that he explained to us in some detail, after we raided his storehouse – he hoped to save his neck by confessing all, but he did not quite confess all, did he, Captain Kranz? For it is no wonder that you could operate when and where you pleased and avoid the king’s ships, when you had the Navy Agent at Plymouth himself supplying you with intelligence of their movements!’

  ‘It is one of the many reasons why you will lose this war, Quinton. No Dutchman would ever betray his country in that way, simply to supply the sots of his province with embargoed wine. You believe in phantom armies, invisible fleets and hell-hounds, and you have a whoremaster for a king. Thank God I am Dutch.’

  I gestured to two of the men to tie Kranz’s hands and take him away. I looked about: after the discomfiting discourse with the hell-hound, I had need of good company. Francis Gale was properly engaged in saying prayers over t
he dead, but Martin Lanherne was close at hand.

  ‘My thanks, Mister Lanherne,’ I said. ‘Your arrival was timely, and your men did well.’

  ‘Volunteers to a man, Sir Matthew. Couldn’t press a good man for love nor money from Saint Just to Saint Germans, but once word went out that there was a chance to do for the hell-hound once and for all, men flocked in. That Kranz had wreaked such havoc all along the coast, there probably weren’t a family in the county that hadn’t lost money on his account. So the men were mad for revenge, sir. Reckon a few of them had been hiding out on Bodmin Moor to escape the press, but if there’s one thing a Cornishman hates more than the King’s Shilling, it’s some dirty foreigner invading Cornwall’s fair shore.’

  ‘And you are excepting the English from that, Mister Lanherne?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Now that’s a question, Sir Matthew. But seems this war’s made some unlikely alliances – the Dutch and the French, the hell-hound and friend Conibear, and the Cornish and the English.’

  ‘I won’t dispute that. But tell me, Lanherne – have you had your fill of pressing? Are you ready to come to sea once again?’

  ‘If you have a vacancy, Sir Matthew. I’d be honoured to serve with you again, and I reckon at least a few of the brave Cornish lads yonder would say the same.’

  ‘The Royal Sceptre will need a boatswain, and I think the capture of the hell-hound should give me enough credit with the Lord Admiral to have my candidate put into the place.’

  ‘Very well, Sir Matthew. The Royal Sceptre it shall be. Reckon the men call her the King’s Prick, though?’