For King or Commonwealth

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Sit down, Captain Faulkner.’ Blake rolled up the chart and stared at his guest. ‘Well? What have you to tell me, sir?’

  ‘It was difficult to determine exactly what ships the Dutch have at the present moment, General Blake, but besides their fleet they appear to be assembling a large convoy of Indiamen. All vessels have their yards hoisted and there was little sign of them passing into winter quarters. Besides, I do not think they would over-winter at Helvoetsluys; certainly I have never observed that to be their practice.’

  ‘Which is why they tolerated Rupert’s ships there and ours off-shore,’ Blake put in.

  Faulkner nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  Blake drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him. ‘So, who is in command, d’you think? Eh?’

  ‘I am afraid I have no idea, sir.’ Faulkner felt uneasy under Blake’s scrutiny. He had heard the General could prove merciless towards his commanders that failed his expectations. ‘I thought it more important to acquaint you of the general situation immediately . . .’ he said uncertainly.

  Blake nodded appreciatively. ‘Quite right, but I should like you to take your frigate back and keep watch and ward and glean what intelligence that you can. Take no risk, however. Is there anything you require? If so, acquaint my clerk here and we will see what we can muster for you. I have heard disturbing rumours that there have been mutinies in the Dutch fleet but that would not explain their present activity.’ Blake rubbed his clean-shaven chin. ‘I am wondering whether they have changed their commander, for it was De With we met off the Knock, not Tromp.’

  For the whole of October, Faulkner dodged off the Goree Gat, withdrawing over the horizon for most of the day, but occasionally working close inshore under cover of darkness so that as the sun came up he could reconnoitre the anchorage. He flew Dutch colours and did this at irregular intervals, so that he could not be ambushed. Nevertheless, he had three close encounters with Dutch men-of-war, though none developed into more than an exchange of distant shot. He did, however, succeed in suborning the skipper of a small Dutch schuyt who for two sovereigns let it be known that the Dutch fleet was in a poor state of morale and that the hard-swearing and unpopular Van Tromp had replaced De With, having with him Jan Evertsen and De Ruyter as his subordinate flag officers.

  ‘Zat, Kapitein, iss bad for you, I tink,’ he said in his thick English, pocketing the money with a grin and polishing off the large glass of rum Faulkner had given him. Reporting all this to Blake, he was sent back to his cruising station and, for a further three tiring weeks, the Basilisk maintained her watch. Finally, on 20th November, short of water and with his crew grumbling, Faulkner decided to return to The Downs. He discovered Blake to be awaiting the appearance of refitted ships to relieve his own fleet and act as the Winter Guard. Discontent was rife throughout the fleet and the word among those senior officers, with whom Faulkner briefly rubbed shoulders aboard the Triumph, was a common eagerness to return to port and the comforts of a winter fireside.

  On the morning of the 24th a mass of sail was observed to be off the North Foreland. Eighty ships were counted, a number that soon afterwards soared to several hundred. Blake sent word round his fleet to make ready to unmoor and sent officers to the Triumph’s mastheads to observe the enemy. For two days the reports came down from aloft and on Monday 28th Blake summoned his captains aboard his flagship for a council-of-war.

  It was clear that with some ninety men-of-war, the enemy was vastly superior to Blake, who had forty-two, and were demonstrably covering a huge convoy which lay closer to the French coast as they all tacked hither and thither against the strong south-westerly wind that had blown intermittently at gale force and held the Dutch from passing rapidly through the Strait of Dover.

  The slow but seemingly inexorable windward progress of this vast fleet provoked Blake into giving the order to weigh anchor and his captains dispersed to their ships, shaking their heads at the odds stacked against them. For the whole of the following day the wind raged from the south-west, forcing both fleets to anchor. Blake’s ships had got no further than Dover, with Van Tromp’s some six miles to seaward.

  The following morning, however, the wind had veered into the west-north-west and came off the land, allowing the Dutch to head westwards and attempt to get to windward of the English fleet. If this occurred they could then double round and, with an overwhelming force, run down on Blake’s ships and destroy them piecemeal. Blake hoisted the signal to weigh and for some hours the English ran down the coastline, their van abreast of the Dutch rear as the enemy men-of-war covered the convoy farther offshore.

  This was not a game that could be played indefinitely. As every English captain knew, the trend of the coast was to swing to seaward in the great shingle promontory of Dungeness and, while deep water ran close inshore, the headland would compel Blake’s fleet to alter course to converge with Van Tromp.

  It was Whadcoat who reported the large, red battle flag run up to the fore-masthead of the Brederode as the Dutch admiral crammed on sail to head off Blake’s Triumph, but Captain Robert Batten of the Garland gallantly interposed his forty-gun third-rate. The unequal battle that ensued between the two was somewhat levelled by a second intervention by Captain Walter Hoxton, commanding the armed merchantman Anthony Bonaventure, who opened fire on the Brederode’s unengaged side, drawing some of her men from concentrating on the hapless Garland. The Anthony Bonaventure was herself now attacked by Evertsen’s flagship, the Hollandia, grappled and boarded. Hoxton and many of his men were killed and as Batten ordered his men to repel boarders, he, too, fell and despite the exploding of mines along the Garland’s deck to deter the Dutch from jumping across, the third-rate was taken by the enemy.

  As the battle opened in the already fading daylight, the Basilisk had been keeping station on the Triumph. Seeing the remainder of the English fleet strung out astern of Blake, Faulkner ordered his ship’s head round to engage the enemy now coming down upon them in a mass until he lost sight of Blake. In fact, Blake had run too far ahead and was obliged to haul round to come to the aid of his already stricken ships, only to have the Triumph’s main- and fore-masts damaged and partially shot away. Faulkner was never certain what happened; he was in action for about twenty minutes against three Dutch ships all of which passed him, as though heading for some more worthy objective, surrounded by dense smoke that came not merely from the great guns and small arms, but from fires aboard several ships. One Dutch man-of-war exploded with such a terrible concussion that, for a few moments, all action ceased and a strange but short-lived silence fell upon the tossing vessels. Then the English were all hauling their yards and standing away for Dover.

  ‘God forgive them!’ Whadcoat said, when he came on deck and saw Blake’s fleet in full retreat, ‘but they are very like to cowards.’

  There was no denying it, and during the following day the entire English fleet ran north, past Dover, through The Downs, past the North Foreland and the Kentish Knock. Pursued by Van Tromp, who had seen the Indiamen clear of any danger, the English fleet doubled the Long Sand Head where the Dutch were dissuaded from following them, now having an inbound convoy to protect. As the English ships came to their anchors it was clear that they had suffered a humiliating defeat. As an angry Faulkner afterwards wrote to Mainwaring:

  It was a disgrace. Not twenty – half our strength – came to the general’s assistance, the remainder pretending want of men to ply their tackle, and of them that stood to the engagement not eight did so to any purpose. We lost Walt Hoxton and the good Robt Batten, both sometime of our Fraternity . . .

  But Faulkner’s anger was as nothing to Blake’s. Known for the ferocity of his temper, he dismissed his own brother and flag captain, Benjamin, Anthony Young, who had attacked the Antelope in Helvoetsluys and Harvey, his secretary, and several other senior captains, offering the Council of State his own resignation. Though several of these, including Benjamin Blake, were afterwards quietly reinstated, Blake was in no doubt of the lack
of support of his commanders. Among those who had fallen back were almost all the frigates, making Faulkner’s own part in the action the more commendable, even though the Dutch had failed to engage the Basilisk with the vigour that would easily have overcome what resistance she might have offered. That he had been stupendously lucky did not escape the thoughtful Faulkner, though he sensed his men swaggered amid the recriminations that flew about the fleet.

  ‘I hear the Council of State has appointed Sir Henry Vane to an Admiralty Commission,’ Mainwaring informed Faulkner when he arrived at Camberwell for Christmas.

  ‘Aye, he has already drawn up Articles of War to better regulate conduct in battle and made a decision not to include hired merchantmen under their own masters in the line of battle, though God knows Walter Hoxton did his utmost as God and those of us close-to observed.’

  ‘It sounds like a bloody shambles for some.’

  ‘But not for all. Still,’ Faulkner went on reflectively, ‘besides Vane, Bourne is appointed a Commissioner and it is to the General’s credit that he did all he could for the men. He now petitions the Admiralty Commissioners for a rise in pay and a betterance of their allowances, which Heaven knows most deserve.’

  ‘You sound to be privy to Blake’s intentions,’ Mainwaring said.

  Faulkner smiled at his old friend who looked shockingly old and infirm. He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. He did me the honour of consulting me upon one or two matters after he had struck his flag and come on shore.’ Faulkner seemed to hesitate.

  ‘And what more? I have seen that look upon your face before.’

  Faulkner shrugged. ‘’Twould be immodest,’ he began as Mainwaring insisted. ‘It is nothing. But the General did mention that, if the Council of State do not accept his resignation and he was reappointed – bearing in mind, Sir Henry, that both Sir Richard Deane and General George Monck are now appointed Generals-at-Sea – he was minded to appoint me to at least a middling ship . . .’

  ‘A third-rate! But that is good news, Kit, splendid news. Why, you shall be a General-at-Sea yourself before I am cold in my grave, you see if you aren’t! Come, that calls for a drink!’

  ‘A drink? Ha! Sir Henry, think of the slip that may come betwixt cup and lip.’

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ Mainwaring exclaimed as he fossicked over a bottle and two glasses.

  ‘We lost five ships, Sir Henry. This thing may be a poisoned chalice, we have suffered badly.’

  ‘Oh, damn your puns. My instinct tells me that you shall yet do great things.’

  ‘Ah, yes, great things,’ Faulkner smilingly murmured, half to himself.

  ‘Your health and fortune.’ Mainwaring handed a full glass to Faulkner and raised his own.

  ‘And to your long life,’ Faulkner responded.

  ‘Fie, sir. I am as damn near to the end as I may be without falling into the eternal pit.’

  Early in the New Year of 1653 Faulkner received a new commission. He was to repair immediately to Portsmouth and take command of the forty-gun Union. He was to be allowed his officers from the Basilisk and judged, correctly, that this was evidence of a mood of urgency. On arriving at Portsmouth he was sought out and presented with a letter from a now familiar hand. The tone of the language pleased him, for Blake had written that he ‘confided in you and desire that you comport yourself with all the energy of which I know you capable . . .’ It was a compliment, as was command of the Union herself, for although not a new ship, she was one of the so-called Middling Class and had been laid down as the Union Royal. The unaffected, anti-monarchical Commonwealth Commissioners had felt the name inappropriate and had selected a more elevating cognomen, and so as the Union she went to war.

  It was clear to Faulkner as he made arrangements to board the Union that great exertions had been made by the Admiralty Commissioners and their various officers. Not only had a new pay-scale induced men to come forward, but drafts of soldiers would help make up the establishment of the fleet and quantities of stores were flowing into Portsmouth under armed guard. To his utter astonishment Faulkner discovered this energetic spirit of reform was to be found aboard individual ships and who but Clarkson and the indefatigable Whadcoat greeted his arrival, apologising that Stockton was just gone ashore to secure further supplies of powder and shot plus a replacement longboat and spare spars, for rot had been discovered in those aboard the ship.

  ‘Mr Stockton was most particular that should you arrive in his absence,’ Whadcoat said with an uncommon awkwardness that made Faulkner wonder what was coming next, ‘but he has been using your name by way of requisition.’

  ‘One thing the Parliamentary army seems to breed,’ he responded, referring to Stockton’s past, ‘is a commendable initiative.’

  ‘Even a fool can see when a horse needs a shoe, Captain Faulkner,’ Whadcoat replied enigmatically.

  The following morning a boat arrived alongside from the flagship demanding to know when Faulkner’s ship would be readied for sea and two days later the fully manned Union warped out and, letting fall her topsails, edged out of the harbour against a young flood tide.

  ‘I am not certain, sir,’ Whadcoat said, lowering his glass as Faulkner came on deck at the summons of the second lieutenant who had the watch, ‘but the army’s initiative may have unravelled us in the face of the enemy. We are mightily extended.’

  ‘We are indeed, Mr Whadcoat,’ Faulkner replied, looking around the horizon at the scattered English men-of-war. ‘Where away do you make the enemy? Oh, God’s wounds! I beg your pardon, Mr Whadcoat, but . . .’

  Faulkner regretted the oath, much used by the Royalists but anathema to the sturdy Puritan soul who stood beside him. It was a February morning of sparkling visibility and in the far distance to the north-west they could see the horizon dotted with the grey-white topgallant sails of an enemy fleet. In common with every other commander in the English fleet, Faulkner knew the rapid mobilization of Blake’s fleet of eighty men-of-war had been undertaken in the full knowledge that Van Tromp was coming up Channel with his fleet of a similar number – as they had learned to their cost off Dungeness – covering a large homeward convoy. Information from France, where the convoy had been sheltering and awaiting its escort, indicated that it consisted of around one hundred and fifty deeply laden merchantmen.

  The clear air came on the wings of a north-westerly, that same wind that had ruined Blake at Dungeness, allowing Van Tromp to sail up Channel ahead of the convoy, the flanks of his fleet of three divisions spread out to cover it. Still, with De Ruyter and Evertsen in support and with a winter largely of keeping the sea, Van Tromp had commendable control of his fleet, in contrast to Blake whose qualities, and those of many of his captains and one fellow General-at-Sea, George Monck, were better adapted to the cavalry charge than wind-governed manoeuvre.

  While Faulkner and Whadcoat could almost see the entire dispositions of the Dutch fleet, or at least gauge from its concentration where its main strength lay, he had no idea where Blake’s Triumph then was. True, the Union was part of the White squadron led by Monck, a man Faulkner had only met but briefly aboard the Triumph before their departure from Spithead. But even Monck’s whereabouts were uncertain, though they had tacked in company when off Alderney the previous day. Both Faulkner and Whadcoat, being experienced sea officers, were close to despair at the ease with which the English fleet lost cohesion.

  ‘Cavalry tactics are all very well,’ Faulkner murmured, voicing both their thoughts aloud. ‘May be all very well at times like the action off the Kentish Knock, but they are to be neither relied upon nor advocated.’

  ‘Indeed not, sir. I had hoped the new Articles of War . . . Well, there is nothing for it now, for we cannot stand alone between Van Tromp and the Strait.’

  ‘No.’ Faulkner was thinking furiously. He did not doubt either Blake’s courage or his desire to grapple with the enemy. He had a force equal to his opponent and would be eager to avenge himself for the humiliation Van Tromp had inflicted. He had heard a rumour
in London that the Dutch admiral had hoisted a broom to his main masthead as a symbol of having swept Blake aside and although Faulkner did not believe a word of it, he knew the power of such imagery in the popular mind. Blake’s trouble was that he lacked frigate captains of sufficient experience to carry out a proper reconnaissance and had failed to send any to windward of the fleet to watch for Van Tromp. Well, he thought to himself, the Union is not as fast as the Basilisk but she was as able as any Dutch man-of-war and, in the lack of a visible flag officer, he had better play the part of a frigate and cling on to the enemy’s flanks and maybe pick off a Dutch merchantman. The thought, though silly, lifted his spirits.

  ‘I think, Mr Whadcoat, we will have the men sent to their battle stations. My guess is that Van Tromp will not spare his ships from covering his convoy. We will take station on them and, if we cannot harry them a little, at least mark them.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ And a moment later the pipes were twittering at the hatchways.

  In the hours that followed, Faulkner came in sight of several other scattered members of Monck’s squadron and later, towards the middle of the forenoon, the flagship of Monck himself. Then, to the north, they spotted more ships. These they soon identified as the sails of Blake’s and Penn’s squadrons, which appeared to be falling back ahead of Van Tromp until Whadcoat, having volunteered to climb to the masthead with a long glass, returned to the deck, convinced that Blake had hove to ahead of the Dutch.

  ‘I can see Penn clearly,’ Whadcoat said as Stockton and Clarkson gathered round Faulkner on the quarterdeck. ‘His division is spread out and beyond him I can make out the Triumph. My guess is that Penn is closing up before making for Blake . . .’ He looked round at his fellows.