For King or Commonwealth (20 page)

Had the Commonwealth forces seen the terror this induced among the Royalist troops they might have taken heart, rather than be disappointed at their own frustration. As it was, the provocative bravado of the Royalist officers, some of whom ostentatiously caracoled their horses, made a brave enough show to conceal the uncertain state of their men's morale. At sunset the signal was made to anchor and next day, with
Basilisk
again in the van, the squadron doubled the Corbière rocks and made as though to land in St Brelade's Bay. Although commanded and enfiladed – the narrow bay was a death trap – Blake's bold move induced Carteret to abandon his positions at St Ouen's and march on St Brelade's Bay. But Blake had no intention of sending his men into trouble and cruised the whole of that day, 22nd October, under easy sail along Jersey's south coast, sending the frigates into the anchorages to annoy the anchored merchant shipping there. The
Basilisk
played her part in this, Faulkner ensuring that at no time did Brenton run his ship into shoal water.

But such manoeuvrings were mere demonstrations and Blake was playing a waiting game, appearing back in St Ouen's Bay by daylight on the 23rd. Unfortunately, he was matched in cunning by Carteret who had counter-marched his men and was ready for a landing that was, for a second time, abandoned for fear of a rising wind and heavy surf. Instead Blake hoisted his boats and under easy sail the squadron sailed north, passing Le Grande Etacquerel, throwing shot ashore and again drawing off Carteret's force by detachments. In this
Basilisk
again led, Faulkner being unequivocally burdened with the pilotage. He knew that were anything to go amiss he would be held responsible and possibly charged with treason. He also knew that there was no one in the squadron as familiar as he was with the coast in question for here, in the autumn of 1648, he had taught Charles, Prince of Wales, the finer points of sailing, and they had several times circumnavigated the island in the craft in which the Prince had escaped from the Isles of Scilly.

The feint to the northwards was carried out under low cloud, with frequent rain squalls and a strong onshore breeze, but at dusk they put about and the
Basilisk
followed the other men-of-war back to their anchorage off St Ouen's Bay where the troopships had remained. Soon after dark, the wind began to drop and orders were passed to make ready to land the troops, the men-of-war sending their boats to the transports, but high tide had passed before a boat ran alongside the
Basilisk
and an officer with a written order came up the side. When he had read it, Brenton sent the men to the capstan and summoned Faulkner.

‘The General has ordered an attack on the ebb,' he said, clearly anxious. ‘He wants us to stand inshore as close as we dare and give covering fire.'

Faulkner nodded. ‘The tidal stream, though ebbing, loses much of its strength. Besides, with the wind dropping the moment the boats are emptied of troops, their crews will get them off.'

‘Yes, I know,' Brenton said uncertainly, but it was clear he was both anxious and nervous. Just then, the low call from the bow indicated the anchor was a-trip and then aweigh.

‘Let fall the topsails and sheet home!' Brenton called and Faulkner went forward to be near the leadsmen who began calling out the diminishing depth. Between the two rocky headlands of Le Grande Etacquerel and Corbière Point, St Ouen's Bay was a sandy strand that sloped gently into deep water. When they had but ten feet under the keel, Faulkner ran aft and told Brenton they could go no further. The helm was put over and the
Basilisk
rounded-to and dropped her anchor. A few minutes later she lay brought up to her cable, gently resolving the forces of wind and tide. A lantern was hung to seaward where the pale shapes of other ships' topsails could be made out against the cloudy night sky and within twenty minutes small black shapes, looking like huge insects, could be seen crawling across the ruffled surface of the sea. The wind had all but fallen away as, led by Captain Dover of the
Eagle
, the first boats touched the shore. Dover's forlorn hope consisted entirely of armed seamen sent to secure a beachhead for the less agile troops – a lesson learned after the debacle of landing on Tresco in April.

To his chagrin, Faulkner was left aboard as Brenton, in common with all the captains in the squadron, accompanied their men and the troops embarked in their ships. Aware of the approaching enemy, Carteret had mustered his men, but his infantry's spirit broke and only a small force of cavalry answered his orders. Cavaliers to a man, they rode down on to the hard sand and slashed left and right among the seamen and crop-head infantry, who scrambled out of their boats as soon as the first scratch of sand was felt under their keels. Some leapt out prematurely and had to swim ashore, or drown in the attempt.

For half an hour vicious fighting went on in the small breakers as horse and foot struggled for mastery of the water's edge. Dover was wounded, as was a lieutenant supporting him. But when the Royalist cavalry commander, Colonel Bosville, was shot out of his saddle by a matchlock, the exhausted and outnumbered cavaliers withdrew, leaving the strip of sand to the invaders.

‘It was suddenly all over,' a cold, wet Brenton recounted two days later, nursing a glass of coddled wine back on board the
Basilisk
as she lay snubbing her anchor while Faulkner was as anxious as Brenton had been on the evening of the assault. ‘Once the horse broke, we struggled up the beach and found the entrenchments all but empty and we marched for St Aubin's, chasing the Malignants all the way to St Helier.' Brenton paused, knowing his friend was paying more attention to the view of Elizabeth Castle and St Helier, judging whether the frigate's anchors still held in the seabed. ‘But you have had your share of troubles, I hear.'

‘Yes,' Faulkner replied, abstractedly. ‘As you see, the weather worsened while you were enjoying your walk ashore.' Brenton snorted derisively. ‘And we lost the
Tresco
, frigate, with all hands.'

‘All hands? Dear God. That means . . .'

‘Aye, Captain Blake, the General's cousin is lost.'

Blake withdrew the greater number of his ships a few days later. Badiley left for the Mediterranean, another departed for Virginia while the
Basilisk
remained for a few days to support the siege of Elizabeth Castle in which Carteret had barricaded himself. Lying off and throwing shot at the ramparts, the
Basilisk
did what she could to harry the few remaining men loyal to Carteret and King Charles. Meanwhile, they learned that the King, crowned in Scotland and at the head of a Scots army had been utterly routed at Worcester in early September. The Royal personage was, once again, a fugitive, and the news caused Faulkner to fret over Katherine, a mark of his general anxiety rather than his true feelings for his erstwhile mistress; or so he thought at the time.

Bad weather drove them off station and they followed Blake to Portsmouth, arriving on the 17th November.

Before he went ashore and his flag as General-at-Sea was hauled down two days later, Robert Blake sent for Captain Brenton and ‘the chief pilot to the squadron'. It was thus that Faulkner followed Brenton up the side of the
Happy Entrance
as she lay at anchor at Spithead. They were met by Blake's flag captain, John Coppin, who bid them welcome and pointed out the irony in their recent operations.

‘Did you know, Brenton, that Carteret used to command this ship? Hah! Bet he was less than entranced by the appearance of the
Happy Entrance
off the Jersey coast, eh?' Pleased with his own jest, Coppin led them under the poop and into the great cabin where Blake sat at a table covered with papers, a secretary busy writing at one end. Faulkner had heard a great deal about Blake, of his rise in the Parliamentary army and his transfer to the Commonwealth's navy. He was popular with his crews, but less so with his captains, making stringent demands upon them, unwilling to suffer fools gladly, so he was as anxious as Brenton about the nature of the unusual summons, particularly as he himself had been singled out in such a formal fashion.

Blake was in his shirtsleeves, a plain waistcoat over the white lawn, a bunch of plain lace at his throat. He wore his dark hair long, his round face with its strong features, straight nose and firm mouth looking up at the intrusion.

‘Captain Brenton of the
Basilisk
and his pilot, General,' Coppin said, making a small bow as Faulkner followed Brenton's example, sweeping his hat from his head and footing an elegant bow.

‘Not
his
pilot, Coppin,
the
pilot, but thank you. Please sit down gentlemen.' Blake indicated two upright chairs that would have served for dinner had Blake invited them to dine with him. As Coppin withdrew, Blake ordered a servant in a side cabin to produce two glasses of
oporto
and Faulkner recollected he had been at Lisbon the previous spring.

‘So,' Blake said, raising his glass to the two of them and fixing Faulkner with a steady gaze. ‘This is the infamous Sir Christopher Faulkner.'

Faulkner made no move; no one, least of all himself, had used his title since he had landed in England a prisoner and he returned Blake's survey, trying to divine the General-at-Sea's purpose at using it now.

‘You do not use your title. Why is that?'

‘It does not seem appropriate, Your Excellency. Besides, I am more attached to my reputation as to infamy, than to a knighthood awarded me in previous existence.'

He thought a smile briefly crossed Blake's face. ‘You object to being referred to as infamous?'

‘I did my duty as I saw it at the time.' He paused a moment, gauging Blake's mood. Blake was ten or twelve years his senior, but they had seen the same changes and might have some things in common.

‘I have no doubt as to either your courage or your competence, Sir Christopher. I rather thought your reputation for infamy rested upon your moral state.'

‘My moral state, Excellency? Why, what is that to you?' Brenton stirred uneasily beside him, but Faulkner felt a sudden liberation, as though, despite being freed from the Tower, he had been serving some penance at the direction of dark and nameless men. Now, face to face with a man of the Commonwealth elite, he felt the compulsion to make his mark for better or worse.

‘Those are bold words, Sir Christopher.'

‘Excellency, I do not think—' Brenton began but Blake held up his hand, the left corner of his lips curling upwards, and Brenton fell silent.

‘Oh, I do not object to a man standing his ground. Tell me, Captain Brenton, how you addressed our pilot aboard the
Basilisk
? You have been previously acquainted, I believe.'

‘We served together aboard the
Prince Royal
, General.'

‘And what name do you use after this previous amity?'

‘As my . . . as our principal pilot, General Blake, and knowing his rank in other service, I allowed him the courtesy title of Captain.' Faulkner noticed Brenton's left hand was shaking and wondered if he had, on some earlier occasion, been a victim of Blake's wrath.

‘Did you now? Well, well.' Blake turned to his secretary who had been busy writing the entire time. ‘D'you have that commission, Joseph?'

‘Excellency . . .' The clerk laid his quill aside, lifted a paper and handed it to Blake. Looking at it briefly, Blake leaned forward to pass it across the table to Faulkner.

‘It seems Captain Brenton has anticipated me, Sir Christopher.' Blake's eyes twinkled with irony. ‘I do not have a ship for you at present, Captain Faulkner, but you may count on having one before winter is out. Come, sir; take it, take it.'

Faulkner took the proffered document. Although covered in writing and sealed with the enwreathed emblems of the St George's Cross and Harp, it took him but a moment to realize he was a commissioned captain in the Commonwealth's State Navy.

‘My congratulations, Captain Faulkner, upon the faultless execution of your duty. We could have done with you at the Scillies. Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me . . .'

Scrambling to their feet, Faulkner tucked his commission into his gauntlet. The two officers withdrew after a second, fulsome bow, emerging on deck to find Coppin talking with his first lieutenant. He looked round as Brenton and Faulkner crossed the deck. ‘I understand you are one of us, Captain Faulkner,' he said matter-of-factly.

‘So it would seem, Captain Coppin,' Faulkner replied, ‘so it would seem.'

Faulkner spent the winter with Mainwaring at Camberwell. His pay enabled him to ease the increasingly frail old man's pains and penury during the cold weather. Mainwaring was pathetically grateful. Faulkner declared it was the very least he could do for a man who, with no more motive than a philanthropic desire, had encouraged a demonstrably able lad to be metamorphosed into a sea officer. What Faulkner was able to tell him of the Commonwealth Navy seemed to please Mainwaring, setting him nodding by the fire of sea-coal that Faulkner ensured was kept in by a husband and wife he hired to attend the old man's wants.

Faulkner mentioned names from the past, some from the Trinity House as it had been before its replacement by a committee, some the names of men now executing the offices of the former Brethren, whose talents for opportunistic ship-owning and timber-supplying were not dissimilar to the pasts of both Mainwaring and his protégé. Although open to charges of corruption, the likes of Nehemiah Bourne, Thomas Smith and Richard Badiley – then commanding the Commonwealth squadron in the Mediterranean – at least ensured that the navy wanted for nothing. It was even known that the victor of Dunbar and Worcester, Oliver Cromwell, supplied timber to the navy. Mainwaring brushed the references to venality aside, maintaining the end justified the means. ‘Was not the poor's box at Trinity House filled with the products of sin, Kit?' he was fond of asking. ‘And our charitable bequests prompted by bad consciences?'