The Blast That Tears the Skies (2012) (28 page)

Only now did I learn of the deaths of the three courtiers aboard the
Royal Charles
, and of the fortunate escape of His Royal Highness. I mourned Charles Berkeley, Earl of Falmouth, less for his own merits – which, in truth, had been invisible to most men – than for the grief that I knew his death would have caused my good friend, his brother. The Earl of Portland, about my age and whom I had known quite well in exile, was dead too, as was the captain of the ship in which he had served: and now I, too, had cause to mourn, for this was the
Old James
. Thus My Lord of Marlborough had fallen in glory, no doubt at the hands of my good-brother’s
Oranje
. I had known Marlborough but briefly, yet in the course of my inordinately long life, few men have ever impressed me so much in so short a time. I grieved, too, for Beau Harris, whose
House of Nassau
had disappeared into the midst of the Dutch fleet during the opening exchanges of the battle; not knowing whether he was dead or a prisoner, I decided it would be safer to offer up a prayer for the soul of the departed. Then there were those whom I had known less well, and misjudged so grossly. Sansum, Rear-Admiral of the White, had fallen, as had poor Abelson of the
Guinea
, whose accidental firing into the
Merhonour
I had taken as proof of foul betrayal. Above all, Sir John Lawson, suspected so unjustly of treachery, was badly wounded in the leg, and his life was despaired of. I prayed that he might live long enough for me to pay proper respect to him, to make some amends for the dire error I had made.

Thus it was clear that cavaliers and Commonwealths-men alike had suffered and fallen together in the common cause. There had either never been a conspiracy to bring about a rebellion at sea or else, as the Duke of York had hoped, the sound of the guns of England’s enemies put paid to any hint of it. That day off Lowestoft, two mutually suspicious cohorts of men truly came together, forged in the crucible of battle into a new and formidable force: the navy royal of England, at last a reality rather than merely a name.

Our mourning for the dead gave way in surprisingly short order to a growing realisation of what we had done, and of what we were about to do.

We had won a glorious, signal victory.

Disregard the battles won by the false Commonwealth and even the triumph over the Armada, which was in truth more the consequence of a fortuitous Protestant wind; the battle of Lowestoft was by far the greatest victory of the arms of an English monarch since Agincourt or Flodden. We learned later that some five thousand Dutchmen perished in that ferocious fight, perhaps a fifth of their entire fleet. Four of their admirals, Obdam among them, were dead. We did not know all of this that bright June evening, but we knew or sensed enough of it. Yet as we set our course east by north in pursuit of the shattered Dutchmen, putting behind us (as far as we could) the dreadful memories of the battle, of blazing ships and dead friends, we grinned to each other in anticipation of an even greater triumph on the following morning. I dismissed Cornelis’s warning; why could we
not
do in a day what the Spanish had failed to do in eighty years? After all, they suffered the inherent deficiency of not being English, and they had never once held the advantage that we possessed on that evening of the third of June, 1665. There was more than sufficient sea-room between ourselves and the shore of Holland. We would fall upon the butterboxes once more and take, sink or burn the rest of their fleet. Then, with no navy to protect them, we would mop up the impossibly rich Dutch argosies as they returned from the Indies. De Witt would be forced to make peace on our king’s terms, and those terms would be humiliating. All of the trade of Amsterdam would come to London. All of the trading posts in Asia would come to our East India Company. The fortresses along the Scheldt would come to us, giving us the keys to Antwerp. The world’s carrying trade would move from Dutch hulls into English. The mightiest revolution in the affairs of Europe since Luther pinned his theses to the church door; the ultimate triumph of our Britannic realms, which would become the richest and most powerful nation on earth.

Within twelve hours, we would make all of that a reality.

 

 

 

Beneath a brilliant orange dawn, the sea was empty. Of the Dutch fleet, there was no sign.

That could mean only one thing: they had got through the
sea-gates
. Somehow, we had let them get away.

I had been summoned to the quarterdeck in the middle of the night, at about two in the morning, when the great stern lanterns aboard the
Royal Charles
had flickered the signal that she was shortening sail. I had been in a dead sleep for perhaps three hours, far too little to be properly rested, and had sprung from my sea-bed forgetting my wounded foot, which screamed a reminder to me as it struck the deck. Thus I had limped onto the quarterdeck in a confused state, noted the action of the flagship, relayed its order to my own officers and thus to the hands aloft, who had promptly set about adjusting the clew-lines and the like, and had not really pondered its consequences before returning to my slumber. But when I returned to the deck at dawn, expecting the imminent resumption of the battle, I realised at once that all was wrong – beginning with the assumptions I had made in the middle of the night.

The
Royal Charles
might have ordered a shortening of sail because we were in danger of over-running the Dutch in the night. Well, not so as was now all too evident.

The
Royal Charles
might have ordered a shortening of sail because our scouts had seen the Dutch do the same. Also not so, equally evidently.

The
Royal Charles
might have ordered a shortening of sail because the Dutch had already escaped within their sea-gates, and we were in danger of being blown onto their lee shore. Plainly not so, for we were still too far out to sea and with plenty of sea-room.

Thus either the Dutch fleet had been spirited away by their ally Beelzebub, or, rather more likely, something terribly wrong had happened aboard the
Royal Charles
.

I was fortunate to learn the truth before almost any other man in the fleet, for later that morning, as we despondently sighted the masts of the Dutch safe behind Texel, Cherry Cheeks Russell returned aboard the
Merhonour
and breathlessly recounted all he had seen and heard. Realising the importance of his evidence, I set him at once to write down his account, albeit in his execrable spelling.

Russell had stayed all night upon the quarterdeck (or, as he wrote it, ‘kwotadek’) of the
Royal Charles
, excited beyond measure by the sights and sounds around him – even by the spectacle of seamen scrubbing the deck clean of the blood of Lord Falmouth and the rest – and eager to catch sight of the Dutch by the first light of dawn. Thus he witnessed the arrival upon deck of Harry Brouncker, evidently intent upon conversation with Captain Cox, the sailing master, who had the watch.

‘New orders from His Royal Highness,’ said Brouncker officiously to Cox, ‘entrusted to me before he retired. He considers it too dangerous for the fleets to engage during the night, Captain, and wishes you to adjust your course accordingly.’

Cox, whom I knew as a capable and quick-witted man, looked at Brouncker suspiciously. ‘Adjust my course, Mister Brouncker? But if I adjust my course, every ship in the fleet has to adjust its own, dependent upon the signal from our lanterns.’ He looked up at the three huge structures at the stern, in each of which burned a fire that marked the flagship’s position by night.

‘That is what His Royal Highness means, Captain Cox. The fleet is not to engage by night.’

‘Then does he mean for us to shorten sail? Look at all the lights ahead of us, man. Some of them are our scouts, but most are the Dutch. We will be up with them well before dawn unless we shorten sail.’

Brouncker looked about him nervously, or so young Russell thought. ‘Well, then, Captain, that is what His Royal Highness means. The fleet to shorten sail.’

Cox stared steadily at him. ‘I’ll not order such a thing,’ he said. ‘I need to wake Captain Harman.’

He crossed the quarterdeck, knelt down and shook a bundle that lay between two culverins. The bluff, handsome John Harman, captain of the
Royal Charles
, stirred at once and got to his feet. His own cabin had been given over to Sir William Penn, but even so, Harman had an ample sea-bed awaiting him below; although he wore his hair long and dressed as a cavalier, in times of drama, like many of the true old tarpaulins, he still preferred to sleep on deck under one of the sheets that gave its name to his kind.

In hurried whispers, half-overheard by Russell, Cox apprised Harman of the situation. The two men approached Brouncker, and Harman said, ‘To shorten sail, Mister Brouncker? But that risks allowing the Dutch to escape us. You are certain that this is the Duke’s intention?’

‘I have said so, upon my word,’ blustered Brouncker. ‘We must not engage in the night. The fleet to shorten sail, if that is what it takes.’

Cox was anxious. ‘Perhaps we should wake Sir William,’ he said.

Harman frowned. ‘We could attempt to wake Sir William, but I doubt if it would do us any good.’

Every man on the quarterdeck, indeed probably every man on the
Royal Charles
– including even young Cherry Cheeks Russell – knew full well that the only way in which the Great Captain Commander could obtain some relief from the gout by night, and thus some precious sleep, was by taking some of the more potent drugs in the surgeon’s chest and washing them down with prodigious quantities of the strongest drink on the ship. Thus waking Sir William Penn would be akin to dragging the dead out of their graves before the sounding of the Last Trump.

‘In that case,’ said Cox, ‘surely we should awaken His Royal Highness, to seek confirmation of his intentions?’

Russell saw Brouncker gesticulate angrily at Cox. ‘Damnation, man, do you doubt my word? My word as a gentleman? I have told you His Royal Highness’s order, sir!’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Harman, ‘it would be best to have the Duke’s confirmation –’

‘And do you really think he will thank you, Captain Harman, if you wake him and he finds you have done so merely to confirm an order that he has already given through me? What will that do to your prospects of becoming Admiral Harman, do you think?’ That struck home; by tradition, the captain of the fleet flagship had the first claim upon a vacant flag, and with Sansum dead, Harman’s path to promotion lay open, pending confirmation by the Duke of York.

Yet Cox and Harman clearly remained unconvinced. Russell overheard snatches of their conversation: they were worried by the proximity of the Dutch and the dangers of a night engagement, but equally alarmed at the prospect of slowing the fleet too much and allowing the Dutch to escape.

As the two officers debated, Cherry Cheeks watched Brouncker become increasingly agitated. At last he strode up to Cox and Harman and almost bellowed in their faces.

‘Think upon what you do here tonight!’ cried the red-faced courtier. ‘For all we know, the plague or a fanatic’s bullet might have carried away Charles Stuart this day, and the man sleeping beyond that bulkhead might at this very moment be King of England, by the Grace of God! Are you really prepared to deny the will of Majesty, Captain Cox? Captain Harman, are you?’

Cox and Harman exchanged one last, despairing glance. Then Harman said decisively, ‘Very well, then. Captain Cox, you will give the orders for the
Royal Charles
to shorten sail. I will see to the transmission of that order to the fleet. May God grant that we do the right thing.’

* * *

Thus we knew how the order had come to be given; but we were still no wiser as to Brouncker’s motive. No wiser, that is, until the fleet returned to the shore of England to repair and revictual. The ships were divided, with some going to the Gunfleet, some to the Buoy of the Nore, and others, ourselves included, to Southwold Bay. We were then to return to sea at soon as possible, that being thought the best way to keep the fleet free of the plague. The
Merhonour
thus came to an anchor directly before the town of Southwold, which had been devastated by fire a few years before and which was still only partly rebuilt. I took to our longboat to go across to the
Royal Charles
. I needed the Duke of York’s orders for the disposition of the ship; the hull continued to take in water, and Carpenter Thurston was insistent that we should be docked as quickly as possible. I also needed to pay my respects to the duke and belatedly to congratulate him upon his great victory.

I was still on one crutch, and getting down into the longboat secured alongside the larboard entry port took not a little effort and a considerable amount of pain. In the end, I was effectively manhandled down into the boat by Polzeath and Carvell, who commanded the oarsmen.

‘Putting on weight, Captain,’ said Carvell, his broad grin belaying any suggestion of insolence.

‘I’ll thank you to keep such an opinion to yourself, Mister Carvell,’ I said, although I found it difficult to suppress a smile.

We cast off, oars dipped into war, and at a steady pace we moved across the calm sea toward the unmistakeable bulk of the fleet flagship. She flew a new royal standard and Lord Admiral’s flag, but at the stern, her torn and barely recognisable ensign was still that which had flown during the battle. Like
Merhonour
and most of the ships in the fleet, the
Royal Charles
bore the tell-tale signs of war: the fresh timbers, still not painted, that filled the gaps where the old had been blasted away by the
Eendracht
or the
Oranje
; the indentations caused by the impact of round shot; the canvas temporarily replacing glass in some of her stern windows. And we were the victors.

As we neared the
Charles
, I spied a boat casting off from her, pulling toward the shore. In the stern was the unmistakeable figure of Harry Brouncker. He saw me, raised his hat in salute, and smiled. I did not reciprocate, pretending instead not to have seen him.

‘Damnable man,’ I hissed, more to myself than to my crew. ‘Why in God’s name did he transmit that order…’

Carvell looked at me quizzically. ‘Thought you knew, Captain.’

‘Knew, Mister Carvell? What is there to know?’

The black man shrugged. ‘It’s been all over the lower deck these last few days. Every lower deck in the fleet, probably. Expect someone on the
Charles
told someone on one of the victualling hoys, who spread the word to the cook’s crew on the next ship, and so on.’

I must have looked startled, but probably should not have done: I had already served for more than long enough to realise that the most detailed knowledge of everything that transpires aboard a great ship is usually to be found upon her lower decks, rather than in her officers’ quarters, and that even aboard a fleet at sea, word could get round even faster than in the frenetic hubbub of Whitehall.

Carvell said, ‘Word is that Mister Brouncker, there, was only doing the bidding of the admiral’s lady – the Duchess of York, that is. They say she’d told him to make certain the duke came back alive. They say Brouncker took fright after the narrow squeak the duke had, so first chance he had, he concocted an order to make sure there’d be no more fighting the next day.’

‘Aye,’ piped up Polzeath in his gruff Fowey tones, ‘and the duke ain’t likely to punish him, is he, if he was only doing his wife’s bidding, else he’d have to answer to the duchess. Seen her, I did, when we was last at ’arwich. Wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of that ’un, I tell thee, Captain.’

We were nearly alongside the
Royal Charles
, but I remained frozen to the gunwale. I could barely take in what my men had told me. It was incredible – simply unbelievable. The greatest victory England might ever know, denied because of one woman’s fretful obsession to keep her husband safe at all costs? Because a foul, idle pimp of a courtier sold his soul to do her bidding? Surely they would not have done such a thing without –

At all costs, preserve the life of His Royal Highness, my son-in-law
. In that moment, the words of the Earl of Clarendon came back to me. Then I remembered the night of the state reception at the Banqueting House, when the Chancellor, his daughter the Duchess and Harry Brouncker had all been in conclave with each other. And with another, too. Another who was surely more likely to have insinuated some malicious intent into the easily deluded mind of her plaything, the vapid Brouncker –