The Battle of All the Ages (10 page)

I grinned, extended my hand, and spoke the words I had longed to utter since that fateful day when the young Kit had saved my life.

‘I give you joy of your command, Captain Farrell,’ I said.

‘Aye, joy,’ growled Albemarle. ‘Let us trust it is indeed joy for us all tomorrow. For tomorrow, gentlemen, we attack.’

The fourth day: cloudy and misty.

At dawn, a delegation approached the quarterdeck. There were twenty or so men, some of them among my oldest and closest
followers
– the likes of Tremar, Polzeath and Macferran. They seemed unlikely mutineers, and I could not think of anything they might have concerns about: the victuals were no more foul than usual, the decks were mostly scrubbed clean of the blood of their shipmates from the
previous days, and we seemed in no greater danger of being
slaughtered
by the Dutch than we had been at any stage in the battle. So it was with some puzzlement that I stood at the head of the quarterdeck stair, looking down gravely.

It was the tiny Tremar who stepped forward, his Monmouth cap clutched respectfully in his hands.

‘Begging pardon, Sir Matthew,’ he said, ‘but there’s something that mightily concerns us all.’

The rest of them nodded vigorously and murmured assent.

‘Speak, then, Tremar. You know me for a fair man, I trust – a
captain
who will always listen to his crew’s concerns.’

‘That you are, Sir Matthew. Well, sir, it’s this. We’re all pleased beyond measure that Lieutenant – that is, Captain Farrell, has got his command, sir. Couldn’t be happier, in truth.’

I tried to remain impassive, but I had half-expected this. Kit Farrell was immensely popular on the lower deck: there were bound to be men who wished to follow him into his new command. But for them to include these, men whom I had counted as unfailingly loyal to me – very nearly as friends, indeed…

‘Well, then, John Tremar. If Captain Farrell has sufficient men to exchange for you, I am sure we could accomplish it before we engage the Dutch again –’

‘No, Sir Matthew. You mistake us, sir. No man seeks to go to the
Black Prince
– we are Sceptres, and until this battle ends, we live and die with you aboard the King’s Prick. But now Mister Farrell has gone to his new ship, we have no lieutenant. And that troubles us, Sir Matthew.’

It troubled me, too, if truth be told, and had done ever since I left the
Royal Charles
the previous evening with the newly-minted Captain Farrell. Rupert and Albemarle had not seen fit to commission a new lieutenant to the
Sceptre
, which left me with an immense gap among the officers who were qualified to stand watches. The ship’s master, Urquhart, was new to that role, and I could hardly elevate him to
acting lieutenant within a day. If Martin Lanherne had been with us, I would not have hesitated in appointing him. But he was far away in Cornwall, press-ganging men into the King’s navy. I had briefly considered making Ensign Lovell into an acting lieutenant. Although he knew nothing of the sea, he was a brave lad who would have amply filled one of a ship’s lieutenants’ most important roles, namely
encouraging
the men by his brave example: or, as a cynic like Fresh Holles or Lord Rochester might have put it, by standing out in the open and being shot at. But that would have left the Marine detachment without an officer, and having lost their captain, Parks, in such dire circumstances, that was a risk I dared not take.

‘My thanks to you and the men, Tremar, but I see no means of
giving
us a new lieutenant before we engage again.’

‘That’s what we were thinking about, Sir Matthew. And we reckoned there was one among us whose undaunted courage under fire amply qualifies him to be our lieutenant.’

Musk?
I thought.
He would be the oldest, fattest lieutenant in the navy, but perhaps there was some merit in the notion
– but then I saw some of the men looking toward Lord Rochester.
Great God, no.
Rochester
for lieutenant of a man-of-war’s crew? It would be like placing a satyr in charge of a convent
.

‘Aye, Sir Matthew. We all think that our new lieutenant should be Lord Rochester’s monkey.’

For a moment, every single one of the men standing in front of me, and Rochester himself, remained stone-faced and silent. Then the noble earl burst out laughing, followed by the delegation. Even George Polzeath, ever the most serious of men, had tears streaming down his cheeks. I looked around in confusion, but then I, too, began to laugh. Indeed, I doubled up with laughter, only for that to trigger a wave of pain from my damaged shoulder.

‘A noble jest, My Lord,’ I said to Rochester, who was laughing so much that he had to cling on to the ship’s rail to steady himself.

‘A jest, Sir Matthew? How can it be so, when we have found you a lieutenant?’

The beast in question was sitting upon a demi-culverin, looking suspiciously at a cabbage that one of the master’s mates had given it. I went toward it, and it hissed.

‘So be it, then, noble monkey!’ I cried, now enjoying the jest as much as any of the rest. ‘By the powers vested in me by His Highness Prince Rupert and His Grace the Duke of Albemarle, I, Sir Matthew Quinton, do name you – My Lord Rochester, just what is this officer’s name?’

Rochester grinned.

‘Sir Matthew,’ he said, ‘even aboard a man-of-war, I think that the name I call this noble monkey would be too obscene for public
consumption
.’

‘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…