For King or Commonwealth (24 page)

‘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.

Faulkner looked round, watching Monck's flag as a faint and distant concussion rolled over the dancing waves and declared an engagement had begun. ‘The General is making a signal.'

All swung round to watch Monck's flagship. ‘The division is to form on the larboard tack,' someone said.

‘Very well, let us brace the yards a little and haul the tacks hard a-weather.'

The officers went about their business and the
Union
leaned to the breeze. She already lay on the larboard tack but she needed to recover her station towards the van of Monck's squadron. As the group of men-of-war closed up and headed north, the sound of gunfire increased and clouds of smoke were conspicuous before the wind shredded them to leeward in long, attenuated streamers.

Two hours later Monck made the signal to tack again. Away to the north they could make out the blue lump of land that was Portland Bill and, as they turned their sterns towards it, ahead of them, almost in the eye of the sun, lay the contending fleets, with the convoy strung out astern of the embattled men-of-war.

‘Not bad for a soldier,' Faulkner murmured to himself as they bore down on the gap that was opening up between the smoke and fire of action and the immense gaggle of merchantmen.

‘They're turning away!' snapped Clarkson excitedly as it became increasingly clear that as Monck's ships bore down onto them, the convoy was turning to the west.

Faulkner turned his attention to the action that was growing closer, perhaps five miles from them now.

‘Dutch man-of-war detaching . . . and another, and another,' Clarkson called.

Faulkner could see first one, and then several Dutch vessels, hauling their wind to head north and attempt to interpose themselves between the convoy and Monck's as-yet-unengaged vessels.

‘Watch the General,' Faulkner ordered as Monck, unable to get closer to the convoy accepted the challenge of engaging Van Tromp. ‘Steer one point to leeward,' he ordered, ‘ease the braces.'

Twenty minutes later the
Union
opened fire.

Night found the two fleets licking their wounds. The
Union
had suffered some damage aloft and had received some thirty shot between wind and water. She had lost twelve men and a further fifteen lay wounded in the surgeon's charge. The wind had dropped and boats rowed round the fleet as Blake sent several badly damaged ships into Portsmouth along with a number of prizes. The following day the English fleet clung on the wings of the Dutch, much as their ancestors had done sixty-four years earlier when harrying the Spanish Armada. A number of Dutch merchantmen were taken and then three of Evertsen's squadron were captured. The
Union
was in action for extended periods as both fleets sailed slowly eastwards. It was hot and bloody work, a giving and taking of punishment and though no enemy warship struck to the
Union
, she had the satisfaction of taking a large merchantman and dismasting a man-of-war that was supported by a large Dutchman that emerged out of the smoke. Faulkner withdrew under a sudden gust of wind, engaging another enemy shortly thereafter.

By darkness, Faulkner and his men were tired and frustrated, having been in action for the entire day they yet had failed to engage decisively with any enemy man-of-war. In later years, Faulkner, when asked about the three-day battle off Portland, was apt to say that Providence cheated them of the laurels on the 18th and 19th of February in order to reward their patience on the 20th. Up until this time, Van Tromp's ships had maintained their defence of the bulk of the convoy that had thus far evaded capture by allowing it to work ahead of his main fleet. But the constant harrying of the English had weakened the resolve of the Dutch and time and again broken their cohesion. In a freshening wind, on the third and final morning of the running battle, Faulkner woke from an uneasy doze on deck wrapped in his cloak to find an excited Stockton pointing out two ships a mere two miles away, their shapes etched against the first grey streak of dawn.

‘I give you good day, Captain Faulkner,' Stockton said in a low voice, as though speaking normally might alert the unwary Dutch of their presence. ‘I think we have two of the birds at our mercy before they escape us.'

Faulkner took a look through Stockton's glass. His mouth tasted sour, his eyes gritty with fatigue, his brain sluggish. He took a deep breath to clear his head.