The King's Chameleon (41 page)

Faulkner's shock was fading, and he was increasingly tempted to do as Edmund had done with Hannah's quack, kick the knave from his house. The man was prating, gulling him with pure sophistry. The physician must have noticed some change in Faulkner's demeanour, for he picked up his hat, decided to settle his bill on the morrow and fired his Parthian shot.

‘Keep her warm. A little brandy too. If she will not take it, dab it on her lips. No water; let her sweat out the fever. It is best to bring on the crisis while the body remains substantially vigorous, so that inducement aids a rapid return to health, d'you see? I give you good night, Sir Christopher. I shall, with your permission, call again tomorrow.'

When he had gone, Faulkner sat at Katherine's bedside. Her eyes remained closed and her breathing was shallow, though not laboured as it had been at first. Sweat bedewed her, and he wiped her brow. Her forehead felt on fire, yet her hands, lying outside the sheets, were cold and pallid, reminiscent of those of a corpse.

All that day and into the following night he sat beside her. From time to time he wet her lips with brandy and wine, wiped her face and held her unresponsive hand. From time to time he prayed too, as best an unbeliever might, but he knew the worst was upon him and that the crisis Katherine confronted was not one she would surmount. Towards dawn he fell asleep, his old head falling forward on the bed, his wig awry, exposing his bald pate. Afterwards, though he had dreamed, he could not recall the spectres – except that he thought he remembered them walking, hand in hand, upon the island of St Mary's in the Scillies.

He woke suddenly, unable to move and stiff with cramps, to the cold realization of reality. He lay a moment immobile, his neck seized, until he felt a strange sensation, light as a bird's wing, upon his bare head. With an effort he raised himself; Katherine's hand fell back upon her covers but he found himself looking into her eyes. They were large and liquid, and full of some inner fire; perhaps more beautiful than at any other time in her life.

Disregarding the agony of sudden movement, he bent over her, for she seemed anxious to speak, though nothing more than a barely perceptible breath escaped her dry lips. He took her hand and stared into her eyes, sensing she wanted water. The physician's proscription of this meant that he reached for wine and, in holding her up and encouraging her to sip, he achieved little more than ensure it dribbled down her chin. What she had consumed seemed nevertheless to have rallied her. He heard her whisper something and bent again to hear, damning the accursed eternal ringing in his ears. He was never quite certain but always believed her to have said: ‘Farewell, my love.'

He had kissed her and held her, his own body wracked with sobs of such magnitude that he never heard the final death-rattle. It was only after some minutes that, watching her eyes, he realized that the fire in them was extinguished and the liquid depths had grown cloudy. Slowly, he leant forward and kissed her again, then he drew down her eye-lids, slowly rose to his feet. Crossing the room, he opened the casement to allow Katherine's soul to fly free.

Rupert's summons came in the following March, wrenching Faulkner from his grief and his daily pilgrimage to Katherine's grave. His sense of relief was immense; rescuing him from his piteous state. While His Highness's orders transformed his situation, His Highness's words transformed his spirit.

I rely
, Rupert had written privately in his own hand,
upon those Talents that only Sea-officers of your own wide experience can Muster: besides your skills, a lack of Faction, an understanding of our Wants, and of the Enemy's weaknesses …

Faulkner's blood ran a little faster. He felt the years slip away, masked by a grim determination. He went once more to Katherine's grave and then came home to gather his accoutrements, have his armour and harness polished, his sword sharpened and his portmanteau packed. He wrote several long letters, one to Edmund, one each to his grandsons, and another to Hargreaves. Then he sent for a coach.

‘What
is
to be done, gentlemen? Can none of you tell me?' Rupert strode up and down the great cabin of his flag-ship, the magnificent
Royal Sovereign
. Before him a large table was littered with papers, a Waggoner, and two large Dutch charts of the estuary of the Schelde. ‘We have achieved nothing but a vast expenditure of blood and treasure, powder and shot.' He paused, staring round at the assembled senior officers, his expression one of weary resignation, for none among them could be charged as not having done his utmost. They remained silent, their eyes downcast, as tired and bereft of ideas as their commander-in-chief.

Faulkner stood at one end of the table in his capacity of Captain-of-the-Fleet, Rupert's chief-of-staff. He had a good view of the assembly of battle-hardened sea-warriors, some in their half-armour, some soberly dressed, others more colourfully, their sleeves slashed, lace at their throats and wrists. Rupert's second-in-command, Sir Edward Spragge, tugged at his chin and shook his head. He was flanked by the two admirals commanding the van and rear squadrons of his division: Sir John Kempthorne, whose flag-ship was the
St Andrew
, and Sir John Butler, the Earl of Ossory, whose flag flew in the
St Michael
. Next to them stood Rupert's own squadron commanders: Sir John Harman of the
London
and Sir John Chicheley of the
Charles
. Besides Faulkner himself, the only two post-captains present were the
Royal Sovereign
's own first and second captains, Sir William Reeves and the curiously named John Wetwang. None seemed able to assist their chief.

Rupert ceased his restless pacing and leaned upon the table, attempting a gentler, more persuasive tone: ‘Ned?' He looked up at his vice admiral, Sir Edward Spragge.

Spragge sighed. ‘Your Highness, the Dutch possess rare talents in their flag-officers, and they all know their business. It seems to me that one must cut off the head, to kill the body.'

‘Single out their flag officers, d'you mean?'

‘Aye, Your Highness.'

‘But they are Hydra-headed, Ned,' Rupert said. ‘Kill one and another immediately springs up in his place.'

Spragge shrugged. ‘Our men are equal in valour, our guns as worthily served as theirs, our ships as staunch – better, some say. We have fought them in two actions off their own coast and, though they have been inferior in numbers, they have driven us off, thwarted our intention to land troops and yet neither they nor we have lost a ship. Another push, perhaps …' Spragge ran out of wind and shook his head.

Rupert looked from Spragge to his other admirals, ‘Sir John? Sir John?' All four were knights and all bore the same Christian name so that the repetition brought slow smiles to their hitherto grim features. They all shook their heads. Rupert turned to Faulkner. ‘Sir Kit?'

‘Sir Edward is right, Your Highness. They defend their own shore and escaped us after the first action off Schooneveld by hiding amongst their own shoals. When the wind next favoured them they again came out and drove us nigh back to Sole Bay. Their direction is always competent in the hands of their admirals and is most assiduously followed by their captains. De Ruyter is, of course, pre-eminent. I was not present off Southwold but from what I have gleaned he separated us from D'Estrées then, and he has done so ever since …'

‘Or D'Estrées has separated himself from us!' Spragge put in.

‘Quite so. As for Sir Edward's advice, it is a hazard. To sever heads might work to our advantage, but I doubt we shall succeed against de Ruyter himself, while perhaps the cost of trying may prove too high.' Faulkner paused then, looking round at the faces staring at him. He was older than them all, and they knew his experience was wide. Judging the moment right, he went on: ‘They have a weakness in their trade, Your Highness. We have attempted its seizure at sea before but never pursued the matter with much vigour. Admiral Holmes's raid on Vlieland had a devastating impact I am told, being in some communication with Amsterdam by way of trade myself. I am convinced that their attack on the Medway was provoked by ours at Vlie. We may anticipate the arrival of their East Indies trade off the Texel in late July or early August. They pass the ships into the Zuider Zee and on to Enkhuizen. Thus we may hurt them off the Texel, and if de Ruyter comes out to cover the Indies fleet, then Sir Edward's attack on their flags might pay off.'

There was a murmur of assent, and Rupert looked round the assembled officers. ‘Very well, then. Upon my receiving reports that all our ships have fully recruited, we shall sail for the Dutch coast. I wish therefore to be ready to cruise by the first week in July.'

Rupert followed his dismissed officers out onto the quarterdeck as a matter of courtesy, talking intensely to Spragge as they left the great cabin. When they had gone Faulkner moved to the table to clear the papers and secure them in the leather satchels that made up the commander-in-chief's official files. A moment later Rupert returned to the cabin, having seen Spragge depart in his barge for his own flag-ship, the
Royal Prince.
‘A glass of wine, Sir Kit?'

The two men stood for a moment, staring through the stern windows, though neither of them took notice of the anchored fleet, or the town of Great Yarmouth stretched behind the sand dunes.

‘This is an interminable war,' Rupert confided. ‘To have fought two fights such as we just have and yet been unable to force a decision augurs ill. England cannot possess much more powder and shot but that we may well throw it all away once again. We have six thousand troops awaiting the order to embark the moment we have cleared the enemy coast of de Ruyter, yet I dare not embark them before that coast is clear, or they will eat us out of provisions.'

‘War is always about attrition, Your Highness. On the evidence you cite, we are not likely to wear our enemy down by these bruising encounters alone, but the bruising encounters of themselves drain down our respective treasuries. While I am not in a position to know with any certainty, I may hazard the guess that His Majesty's is at a low ebb.'

Rupert grunted. ‘A desperately low ebb.'

‘Quite so. But there is turmoil in the United Provinces, their cities are still surrounded by undrained water from the inundation that stopped the French advance, their commerce must thereby be affected and the arrival of the East India fleet consequently awaited eagerly. If we may interpose ourselves between the Zeegat van Texel and the India ships coming north-about round the coast of Scotland, then we may succeed in striking the master stroke.'

Rupert clapped him on the shoulder, in an obviously more cheerful frame of mind. ‘I chose my Captain-of-the-Fleet well, Sir Kit. We may yet trounce these Dutchmen.'

‘One other thing, Your Highness.'

‘What is that?'

‘Whatever his protestations, I would not include M'sieur D'Estrées in your calculations of force. I notice Mynheer de Ruyter does not.'

Rupert stared at him for a moment and then nodded.

The fleet put to sea in July and cruised ineffectually off the Dutch coast. De Ruyter sailed in pursuit, but when the wind came away from the north and the Anglo-French fleet stood towards him to give battle, the wily Dutch admiral retired behind the shoals and into the Schelde with his inferior fleet. Then, in early August, word came south from Scotland that a Dutch fleet had been seen off the Hebrides. These were the ships of the Dutch East India Company, and Rupert at once gave orders to sail; but so too did de Ruyter, and he did so a day or two in advance of the Anglo-French squadrons. Faulkner's plan therefore miscarried, and they caught only a distant sight of the riches of the Indies being borne away under de Ruyter's guns, though one East Indiaman, the
Papenburg
, was seized as she straggled some miles astern of the main convoy.

Frustrated and furious, Rupert and D'Estrées kept the sea, tempting de Ruyter to re-emerge after seeing the East India convoy safely into the Zuyder Zee. The huge Anglo-French fleet of ninety sail proceeded to manoeuvre off the Zeegat van Texel, the entrance to the Zuyder Zee, just clear of the off-lying shoal, the Haak Sand. On the evening of the tenth of August the Dutch were seen creeping down the coast, their familiarity with the locality and their shallower drafted ships allowing them to edge south under the northerly breeze. The wind dropped away during the night, but by daylight on the eleventh it had veered and blew off the land; Faulkner was called from an uneasy doze, to be informed that the Dutch were making sail, bearing down to engage.

Buckling on his sword he ran on deck, glass in hand; Rupert joined him a moment later. He called for the signal for line of battle to be hoisted, though the fleet lay in commendable station, D'Estrées ahead in the van, Spragge astern with the rear division.

A gun was fired to draw attention to the signal as Faulkner took his station. Next to him John Wetwang acknowledged a report that the flag-ship's crew were closed up at their battle-stations. Sir William Reeves was in discussion with his sailing master and they were briefly joined by Prince Rupert as the first sounds of gunfire were heard. A moment later Rupert crossed the deck and spoke to Faulkner, who in turn summarized the dispositions of the two fleets as the Dutch were allowed to overtake the allied line and match ship for ship.

All along the allied line the ships were spilling wind both to keep station and to allow the Dutch to come up. Spragge's squadron had already opened fire as the leading Dutch ships passed them to draw level with D'Estrées, ahead of Rupert's centre.

‘Who commands the Dutch van?' Rupert asked Faulkner, studying the enemy line as it led past them, just out of range.

‘Banckerts. He cut D'Estrées out at Sole Bay and our last encounter.'

‘He's doing it again,' said Rupert, not taking his eyes from his glass. ‘He's passing his damned ships through D'Estrées' line to engage from leeward.' Rupert lowered his glass with an expression of furious exasperation. ‘
Mein Gött
! D'Estrées is lost to us once again. He will fight another private action!'