The King's Chameleon (36 page)

Coming in sight of the new fort of Sheerness, Faulkner saw first a huge Dutch ensign flying above the low ramparts. He reined in to a stop, fished in his pistol holster and withdrew the small pocket glass he had stowed there and swept the horizon. Behind him his escort sat their horses, which snickered and blew through their nostrils. As he studied the situation Faulkner ignored their impatience. ‘Time spent in reconnaissance, gentlemen,' he said without lowering his glass, ‘is seldom wasted.' He was unaware that in his rear, the young cavaliers were, to a man, judging him as great an old fool as their Captain-General, his Grace the Duke of Albemarle.

Far beyond the fort he could see along the northern horizon the low Essex shore. Between that distant blue line lay the buoy of the Nore where a few of the larger Dutch men-of-war lay at anchor. Here, he recognized de Ruyter's magnificent flag-ship,
De Zeven Provinciën
, but to the eastwards there came a score of ships, their topsails filled by the easterly breeze and borne along by the flood tide.

Just to the left of the fort a pair of Dutch yachts, de Ruyter's despatch vessels, slipped past what had been the defences commanding the narrow entrance of the Medway. They were followed by a man-of-war of perhaps sixty guns. A smaller forty-gun warship lay at anchor off the fort, presumably that which had landed the storming party that had taken the place that morning.

Below them he could see the remains of the boom which, once blown apart and divided, had washed back along the shore under the impetus of the tide. From his low eminence he could also see the English vessels hurriedly sunk as block-ships in the navigable channel. They had served little purpose: once the chain-boom had been destroyed, the Dutch fleet had begun its passage into the Medway with impunity. To the westwards the river opened up as, with every minute, the flood tide rapidly covered the mud-flats. Even as he watched, the vast estuary seemed full of de Ruyter's ships, some already at anchor, some ghosting up stream, as if waiting for the right moment to press home their attack in the wake of the fire-ships. In another hour or so the majority of the fleet would have passed the outer defences and, Faulkner had no doubt, the Dutch would soon thereafter make their bold move, for there was nothing now to stop them.

It was a shameful moment for Faulkner. He recalled all the admonitions of old Sir Henry Mainwaring who had recruited him to become a naval officer, so concerned had he been to improve the quality of the English navy. Had all that work been thrown away? If it had been Mainwaring's life's work, it had been the greater part of Faulkner's too. He felt the hot tears of angry frustration start in his eyes. But no, it was the wind, that easterly breeze that yet persisted. See how it caused the Dutch flag to snap and flaunt under its influence.

He was suddenly aware that behind him his gilded escort had become restless. One of their number rode alongside him, a jingle of polished harness, his long ostrich plume nodding in the sunshine.

The young man drew his sword. ‘With your permission, Sir Christopher,' the cavalier said languidly, clearly intending to ask permission as a mere sop to convention, ‘my friends and I cannot
tolerate
the sight of foreign colours on English soil. Such is our infuriation that we are determined to show those fellows our mettle.' The young officer could not have been more than eighteen or twenty years of age. But for his soft moustache, one could have taken him for a girl of pleasing looks. Without awaiting a reply, he asked as he drew his sword: ‘Shall you come with us, Sir Christopher?'

Faulkner put out a hand. ‘Stay, sir. The fort is in enemy hands. You can achieve nothing except make your mothers weep for loss of your lives …'

The young man drew himself up in his saddle. ‘Sir,' he declared pretentiously, ‘I cannot
bear
to look upon that flag!'

‘I forbid it,' Faulkner began, but the rasp of swords leaving their scabbards reassured the young cavalier of support as he dug his heels into his horse's flanks. A moment later Faulkner, caught off guard, still holding his telescope and with his reins slack, felt his mount jerk forward, excited by the onrush of the others. In an instant he had dropped the glass, grabbed the reins to restrain his horse and found himself galloping in the wake of his escort.

The slope of the island was gentle as it descended to a shoreline of marsh, but the ground was firm on the fort's approach as the horses got their heads, unrestrained by their riders who stood in their stirrups whooping and waving their swords. Following on his bolting steed Faulkner was aware that they passed a group of armed men hidden in a ditch who looked up with astonished expressions, hollering a warning to them as they swept past.

Ahead of them the gate of the fort was closed, and a head or two could be seen above on the ramparts. Their charge was an utterly futile gesture, Faulkner realized, a piece of stupid bravado in which he had been involuntarily caught up despite his inexpert attempts to master his horse, his endeavours thwarted by the necessity of retaining his seat. He was no practised horseman, unlike the young bloods in whose wake he was dragged. In his struggle to rein in his mount he had failed to draw his sword, but the sight of the men in the ditch, soldiers by the look of them, had persuaded him that what he was about was potentially disastrous.

By now he was some yards behind the hot-heads and his horse was slowing, though the foam flew from its mouth in its fury at being thwarted. It was almost at a standstill when a volley of arquebus balls flew about them. One of the dolts ahead of Faulkner cried out and fell sideways. Another rode alongside and put out an arm to support him as they all tugged at their reins, pulling their horses' heads round whence they had come. An instant later they were cantering past Faulkner, who was at that moment struck. His hat was whipped from his head and he felt stung. He did not see one of the cavaliers cleverly catch his spinning hat, but he followed their retreat, which did not slacken until they drew rein alongside the armed men in the ditch.

Faulkner's first thought was for the disobedience that had caused the injury of one of his escort. ‘You should be cashiered, sir!' he said to the young man who had precipitated the escapade. His voice was cold with fury.

‘Come, come, Sir Christopher, no harm is done and the horses have had good exercise …'

‘No harm? No harm you say? Why you have a wounded officer there!' He pointed.

‘'Tis nothing. He'll be fine.' The young man was grinning and nodding at his companion.

Faulkner looked round and the young man, though pale, smiled back and stared down at his thigh. His breeches were torn, and a red slash in the flesh of his leg showed where a ball had gouged but not penetrated the muscle. Meanwhile, the men in the ditch had all clambered out, covered in mud, some wounded and all of them in obviously low spirits, but their incredulity at what they had just witnessed was plain to see.

‘And who may you bold fellows be?' one of them asked, half amused despite his scarecrow appearance. Faulkner introduced himself and acknowledged that of the other.

‘I am, alas, the late commander of the Sheerness garrison,' the officer explained. ‘Most of my men have run after receiving a drubbing from an over-whelming force landed by the Dutch who forced the gate at dawn.' Faulkner sensed the man had no case to answer and would risk death at his court-martial. ‘You are lucky to have escaped with your lives,' he added, ‘for there are Englishmen in that place, under one of Cromwell's colonels, a man named Dolmen. Do you bruit his traitorous name abroad and, if you have any influence, have him share the fate of all traitors.'

Faulkner inclined his head non-committally, but the officer who had led the charge asked for the name to be repeated. ‘I have a little influence,' he said, smiling, ‘and my sister has the, er,
ear
of the King.' His fellows sniggered as the hapless garrison commander looked quizzically at Faulkner.

Embarrassed by this unpleasant exchange, Faulkner bethought himself of his duty. Shaken by both what he had seen of the Dutch and the captured fort, and the folly of the last few minutes, he gestured to the passing men-of-war. ‘Is this the entire Dutch strength?' he asked.

‘No,' the garrison commander explained. ‘Another squadron passed north of the Isle of Grain bound up the Thames.'

Faulkner nodded and thought of Edmund; their worst fears were confirmed. ‘Your men are by the ferry,' Faulkner said. ‘They were in want of discipline. Some of My Lord Duke of Albemarle's officers have rallied them. I suggest you march with me and join His Grace at Chatham. He will welcome reinforcements.'

‘Even from so unwelcome an origin as ours?' the officer responded bitterly.

‘There is no dishonour in defeat; it is what one does afterwards that signifies,' Faulkner answered curtly. He looked about him. The cavaliers looked as if butter would not melt in their mouths, and he was struck by this contrived innocence. Just before they set off one of them rode up holding out Faulkner's hat.

‘You stopped to pick it up?' Faulkner asked, astonished.

The young man grinned. ‘I caught it, Sir Christopher,' he said, emphasizing his adroitness with a flourish of the hat. ‘By the way you have been clipped. Your ear is bleeding.'

‘It is?' Faulkner put his hand up and found his right ear gored, a small slice of it missing. ‘Good heavens, I had no idea.'

‘Your hat blew towards me,' the fellow said lightly. ‘'Twas fair bowling along in the wind.'

Faulkner took the proffered hat and slapped it against his thigh, which caused his horse to twitch. It had gipped alongside Albemarle's large gelding; no wonder it had reacted in company with the spirited mounts his companions sat. He set the creature's head towards the ferry and, as the officers from the fort followed, settled down to a walking pace, much relieved in his nether parts that he no longer had need to move any faster. His ear was stinging now, and it came to him that he had broken his promise to Katherine: more than that, his lug would betray him. Behind them the number of Dutch ships in the estuary increased.

It was dark by the time they re-joined Albemarle's headquarters in a cottage on the outskirts of Chatham. Faulkner left the wretched garrison commander to make his peace with the Duke and went in search of something to eat. When he returned from an inn about a mile away he could see reddened smoke rising from the moored fleet as the first ships began to burn. By midnight, as Faulkner accompanied Albemarle and his suite along the low ridge of rising ground they had occupied that morning, it seemed as if the entire river was on fire. The wind still blew fresh from the north-east, fanning the flames and bringing the roar of the conflagration to their ears. Even without a glass they could see sparks rising from the burning ships, accompanied by the occasional small explosion as the flames found some combustible material.

‘Are we to stand here all night and watch this disastrous humiliation?' Albemarle growled. ‘All our work … All our blood and treasure wasted and gone for nothing, damn my eyes.'

‘What must be said of us, Your Grace? That we went to bed while the fleet burned?'

‘That is exactly what His Majesty will do this night, my dear Sir Christopher,' Albemarle said, his tone viciously sardonic, leaning from his horse towards Faulkner and lowering his voice. ‘And aren't these
His
ships?'

The following morning the Dutch remained in the river, reluctant to leave, though their work was done. A new pall of smoke rose over the distant fort at Sheerness. Those who saw it reported that pin-pricks of bright light had been followed some seconds later by the thunder of explosions. Even at a distance they could see, amid the smoke and flashes, debris flung skywards as the Dutch destroyed the fortification itself. Faulkner thought of the foolish exploit he had been caught up in the previous day. ‘There is,' he muttered in self-reproach, recalling his broken promise to Katherine, ‘no fool like an old fool.' He shuddered at the thought of how close he had come to death, putting a tentative finger up to his right ear, where a hard crust of scab had formed.

‘You have a scratch,' Albemarle had said, noticing the damaged ear. ‘That is truly a mark of honour, Sir Kit,' he remarked wryly, ‘and more than most will have gotten in defence of our fleet.'

‘We came too close to the enemy, Your Grace.' There was no need to say more, though Faulkner glared at the young jackanapes who was now grinning at him behind the Captain-General's shoulder.

During the attack during the night, Albemarle's guards had stood to their arms, and the Captain-General had gone down to the water's edge, dismounted, and with a cane in his hand, walked up and down roaring obscenities at the enemy. There were those among his officers that declared his intention was to stop a Dutch ball and die reproaching others but with his own honour intact. Whatever his motives, Albemarle's mood was foul as he surveyed what was left of the fleet he had so gallantly commanded.

More news came in that morning. Lords Douglas and Middleton had arrived with their forces. They had passed through Rochester in some disorder and there were reports of rape and plundering by Douglas's soldiers. Similar complaints came from Chatham, and a deputation of the local councillors, led by the Mayor of Rochester, came to express their outrage to ‘Honest George'.

It seemed to Faulkner, kicking his heels among the Duke's staff, that no further infamy could possibly be visited on his country. It was clear from Albemarle's face when he came in from meeting the citizens' representatives that he felt the same.

Later that morning, Albemarle ordered Faulkner to take a preliminary inventory of the damage, and he spent most of the day in the saddle, pocket-book in hand, as he catalogued the disaster. Late in the afternoon he returned to the Duke's headquarters, shifted now to the dockyard, where Commissioner Pett hovered obsequiously rubbing his hands in his anxiety at being in some way culpable. Calling for pen, ink and paper, Faulkner paced up-and-down impatiently until Pett, now in a fluster, chivvied his clerks with an activity he might better have expended in moving the King's ships, in accordance with his written instructions.