in the waist of the
Royal Sceptre
, exhausted men roused themselves, went to the ship’s side, waved, punched their fists in the air, and screamed with joy. Ali Reis, the Moor, had tears streaming down his cheeks. Macferran danced a jig with Berrington, a foul Londoner who hated anyone that was not an Englishman, but who, in that moment, loved the young Scot like a brother. Lord Rochester, his monkey upon his shoulder, embraced my young servant, Kellett; I prayed that joy at our reinforcement was the only thought in the noble lord’s mind. Further astern, though, Philemon Hardy, Kit Farrell and I hugged each other like long-parted sweethearts.
With every moment that passed, the glorious sight became more glorious still. There was the
Dreadnought
, flying at the mizzen the flag of the ferocious Ned Spragge; there, the
Revenge
, bearing one of the proudest, most battle-honoured names that any English man-of-war can possess; there, the tough old
Victory
, commanded by the legend that was Sir Christopher Myngs. Above all, the bow wave surged around the cutwater of the mighty
Royal James
, the flagship, as she ploughed through the sea toward us. Aboard her, no doubt urging his ships forward as once he had urged his cavalry against Cromwell’s Ironsides, would be the man I had long held responsible for the death of my father at the Battle of Naseby. The man who, despite that, was now my patron in the navy: the man whom entire swathes of Englandhad once looked upon as the devil incarnate, and one of the most famous warriors in the entire world.
Prince Rupert of the Rhine was charging to our rescue.
* * *
Through the afternoon, we steered west-south-west toward the prince, who was sailing north-north-east to join us as swiftly as possible. The Dutch, realising that they were about to lose the advantage, redoubled their attacks against us, but our stern chasers continued to hold them off. Once we united with the prince’s squadron, the question of why our fleet came to be divided in the first place would be forgotten. All the suspicions, all the dark rumours about conspiracies and treachery, would be swept away. All was set fair to turn the tables on the Dutch.
There was one cloud: a cloud which hung above the heads of our ship’s master and lieutenant, poring over the chart table next to the whipstaff. Musk informed me of an altercation between them, so a little before two bells of the Last Dog, I went down to see what the matter was. Both men pointed to a chart which was covered in a bewildering pattern of lines. It was as if the great Van Dyck had got drunk and attempted to execute a portrait by holding a pencil in his teeth.
‘It’s been impossible to keep accurate track of our position, Sir Matthew,’ said Kit. ‘We and the Dutch have tacked back and forth so many times, always out of sight of land, that no captain or master in the fleet is certain of exactly where we are.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Hardy. ‘I am as certain of our position as any man can be. We are here’ – he stabbed at a point on the chart – ‘some fifteen leagues north-east of the North Foreland. Well clear of the difficulty that Lieutenant Farrell perceives.’
‘That difficulty being, Mister Farrell…?’
‘The Galloper, Sir Matthew. Mister Hardy believes that both we and Prince Rupert’s fleet are well to the north of it. But what if we are not? What if the Galloper lies between us?’
I stared down at the chart. There it was, clearly marked – the Galloper Sand. The estuary of the Thames and the southern North Sea beyond it is full of huge and dangerous sandbanks, and the Galloper is one of the largest of them all, a giant wall of sand that stretches for miles, almost due east of Harwich.
‘The Galloper cannot lie between us,’ said Hardy, emphatically. ‘Is Captain Kempthorne of the
Royal Charles
wrong? Is Sir Joseph Jordan, who has been sailing these waters for fifty years? Every veteran seaman in the fleet knows where we
Royal Sceptre
, exhausted men roused themselves, went to the ship’s side, waved, punched their fists in the air, and screamed with joy. Ali Reis, the Moor, had tears streaming down his cheeks. Macferran danced a jig with Berrington, a foul Londoner who hated anyone that was not an Englishman, but who, in that moment, loved the young Scot like a brother. Lord Rochester, his monkey upon his shoulder, embraced my young servant, Kellett; I prayed that joy at our reinforcement was the only thought in the noble lord’s mind. Further astern, though, Philemon Hardy, Kit Farrell and I hugged each other like long-parted sweethearts.
With every moment that passed, the glorious sight became more glorious still. There was the
Dreadnought
, flying at the mizzen the flag of the ferocious Ned Spragge; there, the
Revenge
, bearing one of the proudest, most battle-honoured names that any English man-of-war can possess; there, the tough old
Victory
, commanded by the legend that was Sir Christopher Myngs. Above all, the bow wave surged around the cutwater of the mighty
Royal James
, the flagship, as she ploughed through the sea toward us. Aboard her, no doubt urging his ships forward as once he had urged his cavalry against Cromwell’s Ironsides, would be the man I had long held responsible for the death of my father at the Battle of Naseby. The man who, despite that, was now my patron in the navy: the man whom entire swathes of Englandhad once looked upon as the devil incarnate, and one of the most famous warriors in the entire world.
Prince Rupert of the Rhine was charging to our rescue.
* * *
Through the afternoon, we steered west-south-west toward the prince, who was sailing north-north-east to join us as swiftly as possible. The Dutch, realising that they were about to lose the advantage, redoubled their attacks against us, but our stern chasers continued to hold them off. Once we united with the prince’s squadron, the question of why our fleet came to be divided in the first place would be forgotten. All the suspicions, all the dark rumours about conspiracies and treachery, would be swept away. All was set fair to turn the tables on the Dutch.
There was one cloud: a cloud which hung above the heads of our ship’s master and lieutenant, poring over the chart table next to the whipstaff. Musk informed me of an altercation between them, so a little before two bells of the Last Dog, I went down to see what the matter was. Both men pointed to a chart which was covered in a bewildering pattern of lines. It was as if the great Van Dyck had got drunk and attempted to execute a portrait by holding a pencil in his teeth.
‘It’s been impossible to keep accurate track of our position, Sir Matthew,’ said Kit. ‘We and the Dutch have tacked back and forth so many times, always out of sight of land, that no captain or master in the fleet is certain of exactly where we are.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Hardy. ‘I am as certain of our position as any man can be. We are here’ – he stabbed at a point on the chart – ‘some fifteen leagues north-east of the North Foreland. Well clear of the difficulty that Lieutenant Farrell perceives.’
‘That difficulty being, Mister Farrell…?’
‘The Galloper, Sir Matthew. Mister Hardy believes that both we and Prince Rupert’s fleet are well to the north of it. But what if we are not? What if the Galloper lies between us?’
I stared down at the chart. There it was, clearly marked – the Galloper Sand. The estuary of the Thames and the southern North Sea beyond it is full of huge and dangerous sandbanks, and the Galloper is one of the largest of them all, a giant wall of sand that stretches for miles, almost due east of Harwich.
‘The Galloper cannot lie between us,’ said Hardy, emphatically. ‘Is Captain Kempthorne of the
Royal Charles
wrong? Is Sir Joseph Jordan, who has been sailing these waters for fifty years? Every veteran seaman in the fleet knows where we
Similar Books
