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the battle of all the ages

The Ensign Flutters Again

21/11/2016 by J D Davies

I’m delighted to announce that my new publisher, Endeavour Press, has just brought out Ensign Royal, the Quinton prequel ‘e-story’, which was first released by Old Street two and a half years ago, and which is now available again on Amazon. To mark the occasion, I’m re-blogging the post I wrote to mark the original publication. This is a precursor to some very exciting news about my future plans, including those for the Quinton series, which I hope to be able to announce next week – so watch this space!

For some time now, I’ve been keen to expand the Quinton canon by writing some shorter stories which would be available exclusively on e-readers. There are several reasons for this:

  • Firstly, it will allow me to fill in some of the chronological gaps in the main series, and to explore elements of Matthew Quinton’s ‘back story’;
  • Secondly, it opens up the opportunity to have a greater variety of settings and plots – the main series is constrained to some extent by being perceived by booksellers and some readers exclusively as ‘naval historical fiction’, with all the preconceptions of what that genre should provide, whereas the e-format opens up, for example, the possibility of having stories set exclusively on land, and thus providing a much more rounded picture of Matthew’s life, times and adventures;
  • Thirdly, and above all, quite a number of readers have contacted me to let me know that they’d love to read such stories!
The Battle of the Dunes, by Lariviere
The Battle of the Dunes, by Lariviere

Ensign Royal is a prequel to Gentleman Captain, and deals with an episode alluded to both in that book and other titles in the series – Matthew’s first experience of battle, the Battle of the Dunes in June 1658. Matthew was then eighteen years old and an Ensign in the tiny royalist army-in-exile, marching with its much larger ally, the Spanish army, to raise the French siege of Dunkirk. This battle has always intrigued me: the royalist general, James, Duke of York, had been trained by the French commander, Marshal Turenne (on horseback in the picture), who in turn was the former comrade-in-arms of the Spanish commander, the Prince of Condé, who had rebelled against France’s ruler, Cardinal Mazarin. This tangled web of loyalties was further complicated by the fact that Mazarin, a prince of the Roman Catholic church, had entered into an alliance with the virulently anti-Catholic Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell, who provided 6,000 New Model Army veterans to the army besieging Dunkirk – not to mention the fleet moored offshore to bombard the Spanish positions. Thus Roundhead and Royalist armies battled each other one last time, amid the sand dunes of Flanders.

Battle of the Dunes - note the Commonwealth squadron off the coast
Battle of the Dunes – note the Commonwealth squadron off the coast

The Battle of the Dunes, fought, ironically, on exactly the same beaches from which the British army was evacuated in 1940, forms the climax of Ensign Royal. But before then, Matthew has to undertake a dangerous mission to England on behalf of his enigmatic brother, the Earl of Ravensden. This puts him at the very heart of a dark conspiracy, the truth of which he learns only many years later during an unsettling encounter with the last relic of ‘England’s black legend’. But Matthew’s perilous escapades in England and during the Battle of the Dunes also lead to his first meeting with someone who will play a very important part in his life…

 

Filed Under: Naval historical fiction, Uncategorized Tagged With: Battle of the Dunes, books by J D Davies, Ensign Royal, Matthew Quinton, the battle of all the ages

Cry God for Charlie, England, and Saint James!

25/07/2016 by J D Davies

Today, 25 July 2016, is Saint James’ day in the Church of England’s liturgical calendar, and exactly 350 years ago, the relatively little known Saint James’ day battle took place in the waters of the southern North Sea. This was a sequel to the huge Four Days’ Battle that had been fought at the beginning of June, where King Charles II’s fleet, under Prince Rupert and the Duke of Albemarle, was beaten by the Dutch under Michiel De Ruyter. Remarkably, the royal dockyards repaired the battle damage within six weeks, and when the fleet ventured out again, it was markedly stronger than it had been before, partly through the addition of the enormous Sovereign – better known under her original name from 1637, the Sovereign of the Seas.

I’m ‘live tweeting’ the events of the battle today, and those who aren’t on Twitter can see the sequence on the right hand side of this web page. Therefore, I don’t propose to duplicate an account of the fighting in this blog; for those who want to know more, the Wikipedia entry about the battle is reasonably accurate, and anybody who wants to know a lot more is referred to Frank Fox’s outstanding book, The Four Days Battle of 1666, which also covers this battle and the subsequent events. However, the Saint James’ day fight features in the fifth Quinton book, The Battle of All The Ages, and the new title, Death’s Bright Angel, which comes out next month, follows on immediately from these events. So as a ‘taster’, here’s one passage from my fictional account of the battle, which describes a real incident, the astonishing escape of the Gelderland; and to accompany it, there’s a picture of the spectacular memorial to her captain, Van Ghent, in the great Dom Kerk in Utrecht, which I last visited back in 2008.

 

***

 

‘One of De Ruyter’s seconds is in trouble,’ I said, peering through my own eyepiece. ‘A big one, at least sixty guns – a similar size to the Sceptre. Both his fore and mizzen topmasts are down. Looks as though his rudder is damaged, too.’

‘The Sovereign’s altering course to go for her, Sir Matthew!’ cried Urquhart.

‘Then we sail with the Golden Devil, gentlemen!’

What a sight we were, bearing down on the crippled Dutchman – the Gelderland, as we later learned. With all sail set, ensigns and pennants streaming from our staffs and mastheads, four of England’s mightiest men-of-war sailed toward the easiest of victories. The Royal Sovereign led the way, a terrifying sight as her huge gilded hull rose and fell on the gentle swell. Then came the Lion, the Triumph and ourselves, any one of us more than capable of taking the Dutchman on our own. The Dutch saw the danger, but there was little they could do to prevent it. Even De Ruyter himself attempted to come up with the Seven Provinces, but his flagship was too shattered. Besides, it was impossible for him to make much headway against the breeze and, more importantly, against the racing ebb.

We were very nearly level with the Sovereign, we moving onto the starboard side of the Dutchman, the Golden Devil onto the larboard. The Lion and Triumph were similarly in parallel behind us, moving to take up position on her quarters.

‘He might as well strike his colours now,’ I said. ‘He’s done for.’

‘No,’ said Delacourt, his telescope fixed on the bows of the Dutchman. ‘No, he can’t be –‘

‘Lieutenant?’

‘Saw it done once by a sloop in the tiderace at the Shannon’s mouth – but surely it can’t work –‘

‘She’s dropping anchor!’ cried Urquhart.

In that moment, the large anchors on both the starboard and larboard bows of the Dutchman, together with her stern anchor, fell into the sea.

‘Jesus,’ I swore. ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! Mister Burdett, there! Larboard battery to engage –‘

But it was already too late. The Dutchman came to a dead stop. Carried forward inexorably by the racing ebb, and by the weight of canvas we had aloft, we were past her even before the order to fire could be given. The same was true of the Sovereign. The Lion and Triumph, coming up behind us, managed to fire off a desultory broadside each before they, too, swept past the stationary Dutchman.

‘Clever,’ said Musk. ‘Clear-headed, and clever.’

‘Surely we can simply turn and capture him!’ cried Rochester.

‘My Lord,’ I snapped, ‘ships do not simply turn. We cannot sail back directly into the wind, nor into this ebb. That which stopped the Dutch coming up to rescue him now prevents us going back to take him. He has outfoxed us, whoever he is. A brave man, and a skilful one, that captain. A great seaman.’

But that, he was not. When we met at Veere, my good-brother Cornelis told me that the captain of the Gelderland was a landsman – a soldier named Van Ghent, a colonel of Marines. It seems that all the old seamen among his officers furrowed their brows and stroked their chins when he ordered the sudden dropping of the anchors, it being a thing beyond the compass of minds that must do things this way, because that is how they have always been done. Such is the way of old seamen, and probably always will be.

 

Filed Under: Naval history, Uncategorized Tagged With: St James day battle, the battle of all the ages

The 350th Anniversary of the Four Days Battle, 1666

01/06/2016 by J D Davies

The posting of this blog coincides with the exact 350th anniversary of the start of the Four Days’ Battle in 1666. Perfectly understandably, all of the media and social media attention focused on naval history this week has centred on the centenary of the Battle of Jutland, so this is my attempt to redress the balance, if only very slightly.

I don’t intend to provide a detailed account of the events of the battle here. For one thing, I’m ‘live tweeting’ specific incidents on my Twitter account, @quintonjournals, on their exact anniversaries (see the feed on the right hand side of this site); for another, a number of perfectly serviceable outline accounts can be found online. Those seeking more detail ought to get hold of Frank Fox’s brilliant study, The Four Days’ Battle of 1666 – a fine exemplar of how all accounts of naval battles ought to be written. However, the battle formed the basis of the fifth Quinton novel, The Battle of All The Ages, so, to honour the memories of those who fell on both sides, here are some extracts from that.

 

From the ‘Historical Note’

The plot of The Battle of All The Ages is centred on the longest, as well as one of the largest and hardest, sea battles in the entire age of sail. Between 1 and 4 June 1666, the British fleet under George Monck, Duke of Albemarle, and Prince Rupert of the Rhine, fought a colossal duel in the North Sea against the Dutch fleet under Michiel Adrianszoon De Ruyter, the Netherlands’ greatest admiral. The British were weakened by the fact that Rupert had been detached to confront a French threat believed to be approaching from the west, but when it was clear that this decision had been based on false intelligence, he was recalled and rejoined Albemarle on the third day. The battle featured some remarkable individual events, such as the loss of the huge flagship Royal Prince (her commander, Sir George Ayscue, remains the only British admiral ever to have surrendered in action) and the suicidal attack by Sir William Berkeley and his Swiftsure. It is also one of the best illustrated naval battles of all time: the famous Dutch marine artist Willem van de Velde the elder was present, sketching from a boat throughout the action, and his drawings, now preserved principally at the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, and the Boymans – Van Beuningen Museum, Rotterdam, formed an invaluable research resource for this book. The British fleet was ultimately defeated and forced to retreat into the Thames, having suffered the worst attrition rate among commanding officers in the entire history of the Royal Navy, before or since. But in an astonishing feat by seventeenth century standards, the dockyards repaired the shattered ships and got the fleet back to sea within seven weeks, where they inflicted a defeat on the Dutch during the St James’ Day fight.

 

The Opening Scene of the Book

‘Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Eighty-three. Eighty-four. Eighty-five. Eighty-six.’ Lieutenant Christopher Farrell lowered his telescope and turned to look directly at me. ‘They outnumber us by thirty, Sir Matthew.’

The horizon to the east-south-east was filled with hulls and sails. The metal-grey sea was rough, whipped up by a strong, warm, blustery south-westerly breeze; Kit Farrell had seemed to take an eternity to count the number of ships opposing us, for the distant vessels kept vanishing behind the swell. Even so, I could still make out the colours flying from the enemy’s ensign staffs and topmasts. The Dutch colours.

‘For a fleet that’s supposed still to be in harbour, they seem quite remarkably seaborne,’ I said sarcastically. ‘God bless our spies in Holland, who are paid so well for their invaluable intelligence.’

‘Forgive the ignorance of a landsman, Sir Matthew,’ said the youth at my side, in a tone at once haughty and irreverent, ‘but if the enemy outnumbers our fleet so heavily, why are we advancing toward it? Why are we not withdrawing discreetly into the safety of the Thames? Why are we, if I may be so bold as to venture the word, attacking?’

‘Because, My Lord,’ I began, ‘His Grace –‘

‘Because,’ interrupted Phineas Musk, the barrel-shaped, bald creature who served nominally as my clerk, ‘His Grace the Duke of Albemarle, that was General Monck, that was the man who restored the King, that is our beloved general-at-sea – His Grace thinks as highly of the Dutch as he does of a dog-turd on the sole of his shoe. If he was out alone in a row-boat against the fleet yonder, he’d still consider the odds to be in his favour. My Lord.’

I scowled at Musk; such sentiments ought not to be expressed loudly upon the quarterdeck, where various mates and topmen could hear them. But Musk, an ancient retainer of the Quinton family, had somehow acquired the sort of licence that kings once gave their court jesters. He spoke the brutal truths that most men preferred to dissemble, and seemed perfectly impervious to any reprimand. Besides, he was entirely correct. At the council-of-war two days previously, I myself had heard the obese old Duke of Albemarle’s contemptuous dismissal of our Dutch enemy, uttered in his broad Devon brogue: ‘A land of atheistical cheese-mongers wallowing in bog-mud, gentlemen. Cowards to a man. One good English broadside and they’ll run for home, shitting themselves in fright.’ The Duke’s confidence seemed not to have been shaken a jot by the loss of nearly a third of his fleet, despatched west under his joint general-at-sea, Prince Rupert of the Rhine, to intercept the French fleet that was reported to be coming up the Channel to join its Dutch allies, or else perhaps to stop the French invading Ireland, or Wales, or the Isle of Wight; no man seemed entirely certain what the French were meant to be doing, which was ominous. The prince had been recalled, but God knew where he was, or how long it would take his ships to return.

‘Ah yes,’ said my young companion, ‘His Grace. Never was the ducal address of honour so inappropriate. Was there ever such an ungraceful Duke in England as poor, fat old Georgie Monck?’

I frowned. There were men within earshot, and it did not do for them to hear their betters denigrating those who were better still. But I could say nothing. The lad was an Earl, and I was merely the brother and heir to an Earl. He was also given a quite remarkable degree of licence by the King, and, it was said, an even more remarkable degree of it by virtually every woman in London, from bawds to baronesses. By many of the men, too, allegedly; and, as some would have it, even by some of the animals. It was no surprise that his eyes were already old and tired, with bags beneath them that bore witness to far too many debauches. His shirt was open to the waist: to emulate the seamen, he claimed, though few of them were so underdressed in such a strong breeze, and none wore shirts of the finest silk. I suspected that the young man’s display of his bare chest might have been prompted by other, and rather baser, considerations. For this was John Wilmot, the young Earl of Rochester, come to sea as a volunteer on my ship, so that he could demonstrate his bravery to – well, it was not entirely clear which of his recent amours of any gender or species he was meant to be demonstrating it to. His father and my brother, the enigmatic Earl of Ravensden, had been friends and allies in exile, forever plotting to overthrow Cromwell and restore King Charles to his throne, and this connection proved sufficient to place the poetically-inclined young Earl aboard my ship. In a moment of weakness, I even agreed that My Lord could bring with him his pet monkey, an astonishingly evil creature that now gazed at me malevolently from its favoured perch in the mizzen shrouds.

[Note: the notorious Restoration libertine, Rochester, really did serve in the Four Days Battle]

 

Abraham Storck, the Four Days Battle of 1666
Abraham Storck, the Four Days Battle of 1666

The Fate of Berkeley and the Swiftsure

A shout from the lookout at the maintop – a great, deep noise, then the sound of rope and canvas tearing apart –

I ran to the other side of the quarterdeck, taking my telescope from Kellett.

‘What is it, Sir Matthew?’ Rochester demanded.

‘Look yonder, My Lord. There, in the Dutch line. Two of them have collided! Great God – one of them is Tromp himself!’

It was an astonishing sight: two mighty men-of-war locked together, their rigging entangled, the bows of the one wedged onto the bow of the other. Even as we watched, the mainmast of Tromp’s flagship Hollandia came down, taking her tricolour command flag with it. Yet again, good fortune seemed to be carrying the battle the way of the English – or as Musk had put it, turning everything topsy-turvy in the blink of an eye. Collision is always a real possibility in a sea-fight, for ships are often sailing very close to each other; and the Dutch were unaccustomed to the line-of-battle, where each ship was meant to keep station only a very short distance from those ahead or astern of it, to give an enemy no room to break through gaps in the line. But the collision of the two great ships – Tromp’s Hollandia and the Leifde, as we later learned – meant that they were falling away to leeward, helplessly entangled. Thus there was not just a gap in the Dutch line, but a huge, gaping, tempting passageway. An empty avenue of sea presented itself, stretching away to the irresistible target at the end of it, exposed and unable to manoeuvre. The Hollandia. The great Admiral Tromp himself.

‘The Vice-Admiral, Sir Matthew,’ said Kit, pointing ahead and slightly to larboard.

The Swiftsure, with the white command flag streaming from her foretop, was adjusting sail and beginning to fall down with the wind, making for the gap and the crippled Hollandia. Will Berkeley was intent on redeeming himself in the eyes of Albemarle, the fleet and the kingdom. Will was sailing to seize or destroy Tromp.

 

***

‘Your orders, Sir Matthew?’ asked Hardy, the Royal Sceptre’s master.

I said nothing, instead scanning as much of the battle as I could see with my telescope. Will’s opportunity was obvious, but so too was the terrible risk he was taking. He had to get up to Tromp before the Dutch could bring down enough reinforcements to seal the gap in the line. With far fewer ships at his disposal, Albemarle could not similarly reinforce Will, even if he was so inclined. The general was still heavily engaged against De Ruyter, and now there was a new threat. Through the smoke and the great melee of masts, sails and hulls, I caught glimpses of our Blue squadron, in the Rear. But now there were Dutch flags to the west of the Blue – in other words, to windward. The Dutch rear divisions, strengthened by the ships that had been out of action to the north, but which were now coming into action almost by the minute, had broken through the Blue and gained the weather gage. If Albemarle was going to redeploy his ships in the centre to reinforce anywhere, it would have to be there.  And that meant Will Berkeley’s charge at Tromp, unsupported, was likely to be suicidal.

‘Your orders, Sir Matthew?’ Hardy repeated, with a more obvious note of urgency in his voice.

My Royal Sceptre was the Swiftsure’s second. Under the fleet’s orders, and by naval tradition from time immemorial, the second supported the flagship of its division. Will Berkeley was one of my dearest and best friends. Every bone in my body, every feeling in my heart, every last shred of my sense of honour, screamed out the order to go to his aid. But my head knew full well that without further reinforcement, following in Will Berkeley’s wake was simply insane. We and the remaining ships of Will’s Vice-Admiral’s division were too few on our own. If we sailed after our flagship, unsupported – and as the senior captain remaining, I would have to give that order – there was a strong likelihood that we would be overwhelmed. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of the men aboard the King’s Prick and the other ships of our division would be slaughtered. And given the existing disparity in numbers between the fleets, the loss of the six remaining ships of the Vice-Admiral’s division of the White Squadron would almost certainly lose us the battle. No other ships of our fleet showed the slightest sign of sailing to support the Swiftsure or her division. A bitter thought struck me: even if there was no threat from the north, would Albemarle sail in any case to support two young gentlemen captains – representatives of a breed he detested? Even as the thought came to me, I saw the Royal Charles begin to turn into the wind and break out the blue flag at the mizzen peak, the signal for the rest of the fleet to follow in his wake. To follow west-north-west: towards the Blue Squadron, away from the Swiftsure and ourselves.

As I stood alone – desperately alone – at the larboard rail of the quarterdeck, I could see the gap in the Dutch line beginning to close. Slowly but surely, the enemy fleet was swallowing the Swiftsure. Will Berkeley was sailing to his fate, whatever that was to be.

‘Your orders, Sir Matthew?’ demanded Hardy, for a third time.

I could barely speak the words I had to speak, such was the unutterable guilt, grief and sense of dishonour that coursed through me.

‘We tack to follow the general,’ I said.


The Second Day of the Battle

I have a good memory for a man of my years. Indeed, it is usually significantly better than the memories of those who are barely a quarter of my age: in these days when almost the whole of England is awash on a sea of gin, even young men seem incapable by dinner of remembering what they had for breakfast. But when it comes to the precise order of events on that second day of the battle, I can chiefly recall only fragments of memories, and they come above all from flashes of the senses, from sight, smell and sound.

The little ships of both fleets – the yachts, galliots and the like – dashing hither and thither between the great hulls, fighting their own vicious miniature battles.

The sea carpeted with fallen masts and sails, interspersed with the bloated bodies of dead men.

The stench of gunsmoke, which hung over the battle like a shroud, the winds too light to disperse it: so thick at times that we could barely identify the nationality of the ship we were firing at, or see our own forecastle from the quarterdeck.

The men at the guns, stripped to the waists, sweat pouring down their bodies as the muzzles got ever hotter. The sun beating down relentlessly, its shafts sometimes piercing the smoke to cast a strange, ghostly light upon our decks.

The roaring of the great guns. The shock of their blast, striking one as hard as a punch in the chest. The sounds of the different types of shot as they sped through the air. The firing of muskets, with the pop of matchlocks contrasting with the sharper sound of the newer flintlocks. The shrill blast of officers’ whistles. The cracking of timber as masts, yards and hulls splintered. The screams of men in their death throes, and of the wounded being carried down to the surgeon’s cockpit. My own voice, hoarse from shouting orders and exhortations all day long. My swordarm, painful from having the heavy weapon in hand for hours on end.

Pass the Dutch on opposite but parallel courses, fire three or four mighty broadsides, try to break through their line and prevent them breaking through ours, tack, rest and repair in the interval, pass each other again, repeated over and over throughout the day, God knows how many times – even soon after the battle, some men were prepared to swear on their mothers’ graves that we and they had passed five times, others said seven, others nine.

At one point, we thought we had won. Tromp and his squadron somehow became detached from the rest of the Dutch fleet and were lying to leeward, in the east, with our Red Squadron pouring down onto them. Fresh Holles, the charming rogue who later became a friend of sorts, once told me of it, as we sat drinking wine in the Southwark George:

'Holmes wearing that ludicrous turban...' National Maritime Museum, Greenwich
‘Holmes wearing that ludicrous turban…’ National Maritime Museum, Greenwich

‘We had them, Matt. I’d taken the Spiegel with my Antelope – we’d set the Liefde on fire – two of their biggest ships, and we were pressing Tromp himself. We’d have won the war there and then, that afternoon, if you and the White had come to our aid. We saw the Prince coming up, the rest of you behind her. But did that old woman Ayscue come down to support us? No, he and the rest of you sailed merrily by –‘

‘Hardly fair, Fresh. There was another Dutch squadron to windward of us. If we’d moved to support you, they’d have split our fleet in two, isolating the Blue.’

‘Stuff, Matt Quinton. Stuff, I say. A bold admiral would have been able to overwhelm Tromp before their other ships could move. As it was – well, you know what happened. The great De Ruyter himself smashes through our line and rescues Tromp. Now he knows what boldness means, that man. Not that I witnessed it, of course, because that was just after they blew my fucking arm off.’

Holles raised his glass to his lips with his right, and sole remaining, hand.

‘You got a knighthood out of it, Sir Frescheville. And old Lely’s painting of you and Rob Holmes wouldn’t have been as fetching if you still had the other arm.’

‘Fetching? You think it’s fetching, with Holmes wearing that ludicrous turban? You have damned strange tastes in art, Matt Quinton.’

 

The ‘Butcher’s Bill’ of the British Fleet in the Four Days Battle

Officers Slaine and Wounded:

Captains Whitty of the Vanguard, Wood of the Henrietta, Bacon of the Bristol, Mootham of the Princess, Terne of the Triumph, Reeves of the Essex, Chappell of the Clove Tree, Dare of the House of Sweeds, Coppin of the St George,  all slaine.

Sir William Clarke, secretary to His Grace of Albemarle, slaine.

Sir Christopher Myngs, maimed, and since dead.

Captain Holles, his arm shot off.

Captain Miller, his leg shot off, since dead.

Captain Gethings, drowned.

Captains Jennens and Fortescue, maimed; Harman, hurt by the fall of a mast; Pearce, Earle, Silver and Holmes, all wounded

Sir George Ayscue, prisoner in Holland.

Sir William Berkeley of the Swiftsure, perhaps prisoner in Holland, perhaps slaine.

Lost on our side, 6,000 men.

 

Adapted from ‘A Particular Account of the Last Engagement between the Dutch and English, June 1666’: Bodleian Library, Oxford

Filed Under: Naval history, Uncategorized Tagged With: four days battle, Matthew Quinton, the battle of all the ages

The Beast, You Say? No, Sorry, Wrong Number

04/01/2016 by J D Davies

Happy New Year, everybody! And what an anniversary-rich year it promises to be, even in comparison with 2015 and 2014. The World War I commemorations will include the poignant centenaries of the Somme and Jutland; I hope to be involved in, or at least a witness to, some of the latter, and will report back as and when the time comes. Tudor and Stuart historians, lovers of literature – well, pretty much everybody, really – will overdose merrily on the shenanigans surrounding the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death. And for those of us who dabble in the late seventeenth century, there’s the 350th anniversary of the Great Fire of London to look forward to.

Actually, of course, the latter is just one of the 350th anniversaries of the extraordinary events of the year 1666, which attracted considerable attention from contemporaries because it included the Biblical ‘number of the beast’. Thus many expected disasters and extraordinary events, and they certainly got them during what John Dryden described as the annus mirabilis: not just the Great Fire, but two colossal naval battles, the ‘Four Days’ Fight’ from 1-4 June (Old Style / Julian Calendar) and the ‘St James Day’ Fight’ (25-26 July), as well as the attack on the Dutch Frisian islands that became known to the British as ‘Holmes’ bonfire’ and to the Dutch as the ‘English Fury’. Plans are afoot to commemorate the latter on Vlieland and Terschelling, but there seems to be nothing planned on the British side to mark the battles – apart from by the small, beleagured, widely scattered band of Restoration navy nuts, who’ll be raising lonely glasses to toast the immortal memories of, umm, Sir William Berkeley, and the others who fought and died in those titanic, but now almost forgotten, conflicts.

All of the above impacts hugely on my own plans for this year. The most recent Quinton novel to be published, The Battle of All the Ages, focuses on the Four Days’ Battle and the St James’ Day Fight, while the next one in the chronological series, Death’s Bright Angel, due to be published this summer, begins with ‘Holmes’ bonfire’ and culminates in the Great Fire (and as I’ve mentioned before on this blog, if you think there’s no naval dimension to the Great Fire of London, you ain’t seen nothing yet…). More on that anon, as Death’s Bright Angel is going to be a very unusual book in some respects – effectively two books in one, with the fictional story followed by an extensive historical essay that will reveal some explosive new evidence about aspects of the Great Fire. If all goes according to plan, too, this will be a bumper year for Quinton fans, following last year’s fallow period (for which apologies once again): The Rage of Fortune, the prequel set in the period 1598-1602 and featuring Matthew’s eponymous grandfather, the swashbuckling eighth Earl of Ravensden, is currently scheduled for publication as an e-book on 10 May.

Otherwise, I plan to spend much of the year researching and writing my new non-fiction book for Seaforth Publishing, Kings of the Sea: Charles II, James II and the Royal Navy, due for publication in the summer of 2017 to coincide with next year’s massive 350th anniversary, that of the Dutch attack on the Medway in 1667. I’ll also be reviving the hashtag #2ADW350 on Twitter, to ‘live tweet’ the naval events of 1666 on their anniversaries. And, yes, if the need arises for further blogs about the Carmarthenshire archives situation, The Ladybird Book of Online Campaigning and General S*** Stirring remains at hand.

Winner of 'Britain's Got Wigs', 1689
Winner of ‘Britain’s Got Wigs’, 1689

Finally, a plug for one more 2016 anniversary that might otherwise go unnoticed. 13 April marks the 300th anniversary of the death of Arthur Herbert, Earl of Torrington, one of the most controversial naval officers of the seventeenth century. Denounced by Pepys for gross immorality (which, let’s face it, is a bit liked being denounced by Donald Trump for having a dodgy mullet), Herbert commanded the British fleet in the Battle of Beachy Head, 1690, which the French claim as one of their few naval victories over the rosbifs, and is credited with originating the term ‘fleet in being’. So if you need an excuse to raise a glass on 13 April, you now have one!

Filed Under: Naval history Tagged With: 1666, Arthur Herbert, Death's Bright Angel, Earl of Torrington, Holmes' bonfire, Journals of Matthew Quinton, Kings of the Sea, the battle of all the ages, The Rage of Fortune

Cover Story

03/03/2014 by J D Davies

Battle for All 1I’m delighted to be able to headline this week’s post by revealing the cover of the new Quinton novel, The Battle of All The Ages, which is number five in the series and is due to be published in the UK in June. Thanks to my publishers, Old Street, for doing such a tremendous job, and to Conn Iggulden for providing such a generous blurb. Our original contact was entirely unsolicited, as it turns out he’s a big fan of the series!

The cover art is Abraham Storck’s painting of the Four Days Battle of 1666, which forms the centrepiece of the book. Storck’s painting is held at the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, and full details of it can be found on the museum’s website. The section shown on the cover shows De Zeven Provincien, the flagship of the great Dutch admiral, Michiel Adrianszoon De Ruyter, and the Royal Prince, flagship of Admiral Sir George Ayscue. The latter is aground on the Galloper Sand and will soon surrender; Ayscue remains the only British flag-officer to surrender in battle, and the loss of the Prince caused a sense of national shock that has been compared to the loss of HMS Hood in 1941.

The Four Days Battle followed a controversial decision to divide the British fleet. As I wrote in Pepys’s Navy:

In January 1666 France…declared war to fulfil long-avoided treaty obligations to the Dutch. The command of the British fleet for the 1666 campaign was given jointly to Prince Rupert and George Monck, Duke of Albemarle, but at the end of May they divided their fleet, with Rupert sailing off to the west to intercept a French fleet that was believed to be approaching British waters. The intelligence proved false, and on 1 June Albemarle found himself with 56 ships, facing the Dutch fleet of 86 under the brilliant Michiel De Ruyter off the North Foreland. The ‘Four Days’ Battle’ that followed was one of the great epics of the age of sail. Rupert rejoined on the third day with 25 ships, but after another day of fighting, the British fleet was forced to retire, having lost three admirals captured or killed…several thousand men, and ten ships, including the great Royal Prince.

Matthew Quinton and his ship are at the heart of the action, and as well as dealing with a superior Dutch enemy, he has to contend with problems among his own crew – notably the tensions between the seamen and the newly created Marine Regiment (the precursors of the Royal Marines), and the presence of an eccentric and unpredictable character with a special connection to the King. During four days of ferocious fighting, Matthew and his friends – the likes of Lieutenant Kit Farrell, the Reverend Francis Gale and Phineas Musk – are tested to their utmost limits.

In the second part of the book, Matthew is sent by the King on a dangerous mission to discover the truth about why the fleet was divided; was it treachery, incompetence or simple bad luck? In doing so, he finds himself regarded as an enemy in his own land, in a place with strong residual loyalties to the fallen Commonwealth; is forced to denounce a friend; and battles a mysterious enemy, the so-called Hell Hound. All the while, his thoughts are torn between these immediate dangers and developments far away, notably his wife’s sickness and the frantic efforts to repair the fleet so it can sail out again to gain revenge on the Dutch. The book culminates in the second great sea-battle of the summer of 1666, the St James Day fight, before Matthew finally confronts the real and unsettling truths about the division of the fleet.

As usual, The Battle of All The Ages is based closely on real events, particularly during the battle scenes, and a host of real historical characters make an appearance. These include King Charles II, Prince Rupert of the Rhine, General George Monck, the famous Dutch admirals De Ruyter and Evertsen, their British counterparts Sir Christopher Myngs and Sir Robert Holmes, and the notorious Restoration rake, the Earl of Rochester. Action at sea, intrigue, Restoration poetry, and a foul-tempered monkey – what’s not to like? And if you fancy a sneak preview, the first chapter will be available on my website in the near future!

Filed Under: Naval historical fiction, Uncategorized Tagged With: abraham storck, books by J D Davies, four days battle, Matthew Quinton, the battle of all the ages

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