The Stillness of the Guns: London's Plague Year and a Queen's Confinement
Part I: London's Silent Terror (Summer 1665)
The summer of 1665 did not bring the usual clamor to London.
No longer did the shouts of hawkers echo down Cheapside, nor the boisterous laughter spill from taverns.
Instead, a chilling silence draped the city, broken only by the mournful, rhythmic tolling of church bells – a cadence of death that echoed relentlessly from dawn till dusk.
The Great Plague had seized London in its suffocating grip, emptying its streets, turning houses into charnel pits, and chilling the hearts of even the bravest citizens.
Down by the Thames, the mighty Royal Dockyards of Deptford and Woolwich, usually a hive of industry, were eerily quiet.
Ships lay half-caulked in their slips, scaffolding abandoned.
The scent of pine tar and pitch was now overlaid with the cloying sweetness of rot.
"Half the shipwrights dead or fled, sir," a gaunt master carpenter rasped to a naval official, swatting at a fly that seemed too bold in its pursuit of human misery.
"The rest... well, they report for work with fear in their eyes. Fear of the pestilence, yes, but also fear of the empty belly. Wages are slow, and who can labor when every breath might be your last?"
Manpower, the very core of England's naval might, was unraveling.
Discipline, stretched thin by the terror, often snapped. Whispers of outright mutinies in the less-affected ships, of crews refusing to sail into what they saw as floating death traps, filtered through the shattered remnants of naval command.
In Westminster, the very air of the House of Commons was thick with the reek of fumigation – vinegar, camphor, and desperate prayers.
Members sat unnaturally far apart, their handkerchiefs pressed to their faces, avoiding eye contact as if contagion might leap across the empty benches.
Outside, the death carts rumbled; inside, the debate, though hushed by fear, was no less fierce.
"Gentlemen," boomed Sir William Coventry, voice steady but eyes betraying the strain, "the Dutch fleet gathers even now! De Ruyter will not wait for our physicians to conquer the flux. If we do not fund the navy, if we do not mend these broken ships and man these empty berths, we leave our coasts naked, our trade at their mercy! Our colonies, our very lifeline, lie exposed!"
But a portly alderman from the City, his own face pale and sweat-slicked despite the chill, countered, his voice trembling with a different kind of fear.
"And what of the Plague, sir? Shall we send our sons to die at sea, or in the pestilential dockyards? Our brave lads, packed shoulder to shoulder below deck, breathing the same foul air? No, Sir William! To provision a fleet now is to condemn thousands to the pit. Better a temporary weakness than a permanent, self-inflicted disaster!" He coughed, a dry, nervous rasp.
Then, a younger member, dressed in courtly finery, rose, his loyalty to the monarch clear.
"Her Majesty, God bless her, has gone to Windsor with the Prince, God grant him health. The King himself urges caution, a time for prayer and healing, not for risking the very future of the realm on a diseased fleet. Is it not wise to wait, let this horrific sickness pass, let London breathe again, and then strike with full, undeniable strength, with men hale and resolute?"
The chamber erupted in a low, seething murmur—some cried
"Cowardice!" and "Shame!" but others whispered fervent
"Hear, hear!" The very thought of London's putrid air carried onto the ships, infecting the entire fighting force, was terrifying.
A political paralysis, born of fear and self-preservation, began to set in.
Accusations flew: some blamed the King's Portuguese Queen for prioritizing her family's safety over the nation's immediate defense, others blamed Parliament's miserliness, others simply blamed God, they dared...
In the end, the purse-strings were drawn tight.
"No new funds for the fleet," Parliament decreed, their voices grave, "until the health of the realm is restored and Her Majesty, and the Prince, may return to London without peril."
The decision sent a shockwave of despair through the admiralty.
The Royal Retreat and a New Life in the Home Counties
Weeks before the Parliamentary decree, as the plague's ominous shadow lengthened over London, the Royal Court made its hasty, desperate retreat.
Catherine of Braganza, visibly heavy with child, had been among the first to leave, her fragile state and the paramount importance of the expected heir making her immediate evacuation a necessity.
She rode out to the lush, green peace in one of the King's stately homes nestled in the Home Counties, at Hampton Court.
Her retinue was vast: Portuguese ladies-in-waiting, nervous and prone to crossing themselves at every shadow;
English courtiers, some relieved to escape the plague, others resentful of the inconvenience; physicians, chaplains, and a nervous guard of Household Cavalry.
The King, Charles II, though often returning to a semi-deserted Whitehall for urgent business, made frequent journeys to Hampton, his attention visibly divided between the dying capital and the serene, life-affirming refuge of his pregnant wife.
Life in the countryside, though safer, was not without its own subtle tensions.
While the Queen's Portuguese entourage sought comfort in their familiar language and customs, they were isolated, often finding themselves at odds with the English courtiers, who whispered about "foreign ways" and "Popish influences."
These whispers, usually quelled by the King's presence, now amplified in the absence of London's distractions. Catherine, ever pious, spent hours in prayer, her confinement a mixture of anxious anticipation and devout hope.
Then, in June 1665, a rare joy cut through the national gloom.
News, carried by swift horsemen from Windsor, electrified a terrified nation: Queen Catherine of Braganza had given birth to a healthy Prince of Wales, Henry!
The bells that had tolled for the dead now rang out in celebration, a brief, exultant peal of hope.
Bonfires were lit in hamlets untouched by the plague, and prayers of thanksgiving rose from every grateful heart.
The existence of a Protestant heir, a clear line of succession, brought an immediate, undeniable stability to the crown.
The Queen, though still fragile from childbirth, now held an unassailable position, her Portuguese heritage momentarily eclipsed by her triumph as mother of the future king.
But the joy, profound as it was, also underscored a profound problem.
The Royal Court, the very center of English power and decision-making, was still scattered across the Home Counties.
Ministers and ambassadors shuttled back and forth, exhausted and vulnerable, their dispatches delayed by distance, their urgent consultations prolonged by the King's divided attention.
A subtle leadership vacuum persisted, slowing every facet of government, not least the crucial preparations for the warsecond round.
The Critics, The Dutch, and the "Phoney War"
On the high seas, the few naval squadrons that remained active chafed at the inaction.
"Every week we wait, the Dutch grow stronger," grumbled Sir George Monck, Duke of Albemarle, the pragmatic, battle-hardened general now second in command of the navy, well, third, accounting for the king.
He paced the deck of his flagship in the relatively healthy waters of the Nore, his face a mask of frustration.
"They mend their ships, train their crews, aggregate their squadrons from Zeeland and Amsterdam. We give them precious time, time we can ill afford!"
His rival, Prince Rupert of the Rhine, more fiery but equally vexed, countered,
"But what good is a fleet if half its crews are dead of plagued, or too sickly to pull a gun? Better delay than disaster, Albemarle! Better to strike a decisive blow when we are ready, than to hobble out like a band of ghosts and be annihilated!"
Pamphlets, hand-copied and whispered in the few open coffeehouses ( wellcoffee,wasnot thatcommon in that era,but i didn't find the correct term for rich salloons) and taverns, circulated.
Some lauded Parliament's "prudent wisdom," arguing that risking a contagion-riddled fleet was sheer madness.
Others, particularly merchants suffering from Dutch privateers, accused Parliament and the King of "timidity" and "cowardice," abandoning England's trade to the enemy.
The public, weary from the plague's devastation and the economic disruption, was bitterly divided.
The Dutch, for their part, were not idle.
Their extensive network of spies, particularly within London itself, reported daily on the English paralysis: the empty dockyards, the dwindling crews, the endless debates in Parliament, the retreat of the King and the confinement of the Queen.
De Ruyter and the States-General debated their next move.
Some argued for a swift, crushing blow, capitalizing on England's vulnerability.
Others, more cautious, saw the opportunity to strengthen their own fleet without costly engagements.
"Let the plague do the work for us," one Zeeland regent reportedly argued.
They used the respite to unify their squadrons, bringing ships from distant ports into a formidable fighting force, tightening blockades, and intensifying their commerce raiding, bleeding English trade dry without risking a pitched battle.
It became a chilling "Phoney War" at sea, characterized by skirmishes and economic attrition, but lacking the decisive fleet actions that both sides knew must eventually come.
The months stretched on.
The summer waned, giving way to a cool, crisp autumn.
Slowly, agonizingly, the worst of the plague began to recede from London.
The death tolls lessened, the quarantine flags came down, and a fragile sense of normalcy began to return to the ravaged city.
In October, heralded by joyous peals of newly active bells and grateful cheers, the Queen, with the healthy, gurgling Prince Henry in her arms, finally returned to London.
Her presence, now respected by motherhood and the undeniable heir, brought a wave of renewed hope and confidence.
Her influence, and that of the Portuguese diplomats who had remained steadfastly by her side, surged.
Anti-Catholic sentiment, though never entirely absent, was muted by the living proof of a Protestant heir.
With the court reunited, and the immediate terror of contagion somewhat abated, Parliament reconvened with a renewed, albeit still cautious, sense of purpose. The arguments for delay, though still voiced, lost much of their power.
The funding for the fleet, long withheld, was finally approved, spurred on by the now visibly strengthened monarchy.
The navy, battered but defiant, began its arduous task of re-manning and re-fitting.
But the crucial months of delay had taken their toll.
The English fleet, though finally preparing for action, knew they faced a Dutch adversary that was now stronger, more united, and keenly aware of England's recent weakness.
The stage was set, not for an easy triumph, but for a brutal, long-delayed clash, a battle whose outcome would be shaped as much by the plague and the politics of a Queen's confinement as by the roar of cannon fire.
_________
The summer of 1665, for much of Europe, was a season of dread.
The whisper of plague haunted the great cities, and the rumble of distant naval guns echoed across the North Sea as the Anglo-Dutch War raged.
Yet, as August drew to a close, a different kind of sound began to ripple through the bustling port of Nantes on France's Atlantic coast: the creak of strained timbers, the snap of sails unfurling, and the joyous, triumphant shouts of men who had cheated death and tasted the riches of the Orient were resonating.
18 months before, few had given the fledgling Compagnie des Indes a chance against the mighty Dutch, even weakened.
Now, twenty merchantmen, flanked by five warships, glided into port, their hulls heavy with the riches of the East.
On the quays, the city erupted.
Dockworkers, merchants, and townsfolk pressed forward, jostling for a glimpse of the treasures being unloaded.
The air filled with the scents of pepper and cinnamon, the shimmer of silk and chintz, the glint of pearls and diamonds from Golconda and the Coromandel.
Bales of cotton, casks of indigo, and crates of porcelain were stacked high, each one a testament to French daring and the weakness of their Dutch rivals.
An official from the Compagnie des Indes, quill in hand, called out the tallies:
"Four hundred tons of pepper and cinnamon… one thousand bales of calico and silk… fifty tons of indigo… thirty tons of saltpeter… chests of diamonds and pearls… crates of porcelain from the East…"
As the inventory grew, so did the crowd's excitement.
Whispers rippled through the merchants and nobles:
"Four million livres, at least," murmured a financier, eyes wide.
"Perhaps six, if the gems fetch their due."
The company's directors exchanged glances, scarcely daring to believe their fortune.
This single convoy, they realized, might double the company's capital overnight.
By the time the last crate was tallied, the news had already reached Versailles. In the salons, the sum was repeated with awe:
"Six million livres! France has never seen such a bounty."
For now, the old nobility's intrigues were silenced.
The riches of the East had made France the envy of Europe—and the Compagnie des Indes the most powerful trading house in the kingdom.
_______
In the Halls of Power
At Versailles, the news arrived ahead of the fleet. Courtiers clustered in gilded salons, their voices a susurrus of speculation and envy.
The old guard—nobles with ties to the Dutch or Portuguese—fumed quietly, but their complaints were drowned by the jubilation of those who saw France's fortune.
"Did you hear?" whispered a lady of the court said, her eyes alight with excitement.
"Nagapattinam has fallen, and the Dutch are routed! The Raja of Kandy himself has allied with our company. The King will be beside himself with joy."
The Comte de Saint-Aignan, whose investments in the company had been mocked as folly, could barely contain his smile.
"The Dutch are finished," he declared. "This is the dawn of a new age for France."
The Triumphal Procession
When the convoy arrived, the city staged a parade.
Drummers and trumpeters led the way, followed by carts heaped with spices and textiles, their colors dazzling in the summer light.
Chests of jewels, guarded by musketeers, drew gasps from the crowd.
Indian envoys in silken robes rode alongside French officers, a living symbol of new alliances.
The directors of the company, resplendent in velvet and lace, were feted at court.
In 1665, Versailles was a place of transition—a royal residence in the making, not yet the dazzling symbol of absolutism it would become. But the King chose Versaillles for those celebrations, already setting the stage of his new policy.
The air was fragrant with the scent of freshly turned earth and new-cut stone, for construction crews labored constantly, expanding and embellishing the king's favored retreat.
The palace itself, though grand compared to the original hunting lodge, was still relatively modest.
The central structure was a three-story building with a pitched slate roof, its brick and pale stone façade punctuated by tall, narrow windows.
The wings, recently extended, formed a shallow U around a gravel forecourt, where carriages arrived in a flurry of dust and clattering hooves.
Inside, the rooms were comfortable but not yet opulent.
The king's apartments were richly furnished with tapestries, gilded chairs, and marble fireplaces, but the ceilings were low and the corridors narrow.
The grand galleries and sweeping marble staircases of later years were still on the drawing board.
Here and there, the scent of paint and fresh plaster lingered, a reminder that the work was far from finished.
Beyond the palace, the gardens were beginning to take shape under André Le Nôtre's careful watch.
Neatly clipped hedges outlined geometric parterres, and young saplings stood in regimented rows.
Fountains splashed in the sunlight, though many more were planned.
The famous Grand Canal was only just begun, a muddy trench stretching into the distance.
Versailles in 1665 was a place of promise—a royal residence poised on the brink of transformation.
Courtiers strolled along gravel paths, gossiping about the king's latest ambitions.
In the evenings, lanterns flickered in the windows, casting a warm glow over the half-finished stonework.
The palace was not yet the core of France, but already, it was the stage upon which Louis XIV would soon perform his grandest scenes.
_______
The Frenzy of Fortune
As word spread, investors clamored for a stake in the company.
Shares soared; fortunes were made overnight.
The old nobility, their complaints rendered impotent by the sheer scale of the success, could only watch as new men—merchants, adventurers, and innovators—rose in influence.
In the salons, the talk was not of politics, but of profit.
"Did you see the indigo?" a duchess marveled.
"It is said to dye a thousand robes the color of midnight." Another whispered of the saltpeter—"Enough to supply the king's armies for years!"
The New Balance
In the aftermath, France's prestige was unassailable.
The Dutch, humiliated, withdrew to lick their wounds. The English, wary, watched for their own opportunity. The Raja of Kandy, flush with victory, sent envoys to negotiate with the French.
- Ha !! The differences between what really happened, and the talks of the court are quite .... disorienting -
Versailles, for a moment, forgot its intrigues.
The king's favor was absolute, and those who had doubted the company found themselves sidelined, their voices drowned by the cheers of a nation on the rise.
Thus, the summer of 1665 became a legend in French history—the moment when the East was brought to the West, and France, triumphant, claimed its place among the great trading empires of the world.
________
January 1666, ceylon, Colombo
The Shadow of Lisbon
Colombo's harbor was alive with the bustle of Portuguese sailors and Kandyan traders, but beneath the outward order, tension simmered.
Joao and crew who led the now thirty-five ships strong, temporarily, had to think about how to present their situation to raja singha 2.
Cinnamon, rubber, and pearls flowed through the warehouses, and the agreement with the King of Kandywich promised trade advantages in exchange for Horizon Brazil coastal protection, will be render useless by the obstination of the council to not open the casa da india,nor to transform it in a portuguese company – they didn' t know about the new arragemetns at the court-.
Rendering Joao and crew,at least in India, as men in the eyes of the court, little more than adventurers operating on the edge of legality.
The treaty of 1662 still hung over every negotiation, but its words felt brittle, threatened by the shifting politics of both island and empire.
They wil have to announce the Raja Singha 2, that they could not maintain their part of the agreement, lacking the crown support in europe, it will be a "last",or so they thought, trade with Kandy.
News from Europe was slow and uncertain.
When they began their travel, the truth was clear.
The regency council would not approve of their enterprises here.
The agreement with Kandy—never more than a fragile bargain—was quietly cancelled.
The coast would be left to its fate, and the Portuguese, for all their daring, would be forced to withdraw or risk open defiance of their own crown.
As the monsoon winds shifted, so too did the fortunes of the fleet.
The dream of a semi-private Portuguese company faded llong ago, leaving only the certitude that portugal may learn the hard way, to become more open to novelties, and the lesson—unheeded in Lisbon—that the world was changing, and those who clung to old ways would soon be left behind.