Armada

seeing the justifiable eagerness on his face given the drubbing he received at Lagos. He smiled.

‘Permission granted, Mister Seeley. Inform Mister Shaw that he will have command of the Retribution while we are ashore.’

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Seeley replied with a roguish grin. He hurried after the boatswain, adding his voice to the call for order on the main deck.

Moments later the Cygnet pulled away from the galleon and turned sharply around its stern. Across the sweep of the fleet, a flotilla of pinnaces was sailing in towards the small port, their decks crammed with men. Robert stood on the bow of the Cygnet, his balance shifting with the fall of the deck. Behind him were the chosen men of his crew, their silence a thin veneer that scarcely concealed their expectation.

They were heavily armed but few men were identically equipped. Robert wore a breastplate of armour, as did over a dozen of his crew. Many of these were cast-offs from previous battles while others wore morions, the ubiquitous helmet of European soldiers. Each man had a sword and at least one dagger and while the primary weapon of the majority was an arquebus gun, the more hidebound veterans were armed with halberds, bills and crossbows. Only two men carried longbows, weapons they had known since childhood and could never be relinquished for another.

Robert bore one other unique firearm, a wheellock pistol, an expensive weapon that he had found amongst Morgan’s belongings and he unconsciously fingered the elaborate mechanism as he thought of the man who had previously led the crew behind him into battle.

He looked ahead to the surf-worn beach that skirted the edge of the town. A lone boat was beached there: Drake’s launch. Beyond it Robert spotted the fleet commander appear from the town with an escort of heavily armed soldiers. Walking with him was a Spaniard, evidentially the garrison commander.

The longboats rode in through the surf and disgorged their men onto the beach before returning to the pinnaces to gather more. Robert went in with the first of his crew and jumped out into the crashing waves as the boat touched bottom. The cold water helped to ease the throbbing in his leg and he waded ashore.

Within twenty minutes seven hundred English landed, gathering in motley ranks behind their commanders. All the while Drake stood immovable at the head of the beach, his head turning slowly as his gaze ranged over the men. Robert could see he was talking to the Spanish commander out of the corner of his mouth, his expression solemn and imperious. Drake was not physically striking, and his dark curly hair and fairer beard made his age hard to determine. He projected a definite air of authority that belied his humble beginnings, and his gaze was penetrating and direct.

A sense of awe never failed to affect Robert when he was in Drake’s presence. He was the first Englishman to circumnavigate the world, an explorer and privateer who commanded the Queen’s deepest affections and God’s own luck. That four out of five ships had been lost during his circumnavigation and Drake had executed his friend for mutiny mattered little. The Golden Hind had returned brimming with gold, silver, spices, and precious stones that netted a near fifty-fold profit for the crown and a knighthood for Drake. To sail with Drake was to benefit from his uncanny ability to survive and profit and the men behind Robert fell into expectant silence as their commander stepped forward.

‘Men!’ he shouted, his hand sweeping out over Sagres. ‘The town is yours. Take it.’

The men erupted in a savage cheer, surging forward like a pack of baying wolves. They attacked, streaming up the beach and between the outlying buildings, jostling angrily at the choke-points as all sought to be the first to savour the plunder of the town.

Robert went with them, his slower pace making him the victim of shouldered charges as men ran around him. One struck him heavily and he was about to fall when a hand grabbed his upper arm to steady him. It was Seeley. Robert smiled amidst the cheers as the last of the crew of the Retribution passed them. They reached the whitewashed houses that marked the edge of the town and Robert became aware of the new sound beneath the cheering Englishmen – the tortured screams of the population. Shots rang out from all sides as sailors and soldiers began to kill all who stood in their way.

Robert drew his wheellock pistol from his belt. He held it loosely in his hand and looked left and right down the narrow side streets. The door of every house and hovel was open. The raiders were everywhere, streaming from one place to another, many with booty already in hand. Others stood drinking and carousing, laughing wildly as they upended any bottle they could find. The shrieks of women could be heard above everything and Robert saw one attempt to flee from a house only to be chased and run down by a sailor who dragged her back inside.

He looked at Seeley walking beside him. The youth’s face was pale, his eyes darting everywhere at once, and his mouth was whispering unintelligible words. Robert had witnessed the aftermath of a sacking many years before on the Spanish Main, and his time spent on the slave trade had long since hardened him to the cruelties of men. From Seeley’s expression, he could only devise that this was the young man’s first experience of the fate that awaited every civilian at the hands of an army let loose.

Cheering could no longer be heard. Instead the air was filled with terrible sounds that seemed to emanate from the pit of Hades, the cries and wailing of a people given over to the base desires of men toughened in the forge of battle. The infrequent crack of an arquebus mixed with the angry shouts of Englishmen, fuelled by wine and avarice, fighting over the meagre offerings of the small town. The dead lay everywhere, the men shot or run through with steel while the women had been raped, beaten and discarded. The terror of their final moments was still etched on their faces.

Robert and Thomas reached the main square. On one side the western face of a small church stood tall above the buildings flanking it. A group of men were at the doors, trying to force them open. Without hesitation Robert rushed forward. He switched his pistol to his left hand and drew his sword. Seeley followed, surprised by the sudden haste. The square was in chaos with men running in all directions, but Robert kept his course firmly fixed on the church door, his face twisting in anger, the pain in his leg forgotten.

‘Hold,’ he shouted, charging his sword before him.

The sailors turned and brought their own weapons quickly to bear.

‘Piss off, sailor,’ one of them snarled, ‘’less you want your blood spilled. This here’s our place.’

Seeley came up. Once he had seen the captain’s destination he had understood immediately and the anger he saw on Robert’s face confirmed it. He felt his own religious fervour rise within him.

‘Captain Varian, maybe there’s another way in,’ he suggested.

‘Captain Varian …’ one of the men repeated and the others lowered their weapons, mindful of the tale they had heard of the captain’s charge on the Spanish galleon. Their expressions remained belligerent, suspicious that the officers had intervened so they could claim whatever plunder was inside for themselves.

Robert’s mind was in turmoil. He had rushed to the church door to defend it without thinking. Then he realized he could not, for how would he explain his actions? He felt the weight of the sword and pistol in his hands. This was a Catholic church. He should defend it. But he was the commander of a Protestant crew. He could not justifiably stop them, not without coming close to revealing his faith.

‘Who’s inside, men?’ Seeley asked, stepping forward.

‘Some shit stinkin’ priest,’ one of the sailors replied. ‘We saw him close the door as we came into the square.’

‘We want into that strong box that papists have in their churches,’ another said, referring to the tabernacle, and the others voiced their agreement, one of them taking up the shout again for the priest inside to open the doors.

Seeley took charge, ordering two men to find something to ram the door. They returned moments later with a stout wooden bench. The men attacked the door with unbridled aggression and the boom of the battering ram brought more men from around the square. The timbers of the door gave way under the onslaught and the sailors cheered as they pushed their way through. Robert tried to shoulder his way in with the leading edge of the charge, anxious to protect the priest inside, believing that he could somehow excuse his mercy later.

The sailors spilled into the church, the original group in the lead. Their anger and haste were heightened by the dozens of men at their rear, knowing the spoils they sought were under threat. Robert stumbled in. His eyes searched frantically in the gloom of the interior for the priest. The Spaniard was running up the centre aisle, sailors on his heels. Robert watched in horror as one of them raised his arquebus. He swung up his own pistol, bringing it to bear on the sailor’s back. He hesitated and the pistol shook in his hand. A second later a blast rang out. The sailor had shot the priest at near point-blank range. His head snapped forward under the hammer blow of the lead