Armada

her line to the other ships and to the shore, ensuring that all was well and as he looked up again he saw Abrahan Delgado standing beside him. The older man was staring at him, his gaze intense, as if he was scrutinizing his every action. Evardo smiled.

‘All is well, Abrahan,’ he said, ‘you should return to your cot.’

‘While this storm blows my place is on deck, Comandante,’ Abrahan said gruffly, pulling the collars of his cape tightly around his neck as he looked into the wind, his face twisted in a slight grimace as he eased some ancient pain in his back.

Evardo smiled again, liking the older man. He knew the real reason Abrahan was on deck was so he could be on hand should Evardo need his advice. After fifteen years the comandante suspected there was little else his mentor could teach him on any subject.

Abrahan Delgado was not an officer of the Halcon. He was on board as the comandante’s personal aid but the senior officers had quickly learned to respect the opinion of the often irascible old sailor. Evardo had witnessed protracted arguments between his mentor and his captains over sailing and military techniques, and many times he had smiled as he saw the officers nodding in assent, conceding to Abrahan’s viewpoint.

The wind shifted once more to its previous course and again Evardo looked out over the side. The storm had been blowing for three days, its strength drawn from the deep Atlantic to the west. Evardo’s thoughts went to the ships of the flota, the treasure fleet from the colonies that were so vital to the cause of Spain and his most glorious majesty, King Philip. In the open ocean the savage power of the storm would be fully unleashed. Evardo whispered a prayer for the safety of any ships that might be en route home.

He remembered his own commission in the treasure fleet at the age of thirteen, a rite of passage for all young aristocrats who wished to serve in the King’s navy. The towering fore and aft castles of the Santa Catalina, a huge galleon of 900 tons, specially built to take its place in the Flota de Indias, the fleet that plied between Spain and the Caribbean. He could still recall his feelings on the day he sailed from La Coruna, his pride mixed with youthful apprehension, his thoughts on his father who had been dead not two years, and how he had looked to his taciturn tutor, Abrahan, standing by his side.

That commission had lasted four years, taking Evardo across the mighty Atlantic many times, from La Coruna to Veracruz via Havana and back. Almost every night he had dined with the officers, and often with the comandante of the mighty Santa Catalina, learning quickly from these career mariners and soldiers. By the time he had left the Santa Catalina, the awkwardness of his first faltering steps at sea had been replaced by the confident stride of an experienced sailor, ready to climb the established aristocratic ladder of command that had eventually led him to the Halcon.

The boom of a single cannon from the low lying fort on the seaward promontory of Cadiz interrupted Evardo’s thoughts. Noon, the change of the watch. The sky overhead remained iron grey with low cloud, the canopy of a winter evening rather than noontime in spring. The western coastline of Spain was often visited by such tempests, but Evardo was confident that with the change in season only weeks away, the storm was sure to be short- lived.

He looked to the ships of the supply fleet surrounding the galleon, many of which were smaller coastal boats along with caravels and hulks. The men on their decks worked through the rain, spurred on by the end which was clearly in sight. The supply fleet was but two weeks away from being ready. Then it would sail to Lisbon, to stock the mighty Armada. Evardo had decided to sail with them. Although he was not due in Lisbon until the end of the month, he was conscious of the threat posed by English pirates and especially El Draque, Drake, the arch-fiend heretic who had wreaked havoc in the Spanish Main not two years before.

Drake’s attack was only one of a litany of insults suffered by the Spanish over the previous years. The flota, despite sailing in convoy, was under constant threat from English pirates who returned to the bosom of their Queen after every attack, sheltering like cowards under her protestations of innocence and justification. Elizabeth was openly supporting the Protestant rebels of the United Provinces, in defiance of King Philip’s demands that England remained neutral in what Spain believed was an internal conflict.

Now the whole of Spain was rife with the rumour that Elizabeth had murdered her own cousin, Mary Stuart, who in Catholic eyes was the rightful claimant to the throne of England over the bastard queen spawned of an adulterous affair. There could be no higher crime, no greater offence. The English and Elizabeth had gone too far. Although the Armada had been in preparation before Mary’s execution, her death had filled Spanish hearts with a religious fervour and a thirst for righteous vengeance that could not be quenched.

Until the English were crushed, the seas around Spain would never be secure. It galled Evardo that his countrymen could not call themselves safe from molestation in their home waters. He reached out to touch the gunwale of the Halcon, taking solace from the fact that soon the galleon would be in English waters, repaying tenfold the insults suffered by the Spanish Empire and the divine faith of his forefathers.

The wind howled through the shrouds and rigging, a fearful wail that gave voice to the fury of the storm. Robert leaned against the fall of the quarterdeck, his safety line biting into his waist as the bow of the Retribution cut through the crest of a wave. The seawater swept over the bulwark and ran ankle deep across the main deck before fleeing through the scuppers. He looked skyward, searching for the sun he had not seen in days, but the iron-grey clouds filled the heavens, bloated by the unceasing wind.

The Retribution was sailing broad reach under bare yards with only storm tops’ls unfurled. The wind had screamed out of the south-west three days before, scattering the English fleet just as it had sighted Cape Finisterre on the north-western corner of Spain. Robert had been on deck ever since, unable to go below and turn his back on a sea that he had long ago discovered rewarded complacency with treachery. He had slept in the lee of the quarterdeck, snatching fitful hours while Seeley took the watch. He had quickly come to trust his younger mate. Seeley’s hand and nerve were as steady as his own.

The wind shifted and ebbed slightly and Robert looked again to the line of his ship.

‘Steady the helm!’ he shouted, his voice carrying through the open hatch to the helmsman, Price, on the main deck beneath him. Price tightened his grip on the whipstaff and braced his powerful legs against the increasing press of the sea against the rudder. The tiller, attached to the other end of the whipstaff two decks below him, remained steady and the bow of the Retribution held firm.

Robert smiled despite the gnawing fatigue he could feel permeating his every sense. The galleon was a breed apart from any ship he had ever sailed on before and he marvelled at the genius of her design. Even in such heavy weather her longer, slimmer hull and lower fore and aft castles improved her handling and manoeuvrability beyond measure. He squinted through the driving rain to the sea ahead, searching for other ships of the fleet, but visibility had dropped to less than three miles and the towering grey-backed waves hemmed the Retribution in on all sides.

Over the roar of the wind Robert heard, ‘Report, Mister Varian,’ and he turned to see the captain approach.

‘As before, Captain,’ Robert shouted, his hand cupped over the side of his mouth, ‘wind holding south-west, at least thirty knots. I estimate we are forty-five degrees north, over a hundred miles north-north-east of Cape Finisterre, in the Bay of Biscay.’

Robert could not be sure, for it had been impossible to accurately sight the sun at noon over the previous days to determine their exact latitude, while their longitude could only be determined by dead reckoning, an inaccurate task in such a storm. Captain Morgan nodded regardless, trusting his new master.

‘Any other ships in sight?’ he asked, wiping the airborne spray from his face.

Robert glanced at the lookout at the top of the main mast. His head was darting from side to side, covering the points of the ship but he showed no signs of having sighted any other sail.

‘Nothing,’ Robert shouted. ‘Not since the Dreadnought near dawn. We lost sight of her over three hours ago.’

‘And no sign of survivors from the Deer?’ Morgan asked, his voice betraying his anticipation of the answer even as Robert shook his head.

The Deer, a pinnace, had been lost early in the storm, the smaller vessel