Armada

been an eternity of fear and deprivation. Nathaniel had been forced to live like a savage out in the open, stealing what food he could from the local farms, all the while waiting for the authorities to swoop down and capture him. But they had not come and the Spanish galleon had returned as arranged, picking up their sole passenger off the isolated beach in the dead of night.

Upon returning to Spain Nathaniel had been forced to wait endless weeks for a meeting with de Torres. The Spaniard had finally granted him an audience, but only to tell Nathaniel that he was no longer of any use to the Spanish Empire and he was to remove himself from the court at Madrid. Nathaniel had pleaded, no begged, de Torres for a reprieve, requesting only that he be allowed to sail with the Armada. The Spaniard had relented, but Nathaniel had seen the disgust in de Torres’s eyes. He was struck by a wave of nausea as he recalled his humiliation.

Nathaniel felt the deck shift beneath him and heard the crew of the Spanish galleon cheer. In the distance a single cannon boomed, a signal for the fleet to form up. The Armada was under sail. Nathaniel went quickly back on deck. The rigging was alive with men. One after another the sails unfurled with a crack as the wind took hold of the ship. The galleon continued to turn under his feet and Nathaniel looked aft to the land behind. The soil of the Spanish Empire. With God’s grace, he prayed, he would never see it again.

He could never come back to Spain, there was nothing for him here. His whole world consisted of England. With the help of these strangers he would soon be back in his native land, but he felt no loyalty to the Spaniards he sailed with. Loyalty was based on reciprocity and Spain had turned its back on Nathaniel Young.

His years of faithful service had been forgotten, cast aside, and while in the fight to come he would still give the Spanish every assistance, the alliance would be temporary. His fall from favour had revealed the truth of his position in his adopted country. Even after twenty years he was still an outsider, an Englishman, and for the first time in many years Nathaniel felt a longing for his country that went beyond his quest to see a Catholic monarch on the throne.

When the Spanish seized power from Elizabeth and her cursed Privy Council he would endeavour to have his title restored by the Spanish authorities. But thereafter, he vowed, he would strive to rid England of the invaders. He could do little else, for he was an Englishman, and England was his home.

CHAPTER 11

2nd June 1588. Plymouth, England.

Robert watched from the poop deck of his galleon as the standard of the Lord Admiral, Charles Howard, was raised above the flagship, the Ark Royal. A cheer went up around the fleet and Robert looked to Drake’s ship, the Revenge, moored alongside the flagship. It was flying a vice- admiral’s standard and altogether some sixty fighting ships were now moored in Plymouth harbour. With dozens of smaller ships in support the fleet looked formidable. However the outward display of power belied an inner fragility.

Over the previous months Drake had done everything humanly possible to prepare the fleet. Nonetheless one area continued to elude his mastery – supplies. The men were already on reduced rations, and in such a weakened state they were easy quarry for pestilence. Robert could only hope that the arrival of such a senior officer as Howard might improve the situation.

Coupled with this, the fleet still had no reliable intelligence as to the disposition of the Spanish Armada. Rumours continued to flood into Plymouth, preying on the nerves of every man, and Robert, like all his crew, craved the order to make sail. It was widely known that Drake was actively canvassing for a pre-emptive strike similar to his daring raid of a year before. Robert supported the plan, preferring it to the unbearable strain of waiting. Howard had the authority to order such an attack. With reports circulating that the admiral had arranged for a further squadron of forty ships, under Lord Henry Seymour, to guard the Straits of Dover, there was every chance the fleet could put to sea when sufficient supplies were secured.

Robert turned his back on the flagship and went down to the quarterdeck. The summer heat was rising and his shirt was drenched with sweat under his jerkin and doublet. His stomach ached. He ignored the protest and with annoyance he scratched a flea bite on the back of his arm. A latent anger, caused by weeks of tension, suddenly rose within him. Where were the cursed Spanish? Had they sailed from Lisbon? Were they now off Cape Finisterre, or Biscay, or Ushant? Perhaps their plans had changed. Perhaps the reports that had reached Plymouth were false and the Spanish were sailing to Ireland to incite rebellion there.

He looked to the heights above the protective headlands of the harbour. Each one was capped with primed signal fires. Similar beacons had been placed along the length of the south coast. If the Armada was sighted they would be lit and the news would speed to London and beyond to the entire kingdom. But what then? Robert had confidence in the Retribution and her crew. His ship was a breed apart, faster and more nimble than any craft the Spanish possessed. But many of the enemy ships were behemoths, built for the rigors of the mid-Atlantic. The Retribution and her sister ships would be like terriers nipping at the heels of wolfhounds, and should any English ship fall within grappling range they would be quickly overwhelmed.

Robert tried to suppress his doubts, knowing they were caused by the weeks of anxious waiting and the never ending supply problems. The future was not yet written, it was in the hands of God. Robert strived to impose his personal convictions upon the battle ahead. For his whole adult life he had sought ways to regain his family name and honour. He had lost hope many times, but through prayer and faith he had always recovered his way. The battle ahead was no different. The victory was not assured. All they had was hope, but Robert had to believe that with God’s help they would prevail.

‘All hands!’ Evardo roared, a wave of seawater taking the last of his words. ‘All hands on deck!’

The Santa Clara shuddered beneath him as she tore over the crest of a wave, her storm tops’ls bearing her onward. Evardo spat the seawater from his mouth and looked to the four points of his ship. The storm was on all sides, enraging the sea with a bitter wind that whipped the surface into a hellish trial for the Armada. Evardo could see distant sails behind him to the south-west, running broad reach before the wind. The stern of the Santa Clara shifted a point to starboard, the wind clawing at her towering castles.

‘Steady your helm,’ Evardo shouted instinctively, his command echoed by the sailing captain, Mendez.

A sailor ran up to the quarterdeck. ‘The level of water in the main hold has risen to three feet, Comandante.’

Evardo pushed past him and staggered to the forward rail. A wave crashed over the bulwark, swamping the main deck.

‘More men to the pumps,’ he roared.

Through the rain soaked air he could see Nathaniel Young standing with his arm locked around the distant foremast. The Englishman had been on deck for every waking hour since the Armada had left Lisbon, and had continued his vigil throughout the storm. Such action spoke of some inner fire. In a quiet corner of his mind, Evardo wondered what specifically could fuel such grim determination.

‘Land ho,’ a voice called and Evardo followed the signal of the masthead lookout.

‘The Isles of Scilly,’ Mendez shouted, his hand cupped over his mouth.

Evardo wiped the spray from his eyes to focus on the low lying islands. The south-west tip of England, hidden by the storm, was some thirty miles east-north-east from the archipelago. They were so close, but as Evardo scanned the sea around the Santa Clara he could see they were all but alone. The storm had scattered the Armada like chaff. He could not go on and worse still his ship might be spotted by the enemy, alerting them to the relative position of the Armada.

‘Two points to port,’ he shouted and Mendez ordered more men to the rigging.

The Santa Clara turned her bow away from the Isles of Scilly towards southern Ireland. Evardo leaned into the turn and lifted his face heavenward to pray for a wind that would allow him to bring his ship back to La Coruna to rendezvous with the flagship, and for a change in the ill-fortune they had already suffered since leaving Lisbon.

The journey up the coast of Portugal had been tortuously slow. From the outset the Armada had been plagued by contrary winds, forcing them to continually tack to stay on course. The Santa Clara, and the galleons like her, had taken to the task with ease, but the pace of the fleet was