Armada

Robert watched the crew at work. Each man knew his task and they moved without comment or pause. Their bellies were full, their weapons primed and a strong breeze bore them on. The Retribution was as ready as Robert could make her. She was a weapon poised for the fight and Robert felt the first stirrings of battle lust in his chest. His doubts were forgotten, banished by action and the future that raced towards him. The reasons his men fought would become his own and his would become theirs, their common bond as Englishmen overcoming all others.

Evardo drummed his fingers impatiently on the gunwale as he watched the supply laden patache approach. She was the last one and Evardo looked to the main deck of the Santa Clara where the quartermaster was sorting the fresh supplies that had already been received before ordering them down into the hold.

‘Captain Mendez,’ Evardo called. ‘Inform the quartermaster that he is to speed his progress and clear the main deck for the next load. I will brook no delays.’

‘Yes, Comandante,’ Mendez replied and he hurried from the quarterdeck.

Evardo began pacing the deck. His ship had been one of the last to reach La Coruna. She was therefore not yet fully restocked and Evardo feared that the order to sail might come before he was ready to answer the call.

Not a single vessel or life had been lost in the storm and Medina Sidonia had insisted that God had watched over them all, declaring His intervention to be a miracle. Despite this assertion however, and the fresh supplies that were already banishing the last of any sickness amongst the crews, the morale of the men remained low. The duke had recognized this and ordered the men of each ship to land on the island of San Anton in the harbour to have their confessions heard and receive a blessing. Evardo had believed it to be a clever move, a reaffirmation that the men were carrying out God’s will, but the fact that Medina Sidonia had insisted the ceremony take place on an island had not escaped him. If they had been allowed on the mainland some of the men would have undoubtedly tried to desert.

Evardo ran his hand along the sea-worn timber of the gunwale. The Santa Clara was a good ship. She had weathered the storm well and protected the lives of her crew. There was little more Evardo could ask of her. In return he would protect her in battle, save her as much as possible from the shot and fire of the enemy before bringing her alongside her prey. The English galleons would not be an easy target but Evardo trusted the mettle of his men. They may be downhearted, but a few days of good fortune would quickly raise their spirits and the sight of the enemy would put fire in their blood.

‘Zabra approaching off the starboard beam.’

Evardo rushed to the other side of the quarterdeck. The small dispatch ship was coming up fast. The commander of the squadron of Castile, de Valdes, was in the bow.

Earlier that morning Evardo had watched the senior officers in their pataches sailing to the flagship, the San Martin. A council of war had been convened and once again Evardo glanced at the supplies being loaded onto the Santa Clara. De Valdes came quickly alongside.

‘Ready your ship, Comandante Morales,’ he shouted from the zabra. ‘We sail for England on the next favourable tide!’

The crew on deck cheered at the news and Evardo waved a reply to his commander. He looked to the banners on the masthead of the Santa Clara. They were barely stirring in the feeble wind. He had time. Evardo called for the men on the main deck to redouble their efforts. The order had been given. At any time the wind that would bear the Armada to England might arise and Evardo was determined that the Santa Clara would be ready for the fight.

Robert cursed loudly and spat over the side onto the still waters surrounding the Retribution. The sea mocked his scorn and continued to lap against the hull while the sun reflected off the smooth undulating surface as it shone from a clear blue sky. For three days the wind had blown steadily from the north, bearing the fleet on like an arrow loosed from a bow, but then, not sixty miles from La Coruna, it had suddenly died, leaving the English fleet becalmed.

Robert shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun and gazed about at the fleet, searching to see if any of their sails showed signs of catching an errant breeze. He could hear the undertones of his ship, the steady creak of timbers and the mixture of voices below decks, muffled and absorbed by the hull. The ship’s bell rang eight times, marking the beginning of the first dog watch.

Near at hand Seeley called out the order for the change and bare feet thudded across the decks as men went to relieve their crewmates.

‘I’ve ordered more men to the fighting tops to act as lookouts, Captain,’ the master said, and Robert nodded his agreement. So close to the Spanish coast, they were liable to be seen by a local trader or fisherman and any surprise they might hope to have over the Armada would be lost. Robert smiled sardonically to himself. If they did see a Spanish vessel in the distance, without a favourable wind, there was little they could do to stop them escaping.

‘Sixty miles,’ Seeley spat. ‘If the wind had held we’d be in The Groyne now.’

‘Patience, Thomas,’ Robert said, although he keenly felt the frustration of having been denied the chance to take the fight to Spanish waters. ‘We still have time.’

A flash of movement caught Robert’s eye. One of the masthead banners had rippled open and collapsed once more. The air stirred, caressing his cheek.

‘Quarterdeck, ho,’ a shout came from the top of the main mast. ‘Wind coming up!’

Robert felt it again and this time the masthead banners snapped out with the force of the gust before wilting.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert called. ‘Get ’em aloft.’

‘All hands of the watch, to the rigging!’

The wind gusted again and the smaller top gallant sails began to take shape.

‘We have ’em.’ Seeley smiled.

Robert stayed silent. He looked to the sun and checked his bearings. The fleet had been becalmed in the featureless sea for over twenty-four hours and in that time the ships had drifted and spun with the subtle undercurrents of the water. The wind was still to their backs, but their bows were no longer pointing at La Coruna, they were pointing northwards, to England. Robert looked to Seeley. He was no longer smiling and Robert saw the delayed awareness dawn on his face.

‘God in His Heaven,’ Seeley muttered. ‘It’s a southerly wind.’

The sails began to fill as the wind stiffened and all around the Retribution, the ships of the English fleet began to get underway. The fortune that had carried them south had been exhausted sixty miles from their destination. Now it had been neatly reversed and Robert ordered all hands on deck to lay on every inch of sail.

If it held, the wind would carry them all the way home to Plymouth, but in remaining true it would also swiftly bear the Spanish Armada from port and send them hard on their heels. The plan to fight the Spanish in their home waters was no more. The enemy now held the advantage and the battle to come would be fought in the English Channel, with the men of Elizabeth’s navy standing with their backs to the very coastline they were sworn to defend.

CHAPTER 12

30th July 1588. Plymouth, England.

John Cross paused at the door of the tavern and looked up at the sign swinging lazily with the onshore breeze. The paint on the side facing the sea had long since faded but on the reverse Cross could just make out the name, The Bosun. It was all but redundant; the tavern was no different from the dozen or so others on the narrow street and Cross wondered for a moment what had happened to the families who had once occupied these tiny hovels in the oldest part of Plymouth.

It was late afternoon, but the tavern was quiet and Cross glanced through the small smoke stained window to the side of the door. This would be his last stop for the day and he consciously shrugged off the weariness of his search. He had tried every conventional ploy in his hunt for Robert Young, but as he did not know his assumed name he had constantly been frustrated. He could not go back to Walsingham empty handed. He had to go on, and