Armada

‘Stop that banging, damn you,’ a muffled voice shouted angrily from inside.

‘In the name of the Queen, open up.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Cross stated his association with Francis Tanner, Walsingham’s local agent. The mere mention of Tanner stilled the voice inside and Cross was rewarded with the sound of a bolt being slammed back. He pushed at the door even as it was being opened, forcing the man inside to step back.

‘What do you want?’ the official asked again irritably, holding a candle out at arm’s length. He was an older man, his face haggard and blackened, and he had clearly been sleeping in his clothes.

‘I need to see the crew manifests for the English fleet, immediately.’ Cross paid no heed to the open hostility of the official.

‘The crew manifests? At this hour? Do you realize where I’ve been for the past twenty-four hours, you insolent cuss. I should have you in irons for coming here unannounced in the middle of the night.’

‘The crew manifests,’ Cross repeated, a hard edge to his voice. ‘Before I have you flogged for impeding the investigation of one of the Queen’s agents.’

‘You can’t speak to me …’ the official began but the words died in his throat as Cross took a menacing step forward. He abruptly turned on his heel, muttering half-hearted threats under his breath as he led Cross into his office. Placing the candle on the desk, he went to a large pile of loose pages on a nearby shelf, gathered them up and put them on the desk.

‘These are copies of the paymaster’s lists,’ he spat. ‘They are not to leave this room.’

Cross moved around the desk to sit down. The official left with a final huff of annoyance, leaving Cross with the candle as he returned to his bedroom through the dark corridor.

Cross quickly went to work. Each page contained the full muster of a ship. The captain was listed at the top, followed by the crew’s names in order of when they joined. Each page had been amended many times, with annotations regarding promotions and transfers cluttering the margins on all sides. It was a tiresome process and an hour passed swiftly, followed by another. Twice Cross came upon the name Seeley, but both times he was disappointed to discover that the man was a mere seaman. The barman at the tavern had been confident Seeley was an officer. Nevertheless, Cross marked the names and put the pages aside, continuing his search as the faint sounds of the coming day began to creep into the room. He began to wonder if the barman had been wrong about Seeley’s rank. Maybe there was no such man as Seeley, and the barman had spun Cross a tale to get him out of his tavern.

The black of night was fading to a dull grey. Dawn was not far away. Cross looked down at the page before him, one of only a half-dozen left, his eyes mechanically following his finger down the list of names.

Seeley.

Cross’s breath stopped at the sight of the name and he followed the entry across the page. He stood up and leaned in closer to re-read the entry. Thomas Seeley, rank: Master’s Mate. The ‘Mate’ had been crossed out and the pay grade had been amended accordingly. It was him, it had to be. Cross swiftly flicked through the remaining musters to ensure there was no other Seeley listed. He returned to Thomas Seeley and looked at the top of the page for the ship’s name. It was written in a larger, more elaborate script, a flourish of artistry on what was once a blank page. He read out the name, enunciating it slowly as the pace of his heart increased. For the first time in days a smile stole onto his face. It was a fitting name for his quest.

‘Retribution.’

Robert peered through the darkness at the light of the stern lantern ahead. It was moving sedately with the fall and rise of the sea, a regular, almost hypnotic motion. He had to force himself to look away. A memory of the soft glow of the lantern remained in the centre of his vision. He blinked his eyes to clear them and turned his focus to the shadowy bulk of the Ark Royal sailing some thirty yards off the starboard bow.

The lantern light was from Drake’s Revenge. The English fleet was arrayed behind it to ensure that they remained together during the night time passage. The light had moved steadily on an easterly course, save for a time at the beginning of the night when it had disappeared altogether. It had reappeared, dimly at first, and slightly off centre, as if the Revenge had made a sudden course change and pulled further ahead but Robert had kept the Retribution on the shoulder of the Ark Royal and together they had re-established their course on Drake’s guiding light.

The wind blew steadily into Robert’s face and he drank in the cool cleansing air. If it held through dawn then the morning would certainly bring another order from Howard to attack. At their current speed the Armada would be abreast of Weymouth in less than a day. It was strong anchorage, safe from the prevailing winds and easily defendable, and it was possible the Spanish might attempt to secure it. Only continued harassment would forestall that attempt. Robert had already ordered the men of the mid watch to ready the ship for a dawn assault.

Robert turned again and looked eastward beyond the light of the Revenge. In anticipation of the sun the stars nearest the horizon had already disappeared. True dawn was less than thirty minutes away and for the first time Robert could see the darker outlines of the Spanish ships ahead. His brow crinkled. They seemed very close and Robert wondered whether the sheer size of the enemy fleet, combined with a trick of the light, was giving him a false impression of proximity.

‘Mister Seeley.’ The master answered the hail by crossing the quarterdeck. Robert indicated the horizon ahead. The Spanish seemed to be stretched out across the full width of the field of vision afforded to them by the gathering dawn light.

‘They seem damned close,’ Seeley said warily.

Robert nodded, his eyes darting to the Revenge’s light and then to Howard’s ship. Both were steady, but Robert could not suppress a mounting sense of unease.

‘Thomas, get aloft to the masthead. Check our flanks.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

In less than a minute the last of the darkness on the horizon turned to grey-blue. The outlines of the Armada became starker, exposing the upper decks of the hulls beneath the multitudinous masts.

‘Spaniards dead ahead! Two hundred yards! Enemy off the beams!’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Robert whispered to Seeley’s call. Each passing second increased the illumination, revealing the folly of their course. They had followed the light of a Spanish ship. They were in the teeth of the enemy, in the centre of the crescent.

‘Hard about! All hands on deck. Tops’ls and gallants, ho! Battle stations!’

The Retribution heeled hard over through the turn, the deck tilting as the galleon came abeam of the wind. Out of the corner of his eye Robert saw the Ark Royal make a similar turn. Another English ship, the Mary Rose, was on her opposing flank but beyond that they were alone. The rest of the English fleet was scattered across the breadth of the Channel.

Evardo lifted his eyes to the slowly brightening sky as the words of the Salve Regina, sung in the unbroken voices of the ship’s boys, drifted over the decks of the Santa Clara. Padre Garza was leading the men in a recital of the sorrowful mysteries of the rosary, their deep murmured responses mingling with the graceful hymn. Nearest the priest de Cordoba was kneeling with a number of his soldiers, while behind them the rest of the men stood with their heads bowed in humility.

Evardo longed for their serenity but his mind refused to quieten and his thoughts dwelt on the previous day. Despite their best efforts, the San Salvador and the Rosario had been unsalvageable. With twilight rapidly giving way to night Medina Sidonia had ordered every ship back to its position while they still had sufficient light to navigate. Then he had ordered the Armada to proceed as before. The San Salvador had been stripped of everything but its stock of ammunition, almost a gross of powder barrels and well over two thousand round shot. It was a significant loss, made all the worse because, with fifty of her most severely injured crew still on board, the San Salvador could not be scuttled. She had been simply cast adrift as a bloodless prize for the English.

The Rosario too had been left to her own fate. Her foremast had finally snapped and become entangled with the mainmast, a cataclysmic repercussion of the collision from which there could be no recovery. Evardo had watched from the Santa Clara as a patache was dispatched by Don Pedro de Valdes, the comandante of the Rosario, to Medina Sidonia’s flagship, no doubt requesting that the duke halt the Armada’s progress to allow for the