Armada

Rosario to be repaired. The answer had come in a general order to all ships to retire to their positions.

Evardo suspected that his patron, Diego Flores de Valdes, who sailed on the San Martin, had had a hand in the decision to abandon the Rosario. His enmity for his cousin Don Pedro was well known, but Evardo also knew that Medina Sidonia was ruthlessly determined to carry out the orders of the King. The Armada’s objective could not be delayed. Evardo shuddered as he thought of the fate that awaited any ship that could not keep pace with the fleet.

The pre-dawn light slowly gave way to the rising sun. Evardo checked the line of his galleon with those surrounding him in the vanguard wing. The night had passed without incident. Mendez and the other sailing captains had kept their charges neatly in position and with the defensive crescent still firm Evardo’s thoughts went to the enemy. He looked aft, expecting to see the English fleet arrayed in battle formation behind the Armada, still holding doggedly to the weather gauge. The sea however was almost empty. Only in the far distance could he see the outlines of their masts and sails, and even these were scattered across the horizon.

‘Quarterdeck! Enemy ships off the larboard beam.’

Evardo spun around in disbelief, expecting subterfuge but instead he was greeted by the sight of three English ships close to the centre of the crescent, turning rapidly to escape. Evardo recognized the masthead standards on the lead ship. It was the English flagship; the Ark Royal, Admiral Howard’s galleon. The Spanish ships of the centre were not turning to engage, they were allowing the English admiral to escape unhindered. It was an appropriate response, Evardo conceded.

The abandonment of the San Salvador and the Rosario was an ignominious act brought about by necessity, but Medina Sidonia, being a Spanish duke and commander of the Armada, was still a man of honour. As such he would never deign to allow an enemy flagship to be overwhelmed in an unfair fight. It was a chivalrous decision. Evardo began to turn his attention away when suddenly he recognized the banners of one of the other ships. The Retribution.

He was immediately struck by an overwhelming urge to defy all convention and order his ship to attack. The English galleon was vulnerable. In the trailing vanguard wing the Santa Clara was still slightly upwind. Evardo had the weather gauge. There might never be another time.

With an enormous effort of will, Evardo fought his desire for revenge. He could not attack. He was bound both by duty and honour to hold fast, and he balled his hand into a trembling fist as he watched the nimble English galleon sail beyond his reach. It was a bitter concession to gallantry, particularly as the dishonourable nature of the English surprise attack on Cadiz had precipitated his disgrace. Evardo turned his back on the Retribution, consoling himself that there would be another time.

Robert called for the sails to be shortened as the Retribution, the Ark Royal and the Mary Rose came in contact with a flotilla of a dozen English warships and a handful of pinnaces. The Armada was over three miles to leeward. The Ark Royal turned and took the lead but with such a small number of ships to command there was little Howard could do beyond shadowing the enemy’s progress, so he dispatched the pinnaces to round up the rest of the fleet. Robert stood his crew down from battle stations and gave command of the watch over to Seeley.

The westerly wind was holding steady. It was a fair breeze, a perfect foil for the fearsome weapon Robert commanded and he looked in frustration at the enemy sailing unmolested along the coastline of England.

‘We were fortunate to escape,’ Robert heard, turning to find Seeley standing beside him.

‘We were more than fortunate. For Christ’s sake, Thomas, we spent the night following a Spanish stern light. Where in God’s holy name did the Revenge go?’

Seeley ignored the captain’s blasphemy and thought back.

‘When Drake’s light disappeared he must have changed course.’

‘And with the fleet scattered all to hell, we haven’t a chance of regrouping before the end of the day.’

A pinnace was approaching from the south, turning neatly in the wake of the flotilla before coming alongside the Ark Royal. Robert saw the captain hand dispatches to Howard before drawing away to hold station beside the towering warship. Robert called for a slight change in heading bringing the Retribution within hailing distance of the pinnace. He recognized the captain and the two men saluted each other.

‘What news?’ Robert called, his hand cupped over his mouth.

‘It’s Drake, he’s taken a huge Spanish prize, the Rosario, and without firing a single shot. The gutless Spaniards simply gave her up.’

The pinnace captain’s call was heard by others on nearby ships and questions and cheers rang out, precluding Robert’s chances of getting any further information. It was enough however. Drake had doused his light and changed course to claim a Spanish prize. It was a dereliction that staggered Robert and shattered his faith in Drake.

During the Cadiz campaign a year before, when many other captains had returned to England, Robert had stayed the course and followed Drake without question. It was a decision determined not only by loyalty to one who had given him a field promotion, but also by an instinctive fealty to a man who embodied everything that Robert thought an Englishman should be.

Now Robert saw something else in Drake. He was first and foremost a privateer, a self-centred opportunist. Presented with the chance to take a prize he had ignored his responsibility to the fleet. It was a sobering realization. Drake’s image was suddenly replaced in Robert’s mind by that of his father.

Here too was a man whom Robert had largely come to know through his own thoughts and perceptions. During their many years apart he had built him up to be a man whom he could admire, someone he hoped he could one day openly call his father.

But Robert no longer saw his father as that man. Nathaniel Young was not someone whom Robert could associate with pride, or loyalty, or heritage. He was a traitor. In his determination to resurrect his family name, Robert had ignored it.

Now his father was truly gone, banished forever from England, and from Robert’s heart. The thought stopped Robert cold. If his father was gone forever, then so too was his only link to his family’s lineage. Young or Varian, he was still the same man; a true Catholic, loyal to his Queen and country. It was his actions that defined him as a man, not his ancestors.

Robert’s captaincy of the Retribution had been secured through his own merit, not by some favour of birth. He felt a deep sense of pride at his achievement, one far greater than any he had ever felt for his ancestral name. He had raised himself through merit alone. The thought brought him full circle back to Drake, the low-born commander who had become the touchstone for a generation of sailors.

Drake was a powerful, fearless man. His relentless, aggressive pursuit of England’s foes had made him an inspiration to his countrymen, but on this day his mercenary instincts had cost the English fleet dearly. The Spanish had held their formation during the night. Because of Drake the English fleet was scattered, and during the long day to come the enemy would remain free to advance towards their unknown objective. Despite the value of Drake’s prize, the privateer had handed an even greater one to the Spanish – a day’s respite from attack.

CHAPTER 15

5 a.m. 2nd August 1588. The English Channel, off Portland Bill.

Evardo lay in his cot, his head propped up on his enfolded arm, his eyes locked on the single shard of orange light on the cabin wall. It grew with each passing second and Evardo traced it across the cabin to the corner of a window, his focus shifting to the rising sun that was its source. With a deep groan he raised himself from the cot and ran his hands through his dishevelled hair before putting on his wide-brimmed hat. He had slept lightly over the previous hours, a part of his mind remaining alert to every sound on board. But he felt completely refreshed, gathering up his sword belt as he left the cabin to go aloft.

Pausing on the main deck to get his bearings, he quickly took in the horizons off the larboard and starboard sides. He glanced up at the masthead banners and then looked aft. The enemy fleet were arrayed in battle formation over three miles astern. The semblance of order amongst the English ranks was in marked contrast to dawn on the previous day and Evardo smiled sardonically. Such an impressive display. While yesterday such a formation might have given Evardo cause for immediate concern, this morning there was little the English could do