Armada

Thus far the English attacks had been scrappy and indecisive, with individual ships and small groups taking action where they saw fit. Tomorrow however would see the Armada within striking distance of the eastern, more navigable, approach to the Solent. It was imperative that the enemy be prevented from taking the anchorage and so after the morning’s action Howard had deployed his fleet into four squadrons under Drake, Frobisher, Hawkins and the admiral himself, to better coordinate their defence of the Solent. The Retribution had been assigned to Hawkins’s squadron and was now sailing off the larboard quarter of the commander’s 800 ton flagship, the Victory.

‘Nightingale approaching off the starboard bow!’

Robert went aloft at the call in time to see the pinnace pull alongside the Retribution. Seeley was first to board.

‘Good news, Captain. We’ve managed to secure powder and over a hundred shot.’

‘What calibre?’

‘Mostly culverin but also a score of 24 pounders for the cannon-pedros.’

Robert slapped Seeley on the shoulder, pleased with the haul. He quickly ordered the crew to begin transhipping the supplies.

‘There’s something else,’ Seeley said, following Robert to the quarterdeck. ‘The San Salvador had been left with over fifty wounded Spaniards on board. I managed to talk to some of them and by describing the masthead banners I was able to uncover the identity of the ship that has continued to target us. She’s the Santa Clara, Captain, an indies galleon.’

‘And her commander?’

‘Evardo Morales.’

‘Of the Halcon?’ Robert said incredulously. ‘How in Christ’s good name is Morales commanding a galleon and not rotting in one of her majesty’s prisons?’

‘He must have been ransomed,’ Seeley replied icily. Robert noted the censorious tone of his voice.

His memories of the brief moments after Morgan’s death on the Halcon were clouded by the mindless fury he had felt, but he vividly remembered his duel with the Spanish commander. He had spared Morales on impulse at the sight of his crucifix, the sacred symbol of their shared faith. In that moment he had placed his religion above vengeance for his murdered countrymen. Now he felt sickened by his choice.

Seeley’s censure had been well placed. Robert had failed his crewmen and England by sparing Morales. And the Spaniard had returned, as determined an enemy as he had ever been, despite Robert’s act of mercy. He should have killed the Spaniard when he had the chance, regardless of how much such an act opposed his other loyalties. England was fighting for its sovereignty, its very right to exist as a nation free from oppression. No other loyalty should stand in the way of that cause. For the briefest moment Robert was reminded of his father, of how he was poised to strike him down on the motte. He would not wait for Morales to seek him out. He would look for him, and with the guns of the Retribution to command, he would not hesitate at this second chance to strike down the Spanish foe.

Cross slowed his horse to a canter as the sun finally fell below the western horizon. The road was deeply rutted and in the soft afterglow of twilight he feared injuring his mount. Off his right shoulder he could see the tallest houses of Portsmouth and beyond them the distant eastern tip of the Isle of Wight far out on the horizon. The Armada was out there somewhere, still shadowed by the English fleet. Over the past few days Cross had heard all manner of rumours as to how the battle was progressing. One thing was certain however, and on this all accounts were agreed – the Spanish were still advancing up the Channel.

Cross had followed the course of the battle, staying away from the meandering coastline in favour of travelling a more direct route inland. He had covered over 130 miles in the past three days, an exhausting journey that had taken every hour of sunlight in the long summer days. The roads had been busy, slowing his passage, but in many places his journey had been further hampered by the trained bands of militiamen, many of them marching in the opposite direction to the advance of the Armada.

Forewarned by the lighted beacons along the entire length of the southern coastline, the lord lieutenants of each county had gathered their trained bands of militia to oppose any Spanish landing. The Armada had sailed past Cornwall, Devon and now Dorset, and while the militia from each county had been ordered to proceed along the coast to fight in the inevitable battle, many of the laymen had simply decided to return to their homes and farms, knowing they were no longer under any direct threat.

Cross had been appalled by the self-centred attitude of the militiamen but in reality he knew their actions were to be expected. As an agent of the Crown he had travelled the length and breadth of southern England, but most ordinary people had never been beyond the bounds of their parish. London was as distant to them as any of the major cities on the continent, and their lives were only impacted by the Crown in matters of law and administration.

In any case, the untrained militia would be no match for the soldiers sailing with the Armada. Nine thousand men had been gathered in Southampton to defend the port while the governor of the Isle of Wight had a further three thousand men at his disposal. Their numbers were in no way a reflection of their strength and they would quickly be routed by a Spanish force equal to a fraction of their ranks.

Cross was weary to the bone. Every muscle in his legs ached, but he was finally ahead of the battle. Tomorrow the Spanish might try to take the Solent, but whether they did or not mattered little to Cross. His fight was not with the Spaniards, it was with an Englishman. He needed to secure a boat to take him out to the English fleet and the Retribution. His goal had never been closer. Before the battle was over he would have Young in his custody. The only question was whether he would pre-empt Young’s act of treachery, or punish him for it.

Nathaniel knocked on the door of the great cabin and waited for the call to enter. He went inside. Commander Morales and Captain de Cordoba were seated at the table eating a meal of rice and charcoaled fish.

‘Your grace, please,’ Evardo said, indicating the chair opposite him.

Nathaniel sat down and Evardo offered him a goblet of Candia wine. He drank deeply.

‘You fought well yesterday, your grace,’ Evardo said. ‘I have heard many reports of how you took command of the fo’c’sle after Capitan Alvarado was killed.’

‘Thank you, Comandante,’ Nathaniel replied, shifting slightly in his chair.

Evardo stood up and walked around to refill Nathaniel’s goblet.

‘I want you to take temporary command of his men for the remainder of the voyage.’

Nathaniel froze. After yesterday’s action, when the fighting had ceased and the blood lust in his veins had cooled, Nathaniel had been assailed by further thoughts of uncertainty. His hatred for Elizabeth and his desire to see her overthrown had been with him for over twenty years. It was the driving force behind everything he did. In the Northern Rebellion he had led his fellow Catholics in defiance of her rule, but they had been his countrymen, they were Englishmen, fighting to save England. Now however he was being asked to lead foreign troops against his own country.

‘Alvarado’s men followed my orders in the heat of battle, immediately after their captain had been struck down. Now that that moment has passed, surely they will not submit to the commands of an Englishman.’

‘They will,’ Evardo replied confidently. ‘They follow social rank and they follow courage. You have both, your grace.’

Nathaniel nodded with feigned courtesy.

‘You will retain command of the fo’c’sle while Capitan de Cordoba will hold the aft castle.’

‘May I offer one piece of advice, your grace,’ de Cordoba said. ‘While the English persist in their tactics of laying off you must continue to return fire with the light deck guns and muskets. But make sure your arquebusiers hold their fire. They will need their ammunition for the close quarter fighting to come.’

‘You believe the English will eventually close?’ Nathaniel asked.

‘Yes,’ Evardo said, frustration in his tone. ‘Their ships might be more nimble, and their cannonry more accomplished but they must know they will never take a Spanish ship without boarding her, and the moment they clap sides, we will have them on our terms.’

Nathaniel nodded, thinking back to the action earlier that day. ‘I thought they might have attempted to take El Gran Grifon this morning,’ he said.