Armada

cut the deck in two. He couldn’t reach the captain. His only chance was to cast off, to lay to in the skiff and hope that the captain would jump overboard in time. With the wind abaft the flames would quickly engulf everything forward of the main mast. The mizzen sail above the tiller was still untouched but its lower rigging was already aflame. Within a minute the canvas would be alight.

Another explosion in the mid section rocked the deck beneath his feet. Seeley took a firm grip on the rope and climbed out over the aft gunwale. He quickly sidled down the rope into the cool sea and swam to the skiff, climbing in as further blasts erupted on the deck above.

An explosion ripped across the waist, hurling debris into the air. A flaming shard fell onto Nathaniel’s head. He swept it away. The heat was unbearable. The air was being sucked from his lungs and he coughed violently as he staggered across the deck to the prone figure of his son. He knelt down beside him and took him by the shoulders. The side of his face was covered in blood. He was badly dazed.

‘Robert.’

For a moment his eyes cleared.

‘Father?’

Nathaniel lifted his son to his feet and took his weight around his shoulder. They staggered forward together towards the larboard side. A falling block struck Nathaniel a glancing blow on the head, knocking them both to the deck. Nathaniel’s vision swam, but his instinct to save his son drove him to his knees. He tried to stand, his head spinning, the heat of the fire clawing at his skin, searing his flesh and singeing the hair on his arms. He didn’t know which way to go. The flames seemed to be on all sides. Above him the sky was ablaze.

He heaved Robert up and staggered to his feet. His hands were scratched and blistered. Every sense screamed at him to move. He lurched forward. Above the roar of the fire, he could hear the tortured sound of the mizzen mast failing under the onslaught of the fire, the whip cracks as rigging snapped. He stumbled on, dragging Robert with him. The larboard bulwark was ahead and with the last of his reserves he hoisted Robert over the side into the sea.

He fell against the gunwale. He couldn’t breathe. There was no air, the fire had consumed it all. He stood up to jump overboard. A minion exploded nearby, its double shot gouging out the barrel, spewing forth blazing iron fragments that pierced Nathaniel’s flesh, the force of the explosion knocking him overboard.

Evardo struck out for the patache. As he reached the side he was lifted clear out of the water by the crew. The English barque was fifteen yards off the beam, every inch of her deck aflame. Evardo watched it burn. He couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. What had possessed Young? Did the duke attack him just to defend some anonymous Englishman? It was an act of sheer madness. Young had no loyalty to his countrymen. He believed in Spain’s cause, so much so that he rallied Alvarado’s men in the battle off Portland Bill and took command of them at Evardo’s request. It didn’t make sense.

‘Comandante.’

Abrahan indicated over the bow of the Aguila.

The windermost ships of the Armada were less than three hundred yards away and as Evardo looked to them in the outer glow of the fires all thoughts of Young fled from his mind. The larger ships of the Armada had already slipped and buoyed their anchors and were moving off to the east. Evardo spun around and looked across the breadth of the anchorage. Eight fire-ships were alight, but only two of these had been intercepted and grappled. The others were bearing down on the fleet. The sound of distant explosions rippled across the waters, each one causing more ships to slip their anchors and surrender their position, the fear of hellburners magnified many times on the larger, less manoeuvrable ships in the tightly packed formation. The sight filled Evardo with despair.

Robert surfaced, the cool water stunning his body but clearing his mind. The stern of the Hope was sailing past him. He tried to swim after it but the wind driven barque was too fast and in desperation he stopped.

‘Father!’

He looked around him. The sea was lit up by flames. A man was floating in the water nearby and Robert kicked out towards him.

‘Captain!’

‘Thomas, over here!’

Seeley rowed out of the darkness. Robert pulled Nathaniel towards the skiff.

‘Quickly, Thomas, help me get him into the boat.’

‘Who is he?’

‘My father.’

‘Your father …’ Stunned, Seeley pulled Nathaniel into the skiff. Robert hauled himself onboard and carried his father to the stern.

‘Thomas, get us back to the Retribution.’

Seeley rowed the skiff around and pulled through the wind towards the English fleet. He stared at the prone figure.

Robert sat down beside Nathaniel and unbuttoned his jerkin. The white doublet underneath was drenched with blood and Robert’s heart plummeted. He had thought that his father was his enemy. But he was not. He had saved him from Morales’ sword and driven the Spaniard from the deck of the Hope, ensuring that the fire-ship would remain on course. His father’s eyes were closed. Robert took his face in his hand.

‘Father.’

Nathaniel looked up at him. He smiled. ‘My son.’

‘I don’t understand. Why did you …? You saved me.’

‘I had to, Robert.’ He coughed violently. Blood flecked his lips. ‘I had to … so you can fight on.’

He took Robert’s hand in his own and held it tightly.

‘You were right, Robert. I see that now … and I am proud you have become the Englishman you are.’

Robert placed his other hand around his father’s, encasing it.

‘I am my father’s son,’ he avowed, his heart filling with fear as he felt the cold in his father’s hand and he silently pleaded for his father not to go, not this time.

‘Robert,’ Nathaniel said fiercely, summoning the last of his strength. ‘I know you live under a false name.’ His breathing became shallow. ‘But please don’t forsake your past. Don’t forget the name … Young.’

Nathaniel went still, his hand still enfolded in Robert’s.

‘Young.’

Robert turned around at the sound of his name.

‘It was you,’ Seeley uttered. ‘You’re Young.’ He stopped rowing. The skiff began to rock violently in the swell. Seeley’s hand moved slowly to the hilt of his dagger.

Robert nodded, grief clouding his mind.

‘Your father was in league with the Spanish?’

Robert remained silent.

‘Captain!’

‘He was a …’ the word traitor came to Robert’s lips but he could not say it. ‘He was an exile, from the Northern Rebellion.’

‘A Roman Catholic traitor,’ Seeley hissed.

Robert’s face darkened and he leaned forward. Seeley whipped out his knife.

‘Don’t move, Captain. Not another inch.’

‘You would kill me?’

For a moment Seeley couldn’t answer. The captain was not the man he had always claimed to be, in name or faith. He was not Robert Varian. He was another, a Roman Catholic and therefore the enemy.

‘I vowed to find the traitor on board, not kill him,’ Seeley said. ‘Your fate lies in the hands of the authorities.’

‘So you would turn me over to be tortured and executed at the stake?’ Robert said angrily.

‘I have to.’ For a moment an image flashed in front of Seeley; of the captain stretched on the rack like the Catholic clerk, Bailey. He blenched from the sight.

‘Tomorrow we go into battle, Thomas. Do you truly believe that the Retribution, that England’s cause, will be better served if I am locked in irons?’