‘You cannot expect to command the Retribution now that I know who you are?’ Seeley said, realizing he was the only one who knew the captain’s real identity. Keeping his dagger charged he got up from the thwart and moved to the bow.
‘Take the oars,’ he said.
Robert complied, his face inscrutable in the dark. ‘Nothing has changed, Thomas. I am still the man I was and my loyalty has always been to Elizabeth.’
‘You cannot be loyal to her, you’re Roman Catholic.’
‘I am loyal, because I am an Englishman, and she is my Queen.’
Seeley was silenced by Robert’s reply. He thought of all the captain had achieved since taking command of the Retribution. He had proved himself over and over again to be loyal to England and the Crown. He had come to the attention of the Lord High Admiral himself and had been recognized for his bravery with a knighthood. He was Roman Catholic and yet loyal to a Protestant Queen. The two seemed irreconcilable.
Beyond the stern of the skiff the wind and tide were bearing the Hope onwards, her flames driving all before her. The ships of the Armada were abandoning their anchorage. Their defensive formation was no more and under the press of the prevailing wind the enemy fleet was being scattered eastwards. Dawn was still hours away. Eventually the sun would rise and with it the English fleet would weigh anchor and engage the enemy once more.
Perhaps the captain was right, Seeley thought, his mind in turmoil. The Retribution needed its captain now more than ever. Seeley knew he was not ready to take command, and the best available commanders were already in charge of other galleons. But the Spaniards were Roman Catholic. Their cause was blessed by the Pope. Could the captain’s loyalty to the Queen of England be such that he would continue to fight against his own kind, against a cause that his father had fought for?
The lines of loyalty that had always been so clear in Seeley’s mind began to blur. Men went to war for different reasons, he had long realized that. For some plunder was more important than faith, but he had always presumed that the men he fought with were all Protestant. Even when he had suspected the captain might be Roman Catholic he had dismissed it because of the bravery and loyalty he himself had witnessed. The captain claimed he was loyal to the Crown because he was an Englishman. Seeley’s faith was at the heart of his fealty but perhaps not every man needed that bond. Maybe for the captain it was enough that Spain was the enemy of England.
Seeley had to turn the captain over to the authorities. It was his duty, but as they neared the Retribution he decided he would defer that moment until the battle had been won. Silently he slipped his dagger back into its sheath. Nothing was written, the ultimate battle had yet to be fought. But if by dawn the enemy had failed to re-establish their formation, the English fleet would finally have a chance to slay the Spanish Armada. If they were to succeed then the best men needed to be in command of the most powerful warships. The Retribution was amongst that elite, and so was her captain.
CHAPTER 20
8th August 1588. The Battle of Gravelines.
The day dawned under a grey and swollen sky, the wind gusting from the south-south-west, stirring up the sea into angry swells that lashed against the hull of the Santa Clara as she tacked eastwards, her decks heeled hard over. Evardo had regained his command an hour after the fire-ship attack, the more nimble patache quickly overhauling the Santa Clara. He had re-boarded his ship before the patache bore Abrahan back to the San Juan. They had parted with only a handshake, a simple gesture that spoke of their renewed bond.
Throughout the night Evardo had stayed on deck, watching with ever mounting frustration as Mendez struggled in vain to return the Santa Clara to her anchorage in Calais roads. The hours of darkness had been filled with despair but only with the arrival of dawn did Evardo fully realize the scale of the disaster that had befallen the Armada. Despite the massive breadth of the open anchorage off Calais and the preparations made by Medina Sidonia, the fire-ship attack had completely annihilated the fleet’s cohesion, scattering it along the length of the Flemish coast.
The English had the devil’s own luck. Their fire-ship attack should never have succeeded to such an extent. They had not been true hellburners as was first believed and not one single Spanish ship had been struck or destroyed. The fire-ships had sailed harmlessly onto the shore, but a combination of strong currents and the increasing force of the south-westerly wind had prevented the Armada from regaining its anchorage. The Santa Clara had struggled in vain for hours. The more cumbersome hulks and urcas that made up the majority of the fleet had fared much worse and had been driven further east.
Only the San Martin and four other ships had managed to regain their original anchorage. They were now over a mile to the west of the Santa Clara, heavily engaged with an overwhelming force of enemy warships. The duke had sent out dispatch boats to rally the fleet to his position. The Santa Clara had been one of those to respond, yet they could scarcely make headway against the strengthening wind. Evardo glanced at the other warships nearby that were similarly engaged in a bitter struggle with the prevailing conditions. Of equal concern was that Mendez had slipped and buoyed the Santa Clara’s two anchors in Calais roads. Without them the galleon would be unable to await Parma’s army or even approach a coastline with safety. Evardo suspected that every ship in the fleet had suffered a similar loss.
Evardo had thought of Nathaniel Young many times during the night. He still could not fathom his behaviour. Had he felt some loyalty to his fellow countryman? Was that why the duke had attacked him? It seemed implausible, given what he had known of Young, but he could think of no other explanation. The duke had denied Evardo the satisfaction of killing Varian, but it mattered little. He had bested the English captain, and it was likely that both Young and Varian had been consumed by the inferno.
He turned his face away from the wind. For the moment the English were concentrating on the San Martin and her coterie of escorts but that situation would not last – they would undoubtedly range beyond Calais. From before dawn the crew of the Santa Clara had readied the ship for battle. Despite the heavy weather, every gun had been loaded, and soldiers were positioned in the fighting tops and castles, their muskets and arquebusiers primed and ready. As the sun rose Padre Garza had given absolution to a large number of the crew on the main deck.
Evardo took hope as he watched his men make their final preparations. The enemy had the weather gauge, they would not engage at close quarters. The warships of the Armada would be forced to fight a defensive action once more, but if they could somehow reform, and hold their position off the Flemish coast, they might yet carry the day. Everything depended on the weather and their ability to hold the English at bay. One element was in the hands of God, the other was in their own. Evardo turned back to the unfolding battle beyond his reach, praying that God would grant them the chance to fulfil His calling and retake possession of the seas off Calais.
The bow of the Retribution soared over the swell, her chasers erupting with fire at the zenith. White gunpowder smoke fled before the galleon on the wind, sweeping over the tightly packed cluster of Spanish galleons, following the round shot that had smashed into their heart. The Retribution came hard about, heeling over under the press of the wind, her rigging creaking and groaning as the waves slammed broadside into the hull. Another English galleon was hard on her heels, letting fly with their own chasers as they swept into position.
On the quarterdeck Robert looked to the heavens. He felt numb. So much had happened in the past twelve hours. He had been so sure of who his father was; a traitor, a Judas who had turned against his own countrymen. But then, in the final moments of his life, Nathaniel Young had taken up the sword for England, shattering all of Robert’s conceptions. It was a transformation that brought him little comfort, he would never have a chance to know the man who had saved his life.
In the darkest hours before dawn, as the crew of the Retribution readied the ship for action, Robert had bathed his father’s body, cleaning away the blood from his terrible wounds before binding him in a simple cloth shroud. For the second time in his life he had felt completely lost and alone. He had blown out the solitary candle in the cabin and in his mind’s eye he had pictured his father as he had remembered him when he was a boy, a tall solemn man who had disappeared so suddenly one night from his life.
