Armada

CHAPTER 9

3rd December 1587. Barcelona, Spain.

Evardo wept as his eyes beheld the verdant slopes of the mountains that stood stark against the cobalt blue sky —the Serra de Collserola. Nestled beneath them the port of Barcelona slowly came into view. Evardo drank in every aspect, every detail, filling his heart and replenishing his spirit. For a moment he was the young boy he once was, returning from his first trade voyage across the vast Atlantic, seeing his homeland again after too long an absence.

The journey from Parma’s camp had taken nearly four months. After a month’s delay in Antwerp they had travelled overland along the Spanish Road, the trade and military route that led from the battlefields of the Spanish Netherlands through the heart of Europe to northern Italy. Evardo had sought to take the faster route home by sea along the English Channel, but Allante had insisted he take the safer course. Evardo had been obliged to concede, knowing he had little choice. The overland journey had ended in Genoa and from there Evardo and Pedro had embarked on a military galley bound for home.

The galley swept along the sea lane, its sleek hull threading a path through the slower moving trading vessels under sail, the helmsman altering his course to give way to the less manoeuvrable vessels in the age old tradition observed by all at sea. Evardo studied each ship in turn as they sped past. They hailed from every corner of the Mediterranean and beyond to the Atlantic coasts of Portugal and France. United by the common principles of trade, they also shared a faith that was the wellspring of an empire and Evardo was overwhelmed with a sense of belonging.

Warships were conspicuous by their absence amongst the profusion of sea craft and Evardo wondered if the preparations for an Armada were still continuing apace in the distant port of Lisbon. He recalled the many conversations he had had with Allante about the planned invasion of England during his month-long stay in Parma’s camp. His brother had spoken of Parma’s constant frustration over the lack of secrecy surrounding the enterprise and Evardo had noticed that even the civilian camp followers argued openly about the best way to tranship the Army of Flanders to the English coast. By necessity Parma would have to divide his available forces and leave sufficient men in the Netherlands to defend those cities already conquered. But Allante had whispered that despite this division the planned invasion force would consist of 30,000 men and 500 horse. It was a staggering amount. Evardo had prayed nightly for the deliverance of such a host.

Allante had gone on to tell Evardo in confidence of the latest plans. Initially Parma had wanted to launch his own surprise invasion from the Flemish coast to the English coastline of Kent and had cared little for the alternative strategy of a supporting invasion force launched from Spain using an Armada. His Army of Flanders was the finest in the world and would be in London long before the Marquis of Santa Cruz, or any other noble, could assemble and launch a fleet.

Now however the element of surprise had been lost. Without a following wind Parma’s invasion force might take ten to twelve hours to cross the Channel. Even in the best of conditions the crossing would take eight and during that time the flat bottomed transports would be easy prey for English galleons. Correspondence from Spain spoke of diversionary landings in Ireland, of securing a safe anchorage on the Isle of Wight before any invasion could begin, but these tactics were now incidental to the new crux of the strategy. Parma needed the Armada to defend his crossing of the narrow straits of Dover.

Evardo had marvelled at the ingenious combined strategy, but Allante had seemed uncertain, speaking of the doubts that the Duke of Parma had expressed to his aide-de-camp. Such a marriage of forces would require perfect co-ordination and a synchronicity between commanders that would be nigh impossible to achieve. It took four to six weeks to receive an answer to any query sent to Spain. How much more difficult would it be to communicate with a moving fleet of ships?

Over the course of his journey along the Spanish Road, Evardo had given much thought to his brother’s revelations. The difficulties facing the invasion were significant but they were far from insurmountable and Evardo suspected that his brother was influenced by the same mistrust of the sea shared by all soldiers. As a sailor Evardo had more confidence in the Armada’s task of supporting Parma’s crossing. The Marquis of Santa Cruz, the commander of the Armada, was a daring, formidable and highly experienced naval officer. Spanish ships and crews had forged an empire that spanned the globe. In overwhelming force they would surely sweep the English Channel clear of any fleet that might dare to attempt to thwart their plans.

The galley pulled into the inner harbour and Evardo closed his eyes to listen to the cacophony of sound that was a busy Spanish port. He was home. The long months of enforced absence from the sacred soil of Spain were over. He opened his eyes and looked above the city to the backdrop of mountains, imagining the road that led beyond through the heart of Spain to his family home. The galley slid neatly alongside the dock and Evardo stepped quickly down the gangplank. Ahead lay a bitter and uncertain struggle to regain his loss, but he was eager to begin.

‘Ready…’

‘Hold…’

The gunners blew on their slow matches, fanning the smouldering flames.

‘Hold…’

Larkin, the master gunner, sensed the pitch of the deck, waiting for the perfect moment.

‘Fire!’

The linstocks fell. Plumes of smoke hissed from the touchholes. A second passed and then almost as one the starboard cannons of the Retribution boomed. The noise was deafening and in the confines of the gun deck the sound seemed to emanate from every fibre of the ship. Smoke flooded through the open gun ports, engulfing the men, searing their throats and burning their eyes.

‘Reload!’ Larkin roared and Robert stepped further back to give the men room.

In trance-like determination the gun crews unlashed their guns from the hull and hauled on the ropes. The pulleys squealed and the four-wheeled truck carriages rolled inboard. Men rushed forward to sponge out the barrels, extinguishing any lingering sparks from the previous firing. A ladle of gunpowder was inserted and emptied, then wadding was rammed into the barrel.

The men were using only a fraction of the powder required and they simulated the loading of a round shot before ramming the barrel again. The Retribution had precious little supplies and Robert could not afford to waste any in training. The men worked in dogged silence, stepping around each other in a routine that Larkin had honed long before Robert had taken command. A gunner cleaned out the touchhole and primed it again.

The crews worked at slightly different rates and individual commands rang out as the prepared guns were hauled back into their firing position and lashed against the bulkhead. There were seven guns on the starboard side of the gun deck, two cannon-pedros, four culverins and a demi-culverin. The cannon-pedros were the last to be made secure, the 3,000 pound dead weight of each testing the strength of the crew. Individually the gunners shouted out that their guns were ready to fire and as the last declaration was heard, Larkin ordered the men to stand down.

‘I make it roughly twenty minutes, Captain,’ he said tetchily, and Robert hid a smile behind a solemn nod. He had the impression that Larkin wouldn’t be happy even if the men loaded their guns in half that time.

In battle the crews would fire the guns in sequence as each side was brought to bear; the heavy bow chasers as the ship approached the enemy, followed by a broadside, then the stern chasers and finally the opposing broadside. Only then would they service the guns for the next attack. Peters, the gunner’s mate, would follow the same pattern on the main deck although he had few guns to service, two demi-culverins and eight sakers in total while the entire crew were trained to load and fire the remaining eight swivel-mounted breech-loading falcons, firing a 2 pound man-killing round shot.

Robert leaned his arm against the deck beam overhead. After five rounds of reloading and firing their cannons the gun crews were breathing heavily but Robert could see they were satisfied with their work. The men took pride in their guns and the taunts of the faster teams during the exercise had spurred the others on to greater speed. Robert was now familiar with every model of gun on board and although he would never have Larkin’s knowledge of cannonry, he had earned the master gunner’s respect in his quest to devise tactics which would best combine sailing operations and artillery.

There had been precious little time to find his feet after he took command on the Cadiz raid and so Robert had pushed his crew hard over the previous three months in a bid to get the full measure of them. He had participated in nearly every drill to understand the limits of the galleon and each time his respect had grown for the Retribution.

‘Well done, lads,’ he called out to the gun crews. ‘Mister Larkin, a double ration of grog for every man.’

The men smiled and Robert turned to go back up to the main deck.

‘Right ye motherless offal,’ Larkin roared. ‘You’re not done yet. I want every gun cleaned out and made ready. Haul ’em in.’

On the quarterdeck Seeley watched the captain emerge from below. He looked satisfied and Seeley tried to anticipate what task he would set the deck crew. He glanced at Miller, but the master’s mate was deep in conversation with the boatswain. Seeley took a moment to study the man.

Over the autumn months he had formed a solid partnership with Miller, learning quickly to trust the older man’s experience. He had submitted to his judgement many times and Seeley could already sense Miller’s influence in how he handled ship operations.

He had had less success, however, in breaching the bond between Varian and Miller. The captain always issued his orders through Seeley but Miller had often second guessed those commands before they were given, knowing intimately how Varian liked to run his ship. Seeley had also learned, to his frustration, that Miller was not a religious man. He was God-fearing, as were all the crew, but he did not hate the Spanish because of their cursed religion. Miller had been a trader for all his life and his enmity towards the Spanish lay in their monopolies and arrogant claims to the new world that were a stranglehold on English commerce.

‘Report, Mister Seeley.’

‘All’s well, Captain. By your order, the sprit mast and sail have been re-rigged.’

Robert nodded and looked forward. In any collision with another ship, the spritsail would invariably be damaged and steering would be badly affected. Robert had wanted to ensure that the men could rig a new spritsail at sea. The sail was unfurled and looked to be correct but Robert decided to take a closer look. He went forward to the fo’c’sle.

The work was flawless. Robert turned to look back along the length of the Retribution and beyond to the western horizon. The winter sun was no more than two hours from the end of its day’s journey. It would soon be time to head back to Plymouth and a dread feeling of unease crept over Robert at the thought. It was the same feeling that had assailed him every day since the night time skirmish on the motte and his mind was filled once more with anxious questions.

Was Clarsdale still alive? Was his father still in England? Had he returned to Spain or had he been captured by the authorities? If he had, then he would surely reveal Robert’s assumed name under torture. Perhaps the authorities were waiting right now in Plymouth for his return. And how had they known of the meeting that night on the motte? Did they also know of Robert’s connection to Father Blackthorne? These were questions that Robert couldn’t answer and they haunted his thoughts by day and his dreams by night. He was being hunted but he couldn’t tell how close his pursuer was.

He had lived with the fear of discovery all his adult life. For weeks, even months, it remained deeply buried within him, but always it was there, rearing its head every time events beyond his control whipped the Protestant population into a frenzy of suspicion and hatred. Seeley was still determined to find the Catholic spy he believed was on board and Robert had heard that the master was questioning barkeepers in the taverns of Plymouth, asking them whether they had ever heard one of their regular customers, in a drunken stupor, refer to themselves as Young.

Seeley’s search was worrying but it paled in comparison to that of the authorities. These were obviously resourceful men. Thoughts of that night on the motte brought Father Blackthorne to mind and Robert’s apprehension twisted into anger. They had killed him in cold blood, an unarmed man, a priest, a man who had never brought harm to another. It was a callous murder and Robert immediately thought of the killing of the Spanish priest during the sack of Sagres.

How could he fight alongside these countrymen? The men in Sagres acted with a depravity and lawlessness that Robert had witnessed before in other sackings. They had been possessed by the ferocity of the moment, but the authorities who attacked the motte had laid their plans with care. Robert had ignited the chaos that started the skirmish and ultimately led to Father Blackthorne being shot but he knew that if they had been taken alive then they would certainly have been tortured and killed. These men answered directly to the council and the Queen. Robert had also pledged his loyalty to Elizabeth. How could he share a bond with countrymen who sought to destroy him?

A shift in the wind brought Robert’s thoughts back to the Retribution. His gaze instinctively ranged over the entire ship. During the previous months he had tried to consume his fears and doubts with work on board the galleon. The relentless training had forged deep within him a connection to the ship and his troubled thoughts eased as he felt the nimble hull respond to the change.

The weather was closing in and he looked to the four points of the compass. It was time to make for port. For a moment, Robert wondered if this would be the day when he would be met by armed soldiers on the dockside at Plymouth. There was little he could do in any event. His fate was in the hands of God. He shouted a course change to the quarterdeck to bring them home.

John Cross raised his head and gazed at the lancet window. The air was still inside the tiny Clarsdale family chapel and Cross allowed the solitude and peace to quieten his mind. He walked slowly to the altar and traced his hand along the smooth polished oak, whispering a prayer of thanks to God. Henceforth the chapel would only bear witness to those who were pure of soul. He gazed around one last time and then walked outside, closing the solid door behind him.

The ground was covered in a thick layer of hoar frost and Cross turned his face from the biting wind, walking towards the estate house. He looked across the valley to the hill opposite and the copse that straddled the crest. It looked cold and forbidding and Cross recalled the many days he had spent hiding there. Resentfully, he looked away.

The brittle grass crunched under his feet as he made his way around to the front door of the house. All was quiet and Cross paused for a moment at the entrance. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The hallway floor was covered in debris and animal droppings and Cross slowly gazed around the large interior space. Everything of value was gone.

All that Clarsdale had owned, his lands and possessions, had been forfeited to the Crown. His title had been revoked and his extended family had all been taken in for extensive questioning, an interrogation that had already caused the death of two of the older family members. The Crown forces had taken the pick of Clarsdale’s possessions but Cross could see numerous signs of vandalism where the local population had come to steal anything that they could. In many places the elaborate wood panelling had been ripped from the wall, no doubt to be used as firewood during the long winter. In such an isolated place there was no chance to defend the house against such marauding. It would only be safe when new owners acquired it from the Crown.

Cross shuffled through the debris and walked into the room that was once Clarsdale’s study. The door was gone, as were some of the window panes and the chill wind made the flotsam of paper that was strewn on the floor rustle and dance with every gust. Cross picked up the torn cover of a book; Christian Thoughts, Volume II. A sardonic smile lingered on his face for a moment before his mouth twisted in anger. He flung the cover into the lifeless hearth and stormed from the room.

He strode around the expanse of the house, his footfalls echoing off the bare walls and hollow rooms. He had come so close, he thought furiously, and the failure of his ambush burned in the pit of his stomach. Walsingham had been beyond rage when he had heard that Nathaniel Young had escaped his grasp. He had been on the brink of dismissing Cross from his post but Cross had convinced his superior that he still had a chance to capture his son Robert Young. Walsingham had eventually agreed but Cross was left in no doubt that his reputation and position had been damaged beyond repair.

He made his way back to the front door and paused on the threshold to glance once more at the gaping doorway of the study. He cursed. The Duke of Clarsdale would have been an invaluable captive, as would the heretic priest, but death had robbed Cross of even those prizes. He had ordered the two corpses to be buried in an unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground on the summit of the motte. It was the only measure of revenge he could take and it had brought him little comfort.

Cross left the house and made his way towards his horse. Over the previous months he had scoured the ports of the south coast of England and put all the agents stationed there on the alert for Nathaniel Young, less he try to hire or stow away on a ship departing to the continent. The search had been fruitless and Cross had conceded that the Duke of Greyfarne had either gone into hiding in England, in which case he might never be found, or he had by now found some way off the island of England. Cross’s only remaining lead was the search for Robert Young.

But what was the God-cursed traitor’s real name? And where was he now? If he had gone into hiding with his father then he too might never be found. It was a frustrating thought but at least, Cross accepted, the danger of him acting as an informer would be neutralized. Perhaps he was braver than that, or a fanatic as many of these religious zealots were. He might have returned to Plymouth and taken up his post to continue his mission. Perhaps he had other contacts besides Clarsdale and the priest and was, at this moment, passing messages to his traitorous father in Spain.

The thought made Cross hasten his step and he mounted his horse and spurred him into a gallop over the hard ground. The ambush would have made Robert Young more wary, that much was certain, but no man could remain invisible whose very mission called for a position of prominence and importance. Cross was confident he would find him eventually and regain his reputation and standing amongst those who stood for loyalty to the Crown and the Protestant faith.