Armada

CHAPTER 12

30th July 1588. Plymouth, England.

John Cross paused at the door of the tavern and looked up at the sign swinging lazily with the onshore breeze. The paint on the side facing the sea had long since faded but on the reverse Cross could just make out the name, The Bosun. It was all but redundant; the tavern was no different from the dozen or so others on the narrow street and Cross wondered for a moment what had happened to the families who had once occupied these tiny hovels in the oldest part of Plymouth.

It was late afternoon, but the tavern was quiet and Cross glanced through the small smoke stained window to the side of the door. This would be his last stop for the day and he consciously shrugged off the weariness of his search. He had tried every conventional ploy in his hunt for Robert Young, but as he did not know his assumed name he had constantly been frustrated. He could not go back to Walsingham empty handed. He had to go on, and with all other options exhausted he had been reduced to trawling the back streets of Plymouth in a vain search for good fortune.

The gallop of horses at the harbour end of the street caused him to turn and he moved back from the door to gain a better view, carefully stepping over the rivulet of sewage that tricked along a channel in the cobblestones. What he could see of Plymouth harbour was filled with the ships of the English fleet and while the presence of so many vessels would normally herald a busy time for the taverns, the crews had all been denied shore leave. The Armada was coming. No one knew when, but they were at sea with a fair wind and it was only a matter of time before they reached the mouth of the English Channel.

That dread warning had arrived with the English fleet’s return over a week before, along with a call from Howard to the town and surrounding countryside for fresh supplies for the fleet. Cross was convinced it was a forlorn hope. The marketplaces had already been stripped bare of their goods and there was little chance the sparse population of the surrounding countryside could provide any more for such a confluence of men. In any case, war was coming to the shores of England and Cross suspected that many people had already taken to hoarding their food.

He went back to the door of the tavern and pushed it open. It closed behind him and he stood for a moment in the gloom. The place smelled of stale beer and vomit while the air drifting in through an open door to the rear carried the faint stench of urine from the latrine outside. A barman stood behind a rough hewn counter of planks supported by upended casks. He was an older man, broad across the chest, and his frame still carried a residue of the strength he had in his youth. He looked Cross up and down.

‘There’s no one here, constable,’ he sneered, and indicated an old man slumped over an empty tankard in the far corner. ‘Just me and Black Ned.’

Cross approached the counter. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘And I told you there’s no one here,’ the barman replied menacingly. ‘Have a look out back in the pisser if you want. You bastards have had ’em all for that fleet.’

‘A man by the name of Young,’ Cross continued evenly, ignoring the barman’s aggressive stare, searching his face for any sign of recognition. He saw one and felt his pulse quicken.

‘I don’t think you heard me,’ the barman said. His hand slipped below the counter and he brought up a cudgel. He placed it on the counter with a heavy thud.

‘I’m not a constable,’ Cross said, never taking his eyes off the barman’s face. ‘I’m an agent of the Queen. If you know any man of that name I warn you, you would be best served to tell me.’

‘The Queen don’t drink here,’ the barman said belligerently, although out of the corner of his eye Cross saw the barman’s hand move away from the cudgel. To threaten a constable was one thing, but he would be a fool to strike an agent. ‘Now why don’t you just bugger off?’

Cross remained silent for a moment. The barman had heard the name before, he was sure of it. He had to get him to reveal what he knew.

Cross had encountered such hostility in each tavern. Every able seaman in Plymouth, out of loyalty to the Crown or eager for any plunder that might be had in the impending battle, had volunteered to make up the shortfalls amongst the crews of the Royal ships. The taverns were bereft of customers and the barkeepers had taken to acting out their anger at the loss on any official of the fleet. The vast majority of these volunteers were still at their posts but there had been scattered reports of desertions now that the fleet was once more in port. The constables were trawling the town and surrounding area for the fugitives. With his bearing and dress Cross had been taken for one at every turn.

‘Give me a drink,’ Cross said. ‘Whisky if you have it.’

The barman grunted and took a chipped wooden tankard from the shelf behind him. He poured in a measure and pushed it across the counter. Cross picked it up. The tankard was filthy and the whisky had the raw smell of sour alcohol. He put it to his lips and took a taste. It seared the back of his throat. He reached into his pocket and took out a crown. It was as much as the barkeeper could be expected to make in a day from a dozen thirsty customers and Cross turned the coin over tantalizingly with the tips of his fingers.

‘This man I seek, Young. He’s a traitor, a Roman Catholic.’

‘A papist?’ the barman spat. He glanced down at the coin in Cross’s hand and then to the old man passed out in the corner. Cross could see the barman’s mind at work in his expression. It would be bad for business if he became known as someone who spoke to the authorities, but they were all alone in the tavern. Cross could see that he was wavering.

‘There’d be a reward for any information that would lead to his capture,’ he said. The barman turned back to Cross and, glancing at the door, leaned across the counter.

‘I don’t know anyone of that name,’ he said. ‘But there was someone in here a few weeks ago looking for the same man. Said his name was Seeley.’

‘Seeley?’ Cross asked perplexed. ‘Where was he from?’

‘He didn’t say, but he was a sailor. He demanded I tell him if any of the men who drink here ever went by that name. He even threatened to draw his sword if I didn’t tell him.’

‘He didn’t say what ship he sailed on?’

‘No, but he was definitely an officer. A stuck-up little prick he was, full of piss and wind.’

Cross was shocked by the news that someone else was looking for Robert Young. Who in God’s name was Seeley? Perhaps Walsingham had lost trust in him completely and had assigned another agent to the hunt. He asked the barman to recall exactly when Seeley had been in. His reply ruled out that possibility. It was before the night on the motte, before Cross had been disgraced. It couldn’t be another agent. So who was he, and why was he after Young? Did he know Young was a Roman Catholic, or had he some other grievance to settle? That Seeley had threatened to draw his sword certainly spoke of his determination to find him. Perhaps he already had. Either way, Cross realized, after too many weeks, he was finally getting closer to his prey.

He tossed the coin to the barman and left the tavern, pausing in the middle of the street to look towards the harbour. On board one of those ships there was an officer named Seeley. Cross had to find him. He would find him. Seeley’s information, combined with his own, might provide him with the answer he so desperately needed.

The hunting ground had diminished to the roll call of a hundred ships. As Cross began to walk towards the harbour he became more and more convinced that Seeley was searching for someone amongst his own. Robert Young was a sailor in the fleet. More than likely he was an officer, for any credible spy would need to be in a position of authority to be privy to naval plans.

The thought made Cross quicken his pace. The Armada was poised to attack. The English fleet would soon be engaged, with a cancerous traitor deep within their ranks, one who was sure to betray them at a crucial time in battle. Cross had to get to him before it was too late.

Captain Fleming looked anxiously over his shoulder. The south-westerly wind blew directly into his face, causing his eyes to water. He rubbed them furiously as he tried to focus on the distant horizon. It was clear, but in his mind Fleming beheld the sight he had seen at dawn, the multitude he knew was just below the farthest reaches of his vision.

Fleming had never witnessed such a sight before. Few under God had. Although he was one of a squadron of captains sent by Howard to patrol the approaches to the Channel specifically to warn of the Armada’s arrival, he had been deeply shocked and awed by his first sighting. The Spanish fleet was enormous, with scores of ships over 500 tons, sailing under a forest of spars and rigging, their sails and banners emblazoned with the heraldic symbols of an entire empire.

He checked the line of his ship and immediately called for a minor course change, hoping to garner an extra half or even quarter knot of speed from his bark, the Golden Hind. He looked to the coastline off his larboard beam. Plymouth was at least another hour away and he searched for any sign of smoke from the signal beacons. The Golden Hind had been sailing some ten miles off the Lizard when they sighted the Armada. Visibility had been limited and it was evident that the watchmen on land had yet to sight the enemy. Fleming had to reach Plymouth as swiftly as possible. When lit, the beacon fires would overtake and outrun his ship, but they could only tell the fleet in Plymouth that the Armada had been sighted. Fleming could show them exactly where the enemy was on his chart and give details of their displacement and direction.

The renewed realization caused him to glance over his shoulder again. He ordered their speed to be checked again. Eight knots. The course change had had no effect and he searched his store of local knowledge for some advantage of current or conditions he might have overlooked. There was none. He would have to rely solely on his 50 ton bark. He uttered a silent prayer that the fleet at Plymouth would be ready to sail upon his arrival. The situation there had been critical when he had sailed out days before. The fleet was shackled to the port by the shortages in rations, unable to sally out until sufficient victuals were secured, and in the confines of the inner harbour, they would be easy prey should the Spanish attempt a blockading attack.

The Golden Hind sailed on. Over the horizon the Armada pursued in her wake, the south-westerly bearing all towards their fate. On the eve of battle in an undeclared war all uncertainty had now been banished. The Armada, so long in coming, had arrived. The future of one nation and the ambition of another would be decided by the chosen sons of each realm. Faith against faith, ship against ship, man against man, they would fight. Two naval powers set in opposition, their strength distilled and fed into the hearts and souls of men ready to die for their cause. God’s will was unfolding, and the day so long prayed both for and against, was at hand.