Armada

CHAPTER 14

4 p.m. 31st July 1588. The English Channel, two leagues off Plymouth.

Robert paced the width of his cabin, his thoughts consumed by the events of the morning. He held a goblet of Madeira wine loosely in his hand, the last of his stock taken a year before during the Cadiz campaign, and he gulped from it with each turn of his heel. Outside the wind whistled through the rigging. Erratic gusts played merry hell with the sails and Robert could hear Miller sending the men to the running rigging.

Robert finished the goblet and went for the bottle. He poured out the last of its contents and slammed it down on the table. The wine had done nothing to quell his anxiety. He began to go through the sequence of the morning’s fight once more, trying to examine each aspect in turn. Larkin had reported after the battle that he and his men had fired off nearly 120 rounds during the four hour fight. It was almost a tenth of the ammunition on board and for all that, and the fire of the other English ships, not one Spanish vessel had been taken.

Despite a moment of panic the Armada’s formation remained intact and was now sailing some four miles ahead of the English fleet. It had never stopped. Even when its trailing wings were under attack, the main body of the fleet had continued under shortened sail, allowing them to make headway and maintain cohesion.

As an inexperienced battle-captain of a ship Robert knew it was not his place to resolve the tactical problems of the English attack, but as a veteran sailor he could do little else. Ahead on the English coast lay the safe anchorages of Weymouth and the Solent. Perhaps the Spaniards were planning on taking one of these havens to support their invasion of England, or perhaps they were intent solely on linking up with Parma in the Low Countries. Whatever their ultimate plan, their formation was an impregnable fortress and as long as it remained so there was nothing the English fleet could do to stop them.

Seeley pored over his charts in his tiny cabin under the poop deck, his finger tracing every inlet and headland of the Devon coastline. There was a knock on his cabin door. Shaw and Powell entered.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing to report, Mister Seeley,’ Shaw replied.

‘Curse it,’ Seeley spat. He had warned the boatswain, his mate and the surgeon to be extra vigilant now that battle had been joined. Whatever Young’s position on the ship he was bound to reveal himself when asked to fight against his own kind. His hesitation would be his undoing.

‘This battle has only just begun,’ Powell said assuredly. ‘We’ll find him.’

‘Perhaps we should widen our circle of confederates,’ Shaw suggested. ‘It would increase our chances of catching Young.’

‘We can’t,’ Powell replied, ‘not without running the risk of having a papist in our midst. A significant proportion of the population of England is still Roman Catholic. Given the size of the crew it is wise to suspect there are at least a handful of them on board.’

‘You believe there are others besides Young?’

Powell nodded.

‘But surely we would know of them,’ Shaw protested. ‘I grant you one is difficult to find amongst over two hundred men. But a group of them?’

‘They are well hidden, Mister Shaw, even in battle,’ Powell explained. ‘They fight like any other Englishman.’

‘Against their fellow papists?’

‘Many Roman Catholics consider themselves to be loyal recusants. Despite their religion they fight because Spain is the enemy of England.’

‘You consider these traitors to be loyal Englishmen?’ Seeley asked menacingly.

‘I did not say that I did, only that these recusants believe they can be both Roman Catholic and loyal to the Crown.’

‘Protestantism is the religion of England and our Queen,’ Seeley retorted angrily. ‘To believe in another foreign faith is treason in itself. Now, return to your posts.’

Shaw and Powell left the cabin. Seeley returned to his charts but he could not concentrate. Loyal recusant. The term was offensive. Roman Catholic Englishmen were traitors by their very existence and to suggest otherwise was an act of complicity. He called to mind Powell’s warning that there may be other papists on board beside Young and his thoughts went to the moment the Armada changed formation before battle was joined.

‘Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis,’ he said quietly, enunciating each syllable slowly. ‘Holy Mary, pray for us.’

The words sounded foreign in his ears, not merely because they were spoken in Latin, but because he had never heard a Protestant say them before. Captain Varian had undoubtedly said them without thinking. The sight of the Armada skilfully redeploying into the crescent formation had struck every man with awe, but this made their utterance all the more baffling.

As a Protestant, Seeley revered Mary, but only because she was the mother of Jesus and therefore deserved veneration. His faith taught him that he could pray with Mary, but he should not pray to her, that prayer and entreaties should be recited only to God. Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis. This was the prayer of a Roman Catholic, a misguided petition based on a fallacy inherent in their corrupt faith. But Captain Varian wasn’t one. He couldn’t be. Seeley recalled what he had witnessed at the sack of Sagres, how the captain’s first instinct when he saw the Roman Catholic church under attack was to rush to join the others at the door, and how he had raised his pistol to shoot the priest, only to be denied by another.

After the morning’s action, as the fleet was redeploying to windward of the Armada, Howard had sailed alongside in the Ark Royal to pass his compliments to Captain Varian on his handling of his ship during the first engagement. Varian had sailed the Retribution into the thickest part of the fight and had remained in the battle long after others had withdrawn. He had stood squarely on the quarterdeck and made sure every shot fired was sorely felt by the Spaniards. These were not the actions of a traitor.

But on the other hand, Varian had never fully supported Seeley’s attempt to find Young. He had not hindered the investigation, but he had not assisted in it either. If the Retribution had been Seeley’s ship he would have taken her apart timber by timber until he found the treasonous rat. Suddenly a thought struck him. Perhaps Varian was trying to protect a fellow Roman Catholic from exposure, or maybe, Seeley thought in horror, Varian was Young. Perhaps it was his real name, changed to conceal his true faith.

Seeley laughed abruptly. There was no logic to this. If Varian was a Roman Catholic traitor, why was he fighting the Spanish? There was no such thing as a loyal recusant. If there were any English papists fighting in this war, it was those who were widely rumoured to be sailing with the enemy fleet, seditious outcasts who had betrayed their countrymen and forfeited their souls for a foreign cause. The captain couldn’t be Roman Catholic. His actions in Sagres, his maniacal charge on the Halcón, his aggressive tactics in the morning’s action; everything spoke of his loyalty to the Crown and England.

Yet Seeley could not ignore the sliver of doubt that remained. He had often thought the captain lacked the religious fervour that he himself possessed in the fight against the Spanish. Perhaps Varian did not think of the war against Spain as a religious matter, and was more ambivalent towards Roman Catholics. Men had different motives for fighting the Spanish. Miller, the master’s mate, had often expressed his hatred of the Spanish stranglehold on trade in the New World. Perhaps Varian’s only motive was to keep England safe from foreign invasion, regardless of any enemy’s faith.

Seeley shook his head to put an end to his deliberations. His lack of success in his search for Young had affected him deeply. Clearly his suspicions were now feeding on themselves, creating enemies where none existed. Their captain was not a traitor. Seeley looked to his charts, his attention returning to the coastline, but all the while his lips moved without conscious thought, mouthing a prayer he could not forget: Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis.

In the soft glow of lantern light Evardo stepped over the prone bodies of the wounded, his boots grinding the sand underfoot that had been strewn there to soak up the blood of the maimed. He looked down at each man in turn. Many of them returned his gaze silently, their eyes neither accusing nor accepting. The orlop deck was quiet. The screams of the most grievously injured had ceased, and beyond the pall of light cast by the lanterns Evardo could hear the creak and squeal of the whipstaff and rudder in the dark recesses of the aft section.

Evardo knelt down beside one of his men. The sailor was lying on a filthy blanket, his head propped up on some coiled rigging. His eyes were closed, his head jerking from side to side as if trapped in some horrible nightmare. He was soaked with sweat. Evardo looked down the length of the sailor’s body. A wave of nausea swept over him. The man’s arm had been blown off below the elbow. The flesh was horribly mangled and the wound had been cauterized to stop the bleeding. Huge bluebottles were already settling to feast on the charred flesh and pools of blood, their incessant buzzing rising angrily as Evardo tried to wave them away.

The combination of smells was overpowering; the stink of burn, like meat left too long on the flame, the tang of fresh blood, the acrid smell of sweat, and the stench of faeces. The sailor had soiled himself, and for a brief moment Evardo wondered if the pain or the sight of the red-hot iron used to seal his wound had caused the sailor to lose control. The thought made Evardo stand up abruptly and he looked away from the injured sailor, quickly turning his focus to the huddled figures at the other side of the deck.

Padre Garza was kneeling beside a dying soldier, solemnly reciting the Last Rites. The man was holding desperately onto the priest’s hand, biting down on a leather thong to silence his cries. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth, a visible sign of his terrible internal injuries. Evardo found himself staring into the soldier’s eyes. They were wide with pain, and something more terrible. Fear. The soldier’s eyes darted from the priest kneeling over him to the two shroud-covered bodies lying near at hand; the fate that would soon be his. Again Evardo looked away, this time to preserve the man’s dignity. The consequences of the morning’s action had been sharp, but not severe. Two men had been killed instantly during the battle. Padre Garza’s charge would be a third. Twelve men had been wounded, two badly so, including the sailor who had lost his arm.

‘Comandante.’ Evardo saw Captain de Córdoba approach. ‘I did not realize you had come below.’

‘I wished to check on the wounded,’ Evardo replied.

De Córdoba nodded appreciatively. He looked beyond Evardo to the shroud-covered bodies and the dying soldier under the padre’s care.

‘López,’ he said quietly. ‘He and the other two were manning a falcon pedrero on the fo’c’sle when it was hit.’

Evardo nodded and looked back to the young soldier. ‘What were the names of the others?’

‘De Arroyo and Garrido.’

Evardo memorized the names. It was common for comandantes to issue false casualty lists to the paymaster in order to draw ‘dead men’s pay’ but Evardo would record them faithfully. The men deserved nothing less.

‘Your company fought well today Capitán de Córdoba.’

‘Thank you, Comandante. They would have fought all the better if the English had closed and we were afforded the chance to board.’

Evardo nodded. He couldn’t fathom what the English hoped to achieve with their artillery attack runs. Despite the incredible rate of fire the enemy had maintained in the morning’s action the Santa Clara had suffered only minimal damage and even this was confined to the superstructure, sails and rigging. The hull, although it had taken over a dozen direct hits from round shot, was still sound. The Santa Clara had weathered her first fire storm under Evardo’s command. He reached out to touch the hull, his fingertips feeling the tiny vibrations in the timbers caused by the pounding of the waves and the pull of the wind.

‘I suspect the English were probing for weaknesses this morning, perhaps to ascertain where the fighting ships lie in our formation.’

‘If they plan on stopping our advance they will have to engage in a proper battle,’ de Córdoba said. ‘They will have to board and fight as we do in the Mediterranean, ship to ship, man to man.’

‘I pray to God it will be so.’

Suddenly Evardo felt the deck shudder and the air was filled with a massive explosion, a noise that spoke of some terrible inferno. Evardo started running, keeping his head down in the low-ceiling deck. Aloft the crew were lining the starboard bulwark. He pushed through them. A quarter of a mile away, one of the Armada’s bigger ships was engulfed in thick black smoke. An order to bring the men to battle stations rose to Evardo’s lips but he stopped himself short. This was no attack. It was something far worse.

‘It’s the San Salvador of the Guipúzcoan squadron,’ a crewman shouted. His call was met with a chorus of agreement.

The boom of a single cannon caused Evardo to turn and he saw a puff of white smoke issue from the larboard side of the San Martín. It was the signal for the Armada to stop. Evardo shouted the order as he went to the quarterdeck. For a moment he was tempted to come about and go to the aid of the San Salvador but he knew he could not. After the morning’s action and the retreat of the warships of the rearguard wing, sargentos mayors had been dispatched in pataches to every ship in the fleet with a message from Medina Sidonia. Henceforth, no comandante, on pain of death by hanging, was to retreat from his designated position in the fleet. For men of honour it was a stinging rebuke and although Evardo knew such an order was not meant for him directly, as a comandante he was tainted by association.

A call went out from the masthead, alerting Evardo to the approach of a felucca off the starboard beam. She carried orders for half a dozen ships, the Santa Clara amongst them, to break formation and assist the San Salvador. Evardo called for the course change and ordered extra lookouts to the fighting tops and bowsprit, wary of the English fleet not four miles away. The Santa Clara turned neatly through the chop, her deck heeling over under the press of the wind.

Evardo’s concern mounted as they neared the stricken galleon. Cries of alarm and command mixed on the wind with screams of agony and despair. The aft decks and stern castle of the San Salvador had been completely annihilated. Her steering and mizzen masts were gone and already the wind and tide were beginning to turn her broadside to the weather. Feluccas and pataches were milling around her towering hull, picking men out of the churning sea, while others took secured tow lines to the attending galleons nearby. The Santa Clara sailed past the San Martín and Evardo answered the hail of the flagship to bring his galleon astride the stern of the San Salvador and hold station there.

Evardo ordered the longboat launched. Despite being from the Basque region, the men of the San Salvador were fellow Spaniards and the crew eagerly responded to Evardo’s bidding. The longboat descended into the choppy sea. Evardo gave command of the quarterdeck to Mendez and went forward to the fo’c’sle in time to see the longboat reach the outer edge of the halo of debris surrounding the San Salvador. They pulled a charred, blackened body from the water, only to throw it overboard again. Evardo focused on the larboard quarter of the galleon thirty yards away.

The entire aft section of the San Salvador had been torn open by the explosion, exposing her inner decks and cabins. The dead lay everywhere, many burned beyond recognition, others horribly mutilated by the blast, spared their savage injuries by the merciful hand of death. Smoke billowed from a dozen open wounds in the hull. Pataches were lashing on to the San Salvador, their crews clambering up onto the main deck to fight the fires that were still raging.

For every man who climbed on board, others were abandoning ship, many carrying the heavy coin chests of the Armada’s paymaster who was sailing on the San Salvador. The walking wounded were also being taken off and while Evardo could see that many would be fit to fight again, the galleon herself was perilously close to sinking and was surely beyond salvaging.

The sudden sound of collision caused Evardo to spin around. Not two hundred yards away the flagship of the Andalusia squadron, the Nuestra Señora del Rosario had slammed into her sister ship, the Santa Catalina. Earlier that morning, as the Rosario had sailed to support the San Juan, she had accidentally collided with one of the Biscayans and had damaged her bowsprit. This had badly affected her steering and she had been forced to drop out of the fight. Now that compromising damage had caused her even greater misfortune, crippling the Rosario further. Her foremast rigging was in complete disarray. Evardo uttered a prayer, watching in horror as the foremast bowed under the press of the wind, threatening to snap at any moment.

He glanced back at the San Salvador. The longboat of the Santa Clara had reached its hull and was helping with the evacuation. It was dangerous work, the pitiless sea foaming, and more than once the men in the longboat were thrown from their feet as rogue waves slammed their small craft against the hull of the galleon. Many of the pataches and feluccas were cutting loose to go to the assistance of the latest casualty, the Rosario, and Evardo went back to the quarterdeck, his attention turning once more to the enemy.

The evening was swiftly closing in. The English still commanded the weather gauge. Only the inconsistency of the wind and sea and the Armada’s unbroken formation was keeping them at bay. But how long would those protective forces hold? With two badly wounded ships hampering their progress the Armada was significantly exposed. Evardo could only hope that the experienced commanders advising Medina Sidonia would find a way to achieve an effective running defence of the San Salvador and the Rosario. Like wolves, the English were silently observing their prey.

John Cross pounded on the wooden door and stepped back into the middle of the street. The imposing limestone façade of the four-storey civic building was in darkness. He pounded again.

‘In the name of the Queen, open up,’ he bellowed.

An angry voice shouted at him from the down the street to be silent but Cross ignored the tirade and hammered on the door once more, the noise sparking further anger from another quarter.

It was nearly thirty-six hours since Cross had begun his search for the officer named Seeley. From the outset he had been beset by delays and frustration. Almost immediately after he left the tavern the town had ignited with the news that the Spanish had been sighted nearing Plymouth Roads. The local population had quickly taken to the streets, many packing up their meagre belongings to flee to the surrounding countryside while others simply milled around in chaotic fear of the foe that was suddenly on their doorstep.

The clogged streets had delayed Cross and by the time he had reached the town’s main civic building the port officials had already left to attend the admiral of the fleet. Cross had waited until darkness fell. Then news came that the fleet was warping out of the harbour with the outgoing tide. In bitter anger he strode to the torch-lit docks to witness the departure in person. His quarry was on board one of the departing warships.

Dawn the following morning had brought news of the opening moves by the English fleet, of how Howard had gained the weather gauge and the Armada had sailed past Plymouth, and the population had taken to the streets again, this time to cheer. Cross had shared their joy at Howard’s opening success, but his elation had been tempered by news given to him by a clerk that the port officials were shadowing the flagship in a local barque so as to be on hand to offer assistance while Plymouth was in range of the fighting.

That day had passed slowly, with Cross standing on the quayside amongst the local population as small local tenders returned from sailing with the English fleet, each one carrying news of the opening encounter, the short sharp action that had seen the fleet take the fight to the enemy. With the return of night Cross had abandoned his vigil. He had slept fitfully, convinced that the officials must soon return, now that the fleets were moving further east. He had risen in the darkness before dawn to return to the civic building, determined to continue his search.

‘Open the cursed door,’ he roared again.

Glancing up he saw a light flicker in one of the windows and intensified his hammering on the door. The light moved away, only to appear moments later as a shaft washed out from underneath the door.

‘Stop that banging, damn you,’ a muffled voice shouted angrily from inside.

‘In the name of the Queen, open up.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Cross stated his association with Francis Tanner, Walsingham’s local agent. The mere mention of Tanner stilled the voice inside and Cross was rewarded with the sound of a bolt being slammed back. He pushed at the door even as it was being opened, forcing the man inside to step back.

‘What do you want?’ the official asked again irritably, holding a candle out at arm’s length. He was an older man, his face haggard and blackened, and he had clearly been sleeping in his clothes.

‘I need to see the crew manifests for the English fleet, immediately.’ Cross paid no heed to the open hostility of the official.

‘The crew manifests? At this hour? Do you realize where I’ve been for the past twenty-four hours, you insolent cuss. I should have you in irons for coming here unannounced in the middle of the night.’

‘The crew manifests,’ Cross repeated, a hard edge to his voice. ‘Before I have you flogged for impeding the investigation of one of the Queen’s agents.’

‘You can’t speak to me…’ the official began but the words died in his throat as Cross took a menacing step forward. He abruptly turned on his heel, muttering half-hearted threats under his breath as he led Cross into his office. Placing the candle on the desk, he went to a large pile of loose pages on a nearby shelf, gathered them up and put them on the desk.

‘These are copies of the paymaster’s lists,’ he spat. ‘They are not to leave this room.’

Cross moved around the desk to sit down. The official left with a final huff of annoyance, leaving Cross with the candle as he returned to his bedroom through the dark corridor.

Cross quickly went to work. Each page contained the full muster of a ship. The captain was listed at the top, followed by the crew’s names in order of when they joined. Each page had been amended many times, with annotations regarding promotions and transfers cluttering the margins on all sides. It was a tiresome process and an hour passed swiftly, followed by another. Twice Cross came upon the name Seeley, but both times he was disappointed to discover that the man was a mere seaman. The barman at the tavern had been confident Seeley was an officer. Nevertheless, Cross marked the names and put the pages aside, continuing his search as the faint sounds of the coming day began to creep into the room. He began to wonder if the barman had been wrong about Seeley’s rank. Maybe there was no such man as Seeley, and the barman had spun Cross a tale to get him out of his tavern.

The black of night was fading to a dull grey. Dawn was not far away. Cross looked down at the page before him, one of only a half-dozen left, his eyes mechanically following his finger down the list of names.

Seeley.

Cross’s breath stopped at the sight of the name and he followed the entry across the page. He stood up and leaned in closer to re-read the entry. Thomas Seeley, rank: Master’s Mate. The ‘Mate’ had been crossed out and the pay grade had been amended accordingly. It was him, it had to be. Cross swiftly flicked through the remaining musters to ensure there was no other Seeley listed. He returned to Thomas Seeley and looked at the top of the page for the ship’s name. It was written in a larger, more elaborate script, a flourish of artistry on what was once a blank page. He read out the name, enunciating it slowly as the pace of his heart increased. For the first time in days a smile stole onto his face. It was a fitting name for his quest.

‘Retribution.’

Robert peered through the darkness at the light of the stern lantern ahead. It was moving sedately with the fall and rise of the sea, a regular, almost hypnotic motion. He had to force himself to look away. A memory of the soft glow of the lantern remained in the centre of his vision. He blinked his eyes to clear them and turned his focus to the shadowy bulk of the Ark Royal sailing some thirty yards off the starboard bow.

The lantern light was from Drake’s Revenge. The English fleet was arrayed behind it to ensure that they remained together during the night time passage. The light had moved steadily on an easterly course, save for a time at the beginning of the night when it had disappeared altogether. It had reappeared, dimly at first, and slightly off centre, as if the Revenge had made a sudden course change and pulled further ahead but Robert had kept the Retribution on the shoulder of the Ark Royal and together they had re-established their course on Drake’s guiding light.

The wind blew steadily into Robert’s face and he drank in the cool cleansing air. If it held through dawn then the morning would certainly bring another order from Howard to attack. At their current speed the Armada would be abreast of Weymouth in less than a day. It was strong anchorage, safe from the prevailing winds and easily defendable, and it was possible the Spanish might attempt to secure it. Only continued harassment would forestall that attempt. Robert had already ordered the men of the mid watch to ready the ship for a dawn assault.

Robert turned again and looked eastward beyond the light of the Revenge. In anticipation of the sun the stars nearest the horizon had already disappeared. True dawn was less than thirty minutes away and for the first time Robert could see the darker outlines of the Spanish ships ahead. His brow crinkled. They seemed very close and Robert wondered whether the sheer size of the enemy fleet, combined with a trick of the light, was giving him a false impression of proximity.

‘Mister Seeley.’ The master answered the hail by crossing the quarterdeck. Robert indicated the horizon ahead. The Spanish seemed to be stretched out across the full width of the field of vision afforded to them by the gathering dawn light.

‘They seem damned close,’ Seeley said warily.

Robert nodded, his eyes darting to the Revenge’s light and then to Howard’s ship. Both were steady, but Robert could not suppress a mounting sense of unease.

‘Thomas, get aloft to the masthead. Check our flanks.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

In less than a minute the last of the darkness on the horizon turned to grey-blue. The outlines of the Armada became starker, exposing the upper decks of the hulls beneath the multitudinous masts.

‘Spaniards dead ahead! Two hundred yards! Enemy off the beams!’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Robert whispered to Seeley’s call. Each passing second increased the illumination, revealing the folly of their course. They had followed the light of a Spanish ship. They were in the teeth of the enemy, in the centre of the crescent.

‘Hard about! All hands on deck. Tops’ls and gallants, ho! Battle stations!’

The Retribution heeled hard over through the turn, the deck tilting as the galleon came abeam of the wind. Out of the corner of his eye Robert saw the Ark Royal make a similar turn. Another English ship, the Mary Rose, was on her opposing flank but beyond that they were alone. The rest of the English fleet was scattered across the breadth of the Channel.

Evardo lifted his eyes to the slowly brightening sky as the words of the Salve Regina, sung in the unbroken voices of the ship’s boys, drifted over the decks of the Santa Clara. Padre Garza was leading the men in a recital of the sorrowful mysteries of the rosary, their deep murmured responses mingling with the graceful hymn. Nearest the priest de Córdoba was kneeling with a number of his soldiers, while behind them the rest of the men stood with their heads bowed in humility.

Evardo longed for their serenity but his mind refused to quieten and his thoughts dwelt on the previous day. Despite their best efforts, the San Salvador and the Rosario had been unsalvageable. With twilight rapidly giving way to night Medina Sidonia had ordered every ship back to its position while they still had sufficient light to navigate. Then he had ordered the Armada to proceed as before. The San Salvador had been stripped of everything but its stock of ammunition, almost a gross of powder barrels and well over two thousand round shot. It was a significant loss, made all the worse because, with fifty of her most severely injured crew still on board, the San Salvador could not be scuttled. She had been simply cast adrift as a bloodless prize for the English.

The Rosario too had been left to her own fate. Her foremast had finally snapped and become entangled with the mainmast, a cataclysmic repercussion of the collision from which there could be no recovery. Evardo had watched from the Santa Clara as a patache was dispatched by Don Pedro de Valdés, the comandante of the Rosario, to Medina Sidonia’s flagship, no doubt requesting that the duke halt the Armada’s progress to allow for the Rosario to be repaired. The answer had come in a general order to all ships to retire to their positions.

Evardo suspected that his patron, Diego Flores de Valdés, who sailed on the San Martín, had had a hand in the decision to abandon the Rosario. His enmity for his cousin Don Pedro was well known, but Evardo also knew that Medina Sidonia was ruthlessly determined to carry out the orders of the King. The Armada’s objective could not be delayed. Evardo shuddered as he thought of the fate that awaited any ship that could not keep pace with the fleet.

The pre-dawn light slowly gave way to the rising sun. Evardo checked the line of his galleon with those surrounding him in the vanguard wing. The night had passed without incident. Mendez and the other sailing captains had kept their charges neatly in position and with the defensive crescent still firm Evardo’s thoughts went to the enemy. He looked aft, expecting to see the English fleet arrayed in battle formation behind the Armada, still holding doggedly to the weather gauge. The sea however was almost empty. Only in the far distance could he see the outlines of their masts and sails, and even these were scattered across the horizon.

‘Quarterdeck! Enemy ships off the larboard beam.’

Evardo spun around in disbelief, expecting subterfuge but instead he was greeted by the sight of three English ships close to the centre of the crescent, turning rapidly to escape. Evardo recognized the masthead standards on the lead ship. It was the English flagship; the Ark Royal, Admiral Howard’s galleon. The Spanish ships of the centre were not turning to engage, they were allowing the English admiral to escape unhindered. It was an appropriate response, Evardo conceded.

The abandonment of the San Salvador and the Rosario was an ignominious act brought about by necessity, but Medina Sidonia, being a Spanish duke and commander of the Armada, was still a man of honour. As such he would never deign to allow an enemy flagship to be overwhelmed in an unfair fight. It was a chivalrous decision. Evardo began to turn his attention away when suddenly he recognized the banners of one of the other ships. The Retribution.

He was immediately struck by an overwhelming urge to defy all convention and order his ship to attack. The English galleon was vulnerable. In the trailing vanguard wing the Santa Clara was still slightly upwind. Evardo had the weather gauge. There might never be another time.

With an enormous effort of will, Evardo fought his desire for revenge. He could not attack. He was bound both by duty and honour to hold fast, and he balled his hand into a trembling fist as he watched the nimble English galleon sail beyond his reach. It was a bitter concession to gallantry, particularly as the dishonourable nature of the English surprise attack on Cadiz had precipitated his disgrace. Evardo turned his back on the Retribution, consoling himself that there would be another time.

Robert called for the sails to be shortened as the Retribution, the Ark Royal and the Mary Rose came in contact with a flotilla of a dozen English warships and a handful of pinnaces. The Armada was over three miles to leeward. The Ark Royal turned and took the lead but with such a small number of ships to command there was little Howard could do beyond shadowing the enemy’s progress, so he dispatched the pinnaces to round up the rest of the fleet. Robert stood his crew down from battle stations and gave command of the watch over to Seeley.

The westerly wind was holding steady. It was a fair breeze, a perfect foil for the fearsome weapon Robert commanded and he looked in frustration at the enemy sailing unmolested along the coastline of England.

‘We were fortunate to escape,’ Robert heard, turning to find Seeley standing beside him.

‘We were more than fortunate. For Christ’s sake, Thomas, we spent the night following a Spanish stern light. Where in God’s holy name did the Revenge go?’

Seeley ignored the captain’s blasphemy and thought back.

‘When Drake’s light disappeared he must have changed course.’

‘And with the fleet scattered all to hell, we haven’t a chance of regrouping before the end of the day.’

A pinnace was approaching from the south, turning neatly in the wake of the flotilla before coming alongside the Ark Royal. Robert saw the captain hand dispatches to Howard before drawing away to hold station beside the towering warship. Robert called for a slight change in heading bringing the Retribution within hailing distance of the pinnace. He recognized the captain and the two men saluted each other.

‘What news?’ Robert called, his hand cupped over his mouth.

‘It’s Drake, he’s taken a huge Spanish prize, the Rosario, and without firing a single shot. The gutless Spaniards simply gave her up.’

The pinnace captain’s call was heard by others on nearby ships and questions and cheers rang out, precluding Robert’s chances of getting any further information. It was enough however. Drake had doused his light and changed course to claim a Spanish prize. It was a dereliction that staggered Robert and shattered his faith in Drake.

During the Cadiz campaign a year before, when many other captains had returned to England, Robert had stayed the course and followed Drake without question. It was a decision determined not only by loyalty to one who had given him a field promotion, but also by an instinctive fealty to a man who embodied everything that Robert thought an Englishman should be.

Now Robert saw something else in Drake. He was first and foremost a privateer, a self-centred opportunist. Presented with the chance to take a prize he had ignored his responsibility to the fleet. It was a sobering realization. Drake’s image was suddenly replaced in Robert’s mind by that of his father.

Here too was a man whom Robert had largely come to know through his own thoughts and perceptions. During their many years apart he had built him up to be a man whom he could admire, someone he hoped he could one day openly call his father.

But Robert no longer saw his father as that man. Nathaniel Young was not someone whom Robert could associate with pride, or loyalty, or heritage. He was a traitor. In his determination to resurrect his family name, Robert had ignored it.

Now his father was truly gone, banished forever from England, and from Robert’s heart. The thought stopped Robert cold. If his father was gone forever, then so too was his only link to his family’s lineage. Young or Varian, he was still the same man; a true Catholic, loyal to his Queen and country. It was his actions that defined him as a man, not his ancestors.

Robert’s captaincy of the Retribution had been secured through his own merit, not by some favour of birth. He felt a deep sense of pride at his achievement, one far greater than any he had ever felt for his ancestral name. He had raised himself through merit alone. The thought brought him full circle back to Drake, the low-born commander who had become the touchstone for a generation of sailors.

Drake was a powerful, fearless man. His relentless, aggressive pursuit of England’s foes had made him an inspiration to his countrymen, but on this day his mercenary instincts had cost the English fleet dearly. The Spanish had held their formation during the night. Because of Drake the English fleet was scattered, and during the long day to come the enemy would remain free to advance towards their unknown objective. Despite the value of Drake’s prize, the privateer had handed an even greater one to the Spanish —a day’s respite from attack.