Armada

CHAPTER 19

5 p.m. 7th August 1588. Calais, France.

‘Six days,’ one of the comandantes repeated with horror, his words hanging in the silence that engulfed the spacious aft-cabin of La Rata Encoronada. Evardo stood amongst the group of two dozen men, his mind reeling from the news just delivered by Don Alonso de Leiva and the inevitable dire consequences such a delay would precipitate.

‘Yes,’ de Leiva repeated. ‘The Army of Flanders will not be ready to sally out for another six days. The Duke of Parma has already begun the process of loading the men and equipment onto their transports in Dunkirk but before now he had been waiting for news of our arrival.’

‘But what of the pataches sent to warn him?’ someone asked.

De Leiva waved the question away irritably. ‘He claims they only reached him yesterday. Right now that is not our concern —the next six days are. The English have anchored to windward but it is unlikely they will leave us unmolested while we wait for Parma. We must prepare ourselves for an attack. If we can hold them off for six days, by the seventh day the Army of Flanders will be marching on London.’

Murmured conversations began at de Leiva’s words, with some voices raised in anger. Evardo remained silent. Six days, he repeated to himself. It was a lifetime for a fleet so precariously positioned as the Armada. When he had been summoned to La Rata Encoronada thirty minutes ago he had presumed it was to discuss the logistics of supporting Parma’s imminent arrival. He had never suspected that such devastating news awaited them all.

What was equally serious was the fact that Parma was requesting an escort from the harbour of Dunkirk itself. The Dutch were blockading the port with armed flyboats. Parma had only a handful of small warships to oppose them and he feared his slow moving, flat-bottomed troop transports would be easy prey for the Dutch. The Flemish shoals that guarded the approaches to Dunkirk could only be traversed during high tide, and even then only by ships with a very shallow draught. The Armada possessed such vessels, chief amongst them the galleasses, but with the English fleet threatening them to windward Medina Sidonia was unlikely to divide his forces. King Philip’s meticulous plan was rapidly unravelling and Evardo felt the palpable anxiety of his fellow comandantes in the crowded space, an infectious dread that sapped his previous confidence.

‘Enough,’ de Leiva shouted, returning the cabin to silence once more. ‘We have confirmed reports that a second fleet has joined the English from Dover. The enemy now outnumber us in sail, but the Duke of Medina Sidonia is confident, and his advisors and I concur, that the English cannot hope to defeat us while we hold our formation.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the room. ‘The cobardes are afraid to approach us and fight like men,’ one man shouted and the tone of agreement rose.

‘The English must know that breaking our formation is vital to their success,’ de Leiva continued, his voice overriding the cacophony. ‘Given our exposed anchorage, the swiftness of the incoming tide, and the prevailing westerly winds it is believed the English might try a fire-ship attack to break up our defence and drive us onto the Banks of Flanders.’

De Leiva maintained the silence with a raised hand.

‘We have one other reason to suspect the English will use this stratagem,’ he said. ‘The arch-fiend Frederigo Giambelli is known to be in England.’

The name elicited an audible gasp from every man in the cabin.

‘Merciful Jesus. Hellburners,’ one of them said. The cabin erupted.

Evardo felt a prickle of fear at the back of his neck at the mention of hellburners. The infernal devices were not merely fire-ships, they were floating bombs, designed by the Italian Giambelli to explode on impact with their prey or with a delayed fuse that would ignite the charges without warning.

Three years before in the war against the Dutch Republics, Parma had built an 800 yard pontoon bridge across the Scheldt River, cutting off Antwerp from the sea in a bid to force the city to surrender to his forces. It had taken over six months to build the massive structure and, armed with over two hundred gun emplacements, it was further protected both up and down stream by booms. Against this impregnable barrier the Dutch had sent Giambelli’s hellburners.

The Spanish soldiers manning the bridge had been prepared for a fire-ship attack, but no one had before devised such a weapon as the hellburners. The first ship, with a delayed fuse, exploded almost harmlessly in the middle of the river, creating a sight that actually drew more soldiers to the bridge. The second ship exploded on impact, instantly killing over eight hundred men on the bridge and injuring countless others. It was a devastating attack and Evardo could only imagine with horror the impact such devices would have on the massed ships of the Armada. As the noise in the cabin began to ebb, all eyes turned once more to de Leiva.

‘In preparation for this attack your crews must be ready to slip and buoy their anchor cables at a moment’s notice. Every comandante is given leave to lay off as they see fit, but let me be clear —the Duke of Medina Sidonia expects every ship to regain their anchors and their position once the threat has passed.’

De Leiva’s eyes ranged across the cabin. Every man nodded his assent.

‘Now, to enhance our defence, the duke has also decided to place a screen of pataches before the fleet. Their task will be to grapple and haul any fire-ships away. I need war-captains to command these boats, not the current traders who might turn and run at the first sight of fire. Who among you will volunteer?’

‘Don de Leiva,’ Evardo said at once. ‘I request the honour of commanding one of the pataches.’

‘And I,’ another comandante shouted, close at hand.

‘And I.’

‘And I.’

Robert gazed out over the fore rail of the fo’c’sle at the anchored enemy fleet. The Spaniards had done it. The Flemish coast was within their reach. Right now Parma’s army was undoubtedly readying itself to embark. If he was sallying out from Dunkirk he was less than twenty-five miles away. How many thousands of soldiers were already on the Armada? How many more would Parma add? The Army of Flanders was the greatest in Europe and once ashore in England they would sweep aside any obstacle. Only the English fleet stood in the way of that terrible fate. But how could they stop the Armada? The Spanish ships were unsinkable, their formation unbreakable, and once the Armada set course for the English coast, with Parma’s men amongst them, their victory would be assured.

‘Beg to report, Captain,’ Robert heard and he turned to find Seeley standing behind him.

‘The tide is about to turn. I’ve manned the capstan in case the anchor shifts.’

‘Very good, Mister Seeley,’ Robert replied. He indicated to the Armada off the bow. ‘What’s your assessment?’

‘It’s a piss-poor anchorage for such a large fleet,’ Seeley replied and Robert raised an eyebrow at Seeley’s uncharacteristic profanity. ‘If this wind holds we should try to dislodge them and push them onto the Flemish shoals.’

Robert nodded. It was an obvious conclusion but how would they achieve such a feat?

‘I suspect the admiral will launch some type of attack on the morrow,’ Robert said, thinking aloud. ‘Especially now that Lord Seymour and his squadron have joined the fleet.’

Seeley nodded and took a moment to study the captain. Sir Robert Varian. The title filled Seeley with immense pride. It was a great honour, not only for the captain, but for the Retribution and all who sailed on her. A faint smile crept onto his face as he recalled how he had once suspected the captain of being a traitorous Roman Catholic. He had reached an absurd conclusion and he thanked God that he had never confronted Robert.

‘Put extra lookouts fore and aft, Thomas. Report again after the tide has turned.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Pinnace approaching off the larboard quarter!’

It was bearing Hawkins’s colours and Robert went to the main deck in time to see Seeley grant the commander leave to come aboard. Robert led the way to his cabin. Once the door was closed, Hawkins began to speak.

‘We’re going to attack the Armada with fire-ships, tonight. The vessels have already been chosen and are being prepared out of sight of the enemy in the middle of the fleet.’

Of course, Robert thought, fire-ships. His own lack of military experience had hidden this obvious solution from him. The wind was abaft of the fleet and the tide was about to turn in-shore. It was a perfect stratagem.

‘We probably won’t damage many ships, much less destroy any,’ Hawkins continued. ‘Our goal is to create confusion and shatter their formation. With luck, and God’s favour, dawn should see the Spaniards driven back out into the Channel, or better yet, into the North Sea.’

Robert nodded. ‘What ships have been chosen?’

Hawkins listed them. There were eight in total including one of Hawkins’s own ships, a 200 ton barque, the Hope.

‘The Hope is commanded by Mathias Purdon,’ Hawkins said. ‘He’s a good man, but he’s a merchant, not a soldier. I want someone I can trust at the helm to carry this through.’

‘Then I volunteer,’ Robert said without hesitation.

Hawkins smiled wryly. ‘I thought you might. The ship will be fully rigged; you’ll just need to hold her course until the flames have taken hold. How many men will you need?’

‘Just one,’ Robert replied, again without pause. ‘If he’s willing, I’m going to take my sailing master, Thomas Seeley.’

The wind and tide driven waves slapped against the hull of the Águila, her cutwater slicing through the rising surf as the patache tacked across the breadth of the Armada. The sun had set over two hours before and Evardo stood quietly in the bow of the 120 ton vessel, his hand clasping a line of running rigging to keep his balance on the heaving deck. The running lights of the English fleet covered the line of the western horizon. It was difficult to judge their distance. They looked closer than the four miles that separated the fleets, and Evardo glanced over his shoulder to the lights of the Armada, the multitude that was under his care.

Fifteen pataches had been assigned to the screen, nearly the entire complement of such craft sailing with the Armada. Under the feeble light of the half-moon Evardo checked the position of the Águila with the boats on his flanks. He had taken over his new command at dusk. Prior to that and throughout the entire day, the pataches had been ferrying victuals from the port of Calais to the Armada. The French governor of the city had not only proved sympathetic to the Spanish cause, he had allowed the local merchants to trade with the fleet. Every ship had received fresh supplies of water and food.

Satisfied, Evardo turned and went aft, staggering along the length of the heaving deck until he reached the tiller. The helmsman was standing with his feet widely spaced for balance, his calloused hand firmly on the tiller. Evardo nodded curtly to the helmsman. From a comandante it was an extraordinary gesture of familiarity to a common sailor and the crewman was momentarily taken aback before he returned the gesture.

‘Come up another point to the wind.’

‘Si, Comandante.’ The helmsman deftly pushed the tiller a fraction to larboard.

Forward of the tiller Nathaniel Young stood in the lee of the mainmast. Evardo had ordered the Englishman to accompany him, along with ten of his arquebusiers to defend the Águila against any attack. Young looked ill at ease but Evardo was confident he was suitable for the task. In any case, if for any reason they did not make it back to the Santa Clara Evardo wanted the more experienced Capitán de Córdoba in command of the soldiers there. The other ten crewmen of the Águila were sailors, hand-picked by Mendez from the men who had volunteered.

‘Ahoy, Águila!’

Evardo turned at the sudden call, peering into the darkness off the starboard quarter from whence it came. The voice sounded familiar. While Evardo tried to place it, it rang out again.

‘Ahoy, Águila, Comandante Morales!’

A skiff came into view. It was skimming over the tops of the waves under the press of a lateen sail. A man was standing in the bow but in the darkness it was impossible to see who it was.

‘Heave to.’ The helmsman adjusted his course as the sailors took to the sheets.

The Águila lost headway and began to buck wildly in the swell. The skiff came rapidly alongside.

‘Permission to come aboard, Comandante Morales,’ the man called from the bow.

Evardo could finally see who it was. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

‘Of course, Abrahan.’

The older man leapt across onto the deck of the Águila. He called over his shoulder for the skiff to bear away and strode over to Evardo.

‘Can we talk, Comandante?’

Evardo nodded. He ordered the helmsman to get underway and then led his mentor to the privacy of the bow.

‘Evardo,’ Abrahan began. In the half-light Evardo could see his face was twisted in anguish. ‘I was wrong. I was terribly wrong. You have proven over the past week that you are indeed a man of true courage, your father’s son. Everyone in the fleet speaks of it. I have come here to ask for your forgiveness and to serve with you once more.’

From the terrible moment of his capitulation on the Halcón, Abrahan’s forgiveness and acceptance was all that Evardo had wanted. Now Abrahan was asking the same of him. He felt his heart twist at the sight of his mentor supplicating himself.

‘There is nothing to forgive, Abrahan. I was wrong to forfeit the Halcón in exchange for my life.’

‘It was God’s will that you lived, Evardo. I see that now. He has guided your hand in this battle and made you an instrument of His war against the heretics.’

Evardo reached out and clasped Abrahan’s shoulder. For the first time in over a year he felt a semblance of peace. It was as if the wounds to his honour were finally healing.

‘But what of your position on the San Juan?’

‘I told you, Evardo. Everyone in the fleet knows of your courage. When I requested leave to join you from Juan Martinez de Recalde, he did not hesitate to grant my request.’

Evardo smiled and tightened his grip on Abrahan’s shoulder.

‘Then it’s to your station, old friend,’ he said. Abrahan nodded in thanks before moving off to take command of the helm.

Evardo felt the peace within him become stronger. He had proved his bravery. For his comrades and his mentor, the stain of Cadiz had not only been erased, it had never existed.

But for Evardo part of it still endured. He would not be free of the past until one final part of his honour was satisfied, a part that could only be sated through blood —he must have his revenge. His disgrace at Cadiz would always exist while Robert Varian lived. Only when that cursed enemy was dead would Evardo finally achieve the full restoration of his honour.

Robert twisted the cord of slow-match in his hand, the lighted taper spinning slowly in the darkness, its flame feeding off the cool wind. Seeley stood beside him, his hand on the tiller as he wove the Hope through the outer ships in the lee of the fleet. She was a two masted barque, with a square main sail and a lateen mizzen and had been fully rigged by her crew before departure. The westerly wind eagerly drove her on, with Seeley balancing her course with the broad rudder, the deck heeled over to larboard under the press of sail. Robert was glad the sailing master had agreed to accompany him. Seeley had a steady hand and could be relied upon if anything went awry.

The Hope breeched the outer fleet just as her sister ships did the same and the eight craft sailed onwards abreast, setting out across the clear stretch of water that led to the enemy. The Hope had been packed with every combustible material available. The decks were strewn with old sails, barrels of pitch and heavy coils of frayed hemp rope. In addition the six 3 pound minions and five falconetes had all been double-shotted, with two round shot loaded back to back. Primed and ready the guns would explode when the flames of the pyre reached them, their barrels splitting asunder, adding to the terror and confusion it was hoped these devil ships would create.

Robert estimated they were already well over half-way between the two fleets. It would soon be time to light the deck. He checked that the tow line leading back to the skiff being dragged behind the Hope was still attached. The skiff was their only means of escape. Once the fire had been lit they would have only minutes to lash the tiller, scurry down the rope and cut the skiff loose from its damned escort. It was no fate for a proud ship.

‘I make us just over a mile out,’ he said to Seeley.

‘When will we fire the decks?’ Seeley asked out of the corner of his mouth, never averting his gaze from the lie of the ship.

‘Our orders were a half-mile from the enemy.’

Seeley nodded, and this time his eyes darted to the lighted taper in Robert’s hand. His heart was pounding in his chest and he closed his mind to the fear that every sailor possessed. Once loose, a fire was the damnation of all on board a ship and as a sailor Seeley had always regarded it as a necessary evil, never an ally. To purposely fire a ship seemed an unnatural, almost unholy, deed and Seeley tried to focus on the prize for such a treacherous act against the Hope.

All of a sudden Seeley saw a flame in the distance. He spun around, watching in horror as one of the fire-ships burst into a ball of flame.

‘It’s the Bark Talbot,’ Robert ran to the larboard gunwale. ‘They’ve set her alight. Damn them, it’s too soon.’

A moment later a second ship ignited, the Bear Yonge, and within seconds the flames towered above the height of her main mast. The light from the two ships illuminated the seascape, creating dancing shadows and shapes across the black surface of the water. Robert looked to the Armada. They were still nearly a mile from the windermost ships and any vessels in the path of the Bark Talbot and Bear Yonge would have plenty of time to slip their anchors and escape. Then Robert spotted smaller ships before the towering hulls of the warships. Until now they had been hidden in the darkness, their running lights too insignificant to single them out, but in the illumination of the fires their purpose was clear.

‘The bastards were waiting for us,’ Robert whispered as he spun around to Seeley. ‘Thomas, two points to larboard. The Spaniards have deployed a screen of small ships across their front. We need to try and outmanoeuvre them.’

Robert counted seven ships within the light of the fires, and there were surely others. He glanced at the taper in his hand. They had agreed a half-mile out, but at that distance, with the enemy screen already prepared, the Spaniards would have more time to grapple the fire-ships and divert them away. He would have to wait until they got closer. But how close? Too soon and the enemy would be handed the chance to divert the Hope’s course, too late and they risked being captured when they finally abandoned ship. Given their task, they could expect no mercy from the Spanish. Death would be certain, but it would not be swift.

The wind and tide bore the Hope on without pause. Robert called for a further course change. Without crew to man the rigging the scope of that change was limited but Seeley pushed the balance between sail and rudder to the limit. The Hope steadied. The half-mile mark slipped beneath her hull. Robert looked to the other fire-ships. They too had seen the danger and were delaying the firing of their decks. Inside this range every captain was his own master and Robert refocused his concentration on the sea ahead. Bringing the taper up to his mouth, he blew on the smouldering flame. It flared into an angry orange light. He needed to act, soon. The fate of the Hope had been written, the barque committed. Only the fate of her two-man crew remained in the balance.

‘Fire! Off the larboard bow!’

Every man on board the Águila turned at the shouted call.

‘Bastardos,’ Abrahan cursed. ‘The duke was right. Fire-ships.’

‘No more than a mile out,’ Evardo replied, taking his bearings from the course of the wind. ‘We should—Sancta Maria…’ he breathed. In the blink of an eye the solitary flame ignited into an inferno, illuminating the stark outline of the fire-ship for an instant before it was consumed by the breadth of the conflagration. It was a terrifying sight, the pyre reaching fifty feet into the air, the ship continuing on its hell-bound course as the wind-fed flames, like clawing fingers, reached outwards in the direction of the Armada.

‘Christ Jesus, there’s another one,’ the lookout called, his terror evident in every word.

The second fire-ship ignited more quickly, her canvas sails exploding in a ball of flame that once more transfixed the crew of the Águila. In the glow of the fire Evardo spotted the other enemy ships, their decks yet to be fired. One was dead ahead. He checked his bearings again. The Águila was sailing close hauled against the wind. If they could come up another half-point then the ship in front of them would be within their grasp. He called for the minor course change, alerting all on board to his intended target.

The cutwater of the Águila crashed through the tide-driven waves, her deck heeling hard over under taut sails. Abrahan had command of the helm, his deft touch assuring their best possible speed as he balanced the hull on the precipice of putting the boat in irons before the wind.

‘Young,’ Evardo called. ‘Bring five of your men to the bow.’

In the distance another fire-ship ignited, followed by another, then another. The screen of pataches had scattered, each crew deciding their own course. The Águila was the only boat converging on its chosen ship.

Nathaniel staggered forward with his men. In the light of the fires he could see their faces. They were determined, aggressive, the faces of veteran soldiers who were feeding off the battle lust created by the proximity of combat. Nathaniel felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach. The fire-ships were the English navy’s best chance of shattering the Armada’s formation. Yet he was amongst those resolved to stop them, forced to fight for a cause he no longer believed in.

There was nothing he could do. He was trapped, surrounded by men who had become his enemies without their knowledge. If he revealed himself he would certainly be killed. But if he continued to fight for the Spanish he would be complicit in the defeat of his own country. The accusation his son had hurled at him on the motte resounded in his mind — coward. He tried to silence the voice by raising his own as he arrayed his men along the gunwale.

Without warning an explosion ripped out the forward section of a distant fire-ship followed a heartbeat later by two more, the thunderous blasts sweeping over the Águila.

‘Hellburners!’ one of the soldiers shouted.

‘We hold our course,’ Evardo shouted back, steel in his voice, his will dominating the fear he felt clawing at him.

The gap fell to a hundred yards.

‘Helm, prepare to come about.’

‘Aye, Comandante.’

The Águila raced across the bow of their chosen fire-ship. Her decks had still not been fired and Evardo called to Abrahan. The patache spun through the eye of the wind and came swiftly around to sail parallel to the fire-ship, thirty yards off her beam. Abrahan matched her course and speed as the two ships sped together towards the Armada, less than a quarter of a mile away. Evardo swept her with his gaze. The deck of the English ship was higher than his own patache. He couldn’t see the enemy crew but he knew they were there.

‘Bring us alongside the bowsprit!’

Abrahan slowly narrowed the gap between the ships.

‘Come on you motherless Spaniards,’ Robert spat, keeping his head low, his eyes locked on the enemy patache closing in on the bow. He had spotted the boat minutes before and although the Hope had the weather gauge, without a crew to work the rigging the advantage had all but been negated. The smaller, more nimble enemy patache had outwitted Seeley’s every effort to avoid her.

The running lights of the Armada filled the seascape before the bow and Robert let the sight fill his heart, steeling his nerve. He had delayed firing the decks, although they were well within range. Once the inferno took hold they would have to abandon ship, leaving the Hope in the clutches of the patache and Robert was determined that his ship would break through the screen.

‘Hold your course, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Wait for my signal.’

‘Aye, Captain. God speed.’

‘To us both.’

Robert picked up a boarding axe and stooped over he ran to the bow.

‘Ready the grappling hooks,’ Evardo shouted. Three sailors in the bow spread out to give themselves room. They played out their ropes and began to swing the four-pronged hooks, building momentum until they were a blur of speed. Evardo waited, watching the fall and rise of the hull of the fire-ship, knowing they had to be exact.

‘Loose!’

The grappling hooks soared across the gap, falling on the gunwale of the bow, and the crewmen pulled them fast. They held.

‘Secure the lines!’ Evardo ordered. ‘Abrahan, bear away!’

The Águila began turning her bow away from the fire-ship. The lines tightened, taking the strain. Suddenly a man appeared at the gunwale, an axe in his hand. He severed the first line. It whipped back, striking down one of the sailors with a lash.

‘Arquebusiers, fire!’ Evardo roared. ‘Cut him down!’

The air erupted with the crack of gunfire. Accurate aiming was impossible on the heaving deck of the small ship but Evardo saw the Englishman go down. The Águila continued her turn, the heavier English ship resisting the pull on her bow. The Englishman reappeared. He raised his axe, ready to cut the other line, but in that instant Abrahan played off the rudder, fouling the tension on the lines, causing the English ship to roll. The Englishman lost his balance and his axe struck the gunwale. He fought to free his blade. The faster loading arquebusiers fired a second volley, the bullets striking the hull below him. He looked up and in the light of distant fires Evardo saw his face.

‘Varian!’

Robert froze at the call of his name. He looked to the bow of the Spanish patache. Morales. Anger surged through him like a hot flame. With a ferocity born from hatred of the Spanish aggressors he pulled the blade of the axe from the weathered timber and severed the second tow line. Bullets whipped past him, tearing at the loose folds of his clothes. He stepped up to the last line and struck down with all the fury in his heart. The rope parted with a whip crack.

Robert spun around and started to run aft. The Hope was free but it would not remain so. Morales was bound to throw more lines. They had to cripple the patache.

‘Now, Thomas,’ he roared. ‘Fall off! Hard over!’

Seeley eased the pressure on the tiller and the Hope shifted her course, the bow swinging to starboard, right into the course of the patache. Robert bent down and picked up the burning slow match. He darted forward to the nearest mound of sails. They had been soaked in pitch and Robert blew on the slow match before throwing the tiny flame onto the pile. The fire quickly took hold. Within seconds the entire mound of sails was burning fiercely.

‘Jesus save us! All hands, brace for impact!’

The crew of the Águila fell to the deck. All except for Nathaniel. He couldn’t move. Robert was on that ship. His son was in the vanguard of England’s attack.

Without warning the deck beneath him heeled hard over and he fell. With incredible reflexes Abrahan was veering away from the sudden course change of the English barque, negating the power of the larger vessel as the hulls struck each other. The ships rebounded, opening a gap of five yards between them.

‘Fire! The English have fired their deck.’

‘We must withdraw!’

‘No!’ Evardo roared. ‘We stand fast. Abrahan, lay aboard! We’re too close to the fleet to risk more grappling hooks. We need to board and turn her course.’

Abrahan leaned in against the tiller and brought the Águila hard up against the taller side of the barque. The hulls hammered against each other and then parted, opening a gap of two feet, the moving surface of the waves making it impossible to keep them firmly together. The gap closed again.

‘Men of the Águila, with me!’ Evardo shouted and he leapt up to grab hold of the gunwale of the barque. He clambered up. Three other men jumped with him while others stood hesitatingly, poised to jump but wary of the fluctuating gap between the hulls. One of the men with Evardo lost his grip as he climbed over the gunwale and he fell between the hulls. A wave slammed the patache against the barque, crushing the soldier, his scream of terror cut short, the sight causing more of the men to hesitate.

‘Thomas, get to the skiff.’

Seeley nodded and ran aft. Robert quickly tied a rope around the tiller, holding it firmly in place, locking the Hope on course. He could no longer see the patache but he had heard the strike of the hulls and he prayed they had caused enough damage to foul any further attempt to divert the barque.

The flames were spreading across the deck, devouring everything they touched. Robert shielded his face against the growing heat, stepping backwards towards the stern. Suddenly he saw Morales climb over the gunwale in the waist of the ship. Two men immediately followed.

Robert rushed forward, his sword sweeping from his scabbard. One of the Spanish soldiers saw him and grabbed the arquebus slung over his back, swiftly bringing the weapon up to bear. Robert drew the wheellock pistol from his belt, whipping it up, pulling the trigger on instinct as he took a snap shot at the Spaniard. The bullet hit the soldier in the face and he somersaulted back over the gunwale, his arquebus firing into the air.

Robert dropped the pistol and charged Morales. Evardo held his ground and they slammed into each other, their blades clashing with a force that jarred the muscles in Robert’s arm.

‘I should have killed you, Spaniard,’ he hissed in Latin.

‘My life is not yours to take, Englishman.’

Robert leapt back, sweeping up the tip of his sword, his strike parried by Morales. He stared into the Spaniard’s eyes, trying to predict his next move. They were alive with the reflection of the fire and Robert felt the battle rage within him concentrate in the strength of his sword arm.

He attacked again, swinging his blade through a sequence of strokes, forcing Morales to back away. He drew blood on the Spaniard’s upper arm, gaining half a step. In the corner of his eye he saw the other Spanish soldier raise his gun to shoot him. His mind screamed at him to duck, to somehow shield himself, but his fighter’s instinct held him fast, knowing he could not lower his guard. From behind him he heard a visceral war cry. The soldier’s aim shifted to another target. Seeley! A cold smile crept onto Robert’s face and he pressed home his attack.

‘Capitán!’ Nathaniel heard above the roar of the fire. He looked aft. The old helmsman was calling to him, his face mottled with rage, his finger pointed at Morales on the English deck above. ‘Order your men to follow the comandante!’

Nathaniel looked up at the barque. The heat was building, a physical barrier that surrounded the fire-ship. The air was filled with sparks, countless shards of the inferno rained down on the Águila, threatening to ignite the sail. An explosion erupted on the far side of the barque, sending flames towering into the sky.

There was the sharp retort of a pistol shot and a Spanish soldier fell overboard, his body landing on the deck of the patache. Nathaniel saw Robert attack Morales. The other Spanish soldier raised his arquebus to shoot his son but then turned in the direction of another shout and a man charged forward from the stern. The soldier fired, missing his target and he drew his sword as the Englishman reached him.

Nathaniel was possessed with an overriding urge to call out to Robert but he could not, knowing the distraction might cost his son his life. He moved to the gunwale, judging the shifting gap between the two ships, waiting for the hulls to kiss. He had to get across, to help his son. He readied himself for the jump, not noticing that others were following him, waiting for their capitán to lead the way.

Evardo allowed Varian to come on, holding back on his counter attack, giving ground with every strike. The Englishman had beaten him once and Evardo wanted Varian to think he would do so again. He saw him smile and he readily gave another pace.

Above them the main sail burst into flames, the canvas streaming down in blazing strips. The fire scorched the air, making it hard to breathe. Another deck gun exploded on the larboard side, blasting shards of searing metal across the deck.

Evardo sensed the moment to attack, the heart in his chest aching at the thought of sending the Englishman to his Protestant hell, of finally healing the wound to his pride that Varian had opened at Cadiz. He parried another strike, the blades rasping against each other. Evardo recovered and he lunged forward, leading with the tip of his sword. Varian sidestepped and struck down, turned his blade inside but Evardo was ready for the counter stroke and he whipped back his sword to reverse his attack, inflicting a shallow flesh wound on Varian’s thigh. The Englishman gave ground. They circled and Evardo attacked again, pushing the fight towards the bow.

The flames consumed the mainmast, racing up to the tops, creating a vortex of warm air that rushed across the deck. Robert held his breath and focused all his strength on defending himself against the blur of steel that had suddenly become the Spaniard’s sword. His eyes burned from the heat and he felt desperation creep into his reactions as Morales pressed forward relentlessly, his attack never faltering, never abating.

Around them everything was alive with flame, as if they were fighting on the deck of the devil’s own ship and Robert took heart. The Hope was still on course, he had done his duty. He centred his balance. As Morales lunged he riposted, side swiping his blade, forcing the Spaniard to break off.

They circled again, breathing heavily, blood running from their flesh wounds. The hesitation that had caused Robert to stay his killing blow at Cadiz, to show mercy to a fellow Catholic, was gone. It had been cauterized out of him by a war between nations, a struggle that demanded every ounce of his loyalty if England was to survive.

For Evardo, Varian was nothing more than a cursed foe. England was the enemy of Spain and a plague upon Christendom. The English navy had to be defeated and the heretic Queen had to fall. It had been ordained by God and Evardo was willing to spill every last drop of his blood to achieve the will of the divine.

They rushed forward as one, their war cries intertwining, each one calling to God. They were enemies, and on the flame strewn decks of the fire-ship they would fight to the death.

Nathaniel jumped, clawing at the gunwale until his grip held and he heaved himself up. Two more Spanish soldiers jumped with him and they clambered over onto the deck together. Nathaniel ignored them. He took in the entire deck with a single glance. The other Englishman was aft, a Spanish soldier dead at his feet. The Englishman saw them and shouted defiantly, goading them on. The soldiers with Nathaniel did not hesitate and they began to run aft.

Robert and Morales were in the bow. They were locked chest to chest, their blades trapped between them. Nathaniel ran towards them, his sword singing from his scabbard. There was a mighty crack over his shoulder. The lifting yard of the mainmast gave way. It plummeted to the deck, dragging with it the flaming remnants of the main sail onto the two Spanish soldiers. They screamed as the pyre consumed them, the waist of the ship exploding in flames.

A blast of searing heat washed over Robert and Evardo, knocking them both off balance. Their blades separated and Evardo hooked up the hilt of his sword, smashing the pommel into the side of Robert’s head. He fell to the deck and Evardo was immediately upon him, bringing the tip of his sword to his chest.

‘Now it ends,’ he whispered.

‘No!’

Evardo spun around. Young was rushing towards him, his sword charged. Evardo brought up his blade just in time to stop a killing strike and he stumbled backwards. Young came at him again, his expression maniacal, shouting words in English that Evardo could not understand.

Nathaniel hammered his blade down on Evardo’s as if he were wielding an axe, his fury knowing no bounds. Evardo backed away, too stunned to counter attack. He circled around, his feet guiding him to the starboard side where he had boarded. Nathaniel pushed him across the width of the deck, his blows never ceasing. The fire from the burning mainmast clawed at them. They reached the bulwark and with a final effort Nathaniel pounded down on Evardo’s upturned blade until the Spaniard lost his footing and fell over the side.

Seeley ran to the stern. He wavered, his hand on the rope tethered to the skiff. The fallen yard had effectively 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 Águila.

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?’

‘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.