Armada

EPILOGUE

21st September 1588. Santander, Northern Spain.

The eight ships slowly rounded the western headland of Santander Bay. Lashed by shot and tempest, under tattered sails they resembled ghost ships soundlessly approaching the ancient port of Santander. The bells of the town church rang out as people rushed to the shoreline, staring in awe and despair at the flotilla of Spanish ships.

Evardo leaned heavily against the mizzen mast, his eyes closed as he listened to the peal of bells. They were the sound of home. Tears of relief welled up inside him. He pushed himself upright, swaying slightly with the fall of the deck and the fatigue that reached to the very depths of his soul. The last of their water had run out two days before and he wiped away the scum at the corners of his mouth, smacking his lips in an attempt to wet them before ordering the crew to prepare to drop anchor.

Mendez was dead, along with more than half the crew. The remaining men moved slowly about the ship, stepping over those who could not rise as they summoned the last of their strength to follow the comandante’s orders. The voyage from the head of the English Channel had taken six weeks. From the outset Evardo had reduced the crew to half-rations, knowing the journey ahead would be long, but as the weeks passed he had been forced to reduce them again and again, until the men began to starve.

Pestilence and death had followed in the wake of the Santa Clara, waiting patiently for the weakest to succumb. The wounded were the first to die. Too weak to fight infection they were easy prey. Disease became rampant, taking the ship’s boys and the oldest crewmen in the first week. Within a fortnight three to four men were dying each day. Padre Garza had presided over each funeral, his rites echoing across the decks until he too fell.

The weather had been cruel and savage, much worse than any could have imagined, and summer storms had driven the ships of the Armada onto the wild, uncharted west coast of Ireland. Evardo had no idea how many ships had been lost there. Each dawn had revealed more losses with ships disappearing in the darkness of night or in the midst of terrible squalls, their fate known only to God and the damned who sailed in them.

The Santa Clara had managed to stay in contact with a small flotilla and led by the San Martín they had finally reached the Bay of Biscay a week before. Crossing the bay, they had sighted other small groups of sail on the far horizons. The sight had given Evardo some comfort. They were not alone. Many others had been spared and would soon reach home.

With a splash that brought a handful of hollow cheers the Santa Clara anchored in the lee of the port. A host of fishing boats began to stream out from behind the rough hewn seawall that protected the inner harbour. Evardo looked up at Santander church high atop the steep promontory at the edge of the town. The bell had ceased to ring. With disdain, Evardo turned his back. God had not brought him home, the Santa Clara had. Evardo reached out to touch the mizzen mast once more, running his hand down the smooth weathered spar.

She had carried him through war and storm and they had endured much together since sailing from Lisbon months before. Because of her, because of her crew and men like Mendez, Evardo had regained his name and his honour. He had found peace with Abrahan and earned the respect of all who sailed in the Armada.

During the long desperate weeks in the north Atlantic Evardo had found strength in his determination to carry the war ever onwards against the English. They had not defeated the Armada, not decisively. Their cannon had battered and subjugated many of its ships, but it was the elements that truly sealed the Armada’s fate —the winds and tides of the Channel that had robbed the Spanish of the opportunity to employ their own tactics in battle.

The war was not over. It had taken the Spanish centuries to re-conquer their peninsula from the Moors, but against overwhelming odds they had eventually triumphed, and from out of that victory the greatest empire of the age had been forged. Over the previous hundred years the Spanish had swept all before them. The English were no fiercer a foe, no more determined than any other. Like so many enemies before them they too would be defeated in time.

Soon a new Armada would set sail from the shores of Spain, and Evardo would be one its comandantes. As the locals began to board the Santa Clara he straightened his shoulders and adjusted his torn and salt-stained clothes. The gesture reminded him of another moment over a year before. From the depths of an English prison he had risen to command a galleon of the Armada and regained all that he had lost. He could make that journey again. His body and spirit may be weak but his will remained strong and suddenly he was filled with an eagerness to begin anew, to take the fight back to the English, for God, his King and Spain.

Robert dismounted and began to climb the slope of the motte. The sun was on his back and he paused at the rim as he had done many times in the past, looking back at the ancient church of Saint Michael’s. He was breathing hard but for the first time in weeks he felt strong. He held his face up to the late summer sun, drinking in its warmth as he inhaled the scents of the English countryside.

For days after Gravelines the English fleet had shadowed the Armada as it sailed towards Scotland. Seymour had taken his squadron back to the Flemish coast, fearing an opportunistic attempt by Parma to cross the Channel, but the other four had continued on, finally abandoning their pursuit when the Spaniards cleared the Firth of Forth.

Still uncertain, they had returned to the Channel. No one knew the enemy’s intentions. If conditions changed in their favour, there was every chance the Armada would return southwards to try to link up with Parma again, or they might refit and restock in a Scandinavian or Scottish port. Their fate and course was unknown. Howard had been forced to keep the fleet on alert in the waters off Dover.

The first cases of pestilence surfaced within days. Crowded together, with shortened rations, the flux had spread rapidly throughout the fleet. On the Retribution alone nearly half the crew were struck down by the terrible disease. Few had survived. As one of the more heavily engaged ships in the battles against the Armada, the Retribution had suffered twelve killed in combat. The flux took more than six times that number, nearly a third of the crew. Little or nothing had been done to relieve their plight and every entreaty from the fleet commanders to the Privy Council had been all but ignored.

After four weeks the fleet was finally given leave to stand down, but by then it was too late for many. Through eyes closed against the sun Robert pictured the faces of those who had died —his old comrade and master’s mate Miller, the boatswain Shaw, the master gunner Larkin, and dozens more who would remain with him forever.

He turned and began to pick his way through the ruins, looking for signs of where the ground had been disturbed. He thought of Thomas Seeley and their parting earlier that morning.

‘Home to recuperate,’ Seeley had answered when asked by Robert what he would do next.

They had been standing on the main deck of the Retribution, at the head of the gangplank onto Plymouth docks.

‘And what then, Thomas? We sail in two weeks to Dover for refit, and the Retribution needs a Master.’

Seeley had nodded, looking past Robert to the range over the galleon. He had turned to leave but Robert had stopped him, offering his hand.

‘Thank you, Thomas. For everything. I hope I’ll see you again.’

For a heartbeat Seeley had hesitated, a shadow passing over his face. He had taken Robert’s hand, but only briefly. ‘You will, Captain.’

Seeley had then taken a small cloth parcel from his pocket and handed it to Robert before walking down the gangplank and away along the docks without a backward glance.

Robert stopped as he spotted a mound in the centre of a small clearing in the ruins. It was covered by dense undergrowth, a sign that the earth had been recently turned over and richer soil had been uncovered. He walked over to it and looked down at the grave, his thoughts returning to the night Father Blackthorne had died, and of his father and how they had fought, sword against sword in the darkness.

Robert knelt down. He reached into his pocket and took out the cloth parcel Seeley had given him, opened it and took out the silver crucifix and marble statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary. They felt light in his hand. They were all that remained of his father. His body had been cast into the sea, along with the other Englishmen who had died in battle.

He pulled out a clump of weeds from the mound and dug a small hole in the loose soil, placing the crucifix within it. He closed his eyes and prayed, for Father Blackthorne and for Nathaniel Young. He buried the icon, hoping that its presence would sanctify the ground that held the body of his confessor. He stood up and examined the statuette in his hand. He looked at its base, his finger tracing the inscription, Young. It was the only physical link that remained to his real name and he slipped the statuette into his pocket.

Robert returned to where his horse was tethered. He mounted and looked up one last time at the summit of the motte, wondering if another Catholic priest would one day take responsibility for Father Blackthorne’s flock and recite mass amidst the ruins. Robert would never know. Although his faith remained strong, he would never again return to the motte. That part of his life was behind him, not forgotten but gone forever. He kicked his horse into a canter. He was Sir Robert Varian, knight of the realm, a loyal recusant and captain of the Retribution. As he passed Saint Michael’s, he turned his mount towards Brixham, and home.