Armada

CHAPTER 4

18th May 1587. Lisbon, Portugal.

Nathaniel Young, the Duke of Greyfarne, descended from his carriage and looked out over the harbour of Lisbon. It was a magnificent sight and Young stepped forward to the edge of the dock, glancing left and right to the myriad smaller supply and ordnance ships. Further out the mighty galleons of the fledgling Spanish Armada pulled gently on their anchor lines beneath a canopy of masts and rigging. He held his breath, thinking of the day when the harbour would be filled with such ships.

‘They are impressive, no?’

Young spun around and smiled as he recognized Don Rodrigo de Torres, one of King Philip’s closest advisors. He was dressed in austere clothes, a black embroidered doublet and gown and a high necked jerkin that accentuated his height. It was a style made popular by the King and Young wondered if any man in Spain now dared to dress differently.

‘They are indeed a blessed sight before God,’ he replied, his Spanish still heavily accented even after nearly twenty years. Young was shorter than de Torres and at fifty he was older by some ten years, but he looked younger, his constant travels throughout the dominions of Europe keeping him fit and trim.

‘Come, your grace,’ de Torres said. He led Young from the dockside into the civic building, taking him to his office on the second floor.

The shutters of the room were open and from the height of the balcony, Young was afforded an even greater view of Lisbon’s immense natural harbour. Beyond the anchored warships and merchantmen, the harbour mouth was protected by formidable forts and gun emplacements. Between the headlands Young could just make out the darker blue of the boundless Atlantic. He turned around to his host.

‘You are smiling, Don de Torres,’ he said. ‘Is there good news?’

De Torres nodded. ‘The arch-fiend El Draque has been driven from the walls of Lagos with heavy losses,’ he said expansively. He walked behind his desk to sit down. He stretched out his hand, indicating for Young to be seated.

‘That is good news,’ Young replied, taking consolation from the report. The past few months had been the most anguished of his life. The death of Mary Stuart had dashed so many of his hopes. He had found peace through prayer and an almost constant vigil on the assembling Armada. Its gathering strength had reaffirmed his belief that his long exile would soon be over and his country would be brought once more into the bosom of its true mother church. Then Drake had attacked Cadiz.

‘It is a significant victory, your grace,’ de Torres continued, ‘and one which will show Drake for the inconsequential pirate he is.’

De Torres’s words caused Young to glance once more out the open window to the few ships already gathered for the Armada. Drake’s raid on Cadiz had taken place over a week before and a pall of uncertainty now hung over the entire enterprise. The loss of supplies was catastrophic and with Drake now commanding the sea lanes to Lisbon, the squadrons from Seville, Biscay and Italy were indefinitely delayed. Drake, he concluded, was anything but inconsequential.

Young’s innards burned with bitter frustration. Elizabeth had the devil’s own luck. How many attempts on her life had she escaped? How many uprisings, in England and Ireland, had withered and died on the vine after showing such promise? Her reign was now entering its thirtieth year whereas Mary Tudor, her Catholic predecessor, had ruled for only five years, not nearly enough time to reverse the tide of reformation. Now one of her minions, Drake, was in a position to unravel the delicate plans to assemble an Armada to sail against the heretic Queen.

‘What do you believe he will do next?’ de Torres asked, twisting one end of his moustache with the tips of his fingers, his gaze level and penetrating.

Young considered the question, amused as always how many Spaniards thought he naturally held some insight into the workings of every English mind simply because he was English himself. He had not set foot in his native country for a shade over eighteen years. He kept an exact tally of the months and days, and the ever so brief thoughts of his exile set the door to his bitterness ajar. He slammed it shut, focusing his mind on the problem at hand.

‘His defeat at Lagos is a setback, but Drake is tenacious. He will not retreat.’

De Torres nodded sagely, although he knew little of military tactics. He was a master of statecraft and the chief liaison between the Spanish court and men like Nathaniel Young.

‘I would counsel caution,’ Young continued. ‘The garrisons in the area should remain on alert.’

‘Thank you, your grace,’ de Torres said. ‘I will ensure your advice is passed on to the relevant commanders.’

He stood up and walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back.

‘Drake’s surprise attack on Cadiz has cost us dearly,’ he said after a pause.

Young noted the implicit censure in de Torres’s words.

‘I sent your request to the Duke of Clarsdale over a month ago,’ he replied in his own defence. ‘He is a trusted and capable man and, in future, I am sure we will know of the English fleet’s plans in advance of any attack.’

In future, de Torres thought scornfully, although he could not openly criticize the duke. He needed the Englishman’s access to the elaborate network of contacts and couriers that existed between the remaining Catholics in England and their supporters on the continent. In recent years, however, with the escalation of hostilities between Spain and England, de Torres was finding it increasingly difficult to separate his hatred for the English pirates and their Queen. Men like Young, whose faltering command of Spanish and insistence that he be addressed by his meaningless title only exacerbated de Torres’s animosity.

When Young and his fellow exiled English noblemen first arrived in Spain after their failed rebellion against Elizabeth in 1569 they had been openly welcomed as victims of the heretical Queen’s oppression. Patronage and support had flooded in from many of the noble families of Spain, allowing the exiles to live in a fashion befitting their titles. But now that support had all but dried up as the rising national enmity towards England stemmed the flow.

De Torres returned to his seat and looked across his desk at this English duke who remained so important to Spain’s invasion plans. When Parma’s army landed in England, it was vital that men such as Young be amongst the vanguard, Englishmen who could be trusted implicitly to act as guides and negotiators. So de Torres hid his aversion behind a benign expression and the courteous words of diplomacy. With God’s grace there was still a chance the Armada might yet sail this season and when it did, it was de Torres’s task to ensure that Young and his fellow English noblemen sailed with it.

Robert leaned back in his chair and adjusted his right leg, massaging his thigh above the wound. It hurt appallingly, but it was clean and he thanked the Lord, all too aware of the dread fate of infection. He shuddered as he vividly remembered waking after the battle in the surgeon’s room on board the Retribution.

It was a hellish place, an enclosed compartment on the orlop deck where the air was saturated with panic and echoed with the cries of the wounded and dying, a nightmarish cacophony that still haunted Robert’s dreams. He had been lying on the crude treatment table, a series of planks atop some upended water barrels, the timbers already soaked through with the blood of others. His breeches had been cut away and Powell, the surgeon, had been standing over his leg, his bloodied hands deftly probing the wound. The surgeon had worked fast, a testament to his skill, but his every touch was like the lash of a whip, a searing pain that drenched his body in acrid sweat.

Robert’s vision had swirled before him, the headiness of blood loss and the heaving lantern light robbing him of the ability to focus. There were too many injured, there hadn’t been time to dull each patient’s senses with alcohol, and as Powell prepared to close the wound an unseen crewman behind where his head lay on the table had forced a bit between Robert’s teeth.

Through the mists of pain he had seen the white-orange glow of the cauterizing iron, his eyes staring wildly in terrified anticipation. He had bit down with all his might, stifling his screams as the searing metal touched his skin while strong hands held him fast. His nostrils had filled with the smell of his own burning flesh, a sickening stench that engulfed his senses before unconsciousness mercifully claimed him once more.

Afterwards he had awoken in the cabin where he now sat and although more than a week had passed since then, he still felt ill at ease in the room. He took a drink from a goblet of wine, spoils from the Spanish supply fleet, and looked around. His eyes were drawn to the rack of sea charts on the wall and the unopened chest beneath them: Morgan’s belongings.

The story of Robert’s charge on the Halcón had spread rapidly throughout the English fleet and that action, coupled with his natural selection as second-in-command, had secured him a field promotion to captain. Drake himself had come from his flagship to confer the honour, bringing with him his chaplain, and the commander of the fleet had ordered a double ration of grog for the entire crew in recognition of their fight, prompting a cheer from the bloodied men of the Retribution.

There was a knock on the cabin door and Seeley entered.

‘Well?’ Robert asked, sitting up straighter.

‘Six dead and nine wounded,’ Seeley replied, ‘and I fear two of those will not see tomorrow’s dawn.’

‘Who are they?’

Seeley listed the names and Robert repeated them silently to himself.

After Cadiz the fleet had sailed south to the Algarve coast and the fortified town of Lagos. The English had anchored five miles from the town and Drake had quickly assembled a landing party of a thousand men, taking one hundred from the Retribution. Owing to Robert’s injury Seeley had taken charge of the Retribution’s levy and Robert had watched them march away, only to see the badly mauled ranks return a day later.

‘A pox on the Spaniards,’ Seeley spat, pacing the cabin, ‘they led us all the way to the walls of Lagos before revealing their true strength.’

‘We were lucky to escape so lightly,’ Robert remarked, conscious that the fleet had been badly exposed while waiting at the landing point.

‘It was God’s will, Captain, not luck,’ Seeley corrected, ‘and He has opened our eyes to the perfidiousness of the enemy. We will not be so easily deceived again.’

‘We will soon have cause to test that wisdom,’ Robert said, leaning forward to offer Seeley a drink. The new master of the Retribution sat down, his expression questioning.

‘The order arrived while you were below decks,’ Robert explained. ‘We are sailing to Sagres and Drake means to take the town.’

Seeley smiled and picked up the goblet from the table, swirling the wine within.

‘Rejoice not over me, O my enemy,’ he recited, ‘when I fall, I shall rise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me.’

Robert nodded, recognizing the quotation from the bible.

‘It is a small port, but strategically important.’ He put his goblet down to lean in over the table, wincing slightly as he shifted his leg. He pulled an opened chart across and Seeley stood up to study it. It was a detailed map of the south-western coastline of Portugal. Together they pored over the annotations regarding Sagres and its approaches.

A hurried knock on the door interrupted them and the ship’s surgeon entered without awaiting permission. His face was agitated and he advanced with his hand outstretched before him.

‘What is it, Mister Powell?’ Robert asked, consciously suppressing the unwanted memories resurfaced by the unexpected arrival of the surgeon.

Powell was one of the oldest members of the crew. He was a tall man but his back was curved from a lifetime of treating wounded men. He wore a heavy leather blood-stained apron and his arms were stained pink to the elbows.

‘I found these in the surgery.’ Powell opened his hand to reveal a silver crucifix and marble statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Seeley shot out of his chair. For the briefest moment his and Powell’s full attention was on the artefacts alone. Robert knew his face betrayed the depths of his distress at the sudden revelation. He gathered his wits as Powell advanced further and looked down at the blood stained pieces the surgeon slammed onto the table.

‘Papist icons,’ Seeley breathed. He rounded on Powell. ‘Where exactly did you find them?’

‘Under my table. They were hidden under a pile of bloodied rags.’

‘Who dropped them?’ Seeley took a step towards the surgeon, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

‘I don’t know.’ Powell glanced at the master’s sword hand but remained unperturbed. A lifetime of serving aboard ship had made him immune to young men like Seeley. ‘Dozens of men have been in and out of my surgery over the past twenty-four hours, both the injured and those who carried them. Where I found those,’ he looked to the icons, ‘hidden away like that, well, they could have been there since Cadiz.’

‘A traitor,’ Seeley said vehemently, turning to Robert, ‘a Roman Catholic spy, Captain, on board the Retribution.’

Robert held out his hand to quieten Seeley. He focused on keeping it steady. He looked again at his father’s icons, furious with himself for not thinking of them earlier. Perhaps it was the pain of his wound or the pace of events since Cadiz, but whenever he had recalled his time in the surgery, he had failed to register the significance of his breeches being cut away and discarded.

He glanced at Seeley and Powell.

‘Who else knows of this?’

‘Only you and Mister Seeley here, Captain. I came straight to your cabin when I found them.’

Robert nodded. His best chance of suppressing any hunt was now, before it began.

‘Then we will keep it that way,’ he said.

‘What? Why?’ Seeley’s eyes narrowed.

‘Because, Mister Seeley,’ Robert replied authoritatively, ‘I do not wish to have my ship rife with suspicion until we are clear on the facts. Indeed, there may be a simpler explanation as to why Mister Powell found these icons on board. They may have been taken as plunder from a Spaniard.’

Seeley made to speak but the surgeon interjected. ‘I thought that too, Captain, but then I discovered that both of these icons are inscribed with an English name.’

‘Why didn’t you say before, you fool!’ Seeley rounded on the surgeon angrily. ‘You mean to say that the traitor’s name is on the icons?’

‘No, Mister Seeley,’ Powell said. ‘For the name inscribed is not of any man on board. See here.’

He picked up the crucifix and, turning it over, rubbed his thumb along its length to remove the film of blood.

‘There is the name: Young.’

Evardo kicked out in the darkness at the creature. The scurrying sound stopped. The rat was close, maybe inches away, and he kicked out again. The rat screeched and scuttled away. Evardo sat up. His mind was dull with fatigue but still he was unable to sleep. His skin crawled as he felt the cockroaches scurry beneath and around him. He rubbed his hand over his face, massaging his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. When he opened them again he focused on the thin shafts of light that penetrated through the cracks in the door of the cell.

He was not alone. There were four other men held captive with him in the forward section of the orlop deck of the English flagship. He listened intently as one murmured incoherently, trapped in some horrible nightmare that would not be relieved by waking. Evardo licked his lips. His mouth was dry and scummy and he reached out for the pail of water, his hand swinging through a slow arc in the darkness until he touched its rim. He picked it up and scooped his hand in, bringing the foul brackish liquid up to his mouth. It did little to quench his thirst. For a moment he was tempted to toss the pail away in anger before thinking better of it, knowing how severely the precious liquid was rationed.

When he had first been brought to the Elizabeth Bonaventure he had been formally welcomed by the captain of the English flagship. El Draque, disappointingly, had not been on deck, and Evardo had listened bitterly as the captain explained in halting Spanish the terms of his capture. He was to be brought back to England where he would be held until a ransom was paid for his release. It was an ignominious fate, one that would be shared by the four other men of noble birth who shared his quarters in the ship’s bowels.

Evardo kept his gaze locked on the shafts of light. They swung slowly with the roll of the ship, sweeping across the near pitch darkness of the cell. He held out his right hand, his sword hand, to allow the feeble light to catch it. He vividly recalled that moment on the Halcón after he had handed over his weapon to the Englishman, Varian. Since then, and with a deep sense of shame, he had asked himself if he should not have fought on and accepted the price of death for his honour.

After Varian had walked away from him, he had been jostled, along with the rest of his crew, into the fo’c’sle. His first reaction had been to look for Abrahan. When he saw the older man push through the throng to approach him, he had begun to smile, glad to see his old friend safe. That smile had died on his lips when he beheld the murderous look on Abrahan’s face.

‘You cursed cobarde,’ he had hissed, and Evardo had recoiled from the accusation of cowardice.

‘I was bested, there was nothing I could do, the fight…’

‘You surrendered your ship like some Portuguese hijo de puta and betrayed your command and your crew!’

‘Betrayed?’ Evardo had hissed back, dropping his hand to clasp the sword that was no longer by his side. ‘After the English counter-attacked, there was nothing we could do, you know that.’

‘Then you should have paid for the loss of the Halcón with your blood, not your sword.’

Evardo had made to reply, but Abrahan had turned his back on him, pushing through the surrounding crewmen who had heard every word of the exchange. Evardo had looked at them, and while many had averted their gaze, others had stared back with accusing eyes, persuaded by Abrahan’s words that their captain had indeed betrayed the Halcón and its crew.

In the quiet of the cell Evardo pictured his mentor in his mind’s eye. The image brought a flash of anger to his heart but then he thought of the years of comradeship and support that Abrahan had given him. Under his tutelage he had crossed the world, making the leap from boy to man. In many ways Evardo had come to consider Abrahan as the father he had lost to war. As a comandante he was accustomed to a solitary existence but for the first time he felt very alone. The feeling sickened him.

In the darkness he closed his hand into a tight fist. The shame of his defeat threatened to overwhelm him, to unman him in that black space, but with savage determination he crushed his regret. Evardo gave his mind over to the boom of the waves striking the hull and the creak of timbers. The journey ahead would be long, but eventually he would return to Spain, and he focused his thoughts on that day. Using the powerful influence of his family he would seek another galleon command. His honour demanded nothing less. Only then would he be able to take the first step in fulfilling the vow that had now become the centre of his being: revenge.

Above the swirling mists of gun smoke surrounding the English fleet in the waters off Sagres, a lookout on the Elizabeth Bonaventure spotted the raising of a white flag. He shouted it down to the quarterdeck and across the fleet the order was given to cease fire. In the quiet that followed, Robert looked out across the untroubled waters to the town’s castle. The bombardment had lasted a mere two hours, a savage cannonade that had pierced the battlements in several places and silenced the garrison’s return of fire. Black smoke was rising from within, billowing past the crude flag of surrender, and on the gentle breeze Robert could hear the desperate cries of a cornered populace.

‘Ho quarterdeck, Cygnet approaching on the starboard beam.’

‘Ahoy, Captain Varian.’

‘Ahoy, Captain Bell,’ Robert shouted back, raising his arm.

‘Orders from the Elizabeth Bonaventure, Captain,’ Bell called. ‘You are to tranship eighty men to the Cygnet to join the shore party. Commander Drake has already gone ashore to accept the surrender of the Spanish garrison.’

Robert acknowledged the command and ordered the boatswain to the quarterdeck.

‘Mister Shaw, call out and arm the men of the dog watch. Have them assemble on the main deck.’

Seeley approached as Shaw’s voice rang out across the Retribution.

‘With your permission, Captain,’ the master said, ‘I’d like to join the shore party.’

Robert considered the request. He had already decided, despite his injury, that he would be going ashore. The Spy and two other pinnaces were patrolling five miles further out to sea, providing a screen for the landings. Any approach by hostile ships would be spotted well in advance. He looked to Seeley, seeing the justifiable eagerness on his face given the drubbing he received at Lagos. He smiled.

‘Permission granted, Mister Seeley. Inform Mister Shaw that he will have command of the Retribution while we are ashore.’

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Seeley replied with a roguish grin. He hurried after the boatswain, adding his voice to the call for order on the main deck.

Moments later the Cygnet pulled away from the galleon and turned sharply around its stern. Across the sweep of the fleet, a flotilla of pinnaces was sailing in towards the small port, their decks crammed with men. Robert stood on the bow of the Cygnet, his balance shifting with the fall of the deck. Behind him were the chosen men of his crew, their silence a thin veneer that scarcely concealed their expectation.

They were heavily armed but few men were identically equipped. Robert wore a breastplate of armour, as did over a dozen of his crew. Many of these were cast-offs from previous battles while others wore morions, the ubiquitous helmet of European soldiers. Each man had a sword and at least one dagger and while the primary weapon of the majority was an arquebus gun, the more hidebound veterans were armed with halberds, bills and crossbows. Only two men carried longbows, weapons they had known since childhood and could never be relinquished for another.

Robert bore one other unique firearm, a wheellock pistol, an expensive weapon that he had found amongst Morgan’s belongings and he unconsciously fingered the elaborate mechanism as he thought of the man who had previously led the crew behind him into battle.

He looked ahead to the surf-worn beach that skirted the edge of the town. A lone boat was beached there: Drake’s launch. Beyond it Robert spotted the fleet commander appear from the town with an escort of heavily armed soldiers. Walking with him was a Spaniard, evidentially the garrison commander.

The longboats rode in through the surf and disgorged their men onto the beach before returning to the pinnaces to gather more. Robert went in with the first of his crew and jumped out into the crashing waves as the boat touched bottom. The cold water helped to ease the throbbing in his leg and he waded ashore.

Within twenty minutes seven hundred English landed, gathering in motley ranks behind their commanders. All the while Drake stood immovable at the head of the beach, his head turning slowly as his gaze ranged over the men. Robert could see he was talking to the Spanish commander out of the corner of his mouth, his expression solemn and imperious. Drake was not physically striking, and his dark curly hair and fairer beard made his age hard to determine. He projected a definite air of authority that belied his humble beginnings, and his gaze was penetrating and direct.

A sense of awe never failed to affect Robert when he was in Drake’s presence. He was the first Englishman to circumnavigate the world, an explorer and privateer who commanded the Queen’s deepest affections and God’s own luck. That four out of five ships had been lost during his circumnavigation and Drake had executed his friend for mutiny mattered little. The Golden Hind had returned brimming with gold, silver, spices, and precious stones that netted a near fifty-fold profit for the crown and a knighthood for Drake. To sail with Drake was to benefit from his uncanny ability to survive and profit and the men behind Robert fell into expectant silence as their commander stepped forward.

‘Men!’ he shouted, his hand sweeping out over Sagres. ‘The town is yours. Take it.’

The men erupted in a savage cheer, surging forward like a pack of baying wolves. They attacked, streaming up the beach and between the outlying buildings, jostling angrily at the choke-points as all sought to be the first to savour the plunder of the town.

Robert went with them, his slower pace making him the victim of shouldered charges as men ran around him. One struck him heavily and he was about to fall when a hand grabbed his upper arm to steady him. It was Seeley. Robert smiled amidst the cheers as the last of the crew of the Retribution passed them. They reached the whitewashed houses that marked the edge of the town and Robert became aware of the new sound beneath the cheering Englishmen —the tortured screams of the population. Shots rang out from all sides as sailors and soldiers began to kill all who stood in their way.

Robert drew his wheellock pistol from his belt. He held it loosely in his hand and looked left and right down the narrow side streets. The door of every house and hovel was open. The raiders were everywhere, streaming from one place to another, many with booty already in hand. Others stood drinking and carousing, laughing wildly as they upended any bottle they could find. The shrieks of women could be heard above everything and Robert saw one attempt to flee from a house only to be chased and run down by a sailor who dragged her back inside.

He looked at Seeley walking beside him. The youth’s face was pale, his eyes darting everywhere at once, and his mouth was whispering unintelligible words. Robert had witnessed the aftermath of a sacking many years before on the Spanish Main, and his time spent on the slave trade had long since hardened him to the cruelties of men. From Seeley’s expression, he could only devise that this was the young man’s first experience of the fate that awaited every civilian at the hands of an army let loose.

Cheering could no longer be heard. Instead the air was filled with terrible sounds that seemed to emanate from the pit of Hades, the cries and wailing of a people given over to the base desires of men toughened in the forge of battle. The infrequent crack of an arquebus mixed with the angry shouts of Englishmen, fuelled by wine and avarice, fighting over the meagre offerings of the small town. The dead lay everywhere, the men shot or run through with steel while the women had been raped, beaten and discarded. The terror of their final moments was still etched on their faces.

Robert and Thomas reached the main square. On one side the western face of a small church stood tall above the buildings flanking it. A group of men were at the doors, trying to force them open. Without hesitation Robert rushed forward. He switched his pistol to his left hand and drew his sword. Seeley followed, surprised by the sudden haste. The square was in chaos with men running in all directions, but Robert kept his course firmly fixed on the church door, his face twisting in anger, the pain in his leg forgotten.

‘Hold,’ he shouted, charging his sword before him.

The sailors turned and brought their own weapons quickly to bear.

‘Piss off, sailor,’ one of them snarled, ‘’less you want your blood spilled. This here’s our place.’

Seeley came up. Once he had seen the captain’s destination he had understood immediately and the anger he saw on Robert’s face confirmed it. He felt his own religious fervour rise within him.

‘Captain Varian, maybe there’s another way in,’ he suggested.

‘Captain Varian…’ one of the men repeated and the others lowered their weapons, mindful of the tale they had heard of the captain’s charge on the Spanish galleon. Their expressions remained belligerent, suspicious that the officers had intervened so they could claim whatever plunder was inside for themselves.

Robert’s mind was in turmoil. He had rushed to the church door to defend it without thinking. Then he realized he could not, for how would he explain his actions? He felt the weight of the sword and pistol in his hands. This was a Catholic church. He should defend it. But he was the commander of a Protestant crew. He could not justifiably stop them, not without coming close to revealing his faith.

‘Who’s inside, men?’ Seeley asked, stepping forward.

‘Some shit stinkin’ priest,’ one of the sailors replied. ‘We saw him close the door as we came into the square.’

‘We want into that strong box that papists have in their churches,’ another said, referring to the tabernacle, and the others voiced their agreement, one of them taking up the shout again for the priest inside to open the doors.

Seeley took charge, ordering two men to find something to ram the door. They returned moments later with a stout wooden bench. The men attacked the door with unbridled aggression and the boom of the battering ram brought more men from around the square. The timbers of the door gave way under the onslaught and the sailors cheered as they pushed their way through. Robert tried to shoulder his way in with the leading edge of the charge, anxious to protect the priest inside, believing that he could somehow excuse his mercy later.

The sailors spilled into the church, the original group in the lead. Their anger and haste were heightened by the dozens of men at their rear, knowing the spoils they sought were under threat. Robert stumbled in. His eyes searched frantically in the gloom of the interior for the priest. The Spaniard was running up the centre aisle, sailors on his heels. Robert watched in horror as one of them raised his arquebus. He swung up his own pistol, bringing it to bear on the sailor’s back. He hesitated and the pistol shook in his hand. A second later a blast rang out. The sailor had shot the priest at near point-blank range. His head snapped forward under the hammer blow of the lead ball before he fell to the floor.

‘You men,’ Seeley roared near at hand. ‘Tear down those statues.’

Robert spun around, his rage threatening to slip its bonds. The men quickly desecrated the church, pulling down the ornate statues and smashing them underfoot, while the air resounded with the clang of metal as the sailors attacked the tabernacle doors with their weapons.

‘Blasphemous idolaters,’ Seeley cursed.

Robert was possessed by the urge to run the man through but he turned and walked out, unable to trust himself in the face of such destruction. He stood with his back to the church and looked out over the square. Suddenly he became conscious of the pistol in his hand and he stuck it back in his belt. He had thought nothing of the destruction of the town and the massacre of the population; the Spanish were enemies. But the threat against the church and the priest had driven him to the brink of drawing English blood.

He had not, but the shame of witnessing such an attack and doing nothing to prevent it began to consume him. He walked away, anxious to get back to the Retribution and find solitude to calm the rancorous voice of his conscience. In his heart he was already convinced it was a hopeless cause.

Seeley watched the captain leave from inside the church doors. He was breathing heavily and his heart raced from the righteousness that had taken hold of him. He was cleansing the church for God, ridding it of its idols and graven images. Although he knew many of his men sought only plunder, others had responded instantly to his order to tear down the statues, answering the call of their faith.

The captain too had answered that call and Seeley remembered the haste he had witnessed when they first encountered the church, the aggressive way Varian had pushed through when the door had been breeched and how he had raised his pistol to shoot the priest. But then the captain had hesitated. His furious expression had been a sight to behold, an outward sign of his religious ardour yet, Seeley marked, he had not taken command of the men, nor stayed to watch the faithful propagation of God’s will. Seeley had also heard the accounts of the captain’s fearless charge on the Halcón, but again of how he had spared the Spanish captain. While he had no doubt that his captain was committed to the cause of defeating Spain, Seeley could not help wondering if Varian’s religious convictions matched the depth of his nationalist loyalties.

It was a deficiency Seeley had witnessed in others, an imbalance that placed the Queen above God and put the needs of England ahead of those of the Divine. Varian’s actions bore witness to the tenets of his Protestant beliefs which triggered his impulse to attack the idolaters’ church and shoot the priest, but for Seeley such religious instincts ran deeper.

When Seeley had first entered the town he had been sickened by the depravity he had witnessed in the streets and it had taken all his will not to vomit up the bile that had risen in his throat. But then he had remembered the defeat at Lagos. The Spaniards deserved no mercy. In the fight against the scourge of Roman Catholic heresy there could be no hesitation, no half-measures. He turned once more to look upon the ruin of the church interior and realized it was his duty to instil in every man he could influence the will to wage unconditional holy war against the papist foe.