Armada

The Retribution belonged to John Hawkins, the Treasurer of the navy. He had insisted that Varian be master for the voyage ahead and Morgan had readily acquiesced, conscious that his crew would benefit from Varian’s experience. The new master had reported to the Retribution, however for the past three nights, Varian had requested permission to go aboard his former ship to ensure that all would remain in order during his absence. On the first two mornings Varian had returned in the middle of the morning watch, at around six a.m. This morning however he was late and Morgan wondered if Varian’s tardiness was due to disobedience or merely indifference.

‘Longboat approaching off the larboard quarter,’ a lookout called, and Morgan looked to the fast-moving boat. Varian was standing in the bow. As he came alongside he called up for permission to come aboard. It was quickly given and he scaled the rope ladder to the main deck just as the sun finally crested the line of the eastern horizon. He made his way towards the quarterdeck. The ship’s bell tolled seven times.

‘All is well on board the Spirit, I trust, Mister Varian,’ Morgan said, studying anew the dark weathered features of the master. Varian was a tall slender man, narrow in the shoulders and waist. His eyes had the restlessness of a career sailor, constantly checking and rechecking the ship around him.

‘Yes, thank you, Captain,’ Robert replied, ‘I will not need to attend to her again.’

‘Good,’ the captain said shortly and turned once more to the flagship. ‘I must go aboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure for a captains’ council with Drake. See to it that the top gallants are replaced during the watch.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Robert replied as he moved towards the starboard bulwark. He was joined there by Seeley.

‘I was in port last night,’ Seeley said offhandedly, ‘and came upon the Spirit at the southern end of the dock.’

‘I didn’t realize,’ Robert said without turning his head, immediately on guard.

‘I asked for you,’ Seeley continued, ‘but the master there said that you had just gone ashore to see a local trader and would not return until after midnight.’

Robert nodded, silently thanking the quick wits of his friend, Tobias Miller, the master of the Spirit. He had worked with the man for over ten years and had requested him as his master when he was given command of the Spirit six months before. Robert had not returned to the Spirit since being assigned to the Retribution and although Miller did not know Robert’s secret he knew well enough that if his captain had used the Spirit as an excuse to come ashore, he would be best served if Miller supported that lie.

Seeley waited for Varian to explain his absence further but the master continued to stare over the side of the ship in silence. He suspected that Varian had gone ashore to meet a woman, maybe one who was married to another officer in the fleet, or perhaps he was involved in some other wrongdoing, one that necessitated such secrecy. Either way, Seeley disliked the thought that one of the officers of the fleet might be tainted. He believed the upcoming mission, an attack on the Spanish fleet, was a divine one and for them to prevail the heart of every man in the fleet needed to be pure.

Seeley’s grandparents had been martyred by the Roman Catholic Queen Mary Tudor, forever known to Protestants as ‘Bloody Mary’, and she had stripped the family of its title and wealth. Although Elizabeth had restored the Seeley family with its title after she gained the throne, the fortune and estate were gone forever. Now Seeley was determined to avenge the murder of his grandparents by carrying the cause of God and his faith into battle against the hated Roman Catholic Spanish and the antichrist who was their king, Philip II, the former husband of Bloody Mary.

He looked to Varian again. God in his wisdom had placed him on board the Retribution and in the battle to come, when every man in the fleet would be a soldier of the Protestant faith. If the Lord had chosen Robert Varian then, Seeley conceded, he must be wrong about the new master.

The ship’s bell tolled eight times and the boatswain, Shaw, called for the changing of the watch.

‘Call the men to the main deck, Mister Seeley,’ Robert said, eager to begin the day, ‘and have the top gallants brought down.’

‘Yes, Master,’ Seeley replied. His shouted order triggered the sound of bare feet running on the timber decks as all across the fleet the fore-noon watch began.

Robert watched the men take to the shrouds as Seeley directed them from the main deck. The master’s mate was a young man, not twenty-two years old but his social rank gave him an innate confidence which was reflected in his easy command of the men. Robert had honed a similar style of command, although his had been forged over years at sea, his experience and skill earning him the respect of any crew he served with. His steadfast time on the triangular trade route had also brought him to the attention of John Hawkins and Robert had finally received his hard-earned captain’s commission six months before.

Now he was master once more, albeit on one of the finest ships of the English fleet. He was left to wonder anew at how different his life would be if his true lineage was not tainted and could be revealed. His captaincy would have been attained years earlier, undoubtedly on a galleon rather than a merchantman. For all his skill at sailing and experience of fighting as a privateer he had never commanded in battle. Captain Morgan, on the other hand, although his junior, had sailed with Drake when the English fleet attacked the Spanish Main in the Caribbean two years before. It had been a hard fought campaign and although Robert was aggrieved that he had never been afforded such a chance to prove himself, he respected Morgan’s right to command.

Reports that the Spanish were preparing a massive invasion fleet had reached every ear in England and the ships surrounding the Retribution had been assembled to sail once more against the enemy, although this time the attack would take place in Spanish home waters. It was a daring gamble. One worthy of Drake, Robert thought, as he looked to the flagship. He immediately saw the longboat bearing the captain returning to the Retribution. Even from a distance the agitation on Morgan’s face was evident and Robert ran to the gunwale. The longboat came alongside and the captain clambered on board.

‘Mister Varian,’ he called as he went aft of the main deck, ‘report to my cabin.’

Robert walked quickly down the steps from the quarterdeck to the main and doubled back to go aft. He moved swiftly, side stepping the crewmen in the cramped space beneath the quarterdeck, his body slightly stooped in the restricted headroom. The air smelled of boiled meat and unwashed men, while underneath Robert could detect the all pervasive stink of the bilges. Ahead he could see the captain had already entered his cabin at the stern of the ship. He stopped at the door and knocked. A muffled voice commanded him to enter.

The cabin was small but neat, with a cot to one side behind a curtain. Near the stern, under the windows, stood a table and single chair. The captain had cleared the tabletop and was laying out navigation charts, looking at each in turn before pulling another from the rack.

‘Lisbon,’ he said without looking up, his excitement clearly evident.

‘When?’ Robert asked, stepping in to view the charts he already knew intimately.

‘If the wind holds, we sail with the tide tomorrow,’ the captain replied. ‘Then we lay off the devil’s lair to make sure the squadrons of their fleet do not unite.’

Robert nodded, a multitude of thoughts entering his mind at once, including the myriad tasks which needed to be completed before dawn the next morning. Until four days ago he had been like any other trader in Plymouth, fully aware of the growing threat posed by the greatest empire of the age, but unaffected by it. Now he stood shoulder to shoulder with the men who would stand against Goliath.

CHAPTER 2

8th April 1587. Cadiz, Spain.

The rain fell in steady sheets borne by an onshore breeze that filled the air with the salt smell of the deep sea, smothering the odours of the cramped city on the peninsula a mile away. Evardo Alvarez Morales turned into the wind and breathed in deeply before lowering his head. The rain ran off the brim of his hat and he wiped the wind driven moisture from his face and neatly trimmed beard. The storm was blowing from the south-west and the Halcón tugged incessantly at her anchor line, trying to break free, as if to seek shelter from the shattered remnants of the Atlantic rollers that surged past the headland protecting the anchorage at Cadiz.

He looked to the four points of his ship and beyond to the vessels that surrounded him in the upper harbour, many of them belonging to the supply fleet that was hastily being prepared under the protective watch of nine galleys, commanded by Don Pedro de Acuña, anchored in the lee of the city. The Halcón was Evardo’s first command of a galleon, granted to him at just twenty-six by his patron, the Marquis of Santa Cruz, commander of the Armada gathering in Lisbon harbour. With the planned attack on England only months away, Evardo knew he was on the cusp of writing a new chapter in the illustrious history of his family.

Evardo’s grandfather had been a renowned explorer of the Spanish Main, while his father, Alvaro Juarez Morales, fell at the Battle of Lepanto, boldly leading an attack against the galleys of Uluj Ali. For the young Evardo the King’s crusade against the heretic English was his chance to make his name and stand shoulder to shoulder with his next eldest brother who, at twenty-eight, was already an aide-de-camp in the Duke of Parma’s army fighting the rebels of the United Provinces in the Spanish Netherlands.

Evardo glanced over his shoulder as one of his senior officers, the ship’s captain, approached. He nodded curtly to his salute. The ship’s captain was in charge of the seventy-five sailors on board while the soldiers, two hundred of them, were under the command of a separate captain. Those men were currently garrisoned in the nearby Puerto Real and would not be embarked until the day before the galleon sailed.

The wind slackened and shifted for a moment and Evardo moved instinctively to the bulwark of the aft deck, looking out over the side as the Halcón shifted slightly on her anchor cable. He checked her line to the other ships and to the shore, ensuring that all was well and as he looked up again he saw Abrahan Delgado standing beside him. The older man was staring at him, his gaze intense, as if he was scrutinizing his every action. Evardo smiled.

‘All is well, Abrahan,’ he said, ‘you should return to your cot.’

‘While this storm blows my place is on deck, Comandante,’ Abrahan said gruffly, pulling the collars of his cape tightly around his neck as he looked into the wind, his face twisted in a slight grimace as he eased some ancient pain in his back.

Evardo smiled again, liking the older man. He knew the real reason Abrahan was on deck was so he could be on hand should Evardo need his advice. After fifteen years the comandante suspected there was little else his mentor could teach him on any subject.

Abrahan Delgado was not an officer of the Halcón. He was on board as the comandante’s personal aid but the senior officers had quickly learned to respect the opinion of the often irascible old sailor. Evardo had witnessed protracted arguments between his mentor and his captains over sailing and military techniques, and many times he had smiled as he saw the officers nodding in assent, conceding to Abrahan’s viewpoint.

The wind shifted once more to its previous course and again Evardo looked out over the side. The storm had been blowing for three days, its strength drawn from the deep Atlantic to the west. Evardo’s thoughts went to the ships of the flota, the treasure fleet from the colonies that were so vital to the cause of Spain and his most glorious majesty, King Philip. In the open ocean the savage power of the storm would be fully unleashed. Evardo whispered a prayer for the safety of any ships that might be en route home.

He remembered his own commission in the treasure fleet at the age of thirteen, a rite of passage for all young aristocrats who wished to serve in the King’s navy. The towering fore and aft castles of the Santa Catalina, a huge galleon of 900 tons, specially built to take its place in the Flota de Indias, the fleet that plied between Spain and the Caribbean. He could still recall his feelings on the day he sailed from La Coruña, his pride mixed with youthful apprehension, his thoughts on his father who had been dead not two years, and how he had looked to his taciturn tutor, Abrahan, standing by his side.

That commission had lasted four years, taking Evardo across the mighty Atlantic many times, from La Coruña to Veracruz via Havana and back. Almost every night he had dined with the officers, and often with the comandante of the mighty Santa Catalina, learning quickly from these career mariners and soldiers. By the time he had left the Santa Catalina, the awkwardness of his first faltering steps at sea had been replaced by the confident stride of an experienced sailor, ready to climb the established aristocratic ladder of command that had eventually led him to the Halcón.

The boom of a single cannon from the low lying fort on the seaward promontory of Cadiz interrupted Evardo’s thoughts. Noon, the change of the watch. The sky overhead remained iron grey with low cloud, the canopy of a winter evening rather than noontime in spring. The western coastline of Spain was often visited by such tempests, but Evardo was confident that with the change in season only weeks away, the storm was sure to be short-lived.

He looked to the ships of the supply fleet surrounding the galleon, many of which were smaller coastal boats along with caravels and hulks. The men on their decks worked through the rain, spurred on by the end which was clearly in sight. The supply fleet was but two weeks away from being ready. Then it would sail to Lisbon, to stock the mighty Armada. Evardo had decided to sail with them. Although he was not due in Lisbon until the end of the month, he was conscious of the threat posed by English pirates and especially El Draque, Drake, the arch-fiend heretic who had wreaked havoc in the Spanish Main not two years before.

Drake’s attack was only one of a litany of insults suffered by the Spanish over the previous years. The flota, despite sailing in convoy, was under constant threat from English pirates who returned to the bosom of their Queen after every attack, sheltering like cowards under her protestations of innocence and justification. Elizabeth was openly supporting the Protestant rebels of the United Provinces, in defiance of King Philip’s demands that England remained neutral in what Spain believed was an internal conflict.

Now the whole of Spain was rife with the rumour that Elizabeth had murdered her own cousin, Mary Stuart, who in Catholic eyes was the rightful claimant to the throne of England over the bastard queen spawned of an adulterous affair. There could be no higher crime, no greater offence. The English and Elizabeth had gone too far. Although the Armada had been in preparation before Mary’s execution, her death had filled Spanish hearts with a religious fervour and a thirst for righteous vengeance that could not be quenched.

Until the English were crushed, the seas around Spain would never be secure. It galled Evardo that his countrymen could not call themselves safe from molestation in their home waters. He reached out to touch the gunwale of the Halcón, taking solace from the fact that soon the galleon would be in English waters, repaying tenfold the insults suffered by the Spanish Empire and the divine faith of his forefathers.

The wind howled through the shrouds and rigging, a fearful wail that gave voice to the fury of the storm. Robert leaned against the fall of the quarterdeck, his safety line biting into his waist as the bow of the Retribution cut through the crest of a wave. The seawater swept over the bulwark and ran ankle deep across the main deck before fleeing through the scuppers. He looked skyward, searching for the sun he had not seen in days, but the iron-grey clouds filled the heavens, bloated by the unceasing wind.

The Retribution was sailing broad reach under bare yards with only storm tops’ls unfurled. The wind had screamed out of the south-west three days before, scattering the English fleet just as it had sighted Cape Finisterre on the north-western corner of Spain. Robert had been on deck ever since, unable to go below and turn his back on a sea that he had long ago discovered rewarded complacency with treachery. He had slept in the lee of the quarterdeck, snatching fitful hours while Seeley took the watch. He had quickly come to trust his younger mate. Seeley’s hand and nerve were as steady as his own.

The wind shifted and ebbed slightly and Robert looked again to the line of his ship.

‘Steady the helm!’ he shouted, his voice carrying through the open hatch to the helmsman, Price, on the main deck beneath him. Price tightened his grip on the whipstaff and braced his powerful legs against the increasing press of the sea against the rudder. The tiller, attached to the other end of the whipstaff two decks below him, remained steady and the bow of the Retribution held firm.

Robert smiled despite the gnawing fatigue he could feel permeating his every sense. The galleon was a breed apart from any ship he had ever sailed on before and he marvelled at the genius of her design. Even in such heavy weather her longer, slimmer hull and lower fore and aft castles improved her handling and manoeuvrability beyond measure. He squinted through the driving rain to the sea ahead, searching for other ships of the fleet, but visibility had dropped to less than three miles and the towering grey-backed waves hemmed the Retribution in on all sides.