Armada (33 page)

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

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

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

‘Open the cursed door,’ he roared again.

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

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

‘In the name of the Queen, open up.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seeley
.

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

‘
Retribution
.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘They seem damned close,’ Seeley said warily.

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

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

‘Aye, Captain.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Quarterdeck! Enemy ships off the larboard beam.’

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

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

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

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

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