Armada (47 page)

A call rang out from the mast head of the
Retribution
. Robert turned. A massive Spanish galleon was approaching off the bow and Seeley quickly bore away, widening the gap between the two ships. Robert looked back to Morales but the change in course had obscured his view and the Spaniard was lost from sight. The
Retribution
came back to windward. The larger Spanish galleon sailed in to lay aboard of the
Santa Clara
, shielding her from further attacks. With grim resignation Robert ordered Seeley to heave to.

Heavy squalls rolled in from the north-west and across the width of the Armada the English fleet began to disengage and draw away. The shot lockers of almost every fighting ship were empty. There was nothing more the English fleet could do. Although they continued to shadow the Spaniards they soon lost sight of the Armada in the squalls. They had fought to their last round. Now the outcome was in the hands of the Almighty. The north-westerly picked up even greater strength, forcing the Armada ever onwards towards the Bank of Flanders. For the Spaniards the day had not yet ended, but for the English, the Battle of Gravelines was over.

9 a.m. 9th August 1588. The Banks of Flanders.

A
ll around Evardo men fell to their knees, praising God on high. Padre Garza led them in prayer, intoning a benediction, and they responded fervently, their hands clasped tightly, their smiling faces lifted to the grey heavens.

The night just past had been a terrible time, with men pleading in the dark for deliverance as the north-westerly drove them onwards over the black seascape towards the shoals of Flanders. Dawn had followed, but the feeble rays of the sun had brought little succour to the men. All eyes had gone to the approaching coastline, clearly visible off the larboard bow. Daylight also revealed the other ships of the Armada. The dark of night and strong winds had scattered them eastwards, splintering their defensive formation, but the loss of cohesion had been of little consequence. The crescent would give them no protection against the elements and the men had begged the padre for final absolution as the
Santa Clara
sped towards her fate.

Then, inexplicably, the wind had changed, swinging around south-south-west. For a long moment Evardo and the rest of the crew had stared disbelievingly at the masthead banners before their wits returned and Mendez brought the
Santa Clara
hard over, bearing her away from the coastline and back to the deep.

Evardo studied the soldiers who remained kneeling around him, at their exhausted, almost delirious expressions. Padre Garza was walking amongst them, touching each on the head in blessing and they rose one by one, walking away aimlessly.

‘
Es un milagro
,
Comandante
,’ the priest said as he passed.

Evardo nodded solemnly in reply, but inside he felt nothing but disdain. A miracle. If this was God’s work then He indeed moved in mysterious ways. Evardo looked to the flotsam that was the Armada.

Like a hammer blow the full scale of the previous day’s defeat struck him. He knew of only three ships that had been lost, but amongst those still afloat not one of them was fit for another full scale battle. The crews of every fighting ship had been decimated by enemy artillery. Evardo hadn’t the heart to go below to the surgery to discover the extent of his own casualties but he estimated at least two score of his men had been killed in the day’s fighting.

The
Santa Clara
steadied on her new course, slightly abeam of the tide and the waves pounded off the damaged hull, an echo of the English cannon fire that would forever haunt Evardo’s memories. He could hear Mendez shouting at the sailing crew, directing them in their task. The men moved like drudges, weighed down by fatigue and loss. Their morale was completely shattered. Evardo wondered how he would rouse the men to greater sacrifice. He too had lost his stomach for the fight.

In the distance, three cannon shots sounded in succession. It was the
San Martín
, calling the fleet to form on the flagship. She was in the rear, closest to the English fleet far to the south-west. Evardo confirmed the order to Mendez and while the
Santa Clara
turned her bow to luff close and await the flagship to come up, Evardo noticed that not every ship was responding. The fighting spirit that had carried the Armada through the Channel was gone, blown apart by countless English guns.

Off the starboard flank Evardo spied the
San Juan
, Abrahan’s ship that had come to the aid of the
Santa Clara
at the close of battle the day before. Evardo searched the distant quarterdeck of the Portuguese galleon, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend, to somehow gain strength from seeing his former mentor. The conditions defied him however and with heavy heart Evardo tried to focus his attention on his own ship.

The
San Martín
would reach them within the hour. But what then, Evardo wondered. The south-westerly was blowing them ever further away from the Flemish coast and Parma’s army. They could not hope to push through the prevailing wind and the English fleet to effect a rendezvous. It was a forlorn hope, but the alternative, to run before the wind, was unthinkable. Ahead of them lay the wilds of the North Sea. The King’s plans ended with the Armada and Parma ‘joining hands’. There was no contingency for failure, no strategy that could overcome what God had now clearly ordained.

The enterprise was over. The Armada could not achieve the impossible. The English could not be defeated in battle and Parma remained beyond their reach. Evardo turned away from the approaching flagship and faced northwards to the expanse of the North Sea. Desolation emptied his heart. They had fought so hard, forfeited so much. All that remained was the voyage home and with the Channel closed behind them they would be forced to sail the long route back around Scotland and Ireland. It was a godforsaken prospect, a voyage that would surely condemn the most damaged ships in the fleet. Evardo was filled with bitterness. Truly, God had finally forsworn their cause and turned His back on the Spanish Armada.

From the fo’c’sle Robert stared at the distant sails of the Armada. They seemed to be slowly converging but from so far away it was almost impossible to discern their purpose. The change in wind had saved the Spaniards from the Banks of Flanders. Now they were reforming and Robert felt anxiety gnaw on his every sense. Whatever the enemy decided to do next, the English fleet was powerless to stop them. They had no ammunition. At dawn, Robert had lent his voice to the desperate calls from every ship for supplies of powder and round shot.

They still had the weather gauge. It was their only remaining advantage. Robert glanced behind to the quarterdeck. Seeley was there, in firm command of the helm. Robert felt his anxiety descend into panic. For some reason Seeley had remained silent but Robert feared it was only a matter of time before he exposed him. In the eyes of all Englishmen Robert would be an ally of the Spanish. He would be executed as a traitor and the injustice of this sentence washed over him in a wave of anger.

‘Pinnace closing off the starboard beam!’

From the quarterdeck Seeley watched the small boat. She bore no markings. He called out a slight course change to aid her approach and then checked the trim of the
Retribution
. He saw the captain descend from the fo’c’sle and move towards the main deck. At the beginning of the battle off Gravelines Seeley had scrutinized every order of the captain’s, ready to countermand them. But never once had the captain shirked from the fight and as the day wore on Seeley had found himself following the captain’s orders without hesitation. Every command had cost the Spanish dearly. The captain had fought like a lion and Seeley wondered if more could have been asked of any Englishman.

Robert waited on the main deck as the pinnace came alongside the
Retribution
. From over the bulwark he heard a call for permission to board. Robert nodded at the crewmen as they quickly lashed on the smaller boat. A man appeared over the gunwale and spoke briefly with a crewman who indicated to Robert. The man stepped forward quickly.

‘Sir Robert, my name is John Cross. I am an agent of the Crown. I wish to speak with one of your officers, Thomas Seeley.’

Robert’s stomach lurched at the request.

‘Why do you need to speak to him?’ Robert asked, concentrating on keeping his voice steady.

‘He has information I seek, about a traitor I am hunting. A man named Robert Young.’

Robert felt the blood drain from his face. With an enormous effort of will he indicated Seeley on the quarterdeck. Cross turned away and Robert looked desperately towards the pinnace as he searched for a way to escape. It was impossible, he was trapped. As Cross started to walk towards the quarterdeck Robert followed him, his hand unwittingly falling to the hilt of his sword.

‘Thomas Seeley?’ Cross reached the quarterdeck.

Seeley nodded and stepped forward.

‘Clear the deck,’ Robert ordered and all but the three men went below to the main. Robert stood slightly apart, his hand still on his sword. He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring that the rest of the crew were out of earshot. Cross introduced himself to Seeley.

‘It would seem, Master Seeley, that you and I are searching for the same man. A traitor named Robert Young.’

Seeley’s eyes darted to the captain before returning to Cross. ‘How do you know of this?’

Cross briefly explained about his meeting in the tavern and the ambush on a motte outside Plymouth where Robert Young and his father had escaped him.

‘I followed the fleet from Plymouth,’ he continued, ‘and had you not crossed over to Calais and engaged the Spanish there I would have reached you sooner. But I pray that is of no matter. Tell me, Master Seeley, have you found Robert Young?’

Seeley hesitated. This time he did not look at Robert.

‘I found him,’ he replied.

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s dead.’

Cross’s face froze. ‘Dead—are you sure?’

‘Yes. We found this icon in the surgery.’ Seeley reached into his pocket and pulled out the small inscribed crucifix. ‘This prompted our investigation and although we searched the ship, and I personally questioned all the crew, we were unable to reveal his true identity. It was only when one of the men killed on the first day of battle was being prepared for burial that we discovered this in a concealed seam of his clothes.’

Again Seeley reached into his pocket. This time he withdrew the statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary, turning it over to reveal the name underneath. Cross took the icon in his hand and examined it before handing it back.

‘Who was he?’

‘A mate,’ Seeley spat with false anger. ‘One of the junior officers – may he burn in hell. We threw his body over the side. Isn’t that right, Captain Varian?’

Robert couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had barely recovered his composure before Cross turned to look at him for confirmation. He nodded, not trusting his voice, and Cross looked back to Seeley once more. The agent uttered a dejected note of thanks, cursing his ill fortune for having lost the chance to take Young alive. Seeley echoed Cross’s lament before leading him from the quarterdeck.

Robert watched them walk away, unable to take in that he had been granted a reprieve. Seeley turned his head to look back. Robert stared at him, trying to read his intent. Seeley nodded, just once, and Robert understood. For Seeley there was no lie. Robert Young was dead, and in his place a true and loyal Englishman commanded the
Retribution
.

21st September 1588. Santander, Northern Spain.

T
he 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.