Armada (34 page)

The westerly wind was holding steady. It was a fair breeze, a perfect foil for the fearsome weapon Robert commanded and he looked in frustration at the enemy sailing unmolested along the coastline of England.

‘We were fortunate to escape,’ Robert heard, turning to find Seeley standing beside him.

‘We were more than fortunate. For Christ’s sake, Thomas, we spent the night following a Spanish stern light. Where in God’s holy name did the
Revenge
go?’

Seeley ignored the captain’s blasphemy and thought back.

‘When Drake’s light disappeared he must have changed course.’

‘And with the fleet scattered all to hell, we haven’t a chance of regrouping before the end of the day.’

A pinnace was approaching from the south, turning neatly in the wake of the flotilla before coming alongside the
Ark Royal
. Robert saw the captain hand dispatches to Howard before drawing away to hold station beside the towering warship. Robert called for a slight change in heading bringing the
Retribution
within hailing distance of the pinnace. He recognized the captain and the two men saluted each other.

‘What news?’ Robert called, his hand cupped over his mouth.

‘It’s Drake, he’s taken a huge Spanish prize, the
Rosario
, and without firing a single shot. The gutless Spaniards simply gave her up.’

The pinnace captain’s call was heard by others on nearby ships and questions and cheers rang out, precluding Robert’s chances of getting any further information. It was enough however. Drake had doused his light and changed course to claim a Spanish prize. It was a dereliction that staggered Robert and shattered his faith in Drake.

During the Cadiz campaign a year before, when many other captains had returned to England, Robert had stayed the course and followed Drake without question. It was a decision determined not only by loyalty to one who had given him a field promotion, but also by an instinctive fealty to a man who embodied everything that Robert thought an Englishman should be.

Now Robert saw something else in Drake. He was first and foremost a privateer, a self-centred opportunist. Presented with the chance to take a prize he had ignored his responsibility to the fleet. It was a sobering realization. Drake’s image was suddenly replaced in Robert’s mind by that of his father.

Here too was a man whom Robert had largely come to know through his own thoughts and perceptions. During their many years apart he had built him up to be a man whom he could admire, someone he hoped he could one day openly call his father.

But Robert no longer saw his father as that man. Nathaniel Young was not someone whom Robert could associate with pride, or loyalty, or heritage. He was a traitor. In his determination to resurrect his family name, Robert had ignored it.

Now his father was truly gone, banished forever from England, and from Robert’s heart. The thought stopped Robert cold. If his father was gone forever, then so too was his only link to his family’s lineage. Young or Varian, he was still the same man; a true Catholic, loyal to his Queen and country. It was his actions that defined him as a man, not his ancestors.

Robert’s captaincy of the
Retribution
had been secured through his own merit, not by some favour of birth. He felt a deep sense of pride at his achievement, one far greater than any he had ever felt for his ancestral name. He had raised himself through merit alone. The thought brought him full circle back to Drake, the low-born commander who had become the touchstone for a generation of sailors.

Drake was a powerful, fearless man. His relentless, aggressive pursuit of England’s foes had made him an inspiration to his countrymen, but on this day his mercenary instincts had cost the English fleet dearly. The Spanish had held their formation during the night. Because of Drake the English fleet was scattered, and during the long day to come the enemy would remain free to advance towards their unknown objective. Despite the value of Drake’s prize, the privateer had handed an even greater one to the Spanish – a day’s respite from attack.

5 a.m. 2nd August 1588. The English Channel, off Portland Bill.

E
vardo lay in his cot, his head propped up on his enfolded arm, his eyes locked on the single shard of orange light on the cabin wall. It grew with each passing second and Evardo traced it across the cabin to the corner of a window, his focus shifting to the rising sun that was its source. With a deep groan he raised himself from the cot and ran his hands through his dishevelled hair before putting on his wide-brimmed hat. He had slept lightly over the previous hours, a part of his mind remaining alert to every sound on board. But he felt completely refreshed, gathering up his sword belt as he left the cabin to go aloft.

Pausing on the main deck to get his bearings, he quickly took in the horizons off the larboard and starboard sides. He glanced up at the masthead banners and then looked aft. The enemy fleet were arrayed in battle formation over three miles astern. The semblance of order amongst the English ranks was in marked contrast to dawn on the previous day and Evardo smiled sardonically. Such an impressive display. While yesterday such a formation might have given Evardo cause for immediate concern, this morning there was little the English could do to harass the Armada.

During the night the westerly wind had completely fallen away, leaving both fleets becalmed. The result was an eerie standoff. Soon after midnight Evardo had finally persuaded himself that it was safe to go below to his cabin, leaving strict orders with Mendez that he was to be notified of the slightest change in conditions.

‘The Isle of Portland,’ Mendez indicated as Evardo came up to the quarterdeck.

He turned to look at the rugged low-lying promontory taking shape off the larboard beam. Before sailing from Lisbon every
comandante
had been given a set of maps from the cartographer Ciprián Sánchez. On these Portland was shown to be a land-tied island shaped like an inverted teardrop with its point jutting out into the sea. To the immediate west of it, beyond the return curve of its shoreline, lay the port of Weymouth.

‘Ahoy
Santa Clara
,
Comandante
Morales!’

Evardo looked over the side to the patache approaching under oars.

‘Compliments of Don Alonso de Leiva,
Comandante
. You are invited to join him on board his ship.’

Evardo called for the longboat to be launched and he was rowed across to
La Rata Encoronada
. He climbed up the towering hull and was directed to the fo’c’sle where a table had been erected under a canvas awning. The
comandante
s of the vanguard were seated around it.

‘Ah
Comandante
Morales,’ de Leiva called from the head of the table. ‘Come and join us for some food.’

Evardo nodded gratefully to de Leiva and sat down. A conversation had already begun about what the next days might bring.

‘Medina Sidonia dispatched another patache to Flanders yesterday evening,’ one man said. ‘It sailed out just before dusk.’

‘And still none has returned,’ another remarked.

‘So we have yet to have any communication with Parma. We’ve no idea if the Army of Flanders is ready to embark or even whether Parma knows the Armada has reached the Channel.’

‘He must know, surely one of our pataches has got through.’

‘There’s no way to be sure. To reach Parma a patache has to run the gauntlet of any English ships that might be ahead in the Channel and the Dutch flyboats that we know are blockading the coast of Flanders. It’s possible that none of them have reached Flanders.’

A shadow passed over Evardo’s thoughts as he listened. He recalled the conversation he had had months before with his brother, Parma’s aide-de-camp. Allante had said that Parma doubted the possibility of close coordination between two disparate forces, particularly where one, the Armada, would be constantly in motion. At the time, nearly a year before, Evardo had dismissed those doubts, believing them to be ill-founded, but now in the fluid battlefield of the Channel they could no longer be ignored. The pace of the Armada’s advance was strictly dictated by the weather and the intensity of the English attacks. A scheduled rendezvous could only be achieved through constant communication with Parma.

‘Don de Leiva,’ one of the
comandante
s asked, ‘how exactly are we to rendezvous with Parma’s invasion fleet? We possess no secure port on the coast of Flanders deep enough to accommodate the capital ships of the Armada. Are we planning to send our smaller ships forward to escort Parma’s transports past the Dutch blockade?’

‘We cannot,’ another
comandante
interjected. ‘With the English fleet hard on our heels such a division of forces would be madness.’

‘So if the Armada cannot detach ships to run the Dutch blockade and Parma cannot sally out alone in unarmed transports, how and where are we to meet?’

All eyes turned to de Leiva.

‘The King has ordered us to “join hands” with Parma, so that is what we shall do,’ he said reassuringly. ‘How this is achieved will be resolved when we reach Calais.’

‘Perhaps his grace, the duke, should order the fleet to a safe anchorage on the English coast,’ Evardo suggested. ‘Weymouth perhaps. We could wait there until a line of communication has been established.’

Others around the table voiced their agreement.

‘The King’s orders to the Duke of Medina Sidonia are very clear on this matter,’ de Leiva replied, levelling his gaze at Evardo. ‘We can only seek to gain a safe anchorage on the English coast
after
we have rendezvoused with Parma. In all these matters we must adhere to the plan outlined by his majesty. His will is guided by God.’

Evardo nodded solemnly, resolving to place his faith in the wisdom of his King.

Evardo registered the gentle kiss of air on the back of his neck. He turned around but it was gone and as he began to believe he had imagined the sensation a tiny gust of wind dried the moisture on his lips. Spinning around he looked aloft to the masthead banners of the
La Rata
, his right index finger pointing north as he orientated himself. The banner stirred in a lacklustre attempt to unfurl. Evardo held his breath. It stirred again, and Evardo smiled as the banner started to dance. The rigging groaned. A ripple ran across the main course and everyone around the table stood up. The wind was rising, but not from the west. It was blowing from the north-east. It was a light breeze, no more than a couple of knots, but it was enough. The Armada had the weather gauge.

Evardo turned to the flagship in the distance. The Armada’s primary mission was to secure Parma’s crossing, not defeat the English fleet, but surely, Evardo thought, the duke would realize that the easterly wind was a gift granted by the divine. He silently compelled the duke to act. A plume of smoke shot out from the side of the
San Martín
and the boom of single cannon rolled across the Armada. The pace of Evardo’s heart quickened, and he didn’t dare to believe his eyes. The duke was lowering the topsails of the
San Martín
. It was the signal to engage the enemy.

‘All hands, battle stations!’

A dozen voices repeated the command in half as many seconds, shattering the pre-dawn calmness of the
Retribution
. Men ran to the shrouds and rigging, pushing past each other on the narrow decks, their frantic pace hastened by the strident calls of the officers. A deep rumble permeated the air and the decks trembled as the cannons were run out, the gun crews shouting as one as each was made fast and ready.

Robert was on the quarterdeck, his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed slightly against the wind blowing into his face. The frustration of the previous twenty-four hours was forgotten. Now there was only focus. The enemy had the weather gauge, granted to them by a trick of the wind. They were coming about, the ships of the fighting wings making the turn with a pace that spoke of their eagerness to take advantage of the conditions. Whatever action needed to be taken to counteract the threat had to be taken fast. Robert turned to his sailing masters.

‘Options.’

‘We should come about north-north-easterly,’ Seeley said first. ‘Sail close-hauled to the wind and try to outflank them on the landward wing to regain the weather gauge.’

Robert nodded. ‘Mister Miller?’

‘No signal yet from Howard, Captain. But I agree with the Master. The bastards might take this opportunity to make a play for Weymouth.’

Robert contemplated the course change for a second.

‘So ordered, Mister Seeley, lay close. Helm to north-north-east.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Seeley moved to the fore rail of the quarterdeck and shouted a string of commands, the crew responding swiftly as thousands of hours of sail-craft guided them. Robert took a moment to observe Seeley’s handling of the manoeuvre. Sailing a square-rigged ship close-hauled was a delicate task, requiring a touch that could not be taught or imitated. It was an intuitive ability, granted only to the best sailing masters and Robert nodded with satisfaction as Seeley quickly struck the perfect balance between wind and sail.

He turned his attention to the gap between the enemy’s landward wing and the coastline. At the leading edge of the Isle of Portland was the headland, Portland Bill, but beyond that, some three miles to the south-east and below the surface of the sea was a sandbank known as The Shambles.

‘Captain,’ Miller called. ‘The
Ark Royal
is coming about.’

Robert looked to the distant flagship. Howard had come to the same conclusion and the ships closest to the
Ark Royal
were already falling into her wake as it turned to outflank the enemy. Half a dozen ships closer inshore, including the
Retribution
, had pre-empted Howard’s command. The
Triumph
was leading the pack, Martin Frobisher’s 1,100 ton galleon, the largest in the English fleet. Robert called for Seeley to bring the
Retribution
up closer to Frobisher’s galleon.