Armada (37 page)

Cross slowed his horse to a canter as the sun finally fell below the western horizon. The road was deeply rutted and in the soft afterglow of twilight he feared injuring his mount. Off his right shoulder he could see the tallest houses of Portsmouth and beyond them the distant eastern tip of the Isle of Wight far out on the horizon. The Armada was out there somewhere, still shadowed by the English fleet. Over the past few days Cross had heard all manner of rumours as to how the battle was progressing. One thing was certain however, and on this all accounts were agreed – the Spanish were still advancing up the Channel.

Cross had followed the course of the battle, staying away from the meandering coastline in favour of travelling a more direct route inland. He had covered over 130 miles in the past three days, an exhausting journey that had taken every hour of sunlight in the long summer days. The roads had been busy, slowing his passage, but in many places his journey had been further hampered by the trained bands of militiamen, many of them marching in the opposite direction to the advance of the Armada.

Forewarned by the lighted beacons along the entire length of the southern coastline, the lord lieutenants of each county had gathered their trained bands of militia to oppose any Spanish landing. The Armada had sailed past Cornwall, Devon and now Dorset, and while the militia from each county had been ordered to proceed along the coast to fight in the inevitable battle, many of the laymen had simply decided to return to their homes and farms, knowing they were no longer under any direct threat.

Cross had been appalled by the self-centred attitude of the militiamen but in reality he knew their actions were to be expected. As an agent of the Crown he had travelled the length and breadth of southern England, but most ordinary people had never been beyond the bounds of their parish. London was as distant to them as any of the major cities on the continent, and their lives were only impacted by the Crown in matters of law and administration.

In any case, the untrained militia would be no match for the soldiers sailing with the Armada. Nine thousand men had been gathered in Southampton to defend the port while the governor of the Isle of Wight had a further three thousand men at his disposal. Their numbers were in no way a reflection of their strength and they would quickly be routed by a Spanish force equal to a fraction of their ranks.

Cross was weary to the bone. Every muscle in his legs ached, but he was finally ahead of the battle. Tomorrow the Spanish might try to take the Solent, but whether they did or not mattered little to Cross. His fight was not with the Spaniards, it was with an Englishman. He needed to secure a boat to take him out to the English fleet and the
Retribution
. His goal had never been closer. Before the battle was over he would have Young in his custody. The only question was whether he would pre-empt Young’s act of treachery, or punish him for it.

Nathaniel knocked on the door of the great cabin and waited for the call to enter. He went inside. Commander Morales and Captain de Córdoba were seated at the table eating a meal of rice and charcoaled fish.

‘Your grace, please,’ Evardo said, indicating the chair opposite him.

Nathaniel sat down and Evardo offered him a goblet of Candia wine. He drank deeply.

‘You fought well yesterday, your grace,’ Evardo said. ‘I have heard many reports of how you took command of the fo’c’sle after
Capitán
Alvarado was killed.’

‘Thank you,
Comandante
,’ Nathaniel replied, shifting slightly in his chair.

Evardo stood up and walked around to refill Nathaniel’s goblet.

‘I want you to take temporary command of his men for the remainder of the voyage.’

Nathaniel froze. After yesterday’s action, when the fighting had ceased and the blood lust in his veins had cooled, Nathaniel had been assailed by further thoughts of uncertainty. His hatred for Elizabeth and his desire to see her overthrown had been with him for over twenty years. It was the driving force behind everything he did. In the Northern Rebellion he had led his fellow Catholics in defiance of her rule, but they had been his countrymen, they were Englishmen, fighting to save England. Now however he was being asked to lead foreign troops against his own country.

‘Alvarado’s men followed my orders in the heat of battle, immediately after their captain had been struck down. Now that that moment has passed, surely they will not submit to the commands of an Englishman.’

‘They will,’ Evardo replied confidently. ‘They follow social rank and they follow courage. You have both, your grace.’

Nathaniel nodded with feigned courtesy.

‘You will retain command of the fo’c’sle while
Capitán
de Córdoba will hold the aft castle.’

‘May I offer one piece of advice, your grace,’ de Córdoba said. ‘While the English persist in their tactics of laying off you must continue to return fire with the light deck guns and muskets. But make sure your arquebusiers hold their fire. They will need their ammunition for the close quarter fighting to come.’

‘You believe the English will eventually close?’ Nathaniel asked.

‘Yes,’ Evardo said, frustration in his tone. ‘Their ships might be more nimble, and their cannonry more accomplished but they must know they will never take a Spanish ship without boarding her, and the moment they clap sides, we will have them on our terms.’

Nathaniel nodded, thinking back to the action earlier that day. ‘I thought they might have attempted to take
El Gran Grifón
this morning,’ he said.

‘They would have,’ de Córdoba replied. ‘Had
El Gran Grifón
been a little further adrift of the main fleet.’

Nathaniel made to reply but Evardo silenced him with his hand, his brow creasing in thought. He turned on his heel and left the cabin without another word, making his way aloft. He called for the nearest zabra to be hailed and boarded her as she came alongside.

‘The
San Martín
, quick as you can.’

The zabra spun around and began to weave through the larger capital ships and transports while Evardo anxiously paced the deck, his head bowed in thought.

‘The
San Martín
,
Comandante
.’

Evardo called up for permission to board and went directly to Medina Sidonia’s cabin. The duke was inside with many of his senior officers, including de Recalde and de Leiva, standing around a large chart table.

‘Your grace,’ Evardo said. ‘I need to speak with you.’

Medina Sidonia looked up. He was a short, stocky man, and was one of the youngest in the room. He was heavily bearded and though his face was drawn with lines of fatigue his eyes were alert.

‘
Comandante
Morales,’ he said. ‘This is a closed meeting. Might I trust that what you have to say can wait until afterwards?’

‘What I have to suggest is of vital import, your grace.’

Medina Sidonia lightly fingered the insignia of the Golden Fleece that hung around his neck. ‘Very well,
Comandante
.’

Evardo stepped up to the table. ‘This morning, as you all know,
El Gran Grifón
was set upon by a pack of English warships because she was adrift of the fleet. Only the courageous actions of others saved her from capture. But what if the ships that extracted
El Gran Grifón
had not been able to reach her? What if she had been completely isolated?’

‘Then the English would have taken her as they did the
San Salvador
and the
Rosario
,’ de Recalde said.

‘But they could not because the fighting ships of the Armada were within reach,’ Evardo said.

‘So you believe if
El Gran Grifón
had been out of our reach she would have been boarded by the English?’ Medina Sidonia asked.

‘Or if the English had perceived she was out of our reach,’ Evardo said.

‘Bait,’ de Recalde said with a smile. ‘
Comandante
Morales is suggesting that we lure the English into a close quarter action with bait.’

‘But the King has said we must not delay our advance with a general engagement,’ de Moncada said to Medina Sidonia.

‘We only need to bloody their nose, your grace,’ de Recalde countered. ‘The English are sure to take the bait and try to board the straggler. If we swoop down and capture some of their capital ships they might become less daring in their attacks.’

‘Over sixty of my crew on
El Gran Grifón
were killed in this morning’s action,’ Juan Gómez de Medina cautioned. ‘Any ship adrift of the fleet for longer would pay a heavy coin for the prize of capturing some English warships.’

‘I believe it is a price worth paying,’ Evardo said. ‘I volunteer the
Santa Clara
as bait. She is a warship and therefore better suited to the task. Once grappled we could defend her upper decks until reinforcements arrived.’

The senior officers began to discuss the proposal in detail, with those for and against making their arguments to the duke.

After some minutes Medina Sidonia raised his hand for silence. His instructions were to avoid engaging with the English fleet if at all possible. However he had already contravened those instructions when he ordered the fleet to attack off Portland Bill. He had deemed that attack to be tactically necessary and could defend his decision. He considered Morale’s plan one last time. It could be argued that tactically an ambush would be to the Armada’s ultimate advantage.

‘I have heard enough,’ he began. ‘We rendezvous with Parma within days. That is our primary mission. But I agree that our chances of success will be greatly increased if we can first inflict some casualties on the English fleet and gain some sea-room to windward. Your plan is approved,
Comandante
Morales.’

‘Thank you, your grace.’

‘Might I make one amendment?’ de Leiva asked, forestalling Evardo’s departure. ‘A single ship might be too easily overwhelmed before reinforcements arrive.’

‘We will hold,’ Evardo replied.

‘I do not doubt your resolution or that of your crew,
Comandante
. But for the plan to succeed, no ship will be able to advance to your aid until after the English have clapped sides. I believe two ships together would stand a better chance.’

Medina Sidonia considered the proposal. With no experience of naval warfare to draw upon he quickly deferred to one of his most trusted advisors.

‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘I will call for a volunteer from my own squadron of Portugal to act as the second. Don de Leiva, you will be in charge of the reinforcements.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Then it is settled.
Comandante
, a ship from my squadron will seek you out before dusk. After dark you will both lay to and fall off from the fleet. With luck and God’s favour tomorrow will see the Armada claim its first prizes.’

Evardo nodded. He glanced around the room, looking each senior commander in the eye for a moment before withdrawing from the cabin.

5 a.m. 4th August 1588. The English Channel, off Dunnose Point.

‘
Q
uarterdeck, ho! Enemy stragglers a mile off the larboard bow!’

‘All hands, battle stations,’ Robert shouted, running to the fo’c’sle where he was joined by Seeley. Off the larboard bow was the shadowy coastline of the Isle of Wight. The Armada was close to Dunnose Point, the most southerly point on the island and from there the coast swept inward to the eastern entrance to the Solent. The two Spanish galleons were in close support of each other but completely isolated from the Armada’s defensive formation. It was a perfect opportunity and Hawkins’s squadron was closest to the prize, however just before dawn the westerly breeze had died away.

‘Where is the cursed wind?’ Seeley spat.

‘Coxswain! Launch the longboat,’ Robert shouted over his shoulder. He turned to Seeley. ‘If we’ve no wind, Thomas, then we’ll just have to use brawn. Cast a line from the bow to the longboat and hail any oared coasters nearby. Tell them we need a tow.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ Seeley said with a wry smile and left the fo’c’sle.

Robert wondered how the isolated galleons could have got so far out of formation. One or both of them must have encountered some problem. Either way they were a prize worth pursuing. The commander of the
Victory
had come to the same conclusion and had already lowered his ship’s boat. The two Spanish galleons would soon be under English guns.

‘I count at least a dozen.’ Nathaniel was standing amidst the senior officers on the quarterdeck.

Evardo smiled. The English were as predictable as the rising of the sun. They had taken the bait regardless of the conditions. Fifty yards off the starboard beam the
San Luís
, an 830 ton galleon of the Portuguese squadron under
Comandante
Mexía, was readying for action.

In the distance the crescent formation that had carried the Armada thus far was no more. It was widely suspected that the English had a second squadron of warships further along the coast operating out of Dover and so the fleet was now arrayed in a new formation, one that had been devised to allow for a running defence should the Armada be attacked from the front or behind. It was more rounded, with a strong vanguard led by the flagship and a rearguard commanded by de Recalde and de Leiva. The transport and auxiliary ships were in the centre.

‘All hands to their posts,
mis capitánes
,’ Evardo said. ‘Prepare to repel boarders.’

‘Si, mi
Comandante
,’ the men spoke as one.

The approaching English warships being towed towards them had increased in number. Two ships were in the lead and were closing at a faster speed with the assistance of small oar-powered dispatch boats. One was a galleon that looked similar in size to the
San Luís
. The other was a smaller warship comparable to the
Santa Clara
.

Evardo felt a shiver of doubt run up his spine and angrily shook off the sense of foreboding. The
San Luís
and
Santa Clara
were going to be more heavily outnumbered than he had expected, certainly more than
El Gran Grifón
was the morning before. Evardo could not suppress the tentacles of fear that crept over his resolve. He thought of Abrahan and how, as a boy, his mentor had taught him that without fear there could be no courage. The memory steeled his nerve and he tried to recapture the impulse that had compelled him to volunteer, the desire to prove his mettle to all.