Armada (42 page)

The wind and tide driven waves slapped against the hull of the
Águila
, her cutwater slicing through the rising surf as the patache tacked across the breadth of the Armada. The sun had set over two hours before and Evardo stood quietly in the bow of the 120 ton vessel, his hand clasping a line of running rigging to keep his balance on the heaving deck. The running lights of the English fleet covered the line of the western horizon. It was difficult to judge their distance. They looked closer than the four miles that separated the fleets, and Evardo glanced over his shoulder to the lights of the Armada, the multitude that was under his care.

Fifteen pataches had been assigned to the screen, nearly the entire complement of such craft sailing with the Armada. Under the feeble light of the half-moon Evardo checked the position of the
Águila
with the boats on his flanks. He had taken over his new command at dusk. Prior to that and throughout the entire day, the pataches had been ferrying victuals from the port of Calais to the Armada. The French governor of the city had not only proved sympathetic to the Spanish cause, he had allowed the local merchants to trade with the fleet. Every ship had received fresh supplies of water and food.

Satisfied, Evardo turned and went aft, staggering along the length of the heaving deck until he reached the tiller. The helmsman was standing with his feet widely spaced for balance, his calloused hand firmly on the tiller. Evardo nodded curtly to the helmsman. From a
comandante
it was an extraordinary gesture of familiarity to a common sailor and the crewman was momentarily taken aback before he returned the gesture.

‘Come up another point to the wind.’

‘Si,
Comandante
.’ The helmsman deftly pushed the tiller a fraction to larboard.

Forward of the tiller Nathaniel Young stood in the lee of the mainmast. Evardo had ordered the Englishman to accompany him, along with ten of his arquebusiers to defend the
Águila
against any attack. Young looked ill at ease but Evardo was confident he was suitable for the task. In any case, if for any reason they did not make it back to the
Santa Clara
Evardo wanted the more experienced
Capitán
de Córdoba in command of the soldiers there. The other ten crewmen of the
Águila
were sailors, hand-picked by Mendez from the men who had volunteered.

‘Ahoy,
Águila
!’

Evardo turned at the sudden call, peering into the darkness off the starboard quarter from whence it came. The voice sounded familiar. While Evardo tried to place it, it rang out again.

‘Ahoy,
Águila
,
Comandante
Morales!’

A skiff came into view. It was skimming over the tops of the waves under the press of a lateen sail. A man was standing in the bow but in the darkness it was impossible to see who it was.

‘Heave to.’ The helmsman adjusted his course as the sailors took to the sheets.

The
Águila
lost headway and began to buck wildly in the swell. The skiff came rapidly alongside.

‘Permission to come aboard,
Comandante
Morales,’ the man called from the bow.

Evardo could finally see who it was. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

‘Of course, Abrahan.’

The older man leapt across onto the deck of the
Águila
. He called over his shoulder for the skiff to bear away and strode over to Evardo.

‘Can we talk,
Comandante
?’

Evardo nodded. He ordered the helmsman to get underway and then led his mentor to the privacy of the bow.

‘Evardo,’ Abrahan began. In the half-light Evardo could see his face was twisted in anguish. ‘I was wrong. I was terribly wrong. You have proven over the past week that you are indeed a man of true courage, your father’s son. Everyone in the fleet speaks of it. I have come here to ask for your forgiveness and to serve with you once more.’

From the terrible moment of his capitulation on the
Halcón
, Abrahan’s forgiveness and acceptance was all that Evardo had wanted. Now Abrahan was asking the same of him. He felt his heart twist at the sight of his mentor supplicating himself.

‘There is nothing to forgive, Abrahan. I was wrong to forfeit the
Halcón
in exchange for my life.’

‘It was God’s will that you lived, Evardo. I see that now. He has guided your hand in this battle and made you an instrument of His war against the heretics.’

Evardo reached out and clasped Abrahan’s shoulder. For the first time in over a year he felt a semblance of peace. It was as if the wounds to his honour were finally healing.

‘But what of your position on the
San Juan
?’

‘I told you, Evardo. Everyone in the fleet knows of your courage. When I requested leave to join you from Juan Martinez de Recalde, he did not hesitate to grant my request.’

Evardo smiled and tightened his grip on Abrahan’s shoulder.

‘Then it’s to your station, old friend,’ he said. Abrahan nodded in thanks before moving off to take command of the helm.

Evardo felt the peace within him become stronger. He had proved his bravery. For his comrades and his mentor, the stain of Cadiz had not only been erased, it had never existed.

But for Evardo part of it still endured. He would not be free of the past until one final part of his honour was satisfied, a part that could only be sated through blood – he must have his revenge. His disgrace at Cadiz would always exist while Robert Varian lived. Only when that cursed enemy was dead would Evardo finally achieve the full restoration of his honour.

Robert twisted the cord of slow-match in his hand, the lighted taper spinning slowly in the darkness, its flame feeding off the cool wind. Seeley stood beside him, his hand on the tiller as he wove the
Hope
through the outer ships in the lee of the fleet. She was a two masted barque, with a square main sail and a lateen mizzen and had been fully rigged by her crew before departure. The westerly wind eagerly drove her on, with Seeley balancing her course with the broad rudder, the deck heeled over to larboard under the press of sail. Robert was glad the sailing master had agreed to accompany him. Seeley had a steady hand and could be relied upon if anything went awry.

The
Hope
breeched the outer fleet just as her sister ships did the same and the eight craft sailed onwards abreast, setting out across the clear stretch of water that led to the enemy. The
Hope
had been packed with every combustible material available. The decks were strewn with old sails, barrels of pitch and heavy coils of frayed hemp rope. In addition the six 3 pound
minions
and five
falconetes
had all been double-shotted, with two round shot loaded back to back. Primed and ready the guns would explode when the flames of the pyre reached them, their barrels splitting asunder, adding to the terror and confusion it was hoped these devil ships would create.

Robert estimated they were already well over half-way between the two fleets. It would soon be time to light the deck. He checked that the tow line leading back to the skiff being dragged behind the
Hope
was still attached. The skiff was their only means of escape. Once the fire had been lit they would have only minutes to lash the tiller, scurry down the rope and cut the skiff loose from its damned escort. It was no fate for a proud ship.

‘I make us just over a mile out,’ he said to Seeley.

‘When will we fire the decks?’ Seeley asked out of the corner of his mouth, never averting his gaze from the lie of the ship.

‘Our orders were a half-mile from the enemy.’

Seeley nodded, and this time his eyes darted to the lighted taper in Robert’s hand. His heart was pounding in his chest and he closed his mind to the fear that every sailor possessed. Once loose, a fire was the damnation of all on board a ship and as a sailor Seeley had always regarded it as a necessary evil, never an ally. To purposely fire a ship seemed an unnatural, almost unholy, deed and Seeley tried to focus on the prize for such a treacherous act against the
Hope
.

All of a sudden Seeley saw a flame in the distance. He spun around, watching in horror as one of the fire-ships burst into a ball of flame.

‘It’s the
Bark Talbot
,’ Robert ran to the larboard gunwale. ‘They’ve set her alight. Damn them, it’s too soon.’

A moment later a second ship ignited, the
Bear Yonge
, and within seconds the flames towered above the height of her main mast. The light from the two ships illuminated the seascape, creating dancing shadows and shapes across the black surface of the water. Robert looked to the Armada. They were still nearly a mile from the windermost ships and any vessels in the path of the
Bark Talbot
and
Bear Yonge
would have plenty of time to slip their anchors and escape. Then Robert spotted smaller ships before the towering hulls of the warships. Until now they had been hidden in the darkness, their running lights too insignificant to single them out, but in the illumination of the fires their purpose was clear.

‘The bastards were waiting for us,’ Robert whispered as he spun around to Seeley. ‘Thomas, two points to larboard. The Spaniards have deployed a screen of small ships across their front. We need to try and outmanoeuvre them.’

Robert counted seven ships within the light of the fires, and there were surely others. He glanced at the taper in his hand. They had agreed a half-mile out, but at that distance, with the enemy screen already prepared, the Spaniards would have more time to grapple the fire-ships and divert them away. He would have to wait until they got closer. But how close? Too soon and the enemy would be handed the chance to divert the
Hope
’s course, too late and they risked being captured when they finally abandoned ship. Given their task, they could expect no mercy from the Spanish. Death would be certain, but it would not be swift.

The wind and tide bore the
Hope
on without pause. Robert called for a further course change. Without crew to man the rigging the scope of that change was limited but Seeley pushed the balance between sail and rudder to the limit. The
Hope
steadied. The half-mile mark slipped beneath her hull. Robert looked to the other fire-ships. They too had seen the danger and were delaying the firing of their decks. Inside this range every captain was his own master and Robert refocused his concentration on the sea ahead. Bringing the taper up to his mouth, he blew on the smouldering flame. It flared into an angry orange light. He needed to act, soon. The fate of the
Hope
had been written, the barque committed. Only the fate of her two-man crew remained in the balance.

‘Fire! Off the larboard bow!’

Every man on board the
Águila
turned at the shouted call.

‘Bastardos,’ Abrahan cursed. ‘The duke was right. Fire-ships.’

‘No more than a mile out,’ Evardo replied, taking his bearings from the course of the wind. ‘We should—
Sancta Maria
…’ he breathed. In the blink of an eye the solitary flame ignited into an inferno, illuminating the stark outline of the fire-ship for an instant before it was consumed by the breadth of the conflagration. It was a terrifying sight, the pyre reaching fifty feet into the air, the ship continuing on its hell-bound course as the wind-fed flames, like clawing fingers, reached outwards in the direction of the Armada.

‘Christ Jesus, there’s another one,’ the lookout called, his terror evident in every word.

The second fire-ship ignited more quickly, her canvas sails exploding in a ball of flame that once more transfixed the crew of the
Águila
. In the glow of the fire Evardo spotted the other enemy ships, their decks yet to be fired. One was dead ahead. He checked his bearings again. The
Águila
was sailing close hauled against the wind. If they could come up another half-point then the ship in front of them would be within their grasp. He called for the minor course change, alerting all on board to his intended target.

The cutwater of the
Águila
crashed through the tide-driven waves, her deck heeling hard over under taut sails. Abrahan had command of the helm, his deft touch assuring their best possible speed as he balanced the hull on the precipice of putting the boat in irons before the wind.

‘Young,’ Evardo called. ‘Bring five of your men to the bow.’

In the distance another fire-ship ignited, followed by another, then another. The screen of pataches had scattered, each crew deciding their own course. The
Águila
was the only boat converging on its chosen ship.

Nathaniel staggered forward with his men. In the light of the fires he could see their faces. They were determined, aggressive, the faces of veteran soldiers who were feeding off the battle lust created by the proximity of combat. Nathaniel felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach. The fire-ships were the English navy’s best chance of shattering the Armada’s formation. Yet he was amongst those resolved to stop them, forced to fight for a cause he no longer believed in.

There was nothing he could do. He was trapped, surrounded by men who had become his enemies without their knowledge. If he revealed himself he would certainly be killed. But if he continued to fight for the Spanish he would be complicit in the defeat of his own country. The accusation his son had hurled at him on the motte resounded in his mind — coward. He tried to silence the voice by raising his own as he arrayed his men along the gunwale.

Without warning an explosion ripped out the forward section of a distant fire-ship followed a heartbeat later by two more, the thunderous blasts sweeping over the
Águila
.

‘Hellburners!’ one of the soldiers shouted.

‘We hold our course,’ Evardo shouted back, steel in his voice, his will dominating the fear he felt clawing at him.

The gap fell to a hundred yards.

‘Helm, prepare to come about.’

‘Aye,
Comandante
.’