Armada (5 page)

Father Blackthorne stared at the duke for a moment longer. Men like Clarsdale represented the last bastion of hope for the true faith in England. His lips were verbalizing some indecipherable thought and his face twisted slightly as if grappling with some unspoken demon. For an instant Father Blackthorne was tempted to intervene, wanting to ease whatever pain the duke might be feeling, but he hesitated, intimidated by Clarsdale’s demeanour. He left the room without another word.

In darkness the priest walked unerringly to the entrance of his sanctuary on the top floor, a secret panel that led under the eaves of the house where a chapel had been constructed for the duke and his household. In that tiny space he lit a single candle and knelt before it. He prayed, and searched for hope in the entreaties he had spoken since youth, asking God for guidance in the way that many of his flock asked him, conscious all the while that his words were spoken in one of the last remaining footholds of the true faith in a realm that was rapidly embracing a path to perdition.

Robert crashed through the door of his tiny cabin and collapsed on the narrow cot, oblivious to the cockroaches that scurried away from his unexpected presence. He was exhausted and his every muscle cried out for the weightlessness of sleep. The storm had finally abated after five relentless days, and the fleet had rendezvoused once more off of Cape Finisterre. Given its severity, the majority of ships had weathered the tempest well and while many of the older vessels needed running repairs, the only loss had been the pinnace
Deer
.

Now the fleet was once more on course for Lisbon, sailing on a steady tack. Robert had mechanically seen out an extended watch to allow time for Seeley to rest fully, knowing the younger man was closer to collapse. Only upon his return did Robert finally go below. He was too tired to remove his outer clothing. The seawater that had drenched him through during the storm had long since dried out, leaving a salt residue that rubbed his skin raw at the joints.

The stern cabin was tiny, seven feet by five, but it was private, a singular luxury on a galleon and a far cry from the fo’c’sle and gun deck where the majority of the crew slept. Robert’s father had secured him a berth on one of John Hawkins’s ships when he was thirteen years old. As a gentleman’s son he had been taken on as a cabin boy, a servant to the captain and senior officers. He had quickly learned the harsh lessons of life at sea; the brutal discipline meted out for even the smallest infraction and the need for constant vigilance while off duty against the pederasts on board.

Robert found protection amongst those who themselves had sons serving on other ships. They had made sure he received his fair share of rations – even if the rations were weevil-infested biscuits and foul smelling meat and fish stews – taking only his quota of beer as payment. They had taught him all there was to know about working a ship below and above decks, while the officers informally schooled the eager boy in navigation and sail-craft, quickly marking him as an astute pupil.

The transatlantic voyages of the triangular trade were long and arduous, particularly the slave run of the middle passage, when pestilence stalked the ship, exacerbating the mysterious curse of scurvy that decimated crews too long at sea. Robert had contracted malaria on such a voyage, a disease that had taken him to the edge of death with its first attack, and his body still bore the remnants of that illness, a tinge of yellow in the outer corner of each eye. It had reoccurred too often over the preceding years and Robert constantly feared its coming, conscious of how easily it could end his command in favour of a healthier man.

He rolled over on the cot and stared up at the low ceiling, his hand reaching for the pocket of his breeches. He fumbled with the double fold of material inside, a secure pouch to ensure the items did not accidentally fall out. He glanced at the door and withdrew a silver crucifix and a marble statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The two tiny symbols had once belonged to his father – his real father – and were inscribed with the family name. He rarely took them out, often times forgetting they were even there, and he studied the sacred objects in the dull light of the lantern swinging above him, wondering how his father, if he was alive, would react to his son’s commission.

Since receiving the order from John Hawkins to take the position of master on board the
Retribution
, Robert had had little time to think of its import. Drake was taking the fleet to pre-emptively attack the Spanish forces and thereby thwart their plan to invade. Robert strongly believed the Spanish had no right to set foot on the soil of England, but not for the first time he wondered if he, as a Catholic, should somehow support the Spanish King’s motives and the blessing given to them by the Pope.

‘
Cygnet
coming alongside!’

The call from the lookout interrupted his thoughts and Robert swung his feet off the bed to go on deck.

He stood up and was suddenly lightheaded with fatigue. He reached out instinctively for balance, breathing in deeply until his vision cleared, and was about to open the door when he noticed the crucifix and figurine had fallen on to the floor of the cabin. A breath caught in his throat and he cursed his lapse. On land such an exposure of his true faith would have him condemned as a recusant and his career would be finished. At sea, in a warship sailing towards the enemy, he would be branded as a spy and his life would surely be forfeit. He stuffed them back into his pocket and double checked that they were secure before opening the door to stagger back on deck.

The pinnace
Cygnet
was a hundred yards off the starboard beam and closing. Captain Morgan stood at the gunwale, waiting for his opposite number to come within earshot. Robert walked over to him, his eyes darting to the four points of the
Retribution
as he did, then beyond to the Portuguese coast on the eastern horizon. He recognized the long sweep of the shoreline. Lisbon was but a day away.

‘Captain Morgan!’ a voice called from the
Cygnet
. All on deck sought out the figure of the
Cygnet
’s captain on the quarterdeck opposite.

‘Captain Bell,’ Morgan replied, raising his hand.

The
Cygnet
closed to within fifty yards.

‘Steady the helm,’ Robert shouted instinctively, the close quarter sailing increasing his vigilance.

‘New orders from the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
,’ Bell called, his hand cupped over his mouth against the wind. ‘The
Golden Lion
has captured a small craft and seized papers that speak of a large supply fleet in the Bay of Cadiz.’

Many of the words were whipped away by the wind but the implication of what remained was clear. Morgan’s brow creased. Surely Drake was not going to change the priority of the mission.

‘You are to come about south-west and bear away from the coast,’ Bell continued, ‘and strip your masts of any flags that identify you as English.’

‘But what of Lisbon? What of our original orders?’ Morgan protested, angry that as a leading officer he had not been consulted.

‘They are for naught,’ Bell shouted, ‘Drake commands and we sail for Cadiz!’

29th April 1587. Cadiz, Spain.

D
on Pedro de Acuña paced the aft deck of the
Asuncion
, the command galley of a flotilla of nine anchored in the lee of Cadiz. He walked with his arms folded behind his back and his foot traced a line in the timbers of the deck. He was a short man, with a solid frame and his shoulders swayed in time with the gentle roll of the deck beneath him. De Acuña glanced up at the city as he made his turn at the portside bulwark, his mind drifting back to the meal in the governor’s house the evening before and the company thereafter. A smile crept onto his face as he pictured the youthful beauty who had shared his bed.

The wind ebbed for a moment and de Acuña’s nose wrinkled at the stench from the galley slaves. There were 144 of them chained to their oars on the open main deck. De Acuña looked upon them with disgust. They sat languidly at their oars, their heads bowed in silence with only the occasional rasping cough emanating from their ranks. They were condemned men, sentenced to serve at the oars of the
Asuncion
at the King’s pleasure and de Acuña thought again of how welcome the governor’s house would be after the confines of the galley.

The day on board his command ship had been like any other over the previous month; long and tedious, but thankfully it was coming to an end. The sun was already dropping at pace towards the western horizon behind El Puerto de Santa Maria on the far side of the harbour mouth. He looked to the supply fleet anchored a mile further up the harbour, their individual hulls and masts indistinguishable save for the 1,000 ton Genoese merchantman and one of a pair of galleons he knew to be amongst them, its high castles silhouetted against the evening sky.

De Acuña’s gaze remained fixed on the distant galleon, a magnificent evolving breed of ship so different to the aged galleys of his command. At Lepanto the galley had reigned supreme but now they were rapidly becoming obsolete in an age where warships were not only measured by the number of men and cannon they could carry, but also how far they could project that power. The sturdy ocean-going galleons had pushed the borders of the Spanish Empire to the four corners of the globe but its success had left ships such as the
Asuncion
languishing in home waters, relegated to guarding merchants and victuallers, a loathsome task for the once noble galley and its
comandante
.

‘Ships approaching bearing north-west,’ a lookout called and de Acuña spun around to look beyond the harbour mouth and the tip of the headland of Cadiz. A fleet of sail were strung out across the sea lane to the harbour, their number difficult to gauge. De Acuña smiled. Juan Martínez de Recalde’s squadron, he thought to himself. Their arrival from the Bay of Biscay was long overdue. He called the galley’s captain to his side.

‘Signal the
El Gato
. Tell them to come alongside,’ he ordered and the captain called to the patache, a small sailing ship attending the galleys.

The
El Gato
tacked swiftly into position and de Acuña transhipped onto the nimble craft, ignoring the salute of its captain as he ordered him to make haste to the edge of the harbour mouth. De Acuña wanted to welcome the commander of the Biscayan squadron personally, knowing how influential and powerful de Recalde was. As the
El Gato
swung away, de Acuña made his way to the foredeck, his eyes searching for de Recalde’s flagship, the
Santa Ana
, a magnificent 760 ton galleon that had been launched only the year before.

The oncoming ships bore on, now less than a mile away, and de Acuña’s eyes narrowed as he noticed for the first time that none of them had their masthead banners unfurled. He scanned the broad front of the squadron, searching again for the flagship, but the galleon in the van looked unlike any he had seen before. He felt a slight chill of unease but quickly dismissed it, angry at his sudden nervousness. The
Santa Ana
could be sailing at the rear of the squadron, or might even have disengaged at Lisbon.

De Acuña kept his attention on the lead galley. Its decks were frantic with activity and its sails remained unfurled although the harbour mouth was almost upon them. The gap fell to four hundred yards and de Acuña could now make out individual figures on the fo’c’sle. His eyes narrowed against the wind as he tried to focus, unease creeping up his spine once more. They were spaced out along the gunwale and seemed to be…muskets! They were carrying muskets!

‘Bear away!’ de Acuña shouted and he gazed in horror as an eruption of smoke burst forth from the bow chasers of the galleon, followed a heartbeat later by the boom of cannon.

The sea in front of the
El Gato
exploded and water flew up in a torrential spray. The salvo fell mercifully short and the patache heeled over into the turn, its nimble hull, under a full press of canvas, sailing swiftly out of the path of the incoming ships. De Acuña counted the number of enemy ships, his anger at the deviousness of the surprise attack overriding his alarm that such a powerful fleet was arrayed against him. For a moment he wondered who they could be, but he realized quickly there was no other foe who would dare to attack one of the greatest ports in Spain. The galleons were English!

He looked to his galleys. They had already slipped their anchors and the finely balanced vessels were quickly coming up to their attack speed. He called to the captain to steer an intercept course to the
Asuncion
, eager to take command of the flotilla, knowing that every passing minute was one lost to the enemy, and he swiftly made the aft deck of his galley.

‘Signal the squadron to form rank and present their bows to the enemy. We must try to hold the line here at the harbour mouth.’

The crew of the
Asuncion
responded with alacrity while all around the other galleys separated to gain sea room, turning to bring their two fore mounted, preloaded,
medio cañónes
to bear.

De Acuña watched his squadron manoeuvre with pride, their movements precise and controlled although they were facing an enemy many times their superior in both number and firepower. The archaic strength of a galley to ram and board could only be used against becalmed galleons, not those with the wind to command. His squadron were following his orders without question, but de Acuña realized that before his ships had fired even a single shot, they were doomed to fight a losing battle.

Evardo heard the cannon’s report a mile away. Its sound was muted by distance and he looked to the mouth of the harbour. A fleet of sailing ships was on the cusp of entering. The welcoming salvo marked them as de Recalde’s squadron but Evardo noticed with curiosity that they were sailing under a full press of canvas, a seemingly unwise approach at speed into the confines of the harbour mouth.