Armada (23 page)

Cross shuffled through the debris and walked into the room that was once Clarsdale’s study. The door was gone, as were some of the window panes and the chill wind made the flotsam of paper that was strewn on the floor rustle and dance with every gust. Cross picked up the torn cover of a book;
Christian Thoughts, Volume II
. A sardonic smile lingered on his face for a moment before his mouth twisted in anger. He flung the cover into the lifeless hearth and stormed from the room.

He strode around the expanse of the house, his footfalls echoing off the bare walls and hollow rooms. He had come so close, he thought furiously, and the failure of his ambush burned in the pit of his stomach. Walsingham had been beyond rage when he had heard that Nathaniel Young had escaped his grasp. He had been on the brink of dismissing Cross from his post but Cross had convinced his superior that he still had a chance to capture his son Robert Young. Walsingham had eventually agreed but Cross was left in no doubt that his reputation and position had been damaged beyond repair.

He made his way back to the front door and paused on the threshold to glance once more at the gaping doorway of the study. He cursed. The Duke of Clarsdale would have been an invaluable captive, as would the heretic priest, but death had robbed Cross of even those prizes. He had ordered the two corpses to be buried in an unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground on the summit of the motte. It was the only measure of revenge he could take and it had brought him little comfort.

Cross left the house and made his way towards his horse. Over the previous months he had scoured the ports of the south coast of England and put all the agents stationed there on the alert for Nathaniel Young, less he try to hire or stow away on a ship departing to the continent. The search had been fruitless and Cross had conceded that the Duke of Greyfarne had either gone into hiding in England, in which case he might never be found, or he had by now found some way off the island of England. Cross’s only remaining lead was the search for Robert Young.

But what was the God-cursed traitor’s real name? And where was he now? If he had gone into hiding with his father then he too might never be found. It was a frustrating thought but at least, Cross accepted, the danger of him acting as an informer would be neutralized. Perhaps he was braver than that, or a fanatic as many of these religious zealots were. He might have returned to Plymouth and taken up his post to continue his mission. Perhaps he had other contacts besides Clarsdale and the priest and was, at this moment, passing messages to his traitorous father in Spain.

The thought made Cross hasten his step and he mounted his horse and spurred him into a gallop over the hard ground. The ambush would have made Robert Young more wary, that much was certain, but no man could remain invisible whose very mission called for a position of prominence and importance. Cross was confident he would find him eventually and regain his reputation and standing amongst those who stood for loyalty to the Crown and the Protestant faith.

9th April 1588. Lisbon, Portugal.

E
vardo paced through the extended shadows in the small courtyard, his hand held loosely on the hilt of his sword. As he turned on his heel, he glanced at the stout wooden door on the east face. It remained firmly closed and Evardo wondered impatiently how much longer he would have to wait. The thought brought a wry smile to his face. After so long, he could suffer a further few minutes.

Passing through the centre of the courtyard he heard a clamour from outside and he looked to the arched entranceway that led to the docks. Men were rushing past the opening, many carrying provisions and arms, while heavily laden carts were being driven along the docks, whip cracks splitting the air. Evardo felt a rush of excitement and he gazed at the fraction of Lisbon harbour that was framed in the archway. It was choked with all manner of ships and Evardo felt his chest swell with pride.

Drake’s attack on Cadiz had severely wounded the Armada. His marauding had kept the squadrons apart and distracted the Empire with fears for the treasure fleets. Lesser nations would have lost their resolve in the face of such adversity but Spain had rallied magnificently. Preparations for the divine crusade had never ceased and now the Armada was once more a vital, living thing.

During his absence the Armada had been poised to sail a number of times, but supply problems and the winter months had forced delays. With shame, Evardo had thanked God for those setbacks, for despite their effects on Spain’s plans, the opportunity to fulfil his vow still remained.

Since his return to Spain almost four months before, his brother Miguel had worked tirelessly to secure Evardo a new command. His initial efforts however had been blocked by the Marquis of Santa Cruz, the commander of the Armada and owner of the
Halcón
. Then in February, to Evardo’s secret joy, Santa Cruz had died. The King had swiftly ordered another man into the breach, Don Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, one of the highest ranked nobles in the land. Unfettered by the marquis’s veto, Miguel was finally successful in securing a commission for his brother.

Evardo turned away from the archway and began pacing again. The heat of the day was rising and he moved deeper into the shadows. He glanced again at the closed door. He had been summoned to this place twice over the past week, both times to meet his new patron Diego Flores de Valdés, the commander of the squadron of Castile. On the previous occasion he had met Medina Sidonia.

The duke was an imposing figure and although he was not the warrior that Santa Cruz had been he was a brilliant administrator. At the time of Santa Cruz’s death in February the Armada had been languishing in a mire of supply problems and a chaotic schedule that was struggling to combine the diverse ships and ordinance that had been gathered from throughout the Empire. Medina Sidonia had worked tirelessly from his first day in command and under his firm hand the Armada had made a miraculous leap forward. The number of ships in the fleet had increased from 104 to 130 and the number of troops sailing had doubled to almost 19,000.

Many problems still remained however. De Valdés had shared some of them with Evardo, but he had not yet named the ship he was to command. Evardo had been forced to wait impatiently over the previous days, eager to encounter and solve the problems that surely awaited him on his new ship. The door finally opened and Evardo walked quickly towards it as an orderly came out to call him. After the heat of the courtyard, the interior was cool and Evardo removed his broad-brimmed hat, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The corridors were bustling with activity. Evardo sidestepped his way around tight knots of conversation and frantic runners as he followed the orderly to de Valdés’s office. A cursory knock on the door was followed by the command to enter and Evardo went inside alone.

Diego Flores de Valdés was seated in a high backed chair. He was nearly sixty years old but his dense black hair and moustache gave him the air of a younger man. He was an expert on naval tactics and had been personally appointed to the enterprise by the King to act as one of Medina Sidonia’s principal staff officers. Evardo nodded to him in welcome and then looked to the other man standing beside de Valdés, recognizing him immediately. He was Juan Martínez de Recalde, commander of the squadron of Biscay and second-in-command of the Armada. He was known as a cantankerous man, especially when plagued by his sciatica, but he was also respected as one of the most experienced naval officers in Spain. Evardo nodded to him in turn. De Recalde did not return the courtesy.

‘
Comandante
Morales,’ de Valdés began, looking down at the sheaves of paper that covered his desk. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly.’

‘Morales,’ de Recalde repeated with a contemptuous sneer. ‘The
comandante
who surrendered his ship at Cadiz?’

Evardo bristled at the remark but held his tongue. It would not benefit him to argue with such a high ranking officer and in any case it was not the first time he had been harangued over his role at Cadiz since returning to Spain. The whole country seemed to be looking for people to blame for that defeat and he had encountered disdainful stares and whispered conversations at every turn. On each occasion however he had striven to ignore them, concentrating instead on his objective. He looked at de Recalde out of the corner of his eye. The commander could have his opinion. Evardo’s commission had come at de Valdés’s request and had been approved by Medina Sidonia. He did not need de Recalde’s good graces.

‘I heard you gave up your sword in the midst of battle,’ de Recalde taunted, stepping forward from behind the desk. ‘I hope you will not repeat that act when we meet the English again.’

‘I defended my ship until the fight was lost,’ Evardo retorted angrily, his decision to remain silent forgotten. He took a half-step towards de Recalde. ‘I demand that you tell me who told you such a lie.’

De Recalde stepped up to Evardo and stared menacingly into the younger man’s eyes.

‘You can demand nothing of me, Morales. But if you must know, the man who told me of your surrender is the master of my flagship, the
San Juan
, Abrahan Delgado Vargas.’

The colour drained from Evardo’s face.

‘Abrahan?’ he whispered incredulously.

‘And I take Vargas at his word,’ de Recalde continued. ‘I’ve known the man forty years. We were fighting English pirates when you were still feeding at your mother’s
pezón
.’

‘Juan Martínez,’ de Valdés said abruptly, rising from his chair, anxious to put an end to the conversation. De Recalde was pushing Morales too hard. The last thing he needed was the irascible commander duelling with one of his
comandante
s. ‘Kindly do me the courtesy of allowing me to address my officer.’

De Recalde glanced over his shoulder at de Valdés. He grunted a reply and looked at Evardo one last time before brushing past him to leave the room.

‘He is a hard man, Morales,’ de Valdés said, indicating the door. ‘But you must not let such words affect you. Your brother has explained to me what happened at Cadiz, and in any case I knew your father and admired him greatly. I would trust any son of his in battle and your record before Cadiz was exemplary.’

Evardo nodded in gratitude, although de Valdés’s words gave him scant comfort.

‘I have decided on a ship for you,’ his patron said, picking up a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘Given your previous duty in the
Flota de Indias
, I am giving you command of one of the ships of the Indian Guard, the 530 ton galleon,
Santa Clara
. Here is confirmation of your commission.’

Evardo took the proffered paper.

‘Thank you, señor,’ he said distractedly, his mind still on Abrahan. That others believed him a coward angered him, but Evardo had already decided their disparagement would not distract him from his duty. In any case, they were strangers and he was not responsible for their thoughts.

But Abrahan was different. Evardo had been angry at his mentor for how he had spoken to him after Cadiz, but he had nursed the hope that after so many months Abrahan might have seen the error of his judgment. Evardo had tried to find him upon his return to Spain. He had gone to Cadiz to learn the fate of the
Halcón
’s crew and was told that apart from those held for ransom, the English had released all their Spanish prisoners when they left the port. But Abrahan had not returned home and Evardo’s search had stalled.

Now he had found Abrahan, but it was a bitter revelation. His mentor was still ashamed of him. He glanced down at his commission.
Santa Clara
. He repeated the name. A galleon command. It was what he had wished for and he silently recited a brief prayer of thanks before looking back to de Valdés.

‘Thank you, señor,’ he said again, this time earnestly, and left the room.

Evardo stood outside the door for a moment. The corridor was as busy as before with men rushing in every direction. Evardo walked through them, his pace increasing with every stride. He went along the courtyard and out onto the docks.

The harbour was a confusion of hulls, masts and rigging with pennants of every hue fluttering on the light breeze. The
Santa Clara
was there somewhere, hidden amongst the multitude. Evardo went in search of a skiff to take him to his new command. There was much to do. The fleet would be sailing within weeks and Evardo had but a short time to ready himself for the battle to come. He had to prove himself to his new crew, to the commanders who doubted his courage, and to his mentor. He could not ask for his honour to be restored – he must win it back.

Robert opened the door to the fo’c’sle and stepped inside. The air was rank with the smell of faeces and stale sweat. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and looked around the near pitch darkness. The portholes had been sealed tight to protect the men inside from further exposure to whatever foul air had infected them. Powell, the ship’s surgeon, was crouched over one of the men, bleeding him. Another moaned nearby and Robert heard the liquid rush as the man’s bowels voided. He caught the surgeon’s eye and motioned for him to come out onto the main deck. Robert slipped out through the door again and went immediately to the bulwark. Only then did he exhale and gulp in the clean salt laden air of Plymouth harbour.

‘Yes, Captain?’ he heard and turned around.

‘Well, Mister Powell?’ He had already deduced the answer from what he had seen.

‘It’s the flux, Captain. Four cases so far but I’ll warrant we’ll have a dozen more by tomorrow. I’ve instructed the swabber to clean out all the upper decks and the liar is giving the head another going over.’

Robert nodded, agreeing with the surgeon’s orders. He briefly recalled his stint as a liar when he was a ship’s boy, a task given to the first crewman caught uttering a lie at the beginning of each week. Seconded to the swabber for seven days he was always given the loathsome task of cleaning the latrine under the beakhead.