Armada (40 page)

A gentle gust of wind swept over the
Retribution
. Robert checked his bearings. A south-westerly. The English fleet had the weather gauge. Seeley’s voice rang out and the crew took to the rigging, the topsails unfurling as the breeze steadied.

A mile away Howard and Drake had begun a concerted attack on the seaward wing of the Armada, forcing the Spaniards to tighten their formation, pushing them deeper into the Channel. Frobisher, in the mighty
Triumph
, was off Dunnose Point, pitting tide and circumstance against the foe, the weather gauge giving him speed and agility that none in the Armada could match. The earlier skirmishes had given way to a fleet-wide battle with the English mounting a full offensive. The Spanish were holding firm, but the wind and waves were against them and as the day progressed a fated reality became apparent. Coveted or not, the Spanish would be denied the Solent.

2 p.m. 5th August 1588. The English Channel, south of Eastbourne.

T
he air was heavy, a sun-warmed veil that drew sweat from every pore as the men of the
Retribution
worked to repair the battle damage. The ship resounded with the staccato beat of hammers pounding against timber and iron, cut through by the strident voice of the master carpenter as he directed work from the main deck, while aloft the yeomen of the sheets and jeers oversaw the re-rigging of a new mizzen mast.

Robert was in his cabin, lying supine on his cot, his eyes half-focused as he studied the grain on the deck beam above his head. The fleets had been becalmed since dawn and were separated by some three miles, creating a lull in the fighting. Robert had spent the morning on the quarterdeck, determined to occupy his mind with the work demanded of his galleon, but his efforts had proved futile. He had gone below, inviting Seeley to accompany him and over the previous two hours they had discussed the action of the day before, specifically how the Spanish galleons had survived the firepower of ten times their number. Without reaching any conclusions the conversation had eventually fizzled out and both men had lapsed into silence.

There was a knock on the cabin door. It was Larkin. He requested permission to see Robert and was invited in. Seeley poured him some grog.

‘It’s our ammunition stocks, Captain,’ Larkin began. ‘Without resupply we’ll soon have to withdraw from the battle.’

‘Tell me exactly what remains.’

The master gunner gave Robert a full account, including powder. It was enough for two to three days’ skirmishing at most. One day in a full engagement. Robert took a swig of grog to stifle his growing anxiety. Not only had the massive amount of shot they had already expended not inflicted any serious damage on the enemy ships, now they were faced with the prospect of having to disengage.

Despite all their efforts the Armada was only days from its objective. The English navy should have secured a score of prizes by now and driven the rest of the Spanish fleet into the depths of the North Sea. Instead they had failed to take any Spanish ships by their own actions and with every encounter their chances of stopping the Armada were diminishing.

‘It’s not enough,’ he said almost to himself.

‘Where are the cursed supplies we requested?’ Seeley said. ‘Every warship in the fleet has the same problem and yet the only significant amount we’ve received so far has come from a ship the Spanish abandoned.’

‘Begging your leave, Captain,’ Larkin said. ‘But that’s why I wanted to see you. What we have
might
be enough, if the conditions were right.’

‘How?’

‘Well, sir, so far we haven’t been able to cripple any of their ships, even with our cannon pedros.’

‘And?’

‘It’s the range, Captain. It’s too far.’

‘But we’re firing well within range, even for the sakers,’ Seeley interjected.

‘Any one of my culverins can throw a ball over a thousand yards, but their effective range is nearer four hundred and already at that distance they’re only good against men and rigging. Even at half that we’ve seen our shot bounce off the Spanish hulls. If we want to punch through their timbers we need to get a lot closer.’

‘How close?’ Robert asked.

‘Fifty yards.’

‘At that distance we’d have precious little distance to manoeuvre,’ Seeley warned.

Larkin remained silent. He was convinced his solution would work but it was not his place to tell the master how to con the ship.

Robert stood up and began to pace the cabin. Fifty yards. It was incredibly close. At that distance a sudden trick of the wind could give the Spaniards a chance to close and board. Once grappled any English ship would surely be lost. Also, at fifty yards the weather decks would be within range of the massed ranks of musketeers and arquebusiers on each Spanish ship. It would be a bloody task but if Larkin was right … He looked to the master gunner.

‘Give my lads a chance, Captain,’ Larkin said. ‘We’ll show those Spanish papists the real power of this galleon.’

Robert saw the determination in Larkin’s eyes. He was a master of his craft and no one knew the guns of the
Retribution
better than he. Once the wind picked up the Armada would continue its relentless progress to the coast of Flanders. It had to be stopped, at any cost.

‘Thomas, I want you to inform your mate and the yeomen that at the first opportunity I intend to grant Mister Larkin his wish.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Mister Larkin, you will have your fifty yards.’

The master gunner nodded and rose from the table.

‘Captain to the quarterdeck!’ a call came from above.

Robert left his cabin to go aloft.

‘Pinnace approach, Captain,’ Shaw said as Robert came up. ‘She’s flying Hawkins’s standard.’

Robert went down to the main deck as the pinnace came alongside.

‘Ahoy, Captain Varian,’ Hawkins called. ‘I bid you come aboard and accompany me to the flagship.’

Robert leapt across to the smaller craft as the hulls kissed and they bore swiftly away under oars. Robert stood beside Hawkins at the bow.

‘How’s my ship?’ Hawkins’s eye swept the
Retribution
from bowsprit to the poop deck, pausing to focus on the more obvious damage.

‘She’s strong.’ Robert was slightly irked that Hawkins would refer to her as his. ‘But we are low on ammunition, sir. Especially for the cannon pedros.’

‘It’s the same throughout the fleet, lad,’ Hawkins replied. ‘Lord Howard has already decided that we won’t engage the enemy again until we come up as far as Dover and rendezvous with Seymour’s squadron. Maybe then we can push this blasted fight with the Spanish to a conclusion.’

Robert nodded. With Lord Henry Seymour’s forty ships the English fleet would outnumber the Spaniards and the Dover squadron still had full shot lockers.

‘Is there a chance we will receive more ammunition before that battle?’

‘Howard asked the Privy Council for more power and shot before sailing from Plymouth,’ Howard replied angrily. ‘Instead they sent him a squad of musketeers to assist in close quarter battle and since then he has received a dispatch asking why we have not boarded and taken any Spanish ships.’

‘Surely the admiral is not contemplating such an attack?’

‘No, lad. Howard knows the value of our ships and the suitability of our tactics. And I for one haven’t created a fleet of race built galleons to see them clap sides with Spanish hulks. But I do fear we have overestimated the effectiveness of our heavy guns.’

‘My master gunner believes we can inflict serious damage if we can get closer, to within arquebus shot,’ Robert said.

‘I have heard similar opinions from other masters. But that approach depends upon first breaking up the defensive formation of the Armada. Without achieving that goal, our superior gunnery is for naught.’

Robert nodded and they lapsed into silence. He studied Hawkins’s narrow face out of the corner of his eye.

‘Why am I needed on the flagship, sir?’

Hawkins turned and smiled.

‘You’ll see, lad.’

The pinnace continued on over the placid sea, weaving in and out of the towering hulls of the stationary warships, passing through their cold shadows. The oars creaked in the locks and between the passing ships Robert looked out beyond to the distant formation of the Armada.

‘Here we are, lad.’

The pinnace came alongside the
Ark Royal
and Hawkins was swiftly up the rope ladder. Robert followed. The main deck was crowded. Soldiers stood in serried ranks fore and aft while in the centre a large group of captains and senior commanders stood around the Lord High Admiral, Sir Charles Howard. Robert paused hesitantly at the gunwale, unsure of what was happening or how he should proceed.

‘Ah, Captain Varian, come forward if you will.’

Robert walked across the main deck to stand before the admiral. Howard was twenty years older than Robert. He had a long face with a prominent nose, and a sharp chin under a tightly shaped goatee. A favourite at court and an able statesman and soldier, he was a born commander of men.

‘Now, we are all here,’ he said affably. ‘We shall begin.’

‘Begin what, my lord?’ Robert was perplexed.

Howard smiled. ‘It seems Captain Hawkins has not told young Varian why he has been summoned here,’ he said over his shoulder, and the other commanders laughed genially.

‘You are here, Captain Varian, along with these other captains and commanders, because I mean to reward those who are deserving, and encourage others who would aspire.’ Howard raised his voice so all could hear. ‘Your bravery at Cadiz gave you command of the
Retribution
. Your ability confirmed that captaincy, and thus far in this battle you have proved your worth time and again. You are one of England’s finest sons. To honour your courage you will be counted amongst those I have deemed worthy of the order of knighthood.’

Robert was astonished. A knighthood. With such a social rank his captaincy would never be questioned or challenged, and on merit alone he would truly be able to make his way in the world. He felt a pang of conscience. He would be dubbed Sir Robert Varian, not Sir Robert Young. He searched his feelings at the thought of how his real name would be negated but felt no remorse. What was Young to him but his father’s name, the name of a traitor? Henceforth men would know him as Sir Robert Varian, a captain knighted by the Lord High Admiral, Sir Charles Howard in the midst of battle. Robert felt his chest swell with the force of his pride.

Howard turned to address the assembled crew. ‘Step forward the honoured few – Lord Thomas Howard, Lord Sheffield, Roger Townsend, George Beeston, Martin Frobisher, John Hawkins, and Robert Varian.’

Those called stepped out from the ranks and stood before the admiral. Robert moved slowly, as if in a trance, and took his place at the end of the file. One by one the men came forward and knelt before Howard. Robert was the last to advance. He knelt down before the admiral and bowed his head.

‘By the power granted to me by rank,’ Howard intoned, speaking aloud the words made sacred by tradition and ceremony. ‘I dub thee, in the name of the Crown, knight of the realm.’

Robert felt the strike of Howard’s clenched fist on each of his shoulders in turn. He raised his head and met the admiral’s gaze.

‘Arise, Sir Robert Varian, and take your place amongst your fellow knights.’

Robert stood and stepped back, coming shoulder to shoulder with the chosen few. The crew erupted in cheers. Trumpets blared from atop the fo’c’sle. Robert looked about slowly, unable to fully absorb the incredible moment. His eyes fell on Howard. The Lord High Admiral of England was staring back at him. He nodded respectfully and Robert smiled, looking up as the acclaim swept over him.

Evardo’s pulse quickened in anticipation as he gazed upon the broad sweep of the coastline west of Calais. It was late afternoon and the Armada was being borne along a mile off land by a moderate westerly, a breeze that had sprung up at dawn. The previous day had been long and frustrating, with both fleets becalmed. Evardo drank in the exhilarating feeling as mile after mile fell into their wake.

The
Santa Clara
was sailing amidst the rearguard of the Armada, a place of relative safety granted to Evardo’s ship while the crew finished the last of her running repairs. Damage to the main mast had been the most serious consequence of the
Santa Clara
’s trial over forty-eight hours before. The mast had taken a side swipe from a round shot, at least a 24 pounder, a glancing blow that had gouged out a four-inch deep furrow in the forward section. The master carpenter had repaired the damage as best he could and the crew had covered the bindings with pitch to hide the weakness from the enemy. It was far from satisfactory, and Mendez had already warned that the mast would not hold if the ship was forced to run before a storm. Evardo had acknowledged the captain’s counsel and as the wind freshened during the day he had found himself glancing at the mast many times.

At the thought he looked to the main once more and saw de Córdoba come up to the quarterdeck. The captain raised his eyebrows quizzically, seeking permission to approach and Evardo nodded genially.

‘A fair wind,
Comandante
.’

‘A fair wind indeed,
Capitán
.’

De Córdoba looked beyond Evardo over his shoulder. ‘That is the port of Calais off our larboard bow?’

‘It is, and beyond on the horizon is Gravelines.’

‘Then his grace, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, has done it,’ de Córdoba said triumphantly. ‘He has brought the Armada through the Channel.’

Evardo smiled. Medina Sidonia had indeed all but fulfilled the primary goal of the campaign. The Armada was nearing the Flemish coast.

‘If Parma’s army is in Dunkirk and is ready to sail we could effect a rendezvous on the morrow,’ de Córdoba added.

If, Evardo thought with a tinge of concern. As far as he knew not one of Medina Sidonia’s dispatch ships had returned to inform the fleet and without firm contact there was no way of knowing which port Parma had chosen. It was possible he wasn’t at Dunkirk at all. Maybe he was in Nieuwpoort, or Sluis, or even Antwerp.