Armada (44 page)

Seeley ran to the stern. He wavered, his hand on the rope tethered to the skiff. The fallen yard had effectively cut the deck in two. He couldn’t reach the captain. His only chance was to cast off, to lay to in the skiff and hope that the captain would jump overboard in time. With the wind abaft the flames would quickly engulf everything forward of the main mast. The mizzen sail above the tiller was still untouched but its lower rigging was already aflame. Within a minute the canvas would be alight.

Another explosion in the mid section rocked the deck beneath his feet. Seeley took a firm grip on the rope and climbed out over the aft gunwale. He quickly sidled down the rope into the cool sea and swam to the skiff, climbing in as further blasts erupted on the deck above.

An explosion ripped across the waist, hurling debris into the air. A flaming shard fell onto Nathaniel’s head. He swept it away. The heat was unbearable. The air was being sucked from his lungs and he coughed violently as he staggered across the deck to the prone figure of his son. He knelt down beside him and took him by the shoulders. The side of his face was covered in blood. He was badly dazed.

‘Robert.’

For a moment his eyes cleared.

‘Father?’

Nathaniel lifted his son to his feet and took his weight around his shoulder. They staggered forward together towards the larboard side. A falling block struck Nathaniel a glancing blow on the head, knocking them both to the deck. Nathaniel’s vision swam, but his instinct to save his son drove him to his knees. He tried to stand, his head spinning, the heat of the fire clawing at his skin, searing his flesh and singeing the hair on his arms. He didn’t know which way to go. The flames seemed to be on all sides. Above him the sky was ablaze.

He heaved Robert up and staggered to his feet. His hands were scratched and blistered. Every sense screamed at him to move. He lurched forward. Above the roar of the fire, he could hear the tortured sound of the mizzen mast failing under the onslaught of the fire, the whip cracks as rigging snapped. He stumbled on, dragging Robert with him. The larboard bulwark was ahead and with the last of his reserves he hoisted Robert over the side into the sea.

He fell against the gunwale. He couldn’t breathe. There was no air, the fire had consumed it all. He stood up to jump overboard. A minion exploded nearby, its double shot gouging out the barrel, spewing forth blazing iron fragments that pierced Nathaniel’s flesh, the force of the explosion knocking him overboard.

Evardo struck out for the patache. As he reached the side he was lifted clear out of the water by the crew. The English barque was fifteen yards off the beam, every inch of her deck aflame. Evardo watched it burn. He couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. What had possessed Young? Did the duke attack him just to defend some anonymous Englishman? It was an act of sheer madness. Young had no loyalty to his countrymen. He believed in Spain’s cause, so much so that he rallied Alvarado’s men in the battle off Portland Bill and took command of them at Evardo’s request. It didn’t make sense.

‘
Comandante
.’

Abrahan indicated over the bow of the
Águila
.

The windermost ships of the Armada were less than three hundred yards away and as Evardo looked to them in the outer glow of the fires all thoughts of Young fled from his mind. The larger ships of the Armada had already slipped and buoyed their anchors and were moving off to the east. Evardo spun around and looked across the breadth of the anchorage. Eight fire-ships were alight, but only two of these had been intercepted and grappled. The others were bearing down on the fleet. The sound of distant explosions rippled across the waters, each one causing more ships to slip their anchors and surrender their position, the fear of hellburners magnified many times on the larger, less manoeuvrable ships in the tightly packed formation. The sight filled Evardo with despair.

Robert surfaced, the cool water stunning his body but clearing his mind. The stern of the
Hope
was sailing past him. He tried to swim after it but the wind driven barque was too fast and in desperation he stopped.

‘Father!’

He looked around him. The sea was lit up by flames. A man was floating in the water nearby and Robert kicked out towards him.

‘Captain!’

‘Thomas, over here!’

Seeley rowed out of the darkness. Robert pulled Nathaniel towards the skiff.

‘Quickly, Thomas, help me get him into the boat.’

‘Who is he?’

‘My father.’

‘Your father …’ Stunned, Seeley pulled Nathaniel into the skiff. Robert hauled himself onboard and carried his father to the stern.

‘Thomas, get us back to the
Retribution
.’

Seeley rowed the skiff around and pulled through the wind towards the English fleet. He stared at the prone figure.

Robert sat down beside Nathaniel and unbuttoned his jerkin. The white doublet underneath was drenched with blood and Robert’s heart plummeted. He had thought that his father was his enemy. But he was not. He had saved him from Morales’ sword and driven the Spaniard from the deck of the
Hope
, ensuring that the fire-ship would remain on course. His father’s eyes were closed. Robert took his face in his hand.

‘Father.’

Nathaniel looked up at him. He smiled. ‘My son.’

‘I don’t understand. Why did you …? You saved me.’

‘I had to, Robert.’ He coughed violently. Blood flecked his lips. ‘I had to … so you can fight on.’

He took Robert’s hand in his own and held it tightly.

‘You were right, Robert. I see that now … and I am proud you have become the Englishman you are.’

Robert placed his other hand around his father’s, encasing it.

‘I am my father’s son,’ he avowed, his heart filling with fear as he felt the cold in his father’s hand and he silently pleaded for his father not to go, not this time.

‘Robert,’ Nathaniel said fiercely, summoning the last of his strength. ‘I know you live under a false name.’ His breathing became shallow. ‘But please don’t forsake your past. Don’t forget the name … Young.’

Nathaniel went still, his hand still enfolded in Robert’s.

‘Young.’

Robert turned around at the sound of his name.

‘It was you,’ Seeley uttered. ‘You’re Young.’ He stopped rowing. The skiff began to rock violently in the swell. Seeley’s hand moved slowly to the hilt of his dagger.

Robert nodded, grief clouding his mind.

‘Your father was in league with the Spanish?’

Robert remained silent.

‘Captain!’

‘He was a …’ the word traitor came to Robert’s lips but he could not say it. ‘He was an exile, from the Northern Rebellion.’

‘A Roman Catholic traitor,’ Seeley hissed.

Robert’s face darkened and he leaned forward. Seeley whipped out his knife.

‘Don’t move, Captain. Not another inch.’

‘You would kill me?’

For a moment Seeley couldn’t answer. The captain was not the man he had always claimed to be, in name or faith. He was not Robert Varian. He was another, a Roman Catholic and therefore the enemy.

‘I vowed to find the traitor on board, not kill him,’ Seeley said. ‘Your fate lies in the hands of the authorities.’

‘So you would turn me over to be tortured and executed at the stake?’ Robert said angrily.

‘I have to.’ For a moment an image flashed in front of Seeley; of the captain stretched on the rack like the Catholic clerk, Bailey. He blenched from the sight.

‘Tomorrow we go into battle, Thomas. Do you truly believe that the
Retribution
, that England’s cause, will be better served if I am locked in irons?’

‘You cannot expect to command the
Retribution
now that I know who you are?’ Seeley said, realizing he was the only one who knew the captain’s real identity. Keeping his dagger charged he got up from the thwart and moved to the bow.

‘Take the oars,’ he said.

Robert complied, his face inscrutable in the dark. ‘Nothing has changed, Thomas. I am still the man I was and my loyalty has always been to Elizabeth.’

‘You cannot be loyal to her, you’re Roman Catholic.’

‘I am loyal, because I am an Englishman, and she is my Queen.’

Seeley was silenced by Robert’s reply. He thought of all the captain had achieved since taking command of the
Retribution
. He had proved himself over and over again to be loyal to England and the Crown. He had come to the attention of the Lord High Admiral himself and had been recognized for his bravery with a knighthood. He was Roman Catholic and yet loyal to a Protestant Queen. The two seemed irreconcilable.

Beyond the stern of the skiff the wind and tide were bearing the
Hope
onwards, her flames driving all before her. The ships of the Armada were abandoning their anchorage. Their defensive formation was no more and under the press of the prevailing wind the enemy fleet was being scattered eastwards. Dawn was still hours away. Eventually the sun would rise and with it the English fleet would weigh anchor and engage the enemy once more.

Perhaps the captain was right, Seeley thought, his mind in turmoil. The
Retribution
needed its captain now more than ever. Seeley knew he was not ready to take command, and the best available commanders were already in charge of other galleons. But the Spaniards were Roman Catholic. Their cause was blessed by the Pope. Could the captain’s loyalty to the Queen of England be such that he would continue to fight against his own kind, against a cause that his father had fought for?

The lines of loyalty that had always been so clear in Seeley’s mind began to blur. Men went to war for different reasons, he had long realized that. For some plunder was more important than faith, but he had always presumed that the men he fought with were all Protestant. Even when he had suspected the captain might be Roman Catholic he had dismissed it because of the bravery and loyalty he himself had witnessed. The captain claimed he was loyal to the Crown because he was an Englishman. Seeley’s faith was at the heart of his fealty but perhaps not every man needed that bond. Maybe for the captain it was enough that Spain was the enemy of England.

Seeley had to turn the captain over to the authorities. It was his duty, but as they neared the
Retribution
he decided he would defer that moment until the battle had been won. Silently he slipped his dagger back into its sheath. Nothing was written, the ultimate battle had yet to be fought. But if by dawn the enemy had failed to re-establish their formation, the English fleet would finally have a chance to slay the Spanish Armada. If they were to succeed then the best men needed to be in command of the most powerful warships. The
Retribution
was amongst that elite, and so was her captain.

8th August 1588. The Battle of Gravelines.

T
he day dawned under a grey and swollen sky, the wind gusting from the south-south-west, stirring up the sea into angry swells that lashed against the hull of the
Santa Clara
as she tacked eastwards, her decks heeled hard over. Evardo had regained his command an hour after the fire-ship attack, the more nimble patache quickly overhauling the
Santa Clara
. He had re-boarded his ship before the patache bore Abrahan back to the
San Juan
. They had parted with only a handshake, a simple gesture that spoke of their renewed bond.

Throughout the night Evardo had stayed on deck, watching with ever mounting frustration as Mendez struggled in vain to return the
Santa Clara
to her anchorage in Calais roads. The hours of darkness had been filled with despair but only with the arrival of dawn did Evardo fully realize the scale of the disaster that had befallen the Armada. Despite the massive breadth of the open anchorage off Calais and the preparations made by Medina Sidonia, the fire-ship attack had completely annihilated the fleet’s cohesion, scattering it along the length of the Flemish coast.

The English had the devil’s own luck. Their fire-ship attack should never have succeeded to such an extent. They had not been true hellburners as was first believed and not one single Spanish ship had been struck or destroyed. The fire-ships had sailed harmlessly onto the shore, but a combination of strong currents and the increasing force of the south-westerly wind had prevented the Armada from regaining its anchorage. The
Santa Clara
had struggled in vain for hours. The more cumbersome hulks and urcas that made up the majority of the fleet had fared much worse and had been driven further east.

Only the
San Martín
and four other ships had managed to regain their original anchorage. They were now over a mile to the west of the
Santa Clara
, heavily engaged with an overwhelming force of enemy warships. The duke had sent out dispatch boats to rally the fleet to his position. The
Santa Clara
had been one of those to respond, yet they could scarcely make headway against the strengthening wind. Evardo glanced at the other warships nearby that were similarly engaged in a bitter struggle with the prevailing conditions. Of equal concern was that Mendez had slipped and buoyed the
Santa Clara
’s two anchors in Calais roads. Without them the galleon would be unable to await Parma’s army or even approach a coastline with safety. Evardo suspected that every ship in the fleet had suffered a similar loss.

Evardo had thought of Nathaniel Young many times during the night. He still could not fathom his behaviour. Had he felt some loyalty to his fellow countryman? Was that why the duke had attacked him? It seemed implausible, given what he had known of Young, but he could think of no other explanation. The duke had denied Evardo the satisfaction of killing Varian, but it mattered little. He had bested the English captain, and it was likely that both Young and Varian had been consumed by the inferno.

He turned his face away from the wind. For the moment the English were concentrating on the
San Martín
and her coterie of escorts but that situation would not last – they would undoubtedly range beyond Calais. From before dawn the crew of the
Santa Clara
had readied the ship for battle. Despite the heavy weather, every gun had been loaded, and soldiers were positioned in the fighting tops and castles, their muskets and arquebusiers primed and ready. As the sun rose Padre Garza had given absolution to a large number of the crew on the main deck.