Armada - John Stack

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attacked. He looked with hatred upon the man who had precipitated that reverse.

      ‘I yield,’ he spat and he stood up slowly, his arms outstretched.

      Robert kept his sword charged, wary of the Spaniard, knowing that the initial relief of salvation could rapidly twist into shame and an overriding urge to fight on.

      The last of the Spanish defence collapsed quickly. Many saw their captain capitulate and they threw up their arms to plead for quarter. Others fought on, but they were hopelessly outnumbered and easily overwhelmed. As the last blow was struck, Evardo looked about the ruin that was his main deck. He drew his sword across and, taking the blade in his hand, presented the hilt to Robert.

      ‘I am Comandante Evardo Alvarez Morales of the Halcón,’ he said evenly, with only his eyes betraying the depth of his anguish and bitterness.

      ‘Robert Varian, Master of the Retribution.’

      Evardo nodded, noting the name. ‘The ship is yours, señor,’ he said and the words tore the fabric of his soul as he lowered his gaze to his empty sword hand. He glanced up, studying the face of his enemy. There would be another time, another battle, God would see to that, and Evardo vowed he would make the Englishman pay a heavy coin for taking the Halcón.

      Robert stepped back through the ranks of his own men, a sword hanging loosely from each hand. He limped heavily. His breeches were already soaked through with blood and the forgotten injury to his left arm began to throb. A surge of bile rose to the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. He sheathed his own sword and reached out for the gunwale, grateful for the support. Through the remnants of battle smoke on the main deck of the Halcón, he looked out over the scene fading in the last light of the day.

      On all sides the pillage of the Spanish supply fleet continued unabated. It was as if the slaughter onboard the galleon had never taken place and Robert sought out the Retribution, taking a strange comfort from the sight although he had not long known the ship. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. It was Shaw.

      ‘Drink,’ he said and handed Robert a flask.

      Robert opened his parched lips and drank deeply. It was Madeira wine, and the liquid burned his throat. He spluttered but brought the flask back to his mouth, eager to rid himself of the foul taste of battle. He nodded to the boatswain and handed him back the flask. For a moment the wine checked the slip of his flagging strength.

      ‘Secure the ship,’ he said, ‘make sure none of those poxed Spaniards are skulking below decks, and start sending the injured back to the Retribution.’

      ‘Aye, Master,’ Shaw replied and shouted to the men around him, organizing them quickly.

      Robert felt light headed. He glanced at his injured leg. The pain had turned to a dull ache. The enemy captain’s sword in his left hand felt heavy and he looked to it, pausing for the first time to examine why he had spared the Spaniard. An uncontrollable fury had driven him to charge when all around him faltered and when he had recognized the captain for who he was, that fury had only intensified. Yet he had stayed his blade from delivering the fatal strike because of the simple crucifix he had seen hanging around the Spaniard’s neck.

      The man was his enemy, as were all who threatened the sovereignty of Elizabeth and the sacred soil of England. But Robert shared a bond with these Spaniards, a union of faith that stopped him from striking home the point of his sword past a crucifix. His mind flooded with questions about the depths of his own loyalties but he savagely repressed them, recalling instead the blind fury of his charge, the anger he had felt at the butchery of his countrymen and captain. England commanded his loyalty first, not his faith. He repeated these words to himself as darkness began to encroach from the periphery of his vision. It quickly enveloped him and as he slipped into unconsciousness the mantra faded from his lips, replaced by a creeping doubt that his words held any meaning.

      CHAPTER 4

       18th May 1587. Lisbon, Portugal.

      Nathaniel Young, the Duke of Greyfarne, descended from his carriage and looked out over the harbour of Lisbon. It was a magnificent sight and Young stepped forward to the edge of the dock, glancing left and right to the myriad smaller supply and ordnance ships. Further out the mighty galleons of the fledgling Spanish Armada pulled gently on their anchor lines beneath a canopy of masts and rigging. He held his breath, thinking of the day when the harbour would be filled with such ships.

      ‘They are impressive, no?’

      Young spun around and smiled as he recognized Don Rodrigo de Torres, one of King Philip’s closest advisors. He was dressed in austere clothes, a black embroidered doublet and gown and a high necked jerkin that accentuated his height. It was a style made popular by the King and Young wondered if any man in Spain now dared to dress differently.

      ‘They are indeed a blessed sight before God,’ he replied, his Spanish still heavily accented even after nearly twenty years. Young was shorter than de Torres and at fifty he was older by some ten years, but he looked younger, his constant travels throughout the dominions of Europe keeping him fit and trim.

      ‘Come, your grace,’ de Torres said. He led Young from the dockside into the civic building, taking him to his office on the second floor.

      The shutters of the room were open and from the height of the balcony, Young was afforded an even greater view of Lisbon’s immense natural harbour. Beyond the anchored warships and merchantmen, the harbour mouth was protected by formidable forts and gun emplacements. Between the headlands Young could just make out the darker blue of the boundless Atlantic. He turned around to his host.

      ‘You are smiling, Don de Torres,’ he said. ‘Is there good news?’

      De Torres nodded. ‘The arch-fiend El Draque has been driven from the walls of Lagos with heavy losses,’ he said expansively. He walked behind his desk to sit down. He stretched out his hand, indicating for Young to be seated.

      ‘That is good news,’ Young replied, taking consolation from the report. The past few months had been the most anguished of his life. The death of Mary Stuart had dashed so many of his hopes. He had found peace through prayer and an almost constant vigil on the assembling Armada. Its gathering strength had reaffirmed his belief that his long exile would soon be over and his country would be brought once more into the bosom of its true mother church. Then Drake had attacked Cadiz.

      ‘It is a significant victory, your grace,’ de Torres continued, ‘and one which will show Drake for the inconsequential pirate he is.’

      De Torres’s words caused Young to glance once more out the open window to the few ships already gathered for the Armada. Drake’s raid on Cadiz had taken place over a week before and a pall of uncertainty now hung over the entire enterprise. The loss of supplies was catastrophic and with Drake now commanding the sea lanes to Lisbon, the squadrons from Seville, Biscay and Italy were indefinitely delayed. Drake, he concluded, was anything but inconsequential.

      Young’s innards burned with bitter frustration. Elizabeth had the devil’s own luck. How many attempts on her life had she escaped? How many uprisings, in England and Ireland, had withered and died on the vine after showing such promise? Her reign was now entering its thirtieth year whereas Mary Tudor, her Catholic predecessor, had ruled for only five years, not nearly enough time to reverse the tide of reformation. Now one of her minions, Drake, was in a position to unravel the delicate plans to assemble an Armada to sail against the heretic Queen.

      ‘What do you believe he will do next?’ de Torres asked, twisting one end of his moustache with the tips of his fingers, his gaze level and penetrating.

      Young considered the question, amused as always how many Spaniards thought he naturally held some insight into the workings of every English mind simply because he was English himself. He had not set foot in his native country for a shade over eighteen years. He kept an exact tally of the months and days, and the ever so brief thoughts of his exile set the door to his bitterness ajar.

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