Martin Stephen: The galleon's grave

It seemed only minutes later that the summons came. This time the Duke spoke through the translator.

'Word reached me two days ago that one of our vessels captured an English fishing smack weeks ago, interrogated their crew, took the vessel in tow. They found a surprising cargo on board. A girl claiming to be Spanish, on passage to Calais. A girl calling herself Maria Anna Lucille Rea de Santando.'

Gresham felt the shock run through his body.

'They say she claimed to have been pursued out of England, by virtue of her association with an infamous spy. They felt they could not send her back to England, so they sent her to another vessel. To the San Mateo. 1

Gresham's heart stopped. The San Mateo, the most heavily engaged of all the ships, battered to a pulp, sent to sink or beach off the Flanders coast, her crew by now either the victim of the sea or the pillage of the hostile Flemish. The image of Anna being raped on a windswept beach, the men queuing up to enjoy, flickered across Gresham's brain.

'Apparently, they felt she was out of place on board such a ship. Apparently there are woman aboard one of the urcas, despite my orders, so they sent her there, to be with the other women.'

Gresham looked at the Duke, voiceless. What was there for him to say?

'I would fight the English again, if I could. Yet the wind will not let me. The most I can do is take what remains of my fleet round the north coast of Scotland, go by Ireland back to Corunna, to fight another day. I can no longer win victory for my King. 1 can save his fleet.' The Duke paused, looking deep into Gresham's eyes. 'I think more of you than you might imagine. I have decided that you will take a longboat, go to the urca and pick up your ward. You may take her back to Calais. I shall not expect to see you return here.'

Gresham started to splutter thanks, but the Duke held up his hand.

'Say nothing. Just go. And perhaps we shall meet again. In Spain. Or, who knows, even in England?'

Gresham bowed low and deep, for such time as those around them wondered if he would ever move.

They plunged towards the lumbering urcas, the single sail enough to bring them quickly away from the San Martin. Gresham looked back at the battered vessel. A new Henry Gresham had been born on the deck of that ship. How much of a new man he did not realise, yet he did know that in a way he was yet to understand fully he had ceased in any way to be a child. The moment with Walsingham had been a false dawn.

He saw Anna as they brought her up on deck, as he had seen her an age ago. The tattered dress, the wild abundance of hair, the spirit so tough as to seem indestructible, and the ravishing beauty all the more obvious because of the lack of paint and powder, the beauty that needed no augmentation. Yet she too had changed, she too had grown into something more than a child. The smile on her lips replaced any tantrum, complaint or edict she might have issued. It spoke worlds, the smile. Spoke of a world so ludicrous as to be unbelievable unless one lived in it, of a chance so fickle that no man or woman could ever be justified in making plans. Spoke even of acceptance. They needed and used few words. The Duke's commission secured her presence aboard his flimsy boat.

'It seems we are bound to meet at sea,' she said.

'Have you been… well treated?' asked Gresham.

'The women here are calmer than the men. And kind. Very kind,' she said, simply. She looked into his eyes. 'I am the only virgin here, of either sex. And the women were determined that there was one prize that would not be lost in this battle.'

A sheet had been placed over the back of the longboat, giving some rudimentary cover. The clouds were scudding low now, over a grey sea. The wind that was pushing the Armada ever northwards, so that it was already almost out of sight, was difficult for Calais even despite the little boat's nimble ability to tack before the wind. It was hard, desperately hard luck. Determined to stick as close inshore as possible, they crawled back down the treacherous coast, too small to be of any use as plunder, too close inshore for the great ships of England to bother with the shoals and treacherous water. Except for one man, of course. One man who had heard of great Spanish ships beached on the shore, seen the great galleass beach itself under the guns of Calais. One man whose anger at missing such chances knew no bounds, and a man, therefore, whose pursuit of the Spaniards came close, close inshore in the hope of seeing yet another great galleon detach itself from the Spanish fleet and fall into his hands and not those of the undeserving Dutch.

Sir Francis Drake.

The Revenge bore up on them out of a squall as they were on the outermost leg of their painful tack. For a moment they thought the ship would cut them in two, but at the last minute it hauled round, shortened sail, sending three grappling hooks to cling them to their side. A rough ladder, rope with wooden steps knotted into it, was hurled overboard, instructions yelled to climb. Whistles and roars greeted the sight of Anna. *Well, well,' said Sir Francis Drake, standing in front of Gresham and Mannion on the quarterdeck of the Revenge. 'The man who fled England. Deserted his country. The man I saw but yesterday standing companionably by the side of the Duke of Medina Sidonia on the quarterdeck of his flagship’ He paused. 'And the man who is going to hang for traitor!'

August — September, 1588 London

Would he hang them there and then from the mainyard of the

Revenge! Mannion and Gresham were bundled down into the stinking hold, its damage minimal in comparison with the wreck that had been the San Martin. Drake hardly looked at Anna. To his relief Gresham caught sight of her being ushered into one of the cabins under the quarterdeck, if not with deference then at least with rudimentary respect, Two men bound their hands, flung them on loose planks covering the bilges. It had been a powder room, buried in the heart of the ship. Now it was empty, scraped clean. There was no hook for a lantern in a powder room, no fitting for any flame, and they would not have hung one even had it been, otherwise. The feeble light retreated, the door slammed shut, a bar scraped across it. Gresham and Mannion were left in total darkness. The rank stink of the bilges rose around them.

'They say despair's the ultimate sin,' said Gresham. 'Worse than all the others, because if you feel despair you've accepted that God can't forgive you. And if you do that, you're bound to be damned. I don't think I've ever felt despair before. Not really. Not like this.'

'The ultimate sin, is it then?' Mannion's voice came from somewhere in the total darkness.

Gresham had not really expected an answer, sunk as he was in his misery. He had spoken merely to ease his internal pain. 'Yes,' was all he could find to say.

'Well, that's good, isn't it?'

What was Mannion on about? 'Good? How can it be good?'

'Well, if it was gluttony or lechery, I'd be in real trouble, wouldn't I? 'Cos I ain't going to stop both, if we ever get out of this, and it'd be bad news if there was no forgiveness.'

'How can you talk about "after this"? "After this" is us swinging on the end of a rope. And choking slowly if Drake has his way.'

'Well, as my old captain used to say, where there's life there's hope.'

'Your old captain? The one who got burned alive by the Spanish?'

'Well, no one's perfect.'

There were fumbling noises in the dark, the sound of something rasping, a gasp of relief.

'Stupid buggers,' said Mannion. ‘Never did search us properly. I allus keeps this little knife strapped on me leg, high up near me crutch. It's a brave man who puts his 'ands there, I can tell you.'

Gresham did not dare to think of the prospect Soon Mannion's hands were feeling for him, finding his hands, untying the rope.