John Stack - Armada

‘You,’ Evardo cursed in Latin, ‘damn you and your God-cursed crew to hell.’

Robert’s eyes darkened at the invective. ‘Murderous son-of-a-whore,’ he spat, ‘you will rot there first.’

Robert could smell the Spaniard’s breath and his face, twisted with exertion, filled his vision. Robert leaned into the attack and tightened his grip through the blood and sweat on the hilt of his sword, seeking to dominate the contest of strength. He bent his knees slightly, coiling the power of his lower body and pushed forward with all his might, breaking the bond between the two swords. The point of his blade darted under the Spaniard’s sword but his opponent reacted with incredible reflexes, blocking the killing strike.

Robert reversed his attack, trying to push the Spaniard off balance, but again he recovered and the Spaniard spun his sword around, putting the momentum of his entire body into the blow, the strike of the blades numbing the fingers of Robert’s hand. Evardo lunged forward, striking low, and Robert recoiled as the Spaniard’s blade sliced across his exposed thigh, cutting the flesh deeply. He stepped back, his balance thrown by the leg wound, and the Spaniard came on, his attack unceasing.

Robert felt his breath catch in his constricted throat. His mouth was dry and tasted foul. He was losing and his defence became ever more frantic as he felt the serpent of fear uncoil in his stomach. The sensation angered him and he stood firm, unwilling to give another inch of ground. He slapped the next strike down with the flat of his blade, breaking the sequence of the Spaniard’s attack and gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg as he centred his balance.

He jabbed his sword downwards, looking for the killing strike against the groin. Evardo blocked and made to counter strike but again Robert struck low, forcing the commander to defend. Without warning Robert slashed his sword upward and Evardo tilted back to avoid the point of the sword, hooking his own blade around. Robert followed through. The blades rasped against each other, forcing the Spaniard ever backwards and Evardo lost his footing as he pitched over the inert body of a fallen crewman.

Robert was immediately upon him, his sword darting for the Spaniard’s chest. In that instant he caught sight of something that made him stop and his arm trembled as he held the point of his sword an inch from the captain’s flesh.

‘Yield,’ he said, the muscles of his arm and shoulder calling on him to drive home the strike, his eyes locked on the crucifix hanging around the commander’s neck, the reason he hesitated to deliver the fatal blow.

Evardo looked up at the mottled face of his enemy. He felt the grip of his sword and knew with certainty that if he moved to knock away the Englishman’s blade he was a dead man. A curse rose to his lips but he held back, the instinct to survive surfacing through his anger. The sounds of battle swept over him and he heard the tone of desperation in the Spanish cries. The Halcón was lost. What chance his crew had had been lost from the moment the English counter 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?’