John Stack - Armada

Evardo kept his gaze locked on the shafts of light. They swung slowly with the roll of the ship, sweeping across the near pitch darkness of the cell. He held out his right hand, his sword hand, to allow the feeble light to catch it. He vividly recalled that moment on the Halcón after he had handed over his weapon to the Englishman, Varian. Since then, and with a deep sense of shame, he had asked himself if he should not have fought on and accepted the price of death for his honour.

After Varian had walked away from him, he had been jostled, along with the rest of his crew, into the fo’c’sle. His first reaction had been to look for Abrahan. When he saw the older man push through the throng to approach him, he had begun to smile, glad to see his old friend safe. That smile had died on his lips when he beheld the murderous look on Abrahan’s face.

‘You cursed cobarde ,’ he had hissed, and Evardo had recoiled from the accusation of cowardice.

‘I was bested, there was nothing I could do, the fight …’

‘You surrendered your ship like some Portuguese hijo de puta and betrayed your command and your crew!’

‘Betrayed?’ Evardo had hissed back, dropping his hand to clasp the sword that was no longer by his side. ‘After the English counter-attacked, there was nothing we could do, you know that.’

‘Then you should have paid for the loss of the Halcón with your blood, not your sword.’

Evardo had made to reply, but Abrahan had turned his back on him, pushing through the surrounding crewmen who had heard every word of the exchange. Evardo had looked at them, and while many had averted their gaze, others had stared back with accusing eyes, persuaded by Abrahan’s words that their captain had indeed betrayed the Halcón and its crew.

In the quiet of the cell Evardo pictured his mentor in his mind’s eye. The image brought a flash of anger to his heart but then he thought of the years of comradeship and support that Abrahan had given him. Under his tutelage he had crossed the world, making the leap from boy to man. In many ways Evardo had come to consider Abrahan as the father he had lost to war. As a comandante he was accustomed to a solitary existence but for the first time he felt very alone. The feeling sickened him.

In the darkness he closed his hand into a tight fist. The shame of his defeat threatened to overwhelm him, to unman him in that black space, but with savage determination he crushed his regret. Evardo gave his mind over to the boom of the waves striking the hull and the creak of timbers. The journey ahead would be long, but eventually he would return to Spain, and he focused his thoughts on that day. Using the powerful influence of his family he would seek another galleon command. His honour demanded nothing less. Only then would he be able to take the first step in fulfilling the vow that had now become the centre of his being: revenge.

Above the swirling mists of gun smoke surrounding the English fleet in the waters off Sagres, a lookout on the Elizabeth Bonaventure spotted the raising of a white flag. He shouted it down to the quarterdeck and across the fleet the order was given to cease fire. In the quiet that followed, Robert looked out across the untroubled waters to the town’s castle. The bombardment had lasted a mere two hours, a savage cannonade that had pierced the battlements in several places and silenced the garrison’s return of fire. Black smoke was rising from within, billowing past the crude flag of surrender, and on the gentle breeze Robert could hear the desperate cries of a cornered populace.

‘Ho quarterdeck, Cygnet approaching on the starboard beam.’

‘Ahoy, Captain Varian.’

‘Ahoy, Captain Bell,’ Robert shouted back, raising his arm.

‘Orders from the Elizabeth Bonaventure , Captain,’ Bell called. ‘You are to tranship eighty men to the Cygnet to join the shore party. Commander Drake has already gone ashore to accept the surrender of the Spanish garrison.’

Robert acknowledged the command and ordered the boatswain to the quarterdeck.

‘Mister Shaw, call out and arm the men of the dog watch. Have them assemble on the main deck.’

Seeley approached as Shaw’s voice rang out across the Retribution .

‘With your permission, Captain,’ the master said, ‘I’d like to join the shore party.’

Robert considered the request. He had already decided, despite his injury, that he would be going ashore. The Spy and two other pinnaces were patrolling five miles further out to sea, providing a screen for the landings. Any approach by hostile ships would be spotted well in advance. He looked to Seeley, seeing the justifiable eagerness on his face given the drubbing he received at Lagos. He smiled.

‘Permission granted, Mister Seeley. Inform Mister Shaw that he will have command of the Retribution while we are ashore.’

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Seeley replied with a roguish grin. He hurried after the boatswain, adding his voice to the call for order on the main deck.

Moments later the Cygnet pulled away from the galleon and turned sharply around its stern. Across the sweep of the fleet, a flotilla of pinnaces was sailing in towards the small port, their decks crammed with men. Robert stood on the bow of the Cygnet , his balance shifting with the fall of the deck. Behind him were the chosen men of his crew, their silence a thin veneer that scarcely concealed their expectation.

They were heavily armed but few men were identically equipped. Robert wore a breastplate of armour, as did over a dozen of his crew. Many of these were cast-offs from previous battles while others wore morions, the ubiquitous helmet of European soldiers. Each man had a sword and at least one dagger and while the primary weapon of the majority was an arquebus gun, the more hidebound veterans were armed with halberds, bills and crossbows. Only two men carried longbows, weapons they had known since childhood and could never be relinquished for another.

Robert bore one other unique firearm, a wheellock pistol, an expensive weapon that he had found amongst Morgan’s belongings and he unconsciously fingered the elaborate mechanism as he thought of the man who had previously led the crew behind him into battle.

He looked ahead to the surf-worn beach that skirted the edge of the town. A lone boat was beached there: Drake’s launch. Beyond it Robert spotted the fleet commander appear from the town with an escort of heavily armed soldiers. Walking with him was a Spaniard, evidentially the garrison commander.

The longboats rode in through the surf and disgorged their men onto the beach before returning to the pinnaces to gather more. Robert went in with the first of his crew and jumped out into the crashing waves as the boat touched bottom. The cold water helped to ease the throbbing in his leg and he waded ashore.

Within twenty minutes seven hundred English landed, gathering in motley ranks behind their commanders. All the while Drake stood immovable at the head of the beach, his head turning slowly as his gaze ranged over the men. Robert could see he was talking to the Spanish commander out of the corner of his mouth, his expression solemn and imperious. Drake was not physically striking, and his dark curly hair and fairer beard made his age hard to determine. He projected a definite air of authority that belied his humble beginnings, and his gaze was penetrating and direct.

A sense of awe never failed to affect Robert when he was in Drake’s presence. He was the first Englishman to circumnavigate the world, an explorer and privateer who commanded the Queen’s deepest affections and God’s own luck. That four out of five ships had been lost during his circumnavigation and Drake had executed his friend for mutiny mattered little. The Golden Hind had returned brimming with gold, silver, spices, and precious stones that netted a near fifty-fold profit for the crown and a knighthood for Drake. To sail with Drake was to benefit from his uncanny ability to survive and profit and the men behind Robert fell into expectant silence as their commander stepped forward.