John Stack - Armada

‘What is it?’ Clarsdale asked from inside the room.

Father Blackthorne did not answer for a second and stayed still, listening. ‘I …’

He paused. ‘Nothing … it’s nothing.’

He closed the door behind him and walked across the hallway. He glanced back over his shoulder to the study door. Had he been mistaken? It was, after all a large house. Perhaps the noise had come from upstairs. He shrugged his shoulders and continued on. He could have sworn that when he opened the study door he had heard someone fleeing in haste from the hallway. The thought that his conversation with the duke might have been overheard was disquieting but before he could dwell on it further his senses were overwhelmed by the aromas of the kitchen. He hastened his step. The journey ahead would be long and devoid of comfort and he expectantly opened the door to the kitchen.

Robert shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited nervously on the main deck. His eyes were locked on the approaching longboat, and in particular on the individual sitting in the stern. John Hawkins was an austere looking man with a narrow, sombre face and despite his advanced age he looked formidable and strong. For many English sailors he was the embodiment of success and Robert had come to admire and respect him greatly in the years he had spent in his service.

At one time or another in his life Hawkins had been a merchant, a slave-trader and a privateer, but for the last ten years he had been treasurer of the royal fleet. In this position of power and influence he had slowly transformed the English navy. His ambitious building programme had spawned what many believed to be the finest warships afloat, the new ‘race built’ galleons. He had also modernized many of the existing capital ships, revolutionizing them by razing their fore and aft castles. Now the English fleet had a fearsome coterie of warships custom built for the coastal waters of England.

The longboat struck the hull of the Retribution with a heavy thud and Hawkins climbed deftly up the rope ladder to the main deck. Robert advanced to meet him with his hand outstretched and Hawkins took it with a firm grip.

‘Welcome aboard,’ Robert said.

‘I should be, it’s my ship,’ Hawkins replied with a smile. ‘How is she, Mister Varian? None the worse for my kinsman’s foray, I hope.’

‘She’s fighting fit,’ Robert replied proudly, calling Seeley and Shaw forward.

‘This is Thomas Seeley, the master, and Johannes Shaw, the boatswain.’

Hawkins reached for Seeley’s hand first. ‘This man I already know. It’s good to see you, Thomas. How is your father?’

‘He’s good, sir,’ Seeley replied.

Hawkins nodded genially and turned to the boatswain.

‘Shaw, eh?’ he said, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘You look familiar. Are you related to Peter Shaw, the master of the Hopewell ?’

‘He’s my uncle,’ Shaw replied, pleased that a man of Hawkins’s stature should know one of his family.

‘A good man,’ Hawkins said, nodding slowly. He looked out over the rest of the assembled crew and noticed that many were not looking back at him but at their captain. He turned to Robert.

‘Back to their stations then, Mister Varian,’ he said tersely, ‘and join me if you will.’

Robert nodded to Seeley and the master scattered the crew.

Hawkins led Robert to the poop deck. In the brief seconds it took to ascend to the stern Robert felt his anxiousness rise again. From the day he had been promoted to captain by Drake, he had known that, as a field commission, his promotion would be subject to review once the fleet returned home. He had continually ignored the possibility of fate’s reversal, content instead to believe that his captaincy was official. Over the preceding months he had come to consider the Retribution as his own.

This illusion of permanence had been easy to maintain off the coast of Spain and on the return journey home. With a defeated enemy in the wake of the English fleet and the Retribution one of only nine ships that had stayed the course, Robert believed he had cause to be optimistic, but with each passing day in the calm of Plymouth harbour his confidence had slowly given way to the inevitable. The captaincy of a galleon such as the Retribution was not for a merchant’s son from Brixham. It was a position for a man of higher social status. The sheer injustice made Robert bristle.

Robert believed that command of the Retribution would have afforded him, for the first time in his life, a real chance to make a name for himself beyond his already established reputation as a skilled sailor in Hawkins’s merchant fleet. Two years previously, his low social rank had excluded him from Drake’s raid on the Spanish Main in the Caribbean, a lengthy campaign where higher-born men like the previous captain, Morgan, had made their names.

On reaching the poop deck, frustration consumed him. If only he could be given more time to prove his worth to his superiors. Despite his converse religious beliefs he truly felt he was the best man to permanently command the Retribution . As Hawkins turned to face him, Robert steeled himself to argue his case. It was surely a lost cause, he knew that, but Robert couldn’t allow his best chance to restore his family name and honour to slip through his grasp without a fight.

‘Mister Varian,’ Hawkins began, but then paused. He turned and walked to the gunwale. ‘What to do with you?’ he said, looking out over the harbour.

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Robert replied taken aback, his opening argument dying on his lips.

‘Your command, lad, your captaincy of the Retribution .’ Hawkins turned once more and walked back to Robert. ‘I know your mettle, Varian, I would not have made you captain of one of my merchantmen, or indeed master of the Retribution , if I had not. But then you do a damn fool thing and charge down that Spanish counterattack on the Halcón .’

‘Sir?’

‘You brought yourself to the attention of my kinsman, Drake. Then he went and did another damn fool thing and promoted you captain of my ship.’

‘But sir, I …’

Hawkins suddenly smiled and slapped Robert on the shoulder. ‘And now I’m going to do a damn fool thing and confirm that command.’

Robert could not take in the words.

‘I saw strength in you from the beginning and by God you proved me right at Cadiz. Now that Drake has seen it too, the Retribution is yours to command.’

‘But how can I, sir?’ Robert said, speaking aloud the thoughts that had most haunted him. He did not pause to gather himself, to think that he was arguing against that which he longed for most. ‘Surely the captaincy must be awarded to someone of a higher social rank?’

Hawkins smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t think I’m not aware of that problem, Varian. In fact I still had my doubts when I came on board. But then I saw something that settled the matter. The men look to you, Varian. They respect you. That counts for a great deal in a captain.’

Robert stayed silent this time, not daring to speak again. As the news began to sink in, he smiled slightly. Hawkins noticed the change and frowned.

‘Be mindful, Varian,’ he warned. ‘I freely confirm Drake’s decision. Although this ship is mine, the Retribution remains in the service of the Queen. I will need to convince the Privy Council of the wisdom of my choice. I have Drake’s endorsement, which carries a lot of weight. He too comes from humble origins and commands the entire fleet. You have proved yourself worthy in mine and Drake’s eyes, but now you must put our decision beyond all reproach.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Robert replied solemnly. Did this mean his command remained as precarious as it was before?