John Stack: Armada

‘Longboat approaching off the larboard quarter,’ a lookout called, and Morgan looked to the fast-moving boat. Varian was standing in the bow. As he came alongside he called up for permission to come aboard. It was quickly given and he scaled the rope ladder to the main deck just as the sun finally crested the line of the eastern horizon. He made his way towards the quarterdeck. The ship’s bell tolled seven times.

‘All is well on board the Spirit , I trust, Mister Varian,’ Morgan said, studying anew the dark weathered features of the master. Varian was a tall slender man, narrow in the shoulders and waist. His eyes had the restlessness of a career sailor, constantly checking and rechecking the ship around him.

‘Yes, thank you, Captain,’ Robert replied, ‘I will not need to attend to her again.’

‘Good,’ the captain said shortly and turned once more to the flagship. ‘I must go aboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure for a captains’ council with Drake. See to it that the top gallants are replaced during the watch.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Robert replied as he moved towards the starboard bulwark. He was joined there by Seeley.

‘I was in port last night,’ Seeley said offhandedly, ‘and came upon the Spirit at the southern end of the dock.’

‘I didn’t realize,’ Robert said without turning his head, immediately on guard.

‘I asked for you,’ Seeley continued, ‘but the master there said that you had just gone ashore to see a local trader and would not return until after midnight.’

Robert nodded, silently thanking the quick wits of his friend, Tobias Miller, the master of the Spirit . He had worked with the man for over ten years and had requested him as his master when he was given command of the Spirit six months before. Robert had not returned to the Spirit since being assigned to the Retribution and although Miller did not know Robert’s secret he knew well enough that if his captain had used the Spirit as an excuse to come ashore, he would be best served if Miller supported that lie.

Seeley waited for Varian to explain his absence further but the master continued to stare over the side of the ship in silence. He suspected that Varian had gone ashore to meet a woman, maybe one who was married to another officer in the fleet, or perhaps he was involved in some other wrongdoing, one that necessitated such secrecy. Either way, Seeley disliked the thought that one of the officers of the fleet might be tainted. He believed the upcoming mission, an attack on the Spanish fleet, was a divine one and for them to prevail the heart of every man in the fleet needed to be pure.

Seeley’s grandparents had been martyred by the Roman Catholic Queen Mary Tudor, forever known to Protestants as ‘Bloody Mary’, and she had stripped the family of its title and wealth. Although Elizabeth had restored the Seeley family with its title after she gained the throne, the fortune and estate were gone forever. Now Seeley was determined to avenge the murder of his grandparents by carrying the cause of God and his faith into battle against the hated Roman Catholic Spanish and the antichrist who was their king, Philip II, the former husband of Bloody Mary.

He looked to Varian again. God in his wisdom had placed him on board the Retribution and in the battle to come, when every man in the fleet would be a soldier of the Protestant faith. If the Lord had chosen Robert Varian then, Seeley conceded, he must be wrong about the new master.

The ship’s bell tolled eight times and the boatswain, Shaw, called for the changing of the watch.

‘Call the men to the main deck, Mister Seeley,’ Robert said, eager to begin the day, ‘and have the top gallants brought down.’

‘Yes, Master,’ Seeley replied. His shouted order triggered the sound of bare feet running on the timber decks as all across the fleet the fore-noon watch began.

Robert watched the men take to the shrouds as Seeley directed them from the main deck. The master’s mate was a young man, not twenty-two years old but his social rank gave him an innate confidence which was reflected in his easy command of the men. Robert had honed a similar style of command, although his had been forged over years at sea, his experience and skill earning him the respect of any crew he served with. His steadfast time on the triangular trade route had also brought him to the attention of John Hawkins and Robert had finally received his hard-earned captain’s commission six months before.

Now he was master once more, albeit on one of the finest ships of the English fleet. He was left to wonder anew at how different his life would be if his true lineage was not tainted and could be revealed. His captaincy would have been attained years earlier, undoubtedly on a galleon rather than a merchantman. For all his skill at sailing and experience of fighting as a privateer he had never commanded in battle. Captain Morgan, on the other hand, although his junior, had sailed with Drake when the English fleet attacked the Spanish Main in the Caribbean two years before. It had been a hard fought campaign and although Robert was aggrieved that he had never been afforded such a chance to prove himself, he respected Morgan’s right to command.

Reports that the Spanish were preparing a massive invasion fleet had reached every ear in England and the ships surrounding the Retribution had been assembled to sail once more against the enemy, although this time the attack would take place in Spanish home waters. It was a daring gamble. One worthy of Drake, Robert thought, as he looked to the flagship. He immediately saw the longboat bearing the captain returning to the Retribution . Even from a distance the agitation on Morgan’s face was evident and Robert ran to the gunwale. The longboat came alongside and the captain clambered on board.

‘Mister Varian,’ he called as he went aft of the main deck, ‘report to my cabin.’

Robert walked quickly down the steps from the quarterdeck to the main and doubled back to go aft. He moved swiftly, side stepping the crewmen in the cramped space beneath the quarterdeck, his body slightly stooped in the restricted headroom. The air smelled of boiled meat and unwashed men, while underneath Robert could detect the all pervasive stink of the bilges. Ahead he could see the captain had already entered his cabin at the stern of the ship. He stopped at the door and knocked. A muffled voice commanded him to enter.

The cabin was small but neat, with a cot to one side behind a curtain. Near the stern, under the windows, stood a table and single chair. The captain had cleared the tabletop and was laying out navigation charts, looking at each in turn before pulling another from the rack.

‘Lisbon,’ he said without looking up, his excitement clearly evident.

‘When?’ Robert asked, stepping in to view the charts he already knew intimately.

‘If the wind holds, we sail with the tide tomorrow,’ the captain replied. ‘Then we lay off the devil’s lair to make sure the squadrons of their fleet do not unite.’

Robert nodded, a multitude of thoughts entering his mind at once, including the myriad tasks which needed to be completed before dawn the next morning. Until four days ago he had been like any other trader in Plymouth, fully aware of the growing threat posed by the greatest empire of the age, but unaffected by it. Now he stood shoulder to shoulder with the men who would stand against Goliath.

CHAPTER 2

8th April 1587. Cadiz, Spain.

The rain fell in steady sheets borne by an onshore breeze that filled the air with the salt smell of the deep sea, smothering the odours of the cramped city on the peninsula a mile away. Evardo Alvarez Morales turned into the wind and breathed in deeply before lowering his head. The rain ran off the brim of his hat and he wiped the wind driven moisture from his face and neatly trimmed beard. The storm was blowing from the south-west and the Halcón tugged incessantly at her anchor line, trying to break free, as if to seek shelter from the shattered remnants of the Atlantic rollers that surged past the headland protecting the anchorage at Cadiz.