John Stack - Armada

Seeley took it. The grip was firm and calloused.

‘Welcome to the Retribution , Master’s Mate.’

‘Glad to be aboard, Master,’ Miller replied.

Seeley searched the words for any sign of insolence, suddenly conscious that he was less than half the age of his new subordinate. He could discern none however, and dismissed Miller to go below and stow his kit.

Seeley watched him leave. Once more he thought of the first time, months before, when he had laid eyes on Miller on board the Spirit at Plymouth docks. The man had lied without hesitation to protect Varian, concocting some tale about a meeting with a local trader. It was a lie that spoke of an instinctive loyalty that came from years of shared hardship and toil. It would be difficult to penetrate the obvious bond between the two men.

But penetrate it he must, for Miller was his direct subordinate now, his right hand man. Seeley needed to know he commanded his loyalty. Moreover, he needed to get the measure of Miller’s faith. With luck he was as committed to eradicating Roman Catholicism as Shaw had proven to be. Seeley whispered a brief prayer that it was so. If he could gain Miller’s trust, then perhaps together they could convince the captain to fully accept the divine task that Seeley believed the Almighty had set them.

‘Quarterdeck ho! Longboat approaching off the larboard beam!’

Seeley darted around in surprise. A second longboat was approaching and Captain Varian was sitting in the bow. Seeley went to the main deck to greet him as the longboat moved swiftly alongside.

‘Welcome back, Captain.’ Seeley wondered where the captain had been for the past week. Knowing Varian, he had taken home leave when they first arrived back in Plymouth.

‘Anything to report, Mister Seeley?’

Seeley quickly listed off the routine activities of the past week; the arrival of a new culverin to replace an aging one, the completion of some maintenance on the starboard bow strake timbers of the hull and finally that the new master’s mate had just arrived.

‘Miller,’ Robert said with a broad smile. ‘Have one of the men seek him out and send him to my cabin.’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Any change in our standing orders?’

‘None, Captain. Only that we are to remain at a state of readiness.’

Robert nodded, his brow creasing in thought.

‘What can that mean, Captain?’ Seeley asked, thinking perhaps that during the previous week the captain had had some contact with one of the senior commanders – maybe Hawkins, his patron, and that he had some insight into the need for continued caution. ‘Surely any threat the Armada posed has passed?’

Robert looked to Seeley as if his question had startled him.

‘I don’t know, Thomas. Drake has his reasons. Trust in that.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Seeley replied. He turned to call a crewman to find Miller.

Robert walked towards his cabin, his thoughts fixed on Seeley’s question. Why hadn’t the standing orders been changed? The smaller ships had been stood down, but the capital ships remained on alert. What did Drake know that had not filtered down to the crews? That Spain planned to invade England had been common knowledge for over a year, but Robert, like everyone else, had believed that plan had been thwarted, at least for the immediate future. Maybe, he thought uneasily, the raid on Cadiz had not bloodied the Spanish as much as they had first supposed. As he reached the door of his cabin the stomp of boots behind him made him turn.

‘Miller,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is good to see you well, old friend.’

‘And you, Captain,’ Miller replied, taking the proffered hand of his commander.

Robert led Miller through the door.

‘Sit down, man.’ Robert poured two tankards of grog. ‘Tell me, what news of the Spirit ?’

‘She is in fine fettle, Captain,’ Miller replied with pride. ‘For the past month we have been ferrying supplies along the length of the south coast. From Dover to Portsmouth and here.’

Robert sat straighter in his chair at the mention of Dover and Portsmouth. His initial question had been innocently asked, but he suddenly realized that Miller had first hand knowledge of what capital, and other ships were stationed at each harbour. He hesitated, not wanting to ask the question that had immediately sprung to mind. He needed to contact his father, and Clarsdale’s report was the key. He could give the duke false information, but if his deception was discovered his only chance would be forfeit. Every fibre of his loyalty urged him to expose Clarsdale, while his desire to communicate with his father compelled him to do whatever it took to achieve his goal. He drank deep and the grog seared his throat. He put down his tankard and stared at Miller.

‘Drake keeps us at a state of readiness here in Plymouth,’ he began, the words coming slowly. ‘Is it the same at Portsmouth and Dover?’

‘I believe so, Captain. Certainly the amount of stores we are supplying to the galleons suggests they could be ready to sail with less than a day’s notice.’

Robert nodded. He watched Miller closely for signs that his question had aroused some suspicion but of course there was none. They had been shipmates for too long and Robert knew Miller would never think ill of him. He felt ashamed, but steeled himself. He had made his decision.

‘Tell me about these other galleons.’

Miller began to list off the ships he had seen in Dover and Portsmouth, adding incidental comments that his professional eye had noticed about the condition of each one. He spoke casually, believing the captain’s interest was merely professional curiosity. Robert refilled Miller’s tankard and remained silent as his mind catalogued each piece of information. All the while a part of his consciousness sought to quieten the bitter protest of his loyalty.

Nathaniel Young heard the crash of the surf through the dark. The longboat reared beneath him and accelerated down the swell of a wave. He glanced over his shoulder past the rowers to the running light of the Spanish galleon in the distance. It was faint but visible. Nathaniel looked back to the blackness of the coast. Where was the signal light of his contact? Looking skyward to the darker outline of the two conical hills that marked the rendezvous point, he reassured himself that he was in the right place.

Suddenly a light appeared directly ahead. The longboat reared again and the rowers deftly balanced the hull as the wave carried them forward. They spoke rapidly to each other in Spanish but Nathaniel ignored them, conscious that soon he would hear naught but his mother tongue. He focused on the light ahead. It was a storm lantern and it seemed to be sitting directly on the beach. No one stood within its illumination.

As the boat crashed through the surf, two of the crew jumped out into the waist deep water to guide the boat ashore. The hull touched sand and Nathaniel jumped over the gunwale. His feet touched solid ground and for a moment he stood still, savouring the moment. He strode forward towards the light but stopped short, crouching down and taking up a handful of sand he let it sift through his fingers. He was home.

‘ Señor ,’ a voice said in the darkness behind him. ‘We will leave you now. God speed.’

‘No, wait,’ Nathaniel commanded. ‘Wait until I am safely away.’

The reply was muttered in gutter Spanish. Nathaniel did not understand the words but he knew their portent. If his contact did not show immediately he would either have to leave with the Spaniards or stay alone. He walked quickly to the storm lantern and stood beside it.

‘I am Nathaniel Young,’ he called into the darkness.

He was answered with silence.

‘ Señor , we go.’