John Stack - Armada

‘ Santa Clara !’

Evardo spun around at the call. The San Juan was beginning to pull away, coming about under the press of the wind to withdraw to the sanctuary of the main battle group. On the quarterdeck stood the imposing figure of de Recalde, his hand cupped to his mouth. Evardo acknowledged the hail. There was a moment’s pause. De Recalde raised his hand to his forehead and casually saluted his thanks. Evardo returned the gesture but his eyes were no longer on de Recalde. They had shifted to the man who had come forward to stand beside him – his mentor Abrahan.

The gap between the ships increased, passing fifty yards, but Evardo’s gaze never wavered. Just as the San Juan was poised to sail behind another galleon Evardo, saw Abrahan nod slightly. It was a small movement, barely discernible across the distance, but it was there. Evardo smiled. After half a lifetime spent under his care Evardo knew it was as much ground as his taciturn mentor would ever give. One act of reckless courage would not erase his failure in Abrahan’s eyes. Evardo nodded to himself. The battle had only just begun.

CHAPTER 14

4 p.m. 31st July 1588. The English Channel, two leagues off Plymouth.

Robert paced the width of his cabin, his thoughts consumed by the events of the morning. He held a goblet of Madeira wine loosely in his hand, the last of his stock taken a year before during the Cadiz campaign, and he gulped from it with each turn of his heel. Outside the wind whistled through the rigging. Erratic gusts played merry hell with the sails and Robert could hear Miller sending the men to the running rigging.

Robert finished the goblet and went for the bottle. He poured out the last of its contents and slammed it down on the table. The wine had done nothing to quell his anxiety. He began to go through the sequence of the morning’s fight once more, trying to examine each aspect in turn. Larkin had reported after the battle that he and his men had fired off nearly 120 rounds during the four hour fight. It was almost a tenth of the ammunition on board and for all that, and the fire of the other English ships, not one Spanish vessel had been taken.

Despite a moment of panic the Armada’s formation remained intact and was now sailing some four miles ahead of the English fleet. It had never stopped. Even when its trailing wings were under attack, the main body of the fleet had continued under shortened sail, allowing them to make headway and maintain cohesion.

As an inexperienced battle-captain of a ship Robert knew it was not his place to resolve the tactical problems of the English attack, but as a veteran sailor he could do little else. Ahead on the English coast lay the safe anchorages of Weymouth and the Solent. Perhaps the Spaniards were planning on taking one of these havens to support their invasion of England, or perhaps they were intent solely on linking up with Parma in the Low Countries. Whatever their ultimate plan, their formation was an impregnable fortress and as long as it remained so there was nothing the English fleet could do to stop them.

Seeley pored over his charts in his tiny cabin under the poop deck, his finger tracing every inlet and headland of the Devon coastline. There was a knock on his cabin door. Shaw and Powell entered.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing to report, Mister Seeley,’ Shaw replied.

‘Curse it,’ Seeley spat. He had warned the boatswain, his mate and the surgeon to be extra vigilant now that battle had been joined. Whatever Young’s position on the ship he was bound to reveal himself when asked to fight against his own kind. His hesitation would be his undoing.

‘This battle has only just begun,’ Powell said assuredly. ‘We’ll find him.’

‘Perhaps we should widen our circle of confederates,’ Shaw suggested. ‘It would increase our chances of catching Young.’

‘We can’t,’ Powell replied, ‘not without running the risk of having a papist in our midst. A significant proportion of the population of England is still Roman Catholic. Given the size of the crew it is wise to suspect there are at least a handful of them on board.’

‘You believe there are others besides Young?’

Powell nodded.

‘But surely we would know of them,’ Shaw protested. ‘I grant you one is difficult to find amongst over two hundred men. But a group of them?’

‘They are well hidden, Mister Shaw, even in battle,’ Powell explained. ‘They fight like any other Englishman.’

‘Against their fellow papists?’

‘Many Roman Catholics consider themselves to be loyal recusants. Despite their religion they fight because Spain is the enemy of England.’

‘You consider these traitors to be loyal Englishmen?’ Seeley asked menacingly.

‘I did not say that I did, only that these recusants believe they can be both Roman Catholic and loyal to the Crown.’

‘Protestantism is the religion of England and our Queen,’ Seeley retorted angrily. ‘To believe in another foreign faith is treason in itself. Now, return to your posts.’

Shaw and Powell left the cabin. Seeley returned to his charts but he could not concentrate. Loyal recusant . The term was offensive. Roman Catholic Englishmen were traitors by their very existence and to suggest otherwise was an act of complicity. He called to mind Powell’s warning that there may be other papists on board beside Young and his thoughts went to the moment the Armada changed formation before battle was joined.

‘ Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis ,’ he said quietly, enunciating each syllable slowly. ‘ Holy Mary, pray for us .’

The words sounded foreign in his ears, not merely because they were spoken in Latin, but because he had never heard a Protestant say them before. Captain Varian had undoubtedly said them without thinking. The sight of the Armada skilfully redeploying into the crescent formation had struck every man with awe, but this made their utterance all the more baffling.

As a Protestant, Seeley revered Mary, but only because she was the mother of Jesus and therefore deserved veneration. His faith taught him that he could pray with Mary, but he should not pray to her, that prayer and entreaties should be recited only to God. Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis . This was the prayer of a Roman Catholic, a misguided petition based on a fallacy inherent in their corrupt faith. But Captain Varian wasn’t one. He couldn’t be. Seeley recalled what he had witnessed at the sack of Sagres, how the captain’s first instinct when he saw the Roman Catholic church under attack was to rush to join the others at the door, and how he had raised his pistol to shoot the priest, only to be denied by another.

After the morning’s action, as the fleet was redeploying to windward of the Armada, Howard had sailed alongside in the Ark Royal to pass his compliments to Captain Varian on his handling of his ship during the first engagement. Varian had sailed the Retribution into the thickest part of the fight and had remained in the battle long after others had withdrawn. He had stood squarely on the quarterdeck and made sure every shot fired was sorely felt by the Spaniards. These were not the actions of a traitor.

But on the other hand, Varian had never fully supported Seeley’s attempt to find Young. He had not hindered the investigation, but he had not assisted in it either. If the Retribution had been Seeley’s ship he would have taken her apart timber by timber until he found the treasonous rat. Suddenly a thought struck him. Perhaps Varian was trying to protect a fellow Roman Catholic from exposure, or maybe, Seeley thought in horror, Varian was Young. Perhaps it was his real name, changed to conceal his true faith.