John Stack - Armada

Evardo’s concern mounted as they neared the stricken galleon. Cries of alarm and command mixed on the wind with screams of agony and despair. The aft decks and stern castle of the San Salvador had been completely annihilated. Her steering and mizzen masts were gone and already the wind and tide were beginning to turn her broadside to the weather. Feluccas and pataches were milling around her towering hull, picking men out of the churning sea, while others took secured tow lines to the attending galleons nearby. The Santa Clara sailed past the San Martín and Evardo answered the hail of the flagship to bring his galleon astride the stern of the San Salvador and hold station there.

Evardo ordered the longboat launched. Despite being from the Basque region, the men of the San Salvador were fellow Spaniards and the crew eagerly responded to Evardo’s bidding. The longboat descended into the choppy sea. Evardo gave command of the quarterdeck to Mendez and went forward to the fo’c’sle in time to see the longboat reach the outer edge of the halo of debris surrounding the San Salvador . They pulled a charred, blackened body from the water, only to throw it overboard again. Evardo focused on the larboard quarter of the galleon thirty yards away.

The entire aft section of the San Salvador had been torn open by the explosion, exposing her inner decks and cabins. The dead lay everywhere, many burned beyond recognition, others horribly mutilated by the blast, spared their savage injuries by the merciful hand of death. Smoke billowed from a dozen open wounds in the hull. Pataches were lashing on to the San Salvador , their crews clambering up onto the main deck to fight the fires that were still raging.

For every man who climbed on board, others were abandoning ship, many carrying the heavy coin chests of the Armada’s paymaster who was sailing on the San Salvador . The walking wounded were also being taken off and while Evardo could see that many would be fit to fight again, the galleon herself was perilously close to sinking and was surely beyond salvaging.

The sudden sound of collision caused Evardo to spin around. Not two hundred yards away the flagship of the Andalusia squadron, the Nuestra Señora del Rosario had slammed into her sister ship, the Santa Catalina . Earlier that morning, as the Rosario had sailed to support the San Juan , she had accidentally collided with one of the Biscayans and had damaged her bowsprit. This had badly affected her steering and she had been forced to drop out of the fight. Now that compromising damage had caused her even greater misfortune, crippling the Rosario further. Her foremast rigging was in complete disarray. Evardo uttered a prayer, watching in horror as the foremast bowed under the press of the wind, threatening to snap at any moment.

He glanced back at the San Salvador . The longboat of the Santa Clara had reached its hull and was helping with the evacuation. It was dangerous work, the pitiless sea foaming, and more than once the men in the longboat were thrown from their feet as rogue waves slammed their small craft against the hull of the galleon. Many of the pataches and feluccas were cutting loose to go to the assistance of the latest casualty, the Rosario , and Evardo went back to the quarterdeck, his attention turning once more to the enemy.

The evening was swiftly closing in. The English still commanded the weather gauge. Only the inconsistency of the wind and sea and the Armada’s unbroken formation was keeping them at bay. But how long would those protective forces hold? With two badly wounded ships hampering their progress the Armada was significantly exposed. Evardo could only hope that the experienced commanders advising Medina Sidonia would find a way to achieve an effective running defence of the San Salvador and the Rosario . Like wolves, the English were silently observing their prey.

John Cross pounded on the wooden door and stepped back into the middle of the street. The imposing limestone façade of the four-storey civic building was in darkness. He pounded again.

‘In the name of the Queen, open up,’ he bellowed.

An angry voice shouted at him from the down the street to be silent but Cross ignored the tirade and hammered on the door once more, the noise sparking further anger from another quarter.

It was nearly thirty-six hours since Cross had begun his search for the officer named Seeley. From the outset he had been beset by delays and frustration. Almost immediately after he left the tavern the town had ignited with the news that the Spanish had been sighted nearing Plymouth Roads. The local population had quickly taken to the streets, many packing up their meagre belongings to flee to the surrounding countryside while others simply milled around in chaotic fear of the foe that was suddenly on their doorstep.

The clogged streets had delayed Cross and by the time he had reached the town’s main civic building the port officials had already left to attend the admiral of the fleet. Cross had waited until darkness fell. Then news came that the fleet was warping out of the harbour with the outgoing tide. In bitter anger he strode to the torch-lit docks to witness the departure in person. His quarry was on board one of the departing warships.

Dawn the following morning had brought news of the opening moves by the English fleet, of how Howard had gained the weather gauge and the Armada had sailed past Plymouth, and the population had taken to the streets again, this time to cheer. Cross had shared their joy at Howard’s opening success, but his elation had been tempered by news given to him by a clerk that the port officials were shadowing the flagship in a local barque so as to be on hand to offer assistance while Plymouth was in range of the fighting.

That day had passed slowly, with Cross standing on the quayside amongst the local population as small local tenders returned from sailing with the English fleet, each one carrying news of the opening encounter, the short sharp action that had seen the fleet take the fight to the enemy. With the return of night Cross had abandoned his vigil. He had slept fitfully, convinced that the officials must soon return, now that the fleets were moving further east. He had risen in the darkness before dawn to return to the civic building, determined to continue his search.

‘Open the cursed door,’ he roared again.

Glancing up he saw a light flicker in one of the windows and intensified his hammering on the door. The light moved away, only to appear moments later as a shaft washed out from underneath the door.

‘Stop that banging, damn you,’ a muffled voice shouted angrily from inside.

‘In the name of the Queen, open up.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Cross stated his association with Francis Tanner, Walsingham’s local agent. The mere mention of Tanner stilled the voice inside and Cross was rewarded with the sound of a bolt being slammed back. He pushed at the door even as it was being opened, forcing the man inside to step back.

‘What do you want?’ the official asked again irritably, holding a candle out at arm’s length. He was an older man, his face haggard and blackened, and he had clearly been sleeping in his clothes.

‘I need to see the crew manifests for the English fleet, immediately.’ Cross paid no heed to the open hostility of the official.

‘The crew manifests? At this hour? Do you realize where I’ve been for the past twenty-four hours, you insolent cuss. I should have you in irons for coming here unannounced in the middle of the night.’

‘The crew manifests,’ Cross repeated, a hard edge to his voice. ‘Before I have you flogged for impeding the investigation of one of the Queen’s agents.’