John Stack - Armada

Fifteen pataches had been assigned to the screen, nearly the entire complement of such craft sailing with the Armada. Under the feeble light of the half-moon Evardo checked the position of the Águila with the boats on his flanks. He had taken over his new command at dusk. Prior to that and throughout the entire day, the pataches had been ferrying victuals from the port of Calais to the Armada. The French governor of the city had not only proved sympathetic to the Spanish cause, he had allowed the local merchants to trade with the fleet. Every ship had received fresh supplies of water and food.

Satisfied, Evardo turned and went aft, staggering along the length of the heaving deck until he reached the tiller. The helmsman was standing with his feet widely spaced for balance, his calloused hand firmly on the tiller. Evardo nodded curtly to the helmsman. From a comandante it was an extraordinary gesture of familiarity to a common sailor and the crewman was momentarily taken aback before he returned the gesture.

‘Come up another point to the wind.’

‘Si, Comandante .’ The helmsman deftly pushed the tiller a fraction to larboard.

Forward of the tiller Nathaniel Young stood in the lee of the mainmast. Evardo had ordered the Englishman to accompany him, along with ten of his arquebusiers to defend the Águila against any attack. Young looked ill at ease but Evardo was confident he was suitable for the task. In any case, if for any reason they did not make it back to the Santa Clara Evardo wanted the more experienced Capitán de Córdoba in command of the soldiers there. The other ten crewmen of the Águila were sailors, hand-picked by Mendez from the men who had volunteered.

‘Ahoy, Águila !’

Evardo turned at the sudden call, peering into the darkness off the starboard quarter from whence it came. The voice sounded familiar. While Evardo tried to place it, it rang out again.

‘Ahoy, Águila , Comandante Morales!’

A skiff came into view. It was skimming over the tops of the waves under the press of a lateen sail. A man was standing in the bow but in the darkness it was impossible to see who it was.

‘Heave to.’ The helmsman adjusted his course as the sailors took to the sheets.

The Águila lost headway and began to buck wildly in the swell. The skiff came rapidly alongside.

‘Permission to come aboard, Comandante Morales,’ the man called from the bow.

Evardo could finally see who it was. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

‘Of course, Abrahan.’

The older man leapt across onto the deck of the Águila . He called over his shoulder for the skiff to bear away and strode over to Evardo.

‘Can we talk, Comandante ?’

Evardo nodded. He ordered the helmsman to get underway and then led his mentor to the privacy of the bow.

‘Evardo,’ Abrahan began. In the half-light Evardo could see his face was twisted in anguish. ‘I was wrong. I was terribly wrong. You have proven over the past week that you are indeed a man of true courage, your father’s son. Everyone in the fleet speaks of it. I have come here to ask for your forgiveness and to serve with you once more.’

From the terrible moment of his capitulation on the Halcón , Abrahan’s forgiveness and acceptance was all that Evardo had wanted. Now Abrahan was asking the same of him. He felt his heart twist at the sight of his mentor supplicating himself.

‘There is nothing to forgive, Abrahan. I was wrong to forfeit the Halcón in exchange for my life.’

‘It was God’s will that you lived, Evardo. I see that now. He has guided your hand in this battle and made you an instrument of His war against the heretics.’

Evardo reached out and clasped Abrahan’s shoulder. For the first time in over a year he felt a semblance of peace. It was as if the wounds to his honour were finally healing.

‘But what of your position on the San Juan ?’

‘I told you, Evardo. Everyone in the fleet knows of your courage. When I requested leave to join you from Juan Martinez de Recalde, he did not hesitate to grant my request.’

Evardo smiled and tightened his grip on Abrahan’s shoulder.

‘Then it’s to your station, old friend,’ he said. Abrahan nodded in thanks before moving off to take command of the helm.

Evardo felt the peace within him become stronger. He had proved his bravery. For his comrades and his mentor, the stain of Cadiz had not only been erased, it had never existed.

But for Evardo part of it still endured. He would not be free of the past until one final part of his honour was satisfied, a part that could only be sated through blood – he must have his revenge. His disgrace at Cadiz would always exist while Robert Varian lived. Only when that cursed enemy was dead would Evardo finally achieve the full restoration of his honour.

Robert twisted the cord of slow-match in his hand, the lighted taper spinning slowly in the darkness, its flame feeding off the cool wind. Seeley stood beside him, his hand on the tiller as he wove the Hope through the outer ships in the lee of the fleet. She was a two masted barque, with a square main sail and a lateen mizzen and had been fully rigged by her crew before departure. The westerly wind eagerly drove her on, with Seeley balancing her course with the broad rudder, the deck heeled over to larboard under the press of sail. Robert was glad the sailing master had agreed to accompany him. Seeley had a steady hand and could be relied upon if anything went awry.

The Hope breeched the outer fleet just as her sister ships did the same and the eight craft sailed onwards abreast, setting out across the clear stretch of water that led to the enemy. The Hope had been packed with every combustible material available. The decks were strewn with old sails, barrels of pitch and heavy coils of frayed hemp rope. In addition the six 3 pound minions and five falconetes had all been double-shotted, with two round shot loaded back to back. Primed and ready the guns would explode when the flames of the pyre reached them, their barrels splitting asunder, adding to the terror and confusion it was hoped these devil ships would create.

Robert estimated they were already well over half-way between the two fleets. It would soon be time to light the deck. He checked that the tow line leading back to the skiff being dragged behind the Hope was still attached. The skiff was their only means of escape. Once the fire had been lit they would have only minutes to lash the tiller, scurry down the rope and cut the skiff loose from its damned escort. It was no fate for a proud ship.

‘I make us just over a mile out,’ he said to Seeley.

‘When will we fire the decks?’ Seeley asked out of the corner of his mouth, never averting his gaze from the lie of the ship.

‘Our orders were a half-mile from the enemy.’

Seeley nodded, and this time his eyes darted to the lighted taper in Robert’s hand. His heart was pounding in his chest and he closed his mind to the fear that every sailor possessed. Once loose, a fire was the damnation of all on board a ship and as a sailor Seeley had always regarded it as a necessary evil, never an ally. To purposely fire a ship seemed an unnatural, almost unholy, deed and Seeley tried to focus on the prize for such a treacherous act against the Hope .

All of a sudden Seeley saw a flame in the distance. He spun around, watching in horror as one of the fire-ships burst into a ball of flame.

‘It’s the Bark Talbot ,’ Robert ran to the larboard gunwale. ‘They’ve set her alight. Damn them, it’s too soon.’