John Stack: Armada

‘Sir Robert, my name is John Cross. I am an agent of the Crown. I wish to speak with one of your officers, Thomas Seeley.’

Robert’s stomach lurched at the request.

‘Why do you need to speak to him?’ Robert asked, concentrating on keeping his voice steady.

‘He has information I seek, about a traitor I am hunting. A man named Robert Young.’

Robert felt the blood drain from his face. With an enormous effort of will he indicated Seeley on the quarterdeck. Cross turned away and Robert looked desperately towards the pinnace as he searched for a way to escape. It was impossible, he was trapped. As Cross started to walk towards the quarterdeck Robert followed him, his hand unwittingly falling to the hilt of his sword.

‘Thomas Seeley?’ Cross reached the quarterdeck.

Seeley nodded and stepped forward.

‘Clear the deck,’ Robert ordered and all but the three men went below to the main. Robert stood slightly apart, his hand still on his sword. He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring that the rest of the crew were out of earshot. Cross introduced himself to Seeley.

‘It would seem, Master Seeley, that you and I are searching for the same man. A traitor named Robert Young.’

Seeley’s eyes darted to the captain before returning to Cross. ‘How do you know of this?’

Cross briefly explained about his meeting in the tavern and the ambush on a motte outside Plymouth where Robert Young and his father had escaped him.

‘I followed the fleet from Plymouth,’ he continued, ‘and had you not crossed over to Calais and engaged the Spanish there I would have reached you sooner. But I pray that is of no matter. Tell me, Master Seeley, have you found Robert Young?’

Seeley hesitated. This time he did not look at Robert.

‘I found him,’ he replied.

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s dead.’

Cross’s face froze. ‘Dead—are you sure?’

‘Yes. We found this icon in the surgery.’ Seeley reached into his pocket and pulled out the small inscribed crucifix. ‘This prompted our investigation and although we searched the ship, and I personally questioned all the crew, we were unable to reveal his true identity. It was only when one of the men killed on the first day of battle was being prepared for burial that we discovered this in a concealed seam of his clothes.’

Again Seeley reached into his pocket. This time he withdrew the statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary, turning it over to reveal the name underneath. Cross took the icon in his hand and examined it before handing it back.

‘Who was he?’

‘A mate,’ Seeley spat with false anger. ‘One of the junior officers – may he burn in hell. We threw his body over the side. Isn’t that right, Captain Varian?’

Robert couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had barely recovered his composure before Cross turned to look at him for confirmation. He nodded, not trusting his voice, and Cross looked back to Seeley once more. The agent uttered a dejected note of thanks, cursing his ill fortune for having lost the chance to take Young alive. Seeley echoed Cross’s lament before leading him from the quarterdeck.

Robert watched them walk away, unable to take in that he had been granted a reprieve. Seeley turned his head to look back. Robert stared at him, trying to read his intent. Seeley nodded, just once, and Robert understood. For Seeley there was no lie. Robert Young was dead, and in his place a true and loyal Englishman commanded the Retribution .

EPILOGUE

21st September 1588. Santander, Northern Spain.

The eight ships slowly rounded the western headland of Santander Bay. Lashed by shot and tempest, under tattered sails they resembled ghost ships soundlessly approaching the ancient port of Santander. The bells of the town church rang out as people rushed to the shoreline, staring in awe and despair at the flotilla of Spanish ships.

Evardo leaned heavily against the mizzen mast, his eyes closed as he listened to the peal of bells. They were the sound of home. Tears of relief welled up inside him. He pushed himself upright, swaying slightly with the fall of the deck and the fatigue that reached to the very depths of his soul. The last of their water had run out two days before and he wiped away the scum at the corners of his mouth, smacking his lips in an attempt to wet them before ordering the crew to prepare to drop anchor.

Mendez was dead, along with more than half the crew. The remaining men moved slowly about the ship, stepping over those who could not rise as they summoned the last of their strength to follow the comandante ’s orders. The voyage from the head of the English Channel had taken six weeks. From the outset Evardo had reduced the crew to half-rations, knowing the journey ahead would be long, but as the weeks passed he had been forced to reduce them again and again, until the men began to starve.

Pestilence and death had followed in the wake of the Santa Clara , waiting patiently for the weakest to succumb. The wounded were the first to die. Too weak to fight infection they were easy prey. Disease became rampant, taking the ship’s boys and the oldest crewmen in the first week. Within a fortnight three to four men were dying each day. Padre Garza had presided over each funeral, his rites echoing across the decks until he too fell.

The weather had been cruel and savage, much worse than any could have imagined, and summer storms had driven the ships of the Armada onto the wild, uncharted west coast of Ireland. Evardo had no idea how many ships had been lost there. Each dawn had revealed more losses with ships disappearing in the darkness of night or in the midst of terrible squalls, their fate known only to God and the damned who sailed in them.

The Santa Clara had managed to stay in contact with a small flotilla and led by the San Martín they had finally reached the Bay of Biscay a week before. Crossing the bay, they had sighted other small groups of sail on the far horizons. The sight had given Evardo some comfort. They were not alone. Many others had been spared and would soon reach home.

With a splash that brought a handful of hollow cheers the Santa Clara anchored in the lee of the port. A host of fishing boats began to stream out from behind the rough hewn seawall that protected the inner harbour. Evardo looked up at Santander church high atop the steep promontory at the edge of the town. The bell had ceased to ring. With disdain, Evardo turned his back. God had not brought him home, the Santa Clara had. Evardo reached out to touch the mizzen mast once more, running his hand down the smooth weathered spar.

She had carried him through war and storm and they had endured much together since sailing from Lisbon months before. Because of her, because of her crew and men like Mendez, Evardo had regained his name and his honour. He had found peace with Abrahan and earned the respect of all who sailed in the Armada.

During the long desperate weeks in the north Atlantic Evardo had found strength in his determination to carry the war ever onwards against the English. They had not defeated the Armada, not decisively. Their cannon had battered and subjugated many of its ships, but it was the elements that truly sealed the Armada’s fate – the winds and tides of the Channel that had robbed the Spanish of the opportunity to employ their own tactics in battle.

The war was not over. It had taken the Spanish centuries to re-conquer their peninsula from the Moors, but against overwhelming odds they had eventually triumphed, and from out of that victory the greatest empire of the age had been forged. Over the previous hundred years the Spanish had swept all before them. The English were no fiercer a foe, no more determined than any other. Like so many enemies before them they too would be defeated in time.