Armada (25 page)

The biggest of these were the two Italian and six Spanish bronze
media culebrinas
which fired 10 pound iron shots, and four
medio cañón pedreros
, firing a 7 pound stone shot that would shatter on impact, devastating a tightly packed deck. Before battle each gun would be loaded with the assistance of soldiers who would then report back to their posts in the fore and aft castles and the fighting tops. The guns would be lashed to the hull and although the
Santa Clara
carried a considerable store of powder and shot the guns would only be fired once for each attack, just moments before the
Santa Clara
would close on a ship for boarding, thereby causing the maximum of casualties and confusion amongst the enemy.

Gunnery tactics were continually evolving and Evardo, like every other
comandante
, was well aware of the English navy’s prowess in this area. If allowed to command the weather gauge they would sweep in, firing their heavy bow chasers, followed by their broadsides and stern guns, before retreating to windward to reload. It would be a fearsome attack, one the
Santa Clara
might have to endure, but in centuries of naval warfare boarding was the proven method of securing an enemy ship in battle, one that the Spanish had perfected over generations.

If the English wished to defeat the Spanish Armada they would have to close and board, thus putting themselves within reach and Evardo smiled involuntarily as he thought of that moment, that brief second after the broadside was fired into an enemy ship, when his entire crew would be poised to follow his command to board. Nearly a third of the soldiers on board were armed with muskets while the remainder carried arquebuses. From the towering castles of the
Santa Clara
they would bring down a rain of hellfire upon the English while others fired the two swivel-mounted
falconetes
and twelve wrought iron breech loading
falcon pedreros
. Ceramic pots filled with gunpowder, spirits and resin, would be set with lighted fuses and cast into any knots of resistance while the dreaded
bombas
, wooden tubes filled with gunpowder and grapeshot, would scatter the enemy and clear them from the gunwales.

Only then would Evardo give the order. The enemy ship would be secured with grappling hooks, sealing the fate of the English crew, and with a war-cry that Evardo could almost hear, the crew of the
Santa Clara
would storm over the gunwales, cutting down any who stood in their way, cleansing the ship of its heretic crew.

Again Evardo smiled, only now it was a cold sneer that did not reach his eyes. In his mind he was leading his men onto the
Retribution
and before him stood the man who had come to symbolize his fight against the English, Robert Varian. He would be the first to fall. But he would not be the last. The battle would not end until the English fleet had been swept from the Channel, until the Army of Flanders had made their crossing and the Armada was sailing up the Thames estuary. Only then would victory be assured, for God and Spain.

‘Patache approaching off the starboard beam,’ Evardo heard and he went aloft to see the approaching ship. It was small boat, lightly armed with only fifty men on board. It was one of a squadron of such craft that carried dispatches and supplies between the larger vessels. The patache came alongside and Evardo’s commander, de Valdés, came on board followed by four men, one of them a priest.

‘
Comandante
Morales,’ de Valdés said, moving aside to allow the others to step forward. ‘I would like to introduce you to some guests of his majesty’s Armada who will be sailing with you on the
Santa Clara
.’

Evardo nodded genially and looked to the four men. He had expected this arrival for he had learned from other
comandante
s that such guests were sailing on nearly every ship of the fleet.

‘This is Padre Ignacio Garza,’ de Valdés began, indicating the priest. ‘He will conduct mass for the ship’s company once a week and tend to the spiritual needs of your crew.’

‘You are most welcome, Padre Garza,’ Evardo said sincerely and bowed his head to receive a simple blessing from the priest. He took strength from the Latin words of the benediction and recited in his mind the exhortation, written by a Jesuit in Lisbon, that had been circulated throughout the fleet; ‘
We are not going on a difficult enterprise, because God our Lord, whose cause and most holy faith we defend, will go ahead, and with such a Captain we have nothing to fear.
’

God supported the Armada’s mission to restore Catholic rule to England. King Philip and Medina Sidonia had declared this fact in every communiqué and Pope Sixtus V had issued a special indulgence to all who sailed in the Spanish fleet.

‘These two gentlemen,’ de Valdés continued, ‘are Irish nobles, Maurice Fitzgibbon and Diarmuid McCarthy. They were forced to flee their native land after the defeat of the Earl of Desmond’s glorious rebellion.’

Evardo nodded to both men and welcomed them to the
Santa Clara
. They replied in deplorable Spanish and seemed ill at ease on board ship but Evardo could see they possessed the wariness of hardened fighters. They would not be a burden in the battle ahead.

‘And finally,’ de Valdés said, indicating the last man, ‘I would like to introduce his grace, the Duke of Greyfarne, Nathaniel Young.’

Evardo nodded courteously.

‘Welcome on board, your grace.’

The duke replied in near flawless Spanish but his accent jarred and Evardo hid his innate dislike for the Englishman behind a genial smile.

‘The Duke will act as one of the interpreters and guides for the invasion army,’ de Valdés explained, ‘and will also assist you in the interrogation of any prisoners you take in battle.’

Again Evardo nodded and he called for Mendez to find suitable accommodation for the four men. De Valdés took his leave and his patache slid away from the hull of the
Santa Clara
. Evardo watched it leave, his thoughts on his new passengers. The priest was truly welcome. Perhaps too the Irishmen, for they could prove valuable in battle. But the Englishman?

Evardo looked to the companionway leading below decks. He tried to separate the man’s nationality from his faith. It was difficult, but Evardo was reminded of the attitude he had tried to impress upon his captains. Everyone on board the
Santa Clara
shared a common purpose, and whatever their individual motives they all sought the defeat of the Crown forces of England. It was enough. Evardo resolved to think of the duke not as an Englishman, but as a fellow Catholic.

Nathaniel took the small rolled blanket from under his arm and cast it on the low cot. He glanced over his shoulder at the two Irishmen who shared the tiny cramped cabin with him. They were speaking together in Gaelic and the lyrical guttural tones of the language set Nathaniel’s frustration and anger on edge. He looked down at the blanket. Apart from the clothes he was wearing, and the pieces of eight in the purse hanging from his side, the blanket contained all his worldly possessions – some personal items and a family copy of the Latin bible.

For years Nathaniel had listened to rumours and plans for this great fleet. He had spent many months in Lisbon harbour watching it grow from its infancy into a fledgling power. He had foreseen the day it would take to the seas and had pictured himself on the quarterdeck of the
San Martin
, the flagship of Medina Sidonia, in conference with the duke and his senior officers. Never once had he dreamt that he would hold such a lowly place in its ranks, cast aside to some anonymous galleon. He felt old and defeated. His life’s endeavours had come to naught.

That night at the motte had brought him to this point. He thought of Robert and looked to the sword hanging by his side, the sword with which he had almost killed his only son, and he wondered if given the chance again he would strike him down. He could have been the one who betrayed them to the authorities that night, although Nathaniel was also suspicious of Clarsdale. The duke had insisted on knowing de Torres’s name. Perhaps he was in league with the Protestants? Nathaniel had not returned to Clarsdale’s estate after the attack, so there was no way to know the truth. Not until he returned to England and confronted Clarsdale.

After the ambush Nathaniel had fled back to his prearranged rendezvous point on the coast. Clarsdale knew of the arrangement; the scheduled return of a Spanish galleon after one month. If the duke had been captured or was in league with the authorities, then he would surely lead them to the coast, but Nathaniel could think of no other way to leave the country without being detected and so he had resolved himself to wait. The three weeks had been an eternity of fear and deprivation. Nathaniel had been forced to live like a savage out in the open, stealing what food he could from the local farms, all the while waiting for the authorities to swoop down and capture him. But they had not come and the Spanish galleon had returned as arranged, picking up their sole passenger off the isolated beach in the dead of night.

Upon returning to Spain Nathaniel had been forced to wait endless weeks for a meeting with de Torres. The Spaniard had finally granted him an audience, but only to tell Nathaniel that he was no longer of any use to the Spanish Empire and he was to remove himself from the court at Madrid. Nathaniel had pleaded, no begged, de Torres for a reprieve, requesting only that he be allowed to sail with the Armada. The Spaniard had relented, but Nathaniel had seen the disgust in de Torres’s eyes. He was struck by a wave of nausea as he recalled his humiliation.

Nathaniel felt the deck shift beneath him and heard the crew of the Spanish galleon cheer. In the distance a single cannon boomed, a signal for the fleet to form up. The Armada was under sail. Nathaniel went quickly back on deck. The rigging was alive with men. One after another the sails unfurled with a crack as the wind took hold of the ship. The galleon continued to turn under his feet and Nathaniel looked aft to the land behind. The soil of the Spanish Empire. With God’s grace, he prayed, he would never see it again.

He could never come back to Spain, there was nothing for him here. His whole world consisted of England. With the help of these strangers he would soon be back in his native land, but he felt no loyalty to the Spaniards he sailed with. Loyalty was based on reciprocity and Spain had turned its back on Nathaniel Young.

His years of faithful service had been forgotten, cast aside, and while in the fight to come he would still give the Spanish every assistance, the alliance would be temporary. His fall from favour had revealed the truth of his position in his adopted country. Even after twenty years he was still an outsider, an Englishman, and for the first time in many years Nathaniel felt a longing for his country that went beyond his quest to see a Catholic monarch on the throne.

When the Spanish seized power from Elizabeth and her cursed Privy Council he would endeavour to have his title restored by the Spanish authorities. But thereafter, he vowed, he would strive to rid England of the invaders. He could do little else, for he was an Englishman, and England was his home.

2nd June 1588. Plymouth, England.

R
obert watched from the poop deck of his galleon as the standard of the Lord Admiral, Charles Howard, was raised above the flagship, the
Ark Royal
. A cheer went up around the fleet and Robert looked to Drake’s ship, the
Revenge
, moored alongside the flagship. It was flying a vice-admiral’s standard and altogether some sixty fighting ships were now moored in Plymouth harbour. With dozens of smaller ships in support the fleet looked formidable. However the outward display of power belied an inner fragility.

Over the previous months Drake had done everything humanly possible to prepare the fleet. Nonetheless one area continued to elude his mastery – supplies. The men were already on reduced rations, and in such a weakened state they were easy quarry for pestilence. Robert could only hope that the arrival of such a senior officer as Howard might improve the situation.

Coupled with this, the fleet still had no reliable intelligence as to the disposition of the Spanish Armada. Rumours continued to flood into Plymouth, preying on the nerves of every man, and Robert, like all his crew, craved the order to make sail. It was widely known that Drake was actively canvassing for a pre-emptive strike similar to his daring raid of a year before. Robert supported the plan, preferring it to the unbearable strain of waiting. Howard had the authority to order such an attack. With reports circulating that the admiral had arranged for a further squadron of forty ships, under Lord Henry Seymour, to guard the Straits of Dover, there was every chance the fleet could put to sea when sufficient supplies were secured.

Robert turned his back on the flagship and went down to the quarterdeck. The summer heat was rising and his shirt was drenched with sweat under his jerkin and doublet. His stomach ached. He ignored the protest and with annoyance he scratched a flea bite on the back of his arm. A latent anger, caused by weeks of tension, suddenly rose within him. Where were the cursed Spanish? Had they sailed from Lisbon? Were they now off Cape Finisterre, or Biscay, or Ushant? Perhaps their plans had changed. Perhaps the reports that had reached Plymouth were false and the Spanish were sailing to Ireland to incite rebellion there.

He looked to the heights above the protective headlands of the harbour. Each one was capped with primed signal fires. Similar beacons had been placed along the length of the south coast. If the Armada was sighted they would be lit and the news would speed to London and beyond to the entire kingdom. But what then? Robert had confidence in the
Retribution
and her crew. His ship was a breed apart, faster and more nimble than any craft the Spanish possessed. But many of the enemy ships were behemoths, built for the rigors of the mid-Atlantic. The
Retribution
and her sister ships would be like terriers nipping at the heels of wolfhounds, and should any English ship fall within grappling range they would be quickly overwhelmed.