Armada

‘Now, to enhance our defence, the duke has also decided to place a screen of pataches before the fleet. Their task will be to grapple and haul any fire-ships away. I need war-captains to command these boats, not the current traders who might turn and run at the first sight of fire. Who among you will volunteer?’

‘Don de Leiva,’ Evardo said at once. ‘I request the honour of commanding one of the pataches.’

‘And I,’ another comandante shouted, close at hand.

‘And I.’

‘And I.’

Robert gazed out over the fore rail of the fo’c’sle at the anchored enemy fleet. The Spaniards had done it. The Flemish coast was within their reach. Right now Parma’s army was undoubtedly readying itself to embark. If he was sallying out from Dunkirk he was less than twenty-five miles away. How many thousands of soldiers were already on the Armada? How many more would Parma add? The Army of Flanders was the greatest in Europe and once ashore in England they would sweep aside any obstacle. Only the English fleet stood in the way of that terrible fate. But how could they stop the Armada? The Spanish ships were unsinkable, their formation unbreakable, and once the Armada set course for the English coast, with Parma’s men amongst them, their victory would be assured.

‘Beg to report, Captain,’ Robert heard and he turned to find Seeley standing behind him.

‘The tide is about to turn. I’ve manned the capstan in case the anchor shifts.’

‘Very good, Mister Seeley,’ Robert replied. He indicated to the Armada off the bow. ‘What’s your assessment?’

‘It’s a piss-poor anchorage for such a large fleet,’ Seeley replied and Robert raised an eyebrow at Seeley’s uncharacteristic profanity. ‘If this wind holds we should try to dislodge them and push them onto the Flemish shoals.’

Robert nodded. It was an obvious conclusion but how would they achieve such a feat?

‘I suspect the admiral will launch some type of attack on the morrow,’ Robert said, thinking aloud. ‘Especially now that Lord Seymour and his squadron have joined the fleet.’

Seeley nodded and took a moment to study the captain. Sir Robert Varian. The title filled Seeley with immense pride. It was a great honour, not only for the captain, but for the Retribution and all who sailed on her. A faint smile crept onto his face as he recalled how he had once suspected the captain of being a traitorous Roman Catholic. He had reached an absurd conclusion and he thanked God that he had never confronted Robert.

‘Put extra lookouts fore and aft, Thomas. Report again after the tide has turned.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Pinnace approaching off the larboard quarter!’

It was bearing Hawkins’s colours and Robert went to the main deck in time to see Seeley grant the commander leave to come aboard. Robert led the way to his cabin. Once the door was closed, Hawkins began to speak.

‘We’re going to attack the Armada with fire-ships, tonight. The vessels have already been chosen and are being prepared out of sight of the enemy in the middle of the fleet.’

Of course, Robert thought, fire-ships. His own lack of military experience had hidden this obvious solution from him. The wind was abaft of the fleet and the tide was about to turn in-shore. It was a perfect stratagem.

‘We probably won’t damage many ships, much less destroy any,’ Hawkins continued. ‘Our goal is to create confusion and shatter their formation. With luck, and God’s favour, dawn should see the Spaniards driven back out into the Channel, or better yet, into the North Sea.’

Robert nodded. ‘What ships have been chosen?’

Hawkins listed them. There were eight in total including one of Hawkins’s own ships, a 200 ton barque, the Hope.

‘The Hope is commanded by Mathias Purdon,’ Hawkins said. ‘He’s a good man, but he’s a merchant, not a soldier. I want someone I can trust at the helm to carry this through.’

‘Then I volunteer,’ Robert said without hesitation.

Hawkins smiled wryly. ‘I thought you might. The ship will be fully rigged; you’ll just need to hold her course until the flames have taken hold. How many men will you need?’

‘Just one,’ Robert replied, again without pause. ‘If he’s willing, I’m going to take my sailing master, Thomas Seeley.’

The wind and tide driven waves slapped against the hull of the Águila, her cutwater slicing through the rising surf as the patache tacked across the breadth of the Armada. The sun had set over two hours before and Evardo stood quietly in the bow of the 120 ton vessel, his hand clasping a line of running rigging to keep his balance on the heaving deck. The running lights of the English fleet covered the line of the western horizon. It was difficult to judge their distance. They looked closer than the four miles that separated the fleets, and Evardo glanced over his shoulder to the lights of the Armada, the multitude that was under his care.