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.