Armada

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.