Armada

Diego Flores de Valdés was seated in a high backed chair. He was nearly sixty years old but his dense black hair and moustache gave him the air of a younger man. He was an expert on naval tactics and had been personally appointed to the enterprise by the King to act as one of Medina Sidonia’s principal staff officers. Evardo nodded to him in welcome and then looked to the other man standing beside de Valdés, recognizing him immediately. He was Juan Martínez de Recalde, commander of the squadron of Biscay and second-in-command of the Armada. He was known as a cantankerous man, especially when plagued by his sciatica, but he was also respected as one of the most experienced naval officers in Spain. Evardo nodded to him in turn. De Recalde did not return the courtesy.

‘Comandante Morales,’ de Valdés began, looking down at the sheaves of paper that covered his desk. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly.’

‘Morales,’ de Recalde repeated with a contemptuous sneer. ‘The comandante who surrendered his ship at Cadiz?’

Evardo bristled at the remark but held his tongue. It would not benefit him to argue with such a high ranking officer and in any case it was not the first time he had been harangued over his role at Cadiz since returning to Spain. The whole country seemed to be looking for people to blame for that defeat and he had encountered disdainful stares and whispered conversations at every turn. On each occasion however he had striven to ignore them, concentrating instead on his objective. He looked at de Recalde out of the corner of his eye. The commander could have his opinion. Evardo’s commission had come at de Valdés’s request and had been approved by Medina Sidonia. He did not need de Recalde’s good graces.

‘I heard you gave up your sword in the midst of battle,’ de Recalde taunted, stepping forward from behind the desk. ‘I hope you will not repeat that act when we meet the English again.’

‘I defended my ship until the fight was lost,’ Evardo retorted angrily, his decision to remain silent forgotten. He took a half-step towards de Recalde. ‘I demand that you tell me who told you such a lie.’

De Recalde stepped up to Evardo and stared menacingly into the younger man’s eyes.

‘You can demand nothing of me, Morales. But if you must know, the man who told me of your surrender is the master of my flagship, the San Juan, Abrahan Delgado Vargas.’

The colour drained from Evardo’s face.

‘Abrahan?’ he whispered incredulously.

‘And I take Vargas at his word,’ de Recalde continued. ‘I’ve known the man forty years. We were fighting English pirates when you were still feeding at your mother’s pezón.’

‘Juan Martínez,’ de Valdés said abruptly, rising from his chair, anxious to put an end to the conversation. De Recalde was pushing Morales too hard. The last thing he needed was the irascible commander duelling with one of his comandantes. ‘Kindly do me the courtesy of allowing me to address my officer.’

De Recalde glanced over his shoulder at de Valdés. He grunted a reply and looked at Evardo one last time before brushing past him to leave the room.

‘He is a hard man, Morales,’ de Valdés said, indicating the door. ‘But you must not let such words affect you. Your brother has explained to me what happened at Cadiz, and in any case I knew your father and admired him greatly. I would trust any son of his in battle and your record before Cadiz was exemplary.’

Evardo nodded in gratitude, although de Valdés’s words gave him scant comfort.

‘I have decided on a ship for you,’ his patron said, picking up a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘Given your previous duty in the Flota de Indias, I am giving you command of one of the ships of the Indian Guard, the 530 ton galleon, Santa Clara. Here is confirmation of your commission.’

Evardo took the proffered paper.

‘Thank you, señor,’ he said distractedly, his mind still on Abrahan. That others believed him a coward angered him, but Evardo had already decided their disparagement would not distract him from his duty. In any case, they were strangers and he was not responsible for their thoughts.

But Abrahan was different. Evardo had been angry at his mentor for how he had spoken to him after Cadiz, but he had nursed the hope that after so many months Abrahan might have seen the error of his judgment. Evardo had tried to find him upon his return to Spain. He had gone to Cadiz to learn the fate of the Halcón’s crew and was told that apart from those held for ransom, the English had released all their Spanish prisoners when they left the port. But Abrahan had not returned home and Evardo’s search had stalled.

Now he had found Abrahan, but it was a bitter revelation. His mentor was still ashamed of him. He glanced down at his commission. Santa Clara. He repeated the name. A galleon command. It was what he had wished for and he silently recited a brief prayer of thanks before looking back to de Valdés.