Armada

‘Thank you, señor,’ he said again, this time earnestly, and left the room.

Evardo stood outside the door for a moment. The corridor was as busy as before with men rushing in every direction. Evardo walked through them, his pace increasing with every stride. He went along the courtyard and out onto the docks.

The harbour was a confusion of hulls, masts and rigging with pennants of every hue fluttering on the light breeze. The Santa Clara was there somewhere, hidden amongst the multitude. Evardo went in search of a skiff to take him to his new command. There was much to do. The fleet would be sailing within weeks and Evardo had but a short time to ready himself for the battle to come. He had to prove himself to his new crew, to the commanders who doubted his courage, and to his mentor. He could not ask for his honour to be restored – he must win it back.

Robert opened the door to the fo’c’sle and stepped inside. The air was rank with the smell of faeces and stale sweat. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and looked around the near pitch darkness. The portholes had been sealed tight to protect the men inside from further exposure to whatever foul air had infected them. Powell, the ship’s surgeon, was crouched over one of the men, bleeding him. Another moaned nearby and Robert heard the liquid rush as the man’s bowels voided. He caught the surgeon’s eye and motioned for him to come out onto the main deck. Robert slipped out through the door again and went immediately to the bulwark. Only then did he exhale and gulp in the clean salt laden air of Plymouth harbour.

‘Yes, Captain?’ he heard and turned around.

‘Well, Mister Powell?’ He had already deduced the answer from what he had seen.

‘It’s the flux, Captain. Four cases so far but I’ll warrant we’ll have a dozen more by tomorrow. I’ve instructed the swabber to clean out all the upper decks and the liar is giving the head another going over.’

Robert nodded, agreeing with the surgeon’s orders. He briefly recalled his stint as a liar when he was a ship’s boy, a task given to the first crewman caught uttering a lie at the beginning of each week. Seconded to the swabber for seven days he was always given the loathsome task of cleaning the latrine under the beakhead.

Robert cursed. The men had been on board too long, eating rations that, when they came, were never enough. On the cramped decks of the Retribution it was only a matter of time before the thin veil between health and pestilence was torn. Worse still, Plymouth and the entire south coast of England was now rife with rumours that the Spanish were poised to put to sea. They had overcome the setbacks of the previous year and had drawn their forces together from every port in the Spanish Empire to gather the largest and most powerful fleet ever assembled. The Retribution could not be stood down. There would be no leave for the crew.

‘We should lay to, Captain, and fire wet broom in the holds. That would smoke the cursed pestilence out.’

Robert shook his head. ‘Just try and keep them alive, Mister Powell. I’ll see to it that they get the best of the rations we have.’

‘Yes, Captain.’ Powell sighed, wiping his filth stained hands on the folds of his apron, and returned to the fo’c’sle.

Robert walked along the gunwale to one of the swivel mounted falcons. His hand traced around the mounting. It was the one part of his supplies that were not being consumed while the fleet lay in wait; shot and gunpowder, over fifty rounds per gun. The rations for the men, however, were in a diabolical state. To ensure supplies were not pilfered or squandered they were being issued to the fleet on a month to month basis, but their arrival was erratic at best and delays were commonplace. Robert, like every captain, feared that if the Spanish arrived off the English coast near the end of a ration cycle, the Retribution would go into battle with little or no food or fresh water.

Robert brought his hand to his chest to recite a prayer of hope. He clenched his hand into a fist and for a moment wished that he had a crucifix within his grip. He had been in Plymouth town the evening before and had witnessed first hand the palpable fear that stalked the populace. Their naked terror had steeled his determination for the fight ahead. Regardless of Spain’s quest to restore England to Catholicism, the Spanish were the enemy. Although their success would allow Robert to freely practise his faith and perhaps even regain his family’s title, they had no right to threaten the sovereignty of his country. Robert reached out to touch the cold barrel of the falcon.