Armada

Again Evardo nodded and he called for Mendez to find suitable accommodation for the four men. De Valdés took his leave and his patache slid away from the hull of the Santa Clara. Evardo watched it leave, his thoughts on his new passengers. The priest was truly welcome. Perhaps too the Irishmen, for they could prove valuable in battle. But the Englishman?

Evardo looked to the companionway leading below decks. He tried to separate the man’s nationality from his faith. It was difficult, but Evardo was reminded of the attitude he had tried to impress upon his captains. Everyone on board the Santa Clara shared a common purpose, and whatever their individual motives they all sought the defeat of the Crown forces of England. It was enough. Evardo resolved to think of the duke not as an Englishman, but as a fellow Catholic.

Nathaniel took the small rolled blanket from under his arm and cast it on the low cot. He glanced over his shoulder at the two Irishmen who shared the tiny cramped cabin with him. They were speaking together in Gaelic and the lyrical guttural tones of the language set Nathaniel’s frustration and anger on edge. He looked down at the blanket. Apart from the clothes he was wearing, and the pieces of eight in the purse hanging from his side, the blanket contained all his worldly possessions – some personal items and a family copy of the Latin bible.

For years Nathaniel had listened to rumours and plans for this great fleet. He had spent many months in Lisbon harbour watching it grow from its infancy into a fledgling power. He had foreseen the day it would take to the seas and had pictured himself on the quarterdeck of the San Martin, the flagship of Medina Sidonia, in conference with the duke and his senior officers. Never once had he dreamt that he would hold such a lowly place in its ranks, cast aside to some anonymous galleon. He felt old and defeated. His life’s endeavours had come to naught.

That night at the motte had brought him to this point. He thought of Robert and looked to the sword hanging by his side, the sword with which he had almost killed his only son, and he wondered if given the chance again he would strike him down. He could have been the one who betrayed them to the authorities that night, although Nathaniel was also suspicious of Clarsdale. The duke had insisted on knowing de Torres’s name. Perhaps he was in league with the Protestants? Nathaniel had not returned to Clarsdale’s estate after the attack, so there was no way to know the truth. Not until he returned to England and confronted Clarsdale.

After the ambush Nathaniel had fled back to his prearranged rendezvous point on the coast. Clarsdale knew of the arrangement; the scheduled return of a Spanish galleon after one month. If the duke had been captured or was in league with the authorities, then he would surely lead them to the coast, but Nathaniel could think of no other way to leave the country without being detected and so he had resolved himself to wait. The three weeks had been an eternity of fear and deprivation. Nathaniel had been forced to live like a savage out in the open, stealing what food he could from the local farms, all the while waiting for the authorities to swoop down and capture him. But they had not come and the Spanish galleon had returned as arranged, picking up their sole passenger off the isolated beach in the dead of night.

Upon returning to Spain Nathaniel had been forced to wait endless weeks for a meeting with de Torres. The Spaniard had finally granted him an audience, but only to tell Nathaniel that he was no longer of any use to the Spanish Empire and he was to remove himself from the court at Madrid. Nathaniel had pleaded, no begged, de Torres for a reprieve, requesting only that he be allowed to sail with the Armada. The Spaniard had relented, but Nathaniel had seen the disgust in de Torres’s eyes. He was struck by a wave of nausea as he recalled his humiliation.

Nathaniel felt the deck shift beneath him and heard the crew of the Spanish galleon cheer. In the distance a single cannon boomed, a signal for the fleet to form up. The Armada was under sail. Nathaniel went quickly back on deck. The rigging was alive with men. One after another the sails unfurled with a crack as the wind took hold of the ship. The galleon continued to turn under his feet and Nathaniel looked aft to the land behind. The soil of the Spanish Empire. With God’s grace, he prayed, he would never see it again.

He could never come back to Spain, there was nothing for him here. His whole world consisted of England. With the help of these strangers he would soon be back in his native land, but he felt no loyalty to the Spaniards he sailed with. Loyalty was based on reciprocity and Spain had turned its back on Nathaniel Young.