Armada

His years of faithful service had been forgotten, cast aside, and while in the fight to come he would still give the Spanish every assistance, the alliance would be temporary. His fall from favour had revealed the truth of his position in his adopted country. Even after twenty years he was still an outsider, an Englishman, and for the first time in many years Nathaniel felt a longing for his country that went beyond his quest to see a Catholic monarch on the throne.

When the Spanish seized power from Elizabeth and her cursed Privy Council he would endeavour to have his title restored by the Spanish authorities. But thereafter, he vowed, he would strive to rid England of the invaders. He could do little else, for he was an Englishman, and England was his home.

CHAPTER 11

2nd June 1588. Plymouth, England.

Robert watched from the poop deck of his galleon as the standard of the Lord Admiral, Charles Howard, was raised above the flagship, the Ark Royal. A cheer went up around the fleet and Robert looked to Drake’s ship, the Revenge, moored alongside the flagship. It was flying a vice-admiral’s standard and altogether some sixty fighting ships were now moored in Plymouth harbour. With dozens of smaller ships in support the fleet looked formidable. However the outward display of power belied an inner fragility.

Over the previous months Drake had done everything humanly possible to prepare the fleet. Nonetheless one area continued to elude his mastery – supplies. The men were already on reduced rations, and in such a weakened state they were easy quarry for pestilence. Robert could only hope that the arrival of such a senior officer as Howard might improve the situation.

Coupled with this, the fleet still had no reliable intelligence as to the disposition of the Spanish Armada. Rumours continued to flood into Plymouth, preying on the nerves of every man, and Robert, like all his crew, craved the order to make sail. It was widely known that Drake was actively canvassing for a pre-emptive strike similar to his daring raid of a year before. Robert supported the plan, preferring it to the unbearable strain of waiting. Howard had the authority to order such an attack. With reports circulating that the admiral had arranged for a further squadron of forty ships, under Lord Henry Seymour, to guard the Straits of Dover, there was every chance the fleet could put to sea when sufficient supplies were secured.

Robert turned his back on the flagship and went down to the quarterdeck. The summer heat was rising and his shirt was drenched with sweat under his jerkin and doublet. His stomach ached. He ignored the protest and with annoyance he scratched a flea bite on the back of his arm. A latent anger, caused by weeks of tension, suddenly rose within him. Where were the cursed Spanish? Had they sailed from Lisbon? Were they now off Cape Finisterre, or Biscay, or Ushant? Perhaps their plans had changed. Perhaps the reports that had reached Plymouth were false and the Spanish were sailing to Ireland to incite rebellion there.

He looked to the heights above the protective headlands of the harbour. Each one was capped with primed signal fires. Similar beacons had been placed along the length of the south coast. If the Armada was sighted they would be lit and the news would speed to London and beyond to the entire kingdom. But what then? Robert had confidence in the Retribution and her crew. His ship was a breed apart, faster and more nimble than any craft the Spanish possessed. But many of the enemy ships were behemoths, built for the rigors of the mid-Atlantic. The Retribution and her sister ships would be like terriers nipping at the heels of wolfhounds, and should any English ship fall within grappling range they would be quickly overwhelmed.

Robert tried to suppress his doubts, knowing they were caused by the weeks of anxious waiting and the never ending supply problems. The future was not yet written, it was in the hands of God. Robert strived to impose his personal convictions upon the battle ahead. For his whole adult life he had sought ways to regain his family name and honour. He had lost hope many times, but through prayer and faith he had always recovered his way. The battle ahead was no different. The victory was not assured. All they had was hope, but Robert had to believe that with God’s help they would prevail.

‘All hands!’ Evardo roared, a wave of seawater taking the last of his words. ‘All hands on deck!’