Armada

‘On the wicked he will rain fiery coals and burning sulphur; a scorching wind will be their lot,’ Nathaniel quoted from the psalms. ‘The heretic Queen’s fleet will know a tempest far deadlier than any born of the sea.’

Evardo nodded in agreement and looked along the length of his galleon, checking her position in relation to the surrounding ships.

The fleet was sailing in ‘line of march’ formation. To the fore was the vanguard of fighting ships under Don Alonso de Levia, including the Santa Clara. Medina Sidonia commanded the centre, the main battle group, which consisted largely of the transport and auxiliary vessels, while de Recalde commanded the rearguard.

‘We are near Plymouth?’ Nathaniel asked, indicating the darkness beyond the larboard flank of the Armada.

‘Yes, it is about eight leagues north-west of here,’ Evardo replied, and with regret he thought of the missed opportunity to blockade the English fleet. On the day the storm had abated the bulk of the Armada, including most of the fighting ships, had found themselves within striking distance of Plymouth. The comandantes of the vanguard, Evardo amongst them, had taken zabras to de Leiva’s ship, La Rata Encoronada, expecting to receive orders to attack but instead they were told to take in sail and wait for the forty or so stragglers to rejoin the fleet.

Afterwards it was rumoured that both de Leiva and de Recalde had advocated an immediate surprise attack but Medina Sidonia had dismissed their arguments, strictly adhering to King Philip’s explicit orders that the Armada’s primary mission was to support Parma’s crossing, not defeat the English fleet. His general order to take in sail had delayed their advance up the Channel by twenty-four hours.

Nathaniel looked in the direction Evardo had indicated. He had come to appreciate the commander’s company on the long voyage from Lisbon. The Spaniard was a driven man, completely obsessed with victory over the English Crown forces. On this common ground alone the two of them had formed a professional alliance. It was as much as Nathaniel was willing to concede and he peered into the darkness, hoping to catch sight of some light on land.

His first glimpse of the storm-lashed Isles of Scilly had left him with a growing desire to gaze upon the mainland of England. He had felt a similar yearning almost a year before when he had first set foot in England after eighteen years, but now so much had changed. Nathaniel still hoped the Spanish would defeat the English forces and dethrone Elizabeth but he no longer acknowledged Spain’s right to control England after that victory. He had believed that the bonds of faith outweigh the bonds of nationality. De Torres had taught him that not all Catholics shared this conviction.

When Nathaniel had access to the higher echelons of power in Spain he had dreamed of high office in the newly liberated, Catholic England. Now he realized all he could hope for was the restoration of his lands and his title. With Spain as his ally these were within his grasp. But Spain could not give him back his honour and his family.

As an Englishman his honour would be found in ensuring that after his country was free from the plague of Protestantism it would not be dominated by a foreign power. As a father he did not know how he could bridge the gulf between him and his son. Their loyalties were incompatible, although he was beginning to realize that in many ways he was seeking what Robert had already found.

He looked to the grey light of the pre-dawn on the eastern horizon. There was every chance the coming of day would bring the onslaught of battle. Nathaniel wished it so.

Robert stood on the fo’c’sle as the illusory light of the pre-dawn gave way to the first rays of the rising sun. He had been on the quarterdeck when the call had been given, a frantic shout that spoke of the lookout’s disbelief. Robert had immediately rushed forward, wishing to see the sight without obstruction.

What he saw defied his every experience. His mouth opened in silent awe as he gazed upon the host that was the Spanish fleet. The ships were of every hue and province, of the Mediterranean and Atlantic. No sooner was Robert’s attention captivated by a single ship than another, greater vessel, caught his eye. His mind echoed stories told to him as a child by his adopted father, of great battles and mighty fleets, of Lepanto and Salamis, of Actium and Cape Ecnomus. Robert knew he was witnessing a sight that would surely be remembered in history.

A shouted command on a nearby ship returned Robert’s wits and he spun around to his own crew. ‘All hands, battle stations! Tops’ls and top gallants, ho! Lookouts to the tops and sprit!’