Armada

But on the other hand, Varian had never fully supported Seeley’s attempt to find Young. He had not hindered the investigation, but he had not assisted in it either. If the Retribution had been Seeley’s ship he would have taken her apart timber by timber until he found the treasonous rat. Suddenly a thought struck him. Perhaps Varian was trying to protect a fellow Roman Catholic from exposure, or maybe, Seeley thought in horror, Varian was Young. Perhaps it was his real name, changed to conceal his true faith.

Seeley laughed abruptly. There was no logic to this. If Varian was a Roman Catholic traitor, why was he fighting the Spanish? There was no such thing as a loyal recusant. If there were any English papists fighting in this war, it was those who were widely rumoured to be sailing with the enemy fleet, seditious outcasts who had betrayed their countrymen and forfeited their souls for a foreign cause. The captain couldn’t be Roman Catholic. His actions in Sagres, his maniacal charge on the Halcón, his aggressive tactics in the morning’s action; everything spoke of his loyalty to the Crown and England.

Yet Seeley could not ignore the sliver of doubt that remained. He had often thought the captain lacked the religious fervour that he himself possessed in the fight against the Spanish. Perhaps Varian did not think of the war against Spain as a religious matter, and was more ambivalent towards Roman Catholics. Men had different motives for fighting the Spanish. Miller, the master’s mate, had often expressed his hatred of the Spanish stranglehold on trade in the New World. Perhaps Varian’s only motive was to keep England safe from foreign invasion, regardless of any enemy’s faith.

Seeley shook his head to put an end to his deliberations. His lack of success in his search for Young had affected him deeply. Clearly his suspicions were now feeding on themselves, creating enemies where none existed. Their captain was not a traitor. Seeley looked to his charts, his attention returning to the coastline, but all the while his lips moved without conscious thought, mouthing a prayer he could not forget: Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis.

In the soft glow of lantern light Evardo stepped over the prone bodies of the wounded, his boots grinding the sand underfoot that had been strewn there to soak up the blood of the maimed. He looked down at each man in turn. Many of them returned his gaze silently, their eyes neither accusing nor accepting. The orlop deck was quiet. The screams of the most grievously injured had ceased, and beyond the pall of light cast by the lanterns Evardo could hear the creak and squeal of the whipstaff and rudder in the dark recesses of the aft section.

Evardo knelt down beside one of his men. The sailor was lying on a filthy blanket, his head propped up on some coiled rigging. His eyes were closed, his head jerking from side to side as if trapped in some horrible nightmare. He was soaked with sweat. Evardo looked down the length of the sailor’s body. A wave of nausea swept over him. The man’s arm had been blown off below the elbow. The flesh was horribly mangled and the wound had been cauterized to stop the bleeding. Huge bluebottles were already settling to feast on the charred flesh and pools of blood, their incessant buzzing rising angrily as Evardo tried to wave them away.

The combination of smells was overpowering; the stink of burn, like meat left too long on the flame, the tang of fresh blood, the acrid smell of sweat, and the stench of faeces. The sailor had soiled himself, and for a brief moment Evardo wondered if the pain or the sight of the red-hot iron used to seal his wound had caused the sailor to lose control. The thought made Evardo stand up abruptly and he looked away from the injured sailor, quickly turning his focus to the huddled figures at the other side of the deck.

Padre Garza was kneeling beside a dying soldier, solemnly reciting the Last Rites. The man was holding desperately onto the priest’s hand, biting down on a leather thong to silence his cries. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth, a visible sign of his terrible internal injuries. Evardo found himself staring into the soldier’s eyes. They were wide with pain, and something more terrible. Fear. The soldier’s eyes darted from the priest kneeling over him to the two shroud-covered bodies lying near at hand; the fate that would soon be his. Again Evardo looked away, this time to preserve the man’s dignity. The consequences of the morning’s action had been sharp, but not severe. Two men had been killed instantly during the battle. Padre Garza’s charge would be a third. Twelve men had been wounded, two badly so, including the sailor who had lost his arm.

‘Comandante.’ Evardo saw Captain de Córdoba approach. ‘I did not realize you had come below.’

‘I wished to check on the wounded,’ Evardo replied.