Armada

Dawn the following morning had brought news of the opening moves by the English fleet, of how Howard had gained the weather gauge and the Armada had sailed past Plymouth, and the population had taken to the streets again, this time to cheer. Cross had shared their joy at Howard’s opening success, but his elation had been tempered by news given to him by a clerk that the port officials were shadowing the flagship in a local barque so as to be on hand to offer assistance while Plymouth was in range of the fighting.

That day had passed slowly, with Cross standing on the quayside amongst the local population as small local tenders returned from sailing with the English fleet, each one carrying news of the opening encounter, the short sharp action that had seen the fleet take the fight to the enemy. With the return of night Cross had abandoned his vigil. He had slept fitfully, convinced that the officials must soon return, now that the fleets were moving further east. He had risen in the darkness before dawn to return to the civic building, determined to continue his search.

‘Open the cursed door,’ he roared again.

Glancing up he saw a light flicker in one of the windows and intensified his hammering on the door. The light moved away, only to appear moments later as a shaft washed out from underneath the door.

‘Stop that banging, damn you,’ a muffled voice shouted angrily from inside.

‘In the name of the Queen, open up.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Cross stated his association with Francis Tanner, Walsingham’s local agent. The mere mention of Tanner stilled the voice inside and Cross was rewarded with the sound of a bolt being slammed back. He pushed at the door even as it was being opened, forcing the man inside to step back.

‘What do you want?’ the official asked again irritably, holding a candle out at arm’s length. He was an older man, his face haggard and blackened, and he had clearly been sleeping in his clothes.

‘I need to see the crew manifests for the English fleet, immediately.’ Cross paid no heed to the open hostility of the official.

‘The crew manifests? At this hour? Do you realize where I’ve been for the past twenty-four hours, you insolent cuss. I should have you in irons for coming here unannounced in the middle of the night.’

‘The crew manifests,’ Cross repeated, a hard edge to his voice. ‘Before I have you flogged for impeding the investigation of one of the Queen’s agents.’

‘You can’t speak to me …’ the official began but the words died in his throat as Cross took a menacing step forward. He abruptly turned on his heel, muttering half-hearted threats under his breath as he led Cross into his office. Placing the candle on the desk, he went to a large pile of loose pages on a nearby shelf, gathered them up and put them on the desk.

‘These are copies of the paymaster’s lists,’ he spat. ‘They are not to leave this room.’

Cross moved around the desk to sit down. The official left with a final huff of annoyance, leaving Cross with the candle as he returned to his bedroom through the dark corridor.

Cross quickly went to work. Each page contained the full muster of a ship. The captain was listed at the top, followed by the crew’s names in order of when they joined. Each page had been amended many times, with annotations regarding promotions and transfers cluttering the margins on all sides. It was a tiresome process and an hour passed swiftly, followed by another. Twice Cross came upon the name Seeley, but both times he was disappointed to discover that the man was a mere seaman. The barman at the tavern had been confident Seeley was an officer. Nevertheless, Cross marked the names and put the pages aside, continuing his search as the faint sounds of the coming day began to creep into the room. He began to wonder if the barman had been wrong about Seeley’s rank. Maybe there was no such man as Seeley, and the barman had spun Cross a tale to get him out of his tavern.

The black of night was fading to a dull grey. Dawn was not far away. Cross looked down at the page before him, one of only a half-dozen left, his eyes mechanically following his finger down the list of names.

Seeley.

Cross’s breath stopped at the sight of the name and he followed the entry across the page. He stood up and leaned in closer to re-read the entry. Thomas Seeley, rank: Master’s Mate. The ‘Mate’ had been crossed out and the pay grade had been amended accordingly. It was him, it had to be. Cross swiftly flicked through the remaining musters to ensure there was no other Seeley listed. He returned to Thomas Seeley and looked at the top of the page for the ship’s name. It was written in a larger, more elaborate script, a flourish of artistry on what was once a blank page. He read out the name, enunciating it slowly as the pace of his heart increased. For the first time in days a smile stole onto his face. It was a fitting name for his quest.

‘Retribution.’