Armada. John Stack
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Drake is tenacious. He will not retreat.’
De Torres nodded sagely, although he knew little of military tactics. He was a master of statecraft and the chief liaison between the Spanish court and men like Nathaniel Young.
‘I would counsel caution,’ Young continued. ‘The garrisons in the area should remain on alert.’
‘Thank you, your grace,’ de Torres said. ‘I will ensure your advice is passed on to the relevant commanders.’
He stood up and walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back.
‘Drake’s surprise attack on Cadiz has cost us dearly,’ he said after a pause.
Young noted the implicit censure in de Torres’s words.
‘I sent your request to the Duke of Clarsdale over a month ago,’ he replied in his own defence. ‘He is a trusted and capable man and, in future, I am sure we will know of the English fleet’s plans in advance of any attack.’
In future, de Torres thought scornfully, although he could not openly criticize the duke. He needed the Englishman’s access to the elaborate network of contacts and couriers that existed between the remaining Catholics in England and their supporters on the continent. In recent years, however, with the escalation of hostilities between Spain and England, de Torres was finding it increasingly difficult to separate his hatred for the English pirates and their Queen. Men like Young, whose faltering command of Spanish and insistence that he be addressed by his meaningless title only exacerbated de Torres’s animosity.
When Young and his fellow exiled English noblemen first arrived in Spain after their failed rebellion against Elizabeth in 1569 they had been openly welcomed as victims of the heretical Queen’s oppression. Patronage and support had flooded in from many of the noble families of Spain, allowing the exiles to live in a fashion befitting their titles. But now that support had all but dried up as the rising national enmity towards England stemmed the flow.
De Torres returned to his seat and looked across his desk at this English duke who remained so important to Spain’s invasion plans. When Parma’s army landed in England, it was vital that men such as Young be amongst the vanguard, Englishmen who could be trusted implicitly to act as guides and negotiators. So de Torres hid his aversion behind a benign expression and the courteous words of diplomacy. With God’s grace there was still a chance the Armada might yet sail this season and when it did, it was de Torres’s task to ensure that Young and his fellow English noblemen sailed with it.
Robert leaned back in his chair and adjusted his right leg, massaging his thigh above the wound. It hurt appallingly, but it was clean and he thanked the Lord, all too aware of the dread fate of infection. He shuddered as he vividly remembered waking after the battle in the surgeon’s room on board the Retribution.
It was a hellish place, an enclosed compartment on the orlop deck where the air was saturated with panic and echoed with the cries of the wounded and dying, a nightmarish cacophony that still haunted Robert’s dreams. He had been lying on the crude treatment table, a series of planks atop some upended water barrels, the timbers already soaked through with the blood of others. His breeches had been cut away and Powell, the surgeon, had been standing over his leg, his bloodied hands deftly probing the wound. The surgeon had worked fast, a testament to his skill, but his every touch was like the lash of a whip, a searing pain that drenched his body in acrid sweat.
Robert’s vision had swirled before him, the headiness of blood loss and the heaving lantern light robbing him of the ability to focus. There were too many injured, there hadn’t been time to dull each patient’s senses with alcohol, and as Powell prepared to close the wound an unseen crewman behind where his head lay on the table had forced a bit between Robert’s teeth.
Through the mists of pain he had seen the white-orange glow of the cauterizing iron, his eyes staring wildly in terrified anticipation. He had bit down with all his might, stifling his screams as the searing metal touched his skin while strong hands held him fast. His nostrils had filled with the smell of his own burning flesh, a sickening stench that engulfed his senses before unconsciousness mercifully claimed him once more.
Afterwards he had awoken in the cabin where he now sat and although more than a week had passed since then, he still felt ill at ease in the room. He took a drink from a goblet of wine, spoils from the Spanish supply fleet, and looked around. His eyes were drawn to the rack of sea charts on the wall and the unopened chest beneath them: Morgan’s belongings.
The story of Robert’s charge on the Halcón had spread rapidly throughout the English fleet and that action, coupled with his natural selection as second-in-command, had secured him a field promotion to captain. Drake himself had come from his flagship to confer the honour, bringing with him his chaplain, and the commander of the fleet had ordered a double ration of grog for the entire crew in recognition of their fight, prompting a cheer from the bloodied men of the Retribution.
There was a knock on the cabin door and Seeley entered.
‘Well?’ Robert asked, sitting up straighter.
‘Six dead and nine wounded,’ Seeley replied, ‘and I fear two of those will not see tomorrow’s dawn.’
‘Who are they?’
Seeley listed the names and Robert repeated them silently to himself.
After Cadiz the fleet had sailed south to the Algarve coast and the fortified town of Lagos. The English had anchored five miles from the town and Drake had quickly assembled a landing party of a thousand men, taking one hundred from the Retribution. Owing to Robert’s injury Seeley had taken charge of the Retribution’s levy and Robert had watched them march away, only to see the badly mauled ranks return a day later.
‘A pox on the Spaniards,’ Seeley spat, pacing the cabin, ‘they led us all the way to the walls of Lagos before revealing their true strength.’
‘We were lucky to escape so lightly,’ Robert remarked, conscious that the fleet had been badly exposed while waiting at the landing point.
‘It was God’s will, Captain, not luck,’ Seeley corrected, ‘and He has opened our eyes to the perfidiousness of the enemy. We will not be so easily deceived again.’
‘We will soon have cause to test that wisdom,’ Robert said, leaning forward to offer Seeley a drink. The new master of the Retribution sat down, his expression questioning.
‘The order arrived while you were below decks,’ Robert explained. ‘We are sailing to Sagres and Drake means to take the town.’
Seeley smiled and picked up the goblet from the table, swirling the wine within.
‘Rejoice not over me, O my enemy,’ he recited, ‘when I fall, I shall rise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me.’
Robert nodded, recognizing the quotation from the bible.
‘It is a small port, but strategically important.’ He put his goblet down to lean in over the table, wincing slightly as he shifted his leg. He pulled an opened chart across and Seeley stood up to study it. It was a detailed map of the south-western coastline of Portugal. Together they pored over the annotations regarding Sagres and its approaches.
A hurried knock on the door interrupted them and the ship’s surgeon entered without awaiting permission. His face was agitated and he advanced with his hand outstretched before him.
‘What is it, Mister Powell?’ Robert asked, consciously suppressing the unwanted memories resurfaced by the unexpected arrival of the surgeon.
Powell was one of the oldest members of the crew. He was a tall man but his back was curved from a lifetime of treating wounded men. He wore a heavy leather blood-stained apron and his arms were stained pink to the elbows.
‘I found these in the surgery.’ Powell opened his hand to reveal a silver crucifix and marble statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Seeley shot out of his chair. For the briefest