Armada. John Stack
the tempest well and while many of the older vessels needed running repairs, the only loss had been the pinnace Deer.
Now the fleet was once more on course for Lisbon, sailing on a steady tack. Robert had mechanically seen out an extended watch to allow time for Seeley to rest fully, knowing the younger man was closer to collapse. Only upon his return did Robert finally go below. He was too tired to remove his outer clothing. The seawater that had drenched him through during the storm had long since dried out, leaving a salt residue that rubbed his skin raw at the joints.
The stern cabin was tiny, seven feet by five, but it was private, a singular luxury on a galleon and a far cry from the fo’c’sle and gun deck where the majority of the crew slept. Robert’s father had secured him a berth on one of John Hawkins’s ships when he was thirteen years old. As a gentleman’s son he had been taken on as a cabin boy, a servant to the captain and senior officers. He had quickly learned the harsh lessons of life at sea; the brutal discipline meted out for even the smallest infraction and the need for constant vigilance while off duty against the pederasts on board.
Robert found protection amongst those who themselves had sons serving on other ships. They had made sure he received his fair share of rations – even if the rations were weevil-infested biscuits and foul smelling meat and fish stews – taking only his quota of beer as payment. They had taught him all there was to know about working a ship below and above decks, while the officers informally schooled the eager boy in navigation and sail-craft, quickly marking him as an astute pupil.
The transatlantic voyages of the triangular trade were long and arduous, particularly the slave run of the middle passage, when pestilence stalked the ship, exacerbating the mysterious curse of scurvy that decimated crews too long at sea. Robert had contracted malaria on such a voyage, a disease that had taken him to the edge of death with its first attack, and his body still bore the remnants of that illness, a tinge of yellow in the outer corner of each eye. It had reoccurred too often over the preceding years and Robert constantly feared its coming, conscious of how easily it could end his command in favour of a healthier man.
He rolled over on the cot and stared up at the low ceiling, his hand reaching for the pocket of his breeches. He fumbled with the double fold of material inside, a secure pouch to ensure the items did not accidentally fall out. He glanced at the door and withdrew a silver crucifix and a marble statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The two tiny symbols had once belonged to his father – his real father – and were inscribed with the family name. He rarely took them out, often times forgetting they were even there, and he studied the sacred objects in the dull light of the lantern swinging above him, wondering how his father, if he was alive, would react to his son’s commission.
Since receiving the order from John Hawkins to take the position of master on board the Retribution, Robert had had little time to think of its import. Drake was taking the fleet to pre-emptively attack the Spanish forces and thereby thwart their plan to invade. Robert strongly believed the Spanish had no right to set foot on the soil of England, but not for the first time he wondered if he, as a Catholic, should somehow support the Spanish King’s motives and the blessing given to them by the Pope.
‘Cygnet coming alongside!’
The call from the lookout interrupted his thoughts and Robert swung his feet off the bed to go on deck.
He stood up and was suddenly lightheaded with fatigue. He reached out instinctively for balance, breathing in deeply until his vision cleared, and was about to open the door when he noticed the crucifix and figurine had fallen on to the floor of the cabin. A breath caught in his throat and he cursed his lapse. On land such an exposure of his true faith would have him condemned as a recusant and his career would be finished. At sea, in a warship sailing towards the enemy, he would be branded as a spy and his life would surely be forfeit. He stuffed them back into his pocket and double checked that they were secure before opening the door to stagger back on deck.
The pinnace Cygnet was a hundred yards off the starboard beam and closing. Captain Morgan stood at the gunwale, waiting for his opposite number to come within earshot. Robert walked over to him, his eyes darting to the four points of the Retribution as he did, then beyond to the Portuguese coast on the eastern horizon. He recognized the long sweep of the shoreline. Lisbon was but a day away.
‘Captain Morgan!’ a voice called from the Cygnet. All on deck sought out the figure of the Cygnet’s captain on the quarterdeck opposite.
‘Captain Bell,’ Morgan replied, raising his hand.
The Cygnet closed to within fifty yards.
‘Steady the helm,’ Robert shouted instinctively, the close quarter sailing increasing his vigilance.
‘New orders from the Elizabeth Bonaventure,’ Bell called, his hand cupped over his mouth against the wind. ‘The Golden Lion has captured a small craft and seized papers that speak of a large supply fleet in the Bay of Cadiz.’
Many of the words were whipped away by the wind but the implication of what remained was clear. Morgan’s brow creased. Surely Drake was not going to change the priority of the mission.
‘You are to come about south-west and bear away from the coast,’ Bell continued, ‘and strip your masts of any flags that identify you as English.’
‘But what of Lisbon? What of our original orders?’ Morgan protested, angry that as a leading officer he had not been consulted.
‘They are for naught,’ Bell shouted, ‘Drake commands and we sail for Cadiz!’
CHAPTER 3
29th April 1587. Cadiz, Spain.
Don Pedro de Acuña paced the aft deck of the Asuncion, the command galley of a flotilla of nine anchored in the lee of Cadiz. He walked with his arms folded behind his back and his foot traced a line in the timbers of the deck. He was a short man, with a solid frame and his shoulders swayed in time with the gentle roll of the deck beneath him. De Acuña glanced up at the city as he made his turn at the portside bulwark, his mind drifting back to the meal in the governor’s house the evening before and the company thereafter. A smile crept onto his face as he pictured the youthful beauty who had shared his bed.
The wind ebbed for a moment and de Acuña’s nose wrinkled at the stench from the galley slaves. There were 144 of them chained to their oars on the open main deck. De Acuña looked upon them with disgust. They sat languidly at their oars, their heads bowed in silence with only the occasional rasping cough emanating from their ranks. They were condemned men, sentenced to serve at the oars of the Asuncion at the King’s pleasure and de Acuña thought again of how welcome the governor’s house would be after the confines of the galley.
The day on board his command ship had been like any other over the previous month; long and tedious, but thankfully it was coming to an end. The sun was already dropping at pace towards the western horizon behind El Puerto de Santa Maria on the far side of the harbour mouth. He looked to the supply fleet anchored a mile further up the harbour, their individual hulls and masts indistinguishable save for the 1,000 ton Genoese merchantman and one of a pair of galleons he knew to be amongst them, its high castles silhouetted against the evening sky.
De Acuña’s gaze remained fixed on the distant galleon, a magnificent evolving breed of ship so different to the aged galleys of his command. At Lepanto the galley had reigned supreme but now they were rapidly becoming obsolete in an age where warships were not only measured by the number of men and cannon they could carry, but also how far they could project that power. The sturdy ocean-going galleons had pushed the borders of the Spanish Empire to the four corners of the globe but its success had left ships such as the Asuncion languishing in home waters, relegated to guarding merchants and victuallers, a loathsome task for the once noble galley and its comandante.
‘Ships approaching bearing north-west,’ a lookout called and de Acuña spun around to look beyond the harbour mouth and the tip of the headland of Cadiz. A fleet of sail were strung out across