Armada

A pinnace was approaching from the south, turning neatly in the wake of the flotilla before coming alongside the Ark Royal. Robert saw the captain hand dispatches to Howard before drawing away to hold station beside the towering warship. Robert called for a slight change in heading bringing the Retribution within hailing distance of the pinnace. He recognized the captain and the two men saluted each other.

‘What news?’ Robert called, his hand cupped over his mouth.

‘It’s Drake, he’s taken a huge Spanish prize, the Rosario, and without firing a single shot. The gutless Spaniards simply gave her up.’

The pinnace captain’s call was heard by others on nearby ships and questions and cheers rang out, precluding Robert’s chances of getting any further information. It was enough however. Drake had doused his light and changed course to claim a Spanish prize. It was a dereliction that staggered Robert and shattered his faith in Drake.

During the Cadiz campaign a year before, when many other captains had returned to England, Robert had stayed the course and followed Drake without question. It was a decision determined not only by loyalty to one who had given him a field promotion, but also by an instinctive fealty to a man who embodied everything that Robert thought an Englishman should be.

Now Robert saw something else in Drake. He was first and foremost a privateer, a self-centred opportunist. Presented with the chance to take a prize he had ignored his responsibility to the fleet. It was a sobering realization. Drake’s image was suddenly replaced in Robert’s mind by that of his father.

Here too was a man whom Robert had largely come to know through his own thoughts and perceptions. During their many years apart he had built him up to be a man whom he could admire, someone he hoped he could one day openly call his father.

But Robert no longer saw his father as that man. Nathaniel Young was not someone whom Robert could associate with pride, or loyalty, or heritage. He was a traitor. In his determination to resurrect his family name, Robert had ignored it.

Now his father was truly gone, banished forever from England, and from Robert’s heart. The thought stopped Robert cold. If his father was gone forever, then so too was his only link to his family’s lineage. Young or Varian, he was still the same man; a true Catholic, loyal to his Queen and country. It was his actions that defined him as a man, not his ancestors.

Robert’s captaincy of the Retribution had been secured through his own merit, not by some favour of birth. He felt a deep sense of pride at his achievement, one far greater than any he had ever felt for his ancestral name. He had raised himself through merit alone. The thought brought him full circle back to Drake, the low-born commander who had become the touchstone for a generation of sailors.

Drake was a powerful, fearless man. His relentless, aggressive pursuit of England’s foes had made him an inspiration to his countrymen, but on this day his mercenary instincts had cost the English fleet dearly. The Spanish had held their formation during the night. Because of Drake the English fleet was scattered, and during the long day to come the enemy would remain free to advance towards their unknown objective. Despite the value of Drake’s prize, the privateer had handed an even greater one to the Spanish – a day’s respite from attack.

CHAPTER 15

5 a.m. 2nd August 1588. The English Channel, off Portland Bill.

Evardo lay in his cot, his head propped up on his enfolded arm, his eyes locked on the single shard of orange light on the cabin wall. It grew with each passing second and Evardo traced it across the cabin to the corner of a window, his focus shifting to the rising sun that was its source. With a deep groan he raised himself from the cot and ran his hands through his dishevelled hair before putting on his wide-brimmed hat. He had slept lightly over the previous hours, a part of his mind remaining alert to every sound on board. But he felt completely refreshed, gathering up his sword belt as he left the cabin to go aloft.

Pausing on the main deck to get his bearings, he quickly took in the horizons off the larboard and starboard sides. He glanced up at the masthead banners and then looked aft. The enemy fleet were arrayed in battle formation over three miles astern. The semblance of order amongst the English ranks was in marked contrast to dawn on the previous day and Evardo smiled sardonically. Such an impressive display. While yesterday such a formation might have given Evardo cause for immediate concern, this morning there was little the English could do to harass the Armada.