Armada

The thought caused Robert to look away from the wounded crewman and turn to the cannon beside him. After the battle, Larkin had called Robert below decks to the shot lockers on the orlop deck. Two-thirds of their ordnance stock was already gone, fired off into the seemingly indestructible black heart of the Armada. Another few days of indecisive skirmishing would see the end of their remaining ammunition and Robert suspected that every ship in the fleet was in a similar position. Later he had heard that there were supplies to be had from the two captured Spanish ships, the crippled San Salvador and Drake’s prize, the Nuestra Señora del Rosario, and had since dispatched Seeley along with the Peters, the gunner’s mate, on a pinnace to Weymouth.

Thus far the English attacks had been scrappy and indecisive, with individual ships and small groups taking action where they saw fit. Tomorrow however would see the Armada within striking distance of the eastern, more navigable, approach to the Solent. It was imperative that the enemy be prevented from taking the anchorage and so after the morning’s action Howard had deployed his fleet into four squadrons under Drake, Frobisher, Hawkins and the admiral himself, to better coordinate their defence of the Solent. The Retribution had been assigned to Hawkins’s squadron and was now sailing off the larboard quarter of the commander’s 800 ton flagship, the Victory.

‘Nightingale approaching off the starboard bow!’

Robert went aloft at the call in time to see the pinnace pull alongside the Retribution. Seeley was first to board.

‘Good news, Captain. We’ve managed to secure powder and over a hundred shot.’

‘What calibre?’

‘Mostly culverin but also a score of 24 pounders for the cannon-pedros.’

Robert slapped Seeley on the shoulder, pleased with the haul. He quickly ordered the crew to begin transhipping the supplies.

‘There’s something else,’ Seeley said, following Robert to the quarterdeck. ‘The San Salvador had been left with over fifty wounded Spaniards on board. I managed to talk to some of them and by describing the masthead banners I was able to uncover the identity of the ship that has continued to target us. She’s the Santa Clara, Captain, an indies galleon.’

‘And her commander?’

‘Evardo Morales.’

‘Of the Halcón?’ Robert said incredulously. ‘How in Christ’s good name is Morales commanding a galleon and not rotting in one of her majesty’s prisons?’

‘He must have been ransomed,’ Seeley replied icily. Robert noted the censorious tone of his voice.

His memories of the brief moments after Morgan’s death on the Halcón were clouded by the mindless fury he had felt, but he vividly remembered his duel with the Spanish commander. He had spared Morales on impulse at the sight of his crucifix, the sacred symbol of their shared faith. In that moment he had placed his religion above vengeance for his murdered countrymen. Now he felt sickened by his choice.

Seeley’s censure had been well placed. Robert had failed his crewmen and England by sparing Morales. And the Spaniard had returned, as determined an enemy as he had ever been, despite Robert’s act of mercy. He should have killed the Spaniard when he had the chance, regardless of how much such an act opposed his other loyalties. England was fighting for its sovereignty, its very right to exist as a nation free from oppression. No other loyalty should stand in the way of that cause. For the briefest moment Robert was reminded of his father, of how he was poised to strike him down on the motte. He would not wait for Morales to seek him out. He would look for him, and with the guns of the Retribution to command, he would not hesitate at this second chance to strike down the Spanish foe.

Cross slowed his horse to a canter as the sun finally fell below the western horizon. The road was deeply rutted and in the soft afterglow of twilight he feared injuring his mount. Off his right shoulder he could see the tallest houses of Portsmouth and beyond them the distant eastern tip of the Isle of Wight far out on the horizon. The Armada was out there somewhere, still shadowed by the English fleet. Over the past few days Cross had heard all manner of rumours as to how the battle was progressing. One thing was certain however, and on this all accounts were agreed – the Spanish were still advancing up the Channel.

Cross had followed the course of the battle, staying away from the meandering coastline in favour of travelling a more direct route inland. He had covered over 130 miles in the past three days, an exhausting journey that had taken every hour of sunlight in the long summer days. The roads had been busy, slowing his passage, but in many places his journey had been further hampered by the trained bands of militiamen, many of them marching in the opposite direction to the advance of the Armada.