Armada

Over the autumn months he had formed a solid partnership with Miller, learning quickly to trust the older man’s experience. He had submitted to his judgement many times and Seeley could already sense Miller’s influence in how he handled ship operations.

He had had less success, however, in breaching the bond between Varian and Miller. The captain always issued his orders through Seeley but Miller had often second guessed those commands before they were given, knowing intimately how Varian liked to run his ship. Seeley had also learned, to his frustration, that Miller was not a religious man. He was God-fearing, as were all the crew, but he did not hate the Spanish because of their cursed religion. Miller had been a trader for all his life and his enmity towards the Spanish lay in their monopolies and arrogant claims to the new world that were a stranglehold on English commerce.

‘Report, Mister Seeley.’

‘All’s well, Captain. By your order, the sprit mast and sail have been re-rigged.’

Robert nodded and looked forward. In any collision with another ship, the spritsail would invariably be damaged and steering would be badly affected. Robert had wanted to ensure that the men could rig a new spritsail at sea. The sail was unfurled and looked to be correct but Robert decided to take a closer look. He went forward to the fo’c’sle.

The work was flawless. Robert turned to look back along the length of the Retribution and beyond to the western horizon. The winter sun was no more than two hours from the end of its day’s journey. It would soon be time to head back to Plymouth and a dread feeling of unease crept over Robert at the thought. It was the same feeling that had assailed him every day since the night time skirmish on the motte and his mind was filled once more with anxious questions.

Was Clarsdale still alive? Was his father still in England? Had he returned to Spain or had he been captured by the authorities? If he had, then he would surely reveal Robert’s assumed name under torture. Perhaps the authorities were waiting right now in Plymouth for his return. And how had they known of the meeting that night on the motte? Did they also know of Robert’s connection to Father Blackthorne? These were questions that Robert couldn’t answer and they haunted his thoughts by day and his dreams by night. He was being hunted but he couldn’t tell how close his pursuer was.

He had lived with the fear of discovery all his adult life. For weeks, even months, it remained deeply buried within him, but always it was there, rearing its head every time events beyond his control whipped the Protestant population into a frenzy of suspicion and hatred. Seeley was still determined to find the Catholic spy he believed was on board and Robert had heard that the master was questioning barkeepers in the taverns of Plymouth, asking them whether they had ever heard one of their regular customers, in a drunken stupor, refer to themselves as Young.

Seeley’s search was worrying but it paled in comparison to that of the authorities. These were obviously resourceful men. Thoughts of that night on the motte brought Father Blackthorne to mind and Robert’s apprehension twisted into anger. They had killed him in cold blood, an unarmed man, a priest, a man who had never brought harm to another. It was a callous murder and Robert immediately thought of the killing of the Spanish priest during the sack of Sagres.

How could he fight alongside these countrymen? The men in Sagres acted with a depravity and lawlessness that Robert had witnessed before in other sackings. They had been possessed by the ferocity of the moment, but the authorities who attacked the motte had laid their plans with care. Robert had ignited the chaos that started the skirmish and ultimately led to Father Blackthorne being shot but he knew that if they had been taken alive then they would certainly have been tortured and killed. These men answered directly to the council and the Queen. Robert had also pledged his loyalty to Elizabeth. How could he share a bond with countrymen who sought to destroy him?

A shift in the wind brought Robert’s thoughts back to the Retribution. His gaze instinctively ranged over the entire ship. During the previous months he had tried to consume his fears and doubts with work on board the galleon. The relentless training had forged deep within him a connection to the ship and his troubled thoughts eased as he felt the nimble hull respond to the change.

The weather was closing in and he looked to the four points of the compass. It was time to make for port. For a moment, Robert wondered if this would be the day when he would be met by armed soldiers on the dockside at Plymouth. There was little he could do in any event. His fate was in the hands of God. He shouted a course change to the quarterdeck to bring them home.