Armada. John Stack

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      ‘Will others come?’ Robert asked.

      ‘Not many I fear,’ the priest replied. ‘More and more are turning away from the true faith and following the path of the heretic Queen, may she suffer the hell-fires.’

      An instinctive defence of Queen Elizabeth rose to Robert’s lips but he remained quiet. He knew that Father Blackthorne did not share his loyalty.

      ‘Tonight, I will pray for the soul of Queen Mary of the Scots,’ the priest said sadly.

      Robert nodded, feeling the pain of her loss anew. Mary Stuart had been the next in line for the throne after Elizabeth and her coronation had had the potential to change everything in Robert’s life.

      His decision to remain Catholic went deeper than faith. For Robert it was the only surviving link to his past, a past he could never relinquish, and one he was forced to hide. That concealment had cost him dearly, for without claim to his true birthright he had been forced to make his way in the world without favour or title.

      The noise of approach caused Robert to spin around and his hand fell instantly to the hilt of his rapier.

      ‘Sumus omnes,’ he heard and he responded with the second half of the passphrase.

      Three people emerged from behind the wall, a studious looking man with his wife and young daughter. They were followed minutes later by a second group, then another.

      As midnight arrived the mass began. Father Blackthorne preached from behind a large flat-topped rock which served as an altar while his congregation knelt on the stone strewn ground. The wind whistled and gusted around them, whipping away the priest’s words but all knew the sermon intimately. As the clouds raced overhead the small group reiterated their faith, speaking outlawed words in the darkness.

      The ship’s bell tolled six times and Henry Morgan looked east towards the coming dawn. It was minutes away and he used the half-light to survey the ships at anchor around the Retribution in Plymouth harbour. There were sixteen ships and seven pinnaces in total, an impressive fleet and Morgan felt his heart swell with pride at the sight, not least because his own command was one of the most powerful ships amongst them. The Retribution was a galleon of the new ‘race built’ class, with her fore and aft castles razed, giving her a sleek, spear-like profile. At 450 tons and with a crew of two hundred and twenty, she carried thirty-two guns, and was a fast and agile purpose built warship.

      Morgan looked across at the flagship, the Elizabeth Bonaventure, anchored nearby. It was one of four galleons contributed to the enterprise by the Queen, and the commander, Francis Drake, had taken it as his own. Morgan searched for Drake on the decks, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He embodied everything that Morgan believed in, his staunch Protestantism and his unswerving loyalty to Queen and country. But the ship was alive with men, both on deck and in the shrouds, and it was impossible to single out one man.

      He looked beyond the flagship to the rest of the fleet. All rode easy at their anchors, the gentle pull of the outgoing tide keeping the ships in parallel. Morgan watched as local fishermen sailed their craft between the towering warships, the crews exchanging easy salutes as men near the end of their watch called out to fishermen beginning their day. He felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to find Thomas Seeley, the master’s mate, standing beside him.

      ‘Has the Master returned yet?’ Morgan asked.

      ‘No, Captain, not yet,’ Seeley replied.

      Morgan nodded, keeping his irritation hidden behind a neutral expression. The fore-noon watch would begin within the hour and Varian was officer of the watch.

      He had known Varian only by reputation until four days before when the royal flotilla arrived in Plymouth from Dover. Varian was one of John Hawkins’s men, a recently promoted captain of a merchantman. The son of a minor gentleman he had worked his way up through the ranks on the most arduous of trade routes, the trans-Atlantic triangular; textiles from Europe to Africa, slaves from Africa to America and sugar, tobacco and cotton from America to Europe, and was well known for his sailing skills.

      The Retribution belonged to John Hawkins, the Treasurer of the navy. He had insisted that Varian be master for the voyage ahead and Morgan had readily acquiesced, conscious that his crew would benefit from Varian’s experience. The new master had reported to the Retribution, however for the past three nights, Varian had requested permission to go aboard his former ship to ensure that all would remain in order during his absence. On the first two mornings Varian had returned in the middle of the morning watch, at around six a.m. This morning however he was late and Morgan wondered if Varian’s tardiness was due to disobedience or merely indifference.

      ‘Longboat approaching off the larboard quarter,’ a lookout called, and Morgan looked to the fast-moving boat. Varian was standing in the bow. As he came alongside he called up for permission to come aboard. It was quickly given and he scaled the rope ladder to the main deck just as the sun finally crested the line of the eastern horizon. He made his way towards the quarterdeck. The ship’s bell tolled seven times.

      ‘All is well on board the Spirit, I trust, Mister Varian,’ Morgan said, studying anew the dark weathered features of the master. Varian was a tall slender man, narrow in the shoulders and waist. His eyes had the restlessness of a career sailor, constantly checking and rechecking the ship around him.

      ‘Yes, thank you, Captain,’ Robert replied, ‘I will not need to attend to her again.’

      ‘Good,’ the captain said shortly and turned once more to the flagship. ‘I must go aboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure for a captains’ council with Drake. See to it that the top gallants are replaced during the watch.’

      ‘Yes, Captain,’ Robert replied as he moved towards the starboard bulwark. He was joined there by Seeley.

      ‘I was in port last night,’ Seeley said offhandedly, ‘and came upon the Spirit at the southern end of the dock.’

      ‘I didn’t realize,’ Robert said without turning his head, immediately on guard.

      ‘I asked for you,’ Seeley continued, ‘but the master there said that you had just gone ashore to see a local trader and would not return until after midnight.’

      Robert nodded, silently thanking the quick wits of his friend, Tobias Miller, the master of the Spirit. He had worked with the man for over ten years and had requested him as his master when he was given command of the Spirit six months before. Robert had not returned to the Spirit since being assigned to the Retribution and although Miller did not know Robert’s secret he knew well enough that if his captain had used the Spirit as an excuse to come ashore, he would be best served if Miller supported that lie.

      Seeley waited for Varian to explain his absence further but the master continued to stare over the side of the ship in silence. He suspected that Varian had gone ashore to meet a woman, maybe one who was married to another officer in the fleet, or perhaps he was involved in some other wrongdoing, one that necessitated such secrecy. Either way, Seeley disliked the thought that one of the officers of the fleet might be tainted. He believed the upcoming mission, an attack on the Spanish fleet, was a divine one and for them to prevail the heart of every man in the fleet needed to be pure.

      Seeley’s grandparents had been martyred by the Roman Catholic Queen Mary Tudor, forever known to Protestants as ‘Bloody Mary’, and she had stripped the family of its title and wealth. Although Elizabeth had restored the Seeley family СКАЧАТЬ