Armada
JOHN STACK

For Richard John Moran

&

Frances Moran nee Varian

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

Also by John Stack

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

18th February 1587. Fotheringhay, England.

Dawn arrived slowly, the dull winter sunlight moving stealthily through the single window into the candle lit chamber, its soulless grey rays drawing all colour from the room. The lady knelt in prayer seemed almost like a statue, her pale skin and white veil stark against a black satin dress. The castle was finally quiet after hours of constant noise and the servants kneeling behind their sovereign listened intently to her murmured words of prayer, catching only snippets of the words spoken in a mix of languages.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway and the servants’ eyes darted towards the door. The lady remained motionless, a brief pause in her incantations the only outward sign that she was aware of the outside world. The knock reverberated through the still air.

‘It is time,’ a voice shouted through the door. ‘The lords are waiting.’

‘Let them wait,’ the lady replied, turning her head slightly, ‘I have not yet finished my prayers.’

Her tone was one of command, steadfast and firm, and the voice outside did not protest. The servants looked once more to their charge, drawing courage from her composure. They bowed their heads as she continued her prayers, stifling their tears in a bid to preserve the solemnity of these final moments.

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, rose and turned to her faithful retainers. They had been with her for many years, some throughout her nineteen years of captivity. She spoke to each in turn, handing them tokens of her affection, keepsakes and purses that contained all that was left of her meagre wealth, before motioning to her personal groom. It was time.

The groom took down the crucifix from the altar and, holding it aloft before him, escorted his Queen from the room and along the corridor towards the great hall of the castle. The servants followed. As they neared the entrance the Queen turned to them one last time to bid them farewell. Her emissary fell to his knees and wept but she drew him up and embraced him.

‘Tell my friends I died a true woman to my religion,’ she said and again her retinue took strength from her, her lady- in-waiting adjusting the folds of the Queen’s dress one last time on the threshold of the great hall.

The vast room was in silence, save for the spark and crack of a fire in the huge hearth, but the eyes of three hundred spectators were turned to the Queen as she made her entrance. Steps led up to the black-velvet-draped scaffold in the centre. They watched her in awe, her grace and calm preserving the significance of the moment. A slight smile played across her face as she fingered the small crucifix and prayer book in her hands.

She moved to the low stool before the block, her eyes darting to the felling axe lying on the floor. Her expression never changed and she listened in silence as the commission for her execution was read aloud. A Protestant dean stepped forward to pray for her and for the first time the depths of her concealed emotions were revealed.

‘I am settled in the ancient Catholic religion,’ she said firmly, her tone resolute, ‘and mind to spend my blood in defence of it.’

The dean ignored her and fell to his knees to pray out loud for her soul. She turned away and began to pray in Latin, their words intertwining, each voice calling to the same God across a divide that had almost destroyed a realm.

In the silence that followed, the Queen sat on the low stool to disrobe. Her lady-in-waiting stepped forward. With trembling hands the servant removed the two rosaries bound around the Queen’s waist before drawing down her black dress. Underneath Mary Stuart wore a dark red bodice and crimson petticoat, the colour of blood. The lady stepped in close, her tear stained lips kissing a white cloth blindfold before tying it in place.

The Queen knelt down and reached out in blindness for the block, her hands tracing over its edges. She leaned forward, adjusting the position of her chin with the tips of her fingers. The executioner bent over and touched her hand, an unspoken sign to withdraw them, and she stretched out her arms, lowering her head to fully expose the back of her neck. The executioner stepped back, the weight of the felling axe light in his calloused hands. He drew up the stroke.

‘Into thine hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit,’ the Queen cried aloud, ‘Into thine hands, O Lord, I commend …’

The blade fell, striking her on the back of the head.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ she whispered and the executioner quickly swung again, this time his axe striking her cleanly on the back of the neck, ending her fate.

The executioner picked up the severed head and held it aloft, turning slowly before the crowd so all could see and bear witness, his loud voice booming across the great hall:

‘God save the Queen.’

CHAPTER 1

25th March 1587. Near Plymouth, England.

Robert Varian picked his way across the ancient graveyard, his hands outstretched in the darkness as he wove through the maze of granite and sandstone markers. The noise of the air rushing through the trees filled his ears, and not for the first time, he felt a hollow point of unease at the base of his back. The local yeomanry were sure to be patrolling for deserters and given the lateness of the hour his presence so far from port would be hard to explain.

He looked up at the dark outline of the church spire to his left, tracing its outline with his eyes until he reached its apex. Above it the clouds were racing across the sky, a ghostly white, diffusing the light of the waning moon. He searched for a gap along their line of advance and, seeing one approach, quickly dropped his gaze. An instant later the moon’s light shone through a breech, illuminating the ancient stones. He could see it, not ten feet ahead. He was plunged once more into darkness as he stumbled on.

His outstretched hand touched cold sculpted stone and he felt his way slowly up over the curve of an angel’s wing, his hand falling to the shoulder of the life-sized statue which was draped over a plinth in lamentation. He followed the arm and paused as his hand reached the angel’s. This was his third visit since the full moon, and each one before had brought disappointment. He stretched his fingertips around the angel’s hand and smiled in relief as he felt the object loosely clutched within. It was a small wooden crucifix, roughly hewn as if created in haste and Robert glanced over his shoulder instinctively. He could see or hear nothing in the wind-driven darkness and he quickly replaced the crucifix in the angel’s hand.

He moved towards the church, his hand outstretched again until he touched the north wall. He turned east and left the bounds of the churchyard to go into the field beyond. His eyes were drawn to a dark mass of high ground ahead, a looming hillock behind which the clouds fled and then reappeared. It was a motte, a man-made earthen mound, and upon it some long-forgotten people had built a rudimentary stone fort, now in ruins. He began to clamber up its slope and the wind clawed at his travelling cloak. He paused as he reached the top. A tumbled down wall was before him and he stepped into its lee. The noise of the wind in his ears abated.

‘Sumus omnes. We are all,’ he said in Latin to the darkness, a language he had been taught in his youth and one known by all educated men.

‘In manu Dei. In God’s hand,’ came a reply and Robert smiled, recognizing the deep baritone of the voice.

He stepped forward and was met by the dark outline of a short, stocky man.

‘Well met, Father,’ he said.

‘Robert, is that you?’ the priest replied.

‘Yes, Father,’ Robert said and he reached out and clasped the priest’s arm.

‘I did not expect …’

‘I have come from Plymouth,’ Robert explained, omitting why he was in that port, knowing the reason would anger the priest.

Robert had known Father Blackthorne for the better part of his thirty years, ever since he had come to live in Brixham when he was twelve years old. It had been a terrifying time for Robert, a new life far from his original home in Durham. From the outset, Father Blackthorne had been his friend, and the young boy had clung to the security of the priest’s constancy, using him, like the North Star, as a fixed point in his shattered world.

As Robert grew older the priest had become his confessor. It was a sacrament Robert rarely had the chance to celebrate as a sailor for he spent many months at a time at sea, but he had long ago memorized the sequence of secret meeting places, triggered by the rising of each new moon, and the secret call signs that the priest used. It was that knowledge that had led him to the weeping angel in the graveyard of the Church of Saint Michael, not two miles from Plymouth, and the motte beyond that had become a Mass rock for the Catholic faithful.

‘Will you hear my confession, Father?’ Robert asked, kneeling down.

The priest nodded and removed a Stole from his pocket, kissing the long narrow strip of cloth before placing it around his neck. He reached out to put his hand on the top of Robert’s head as he began the Latin incantation of the sacrament. Robert rose after a few minutes, his conscience calmed.

‘Have you seen my parents?’ he asked.

‘I have,’ the priest replied, wondering if the young man really did consider the Varians to be his parents. ‘Not two months ago. They are well.’

Robert nodded, glad to hear some news. Brixham was only twenty miles from Plymouth but Robert had not been home for over a year, his own career and now a summons from his patron keeping him away. His adoptive father, his uncle, William Varian, was a local gentleman merchant. A successful man, he kept his business profitable by hiding his Catholic faith and openly conforming to the Protestant religion of the majority. It was a secret fraught with danger for Catholics were associated with so many plots to overthrow the Protestant Queen Elizabeth, their faith was synonymous with treachery and foreign influence.

William Varian remained a loyal recusant, a Catholic who nevertheless firmly supported the Queen. It was a belief he had instilled in Robert ever since he took the young boy into his home. Queen Elizabeth was not of their faith, but she was English, and a staunch defender of England’s independence from the foreign powers that lurked across the Channel. For that reason alone, William Varian had taught Robert to be forever loyal to her command.

‘It is near midnight,’ Father Blackthorne said, ‘I must prepare for mass.’

‘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 with its title after she gained the throne, the fortune and estate were gone forever. Now Seeley was determined to avenge the murder of his grandparents by carrying the cause of God and his faith into battle against the hated Roman Catholic Spanish and the antichrist who was their king, Philip II, the former husband of Bloody Mary.

He looked to Varian again. God in his wisdom had placed him on board the Retribution and in the battle to come, when every man in the fleet would be a soldier of the Protestant faith. If the Lord had chosen Robert Varian then, Seeley conceded, he must be wrong about the new master.

The ship’s bell tolled eight times and the boatswain, Shaw, called for the changing of the watch.

‘Call the men to the main deck, Mister Seeley,’ Robert said, eager to begin the day, ‘and have the top gallants brought down.’

‘Yes, Master,’ Seeley replied. His shouted order triggered the sound of bare feet running on the timber decks as all across the fleet the fore-noon watch began.

Robert watched the men take to the shrouds as Seeley directed them from the main deck. The master’s mate was a young man, not twenty-two years old but his social rank gave him an innate confidence which was reflected in his easy command of the men. Robert had honed a similar style of command, although his had been forged over years at sea, his experience and skill earning him the respect of any crew he served with. His steadfast time on the triangular trade route had also brought him to the attention of John Hawkins and Robert had finally received his hard-earned captain’s commission six months before.

Now he was master once more, albeit on one of the finest ships of the English fleet. He was left to wonder anew at how different his life would be if his true lineage was not tainted and could be revealed. His captaincy would have been attained years earlier, undoubtedly on a galleon rather than a merchantman. For all his skill at sailing and experience of fighting as a privateer he had never commanded in battle. Captain Morgan, on the other hand, although his junior, had sailed with Drake when the English fleet attacked the Spanish Main in the Caribbean two years before. It had been a hard fought campaign and although Robert was aggrieved that he had never been afforded such a chance to prove himself, he respected Morgan’s right to command.

Reports that the Spanish were preparing a massive invasion fleet had reached every ear in England and the ships surrounding the Retribution had been assembled to sail once more against the enemy, although this time the attack would take place in Spanish home waters. It was a daring gamble. One worthy of Drake, Robert thought, as he looked to the flagship. He immediately saw the longboat bearing the captain returning to the Retribution. Even from a distance the agitation on Morgan’s face was evident and Robert ran to the gunwale. The longboat came alongside and the captain clambered on board.

‘Mister Varian,’ he called as he went aft of the main deck, ‘report to my cabin.’

Robert walked quickly down the steps from the quarterdeck to the main and doubled back to go aft. He moved swiftly, side stepping the crewmen in the cramped space beneath the quarterdeck, his body slightly stooped in the restricted headroom. The air smelled of boiled meat and unwashed men, while underneath Robert could detect the all pervasive stink of the bilges. Ahead he could see the captain had already entered his cabin at the stern of the ship. He stopped at the door and knocked. A muffled voice commanded him to enter.

The cabin was small but neat, with a cot to one side behind a curtain. Near the stern, under the windows, stood a table and single chair. The captain had cleared the tabletop and was laying out navigation charts, looking at each in turn before pulling another from the rack.

‘Lisbon,’ he said without looking up, his excitement clearly evident.

‘When?’ Robert asked, stepping in to view the charts he already knew intimately.

‘If the wind holds, we sail with the tide tomorrow,’ the captain replied. ‘Then we lay off the devil’s lair to make sure the squadrons of their fleet do not unite.’

Robert nodded, a multitude of thoughts entering his mind at once, including the myriad tasks which needed to be completed before dawn the next morning. Until four days ago he had been like any other trader in Plymouth, fully aware of the growing threat posed by the greatest empire of the age, but unaffected by it. Now he stood shoulder to shoulder with the men who would stand against Goliath.

CHAPTER 2

8th April 1587. Cadiz, Spain.

The rain fell in steady sheets borne by an onshore breeze that filled the air with the salt smell of the deep sea, smothering the odours of the cramped city on the peninsula a mile away. Evardo Alvarez Morales turned into the wind and breathed in deeply before lowering his head. The rain ran off the brim of his hat and he wiped the wind driven moisture from his face and neatly trimmed beard. The storm was blowing from the south-west and the Halcón tugged incessantly at her anchor line, trying to break free, as if to seek shelter from the shattered remnants of the Atlantic rollers that surged past the headland protecting the anchorage at Cadiz.

He looked to the four points of his ship and beyond to the vessels that surrounded him in the upper harbour, many of them belonging to the supply fleet that was hastily being prepared under the protective watch of nine galleys, commanded by Don Pedro de Acuña, anchored in the lee of the city. The Halcón was Evardo’s first command of a galleon, granted to him at just twenty-six by his patron, the Marquis of Santa Cruz, commander of the Armada gathering in Lisbon harbour. With the planned attack on England only months away, Evardo knew he was on the cusp of writing a new chapter in the illustrious history of his family.

Evardo’s grandfather had been a renowned explorer of the Spanish Main, while his father, Alvaro Juarez Morales, fell at the Battle of Lepanto, boldly leading an attack against the galleys of Uluj Ali. For the young Evardo the King’s crusade against the heretic English was his chance to make his name and stand shoulder to shoulder with his next eldest brother who, at twenty-eight, was already an aide-de-camp in the Duke of Parma’s army fighting the rebels of the United Provinces in the Spanish Netherlands.

Evardo glanced over his shoulder as one of his senior officers, the ship’s captain, approached. He nodded curtly to his salute. The ship’s captain was in charge of the seventy-five sailors on board while the soldiers, two hundred of them, were under the command of a separate captain. Those men were currently garrisoned in the nearby Puerto Real and would not be embarked until the day before the galleon sailed.

The wind slackened and shifted for a moment and Evardo moved instinctively to the bulwark of the aft deck, looking out over the side as the Halcón shifted slightly on her anchor cable. He checked her line to the other ships and to the shore, ensuring that all was well and as he looked up again he saw Abrahan Delgado standing beside him. The older man was staring at him, his gaze intense, as if he was scrutinizing his every action. Evardo smiled.

‘All is well, Abrahan,’ he said, ‘you should return to your cot.’

‘While this storm blows my place is on deck, Comandante,’ Abrahan said gruffly, pulling the collars of his cape tightly around his neck as he looked into the wind, his face twisted in a slight grimace as he eased some ancient pain in his back.

Evardo smiled again, liking the older man. He knew the real reason Abrahan was on deck was so he could be on hand should Evardo need his advice. After fifteen years the comandante suspected there was little else his mentor could teach him on any subject.

Abrahan Delgado was not an officer of the Halcón. He was on board as the comandante’s personal aid but the senior officers had quickly learned to respect the opinion of the often irascible old sailor. Evardo had witnessed protracted arguments between his mentor and his captains over sailing and military techniques, and many times he had smiled as he saw the officers nodding in assent, conceding to Abrahan’s viewpoint.

The wind shifted once more to its previous course and again Evardo looked out over the side. The storm had been blowing for three days, its strength drawn from the deep Atlantic to the west. Evardo’s thoughts went to the ships of the flota, the treasure fleet from the colonies that were so vital to the cause of Spain and his most glorious majesty, King Philip. In the open ocean the savage power of the storm would be fully unleashed. Evardo whispered a prayer for the safety of any ships that might be en route home.

He remembered his own commission in the treasure fleet at the age of thirteen, a rite of passage for all young aristocrats who wished to serve in the King’s navy. The towering fore and aft castles of the Santa Catalina, a huge galleon of 900 tons, specially built to take its place in the Flota de Indias, the fleet that plied between Spain and the Caribbean. He could still recall his feelings on the day he sailed from La Coruña, his pride mixed with youthful apprehension, his thoughts on his father who had been dead not two years, and how he had looked to his taciturn tutor, Abrahan, standing by his side.

That commission had lasted four years, taking Evardo across the mighty Atlantic many times, from La Coruña to Veracruz via Havana and back. Almost every night he had dined with the officers, and often with the comandante of the mighty Santa Catalina, learning quickly from these career mariners and soldiers. By the time he had left the Santa Catalina, the awkwardness of his first faltering steps at sea had been replaced by the confident stride of an experienced sailor, ready to climb the established aristocratic ladder of command that had eventually led him to the Halcón.

The boom of a single cannon from the low lying fort on the seaward promontory of Cadiz interrupted Evardo’s thoughts. Noon, the change of the watch. The sky overhead remained iron grey with low cloud, the canopy of a winter evening rather than noontime in spring. The western coastline of Spain was often visited by such tempests, but Evardo was confident that with the change in season only weeks away, the storm was sure to be short-lived.

He looked to the ships of the supply fleet surrounding the galleon, many of which were smaller coastal boats along with caravels and hulks. The men on their decks worked through the rain, spurred on by the end which was clearly in sight. The supply fleet was but two weeks away from being ready. Then it would sail to Lisbon, to stock the mighty Armada. Evardo had decided to sail with them. Although he was not due in Lisbon until the end of the month, he was conscious of the threat posed by English pirates and especially El Draque, Drake, the arch-fiend heretic who had wreaked havoc in the Spanish Main not two years before.

Drake’s attack was only one of a litany of insults suffered by the Spanish over the previous years. The flota, despite sailing in convoy, was under constant threat from English pirates who returned to the bosom of their Queen after every attack, sheltering like cowards under her protestations of innocence and justification. Elizabeth was openly supporting the Protestant rebels of the United Provinces, in defiance of King Philip’s demands that England remained neutral in what Spain believed was an internal conflict.

Now the whole of Spain was rife with the rumour that Elizabeth had murdered her own cousin, Mary Stuart, who in Catholic eyes was the rightful claimant to the throne of England over the bastard queen spawned of an adulterous affair. There could be no higher crime, no greater offence. The English and Elizabeth had gone too far. Although the Armada had been in preparation before Mary’s execution, her death had filled Spanish hearts with a religious fervour and a thirst for righteous vengeance that could not be quenched.

Until the English were crushed, the seas around Spain would never be secure. It galled Evardo that his countrymen could not call themselves safe from molestation in their home waters. He reached out to touch the gunwale of the Halcón, taking solace from the fact that soon the galleon would be in English waters, repaying tenfold the insults suffered by the Spanish Empire and the divine faith of his forefathers.

The wind howled through the shrouds and rigging, a fearful wail that gave voice to the fury of the storm. Robert leaned against the fall of the quarterdeck, his safety line biting into his waist as the bow of the Retribution cut through the crest of a wave. The seawater swept over the bulwark and ran ankle deep across the main deck before fleeing through the scuppers. He looked skyward, searching for the sun he had not seen in days, but the iron-grey clouds filled the heavens, bloated by the unceasing wind.

The Retribution was sailing broad reach under bare yards with only storm tops’ls unfurled. The wind had screamed out of the south-west three days before, scattering the English fleet just as it had sighted Cape Finisterre on the north-western corner of Spain. Robert had been on deck ever since, unable to go below and turn his back on a sea that he had long ago discovered rewarded complacency with treachery. He had slept in the lee of the quarterdeck, snatching fitful hours while Seeley took the watch. He had quickly come to trust his younger mate. Seeley’s hand and nerve were as steady as his own.

The wind shifted and ebbed slightly and Robert looked again to the line of his ship.

‘Steady the helm!’ he shouted, his voice carrying through the open hatch to the helmsman, Price, on the main deck beneath him. Price tightened his grip on the whipstaff and braced his powerful legs against the increasing press of the sea against the rudder. The tiller, attached to the other end of the whipstaff two decks below him, remained steady and the bow of the Retribution held firm.

Robert smiled despite the gnawing fatigue he could feel permeating his every sense. The galleon was a breed apart from any ship he had ever sailed on before and he marvelled at the genius of her design. Even in such heavy weather her longer, slimmer hull and lower fore and aft castles improved her handling and manoeuvrability beyond measure. He squinted through the driving rain to the sea ahead, searching for other ships of the fleet, but visibility had dropped to less than three miles and the towering grey-backed waves hemmed the Retribution in on all sides.

Over the roar of the wind Robert heard, ‘Report, Mister Varian,’ and he turned to see the captain approach.

‘As before, Captain,’ Robert shouted, his hand cupped over the side of his mouth, ‘wind holding south-west, at least thirty knots. I estimate we are forty-five degrees north, over a hundred miles north-north-east of Cape Finisterre, in the Bay of Biscay.’

Robert could not be sure, for it had been impossible to accurately sight the sun at noon over the previous days to determine their exact latitude, while their longitude could only be determined by dead reckoning, an inaccurate task in such a storm. Captain Morgan nodded regardless, trusting his new master.

‘Any other ships in sight?’ he asked, wiping the airborne spray from his face.

Robert glanced at the lookout at the top of the main mast. His head was darting from side to side, covering the points of the ship but he showed no signs of having sighted any other sail.

‘Nothing,’ Robert shouted. ‘Not since the Dreadnought near dawn. We lost sight of her over three hours ago.’

‘And no sign of survivors from the Deer?’ Morgan asked, his voice betraying his anticipation of the answer even as Robert shook his head.

The Deer, a pinnace, had been lost early in the storm, the smaller vessel floundering under the first savage blows as the front overtook the English fleet. Robert, with the rest of the crew of the Retribution, had observed her sinking, the ship slipping beneath the waves not four hundred yards off the starboard beam. Many of the men on board the Retribution had called out in vain to the few survivors they could see in the water, urging them to make for the galleon or to cling on to whatever debris they could find, to hold fast until the storm abated and the longboat of the Retribution could be launched to rescue them. But the wind had never eased, had never backed off, and in desperation they had seen the men disappear one by one, some carried away by the tempest, while others slipped beneath the torrid surface of the sea.

Movement at the top of the main mast caught Robert’s eye and he looked up to see the lookout shouting down to the quarterdeck. His cry of alarm was lost in the wind but the direction of his arm pointed out the danger. Robert slipped his safety line and ran up to the poop deck to stare out over the aft gunwale. The approaching wave filled his vision, its wind torn crest standing twice as tall as the waves before it.

‘Look out for’ard,’ he roared in warning to the crew and he jumped back down to the quarterdeck. The wave crashed over the starboard quarter. A wall of water surged over the ship, engulfing the men on the main deck, carrying one of them over the side. The stern of the Retribution swung to port under the force of the wave, bringing her broadside to the storm. The main deck was awash and the crew desperately clawed at the timbers as the sea tried to claim them.

The storm tops’ls lost their shape and the halyard of a brace to the main tops’l yard snapped under the unequal stress of the wind, its block and tackle swinging wildly across the quarterdeck, striking one man on the side of the head, killing him instantly. The yard swung around the mainmast, twisting the sail out of shape and the wind spilled from it, rendering it useless.

‘Main tops’l ho!’ Robert shouted even as Shaw, the boatswain, ordered two men, Ellis and Foster, aloft, following closely on their heels as they clambered up the shrouds. ‘Helmsman, hard a starboard.’

Price swept the whipstaff to port, the tiller moving in reverse beneath him, coming hard up against the starboard. The bow swung slightly to port but with only the foremast storm tops’l to carry the weight of the entire galley, the Retribution could not make headway. She pitched violently as the waves crashed into her broadside.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert shouted over the roar of the wind, ‘take men forward and secure the braces to the yards of the foremast. If they fail we’re lost.’ Seeley nodded and Robert turned his attention to the men ascending the mainmast.

The pitch of the deck was making the climb difficult and more than once the men almost lost their footing on the shrouds as the ship heeled over. They reached the height of the main tops’l yard fifty feet above the main deck and Robert watched as Shaw directed Ellis and Foster to secure a new line for the brace. They worked swiftly, sidestepping out the footrope to the edge of the yard and within minutes Ellis descended with the new line.

‘Yeoman of the sheets, make fast!’

The petty officer called the men aft at Robert’s command and they secured and hauled in the line, their backs bent against the strength of the wind as they pulled the yard around into position.

Robert looked up at Shaw through the squalling rain and signalled him to come down, their task complete. The boatswain waved before he and Foster sidestepped back across the footrope to reach the head of the shrouds. On deck the crew continued to haul the yard into position. Suddenly the wind filled the main storm tops’l once more. The canvas took shape with a crack and the Retribution surged forward as if released from a sea anchor. Her bow swung swiftly around to its original position and the helmsman reacting without command to bring the rudder in line.

The rapid change, magnified by height, swung the head of the mainmast through an enormous arc and Foster lost his grip on the ratlines. His scream for help was cut short as Shaw grabbed one of his hands and the sailor swung out over the gaping drop to the main deck, his only lifeline the iron grip of the boatswain.

Robert heard the cries of alarm and looked up. His brief elation for the recovery of the Retribution’s course was immediately forgotten. Shaw clung to the ratlines at the edge of the shrouds with his right hand while Foster hung by his left hand beneath him. The sailor flailing his legs in panic and his free hand clawed at Shaw’s wrist as if trying to drag him down. Robert reacted without thought, racing down to the main deck and the base of the shrouds, shouldering past the crewmen who stared in horror at the men above, many of them shouting hopeless counsel. He jumped up onto the bulwark and climbed up the shrouds, his eyes darting between his feet and hands to the men hanging above him.

The wind tore at his body, the rain lashed his face and Robert blinked rapidly to try to clear his vision. Foster’s screams came to his ears, desperate cries that even the howling gale could not hide. He could also hear Shaw’s entreaties, trying to quell Foster’s panic, yelling at him to grab the underside of the shrouds with his free hand. But Foster was oblivious to all help, his fear-ridden instincts controlling him and he clung to Shaw’s left hand.

‘Shaw!’ Robert called as he approached. The boatswain looked to him for the first time. His face was mottled red with exertion, his eyes wild, and Robert could see the muscles of his arm tremble with the effort of holding himself to the ratlines and Foster from his death.

The Retribution bucked through the crest of a larger wave, its bow coming up short for a heartbeat before driving through into the trough, the rhythm of the galleon’s roll spoiled by a larger wave. All three men were caught unawares and their weight was thrown forward. Robert tightened his grip and held his footing but in that instant Shaw’s feet slipped and he swung around the edge of the shrouds. His right hand held firmly on the ratline but Foster was wrenched from his left and the sailor screamed as he fell through the rain to slam into the main deck forty feet below.

Robert scrabbled the last few feet to Shaw, his eyes locked on the boatswain’s precarious grip on the ratlines. Shaw swung out over the deck, his own gaze fixed on the shattered body of Foster below, while the constant waves mercifully washed the deck of blood.

‘Hold fast,’ Robert shouted and again the boatswain looked to him, this time his eyes betraying his fear.

‘I can’t …’ he shouted and Robert reached out desperately as he saw the boatswain’s grasp fail.

He grabbed Shaw’s hand just as his grip gave way. The weight of the boatswain slammed Robert into the shrouds. A searing pain ripped through his shoulder. Shaw dangled beneath him, re-enacting the last moments of Foster’s life. The boatswain reached up with his other hand and grabbed Robert’s wrist. His nails tore his flesh, trying to find purchase. Robert held firm, keeping his own body weight centred as the roll of the ship increased the swing of the boatswain’s body.

‘The ratlines,’ Robert hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Your other hand, man. Grab the ratlines.’

The boatswain’s face was a mask of terror. Robert felt the first weakness of his own grip on the ratlines as the boatswain swung through another pendulum’s arc.

‘Shaw!’ he screamed, the anger in his voice reaching the boatswain. ‘Grab the ratlines or you’re a dead man.’

Shaw nodded and Robert saw the fear in the boatswain’s eyes turn to determination.

‘Wait for the pitch,’ he shouted. As the Retribution crested a wave, the boatswain released his left hand and reached out for the underside of the shrouds. He missed but on the return swing his fingertips caught their outer edge. His hand clasped the rope, clinging to it.

‘Pull!’ Robert shouted. He used the last of his strength to heave the boatswain up, their hands releasing each other without command as each took their own grip on ropes. The boatswain was now swinging two handed beneath the shrouds and Robert reached out to grab his tunic, pulling him in to allow him to get his feet onto the ratlines. He climbed around to the outside and the two men clung to the ropes side by side, their laboured breaths whipped away by the wind and rain, while the all pervasive roar of the storm smothered the sounds of the cheering crew on the deck below.

Father Blackthorne moved slowly towards the halo of soft light surrounding the single candle framed in the window. He paused, wary as always of a trap, his caution almost second nature after years in hiding. The night was quiet save for the sounds of nature; the scurry of a small animal in the undergrowth, the screech of an owl, but still the priest hesitated, his breathing shallow as he strained for the sounds of some larger predator. His hand slipped inside his cassock and enfolded the crucifix hanging there. He silently mouthed a Latin prayer before stepping forward once more.

He crossed the courtyard and stopped at the door to the kitchen, knocking lightly as he glanced over his shoulder, conscious that he was now standing in the pool of light from the candle-lit window. The door opened a fraction and a man’s face appeared, furtive eyes betraying a moment of apprehension before he recognized the priest, smiling as he opened the door wider to allow him to enter. The priest ducked in and the door was closed and locked, the mechanism of the bolt unnaturally loud in the confines of the room.

The draught from the closing door had set the flame of the candle dancing and the kitchen came alive with moving shadows before the light settled once more, its soft glow allowing Father Blackthorne to feel more at ease. He turned to the man beside him and placed his hand on the servant’s expectantly bowed head.

‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he intoned.

‘Amen,’ the man replied. He looked up. ‘You must be hungry, Father,’ he said, ushering the priest to the table in the middle of the room.

Father Blackthorne sat down, his eyes poring ravenously over the table before him. The servant brought the lighted candle from the window sill to the table and the priest moaned involuntarily as he saw the feast in detail. He had not seen food like it in weeks and he reached out to pull the leg off a cold capon as the servant poured him a goblet of wine. He ate quickly, conscious that time was short, ignoring the servant who sat silently across from him.

‘I beg your forgiveness, Father,’ the servant said tentatively after five minutes, ‘but the Duke will be waiting.’

Father Blackthorne made to dismiss the reminder but held his tongue, knowing it would serve no purpose and that the duke’s good favour was all important. He stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, belching softly with regret as he looked over the table of food once more. Its abundance was in stark contrast to the meagre offerings the poorer Catholics would give him in the weeks between now and his next visit to the duke’s residence.

The servant picked up the candle and led the priest from the kitchen, taking him along one of the servants’ passageways that emerged into the entrance hall of the estate house. All was in darkness. The two men crossed the flagstone floor in an orb of light and the feeble glow from the candle seemed to augment the vastness of the vaulted ceiling above them. Their footfalls echoed in the silence. They came to a door and the servant knocked. His hand was already on the handle as the command to enter was given.

Father Blackthorne entered alone. He felt anxious, as was often the case in the presence of his patron. The room was a small study, its walls lined with shelves holding innumerable books and the priest looked at them admiringly, conscious of their value. The Duke of Clarsdale was standing in front of the remains of a small fire in the hearth. He was surrounded in a thin haze of smoke from the downdraught in the chimney and his back was arched slightly as he outstretched his hands towards the heat. He was a tall man, broad across the shoulders and his iron grey hair gave twenty years to his middle age. He did not move as the priest crossed the room towards him, and Father Blackthorne’s eyes were drawn to the two Irish wolfhounds curled up at the edge of the hearth. Their heads turned to track the priest across the room before falling once more onto their extended legs.

‘I expected you quite some time ago,’ Clarsdale said.

‘It is becoming more and more difficult for me to travel,’ the priest explained.

Clarsdale murmured a reply and the room became silent once more.

‘It is becoming more difficult for us all,’ he said after a pause.

‘It is through our hardships that we are redeemed,’ Father Blackthorne replied, stepping closer to the duke.

Clarsdale did not reply immediately.

‘I was thinking of the men who were martyred last September,’ he said to the fire, a hard edge to his voice.

‘They are already with God,’ Father Blackthorne said reassuringly, although he shuddered involuntarily as he thought of their fate.

The Babington plot, so named after the most prominent of the conspirators, had been exposed six months before. Father Blackthorne had only heard rumours of it before its discovery, but he had long suspected that the Duke of Clarsdale had possessed some greater knowledge, even if he had not been directly involved. The conspirators had been sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered and such was the brutality and suffering of those first executed, the Queen herself had blanched and ordered the others to be hanged until dead before they were disembowelled.

‘They may be with God, Father, for their sacrifice,’ Clarsdale cursed, ‘but they should be suffering hellfire for their stupidity.’

Father Blackthorne recoiled with shock at the vehemence of the duke’s words and crossed himself.

‘I have learned that Walsingham knew of their plot months before and was playing them like fools in order to expose Mary Stuart,’ Clarsdale continued, turning to the priest for the first time, his face a mask of belligerence. ‘So now we have lost our last hope of placing a legitimate Catholic monarch on the throne of England.’

Father Blackthorne nodded. ‘Her death is a tragedy,’ he said in lament, ‘may her soul rest in God’s peace. Many of my flock have already lost hope and have cast their mortal souls aside by turning their backs on the true faith.’

‘Your flock,’ Clarsdale scoffed as he moved to sit down and the wolfhounds became alert once more as their master swept by. ‘They are sheep indeed, Father, mere peasants who will follow whoever holds power over the realm.’

‘But we need those people,’ Father Blackthorne argued. ‘We must maintain a wellspring of faith.’

Clarsdale made to retort but he relented, conscious that despite his outward offhand treatment of the priest and his flock, he needed both if he was to retain any chance of fulfilling his solemn vocation of placing a Catholic monarch on the throne. The priest had spoken of his flock as a wellspring of faith, but Clarsdale saw them as a potential wellspring of power, albeit one that was dwindling fast.

Elizabeth’s popularity and the constant threats against her person, supported by foreign powers, were combining to create a kind of nationalism that Clarsdale had never witnessed before. She was weaving a spell over the populace, creating a solidarity and support for her reign that would defeat his cause before it could ever come close to fruition. With Mary Stuart dead, the only alternative was to place a foreign monarch on the throne. It was a sacrifice that Clarsdale was willing to take for his faith, but he was no longer confident the majority would support such a ruler after Elizabeth. Time was of the essence. He indicated for the priest to sit opposite him.

‘It is common knowledge that the Spanish plan to invade,’ the duke began, lowering his voice instinctively although he was confident of the loyalty of every person within his household. ‘When they land they must be met by those who support their cause.’

The priest nodded, his lips mouthing a silent prayer for the coming of that day.

‘These men must be trained soldiers, armed men of substance and valour, not peasants bearing scythes and forks.’

Again the priest nodded. ‘I know of many amongst those who attend my ceremonies,’ he said.

‘Good,’ the duke replied. ‘You must speak to them, ensure they are prepared.’

The duke leaned back in his chair and reached out with his hand to rub the head of one of his dogs, the wolfhound responding with a contented growl.

‘There is one other thing, Father,’ Clarsdale said. ‘The Spanish are assembling a fleet, an Armada, to sail to England, but they desperately lack intelligence on the strength, disposition and readiness of the English royal fleet.’

Father Blackthorne’s eyes narrowed. If Clarsdale could command direct access to the Spanish then the duke was considerably closer to the centre of Catholic resistance in England than he had realized.

‘The ships that were assembled at Plymouth have already sailed, but I have heard only rumours as to their destination,’ the duke continued. ‘I need a sailor of rank to keep me informed, in advance, of the fleet’s plans.’

Father Blackthorne looked into the middle distance as he called to mind those men he knew at Plymouth. One sprang to mind but he dismissed him straight away, knowing he was merely the captain of a merchantman.

‘I will find you such a man,’ he said to the duke, unsure of who that man would be, but unwilling to disappoint his patron.

Clarsdale nodded and rose once more. The smoke that had diffused in the air swirled around him as he made his way to the fire. Father Blackthorne looked about the room, noticing for the first time that the invasive cold he had felt over the previous weeks was gone, banished by good food and the luxurious surroundings. It was a far cry from the hovels he would soon find himself in.

‘I will say mass at dawn,’ he said, rising to stand beside the duke. ‘Is her grace, your wife, in residence?’

The mention of his wife brought an immediate slur to Clarsdale’s lips but he held his tongue, not wanting to reveal the intimacies of his marriage to the priest.

‘She is in London with her family,’ he said tersely and looked once more into the fire, ending the conversation. Thoughts of her reminded Clarsdale of how much he had sacrificed for the Catholic cause. However, he was compelled to do no less, for such a sacrifice was in his blood. His family title, the Dukedom, was first granted to an ancestor who had fought in the Crusades. That man had answered the call of his pope and his king and had fought gallantly for the Catholic faith. It was an act that successive generations had revered and now that the mantle had passed to him Clarsdale was honour bound to fight for his religion.

Father Blackthorne stared at the duke for a moment longer. Men like Clarsdale represented the last bastion of hope for the true faith in England. His lips were verbalizing some indecipherable thought and his face twisted slightly as if grappling with some unspoken demon. For an instant Father Blackthorne was tempted to intervene, wanting to ease whatever pain the duke might be feeling, but he hesitated, intimidated by Clarsdale’s demeanour. He left the room without another word.

In darkness the priest walked unerringly to the entrance of his sanctuary on the top floor, a secret panel that led under the eaves of the house where a chapel had been constructed for the duke and his household. In that tiny space he lit a single candle and knelt before it. He prayed, and searched for hope in the entreaties he had spoken since youth, asking God for guidance in the way that many of his flock asked him, conscious all the while that his words were spoken in one of the last remaining footholds of the true faith in a realm that was rapidly embracing a path to perdition.

Robert crashed through the door of his tiny cabin and collapsed on the narrow cot, oblivious to the cockroaches that scurried away from his unexpected presence. He was exhausted and his every muscle cried out for the weightlessness of sleep. The storm had finally abated after five relentless days, and the fleet had rendezvoused once more off of Cape Finisterre. Given its severity, the majority of ships had weathered 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!’