Authors: Harriet Steel
29
Plymouth
April, 1588
The creamy-white sails of dozens of fishing boats flecked the grey waters of the Sound. Wood smoke curled from the chimneys of the squat, mud-walled cottages huddled around the harbour. On the quayside, gulls skirmished over discarded fish heads and guts. The air smelt of brine and bilge water.
The day was little different to all the others since Tom had joined up, using the name Tom Black for safety’s sake. Over the winter, all the ships of the Western Squadron had been careened on the beach for their hulls to be painted with tallow and their fouled ballast shovelled out and replaced. The work was hard, but in a strange way, he was glad of it. Hard work made it easier to forget.
As he had anticipated when he chose to come to Plymouth, the town was bursting with soldiers and sailors, both old hands and raw recruits. Almost outnumbering the local population, they thronged the streets, spending their pay – when they were lucky enough to receive it – in the taverns and brothels. Sometimes he visited the brothels too, but the perfunctory tumbles always left him hollow with longing for Meg.
Rum was a better friend. It helped deaden the monotony of waiting for something to happen and, until its effects wore off, made the world a happier place. Happiness was a rare thing, for when he had a sober moment to reflect, he found nothing to be glad of.
He had resolved to keep his whereabouts secret from Lamotte. It had been a painful decision after all his friend’s kindnesses, but he was sure it was the right one. If he survived the war with Spain, he would start a new life. He might even go to the New World. He had spent many an hour listening to the stories of the sailors who had sailed across the ocean with Drake and Hawkins. Perhaps there would be a place for him in those far-off lands.
All winter, the inhabitants of
Plymouth had lived on a diet of rumours. By spring, some of them were claiming that the Armada had left Lisbon and had already been sighted off the Lizard; others said storms had driven it back to port. A third story was that it had been wrecked on the murderous coastline of the Scillies.
The news brought by merchants and privateers returning from the south was probably more reliable. Many of them reported that even though Philip of Spain was impatient to begin the enterprise of
England, his admiral, the Marquis of Santa Cruz, was determined to wait for better weather.
‘The old fox is ailing and not the force he was, but he will be hard to budge,’ said a Flemish merchant who was drinking in a tavern frequented by Tom and some of his shipmates. The merchant claimed to travel extensively in
Spain, trading broadcloth for olive oil and the wines of Jerez. He obviously liked to pass as something of an expert on Spanish affairs.
‘The king sits up in his palace at the Escorial,’ he went on, ‘convincing himself he does God’s bidding and a miracle will do the work, but I doubt Santa Cruz believes in miracles.’
A few of his listeners grunted their agreement.
‘Half the crews are too sick to work,’ he continued. ‘
Santa Cruz’s recruiting officers are emptying the prisons to make up the numbers, but even thieves and murderers aren’t keen to oblige. Philip insists his ships be ready at all times to sail, so there’s no shore leave.’
After weeks in the company of sailors, Tom appreciated how ill received that would be.
‘They say the ships stink like sewers,’ the merchant added, ‘and the men get little except rotten rations and foul water to live on.’
It was no wonder they fell ill, Tom thought. With all its hardships, life sounded better in
Plymouth than in Lisbon.
The news that the Marquis of Santa Cruz’s illness had finally carried him off was greeted with rejoicing by the English sailors. For Spain, the death of the Armada’s supreme commander would be a serious blow. Over his long years of service, he had richly earned the soubriquets ‘the invincible’ and ‘the thunderbolt in war.’ To replace him, King Philip had appointed his cousin, the Duke of Medina Sidonia. In Plymouth, sailors who had taken part in the attack on Cadiz the previous spring remembered that name. Medina Sidonia was a fine soldier, they said. If he had not been so quick to bring up his troops to defend the city, Cadiz would have fallen to the English for sure. But he was no sailor.
‘Though anyone who expects that to save us is a fool,’ one of the old hands remarked. ‘There’s plenty of captains who know what they’re about in the Armada and he’ll have the sense to give ’em their heads, just like Howard does with Drake.’
A rumble of approval went round his listeners at the mention of Drake’s name. Tom had seen him several times in Plymouth. His short, stocky figure and florid, irascible face were unmistakable, as was the admiration, bordering on awe, he inspired in the sailors. Who else would have ventured on so great an enterprise as sailing around the whole world? Who else would have come home triumphant?
T
he days lengthened and a fever of anticipation gripped the town. On the headlands, the beacons were made ready with piles of brushwood and barrels of pitch. The look-outs were under orders to light three flames in turn: the first to warn that the Armada had been sighted; the second to summon the militias and the third, most dreaded of all, the signal that the Spanish had landed.
The arrival from
Chatham of the queen’s galleons screwed the tension to a higher pitch. Gaily painted in her colours of green and white, they rode at anchor among the ships of the Western Squadron. Soon, private ships that had been requisitioned followed, until the harbour bristled with masts.
In the taverns, the ancient rivalry between soldiers and sailors flared. The sailors boasted this would be a new kind of war, decided by seamanship and gunnery, not grappling and hand-to-hand fighting. The soldiers claimed they would be the ones who would defeat the Spanish. For the first time, Tom realised this was not a game. It might be a month, it might be two, but the Armada would come, and his mettle would be tested. He would have to prove himself, or die.
30
Lacey Hall
May, 1588
As soon as he had arranged his affairs at the theatre, Lamotte left London and rode to Devon with his news. He wished he was also able to tell Meg that he had heard from Tom but he had still not done so. He would just have to do his best to comfort her with assurances that one day there would be word of him – even though they were assurances he found it hard to believe himself.
The journey was very different from the one he had undertaken in December. Instead of bare fields and foul weather, the countryside looked freshly painted with green. Lamotte told himself it was the fine weather that raised his spirits but in truth, he knew it was also the prospect of seeing Beatrice again.
He intended to stay no more than a few days but he was made so welcome that he remained a week. The only thing that marred his pleasure was Meg. At first she had been joyful at the news, but soon her excitement waned and it was clear she was pretending to a cheerfulness she did not feel.
‘It grieves me to see her in low spirits,’ said Lamotte as he walked with Beatrice by the lake. A pair of swans foraged in the weed growing at its margin; clouds like puffs of down floated in a sky as blue as a starling’s egg.
Beatrice nodded sadly. ‘I share your feelings. Your news has given her considerable comfort, but I fear she will never be truly happy unless she has Tom by her side.’
‘She mustn’t give up hope.’
‘After all this time, it’s hard not to,’ Beatrice said quietly.
‘It must be difficult for you too without your brother.’ He looked at her sideways, watching the play of emotions on her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently, ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for. Yes, I do miss Richard a great deal,’ she gestured to the lake and the fields beyond. ‘He loved all this. He used to walk for miles with Hector.’ She glanced at the wolfhound, who was warily stalking the swans. ‘Foolish creature, they will attack if he comes too close and he’ll get the worst of it. Hector! Come here!’
The dog ignored her and remained by the lake, wagging his tail uncertainly as the cob hissed and swayed his head to and fro.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll fetch him,’ Lamotte said, surprised by his own confidence. In London he usually avoided dogs.
‘I think the swan would have had the better of a fight,’ he remarked, as he brought Hector back. He scratched the wolfhound behind the ears and it leant into him, a low rumble rising from its throat.
‘He likes you,’ Beatrice laughed, ‘but push him away if he’s a nuisance.’
‘I don’t mind.’
A companionable silence fell as they contemplated the view. It was Lamotte who broke it first. ‘Such peace,’ he said. ‘I have lived in cities all my life - first Paris, now London, but I begin to understand there is another way of life that can bring contentment.’ He smiled. ‘Provided one has someone to share it with.’
She did not reply and he hesitated. Had he misread her? It was hard to tell, but he could not resist the urge to go on. ‘Business obliges me to return to
London tomorrow, but if I may, I would like to visit you again soon.’
‘I’d like. . . I mean we’d all be delighted to see you whenever you wish to come.’
Ah, perhaps he was not wrong. ‘Thank you,’ he smiled.
She sighed. ‘In truth, sometimes I am afraid when I consider the future. What do you think will happen to us all?’
‘You mean the Spanish threat?’
She nodded.
‘Why, we shall fight them and we shall triumph.’
‘You make it sound easy,’ she said, laughing.
‘Why do you doubt my words?’
‘Because I believe you are only saying them to comfort me.’
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’ he grinned.
‘Nothing at all.’
31
Plymouth
July, 1588
By the middle of the month, news reached Plymouth that storms in the Atlantic had forced the Spanish fleet to turn back from their progress towards the Narrow Sea and seek shelter at Corunna. It seemed increasingly unlikely they would attack in the near future.
Lord Howard, the admiral of the English fleet, immediately gave permission for Drake and some of the other captains to take a force of ninety ships to harry the Spanish galleons in harbour. Sir John Hawkins’s ship,
Victory
, to which Tom had been assigned, was among them.
Hawkins was a quieter man than the flamboyant Drake, but he was a fine sailor and greatly respected by officers and men alike. Even though he lacked the Devonian’s piratical boldness, Tom learnt that many people thought his contribution to
England’s chances of success was even greater than Drake’s. The new ships Hawkins had designed for the English navy were faster and more seaworthy than those of any other country, and quicker to ready for action. The Spanish galleons, with their towering fore and stern castles, were well suited to the calm waters of the Mediterranean but severely hampered in the Atlantic’s heavy seas where their gigantic height and size made them unstable and hard to manoeuvre.
A week after they set out, however, the ninety ships sailed back into harbour, battered by heavy seas and with the plan in disarray. They had never reached Corunna, for violent storms had forced them to turn for home. Their provisions were sorely depleted; the rations of four men had already been stretched to six and now some of the ships had no food at all. There was sickness on board too. Lord Howard ordered that those too ill to fight should be removed and he sent requests to the justices of the peace in
Devon and the surrounding counties for new recruits.
Ships’ carpenters set to, repairing masts and spars, while sail makers mended ripped canvas. There was no time to careen the ships and rummage them thoroughly but the decks were scoured with sharp sand and the filthy water was pumped from the bilges.
Like the rest of the crews who had no skilled tasks to perform, Tom spent his time hauling supplies of gunpowder, shot, water and food onto the ships. As he worked, he looked forward with relief to having something to fill his belly in the coming weeks.
July drew to its end and the warning beacons on the headlands remained unlit. On clear days, distant fields of corn gleamed in the sunshine and the thoughts of many of the local men pressed into service turned to the harvest. They talked quietly among themselves of jumping ship.
Then late one Friday afternoon, a privateer
dropped anchor in Plymouth harbour and its captain, Thomas Fleming, raced ashore. The chandlers and roperies were preparing to close for the night and the taverns and whorehouses were deserted, for most of the crews were on board their ships, but the captain’s arrival had been observed. Soon, news jumped from ship to ship and cottage to cottage like a plague of fleas. At dawn that morning, from his perch high in the mainmast, the lookout on the
Golden Hind
had sighted a huge flotilla of ships off the Scillies.
‘Drake’s up on the Hoe at his game of bowls,’ one of Tom’s shipmates grinned. ‘Says there’s time to finish it and beat the Spanish too.’ A bubble of laughter went round the other men.
‘It’s more than a jest,’ a grizzled Cornishman growled when the laughter subsided. ‘With this southerly wind and the neap tide running, no ship’ll get out of harbour till it turns.’
Tom had little appetite for his rations that evening. It seemed the other men on the
Victory
felt the same for the usual noisy banter was absent. At ten o’clock, with the turn of the tide, the fleet began to warp out into the open sea, heading to anchor at Dodman Point.
Early next morning, Tom went to his station on the gun deck and spent the day carrying shot to the gun lockers and rolling and filling paper cartridges with powder. The gun deck ran the whole length of the ship, its low ceiling spanned by gnarled oak beams as thick as a bull’s neck. It was divided by the great trunks of the masts and every surface was black with the soot of gun smoke and spent powder. Small pools of light glowed by the open gun ports, augmented by single lanterns hanging at each end of the deck. The heat was already tremendous. Sweating profusely as he worked, Tom wondered how he would bear it when the battle commenced.
The following dawn revealed an empty sea. After rations, the sails were hoisted and anchors weighed but a morning of sailing furnished no sign of the Armada. In the daylight, Tom’s fears receded and he went about his duties feeling calmer than he had expected.
It was early afternoon when a squall swept in from the west. The rain hammered down and the wind set the gun ports rattling like dice in a shaker. Suddenly, there were shouts from above. The men nearest the hatches raced up the ladders and Tom followed. On deck, the crowd was so large it seemed every member of the crew had left his work to stare into the rain. In the distance there was a broad, dark shape like a giant anvil. As the minutes went by, it separated into the outlines of a multitude of ghostly sails.
The teeming rain soaked into the men’s rough woollen clothing but not one of them moved. At length, the howl of the wind in the rigging faded as the squall moved eastwards. In the clearer air, Tom saw a crescent of ships so vast that the sea seemed to groan under the weight of it. Hundreds of flags fluttered from the mastheads; they bore the scarlet cross of Spain. The blood roared in Tom’s ears. The torment of waiting was nearly over, but now he wished fervently that it was not.
The Armada anchored out of range of the English guns. On board the
Victory
,
the crew spent the hours of darkness preparing for battle. Soldiers cleaned their weapons and checked their powder and shot; gunners inspected their ammunition lockers and made sure the guns were firmly lashed in place. Hogsheads of water were made fast on each deck and old blankets and rags placed by them in readiness to put out fires. Tom shuddered to see the sawdust strewn on the decks, knowing it was there to mop up the blood that would be shed on the morrow.
When his duties were done, he wrote letters for some of the men. The messages of farewell to their loved ones and the scrupulous disposition of their few possessions wrung his heart, yet he envied them – at least there was some chance of their wives and sweethearts reading their messages. If only he had some way of telling Meg how much he loved her.
The watches of the night crawled by and he smelt the fear around him but there was courage too in the grim set of weather-beaten faces and the clench of calloused fists. No Englishmen needed to be reminded of what would happen to their homes and families if the Armada was victorious. The sea would be clear for the Duke of Parma and his army to cross the narrows from the Spanish-held Low Countries and invade.
At first light, a signal pennant flew from the mizzen mast of the flagship, the
Ark Royal
. With a noise like thunder, the gun ports that had been closed for the night were hauled up and the guns run out. For the first time, Tom heard the
Victory’s
guns roar. It was the loudest sound he had ever heard. Answering volleys came from the other English ships then the noise ceased.
‘It’s a brave show,’ one of the men muttered, ‘but it’ll be no more than a pinprick on an ox’s hide to them.’
A master gunner near them scowled. ‘That’s enough. Keep to your battle stations.’
The din and chaos of the battle was beyond anything Tom had imagined. As the guns were fired, hauled in, swabbed and reloaded over and over again, sweat drenched every inch of him. What had once been air was a lung-searing inferno of soot and smoke. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and every muscle in his body ached. The faces of the other men were tar black and glistening; their eyes glowed like the coals of Hell. Tom knew his must look the same.
When at last the firing stopped, the deck was strewn with spilt powder and spent cartridges. The silence was eerie. Only when Tom saw other men’s lips move did he realise the noise of battle had deafened him. It was some time before a faint humming replaced the silence.
The worst of the filthy smoke slowly settled although the glowing guns still steamed. Tom joined the working parties sweeping spent cartridges into the sea through the open gun ports and mopping up spilt gunpowder. A tall man walked among them, pausing to speak with each one. As he did so, they pulled off their caps. He came nearer and Tom saw it was the captain, John Hawkins.
He stood to attention as Hawkins reached him. The captain studied Tom with a grave, pensive air. ‘Your name, sailor?’
‘Tom Black, sir.’
‘You gave a good account of yourself today, Tom. All of the men did. I fear there is more to come but two of the Spanish ships are in no condition to fight again, and our casualties are less than I feared.’ With a nod, he moved on to speak to one of the gunners, leaving Tom staring at his retreating figure.
*
With first blood drawn, the guns remained silent. In the days that followed, the English fleet dogged the Armada’s ponderous progress eastwards up the Narrow Sea. It seemed to Tom that time crawled. At night, the crew slept restlessly, tormented by the slow drip of fear. When Tom had cause to go on deck, he saw the Armada’s gigantic ships riding the grey sea, the bloody cross of Spain still starkly visible on their bellying sails.
The two fleets passed Start Point and joined battle again west of Portland Bill. Once more, the guns roared and cannonballs whistled above the decks, shredding sails and tangling rigging before they crashed down into the chaos below. Planking shattered, barrels burst and men shrieked under the impact of shot. Dagger-sharp splinters sliced through the air, increasing the carnage.
To Tom, as he stuck grimly to his work, cannon fire and the screams of lacerated men ringing in his ears, it seemed the world was set to end. He could not have said whether the battle lasted for hours or days but when at last it was over, he was too exhausted to lift his head. He was grateful for the deafness that once more afflicted him. It dulled the cries of the wounded.
M
en who were still able-bodied were ordered on deck to help the wounded and make what repairs they could to the ship. The mood on the
Victory
was sombre; the English had fought hard with great expense of life and shot, but in spite of that, victory still eluded them. The prospect of swiftly despatching the Armada was fading as fast as the shore lights of Weymouth Bay.
‘They know how to fight, I’ll give them that,’ a
Dorset man said, wiping smears of soot and blood from his haggard face. ‘Even Drake and Cap’n Hawkins will have their work cut out to get the better of them.’
There was a rumble of reluctant assent from the men in earshot.
‘None of that talk unless you want a flogging,’ a passing lieutenant barked. ‘Get on with your work.’
The
Dorset man spat at the lieutenant’s retreating back. ‘Here,’ he muttered to Tom, ‘help me get this one below.’ Together they lifted a sailor whose shoulder was a shattered mess of exposed bone and torn flesh. The man groaned in a rum-soaked stupor as they jolted him down the gangway to the surgeon’s quarters. Tom’s pity for him was tempered by fear for his own skin. It might be his turn next.
The fact was, despite the damage the English gunners had managed to inflict on the Armada, only two Spanish ships were too badly hit to be out of the battle and it seemed neither of them had been crippled by English fire. One, the
Rosario
,
had lost her bowsprit in a collision with another of the Armada’s ships. The other, the
San Salvador
, was a smoking hulk after an explosion, but none of the English ships claimed a direct hit on her and the sailors on the
Victory
suspected a careless spark in her gunpowder hold had done the damage.
Two more days passed, and twice the English fleet beat off the Armada’s galleons at the approaches to the
Solent. Tom’s duties brought him on deck more often, for ammunition was running short and the intrepid small boats darting to and from shore with fresh supplies needed unloading. Alarmingly, few of the cargoes contained the cannonballs for which the gunners clamoured. Tom helped to haul the motley collections of scrap iron and ploughshares on board, fearing they would not be much use against Spanish shot.
But by the time the two fleets reached Calais Roads, it was clear from the slowing of their rate of fire that the Spanish ships were running short of ammunition too. They anchored in the harbour beneath the walls of
Calais Castle, leaving the English fleet standing out at sea. On the
Victory
, the men’s weariness and dejection turned to angry frustration. Some said the Armada should never have been allowed to come so far up the Narrow Sea. They questioned Admiral Lord Howard’s decision to stand off from the Spanish ships rather than challenge them head on.
Sunday morning came and after he had said prayers on deck, Captain Hawkins ordered four of the crew to row him out to the flagship, the
Ark Royal
. Soon Tom noticed small boats setting out from other ships in the same direction. On Hawkins’s return, he called the crew together once more. Tom listened as he told them the Armada was to be attacked with fire ships.