Chapter Twelve
Looking back on that momentous time with the after-sight of the years, it is sometimes hard to untangle the sensations and apprehensions of each day from the knowledge that came later.
I did not at first think there was any likelihood of the Spanish manoeuvre being successful; Ralegh or Essex would sail into the very jaws of El Ferrol harbour to establish the whereabouts of the Spanish fleet for themselves. It was not until the ruse had already succeeded that I began to believe it.
One day I met Richard Burley in the street. It was an unpleasant shock, for though he greeted me in a friendly way and without apparent surprise, the presence of this man always seemed an ill omen in my life. He told me he had slipped away from Cawsand near Plymouth on the 18th August and at that time the English fleet was ready to sail and waiting for the first breaks in the weather.
Soon after this, Mark of Gloucester left commanded by Captain Pennell of Bristol, and manned by a mixed crew. She carried a cargo of wine and salt from Oporto and Coruña for Weymouth. Other small vessels left at the same time.
That week I was given a broadsheet to read written in English, and was asked to go carefully over it for printing mistakes. The pamphlet was addressed to the English people offering mercy and advancement to all who turned Catholic, but threatening the sword to all Protestants. That week also I entered a room at the Commissariat and found it piled with English flags … they were to be distributed throughout the fleet.
News came that the King was gravely ill. Temporarily this disrupted everything, for though he was old he held all decisions in his own hands. It was as if a sudden palsy had struck the town. What if he died? Would his son, who must now be about nineteen, in any way alter the urgent command to sail and conquer England? Prince Philip was spoken of everywhere and openly as a weakling and dissolute.
Unknown to me at this time, the English fleet under the supreme command of Essex, was not 100 miles off the Spanish coast. So far they had progressed well but now they were struck by another of the great storms of that vindictive summer. The two Spanish galleons captured at Cadiz and adapted to English designs were totally disabled and forced to make for Biscayan ports. Sir Walter’s Warspite was part dismasted and Lord Essex’s Due Repulse sprang a dangerous leak. The rest of the fleet was scattered, and Ralegh, missing the other ships at the agreed meeting point, and unable in his damaged state to do more than run before the wind, made off south for the second rendezvous above Lisbon. Near Finisterre a frigate of his squadron captured one of the small vessels sent out from Ferrol with the false news.
In El Ferrol, de Soto more and more dropped his guard in my presence. I was competent, discreet and always willing. So I learned of many decisions almost as soon as they were come to.
Once or twice he tried to sound me as to my exact purpose with the invading fleet, as if he sensed a plan he was not entirely aware of, but, mindful of Andres Prada’s warning, I would not be drawn.
News arrived that once more the King was recovering, and all began to move again. But there had been a full week’s delay, and the grinding machinery of preparation took time to gather pace.
The painful decision was reached that bare supplies on all vessels should be cut from ten weeks to five. For a voyage of conquest this seemed ample—but everyone knew the hazards of that reasoning.
Daily flyboats which patrolled the seas from Cape Finisterre to Cape Ortegal came in to report on what they had seen, and presently we heard that a large English fleet had been sighted off Finisterre. (This was the main English fleet under Essex gathering after the storm.)
For a time we did not know what success, if any, the decoy ships with their false tales had had. Then the news broke in a flood among the senior officers: three different flyboats reported that Essex and the rest of the fleet had been sighted off Muros heading south.
They were gone and the way was open. It was the 9th September.
At once embarkation began. Final stores were brought aboard, messages to the King sent, troops and equipment and ammunition ferried to the transports and the galleons, mules and horses and cattle shipped. To my disappointment I was put aboard San Bartolomeo with Enrico Caldes. The fifty Irish were to travel in her as combatants and I was needed as interpreter. Another company of 100 Irish soldiers under their own captain travelled in the urca San Juan Bautista.
Capitan de Mar of San Bartolomeo was Ferdinando Quesada, a thin ascetic man. wealthy in his own right, who kept two pages by him to play music in the evenings. The Capitan de Guerra, or general commanding the soldiers aboard, was Diego Bonifaz, his rank being equal to that of Quesada; and he had absolute control of his own forces as if army and navy were travelling together only by accident.
Richard Burley sailed aboard San Mateo, a galleon just delivered from the new shipyards of Renteria to replace the one of the same name destroyed at Cadiz. Captain Elliot joined the fleet with Dolphin, his own crew and his own arms, as an independent privateer.
Embarkation took two days; it was the morning of the 12th before the first galleon shook down her sails and began to make a way out of the long narrow jaws of the harbour.
Orders were to assemble in Betanzos Bay to await a favourable wind. The great fleet took thirty hours to assemble in the bay fifteen miles from Ferrol on the western side of the rocky cape. The weather was still rough and the wind gusty and treacherous when I went up on deck on the morning of the first inspection. The ships were anchored in six lines, each line consisting of ten galleons and fourteen other ships from Easterlings to transports. This made 144 major warships. There were another sixty caravels, flyboats, supply boats and frigates. In all these vessels, as I well knew from going over details, there were 5,000 sailors, masses of field artillery, mules, horses, oxen, siege trains and over 10,000 trained soldiers.
The Adelantado conducted his inspection from a decorated barge rowed by twenty-four picked oarsmen. From the main top of San Pablo, the galleon next to ours, the Adelantado’s own pendant fluttered, a broad swallow-tailed flag in green, so long that when the gusty wind faltered the ends of the standard dipped in the water. The whole fleet was dressed with flags and standards. Men stood in lines and cheered, guns were fired, the galleons dipped and nodded in the swell, the wind-clutched viciously at mast and rigging, and the Adelantado’s barge lurched and rolled with flecks of salt water glinting off the oars and fine mists of spray lifting and breaking across the bows.
I slept that night in my usual sickly unease of a first night at sea. The Spanish galleon is a much more comfortable vessel than the English fighting ship, there being more accommodation for the men and greater spaces between decks. Of course, San Bartolomeo was half as big again as Warspite. No one in our galleon yet knew our destination in England. I heard the officers speculating at supper and Falmouth was never mentioned. Some thought the Isle of Wight, some Scotland, some Milford Haven; others thought we should sail right up the Thames and capture London.
The next morning it was known that we would wait a few more days for Admiral Arumburu and the Seville squadron.
We waited until the 18th. Instead of the great Sevillian fleet, attended by Prince Andrea Doria’s galleys, came a single frigate. It reported that only ten days ago an English fleet under Sir Walter Ralegh had appeared off the Tagus and appeared likely to attempt to capture Lisbon. In the circumstances Admiral de Arumburu had been commanded to remain patrolling the river above Lisbon in case of such a raid. Doria’s galleys also, which had in face of severe weather made their way round from Genoa, had been instructed to await the English attack. There was also some danger from the Turks with whom it was rumoured Elizabeth was negotiating an alliance.
I could picture de Soto’s fury. The splendid situation of an England stripped of her fleet and open to the most powerful attack the most powerful nation in the world could muster was slipping away from lack of courage and lack of a single directive mind. It could not be Philip II who had faltered; but in some way during his recent illn
ess his authority had been usurped, and weakness and indecision had crept in.
There were many conferences aboard San Pablo. To the last of these Captain Quesada was summoned, and when he returned he announced that the fleet was to sail without its Sevillian reinforcements. It would weigh anchor at dawn on the 20th, being still equal in force to the Armada of ’88, and still a fleet bigger than any other in the world. No more time must be wasted—except one day in which to take on fresh water and supplies and to deposit the sick ashore.
The 19th was a fine day. It seemed that the westerly winds had blown themselves out and we should have a period of quiet autumnal weather exactly suited to the expedition. That evening Captain Quesada invited two Italian captains and a Portuguese and a Biscayan to sup with him and Captain Bonifaz. The Frenchman and one of the Italians spoke no Spanish but could understand English, so I was commanded to be present.
All day I had been restless, full of a sensation of impotence and defeat. Though I knew all it was necessary to know of the Spanish plans, I had been completely unable to do anything to thwart them. One pictured this fleet reaching England and, remembering the destruction wrought by only four galleys two summers ago, multiplied that by 200 to bring this invasion into comparison. In ’95 the Cornish had been in panic, a few good men like Godolphin standing firm and some hundreds of reinforcements arriving from Plymouth to support the local musters at a time when the Spanish had already re-embarked. What of the result now—a great invasion force permitted to land at Falmouth without opposition? Half Cornwall would be theirs in a night. Plymouth, unguarded now by Drake and Hawkins, would fall within two or three days. With the English fleet far away the command of the Channel would be in Spanish hands without a fight. Troops could be ferried across from Brittany at will. When Essex and Ralegh and their fleet returned they would be faced with a strongly entrenched invasion force operating from occupied ports in England and more able than the returning English fleet to re-victual and call in fresh ammunition.
For a time at supper they talked of music: one of the Italians played the viol and cornet, and he and Quesada carried the conversation. But presently the other Italian motioned to me that he wished to ask Quesada a question. Did the Spanish naval command know that French Protestant forces had invaded Catalonia? If so, in what way would it affect their own plans?
Quesada, recalled from pleasanter fancies, frowned and said he had heard nothing of this; rumours were always rampant, they meant little. Whatever was happening in France, it could not affect the major strategy of the war. Once England had collapsed, the main centre of Calvinistic and godless resistance would be gone and all other resistance would collapse too.
“Yes,” said the Portuguese, spreading his hands. “ Once England has collapsed. But how long will she resist and with what bloodshed will our victory be bought? Her raid upon Spain last year was not the act of a weak and divided country.”
“She is not weak,” interrupted Bonifaz, “ but she is divided. All our spies say so. This is our great chance while she is without her fleet. We sail tomorrow.”
A silence fell. They were all in their different ways considering what lay ahead. Then Conti looked at me and said:
“You are English. You must know your country well. How do you see the prospects of this great expedition?”
I stared back at him, hypnotised by the opportunities his question offered. These responsible captains might pay no heed to what I had to say in reply. And yet …
“I hope sir, that we shall triumph on this expedition. But there is one matter which concerns me …”
I paused and said no more, groping for the right words, praying for cunning and judgment and subtlety.
“And that is?”
“As you know, sir, I was a junior secretary under Sir Walter Ralegh in the Cadiz expedition of last year …”
“No, I did not know.”
This conversation was in English, and Quesada and two of the others listened uncomprehending.
“Well, there was a thing much spoken of at the time of Cadiz, and that was that our fleet must be back in England before the equinox. At that time every year great gales and seas lash our coasts. It is the expected thing. It was the argument much used against our remaining in occupation of Cadiz. There was bound to be a month when no supplies could get through.”
“The equinox?” said Conti. “ That is—”
“It begins on the 22nd or 23rd of this month, sir. In two days’ time. That is why I do not believe the English fleet has gone on to the Azores. It is too late in the year. I believe they have turned away from this coast and returned home. I think they are safe in port again; though no doubt they will come out when we reach the English coast—if the weather permits.”
Conti turned So the Biscayan captain.
The Frenchman shrugged. “I am used to stormy seas: they come at any time. Equinox, yes more—and stronger tides. But seas are always treacherous, even your Mediterranean, capitaine.”
Conti said to me: “Have you told Captain Quesada what you have just said?”
“He has never asked.”
“Then kindly tell him.”
I told him.
Quesada said: “Tell Captain Conti that we are not children to be afraid of every shadow.”
Conti said: “ Tell Captain Quesada that it was not a shadow which struck us last year and wrecked seven galleons and cost the lives of 2,000 men.”
Quesada said: “Tell Captain Conti that was November: we sailed unsound and unready at the command of a King who does not understand these things. This is September: we are well prepared and this boy is no judge of what we may expect. I have sailed off Ushant in September seas as calm as a lake.”
“Well prepared!” said Conti. “ I have complained to the Adelantado that my provisions are faulty and inadequate and my crew brought up to strength with raw youths. He pays no heed. We sail tomorrow—it may be to victory but it may be to destruction!”
The Frenchman leaned across the table. “Do you not know, boy, that a flyboat reported this English fleet six days ago already approaching the Azores?”
“Then I am wrong.”
“Then what makes you say it?”
“Only Sir Walter Ralegh’s words last year when conferring with my Lord of Essex.”
“Which were?”
“The plan was talked of then, before the Cadiz expedition was mounted—that a fleet should sail from England late in the year and then turn away for the Azores in order to lure an Armada to attack England while she was seemingly undefended. Then the English were to return in secret to England and wait for the weather to disable or damage your ships before they attacked …”
I concluded lamely: “Of course, it may not be so now. It may be true that England is undefended and that we can take her easily. But it makes me uneasy, that this should all be falling out according to a plan the English were discussing last year.”
The morning of the 20th was brilliant and clear, but before midday a strong north-west wind sprang up. It blew straight in to Betanzos Bay. I thought, another day gone. For much that I had said about the weather though exaggerated was true: there was at best a month’s sailing weather ahead. No English captain kept his fleet at sea beyond the end of. October. That evening there was another conference aboard San Pablo to which all senior captains were summoned. On the following morning the wind had somewhat abated but we did not sail.
I had an unwelcome visitor. Across a choppy wind-flecked cable’s length of sea six dark-haired Spanish sailors rowed Captain Richard Burley from San Mateo to San Bartolomeo. He had a meeting with Captain Quesada and then I was sent for.
Burley’s narrow savage face moved in a sneer of welcome. “ Well, fellow countryman, I rowed across for a word with you. We’ve been having a little trouble this last day or so, as you may guess.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes, with our foreign captains. Else we’d have sailed.”
I looked through the lantern-shap
ed window. “We were well advised not. The wind has sprung up again.”
“Once we was out we could have stood clear of the land and made some small headway. Leastwise we should have begun.”
“Why did we not, then?”
His blue suit was as shabby as ever; there was a split in his sleeve and the cuffs were frayed; he always looked a pirate. “Well might you ask, fellow countryman, since it seems you have been doing your best to prevent it by spreading lies and rumour.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not f’rinstance giving it as your considered opinion that instead of us cheating the English, the English are cheating us?”
“I did not say that, Captain Burley. But it was Ralegh’s plan last year and I thought there was a risk.”
Burley spat on the floor of the cabin and then, seeing Quesada’s fastidious frown, rubbed it in with his foot. “ You on our side, Killigrew? Or are you trying to make delay worse’n worse until it is too late?”
“I wish no delay. I only want to get home.”
“That’s what you say. And there’s those at the top as believe you. Me for my part, now I’d string you up and have done. Better to be sure now than sorry later, I’d say. What do you think?”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Ah … Ah well, maybe. They’ve plans at top that I know nothing of. Where we’re bound for f’rinstance. But if so be as it was your idea to put doubts in men’s heads, maybe now you think you’ve succeeded. But I’d not like you to be carried away at the success. The doubts was there before ever you spoke. What you said was a straw on a hay-load.”
I glanced at Captain Quesada, who I saw was catching a word here and there.
“What is wrong?” I asked. “These foreign captains …”
“They’re cautious, see? Jumping at their own shadows, like. Yesterday morning early, two Portuguese fishing smacks came in reporting Ralegh was still cruising off Lisbon with 150 sail. Stuff and nonsense. Lying nonsense. There’s not 150 sail in the whole English fleet, nor 100. We know that. And three-quarters of it is in the Azores, if not all. If Ralegh’s not followed the rest he’s disobeyed orders and commands not twenty sail anyhow.”