The Butcher's Daughter, page 36
We gave that colossus a wide berth and continued sailing south a little ways until we found the English off Calais strung out across the Channel in a defensive line. Drake directed my tiny squadron over to the far left flank of the English line to join the other privateers sitting just off the White Cliffs of Dover. We did not stay there long.
Bloodied at Gravelines, running short on supplies of food, water and ammunition, and unable to link-up with Parma’s invasion army at any point along the French coast, Medina Sidonia knew the campaign was lost. The admiral decided to return to Spain while he still had a fleet to return with. But the Armada was still a dangerous beast and the English weren’t about to let the young duke slither away scot-free. That is why the English had been lying in wait for the Spanish off Calais - daring Medina Sidonia to sail south through their line of battle. If the Spanish wanted to return home by the shorter, safer passage down Channel, back by the easy way they had come, they’d need to bludgeon their way through an English wall of wood and iron first.
The English knew their man. The High Lord Admiral had no stomach for another risky, bloody fight, not against men and ships that far outclassed his own, and so he ordered a North About. The duke decided to take his chances up Channel which meant the Armada would need to sail north, far north, in the opposite direction of Spain. The Spanish would need to cut through the stormy North Sea and then sail around the whole of the British Isles before turning south for Spain. The choice had to have been a difficult one for the duke to make. Medina Sidonia knew, we all knew, that any voyage around northern Scotland and Ireland would be a long and perilous one.
The Spanish began their journey well enough. They departed Gravelines with fair weather and in good order. The English fleet followed close behind. But once the last of the Armada’s squadrons disappeared in the mist off the Firth of Forth, once the winds and currents seized the Spanish ships, making it nearly impossible to turn back, the English swung their ships around and sailed for home. I wonder if Medina Sidonia felt the icy hand of doom resting on his shoulder when he saw the mist in front of him, when he saw the English behind him turn and sail away. As I reflect on these events now, it was at this precise moment I think when God deserted the Spanish.
I did not turn my ships with the English. No. I had other plans. I asked my men to buckle on their courage and we followed the Spanish into the ominous, swirling mist. My service to England in the war against Spain was finished. I had honored my oath to the queen. But we had nothing to show for our efforts and I had no illusions about the English navy ever paying us for our services, or compensating me for the Bella, and we hadn’t taken even one, small prize. My officers and I had all agreed: we would shadow the Armada all the way back to Spain if needed to try and pick-off a straggler or two. The Spanish were still fair game.
After we rounded the northern tip of Scotland and headed west, skirting in-between the Orkneys and Fair Island, the winds freshened and the seas began boiling with angry whitecaps. The temperature suddenly plummeted and the skies unloosed torrents of freezing rain. For days intermittent squalls of mean temperament rolling down from the frigid northlands of Scandinavia ravaged and abused us. One storm after another punched and counter-punched our ships like a boxer’s training bags.
Unprepared for the cruel and unforgiving North Sea, the Spanish paid a dreadful price. At first it was unclear to us why so many Spanish vessels were sailing so poorly in the squalls. The winds and swells were grueling indeed. But we had seen Spanish ships handle seas no less rough, no less erratic in the Caribbean well enough. We only learned the truth some time later. The Spanish had precious few Atlantic-class cruisers in their grand invasion fleet. Many of their ships had been hastily built and poorly constructed for what men thought would be a short voyage up to France and then an easy hop, skip and a jump across the English Channel. The Spanish had built themselves a fleet of flimsy channel barges for their ambitious invasion, not sturdy, seagoing battlecruisers.
We watched the swells batter the Armada’s ships to pieces. One galleon, not more than five hundred yards away from us, split in two. Her bow drift away in one direction and her stern in the other until both halves slipped beneath the waves with all hands lost. My men and I offered up our prayers. We took no joy in watching good men drown.
Overflowing with soldiers, horses and supplies of every sort, the freighters fared no better. Ships were top heavy, taking on more water than their pumps could handle in the heavy seas. We saw more than one merchantman in danger of capsizing. Sailors began pitching supplies, cannon and even animals over the side in desperation. One poor horse struggling in the waves looked up at me wild-eyed as we sailed by. We had no means to save the beast and sadly watched the animal drift off into the abyss neighing frantically. A few ships, those with anchors, ran in to shore for shelter. But most vessels had no anchors, their crews having left them on the seabed at Calais to escape Drake’s dreaded Hell Burners, and plowed ahead.
To add to Spanish woes, food supplies were dwindling fast and had to be severely rationed. Some crews were down to boiling leather or even rope to eat. And men were cold. The Spanish had left the southern latitudes of sunny Spain in late July without much warm clothing expecting to be in London by mid-August. But autumn comes early in the northern latitudes near the Arctic Circle and the air can turn bone-chilling cold out on the open water no matter the time of year.
Disease preys on malnourished men shivering in the cold. Spaniards fell by the score to starvation, exposure and illness. Even with our well-provisioned ships, we lost men too.
But these hardships were nothing...
Chapter Sixteen
After his fleet cleared the Outer Hebrides and entered the North Atlantic, High Admiral Medina Sidonia and his navigators, men with no experience in those waters, had one last, easy - but crucial - maneuver to make. The Armada needed to turn left and head south. Once the fleet made this simple turn, the Armada’s course was a straight line for home. But steering by dead reckoning and latitude is not enough to navigate the contrary winds and currents around northern Scotland and Ireland. Those waters are perilous year round as any seasoned Scot or Irish seaman knows.
In the poor visibility brought on by unrelenting squalls and fog, and in his haste to get home before all his men perished, the Spaniard misjudged the timing of his great wheeling maneuver around Scotland. The unfortunate duke gave the order to turn too soon, bringing his fleet frightfully close to Ireland’s rugged west coast, too close to her jagged rocks and crushing breakers. That simple error in navigation would do more harm to Iberian dreams of conquest than the whole of the English navy.
We followed the Spanish ships from a goodly distance. We did not turn as they did, no.
We kept ourselves farther out to sea in our swift and nimble ships, ships far more seaworthy than the Spanish galleons, galleasses, zabras and pataches we were chasing after. I still had hopes of picking-off a prize or two. And we did find stragglers here and there, though heavy seas kept us from closing with even one. And then, on the first day of September, we saw - through thin gaps in the mist - the forbidding cliffs of Ireland looming large off our port bow, closer than what even my men and I were prepared for.
At the very moment Ireland appeared before us through fog and drizzle, a new storm, an ungodly storm blowing up from the south-west and far worse than the sporadic squalls we had encountered off Scotland - a great monster unleashed by the New World - swooped down on us with a terrible, raw fury. With nearly huracán strength winds and wicked rollers, the frightful tempest drove the Spanish ships hard towards the breakers, cliffs and reefs of ancient, sacred Ireland, a land where Celts bury saints and sinners side-by-side. My men and I had never witnessed such a storm before in those waters. But like a woman’s heart, one can never truly know the sea.
That is when Medina Sidonia, no doubt to his horror, must have understood the unhappy consequences of his earlier mistake in navigation as he watched all order disintegrate within his ill-fated fleet. His captains could not keep to their stations against the towering waves spilling over the rails, knocking their ships about like fragile toys. Ships foundered in the heavy seas or were dashed against the craggy shore where wood and bone are no match against ruthless rock. Whole squadrons vanished in the night. Thousands perished.
My own ships did not come through the storm unscathed. In calmer seas and lighter winds on the following day, we found Diablo a league away with a broken bowsprit. Phantom’s rigging was in shambles and we had lost three souls to the sea during the night. Luckless or careless I know not. I sent Atwood limping into Limerick with Diablo as Limerick was the closest port of any substance while I stayed out on the open water, unwilling to give up the hunt.
As soon as Diablo left our company, Good Fortune found us after a long and painful absence. Hunter was the first to spot a lone, three-masted Spanish galleass off in the distance and we saw our chance to snag ourselves a prize. My perseverance was at last rewarded. The galleass’s graceful lines and her colorful lateen-rigged sails, stitched together with alternating vertical red and yellow stripes, caught the eye. She looked to be about two hundred tons or so with two banks of sixty oars. The galleass carried no more than ten small cannon, good for warding off small predators, not battlecruisers.
My men hastily repaired our rigging, splicing lines together and patching up torn sails as best they could. Before long we were on the move again, sailing close hauled towards our target. Following a spirited chase, we overtook the galleass with plenty of daylight left. With one well-placed shot across the bow her crew wisely heaved-to. She was no match for our deadly Phantom. After the galleass’s riggers smartly lowered their ship’s distinctive red and yellow sails, her oarsman crisply pulled in their sweeps, allowing the galleass to coast to an easy stop. I took Hunter and a boarding party of twenty over with me in the longboat to have a look around.
The galleass’s captain, a most hospitable Italian, a man of pleasant smiles and friendly tones, introduced himself in tolerable English from the aft rail as Antonio Marcus from Naples as we approached. He even extended his hand in a gracious gesture to help me up the rope ladder.
Wretched souls wrapped in dirty, threadbare rags quickly gathered around me in curiosity as I stepped aboard the galleass. Marcus and his men were all skin and bones with open sores, cuts and cracked lips. They were a sorry, filthy lot. Hunger and the elements had beaten each man down, including Captain Marcus - which earned him my respect. As I took in my surroundings it was plain to see that the galleass posed no threat. These Spanish and Italians had no more fight left in them. And as they considered me, and as I considered them, I could not find the face of even one of my enemy among them. I saw only frail, homesick men. I saw the faces of husbands and fathers, of sons and brothers. The men I saw that day would gladly have paid me a bar of gleaming gold for a scrap of moldy bread.
Marcus apologized profusely for the sad appearance of his crew. He explained that in their haste to please their king the navy’s coopers, “the fools” he called them and spat, had used green, uncured wood to fashion the staves to make the navy’s casks and barrels. Food quickly rotted and water turned sour. Across the fleet, captains had to severely ration both early on in the campaign. Marcus told us that had lost a third of his ship’s complement to starvation and illness since leaving Spain.
While Hunter and the boarding party disappeared below to search the ship from stem to stern, the galleass’s weary crew kept their hollow, bloodshot eyes fixed on me as I stayed on deck with Marcus exchanging idle, friendly chitchat. Even though I sensed no hostility among the crew, I rested my hand on the hilt of my sword just in case and was glad for the brace of pistols Hunter had tucked inside my belt against the small of my back.
After one of my men returned from below to inform me that our Spanish trophy was of no great value, I shook my head in disgust. The galleass was carrying mostly boots, tents, cots, cooking pots and the like meant for Parma’s army stranded back on the continent, things that did not interest me. Our excursion into the North Sea chasing after the Armada had all been for naught. I had risked our lives for nothing. I cursed my foul luck.
Marcus shrugged his shoulders and smiled at me after my man finished his report. I was uncertain whether the Italian was bemused or amused by my frustration.
But then Hunter came bounding up the companionway grinning like some silly schoolboy carrying a small chest in his arms and Marcus suddenly looked far less amused when he saw what Hunter had. Hunter opened the chest to show me the gold reales inside. He had found six chests in all in the captain’s great cabin hidden behind a false panel. We took the gold for ourselves of course. But I also took pity on Marcus and his men. I sent ten of my own back to Phantom with our treasure and had them return with clothing, blankets, food and fresh water, enough food and water for the Spanish to get themselves back to Spain. I had no desire to see any more young men die and I had no interest in taking any prisoners.
As Marcus leaned over the rail, watching my crew and me pile back into our longboat for good, I looked up at him and waved farewell.
He answered me with a playful smile. “You Irish haggle poorly,” he called down to me.
“How so?” I asked.
“We have robbed you blind, my lady,” he answered good-naturedly. “You have given us our freedom. You have given us life in exchange for a few paltry boxes of pretty metal, metal we had no use for except as ballast.”
I laughed and wished him good fortune as he cheerfully waved us off. The galleass was my São Filipe. Those six chests of gold had made the whole voyage back to the Old World worthwhile.
We meandered back and forth off the coast of western Munster for another day, trolling those murky waters for fresh victims but with no success. Whatever was left of the Armada had moved far south. And so we put in at Limerick to replenish our supplies and to rendezvous with the Diablo. But Atwood had already replaced his bowsprit and had departed Limerick we learned, which meant he was on his way north for Westport to look for us.
Limerick was abuzz with talk of the Spanish Armada of course. From fellow mariners we learned that any Spaniards who had survived the shipwrecks and made it to shore were being rounded-up and executed on the spot by the English, along with any Irish who offered them assistance or sanctuary of any kind. The Lord Deputy of Dublin himself had issued the execution order. Except for Spanish officers and nobility, who were to be held for ransom, no prisoners were to be taken. Hundreds of unarmed Spaniards had been butchered already and more were being hunted down in the woods and hills each day. My thoughts turned to Captain Marcus and his men. I was glad I had set them free. I was glad that they would live.
Up and down the waterfront we heard talk, boastful talk, that the Armada’s losses were staggering. Barely half the Spanish fleet would ever make it back to sunny, Catholic Spain, or so folks said. Whatever the truth, no one could deny that Phillip’s expedition had been a colossal failure.
We did not tarry long in Limerick. We scrambled back aboard our ship and after we stowed away our supplies and new gear, we dropped our sails, headed west along Clare Kerry to reach the open sea and then pointed Phantom’s sharp prow north for Westport to find our brother Atwood.
Once we reached Westport, after we had properly overhauled our ships and replenished our stores of ammunition and food and the like, I intended to cross the broad Atlantic for the New World without delay. I had had a belly-full of the old one.
“Mary, Mary!” Henry shouted at me excitedly while I was squatting at the head answering nature’s call. “Come quick, come quick I say!”
I pulled my trousers up and hurried back to the helm with Henry practically dragging me along. Despite his own excitement he didn’t say a word. And when we reached the quarter deck, I immediately understood Henry’s zeal; I understood why he had said nothing. There was no need for any words.
There on the water, coming down from the north and tacking against blustery headwinds, I saw Medusa’s Head! She was rounding the leeward side of Clare Island for Westport. She had lost half her mizzen mast, her sails were tattered and her main spar had fallen. The massive wood laid cock-eyed across her deck, buried underneath a heap of rope, tackle and canvas. It was plain to see Medusa had sailed with the Spanish Armada through the gale. We had heard rumors from Martin about Irish privateers sailing alongside the Spanish. Bruised and battered, Medusa’s crew no doubt was heading in to Westport to make repairs before sailing on to Youghal. This godsend was worth more to me than our six chests of Spanish gold.
Hunter, MacGyver and Efendi, standing together at the aft rail, spun around in unison to greet me with broad smiles. Efendi already had his sharp knives laid out across the rail for a quick inspection. We had the wind, we had the currents and we had surprise on our side. Medusa’s weary men ignored us, oblivious of who we were. They sounded no alarm; they took no precautions as we glided closer to them. They seemed content to just make port. I told Henry to quietly pass the word around: bring up the swivels and all our arms, prime and load the guns, but don’t run them out - not yet.
“Good Fortune is with you, Mary,” Hunter said, absently scratching the stubble on his chin. “You are blessed. When Medusa turns due east and her crew makes for port, Mary…”
I smiled. “Aye, when they turn due east we can come up behind them and hit their stern at close range with a raking broadside. They’ll have land and shallow water to their port and contrary winds to their starboard. Boxed in like that, they won’t be able to do much more than sail clumsily straight ahead. We’ll need to move out smartly though, not much daylight left.”
Hunter nodded with satisfaction while he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Quite so, my lady, quite so. Not bad for a ship’s cook. We should only need one pass if we do this right. Henry, take Mustafa with you and find Kinkae, arm the lads, prime and load the guns as Mary says and form a boarding party - and be quiet about it now.”
