“But you’ll have them just the same,” he said, silently praying that his words weren’t lies, that he would come back, that he would see his child, that he would hold Bess again.
“Swear it,” she said.
“I swear I will come home to you.”
The Ark Royal, flagship of the English fleet, commanded by Lord Howard of Effingham, was an impressive vessel. Raleigh knew it well. A hundred feet long, nimble and strong, the galleon carried forty-four guns and had been built for him, before his fall from the queen’s graces. From his cell in the Tower, he’d offered the ship for service, and Elizabeth had bought it from him at once. Whether he’d ever receive payment remained to be seen, but that was no concern of his. Not now, when he was standing on her bow as Spanish cannons shook the air around him.
Flashes of fire lit the deck, and he quickly assessed the situation around him. The ships of the Armada lumbered at a clumsy and slow pace, but their hulls were strong. The fight would be difficult but must be won. To let Parma’s army slip through to shore would be nothing short of a disaster. He watched a volley of cannon fire from the Ark Royal batter the side of something that looked more like a merchant vessel than a warship. The shot struck its mark and the Spanish ship heaved to port.
Satisfied, Raleigh turned and headed to Howard’s cabin in the sterncastle, where he found Sir Francis Drake arguing with the admiral.
“Attack again,” Drake said. “We must attack. What choice do we have?” Drake, who had earned his knighthood after circumnavigating the world in his ship the Golden Hinde—the first man in England to accomplish such a feat—was no stranger to fighting the Spanish. With a fleet of nearly thirty ships, he’d gone to the New World to attack Philip’s settlements there—revenge for a Spanish embargo that had paralyzed English exploration. He’d reopened America to his country and done a fine job of angering Philip in the process.
Howard shook his head. “We’re outgunned. We’re losing too many ships.”
“We have to break their formation,” Raleigh said, motioning to the chart.
Drake nodded. “Our ships may be smaller, but they’re faster.”
“I tell you, we’re outgunned.” Howard met Drake’s eyes.
“I’m experienced in such things,” Drake said. The queen had let her golden knight convince her to attack the Spanish port of Cádiz the previous year, and he’d managed to destroy twenty-five ships and capture a fortune in cargo, all the while modestly claiming only to have “singed the King of Spain’s beard.”
“I’ve never served with better men or more gallant minds than those gathered here, voluntarily, to put their hands and hearts into the finishing of this great piece of work. We can do it.”
“Do you want to lose the whole fleet?” Howard asked.
“God is with us,” Drake said.
“Break their formation and we have a chance,” Raleigh said.
“How?” Howard’s eyes bled skepticism. “We can’t get near them.”
Raleigh’s eyes danced. “There’s one way.”
Chapter 21
An air of mounting anxiety circulated through Tilbury. Soldiers congregated outside their tents, speaking in concerned whispers, sharpening their pikes, offering quiet prayers. Their ranks had swelled to close to seventeen thousand, and another twenty were at the ready in the maritime counties. Still, the mood in the queen’s tent was bleak. Numbers alone could not make up for lack of experience.
“The Spanish are barely a day away, Majesty,” Hatton said. “If they’ve got Parma’s army and manage to land...”
Walsingham’s face was dark. “It would be wise to withdraw to safer ground.”
“My army will defend me.” Elizabeth felt nothing but confidence.
“I beg you to appreciate the gravity of the situation, Majesty,” Hatton said. “There is very little time.”
Calm and defiant, she turned to him. “Then we must act. I know what to do. Leave me.”
“Majesty—” Walsingham started.
“Now. Go.” As she expelled them from her tent, she called for the handful of ladies she’d brought with her.
Margaret poked her head into the tent first and was quickly followed by three others. “How can we be of service?” she asked.
“It is time for me to become a vision of inspiration,” Elizabeth said. “You must make me a warrior queen—Hippolyta or Boudica.”
First, they removed her dark blue gown and replaced it with one cut from flowing white satin. They brushed her long red hair until it shone and left it hanging down her back, then turned their attention to the armor she’d brought with her. Now she would become Athena.
They strapped on the glistening silver breastplate, pulling up her lace collar to peek through the top, then slipped on her gauntlets. She tested them, slowly bending her elbows, the jointed metal moving more smoothly than she’d expected. In the back, they attached a long cape fashioned from a pale, rich brocade heavily embroidered in gold.
“Majesty, you exude strength,” Margaret said, handing her a helmet with a tall, white plume.
“Call for Leicester,” she ordered.
He arrived almost at once and dropped to one knee at the sight of her, his head bowed. “I am proud to call you my queen,” he said.
“Prepare my horse, Eyes, and an honor guard. I want to rally my troops.”
Soon there was a new sound in the camp: a low, distant rhythm, the beat of an army on the march, an army advancing amid an array of banners and flags. And in the center, her silver armor flashing, Elizabeth sat, transformed into a goddess of war, tall in the saddle of her white horse, Leicester walking next to her, carrying her helmet. Men streamed out of their tents, falling to their knees, awestruck at the splendor of their queen, who thrust her staff high into the air, eliciting a cheer from her army.
“My soldiers!” she cried, holding her silver staff high in the air. “I’m told we’re to expect company soon. They’ve not been invited. They come to save our souls. But I say England has no need of Spanish prayers. So let them come with all the fires of hell—my soul is not for burning yet!”
By now, the entire army had gathered and at once rose up and cheered, the men’s faces brighter than they’d been in weeks, a new energy and inspiration surging through them.
“I know I have the body of a woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king—and a king of England too. So let them come. They shall find us ready. We have all England at our backs. We stand on English soil; we breathe the air of home. On such a field, will we not fight like giants? Will we not whip these ship-borne rats till they squeal for their lives? Will we not drive them back to the cliff tops, the great white cliffs of England, and make them jump?”
The ground shook as the men shouted approval and stomped their feet.
“I am come to stand with you today. To fight with you. And, if it’s God’s will, to die with you. Let them come! You and I have work to do today that will make England proud. And that work is victory!”
Her soldiers roared, holding their weapons—swords, pikes, axes, bows—up high above their heads. And as she looked at her army gathered at her feet, she found herself exhilarated in a way she’d never felt with any of her lovers. She was intoxicated and knew that no one would be able to take this sublime feeling away from her. This was something worthy of her fidelity, her heart, her love.
From the soldiers, a new chant had begun: Gloriana! Gloriana!
In the Channel, the wind had changed, sending sails flapping in a new direction as a storm churned the waters, buffeting the vast Armada and tossing the English ships in its waves. On board the Ark Royal, Raleigh and Drake, soaked by the spray whipped up in the wind, hurried along the deck. Their scheme was nothing that hadn’t been done before, but Raleigh loved it for its elegant simplicity. Nothing threatened wooden ships more than the risk of fire.
“They’ve dropped anc
hor because of the storm,” Raleigh shouted above the noise of the wind. “Now’s our chance.”
Drake nodded. “Parma could arrive at any moment. Luck to you.”
Raleigh climbed into a small skiff and helped the sailors on it row through the rough sea to the Tyger, where he stepped onto the deck and started giving orders. Within minutes, he had pulled anchor, and the Tyger, along with seven other ships, was moving away from the rest of the fleet, heading straight for the Armada. Waves crashed against the deck, and the salt stung his eyes as he shouted orders to his men, feeling the slightest tinge of sentimental regret at what he was about to do.
He looked up at the tall masts, full sails, and remembered climbing the rigging to get a better view the first time he saw the New World creep up on the horizon. He blew out a long breath and carefully ran a line of fuses along the prow of the ship, gripping the side as he went. The wind was rising, and even the sturdiest sailors were having trouble staying upright as the Tyger was tossed by larger and larger waves. The fuses set, Raleigh picked up a barrel and joined his men pouring pitch over the deck, which was soon covered in a thick, sticky layer.
All was ready. He ordered his men off the ship and stood, holding a flaming torch, calmly surveying his target, drinking in a last look at the ship that had brought him so much glory, so much adventure. It was a good way to go, in dramatic fashion instead of slowly rotting at a lonely dock. He could not resist giving a crooked grin, then tossed the torch behind him, ran to the side of the ship and scaled down a swinging rope ladder as the deck burst into flame.
He squinted into a spyglass. The light from the burning ships revealed the chaos engulfing the Armada as the fire ships approached the Spanish line. The wind carried the sound of anguished shouts and desperate orders as they fired cannons and muskets, but to little avail. He saw them pulling up their anchors. The tight crescent formation they’d held for so long began to crumble as the towering Spanish ships moved in every direction with no semblance of order.
Raleigh turned his glass on to the Tyger, counting minutes as he watched. Any time now. A roar echoed off the waves as the ship’s cannons, ignited by the pre-laid fuses, exploded as she crashed into the side of an enemy vessel. The hulls collided with a great splintering of wood. Masts bent with a hideous creak and then slammed into the deck, sending sailors scrambling to jump overboard.
He dropped the spyglass into his pocket and ordered his men to row, and with arms quickly growing stiff, they pulled against the choppy water, doing their best to ignore the cries of drowning Spaniards. Not all the fire ships struck their targets, but that was a minor detail. They’d succeeded in destroying the Armada’s formation and opened up the seas to the rest of the English fleet. Drake and Howard would waste no time in finishing the job.
The night was filled with sounds of battle as cannonballs flew, wood split, and men died. Blood streamed off the decks of crippled ships. The quick, maneuverable English fleet darted through the water, mercilessly continuing their attack as the Spaniards did all they could to escape.
Raleigh continued to row until a shot landed in the middle of the skiff, killing one man and splitting the small boat’s hull. A second cannonball followed almost immediately, and they were all plunged into the water, struggling to stay alive. Raleigh surfaced quickly and started to swim in the direction of the fleet, but it was an enormous distance to close.
Cannonballs and wood flying from destroyed ships came perilously close to hitting him as he swam through red-tinged water that was full of debris: battered pieces of wood, a lonely statue of the Madonna, a charred Spanish flag, and the drowned bodies of countless men. Worse, though, were the wounded, crying out for help as they slowly drowned. As the battle intensified, the smoke from the guns grew thicker, and soon Raleigh had lost sight of the English ships. He had no idea where to go.
He tried to swim forward but could not judge whether he was heading in a straight line. Movement was preferable to staying still, but he had to be careful not to exhaust himself, and he searched the water for a piece of wood that could serve as a float. That found, he continued on until he recognized one of the bleeding men in the water.
It was Calley, barely conscious, with a gaping wound in his shoulder. Raleigh swam around him, reaching around his chest and clutching him close. He could not hold both his friend and the wood, so he abandoned the wood and kept swimming, swallowed by the powder smoke, tossed by the churning sea.
Hours seemed to have passed, and his entire body hurt, pain screaming in his joints. A cannonball hit the water less than a foot from him, bringing with it a reinvigorating jolt of energy that coursed through him. He pulled Calley, whose breathing was growing progressively shallower, closer to him and swam on.
And then he saw it.
Through the smoke, the side of a ship.
He summoned all his strength and moved toward it, ready to collapse when he felt the wood of its hull. He shouted to the crew, though he knew they could not hear him above the cannons and tried to figure the best strategy for climbing on board.
Until he noticed something.
It was Spanish.
Now despair filled him, and Calley felt like an impossible weight, but he would not release his friend. Wood splintered near him and the ship in front of him began to tilt. This gave him hope—an English ship was within gun range. He needed only to determine which side of the Spanish galleon had been hit—then he would know, generally speaking, the direction from which the cannonball had come.
He swam back toward the hull, until he was so close he could easily touch it, and he looked up, hoping to see damage. Nothing. He followed the line of the ship until he reached the stern, which he could identify by feeling for the rudder. He continued around. Calley had begun to cough and Raleigh struggled to hold him higher above the water.
As he reached the other side of the Spanish ship, the waves grew rougher, but he could not tell if it was due to the storm or the battle. Exhausted, he treaded water next to the hull, balancing against it, hoping for a small measure of relief before continuing on.
There would be no relief.
A great explosion shook the ship above him. A cannon-ball must have struck the powder room. He pushed off from the hull and headed away from the galleon. It soon became evident he was going in the right direction, for although he could not see more than a few feet ahead of him in the water because of the thick smoke, he could now tell that cannons were being fired both in front of and behind him. He and Calley were in the middle of the battle.
His muscles burned, his lungs ached, and he lost his grip on his friend. Calley sunk under the water, Raleigh following him at once, grabbing for him desperately and dragging him back up to the top. Again, he held him around the chest and started to swim. Around them, the air, thick with the acrid stench of battle, thundered with the roar of guns.
He would not be able to keep this up much longer.
He had nearly started to despair when the wind blew, clearing the smoke, and he saw her, lit by the fires burning all around: a skiff, full of English sailors, men he recognized from the Ark Royal. He called to them, but they did not hear, and with a strength that surprised him, he moved quickly, honing in on them, not wanting to lose his sense of direction. Smoke settled again, and they were gone, but he kept swimming.
And then something hit the back of his head. An oar. It was the skiff. Pain exploded through him, but it was nothing compared with the exhilaration, the joy pulsing in his veins. With his free hand, he grabbed the side of the boat, whose sailors were now scrambling to help him, and he threw back his head and laughed before he handed Calley up to the sailors and then dragged himself on board.
As dawn broke, Raleigh, now back on the Ark Royal, leaned against the railing of the quarterdeck. Calley had been tucked into a berth and tended to by Howard’s own physician; he would make a full recovery. Raleigh’s own injury was minimal—a small cut on his head where t
he oar had struck him. He was tired, but that was part of battle, and he hardly noticed the pain lingering in his muscles from his long swim.
The Armada had scattered, but one ship had not fled so quickly as the rest and had been left vulnerable and alone. Raleigh climbed the rigging and quickly identified the vessel. He slid down the ropes, calling for Drake.
“It’s the San Martin,” he shouted as Drake rushed toward him. “Medina Sidonia’s flagship.”
“We must attack at once,” Drake said.
“Give him no chance to escape.” English losses had been heavy, and blood collected in the grooves of the deck. Raleigh ran to the guns, joining a crew who had lost their loader. A boy—a powder monkey—tossed him a bag of gunpowder, and he shoved it down the barrel, ramming it tight, then added the shot. The gunner added more, finer powder to the hole at the top of the cannon and prepared to light it.
They waited, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the San Martin through the smoky air. The gunner touched his match to the hole and the men pulled hard on the breeching ropes as the gun recoiled back at them. As soon as it had stopped moving, the sponger dipped his instrument in a bucket of water, saturating its lambskin end, and then thrust it into the barrel, twisting back and forth to put out any fiery residue so the gun could be loaded again.
Raleigh was ready with another bag of gunpowder. They repeated the process over and over, hardly able to see through the thick smoke whether they were hitting their mark. Shot flew around them, but the Ark Royal was spared serious damage as it continued sailing straight at the San Martin.
The remainder of the Armada had turned, captains scrambling to come to their leader’s assistance, but they were met with a relentless battery of deafening guns as the English fleet pounded them. And on board the Ark Royal, it became clear that the Spanish answering fire was coming more sporadically, and this spurred on more rounds of attack until the air hung heavy only with the smoke of English cannons.
The Invincible Armada was defeated, fleeing north because they could not pass through the English line. Raleigh searched out Drake and the two men embraced, heady with their victory.
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