by J. D. Davies
‘I say we have no choice,’ said England’s admiral. ‘If we are fortunate, the authorities at San Juan will allow us to repair and replenish there, and if we are even more fortunate, we can sail for England before the flota arrives. I say that is what we do. Does any man here disagree?’
No man did, but every one of them, Tom included, knew the colossal risk John Hawkins had just committed them to. The guns of San Juan would be one thing; if necessary, the English could probably find some way of dealing with them, as they had at Santa Cruz de Tenerife and Cartagena. But the guns of the flota, King Philip’s strongest war fleet, his mightiest armada, were another matter entirely.
Twenty-Five
Captain Antonio Delgadillo stood upon the rampart of San Juan de Ulúa, the red and yellow flag of King Philip flapping briskly above his head, and felt more nervous than he had ever done in the twenty-five years of his life. The flota was in sight and approaching the harbour. Some of his men were scurrying to ready the great guns for the formal salute, while others were mustering in their ranks, ready to come to attention when Delgadillo gave the order. He had long dreamed of gaining glory in battle as part of one of Castile’s invincible tercios, perhaps under the command and even the eye of the mighty Duke of Alba himself. With the solitary saving grace of the young widow Isabella Bergara across the bay in her little house in Veracruz, the reality of his posting to this barren, humid, pestilential place was very different indeed, but today might go some way toward compensating for that. He had the opportunity to salute, and even to present himself before, the new viceroy of New Spain, and if he carried out his ceremonial duties punctiliously, perhaps the viceroy would notice and suitably reward the young garrison commander.
The approaching ships were very close now. Only two of them were large men-of-war, but the rest had probably been scattered by the recent storms, and would doubtless make their own way to the harbour in due course. Delgadillo looked around the anchorage. In truth, it was a poor place when compared with the likes of Sevilla and Cadiz. The harbour was formed by reefs, on the largest of which stood the newly built fort where Delgadillo waited. Ships could secure to large mooring rings set into the wall of this, for deep water came right up to the edge of the reef. An ancient hulk provided the main port facilities; otherwise, the flat, windswept island of San Juan, never more than three feet above sea level, offered nothing but a roughly built chapel and the huts that housed slaves and soldiers alike. To the west, across the north channel, a few buildings were scattered along the shore of the mainland. Yes, a poor place; but through it passed the treasure that sustained Spain’s great empire, and that thought, in turn, sustained Antonio Delgadillo’s ambitions.
The flota came on, the great flagship at its head leading the way through the Gallega channel. Delgadillo unsheathed his sword, brought it up before his face, and shouted the order for the general salute. The honour guard came to attention and the guns of the battery fired five blank rounds to welcome the new viceroy to his realm.
As the smoke cleared from the ramparts, Delgadillo realised that something was very wrong. The gunports of the incoming men-of-war were all open, and, he now realised, had been open even as they approached the reefs. Moreover, although the flags flying from the mastheads of the fleet were torn and dirty, Delgadillo could not see any of the familiar colours and symbols of Spain. His disquiet was momentarily eased by the return of salute from the flagship, which immediately altered course to come in directly to one of the mooring rings. But the orders being shouted on the great ship sounded unfamiliar. With a mounting sense of horror, Delgadillo realised that they were in a language other than Castilian; to be precise, in a language that was not spoken in any of the constituent kingdoms of King Philip’s empire.
The first shout came from somewhere down by the moorings.
‘Lutherans! Heretics! Madre de dios, spare us!’
Delgadillo lowered his sword. ‘Hold fast, men!’ he shouted to the honour guard. But they were already breaking and running, joining the headlong flight of slaves and whores toward the small boats drawn up along the shoreline of the island, their means of escaping to the mainland and, they hoped, to safety. Meanwhile, the invaders were swarming ashore, securing the cannon that had so recently been under Delgadillo’s command.
The young captain turned and saw that only eight men had eschewed flight and remained steadfast. He swallowed hard, his pleasant dreams of recognition by the viceroy, glory in one of Spain’s elite regiments, and marriage to Isabella Bergara all evaporating before his worried eyes. He sheathed his sword, uttered a prayer to the Virgin, and prepared to seek out the commander of the English fleet.
* * *
By nightfall, the Jennet, secured by hawsers to one of the fort’s mooring rings, was as ready for war as she could be. Jack and Tom Stannard paced her deck, checking the sakers and the small arms, exchanging greetings and ribaldries with the men. From time to time, one or other of them looked across to the fort, where the Spanish colours still flew; Captain Delgadillo’s conference with Hawkins had been conducted with perfect civility, the young officer being assured that he remained in command of the island and that the English fleet’s intentions were entirely peaceful, its admiral’s only wish being to refit as quickly as possible and then to be gone.
‘Ten days, Hawkins says,’ said Jack. ‘That’s all we need, he says. Well, if he can get that old wreck the Jesus fit for an ocean crossing in ten days, he’s a better man than me.’
‘Perhaps he’ll abandon her,’ said Tom. ‘Distribute everything across the other ships.’
‘Aye, that’s what I’d do. But remember, Tom, the Jesus is the queen’s ship. I reckon our admiral doesn’t fancy having to explain to Her Majesty why he hasn’t brought home one of her biggest men-of-war, not to mention the queen being a notorious miser, or so it’s said. She’ll begrudge every penny lost with that hull, no matter what state it’s in.’
They passed along the deck, Tom falling into conversation with Hal Ashby, and Jack made his way to the stern to check that the Jennet’s kedge anchor was properly secure. Then he went up and stood at the highest point of the deck, looking out across the anchorage toward the setting sun, away behind the distant mountains of Mexico. He thought of Francis Walsingham’s injunction to him. What folly it seemed now, after all they had already done to offend King Philip; but surely now they had put paid to any lingering hopes that peace could be kept between Spain and England. No matter how polite Hawkins and the Spanish captain were to each other, the undoubted truth was that an English fleet had sailed into a Spanish port and secured it by force of arms. Hawkins could write all the letters of explanation he liked to the authorities of Mexico, and perhaps even to his ‘old master’ King Philip himself for all Jack knew, but there was surely no doubt what the Spaniards would think. What the upshot of it all would be, God alone knew.
That thought was still on Jack’s mind when he retired to bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He was wakened what seemed no more than a moment later by Tom, who shook him vigorously.
‘Well?’ said Jack as he got to his feet.
‘Hawkins hasn’t got his ten days,’ said Tom. ‘He’s barely had ten hours. The Spanish fleet’s in sight.’
* * *
As he was rowed out to the capitana, the flagship of the flota, Antonio Delgadillo’s stomach was tight and his hands were shaking. He saw the vast personal standard of the viceroy flying from the mainmast of the great galleon, and prayed that this moment would not mark the end of his career – or, indeed, his life. He had spent much of the last day playing over the circumstances of the English fleet’s arrival, trying to think of justifications for his actions; rather, for his inaction, in not realising that it was an enemy fleet and not resisting its takeover of the island. No matter how hard he tried, he could come up with no response that convinced him. If he could not do that, he reasoned, then he would hardly convince the viceroy. So, as the boat came under the towering side of the flagship, Ca
ptain Delgadillo fingered his rosary beads ever more desperately.
He was led below, to the vast, opulently decorated cabin at the stern. This contained a half-dozen standing men, who by their look and garb could only be the captains of the fleet. One wore an admiral’s whistle of command. These standing men were gathered around a large chair, upon which sat a tall, thin man of sixty or thereabouts with piercing eyes, sunken cheekbones and a wispy grey-brown beard. He wore plain black with a high ruff. Delgadillo bowed low.
‘Captain,’ said Don Martín Enríquez de Almanza, distant kinsman of King Philip and the new Viceroy of New Spain. ‘There appear to be heretics infesting your harbour. Perhaps you would be so good as to explain to us how they come to be there?’
Delgadillo embarked upon the speech he had rehearsed over and over again, playing down as much as he could his failure to identify and resist the enemy fleet. To his relief, the viceroy seemed uninterested in this, although Delgadillo could tell from his ferocious expression that the admiral, standing by Don Martín’s side, was less forgiving. The viceroy was keener to learn of the numbers, weapons and dispositions of the English, and of the nature of his adversary, the infamous pirate Juan Aquines.
‘He claims to have served King Philip?’ said the viceroy. ‘How curious. But you say he has proposed terms, Captain. I am intrigued to discover what these might be, for the notion of a heretic pirate dictating terms to a viceroy of Spain is even more curious.’
Delgadillo swallowed hard and took a deep breath. ‘Excellency, he proposes that the two fleets share the anchorage peaceably, that peace to be secured by an exchange of hostages. For as long as it takes them to refit their ships, the English will retain control of the island and the fort. Then they will leave, again in peace. Those are his terms.’
A heavy silence pervaded the cabin. Several of the captains looked at each other, their expressions incredulous. Don Martín seemed to be contemplating a previously unnoticed defect in one of his fingernails. Then, finally, the viceroy of New Spain spoke.
‘Audacious, I’ll grant him that. Impertinent beyond measure, of course. And, need I say it, unthinkable. Now, I am naught but a soldier, and know nothing of the ways of sailors. Even so, I say that once all our ships have rejoined us, we simply attack and destroy these heretical scum without a moment’s delay. You, Captain Delgadillo, have told us that their largest ship is little better than a wreck, and most of the others are too small to worry us. We have the numbers, we have the righteous cause of God and King Philip on our side, and none shall stand against us.’
Several of the captains nodded, but it was clear that the admiral was deeply troubled.
‘Excellency,’ he said, ‘with respect, to do what you propose would lead to wholesale slaughter.’
‘Of course it would, Admiral Luxan. The slaughter of worthless deluded heretics, whose lives do not count. If any survive, they can become slaves in the galleys—’
‘No, my lord, I meant the slaughter of good Catholic Spaniards. Our men.’
Don Martín turned and looked at his fleet commander with astonishment writ large upon his long, thin face. ‘How so? Are the English ships not as weak as the captain here has described?’
‘The ships alone are, Excellency. But remember they now control the guns in the fort too, and have arranged the batteries on their ships to cover all other lines of fire. There are only two channels through the reefs that are deep enough and broad enough to admit ships of our size, and even then, we can only pass through one at a time. If we try to do that, Excellency, the English will destroy the entire flota.’ There was a gasp from some of the other captains, but the more senior ones were nodding. ‘If they do that, then they may very well decide to march on Veracruz. The garrison there was decimated by the summer’s plague and will be in no condition to resist them, so there will be nothing to stop them seizing the storehouses and securing all of the king’s bullion.’
Delgadillo blanched. He knew from Isabella just how much lay within the storehouses, waiting to be brought down to San Juan for loading aboard the flota; the size of the treasure of Veracruz was a matter of pride and endless fascination for every inhabitant of that city.
‘There is another consideration too, my lord.’
‘Namely?’ said Don Martín, irritably.
‘The fleet has to go into harbour soon, Excellency – preferably immediately. The northerly storms will become worse and more frequent. If one blows up while we lie here, offshore and exposed, we will be blown far to the south, perhaps down to the very bottom of the gulf. Not only will we stand little chance of beating back up to San Juan de Ulúa, even if we can do so in the teeth of the English guns, but we will have no other harbour at all available to us. There is nothing south of here, Excellency – nothing whatsoever.’
Don Martín shifted uncomfortably upon his temporary throne. ‘Admiral, you are seriously telling me that I must accept this Lutheran pirate’s terms?’
‘I am, my lord. If I may speak frankly, I am astonished that a commander in such a strong position as his is willing to offer us terms at all. I certainly would not, were I in his situation. So I say that we get safe into harbour, trusting that the exchange of hostages will persuade the English to keep their word. What happens after we are safely at anchor, of course…’
At last, the austere Don Martín smiled. ‘I take your point, Admiral. Oh, I take your point indeed.’
* * *
It took three more days before the flota came into the harbour of San Juan de Ulúa. All that time, a strong offshore wind blew, keeping the formidable Spanish ships out at sea. The Stannards, like every man in the English fleet, prayed that this presaged another of the northerly storms, such as that which had driven them back from the Florida channel. But it did not, and the wind finally dropped sufficiently to allow the Spanish vessels to begin to slip through the Gallega channel, south of where the English ships lay and well within range of their guns. The banners and ensigns of Spain flew proudly from staffs and mastheads.
Jack and Tom watched the spectacle from the stern of the Jennet, still moored fast to the wall of the fort; they, in turn, along with the rest of their countrymen, were being watched by Antonio Delgadillo, standing on the tower roof within the fort that he still nominally commanded in the name of King Philip.
‘Hawkins is a fool,’ said Tom. ‘We should have defied the Spaniards and refused them entry. He’s letting the fox into the chicken coop, that he is.’
‘Hawkins thinks himself a man of honour,’ said Jack. ‘What’s more, he really feels the sense of loyalty to King Philip that he brags about. It’s a Spanish harbour, and England isn’t at war with Spain, so how could he deny the viceroy entry into his own port? Besides, Hawkins is a great man for what he calls the fellowship of the seas. He says that in all conscience, he can’t expose fellow sailors to the perils of the sort of storm we came through. He also says that if the Spanish fleet is wrecked in such a storm, then how will Queen Elizabeth explain that to King Philip?’
Tom shook his head.
‘A man of honour? A fellowship of the seas? God spare us, Father, ’tis madness. And ten hostages on each side? He really thinks that’s enough to keep the peace?’
Jack made no reply. He was intent on watching the principal Spanish ships warp into their agreed positions at the berths on the south-west side of the island, physically separated from the English, who were moored together in the south-east, closer to the potential escape route through the reefs. The Minion, the westernmost ship of the English fleet, marked the demarcation line between the two fleets, close to the inert hull of the old hulk. The Spanish ships, like the English, were moored so tightly to the shore that their bowsprits overhung the land.
‘Old Cesar de Andrade once told me something about Spanish noblemen,’ said Jack. ‘He said that your grandee is usually a mighty indolent fellow, and that he cares only about three things. One is the purity of his bloodline, to which end he’ll obtain a papal dispensation to
marry his sister if he has to. Well, his niece, at any rate. Witness the example of King Philip’s family, the Habsburgs. The second thing he cares about is his stable, that his horses may be superior to those of his neighbour. And the third thing he cares about, above even the others, is his honour. If that honour is affronted, your idle nobleman will become a demon of activity, plotting and scheming until he has his revenge. I told that story to Hawkins, and he said aye, it was true, and that the viceroy’s honour as a nobleman of Spain would ensure that the truce held. I drew a different conclusion, Tom, but forbore from telling it to our admiral, who’d not have welcomed it.’
‘And your conclusion was?’
‘We’ve already mightily affronted the viceroy’s honour. Having to accept the terms offered by a man he’ll certainly regard as a pirate and a heretic? I recall something else Cesar de Andrade once told me. As far as a Spaniard’s concerned, any agreement struck with heretics, no matter how formal, no matter how legal, is utterly worthless. They look on you as the walking damned.’ Jack said it with a smile, but Tom noted his father’s switch from ‘we’ to ‘you’. ‘So you mark my words, over there on his flagship at this very moment, Don Martín is plotting his revenge on those he sees as upstart heretics.’
Twenty-Six
It was the strangest of days. The Spanish ships completed the process of coming to their berths and mooring, while the crews of the English ones began to undertake repairs and to prepare for careening. Ashore, Englishmen and Spaniards eyed each other suspiciously, although every once in a while, one or two of one nation approached one or two of the other, exchanged biscuits, bread or wine, and attempted a few tentative words of the other’s language. By the middle of the afternoon, a few on each side were even kicking a ball around. But aboard the ships, the atmosphere was tense, with every gunport open and no man more than a yard or so from a weapon.