At the last I was asked to take a solemn oath, and here almost threw off the whole thing. Yet at the end I dared not.
“I, Maugan Killigrew, oh the 29th April in the Year of our Lord, 1597, being in sound mind and body and under no duress, do solemnly declare that the church of England is not a church but rather the synagogue of the Devil, and that neither in her, her creed, or matters pertaining to her, can one be saved; and that I, Maugan Killigrew, as a person now received in the Catholic truth of the Roman church, confess that the said new religion of my country is bad, and in her and all her opinions and ceremonies lies the soul’s perdition; and I detest and abominate them and sever myself from them and from the said religion and recognise that the true faith and the Catholic religion is that of the Roman Church in which I have now been instructed, and in which I promise to live and die, never severing myself from her. And I ask with great humility, submission, and obedience and fear of God, to be received by this my conversion into the holy Catholic Church. In the name of the Father …”
On the morning following, in company with the other servants, I took the sacrament in the old faith.
May came and with it the first heat. We watered the garden each morning but the searing sun sucked up the moisture within the hour. Plants wilted, eddies of dust moved with the least breeze. We rose at four instead of five but took three hours siesta in the afternoon heat. With my acceptance of the old faith came some enlargement, and I was allowed to wander about the house. From the upper windows one could see over the town, and in those first hot days the domes and Moorish towers and arches became part of a mirage shimmering and unreal, some imagined city on a river’s edge existing only in the spray of a waterfall’s rainbow.
Nothing more was seen of de Soto, and I scarcely ever saw Captain Caldes; but one evening Enrico Caldes came into the garden with another naval captain. As I left the garden the newcomer said he was just back from Brest, so when it grew dark I made an excuse of needing easement and stole out again.
They were still talking, and about England. A spy had just come to Brest from the Court with the latest news. Ralegh was back in favour at last; it was thought he would soon be allowed to resume his old position as Captain of the Guard. He and Essex and Cecil were now working together in great amity. This meant, they agreed, that Cecil’s peace party had been overborne and that for the time he had thrown in his lot with the advocates of an intensified war. Another raid on Spain was therefore likely. Much more now depended on the Armada at present being prepared at Ferrol. It was essential that England should be conquered this year.
The naval captain was convinced that both countries were nearing exhaustion in this long drawn out war, and that the one which struck hardest this year was likely to win. Conditions were far more favourable now than in ’88 for an Armada; it remained only to prepare it and send it at the right time. He was himself returning to Brest next week with big reinforcements.
He had served under the Adelantado at Lepanto and had a great admiration for him; a cautious but determined veteran, he said. It would be a very different story from last time.
Just then the bell in the prison clanged, and I shrank into the shadows and picked a stealthy way back to the house.
On the twentieth of May some decision was at last come to regarding my future.
Captain Caldes said: “You are still on oath not to escape, Killigrew. You have sworn that you will keep this city as a prison and not leave it either on foot or otherwise in any manner whatsoever. That is understood?”
“That is understood.”
“Then within those limits you may go where you wish. I have arranged for you to have a room of your own in this house until you move to Cadiz.”
I stared at him, wondering if peace had come.
“You will be given money, sufficient to live and to buy yourself new clothes. My cousin will see to your needs. Please tell him what you want.”
I think I must have looked as stupid as when first brought before this man. “Thank you … I should like a barber … And some soap.”
Enrico Caldes got up with a friendly smile. “ Come, Killigrew, I’ll show you the city.”
He showed me the city.
We went to a bull-fight: a wild and noisy pageant in which the leading aristocrats of the city took part, played out under a blazing sky the colour of unpolished steel; we saw the great cathedral of Santa Maria de la Sede and watched the solemn dance of the choir boys performed with castanets before the High Altar; we were shown over the Jesuit college; we attended the Eucharist together at San Pedro; we walked the city walls; we sat at night gatherings where guitarists sang and danced the sad trembling songs of Spain.
From being a captive one had become a guest. With all the grace and courtesy which came natural to him Enrico Caldes was making me welcome. I was quite baffled, and though I tried to get him to talk, on that subject he would not.
On the second of June Enrico said: “Can you be ready to leave for Cadiz tomorrow?”
“Does this mean I’m to be sent back to England!”
“I know no more than you, my friend. Let us go together and see.”
We left at six in the morning and reached Cadiz the following night. Even by the quickly fading light one could see that much of the town was in ruins. Enrico said that although it had apparently been the intention of the English to spare the churches, when they left they had fired the houses and most of the churches had gone up in the blaze.
The harbour had more quickly recovered, and all signs of the struggle for the Puntal narrows had disappeared. Some blackened hulks remained in the mud below Port Royal where the treasure fleet had burned.
We stayed at an inn on the edge of the town, and at seven breakfasted off fresh flounders and spiced mutton and small beer. At eight we went on foot to Fort St Philip and there were led to a room overlooking the bay. In the room were three men. One was Andres Prada, Mariana’s uncle, another was Don Juan de Idiaquez, that high dignitary of the Junta de Noche who had been present when I was charged with the message at the palace in Madrid. The third was Captain Elliot.
I knew then almost instantly whose decision it had been which had so drastically altered the attitude of the Spaniards towards me. And what that decision was.
I hardly needed to see the ring Captain Elliot was wearing and to recognise it as the one with the Spanish royal arms upon it which had been sent to my father to be given in due course to the bearer of his reply.
Chapter Eleven
Within a week I sailed for El Ferrol.
Expediency I have heard described as a consideration of what is politic as a rule of action as distinct from what is just and right. It is a word with which the idealist has small patience. My idealism tarnished young.
Or perhaps it was all involved in some complex manner with the two-headed eagle of the Killigrews which could look both ways.
In any event I found that the acceptance of Catholicism could not be made as an empty gesture and left there. I had been too deeply probed by the priests in the church of San Pedro. And this went with me into the confessional. It was impossible to confer with these solemn, patient understanding priests and speak of petty sins tongue in cheek; it was impossible not to feel that in withholding from them the fundamental lie one was in a sense giving God the lie too.
The deception was no more palatable on the material plane; for it seemed to stem from the spiritual. The welcome the men gave me in the fort of St Philip was far more open because of this change of religion: it marched with Mr Killigrew’s change of allegiance and made my concurrence in it so much more plausible.
Here I had had three courses open. One, to have rejected my father and all that his betrayal stood for. Two, to have accepted it but with amazement and lack of understanding and unspoken hostility. Three to have welcomed it as if already half expected and to have offered to further his and their plans in any way possible. The first course would have rendered the change of religion pointless and would
at best have seen a return to the dungeon. The second was a compromise which might have saved my life but done no other good. The third was a hypocrisy no greater than the greatest already undertaken, and it meant a likely freedom within Spain and perhaps some future chance of escape.
When I did go to sleep I would often wake sweating—sometimes for myself and sometimes for what my father, to save himself from a debtors’ prison, was prepared to do.
One could see the scene so well: Mr Killigrew in his study in despair after bringing himself to do what he would so seldom do, add up the extent of his debts. Always before there had been another manor to sell or mortgage, or some rich person he could turn to for a helping hand. Always there had been tomorrow to look forward to; there would be a windfall from Elliot or Burley, or some old bond would be extended at the last moment: it always had happened before, and meantime it was a pity to miss such good hawking weather … But not today. A debtors’ prison is not a pretty place; my father had already sampled it.
But Captain Elliot was there. “ Ten thousand pounds, Mr Killigrew. Not more than your deserts, Mr Killigrew, but where will you get them else? Not from the Privy Council. Not from the Queen. From her you have not even received the knighthood which all the eldest sons of your house have been, given as they reached suitable age. Every man’s hand is against you, Mr Killigrew: Godolphin, Trefusis, Trelawny, Mohun, they will be the first to trample you down. But there is a way, quite handy to your hand, by which you may triumph over them, and thereby come by your knighthood, together with the ownership of Godolphin, Trelowarren, Erisey, Enys and Trefusis. It is not as if you had to organise an army, lead a revolt, go out in war. No, no. You need do nothing—except perhaps rid yourself of one or two of your followers who might be difficult in a crisis. Then wait—that is all—just wait until these ships appear off your coast. All this is a trifle better than a debtors’ prison, which is all you will get otherwise. And what does the war really mean to you? Don’t tell me you haw very strong feelings on religion. And Philip has already once been virtually King of England. There will be a little trouble, of course, some adjustments. But they will come in any case when Elizabeth dies, and she is old and not likely to last over much longer. This is your great chance of fame and fortune. It is really only what Stanley and others did when Elizabeth’s grandfather landed … Think it over, Mr Killigrew. But don’t think it over too long. I leave on tomorrow’s tide …”
It was a strange meeting, that one in the gun room of the castle of St Philip. With my father’s answer in their hand they were sounding out Mr Killigrew’s base son. He already showed signs of being of the same mind as his father. He had been in Spain before, he spoke the language, he had borne the original message, he had recently become a Catholic: it all pointed one way, and Mr Killigrew’s base son had the quickness of wit—or the baseness—to see how their thoughts were leading them and to follow.
It was a strange meeting in other ways because, although by the end of it I had been examined thoroughly and much was implied, the speakers had been both secretive and vague. I could see that Enrico Caldes had no clear idea as to the object of the meeting; he knew far more than I about a gathering fleet, but he knew nothing of the offer to my father.
Enrico Caldes sailed to Ferrol with me. Captain Elliot had already left for Cartagena, and Don Juan de Idiaquez was returning to Madrid. Prada still had business to conclude in Cadiz; but before I left he sent for me.
“Señor,” I said, “I have to thank you—and Mariana—for consideration last autumn when I was retaken after escaping.”
He smiled his tight walnut-brown smile. “Your escape is a matter we have forgotten, for reasons of state … I have a final word or two I wish to say to you, Killigrew, now that we are alone. It is in fact a warning.”
I waited.
“When we invade England we are assured of the support of many people in all walks of life. But your father’s help, as you’ll need no telling, will be of great value to our cause. He was worth buying. However, I like to believe his adherence to us is not solely a matter of gold. Nor, I trust, is yours solely a matter of preserving your life.”
“No, it is not.”
“So when the time comes you too will help. You speak our language. You will be a sign of our own good will towards those of your kinsfolk who do not oppose us. In all this, when all this is finished, you will not be the loser.”
I moistened my lips.
He said: “ But there is one great danger. The essence of naval or military success is surprise. As our Armada grows here, its presence cannot be concealed from English spies. What can be concealed is its objective.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“So far in all Spain only four people, apart from the King, know of the destination of this fleet. None of our senior admirals yet knows it. You will readily see that if this secret were to be allowed to leak out, preparations to meet it in England would at once be made.”
“Yes.”
“When your father replied favourably to our invitation, it was first intended to keep you in prison. However, you can be useful, and you cannot fail to see that if this information which you possess leaks away to England before we are ready, it will sign your father’s death warrant. That must be clear to you.”
“It is.”
“You are fond of your father?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. Then we will leave it at that. Remember, a single unguarded word may ensure his death.”
“I understand.”
“Good-bye, and may we some day meet again.”
I had spent a week at Coruña when storm-bound two years ago, but had never crossed to El Ferrol, which is twelve miles away by sea and perhaps forty by road. Now we sailed in through a long and well guarded and narrow channel, and saw the town and dockyard sheltering behind the shoulder of rock which made the harbour, in such a way that they were not to be seen from the sea. It was a perfect natural harbour, far better protected than Cadiz, and one could understand the reluctance of English admirals to attack it.
Eighty-four sail were there when we arrived, about a quarter of them galleons but clearly not yet in a state of preparedness to sail. San Pedro, San Pablo and San Juan were three more of the ‘Apostles’ of which we had destroyed four at Cadiz. San Pablo was the largest galleon of them all, being of 1,200 tons burden.
I was housed with Enrico Caldes, and shared a room with him and two other men in a hostellerie in the middle of the town where officers of the fleet had taken rooms. I was allowed to wander about the little town at will, though there was nothing to it except what had grown from the demands of the dockyard. A big fleet had in fact set sail for England last autumn but had been driven back with much damage by foul weather.
One night Captain Lopez de Soto arrived aboard the Espiritu Santo, a smaller galleon which he was to command in the Armada, and the next morning I was summoned to see him.
He was sitting in his cabin in a loose shirt under a green silk morning gown, the remnants of his breakfast on the table, a servant combing his coppery hair. He dismissed the servant.
“So, Killigrew, you are well housed? Caldes is looking after you?” He did not wait for an answer. “His Excellency Don Martin de Padilla is in Madrid, so I am dealing with all the administration while he is away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Caldes is to be specially responsible for you, but both of you will come under my supervision. I understand you are to sail with us when the time comes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No doubt on duties which will later be assigned to you …?”
He waited. There was a faint questioning note in his voice which I did not respond to.
“All orders come in their proper time,” he went on. “ We shall not, of course, sail yet. There is much still to do here, as you can see. It will be August, I think, before we leave.”
“Sir,” I said, “I am a good penman and speak both languages. Whatever—duties�
��may be assigned to me later, can I not be given something in the meantime? Could I not be of assistance to you or to some other officer?”
“That might be. I will give it some thought.”
As I got to the door he said: “Killigrew.”
“Yes.”
“You sailed from England on a great project with a great fleet, bent on the destruction of Cadiz.”
“Yes.”
“It will be a strange turn of fate to return to England with another fleet but larger, bent on another project but larger.”
I said: “ May it have the same success.”
I do not think it was a wise remark for I noticed a glint in his eyes; I had seen the double edge only as I spoke. But that is the risk of hypocrisy; one must watch one’s tongue at every word.
For a month I worked as an under-secretary in the Naval Commissariat adjoining the dockyard. The hours were seven to twelve and three to eight; yet sometimes all I did if better organised could have been concentrated into two hours a day. There were twenty clerks and a like number of secretaries and a dozen senior officials dealing with the commissioning of the fleet, but delay and duplication and lack of system set much of their effort at nought. Underneath the high efficiency and devotion to duty of men like de Soto there was laxness and confusion. Every directive had had for so long to be referred to the top—almost always to Madrid—that underlings had become incapable of decision.
And El Ferrol, though supremely secure against outside attack, lacked much for the preparation of a great Armada. It was too far from the centres of Spanish power. The road from Madrid was mountainous and, one gathered, in places scarcely existent; the sea communications were long; the chief centres of population were far away. Small attempt had been made to equip the little town for so great an undertaking. The army lived in tents on the bare hillside, too many of the navy lived aboard ship too soon, consuming naval supplies and falling sick of disease while still in harbour. Streets were unpaved so that no vehicle could move without sending up clouds of dust, and many of the lanes were impassable because of the deep ruts. Ditches were clogged with refuse and alive with flies. At almost every corner cookshops had been set up with great kettles on trivets to supply the needs of the shipworkers and the sailors and the clerks. Often at midday I would have a leek broth at one of them and listen to the chatter of the men standing around. There were Portuguese, Italians, French and Germans among them, for many of the ships were foreign.
The Grove of Eagles Page 49
