The Tudor Heritage

by The Tudor Heritage (retail) (epub)

  “It is not fair!” he fumed to himself. “By the time I am old enough 'twill all be over!” He drove his short sword maliciously into a tree trunk. “If Drake sails once more against Spain, I shall go!” he announced to no one in particular. “I don’t care if they say I am too young. I will go!” He stood glaring across the river in the direction of the open sea and defiance of his father and the greatest King in Christendom burnt in his heart.

  Eleven

  The first fingers of dawn crept slowly across the sky as Elizabeth rose from the chair in which she had spent the long night. Sleep had eluded her and she had risen wearily. Wrapping an embroidered robe around her she crossed to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. The world outside slumbered peacefully, wrapped in darkness. Through the long hours she had thought of her people and the struggles and sacrifices she had made for them. As the sky grew lighter she opened the casement, savouring the fresh, newly washed smell of the July dawn as the pale sunlight stole over the formal gardens of Hampton Court and glistened upon the calm waters of the river which lay beyond the water steps.

  A low mist hung over the fields of Surrey and beyond those fields lay England—her England. For nearly thirty years she had managed to keep her country from the wasteful folly of war and in consequence her people were more prosperous and secure than they had been for many a long year. There was law and order throughout the land and because she refused to “make windows into men’s souls” there was some degree of religious tolerance.

  As the warmth of the sun dispersed the mists which covered the green fields she felt a fierce tide of pride and affection sweep over her. She had dedicated her life to this land and its people and in return they loved her as they had never loved a Sovereign before. To them she was the invincible “Gloriana”. She thought of the rolling green countryside of Gloucestershire, Norfolk and the Midland counties. Of the wild, rugged hillsides and mountains of Wales from whence her ancestors had sprung and of the harsh and often cruel beauty of the West Country. This was her heritage—a heritage too dearly loved, too dearly bought to be crushed beneath the heel of the Spaniard.

  The ghost of a smile crossed her face as she remembered how long, long ago she had once been grateful for Philip’s aid when her right of succession had been threatened during Mary’s reign, but her determined refusals to his proposals of marriage shortly after her accession had sown the seeds of their enmity and gradually over the years relations between them had become more and more strained and she knew that after thirty years of managing by statecraft and subtlety to avoid a confrontation the time had come to stand and fight.

  It was a decision which she had not made lightly and even now she prayed that war would be avoided for above all things she hated the appalling waste of life, property and resources that war involved. But now the time had come when she must fight to preserve her people and their future.

  She turned away from the scene of rural peace that stretched out beyond her window and once more took up the Burden of State as the world awoke to a new day—that fateful day the 18th July, 1588.

  * * *

  Far away from the misty gardens of Hampton Court the same dawn was breaking over the rugged Cornish coast as a weatherbeaten fisherman walked along the wet sand of an isolated cove. He walked slowly, noting the direction of the wind which whipped the white-topped waves against the half-submerged rocks encrusted with seaweed and barnacles. Rocks which had claimed many a ship. A solitary gull wheeled overhead and he stopped to watch and wonder as it glided silently on the wind.

  At last he turned his steps back towards the steep path that led upwards to the headland. He climbed steadily until he reached the top and then he turned to take a last look at the sea which gave him his livelihood. His gaze travelled across the choppy waters, scanning the horizon but stopped, riveted upon the waters just off the point called the Lizard. He stared hard, first in astonishment and then with awe for there on the horizon, in its crescent-shaped battle formation, sailed the avenging might of Spain!

  He began to count the huge ships. There appeared to be six squadrons and he counted sixty-five ships which he estimated to be of 1,000 tons and over. Great galleons these with towering forecastles. Huge, white sails billowing in the wind and their embroidered pennants and flags streaming out. Four galleasses—large galleon-like craft but with oars as well as sails and four large galleys. There appeared to be fifty-six armed merchantmen and twenty caravels, all of them loaded with armaments.

  He drew in his breath sharply as he realised the enormous strength of the force which had sailed against his country and turning, he ran as fast as he could to raise the alarm. As he rounded the corner of the one main street of the village he gasped to the few people who were up and about:

  “Light the beacon! The beacon, man! The Armada is here, I have just seen it off the Lizard!”

  His cries woke the whole village and within minutes the flames were leaping high into the still, morning air. Further along the coast the next beacon flamed as the news travelled of the coming of the Spaniard.

  Paul Allgrave heard the news as he changed horses at an inn near Taunton. He had finally decided that he would wait no longer for his chance and so he had packed a small bag, strapped on his short sword and with what little money he had managed to save, left a note for his mother and had ridden hard for Plymouth.

  As he heard the word “Armada” he ran to the man who had shouted the news to a companion.

  “The Armada, has it been sighted?” he asked, urgently tugging at the man’s arm.

  “Aye, lad. Off the Lizard early this morning and a fearful force it is too, so I hear tell!”

  Nodding his thanks he ran back and thrust a coin into the hand of the startled ostler and flinging himself into the saddle rode off towards Plymouth in a cloud of dust.

  When he arrived the whole town was seething with the news and preparations for fitting and provisioning the English squadrons had reached fever-pitch. He left his horse in the care of a groom at an inn and pushed his way through the crowds towards the quays. His father and Martin were with Drake aboard the Revenge therefore he decided that his best plan would be to join either Lord Howard or Frobisher. As Lord Howard was a good friend of his father’s he decided that Frobisher was the safer choice. After ascertaining which was the flagship of Frobisher’s squadron he elbowed his way up the gangplank and stood staring about him, trying to pick out the Captain amidst the noise and bustle of men carrying casks and chests of powder and provisions.

  “You be looking for someone?” a voice with a broad Devonshire accent enquired and he turned around to find a boy of his own age, with dark eyes and a shock of unruly hair grinning at him.

  “Yes. Captain Frobisher.”

  “You look like a gentleman. You had best follow me,” the lad said. “Toby they call me,” he added over his shoulder.

  Paul grinned at the disappearing back, instantly liking his new companion and followed Toby below to a small, oak-panelled cabin where a man was pouring over charts which were strewn over a table.

  Toby knocked on the open door. “Someone to see you, Captain.”

  Martin Frobisher raised his head and looked searchingly at the boy who stood before him.

  “Well, have you ever sailed before?”

  “No… sir. But I learn quickly and I won’t be left behind when everyone else is off to fight the Spaniard!” Paul finished with a sudden rush of words.

  Frobisher laughed. “This will be no picnic, lad. Who are you?”

  “Paul Allgrave, sir.”

  “Allgrave? That is a name I know well. There is a Sir Edward Allgrave aboard the Revenge.”

  “My father, sir.”

  “Does he know you are here? You don’t look very old.”

  “No, he does not know but please, sir, don’t tell him for he is bound to send me home and I will never get another chance?” the boy begged.

  Frobisher considered the matter carefully and then nodded. “Find him som
ewhere to stow his gear, Toby. You will have to work, lad,” he warned. “You are not afraid to fight?”

  “No sir… and thank you…” Paul stammered.

  With a wave of his hand the Captain dismissed them both and Paul followed Toby up on deck to a cramped space beneath a gunport where a straw mattress and a single grubby blanket lay.

  “It’s not much and not what you’re used to but you are welcome to share,” Toby offered.

  “Thank you,” Paul replied, eyeing the mattress with trepidation.

  “Use your bag as a pillow,” Toby advised.

  Paul nodded and put down his bag, thinking of his comfortable bed at home. Well, he had wanted desperately to come so he supposed he must make the best of it.

  Twelve

  The Armada sailed on up the Channel, slowing only so that the stragglers could catch up. The wind was to the southwest and the great ships were windward to Plymouth. Visibility was poor and the English fleet had not yet been sighted when the Duke of Medina Sidonia called a council aboard his flagship, the San Martin. From the great galleons the St. Matthew, St. Phillip, St. James and St. John, the St. Barbara, the Almirante and the Lady of the Rosary came the captains of Spain—Martinez de Recalde, Pedro de Valdez and Miguel de Oquinda. Far into the murky night they discussed their battle plans while under cover of the mist and darkness the English squadrons were silently beating out from their anchorage behind Ram Head and out into the Sound.

  By noon of the 20th Lord Howard was far out to sea, east of the treacherous Eddystone rocks. In the late afternoon the mists lifted and a golden sun burst through the clouds. The Duke sailed slowly on but just as the sun was sinking his lookout sighted Howard’s squadron which he mistook for that of Drake. During the hours of darkness Howard slowly moved southwards and silently worked his way past the Armada and when dawn broke he had gained the weather-gauge. So silently and successfully had he carried out this manoeuvre that all the Spanish lookouts had seen were a few ships that had been late in leaving Plymouth.

  As the chill grey dawn of the 21st broke the Duke saw the thirty-eight vessels of the English fleet sailing line-ahead and his face twisted with contempt as he thought how easy it was going to be to annihilate so paltry a force. Those tiny ships with no forecastles, low poops and flush decks would so easily be crushed by the 2,430 brass and iron cannon that his mighty ships carried. But the gallant little ships sailed on. The Ark Royal, the Victory, the Bear and the Bull. The Elizabeth Jonas, the Revenge and the Dreadnought and the smaller cutters and pinnaces.

  The Duke edged towards Plymouth and Lord Howard attacked from the rear at the shoreward end. The Ark Royal inflicted some slight damage with her culverins but the galleons sailed majestically on, holding their formation. The Duke ordered a few of his best ships out of line to deal with the English oppressors where the firing was fiercest but by the end of the day Howard had failed to break the Spaniards' formation. Only one galleon had suffered heavily. Another had been crippled by a collision and a third had been wrecked when her magazine had exploded accidentally while Howard’s own squadron was scattered and it was not until midnight of the 22nd that he finally managed to re-group.

  He ordered Drake to lead and the rest of the squadrons to follow but to his astonishment Drake extinguished his lantern with the result that the whole fleet was scattered. Fortunately, the Duke of Medina Sidonia—obeying the explicit instructions of his master—made no attempt to land along the coast but sailed on and by nightfall both fleets were past Portland.

  * * *

  As dawn broke on the 23rd Paul Allgrave was prodded unceremoniously from a deep sleep by Toby. He was cold and stiff for he had not yet become accustomed to sleeping upon hard boards.

  “Come on, lazy. Look!” Toby cried excitedly, almost dragging his companion to his feet.

  Paul rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked in the direction of Toby’s outstretched arm.

  A Spanish squadron had detached itself from the main force and was heading directly towards them. The ship sprang into life as men scrambled to man the guns, to damp down the sails to prevent them catching fire and to spread sand upon the deck to save themselves from slipping. Frobisher stood on deck firing orders to his crew and galvanised by the sound of his voice the two lads scrambled to their positions beside the gunners.

  Paul’s legs felt weak and his stomach churned with a thousand butterflies as he watched the towering, carved forecastles and open gunports of the Spaniards drawing nearer until the sky was blotted out by their massive spread of canvas and he could see the carved images of the saints upon their bows. He stood shaking with fear as the bombardment commenced. Above the ear-splitting noise the gunner roared at him to “look alive!” and he forgot his fears as he threw himself into his task.

  Hour after hour the bombardment continued as the Spaniards tried determinedly to blast Frobisher from the face of the earth. He saw men fall around him with blood pouring from hideous wounds as spars and masts were blown away and splinters of wood flew piercing flesh and bone. His face was blackened with powder and sweat and his head thudded with the constant thundering of enemy guns.

  With a deafening crash and a blinding flash of powder the gunport next to his received a hit and as the smoke cleared he saw what was left of the broken and bleeding body of the gunner sprawled across the twisted barrel of the culverin. Of Toby there was no sign. Forcing down the bile that arose in his throat he left his post and scrambled over the debris, dragging the smouldering, splintered beams away from the hot barrel of the gun. He found Toby with his leg caught beneath a length of shattered planking. An ugly gash on his forehead dripped blood down his face but he tried to smile as he saw Paul’s blackened face and fine clothes torn and dirty.

  “My leg,” he said between clenched teeth, “it’s caught.”

  Paul heaved with all his strength at the plank and it moved a little.

  “Can you pull yourself out if I can lift it higher?”

  Toby nodded.

  The sweat stood out on his forehead as Paul once more heaved at the heavy beam.

  Toby’s face contorted with pain as he slowly dragged himself clear and then sank back, exhausted by his efforts.

  Paul let the beam fall and tearing off a piece of his shirt bound up the wound on his companion’s head.

  “Is it broken?” he yelled above the noise, looking anxiously at the lad’s leg which was a purplish-blue below the knee.

  “I don’t know, but it hurts bad!”

  Paul looked around him helplessly. There was nothing much he could do for there was no surgeon aboard.

  “Just keep still. I will try and find help,” he shouted as he climbed back to his own post. He found no help there for the gunner was furious at his desertion and told him so in strong nautical language. Help for Toby was forgotten as the hours dragged on and he worked mechanically. Too tired to care that around him men were dying. He saw nothing but the flash of powder and smoke as the cannons continued to thunder.

  At last through a cloud of acrid, black smoke, the sun slowly set. The firing ceased and the Spaniards drew back and Martin Frobisher started to inspect the damage and count his losses. Paul crawled over the shattered and blood-stained deck to where he had left his friend. Toby was asleep and with a muttered apology Paul sank down beside him, overcome with exhaustion.

  * * *

  Frobisher’s squadron was not the only one to come under heavy fire that day for during the morning the wind had changed to Howard’s advantage. Drake and Hawkins had again attempted to break the Spaniards' formation from the seaward side. The Duke fought back fiercely but the San Martin suffered badly. Howard on the Ark Royal, with his kinsman Lord Thomas Howard aboard the Lion and his son-in-law Lord Sheffield on the Bear and Captain Barker on the Victory with the ships of the line ran the entire length of the Armada—firing continually. They then turned swiftly and passed once more, firing into the ranks of the lumbering galleons.

  DeLeyva, the Captain of the Rata, tr
ied unsuccessfully to ram the Ark Royal but Howard was too quick for him and the damage inflicted upon the Spaniard was heavy. The San Juan’s mizen mast had been shot through in two places, many of her spars were missing and fifteen of her crew lay dead and her Captain mortally wounded. The Capitan, a great galleon of 1,200 tons, ran foul of the Santa Barbara, breaking her bowsprit and felling her mainmast. Crippled she fell behind and Howard left her for Drake to tow into Torbay as a prisoner.

  Carried eastwards by the tide and the wind both sides fought on. Time and again the small, swift ships of the English squadrons passed the Spaniards in line-ahead, inflicting heavy damage with the murderous fire from their culverins and demi-culverins and sailing quickly out of range of the Spaniards' smaller guns. But they failed to break the Duke’s formation and he sailed on with Howard following closely. Unknown to the Lord Admiral, Medina Sidonia’s instructions were to join forces with Parma’s forces in the Netherlands and together to invade England. But the Duke had already lost many men and was running out of food, water and ammunition while the English were being joined by more and more ships and men as every available vessel beat out of the Channel ports to defend their shores.

  Daybreak on the 25th found both fleets becalmed south of St Katherine's Point. Howard divided his fleet into four squadrons. He himself commanded one and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher the other three.

  On the 24th Lord Howard had called his Captains aboard the Ark Royal to discuss his tactics and Edward Allgrave learnt to his horror that his youngest son had been in the thick of the fighting.

  He came to an agreement with Frobisher for the boy to be transferred to the Revenge. After Edward’s initial anger had cooled he felt proud of his son for Frobisher had been well pleased with the boy’s courage.