That was true. Apart from the sailors and soldiers crammed on board, there were the forty men of Sidonia's retinue and the hordes of young Spanish noblemen desperate for glory.
'1 may call for you nearer the time of our conflict. Or I may not. Yet there is a tension, a conflict in you I sense but do not understand.'
There was a splutter from Mannion, understanding the Spanish before translation. *You are impertinent!' said Sidonia, the colour rising in his face.
'I apologise, my Lord,' said Mannion in Spanish. 'I've known him since he was this high.' Mannion held out a hand halfway down his own body. 'He was tense then, and at war with himself. That won't ever change. Asking your pardon for my impertinence.'
'I suspect he is not lucky in life,' said Sidonia, 'but may have been lucky in you. You are dismissed. Both of you.'
'Was that helpful?' hissed Gresham as they left.
'It was bloody true,' said Mannion.
They left Corunna on 21st July and made their first sighting of English soil, the Lizard, eight days later. An aching sense of regret drove through Gresham as he saw England again.
"What d'you think they're discussing?' asked Mannion.
The flagship had hoisted a huge flag bearing the image of the
Virgin Mary and a cross, and called the various commanders aboard. Gresham and Mannion had just heard Mass with the rest of the crew of the San Salvador. They did not consecrate the Host, of course, in case the rolling of the ship caused the body and blood of Christ to be swept or knocked overboard.
'I know what I would do,' said Gresham, eyes clenched in worry, his whole body showing the tension inside him. *What?' said Mannion, 'Sign up as a spy for France and Holland, so every country in Europe hates you instead of just half of 'em?'
'No,' said Gresham, hardly listening. 'I'd head straight for Plymouth. With this wind the English fleet is bottled up, can't get out. The advantage the English have is their speed. If Sidonia sailed pell-mell into Plymouth harbour the English couldn't manoeuvre, and he could board and take half the English fleet, maybe more.' Gresham waved a hand around. The huge wooden castles at the bow and stern of the San Salvador were there to contain soldiers who could pour down fire on an enemy deck from a great height, grapple and sweep a mass of men down.
'Might lose some ships,' said Mannion. 'Difficult entrance, Plymouth.'
'What would a few ships matter if you sank or boarded half the English fleet?' asked Gresham. What would Sidonia decide?
Gathered in the great cabin of the San Martin, Medina Sidonia's commanders were pressing him hard.
'We must detach a portion of our fleet and attack Plymouth! We have the chance to halve the numbers facing us and take this campaign by the throat! It is our golden opportunity!'
Sidonia sat impassively, his mind racing beneath the quiet and dignified face he presented to his senior commanders. Who was he, a land-locked noble, to take decisions on behalf of these men with their infinite knowledge of the sea? Why had Parma not responded to his increasingly urgent letters? It was two months since he had received his last communication. The fast pinnaces could take and return messages within days. Soon he would have no option but to halt the Armada, perhaps off the Isle of Wight, until he could ensure that Parma's army was ready and waiting to embark.
It was not the risk that scared him. Warfare was all about risk. It was the fear that a simple change of wind, or finding that Plymouth was better defended than they believed, could mean he had thrown some of his best ships away almost before the campaign had started.
'The entrance to Plymouth is narrow and dangerous,' he said finally. 'We have the strictest orders from the King to sail to meet the Duke's army and not simply to seek a sea battle. Our prime task, our only task, is to rendezvous with the Duke of Parma's army.'
True, except he was already proposing to disobey the King's orders by stopping off the Isle of Wight.
'We will proceed in defensive formation to the Isle of Wight and, if needs be, await communication with the Duke of Parma.' He turned to one of his admirals, who bore the scars of sixty years of fighting, with a half smile, if we have to halt our fleet there, then you will have your sea battle. With that possibility in mind, I cannot risk depleting our strength so early on in our campaign.'
The Admiral grunted his agreement, grudgingly recognising the logic. Others were tight-lipped, edgy. Yet they were good men, thought Sidonia, good and brave men who had proved themselves as soldiers and as patriots time and time again. Surely God in whose name they fought would recognise what they were? Surely He would recognise the justice of their cause?
From half a mile away, Gresham's eyes strained to see through the rain squalls that sent needles of spray into his eyes. There! The boats were leaving the San Martin. Slowly the bobbing dots crept across the sea, back to their own ships, and slowly the Armada began to adopt a new formation. A half-moon shape, the best fighting ships on each wing, and in the centre guarding the pathetically slow urcas and a vanguard of the swiftest and most heavily-armed vessels, ready to race in support of any endangered vessel. A defensive formation! Sidonia had decided not to take the gamble on Plymouth but to keep the Armada together.
'Are you rememberin' Cadiz?' asked Mannion drily. The mad-cap dash into a harbour Drake had hardly scouted, the throwing of caution to the winds, captains huffing and puffing and desperately trying to catch up with their commander. 'Bit different, innit? Maybe the Duke does need your advice after all. Or maybe the Spanish need Drake on their side.'
The captain of the barque Golden Hinde did not know whether his excitement at sighting the vast fleet of Spanish ships was greater than his terror at the sheer size of their enemy. Flushed and badly out of breath, he poured out his news to Drake. He had finally tracked him down on the bowling green.
Drake turned away, looking out to sea. From land there was no sight of the Spanish as yet. Shit! Shit! The wind was pinning the English in harbour, the tide pushing them further in. What if the Spanish were even now sending ten or fifteen of their best galleons to crush the English fleet before it could move? Shit! They would have to start warping as many vessels as possible out of harbour, a laborious, back-breaking job of cables and longboats. And a job that took time. Time they didn't have. He turned, ready to give the orders, run down to the quayside to supervise the business himself, praying every minute that the horizon would not darken with Spanish sails.
His Secretary came up beside him, whispered in his ear. 'My Lord, they will act as quickly without your presence.' Even quicker, thought the Secretary privately, without you yelling and bawling at everyone. 'You have the chance to go down in history, to establish the morale of your men, if you show you have time to finish the game and beat the Spaniards. Because, in truth, there is nothing you can usefully do.'
Drake's brow darkened. He turned to the gathering crowd of men. 'Warp the ships out of harbour. Pull in every able-bodied man on shore if you have to. As for myself,' he raised the volume of his voice to a near-shout, 'There's time enough to finish the game and beat the Spaniards!'
The roar of approval was the first good thing he had heard all day.
'Good God!' said the young English sailor as the mist and driving spray parted for a moment and he saw a sight that took his breath away. A hundred, two hundred sails, spread out across the ocean as if they owned every single drop of water. 'Holy Mary Mother of God!' He crossed himself, the unsure cockiness he had professed to his mates replaced by a sick feeling of fear.
The explosion was the most terrible thing Gresham had ever seen. They had sighted the Lizard through heavy squalls and scudding cloud, the Armada's desperately slow pace set by the unwieldy freighters. Then they saw the English sails, a: small squadron to their left, between the Armada and the shore, the main fleet behind them. Damn! The English had the wind-gauge. There was a gasp from a Spanish seaman as an English ship skidded across the waves, appearing to be sailing almost directly into the wind. A tiny English boat was sent to within extreme range, fired a popgun and turned away.