Armada by John Stack Page A

further and looked down at the blood stained pieces the surgeon slammed onto the table.
    ‘Papist icons,’ Seeley breathed. He rounded on Powell. ‘Where exactly did you find them?’
    ‘Under my table. They were hidden under a pile of bloodied rags.’
    ‘Who dropped them?’ Seeley took a step towards the surgeon, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
    ‘I don’t know.’ Powell glanced at the master’s sword hand but remained unperturbed. A lifetime of serving aboard ship had made him immune to young men like Seeley. ‘Dozens of men have been in and out of my surgery over the past twenty-four hours, both the injured and those who carried them. Where I found those,’ he looked to the icons, ‘hidden away like that, well, they could have been there since Cadiz.’
    ‘A traitor,’ Seeley said vehemently, turning to Robert, ‘a Roman Catholic spy, Captain, on board the
Retribution
.’
    Robert held out his hand to quieten Seeley. He focused on keeping it steady. He looked again at his father’s icons, furious with himself for not thinking of them earlier. Perhaps it was the pain of his wound or the pace of events since Cadiz, but whenever he had recalled his time in the surgery, he had failed to register the significance of his breeches being cut away and discarded.
    He glanced at Seeley and Powell.
    ‘Who else knows of this?’
    ‘Only you and Mister Seeley here, Captain. I came straight to your cabin when I found them.’
    Robert nodded. His best chance of suppressing any hunt was now, before it began.
    ‘Then we will keep it that way,’ he said.
    ‘What? Why?’ Seeley’s eyes narrowed.
    ‘Because, Mister Seeley,’ Robert replied authoritatively, ‘I do not wish to have my ship rife with suspicion until we are clear on the facts. Indeed, there may be a simpler explanation as to why Mister Powell found these icons on board. They may have been taken as plunder from a Spaniard.’
    Seeley made to speak but the surgeon interjected. ‘I thought that too, Captain, but then I discovered that both of these icons are inscribed with an English name.’
    ‘Why didn’t you say before, you fool!’ Seeley rounded on the surgeon angrily. ‘You mean to say that the traitor’s name is on the icons?’
    ‘No, Mister Seeley,’ Powell said. ‘For the name inscribed is not of any man on board. See here.’
    He picked up the crucifix and, turning it over, rubbed his thumb along its length to remove the film of blood.
    ‘There is the name:
Young
.’
     
    Evardo kicked out in the darkness at the creature. The scurrying sound stopped. The rat was close, maybe inches away, and he kicked out again. The rat screeched and scuttled away. Evardo sat up. His mind was dull with fatigue but still he was unable to sleep. His skin crawled as he felt the cockroaches scurry beneath and around him. He rubbed his hand over his face, massaging his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. When he opened them again he focused on the thin shafts of light that penetrated through the cracks in the door of the cell.
    He was not alone. There were four other men held captive with him in the forward section of the orlop deck of the English flagship. He listened intently as one murmured incoherently, trapped in some horrible nightmare that would not be relieved by waking. Evardo licked his lips. His mouth was dry and scummy and he reached out for the pail of water, his hand swinging through a slow arc in the darkness until he touched its rim. He picked it up and scooped his hand in, bringing the foul brackish liquid up to his mouth. It did little to quench his thirst. For a moment he was tempted to toss the pail away in anger before thinking better of it, knowing how severely the precious liquid was rationed.
    When he had first been brought to the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
he had been formally welcomed by the captain of the English flagship.
El Draque
, disappointingly, had not been on deck, and Evardo had listened bitterly as the captain