The King's Armada

By Doug Walker

As a time traveler from the States pretending to be a Spanish officer, Guy King, aka Pedro Garcia, was given command of Spanish soldiers aboard an Armada vessel setting out to conquer the British heretics. Garcia, a former U.S. Marine, was better prepared than most to lead his men, particularly since he knew that disaster lay ahead. He struggled to return his men safely to Spain, and then returned to modern-day America with a motley crew of antique Spanish and British officers. His final choice: To live his life in ancient Spain or in present-day U.S.A.?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Walker
• Release date: Oct 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301389926

Doug Walker

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities. His first novel was “Murder on the French Broad,” published in 2010. Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

Book preview

THE KING’S ARMADA

Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image:

CHAPTER ONE

Dust and the heavy smell of horses. Lieutenant Hidalgo stirred in his chair and eyed the man on the bench across the room, the man who claimed to be Lieutenant Pedro García, the man who sat with a small animal he claimed was a dog in his lap. I will tell the captain, Hidalgo finally said. He rose heavily to his feet, head pounding from too much partying last night, even though the new evening was rapidly approaching.

There is a man who says he is Lieutenant Pedro García from the Presidio of Bilbao. He wishes to speak to you about matters of great importance. Hidalgo hesitated, then added, He says. The captain’s office was small, but well appointed. A crucifix decorated one wall, crossed swords another. Double doors opened to a balcony behind his comfortable chair. A terra cotta wine decanter and four small glasses stood within easy reach.

You have reason not to believe him? Captain Delgado asked. Contrasted with Hidalgo, the captain appeared fresh and crisp. It did not add to Hidalgo’s dragging spirits to know the captain had just completed a two-hour siesta followed by a bath and a change of uniform.

He has a small animal he says is a dog. To carry such a beast does not inspire confidence. He has no papers, yet he says he is an officer of the King.

There are exotic animals of all sizes in Africa, the captain remarked. Whatever, send him over.

Yes, Sir.

As he reached the door, the captain said, You look a mess, Hidalgo. Get the corporal to relieve you. Take a nap and try not to drink so much tonight.

As you wish, Sir. The lieutenant almost shrugged, but thought better of it. Drinking and carousing was a soldier’s life. A common soldier at 18, a sergeant at 25, an officer at 30 for an act of bravery, Hidalgo had little hope of further advancement at this drab post, or elsewhere.

Sure enough, Pedro García carried a small dog when he entered the captain’s office. It was difficult, but he attempted to snap to attention and salute with the dog under an arm. The dog, which Pedro called Poncho, was as confused as Hidalgo had been. After all, they had arrived in Bilbao under odd circumstances and it had not been without considerable trouble that a suitable horse had been found. There followed the long ride to Santander.

I am Lieutenant Pedro García, late of Bilbao, at your service, Sir.

Hidalgo had been right. Not only the small, odd animal, but García’s speech, although perfect Spanish, and his attire, although the perfect uniform for a King’s officer, seemed unusual. And to what do I owe this honor? the captain inquired.

I am on a mission of grave importance. I carry intelligence of the English brought to Bilbao at great risk.

The captain smiled. Sit down, lieutenant, and tell me who took this great risk.

A spy, Sir. A devoted Catholic, a patriot of Spain." García attempted to mold his face into a grim mask.

Tell me, are we about to be fallen upon by the English heretics, do their fleets approach our coast, is an invasion in the cards? His tone was light, but not without respect as he continued to size up this stranger.

No, Sir. My message is more general. García, not much over thirty and with black hair that tended to curl slightly and the dark intelligent eyes, settled into his chair and placed the dog on the floor. His name is Poncho. He motioned toward the animal.

The dog knew well that his name was Pierre and wondered why his master now called him Poncho. The confusion mounted in the canine head, a head inclined toward logical thought. Logical thought, yes, but inside that small head was a mischievous spirit of adventure, and the dog was imagining that the stage was set and the show was about to begin.

The captain nodded and smiled slightly. The animal had eyes like dark marbles, partially obscured by hair. There was a lively intelligence about him, this Poncho. I do not see a dispatch case. Have you left it in the care of your horse?

No, Captain. My report is in my head. I stop here on a courtesy call and, if at all possible, could you spare a couple of troopers to accompany me to Madrid?

Are there no troops in Bilbao?

Sad, but true. There has been sickness there and recruiting problems. Bilbao is undermanned.

It was an old story and probably true. But there was something bizarre about this young lieutenant and Poncho. The captain’s mind was quick, and he had hit upon his answer instantly, but he would wait.

We will dine together, and in the morning we will see what we will see.

García rose, snapped to attention, saluted, then picked up his dog.

You must bathe and nap before dinner. Your journey has been long. My man will show you to the facilities.

Morning came too early. A servant woke García at first light. The evening with Captain Delgado had been of great interest, a lesson in current events, many trivial items that García knew nothing of, plus the great topics that kept all of Europe abuzz. They talked of Spain’s near bankruptcy despite the masses of gold and silver pouring in from the New World, of the English corsairs that preyed on the treasure ships, and of King Felipe II and how Spain stood as a world leader in this year, 1586. In his younger years on the throne, the king had acted with the patience and reserve of an older man. Now as an older man, he was showing the audacity and risk taking of the very young.

In turn, García told the captain about his younger life, much of it spent in splendid isolation. He had also pulled a document from his tunic for the captain’s examination, a document that linked García with one of the noblest of Spanish families, a document that would have permitted him to use the title of Don if he had so chosen. The importance of family was not lost on Captain Delgado.

Following a solitary breakfast of eggs, ham and fried bread, Delgado appeared accompanied by Lieutenant Hidalgo, both men looking well rested and in crisp attire.

You will have your two troopers, the captain announced. And I have prevailed upon the lieutenant to accompany you as well. It has been years since he has seen Madrid.

Poncho, aka Pierre, who was wrestling the last shred of meat from a hambone while seated in a chair beside his master, pricked up his ears. Here was something of interest that held the possibility of evil. He had distrusted Lieutenant Hidalgo at first sight. Call it canine instinct, but there it was, a first warning. Not that the small Yorkie had any knowledge of his master’s total plan.

Very good, García responded, Can we leave at once?

Even as we speak, the captain smiled, horses are being saddled and a pack animal prepared. You will be in Madrid in only a matter of days.

From Santander, set by the Bay of Biscay, there was a fair road leading almost directly south to Madrid. Many hamlets dotted the road along the trip, but only one city of any proportion, Burgos, stood on the major crossroads between Miranda de Ebro and Valladolid. The only geographic barrier was a mountain range just north of Madrid.

And so the four of them rode south enjoying the fine weather, the two lieutenants and the two troopers, chatting and bonding as the days passed. The dog, ever present, listened and learned, grasping his master’s overall intent, but unable to discern the final objective.

A high point for García was reaching the Camino de Santiago, the pilgrim’s trail that ran from St.-Jean-Pied-de-Port in the French Pyrenees for 500 miles to the northern Spanish city of Santiago. Pilgrims seeking religious points have trod the trail since the ninth century when the burial place of St. James the Apostle was said to have been discovered in a Roman-era tomb.

They took shelter in one of the many refugios along the path, this one adjoining a Benedictine convent. That afternoon menacing Griffon vultures with eight-foot wingspans circled the four travelers for more than an hour causing one of the troopers to frequently glance skyward and cross himself. He was the one named Jesus, a short sturdy man with what appeared to be one bad eye, although he never seemed to lack for sight. When not menaced by giant birds he had a ready smile and quick wit. García took an instant liking to him, taking him to be a man who would stand by you in a tight spot. He would get to know Jesus better as the days passed into weeks.

It was just after sighting the Griffons, possibly triggered by those great birds who brought a spiritual quality to the march, that Pedro had a moment of truth, or a moment of fear, call it what you will, but a sudden chill, a feeling of complete loneliness in an alien world at a time in history he did not fully understand.

But one could say he understood it more than anyone alive in Spain on that lovely day, in that epic era. You see, this was García the time traveler, a man who had stumbled across a formula to move from the 21st Century back to the late 1500s.

A persistent nagging thought was, Can I do anything to change history, and, if so, do I want to?

As a boy García had learned Spanish from his mother who taught it in high school. In their youth both parents had been hippie types who had traveled in a flower painted VW bus throughout Mexico and the U.S. southwest. Growing up, García (not his real name) had spent long, dreamy vacations in Oaxaca and Isla Mujeres in Mexico, plus other destinations south.

It was only natural that García, after a hitch in the Marines, had become both a Spanish and history major, with a doctorate in Spanish history. During his studies and vacations he often found himself in Spain. During one of these outings he discovered time travel documents in a long forgotten, dusty Spanish archive. Did he copy them? No. Although generally honest and ethical, he shoved the documents inside his shirt and walked off.

His prime fascination as a scholar and an adventurer was with that greatest adventure, the Spanish Armada.

CHAPTER TWO

When the mountains had been crossed and the small party passed the checkpoint and entered Madrid, Poncho was still certain Hidalgo had been sent along as a spy, but so skillfully had his master played the role, drinking and card playing in taverns along the way, he seemed now an ally.

Madrid was the major power center, but Felipe’s palace-monastery, a good day’s ride from Madrid, often held the crown and court. Valladolid, the royal city where Felipe II was born, and Granada, were centers of the higher judiciary.

Madrid and El Escorial, the palace, would become familiar places to the two lieutenants in the coming weeks. These were exciting times; the very air seemed charged with intrigue.

What now? García asked, as they traveled the streets of the city toward the royal palace. He had come to rely on Hidalgo, who was at least five years older and a veteran in the ways of the military and its role in the great scheme of things.

We will drop the troopers off at a barracks, then find suitable quarters ourselves among the officers. Tomorrow we will approach the palace and learn just who will look after your information.

King Felipe, of course, García said.

Hidalgo chuckled. Of course not. The King has many advisors. He will not bother with a mere lieutenant. Just how high up the pecking order we go is a matter of speculation.

García heaved a sigh of relief. Confronting the King was not part of his plan. His plan was to get a foothold at court and then find the person he sought. And tomorrow should see his program start to bear fruit.

But tomorrow seemed to be at best a week hence. The two lieutenants were shuffled from office to office until the size of the royal bureaucracy boggled the mind. Hidalgo would smile and whisper, This is what the treasures of the New World have birthed, a plague of parasitic bureaucrats.

There were compensations. They found themselves well housed and well fed and at least, temporarily, shirttail members of the court. It was at one of the nightly social gatherings that García found the person he sought — the one cause that had sent him on this personal pilgrimage.

The next morning he confessed to Hidalgo. The love of my life appeared before me last night.

Hidalgo smiled. Too much wine and tough beef. You had bad dreams, my friend?

No. In the flesh. A dream, yes. But fleshed out. The beautiful Doña Juanita Tera. I knew I would find her. It was my dream to come to Madrid and find this woman.

Somehow you knew this woman was here? A puzzled, bemused glance.

No, García replied. I knew I would find my dream woman. A woman of consummate purity.

You came to Madrid to find a pure woman? Hidalgo questioned incredulously. You might just as well seek a virgin in a bordello. Court life has unhinged your brain. Get some sleep. Take a cold bath. He opened the decanter and poured himself some wine, gesturing to García, but the younger man declined.

You don’t comprehend. The young lady, probably in her late teens, has led an impeccable lifestyle. She is always accompanied by a dueña, thus purity is assured.

Hidalgo shrugged. Such chaperones can be bribed. A piece or two of silver. A bottle of wine. A sweet cake. They often hate their charges and pray for their transgressions.

I am a man of the world and understand such things, García said. But in this case, I think you are wrong.

The Yorkie, now dubbed Poncho, had been awake listening, moving his ears, large in proportion to his small body, attempting to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Unfortunately for him, it was his master’s habit to shut him in the room during the nighttime festivities.

But now the dog knew everything, or so he thought. The entire plan was revealed. Many times he had thought that his master, the man who now called himself Pedro García, would take a wife. He had considered this and wondered if he could survive such a mating. But yes, it was inevitable and for the best. In fact he put the idea in García’s head. But in seeking such purity his master had placed himself in perilous straits. This Hidalgo, for one, was not to be trusted. Hidalgo was full of envy, but what could a mere dog do. Poncho would watch and wait.

The dog was not entirely divorced from the romantic side of life. He had slipped out from under his master’s control more than once and gotten a couple of bitches in trouble. Then there was his almost total recall of past lives; colorful, yes, but sometimes ending in sordid disillusionment. Not that this life was so bad. He did have deep affection and respect for his master, half-baked as some of his thinking might be. And he was always fed, pampered, bathed, given a soft bed, always petted and cuddled. Yes, he would endure this dog’s life until something better came along.

Two days later García was summoned to the office of a deputy of the Spanish Secret Service. It was a pleasant morning as García walked to the appointed office. Birds sang, soft breezes stirred the trees and García pondered how wondrous slow the Spanish wheels turn. But this was the age of sailing ships and horsepower. It was wonderful to contemplate the sweetness of life, yet there was the harsh reality of the Inquisition that revealed the darker side of persons in high places who wished to remain so.

I understand you bring news of the English heretics? the deputy said, once García was seated. There had been no introductions and García assumed that was standard policy in the secret service world. They were meeting on a spy-to-spy basis.

I do, García replied. He hesitated, not knowing just what status his questioner commanded. Finally he asked, Are you the one I should talk with?

Of course. Any message you bring, if it is considered of consequence, will find its way to the King. Our security mills grind slowly, but they are precise. Talk freely.

Fine. It seemed to me the information was general, yet the man who brought it deemed it of great importance.

And why didn’t that man himself accompany you to Madrid? It was a good question, one that García had anticipated.

He called himself Orbigo. You know that name?

The deputy smiled. Yes, it is the name of a river. But he did not add that secret service spies often used the names of rivers or mountains.

García raised his hands as if puzzled. Perhaps he has a river of information. What he said was simply this: The English queen, Elizabeth, is unpopular. The people are on the brink of rebellion. The royal coffers are almost empty. Many loyal Catholics would rise and fight by our side. The time is right to send a fleet to sea and destroy the English heretics. He also suggested that Spain’s friend, Mary Stuart (Mary Queen of Scots), might be in jeopardy from Elizabeth. If friendly troops could be transported across the channel from the Netherlands, they would make short work of the English heretics.

This information would seem to complement information we have from other sources. But again, where is this man, this Orbigo?

He was aboard a merchant ship that touched shore for only a day. It was important, he said, that he rejoin the vessel and return to England. But he did give me a token, although it seemed strange to me. Saying that, García dug into his pocket and produced a small round of metal bearing a strange device.

He passed it across the desk and the deputy examined it briefly, noting the outline of a bull’s head with three stars marking the spots where eyes and nose should be. The deputy dropped the piece into a drawer. You have done well, Lieutenant García. The information you have delivered will be passed along. A bottle was produced and two small glasses filled with sherry. Let us drink to the confusion of our enemy, the English heretics. They touched glasses and downed the warming liquid. Then the meeting was over and García found himself once more at liberty without a hint of what he should do next.

Poncho was waiting when he returned to his lodging. As was his custom he placed the small dog on his lap and recounted the day’s activities. Sometimes he believed the Yorkie could understand his words. And sometimes Poncho wondered if García could get along without him. He had helped his master many times in the past and his persistent goal was to see his master safely married to a woman who could offer some guidance. Poncho was keenly aware that a dog’s life was limited and he would not be around forever to protect the guileless García.

Presently, Hidalgo returned to the lodging and García told him what had occurred and sought to learn what might happen next.

We wait, Hidalgo said. It was the Spanish way. And during that wait, García