No sooner had word of his expedition been leaked to the court than dozens of courtiers began to approach him, begging that they might have a place on his voyage. When news reached the ears of King Henry, who was still enthralled by his South American captive, he thought it such a splendid project that he gave it his unconditional blessing and support. Hore was ‘assisted by the king’s favour and good countenance’, and began to sign up men for the greatest adventure of their lives. ‘His perswasions tooke such effect that within a short space, many gentlemen of the Innes of Court, and of the Chancerie, and divers others of good worship, desirous to see the strange things of the world, very willingly entred into the action with him.’ Thirty ‘gentlemen’ signed up for the voyage, many of them from rich and distinguished families. Armigil Wade was a close acquaintance of the king; Thomas Buts was a son of the wealthy Sir William Buts; William Wade was Clerk of the Council, and Master Weekes was ‘a gentleman of the West Countrey of five hundred markes by the yeere’. All of these men, the cream of Tudor society, were delighted to be taking part in such an historical adventure. Reckless, fearless, and foolhardy, they eschewed the comfort of their gabled manors for a place on a unique expedition whose purpose was as swashbuckling as it was daring: to capture one of the ‘savages’ of North America. They willingly poured money into the venture and, by February 1536, Richard Hore had raised enough capital to begin negotiations to hire two small ships, the William and the Trinity.

If Hore had given as much attention to the voyage as he had to publicising the venture, he might have realised that he was placing himself and his companions in the gravest danger. He did not think to carry out even a cursory check on the seaworthiness of the vessels, nor did he have the foresight to calculate the quantity of dried victuals needed to feed 120 sailors for an expedition that was certain to last three months, and possibly many more. Relying on the trusty formula of good wind and good luck, he took his men to receive the sacrament in Gravesend church and, with the breezes urging them to get under way, ‘they embarked themselves in the ende of Aprill, 1536.’

The two vessels made a splendid sight as they cruised majestically down the Thames estuary, their foremasts decked with bunting and their mainmasts flying the George. The adventurers were dressed in such finery that the onlookers could have been forgiven for supposing them to be en route to a royal wedding: silk-brimmed hats adorned with ostrich plumes, gaudy popinjay waistcoats, and square-toed shoes slashed with velvet. But scarcely had the men entered the turbulent waters of the English Channel than it became clear that their cosseted backgrounds had done little to prepare them for the hardships of life at sea.