Armada

CHAPTER 11

2nd June 1588. Plymouth, England.

Robert watched from the poop deck of his galleon as the standard of the Lord Admiral, Charles Howard, was raised above the flagship, the Ark Royal. A cheer went up around the fleet and Robert looked to Drake’s ship, the Revenge, moored alongside the flagship. It was flying a vice-admiral’s standard and altogether some sixty fighting ships were now moored in Plymouth harbour. With dozens of smaller ships in support the fleet looked formidable. However the outward display of power belied an inner fragility.

Over the previous months Drake had done everything humanly possible to prepare the fleet. Nonetheless one area continued to elude his mastery —supplies. The men were already on reduced rations, and in such a weakened state they were easy quarry for pestilence. Robert could only hope that the arrival of such a senior officer as Howard might improve the situation.

Coupled with this, the fleet still had no reliable intelligence as to the disposition of the Spanish Armada. Rumours continued to flood into Plymouth, preying on the nerves of every man, and Robert, like all his crew, craved the order to make sail. It was widely known that Drake was actively canvassing for a pre-emptive strike similar to his daring raid of a year before. Robert supported the plan, preferring it to the unbearable strain of waiting. Howard had the authority to order such an attack. With reports circulating that the admiral had arranged for a further squadron of forty ships, under Lord Henry Seymour, to guard the Straits of Dover, there was every chance the fleet could put to sea when sufficient supplies were secured.

Robert turned his back on the flagship and went down to the quarterdeck. The summer heat was rising and his shirt was drenched with sweat under his jerkin and doublet. His stomach ached. He ignored the protest and with annoyance he scratched a flea bite on the back of his arm. A latent anger, caused by weeks of tension, suddenly rose within him. Where were the cursed Spanish? Had they sailed from Lisbon? Were they now off Cape Finisterre, or Biscay, or Ushant? Perhaps their plans had changed. Perhaps the reports that had reached Plymouth were false and the Spanish were sailing to Ireland to incite rebellion there.

He looked to the heights above the protective headlands of the harbour. Each one was capped with primed signal fires. Similar beacons had been placed along the length of the south coast. If the Armada was sighted they would be lit and the news would speed to London and beyond to the entire kingdom. But what then? Robert had confidence in the Retribution and her crew. His ship was a breed apart, faster and more nimble than any craft the Spanish possessed. But many of the enemy ships were behemoths, built for the rigors of the mid-Atlantic. The Retribution and her sister ships would be like terriers nipping at the heels of wolfhounds, and should any English ship fall within grappling range they would be quickly overwhelmed.

Robert tried to suppress his doubts, knowing they were caused by the weeks of anxious waiting and the never ending supply problems. The future was not yet written, it was in the hands of God. Robert strived to impose his personal convictions upon the battle ahead. For his whole adult life he had sought ways to regain his family name and honour. He had lost hope many times, but through prayer and faith he had always recovered his way. The battle ahead was no different. The victory was not assured. All they had was hope, but Robert had to believe that with God’s help they would prevail.

‘All hands!’ Evardo roared, a wave of seawater taking the last of his words. ‘All hands on deck!’

The Santa Clara shuddered beneath him as she tore over the crest of a wave, her storm tops’ls bearing her onward. Evardo spat the seawater from his mouth and looked to the four points of his ship. The storm was on all sides, enraging the sea with a bitter wind that whipped the surface into a hellish trial for the Armada. Evardo could see distant sails behind him to the south-west, running broad reach before the wind. The stern of the Santa Clara shifted a point to starboard, the wind clawing at her towering castles.

‘Steady your helm,’ Evardo shouted instinctively, his command echoed by the sailing captain, Mendez.

A sailor ran up to the quarterdeck. ‘The level of water in the main hold has risen to three feet, Comandante.’

Evardo pushed past him and staggered to the forward rail. A wave crashed over the bulwark, swamping the main deck.

‘More men to the pumps,’ he roared.

Through the rain soaked air he could see Nathaniel Young standing with his arm locked around the distant foremast. The Englishman had been on deck for every waking hour since the Armada had left Lisbon, and had continued his vigil throughout the storm. Such action spoke of some inner fire. In a quiet corner of his mind, Evardo wondered what specifically could fuel such grim determination.

‘Land ho,’ a voice called and Evardo followed the signal of the masthead lookout.

‘The Isles of Scilly,’ Mendez shouted, his hand cupped over his mouth.

Evardo wiped the spray from his eyes to focus on the low lying islands. The south-west tip of England, hidden by the storm, was some thirty miles east-north-east from the archipelago. They were so close, but as Evardo scanned the sea around the Santa Clara he could see they were all but alone. The storm had scattered the Armada like chaff. He could not go on and worse still his ship might be spotted by the enemy, alerting them to the relative position of the Armada.

‘Two points to port,’ he shouted and Mendez ordered more men to the rigging.

The Santa Clara turned her bow away from the Isles of Scilly towards southern Ireland. Evardo leaned into the turn and lifted his face heavenward to pray for a wind that would allow him to bring his ship back to La Coruña to rendezvous with the flagship, and for a change in the ill-fortune they had already suffered since leaving Lisbon.

The journey up the coast of Portugal had been tortuously slow. From the outset the Armada had been plagued by contrary winds, forcing them to continually tack to stay on course. The Santa Clara, and the galleons like her, had taken to the task with ease, but the pace of the fleet was dictated by the slowest moving vessels. The twenty-three massive merchant hulks, the auxiliary ships of the fleet, were unwieldy leviathans with abysmal sailing qualities.

During the two weeks it had taken them to sight Cape Finisterre, Evardo had been given the chance to study the ships of the rest of the fleet as they sailed about him. Some of the largest of these were the eleven ships of the Levant squadron. Designed for grain and other bulk transport in the Mediterranean, many of them were near and over 1,000 tons. They had been commandeered over the previous year and were now heavily armed and crammed with soldiers. With such overwhelming manpower they would have an incredible advantage in close-quarter fighting and despite their mainly Italian crew, whom Evardo considered inferior to Spanish sailors, he was confident that no English ship would be able to survive a boarding attack from a Levanter.

The squadron of Portugal contained many of the foremost battleships of the Armada and was headed by the San Martin, Medina Sidonia’s flagship. Some of these vessels had been acquired by Spain when Portugal was annexed but the others had been built on the King’s orders to protect Portuguese trading routes. All were heavily armed, with the 1,000 ton San Martin alone boasting some 48 guns, the heaviest capable of firing a 30 pound iron shot.

From the Basque ports of Spain, the Armada had requisitioned twenty large and sturdy trading ships which made up the squadrons of Guipúzcoa and Biscay. As with the Levanters, the armament of each ship had been considerably enhanced and soldiers now occupied every available space on board, in many cases tripling the size of the ships’ original crew.

The overall deployment of the fleet had been minutely planned, with each ship assigned a place in the designated battle formations. The hulks and support ships were to remain in strict formation, surrounded by the heavily armed merchantmen. Any active defence against the enemy would be carried out by the warships of the fleet, the Santa Clara amongst them. However, she would not sail with her sister ships of the squadron of Castile. The squadrons were for administrative purposes only. The warships were to act as independent fighters, holding position in the fleet when they could, but at all times capable of detaching to defend themselves or any vessel under attack.

Such flexibility would allow for maximum protection of the transport ships carrying vital supplies to Parma’s invasion force and King Philip, though Medina Sidonia, had consistently impressed upon all commanders that the aim of the Armada was not to attack and defeat the English fleet, but rather to hold them at bay and defend the crossing of the Army of Flanders. Only after Parma had landed on the English coast would the Armada be free to engage.

Only one squadron was expected to fight as a unit, one elite group under Don Hugo de Moncada —the squadron of Neapolitan galleasses. These four hybrid ships had a galley-like hull and galleon-like rigging, combining oar and sail to create a deadly predator that reigned supreme in coastal waters. Heavily armed, they were painted blood red. Their sails depicted a bloody sword and the rowers had each been issued with a red jacket, all to inspire fear amongst the crew of any ship that dared to stand against them.

Evardo now searched the spray torn horizon for any flash of red that might betray the fate of those galleasses. The storm had transformed the seascape into an endless series of towering rollers. Outside the range of a dozen miles, it would be impossible to see the low hulled galleasses and Evardo could only hope they would weather the tempest.

A sudden cold shiver fouled his thoughts and Evardo stepped back into the lee of a bulkhead. He had been on deck for more hours than he could count. He was exhausted, every joint in his body ached and his face stung from the lash of the salt riven wind. He leaned against the bulkhead, weak from hunger, and for a moment imagined the comfort of a warm meal and his cot in the main cabin. He mercilessly suppressed the reverie and ordered himself to step forward to the centre of the quarterdeck. He had to tolerate what the rest of the crew were enduring and he angrily rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. He could not go below. He was duty bound to stay on deck, and no such meal existed on any ship in the Armada.

Within days of leaving Lisbon Evardo began receiving alarming reports from his quartermaster that most of the ration barrels he had opened contained rotten food and fouled water. The barrels were of poor quality, the timber staves too green to form a proper seal. It was a further repercussion of Drake’s raid on Cadiz over a year before, for one of his prizes had been a trader carrying seasoned barrel staves to Lisbon. Its loss had forced the suppliers to use inferior stock. In the rush to prepare the Armada for sea, the state of the arriving rations had been overlooked. Evardo had been left with no choice but to dump the fetid rations overboard.

The crisis was repeated on every ship in the Armada and Medina Sidonia had issued a fleet-wide order for reduced rations. The duke then sent word ahead to the provincial governor of Galicia, ordering him to send out supplies when the fleet reached Cape Finisterre. But the rendezvous with the supply ships was never made and after five days of waiting off the cape, while a favourable wind finally arrived to bear the fleet northward to the entrance of the English Channel, Medina Sidonia had been compelled to order the Armada into La Coruña to restock.

It was a bitter and frustrating set-back, one Evardo had felt keenly, but he had taken heart from the fact that the diversion would be just a delay, not realizing that the Spanish fleet was poised for an even greater blow. Before darkness fell, Medina Sidonia had managed to lead thirty-five ships into the harbour of La Coruña. The remainder of the fleet had been obliged to remain off shore and await the light of dawn before making their approach. It was during that night that the storm had unexpectedly arrived, tearing out of the south-west of the deep Atlantic to scatter the fleet beyond the furthest reaches of the Bay of Biscay.

‘Helm answering new course,’ Mendez shouted near at hand. ‘New heading north-north-west.’

Evardo nodded grimly and glanced over his shoulder at the rain swept outline of the Isles of Scilly as they passed abaft of the Santa Clara. With fortune’s favour, he would see them again soon, but until then he could do nothing but wait for the storm to relent.

Robert leaned out over the gunwale of the quarterdeck and drank in the cool breeze blowing over the larboard quarter. He filled his lungs, savouring the taste of the open sea air and checked the line of the hull as it cut through the racing waves. The galleons of the English fleet surrounded him on all sides and Robert smiled as he spotted his nearest companion, the Antelope, taking advantage of the fair wind by laying on extra sail.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert called. ‘Main top gallants, ho!’

‘Main top gallants aye, Captain,’ the master replied and men were sent dashing to the rigging.

With a critical eye Robert checked the trim of his ship, finding no flaw in the master’s work, and his gaze wandered once more to the ships sailing on the flanks of the Retribution. The fleet was bearing south with Howard in the van, following his order, and Drake’s plan, for a pre-emptive strike against the Armada.

For long days a terrible south-westerly storm had savaged the waters off Plymouth, reinforcing the supply-induced captivity of the English fleet. In its wake a strong northerly wind had blown up, a fresh and constant breeze that seemed to implore the crews to raise sail and go on the offensive. Hamstrung by short rations, the fleet had continued to wait but then, on the 3rd July, a full month’s supply of rations arrived in Plymouth.

The crews had spent that entire night frantically restocking their ships. The following morning Howard had raised his standard and led the fleet out through the protective headlands of Plymouth. The wind had proved fickle. Squalls had threatened the fleet’s progress off the Scillies and again north-west of Ushant, but the skies had eventually cleared to a deep blue and the clouds now raced in irregular shreds ahead of the fleet.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert called. ‘What’s our position?’

‘About 120 nautical miles north-north-east of The Groyne, Captain.’

Robert nodded. The Retribution was making close to eight knots. Fifteen hours would see them at the door to the Armada’s lair.

‘All hands, clear the decks for action.’

The crew reacted instantly to Robert’s command and the ship came alive with the sound of shouted orders from junior officers.

During the south-westerly storm, reports had been received in Plymouth from the Scillies telling of numerous distant towering sails. There could be little doubt, the Armada was at sea in the Bay of Biscay. The English fleet commanders had devised that the same wind that now hastened the English south had probably blown the Armada back to one of its home ports. In these waters that meant The Groyne, the port the Spanish called La Coruña. With luck they were still there, neatly docked and ripe for the taking.

Robert watched the crew at work. Each man knew his task and they moved without comment or pause. Their bellies were full, their weapons primed and a strong breeze bore them on. The Retribution was as ready as Robert could make her. She was a weapon poised for the fight and Robert felt the first stirrings of battle lust in his chest. His doubts were forgotten, banished by action and the future that raced towards him. The reasons his men fought would become his own and his would become theirs, their common bond as Englishmen overcoming all others.

Evardo drummed his fingers impatiently on the gunwale as he watched the supply laden patache approach. She was the last one and Evardo looked to the main deck of the Santa Clara where the quartermaster was sorting the fresh supplies that had already been received before ordering them down into the hold.

‘Captain Mendez,’ Evardo called. ‘Inform the quartermaster that he is to speed his progress and clear the main deck for the next load. I will brook no delays.’

‘Yes, Comandante,’ Mendez replied and he hurried from the quarterdeck.

Evardo began pacing the deck. His ship had been one of the last to reach La Coruña. She was therefore not yet fully restocked and Evardo feared that the order to sail might come before he was ready to answer the call.

Not a single vessel or life had been lost in the storm and Medina Sidonia had insisted that God had watched over them all, declaring His intervention to be a miracle. Despite this assertion however, and the fresh supplies that were already banishing the last of any sickness amongst the crews, the morale of the men remained low. The duke had recognized this and ordered the men of each ship to land on the island of San Antón in the harbour to have their confessions heard and receive a blessing. Evardo had believed it to be a clever move, a reaffirmation that the men were carrying out God’s will, but the fact that Medina Sidonia had insisted the ceremony take place on an island had not escaped him. If they had been allowed on the mainland some of the men would have undoubtedly tried to desert.

Evardo ran his hand along the sea-worn timber of the gunwale. The Santa Clara was a good ship. She had weathered the storm well and protected the lives of her crew. There was little more Evardo could ask of her. In return he would protect her in battle, save her as much as possible from the shot and fire of the enemy before bringing her alongside her prey. The English galleons would not be an easy target but Evardo trusted the mettle of his men. They may be downhearted, but a few days of good fortune would quickly raise their spirits and the sight of the enemy would put fire in their blood.

‘Zabra approaching off the starboard beam.’

Evardo rushed to the other side of the quarterdeck. The small dispatch ship was coming up fast. The commander of the squadron of Castile, de Valdés, was in the bow.

Earlier that morning Evardo had watched the senior officers in their pataches sailing to the flagship, the San Martin. A council of war had been convened and once again Evardo glanced at the supplies being loaded onto the Santa Clara. De Valdés came quickly alongside.

‘Ready your ship, Comandante Morales,’ he shouted from the zabra. ‘We sail for England on the next favourable tide!’

The crew on deck cheered at the news and Evardo waved a reply to his commander. He looked to the banners on the masthead of the Santa Clara. They were barely stirring in the feeble wind. He had time. Evardo called for the men on the main deck to redouble their efforts. The order had been given. At any time the wind that would bear the Armada to England might arise and Evardo was determined that the Santa Clara would be ready for the fight.

Robert cursed loudly and spat over the side onto the still waters surrounding the Retribution. The sea mocked his scorn and continued to lap against the hull while the sun reflected off the smooth undulating surface as it shone from a clear blue sky. For three days the wind had blown steadily from the north, bearing the fleet on like an arrow loosed from a bow, but then, not sixty miles from La Coruña, it had suddenly died, leaving the English fleet becalmed.

Robert shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun and gazed about at the fleet, searching to see if any of their sails showed signs of catching an errant breeze. He could hear the undertones of his ship, the steady creak of timbers and the mixture of voices below decks, muffled and absorbed by the hull. The ship’s bell rang eight times, marking the beginning of the first dog watch.

Near at hand Seeley called out the order for the change and bare feet thudded across the decks as men went to relieve their crewmates.

‘I’ve ordered more men to the fighting tops to act as lookouts, Captain,’ the master said, and Robert nodded his agreement. So close to the Spanish coast, they were liable to be seen by a local trader or fisherman and any surprise they might hope to have over the Armada would be lost. Robert smiled sardonically to himself. If they did see a Spanish vessel in the distance, without a favourable wind, there was little they could do to stop them escaping.

‘Sixty miles,’ Seeley spat. ‘If the wind had held we’d be in The Groyne now.’

‘Patience, Thomas,’ Robert said, although he keenly felt the frustration of having been denied the chance to take the fight to Spanish waters. ‘We still have time.’

A flash of movement caught Robert’s eye. One of the masthead banners had rippled open and collapsed once more. The air stirred, caressing his cheek.

‘Quarterdeck, ho,’ a shout came from the top of the main mast. ‘Wind coming up!’

Robert felt it again and this time the masthead banners snapped out with the force of the gust before wilting.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert called. ‘Get ’em aloft.’

‘All hands of the watch, to the rigging!’

The wind gusted again and the smaller top gallant sails began to take shape.

‘We have ’em.’ Seeley smiled.

Robert stayed silent. He looked to the sun and checked his bearings. The fleet had been becalmed in the featureless sea for over twenty-four hours and in that time the ships had drifted and spun with the subtle undercurrents of the water. The wind was still to their backs, but their bows were no longer pointing at La Coruña, they were pointing northwards, to England. Robert looked to Seeley. He was no longer smiling and Robert saw the delayed awareness dawn on his face.

‘God in His Heaven,’ Seeley muttered. ‘It’s a southerly wind.’

The sails began to fill as the wind stiffened and all around the Retribution, the ships of the English fleet began to get underway. The fortune that had carried them south had been exhausted sixty miles from their destination. Now it had been neatly reversed and Robert ordered all hands on deck to lay on every inch of sail.

If it held, the wind would carry them all the way home to Plymouth, but in remaining true it would also swiftly bear the Spanish Armada from port and send them hard on their heels. The plan to fight the Spanish in their home waters was no more. The enemy now held the advantage and the battle to come would be fought in the English Channel, with the men of Elizabeth’s navy standing with their backs to the very coastline they were sworn to defend.