Armada

CHAPTER 13

2 a.m. 31st July 1588. Plymouth, England.

The crewmen of the Retribution grunted and strained through the pull, their backs bent against the bars of the capstan, shoulders bunched and muscles trembling as inch by inch, foot by foot, the anchor rope snaked in through the hawsehole. Seawater streamed from the rope, each drop catching and reflecting the dull lantern light that illuminated the low ceilinged gun deck. The air was musky with the smell of sweat and the bare-chested men cursed and cajoled the dead weight they pulled against as they slowly marched in a fixed circle.

Robert watched them without comment, studying each man, searching for signs of weakness. He indicated one of the men to Shaw and the boatswain tapped the sailor on the shoulder, signalling him to step out from the bar. Another rushed forward from the waiting ranks to take his place, maintaining the strength of the whole. Robert glanced at the relieved man. He was doubled over, breathing heavily and Robert acknowledged his hard work with a curt nod. On all sides the crew continued to shout encouragement to those men at the bars. They laboured on, not to lift the anchor, but to haul the entire weight of the 450 ton Retribution.

Like a lighted taper cast into an arsenal, the arrival of the Golden Hind in Plymouth harbour the evening before had set the English fleet ablaze with frenetic activity. Every ship had immediately cleared their decks for action but the order to sally out could not be given. The tide had been in full flood, rushing against them through the outer headlands and the English crews had been forced to wait in agonizing dread of a Spanish blockading attack. By God’s grace it had never materialized. When the tide finally turned before midnight the crews had cheered the order to make all haste out of the lethal confines of Plymouth harbour.

Without an assisting wind the ships were warping out of the harbour with the ebb tide. It was a laborious and excruciatingly slow process. The ship’s anchor was carried forward in the longboat to the full extent of the line before being dropped overboard. Once secured, the line was then hauled in, dragging the ship forward using the strength of the crew. More than half the fleet had already completed the task and were now waiting in the lee of Rame Head.

Robert sensed the Retribution shift beneath him and the men at the capstan moved more swiftly as the anchor gave way from the seabed below them. The galleon continued to move slowly with the current of the tide. The anchor cleared the surface and Seeley was immediately on hand with the longboat. Robert looked through the hawsehole. ‘Veer away the line!’

The men lowered the anchor slowly into the small boat. The rope slackened and as Seeley urged the rowers to pull away, Robert went aloft to the quarterdeck.

‘This should be the last time, Captain,’ Miller said in the darkness.

Robert scanned the four points of his ship. ‘Keep a firm hand on her, Mister Miller.’

The risks of manoeuvring a ship in the midst of a fleet at night were significant. The older man nodded reassuringly. So far the fleet had come out in good order, without a collision, and Miller would be damned if his charge should suffer such a humiliating fate.

Robert heard the call from Seeley in the black waters ahead and the Retribution steadied on her outward course as the men took the strain in the anchor line once more. Dawn was not four hours away and in the near darkness Robert could see the silhouettes of the ships gathered in the cusp of Rame Head. Once a sufficient number were gathered Howard would order them to sea. The wind was blowing west-north-west, abaft the stern castles of the Armada, giving them the weather gauge, the advantage, should any ship attempt to stand before them. The English had to wrestle that advantage back.

Evardo listened in the night to the calls and commands from the ships surrounding the Santa Clara. In the glow of running lights men were working feverishly on final preparations. The Armada was now firmly in hostile waters. Earlier that day a fishing boat from Falmouth had been captured and under pain of torture the crew had revealed that the English fleet commanded by Howard and Drake was poised to sail from Plymouth. The enemy were nigh and all suspected that dawn would see the English fleet arrayed in battle formation before them.

Barefooted sailors rushed past Evardo under the whip crack of Mendez’s voice. On the poop and fore decks Alvarado and de Córdoba were assigning positions to their musketeers, ensuring that all would be ready when the call to arms was given. The captains were standing apart from their men, commanding them without lending assistance. They were gentlemen and would not engage in physical labour.

Evardo watched his crew with pride. They were strong and eager for the fight, replenished by the supplies loaded at La Coruña and inspired by the righteousness of their cause. Hours before, at dusk, Padre Garza had led the ship’s boys in a recital of the Ave Maria on the main deck. All the crew had attended, and many had sought absolution, while afterwards the padre had conducted a private mass for the senior officers and guests on board. On the eve of certain battle, in the comandante’s cabin of his own galleon, it was one of the most beautiful services that Evardo had ever attended. Now, standing on the quarterdeck, he felt the power of God’s favour.

Evardo prayed for that favour to be extended to the entire fleet. Strong winds had carried the Armada swiftly across the Bay of Biscay, but the fleet had been subjected to the lash of one last storm as it approached the English coast. That tempest had cost the Armada the four Portuguese galleys sailing under the command of Don Diego Medrano. Their shallow draft, which allowed for close inshore support of a landing, secured their place in the fleet, but it was their undoing in heavy seas. Although Medina Sidonia had sent pataches to stand by and assist the galleys during the storm, they had disappeared during the night.

A more mysterious casualty had been the 768 ton carrack, Santa Ana, the lead ship in the Biscayan squadron. With 30 guns and more than 400 men, she was one of the most heavily armed fighting ships of the fleet. She was a stout vessel with an experienced crew and her disappearance during the storm had been seen as a bad omen by many of Evardo’s crew. He had tried to quell their unease, enlisting the help of Padre Garza, but the unnerving fact remained that before a single shot had been fired in anger, the Armada had lost five valuable fighting ships.

‘Comandante Morales…’ Nathaniel Young approached. ‘I wanted to thank you for inviting me to mass in your cabin.’

‘You are welcome, your grace,’ Evardo replied genially.

Over the previous weeks Evardo had remained true to his conviction to see past the English duke’s nationality and treat him as a fellow Catholic. Their initial terse conversations had swiftly given way to mutual respect.

‘Truly God’s hand is upon us this night,’ Nathaniel said, gazing at the myriad lights that surrounded the Santa Clara.

‘But I pray that from hereon the weather will be our ally,’ Evardo remarked.

‘On the wicked he will rain fiery coals and burning sulphur; a scorching wind will be their lot,’ Nathaniel quoted from the psalms. ‘The heretic Queen’s fleet will know a tempest far deadlier than any born of the sea.’

Evardo nodded in agreement and looked along the length of his galleon, checking her position in relation to the surrounding ships.

The fleet was sailing in ‘line of march’ formation. To the fore was the vanguard of fighting ships under Don Alonso de Levia, including the Santa Clara. Medina Sidonia commanded the centre, the main battle group, which consisted largely of the transport and auxiliary vessels, while de Recalde commanded the rearguard.

‘We are near Plymouth?’ Nathaniel asked, indicating the darkness beyond the larboard flank of the Armada.

‘Yes, it is about eight leagues north-west of here,’ Evardo replied, and with regret he thought of the missed opportunity to blockade the English fleet. On the day the storm had abated the bulk of the Armada, including most of the fighting ships, had found themselves within striking distance of Plymouth. The comandantes of the vanguard, Evardo amongst them, had taken zabras to de Leiva’s ship, La Rata Encoronada, expecting to receive orders to attack but instead they were told to take in sail and wait for the forty or so stragglers to rejoin the fleet.

Afterwards it was rumoured that both de Leiva and de Recalde had advocated an immediate surprise attack but Medina Sidonia had dismissed their arguments, strictly adhering to King Philip’s explicit orders that the Armada’s primary mission was to support Parma’s crossing, not defeat the English fleet. His general order to take in sail had delayed their advance up the Channel by twenty-four hours.

Nathaniel looked in the direction Evardo had indicated. He had come to appreciate the commander’s company on the long voyage from Lisbon. The Spaniard was a driven man, completely obsessed with victory over the English Crown forces. On this common ground alone the two of them had formed a professional alliance. It was as much as Nathaniel was willing to concede and he peered into the darkness, hoping to catch sight of some light on land.

His first glimpse of the storm-lashed Isles of Scilly had left him with a growing desire to gaze upon the mainland of England. He had felt a similar yearning almost a year before when he had first set foot in England after eighteen years, but now so much had changed. Nathaniel still hoped the Spanish would defeat the English forces and dethrone Elizabeth but he no longer acknowledged Spain’s right to control England after that victory. He had believed that the bonds of faith outweigh the bonds of nationality. De Torres had taught him that not all Catholics shared this conviction.

When Nathaniel had access to the higher echelons of power in Spain he had dreamed of high office in the newly liberated, Catholic England. Now he realized all he could hope for was the restoration of his lands and his title. With Spain as his ally these were within his grasp. But Spain could not give him back his honour and his family.

As an Englishman his honour would be found in ensuring that after his country was free from the plague of Protestantism it would not be dominated by a foreign power. As a father he did not know how he could bridge the gulf between him and his son. Their loyalties were incompatible, although he was beginning to realize that in many ways he was seeking what Robert had already found.

He looked to the grey light of the pre-dawn on the eastern horizon. There was every chance the coming of day would bring the onslaught of battle. Nathaniel wished it so.

Robert stood on the fo’c’sle as the illusory light of the pre-dawn gave way to the first rays of the rising sun. He had been on the quarterdeck when the call had been given, a frantic shout that spoke of the lookout’s disbelief. Robert had immediately rushed forward, wishing to see the sight without obstruction.

What he saw defied his every experience. His mouth opened in silent awe as he gazed upon the host that was the Spanish fleet. The ships were of every hue and province, of the Mediterranean and Atlantic. No sooner was Robert’s attention captivated by a single ship than another, greater vessel, caught his eye. His mind echoed stories told to him as a child by his adopted father, of great battles and mighty fleets, of Lepanto and Salamis, of Actium and Cape Ecnomus. Robert knew he was witnessing a sight that would surely be remembered in history.

A shouted command on a nearby ship returned Robert’s wits and he spun around to his own crew. ‘All hands, battle stations! Tops’ls and top gallants, ho! Lookouts to the tops and sprit!’

The crew of the Retribution exploded into frantic activity at Robert’s commands. Men spilled out from the lower decks and ran to the rigging. The gun-ports slammed open and on Larkin’s command the cannons were run out. Robert went quickly to the quarterdeck where Seeley and Miller were waiting for him. He issued terse orders to both and they moved away to command the crew, giving Robert another opportunity to study the Spanish fleet, this time with a tactical eye. He smiled.

The number of English ships waiting in the lee of Rame Head had reached a tipping point soon after the Retribution had joined them, and in the darkness of the small hours Howard had given the command to sally out. The ships at hand had sailed beam-reach on a southerly course, right across the expected approach of the Spanish Armada. The remainder, who had yet to warp out of Plymouth, had taken a different course to act as a diversionary force; tacking along the coastline as far west as dawn would take them.

The Retribution had sailed with Howard. Robert had spent the entire time on deck, never daring to go below, constantly expecting to see the running lights of the Armada looming out of the darkness. As the command was given to turn westerly and then northerly he had begun to believe that the incredible feat they had set out to achieve had been met. His first sight of the Spanish Armada had thrust that belief from his mind, but it now returned to him in full force.

Howard had done it; the English fleet were to windward of the Spanish. They had taken the weather gauge, the all important advantage of being able to approach or withdraw from the enemy at will. Robert felt the first stirrings of blood lust within him as his ship came up to battle tempo. They were ready to attack. Robert was waiting only for the order to advance from the flagship, but in those brief moments of pause the sight of the Spanish fleet arrested him once more. The massive formation of ships began to transform right before his eyes.

Evardo’s gaze shifted continuously as the Santa Clara turned beneath him, his mind at once on the fleet of English ships to windward, on the trailing line of enemy ships to the north along the coastline, and on the dexterous manoeuvres of the ships surrounding his galleon as the Armada redeployed to Medina Sidonia’s orders. Above him the rigging was alive with men. The shouted commands of Mendez filled his ears and in the periphery of his vision he checked the identity of the ships closest to the Santa Clara with the plan of deployment.

‘We are in position, Comandante,’ Mendez said close at hand. Evardo nodded his approval of the sailing captain’s flawless control of the galleon.

The Armada was now in combat formation, a massive crescent with the wings trailing back in the direction of the enemy threat. The larger ships were sailing in tight formation, with the dispatch carrying feluccas and zabras darting between them, feeding communications to every point in the fleet. De Leiva’s vanguard had become the left wing with de Recalde’s rearguard on the opposing landward wing. Medina Sidonia continued to command the vulnerable centre, allowing him to dictate the direction and speed of the entire fleet, secure in the knowledge that any enemy vessel that attempted to approach the vital transport ships would have to run the gauntlet of the protective wings. The Armada could now defend itself without halting the main battle group.

Evardo brought his captains aft to the poop deck to study the English fleet.

‘The masthead lookout estimates close to eighty ships to windward, Comandante.’

‘We should have bottled them up at Plymouth when we had the chance,’ Alvarado growled. ‘Now they are loose in their own home waters.’

‘His majesty did not give us leave for such actions,’ Evardo said, fixing Alvarado with a hard stare. Despite his own reservations he was angered that one of his captains should openly question the orders of his superiors.

‘There are at least thirty more sail there,’ Mendez pointed to the coastline.

The line of English ships slowly tacking into the wind on the flank of de Recalde’s distant rearguard was poised to join the main enemy fleet and Evardo’s brow creased as he tried to think what additional threat they posed.

‘They are fine sailors,’ Mendez remarked grudgingly.

Evardo spun around.

‘Then we are well matched,’ he replied, a hard edge to his voice. He looked to the faces of his captains, seeing in each the grim expressions of seasoned fighters.

‘Ready your men, mis capitánes.’

Evardo turned his attention to the line of his ship and its position at the outer end of the vanguard wing. They were ready to receive the enemy and Evardo closed his eyes in prayer. He called on God to keep him strong, to give him the courage to endure until the victory had been won, and to protect his ship and her crew. They were in the service of the Almighty and Evardo’s gaze climbed to the Armada’s standard trailing out from the head of the mainmast, his lips moving silently as he mouthed the battle cry imprinted there.

‘Arise O Lord and vindicate Thy Cause!’

Standing beside Seeley at the fore rail of the quarterdeck, Robert watched the Armada transform into a defensive crescent, over two miles wide from wing to wing.

‘Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis,’ he whispered involuntarily.

Seeley’s eyes darted to his captain.

‘Quarterdeck, ho,’ a lookout called. ‘Disdain beginning her run!’

All eyes went to the 80 ton bark and the crew watched in silence as it sailed out alone to approach the Armada. Isolated between the fleets, her small size accentuated the massive crescent formation. Howard had sent the Disdain out to issue a challenge, a traditional gesture in the absence of a formal declaration of war. Robert felt his pulse quicken as the tiny bark sailed gallantly on between the wings, closing on the centre before spinning around broadside to the main body of the Spanish fleet. She fired a single cannon, the shot disappearing into the massed ranks of the Armada.

The distant sound brought an enormous cheer from the crew of the Retribution, strengthening Robert’s resolve to seek battle. The Armada was indeed a sight to behold. Spain had conquered the far reaches of the globe with her navy and with its power King Philip had humbled countries and monarchs. But here, in the English Channel, the men of a single nation would stand in defiance of that authority.

The crew of the Retribution hailed from across the southern counties of England, from Cornwall and Devon, Sussex and Kent. They were noblemen and commoners, men of substance and men in search of fortune. They were adventurers and patriots, privateers and merchants. Each man had been drawn to the conflict by different motives but under the banner of Saint George they were all Englishmen.

The Disdain came neatly about and began beating its way back towards the fleet. Almost immediately Howard’s Ark Royal broke ranks and the warships nearest her began to fall in behind in a rough line as she set course for the seaward flank of the Armada.

‘Courses and tops’ls, ho. Helmsman, hard a larboard!’

‘Yeoman of the jeers, main course, ho!’

The Retribution swooped into position under Robert’s orders. He checked the sun. It was some three hours after dawn and the wind was steadily rising, stirring up the sea. White horses fled before the bow. The uneven line of warships sailed below the seaward flank of the Armada and then turned sharply to cut across the rear. Robert kept his gaze locked on the windermost Spanish ships, those on the outer edges of the trailing wing, but they stayed firmly on course, seemingly oblivious to the approaching English attack.

The first ripples of cannon thunder fled on the wind as the Ark Royal fired her heavy bow chasers and she bore in to within four hundred yards to loose her first broadside into the enemy ranks. She luffed up to go about, allowing her stern guns to come to bear and then turned neatly away, firing her second broadside guns as she tacked upwind to reload. A second English warship repeated the sequence, followed by another and another.

‘Two points to starboard,’ Robert roared, his voice carrying above the sound of cannon fire from the ships ahead, the outlines of the enemy ships visible through the massive clouds of gun smoke.

Like a warhorse reacting to the touch of a warrior rider the Retribution responded to the helmsman’s hand on the whipstaff, her cutwater slicing through the chop, her sails filled with the freshening breeze, her deadly cannon coming swiftly to bear. The bow chasers boomed, smoke billowing over the fo’c’sle. Robert called for another subtle touch on the whipstaff to present the Retribution’s starboard broadside to the enemy. He held his breath, his gaze locked on the enemy ships amidst the smoke, the white clouds erupting with the muzzle flashes of angry Spanish cannons.

The enemy were swiftly abeam. The Retribution soared over the crest of a wave. Robert whispered the command to fire, willing Larkin to respond, his fists balled by his side, consumed by the urge to let fly at the enemy. Through the deck beneath him, he heard the first utterance of the master gunner, but the sound was engulfed within the span of a heartbeat by the deafening roar of the broadside guns firing in sequence and the Retribution shuddered in recoil.

‘Come about. Hard a starboard!’ Robert roared, gun smoke smothering his every sense. He felt the hull turn beneath him, his balance shifting with the fall of the deck.

The wind swept the enveloping smoke from the Retribution as the galleon began its turn to larboard. The crew were working without conscious thought, training and duty combining to control their every reaction. Oblivious to the sporadic whistle of passing shot, the acrid smell of gun smoke, and the hellish noise of the cannons’ roar, they strove to wield the fearsome weapon that was the Retribution.

‘Come here and fight, you English bastardos!’ Evardo roared, his face mottled with rage and frustration, his sword charged in his hand.

From four hundred yards away the English warship fired its cannon. Iron shot tore across the open water. The air whistled with fire, and a rigging line parted with a whip-crack, a crewman screamed as a searing cannon ball obliterated his limb, the individual sound lost in a cacophony of defiant shouts, the Spanish crew baying for English blood, cursing them to engage like men.

The enemy had the weather gauge. They had the advantage of manoeuvrability and while Evardo had expected them to fire some devastating salvos with their heavy bow chasers the English were using a tactic like none that he had ever witnessed in battle, with each warship sailing roughly in the wake of the vessel in front of them, weaving a pattern that allowed each to present all their guns before sailing on. They were intent on attacking but were not closing to board. Did the English really believe they could win the battle with cannon fire alone? The approach defied the logic of Spanish military strategy and Evardo could only surmise it was an act of desperation by the English, the tight formation of the twenty ships of the vanguard wing proving too much for their nerve.

The wind was holding steady at west-north-west and Evardo’s hands trembled as he willed it to come about. Every warship in the vanguard had turned towards the attack. The bow of the Santa Clara was as close up to the wind as Mendez could bring her. Another half a point and the galleon would be in irons, but still the English would not approach. Evardo was powerless to close as endless waves of gun smoke from the distant cannonades swept over the decks. Near at hand he heard the boom of Spanish cannons from the ships flanking the Santa Clara. They were expending their pre-loaded shots in vexation and Evardo struggled to contain the same impulse. Once fired the cannons would be difficult to reload and Evardo had to believe there was still a chance, however slim, that he might be given the opportunity to close and board an enemy ship.

The angry shouts of the crew rose as the next English galleon sailed into position, the black maws of her cannons exposed along her painted hull. Evardo looked to her decks and above to her masthead banners. Suddenly his eyes shot wide in recognition. Within an instant the galleon had disappeared behind an explosive wall of fire and smoke, but its image remained indelible. It was her. It was the Retribution. As the shot from her cannon struck the vanguard Evardo ran to the shrouds to climb above the obstructions on the quarterdeck.

Through wind and speed the English galleon cleared the cloud of her own gun smoke. Evardo’s eyes watered as he tried to focus on the distant enemy quarterdeck as it swung away. It was crowded with men. There was no way Evardo could confirm if one of them was the man he could see so clearly in his memory, but he was sure that Robert Varian was on board. Smoke erupted from her stern guns, obscuring his view. He jumped back down to the deck.

‘Capitán Mendez! Fall off. Bring the larboard broadside to bear!’

The sailing captain hesitated for a second, his every instinct telling him it was madness to present the full profile of his ship to the enemy’s fire. Evardo strode towards him, his expression unholy, his sword still charged in his hand.

‘Helmsman,’ Mendez shouted. ‘Hard a larboard.’

The Santa Clara turned swiftly and heeled over with the force of the wind. Mendez sent every available man to the shrouds, his voice loud as he steadied the helm, his galleon out of sync in the close quarter formation of the vanguard.

Evardo rushed below to the gun deck, roaring to Suárez, the gunners’ captain, to come forward. He manhandled him to the nearest gun port on the larboard side, pointing out the Retribution through the banks of drifting smoke and the ever-moving galleons of the English attack.

‘Target her aft decks.’

‘Si, mi Comandante.’ Suárez hurriedly ordered his men to make ready.

Evardo stepped back and stood behind one of the four media culebrinas straddling its trail. He looked down along the length of its eleven foot barrel and across the expanse of water to the enemy fleet. To his left and right, the gunners stood poised beside their guns, with the smaller medio cañón pedreros aft of the broadside and the heavy bow chasers to the fore. He left them to go aloft, reaching the quarterdeck as the distant Retribution came around for her second broadside. She was two points off the larboard quarter and would sail past the beam on the Santa Clara within a minute.

The Retribution didn’t fire as before. Evardo understood in an instant that the English galleon was waiting to come abeam of the Santa Clara, marking her as the only Spanish ship sailing broadside to the attack. He smiled. For the briefest of moments he had feared that the Retribution might turn prematurely away from his guns. Now the exchange was inevitable. His savage war-cry echoed the command of the gunners’ captain below.

‘¡Apunten! Make ready!’

‘Fire!’

The Retribution bucked under the recoil of the broadside and Robert peered through the clearing smoke, anxious to see what carnage his targeted attack had wrought.

A minute before, Larkin had been on the cusp of unleashing the broadside into the massed ranks of the seaward wing of the Armada but Robert had stayed the order, spotting the lone Spanish galleon out of formation with those around her. He had sent word to the master gunner, ordering him to hold fast and target the wayward ship, wanting to maximize the effectiveness of their second broadside. The first had simply disappeared into the midst of the Spanish ships, with no signs of visible damage. Although Robert knew it was impossible to witness the strike of each shot, he had the sense they were simply pricking at the colossus that was the Spanish fleet, scratching its flesh but drawing no blood.

Robert studied the Spanish galleon through the infuriating haze. Her main course was ripped through in two places with shot and parts of her rigging seemed shredded, but her hull looked sound. He could see where his shot had struck. The paint had been seared away, exposing the timbers. They were raw but unbroken. A curse rose to his lips but died as his mind registered the firing of the forward guns of the Spanish galleon.

‘Incoming!’

Robert’s breathing stopped, waiting for the hammer blow, the whine of inbound shot increasing to a terrible pitch in the blink of an eye. He didn’t flinch, his eyes blazing, locked on the Spanish galleon as he saw her mid and then aft guns fire in sequence. At four hundred yards the precise aiming of heavy guns was nigh impossible but it was obvious the Spaniard was targeting the quarterdeck, each gun blasting forth as they came level with the stern of the Retribution.

Shots flew overhead, cauterizing the air, punching holes in the canvas of the main mizzen sail. The boom of a strike against the hull reverberated across the deck. A final shot smashed through the larboard bulwark of the poop deck, splintering the weathered timber, scattering fearsome shards that pierced the flesh of half a dozen men, sending them screaming to the deck.

‘Hard a larboard,’ Robert shouted. ‘Mister Shaw, see to the injured. Get them below to the surgeon. Mister Seeley!’

The master came quickly to Robert’s side.

‘Mark the bastard, Thomas. Mark her well.’

‘Aye, Captain.’ Seeley ran to the poop deck, looking to the masthead banners of the Spanish galleon that had fired upon them, memorizing their patterns and heraldry.

‘Mister Miller, watch our bearing, maintain our position in the attack.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Robert went to join Seeley on the poop deck, stopping for a moment to watch Shaw attend the injured. Only one of them was seriously hurt. A large splinter had pierced his lower leg. He was bleeding heavily and Robert knew the man would take no further part in the battle. With luck he would keep his leg but chances were Powell would have it off before nightfall robbed him of sufficient light. It was not a serious loss but Robert was angry nonetheless. ‘Well, Thomas?’

‘I’ll recognize her if we see her again.’

‘When we see her again.’ Robert looked to the last of the English ships sailing into position to harry the seaward wing. He spun around. Ahead lay the landward wing, still unmolested, although Robert could discern the distant lines of Drake’s ships beyond the Spanish formation, descending on the enemy from the outside flank.

A mile off the starboard beam of the Retribution was the soft underbelly of the Armada, the transport and auxiliary ships, but Robert knew that no English ship could venture there. Inside the curve of the Spanish crescent an English ship would forfeit the weather gauge to the trailing wings and would be easily cornered. Spanish boarding skills were well known and rightly feared.

The only hope the English had of carrying the battle was to blast the Spaniards out of the water. Any closer contact could only end in defeat. But how to find that balance, Robert wondered, glancing over his shoulder at the seemingly ineffectual attack they had just unleashed on the seaward flank. Too far away and their shot did not have enough power to inflict serious damage, too close and they ran the risk of being grappled and boarded.

The boom of gunfire ahead caught Robert’s attention and he went back to the quarterdeck as Howard’s Ark Royal engaged the landward wing. He glanced over the side. The cannons of the starboard broadside were reappearing, fully loaded and ready to fire again.

‘Quarterdeck, ho. Enemy redeploying!’

The ships of the Spanish wing began breaking ranks, turning independently in the face of the English attack.

‘They’re attempting to close?’ Seeley was unable to discern the enemy’s intention.

‘No,’ Robert’s pulse quickened. ‘They’re running. They’re retreating to the centre.’

The solid coherent posture of the landward wing disintegrated in the time it took the Retribution to cover a dozen ship-lengths. Only one Spanish ship remained on station, one ship that did not run but rather turned her broadside to the enemy. It was a sight to see, a single enemy vessel facing down the extended English attack from two sides, but Robert’s command instincts overrode any semblance of admiration. The isolated Spanish ship was vulnerable and for the first time there was a chance to draw real blood.

‘¡Cobardes!’ Evardo cursed in shame, the appalling sight of his countrymen fleeing before the enemy forcing foul-tasting bile to the back of his throat. He spat over the side. The English ships were clouded with gun smoke, the boom of their cannons a continuous roll of thunder across the two miles of open water between the wings. They were holding their attack line, not turning in to pursue the fleeing Spanish ships. Evardo felt his chest constrict as he saw the reason. A single ship was holding them at bay, a massive galleon that was now the eye of the fire storm. Evardo shouted up to the masthead to identify the ship.

‘I think it’s the San Juan, Comandante.’

‘Juan Martínez de Recalde’s command,’ Mendez said close at hand.

‘Abrahan’s ship,’ Evardo whispered in reply.

The lookout called down once more from the masthead, this time to direct Evardo’s attention to the centre of the crescent. De Moncada’s four galleasses had left their station and were advancing rapidly against the wind to the aid of the San Juan. Two feluccas had also detached and were heading for the vanguard wing. The lead felucca quickly tacked to de Leiva’s La Rata Encoronada, remaining there for only a moment. As it pulled away from the command ship the La Rata came about to sail beam reach across the mouth of the crescent. Evardo watched the other felucca approach the Santa Clara with mounting expectation.

‘The Duke’s compliments, Comandante,’ the captain of the felucca called as it sailed past. ‘You are given leave to break formation and sail to the San Juan’s assistance.’

Evardo spun around and began shouting commands before the end of the message was delivered. The Santa Clara heeled hard over as the felucca sailed on to deliver Medina Sidonia’s order to the other warships of the vanguard.

The Santa Clara fell into the wake of de Leiva’s massive carrack, quickly closing the initial gap and overtaking her on the lee. A dozen other ships had detached from the vanguard wing and they sailed swiftly with the wind abeam as Moncada’s galleasses closed in on the intense fighting around the San Juan. Evardo went to the fo’c’sle. Less than a mile away, the San Juan was enveloped in gun smoke. The noise of cannon fire was all consuming, making it almost impossible to think. The sound filled Evardo’s mind, fuelling his aggression and cutting all threads of restraint and reason. Abrahan was in danger, the San Juan was in peril and with a galleon to command Evardo knew that God was giving him his first opportunity to regain his reputation.

He turned to go back to the quarterdeck when a sudden concern made him go below to the gun deck. The English were still firing at the San Juan from a distance. Even with their initial overwhelming numbers, they had not closed to board the isolated galleon and it was clear the enemy were hell bent on destroying the San Juan with cannon fire alone. Until they gained the advantage of the weather gauge the Santa Clara and every other Spanish sailing warship would have to fight using English tactics and return fire with fire.

Evardo’s initial concern increased as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the low ceilinged gun deck. One of the ten-pounder media culebrinas was athwart the centre of the deck. It had been unlashed from its gun port and brought inboard. Because of the length of its trail the gunners had been forced to turn it diagonally to give them space to reload it. All eight gunners were working on the single cannon.

‘Capitán,’ Evardo called. ‘How many guns have you reloaded?’

‘Two, Comandante.’

‘Where are the soldiers who are assigned to help you?’ Evardo asked, a hard edge to his voice.

‘They’re aloft,’ Suárez replied perplexed, surprised by his comandante’s question and tone.

Evardo stepped forward angrily when realization struck him like an open cuff. Before the battle Suárez would have enlisted the assistance of thirty or more soldiers, assigning a group to each skilled gunner who would oversee the loading of their cannon. Thereafter these soldiers, who had only a rudimentary knowledge of cannonry, would have returned to their designated place in the fighting tops and castles to make ready for a boarding attack.

In ordering a broadside fired at the Retribution Evardo had expended that preloaded shot. The soldiers had never thought to return to the gun deck after the cannons had been fired, for there was no precedent for such a thing. Likewise Suárez would not think to ask for such valuable fighting men to be brought below decks in the midst of battle, so was reloading the cannons using his own meagre crew of gunners.

Evardo urgently explained to Suárez the need to change tactics to match the English, then went back to the quarterdeck, ordering de Córdoba to send men below to assist the gunners.

The Santa Clara was now less than a half-mile from the fight. The sea was rising, the galleon crashing through the crest of each wave, and the rhythmic thud transported Evardo back to his captivity in the black hold of an English galleon. He did not shirk from the memory. Instead he let it fill his heart.

Sweat ran in dark rivulets down Larkin’s face, washing away the soot stains, giving him a grotesque, demonic visage. His mouth was opened wide, exposing his blackened teeth as he roared his commands, trying to override the deafening din of battle. The gun deck of the Retribution had become the crucible of a foundry, a place of unremitting toil and savage heat, of dark shapes and shattering noise, sounds that numbed the senses and stripped the men of every thought but the one to go on; to heave, sponge, load, ram, prime, heave. To stand clear as the touchhole was kissed with fire, the cannon roaring in anger, gun powder exploding within its tempered walls, propelling out the shot.

Above this hellish place, the crew of the Retribution toiled in the rigging and on the decks, seemingly oblivious to but constantly aware of the fire of the enemy, their eyes stinging from gun smoke, their throats dried by the wind and their buried fear. They climbed the ratlines and footropes, the Retribution responding to their every touch and adjustment as sail and rudder combined to bring the guns of the warship to bear on the cursed enemy.

Robert stood in the centre of the quarterdeck, his eyes restless. The ragged line of attack had long since disintegrated, the battle descending into a chaotic brawl, with each English ship acting as an independent command, swooping in to fire their guns before sailing away to reload. The lone Spanish galleon was off the starboard bow. She was a massive ship, at least a thousand tons and the Retribution had already twice given her the fire of her every cannon.

Spanish reinforcements were beginning to arrive. The first of these had been four galleasses. The sight of their blood red hulls and crowded decks had brought every man on board the Retribution to a standstill. Only the rising sea and wind had thwarted these mongrel ships from closing. Robert remained wary of their position, fearing their blunt nosed rams and heavy bow cannons.

‘Quarterdeck, ho! Enemy ships approaching off the stern.’

Robert looked aft as the cannons beneath him boomed once more. His vision was spoiled for a moment by smoke and he coughed violently. Larkin was keeping up a tremendous rate of fire; Robert estimated just under three shots-per-gun-per-hour. He glanced at the target of their heavy guns, the lone Spanish galleon that still sailed defiant and unbroken. Her rigging and canvas was lacerated but the galleon showed no signs of mortal injury and her crew seemed far from the brink of surrender as her small calibre deck guns continued to fire sporadically.

Over the stern more than a dozen Spanish warships were descending rapidly on their beleaguered comrade. Robert studied their line of advance. The wind was holding firm. There was little danger the Spanish would be able to outmanoeuvre the English galleons but they were poised to deprive the English of their first prize.

‘Hard about,’ Robert called over his shoulder, the Retribution turning her bow towards the oncoming threat.

Three ship lengths away an English galleon was unleashing bow chasers on the audacious Spanish galleon. Even from four hundred yards, Robert could see Spaniards fall. Parts of the superstructure had shattered under the onslaught. The Retribution would be given one last chance to inflict such a blow on the 1000 ton behemoth but Robert already knew it would not be enough to slay the galleon. He prayed that the English fleet might instead take a prize from the smaller ships coming to her aid.

‘Two points to starboard.’

Mendez repeated Evardo’s order and the helmsman responded with alacrity, the Santa Clara’s bow turning slightly to larboard. The San Juan was now directly ahead, three hundred yards. Two English galleons had just sailed across her stern, raking her decks with a withering fire, but now they were withdrawing in the face of the Santa Clara and the dozen ships behind her, bringing themselves back to windward of this new threat.

Off the larboard side, the sea was alive with English warships. The Santa Clara had already taken erratic fire from their long range cannon, but Evardo had not responded, knowing he would need every shot in his arsenal.

‘Capitán Mendez. Make ready to take in the courses and lay to. Set your helm to take us between the San Juan and the English. We must go directly to her aid.’

‘But Comandante…’

‘I mean to draw the English fire from the San Juan and give her a chance to withdraw.’

Mendez made to argue again but seeing the comandante’s expression, he swallowed his retort. With grim resignation he nodded his assent.

The San Juan was two hundred yards ahead. The fire directed at the Santa Clara began to concentrate, her ever increasing proximity to the centre of the maelstrom drawing the attention of the more heavily engaged English warships. At one hundred yards the San Juan filled Evardo’s vision, his mind oblivious to the English jackals and the increasing storm of fire. Fifty yards. Mendez called for a final touch on the whipstaff and the furling of the courses, the Santa Clara swooping in like a bird of prey under the larboard beam of the San Juan. The squall line of the fire storm swept over the Santa Clara, consuming her in a wave of iron. Behind her the other ships of the vanguard wing closed in, determined to bedevil the enemy’s attempt to take one of their own. But for now, the Santa Clara stood alone.

For the briefest moment Robert hesitated, awed by the display of courage. The landward wing of the Armada had fled before the English guns, giving Robert cause to hope that the Spanish had no stomach for the fight, but any such thoughts were now banished by the sight of a single Spanish galleon standing square before a stricken comrade, becoming a partial shield for the larger ship.

‘It’s her,’ Seeley shouted angrily beside him. ‘It’s the whoreson who targeted us in the first attack!’

Robert looked to the masthead banners of the Spanish galleon. His eyes narrowed, this unasked-for revenge dual in the midst of a battle filling his thoughts. In the moment of the hull’s perfect pitch, the cannons of Retribution fired their deadly charge across the chasm that separated the mortal enemies of England and Spain.

Evardo stood tall at the gunwale, his knuckles white from the intensity of his grip on his sword, his face turned towards the enemy barrage, striving to subdue his instinct to take cover. Some men feared death, but for Evardo it was the somehow more terrible fate of a grievous wound, the loss of a limb, or his sight, or the slow lingering death of a stomach wound. Every passing round shot fed his fear, but he refused to give in. His lips moved almost of their own accord, repeating a benediction to God, asking his divine patron for protection. With feigned indifference he glanced at the crew working around him, willing them strength to endure.

The decks of the Santa Clara were alive with a disciplined turmoil that only battle could create. The voices of the captains could be heard at every quarter, overriding the gutter curses of the crew who shouted at the English foe. On the upper castles men were rapidly servicing the breech loading falcon pedreros, firing them at the English in an act of defiance, the range too far for an effective kill. The preloaded broadside had long since been fired. Now only the sporadic vibration of single cannon shots could be felt by those on the main deck, the fired rounds too few and too interspersed to spoil any English attack.

Devastation swept over the Santa Clara as one English galleon after another sailed in to fire their cannon, cutting men and material down with impunity before turning neatly away from the fray. A voice in Evardo’s mind screamed at him to concede his ground, not out of fear, but to stop this slow annihilation of the crew and ship he had sworn to protect. That voice was echoed by the injured and dying, their cries increasing in number with every sweeping attack. Evardo’s mouth twisted in anger. Only if the enemy closed for ship-to-ship, hand-to-hand combat would the men of the Santa Clara be able to exact an equal measure of butchery.

Evardo looked to the sea on the flanks of the Santa Clara. The other ships of the vanguard wing were deploying to leeward of his ship, completing a screen behind which the San Juan could safely withdraw. The sea was becoming rough, the wind no longer steady but gusting and fewer English ships were coming forward to engage, wary of the sea change and the newly formed wing.

A cannon ball slammed against the fo’c’sle of the Santa Clara, while another struck the hull amidships, parting shots from the withdrawing English galleons. Evardo finally sheathed his sword, the clean un-bloodied blade rasping against the scabbard. He had never drawn his sword in anger without using it. The frustration sat like a knot in the pit of his stomach. He turned his back on the English, taking a moment to survey the ravaged deck of his galleon. The Santa Clara had taken the heaviest casualties amongst the ships coming to the aid of the San Juan. As the firing ceased Evardo looked to the groups of men huddled around their stricken comrades, tending to their wounds as best they could, their cries of pain becoming louder in the absence of cannon thunder.

‘Santa Clara!’

Evardo spun around at the call. The San Juan was beginning to pull away, coming about under the press of the wind to withdraw to the sanctuary of the main battle group. On the quarterdeck stood the imposing figure of de Recalde, his hand cupped to his mouth. Evardo acknowledged the hail. There was a moment’s pause. De Recalde raised his hand to his forehead and casually saluted his thanks. Evardo returned the gesture but his eyes were no longer on de Recalde. They had shifted to the man who had come forward to stand beside him —his mentor Abrahan.

The gap between the ships increased, passing fifty yards, but Evardo’s gaze never wavered. Just as the San Juan was poised to sail behind another galleon Evardo, saw Abrahan nod slightly. It was a small movement, barely discernible across the distance, but it was there. Evardo smiled. After half a lifetime spent under his care Evardo knew it was as much ground as his taciturn mentor would ever give. One act of reckless courage would not erase his failure in Abrahan’s eyes. Evardo nodded to himself. The battle had only just begun.