Armada

CHAPTER 16

8 p.m. 3rd August 1588. The English Channel, off the Isle of Wight.

Robert moved slowly back along the cramped gun deck, ducking his head beneath the smoke-stained beams as he stepped over the ordnance arranged behind each cannon. The men were gathered between the guns, chatting aimlessly as they tucked into their first hot meal of the day. The tinny smell of stewed beef overrode the stench of burned gun-powder and the musky odour of men crowded together below decks in the mid-summer heat.

One of the crew had a fife and was playing an ancient sea shanty, a traditional tune that prompted many to hum along. There was laughter but Robert marked its brittle tone and he saw how exhausted his men were, weighted down by the low ebb often experienced after the blood rush of battle. But the hot meal and a double ration of beer were beginning to raise their flagging spirits, and an animated game of dice had begun amidships in the space between two culverins.

Robert reached the aft section and stood silently for a moment as he watched the surgeon make one of the wounded comfortable. He reached out and touched the breech of a cannon. Following the battle the day before off Portland Bill, when the Spanish had been denied Weymouth, there had been further skirmishes earlier that morning and although many hours had passed since then the cannon was still warm. He removed his hand and looked to the crewman under Powell’s care. He was no more than a lad, one of the quarter gunner’s mates who fetched and carried on the gun deck. His chest was heavily bandaged. Two more crewmen lay supine beyond him.

Powell had brought all of the seriously injured up from his surgery on the orlop deck. At night the smell of blood would draw rats from the depths of the lower hold and, left unattended, the unconscious wounded would be easy prey for the scavengers. Robert caught the surgeon’s attention and Powell rose stiffly, arching his back as he stepped forward.

‘Well?’

‘The lad should be fine, Captain. I’ve sealed his wounds with boiling elderberry oil and the cauterizing iron. As for the other two, I’m fairly sure I got all the splinters out of Gray’s arm. But Ellis? There’s little I can do with a head wound like that beyond bleeding him. I fear he won’t last the night.’

Robert looked beyond Powell to the injured crewman. Dark viscous blood had soaked through the bandages around his head, attracting a host of flies that buzzed and settled. His flesh was deathly pale and in the lantern light it looked like God had already taken him. One more for the butcher’s bill, Robert thought grimly.

The rising sun that morning had revealed a Spanish straggler, an armed merchantman, El Gran Grifón, trailing behind the seaward flank. Drake had immediately attacked, with those closest, including the Retribution following in her wake. They had hammered the broad-beamed, sow-bellied hulk from as close a range as they dared, with broadsides and raking fire to the stern. The El Gran Grifón had been heavily armed with at least three dozen light and medium guns and she replied with dice and round shot, killing two of Robert’s crew in the opening salvoes before her rate of fire fell away.

A melee had quickly ensued with Spanish reinforcements beating up to support the lone merchantman. The Armada had been abreast of the western approaches to the Solent, the safe anchorage between the Isle of Wight and the mainland. From the outset it had seemed unlikely the enemy would try to breech this more difficult side, but Howard had fed more warships into the fray to put the matter beyond doubt.

By midday the wind had pushed the battle leeward of the western approach and Howard had ordered the fleet to withdraw. The action, although short, had been very sharp with the Retribution continually engaged in the shifting heart of the battle, a tenacity that had cost Robert another crewman dead and a dozen injured. The Armada had been badly mauled, particularly El Gran Grifón, but as before the Spaniards had continued on, with every ship taking its place in the defensive formation. Despite another massive expenditure of shot, the English fleet had still not managed to cripple or destroy one Spanish ship in action.

Although it was warm below decks Robert’s hands were cold and he felt frustration tingle under his skin; an itchy, grating feeling that set his nerves on edge. He thought back to the battle the day before. The San Martín had been under near continuous fire for almost thirty minutes as one English ship after another had sailed up to fire its cannon at her. She had been struck hundreds of times and yet she had survived, withdrawing into the centre of the Armada’s defences without assistance.

The thought caused Robert to look away from the wounded crewman and turn to the cannon beside him. After the battle, Larkin had called Robert below decks to the shot lockers on the orlop deck. Two-thirds of their ordnance stock was already gone, fired off into the seemingly indestructible black heart of the Armada. Another few days of indecisive skirmishing would see the end of their remaining ammunition and Robert suspected that every ship in the fleet was in a similar position. Later he had heard that there were supplies to be had from the two captured Spanish ships, the crippled San Salvador and Drake’s prize, the Nuestra Señora del Rosario, and had since dispatched Seeley along with the Peters, the gunner’s mate, on a pinnace to Weymouth.

Thus far the English attacks had been scrappy and indecisive, with individual ships and small groups taking action where they saw fit. Tomorrow however would see the Armada within striking distance of the eastern, more navigable, approach to the Solent. It was imperative that the enemy be prevented from taking the anchorage and so after the morning’s action Howard had deployed his fleet into four squadrons under Drake, Frobisher, Hawkins and the admiral himself, to better coordinate their defence of the Solent. The Retribution had been assigned to Hawkins’s squadron and was now sailing off the larboard quarter of the commander’s 800 ton flagship, the Victory.

‘Nightingale approaching off the starboard bow!’

Robert went aloft at the call in time to see the pinnace pull alongside the Retribution. Seeley was first to board.

‘Good news, Captain. We’ve managed to secure powder and over a hundred shot.’

‘What calibre?’

‘Mostly culverin but also a score of 24 pounders for the cannon-pedros.’

Robert slapped Seeley on the shoulder, pleased with the haul. He quickly ordered the crew to begin transhipping the supplies.

‘There’s something else,’ Seeley said, following Robert to the quarterdeck. ‘The San Salvador had been left with over fifty wounded Spaniards on board. I managed to talk to some of them and by describing the masthead banners I was able to uncover the identity of the ship that has continued to target us. She’s the Santa Clara, Captain, an indies galleon.’

‘And her commander?’

‘Evardo Morales.’

‘Of the Halcón?’ Robert said incredulously. ‘How in Christ’s good name is Morales commanding a galleon and not rotting in one of her majesty’s prisons?’

‘He must have been ransomed,’ Seeley replied icily. Robert noted the censorious tone of his voice.

His memories of the brief moments after Morgan’s death on the Halcón were clouded by the mindless fury he had felt, but he vividly remembered his duel with the Spanish commander. He had spared Morales on impulse at the sight of his crucifix, the sacred symbol of their shared faith. In that moment he had placed his religion above vengeance for his murdered countrymen. Now he felt sickened by his choice.

Seeley’s censure had been well placed. Robert had failed his crewmen and England by sparing Morales. And the Spaniard had returned, as determined an enemy as he had ever been, despite Robert’s act of mercy. He should have killed the Spaniard when he had the chance, regardless of how much such an act opposed his other loyalties. England was fighting for its sovereignty, its very right to exist as a nation free from oppression. No other loyalty should stand in the way of that cause. For the briefest moment Robert was reminded of his father, of how he was poised to strike him down on the motte. He would not wait for Morales to seek him out. He would look for him, and with the guns of the Retribution to command, he would not hesitate at this second chance to strike down the Spanish foe.

Cross slowed his horse to a canter as the sun finally fell below the western horizon. The road was deeply rutted and in the soft afterglow of twilight he feared injuring his mount. Off his right shoulder he could see the tallest houses of Portsmouth and beyond them the distant eastern tip of the Isle of Wight far out on the horizon. The Armada was out there somewhere, still shadowed by the English fleet. Over the past few days Cross had heard all manner of rumours as to how the battle was progressing. One thing was certain however, and on this all accounts were agreed —the Spanish were still advancing up the Channel.

Cross had followed the course of the battle, staying away from the meandering coastline in favour of travelling a more direct route inland. He had covered over 130 miles in the past three days, an exhausting journey that had taken every hour of sunlight in the long summer days. The roads had been busy, slowing his passage, but in many places his journey had been further hampered by the trained bands of militiamen, many of them marching in the opposite direction to the advance of the Armada.

Forewarned by the lighted beacons along the entire length of the southern coastline, the lord lieutenants of each county had gathered their trained bands of militia to oppose any Spanish landing. The Armada had sailed past Cornwall, Devon and now Dorset, and while the militia from each county had been ordered to proceed along the coast to fight in the inevitable battle, many of the laymen had simply decided to return to their homes and farms, knowing they were no longer under any direct threat.

Cross had been appalled by the self-centred attitude of the militiamen but in reality he knew their actions were to be expected. As an agent of the Crown he had travelled the length and breadth of southern England, but most ordinary people had never been beyond the bounds of their parish. London was as distant to them as any of the major cities on the continent, and their lives were only impacted by the Crown in matters of law and administration.

In any case, the untrained militia would be no match for the soldiers sailing with the Armada. Nine thousand men had been gathered in Southampton to defend the port while the governor of the Isle of Wight had a further three thousand men at his disposal. Their numbers were in no way a reflection of their strength and they would quickly be routed by a Spanish force equal to a fraction of their ranks.

Cross was weary to the bone. Every muscle in his legs ached, but he was finally ahead of the battle. Tomorrow the Spanish might try to take the Solent, but whether they did or not mattered little to Cross. His fight was not with the Spaniards, it was with an Englishman. He needed to secure a boat to take him out to the English fleet and the Retribution. His goal had never been closer. Before the battle was over he would have Young in his custody. The only question was whether he would pre-empt Young’s act of treachery, or punish him for it.

Nathaniel knocked on the door of the great cabin and waited for the call to enter. He went inside. Commander Morales and Captain de Córdoba were seated at the table eating a meal of rice and charcoaled fish.

‘Your grace, please,’ Evardo said, indicating the chair opposite him.

Nathaniel sat down and Evardo offered him a goblet of Candia wine. He drank deeply.

‘You fought well yesterday, your grace,’ Evardo said. ‘I have heard many reports of how you took command of the fo’c’sle after Capitán Alvarado was killed.’

‘Thank you, Comandante,’ Nathaniel replied, shifting slightly in his chair.

Evardo stood up and walked around to refill Nathaniel’s goblet.

‘I want you to take temporary command of his men for the remainder of the voyage.’

Nathaniel froze. After yesterday’s action, when the fighting had ceased and the blood lust in his veins had cooled, Nathaniel had been assailed by further thoughts of uncertainty. His hatred for Elizabeth and his desire to see her overthrown had been with him for over twenty years. It was the driving force behind everything he did. In the Northern Rebellion he had led his fellow Catholics in defiance of her rule, but they had been his countrymen, they were Englishmen, fighting to save England. Now however he was being asked to lead foreign troops against his own country.

‘Alvarado’s men followed my orders in the heat of battle, immediately after their captain had been struck down. Now that that moment has passed, surely they will not submit to the commands of an Englishman.’

‘They will,’ Evardo replied confidently. ‘They follow social rank and they follow courage. You have both, your grace.’

Nathaniel nodded with feigned courtesy.

‘You will retain command of the fo’c’sle while Capitán de Córdoba will hold the aft castle.’

‘May I offer one piece of advice, your grace,’ de Córdoba said. ‘While the English persist in their tactics of laying off you must continue to return fire with the light deck guns and muskets. But make sure your arquebusiers hold their fire. They will need their ammunition for the close quarter fighting to come.’

‘You believe the English will eventually close?’ Nathaniel asked.

‘Yes,’ Evardo said, frustration in his tone. ‘Their ships might be more nimble, and their cannonry more accomplished but they must know they will never take a Spanish ship without boarding her, and the moment they clap sides, we will have them on our terms.’

Nathaniel nodded, thinking back to the action earlier that day. ‘I thought they might have attempted to take El Gran Grifón this morning,’ he said.

‘They would have,’ de Córdoba replied. ‘Had El Gran Grifón been a little further adrift of the main fleet.’

Nathaniel made to reply but Evardo silenced him with his hand, his brow creasing in thought. He turned on his heel and left the cabin without another word, making his way aloft. He called for the nearest zabra to be hailed and boarded her as she came alongside.

‘The San Martín, quick as you can.’

The zabra spun around and began to weave through the larger capital ships and transports while Evardo anxiously paced the deck, his head bowed in thought.

‘The San Martín, Comandante.’

Evardo called up for permission to board and went directly to Medina Sidonia’s cabin. The duke was inside with many of his senior officers, including de Recalde and de Leiva, standing around a large chart table.

‘Your grace,’ Evardo said. ‘I need to speak with you.’

Medina Sidonia looked up. He was a short, stocky man, and was one of the youngest in the room. He was heavily bearded and though his face was drawn with lines of fatigue his eyes were alert.

‘Comandante Morales,’ he said. ‘This is a closed meeting. Might I trust that what you have to say can wait until afterwards?’

‘What I have to suggest is of vital import, your grace.’

Medina Sidonia lightly fingered the insignia of the Golden Fleece that hung around his neck. ‘Very well, Comandante.’

Evardo stepped up to the table. ‘This morning, as you all know, El Gran Grifón was set upon by a pack of English warships because she was adrift of the fleet. Only the courageous actions of others saved her from capture. But what if the ships that extracted El Gran Grifón had not been able to reach her? What if she had been completely isolated?’

‘Then the English would have taken her as they did the San Salvador and the Rosario,’ de Recalde said.

‘But they could not because the fighting ships of the Armada were within reach,’ Evardo said.

‘So you believe if El Gran Grifón had been out of our reach she would have been boarded by the English?’ Medina Sidonia asked.

‘Or if the English had perceived she was out of our reach,’ Evardo said.

‘Bait,’ de Recalde said with a smile. ‘Comandante Morales is suggesting that we lure the English into a close quarter action with bait.’

‘But the King has said we must not delay our advance with a general engagement,’ de Moncada said to Medina Sidonia.

‘We only need to bloody their nose, your grace,’ de Recalde countered. ‘The English are sure to take the bait and try to board the straggler. If we swoop down and capture some of their capital ships they might become less daring in their attacks.’

‘Over sixty of my crew on El Gran Grifón were killed in this morning’s action,’ Juan Gómez de Medina cautioned. ‘Any ship adrift of the fleet for longer would pay a heavy coin for the prize of capturing some English warships.’

‘I believe it is a price worth paying,’ Evardo said. ‘I volunteer the Santa Clara as bait. She is a warship and therefore better suited to the task. Once grappled we could defend her upper decks until reinforcements arrived.’

The senior officers began to discuss the proposal in detail, with those for and against making their arguments to the duke.

After some minutes Medina Sidonia raised his hand for silence. His instructions were to avoid engaging with the English fleet if at all possible. However he had already contravened those instructions when he ordered the fleet to attack off Portland Bill. He had deemed that attack to be tactically necessary and could defend his decision. He considered Morale’s plan one last time. It could be argued that tactically an ambush would be to the Armada’s ultimate advantage.

‘I have heard enough,’ he began. ‘We rendezvous with Parma within days. That is our primary mission. But I agree that our chances of success will be greatly increased if we can first inflict some casualties on the English fleet and gain some sea-room to windward. Your plan is approved, Comandante Morales.’

‘Thank you, your grace.’

‘Might I make one amendment?’ de Leiva asked, forestalling Evardo’s departure. ‘A single ship might be too easily overwhelmed before reinforcements arrive.’

‘We will hold,’ Evardo replied.

‘I do not doubt your resolution or that of your crew, Comandante. But for the plan to succeed, no ship will be able to advance to your aid until after the English have clapped sides. I believe two ships together would stand a better chance.’

Medina Sidonia considered the proposal. With no experience of naval warfare to draw upon he quickly deferred to one of his most trusted advisors.

‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘I will call for a volunteer from my own squadron of Portugal to act as the second. Don de Leiva, you will be in charge of the reinforcements.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Then it is settled. Comandante, a ship from my squadron will seek you out before dusk. After dark you will both lay to and fall off from the fleet. With luck and God’s favour tomorrow will see the Armada claim its first prizes.’

Evardo nodded. He glanced around the room, looking each senior commander in the eye for a moment before withdrawing from the cabin.