Armada

CHAPTER 17

5 a.m. 4th August 1588. The English Channel, off Dunnose Point.

‘Quarterdeck, ho! Enemy stragglers a mile off the larboard bow!’

‘All hands, battle stations,’ Robert shouted, running to the fo’c’sle where he was joined by Seeley. Off the larboard bow was the shadowy coastline of the Isle of Wight. The Armada was close to Dunnose Point, the most southerly point on the island and from there the coast swept inward to the eastern entrance to the Solent. The two Spanish galleons were in close support of each other but completely isolated from the Armada’s defensive formation. It was a perfect opportunity and Hawkins’s squadron was closest to the prize, however just before dawn the westerly breeze had died away.

‘Where is the cursed wind?’ Seeley spat.

‘Coxswain! Launch the longboat,’ Robert shouted over his shoulder. He turned to Seeley. ‘If we’ve no wind, Thomas, then we’ll just have to use brawn. Cast a line from the bow to the longboat and hail any oared coasters nearby. Tell them we need a tow.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ Seeley said with a wry smile and left the fo’c’sle.

Robert wondered how the isolated galleons could have got so far out of formation. One or both of them must have encountered some problem. Either way they were a prize worth pursuing. The commander of the Victory had come to the same conclusion and had already lowered his ship’s boat. The two Spanish galleons would soon be under English guns.

‘I count at least a dozen.’ Nathaniel was standing amidst the senior officers on the quarterdeck.

Evardo smiled. The English were as predictable as the rising of the sun. They had taken the bait regardless of the conditions. Fifty yards off the starboard beam the San Luís, an 830 ton galleon of the Portuguese squadron under Comandante Mexía, was readying for action.

In the distance the crescent formation that had carried the Armada thus far was no more. It was widely suspected that the English had a second squadron of warships further along the coast operating out of Dover and so the fleet was now arrayed in a new formation, one that had been devised to allow for a running defence should the Armada be attacked from the front or behind. It was more rounded, with a strong vanguard led by the flagship and a rearguard commanded by de Recalde and de Leiva. The transport and auxiliary ships were in the centre.

‘All hands to their posts, mis capitánes,’ Evardo said. ‘Prepare to repel boarders.’

‘Si, mi Comandante,’ the men spoke as one.

The approaching English warships being towed towards them had increased in number. Two ships were in the lead and were closing at a faster speed with the assistance of small oar-powered dispatch boats. One was a galleon that looked similar in size to the San Luís. The other was a smaller warship comparable to the Santa Clara.

Evardo felt a shiver of doubt run up his spine and angrily shook off the sense of foreboding. The San Luís and Santa Clara were going to be more heavily outnumbered than he had expected, certainly more than El Gran Grifón was the morning before. Evardo could not suppress the tentacles of fear that crept over his resolve. He thought of Abrahan and how, as a boy, his mentor had taught him that without fear there could be no courage. The memory steeled his nerve and he tried to recapture the impulse that had compelled him to volunteer, the desire to prove his mettle to all.

The boom of cannon split the still air and Evardo flinched as the round shot swept past his deck. The two leading English galleons were five hundred yards away. The second one fired her bow chasers. One of the shots struck the San Luís, the crack of timber followed an instant later by the scream of an injured sailor. The men of the Santa Clara began to shout defiantly at the oncoming English, single voices that quickly grew until the ship was awash with strident calls, an outburst that banished all fears and opened the floodgates of battle lust.

Evardo allowed the noise to feed his soul. He hoped the sound would carry to the ear of every Englishman, compelling them to answer the Spanish taunts and end their cowardly tactics of firing from a distance. The San Luís and Santa Clara were all alone. This was the enemy’s opportunity to close and board.

Robert climbed hand over hand, his grip firm on the ratlines as he ascended the shrouds through the heavy pall of gun smoke. Bullets zipped through the air, the near misses causing him to spin his head around while beneath him he could hear the heavier whoosh of small calibre round shot. With every step the smoke cleared further and he quickly reached the fighting top above the main course.

Two lookouts and musketeers were stationed there and they moved aside to allow their captain to climb atop the head of the main course. Robert took a grip on the main mast and felt a tremor run through it as the heavy guns of his ship were fired on the decks. He steadied his feet and looked to larboard, the clearer air affording him his first view of the Spanish galleons since the Retribution had fired its broadside.

The enemy ships were two hundred yards off the beam. With no wind their masthead banners hung limp, frustrating any attempt to identify them from such a distance. The smaller galleon was to the fore while behind her the heavier warship was engaged with the English ships that had attacked from the opposing flank. It was the closest that the Retribution had engaged any enemy ship so far and Robert could immediately see the effects the shorter range was having on the Spanish galleons. Their courses were shot through in dozens of places, with rigging and tackles hanging like gallows’ ropes from the stays. The upper decks were heavily damaged, with railings and superficial fittings shot away in several places. Robert counted a score of hits in the hull, although it seemed none had penetrated.

As the first ship to engage, along with the Victory, the Retribution had the most advantageous firing position. Sitting stationary in the water, she was still tethered to the ship’s longboat and two coasters, with Seeley and Miller in constant communication with the coxswain, ensuring that no trick of current turned the galleon’s hull off true. From the distinctive boom of the heaviest guns, Robert estimated Larkin’s men were averaging a rate of just under twenty minutes a shot from the larboard battery.

Despite the range and intensity of this fearsome barrage the gunwales of the Spanish galleons were heavily lined with soldiers. Their swords were drawn, their mouths open in grotesque masks of anger, their taunts and curses lost by language and the almost constant roar of cannon fire. Robert lifted his gaze to the men directly across from him on the fighting tops of the nearest Spanish galleon. Each one was crammed with musketeers, loading and firing as quickly as they could in the confined space of the tops.

Robert saw one of them turn his musket towards him, the sweep of the barrel changing to the black circle of a muzzle as the soldier took aim. The Spaniard fired, disappearing behind a puff of smoke. At two hundred yards he was well beyond effective range. In the continuous whine of passing shot he briefly wondered where the bullet meant for him had struck. The smoke around the Spaniard’s head cleared and he lowered his gun to see the result of his shot, his face twisting in fury as he discovered he had missed. He raised his fist and screamed some obscenity, his voice lost in the din of battle.

Robert did not respond, glancing instead at the two musketeers beside him. They too were taking pot shots at the enemy galleons but it was obvious from their frustrated expressions that they were not hitting any targets. Robert looked down at the eerie cloud of gun smoke that enveloped his ship. At two hundred yards his cannon were firing at half the distance they had engaged at on the first day. But it was not close enough. The Spanish crew of the nearest warship was being badly mauled by the larboard broadsides. There were wounded and dying on every open deck, but the galleon itself had suffered no heavy damage. Robert let go of the mainmast and readied himself to climb down. If they were going to destroy the enemy galleon they were going to have to get a lot closer.

The noise on the Santa Clara was like the opened gates of hell, a terrible clamour of tormented screams and war cries, of shouted orders amidst the boom and whine of gun fire. Shot, dice and bullets saturated the air, giving little sanctuary to those on the weather decks. Underfoot the timbers ran with fresh blood. Smoke filled every throat, searing the eyes and flooding the nostrils with a scorched smell that barely masked the odour of torn flesh and rank sweat. Battle lust filled every heart, suppressing the instinct to yield, creating a trance-like courage that kept every man at his post through the endless hail of fire.

Evardo thought his heart would burst. Frustration and anger consumed him. The God-cursed motherless English were not closing to board. The enemy had overwhelming numbers, the San Luís and Santa Clara were isolated. If the tables were reversed a Spaniard would not hesitate to grapple on and take the prize. Yet the English were persisting with their infernal tactics, firing their cannon at a rate that beggared belief.

Nearly a dozen English ships were targeting the Santa Clara alone. The firestorm was all but continuous and Evardo looked in anguish across the decks of his galleon. His crew were paying a terrible price for a failed plan, a trap that could not be sprung because the enemy had not the courage to advance and press for a decisive encounter.

At least a score of his men were dead. The wounded lay where they fell, their cries unheard, their horrific injuries untended. Evardo’s jerkin was soaked in blood, much of it his own from a deep gash in his cheek caused by a wooden splinter. More was from a sailor who had taken a round shot to the chest, his torso disintegrating under the hammer blow, his flesh and viscera spraying across the quarterdeck, staining everything it touched.

The sound of English cannon fire reached a deafening crescendo, a crash of unnatural thunder that for a moment stunned every crewman of the Santa Clara into fleeting submission. Evardo looked to his own cannon. The crew were rapidly servicing the small man-killing guns on the upper decks but Evardo could pick up no telltale trace of vibrations from the main guns below. Despite his standing order to the gunners’ captain to match the English cannonade the heavy cannon of the Santa Clara had yet to fire a second round after their opening salvo.

Evardo went forward to go below to the gun deck. Through the smoke he could see Padre Garcia issuing the last rites to a crewman on the main deck, the priest reciting a prayer before God amidst the anarchy of battle. The gun deck was another, but equally chaotic world after the upper decks. The thunder of cannon fire was muted below decks but a more terrifying sound pervaded the cramped low-ceilinged carapace. Round shot pounded off the hull, each percussive strike shuddering the weatherbeaten timbers.

Peering through the suffocating smoke and press of men, Evardo searched for Suárez, his calls unheard over the piercing noise of battle. He moved forward along the deck. Men shouldered past him, rushing in all directions. The nearest gun-port was drenched in blood and Evardo watched as a gunner straddled the barrel and sidled out through the opening to service his muzzle-loading cannon outboard. The upper part of his body was outside the hull, his hand reaching in for each proffered tool and ingredient. It was bravery that touched on madness and Evardo gasped in horror as the gunner suddenly disappeared, struck through by an unseen round. Another crewman immediately rushed to take his place, continuing the suicidal reloading of the cannon. ‘Comandante!’

Evardo spun around. ‘Capitán. How soon before we can return fire?’

‘The men are working as fast as they can, Comandante. The media culebrinas will be ready within the hour.’

‘And the pedreros?’

‘We have already re-fired one of them, Comandante.’

Evardo bristled with frustration, knowing that the slow rate of fire was not the captain’s fault but angry nonetheless.

‘What of those guns?’ He pointed to two of the eight media culebrinas which stood idle in the forward section.

‘Those Italian spawn,’ Suárez cursed. ‘None of our Spanish 10 pound round shots will fit them. The idotias have cast their media culebrinas to a different calibre to ours.’

Evardo could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Two of his heaviest guns were useless. Drawn from a foreign forge, their specification had no bearing on Spanish standards. As a warship, the Santa Clara had begun the campaign with its own battery of guns and had only received these additional two Italian media culebrinas to complement its artillery. The merchantmen however, some of the largest and heaviest armed ships in the fleet, had been up-gunned with a hotchpotch of cannon from foundries across the Empire. If their gunners were encountering the same problems as Evardo’s, with guns silenced by mismatched ammunition, then the English advantage in firepower would be further increased.

‘There is one other thing, Comandante,’ Suárez said. ‘You must order the crew on the upper decks to slow their rate of fire, our stock of 2 pound shot is almost gone.’

‘For now, those guns are the only practical weapons we possess,’ Evardo replied sharply. ‘I would rather have that shot fired at the English ranks than languishing in our lockers. We will replenish our supplies when we take our first prize.’

Suárez nodded and Evardo motioned him to return to his duty before taking to the gangway that returned him to the main deck. He glanced at the nearest falcon pedrero and the precious mound of 2 pound stone shot at the feet of the soldiers manning the gun. One of the gun crew was badly injured. His leg had been crudely bandaged by a comrade and he lay propped up against the bulwark, his expression betraying how close to collapse he was. He held a 2 pound shot in his hand and was carefully chipping away the remaining irregularities on the stone ball to ensure a more perfect fit with the barrel. When the shot was called for he handed it over before taking another from the pile, his teeth gritted against the pain of his leg.

Evardo went past the wounded soldier to the quarterdeck. The intensity of the English fire had not lessened and he looked across to the San Luís. The sight filled Evardo with sorrow. He was looking at a mirror of his own galleon, a once proud but now savaged beast, trapped in a snare of its own making. He could give no further order; all he could do was wait. The English were unwilling to engage in a close quarter attack. The initial plan was for naught, but Evardo prayed Medina Sidonia would still spring the trap. Even without being grappled, the bait had lured the English forward and while the San Luís and Santa Clara remained the focus of the enemy there was still a chance to draw English blood.

Nathaniel spat out the taste of smoke that clung to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. Men pushed past him, carrying the injured away from the gunwale as others rushed to take their place in the firing line. Above the clamour of battle he could hear de Córdoba shouting orders to his men on the poop deck. But Nathaniel remained silent. He could not summon the encouraging words he had shouted two days before in the heat of battle. The Spanish soldiers were not his men and the aggression that had possessed him was gone.

As the English ships were approaching Nathaniel had been gripped by a terrible fear, not of combat, but at the thought of leading these foreigners against his own countrymen, of spilling English blood in the defence of a Spanish galleon. Mercifully the English had not clapped sides and in the face of their continuous cannon fire Nathaniel had felt only relief, and turmoil.

For so many years his path had been clear. Even during the first days of battle, when the sight of England and the English navy had caused him to doubt his ideals, he had doggedly stuck to his objectives and those of Spain. He had believed there was no other way for him, that this was the only path to redemption.

But his son was forging another way. Robert was fighting with the English navy, maybe as an officer, in command of his own countrymen, leading them into a battle to save the sovereignty of England. Nathaniel had thought Robert a fool to believe he could be true to both his faith and the heretic Queen. But for his son Elizabeth was England, they could not be separated.

But what of the souls of his countrymen, Nathaniel thought bitterly. As believers of a false Protestant faith their souls were in mortal peril. Even his son’s soul, however true he was to the Catholic creed, was in jeopardy. Elizabeth had been excommunicated. To follow her was to defy the Papal Bull issued by Pope Pius V.

Nathaniel’s belief in the righteousness of his faith touched the very core of his convictions, but he could draw no strength from there. Now there was only doubt. In his quest to see a Catholic monarch on the throne of England, he had put the freedom of his own people in danger. He had forsaken them. The men of the English navy were fighting to ensure an English monarch controlled the destiny of England. Nathaniel also wanted England to be her own master. In a battle between nations he realized he had to be firmly on one side or the other.

‘Galleasses approaching off the larboard bow!’

Robert spun around and peered through the gun smoke in the direction called by the lookout. He could barely make out his own bowsprit.

‘Mister Seeley, get aloft. I want a full report. Mister Miller, order the master gunner to cease fire and have the coxswain pull us clear of this infernal smoke.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Within seconds the cannon fire ceased, creating an eerie oasis of calm amidst the continued fire of the surrounding English ships. Robert felt the pull of the longboat and coasters and ordered the helm to match their course, streamlining the hull of the Retribution with the draw of the oarsmen. The smoke began to dissipate as Seeley returned from the fighting top.

‘Three galleasses under oars, Captain,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘One of them is towing a massive carrack.’

‘How far off?’

‘A thousand yards and closing fast, at least four knots.’

Sunlight pierced the remnants of the cloud of gun smoke and Robert shielded his eyes as he finally spied the outlines of the approaching reinforcements. They were on course for the heart of the fray and were poised to split open the becalmed English flotilla. The heavy bow chasers of the galleasses would wreak terrible carnage at close range but Robert was more fearful of the leviathan one of them had in tow. The carrack was undoubtedly crammed with soldiers who would quickly overwhelm any English crew in a boarding attack. Furthermore a ship that size could be carrying cannon serpentines and royals, massive guns firing shots of over 50 pounds that would smash through the timbers of even the strongest hulls.

For the first time since the battle began Robert didn’t know what he should do and for precious seconds both his reason and courage floundered. So close to the attack and the advance of the reinforcements, the Retribution was best placed to counter the threat, but no single English galleon was a match for a Spanish galleass or a carrack of that size. Only the combined firepower of a score of galleons would divert such a force. Robert was paralysed by doubt. Despite Howard’s new squadrons, the English captains were used to fighting as individuals. There was no guarantee that if the Retribution stood to face the Spanish reinforcements she would be joined by others in time to form an effective defence. Alone, his ship would be overrun.

Many of the ships in the thick of the fight seemed oblivious to the approaching danger. Others in the flotilla were coming about but with only their own longboats to tow them, their progress was extremely slow. Robert felt his resolve harden. With three boats towing his ship he had the advantage and the imperative. He turned to the enemy. If he hoped to deter the Spaniards from pressing home their attack he knew he had to bring as many guns to bear as possible.

‘Mister Miller,’ Robert shouted, swallowing the last of his fears. ‘Orders to Mister Larkin; tell him to bow the broadside guns. Mister Seeley, order the coxswain to bring the prow about and then strike the tow lines. We make our stand here!’

The Retribution quickly completed her turn in the calm waters, her bow coming about to point directly at the oncoming galleasses. The guns of both broadsides had been run out and bowed, their muzzles turned as far forward as possible. Five hundred yards away the Spanish galleasses swept onwards, their blood red oars propelling them across the surface. Robert closed his mind to the fight over his shoulder; the English cannonade that continued to batter the two wretched Spanish galleons. He focused on the oncoming ships and prayed for the strength to endure. His fate and that of his crew were now firmly in the hands of God and the other captains of the English fleet.

The galleasses surged across the surface, their rams furrowing through the swell, creating a bow wave that swept along the length of their hulls. Their massive oars glided through the water, devouring the strength of some nine hundred slaves, their backs straightening through the draw. The gap quickly fell to four hundred yards.

‘Steady, boys,’ Robert shouted, his call echoed by every officer.

The Retribution was a warship built for speed and manoeuvrability, with a massive, complex rig that readily consumed the labour of its sailing crew when the ship was in motion. Becalmed, the majority of the crew were deprived of the frantic duty that would see them through battle and they could do nothing but watch the approaching enemy in silence.

Suddenly Larkin let fly with the bow chasers and the crew roared in response, a release that put courage into the heart of every man. Only Robert remained silent, his gaze locked on the centre galleass. Her six bow chasers were run out, the pitch-black muzzles falling and rising with the swoop of the bow. Robert could almost see the Spaniards behind the long barrels, the smouldering flame on their linstocks poised above the touchholes and as the oars of the galleass propelled her through the upswing the cannons fired in a blaze of fiery smoke.

The volley of iron shot struck a terrifying blow, each ball tearing a bloody path across the decks of the Retribution. The timbers of the superstructure exploded, propelling razor sharp splinters in every direction that shredded the courses and riggings. The hull boomed with the strike of a massive round, a 50 pound ball from a cañón de batir that ripped across the fo’c’sle, blasting a saker from its mounting, obliterating its gun crew.

On the gun deck Larkin’s men worked with a speed that defied their previous best, their bodies drenched in sweat as they prepared the bowed broadside culverins, their laboured breathing made worse by the choking smoke. Desperation crept into their task, their haste spurred by the knowledge that the very life of the ship was in their hands. A piercing cry of pain cut through the smoke as a gunner’s foot was crushed beneath the four-wheeled truck of a culverin, the 4,500 pound carriage crushing bone and cartilage as the crew hauled on the rope to run it out. One of the men pulled him clear, the process of reloading never abating as the touchhole was primed and the weapon fired without pause for command.

A second galleass let fly at the Retribution, her six chasers wreaking fresh carnage as death and injury consumed the crew. The foremast was split through, the weathered oak spar snapping like a switch. Cries of alarm overrode the cacophony as the stays and rigging crashed onto the fo’c’sle. Robert stood transfixed. The crew within earshot responding to his shouted commands; men dragged the wounded below or secured what rigging they could, and the all consuming clamour of the battle raised every voice to an ear splitting pitch.

Robert watched for the strike of Larkin’s shots. He couldn’t see them; they were too infrequent, too ineffectual to check the advance of even a single ship. It was only a matter of time before the Retribution was overrun. All of a sudden the fore-rail of the nearest galleass seemed to disintegrate under a hail of fire. A moment later the air around her foremast was riven through with shot, her rigging split asunder. Robert saw a dozen Spaniards fall and he spun around to look aft of the Retribution. Three English galleons were off his stern, each one firing their bow chasers at the enemy. Another joined even as Robert watched and he looked to the fore to see others take station there, their combined firepower making a mockery of the opposing bow chasers of the galleasses.

The line formed rapidly, a dishevelled confusion of towed galleons, each firing whatever guns they could bring to bear until a solid phalanx had been formed, a defensive formation that quickly negated the enemy’s threat to the flotilla’s flank. The galleasses slowed their approach, their course no longer clear, and a stalemate quickly developed, an uneven contest of fire as upwards of thirty galleons turned their cannon towards the Spanish reinforcements.

Evardo clutched the crucifix around his neck, the carved figure of Christ pressing painfully into his flesh. The galleasses had remained stoical under enemy fire for nearly an hour, paying a heavy coin in damage and casualties as they returned fire with their bow chasers. They were no longer advancing towards the English, but had bore away to come to the direct assistance of the San Luís and Santa Clara. One of the galleasses was listing badly although Evardo could not tell if she had been holed below the waterline or whether her internal ballast had shifted. The giant ornate stern lantern of another had been shot away and the third had damage to her ram and prow. Distance and the ever present clouds of gun smoke concealed the extent of the casualties amongst their crews.

The enemy ranks remained firm, although their rate of fire had dramatically decreased with many of the English galleons being towed away to gain sea room. The day’s battle was only just beginning and already Evardo could see distant fire and smoke as a further action, driven by localized sea breezes, developed closer to Dunnose Point off the southern coast of the Isle of Wight.

The hope that real English blood would be spilt had yet again been dashed. The galleasses, one of them towing De Leiva’s carrack, Rata Santa María Encoronada, were supposed to have sealed the trap and enveloped any enemy ships that grappled the Santa Clara and her sister bait. Instead they had been forced to play the English game once more, resulting in yet another protracted impasse.

When the galleasses had first engaged Evardo had hoped they would strike deeply into the English ranks. But the enemy had responded swiftly. A single ship had towed herself towards the oncoming galleasses, bringing them under fire and alerting every English galleon to the threat to their flank. The single ship was soon joined by others and their defence quickly coalesced behind a storm of cannon fire.

‘Signal from the Girona,’ a lookout called, indicating the nearest galleass. ‘Ready a tow line and prepare to withdraw.’

Evardo nodded to Mendez and the captain repeated the order. Evardo slumped against the main mizzen mast. The exhilaration he had felt at dawn that morning was gone, leaving him cold and exhausted. Through hooded eyes he surveyed the decks of his ship. The crew were moving quietly about the ship, ignoring the sporadic fire of the English, the solitary whistle of passing shot. They moved with purpose, gathering up the injured and dead. Evardo counted twenty-five shroud-covered corpses laid out in a row on the main deck.

Padre Garza was attending to the dead, his own head heavily bandaged. Evardo spied Nathaniel Young on the fo’c’sle standing alone beside one of the falcon pedreros. Evardo closed his eyes and listened to the muted voices of his men, the low tones that spoke of their anger, a bitter rage that Evardo felt in equal measure. Every previous close action had resulted in a similar imbalance between their casualties and those of the English, the artillery tactics of the enemy making a mockery of every Spanish attempt to fight man-to-man.

On this day however the crew had been prepared for heavy casualties. The trap demanded it, but all believed they would have a chance to bloody their swords. Though initially outnumbered, they had believed that their sacrifice would finally allow the fleet to take the fight to the enemy.

A tow line was thrown from the bowsprit of the Santa Clara and the deck shuddered beneath Evardo as the Girona took the strain. The distant gunfire was increasing in intensity, signalling a definitive shift in the centre of battle, but Evardo ignored the temptation to turn his attention to landward. His eyes instead were on the English flotilla not two hundred yards off his starboard beam. Some of them showed signs of damage from the guns of the galleasses but they were mere scratches, nothing that could be heralded as a victory. As the Santa Clara sailed slowly past them Evardo tightened the grip on his crucifix until the Christ-figure punctured his skin. A trickle of blood ran down his wrist. He had sacrificed the safety of his ship and the lives of his crew for nothing.

Robert stepped aside as crewmen carried one of the dead past him. The sailor’s face was covered with a bloodied cloth and Robert bade them stop. He lifted the corner of the cloth. The dead man was a yeoman’s mate and Robert stared at the unseeing eyes for a moment before indicating to the men to carry on. The stand against the galleasses had cost him four dead, with thrice as many wounded. He looked balefully at the half-breed ships off his larboard beam.

‘Ahoy Retribution, Captain Varian, ahoy!’

Robert turned to the call. The Victory was under tow off his starboard quarter and he acknowledged the wave of her commander, John Hawkins.

‘Nicely done, lad,’ Hawkins shouted, doffing his hat. ‘Nicely done.’

Robert returned the gesture. Hawkins held his gaze, his smile changing to a solemn look of respect as he nodded gravely before turning away.

Robert turned once more to the withdrawing enemy ships. At two hundred yards they were well within range but the guns of the Retribution remained silent. From the moment the galleasses had disengaged and turned their bows towards their stricken galleons, and the threat of engagement had passed, Larkin had sent an order to Robert to cease fire. The ammunition stocks were perilously low. Over three-quarters of their shot was gone, including the additional supplies they had garnered from the Spanish prizes.

The tremendous rate of fire, three shots per-gun-per-hour, had pulverized the two galleons and forced the galleasses to withdraw, but as before no prizes had been taken and no enemy ships sunk. Robert studied the closest galleon, the smaller of the two that had found themselves adrift of the Armada formation at dawn. Her upper decks were punctured through in several places. Jeers and stays were hanging loosely from every yard and mast, shredded rigging that told of the countless strikes the galleon had suffered. But in reality it was superficial damage. Only God and the Spaniards knew how many crew had been lost, but whatever the butcher’s bill the enemy had never seemed to be on the verge of striking their colours.

A gentle gust of wind swept over the Retribution. Robert checked his bearings. A south-westerly. The English fleet had the weather gauge. Seeley’s voice rang out and the crew took to the rigging, the topsails unfurling as the breeze steadied.

A mile away Howard and Drake had begun a concerted attack on the seaward wing of the Armada, forcing the Spaniards to tighten their formation, pushing them deeper into the Channel. Frobisher, in the mighty Triumph, was off Dunnose Point, pitting tide and circumstance against the foe, the weather gauge giving him speed and agility that none in the Armada could match. The earlier skirmishes had given way to a fleet-wide battle with the English mounting a full offensive. The Spanish were holding firm, but the wind and waves were against them and as the day progressed a fated reality became apparent. Coveted or not, the Spanish would be denied the Solent.