Armada

CHAPTER 20

8th August 1588. The Battle of Gravelines.

The day dawned under a grey and swollen sky, the wind gusting from the south-south-west, stirring up the sea into angry swells that lashed against the hull of the Santa Clara as she tacked eastwards, her decks heeled hard over. Evardo had regained his command an hour after the fire-ship attack, the more nimble patache quickly overhauling the Santa Clara. He had re-boarded his ship before the patache bore Abrahan back to the San Juan. They had parted with only a handshake, a simple gesture that spoke of their renewed bond.

Throughout the night Evardo had stayed on deck, watching with ever mounting frustration as Mendez struggled in vain to return the Santa Clara to her anchorage in Calais roads. The hours of darkness had been filled with despair but only with the arrival of dawn did Evardo fully realize the scale of the disaster that had befallen the Armada. Despite the massive breadth of the open anchorage off Calais and the preparations made by Medina Sidonia, the fire-ship attack had completely annihilated the fleet’s cohesion, scattering it along the length of the Flemish coast.

The English had the devil’s own luck. Their fire-ship attack should never have succeeded to such an extent. They had not been true hellburners as was first believed and not one single Spanish ship had been struck or destroyed. The fire-ships had sailed harmlessly onto the shore, but a combination of strong currents and the increasing force of the south-westerly wind had prevented the Armada from regaining its anchorage. The Santa Clara had struggled in vain for hours. The more cumbersome hulks and urcas that made up the majority of the fleet had fared much worse and had been driven further east.

Only the San Martín and four other ships had managed to regain their original anchorage. They were now over a mile to the west of the Santa Clara, heavily engaged with an overwhelming force of enemy warships. The duke had sent out dispatch boats to rally the fleet to his position. The Santa Clara had been one of those to respond, yet they could scarcely make headway against the strengthening wind. Evardo glanced at the other warships nearby that were similarly engaged in a bitter struggle with the prevailing conditions. Of equal concern was that Mendez had slipped and buoyed the Santa Clara’s two anchors in Calais roads. Without them the galleon would be unable to await Parma’s army or even approach a coastline with safety. Evardo suspected that every ship in the fleet had suffered a similar loss.

Evardo had thought of Nathaniel Young many times during the night. He still could not fathom his behaviour. Had he felt some loyalty to his fellow countryman? Was that why the duke had attacked him? It seemed implausible, given what he had known of Young, but he could think of no other explanation. The duke had denied Evardo the satisfaction of killing Varian, but it mattered little. He had bested the English captain, and it was likely that both Young and Varian had been consumed by the inferno.

He turned his face away from the wind. For the moment the English were concentrating on the San Martín and her coterie of escorts but that situation would not last —they would undoubtedly range beyond Calais. From before dawn the crew of the Santa Clara had readied the ship for battle. Despite the heavy weather, every gun had been loaded, and soldiers were positioned in the fighting tops and castles, their muskets and arquebusiers primed and ready. As the sun rose Padre Garza had given absolution to a large number of the crew on the main deck.

Evardo took hope as he watched his men make their final preparations. The enemy had the weather gauge, they would not engage at close quarters. The warships of the Armada would be forced to fight a defensive action once more, but if they could somehow reform, and hold their position off the Flemish coast, they might yet carry the day. Everything depended on the weather and their ability to hold the English at bay. One element was in the hands of God, the other was in their own. Evardo turned back to the unfolding battle beyond his reach, praying that God would grant them the chance to fulfil His calling and retake possession of the seas off Calais.

The bow of the Retribution soared over the swell, her chasers erupting with fire at the zenith. White gunpowder smoke fled before the galleon on the wind, sweeping over the tightly packed cluster of Spanish galleons, following the round shot that had smashed into their heart. The Retribution came hard about, heeling over under the press of the wind, her rigging creaking and groaning as the waves slammed broadside into the hull. Another English galleon was hard on her heels, letting fly with their own chasers as they swept into position.

On the quarterdeck Robert looked to the heavens. He felt numb. So much had happened in the past twelve hours. He had been so sure of who his father was; a traitor, a Judas who had turned against his own countrymen. But then, in the final moments of his life, Nathaniel Young had taken up the sword for England, shattering all of Robert’s conceptions. It was a transformation that brought him little comfort, he would never have a chance to know the man who had saved his life.

In the darkest hours before dawn, as the crew of the Retribution readied the ship for action, Robert had bathed his father’s body, cleaning away the blood from his terrible wounds before binding him in a simple cloth shroud. For the second time in his life he had felt completely lost and alone. He had blown out the solitary candle in the cabin and in his mind’s eye he had pictured his father as he had remembered him when he was a boy, a tall solemn man who had disappeared so suddenly one night from his life.

In the darkness Robert had sat down to wait. When they had returned to the Retribution Seeley had walked away from him without a word. Robert had not seen him again and as the hours passed he had surmised that Seeley had gone to the commander’s flagship to report what he had discovered. Robert had the patience of a career sailor, built over a lifetime of long hours on watch, but every minute spent waiting for the authorities to storm into his cabin had felt like an eternity. He had been consumed by hopelessness. If he could not convince Thomas of his loyalty, a man whom he had fought with side by side, then he had no hope of persuading others. At dawn one of the crew had knocked on the cabin door.

‘Message from the sailing master, Captain. Enemy in sight.’

Robert had been stunned by the message and had gone aloft to find Seeley on the quarterdeck. As before not a word was exchanged and Robert had taken up his duties as if nothing had happened.

From the corner of his eye Seeley surreptitiously watched the captain. He didn’t know how he should feel about him. Seeley’s admiration for Robert had grown over the year since the captain had come on board. Now he felt like a fool. The captain’s deception had left him with a deep sense of betrayal, and yet the respect he had had for the captain was based on what he himself had witnessed, the bravery and determination Robert had shown in every encounter with the Spanish.

He was plagued with doubts, uncertain as to whether he had made the right decision in deferring the captain’s arrest. The Armada’s defensive formation had been broken. The enemy were vulnerable. If the English navy struck with sufficient speed and depth then the battle could finally be won. There could be no half measures and Seeley feared that at a crucial moment the captain might show mercy to his fellow Roman Catholics. Seeley resolved to watch him closely. He would ensure that the captain was taking the fight to the Spanish at every turn. Then, after victory had been secured, he would fulfil his duty and hand the captain over to the authorities.

The call of a yeoman caught Seeley’s attention and he shouted the order to bring the Retribution full about with the wind abaft. Despite the conditions a small group of Spanish warships had gathered in a loose formation to leeward. The Spanish flagship and her escorts, the ships that had taken the initial brunt of the English attack, had already weighed anchor and were sailing west to join the centre of a reforming Armada.

Robert cursed their fortune. Two hours before, at dawn, the English fleet had swooped down on the small group of Spanish warships that had somehow managed to regain their anchor points. They had quickly engaged them from three sides, punishing the Spaniards for their tenacity, but before any real damage could be inflicted Howard had suddenly broken off the engagement, leading his ships in pursuit of another prize, a galleass that had run aground off Calais. That the prize was significant was not in doubt, nor was the danger of leaving such a powerful ship to their rear, but Howard’s diversion had given the Spanish flagship and the rest of the scattered Armada a respite, one they were now taking advantage of.

The Retribution and a dozen other warships had stayed on station, keeping the flagship under sporadic fire, but the shape of the battle was rapidly changing. A running battle was about to begin along the coast off Gravelines. Robert called for the Retribution to bear away as the English fleet began to gather anew to windward. The weather was changing. Squalls of rain swept across the distant seascape, obscuring the far reaches to the horizon. Seeley called for shortened sails, straightening the trim of the hull as the fleet began to pursue the enemy.

The Spaniards swiftly formed a rough crescent, similar to the defensive formation that had seen them through the Channel. But now that formation consisted only of warships, a fighting rearguard to protect the scattered transport ships to leeward. The English fleet closed in, passing four hundred yards, their guns remaining silent, the experiences of the past week and the dwindling supplies of ammunition causing every master gunner to hold his fire. At three hundred yards the English fleet began to dissipate, their already loose formation breaking up as individual ships sought targets amongst the weathermost ships of the trailing horns.

On the quarterdeck Robert marked his target and Seeley brought the Retribution to bear, the crew swarming over the rigging. The galleon plunged through the trough of a roller, sea spray blasting over the bowsprit.

‘Stand ready, men!’ Robert roared. ‘For God, Elizabeth and England!’

The crew cheered at the call, their war cries interspersed with the continued orders of the yeomen and officers. The warship surged through another swell, shaking off the sheet of seawater that washed over the fo’c’sle.

‘Tops’ls and sprit ho!’

One hundred yards. The Retribution raced onwards, her cutwater slicing through the crests. Seeley called for another change to the sheets, determined to steady the hull and give Larkin’s gunners every advantage. Robert stood beside the master on the quarterdeck, his eyes on the target. The Spanish warship was dead ahead, eighty yards, the bow of the Retribution pointing amidships of her starboard side.

‘Steady, Thomas,’ Robert said, loud enough that only Seeley could hear.

Seventy yards. The Spanish cannons erupted in defiance, the round shot searing towards the Retribution, raking the fo’c’sle with fire. A falcon took a direct hit, the burning fragments of its mounting cutting down two of the crew, their cries sending men running to their aid.

Sixty yards. The Spanish ship filled Robert’s vision, its towering castles bristling with soldiers, their musket fire a rising crackle of deadly shot that punctured the air, cutting down another man, and another, and another.

‘Steady, steady —.’

Fifty yards.

The thunderous boom of the bow chasers fractured the air.

‘Hard a larboard,’ Robert shouted in the same instant.

‘Hard a larboard,’ Seeley roared. ‘Mizzen ho! Veer sheets to the main course! Prepare to lay aboard!’

Like a scythe the Retribution cut through the turn, sweeping parallel to the Spanish warship. The broadside guns fired in sequence, each retort fuelling the growing din and smoke of battle. Across the narrow gap Robert witnessed the hammer blow of each round shot, the appalling devastation wrought by the close quarter salvo. On all sides the soldiers in his crew were firing their muskets and arquebuses. Seeley bore away, the galleon beginning the turn that would present the second broadside. Robert stood transfixed, his gaze locked on the Spanish warship and the gaping wounds in her hull. Larkin was right, at such a close range nothing could withstand the firepower of an English galleon.

The solid ball of forged iron blasted through the heavy oak timbers, the wood disintegrating into a hail of lethal splinters in a span of time no eye could observe, cutting men down before they could scream their last. The round shot smashed into the barrel of a media culebrina, tossing the 2,500 pound gun from its mounting, the force of the blow throwing men across the deck like chaff before the wind. Another round exploded across the gun deck of the Santa Clara, slaying all in its path before punching out through the hull, leaving only destruction in its wake.

On the deck above Evardo felt the vibrations of the strikes ripple through his body. He roared in anger at the English galleon sweeping past his ship, her cannon inflicting deep and terrible wounds on the Santa Clara. The enemy were engaging at an incredibly close range, never more than a hundred yards. At the outset of the battle, for the briefest of moments, Evardo had thought the English galleons were finally closing to board. De Córdoba’s men had massed expectantly at the gunwales, urging the English on, willing them to fight hand-to-hand, but the enemy had pursued their previous tactics, the wind giving them every advantage as their nimble galleons swooped in like birds of prey, each attack drawing more and more Spanish blood.

The crew of the Santa Clara stood their ground at the gunwales, the proximity of the English galleons finally allowing the soldiers a change to effectively fire their small arms. The air was thick with the harsh crackle of gunfire. The man-killing falconetes and falcon pedreros were being fired almost continually, their barrels blistering to the touch, but for every Englishman that fell on the opposing galleon, many more were being lost among Evardo’s crew.

The English were firing their main cannon at an unbelievable rate and already the decks of the Santa Clara were awash with blood from the injured and dying. The air was rank with the smells of battle, of blood and viscera, voided bowels, gun smoke and fire, a fetid miasma that clung to the back of Evardo’s throat. All around him he saw men being obliterated by the withering enemy fire. Shot after shot struck the fore and aft castles, turning them into bloody shambles. No protection could be sought behind the weathered hull and through the gaping holes Evardo could see the vulnerable innards of his galleon, the stanchions and deck beams torn asunder by iron.

His galleon and his men were paying a terrible price for their fortitude. Evardo called on every ounce of his determination, compelling himself to stand firm. He looked about the quarterdeck. Mendez stood near at hand, his voice raised as he relayed his orders, his focus entirely on the position of the Santa Clara. He was seemingly oblivious to the English, as if their attack was no more than a storm, the incoming fire merely a driving rain that could be ignored.

Not two hundred yards away the Portuguese galleon San Felipe was taking fire from nearly a score of English ships. Her foremast, the guns on her poop deck, and much of her rigging had already been blown away. Blood ran freely from the scuppers but amidst the smoke Evardo spied the comandante Don Francisco de Toledo on the quarterdeck, calling on the nearest enemy galleon to come to close quarters. His entreaty was answered by an Englishman in the opposing maintop, shouting what seemed to be a call for de Toledo to surrender his ship. In sight of all the Englishman was promptly shot down and a defiant blaze of musket fire followed the enemy galleon as it turned away from the San Felipe.

The sight further steeled Evardo’s will, filling his belly with fire. Many of the English galleons were dashing forward, trying to drive a wedge into the formation in an effort to create a breech. Their aggression had already resulted in collisions amongst the Spanish ships but the crescent formation was holding firm, maintaining the protective screen that kept the English jackals from the transport ships to leeward. With the wind rising and the English committing more and more ships to the battle Evardo knew it would take more than determination to hold the line. The main guns of the Santa Clara were silent, their preloaded shot long since fired. But while his crew could still draw breath, and his galleon could bear more punishment, Evardo vowed to keep them in the fight.

The Retribution surged forth from the clouds of smoke from her own guns, her bow lunging over the swells, her swollen sails stretched taut, bearing on the 450 ton galleon as her cannon roared anew, spewing out round shot that whistled through the air, carrying all before them as they struck home. Robert shouted a change in course, his order echoed by Seeley, the crew taking doggedly to their task, hauling in the sheets as others scaled the heights of the rigging.

The battle was eight hours old, a seemingly endless fight where round followed round. Robert wiped the sea spray from his wind-lashed face as he sought out another target for Larkin’s guns. The English fleet had held the advantage throughout the day and had mercilessly battered the Spanish formation from every quarter. The enemy had held firm, making the English fight for every league as the wind drove all eastwards. The Retribution had made countless attack runs, striving each time to isolate one of the Spanish host, separating the weathermost ships from the formation so they could be overwhelmed and battered by many times their number.

Still the Armada sailed on, its formation ever increasing in size as it gathered up the slower moving transport ships to leeward. But the wind had shifted to the north-west. If it held, the Spanish would be blown onto the Banks of Flanders. Without command every English captain knew their duty was to continue to press home the attack, allowing the Spaniards no respite as forces beyond the control of all began to dictate the shape of the battle.

Robert leaned into the turn as the deck tilted beneath him. Battle lust had ebbed and flowed within him over the hours and every muscle in his body ached from the tension of combat. His every sense was on edge. The weather was rapidly deteriorating and Robert could see nothing beyond the immediate battle. His eyes moved from one enemy warship to another. Those he could see had been damaged beyond what he had previously believed any ship could endure. He spotted one coming about on the windermost flank, her manoeuvre hampered by damaged rigging. It quickly became apparent that she was having difficulty maintaining her position in the enemy formation. Robert pointed her out to Seeley and the master called for the new heading.

The Retribution swiftly bore down on her prey. On the main deck Robert saw the gunner’s mate command his men to run out the demi-culverins. The men responded with alacrity, their faces contorted in exertion as they hauled the 3,400 pound guns into position. After hours of near continuous labour their efforts spoke of an almost inhuman strength, but Robert knew that soon they would have to cease. The ammunition stocks on board were desperately low. Already the 24 pound shot had been expended. As the range closed on the Spanish warship ahead the bow chasers remained silent. Despite the need for a sustained attack on the Armada, Robert realized his galleon would soon have to withdraw from the fight.

Seeley brought the Retribution hard about at fifty yards and smoke engulfed the ship once more as the heavy guns on the broadside erupted with fire. The Retribution bore away to give the gunners time to reload. Nearby other English warships had seen the Retribution’s attack and were following suit, converging quickly on the isolated Spaniard. Beyond, the battle was becoming more chaotic. Visibility had fallen further and the growing anger of the sea was making it harder for ships to engage.

Suddenly Robert’s heart lurched in his chest. The Santa Clara was three hundred yards off the larboard bow, sailing on the flank of the trailing wing. She looked to be heavily damaged. Her courses were shot through, her rigging hung like vines from the stays but atop her masts, her banners flew defiantly on the wind.

‘Hard a starboard!’

Seeley immediately repeated the command, the Retribution heeling hard over.

‘Where away, Captain?’ Seeley called.

‘Four points off the larboard bow, Thomas. It’s the Santa Clara.’

Seeley’s expression hardened at the name and he nodded curtly as he spied the Spanish galleon. He called for a slight change to the helm, matching the approach of the Retribution with the course of the Santa Clara, ensuring that their first attack run would have the maximum effect. The wind gusted and swelled the sails, the waves slamming laterally into the hull, booming punches that reverberated throughout the ship as the ruptured water smashed over the bow. The rhythm steadied, the crew toiling at their stations. Yard by yard the Retribution hurtled towards her nemesis.

Evardo strode across the quarterdeck, shouting commands to all within earshot, his focus continually shifting from one point to another. The crew rushed about him, taking advantage of the brief respite to bring order to the decks. It had been fifteen minutes since an English galleon had attacked and the men worked frantically to gather up what wounded they could and bring them below to the already overcrowded surgery. Others loaded what deck guns remained, bringing up the last of the powder and shot for the small calibre pieces.

Evardo’s head was spinning and he drew a deep breath down his parched throat, blinking away the stars that exploded in his vision. He was assailed by terrible grief and anger. So many of his men were dead or injured. Down on the main deck the rising sea was crashing waves against the bulwarks, forcing clear water through the scuppers that quickly turned bloodstained as it ran across the deck.

The Santa Clara bore terrible injuries. Heeled hard over under the press of the wind, her hull had been exposed to enemy fire below the waterline. She had been struck there twice and although the shot had not penetrated, the seams had been split. The pumps had been unable to keep pace with the seawater rushing into the lower hold and Evardo had been compelled to order one of the divers overboard. In the midst of battle the man had jumped naked into the sea. He had patched the hull with oakum and pitch, a temporary measure that had slowed the intake of water and given the pumps the upper hand.

The Santa Clara had been lucky. The Maria Juan had gone down only an hour before. In a moment of ill fortune she had become isolated from the formation and had come under immediate attack from a pack of English galleons. They had pounded her from all sides, meting out a slow and horrific fate, her crew fighting desperately against overwhelming odds, while the closest ships in the Armada remained trapped by the wind to leeward, unable to go to her assistance. She had finally gone down by the bow, slipping quickly beneath the waves, taking with her all but a single boatload of the three hundred men on board.

The María Juan had been the first ship to be lost in battle to English cannon fire, but she would not be the last. Earlier the valiant San Felipe had fallen behind and was now lost from sight amongst the English warships, her fate unknown, while her sister ship, the San Mateo, was already a half-mile adrift of the fleet, hopelessly trying to regain her position, her rudder and masts damaged beyond purpose.

Evardo turned his back on the stricken Portuguese galleon and looked to his own ship. Despite almost constant attacks the Santa Clara had held her position. She was a fine ship, Evardo thought forlornly as he straightened his shoulders and shrugged off his exhaustion. For six hours his galleon and crew had taken everything the English had thrown at them. Although hopelessly outgunned, not a single man had left his station. They were undefeated but Evardo wondered how long they could remain so.

A second foe had joined the battle on the side of the English, an enemy that was pushing them relentlessly towards annihilation. If the north-westerly wind held, the Armada would be on the Banks of Flanders by noon the next day. The larger ships of the fleet would almost certainly run aground and once they did they would be dashed to pieces by the endless wind-driven waves. The smaller ships would be easy prey for the Dutch. It was a fate that had not yet been written. The wind might yet change.

‘Enemy ship on attack run off the starboard bow!’

Evardo rushed to the gunwale at the call, the crew taking to their stations, the tempo of battle making orders unnecessary.

‘The Retribution,’ he whispered. The deck shifted beneath him, Mendez manoeuvring the Santa Clara in an attempt to foul the English warship’s advance. It was a forlorn endeavour, born from the will to fight on against the odds. With every English attack run and every gust of the north-westerly wind the chance of ultimate victory was slipping further and further from the Armada. But no Spaniard had turned his back and Evardo lent his voice to the cacophony of war cries from the men of the Santa Clara as they waited to receive the incoming fire of the enemy.

The Retribution came swiftly on under shortened sail, sweeping past other ships of the English fleet, their courses intertwined as each ship forged its own path through the battle. On the gun deck Larkin called for the last of the culverins and demi-culverins to be run out, using the roll of the deck to assist the gun crews. They were primed and ready, with the remaining supplies of ordnance for each gun close at hand. In the worsening weather they might not get another chance to fire upon the cursed Spanish galleon that had sought them out in battle and Larkin steadied his men as he walked the length of the deck.

With two hundred yards to go an expectant hush descended upon the entire crew. In the rigging and on deck all eyes were on the Santa Clara. Robert felt the killing urge slowly rise within him. Here was the enemy. The Armada was an inhuman beast, devoid of a heart that could be pierced, but the men of the Santa Clara were flesh and bone and Robert would make them pay the price of Spain’s belligerence in blood.

The relentless wind closed the gap. Spanish musketeers fired from the fighting tops and castles of the Santa Clara. A soldier on the poop deck fell injured, his cry fuelling Robert’s determination, his battle lust suppressing any fear as the small arms fire from the Spanish ship intensified.

‘Sumus omnes…’ he said.

‘In God’s hand,’ Seeley said beside him and Robert glanced over his shoulder at the sailing master, their eyes meeting for a second.

The bow of the Retribution closed to within fifty yards of the Santa Clara, poised to run past her on the starboard broadside. Robert swept the decks of the Spanish galleon, looking for Morales. The broadside guns of the Retribution fired, smothering the fifty yards between the ships in smoke and noise. Musket fire filled the air, the soldiers of the Santa Clara firing blindly at close range, their hail of lead cutting down English sailors from the lower rigging.

‘Hard a starboard! Come about!’

The helmsman responded to Robert’s command and the Retribution turned swiftly in the waters behind the Santa Clara.

‘Bring her up on the larboard broadside!’

‘Helm, two points to larboard! Prepare to lay close! Yeoman of the jeers, fore course and mizzen, ho!’

The Retribution bore swiftly down on the Santa Clara, this time on the opposing broadside, the larboard battery firing at a range of forty yards.

Countless muzzle flashes marked the exchange of fire through the haze of gun smoke as the ships passed each other. Evardo stumbled behind the line of soldiers at the gunwale, his hands stained in blood as he pulled at each fallen man, calling for help for the injured, leaving the dead where they lay, the chaos and noise numbing his senses.

A round shot blasted through the bulwark, cutting a bloody swathe through the soldiers. Evardo was blown from his feet and he hit the deck hard. The screams of the dying were all around him. He got up, his vision swimming before him. The deck was strewn with broken bodies. He tasted blood and he vomited up the bile in his throat.

He looked to his sword. The blade had been snapped off half-way along its length and he let it fall from his hand. He picked up a discarded arquebus and checked the priming. It was loaded and he took the place of a fallen soldier in the front line. He raised the weapon and pointed it at the Retribution. The heaving deck and choking smoke made accuracy impossible and he lowered his head against the flash as he pulled the trigger. The arquebus bucked against the middle of his chest, a solid punch and Evardo roared a guttural curse at the English warship as he tossed the weapon aside.

The rate of fire fell away as the Retribution sailed beyond the starboard bow. Evardo spat the last of the bile from his mouth and stepped back from the gunwale. The roar of battle gave way to the wailing of the injured. Men were shouting on all sides, rushing to bring more ammunition aloft and take the wounded below. The lines reformed at the gunwales while the last of the 2 and 3 pound shot were loaded into the falcon pedreros and falconetes.

Mendez called for the sails to be shortened further. He was bleeding heavily from a shoulder wound, the blood dripping from his limp arm, staining the side of his breeches. Evardo stood beside him and watched as the sailors followed the captain’s command, their task made almost impossible by the damaged sheets. They had little time. Beyond the bow the Retribution was making ready to attack again.

‘Bear away. Prepare to come about on Larkin’s command!’ Robert ordered.

The Retribution turned neatly through the wind, bearing away to gain sea room. On all sides the battle raged, the Armada struggling desperately against wind and fire, the English sustaining the pressure, giving no quarter, England to their backs and the fate of the realm in their hands.

The Retribution came full about with the Santa Clara four hundred yards off her larboard bow. The carriages trundled across the deck, the gunners hauling on the loaded guns, the black barrels thrusting out through the ports beyond the muzzle rings. Seeley steadied the helm and the wind stretched the canvas to its limits. The galleon shot forward. Seeley struggled to hold their course, the rising sea battering the hull and rudder, constantly threatening to turn their keel off true.

The Retribution came broadside to the Santa Clara, thirty yards off her beam. The four guns of the larboard battery fired almost as one, their shot flying over the main deck of the Spanish ship as it dipped into the trough of a massive swell. The smoke of small arms erupted and was whipped away by the breeze. Men shouted war cries from both sides, their voices hollowed by the wind, their battle lust waning, leaving only hatred for an enemy they could not defeat.

Robert saw the Spanish commander on the opposing quarterdeck.

‘Morales!’

His voice carried clearly above the dwindling noise of battle and Evardo spun around. They stared at each other across thirty yards of angry sea as their galleons raced onwards. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Neither one of them had been victorious. Both lived in defiance of the other and bound by an unbreakable connection, forged by war, they would be enemies forever.

A call rang out from the mast head of the Retribution. Robert turned. A massive Spanish galleon was approaching off the bow and Seeley quickly bore away, widening the gap between the two ships. Robert looked back to Morales but the change in course had obscured his view and the Spaniard was lost from sight. The Retribution came back to windward. The larger Spanish galleon sailed in to lay aboard of the Santa Clara, shielding her from further attacks. With grim resignation Robert ordered Seeley to heave to.

Heavy squalls rolled in from the north-west and across the width of the Armada the English fleet began to disengage and draw away. The shot lockers of almost every fighting ship were empty. There was nothing more the English fleet could do. Although they continued to shadow the Spaniards they soon lost sight of the Armada in the squalls. They had fought to their last round. Now the outcome was in the hands of the Almighty. The north-westerly picked up even greater strength, forcing the Armada ever onwards towards the Bank of Flanders. For the Spaniards the day had not yet ended, but for the English, the Battle of Gravelines was over.