Armada (30 page)

‘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.’