Armada (36 page)

The enemy flagship was almost invisible in the gun smoke, the cannons’ disgorgement holding sway over the breeze that tried in vain to clear the air. Only the muzzle blasts of heavy Spanish weapons could be seen, fiery sparks spurting out of the gloom as the enemy answered defiantly to every attack run.

‘Quart—ho!—off—quarter!’

Robert was unable to comprehend the lookout’s call above the din of battle but he followed his outstretched hand and saw a second enemy warship emerge off the bow of the Spanish flagship. She was a behemoth, a towering merchantman, her decks crammed with soldiers. She erupted in smoke, firing off a single broadside that sliced through the rigging of the
Elizabeth Jonas
not thirty yards off the
Retribution
’s bow.

‘Mister Miller, orders to the Master Gunner; new target off the flagship’s bow. Mister Seeley, steady as she goes. Look to your helm.’

The
Retribution
completed its turn to larboard, her hull cutting cleanly through the swell. Robert felt the tilt of the deck beneath his feet, sensing the movements of his ship; the response of the
Retribution
to the wind in her sails and the bite of her rudder in the blue-green sea. The sensation steeled Robert’s every nerve. He was master of a creature that knew no fear, a warship that obeyed his every command and he would match her will ounce for ounce. As his galleon swung into range of the Spanish he roared a command to set loose the wrath of
Retribution
.

‘
¡Fuego!
’

The
Santa Clara
shuddered at the ferocity of her broadside cannonade. Evardo called for an immediate course change, turning his galleon in as tight a circle as possible as they came in under the stern of the
San Martín
. At almost twice her tonnage and ordnance the flagship towered over the
Santa Clara
but they stood shoulder to shoulder, taking the enemy’s punishment as they denied them leave to advance.

Evardo checked the line of his ship, ignoring the firestorm that swept his decks. On the far side of the flagship a Guipúzcoan merchantman was holding station. Beyond them Evardo recognized another galleon of the Castilian Squadron, the
San Juan
Bautista or the San Pedro, he could not be sure which. For nearly thirty minutes the
San Martín
had been alone, now she had allies and with each arrival the flagship was spared more of the English fire.

On the fo’c’sle Nathaniel stood behind the wall of Spanish musketeers lining the gunwale. He had no weapon to wield against the distant English warships. Alvarado stood close by, yelling orders to his men, urging them on, to increase their rate of musket fire and speed the loading of the
falcon pedreros
.

The fight was hopelessly one sided, with the English warships advancing individually to within three hundred yards before firing their cannons and sailing away again almost unscathed. The Spanish could only reply with side arms and the smaller, more easily serviced guns on the fore and aft castles. Their main guns were silent.

In the midst of battle Nathaniel could not quell his blood lust and he echoed the gutter curses of the Spaniards, cries that fuelled the conflict that raged within him. The Spanish were firing on his countrymen but if Nathaniel was to return to England then the English navy would have to be defeated.

Dice-shot cut a swathe through the ranks close to Nathaniel, striking down the soldiers manning a swivel-mounted 3 pound
falconete
. He rushed to take command of the gun, taking hold of the trailing handle, pointing it at the nearest English ship. He hesitated. For him the Northern Rebellion had been a bloodless uprising. Never before had he wilfully drawn English blood.

A Spanish soldier ran to Nathaniel’s side, a lighted taper in his hand. He glanced at Nathaniel, checking to see if his aim was set. For a moment Nathaniel could not move. He nodded. The soldier dropped the taper to the touchhole. The
falconete
bucked in Nathaniel’s hand, spewing out a cloud of smoke that engulfed him.

‘Reload!’

Men rushed to Nathaniel’s command. A war cry rose to his throat, born from the depths of his hatred for the Protestant monarch, but he could not cry out. Were the men on the English warships truly his enemy? For all he knew his son was amongst them and Nathaniel stepped back from the gun before angrily silencing his remorse. His path was set; he had to see it through. Victory for the Spanish was crucial.

Another English ship sailed into position opposite the
Santa Clara
, her bow chasers firing in unison. Shouted warnings of incoming fire were lost to the smash of timber and the cries of the wounded. Alvarado called for a volley of fire, his command followed by the cackle of muskets. Suddenly his strident voice ceased and Nathaniel turned to see Alvarado fall. The rate of fire from the fo’c’sle fell away as more men looked to their stricken captain. In the distance the English warship turned broadside.

‘Back to your stations, resume your fire,’ Nathaniel shouted. ‘Ready the pedreros. Fire as they bear.’

The soldiers reacted to the voice of command.

‘You men, get below. We need more power and shot.’

Nathaniel drew his sword. ‘
¡Apunten, Fuego!
’

The two pound pedreros fired as the English ship let fly with the heavy guns of its first broadside. More men fell around Nathaniel and he began to shout the words of encouragement he had heard Alvarado call.

Off the stern quarter the
San Martín
was withdrawing towards the centre of the Armada as more Spanish trouble-shooters completed the shield around her. The English rate of fire was falling. Denied their prize many of the enemy warships were disengaging. Only a few were continuing the fight but they remained out of reach, deftly using the advantage of the wind and their faster ships to dictate the pace of the battle.

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

R
obert 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.