Armada (39 page)

‘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.