Armada (41 page)

The boom of a single cannon echoed across the fleet, interrupting Evardo’s thoughts. It was a signal from the
San Martín
. Evardo waited impatiently for whatever command had been issued to disseminate across the fleet.

‘Orders from the flagship,’ the masthead lookout shouted down after several minutes. ‘All ships to drop anchor in Calais roads.’

‘Here?’ de Córdoba asked. He turned to Evardo. ‘Why is the duke ordering the fleet to anchor?’

For a moment Evardo did not reply although he knew the reason, or at least suspected. It now seemed probable that Medina Sidonia had yet to receive any response from Parma and was halting the Armada for fear of going to leeward of the disembarkation port, whichever one that might be. It was a disturbing development. Evardo’s unease showed in his expression.

‘You suspect something’s wrong?’ de Córdoba asked.

Evardo looked around and leaned forward. He lowered his voice, fearful that one of the crew might overhear, and explained his assessment of the situation.

‘And what of Calais?’ de Córdoba asked. ‘Maybe Medina Sidonia has received news that Parma is waiting there?’

Evardo shook his head. ‘Calais is controlled by French Catholics. They might be sympathetic to our cause, but they would never open their gates to the Army of Flanders, no more than a Spanish city would allow a French army to enter. No, Parma has certainly commandeered one of the ports he already holds in Flanders to embark his army.’

‘Then we will soon know which one,’ de Córdoba said with confidence.

Evardo nodded, although he did not share his captain’s certainty. He turned his attention to the lie of his ship and Mendez’s commands as the sailing captain brought the
Santa Clara
in closer to the shore.

While still a half mile from the port Mendez called for the sails to be furled and, soon after, for the bow anchor to be released. The bow of the
Santa Clara
swung around on the anchor cable as the flukes took hold in the sandy bottom. As the prow came up to the wind Mendez called for a smaller stern anchor to be released, securing the galleon amidst her sister warships in the rearguard. Evardo immediately looked to the four points of his galleon and the surrounding seascape.

Calais was situated on a near featureless coastline, with neither a headland or sea stack to mitigate the strong cross currents fed by the local tidal streams. The Armada had halted in a very exposed anchorage and the deck of the
Santa Clara
heaved aggressively as the wind clawed at her fore and aft castles.

Evardo turned his attention to the English who were still in formation three miles to windward. Given their position, and the disadvantageous conditions, Calais roads was one of the worst possible anchorages for the Armada, but there was no better anchorage further east, certainly none that could accommodate the larger ships. Also along the coast, beginning not a mile off shore, were the dreaded Banks of Flanders, a hazard that had claimed innumerable ships over the centuries. Medina Sidonia had to communicate with Parma before proceeding. There was no other option but to wait.

Perhaps it was true that the English fleet could not be defeated in battle, not when their more nimble ships had the advantage of the weather gauge and they were intent on using only their cannon to fight. It mattered little. The Armada had weathered every attack and while the crew of the
Santa Clara
and many other vessels had endured severe casualties, not one ship had been lost to enemy fire. The Armada had reached the Flemish coast intact. They had fulfilled the divine orders of the King.

Contact with Parma had yet to be made but de Córdoba was right, they would soon know which port the army had chosen. Then the anticipated rendezvous could take place and the Armada would escort the invasion fleet across the Channel. Parma’s troop ships would sail unmolested in a cocoon of warships, a defensive formation that the enemy could not break. The Army of Flanders would land in England and the heretic Queen would be cast down to Hell.

Here, now, in the waters off Calais, God’s will was being done and Evardo lifted his eyes to the heavens as he uttered a prayer of contrition for ever having doubted the success of His enterprise. On this day there could be no doubt. After years of planning, months of preparation, weeks of sailing and days of battle, victory was indeed within the grasp of the Spanish Armada.

5 p.m. 7th August 1588. Calais, France.

‘
S
ix days,’ one of the
comandante
s repeated with horror, his words hanging in the silence that engulfed the spacious aft-cabin of
La Rata Encoronada
. Evardo stood amongst the group of two dozen men, his mind reeling from the news just delivered by Don Alonso de Leiva and the inevitable dire consequences such a delay would precipitate.

‘Yes,’ de Leiva repeated. ‘The Army of Flanders will not be ready to sally out for another six days. The Duke of Parma has already begun the process of loading the men and equipment onto their transports in Dunkirk but before now he had been waiting for news of our arrival.’

‘But what of the pataches sent to warn him?’ someone asked.

De Leiva waved the question away irritably. ‘He claims they only reached him yesterday. Right now that is not our concern – the next six days are. The English have anchored to windward but it is unlikely they will leave us unmolested while we wait for Parma. We must prepare ourselves for an attack. If we can hold them off for six days, by the seventh day the Army of Flanders will be marching on London.’

Murmured conversations began at de Leiva’s words, with some voices raised in anger. Evardo remained silent.
Six days
, he repeated to himself. It was a lifetime for a fleet so precariously positioned as the Armada. When he had been summoned to
La Rata Encoronada
thirty minutes ago he had presumed it was to discuss the logistics of supporting Parma’s imminent arrival. He had never suspected that such devastating news awaited them all.

What was equally serious was the fact that Parma was requesting an escort from the harbour of Dunkirk itself. The Dutch were blockading the port with armed flyboats. Parma had only a handful of small warships to oppose them and he feared his slow moving, flat-bottomed troop transports would be easy prey for the Dutch. The Flemish shoals that guarded the approaches to Dunkirk could only be traversed during high tide, and even then only by ships with a very shallow draught. The Armada possessed such vessels, chief amongst them the galleasses, but with the English fleet threatening them to windward Medina Sidonia was unlikely to divide his forces. King Philip’s meticulous plan was rapidly unravelling and Evardo felt the palpable anxiety of his fellow
comandante
s in the crowded space, an infectious dread that sapped his previous confidence.

‘Enough,’ de Leiva shouted, returning the cabin to silence once more. ‘We have confirmed reports that a second fleet has joined the English from Dover. The enemy now outnumber us in sail, but the Duke of Medina Sidonia is confident, and his advisors and I concur, that the English cannot hope to defeat us while we hold our formation.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the room. ‘The
cobarde
s are afraid to approach us and fight like men,’ one man shouted and the tone of agreement rose.

‘The English must know that breaking our formation is vital to their success,’ de Leiva continued, his voice overriding the cacophony. ‘Given our exposed anchorage, the swiftness of the incoming tide, and the prevailing westerly winds it is believed the English might try a fire-ship attack to break up our defence and drive us onto the Banks of Flanders.’

De Leiva maintained the silence with a raised hand.

‘We have one other reason to suspect the English will use this stratagem,’ he said. ‘The arch-fiend Frederigo Giambelli is known to be in England.’

The name elicited an audible gasp from every man in the cabin.

‘Merciful Jesus. Hellburners,’ one of them said. The cabin erupted.

Evardo felt a prickle of fear at the back of his neck at the mention of hellburners. The infernal devices were not merely fire-ships, they were floating bombs, designed by the Italian Giambelli to explode on impact with their prey or with a delayed fuse that would ignite the charges without warning.

Three years before in the war against the Dutch Republics, Parma had built an 800 yard pontoon bridge across the Scheldt River, cutting off Antwerp from the sea in a bid to force the city to surrender to his forces. It had taken over six months to build the massive structure and, armed with over two hundred gun emplacements, it was further protected both up and down stream by booms. Against this impregnable barrier the Dutch had sent Giambelli’s hellburners.

The Spanish soldiers manning the bridge had been prepared for a fire-ship attack, but no one had before devised such a weapon as the hellburners. The first ship, with a delayed fuse, exploded almost harmlessly in the middle of the river, creating a sight that actually drew more soldiers to the bridge. The second ship exploded on impact, instantly killing over eight hundred men on the bridge and injuring countless others. It was a devastating attack and Evardo could only imagine with horror the impact such devices would have on the massed ships of the Armada. As the noise in the cabin began to ebb, all eyes turned once more to de Leiva.

‘In preparation for this attack your crews must be ready to slip and buoy their anchor cables at a moment’s notice. Every
comandante
is given leave to lay off as they see fit, but let me be clear – the Duke of Medina Sidonia expects every ship to regain their anchors and their position once the threat has passed.’

De Leiva’s eyes ranged across the cabin. Every man nodded his assent.

‘Now, to enhance our defence, the duke has also decided to place a screen of pataches before the fleet. Their task will be to grapple and haul any fire-ships away. I need war-captains to command these boats, not the current traders who might turn and run at the first sight of fire. Who among you will volunteer?’

‘Don de Leiva,’ Evardo said at once. ‘I request the honour of commanding one of the pataches.’

‘And I,’ another
comandante
shouted, close at hand.

‘And I.’

‘And I.’

Robert gazed out over the fore rail of the fo’c’sle at the anchored enemy fleet. The Spaniards had done it. The Flemish coast was within their reach. Right now Parma’s army was undoubtedly readying itself to embark. If he was sallying out from Dunkirk he was less than twenty-five miles away. How many thousands of soldiers were already on the Armada? How many more would Parma add? The Army of Flanders was the greatest in Europe and once ashore in England they would sweep aside any obstacle. Only the English fleet stood in the way of that terrible fate. But how could they stop the Armada? The Spanish ships were unsinkable, their formation unbreakable, and once the Armada set course for the English coast, with Parma’s men amongst them, their victory would be assured.

‘Beg to report, Captain,’ Robert heard and he turned to find Seeley standing behind him.

‘The tide is about to turn. I’ve manned the capstan in case the anchor shifts.’

‘Very good, Mister Seeley,’ Robert replied. He indicated to the Armada off the bow. ‘What’s your assessment?’

‘It’s a piss-poor anchorage for such a large fleet,’ Seeley replied and Robert raised an eyebrow at Seeley’s uncharacteristic profanity. ‘If this wind holds we should try to dislodge them and push them onto the Flemish shoals.’

Robert nodded. It was an obvious conclusion but how would they achieve such a feat?

‘I suspect the admiral will launch some type of attack on the morrow,’ Robert said, thinking aloud. ‘Especially now that Lord Seymour and his squadron have joined the fleet.’

Seeley nodded and took a moment to study the captain. Sir Robert Varian. The title filled Seeley with immense pride. It was a great honour, not only for the captain, but for the
Retribution
and all who sailed on her. A faint smile crept onto his face as he recalled how he had once suspected the captain of being a traitorous Roman Catholic. He had reached an absurd conclusion and he thanked God that he had never confronted Robert.

‘Put extra lookouts fore and aft, Thomas. Report again after the tide has turned.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Pinnace approaching off the larboard quarter!’

It was bearing Hawkins’s colours and Robert went to the main deck in time to see Seeley grant the commander leave to come aboard. Robert led the way to his cabin. Once the door was closed, Hawkins began to speak.

‘We’re going to attack the Armada with fire-ships, tonight. The vessels have already been chosen and are being prepared out of sight of the enemy in the middle of the fleet.’

Of course, Robert thought, fire-ships. His own lack of military experience had hidden this obvious solution from him. The wind was abaft of the fleet and the tide was about to turn in-shore. It was a perfect stratagem.

‘We probably won’t damage many ships, much less destroy any,’ Hawkins continued. ‘Our goal is to create confusion and shatter their formation. With luck, and God’s favour, dawn should see the Spaniards driven back out into the Channel, or better yet, into the North Sea.’

Robert nodded. ‘What ships have been chosen?’

Hawkins listed them. There were eight in total including one of Hawkins’s own ships, a 200 ton barque, the
Hope
.

‘The
Hope
is commanded by Mathias Purdon,’ Hawkins said. ‘He’s a good man, but he’s a merchant, not a soldier. I want someone I can trust at the helm to carry this through.’

‘Then I volunteer,’ Robert said without hesitation.

Hawkins smiled wryly. ‘I thought you might. The ship will be fully rigged; you’ll just need to hold her course until the flames have taken hold. How many men will you need?’

‘Just one,’ Robert replied, again without pause. ‘If he’s willing, I’m going to take my sailing master, Thomas Seeley.’