Armada (43 page)

The
Águila
raced across the bow of their chosen fire-ship. Her decks had still not been fired and Evardo called to Abrahan. The patache spun through the eye of the wind and came swiftly around to sail parallel to the fire-ship, thirty yards off her beam. Abrahan matched her course and speed as the two ships sped together towards the Armada, less than a quarter of a mile away. Evardo swept her with his gaze. The deck of the English ship was higher than his own patache. He couldn’t see the enemy crew but he knew they were there.

‘Bring us alongside the bowsprit!’

Abrahan slowly narrowed the gap between the ships.

‘Come on you motherless Spaniards,’ Robert spat, keeping his head low, his eyes locked on the enemy patache closing in on the bow. He had spotted the boat minutes before and although the
Hope
had the weather gauge, without a crew to work the rigging the advantage had all but been negated. The smaller, more nimble enemy patache had outwitted Seeley’s every effort to avoid her.

The running lights of the Armada filled the seascape before the bow and Robert let the sight fill his heart, steeling his nerve. He had delayed firing the decks, although they were well within range. Once the inferno took hold they would have to abandon ship, leaving the
Hope
in the clutches of the patache and Robert was determined that his ship would break through the screen.

‘Hold your course, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Wait for my signal.’

‘Aye, Captain. God speed.’

‘To us both.’

Robert picked up a boarding axe and stooped over he ran to the bow.

‘Ready the grappling hooks,’ Evardo shouted. Three sailors in the bow spread out to give themselves room. They played out their ropes and began to swing the four-pronged hooks, building momentum until they were a blur of speed. Evardo waited, watching the fall and rise of the hull of the fire-ship, knowing they had to be exact.

‘Loose!’

The grappling hooks soared across the gap, falling on the gunwale of the bow, and the crewmen pulled them fast. They held.

‘Secure the lines!’ Evardo ordered. ‘Abrahan, bear away!’

The
Águila
began turning her bow away from the fire-ship. The lines tightened, taking the strain. Suddenly a man appeared at the gunwale, an axe in his hand. He severed the first line. It whipped back, striking down one of the sailors with a lash.

‘Arquebusiers, fire!’ Evardo roared. ‘Cut him down!’

The air erupted with the crack of gunfire. Accurate aiming was impossible on the heaving deck of the small ship but Evardo saw the Englishman go down. The
Águila
continued her turn, the heavier English ship resisting the pull on her bow. The Englishman reappeared. He raised his axe, ready to cut the other line, but in that instant Abrahan played off the rudder, fouling the tension on the lines, causing the English ship to roll. The Englishman lost his balance and his axe struck the gunwale. He fought to free his blade. The faster loading arquebusiers fired a second volley, the bullets striking the hull below him. He looked up and in the light of distant fires Evardo saw his face.

‘Varian!’

Robert froze at the call of his name. He looked to the bow of the Spanish patache. Morales. Anger surged through him like a hot flame. With a ferocity born from hatred of the Spanish aggressors he pulled the blade of the axe from the weathered timber and severed the second tow line. Bullets whipped past him, tearing at the loose folds of his clothes. He stepped up to the last line and struck down with all the fury in his heart. The rope parted with a whip crack.

Robert spun around and started to run aft. The
Hope
was free but it would not remain so. Morales was bound to throw more lines. They had to cripple the patache.

‘Now, Thomas,’ he roared. ‘Fall off! Hard over!’

Seeley eased the pressure on the tiller and the
Hope
shifted her course, the bow swinging to starboard, right into the course of the patache. Robert bent down and picked up the burning slow match. He darted forward to the nearest mound of sails. They had been soaked in pitch and Robert blew on the slow match before throwing the tiny flame onto the pile. The fire quickly took hold. Within seconds the entire mound of sails was burning fiercely.

‘Jesus save us! All hands, brace for impact!’

The crew of the
Águila
fell to the deck. All except for Nathaniel. He couldn’t move. Robert was on that ship. His son was in the vanguard of England’s attack.

Without warning the deck beneath him heeled hard over and he fell. With incredible reflexes Abrahan was veering away from the sudden course change of the English barque, negating the power of the larger vessel as the hulls struck each other. The ships rebounded, opening a gap of five yards between them.

‘Fire! The English have fired their deck.’

‘We must withdraw!’

‘No!’ Evardo roared. ‘We stand fast. Abrahan, lay aboard! We’re too close to the fleet to risk more grappling hooks. We need to board and turn her course.’

Abrahan leaned in against the tiller and brought the
Águila
hard up against the taller side of the barque. The hulls hammered against each other and then parted, opening a gap of two feet, the moving surface of the waves making it impossible to keep them firmly together. The gap closed again.

‘Men of the
Águila
, with me!’ Evardo shouted and he leapt up to grab hold of the gunwale of the barque. He clambered up. Three other men jumped with him while others stood hesitatingly, poised to jump but wary of the fluctuating gap between the hulls. One of the men with Evardo lost his grip as he climbed over the gunwale and he fell between the hulls. A wave slammed the patache against the barque, crushing the soldier, his scream of terror cut short, the sight causing more of the men to hesitate.

‘Thomas, get to the skiff.’

Seeley nodded and ran aft. Robert quickly tied a rope around the tiller, holding it firmly in place, locking the
Hope
on course. He could no longer see the patache but he had heard the strike of the hulls and he prayed they had caused enough damage to foul any further attempt to divert the barque.

The flames were spreading across the deck, devouring everything they touched. Robert shielded his face against the growing heat, stepping backwards towards the stern. Suddenly he saw Morales climb over the gunwale in the waist of the ship. Two men immediately followed.

Robert rushed forward, his sword sweeping from his scabbard. One of the Spanish soldiers saw him and grabbed the arquebus slung over his back, swiftly bringing the weapon up to bear. Robert drew the wheellock pistol from his belt, whipping it up, pulling the trigger on instinct as he took a snap shot at the Spaniard. The bullet hit the soldier in the face and he somersaulted back over the gunwale, his arquebus firing into the air.

Robert dropped the pistol and charged Morales. Evardo held his ground and they slammed into each other, their blades clashing with a force that jarred the muscles in Robert’s arm.

‘I should have killed you, Spaniard,’ he hissed in Latin.

‘My life is not yours to take, Englishman.’

Robert leapt back, sweeping up the tip of his sword, his strike parried by Morales. He stared into the Spaniard’s eyes, trying to predict his next move. They were alive with the reflection of the fire and Robert felt the battle rage within him concentrate in the strength of his sword arm.

He attacked again, swinging his blade through a sequence of strokes, forcing Morales to back away. He drew blood on the Spaniard’s upper arm, gaining half a step. In the corner of his eye he saw the other Spanish soldier raise his gun to shoot him. His mind screamed at him to duck, to somehow shield himself, but his fighter’s instinct held him fast, knowing he could not lower his guard. From behind him he heard a visceral war cry. The soldier’s aim shifted to another target. Seeley! A cold smile crept onto Robert’s face and he pressed home his attack.

‘
Capitán
!’ Nathaniel heard above the roar of the fire. He looked aft. The old helmsman was calling to him, his face mottled with rage, his finger pointed at Morales on the English deck above. ‘Order your men to follow the
comandante
!’

Nathaniel looked up at the barque. The heat was building, a physical barrier that surrounded the fire-ship. The air was filled with sparks, countless shards of the inferno rained down on the
Águila
, threatening to ignite the sail. An explosion erupted on the far side of the barque, sending flames towering into the sky.

There was the sharp retort of a pistol shot and a Spanish soldier fell overboard, his body landing on the deck of the patache. Nathaniel saw Robert attack Morales. The other Spanish soldier raised his arquebus to shoot his son but then turned in the direction of another shout and a man charged forward from the stern. The soldier fired, missing his target and he drew his sword as the Englishman reached him.

Nathaniel was possessed with an overriding urge to call out to Robert but he could not, knowing the distraction might cost his son his life. He moved to the gunwale, judging the shifting gap between the two ships, waiting for the hulls to kiss. He had to get across, to help his son. He readied himself for the jump, not noticing that others were following him, waiting for their
capitán
to lead the way.

Evardo allowed Varian to come on, holding back on his counter attack, giving ground with every strike. The Englishman had beaten him once and Evardo wanted Varian to think he would do so again. He saw him smile and he readily gave another pace.

Above them the main sail burst into flames, the canvas streaming down in blazing strips. The fire scorched the air, making it hard to breathe. Another deck gun exploded on the larboard side, blasting shards of searing metal across the deck.

Evardo sensed the moment to attack, the heart in his chest aching at the thought of sending the Englishman to his Protestant hell, of finally healing the wound to his pride that Varian had opened at Cadiz. He parried another strike, the blades rasping against each other. Evardo recovered and he lunged forward, leading with the tip of his sword. Varian sidestepped and struck down, turned his blade inside but Evardo was ready for the counter stroke and he whipped back his sword to reverse his attack, inflicting a shallow flesh wound on Varian’s thigh. The Englishman gave ground. They circled and Evardo attacked again, pushing the fight towards the bow.

The flames consumed the mainmast, racing up to the tops, creating a vortex of warm air that rushed across the deck. Robert held his breath and focused all his strength on defending himself against the blur of steel that had suddenly become the Spaniard’s sword. His eyes burned from the heat and he felt desperation creep into his reactions as Morales pressed forward relentlessly, his attack never faltering, never abating.

Around them everything was alive with flame, as if they were fighting on the deck of the devil’s own ship and Robert took heart. The
Hope
was still on course, he had done his duty. He centred his balance. As Morales lunged he riposted, side swiping his blade, forcing the Spaniard to break off.

They circled again, breathing heavily, blood running from their flesh wounds. The hesitation that had caused Robert to stay his killing blow at Cadiz, to show mercy to a fellow Catholic, was gone. It had been cauterized out of him by a war between nations, a struggle that demanded every ounce of his loyalty if England was to survive.

For Evardo, Varian was nothing more than a cursed foe. England was the enemy of Spain and a plague upon Christendom. The English navy had to be defeated and the heretic Queen had to fall. It had been ordained by God and Evardo was willing to spill every last drop of his blood to achieve the will of the divine.

They rushed forward as one, their war cries intertwining, each one calling to God. They were enemies, and on the flame strewn decks of the fire-ship they would fight to the death.

Nathaniel jumped, clawing at the gunwale until his grip held and he heaved himself up. Two more Spanish soldiers jumped with him and they clambered over onto the deck together. Nathaniel ignored them. He took in the entire deck with a single glance. The other Englishman was aft, a Spanish soldier dead at his feet. The Englishman saw them and shouted defiantly, goading them on. The soldiers with Nathaniel did not hesitate and they began to run aft.

Robert and Morales were in the bow. They were locked chest to chest, their blades trapped between them. Nathaniel ran towards them, his sword singing from his scabbard. There was a mighty crack over his shoulder. The lifting yard of the mainmast gave way. It plummeted to the deck, dragging with it the flaming remnants of the main sail onto the two Spanish soldiers. They screamed as the pyre consumed them, the waist of the ship exploding in flames.

A blast of searing heat washed over Robert and Evardo, knocking them both off balance. Their blades separated and Evardo hooked up the hilt of his sword, smashing the pommel into the side of Robert’s head. He fell to the deck and Evardo was immediately upon him, bringing the tip of his sword to his chest.

‘Now it ends,’ he whispered.

‘No!’

Evardo spun around. Young was rushing towards him, his sword charged. Evardo brought up his blade just in time to stop a killing strike and he stumbled backwards. Young came at him again, his expression maniacal, shouting words in English that Evardo could not understand.

Nathaniel hammered his blade down on Evardo’s as if he were wielding an axe, his fury knowing no bounds. Evardo backed away, too stunned to counter attack. He circled around, his feet guiding him to the starboard side where he had boarded. Nathaniel pushed him across the width of the deck, his blows never ceasing. The fire from the burning mainmast clawed at them. They reached the bulwark and with a final effort Nathaniel pounded down on Evardo’s upturned blade until the Spaniard lost his footing and fell over the side.