Armada (46 page)

Still the Armada sailed on, its formation ever increasing in size as it gathered up the slower moving transport ships to leeward. But the wind had shifted to the north-west. If it held, the Spanish would be blown onto the Banks of Flanders. Without command every English captain knew their duty was to continue to press home the attack, allowing the Spaniards no respite as forces beyond the control of all began to dictate the shape of the battle.

Robert leaned into the turn as the deck tilted beneath him. Battle lust had ebbed and flowed within him over the hours and every muscle in his body ached from the tension of combat. His every sense was on edge. The weather was rapidly deteriorating and Robert could see nothing beyond the immediate battle. His eyes moved from one enemy warship to another. Those he could see had been damaged beyond what he had previously believed any ship could endure. He spotted one coming about on the windermost flank, her manoeuvre hampered by damaged rigging. It quickly became apparent that she was having difficulty maintaining her position in the enemy formation. Robert pointed her out to Seeley and the master called for the new heading.

The
Retribution
swiftly bore down on her prey. On the main deck Robert saw the gunner’s mate command his men to run out the demi-culverins. The men responded with alacrity, their faces contorted in exertion as they hauled the 3,400 pound guns into position. After hours of near continuous labour their efforts spoke of an almost inhuman strength, but Robert knew that soon they would have to cease. The ammunition stocks on board were desperately low. Already the 24 pound shot had been expended. As the range closed on the Spanish warship ahead the bow chasers remained silent. Despite the need for a sustained attack on the Armada, Robert realized his galleon would soon have to withdraw from the fight.

Seeley brought the
Retribution
hard about at fifty yards and smoke engulfed the ship once more as the heavy guns on the broadside erupted with fire. The
Retribution
bore away to give the gunners time to reload. Nearby other English warships had seen the
Retribution
’s attack and were following suit, converging quickly on the isolated Spaniard. Beyond, the battle was becoming more chaotic. Visibility had fallen further and the growing anger of the sea was making it harder for ships to engage.

Suddenly Robert’s heart lurched in his chest. The
Santa Clara
was three hundred yards off the larboard bow, sailing on the flank of the trailing wing. She looked to be heavily damaged. Her courses were shot through, her rigging hung like vines from the stays but atop her masts, her banners flew defiantly on the wind.

‘Hard a starboard!’

Seeley immediately repeated the command, the
Retribution
heeling hard over.

‘Where away, Captain?’ Seeley called.

‘Four points off the larboard bow, Thomas. It’s the
Santa Clara
.’

Seeley’s expression hardened at the name and he nodded curtly as he spied the Spanish galleon. He called for a slight change to the helm, matching the approach of the
Retribution
with the course of the
Santa Clara
, ensuring that their first attack run would have the maximum effect. The wind gusted and swelled the sails, the waves slamming laterally into the hull, booming punches that reverberated throughout the ship as the ruptured water smashed over the bow. The rhythm steadied, the crew toiling at their stations. Yard by yard the
Retribution
hurtled towards her nemesis.

Evardo strode across the quarterdeck, shouting commands to all within earshot, his focus continually shifting from one point to another. The crew rushed about him, taking advantage of the brief respite to bring order to the decks. It had been fifteen minutes since an English galleon had attacked and the men worked frantically to gather up what wounded they could and bring them below to the already overcrowded surgery. Others loaded what deck guns remained, bringing up the last of the powder and shot for the small calibre pieces.

Evardo’s head was spinning and he drew a deep breath down his parched throat, blinking away the stars that exploded in his vision. He was assailed by terrible grief and anger. So many of his men were dead or injured. Down on the main deck the rising sea was crashing waves against the bulwarks, forcing clear water through the scuppers that quickly turned bloodstained as it ran across the deck.

The
Santa Clara
bore terrible injuries. Heeled hard over under the press of the wind, her hull had been exposed to enemy fire below the waterline. She had been struck there twice and although the shot had not penetrated, the seams had been split. The pumps had been unable to keep pace with the seawater rushing into the lower hold and Evardo had been compelled to order one of the divers overboard. In the midst of battle the man had jumped naked into the sea. He had patched the hull with oakum and pitch, a temporary measure that had slowed the intake of water and given the pumps the upper hand.

The
Santa Clara
had been lucky. The
Maria Juan
had gone down only an hour before. In a moment of ill fortune she had become isolated from the formation and had come under immediate attack from a pack of English galleons. They had pounded her from all sides, meting out a slow and horrific fate, her crew fighting desperately against overwhelming odds, while the closest ships in the Armada remained trapped by the wind to leeward, unable to go to her assistance. She had finally gone down by the bow, slipping quickly beneath the waves, taking with her all but a single boatload of the three hundred men on board.

The María Juan had been the first ship to be lost in battle to English cannon fire, but she would not be the last. Earlier the valiant
San Felipe
had fallen behind and was now lost from sight amongst the English warships, her fate unknown, while her sister ship, the
San Mateo
, was already a half-mile adrift of the fleet, hopelessly trying to regain her position, her rudder and masts damaged beyond purpose.

Evardo turned his back on the stricken Portuguese galleon and looked to his own ship. Despite almost constant attacks the
Santa Clara
had held her position. She was a fine ship, Evardo thought forlornly as he straightened his shoulders and shrugged off his exhaustion. For six hours his galleon and crew had taken everything the English had thrown at them. Although hopelessly outgunned, not a single man had left his station. They were undefeated but Evardo wondered how long they could remain so.

A second foe had joined the battle on the side of the English, an enemy that was pushing them relentlessly towards annihilation. If the north-westerly wind held, the Armada would be on the Banks of Flanders by noon the next day. The larger ships of the fleet would almost certainly run aground and once they did they would be dashed to pieces by the endless wind-driven waves. The smaller ships would be easy prey for the Dutch. It was a fate that had not yet been written. The wind might yet change.

‘Enemy ship on attack run off the starboard bow!’

Evardo rushed to the gunwale at the call, the crew taking to their stations, the tempo of battle making orders unnecessary.

‘The
Retribution
,’ he whispered. The deck shifted beneath him, Mendez manoeuvring the
Santa Clara
in an attempt to foul the English warship’s advance. It was a forlorn endeavour, born from the will to fight on against the odds. With every English attack run and every gust of the north-westerly wind the chance of ultimate victory was slipping further and further from the Armada. But no Spaniard had turned his back and Evardo lent his voice to the cacophony of war cries from the men of the
Santa Clara
as they waited to receive the incoming fire of the enemy.

The
Retribution
came swiftly on under shortened sail, sweeping past other ships of the English fleet, their courses intertwined as each ship forged its own path through the battle. On the gun deck Larkin called for the last of the culverins and demi-culverins to be run out, using the roll of the deck to assist the gun crews. They were primed and ready, with the remaining supplies of ordnance for each gun close at hand. In the worsening weather they might not get another chance to fire upon the cursed Spanish galleon that had sought them out in battle and Larkin steadied his men as he walked the length of the deck.

With two hundred yards to go an expectant hush descended upon the entire crew. In the rigging and on deck all eyes were on the
Santa Clara
. Robert felt the killing urge slowly rise within him. Here was the enemy. The Armada was an inhuman beast, devoid of a heart that could be pierced, but the men of the
Santa Clara
were flesh and bone and Robert would make them pay the price of Spain’s belligerence in blood.

The relentless wind closed the gap. Spanish musketeers fired from the fighting tops and castles of the
Santa Clara
. A soldier on the poop deck fell injured, his cry fuelling Robert’s determination, his battle lust suppressing any fear as the small arms fire from the Spanish ship intensified.

‘
Sumus omnes
…’ he said.

‘In God’s hand,’ Seeley said beside him and Robert glanced over his shoulder at the sailing master, their eyes meeting for a second.

The bow of the
Retribution
closed to within fifty yards of the
Santa Clara
, poised to run past her on the starboard broadside. Robert swept the decks of the Spanish galleon, looking for Morales. The broadside guns of the
Retribution
fired, smothering the fifty yards between the ships in smoke and noise. Musket fire filled the air, the soldiers of the
Santa Clara
firing blindly at close range, their hail of lead cutting down English sailors from the lower rigging.

‘Hard a starboard! Come about!’

The helmsman responded to Robert’s command and the
Retribution
turned swiftly in the waters behind the
Santa Clara
.

‘Bring her up on the larboard broadside!’

‘Helm, two points to larboard! Prepare to lay close! Yeoman of the jeers, fore course and mizzen, ho!’

The
Retribution
bore swiftly down on the
Santa Clara
, this time on the opposing broadside, the larboard battery firing at a range of forty yards.

Countless muzzle flashes marked the exchange of fire through the haze of gun smoke as the ships passed each other. Evardo stumbled behind the line of soldiers at the gunwale, his hands stained in blood as he pulled at each fallen man, calling for help for the injured, leaving the dead where they lay, the chaos and noise numbing his senses.

A round shot blasted through the bulwark, cutting a bloody swathe through the soldiers. Evardo was blown from his feet and he hit the deck hard. The screams of the dying were all around him. He got up, his vision swimming before him. The deck was strewn with broken bodies. He tasted blood and he vomited up the bile in his throat.

He looked to his sword. The blade had been snapped off half-way along its length and he let it fall from his hand. He picked up a discarded arquebus and checked the priming. It was loaded and he took the place of a fallen soldier in the front line. He raised the weapon and pointed it at the
Retribution
. The heaving deck and choking smoke made accuracy impossible and he lowered his head against the flash as he pulled the trigger. The arquebus bucked against the middle of his chest, a solid punch and Evardo roared a guttural curse at the English warship as he tossed the weapon aside.

The rate of fire fell away as the
Retribution
sailed beyond the starboard bow. Evardo spat the last of the bile from his mouth and stepped back from the gunwale. The roar of battle gave way to the wailing of the injured. Men were shouting on all sides, rushing to bring more ammunition aloft and take the wounded below. The lines reformed at the gunwales while the last of the 2 and 3 pound shot were loaded into the
falcon pedreros
and
falconetes
.

Mendez called for the sails to be shortened further. He was bleeding heavily from a shoulder wound, the blood dripping from his limp arm, staining the side of his breeches. Evardo stood beside him and watched as the sailors followed the captain’s command, their task made almost impossible by the damaged sheets. They had little time. Beyond the bow the
Retribution
was making ready to attack again.

‘Bear away. Prepare to come about on Larkin’s command!’ Robert ordered.

The
Retribution
turned neatly through the wind, bearing away to gain sea room. On all sides the battle raged, the Armada struggling desperately against wind and fire, the English sustaining the pressure, giving no quarter, England to their backs and the fate of the realm in their hands.

The
Retribution
came full about with the
Santa Clara
four hundred yards off her larboard bow. The carriages trundled across the deck, the gunners hauling on the loaded guns, the black barrels thrusting out through the ports beyond the muzzle rings. Seeley steadied the helm and the wind stretched the canvas to its limits. The galleon shot forward. Seeley struggled to hold their course, the rising sea battering the hull and rudder, constantly threatening to turn their keel off true.

The
Retribution
came broadside to the
Santa Clara
, thirty yards off her beam. The four guns of the larboard battery fired almost as one, their shot flying over the main deck of the Spanish ship as it dipped into the trough of a massive swell. The smoke of small arms erupted and was whipped away by the breeze. Men shouted war cries from both sides, their voices hollowed by the wind, their battle lust waning, leaving only hatred for an enemy they could not defeat.

Robert saw the Spanish commander on the opposing quarterdeck.

‘Morales!’

His voice carried clearly above the dwindling noise of battle and Evardo spun around. They stared at each other across thirty yards of angry sea as their galleons raced onwards. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Neither one of them had been victorious. Both lived in defiance of the other and bound by an unbreakable connection, forged by war, they would be enemies forever.