The Enterprise of England (34 page)

‘There are English galley slaves on some of those ships,’ I protested.

He shrugged. ‘If a ship goes down, the galley slaves go with it. They are chained to their rowing benches.’

He turned his back on me and hurried away. English galley slaves or Spanish sailors, he had no mercy for them.

Never caught up in a battle before, on land or sea, I found it difficult to understand what was happening. It was clear that the enemy ships were no longer in the formidable crescent formation which had sailed inexorably up the lower reaches of the Channel. Our fireships, if they had done nothing else, had cut a swathe through Sidonia’s careful formation and even I could see that the Spanish ships were randomly scattered across the sea in front of us. Already it was clear that one or two had sailed too near the shoals and were stranded there. Our English navy, bearing down on the Armada with all the strength of a following wind, were keeping their distance, so that the enemy could not execute their favourite tactic of grappling and boarding. Instead, the English ships kept up a regular bombardment from their guns from windward, so that, as the Spanish turned broadside to them, in an attempt to level their own cannon, they heeled over, exposing their lower hulls. The English gunners were taking careful aim, intent on holing them below the waterline, which would inevitably sink them.

Our own
Good Venture
had swept away to starboard, and was now aiming to swing round and join the English fleet. As one of the sailors ran past, I called out to him, ‘Why aren’t the Spanish ships firing back?’

He paused only for a moment, grasping the rigging he was about to climb.

‘Poor gunners, the Spanish,’ he said. ‘They fire once, then get ready to board and fight hand-to-hand. Can’t reload fast enough, see? No match for our lads.’

With that he began to swarm up the mainmast as easily as if it had been a ladder on dry land, though we were heeling over so far that he was half laid over on his back as he climbed. It made me dizzy to watch him. I dragged my eyes away and saw that we were approaching very near one of the outlying Spanish ships, a large carrack at least twice our size, probably one of the merchant ships commandeered for the Spanish fleet. I realised that Captain Faulconer did not mean to sail tamely round to join the fleet. He meant to attack now.

Almost as soon as I grasped what was happening, I heard the gunports on our port side flip open. The gun crews were standing ready and as the captain dropped his hand, holding, absurdly, a red silk handkerchief, another officer, standing at the bottom of the steps leading down to the gundeck, dropped his hand. Below us, the gunners lit the powder in the pans and the three guns fired simultaneously. The ship bucked like a frightened horse and for a moment I thought we had been hit, before I realised it was the recoil of the cannon. Already the men were reloading and they seemed to be cheering, but the sound came muffled to my ears, which were deafened by the noise.

They had scored a hit. I could see timbers falling from the superstructure of the Spanish ship, caught up in a tangle of ropes and canvas. Then, before our crew could let fly a second volley, I watched a single Spanish gun run out, pointing directly at us. So they did not always abandon their guns. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, in a silent world – the Spanish cannon lifting its muzzle like a pointing hound, the captain raising his hand to signal the next firing from our ship, while all around a tangle of ships lumbered though the smoke and flashes of the gun battle.

Then somebody hit me hard on the back so that I fell to my hands and knees on the deck. Even deaf as I was, I sensed something fly over my head and crash into the rigging where moments ago the sailor had been climbing. Dust and fragments of rope fell around me, and there was a heavy thump that I could feel through the planks of the deck. For a few minutes I was dazed and confused, then I managed to get to my feet. Apart from a few bruises I was unhurt.

I looked around, still unsure what had happened. Then I realised an enemy cannon ball must have hit the rigging of the mainmast close to where I had been standing. Whoever had pushed me over had almost certainly saved my life. The thump I had felt on the deck was the sailor falling from the mast. Still weak in the knees, I staggered over to him. There was no blood that I could see, but his eyes were closed and he was not moving. I knelt down beside him and felt for the pulse in his neck.

‘Is he dead?’ It was one of the other sailors, leaning over me.

I shook my head. ‘Stunned. And he may have broken some bones. Did you see how far he fell?’

‘About half the height of the mast. Lucky bugger! Any higher and he’d have gone into the sea. Lower and the bastards would have got him with their shot.’

‘Was it you pushed me over?’

‘Aye.’ He grinned, showing a set of broken and missing teeth. ‘Near thing, that was. Want to keep your head down when there’s shot flying.’

‘I’m grateful. You saved my life.’

He shrugged. ‘Any time. Watch yourself.’ And he went away whistling, as if he was enjoying a day of leisure, instead of leaping along a deck that shuddered as another round blasted out from our cannon.

I spared a glance at the Spanish ship. Somehow we had manoeuvred round to their windward side and had already broken two great holes through the ship’s port side, one below the waterline and one above. They could not keep her heeling over like that for long. As soon as she was on an even keel the sea would rush in through that lower hole and the ship would soon founder. Through my muffled ears I could hear faint cries from the bowels of the ship, from the trapped galley slaves or the doomed sailors. There was nothing I could do for them. Our own fallen sailor, however, I could help.

Captain Faulconer soon abandoned the maimed ship to her fate and brought the
Good Venture
round to head toward the rest of the English fleet. The mainsail drooped, for the damage to the rigging meant it could not be properly trimmed, but the strong wind on our port bow bore us along on staysail and foresail. The heavy Spanish ships were wallowing about, scattered across the sea and seemingly unable to make such good use of the wind as our small, nimble English ships could. They were being blown inexorably up the channel towards the German Ocean.

As soon as I could, I persuaded two of Andrew’s soldiers to help me carry the injured sailor below decks. Here on the gundeck amongst the smoke and stench of the cannon was no fit place for a man with a possible head injury, who might find it difficult to breathe. Already I could see by the angle of his left leg that it was almost certainly broken; it would need to be set and strapped in splints. Captain Faulconer turned from inspecting his supplies of gunpowder and shot and saw us.

‘Take him to my cabin,’ he said. ‘Away from all this.’

It seemed he cared for his own sailors, if galley slaves and foreign sailors earned none of his sympathy. We had to carry the man back up the companionway, for the door of the captain’s cabin was raised part way above the deck, behind the rudder, with two shallow steps leading down into it. We got the man on to the captain’s cot and peeled off his breeches. Like the other sailors, he wore the loose slops which allowed for easy movement around the ship and were equally easy to remove over the injured leg. As I had feared, the leg was broken, but it was a single clean break and could have been much worse. I sent one of the soldiers off in search of some light boards I could use for splints, while the other helped me strap the broken limb into place. Although the sailor made some groaning, snorting noises, he did not wake while I was doing this, for which I was grateful, for a conscious patient will flinch as you set a bone, making the process much trickier.

The limited medical supplies I carried in my satchel did not provide enough strapping, so I tore off the long tail of the sailor’s shirt and used that instead. I had some poppy syrup, however, so I mixed some of it with wine I found in the captain’s cupboard. Once the man woke I would give it to him to ease the pain.

The soldier came back with two thin planks which would provide adequate splints to hold the leg rigid until I could bring the man ashore. With that thought, I turned and asked, ‘Could you see where we are? Is the battle still going on?’

I realised that my hearing had recovered and there seemed less noise than before surrounding us.

‘We’re in amongst the English fleet now, Doctor.’ It was the soldiers who had fetched the wood. ‘The b’yer lady Spaniards are running away downwind like a pack of sheep. We’re following and firing from time to time, but they can’t get away fast enough, the b’yer lady cowards. Me and the lads, we never even got a musket shot at ’em.’ He hawked and would have spat, to show his low opinion of an enemy who would not stay and fight, but realised he was in the captain’s cabin and began to cough and choke instead. His fellow grinned and thumped him on the back till he got his breath back.

‘Let them go,’ I said with a grin. ‘You bloodthirsty fellows! The sooner they are gone from English waters, the better.’

At that moment my patient began to stir and I was occupied giving him the poppy juice and reassuring him that no grave damage had been done to him or to the ship. I nodded to the soldiers to go.

‘I thank you for your help,’ I said. They went off, still grumbling that they had had no chance to use their muskets against the enemy.

Once the sailor was eased and falling asleep, I went out on deck myself. The entire scene had changed. The Spanish fleet, in a ragged cluster, was sailing before the wind in a north-easterly direction, or else they had simply given up and allowed the wind, which was still blowing strongly, to take them where it would. The English fleet was following demurely behind, occasionally letting off a round of shot when the distance between the fleets allowed. Over towards the starboard shore, which must be France, or the Spanish Netherlands, or even free Flanders, a few enemy ships had pitched up, either caught on the shoals or seeking refuge after serious damage.

I found Andrew down near the base of the mainmast, where some of the sailors were fixing up a jury-rig for the mainsail. Andrew, like his men, was disappointed at having had no opportunity to join in the fight.

‘You will have opportunity enough,’ I said tartly, ‘if those ships make landfall in the Thames or along the
Essex shore. Every soldier we can muster will be needed then.’

‘They are running away with their tails between their legs like beaten curs,’ he said. ‘They will not dare to attack now. They’ve not managed their rendezvous with
Parma’s land army. Without them, what can a parcel of sailors do on land?’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but I would not be so confident until every Spanish hull is out of English waters. Remember, they are carrying soldiers as well as sailors. Where do you think they will go from here?’

Captain Faulconer must have heard me, for he joined us.

‘This wind has been our saving. It has made it possible for us to use our guns as they should be used, keeping them at a distance, and herding them away from their Netherlandish army. If it continues to blow, they will be forced out into the
German Ocean and we will block their way back down the Channel. There is only one way they can go. Up the east coast and around the top of Scotland. Good luck to them!’

He grinned, his mouth fierce in the depths of his black beard. ‘Those are wild waters, up there in the north, where the
German Ocean and the Atlantic meet, knocking their heads together. The heights of the two can vary by several yards and they tussle against each other like savage boars. Then the ships must find their way through the scattered Scottish islands and down past Ireland, before ever they see the Bay of Biscay and Spain again.’

As the afternoon wore on, the English fleet began to lose interest in chasing the enemy. They had been seen off with very little loss of life on our side. When it seemed that the last dying efforts of the battle were over, I tackled the captain.

‘Where are we now?’ I asked.

‘Nearly back where we started,’ he said. ‘Off the coast of the free
Netherlands.’

‘There can be no reason for us to linger any more, Captain,’ I said. ‘You know that your orders from Sir Francis were to return directly to
Dover. I have no criticism of your wish to do your duty and join the battle, but now we must make all speed back to England.’

I realised I sounded somewhat pompous.
‘Besides, your ship is in need of repairs and one of your sailors should receive better care than I can give him on board ship.’

It seemed I had no real need to persuade him, now that dusk was creeping over us. There was little attraction in hanging about out in mid Channel or pursuing the Spaniards east and north. He sent a messenger over in a dory to Sir Martin Frobisher’s flagship, the
Ayde
, which was lying near to us, hove to, with an explanation of who we were and why we were now leaving for Dover. In half an hour the messenger had returned with Frobisher’s agreement and we turned south and west again. At once the waves slapped us hard and the wind fought against us. It was going to be a rough sailing, and once again by night.

Until now we had been running before the wind in pursuit of the scattered Spanish fleet which was limping away into the dark waters of the
German Ocean. Even at a distance we could see how many of the ships bore the scars of battle – broken masts and spars, canvas and rigging dragging along decks and over the gunwales, shattered planks where hulls had been stove in by our cannon balls. They would have a journey of many hundreds of miles before they could reach a friendly port. I wondered whether they could hope for a welcome on the Irish coast. Periodically during the Queen’s reign attempts had been made to launch attacks on England by rebels in Ireland in alliance with Catholic forces from Spain or France. There was a chance we might see those ships again, sailing toward us from the west. However, unless they could join forces with Parma’s land army still stranded in the Low Countries, they could not pose the threat that we had survived by this day’s action. Without that strong south-westerly wind, what might have happened?