every aspect, every detail, filling his heart and replenishing his spirit. For a moment he was the young boy he once was, returning from his first trade voyage across the vast Atlantic, seeing his homeland again after too long an absence.
The journey from Parma’s camp had taken nearly four months. After a month’s delay in Antwerp they had travelled overland along the Spanish Road, the trade and military route that led from the battlefields of the Spanish Netherlands through the heart of Europe to northern Italy. Evardo had sought to take the faster route home by sea along the English Channel, but Allante had insisted he take the safer course. Evardo had been obliged to concede, knowing he had little choice. The overland journey had ended in Genoa and from there Evardo and Pedro had embarked on a military galley bound for home.
The galley swept along the sea lane, its sleek hull threading a path through the slower moving trading vessels under sail, the helmsman altering his course to give way to the less manoeuvrable vessels in the age old tradition observed by all at sea. Evardo studied each ship in turn as they sped past. They hailed from every corner of the Mediterranean and beyond to the Atlantic coasts of Portugal and France. United by the common principles of trade, they also shared a faith that was the wellspring of an empire and Evardo was overwhelmed with a sense of belonging.
Warships were conspicuous by their absence amongst the profusion of sea craft and Evardo wondered if the preparations for an Armada were still continuing apace in the distant port of Lisbon. He recalled the many conversations he had had with Allante about the planned invasion of England during his month-long stay in Parma’s camp. His brother had spoken of Parma’s constant frustration over the lack of secrecy surrounding the enterprise and Evardo had noticed that even the civilian camp followers argued openly about the best way to tranship the Army of Flanders to the English coast. By necessity Parma would have to divide his available forces and leave sufficient men in the Netherlands to defend those cities already conquered. But Allante had whispered that despite this division the planned invasion force would consist of 30,000 men and 500 horse. It was a staggering amount. Evardo had prayed nightly for the deliverance of such a host.
Allante had gone on to tell Evardo in confidence of the latest plans. Initially Parma had wanted to launch his own surprise invasion from the Flemish coast to the English coastline of Kent and had cared little for the alternative strategy of a supporting invasion force launched from Spain using an Armada. His Army of Flanders was the finest in the world and would be in London long before the Marquis of Santa Cruz, or any other noble, could assemble and launch a fleet.
Now however the element of surprise had been lost. Without a following wind Parma’s invasion force might take ten to twelve hours to cross the Channel. Even in the best of conditions the crossing would take eight and during that time the flat bottomed transports would be easy prey for English galleons. Correspondence from Spain spoke of diversionary landings in Ireland, of securing a safe anchorage on the Isle of Wight before any invasion could begin, but these tactics were now incidental to the new crux of the strategy. Parma needed the Armada to defend his crossing of the narrow straits of Dover.
Evardo had marvelled at the ingenious combined strategy, but Allante had seemed uncertain, speaking of the doubts that the Duke of Parma had expressed to his aide-de-camp. Such a marriage of forces would require perfect co-ordination and a synchronicity between commanders that would be nigh impossible to achieve. It took four to six weeks to receive an answer to any query sent to Spain. How much more difficult would it be to communicate with a moving fleet of ships?
Over the course of his journey along the Spanish Road, Evardo had given much thought to his brother’s revelations. The difficulties facing the invasion were significant but they were far from insurmountable and Evardo suspected that his brother was influenced by the same mistrust of the sea shared by all soldiers. As a sailor Evardo had more confidence in the Armada’s task of supporting Parma’s crossing. The Marquis of Santa Cruz, the commander of the Armada, was a daring, formidable and highly experienced naval officer. Spanish ships and crews had forged an empire that spanned the globe. In overwhelming force they would surely sweep the English Channel clear of any fleet that might dare to attempt to thwart their plans.
The galley pulled into the inner harbour and Evardo closed his eyes to listen to the cacophony of sound that was a busy Spanish port. He was home. The long months of enforced absence from the sacred soil of Spain were over. He opened his eyes and looked above the city to the backdrop of mountains, imagining the road that led beyond through the heart of Spain to his family home. The galley slid neatly alongside the dock and Evardo stepped quickly down the gangplank. Ahead lay a bitter and uncertain struggle to regain his loss, but he was eager to begin.
‘Ready …’
‘Hold …’
The gunners blew on their slow matches, fanning the smouldering flames.
‘Hold …’
Larkin, the master gunner, sensed the pitch of the deck, waiting for the perfect moment.
‘Fire!’
The linstocks fell. Plumes of smoke hissed from the touchholes. A second passed and then almost as one the starboard cannons of the
‘Reload!’ Larkin roared and Robert stepped further back to give the men room.
In trance-like determination the gun crews unlashed their guns from the hull and hauled on the ropes. The pulleys squealed and the four-wheeled truck carriages rolled inboard. Men rushed forward to sponge out the barrels, extinguishing any lingering sparks from the previous firing. A ladle of gunpowder was inserted and emptied, then wadding was rammed into the barrel.
The men were using only a fraction of the powder required and they simulated the loading of a round shot before ramming the barrel again. The
The crews worked at slightly different rates and individual commands rang out as the prepared guns were hauled back into their firing position and lashed against the bulkhead. There were seven guns on the starboard side of the gun deck, two cannon-pedros, four culverins and a demi-culverin. The cannon-pedros were the last to be made secure, the 3,000 pound dead weight of each testing the strength of the crew. Individually the gunners shouted out that their guns were ready to fire and as the last declaration was heard, Larkin ordered the men to stand down.
‘I make it roughly twenty minutes, Captain,’ he said tetchily, and Robert hid a smile behind a solemn nod. He had the impression that Larkin wouldn’t be happy even if the men loaded their guns in half that time.
In battle the crews would fire the guns in sequence as each side was brought to bear; the heavy bow chasers as the ship approached the enemy, followed by a broadside, then the stern chasers and finally the opposing broadside. Only then would they service the guns for the next attack. Peters, the gunner’s mate, would follow the same pattern on the main deck although he had few guns to service, two demi-culverins and eight sakers in total while the entire crew were trained to load and fire the remaining eight swivel-mounted breech-loading falcons, firing a 2 pound man-killing round shot.
Robert leaned his arm against the deck beam overhead. After five rounds of reloading and firing their cannons the gun crews were breathing heavily but Robert could see they were satisfied with their work. The men took pride in their guns and the taunts of the faster teams during the exercise had spurred the others on to greater speed. Robert was now familiar with every model of gun on board and although he would never have Larkin’s knowledge of cannonry, he had earned the master gunner’s respect in his quest to devise tactics which would best combine sailing operations and artillery.
There had been precious little time to find his feet after he took command on the Cadiz raid and so Robert had pushed his crew hard over the previous three months in a bid to get the full measure of them. He had participated in nearly every drill to understand the limits of the galleon and each time his respect had grown for the
‘Well done, lads,’ he called out to the gun crews. ‘Mister Larkin, a double ration of grog for every man.’
The men smiled and Robert turned to go back up to the main deck.
