mainmast, his lips moving silently as he mouthed the battle cry imprinted there.
‘Arise O Lord and vindicate Thy Cause!’
Standing beside Seeley at the fore rail of the quarterdeck, Robert watched the Armada transform into a defensive crescent, over two miles wide from wing to wing.
‘Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis,’ he whispered involuntarily.
Seeley’s eyes darted to his captain.
‘Quarterdeck, ho,’ a lookout called. ‘Disdain beginning her run!’
All eyes went to the 80 ton bark and the crew watched in silence as it sailed out alone to approach the Armada. Isolated between the fleets, her small size accentuated the massive crescent formation. Howard had sent the Disdain out to issue a challenge, a traditional gesture in the absence of a formal declaration of war. Robert felt his pulse quicken as the tiny bark sailed gallantly on between the wings, closing on the centre before spinning around broadside to the main body of the Spanish fleet. She fired a single cannon, the shot disappearing into the massed ranks of the Armada.
The distant sound brought an enormous cheer from the crew of the Retribution, strengthening Robert’s resolve to seek battle. The Armada was indeed a sight to behold. Spain had conquered the far reaches of the globe with her navy and with its power King Philip had humbled countries and monarchs. But here, in the English Channel, the men of a single nation would stand in defiance of that authority.
The crew of the Retribution hailed from across the southern counties of England, from Cornwall and Devon, Sussex and Kent. They were noblemen and commoners, men of substance and men in search of fortune. They were adventurers and patriots, privateers and merchants. Each man had been drawn to the conflict by different motives but under the banner of Saint George they were all Englishmen.
The Disdain came neatly about and began beating its way back towards the fleet. Almost immediately Howard’s Ark Royal broke ranks and the warships nearest her began to fall in behind in a rough line as she set course for the seaward flank of the Armada.
‘Courses and tops’ls, ho. Helmsman, hard a larboard!’
‘Yeoman of the jeers, main course, ho!’
The Retribution swooped into position under Robert’s orders. He checked the sun. It was some three hours after dawn and the wind was steadily rising, stirring up the sea. White horses fled before the bow. The uneven line of warships sailed below the seaward flank of the Armada and then turned sharply to cut across the rear. Robert kept his gaze locked on the windermost Spanish ships, those on the outer edges of the trailing wing, but they stayed firmly on course, seemingly oblivious to the approaching English attack.
The first ripples of cannon thunder fled on the wind as the Ark Royal fired her heavy bow chasers and she bore in to within four hundred yards to loose her first broadside into the enemy ranks. She luffed up to go about, allowing her stern guns to come to bear and then turned neatly away, firing her second broadside guns as she tacked upwind to reload. A second English warship repeated the sequence, followed by another and another.
‘Two points to starboard,’ Robert roared, his voice carrying above the sound of cannon fire from the ships ahead, the outlines of the enemy ships visible through the massive clouds of gun smoke.
Like a warhorse reacting to the touch of a warrior rider the Retribution responded to the helmsman’s hand on the whipstaff, her cutwater slicing through the chop, her sails filled with the freshening breeze, her deadly cannon coming swiftly to bear. The bow chasers boomed, smoke billowing over the fo’c’sle. Robert called for another subtle touch on the whipstaff to present the Retribution’s starboard broadside to the enemy. He held his breath, his gaze locked on the enemy ships amidst the smoke, the white clouds erupting with the muzzle flashes of angry Spanish cannons.
The enemy were swiftly abeam. The Retribution soared over the crest of a wave. Robert whispered the command to fire, willing Larkin to respond, his fists balled by his side, consumed by the urge to let fly at the enemy. Through the deck beneath him, he heard the first utterance of the master gunner, but the sound was engulfed within the span of a heartbeat by the deafening roar of the broadside guns firing in sequence and the Retribution shuddered in recoil.
‘Come about. Hard a starboard!’ Robert roared, gun smoke smothering his every sense. He felt the hull turn beneath him, his balance shifting with the fall of the deck.
The wind swept the enveloping smoke from the Retribution as the galleon began its turn to larboard. The crew were working without conscious thought, training and duty combining to control their every reaction. Oblivious to the sporadic whistle of passing shot, the acrid smell of gun smoke, and the hellish noise of the cannons’ roar, they strove to wield the fearsome weapon that was the Retribution.
‘Come here and fight, you English bastardos!’ Evardo roared, his face mottled with rage and frustration, his sword charged in his hand.
From four hundred yards away the English warship fired its cannon. Iron shot tore across the open water. The air whistled with fire, and a rigging line parted with a whip-crack, a crewman screamed as a searing cannon ball obliterated his limb, the individual sound lost in a cacophony of defiant shouts, the Spanish crew baying for English blood, cursing them to engage like men.
The enemy had the weather gauge. They had the advantage of manoeuvrability and while Evardo had expected them to fire some devastating salvos with their heavy bow chasers the English were using a tactic like none that he had ever witnessed in battle, with each warship sailing roughly in the wake of the vessel in front of them, weaving a pattern that allowed each to present all their guns before sailing on. They were intent on attacking but were not closing to board. Did the English really believe they could win the battle with cannon fire alone? The approach defied the logic of Spanish military strategy and Evardo could only surmise it was an act of desperation by the English, the tight formation of the twenty ships of the vanguard wing proving too much for their nerve.
The wind was holding steady at west-north-west and Evardo’s hands trembled as he willed it to come about. Every warship in the vanguard had turned towards the attack. The bow of the Santa Clara was as close up to the wind as Mendez could bring her. Another half a point and the galleon would be in irons, but still the English would not approach. Evardo was powerless to close as endless waves of gun smoke from the distant cannonades swept over the decks. Near at hand he heard the boom of Spanish cannons from the ships flanking the Santa Clara. They were expending their pre-loaded shots in vexation and Evardo struggled to contain the same impulse. Once fired the cannons would be difficult to reload and Evardo had to believe there was still a chance, however slim, that he might be given the opportunity to close and board an enemy ship.
The angry shouts of the crew rose as the next English galleon sailed into position, the black maws of her cannons exposed along her painted hull. Evardo looked to her decks and above to her masthead banners. Suddenly his eyes shot wide in recognition. Within an instant the galleon had disappeared behind an explosive wall of fire and smoke, but its image remained indelible. It was her. It was the Retribution. As the shot from her cannon struck the vanguard Evardo ran to the shrouds to climb above the obstructions on the quarterdeck.
Through wind and speed the English galleon cleared the cloud of her own gun smoke. Evardo’s eyes watered as he tried to focus on the distant enemy quarterdeck as it swung away. It was crowded with men. There was no way Evardo could confirm if one of them was the man he could see so clearly in his memory, but he was sure that Robert Varian was on board. Smoke erupted from her stern guns, obscuring his view. He jumped back down to the deck.
‘Capitan Mendez! Fall off. Bring the larboard broadside to bear!’
The sailing captain hesitated for a second, his every instinct telling him it was madness to present the full profile of his ship to the enemy’s fire. Evardo strode towards him, his expression unholy, his sword still charged in his hand.
‘Helmsman,’ Mendez shouted. ‘Hard a larboard.’
The Santa Clara turned swiftly and heeled over with the force of the wind. Mendez sent every available man to the shrouds, his voice loud as he steadied the helm, his galleon out of sync in the close quarter formation of the vanguard.
Evardo rushed below to the gun deck, roaring to Suarez, the gunners’ captain, to come forward. He manhandled him to the nearest gun port on the larboard side, pointing out the Retribution
