Armada

San Juan. The squall line of the fire storm swept over the Santa Clara, consuming her in a wave of iron. Behind her the other ships of the vanguard wing closed in, determined to bedevil the enemy’s attempt to take one of their own. But for now, the Santa Clara stood alone.

For the briefest moment Robert hesitated, awed by the display of courage. The landward wing of the Armada had fled before the English guns, giving Robert cause to hope that the Spanish had no stomach for the fight, but any such thoughts were now banished by the sight of a single Spanish galleon standing square before a stricken comrade, becoming a partial shield for the larger ship.

‘It’s her,’ Seeley shouted angrily beside him. ‘It’s the whoreson who targeted us in the first attack!’

Robert looked to the masthead banners of the Spanish galleon. His eyes narrowed, this unasked-for revenge dual in the midst of a battle filling his thoughts. In the moment of the hull’s perfect pitch, the cannons of Retribution fired their deadly charge across the chasm that separated the mortal enemies of England and Spain.

Evardo stood tall at the gunwale, his knuckles white from the intensity of his grip on his sword, his face turned towards the enemy barrage, striving to subdue his instinct to take cover. Some men feared death, but for Evardo it was the somehow more terrible fate of a grievous wound, the loss of a limb, or his sight, or the slow lingering death of a stomach wound. Every passing round shot fed his fear, but he refused to give in. His lips moved almost of their own accord, repeating a benediction to God, asking his divine patron for protection. With feigned indifference he glanced at the crew working around him, willing them strength to endure.

The decks of the Santa Clara were alive with a disciplined turmoil that only battle could create. The voices of the captains could be heard at every quarter, overriding the gutter curses of the crew who shouted at the English foe. On the upper castles men were rapidly servicing the breech loading falcon pedreros, firing them at the English in an act of defiance, the range too far for an effective kill. The preloaded broadside had long since been fired. Now only the sporadic vibration of single cannon shots could be felt by those on the main deck, the fired rounds too few and too interspersed to spoil any English attack.

Devastation swept over the Santa Clara as one English galleon after another sailed in to fire their cannon, cutting men and material down with impunity before turning neatly away from the fray. A voice in Evardo’s mind screamed at him to concede his ground, not out of fear, but to stop this slow annihilation of the crew and ship he had sworn to protect. That voice was echoed by the injured and dying, their cries increasing in number with every sweeping attack. Evardo’s mouth twisted in anger. Only if the enemy closed for ship-to-ship, hand-to-hand combat would the men of the Santa Clara be able to exact an equal measure of butchery.

Evardo looked to the sea on the flanks of the Santa Clara. The other ships of the vanguard wing were deploying to leeward of his ship, completing a screen behind which the San Juan could safely withdraw. The sea was becoming rough, the wind no longer steady but gusting and fewer English ships were coming forward to engage, wary of the sea change and the newly formed wing.

A cannon ball slammed against the fo’c’sle of the Santa Clara, while another struck the hull amidships, parting shots from the withdrawing English galleons. Evardo finally sheathed his sword, the clean un-bloodied blade rasping against the scabbard. He had never drawn his sword in anger without using it. The frustration sat like a knot in the pit of his stomach. He turned his back on the English, taking a moment to survey the ravaged deck of his galleon. The Santa Clara had taken the heaviest casualties amongst the ships coming to the aid of the San Juan. As the firing ceased Evardo looked to the groups of men huddled around their stricken comrades, tending to their wounds as best they could, their cries of pain becoming louder in the absence of cannon thunder.

‘Santa Clara!’

Evardo spun around at the call. The San Juan was beginning to pull away, coming about under the press of the wind to withdraw to the sanctuary of the main battle group. On the quarterdeck stood the imposing figure of de Recalde, his hand cupped to his mouth. Evardo acknowledged the hail. There was a moment’s pause. De Recalde raised his hand to his forehead and casually saluted his thanks. Evardo returned the gesture but his eyes were no longer on de Recalde. They had shifted to the man who had come forward to stand beside him – his mentor Abrahan.

The gap between the ships increased, passing fifty yards, but Evardo’s gaze never wavered. Just as the San Juan was poised to sail behind another galleon Evardo, saw Abrahan nod slightly. It was a small movement, barely discernible across the distance, but it was there. Evardo smiled. After half a lifetime spent under his care Evardo knew it was as much ground as his taciturn mentor would ever give. One act of reckless courage would not erase his failure in Abrahan’s eyes. Evardo nodded to himself. The battle had only just begun.

CHAPTER 14

4 p.m. 31st July 1588. The English Channel, two leagues off Plymouth.

Robert paced the width of his cabin, his thoughts consumed by the events of the morning. He held a goblet of Madeira wine loosely in his hand, the last of his stock taken a year before during the Cadiz campaign, and he gulped from it with each turn of his heel. Outside the wind whistled through the rigging. Erratic gusts played merry hell with the sails and Robert could hear Miller sending the men to the running rigging.

Robert finished the goblet and went for the bottle. He poured out the last of its contents and slammed it down on the table. The wine had done nothing to quell his anxiety. He began to go through the sequence of the morning’s fight once more, trying to examine each aspect in turn. Larkin had reported after the battle that he and his men had fired off nearly 120 rounds during the four hour fight. It was almost a tenth of the ammunition on board and for all that, and the fire of the other English ships, not one Spanish vessel had been taken.

Despite a moment of panic the Armada’s formation remained intact and was now sailing some four miles ahead of the English fleet. It had never stopped. Even when its trailing wings were under attack, the main body of the fleet had continued under shortened sail, allowing them to make headway and maintain cohesion.

As an inexperienced battle-captain of a ship Robert knew it was not his place to resolve the tactical problems of the English attack, but as a veteran sailor he could do little else. Ahead on the English coast lay the safe anchorages of Weymouth and the Solent. Perhaps the Spaniards were planning on taking one of these havens to support their invasion of England, or perhaps they were intent solely on linking up with Parma in the Low Countries. Whatever their ultimate plan, their formation was an impregnable fortress and as long as it remained so there was nothing the English fleet could do to stop them.

Seeley pored over his charts in his tiny cabin under the poop deck, his finger tracing every inlet and headland of the Devon coastline. There was a knock on his cabin door. Shaw and Powell entered.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing to report, Mister Seeley,’ Shaw replied.

‘Curse it,’ Seeley spat. He had warned the boatswain, his mate and the surgeon to be extra vigilant now that battle had been joined. Whatever Young’s position on the ship he was bound to reveal himself when asked to fight against his own kind. His hesitation would be his undoing.

‘This battle has only just begun,’ Powell said assuredly. ‘We’ll find him.’

‘Perhaps we should widen our circle of confederates,’ Shaw suggested. ‘It would increase our chances of catching Young.’

‘We can’t,’ Powell replied, ‘not without running the risk of having a papist in our midst. A significant proportion of the population of England is still Roman Catholic. Given the size of the crew it is wise to suspect there are at least a handful of them on board.’

‘You believe there are others besides Young?’

Powell nodded.

‘But surely we would know of them,’ Shaw protested. ‘I grant you one is difficult to find amongst over two hundred men. But a group of them?’

‘They are well hidden, Mister Shaw, even in battle,’ Powell explained. ‘They fight like any other Englishman.’