Armada

to harass the Armada.

During the night the westerly wind had completely fallen away, leaving both fleets becalmed. The result was an eerie standoff. Soon after midnight Evardo had finally persuaded himself that it was safe to go below to his cabin, leaving strict orders with Mendez that he was to be notified of the slightest change in conditions.

‘The Isle of Portland,’ Mendez indicated as Evardo came up to the quarterdeck.

He turned to look at the rugged low-lying promontory taking shape off the larboard beam. Before sailing from Lisbon every comandante had been given a set of maps from the cartographer Ciprian Sanchez. On these Portland was shown to be a land-tied island shaped like an inverted teardrop with its point jutting out into the sea. To the immediate west of it, beyond the return curve of its shoreline, lay the port of Weymouth.

‘Ahoy Santa Clara, Comandante Morales!’

Evardo looked over the side to the patache approaching under oars.

‘Compliments of Don Alonso de Leiva, Comandante. You are invited to join him on board his ship.’

Evardo called for the longboat to be launched and he was rowed across to La Rata Encoronada. He climbed up the towering hull and was directed to the fo’c’sle where a table had been erected under a canvas awning. The comandantes of the vanguard were seated around it.

‘Ah Comandante Morales,’ de Leiva called from the head of the table. ‘Come and join us for some food.’

Evardo nodded gratefully to de Leiva and sat down. A conversation had already begun about what the next days might bring.

‘Medina Sidonia dispatched another patache to Flanders yesterday evening,’ one man said. ‘It sailed out just before dusk.’

‘And still none has returned,’ another remarked.

‘So we have yet to have any communication with Parma. We’ve no idea if the Army of Flanders is ready to embark or even whether Parma knows the Armada has reached the Channel.’

‘He must know, surely one of our pataches has got through.’

‘There’s no way to be sure. To reach Parma a patache has to run the gauntlet of any English ships that might be ahead in the Channel and the Dutch flyboats that we know are blockading the coast of Flanders. It’s possible that none of them have reached Flanders.’

A shadow passed over Evardo’s thoughts as he listened. He recalled the conversation he had had months before with his brother, Parma’s aide-de-camp. Allante had said that Parma doubted the possibility of close coordination between two disparate forces, particularly where one, the Armada, would be constantly in motion. At the time, nearly a year before, Evardo had dismissed those doubts, believing them to be ill-founded, but now in the fluid battlefield of the Channel they could no longer be ignored. The pace of the Armada’s advance was strictly dictated by the weather and the intensity of the English attacks. A scheduled rendezvous could only be achieved through constant communication with Parma.

‘Don de Leiva,’ one of the comandantes asked, ‘how exactly are we to rendezvous with Parma’s invasion fleet? We possess no secure port on the coast of Flanders deep enough to accommodate the capital ships of the Armada. Are we planning to send our smaller ships forward to escort Parma’s transports past the Dutch blockade?’

‘We cannot,’ another comandante interjected. ‘With the English fleet hard on our heels such a division of forces would be madness.’

‘So if the Armada cannot detach ships to run the Dutch blockade and Parma cannot sally out alone in unarmed transports, how and where are we to meet?’

All eyes turned to de Leiva.

‘The King has ordered us to “join hands” with Parma, so that is what we shall do,’ he said reassuringly. ‘How this is achieved will be resolved when we reach Calais.’

‘Perhaps his grace, the duke, should order the fleet to a safe anchorage on the English coast,’ Evardo suggested. ‘Weymouth perhaps. We could wait there until a line of communication has been established.’

Others around the table voiced their agreement.

‘The King’s orders to the Duke of Medina Sidonia are very clear on this matter,’ de Leiva replied, levelling his gaze at Evardo. ‘We can only seek to gain a safe anchorage on the English coast after we have rendezvoused with Parma. In all these matters we must adhere to the plan outlined by his majesty. His will is guided by God.’

Evardo nodded solemnly, resolving to place his faith in the wisdom of his King.

Evardo registered the gentle kiss of air on the back of his neck. He turned around but it was gone and as he began to believe he had imagined the sensation a tiny gust of wind dried the moisture on his lips. Spinning around he looked aloft to the masthead banners of the La Rata, his right index finger pointing north as he orientated himself. The banner stirred in a lacklustre attempt to unfurl. Evardo held his breath. It stirred again, and Evardo smiled as the banner started to dance. The rigging groaned. A ripple ran across the main course and everyone around the table stood up. The wind was rising, but not from the west. It was blowing from the north-east. It was a light breeze, no more than a couple of knots, but it was enough. The Armada had the weather gauge.

Evardo turned to the flagship in the distance. The Armada’s primary mission was to secure Parma’s crossing, not defeat the English fleet, but surely, Evardo thought, the duke would realize that the easterly wind was a gift granted by the divine. He silently compelled the duke to act. A plume of smoke shot out from the side of the San Martin and the boom of single cannon rolled across the Armada. The pace of Evardo’s heart quickened, and he didn’t dare to believe his eyes. The duke was lowering the topsails of the San Martin. It was the signal to engage the enemy.

‘All hands, battle stations!’

A dozen voices repeated the command in half as many seconds, shattering the pre-dawn calmness of the Retribution. Men ran to the shrouds and rigging, pushing past each other on the narrow decks, their frantic pace hastened by the strident calls of the officers. A deep rumble permeated the air and the decks trembled as the cannons were run out, the gun crews shouting as one as each was made fast and ready.

Robert was on the quarterdeck, his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed slightly against the wind blowing into his face. The frustration of the previous twenty-four hours was forgotten. Now there was only focus. The enemy had the weather gauge, granted to them by a trick of the wind. They were coming about, the ships of the fighting wings making the turn with a pace that spoke of their eagerness to take advantage of the conditions. Whatever action needed to be taken to counteract the threat had to be taken fast. Robert turned to his sailing masters.

‘Options.’

‘We should come about north-north-easterly,’ Seeley said first. ‘Sail close-hauled to the wind and try to outflank them on the landward wing to regain the weather gauge.’

Robert nodded. ‘Mister Miller?’

‘No signal yet from Howard, Captain. But I agree with the Master. The bastards might take this opportunity to make a play for Weymouth.’

Robert contemplated the course change for a second.

‘So ordered, Mister Seeley, lay close. Helm to north-north-east.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Seeley moved to the fore rail of the quarterdeck and shouted a string of commands, the crew responding swiftly as thousands of hours of sail-craft guided them. Robert took a moment to observe Seeley’s handling of the manoeuvre. Sailing a square-rigged ship close-hauled was a delicate task, requiring a touch that could not be taught or imitated. It was an intuitive ability, granted only to the best sailing masters and Robert nodded with satisfaction as Seeley quickly struck the perfect balance between wind and sail.

He turned his attention to the gap between the enemy’s landward wing and the coastline. At the leading edge of the Isle of Portland was the headland, Portland Bill, but beyond that, some three miles to the south-east