Armada

‘Comandante!’

Evardo spun around. ‘Capitan. How soon before we can return fire?’

‘The men are working as fast as they can, Comandante. The media culebrinas will be ready within the hour.’

‘And the pedreros?’

‘We have already re-fired one of them, Comandante.’

Evardo bristled with frustration, knowing that the slow rate of fire was not the captain’s fault but angry nonetheless.

‘What of those guns?’ He pointed to two of the eight media culebrinas which stood idle in the forward section.

‘Those Italian spawn,’ Suarez cursed. ‘None of our Spanish 10 pound round shots will fit them. The idotias have cast their media culebrinas to a different calibre to ours.’

Evardo could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Two of his heaviest guns were useless. Drawn from a foreign forge, their specification had no bearing on Spanish standards. As a warship, the Santa Clara had begun the campaign with its own battery of guns and had only received these additional two Italian media culebrinas to complement its artillery. The merchantmen however, some of the largest and heaviest armed ships in the fleet, had been up-gunned with a hotchpotch of cannon from foundries across the Empire. If their gunners were encountering the same problems as Evardo’s, with guns silenced by mismatched ammunition, then the English advantage in firepower would be further increased.

‘There is one other thing, Comandante,’ Suarez said. ‘You must order the crew on the upper decks to slow their rate of fire, our stock of 2 pound shot is almost gone.’

‘For now, those guns are the only practical weapons we possess,’ Evardo replied sharply. ‘I would rather have that shot fired at the English ranks than languishing in our lockers. We will replenish our supplies when we take our first prize.’

Suarez nodded and Evardo motioned him to return to his duty before taking to the gangway that returned him to the main deck. He glanced at the nearest falcon pedrero and the precious mound of 2 pound stone shot at the feet of the soldiers manning the gun. One of the gun crew was badly injured. His leg had been crudely bandaged by a comrade and he lay propped up against the bulwark, his expression betraying how close to collapse he was. He held a 2 pound shot in his hand and was carefully chipping away the remaining irregularities on the stone ball to ensure a more perfect fit with the barrel. When the shot was called for he handed it over before taking another from the pile, his teeth gritted against the pain of his leg.

Evardo went past the wounded soldier to the quarterdeck. The intensity of the English fire had not lessened and he looked across to the San Luis. The sight filled Evardo with sorrow. He was looking at a mirror of his own galleon, a once proud but now savaged beast, trapped in a snare of its own making. He could give no further order; all he could do was wait. The English were unwilling to engage in a close quarter attack. The initial plan was for naught, but Evardo prayed Medina Sidonia would still spring the trap. Even without being grappled, the bait had lured the English forward and while the San Luis and Santa Clara remained the focus of the enemy there was still a chance to draw English blood.

Nathaniel spat out the taste of smoke that clung to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. Men pushed past him, carrying the injured away from the gunwale as others rushed to take their place in the firing line. Above the clamour of battle he could hear de Cordoba shouting orders to his men on the poop deck. But Nathaniel remained silent. He could not summon the encouraging words he had shouted two days before in the heat of battle. The Spanish soldiers were not his men and the aggression that had possessed him was gone.

As the English ships were approaching Nathaniel had been gripped by a terrible fear, not of combat, but at the thought of leading these foreigners against his own countrymen, of spilling English blood in the defence of a Spanish galleon. Mercifully the English had not clapped sides and in the face of their continuous cannon fire Nathaniel had felt only relief, and turmoil.

For so many years his path had been clear. Even during the first days of battle, when the sight of England and the English navy had caused him to doubt his ideals, he had doggedly stuck to his objectives and those of Spain. He had believed there was no other way for him, that this was the only path to redemption.

But his son was forging another way. Robert was fighting with the English navy, maybe as an officer, in command of his own countrymen, leading them into a battle to save the sovereignty of England. Nathaniel had thought Robert a fool to believe he could be true to both his faith and the heretic Queen. But for his son Elizabeth was England, they could not be separated.

But what of the souls of his countrymen, Nathaniel thought bitterly. As believers of a false Protestant faith their souls were in mortal peril. Even his son’s soul, however true he was to the Catholic creed, was in jeopardy. Elizabeth had been excommunicated. To follow her was to defy the Papal Bull issued by Pope Pius V.

Nathaniel’s belief in the righteousness of his faith touched the very core of his convictions, but he could draw no strength from there. Now there was only doubt. In his quest to see a Catholic monarch on the throne of England, he had put the freedom of his own people in danger. He had forsaken them. The men of the English navy were fighting to ensure an English monarch controlled the destiny of England. Nathaniel also wanted England to be her own master. In a battle between nations he realized he had to be firmly on one side or the other.

‘Galleasses approaching off the larboard bow!’

Robert spun around and peered through the gun smoke in the direction called by the lookout. He could barely make out his own bowsprit.

‘Mister Seeley, get aloft. I want a full report. Mister Miller, order the master gunner to cease fire and have the coxswain pull us clear of this infernal smoke.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Within seconds the cannon fire ceased, creating an eerie oasis of calm amidst the continued fire of the surrounding English ships. Robert felt the pull of the longboat and coasters and ordered the helm to match their course, streamlining the hull of the Retribution with the draw of the oarsmen. The smoke began to dissipate as Seeley returned from the fighting top.

‘Three galleasses under oars, Captain,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘One of them is towing a massive carrack.’

‘How far off?’

‘A thousand yards and closing fast, at least four knots.’

Sunlight pierced the remnants of the cloud of gun smoke and Robert shielded his eyes as he finally spied the outlines of the approaching reinforcements. They were on course for the heart of the fray and were poised to split open the becalmed English flotilla. The heavy bow chasers of the galleasses would wreak terrible carnage at close range but Robert was more fearful of the leviathan one of them had in tow. The carrack was undoubtedly crammed with soldiers who would quickly overwhelm any English crew in a boarding attack. Furthermore a ship that size could be carrying cannon serpentines and royals, massive guns firing shots of over 50 pounds that would smash through the timbers of even the strongest hulls.

For the first time since the battle began Robert didn’t know what he should do and for precious seconds both his reason and courage floundered. So close to the attack and the advance of the reinforcements, the Retribution was best placed to counter the threat, but no single English galleon was a match for a Spanish galleass or a carrack of that size. Only the combined firepower of a score of galleons would divert such a force. Robert was paralysed by doubt. Despite Howard’s new squadrons, the English captains were used to fighting as individuals. There was no guarantee that if the Retribution stood to face the Spanish reinforcements she would be joined by others in time to form an effective defence. Alone, his ship would be overrun.

Many of the ships in the thick of the fight seemed oblivious to the approaching danger. Others in the flotilla were coming about but with only their own longboats to tow them, their progress was extremely slow. Robert felt his resolve harden. With three boats towing his ship he had the advantage and the imperative. He turned to the enemy. If he hoped to deter the Spaniards from pressing home their attack he knew he had to bring as many guns to bear as possible.

‘Mister Miller,’ Robert shouted, swallowing the last of his fears. ‘Orders to Mister Larkin; tell him to bow the