Armada

broadside guns. Mister Seeley, order the coxswain to bring the prow about and then strike the tow lines. We make our stand here!’

The Retribution quickly completed her turn in the calm waters, her bow coming about to point directly at the oncoming galleasses. The guns of both broadsides had been run out and bowed, their muzzles turned as far forward as possible. Five hundred yards away the Spanish galleasses swept onwards, their blood red oars propelling them across the surface. Robert closed his mind to the fight over his shoulder; the English cannonade that continued to batter the two wretched Spanish galleons. He focused on the oncoming ships and prayed for the strength to endure. His fate and that of his crew were now firmly in the hands of God and the other captains of the English fleet.

The galleasses surged across the surface, their rams furrowing through the swell, creating a bow wave that swept along the length of their hulls. Their massive oars glided through the water, devouring the strength of some nine hundred slaves, their backs straightening through the draw. The gap quickly fell to four hundred yards.

‘Steady, boys,’ Robert shouted, his call echoed by every officer.

The Retribution was a warship built for speed and manoeuvrability, with a massive, complex rig that readily consumed the labour of its sailing crew when the ship was in motion. Becalmed, the majority of the crew were deprived of the frantic duty that would see them through battle and they could do nothing but watch the approaching enemy in silence.

Suddenly Larkin let fly with the bow chasers and the crew roared in response, a release that put courage into the heart of every man. Only Robert remained silent, his gaze locked on the centre galleass. Her six bow chasers were run out, the pitch-black muzzles falling and rising with the swoop of the bow. Robert could almost see the Spaniards behind the long barrels, the smouldering flame on their linstocks poised above the touchholes and as the oars of the galleass propelled her through the upswing the cannons fired in a blaze of fiery smoke.

The volley of iron shot struck a terrifying blow, each ball tearing a bloody path across the decks of the Retribution. The timbers of the superstructure exploded, propelling razor sharp splinters in every direction that shredded the courses and riggings. The hull boomed with the strike of a massive round, a 50 pound ball from a canon de batir that ripped across the fo’c’sle, blasting a saker from its mounting, obliterating its gun crew.

On the gun deck Larkin’s men worked with a speed that defied their previous best, their bodies drenched in sweat as they prepared the bowed broadside culverins, their laboured breathing made worse by the choking smoke. Desperation crept into their task, their haste spurred by the knowledge that the very life of the ship was in their hands. A piercing cry of pain cut through the smoke as a gunner’s foot was crushed beneath the four-wheeled truck of a culverin, the 4,500 pound carriage crushing bone and cartilage as the crew hauled on the rope to run it out. One of the men pulled him clear, the process of reloading never abating as the touchhole was primed and the weapon fired without pause for command.

A second galleass let fly at the Retribution, her six chasers wreaking fresh carnage as death and injury consumed the crew. The foremast was split through, the weathered oak spar snapping like a switch. Cries of alarm overrode the cacophony as the stays and rigging crashed onto the fo’c’sle. Robert stood transfixed. The crew within earshot responding to his shouted commands; men dragged the wounded below or secured what rigging they could, and the all consuming clamour of the battle raised every voice to an ear splitting pitch.

Robert watched for the strike of Larkin’s shots. He couldn’t see them; they were too infrequent, too ineffectual to check the advance of even a single ship. It was only a matter of time before the Retribution was overrun. All of a sudden the fore-rail of the nearest galleass seemed to disintegrate under a hail of fire. A moment later the air around her foremast was riven through with shot, her rigging split asunder. Robert saw a dozen Spaniards fall and he spun around to look aft of the Retribution. Three English galleons were off his stern, each one firing their bow chasers at the enemy. Another joined even as Robert watched and he looked to the fore to see others take station there, their combined firepower making a mockery of the opposing bow chasers of the galleasses.

The line formed rapidly, a dishevelled confusion of towed galleons, each firing whatever guns they could bring to bear until a solid phalanx had been formed, a defensive formation that quickly negated the enemy’s threat to the flotilla’s flank. The galleasses slowed their approach, their course no longer clear, and a stalemate quickly developed, an uneven contest of fire as upwards of thirty galleons turned their cannon towards the Spanish reinforcements.

Evardo clutched the crucifix around his neck, the carved figure of Christ pressing painfully into his flesh. The galleasses had remained stoical under enemy fire for nearly an hour, paying a heavy coin in damage and casualties as they returned fire with their bow chasers. They were no longer advancing towards the English, but had bore away to come to the direct assistance of the San Luis and Santa Clara. One of the galleasses was listing badly although Evardo could not tell if she had been holed below the waterline or whether her internal ballast had shifted. The giant ornate stern lantern of another had been shot away and the third had damage to her ram and prow. Distance and the ever present clouds of gun smoke concealed the extent of the casualties amongst their crews.

The enemy ranks remained firm, although their rate of fire had dramatically decreased with many of the English galleons being towed away to gain sea room. The day’s battle was only just beginning and already Evardo could see distant fire and smoke as a further action, driven by localized sea breezes, developed closer to Dunnose Point off the southern coast of the Isle of Wight.

The hope that real English blood would be spilt had yet again been dashed. The galleasses, one of them towing De Leiva’s carrack, Rata Santa Maria Encoronada, were supposed to have sealed the trap and enveloped any enemy ships that grappled the Santa Clara and her sister bait. Instead they had been forced to play the English game once more, resulting in yet another protracted impasse.

When the galleasses had first engaged Evardo had hoped they would strike deeply into the English ranks. But the enemy had responded swiftly. A single ship had towed herself towards the oncoming galleasses, bringing them under fire and alerting every English galleon to the threat to their flank. The single ship was soon joined by others and their defence quickly coalesced behind a storm of cannon fire.

‘Signal from the Girona,’ a lookout called, indicating the nearest galleass. ‘Ready a tow line and prepare to withdraw.’

Evardo nodded to Mendez and the captain repeated the order. Evardo slumped against the main mizzen mast. The exhilaration he had felt at dawn that morning was gone, leaving him cold and exhausted. Through hooded eyes he surveyed the decks of his ship. The crew were moving quietly about the ship, ignoring the sporadic fire of the English, the solitary whistle of passing shot. They moved with purpose, gathering up the injured and dead. Evardo counted twenty-five shroud-covered corpses laid out in a row on the main deck.

Padre Garza was attending to the dead, his own head heavily bandaged. Evardo spied Nathaniel Young on the fo’c’sle standing alone beside one of the falcon pedreros. Evardo closed his eyes and listened to the muted voices of his men, the low tones that spoke of their anger, a bitter rage that Evardo felt in equal measure. Every previous close action had resulted in a similar imbalance between their casualties and those of the English, the artillery tactics of the enemy making a mockery of every Spanish attempt to fight man-to- man.

On this day however the crew had been prepared for heavy casualties. The trap demanded it, but all believed they would have a chance to bloody their swords. Though initially outnumbered, they had believed that their sacrifice would finally allow the fleet to take the fight to the enemy.

A tow line was thrown from the bowsprit of the Santa Clara and the deck shuddered beneath Evardo as the Girona took the strain. The distant gunfire was increasing in intensity, signalling a definitive shift in the centre of battle, but Evardo ignored the temptation to turn his attention to landward. His eyes instead were on the English flotilla not two hundred yards off his starboard beam. Some of them showed signs of damage from the guns of the galleasses but they were mere scratches, nothing that could be heralded as a victory. As the Santa Clara sailed slowly past them Evardo tightened the grip on his crucifix until the Christ-figure punctured his skin. A trickle of blood ran down his wrist. He had sacrificed the safety of his ship and the lives of his crew for nothing.

Robert stepped aside as crewmen carried one of the dead past him. The sailor’s face was covered with a bloodied cloth and Robert bade them stop. He lifted the corner of the cloth. The dead man was a yeoman’s mate