Armada

and Robert stared at the unseeing eyes for a moment before indicating to the men to carry on. The stand against the galleasses had cost him four dead, with thrice as many wounded. He looked balefully at the half-breed ships off his larboard beam.

‘Ahoy Retribution, Captain Varian, ahoy!’

Robert turned to the call. The Victory was under tow off his starboard quarter and he acknowledged the wave of her commander, John Hawkins.

‘Nicely done, lad,’ Hawkins shouted, doffing his hat. ‘Nicely done.’

Robert returned the gesture. Hawkins held his gaze, his smile changing to a solemn look of respect as he nodded gravely before turning away.

Robert turned once more to the withdrawing enemy ships. At two hundred yards they were well within range but the guns of the Retribution remained silent. From the moment the galleasses had disengaged and turned their bows towards their stricken galleons, and the threat of engagement had passed, Larkin had sent an order to Robert to cease fire. The ammunition stocks were perilously low. Over three-quarters of their shot was gone, including the additional supplies they had garnered from the Spanish prizes.

The tremendous rate of fire, three shots per-gun-per-hour, had pulverized the two galleons and forced the galleasses to withdraw, but as before no prizes had been taken and no enemy ships sunk. Robert studied the closest galleon, the smaller of the two that had found themselves adrift of the Armada formation at dawn. Her upper decks were punctured through in several places. Jeers and stays were hanging loosely from every yard and mast, shredded rigging that told of the countless strikes the galleon had suffered. But in reality it was superficial damage. Only God and the Spaniards knew how many crew had been lost, but whatever the butcher’s bill the enemy had never seemed to be on the verge of striking their colours.

A gentle gust of wind swept over the Retribution. Robert checked his bearings. A south-westerly. The English fleet had the weather gauge. Seeley’s voice rang out and the crew took to the rigging, the topsails unfurling as the breeze steadied.

A mile away Howard and Drake had begun a concerted attack on the seaward wing of the Armada, forcing the Spaniards to tighten their formation, pushing them deeper into the Channel. Frobisher, in the mighty Triumph, was off Dunnose Point, pitting tide and circumstance against the foe, the weather gauge giving him speed and agility that none in the Armada could match. The earlier skirmishes had given way to a fleet-wide battle with the English mounting a full offensive. The Spanish were holding firm, but the wind and waves were against them and as the day progressed a fated reality became apparent. Coveted or not, the Spanish would be denied the Solent.

CHAPTER 18

2 p.m. 5th August 1588. The English Channel, south of Eastbourne.

The air was heavy, a sun-warmed veil that drew sweat from every pore as the men of the Retribution worked to repair the battle damage. The ship resounded with the staccato beat of hammers pounding against timber and iron, cut through by the strident voice of the master carpenter as he directed work from the main deck, while aloft the yeomen of the sheets and jeers oversaw the re-rigging of a new mizzen mast.

Robert was in his cabin, lying supine on his cot, his eyes half-focused as he studied the grain on the deck beam above his head. The fleets had been becalmed since dawn and were separated by some three miles, creating a lull in the fighting. Robert had spent the morning on the quarterdeck, determined to occupy his mind with the work demanded of his galleon, but his efforts had proved futile. He had gone below, inviting Seeley to accompany him and over the previous two hours they had discussed the action of the day before, specifically how the Spanish galleons had survived the firepower of ten times their number. Without reaching any conclusions the conversation had eventually fizzled out and both men had lapsed into silence.

There was a knock on the cabin door. It was Larkin. He requested permission to see Robert and was invited in. Seeley poured him some grog.

‘It’s our ammunition stocks, Captain,’ Larkin began. ‘Without resupply we’ll soon have to withdraw from the battle.’

‘Tell me exactly what remains.’

The master gunner gave Robert a full account, including powder. It was enough for two to three days’ skirmishing at most. One day in a full engagement. Robert took a swig of grog to stifle his growing anxiety. Not only had the massive amount of shot they had already expended not inflicted any serious damage on the enemy ships, now they were faced with the prospect of having to disengage.

Despite all their efforts the Armada was only days from its objective. The English navy should have secured a score of prizes by now and driven the rest of the Spanish fleet into the depths of the North Sea. Instead they had failed to take any Spanish ships by their own actions and with every encounter their chances of stopping the Armada were diminishing.

‘It’s not enough,’ he said almost to himself.

‘Where are the cursed supplies we requested?’ Seeley said. ‘Every warship in the fleet has the same problem and yet the only significant amount we’ve received so far has come from a ship the Spanish abandoned.’

‘Begging your leave, Captain,’ Larkin said. ‘But that’s why I wanted to see you. What we have might be enough, if the conditions were right.’

‘How?’

‘Well, sir, so far we haven’t been able to cripple any of their ships, even with our cannon pedros.’

‘And?’

‘It’s the range, Captain. It’s too far.’

‘But we’re firing well within range, even for the sakers,’ Seeley interjected.

‘Any one of my culverins can throw a ball over a thousand yards, but their effective range is nearer four hundred and already at that distance they’re only good against men and rigging. Even at half that we’ve seen our shot bounce off the Spanish hulls. If we want to punch through their timbers we need to get a lot closer.’

‘How close?’ Robert asked.

‘Fifty yards.’

‘At that distance we’d have precious little distance to manoeuvre,’ Seeley warned.

Larkin remained silent. He was convinced his solution would work but it was not his place to tell the master how to con the ship.

Robert stood up and began to pace the cabin. Fifty yards. It was incredibly close. At that distance a sudden trick of the wind could give the Spaniards a chance to close and board. Once grappled any English ship would surely be lost. Also, at fifty yards the weather decks would be within range of the massed ranks of musketeers and arquebusiers on each Spanish ship. It would be a bloody task but if Larkin was right … He looked to the master gunner.

‘Give my lads a chance, Captain,’ Larkin said. ‘We’ll show those Spanish papists the real power of this galleon.’

Robert saw the determination in Larkin’s eyes. He was a master of his craft and no one knew the guns of the Retribution better than he. Once the wind picked up the Armada would continue its relentless progress to the coast of Flanders. It had to be stopped, at any cost.

‘Thomas, I want you to inform your mate and the yeomen that at the first opportunity I intend to grant Mister Larkin his wish.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Mister Larkin, you will have your fifty yards.’

The master gunner nodded and rose from the table.

‘Captain to the quarterdeck!’ a call came from above.

Robert left his cabin to go aloft.

‘Pinnace approach, Captain,’ Shaw said as Robert came up. ‘She’s flying Hawkins’s standard.’

Robert went down to the main deck as the pinnace came alongside.

‘Ahoy, Captain Varian,’ Hawkins called. ‘I bid you come aboard and accompany me to the flagship.’

Robert leapt across to the smaller craft as the hulls kissed and they bore swiftly away under oars. Robert