Armada

disseminate across the fleet.

‘Orders from the flagship,’ the masthead lookout shouted down after several minutes. ‘All ships to drop anchor in Calais roads.’

‘Here?’ de Cordoba asked. He turned to Evardo. ‘Why is the duke ordering the fleet to anchor?’

For a moment Evardo did not reply although he knew the reason, or at least suspected. It now seemed probable that Medina Sidonia had yet to receive any response from Parma and was halting the Armada for fear of going to leeward of the disembarkation port, whichever one that might be. It was a disturbing development. Evardo’s unease showed in his expression.

‘You suspect something’s wrong?’ de Cordoba asked.

Evardo looked around and leaned forward. He lowered his voice, fearful that one of the crew might overhear, and explained his assessment of the situation.

‘And what of Calais?’ de Cordoba asked. ‘Maybe Medina Sidonia has received news that Parma is waiting there?’

Evardo shook his head. ‘Calais is controlled by French Catholics. They might be sympathetic to our cause, but they would never open their gates to the Army of Flanders, no more than a Spanish city would allow a French army to enter. No, Parma has certainly commandeered one of the ports he already holds in Flanders to embark his army.’

‘Then we will soon know which one,’ de Cordoba said with confidence.

Evardo nodded, although he did not share his captain’s certainty. He turned his attention to the lie of his ship and Mendez’s commands as the sailing captain brought the Santa Clara in closer to the shore.

While still a half mile from the port Mendez called for the sails to be furled and, soon after, for the bow anchor to be released. The bow of the Santa Clara swung around on the anchor cable as the flukes took hold in the sandy bottom. As the prow came up to the wind Mendez called for a smaller stern anchor to be released, securing the galleon amidst her sister warships in the rearguard. Evardo immediately looked to the four points of his galleon and the surrounding seascape.

Calais was situated on a near featureless coastline, with neither a headland or sea stack to mitigate the strong cross currents fed by the local tidal streams. The Armada had halted in a very exposed anchorage and the deck of the Santa Clara heaved aggressively as the wind clawed at her fore and aft castles.

Evardo turned his attention to the English who were still in formation three miles to windward. Given their position, and the disadvantageous conditions, Calais roads was one of the worst possible anchorages for the Armada, but there was no better anchorage further east, certainly none that could accommodate the larger ships. Also along the coast, beginning not a mile off shore, were the dreaded Banks of Flanders, a hazard that had claimed innumerable ships over the centuries. Medina Sidonia had to communicate with Parma before proceeding. There was no other option but to wait.

Perhaps it was true that the English fleet could not be defeated in battle, not when their more nimble ships had the advantage of the weather gauge and they were intent on using only their cannon to fight. It mattered little. The Armada had weathered every attack and while the crew of the Santa Clara and many other vessels had endured severe casualties, not one ship had been lost to enemy fire. The Armada had reached the Flemish coast intact. They had fulfilled the divine orders of the King.

Contact with Parma had yet to be made but de Cordoba was right, they would soon know which port the army had chosen. Then the anticipated rendezvous could take place and the Armada would escort the invasion fleet across the Channel. Parma’s troop ships would sail unmolested in a cocoon of warships, a defensive formation that the enemy could not break. The Army of Flanders would land in England and the heretic Queen would be cast down to Hell.

Here, now, in the waters off Calais, God’s will was being done and Evardo lifted his eyes to the heavens as he uttered a prayer of contrition for ever having doubted the success of His enterprise. On this day there could be no doubt. After years of planning, months of preparation, weeks of sailing and days of battle, victory was indeed within the grasp of the Spanish Armada.

CHAPTER 19

5 p.m. 7th August 1588. Calais, France.

‘Six days,’ one of the comandantes repeated with horror, his words hanging in the silence that engulfed the spacious aft-cabin of La Rata Encoronada. Evardo stood amongst the group of two dozen men, his mind reeling from the news just delivered by Don Alonso de Leiva and the inevitable dire consequences such a delay would precipitate.

‘Yes,’ de Leiva repeated. ‘The Army of Flanders will not be ready to sally out for another six days. The Duke of Parma has already begun the process of loading the men and equipment onto their transports in Dunkirk but before now he had been waiting for news of our arrival.’

‘But what of the pataches sent to warn him?’ someone asked.

De Leiva waved the question away irritably. ‘He claims they only reached him yesterday. Right now that is not our concern – the next six days are. The English have anchored to windward but it is unlikely they will leave us unmolested while we wait for Parma. We must prepare ourselves for an attack. If we can hold them off for six days, by the seventh day the Army of Flanders will be marching on London.’

Murmured conversations began at de Leiva’s words, with some voices raised in anger. Evardo remained silent. Six days, he repeated to himself. It was a lifetime for a fleet so precariously positioned as the Armada. When he had been summoned to La Rata Encoronada thirty minutes ago he had presumed it was to discuss the logistics of supporting Parma’s imminent arrival. He had never suspected that such devastating news awaited them all.

What was equally serious was the fact that Parma was requesting an escort from the harbour of Dunkirk itself. The Dutch were blockading the port with armed flyboats. Parma had only a handful of small warships to oppose them and he feared his slow moving, flat-bottomed troop transports would be easy prey for the Dutch. The Flemish shoals that guarded the approaches to Dunkirk could only be traversed during high tide, and even then only by ships with a very shallow draught. The Armada possessed such vessels, chief amongst them the galleasses, but with the English fleet threatening them to windward Medina Sidonia was unlikely to divide his forces. King Philip’s meticulous plan was rapidly unravelling and Evardo felt the palpable anxiety of his fellow comandantes in the crowded space, an infectious dread that sapped his previous confidence.

‘Enough,’ de Leiva shouted, returning the cabin to silence once more. ‘We have confirmed reports that a second fleet has joined the English from Dover. The enemy now outnumber us in sail, but the Duke of Medina Sidonia is confident, and his advisors and I concur, that the English cannot hope to defeat us while we hold our formation.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the room. ‘The cobardes are afraid to approach us and fight like men,’ one man shouted and the tone of agreement rose.

‘The English must know that breaking our formation is vital to their success,’ de Leiva continued, his voice overriding the cacophony. ‘Given our exposed anchorage, the swiftness of the incoming tide, and the prevailing westerly winds it is believed the English might try a fire-ship attack to break up our defence and drive us onto the Banks of Flanders.’

De Leiva maintained the silence with a raised hand.

‘We have one other reason to suspect the English will use this stratagem,’ he said. ‘The arch-fiend Frederigo Giambelli is known to be in England.’

The name elicited an audible gasp from every man in the cabin.

‘Merciful Jesus. Hellburners,’ one of them said. The cabin erupted.

Evardo felt a prickle of fear at the back of his neck at the mention of hellburners. The infernal devices were not merely fire-ships, they were floating bombs, designed by the Italian Giambelli to explode on impact with their prey or with a delayed fuse that would ignite the charges without warning.

Three years before in the war against the Dutch Republics, Parma had built an 800 yard pontoon bridge