Armada

across the Scheldt River, cutting off Antwerp from the sea in a bid to force the city to surrender to his forces. It had taken over six months to build the massive structure and, armed with over two hundred gun emplacements, it was further protected both up and down stream by booms. Against this impregnable barrier the Dutch had sent Giambelli’s hellburners.

The Spanish soldiers manning the bridge had been prepared for a fire-ship attack, but no one had before devised such a weapon as the hellburners. The first ship, with a delayed fuse, exploded almost harmlessly in the middle of the river, creating a sight that actually drew more soldiers to the bridge. The second ship exploded on impact, instantly killing over eight hundred men on the bridge and injuring countless others. It was a devastating attack and Evardo could only imagine with horror the impact such devices would have on the massed ships of the Armada. As the noise in the cabin began to ebb, all eyes turned once more to de Leiva.

‘In preparation for this attack your crews must be ready to slip and buoy their anchor cables at a moment’s notice. Every comandante is given leave to lay off as they see fit, but let me be clear – the Duke of Medina Sidonia expects every ship to regain their anchors and their position once the threat has passed.’

De Leiva’s eyes ranged across the cabin. Every man nodded his assent.

‘Now, to enhance our defence, the duke has also decided to place a screen of pataches before the fleet. Their task will be to grapple and haul any fire-ships away. I need war-captains to command these boats, not the current traders who might turn and run at the first sight of fire. Who among you will volunteer?’

‘Don de Leiva,’ Evardo said at once. ‘I request the honour of commanding one of the pataches.’

‘And I,’ another comandante shouted, close at hand.

‘And I.’

‘And I.’

Robert gazed out over the fore rail of the fo’c’sle at the anchored enemy fleet. The Spaniards had done it. The Flemish coast was within their reach. Right now Parma’s army was undoubtedly readying itself to embark. If he was sallying out from Dunkirk he was less than twenty-five miles away. How many thousands of soldiers were already on the Armada? How many more would Parma add? The Army of Flanders was the greatest in Europe and once ashore in England they would sweep aside any obstacle. Only the English fleet stood in the way of that terrible fate. But how could they stop the Armada? The Spanish ships were unsinkable, their formation unbreakable, and once the Armada set course for the English coast, with Parma’s men amongst them, their victory would be assured.

‘Beg to report, Captain,’ Robert heard and he turned to find Seeley standing behind him.

‘The tide is about to turn. I’ve manned the capstan in case the anchor shifts.’

‘Very good, Mister Seeley,’ Robert replied. He indicated to the Armada off the bow. ‘What’s your assessment?’

‘It’s a piss-poor anchorage for such a large fleet,’ Seeley replied and Robert raised an eyebrow at Seeley’s uncharacteristic profanity. ‘If this wind holds we should try to dislodge them and push them onto the Flemish shoals.’

Robert nodded. It was an obvious conclusion but how would they achieve such a feat?

‘I suspect the admiral will launch some type of attack on the morrow,’ Robert said, thinking aloud. ‘Especially now that Lord Seymour and his squadron have joined the fleet.’

Seeley nodded and took a moment to study the captain. Sir Robert Varian. The title filled Seeley with immense pride. It was a great honour, not only for the captain, but for the Retribution and all who sailed on her. A faint smile crept onto his face as he recalled how he had once suspected the captain of being a traitorous Roman Catholic. He had reached an absurd conclusion and he thanked God that he had never confronted Robert.

‘Put extra lookouts fore and aft, Thomas. Report again after the tide has turned.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Pinnace approaching off the larboard quarter!’

It was bearing Hawkins’s colours and Robert went to the main deck in time to see Seeley grant the commander leave to come aboard. Robert led the way to his cabin. Once the door was closed, Hawkins began to speak.

‘We’re going to attack the Armada with fire-ships, tonight. The vessels have already been chosen and are being prepared out of sight of the enemy in the middle of the fleet.’

Of course, Robert thought, fire-ships. His own lack of military experience had hidden this obvious solution from him. The wind was abaft of the fleet and the tide was about to turn in-shore. It was a perfect stratagem.

‘We probably won’t damage many ships, much less destroy any,’ Hawkins continued. ‘Our goal is to create confusion and shatter their formation. With luck, and God’s favour, dawn should see the Spaniards driven back out into the Channel, or better yet, into the North Sea.’

Robert nodded. ‘What ships have been chosen?’

Hawkins listed them. There were eight in total including one of Hawkins’s own ships, a 200 ton barque, the Hope.

‘The Hope is commanded by Mathias Purdon,’ Hawkins said. ‘He’s a good man, but he’s a merchant, not a soldier. I want someone I can trust at the helm to carry this through.’

‘Then I volunteer,’ Robert said without hesitation.

Hawkins smiled wryly. ‘I thought you might. The ship will be fully rigged; you’ll just need to hold her course until the flames have taken hold. How many men will you need?’

‘Just one,’ Robert replied, again without pause. ‘If he’s willing, I’m going to take my sailing master, Thomas Seeley.’

The wind and tide driven waves slapped against the hull of the Aguila, her cutwater slicing through the rising surf as the patache tacked across the breadth of the Armada. The sun had set over two hours before and Evardo stood quietly in the bow of the 120 ton vessel, his hand clasping a line of running rigging to keep his balance on the heaving deck. The running lights of the English fleet covered the line of the western horizon. It was difficult to judge their distance. They looked closer than the four miles that separated the fleets, and Evardo glanced over his shoulder to the lights of the Armada, the multitude that was under his care.

Fifteen pataches had been assigned to the screen, nearly the entire complement of such craft sailing with the Armada. Under the feeble light of the half-moon Evardo checked the position of the Aguila with the boats on his flanks. He had taken over his new command at dusk. Prior to that and throughout the entire day, the pataches had been ferrying victuals from the port of Calais to the Armada. The French governor of the city had not only proved sympathetic to the Spanish cause, he had allowed the local merchants to trade with the fleet. Every ship had received fresh supplies of water and food.

Satisfied, Evardo turned and went aft, staggering along the length of the heaving deck until he reached the tiller. The helmsman was standing with his feet widely spaced for balance, his calloused hand firmly on the tiller. Evardo nodded curtly to the helmsman. From a comandante it was an extraordinary gesture of familiarity to a common sailor and the crewman was momentarily taken aback before he returned the gesture.

‘Come up another point to the wind.’

‘Si, Comandante.’ The helmsman deftly pushed the tiller a fraction to larboard.

Forward of the tiller Nathaniel Young stood in the lee of the mainmast. Evardo had ordered the Englishman to accompany him, along with ten of his arquebusiers to defend the Aguila against any attack. Young looked ill at ease but Evardo was confident he was suitable for the task. In any case, if for any reason they did not make it back to the Santa Clara Evardo wanted the more experienced Capitan de Cordoba in command of the soldiers there. The other ten crewmen of the Aguila were sailors, hand-picked by Mendez from the men who had volunteered.

‘Ahoy, Aguila!’

Evardo turned at the sudden call, peering into the darkness off the starboard quarter from whence it came. The voice sounded familiar. While Evardo tried to place it, it rang out again.

‘Ahoy, Aguila, Comandante Morales!’