Armada

Every man on board the Aguila turned at the shouted call.

‘Bastardos,’ Abrahan cursed. ‘The duke was right. Fire-ships.’

‘No more than a mile out,’ Evardo replied, taking his bearings from the course of the wind. ‘We should— Sancta Maria…’ he breathed. In the blink of an eye the solitary flame ignited into an inferno, illuminating the stark outline of the fire-ship for an instant before it was consumed by the breadth of the conflagration. It was a terrifying sight, the pyre reaching fifty feet into the air, the ship continuing on its hell-bound course as the wind-fed flames, like clawing fingers, reached outwards in the direction of the Armada.

‘Christ Jesus, there’s another one,’ the lookout called, his terror evident in every word.

The second fire-ship ignited more quickly, her canvas sails exploding in a ball of flame that once more transfixed the crew of the Aguila. In the glow of the fire Evardo spotted the other enemy ships, their decks yet to be fired. One was dead ahead. He checked his bearings again. The Aguila was sailing close hauled against the wind. If they could come up another half-point then the ship in front of them would be within their grasp. He called for the minor course change, alerting all on board to his intended target.

The cutwater of the Aguila crashed through the tide-driven waves, her deck heeling hard over under taut sails. Abrahan had command of the helm, his deft touch assuring their best possible speed as he balanced the hull on the precipice of putting the boat in irons before the wind.

‘Young,’ Evardo called. ‘Bring five of your men to the bow.’

In the distance another fire-ship ignited, followed by another, then another. The screen of pataches had scattered, each crew deciding their own course. The Aguila was the only boat converging on its chosen ship.

Nathaniel staggered forward with his men. In the light of the fires he could see their faces. They were determined, aggressive, the faces of veteran soldiers who were feeding off the battle lust created by the proximity of combat. Nathaniel felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach. The fire-ships were the English navy’s best chance of shattering the Armada’s formation. Yet he was amongst those resolved to stop them, forced to fight for a cause he no longer believed in.

There was nothing he could do. He was trapped, surrounded by men who had become his enemies without their knowledge. If he revealed himself he would certainly be killed. But if he continued to fight for the Spanish he would be complicit in the defeat of his own country. The accusation his son had hurled at him on the motte resounded in his mind — coward. He tried to silence the voice by raising his own as he arrayed his men along the gunwale.

Without warning an explosion ripped out the forward section of a distant fire-ship followed a heartbeat later by two more, the thunderous blasts sweeping over the Aguila.

‘Hellburners!’ one of the soldiers shouted.

‘We hold our course,’ Evardo shouted back, steel in his voice, his will dominating the fear he felt clawing at him.

The gap fell to a hundred yards.

‘Helm, prepare to come about.’

‘Aye, Comandante.’

The Aguila raced across the bow of their chosen fire-ship. Her decks had still not been fired and Evardo called to Abrahan. The patache spun through the eye of the wind and came swiftly around to sail parallel to the fire-ship, thirty yards off her beam. Abrahan matched her course and speed as the two ships sped together towards the Armada, less than a quarter of a mile away. Evardo swept her with his gaze. The deck of the English ship was higher than his own patache. He couldn’t see the enemy crew but he knew they were there.

‘Bring us alongside the bowsprit!’

Abrahan slowly narrowed the gap between the ships.

‘Come on you motherless Spaniards,’ Robert spat, keeping his head low, his eyes locked on the enemy patache closing in on the bow. He had spotted the boat minutes before and although the Hope had the weather gauge, without a crew to work the rigging the advantage had all but been negated. The smaller, more nimble enemy patache had outwitted Seeley’s every effort to avoid her.

The running lights of the Armada filled the seascape before the bow and Robert let the sight fill his heart, steeling his nerve. He had delayed firing the decks, although they were well within range. Once the inferno took hold they would have to abandon ship, leaving the Hope in the clutches of the patache and Robert was determined that his ship would break through the screen.

‘Hold your course, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Wait for my signal.’

‘Aye, Captain. God speed.’

‘To us both.’

Robert picked up a boarding axe and stooped over he ran to the bow.

‘Ready the grappling hooks,’ Evardo shouted. Three sailors in the bow spread out to give themselves room. They played out their ropes and began to swing the four-pronged hooks, building momentum until they were a blur of speed. Evardo waited, watching the fall and rise of the hull of the fire-ship, knowing they had to be exact.

‘Loose!’

The grappling hooks soared across the gap, falling on the gunwale of the bow, and the crewmen pulled them fast. They held.

‘Secure the lines!’ Evardo ordered. ‘Abrahan, bear away!’

The Aguila began turning her bow away from the fire-ship. The lines tightened, taking the strain. Suddenly a man appeared at the gunwale, an axe in his hand. He severed the first line. It whipped back, striking down one of the sailors with a lash.

‘Arquebusiers, fire!’ Evardo roared. ‘Cut him down!’

The air erupted with the crack of gunfire. Accurate aiming was impossible on the heaving deck of the small ship but Evardo saw the Englishman go down. The Aguila continued her turn, the heavier English ship resisting the pull on her bow. The Englishman reappeared. He raised his axe, ready to cut the other line, but in that instant Abrahan played off the rudder, fouling the tension on the lines, causing the English ship to roll. The Englishman lost his balance and his axe struck the gunwale. He fought to free his blade. The faster loading arquebusiers fired a second volley, the bullets striking the hull below him. He looked up and in the light of distant fires Evardo saw his face.

‘Varian!’

Robert froze at the call of his name. He looked to the bow of the Spanish patache. Morales. Anger surged through him like a hot flame. With a ferocity born from hatred of the Spanish aggressors he pulled the blade of the axe from the weathered timber and severed the second tow line. Bullets whipped past him, tearing at the loose folds of his clothes. He stepped up to the last line and struck down with all the fury in his heart. The rope parted with a whip crack.

Robert spun around and started to run aft. The Hope was free but it would not remain so. Morales was bound to throw more lines. They had to cripple the patache.

‘Now, Thomas,’ he roared. ‘Fall off! Hard over!’

Seeley eased the pressure on the tiller and the Hope shifted her course, the bow swinging to starboard, right into the course of the patache. Robert bent down and picked up the burning slow match. He darted forward to the nearest mound of sails. They had been soaked in pitch and Robert blew on the slow match before throwing the tiny flame onto the pile. The fire quickly took hold. Within seconds the entire mound of sails was burning fiercely.

‘Jesus save us! All hands, brace for impact!’

The crew of the Aguila fell to the deck. All except for Nathaniel. He couldn’t move. Robert was on that ship. His son was in the vanguard of England’s attack.

Without warning the deck beneath him heeled hard over and he fell. With incredible reflexes Abrahan was veering away from the sudden course change of the English barque, negating the power of the larger vessel as the hulls struck each other. The ships rebounded, opening a gap of five yards between them.

‘Fire! The English have fired their deck.’

‘We must withdraw!’