Evardo’s throat. All around him he saw men being obliterated by the withering enemy fire. Shot after shot struck the fore and aft castles, turning them into bloody shambles. No protection could be sought behind the weathered hull and through the gaping holes Evardo could see the vulnerable innards of his galleon, the stanchions and deck beams torn asunder by iron.
His galleon and his men were paying a terrible price for their fortitude. Evardo called on every ounce of his determination, compelling himself to stand firm. He looked about the quarterdeck. Mendez stood near at hand, his voice raised as he relayed his orders, his focus entirely on the position of the Santa Clara. He was seemingly oblivious to the English, as if their attack was no more than a storm, the incoming fire merely a driving rain that could be ignored.
Not two hundred yards away the Portuguese galleon San Felipe was taking fire from nearly a score of English ships. Her foremast, the guns on her poop deck, and much of her rigging had already been blown away. Blood ran freely from the scuppers but amidst the smoke Evardo spied the comandante Don Francisco de Toledo on the quarterdeck, calling on the nearest enemy galleon to come to close quarters. His entreaty was answered by an Englishman in the opposing maintop, shouting what seemed to be a call for de Toledo to surrender his ship. In sight of all the Englishman was promptly shot down and a defiant blaze of musket fire followed the enemy galleon as it turned away from the San Felipe.
The sight further steeled Evardo’s will, filling his belly with fire. Many of the English galleons were dashing forward, trying to drive a wedge into the formation in an effort to create a breech. Their aggression had already resulted in collisions amongst the Spanish ships but the crescent formation was holding firm, maintaining the protective screen that kept the English jackals from the transport ships to leeward. With the wind rising and the English committing more and more ships to the battle Evardo knew it would take more than determination to hold the line. The main guns of the Santa Clara were silent, their preloaded shot long since fired. But while his crew could still draw breath, and his galleon could bear more punishment, Evardo vowed to keep them in the fight.
The Retribution surged forth from the clouds of smoke from her own guns, her bow lunging over the swells, her swollen sails stretched taut, bearing on the 450 ton galleon as her cannon roared anew, spewing out round shot that whistled through the air, carrying all before them as they struck home. Robert shouted a change in course, his order echoed by Seeley, the crew taking doggedly to their task, hauling in the sheets as others scaled the heights of the rigging.
The battle was eight hours old, a seemingly endless fight where round followed round. Robert wiped the sea spray from his wind-lashed face as he sought out another target for Larkin’s guns. The English fleet had held the advantage throughout the day and had mercilessly battered the Spanish formation from every quarter. The enemy had held firm, making the English fight for every league as the wind drove all eastwards. The Retribution had made countless attack runs, striving each time to isolate one of the Spanish host, separating the weathermost ships from the formation so they could be overwhelmed and battered by many times their number.
Still the Armada sailed on, its formation ever increasing in size as it gathered up the slower moving transport ships to leeward. But the wind had shifted to the north-west. If it held, the Spanish would be blown onto the Banks of Flanders. Without command every English captain knew their duty was to continue to press home the attack, allowing the Spaniards no respite as forces beyond the control of all began to dictate the shape of the battle.
Robert leaned into the turn as the deck tilted beneath him. Battle lust had ebbed and flowed within him over the hours and every muscle in his body ached from the tension of combat. His every sense was on edge. The weather was rapidly deteriorating and Robert could see nothing beyond the immediate battle. His eyes moved from one enemy warship to another. Those he could see had been damaged beyond what he had previously believed any ship could endure. He spotted one coming about on the windermost flank, her manoeuvre hampered by damaged rigging. It quickly became apparent that she was having difficulty maintaining her position in the enemy formation. Robert pointed her out to Seeley and the master called for the new heading.
The Retribution swiftly bore down on her prey. On the main deck Robert saw the gunner’s mate command his men to run out the demi-culverins. The men responded with alacrity, their faces contorted in exertion as they hauled the 3,400 pound guns into position. After hours of near continuous labour their efforts spoke of an almost inhuman strength, but Robert knew that soon they would have to cease. The ammunition stocks on board were desperately low. Already the 24 pound shot had been expended. As the range closed on the Spanish warship ahead the bow chasers remained silent. Despite the need for a sustained attack on the Armada, Robert realized his galleon would soon have to withdraw from the fight.
Seeley brought the Retribution hard about at fifty yards and smoke engulfed the ship once more as the heavy guns on the broadside erupted with fire. The Retribution bore away to give the gunners time to reload. Nearby other English warships had seen the Retribution’s attack and were following suit, converging quickly on the isolated Spaniard. Beyond, the battle was becoming more chaotic. Visibility had fallen further and the growing anger of the sea was making it harder for ships to engage.
Suddenly Robert’s heart lurched in his chest. The Santa Clara was three hundred yards off the larboard bow, sailing on the flank of the trailing wing. She looked to be heavily damaged. Her courses were shot through, her rigging hung like vines from the stays but atop her masts, her banners flew defiantly on the wind.
‘Hard a starboard!’
Seeley immediately repeated the command, the Retribution heeling hard over.
‘Where away, Captain?’ Seeley called.
‘Four points off the larboard bow, Thomas. It’s the Santa Clara.’
Seeley’s expression hardened at the name and he nodded curtly as he spied the Spanish galleon. He called for a slight change to the helm, matching the approach of the Retribution with the course of the Santa Clara, ensuring that their first attack run would have the maximum effect. The wind gusted and swelled the sails, the waves slamming laterally into the hull, booming punches that reverberated throughout the ship as the ruptured water smashed over the bow. The rhythm steadied, the crew toiling at their stations. Yard by yard the Retribution hurtled towards her nemesis.
Evardo strode across the quarterdeck, shouting commands to all within earshot, his focus continually shifting from one point to another. The crew rushed about him, taking advantage of the brief respite to bring order to the decks. It had been fifteen minutes since an English galleon had attacked and the men worked frantically to gather up what wounded they could and bring them below to the already overcrowded surgery. Others loaded what deck guns remained, bringing up the last of the powder and shot for the small calibre pieces.
Evardo’s head was spinning and he drew a deep breath down his parched throat, blinking away the stars that exploded in his vision. He was assailed by terrible grief and anger. So many of his men were dead or injured. Down on the main deck the rising sea was crashing waves against the bulwarks, forcing clear water through the scuppers that quickly turned bloodstained as it ran across the deck.
The Santa Clara bore terrible injuries. Heeled hard over under the press of the wind, her hull had been exposed to enemy fire below the waterline. She had been struck there twice and although the shot had not penetrated, the seams had been split. The pumps had been unable to keep pace with the seawater rushing into the lower hold and Evardo had been compelled to order one of the divers overboard. In the midst of battle the man had jumped naked into the sea. He had patched the hull with oakum and pitch, a temporary measure that had slowed the intake of water and given the pumps the upper hand.
The Santa Clara had been lucky. The Maria Juan had gone down only an hour before. In a moment of ill fortune she had become isolated from the formation and had come under immediate attack from a pack of English galleons. They had pounded her from all sides, meting out a slow and horrific fate, her crew fighting desperately against overwhelming odds, while the closest ships in the Armada remained trapped by the wind to leeward, unable to go to her assistance. She had finally gone down by the bow, slipping quickly beneath the waves, taking with her all but a single boatload of the three hundred men on board.
The Maria Juan had been the first ship to be lost in battle to English cannon fire, but she would not be the last. Earlier the valiant San Felipe had fallen behind and was now lost from sight amongst
