screaming under the great wooden carriage. A ship's boy was crawling along the deck, leaving a trail of blood behind him on the grimy deck, hand clutched disbelieving to his stomach where the grey sausages of his intestine had been exposed. It would be minutes before the shock wore off and the pain came in its place. As quickly as she had come, Drake swung out of line, revealing another English ship behind her, already swinging at monstrously close range to punch the San Martin with all her power.
The San Martin's return fire was sporadic, almost measured. At fifteen minutes to reload a gun, and twenty English ships taking it in turns to draw up and empty their broadsides into her hull, the Duke had ordered several guns to hold their fire, so that there was at least something awaiting the next English vessel as it hauled round and poured iron into the long-suffering hull of the San Martin.
Without speaking and with no conscious communication
Gresham and Mannion started to haul such wounded as could be moved to the companionways, where other willing hands took them down to the sweated and agonised hell of the surgeon's deck. There seemed no end to the line of English ships, the crash and roar of the guns, the replies from the San Martin, the continual crack and pop of the small arms. There were problems loading the guns. Gresham could see. The soldiers whose job it was to return from their station to reload were unwilling to do so. Feeble, hope-less battle though it was, for the first time they had targets on board the English ships, someone to aim and fire their weapon at. Loading a heavy gun would have done more damage to them, and done more to save their lives, but men in battle are not subject to logic. Soon Gresham and Mannion found themselves serving a gun, obeying the screaming orders amid the stench of blood and warm bronze, the bitter biting tang of powder in the nose and throat.
The tone of the battle changed. The San Martin seemed almost dead in the water now, a shadow blotting out the light from the open gun ports on the starboard side. Blood was running out from the scuppers and gun ports. A great English galleon had drawn up almost alongside the flagship, struck his tops'ls and started to try to pound her to pieces from pistol shot range. Other vessels were ' engaging her port side now, though the whine and crack of shot suggested the English too were reduced to firing lighter broadsides than they might have wished.
Three, four, five hours the monstrous cannonade went on. For a moment, Gresham felt his world go dark, came round to see himself looking up at the grating on the San Martin's deck. He felt his head gingerly. A flying piece of timber had cracked his head open, the wound soaking his hair with blood. Mannion dragged him upright. 'On deck!' he said firmly. 'Get yourself taken to the surgeon and 'e's as likely to amputate your head as put a dressing on it.' They stumbled up the ladder. A bucket miraculously still full of sea water lay on the deck, part of the precautions against fire. Unceremoniously Mannion dumped it over Gresham's head. The sting of the salt water on the open wound cut through the mists in his head.
Strangely, as in a dream, he saw the half-naked figure of a man with a rope round his waist, a waist already rubbed red raw. Men were firing, reloading, dropping all around him, yet the half-naked man seemed oblivious. He and an assistant were tying something round the rope on a loop, what looked like a lead plate and some hemp. The diver tugged at them both, nodded to his assistant, and stood on the rail. Strangely graceful, he poised for a moment, and dived into the cold sea, which was whitening around the San Martin's hull. A diver. One of three on board, seeking to plug the holes in the side and hull of the San Martin even as they were made. How had he survived the marksmen on the English deck? By accident? Or by some strange form of chivalry to one of few men at sea that day who would take no lives, but might save some?
Extraordinarily, with superb seamanship and magnificent heroism, the great ships of the Armada started to appear round their flagship, drawing the English fire and shepherding her back into what was at first a mere mocking copy of the half-moon formation that had served the ships so well, but which as each hour went by became tighter, stronger.
The San Martin's sails were in tatters, her rigging half cut away. Four hundred round shot they counted taken into her hull, yet still she sailed, still she fought, the blood running from the scuppers, men with mangled limbs continuing to serve the guns, to hurl abuse at the enemy. Ten, fifteen English ships gathering like wolves around a single Spanish galleon, as they had gathered round the San Martin. Twice the San Martin herself dragged herself out to relieve besieged vessels. Her crew looked on horrified as they pulled up alongside the San Mateo. How could any man have survived the series of smashing blows she had received? Half her men were dead, her shot lockers empty, her decks a bloody shambles. Standing' proudly in the wreck of his ship was her Captain, Diego de Pimental. They offered to evacuate the San Mateo. Pimental sent the boats back, asking instead for divers to mend his leaks.
It could not last. Perhaps God had some mercy left in Him. At four o' dock a sudden, sharp savage squall blew itself down on the battlefield, and fighting men looked up to see billowing sails thrashing against the masts, hulls rising and failing in the increasing sea. Was their reward to founder in a storm after all?
For fifteen minutes, perhaps half an hour, the opposing fleets fought the sea and not their own kind. The English ships, seemingly undamaged from their encounters, had either turned head to wind or skidded along the edge of the storm under close sail. The Armada vessels, their sails in tatters and losing more wind than they held, simply plunged on off to the north east, the wind full in their tattered and leaking canvas.
When the storm settled, there was clear water between the Armada, huddled now back together, and the English fleet. Gresham lay beyond exhaustion, his back up against the carriage of the gun he had helped to serve, when the tap on his shoulder came.
'Why have they left us?' the Duke asked. 'Why are they not attacking?' He had spoken without the translator, who had one arm bound to his side with a rough dressing. Gresham looked at Mannion. He shrugged, spoke to the Duke directly. All were too tired to care about the breach of protocol.
'Out of powder, most likely. And the wind's driving you north, away from Parma. Why risk more lives when the wind's doing their job for them?'
The Duke nodded, and turned back to stare out over the stern at the far distant white blobs of English sail. It was a dismissal. He was in a tunic, his frame seeming thin in the cold light. He had given his two boat cloaks to a wounded officer, and a ship's boy with a smashed leg who he had put in his cabin.
They lost three ships over the night, the San Mateo and the San Felipe hardly able to keep afloat, beached on the Flemish shore, their crews tossed overboard to drown. The final act came with the morning. The wind had strengthened overnight, half the ships nearly unmanageable because of the state of their sails and spars.
They were being driven inexorably north west. Ahead of the Armada lay a patch of clear sea, then a layer of choppy water. Beyond that lay the white foam of waves breaking on a beach. The Flanders sand banks.
The Duke luffed up the flagship, shortened sail, and ordered his remaining anchor to be dropped. It did little good, the soft bottom giving nothing for the anchor to hold on to, the ship still being driven hard by the tide towards the sand banks. They ordered a man into the bows, sounding the depth with the lead-weighted line, tallow stuck in its base so that an experienced pilot might judge where they were by the sand or gravel that stuck to it from the bottom.
The San Martin drew five fathoms. In less than that depth of water, she would ground and cease to be a living, moving and fighting ship, but merely a hulk to be used as target practice by the English.
'Seven and a half, by the lead!' came the yell from the bow.. Gresham and Mannion sat against what was left of a bulwark, gazing impassively ahead, bracing themselves. 'Seven, by the lead!'
A soldier stationed at the mast head took off his belt, wrapped it round the mast and himself, tightened it, hugging the wood as if it were a lover.
'Seven, by the lead!'
Was there the slightest lift in the shoulders of the Duke. 'Six and a haif, by the lead!'
There was a sudden call, and the Duke's priest came up from below, eyes blinking in the light. The Duke knelt before him, quietly asking the man to take his confession. Trembling, the priest reached out his hand. All over the deck of the San Martin men were kneeling, heads bowed, some with their hands together, others with them loosely at their side. None spoke out loud, though many had their lips moving in silent prayer, some lifting their faces to the sky.
'Six, by the lead!'
There was a collective, shiver through the kneeling men.
Would anyone remember him, when he was dead? Gresham was too tired to be over-bothered by his own demise, but it was a fair question, after all. Mannion would remember, but he would be dead as well. George would remember. Anna? Perhaps, if she did not damn him. And was there no one else to shed a tear for the memory of Henry Gresham? Fat Tom, perhaps, Alan Sidesmith in Cambridge. Inigo Jones, Ben Jonson, Spenser, Donne, some
