Armada

On the gun deck Larkin’s men worked with a speed that defied their previous best, their bodies drenched in sweat as they prepared the bowed broadside culverins, their laboured breathing made worse by the choking smoke. Desperation crept into their task, their haste spurred by the knowledge that the very life of the ship was in their hands. A piercing cry of pain cut through the smoke as a gunner’s foot was crushed beneath the four-wheeled truck of a culverin, the 4,500 pound carriage crushing bone and cartilage as the crew hauled on the rope to run it out. One of the men pulled him clear, the process of reloading never abating as the touchhole was primed and the weapon fired without pause for command.

A second galleass let fly at the Retribution, her six chasers wreaking fresh carnage as death and injury consumed the crew. The foremast was split through, the weathered oak spar snapping like a switch. Cries of alarm overrode the cacophony as the stays and rigging crashed onto the fo’c’sle. Robert stood transfixed. The crew within earshot responding to his shouted commands; men dragged the wounded below or secured what rigging they could, and the all consuming clamour of the battle raised every voice to an ear splitting pitch.

Robert watched for the strike of Larkin’s shots. He couldn’t see them; they were too infrequent, too ineffectual to check the advance of even a single ship. It was only a matter of time before the Retribution was overrun. All of a sudden the fore-rail of the nearest galleass seemed to disintegrate under a hail of fire. A moment later the air around her foremast was riven through with shot, her rigging split asunder. Robert saw a dozen Spaniards fall and he spun around to look aft of the Retribution. Three English galleons were off his stern, each one firing their bow chasers at the enemy. Another joined even as Robert watched and he looked to the fore to see others take station there, their combined firepower making a mockery of the opposing bow chasers of the galleasses.

The line formed rapidly, a dishevelled confusion of towed galleons, each firing whatever guns they could bring to bear until a solid phalanx had been formed, a defensive formation that quickly negated the enemy’s threat to the flotilla’s flank. The galleasses slowed their approach, their course no longer clear, and a stalemate quickly developed, an uneven contest of fire as upwards of thirty galleons turned their cannon towards the Spanish reinforcements.

Evardo clutched the crucifix around his neck, the carved figure of Christ pressing painfully into his flesh. The galleasses had remained stoical under enemy fire for nearly an hour, paying a heavy coin in damage and casualties as they returned fire with their bow chasers. They were no longer advancing towards the English, but had bore away to come to the direct assistance of the San Luís and Santa Clara. One of the galleasses was listing badly although Evardo could not tell if she had been holed below the waterline or whether her internal ballast had shifted. The giant ornate stern lantern of another had been shot away and the third had damage to her ram and prow. Distance and the ever present clouds of gun smoke concealed the extent of the casualties amongst their crews.

The enemy ranks remained firm, although their rate of fire had dramatically decreased with many of the English galleons being towed away to gain sea room. The day’s battle was only just beginning and already Evardo could see distant fire and smoke as a further action, driven by localized sea breezes, developed closer to Dunnose Point off the southern coast of the Isle of Wight.

The hope that real English blood would be spilt had yet again been dashed. The galleasses, one of them towing De Leiva’s carrack, Rata Santa María Encoronada, were supposed to have sealed the trap and enveloped any enemy ships that grappled the Santa Clara and her sister bait. Instead they had been forced to play the English game once more, resulting in yet another protracted impasse.

When the galleasses had first engaged Evardo had hoped they would strike deeply into the English ranks. But the enemy had responded swiftly. A single ship had towed herself towards the oncoming galleasses, bringing them under fire and alerting every English galleon to the threat to their flank. The single ship was soon joined by others and their defence quickly coalesced behind a storm of cannon fire.

‘Signal from the Girona,’ a lookout called, indicating the nearest galleass. ‘Ready a tow line and prepare to withdraw.’