Armada

Evardo nodded to Mendez and the captain repeated the order. Evardo slumped against the main mizzen mast. The exhilaration he had felt at dawn that morning was gone, leaving him cold and exhausted. Through hooded eyes he surveyed the decks of his ship. The crew were moving quietly about the ship, ignoring the sporadic fire of the English, the solitary whistle of passing shot. They moved with purpose, gathering up the injured and dead. Evardo counted twenty-five shroud-covered corpses laid out in a row on the main deck.

Padre Garza was attending to the dead, his own head heavily bandaged. Evardo spied Nathaniel Young on the fo’c’sle standing alone beside one of the falcon pedreros. Evardo closed his eyes and listened to the muted voices of his men, the low tones that spoke of their anger, a bitter rage that Evardo felt in equal measure. Every previous close action had resulted in a similar imbalance between their casualties and those of the English, the artillery tactics of the enemy making a mockery of every Spanish attempt to fight man-to-man.

On this day however the crew had been prepared for heavy casualties. The trap demanded it, but all believed they would have a chance to bloody their swords. Though initially outnumbered, they had believed that their sacrifice would finally allow the fleet to take the fight to the enemy.

A tow line was thrown from the bowsprit of the Santa Clara and the deck shuddered beneath Evardo as the Girona took the strain. The distant gunfire was increasing in intensity, signalling a definitive shift in the centre of battle, but Evardo ignored the temptation to turn his attention to landward. His eyes instead were on the English flotilla not two hundred yards off his starboard beam. Some of them showed signs of damage from the guns of the galleasses but they were mere scratches, nothing that could be heralded as a victory. As the Santa Clara sailed slowly past them Evardo tightened the grip on his crucifix until the Christ-figure punctured his skin. A trickle of blood ran down his wrist. He had sacrificed the safety of his ship and the lives of his crew for nothing.

Robert stepped aside as crewmen carried one of the dead past him. The sailor’s face was covered with a bloodied cloth and Robert bade them stop. He lifted the corner of the cloth. The dead man was a yeoman’s mate and Robert stared at the unseeing eyes for a moment before indicating to the men to carry on. The stand against the galleasses had cost him four dead, with thrice as many wounded. He looked balefully at the half-breed ships off his larboard beam.

‘Ahoy Retribution, Captain Varian, ahoy!’

Robert turned to the call. The Victory was under tow off his starboard quarter and he acknowledged the wave of her commander, John Hawkins.

‘Nicely done, lad,’ Hawkins shouted, doffing his hat. ‘Nicely done.’

Robert returned the gesture. Hawkins held his gaze, his smile changing to a solemn look of respect as he nodded gravely before turning away.

Robert turned once more to the withdrawing enemy ships. At two hundred yards they were well within range but the guns of the Retribution remained silent. From the moment the galleasses had disengaged and turned their bows towards their stricken galleons, and the threat of engagement had passed, Larkin had sent an order to Robert to cease fire. The ammunition stocks were perilously low. Over three-quarters of their shot was gone, including the additional supplies they had garnered from the Spanish prizes.

The tremendous rate of fire, three shots per-gun-per-hour, had pulverized the two galleons and forced the galleasses to withdraw, but as before no prizes had been taken and no enemy ships sunk. Robert studied the closest galleon, the smaller of the two that had found themselves adrift of the Armada formation at dawn. Her upper decks were punctured through in several places. Jeers and stays were hanging loosely from every yard and mast, shredded rigging that told of the countless strikes the galleon had suffered. But in reality it was superficial damage. Only God and the Spaniards knew how many crew had been lost, but whatever the butcher’s bill the enemy had never seemed to be on the verge of striking their colours.

A gentle gust of wind swept over the Retribution. Robert checked his bearings. A south-westerly. The English fleet had the weather gauge. Seeley’s voice rang out and the crew took to the rigging, the topsails unfurling as the breeze steadied.