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
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
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
Robert turned to the call. The
‘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
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