Armada

The wind and tide bore the Hope on without pause. Robert called for a further course change. Without crew to man the rigging the scope of that change was limited but Seeley pushed the balance between sail and rudder to the limit. The Hope steadied. The half-mile mark slipped beneath her hull. Robert looked to the other fire-ships. They too had seen the danger and were delaying the firing of their decks. Inside this range every captain was his own master and Robert refocused his concentration on the sea ahead. Bringing the taper up to his mouth, he blew on the smouldering flame. It flared into an angry orange light. He needed to act, soon. The fate of the Hope had been written, the barque committed. Only the fate of her two-man crew remained in the balance.

‘Fire! Off the larboard bow!’

Every man on board the Águila turned at the shouted call.

‘Bastardos,’ Abrahan cursed. ‘The duke was right. Fire-ships.’

‘No more than a mile out,’ Evardo replied, taking his bearings from the course of the wind. ‘We should—Sancta Maria…’ he breathed. In the blink of an eye the solitary flame ignited into an inferno, illuminating the stark outline of the fire-ship for an instant before it was consumed by the breadth of the conflagration. It was a terrifying sight, the pyre reaching fifty feet into the air, the ship continuing on its hell-bound course as the wind-fed flames, like clawing fingers, reached outwards in the direction of the Armada.

‘Christ Jesus, there’s another one,’ the lookout called, his terror evident in every word.

The second fire-ship ignited more quickly, her canvas sails exploding in a ball of flame that once more transfixed the crew of the Águila. In the glow of the fire Evardo spotted the other enemy ships, their decks yet to be fired. One was dead ahead. He checked his bearings again. The Águila was sailing close hauled against the wind. If they could come up another half-point then the ship in front of them would be within their grasp. He called for the minor course change, alerting all on board to his intended target.

The cutwater of the Águila crashed through the tide-driven waves, her deck heeling hard over under taut sails. Abrahan had command of the helm, his deft touch assuring their best possible speed as he balanced the hull on the precipice of putting the boat in irons before the wind.

‘Young,’ Evardo called. ‘Bring five of your men to the bow.’

In the distance another fire-ship ignited, followed by another, then another. The screen of pataches had scattered, each crew deciding their own course. The Águila was the only boat converging on its chosen ship.

Nathaniel staggered forward with his men. In the light of the fires he could see their faces. They were determined, aggressive, the faces of veteran soldiers who were feeding off the battle lust created by the proximity of combat. Nathaniel felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach. The fire-ships were the English navy’s best chance of shattering the Armada’s formation. Yet he was amongst those resolved to stop them, forced to fight for a cause he no longer believed in.

There was nothing he could do. He was trapped, surrounded by men who had become his enemies without their knowledge. If he revealed himself he would certainly be killed. But if he continued to fight for the Spanish he would be complicit in the defeat of his own country. The accusation his son had hurled at him on the motte resounded in his mind — coward. He tried to silence the voice by raising his own as he arrayed his men along the gunwale.

Without warning an explosion ripped out the forward section of a distant fire-ship followed a heartbeat later by two more, the thunderous blasts sweeping over the Águila.

‘Hellburners!’ one of the soldiers shouted.

‘We hold our course,’ Evardo shouted back, steel in his voice, his will dominating the fear he felt clawing at him.

The gap fell to a hundred yards.

‘Helm, prepare to come about.’

‘Aye, Comandante.’

The Águila raced across the bow of their chosen fire-ship. Her decks had still not been fired and Evardo called to Abrahan. The patache spun through the eye of the wind and came swiftly around to sail parallel to the fire-ship, thirty yards off her beam. Abrahan matched her course and speed as the two ships sped together towards the Armada, less than a quarter of a mile away. Evardo swept her with his gaze. The deck of the English ship was higher than his own patache. He couldn’t see the enemy crew but he knew they were there.

‘Bring us alongside the bowsprit!’

Abrahan slowly narrowed the gap between the ships.

‘Come on you motherless Spaniards,’ Robert spat, keeping his head low, his eyes locked on the enemy patache closing in on the bow. He had spotted the boat minutes before and although the Hope had the weather gauge, without a crew to work the rigging the advantage had all but been negated. The smaller, more nimble enemy patache had outwitted Seeley’s every effort to avoid her.