Armada

The running lights of the Armada filled the seascape before the bow and Robert let the sight fill his heart, steeling his nerve. He had delayed firing the decks, although they were well within range. Once the inferno took hold they would have to abandon ship, leaving the Hope in the clutches of the patache and Robert was determined that his ship would break through the screen.

‘Hold your course, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Wait for my signal.’

‘Aye, Captain. God speed.’

‘To us both.’

Robert picked up a boarding axe and stooped over he ran to the bow.

‘Ready the grappling hooks,’ Evardo shouted. Three sailors in the bow spread out to give themselves room. They played out their ropes and began to swing the four-pronged hooks, building momentum until they were a blur of speed. Evardo waited, watching the fall and rise of the hull of the fire-ship, knowing they had to be exact.

‘Loose!’

The grappling hooks soared across the gap, falling on the gunwale of the bow, and the crewmen pulled them fast. They held.

‘Secure the lines!’ Evardo ordered. ‘Abrahan, bear away!’

The Águila began turning her bow away from the fire-ship. The lines tightened, taking the strain. Suddenly a man appeared at the gunwale, an axe in his hand. He severed the first line. It whipped back, striking down one of the sailors with a lash.

‘Arquebusiers, fire!’ Evardo roared. ‘Cut him down!’

The air erupted with the crack of gunfire. Accurate aiming was impossible on the heaving deck of the small ship but Evardo saw the Englishman go down. The Águila continued her turn, the heavier English ship resisting the pull on her bow. The Englishman reappeared. He raised his axe, ready to cut the other line, but in that instant Abrahan played off the rudder, fouling the tension on the lines, causing the English ship to roll. The Englishman lost his balance and his axe struck the gunwale. He fought to free his blade. The faster loading arquebusiers fired a second volley, the bullets striking the hull below him. He looked up and in the light of distant fires Evardo saw his face.

‘Varian!’

Robert froze at the call of his name. He looked to the bow of the Spanish patache. Morales. Anger surged through him like a hot flame. With a ferocity born from hatred of the Spanish aggressors he pulled the blade of the axe from the weathered timber and severed the second tow line. Bullets whipped past him, tearing at the loose folds of his clothes. He stepped up to the last line and struck down with all the fury in his heart. The rope parted with a whip crack.

Robert spun around and started to run aft. The Hope was free but it would not remain so. Morales was bound to throw more lines. They had to cripple the patache.

‘Now, Thomas,’ he roared. ‘Fall off! Hard over!’

Seeley eased the pressure on the tiller and the Hope shifted her course, the bow swinging to starboard, right into the course of the patache. Robert bent down and picked up the burning slow match. He darted forward to the nearest mound of sails. They had been soaked in pitch and Robert blew on the slow match before throwing the tiny flame onto the pile. The fire quickly took hold. Within seconds the entire mound of sails was burning fiercely.

‘Jesus save us! All hands, brace for impact!’

The crew of the Águila fell to the deck. All except for Nathaniel. He couldn’t move. Robert was on that ship. His son was in the vanguard of England’s attack.

Without warning the deck beneath him heeled hard over and he fell. With incredible reflexes Abrahan was veering away from the sudden course change of the English barque, negating the power of the larger vessel as the hulls struck each other. The ships rebounded, opening a gap of five yards between them.

‘Fire! The English have fired their deck.’

‘We must withdraw!’

‘No!’ Evardo roared. ‘We stand fast. Abrahan, lay aboard! We’re too close to the fleet to risk more grappling hooks. We need to board and turn her course.’

Abrahan leaned in against the tiller and brought the Águila hard up against the taller side of the barque. The hulls hammered against each other and then parted, opening a gap of two feet, the moving surface of the waves making it impossible to keep them firmly together. The gap closed again.

‘Men of the Águila, with me!’ Evardo shouted and he leapt up to grab hold of the gunwale of the barque. He clambered up. Three other men jumped with him while others stood hesitatingly, poised to jump but wary of the fluctuating gap between the hulls. One of the men with Evardo lost his grip as he climbed over the gunwale and he fell between the hulls. A wave slammed the patache against the barque, crushing the soldier, his scream of terror cut short, the sight causing more of the men to hesitate.

‘Thomas, get to the skiff.’