Armada

Seeley nodded and ran aft. Robert quickly tied a rope around the tiller, holding it firmly in place, locking the Hope on course. He could no longer see the patache but he had heard the strike of the hulls and he prayed they had caused enough damage to foul any further attempt to divert the barque.

The flames were spreading across the deck, devouring everything they touched. Robert shielded his face against the growing heat, stepping backwards towards the stern. Suddenly he saw Morales climb over the gunwale in the waist of the ship. Two men immediately followed.

Robert rushed forward, his sword sweeping from his scabbard. One of the Spanish soldiers saw him and grabbed the arquebus slung over his back, swiftly bringing the weapon up to bear. Robert drew the wheellock pistol from his belt, whipping it up, pulling the trigger on instinct as he took a snap shot at the Spaniard. The bullet hit the soldier in the face and he somersaulted back over the gunwale, his arquebus firing into the air.

Robert dropped the pistol and charged Morales. Evardo held his ground and they slammed into each other, their blades clashing with a force that jarred the muscles in Robert’s arm.

‘I should have killed you, Spaniard,’ he hissed in Latin.

‘My life is not yours to take, Englishman.’

Robert leapt back, sweeping up the tip of his sword, his strike parried by Morales. He stared into the Spaniard’s eyes, trying to predict his next move. They were alive with the reflection of the fire and Robert felt the battle rage within him concentrate in the strength of his sword arm.

He attacked again, swinging his blade through a sequence of strokes, forcing Morales to back away. He drew blood on the Spaniard’s upper arm, gaining half a step. In the corner of his eye he saw the other Spanish soldier raise his gun to shoot him. His mind screamed at him to duck, to somehow shield himself, but his fighter’s instinct held him fast, knowing he could not lower his guard. From behind him he heard a visceral war cry. The soldier’s aim shifted to another target. Seeley! A cold smile crept onto Robert’s face and he pressed home his attack.

‘Capitán!’ Nathaniel heard above the roar of the fire. He looked aft. The old helmsman was calling to him, his face mottled with rage, his finger pointed at Morales on the English deck above. ‘Order your men to follow the comandante!’

Nathaniel looked up at the barque. The heat was building, a physical barrier that surrounded the fire-ship. The air was filled with sparks, countless shards of the inferno rained down on the Águila, threatening to ignite the sail. An explosion erupted on the far side of the barque, sending flames towering into the sky.

There was the sharp retort of a pistol shot and a Spanish soldier fell overboard, his body landing on the deck of the patache. Nathaniel saw Robert attack Morales. The other Spanish soldier raised his arquebus to shoot his son but then turned in the direction of another shout and a man charged forward from the stern. The soldier fired, missing his target and he drew his sword as the Englishman reached him.

Nathaniel was possessed with an overriding urge to call out to Robert but he could not, knowing the distraction might cost his son his life. He moved to the gunwale, judging the shifting gap between the two ships, waiting for the hulls to kiss. He had to get across, to help his son. He readied himself for the jump, not noticing that others were following him, waiting for their capitán to lead the way.

Evardo allowed Varian to come on, holding back on his counter attack, giving ground with every strike. The Englishman had beaten him once and Evardo wanted Varian to think he would do so again. He saw him smile and he readily gave another pace.

Above them the main sail burst into flames, the canvas streaming down in blazing strips. The fire scorched the air, making it hard to breathe. Another deck gun exploded on the larboard side, blasting shards of searing metal across the deck.

Evardo sensed the moment to attack, the heart in his chest aching at the thought of sending the Englishman to his Protestant hell, of finally healing the wound to his pride that Varian had opened at Cadiz. He parried another strike, the blades rasping against each other. Evardo recovered and he lunged forward, leading with the tip of his sword. Varian sidestepped and struck down, turned his blade inside but Evardo was ready for the counter stroke and he whipped back his sword to reverse his attack, inflicting a shallow flesh wound on Varian’s thigh. The Englishman gave ground. They circled and Evardo attacked again, pushing the fight towards the bow.