Armada

The day dawned under a grey and swollen sky, the wind gusting from the south-south-west, stirring up the sea into angry swells that lashed against the hull of the Santa Clara as she tacked eastwards, her decks heeled hard over. Evardo had regained his command an hour after the fire-ship attack, the more nimble patache quickly overhauling the Santa Clara. He had re-boarded his ship before the patache bore Abrahan back to the San Juan. They had parted with only a handshake, a simple gesture that spoke of their renewed bond.

Throughout the night Evardo had stayed on deck, watching with ever mounting frustration as Mendez struggled in vain to return the Santa Clara to her anchorage in Calais roads. The hours of darkness had been filled with despair but only with the arrival of dawn did Evardo fully realize the scale of the disaster that had befallen the Armada. Despite the massive breadth of the open anchorage off Calais and the preparations made by Medina Sidonia, the fire-ship attack had completely annihilated the fleet’s cohesion, scattering it along the length of the Flemish coast.

The English had the devil’s own luck. Their fire-ship attack should never have succeeded to such an extent. They had not been true hellburners as was first believed and not one single Spanish ship had been struck or destroyed. The fire-ships had sailed harmlessly onto the shore, but a combination of strong currents and the increasing force of the south-westerly wind had prevented the Armada from regaining its anchorage. The Santa Clara had struggled in vain for hours. The more cumbersome hulks and urcas that made up the majority of the fleet had fared much worse and had been driven further east.

Only the San Martín and four other ships had managed to regain their original anchorage. They were now over a mile to the west of the Santa Clara, heavily engaged with an overwhelming force of enemy warships. The duke had sent out dispatch boats to rally the fleet to his position. The Santa Clara had been one of those to respond, yet they could scarcely make headway against the strengthening wind. Evardo glanced at the other warships nearby that were similarly engaged in a bitter struggle with the prevailing conditions. Of equal concern was that Mendez had slipped and buoyed the Santa Clara’s two anchors in Calais roads. Without them the galleon would be unable to await Parma’s army or even approach a coastline with safety. Evardo suspected that every ship in the fleet had suffered a similar loss.

Evardo had thought of Nathaniel Young many times during the night. He still could not fathom his behaviour. Had he felt some loyalty to his fellow countryman? Was that why the duke had attacked him? It seemed implausible, given what he had known of Young, but he could think of no other explanation. The duke had denied Evardo the satisfaction of killing Varian, but it mattered little. He had bested the English captain, and it was likely that both Young and Varian had been consumed by the inferno.

He turned his face away from the wind. For the moment the English were concentrating on the San Martín and her coterie of escorts but that situation would not last – they would undoubtedly range beyond Calais. From before dawn the crew of the Santa Clara had readied the ship for battle. Despite the heavy weather, every gun had been loaded, and soldiers were positioned in the fighting tops and castles, their muskets and arquebusiers primed and ready. As the sun rose Padre Garza had given absolution to a large number of the crew on the main deck.

Evardo took hope as he watched his men make their final preparations. The enemy had the weather gauge, they would not engage at close quarters. The warships of the Armada would be forced to fight a defensive action once more, but if they could somehow reform, and hold their position off the Flemish coast, they might yet carry the day. Everything depended on the weather and their ability to hold the English at bay. One element was in the hands of God, the other was in their own. Evardo turned back to the unfolding battle beyond his reach, praying that God would grant them the chance to fulfil His calling and retake possession of the seas off Calais.

The bow of the Retribution soared over the swell, her chasers erupting with fire at the zenith. White gunpowder smoke fled before the galleon on the wind, sweeping over the tightly packed cluster of Spanish galleons, following the round shot that had smashed into their heart. The Retribution came hard about, heeling over under the press of the wind, her rigging creaking and groaning as the waves slammed broadside into the hull. Another English galleon was hard on her heels, letting fly with their own chasers as they swept into position.