Armada

The English were firing their main cannon at an unbelievable rate and already the decks of the Santa Clara were awash with blood from the injured and dying. The air was rank with the smells of battle, of blood and viscera, voided bowels, gun smoke and fire, a fetid miasma that clung to the back of Evardo’s throat. All around him he saw men being obliterated by the withering enemy fire. Shot after shot struck the fore and aft castles, turning them into bloody shambles. No protection could be sought behind the weathered hull and through the gaping holes Evardo could see the vulnerable innards of his galleon, the stanchions and deck beams torn asunder by iron.

His galleon and his men were paying a terrible price for their fortitude. Evardo called on every ounce of his determination, compelling himself to stand firm. He looked about the quarterdeck. Mendez stood near at hand, his voice raised as he relayed his orders, his focus entirely on the position of the Santa Clara. He was seemingly oblivious to the English, as if their attack was no more than a storm, the incoming fire merely a driving rain that could be ignored.

Not two hundred yards away the Portuguese galleon San Felipe was taking fire from nearly a score of English ships. Her foremast, the guns on her poop deck, and much of her rigging had already been blown away. Blood ran freely from the scuppers but amidst the smoke Evardo spied the comandante Don Francisco de Toledo on the quarterdeck, calling on the nearest enemy galleon to come to close quarters. His entreaty was answered by an Englishman in the opposing maintop, shouting what seemed to be a call for de Toledo to surrender his ship. In sight of all the Englishman was promptly shot down and a defiant blaze of musket fire followed the enemy galleon as it turned away from the San Felipe.

The sight further steeled Evardo’s will, filling his belly with fire. Many of the English galleons were dashing forward, trying to drive a wedge into the formation in an effort to create a breech. Their aggression had already resulted in collisions amongst the Spanish ships but the crescent formation was holding firm, maintaining the protective screen that kept the English jackals from the transport ships to leeward. With the wind rising and the English committing more and more ships to the battle Evardo knew it would take more than determination to hold the line. The main guns of the Santa Clara were silent, their preloaded shot long since fired. But while his crew could still draw breath, and his galleon could bear more punishment, Evardo vowed to keep them in the fight.

The Retribution surged forth from the clouds of smoke from her own guns, her bow lunging over the swells, her swollen sails stretched taut, bearing on the 450 ton galleon as her cannon roared anew, spewing out round shot that whistled through the air, carrying all before them as they struck home. Robert shouted a change in course, his order echoed by Seeley, the crew taking doggedly to their task, hauling in the sheets as others scaled the heights of the rigging.

The battle was eight hours old, a seemingly endless fight where round followed round. Robert wiped the sea spray from his wind-lashed face as he sought out another target for Larkin’s guns. The English fleet had held the advantage throughout the day and had mercilessly battered the Spanish formation from every quarter. The enemy had held firm, making the English fight for every league as the wind drove all eastwards. The Retribution had made countless attack runs, striving each time to isolate one of the Spanish host, separating the weathermost ships from the formation so they could be overwhelmed and battered by many times their number.

Still the Armada sailed on, its formation ever increasing in size as it gathered up the slower moving transport ships to leeward. But the wind had shifted to the north-west. If it held, the Spanish would be blown onto the Banks of Flanders. Without command every English captain knew their duty was to continue to press home the attack, allowing the Spaniards no respite as forces beyond the control of all began to dictate the shape of the battle.

Robert leaned into the turn as the deck tilted beneath him. Battle lust had ebbed and flowed within him over the hours and every muscle in his body ached from the tension of combat. His every sense was on edge. The weather was rapidly deteriorating and Robert could see nothing beyond the immediate battle. His eyes moved from one enemy warship to another. Those he could see had been damaged beyond what he had previously believed any ship could endure. He spotted one coming about on the windermost flank, her manoeuvre hampered by damaged rigging. It quickly became apparent that she was having difficulty maintaining her position in the enemy formation. Robert pointed her out to Seeley and the master called for the new heading.