Armada

The Retribution swiftly bore down on her prey. On the main deck Robert saw the gunner’s mate command his men to run out the demi-culverins. The men responded with alacrity, their faces contorted in exertion as they hauled the 3,400 pound guns into position. After hours of near continuous labour their efforts spoke of an almost inhuman strength, but Robert knew that soon they would have to cease. The ammunition stocks on board were desperately low. Already the 24 pound shot had been expended. As the range closed on the Spanish warship ahead the bow chasers remained silent. Despite the need for a sustained attack on the Armada, Robert realized his galleon would soon have to withdraw from the fight.

Seeley brought the Retribution hard about at fifty yards and smoke engulfed the ship once more as the heavy guns on the broadside erupted with fire. The Retribution bore away to give the gunners time to reload. Nearby other English warships had seen the Retribution’s attack and were following suit, converging quickly on the isolated Spaniard. Beyond, the battle was becoming more chaotic. Visibility had fallen further and the growing anger of the sea was making it harder for ships to engage.

Suddenly Robert’s heart lurched in his chest. The Santa Clara was three hundred yards off the larboard bow, sailing on the flank of the trailing wing. She looked to be heavily damaged. Her courses were shot through, her rigging hung like vines from the stays but atop her masts, her banners flew defiantly on the wind.

‘Hard a starboard!’

Seeley immediately repeated the command, the Retribution heeling hard over.

‘Where away, Captain?’ Seeley called.

‘Four points off the larboard bow, Thomas. It’s the Santa Clara.’

Seeley’s expression hardened at the name and he nodded curtly as he spied the Spanish galleon. He called for a slight change to the helm, matching the approach of the Retribution with the course of the Santa Clara, ensuring that their first attack run would have the maximum effect. The wind gusted and swelled the sails, the waves slamming laterally into the hull, booming punches that reverberated throughout the ship as the ruptured water smashed over the bow. The rhythm steadied, the crew toiling at their stations. Yard by yard the Retribution hurtled towards her nemesis.

Evardo strode across the quarterdeck, shouting commands to all within earshot, his focus continually shifting from one point to another. The crew rushed about him, taking advantage of the brief respite to bring order to the decks. It had been fifteen minutes since an English galleon had attacked and the men worked frantically to gather up what wounded they could and bring them below to the already overcrowded surgery. Others loaded what deck guns remained, bringing up the last of the powder and shot for the small calibre pieces.

Evardo’s head was spinning and he drew a deep breath down his parched throat, blinking away the stars that exploded in his vision. He was assailed by terrible grief and anger. So many of his men were dead or injured. Down on the main deck the rising sea was crashing waves against the bulwarks, forcing clear water through the scuppers that quickly turned bloodstained as it ran across the deck.

The Santa Clara bore terrible injuries. Heeled hard over under the press of the wind, her hull had been exposed to enemy fire below the waterline. She had been struck there twice and although the shot had not penetrated, the seams had been split. The pumps had been unable to keep pace with the seawater rushing into the lower hold and Evardo had been compelled to order one of the divers overboard. In the midst of battle the man had jumped naked into the sea. He had patched the hull with oakum and pitch, a temporary measure that had slowed the intake of water and given the pumps the upper hand.

The Santa Clara had been lucky. The Maria Juan had gone down only an hour before. In a moment of ill fortune she had become isolated from the formation and had come under immediate attack from a pack of English galleons. They had pounded her from all sides, meting out a slow and horrific fate, her crew fighting desperately against overwhelming odds, while the closest ships in the Armada remained trapped by the wind to leeward, unable to go to her assistance. She had finally gone down by the bow, slipping quickly beneath the waves, taking with her all but a single boatload of the three hundred men on board.

The María Juan had been the first ship to be lost in battle to English cannon fire, but she would not be the last. Earlier the valiant San Felipe had fallen behind and was now lost from sight amongst the English warships, her fate unknown, while her sister ship, the San Mateo, was already a half-mile adrift of the fleet, hopelessly trying to regain her position, her rudder and masts damaged beyond purpose.