Armada

Evardo turned his back on the stricken Portuguese galleon and looked to his own ship. Despite almost constant attacks the Santa Clara had held her position. She was a fine ship, Evardo thought forlornly as he straightened his shoulders and shrugged off his exhaustion. For six hours his galleon and crew had taken everything the English had thrown at them. Although hopelessly outgunned, not a single man had left his station. They were undefeated but Evardo wondered how long they could remain so.

A second foe had joined the battle on the side of the English, an enemy that was pushing them relentlessly towards annihilation. If the north-westerly wind held, the Armada would be on the Banks of Flanders by noon the next day. The larger ships of the fleet would almost certainly run aground and once they did they would be dashed to pieces by the endless wind-driven waves. The smaller ships would be easy prey for the Dutch. It was a fate that had not yet been written. The wind might yet change.

‘Enemy ship on attack run off the starboard bow!’

Evardo rushed to the gunwale at the call, the crew taking to their stations, the tempo of battle making orders unnecessary.

‘The Retribution,’ he whispered. The deck shifted beneath him, Mendez manoeuvring the Santa Clara in an attempt to foul the English warship’s advance. It was a forlorn endeavour, born from the will to fight on against the odds. With every English attack run and every gust of the north-westerly wind the chance of ultimate victory was slipping further and further from the Armada. But no Spaniard had turned his back and Evardo lent his voice to the cacophony of war cries from the men of the Santa Clara as they waited to receive the incoming fire of the enemy.

The Retribution came swiftly on under shortened sail, sweeping past other ships of the English fleet, their courses intertwined as each ship forged its own path through the battle. On the gun deck Larkin called for the last of the culverins and demi-culverins to be run out, using the roll of the deck to assist the gun crews. They were primed and ready, with the remaining supplies of ordnance for each gun close at hand. In the worsening weather they might not get another chance to fire upon the cursed Spanish galleon that had sought them out in battle and Larkin steadied his men as he walked the length of the deck.

With two hundred yards to go an expectant hush descended upon the entire crew. In the rigging and on deck all eyes were on the Santa Clara. Robert felt the killing urge slowly rise within him. Here was the enemy. The Armada was an inhuman beast, devoid of a heart that could be pierced, but the men of the Santa Clara were flesh and bone and Robert would make them pay the price of Spain’s belligerence in blood.

The relentless wind closed the gap. Spanish musketeers fired from the fighting tops and castles of the Santa Clara. A soldier on the poop deck fell injured, his cry fuelling Robert’s determination, his battle lust suppressing any fear as the small arms fire from the Spanish ship intensified.

‘Sumus omnes …’ he said.

‘In God’s hand,’ Seeley said beside him and Robert glanced over his shoulder at the sailing master, their eyes meeting for a second.

The bow of the Retribution closed to within fifty yards of the Santa Clara, poised to run past her on the starboard broadside. Robert swept the decks of the Spanish galleon, looking for Morales. The broadside guns of the Retribution fired, smothering the fifty yards between the ships in smoke and noise. Musket fire filled the air, the soldiers of the Santa Clara firing blindly at close range, their hail of lead cutting down English sailors from the lower rigging.

‘Hard a starboard! Come about!’

The helmsman responded to Robert’s command and the Retribution turned swiftly in the waters behind the Santa Clara.

‘Bring her up on the larboard broadside!’

‘Helm, two points to larboard! Prepare to lay close! Yeoman of the jeers, fore course and mizzen, ho!’

The Retribution bore swiftly down on the Santa Clara, this time on the opposing broadside, the larboard battery firing at a range of forty yards.

Countless muzzle flashes marked the exchange of fire through the haze of gun smoke as the ships passed each other. Evardo stumbled behind the line of soldiers at the gunwale, his hands stained in blood as he pulled at each fallen man, calling for help for the injured, leaving the dead where they lay, the chaos and noise numbing his senses.

A round shot blasted through the bulwark, cutting a bloody swathe through the soldiers. Evardo was blown from his feet and he hit the deck hard. The screams of the dying were all around him. He got up, his vision swimming before him. The deck was strewn with broken bodies. He tasted blood and he vomited up the bile in his throat.