Armada

The wind ebbed for a moment and de Acuña’s nose wrinkled at the stench from the galley slaves. There were 144 of them chained to their oars on the open main deck. De Acuña looked upon them with disgust. They sat languidly at their oars, their heads bowed in silence with only the occasional rasping cough emanating from their ranks. They were condemned men, sentenced to serve at the oars of the Asuncion at the King’s pleasure and de Acuña thought again of how welcome the governor’s house would be after the confines of the galley.

The day on board his command ship had been like any other over the previous month; long and tedious, but thankfully it was coming to an end. The sun was already dropping at pace towards the western horizon behind El Puerto de Santa Maria on the far side of the harbour mouth. He looked to the supply fleet anchored a mile further up the harbour, their individual hulls and masts indistinguishable save for the 1,000 ton Genoese merchantman and one of a pair of galleons he knew to be amongst them, its high castles silhouetted against the evening sky.

De Acuña’s gaze remained fixed on the distant galleon, a magnificent evolving breed of ship so different to the aged galleys of his command. At Lepanto the galley had reigned supreme but now they were rapidly becoming obsolete in an age where warships were not only measured by the number of men and cannon they could carry, but also how far they could project that power. The sturdy ocean-going galleons had pushed the borders of the Spanish Empire to the four corners of the globe but its success had left ships such as the Asuncion languishing in home waters, relegated to guarding merchants and victuallers, a loathsome task for the once noble galley and its comandante.

‘Ships approaching bearing north-west,’ a lookout called and de Acuña spun around to look beyond the harbour mouth and the tip of the headland of Cadiz. A fleet of sail were strung out across the sea lane to the harbour, their number difficult to gauge. De Acuña smiled. Juan Martínez de Recalde’s squadron, he thought to himself. Their arrival from the Bay of Biscay was long overdue. He called the galley’s captain to his side.

‘Signal the El Gato. Tell them to come alongside,’ he ordered and the captain called to the patache, a small sailing ship attending the galleys.

The El Gato tacked swiftly into position and de Acuña transhipped onto the nimble craft, ignoring the salute of its captain as he ordered him to make haste to the edge of the harbour mouth. De Acuña wanted to welcome the commander of the Biscayan squadron personally, knowing how influential and powerful de Recalde was. As the El Gato swung away, de Acuña made his way to the foredeck, his eyes searching for de Recalde’s flagship, the Santa Ana, a magnificent 760 ton galleon that had been launched only the year before.

The oncoming ships bore on, now less than a mile away, and de Acuña’s eyes narrowed as he noticed for the first time that none of them had their masthead banners unfurled. He scanned the broad front of the squadron, searching again for the flagship, but the galleon in the van looked unlike any he had seen before. He felt a slight chill of unease but quickly dismissed it, angry at his sudden nervousness. The Santa Ana could be sailing at the rear of the squadron, or might even have disengaged at Lisbon.

De Acuña kept his attention on the lead galley. Its decks were frantic with activity and its sails remained unfurled although the harbour mouth was almost upon them. The gap fell to four hundred yards and de Acuña could now make out individual figures on the fo’c’sle. His eyes narrowed against the wind as he tried to focus, unease creeping up his spine once more. They were spaced out along the gunwale and seemed to be…muskets! They were carrying muskets!

‘Bear away!’ de Acuña shouted and he gazed in horror as an eruption of smoke burst forth from the bow chasers of the galleon, followed a heartbeat later by the boom of cannon.

The sea in front of the El Gato exploded and water flew up in a torrential spray. The salvo fell mercifully short and the patache heeled over into the turn, its nimble hull, under a full press of canvas, sailing swiftly out of the path of the incoming ships. De Acuña counted the number of enemy ships, his anger at the deviousness of the surprise attack overriding his alarm that such a powerful fleet was arrayed against him. For a moment he wondered who they could be, but he realized quickly there was no other foe who would dare to attack one of the greatest ports in Spain. The galleons were English!