Armada

Larkin, a bull of a man with hands blackened from his trade, had trained the crews relentlessly. On the gun deck he was in direct command of the most powerful weapons on the Retribution, two demi-culverins, eight culverins, and two cannon-pedros chasers both fore and aft that could hurl a 24 pound iron shot. On the main deck above he was ably seconded by the gunner’s mate, Peters, who had under his charge a further two demi-culverins, eight lighter sakers and eight man-killing falcons.

The Retribution completed the turn and Larkin stared out the foremost gun port to the squadron of Spanish galleys. Their bow mounted guns were firing intermittently, creating a cloud of smoke which compromised Larkin’s aim but with an experienced eye he pictured the outlines of his prey beyond the shroud. The outer galleys of the squadron passed before him and still he waited. The galleys surrounding the lead ship were more tightly packed.

‘Steady, boys,’ he shouted.

The Retribution swooped into the trough of a wave, its cutwater slicing up a spray of water. Larkin felt the recovery of the hull in the pit of his stomach, the beginning of the upswing as the galleon began its climb up the next swell. He took a half-breath.

‘Fire!’

As one, the linstocks fell on the touchholes of the guns. Larkin’s command was followed a heartbeat later by Peters’s on the main and the galleon bucked with the force of the double cannonade. The upper decks were engulfed in a blanket of gunpowder smoke and the deafening thunder of the broadside temporarily stunned the gun crews. The Retribution reeled but, like a prize fighter recovering from a blow that had winded but not wounded, the galleon quickly steadied.

Larkin was at once roaring at his crews, his throat and eyes burning from the foul smoke that filled the cramped gun deck. The men strained at the ropes to run in the four-wheeled carriages of their weapons and the pulleys squealed in protest as the guns, some of them weighing over 3,000 pounds, rolled across the deck. The crews’ discipline made them oblivious to the results of the first wave of fire they had unleashed upon an enemy. Every action counted down the time it would take them to ready their guns to fire again.

Cannon balls tore across the three hundred yards of open water towards the Asuncion and the galleys flanking her, striking even as the Spanish crews registered the eruption of smoke from the English galleon. De Acuña straightened his back and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his every instinct screaming at him to take cover, while his rank and honour commanded him to stand tall on the fore deck.

A brace of cannon balls whistled over his head, striking the rigging of the Asuncion. Another slammed into the mainmast and the timber disintegrated in a rain of splinters that tore through the ranks of rowers on the open decks, the arrow-like fragments piercing flesh and spirit, spreading blood and panic amongst the defenceless slaves. The heavier cannon-pedro balls struck the hull and oars. The iron shot did not pierce the oak timbers of the bow but the fifteen foot long oars were snapped clean and the recoil of the blow broke the hands and wrists of the slaves still holding their charge.

The Asuncion was a maelstrom of noise. The screams of the injured fuelled the chaos of the panicking slaves and they tore the flesh of their ankles as they fought against the shackles holding them fast. De Acuña closed his mind to the noise and fixed his attention on the formation of enemy galleons, watching as the next ship sailed into position to deliver a broadside. Around him the crew worked frantically to reload the medio cañónes, their single preloaded 20 pound shot long since expended.

After the opening salvo the leading English galleons had formed into a ragged line and had in turn presented their guns to his squadron of galleys with devastating results. The next galleon swinging into position would be the sixth to make its attack run and de Acuña looked to the galleys on his flanks, his nerve faltering at the sight. The scuppers of each ship ran red, as if the galleys themselves were bleeding from the terrible wounds the enemy cannon balls had inflicted. More than one had been dismasted while the closest galley to the Asuncion was listing badly, its crew working desperately to pump out the ceaseless tide of seawater.

De Acuña had known from the start the odds were impossibly stacked against him but he had nevertheless stood firm where others might have fled. Now that resolve was failing. The relentless cannonades of the enemy ships had pierced his courage, forcing him to accept his position was beyond hopeless and bordering on madness. He called the galley captain to his side.

‘Take the rowers in hand and signal the other galleys. We sail for El Puerto de Santa Maria.’