Armada

The longboat was twenty yards from the galleon when the Spy swept in across its course. Morgan brought the starboard of the pinnace up against the hull of the galleon below the main deck and ordered the crew to lash on before leading them aboard. Robert brought the longboat up against the larboard of the Spy. He and his men boarded and crossed the deck of the pinnace. They drew their swords as they did so while others nursed the flames on the slow match of their arquebuses.

Robert glanced at the aft decks of the galleon and noticed that the Spaniards there had disappeared. Ahead of him Morgan and more than twenty men were already on the main deck, with more clambering up to join them, their infectious enthusiasm for such an easy prize spurring them on. The men of the longboat joined the back of the push, each man eager to get aboard and find some part of the plunder they could claim as their own. Robert’s misgivings were lost in the rush and he led his men in their calls to those in front to hasten their step while all the while the Spanish guns remained quiet.

Evardo tried to quell the blood lust in his veins as he held his men in check. Their hunger for the order to charge was a palpable force in the confines of the enclosed main deck under the quarter. He looked out through a chink in the door. The English were fanning out across the main deck. Thirty men, now forty, their weapons drawn but loosely held. The enemy were still thrilled by the ease of their boarding but Evardo knew it would not last. Their wits were sure to return and they would soon question the deserted decks. He looked to the man leading the English, studying his expression.

Evardo drew up his hand and the two gunners stepped forward, smouldering linstocks in their hands. When the English began their attack on the outer edges of the fleet hours before Evardo had begun his own preparations for the defence of the Halcón. The crew had hauled two medio cañónes from their positions at the stern end of the main deck and brought them forward to behind the doors leading to the open main deck, lashing them to new mountings in the bulkhead. They were loaded with grapeshot and the crew now stood poised behind them, their weapons drawn, their eyes locked on their captain.

Evardo looked at Abrahan and the older man nodded. They were ready. He set his gaze on the English captain one last time and then backed away from the door to stand between the cannons. The grapeshot would splinter the door into a thousand pieces, adding to the carnage. He glanced at the two gunners and then slowly drew his own sword. The blade rasped against the mouth of the scabbard. He drew in a breath, summoning up the depths of his will to banish the English from his deck and let fly his command with a roar that gave vent to the fury of his soul.

‘¡Fuego!’

The firestorm consumed the Englishmen closest to the door in a hail of iron and timber. The grapeshot ripped through their flesh to fly onwards to the men behind and the air was whipped by the passing of a thousand missiles as the thunderous roar of the cannons and billowing smoke overwhelmed the main deck. The cannonade slaughtered twenty men, obliterating them at a stroke, while twice that number fell with shattered limbs and torn flesh, and the deafening blast was echoed by the screams of dying men.

Robert was blown to the deck, the men around him falling like sheaves under the sickle as the shock wave blasted over them. The air was rent from Robert’s lungs and a cry of pain caught in his throat as a shard of bone pierced his left arm. He stumbled up and reached out for the bulwark he had cleared only moments before at the head of his men. He was surrounded by turmoil. The uninjured stood dazed while underfoot the injured screamed on the blood-soaked deck.

The smoke began to clear and Robert looked for the captain, seeing for the first time the massacre that was once the front ranks. Morgan was gone and in the sight of such callous butchery Robert felt a rage unleash within him that he had never before experienced. He felt the hilt of his sword in his hand, a part of his mind wondering how he had held onto it. He tightened his grip.

A sudden visceral war cry cut through the air and Robert turned to see the Spanish rush from the gaping wounds in the bulkhead behind which the cannons still smouldered. They surged forward, a second storm of fire, and Robert saw the men around him take a step back, the wounded calling for their comrades to gather them up as panic began to engulf the English. He stepped forward. The deck upon which he stood had already been paid for with English blood. It was theirs. He raised his sword above his head.

‘Stand fast, Retribution!’ he roared and charged forward towards the Spanish.