Armada

The galley pulled into the inner harbour and Evardo closed his eyes to listen to the cacophony of sound that was a busy Spanish port. He was home. The long months of enforced absence from the sacred soil of Spain were over. He opened his eyes and looked above the city to the backdrop of mountains, imagining the road that led beyond through the heart of Spain to his family home. The galley slid neatly alongside the dock and Evardo stepped quickly down the gangplank. Ahead lay a bitter and uncertain struggle to regain his loss, but he was eager to begin.

‘Ready …’

‘Hold …’

The gunners blew on their slow matches, fanning the smouldering flames.

‘Hold …’

Larkin, the master gunner, sensed the pitch of the deck, waiting for the perfect moment.

‘Fire!’

The linstocks fell. Plumes of smoke hissed from the touchholes. A second passed and then almost as one the starboard cannons of the Retribution boomed. The noise was deafening and in the confines of the gun deck the sound seemed to emanate from every fibre of the ship. Smoke flooded through the open gun ports, engulfing the men, searing their throats and burning their eyes.

‘Reload!’ Larkin roared and Robert stepped further back to give the men room.

In trance-like determination the gun crews unlashed their guns from the hull and hauled on the ropes. The pulleys squealed and the four-wheeled truck carriages rolled inboard. Men rushed forward to sponge out the barrels, extinguishing any lingering sparks from the previous firing. A ladle of gunpowder was inserted and emptied, then wadding was rammed into the barrel.

The men were using only a fraction of the powder required and they simulated the loading of a round shot before ramming the barrel again. The Retribution had precious little supplies and Robert could not afford to waste any in training. The men worked in dogged silence, stepping around each other in a routine that Larkin had honed long before Robert had taken command. A gunner cleaned out the touchhole and primed it again.

The crews worked at slightly different rates and individual commands rang out as the prepared guns were hauled back into their firing position and lashed against the bulkhead. There were seven guns on the starboard side of the gun deck, two cannon-pedros, four culverins and a demi-culverin. The cannon-pedros were the last to be made secure, the 3,000 pound dead weight of each testing the strength of the crew. Individually the gunners shouted out that their guns were ready to fire and as the last declaration was heard, Larkin ordered the men to stand down.

‘I make it roughly twenty minutes, Captain,’ he said tetchily, and Robert hid a smile behind a solemn nod. He had the impression that Larkin wouldn’t be happy even if the men loaded their guns in half that time.

In battle the crews would fire the guns in sequence as each side was brought to bear; the heavy bow chasers as the ship approached the enemy, followed by a broadside, then the stern chasers and finally the opposing broadside. Only then would they service the guns for the next attack. Peters, the gunner’s mate, would follow the same pattern on the main deck although he had few guns to service, two demi-culverins and eight sakers in total while the entire crew were trained to load and fire the remaining eight swivel-mounted breech-loading falcons, firing a 2 pound man-killing round shot.

Robert leaned his arm against the deck beam overhead. After five rounds of reloading and firing their cannons the gun crews were breathing heavily but Robert could see they were satisfied with their work. The men took pride in their guns and the taunts of the faster teams during the exercise had spurred the others on to greater speed. Robert was now familiar with every model of gun on board and although he would never have Larkin’s knowledge of cannonry, he had earned the master gunner’s respect in his quest to devise tactics which would best combine sailing operations and artillery.

There had been precious little time to find his feet after he took command on the Cadiz raid and so Robert had pushed his crew hard over the previous three months in a bid to get the full measure of them. He had participated in nearly every drill to understand the limits of the galleon and each time his respect had grown for the Retribution.

‘Well done, lads,’ he called out to the gun crews. ‘Mister Larkin, a double ration of grog for every man.’

The men smiled and Robert turned to go back up to the main deck.

‘Right ye motherless offal,’ Larkin roared. ‘You’re not done yet. I want every gun cleaned out and made ready. Haul ’em in.’

On the quarterdeck Seeley watched the captain emerge from below. He looked satisfied and Seeley tried to anticipate what task he would set the deck crew. He glanced at Miller, but the master’s mate was deep in conversation with the boatswain. Seeley took a moment to study the man.