Armada

Evardo ran his hand along the sea-worn timber of the gunwale. The Santa Clara was a good ship. She had weathered the storm well and protected the lives of her crew. There was little more Evardo could ask of her. In return he would protect her in battle, save her as much as possible from the shot and fire of the enemy before bringing her alongside her prey. The English galleons would not be an easy target but Evardo trusted the mettle of his men. They may be downhearted, but a few days of good fortune would quickly raise their spirits and the sight of the enemy would put fire in their blood.

‘Zabra approaching off the starboard beam.’

Evardo rushed to the other side of the quarterdeck. The small dispatch ship was coming up fast. The commander of the squadron of Castile, de Valdés, was in the bow.

Earlier that morning Evardo had watched the senior officers in their pataches sailing to the flagship, the San Martin. A council of war had been convened and once again Evardo glanced at the supplies being loaded onto the Santa Clara. De Valdés came quickly alongside.

‘Ready your ship, Comandante Morales,’ he shouted from the zabra. ‘We sail for England on the next favourable tide!’

The crew on deck cheered at the news and Evardo waved a reply to his commander. He looked to the banners on the masthead of the Santa Clara. They were barely stirring in the feeble wind. He had time. Evardo called for the men on the main deck to redouble their efforts. The order had been given. At any time the wind that would bear the Armada to England might arise and Evardo was determined that the Santa Clara would be ready for the fight.

Robert cursed loudly and spat over the side onto the still waters surrounding the Retribution. The sea mocked his scorn and continued to lap against the hull while the sun reflected off the smooth undulating surface as it shone from a clear blue sky. For three days the wind had blown steadily from the north, bearing the fleet on like an arrow loosed from a bow, but then, not sixty miles from La Coruña, it had suddenly died, leaving the English fleet becalmed.

Robert shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun and gazed about at the fleet, searching to see if any of their sails showed signs of catching an errant breeze. He could hear the undertones of his ship, the steady creak of timbers and the mixture of voices below decks, muffled and absorbed by the hull. The ship’s bell rang eight times, marking the beginning of the first dog watch.

Near at hand Seeley called out the order for the change and bare feet thudded across the decks as men went to relieve their crewmates.

‘I’ve ordered more men to the fighting tops to act as lookouts, Captain,’ the master said, and Robert nodded his agreement. So close to the Spanish coast, they were liable to be seen by a local trader or fisherman and any surprise they might hope to have over the Armada would be lost. Robert smiled sardonically to himself. If they did see a Spanish vessel in the distance, without a favourable wind, there was little they could do to stop them escaping.

‘Sixty miles,’ Seeley spat. ‘If the wind had held we’d be in The Groyne now.’

‘Patience, Thomas,’ Robert said, although he keenly felt the frustration of having been denied the chance to take the fight to Spanish waters. ‘We still have time.’

A flash of movement caught Robert’s eye. One of the masthead banners had rippled open and collapsed once more. The air stirred, caressing his cheek.

‘Quarterdeck, ho,’ a shout came from the top of the main mast. ‘Wind coming up!’

Robert felt it again and this time the masthead banners snapped out with the force of the gust before wilting.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert called. ‘Get ’em aloft.’

‘All hands of the watch, to the rigging!’

The wind gusted again and the smaller top gallant sails began to take shape.

‘We have ’em.’ Seeley smiled.

Robert stayed silent. He looked to the sun and checked his bearings. The fleet had been becalmed in the featureless sea for over twenty-four hours and in that time the ships had drifted and spun with the subtle undercurrents of the water. The wind was still to their backs, but their bows were no longer pointing at La Coruña, they were pointing northwards, to England. Robert looked to Seeley. He was no longer smiling and Robert saw the delayed awareness dawn on his face.

‘God in His Heaven,’ Seeley muttered. ‘It’s a southerly wind.’

The sails began to fill as the wind stiffened and all around the Retribution, the ships of the English fleet began to get underway. The fortune that had carried them south had been exhausted sixty miles from their destination. Now it had been neatly reversed and Robert ordered all hands on deck to lay on every inch of sail.