Armada

The crew of the Retribution exploded into frantic activity at Robert’s commands. Men spilled out from the lower decks and ran to the rigging. The gun-ports slammed open and on Larkin’s command the cannons were run out. Robert went quickly to the quarterdeck where Seeley and Miller were waiting for him. He issued terse orders to both and they moved away to command the crew, giving Robert another opportunity to study the Spanish fleet, this time with a tactical eye. He smiled.

The number of English ships waiting in the lee of Rame Head had reached a tipping point soon after the Retribution had joined them, and in the darkness of the small hours Howard had given the command to sally out. The ships at hand had sailed beam-reach on a southerly course, right across the expected approach of the Spanish Armada. The remainder, who had yet to warp out of Plymouth, had taken a different course to act as a diversionary force; tacking along the coastline as far west as dawn would take them.

The Retribution had sailed with Howard. Robert had spent the entire time on deck, never daring to go below, constantly expecting to see the running lights of the Armada looming out of the darkness. As the command was given to turn westerly and then northerly he had begun to believe that the incredible feat they had set out to achieve had been met. His first sight of the Spanish Armada had thrust that belief from his mind, but it now returned to him in full force.

Howard had done it; the English fleet were to windward of the Spanish. They had taken the weather gauge, the all important advantage of being able to approach or withdraw from the enemy at will. Robert felt the first stirrings of blood lust within him as his ship came up to battle tempo. They were ready to attack. Robert was waiting only for the order to advance from the flagship, but in those brief moments of pause the sight of the Spanish fleet arrested him once more. The massive formation of ships began to transform right before his eyes.

Evardo’s gaze shifted continuously as the Santa Clara turned beneath him, his mind at once on the fleet of English ships to windward, on the trailing line of enemy ships to the north along the coastline, and on the dexterous manoeuvres of the ships surrounding his galleon as the Armada redeployed to Medina Sidonia’s orders. Above him the rigging was alive with men. The shouted commands of Mendez filled his ears and in the periphery of his vision he checked the identity of the ships closest to the Santa Clara with the plan of deployment.

‘We are in position, Comandante,’ Mendez said close at hand. Evardo nodded his approval of the sailing captain’s flawless control of the galleon.

The Armada was now in combat formation, a massive crescent with the wings trailing back in the direction of the enemy threat. The larger ships were sailing in tight formation, with the dispatch carrying feluccas and zabras darting between them, feeding communications to every point in the fleet. De Leiva’s vanguard had become the left wing with de Recalde’s rearguard on the opposing landward wing. Medina Sidonia continued to command the vulnerable centre, allowing him to dictate the direction and speed of the entire fleet, secure in the knowledge that any enemy vessel that attempted to approach the vital transport ships would have to run the gauntlet of the protective wings. The Armada could now defend itself without halting the main battle group.

Evardo brought his captains aft to the poop deck to study the English fleet.

‘The masthead lookout estimates close to eighty ships to windward, Comandante.’

‘We should have bottled them up at Plymouth when we had the chance,’ Alvarado growled. ‘Now they are loose in their own home waters.’

‘His majesty did not give us leave for such actions,’ Evardo said, fixing Alvarado with a hard stare. Despite his own reservations he was angered that one of his captains should openly question the orders of his superiors.

‘There are at least thirty more sail there,’ Mendez pointed to the coastline.

The line of English ships slowly tacking into the wind on the flank of de Recalde’s distant rearguard was poised to join the main enemy fleet and Evardo’s brow creased as he tried to think what additional threat they posed.

‘They are fine sailors,’ Mendez remarked grudgingly.

Evardo spun around.

‘Then we are well matched,’ he replied, a hard edge to his voice. He looked to the faces of his captains, seeing in each the grim expressions of seasoned fighters.

‘Ready your men, mis capitánes.’