Armada

Evardo turned his attention to the line of his ship and its position at the outer end of the vanguard wing. They were ready to receive the enemy and Evardo closed his eyes in prayer. He called on God to keep him strong, to give him the courage to endure until the victory had been won, and to protect his ship and her crew. They were in the service of the Almighty and Evardo’s gaze climbed to the Armada’s standard trailing out from the head of the mainmast, his lips moving silently as he mouthed the battle cry imprinted there.

‘Arise O Lord and vindicate Thy Cause!’

Standing beside Seeley at the fore rail of the quarterdeck, Robert watched the Armada transform into a defensive crescent, over two miles wide from wing to wing.

‘Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis,’ he whispered involuntarily.

Seeley’s eyes darted to his captain.

‘Quarterdeck, ho,’ a lookout called. ‘Disdain beginning her run!’

All eyes went to the 80 ton bark and the crew watched in silence as it sailed out alone to approach the Armada. Isolated between the fleets, her small size accentuated the massive crescent formation. Howard had sent the Disdain out to issue a challenge, a traditional gesture in the absence of a formal declaration of war. Robert felt his pulse quicken as the tiny bark sailed gallantly on between the wings, closing on the centre before spinning around broadside to the main body of the Spanish fleet. She fired a single cannon, the shot disappearing into the massed ranks of the Armada.

The distant sound brought an enormous cheer from the crew of the Retribution, strengthening Robert’s resolve to seek battle. The Armada was indeed a sight to behold. Spain had conquered the far reaches of the globe with her navy and with its power King Philip had humbled countries and monarchs. But here, in the English Channel, the men of a single nation would stand in defiance of that authority.

The crew of the Retribution hailed from across the southern counties of England, from Cornwall and Devon, Sussex and Kent. They were noblemen and commoners, men of substance and men in search of fortune. They were adventurers and patriots, privateers and merchants. Each man had been drawn to the conflict by different motives but under the banner of Saint George they were all Englishmen.

The Disdain came neatly about and began beating its way back towards the fleet. Almost immediately Howard’s Ark Royal broke ranks and the warships nearest her began to fall in behind in a rough line as she set course for the seaward flank of the Armada.

‘Courses and tops’ls, ho. Helmsman, hard a larboard!’

‘Yeoman of the jeers, main course, ho!’

The Retribution swooped into position under Robert’s orders. He checked the sun. It was some three hours after dawn and the wind was steadily rising, stirring up the sea. White horses fled before the bow. The uneven line of warships sailed below the seaward flank of the Armada and then turned sharply to cut across the rear. Robert kept his gaze locked on the windermost Spanish ships, those on the outer edges of the trailing wing, but they stayed firmly on course, seemingly oblivious to the approaching English attack.

The first ripples of cannon thunder fled on the wind as the Ark Royal fired her heavy bow chasers and she bore in to within four hundred yards to loose her first broadside into the enemy ranks. She luffed up to go about, allowing her stern guns to come to bear and then turned neatly away, firing her second broadside guns as she tacked upwind to reload. A second English warship repeated the sequence, followed by another and another.

‘Two points to starboard,’ Robert roared, his voice carrying above the sound of cannon fire from the ships ahead, the outlines of the enemy ships visible through the massive clouds of gun smoke.

Like a warhorse reacting to the touch of a warrior rider the Retribution responded to the helmsman’s hand on the whipstaff, her cutwater slicing through the chop, her sails filled with the freshening breeze, her deadly cannon coming swiftly to bear. The bow chasers boomed, smoke billowing over the fo’c’sle. Robert called for another subtle touch on the whipstaff to present the Retribution’s starboard broadside to the enemy. He held his breath, his gaze locked on the enemy ships amidst the smoke, the white clouds erupting with the muzzle flashes of angry Spanish cannons.

The enemy were swiftly abeam. The Retribution soared over the crest of a wave. Robert whispered the command to fire, willing Larkin to respond, his fists balled by his side, consumed by the urge to let fly at the enemy. Through the deck beneath him, he heard the first utterance of the master gunner, but the sound was engulfed within the span of a heartbeat by the deafening roar of the broadside guns firing in sequence and the Retribution shuddered in recoil.