Armada

‘Come about. Hard a starboard!’ Robert roared, gun smoke smothering his every sense. He felt the hull turn beneath him, his balance shifting with the fall of the deck.

The wind swept the enveloping smoke from the Retribution as the galleon began its turn to larboard. The crew were working without conscious thought, training and duty combining to control their every reaction. Oblivious to the sporadic whistle of passing shot, the acrid smell of gun smoke, and the hellish noise of the cannons’ roar, they strove to wield the fearsome weapon that was the Retribution.

‘Come here and fight, you English bastardos!’ Evardo roared, his face mottled with rage and frustration, his sword charged in his hand.

From four hundred yards away the English warship fired its cannon. Iron shot tore across the open water. The air whistled with fire, and a rigging line parted with a whip-crack, a crewman screamed as a searing cannon ball obliterated his limb, the individual sound lost in a cacophony of defiant shouts, the Spanish crew baying for English blood, cursing them to engage like men.

The enemy had the weather gauge. They had the advantage of manoeuvrability and while Evardo had expected them to fire some devastating salvos with their heavy bow chasers the English were using a tactic like none that he had ever witnessed in battle, with each warship sailing roughly in the wake of the vessel in front of them, weaving a pattern that allowed each to present all their guns before sailing on. They were intent on attacking but were not closing to board. Did the English really believe they could win the battle with cannon fire alone? The approach defied the logic of Spanish military strategy and Evardo could only surmise it was an act of desperation by the English, the tight formation of the twenty ships of the vanguard wing proving too much for their nerve.

The wind was holding steady at west-north-west and Evardo’s hands trembled as he willed it to come about. Every warship in the vanguard had turned towards the attack. The bow of the Santa Clara was as close up to the wind as Mendez could bring her. Another half a point and the galleon would be in irons, but still the English would not approach. Evardo was powerless to close as endless waves of gun smoke from the distant cannonades swept over the decks. Near at hand he heard the boom of Spanish cannons from the ships flanking the Santa Clara. They were expending their pre-loaded shots in vexation and Evardo struggled to contain the same impulse. Once fired the cannons would be difficult to reload and Evardo had to believe there was still a chance, however slim, that he might be given the opportunity to close and board an enemy ship.

The angry shouts of the crew rose as the next English galleon sailed into position, the black maws of her cannons exposed along her painted hull. Evardo looked to her decks and above to her masthead banners. Suddenly his eyes shot wide in recognition. Within an instant the galleon had disappeared behind an explosive wall of fire and smoke, but its image remained indelible. It was her. It was the Retribution. As the shot from her cannon struck the vanguard Evardo ran to the shrouds to climb above the obstructions on the quarterdeck.

Through wind and speed the English galleon cleared the cloud of her own gun smoke. Evardo’s eyes watered as he tried to focus on the distant enemy quarterdeck as it swung away. It was crowded with men. There was no way Evardo could confirm if one of them was the man he could see so clearly in his memory, but he was sure that Robert Varian was on board. Smoke erupted from her stern guns, obscuring his view. He jumped back down to the deck.

‘Capitán Mendez! Fall off. Bring the larboard broadside to bear!’

The sailing captain hesitated for a second, his every instinct telling him it was madness to present the full profile of his ship to the enemy’s fire. Evardo strode towards him, his expression unholy, his sword still charged in his hand.

‘Helmsman,’ Mendez shouted. ‘Hard a larboard.’

The Santa Clara turned swiftly and heeled over with the force of the wind. Mendez sent every available man to the shrouds, his voice loud as he steadied the helm, his galleon out of sync in the close quarter formation of the vanguard.

Evardo rushed below to the gun deck, roaring to Suárez, the gunners’ captain, to come forward. He manhandled him to the nearest gun port on the larboard side, pointing out the Retribution through the banks of drifting smoke and the ever-moving galleons of the English attack.

‘Target her aft decks.’

‘Si, mi Comandante.’ Suárez hurriedly ordered his men to make ready.