Armada

Evardo stepped back and stood behind one of the four media culebrinas straddling its trail. He looked down along the length of its eleven foot barrel and across the expanse of water to the enemy fleet. To his left and right, the gunners stood poised beside their guns, with the smaller medio cañón pedreros aft of the broadside and the heavy bow chasers to the fore. He left them to go aloft, reaching the quarterdeck as the distant Retribution came around for her second broadside. She was two points off the larboard quarter and would sail past the beam on the Santa Clara within a minute.

The Retribution didn’t fire as before. Evardo understood in an instant that the English galleon was waiting to come abeam of the Santa Clara, marking her as the only Spanish ship sailing broadside to the attack. He smiled. For the briefest of moments he had feared that the Retribution might turn prematurely away from his guns. Now the exchange was inevitable. His savage war-cry echoed the command of the gunners’ captain below.

‘¡Apunten! Make ready!’

‘Fire!’

The Retribution bucked under the recoil of the broadside and Robert peered through the clearing smoke, anxious to see what carnage his targeted attack had wrought.

A minute before, Larkin had been on the cusp of unleashing the broadside into the massed ranks of the seaward wing of the Armada but Robert had stayed the order, spotting the lone Spanish galleon out of formation with those around her. He had sent word to the master gunner, ordering him to hold fast and target the wayward ship, wanting to maximize the effectiveness of their second broadside. The first had simply disappeared into the midst of the Spanish ships, with no signs of visible damage. Although Robert knew it was impossible to witness the strike of each shot, he had the sense they were simply pricking at the colossus that was the Spanish fleet, scratching its flesh but drawing no blood.

Robert studied the Spanish galleon through the infuriating haze. Her main course was ripped through in two places with shot and parts of her rigging seemed shredded, but her hull looked sound. He could see where his shot had struck. The paint had been seared away, exposing the timbers. They were raw but unbroken. A curse rose to his lips but died as his mind registered the firing of the forward guns of the Spanish galleon.

‘Incoming!’

Robert’s breathing stopped, waiting for the hammer blow, the whine of inbound shot increasing to a terrible pitch in the blink of an eye. He didn’t flinch, his eyes blazing, locked on the Spanish galleon as he saw her mid and then aft guns fire in sequence. At four hundred yards the precise aiming of heavy guns was nigh impossible but it was obvious the Spaniard was targeting the quarterdeck, each gun blasting forth as they came level with the stern of the Retribution.

Shots flew overhead, cauterizing the air, punching holes in the canvas of the main mizzen sail. The boom of a strike against the hull reverberated across the deck. A final shot smashed through the larboard bulwark of the poop deck, splintering the weathered timber, scattering fearsome shards that pierced the flesh of half a dozen men, sending them screaming to the deck.

‘Hard a larboard,’ Robert shouted. ‘Mister Shaw, see to the injured. Get them below to the surgeon. Mister Seeley!’

The master came quickly to Robert’s side.

‘Mark the bastard, Thomas. Mark her well.’

‘Aye, Captain.’ Seeley ran to the poop deck, looking to the masthead banners of the Spanish galleon that had fired upon them, memorizing their patterns and heraldry.

‘Mister Miller, watch our bearing, maintain our position in the attack.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Robert went to join Seeley on the poop deck, stopping for a moment to watch Shaw attend the injured. Only one of them was seriously hurt. A large splinter had pierced his lower leg. He was bleeding heavily and Robert knew the man would take no further part in the battle. With luck he would keep his leg but chances were Powell would have it off before nightfall robbed him of sufficient light. It was not a serious loss but Robert was angry nonetheless. ‘Well, Thomas?’

‘I’ll recognize her if we see her again.’

‘When we see her again.’ Robert looked to the last of the English ships sailing into position to harry the seaward wing. He spun around. Ahead lay the landward wing, still unmolested, although Robert could discern the distant lines of Drake’s ships beyond the Spanish formation, descending on the enemy from the outside flank.

A mile off the starboard beam of the Retribution was the soft underbelly of the Armada, the transport and auxiliary ships, but Robert knew that no English ship could venture there. Inside the curve of the Spanish crescent an English ship would forfeit the weather gauge to the trailing wings and would be easily cornered. Spanish boarding skills were well known and rightly feared.