Armada

Evardo’s initial concern increased as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the low ceilinged gun deck. One of the ten-pounder media culebrinas was athwart the centre of the deck. It had been unlashed from its gun port and brought inboard. Because of the length of its trail the gunners had been forced to turn it diagonally to give them space to reload it. All eight gunners were working on the single cannon.

‘Capitán,’ Evardo called. ‘How many guns have you reloaded?’

‘Two, Comandante.’

‘Where are the soldiers who are assigned to help you?’ Evardo asked, a hard edge to his voice.

‘They’re aloft,’ Suárez replied perplexed, surprised by his comandante’s question and tone.

Evardo stepped forward angrily when realization struck him like an open cuff. Before the battle Suárez would have enlisted the assistance of thirty or more soldiers, assigning a group to each skilled gunner who would oversee the loading of their cannon. Thereafter these soldiers, who had only a rudimentary knowledge of cannonry, would have returned to their designated place in the fighting tops and castles to make ready for a boarding attack.

In ordering a broadside fired at the Retribution Evardo had expended that preloaded shot. The soldiers had never thought to return to the gun deck after the cannons had been fired, for there was no precedent for such a thing. Likewise Suárez would not think to ask for such valuable fighting men to be brought below decks in the midst of battle, so was reloading the cannons using his own meagre crew of gunners.

Evardo urgently explained to Suárez the need to change tactics to match the English, then went back to the quarterdeck, ordering de Córdoba to send men below to assist the gunners.

The Santa Clara was now less than a half-mile from the fight. The sea was rising, the galleon crashing through the crest of each wave, and the rhythmic thud transported Evardo back to his captivity in the black hold of an English galleon. He did not shirk from the memory. Instead he let it fill his heart.

Sweat ran in dark rivulets down Larkin’s face, washing away the soot stains, giving him a grotesque, demonic visage. His mouth was opened wide, exposing his blackened teeth as he roared his commands, trying to override the deafening din of battle. The gun deck of the Retribution had become the crucible of a foundry, a place of unremitting toil and savage heat, of dark shapes and shattering noise, sounds that numbed the senses and stripped the men of every thought but the one to go on; to heave, sponge, load, ram, prime, heave. To stand clear as the touchhole was kissed with fire, the cannon roaring in anger, gun powder exploding within its tempered walls, propelling out the shot.

Above this hellish place, the crew of the Retribution toiled in the rigging and on the decks, seemingly oblivious to but constantly aware of the fire of the enemy, their eyes stinging from gun smoke, their throats dried by the wind and their buried fear. They climbed the ratlines and footropes, the Retribution responding to their every touch and adjustment as sail and rudder combined to bring the guns of the warship to bear on the cursed enemy.

Robert stood in the centre of the quarterdeck, his eyes restless. The ragged line of attack had long since disintegrated, the battle descending into a chaotic brawl, with each English ship acting as an independent command, swooping in to fire their guns before sailing away to reload. The lone Spanish galleon was off the starboard bow. She was a massive ship, at least a thousand tons and the Retribution had already twice given her the fire of her every cannon.

Spanish reinforcements were beginning to arrive. The first of these had been four galleasses. The sight of their blood red hulls and crowded decks had brought every man on board the Retribution to a standstill. Only the rising sea and wind had thwarted these mongrel ships from closing. Robert remained wary of their position, fearing their blunt nosed rams and heavy bow cannons.

‘Quarterdeck, ho! Enemy ships approaching off the stern.’

Robert looked aft as the cannons beneath him boomed once more. His vision was spoiled for a moment by smoke and he coughed violently. Larkin was keeping up a tremendous rate of fire; Robert estimated just under three shots-per-gun-per-hour. He glanced at the target of their heavy guns, the lone Spanish galleon that still sailed defiant and unbroken. Her rigging and canvas was lacerated but the galleon showed no signs of mortal injury and her crew seemed far from the brink of surrender as her small calibre deck guns continued to fire sporadically.