Armada

The decks of the Santa Clara were alive with a disciplined turmoil that only battle could create. The voices of the captains could be heard at every quarter, overriding the gutter curses of the crew who shouted at the English foe. On the upper castles men were rapidly servicing the breech loading falcon pedreros, firing them at the English in an act of defiance, the range too far for an effective kill. The preloaded broadside had long since been fired. Now only the sporadic vibration of single cannon shots could be felt by those on the main deck, the fired rounds too few and too interspersed to spoil any English attack.

Devastation swept over the Santa Clara as one English galleon after another sailed in to fire their cannon, cutting men and material down with impunity before turning neatly away from the fray. A voice in Evardo’s mind screamed at him to concede his ground, not out of fear, but to stop this slow annihilation of the crew and ship he had sworn to protect. That voice was echoed by the injured and dying, their cries increasing in number with every sweeping attack. Evardo’s mouth twisted in anger. Only if the enemy closed for ship-to-ship, hand-to-hand combat would the men of the Santa Clara be able to exact an equal measure of butchery.

Evardo looked to the sea on the flanks of the Santa Clara. The other ships of the vanguard wing were deploying to leeward of his ship, completing a screen behind which the San Juan could safely withdraw. The sea was becoming rough, the wind no longer steady but gusting and fewer English ships were coming forward to engage, wary of the sea change and the newly formed wing.

A cannon ball slammed against the fo’c’sle of the Santa Clara, while another struck the hull amidships, parting shots from the withdrawing English galleons. Evardo finally sheathed his sword, the clean un-bloodied blade rasping against the scabbard. He had never drawn his sword in anger without using it. The frustration sat like a knot in the pit of his stomach. He turned his back on the English, taking a moment to survey the ravaged deck of his galleon. The Santa Clara had taken the heaviest casualties amongst the ships coming to the aid of the San Juan. As the firing ceased Evardo looked to the groups of men huddled around their stricken comrades, tending to their wounds as best they could, their cries of pain becoming louder in the absence of cannon thunder.

‘Santa Clara!’

Evardo spun around at the call. The San Juan was beginning to pull away, coming about under the press of the wind to withdraw to the sanctuary of the main battle group. On the quarterdeck stood the imposing figure of de Recalde, his hand cupped to his mouth. Evardo acknowledged the hail. There was a moment’s pause. De Recalde raised his hand to his forehead and casually saluted his thanks. Evardo returned the gesture but his eyes were no longer on de Recalde. They had shifted to the man who had come forward to stand beside him – his mentor Abrahan.

The gap between the ships increased, passing fifty yards, but Evardo’s gaze never wavered. Just as the San Juan was poised to sail behind another galleon Evardo, saw Abrahan nod slightly. It was a small movement, barely discernible across the distance, but it was there. Evardo smiled. After half a lifetime spent under his care Evardo knew it was as much ground as his taciturn mentor would ever give. One act of reckless courage would not erase his failure in Abrahan’s eyes. Evardo nodded to himself. The battle had only just begun.

CHAPTER 14

4 p.m. 31st July 1588. The English Channel, two leagues off Plymouth.

Robert paced the width of his cabin, his thoughts consumed by the events of the morning. He held a goblet of Madeira wine loosely in his hand, the last of his stock taken a year before during the Cadiz campaign, and he gulped from it with each turn of his heel. Outside the wind whistled through the rigging. Erratic gusts played merry hell with the sails and Robert could hear Miller sending the men to the running rigging.

Robert finished the goblet and went for the bottle. He poured out the last of its contents and slammed it down on the table. The wine had done nothing to quell his anxiety. He began to go through the sequence of the morning’s fight once more, trying to examine each aspect in turn. Larkin had reported after the battle that he and his men had fired off nearly 120 rounds during the four hour fight. It was almost a tenth of the ammunition on board and for all that, and the fire of the other English ships, not one Spanish vessel had been taken.