Armada

Evardo ordered the longboat launched. Despite being from the Basque region, the men of the San Salvador were fellow Spaniards and the crew eagerly responded to Evardo’s bidding. The longboat descended into the choppy sea. Evardo gave command of the quarterdeck to Mendez and went forward to the fo’c’sle in time to see the longboat reach the outer edge of the halo of debris surrounding the San Salvador. They pulled a charred, blackened body from the water, only to throw it overboard again. Evardo focused on the larboard quarter of the galleon thirty yards away.

The entire aft section of the San Salvador had been torn open by the explosion, exposing her inner decks and cabins. The dead lay everywhere, many burned beyond recognition, others horribly mutilated by the blast, spared their savage injuries by the merciful hand of death. Smoke billowed from a dozen open wounds in the hull. Pataches were lashing on to the San Salvador, their crews clambering up onto the main deck to fight the fires that were still raging.

For every man who climbed on board, others were abandoning ship, many carrying the heavy coin chests of the Armada’s paymaster who was sailing on the San Salvador. The walking wounded were also being taken off and while Evardo could see that many would be fit to fight again, the galleon herself was perilously close to sinking and was surely beyond salvaging.

The sudden sound of collision caused Evardo to spin around. Not two hundred yards away the flagship of the Andalusia squadron, the Nuestra Señora del Rosario had slammed into her sister ship, the Santa Catalina. Earlier that morning, as the Rosario had sailed to support the San Juan, she had accidentally collided with one of the Biscayans and had damaged her bowsprit. This had badly affected her steering and she had been forced to drop out of the fight. Now that compromising damage had caused her even greater misfortune, crippling the Rosario further. Her foremast rigging was in complete disarray. Evardo uttered a prayer, watching in horror as the foremast bowed under the press of the wind, threatening to snap at any moment.

He glanced back at the San Salvador. The longboat of the Santa Clara had reached its hull and was helping with the evacuation. It was dangerous work, the pitiless sea foaming, and more than once the men in the longboat were thrown from their feet as rogue waves slammed their small craft against the hull of the galleon. Many of the pataches and feluccas were cutting loose to go to the assistance of the latest casualty, the Rosario, and Evardo went back to the quarterdeck, his attention turning once more to the enemy.

The evening was swiftly closing in. The English still commanded the weather gauge. Only the inconsistency of the wind and sea and the Armada’s unbroken formation was keeping them at bay. But how long would those protective forces hold? With two badly wounded ships hampering their progress the Armada was significantly exposed. Evardo could only hope that the experienced commanders advising Medina Sidonia would find a way to achieve an effective running defence of the San Salvador and the Rosario. Like wolves, the English were silently observing their prey.

John Cross pounded on the wooden door and stepped back into the middle of the street. The imposing limestone façade of the four-storey civic building was in darkness. He pounded again.

‘In the name of the Queen, open up,’ he bellowed.

An angry voice shouted at him from the down the street to be silent but Cross ignored the tirade and hammered on the door once more, the noise sparking further anger from another quarter.

It was nearly thirty-six hours since Cross had begun his search for the officer named Seeley. From the outset he had been beset by delays and frustration. Almost immediately after he left the tavern the town had ignited with the news that the Spanish had been sighted nearing Plymouth Roads. The local population had quickly taken to the streets, many packing up their meagre belongings to flee to the surrounding countryside while others simply milled around in chaotic fear of the foe that was suddenly on their doorstep.

The clogged streets had delayed Cross and by the time he had reached the town’s main civic building the port officials had already left to attend the admiral of the fleet. Cross had waited until darkness fell. Then news came that the fleet was warping out of the harbour with the outgoing tide. In bitter anger he strode to the torch-lit docks to witness the departure in person. His quarry was on board one of the departing warships.