Armada

Robert peered through the darkness at the light of the stern lantern ahead. It was moving sedately with the fall and rise of the sea, a regular, almost hypnotic motion. He had to force himself to look away. A memory of the soft glow of the lantern remained in the centre of his vision. He blinked his eyes to clear them and turned his focus to the shadowy bulk of the Ark Royal sailing some thirty yards off the starboard bow.

The lantern light was from Drake’s Revenge. The English fleet was arrayed behind it to ensure that they remained together during the night time passage. The light had moved steadily on an easterly course, save for a time at the beginning of the night when it had disappeared altogether. It had reappeared, dimly at first, and slightly off centre, as if the Revenge had made a sudden course change and pulled further ahead but Robert had kept the Retribution on the shoulder of the Ark Royal and together they had re-established their course on Drake’s guiding light.

The wind blew steadily into Robert’s face and he drank in the cool cleansing air. If it held through dawn then the morning would certainly bring another order from Howard to attack. At their current speed the Armada would be abreast of Weymouth in less than a day. It was strong anchorage, safe from the prevailing winds and easily defendable, and it was possible the Spanish might attempt to secure it. Only continued harassment would forestall that attempt. Robert had already ordered the men of the mid watch to ready the ship for a dawn assault.

Robert turned again and looked eastward beyond the light of the Revenge. In anticipation of the sun the stars nearest the horizon had already disappeared. True dawn was less than thirty minutes away and for the first time Robert could see the darker outlines of the Spanish ships ahead. His brow crinkled. They seemed very close and Robert wondered whether the sheer size of the enemy fleet, combined with a trick of the light, was giving him a false impression of proximity.

‘Mister Seeley.’ The master answered the hail by crossing the quarterdeck. Robert indicated the horizon ahead. The Spanish seemed to be stretched out across the full width of the field of vision afforded to them by the gathering dawn light.

‘They seem damned close,’ Seeley said warily.

Robert nodded, his eyes darting to the Revenge’s light and then to Howard’s ship. Both were steady, but Robert could not suppress a mounting sense of unease.

‘Thomas, get aloft to the masthead. Check our flanks.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

In less than a minute the last of the darkness on the horizon turned to grey-blue. The outlines of the Armada became starker, exposing the upper decks of the hulls beneath the multitudinous masts.

‘Spaniards dead ahead! Two hundred yards! Enemy off the beams!’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Robert whispered to Seeley’s call. Each passing second increased the illumination, revealing the folly of their course. They had followed the light of a Spanish ship. They were in the teeth of the enemy, in the centre of the crescent.

‘Hard about! All hands on deck. Tops’ls and gallants, ho! Battle stations!’

The Retribution heeled hard over through the turn, the deck tilting as the galleon came abeam of the wind. Out of the corner of his eye Robert saw the Ark Royal make a similar turn. Another English ship, the Mary Rose, was on her opposing flank but beyond that they were alone. The rest of the English fleet was scattered across the breadth of the Channel.

Evardo lifted his eyes to the slowly brightening sky as the words of the Salve Regina, sung in the unbroken voices of the ship’s boys, drifted over the decks of the Santa Clara. Padre Garza was leading the men in a recital of the sorrowful mysteries of the rosary, their deep murmured responses mingling with the graceful hymn. Nearest the priest de Córdoba was kneeling with a number of his soldiers, while behind them the rest of the men stood with their heads bowed in humility.

Evardo longed for their serenity but his mind refused to quieten and his thoughts dwelt on the previous day. Despite their best efforts, the San Salvador and the Rosario had been unsalvageable. With twilight rapidly giving way to night Medina Sidonia had ordered every ship back to its position while they still had sufficient light to navigate. Then he had ordered the Armada to proceed as before. The San Salvador had been stripped of everything but its stock of ammunition, almost a gross of powder barrels and well over two thousand round shot. It was a significant loss, made all the worse because, with fifty of her most severely injured crew still on board, the San Salvador could not be scuttled. She had been simply cast adrift as a bloodless prize for the English.