Martin Stephen - The galleon's grave

'Master!' That word. Mannion hardly ever called him that. After all, Mannion was his father. His brother. His friend. He turned to him, pushing down the new feeling of seasickness that the motion of the small boat caused him, intending to tell him to stop fawning. Mannion's expression stopped him dead.

'Master!' Mannion repeated. 'We're dead meat. D'ye hear me? Dead meat. Those galleys…' he motioned to the shadows bearing down on them, 'they ain't got ship-killing guns. They've got man-killing guns! They'll carve us dead. Get us out of here!’

Gresham had never heard that pleading tone from Mannion before. But he suddenly saw that the galleys were even nearer than Mannion had thought. George was gaping, open-mouthed at them, realising even before Gresham that to all intents and purposes they were dead. As if on cue, the leading galley opened fire on the English boats. A gout of angry red and orange flame shot out from the bow. The twenty-five-pounder hit lucky. Appalled Gresham-saw the second boat dissolve in a welter of timber, blood, flesh and bone, all fragmented into nothingness by the massive impact of the iron ball. Cries, screams from the water.

'Out of here!' barked Gresham, and the tiller swung round and the oars bit desperately into the water. A fighting madness seemed to overcome Gresham, a dizzy excitement at the prospect of death. 'We're dead!' he said to his astonished crew, and saw the oars fumble, fall out of time. 'We're dead by all accounts, because a feeble little boat like ours can't match the oars of that beast!' He motioned backwards with his head to the second galley, which he could hear and feel bearing down on them. 'Or to be more exact,' he propounded, holding himself upright in the bow of the boat as if he was delivering a lecture to his Cambridge students, 'we're dead unless we can row like devils and fuck these Spanish bastards back to Hell!'

There was a cheer from the men, and the boat leaped forward as if it had been struck by lightning. They could smell the galley now, that same raw stench of human defecation that he had caught on the wind earlier. How did those on these ships survive this stench? Or did they simply become inured to it? Gresham turned. It was possible for an intelligent man to admire Spain. It was difficult for him to do at this particular moment. The second galley had pulled round, was heading away from them, chasing two pinnaces who had come too close. The first galley was bearing down on them, like an evil, dark gull, its wings the outspread oars lifting and falling to the rhythm of the drumbeat that Gresham could now hear on the night air. Their relatively small longboat had started faster, being the more nimble. Yet the galley was picking up speed all the time. Would they fire again? Of course they would. Gresham remembered how long it had taken the men aboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure to reload their cannon. An equivalent time for the Spaniards? The galleys were crack vessels, front-line ships. What had Mannion said? The bow guns were on brass rails, easily slung back for reloading. So knock seconds off the time for the English crew. His brain was computing loose mathematics at a frantic pace, figures of timing that started from conjecture and vague memory and whose ending could be complete fantasy. From somewhere in his brain came a count-down, a vision of the Spanish seamen heaving their gun back, flushed with pride and excitement at a direct hit on the first boat, and with their first shot! Scour the barrel. Sponge out the gun. Ram the powder charge down the barrel. Pack it tight. Choose the ball, the one that looked most round and perfectly formed — a bad gunner might force the ball through the iron circles he was issued with to test its calibre, a good one would simply judge with his eye — ram it down the barrel, forcing it snug against the powder charge. Prime the pan with loose powder now, or wait 'til the gun was run forward? Wait, of course, in case hurling the gun forward on its brass rails dislodged the fragile powder base in the priming pan. Settle the gun. Aim it, yanking out the iron pins crudely positioned under the brass barrel, lowering the muzzle so that it bore down on the insolent longboat full of men with the impudence to think that they could capture and sack Cadiz. Then, wait for the roll of the ship to bring the gun to bear, guess the exact timing of that roll, allow for the time it takes to apply the burning fuse to the priming powder the time it takes for the powder to ignite and send its flaring message into the barrel of the cannon and its major powder charge…

Now, his brain said. At this very moment the Spanish gunner would be applying the slow match to the priming powder in his great cannon. Gresham lunged for the tiller and yanked it round to starboard. The oarsmen on that side found their blades digging deeper into the water, throwing them off balance. It helped the boat slew round even faster. A second later, the burning flare of the cannon was followed by the bellow of its rabid rage. The ball skipped into the water no more than three feet from their side, three feet from where they would have been if Gresham had not instinctively hurled his craft round when he did. A great spout of water drenched the boat, soaking the men. They cheered! The idiots cheered, as if escaping death by seconds was a matter for celebration!

Gresham was counting down the loading process in his mind again. He was too far from shore to beach the boat and run. He could jink to left or right, of course, but his tighter turning circle would bring him inside the range of the Spaniards and their massed ranks of marksmen. He felt a tap on his arm. 'There!' said one of the crew. 'Captain! There!' Captain? Where had Gresham earned his commission, he thought? Ninety. Ninety seconds before the gun fired again. Why hadn't they opened fire with the other two bow guns? Because the target was so derisory? Because they were concentrating the best gunners on the main weapon? Eighty-five. The crewman was pointing to a line of water rippling in the reflected light from the burning ships in the harbour. Rippling? That must mean the water dragging over shallow ground. Too shallow for their boat? Too shallow for the pursuing galley? Would the galley's helmsman see the shoal from the height of his post, the slight ripples so much clearer the lower down and closer the watcher was? Seventy-five.

Life was a gamble. Death was a gamble. Gresham half closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Sixty. He commandeered the boat again, this time hurling it round to run over the shallows. If they grounded they were all dead. Would the galley follow them? Perhaps it would just stand off, try to get close enough to rake them with musket fire or send two, three of its own boats to board their own. Fifty-five. A musket ball smashed into the side of their boat, sending fine splinters into the nearest crew. Gresham stumbled, regained his balance and touched his shoulder briefly. The crew cursed, but left the tiny spears of wood sticking from their flesh, keeping rowing, rowing, rowing. Lucky shot, Gresham registered. They were fifty or sixty feet out of range still. A musketeer or two risking a double charge of powder? Forty-five.

The galley was turning to follow them! The graceful beat and slap of the oars in the water could now be heard clearly, the sheer beauty of the lithe creature pursuing them at total odds with its threat of death. Twenty. Something in Gresham's brain rang a warning, some dark and buried instinct. Now! His brain told him. They were going to fire now!

The sharp crack of the cannon came just as the tiller bit into his hand. He saw the flash before he heard the noise, half turned round to check his dread instinct. He would swear for the rest of his days that he felt the passing of the ball above his head, smelled its hot breath as it brushed over them, landing beyond with a great splash of water. The gunner had fired too much on the up-roll, sent the ball high. And it was off-line too, some eight or nine feet to port. The galley's turn had foxed the gunner.