John Stack - Armada

Evardo now searched the spray torn horizon for any flash of red that might betray the fate of those galleasses. The storm had transformed the seascape into an endless series of towering rollers. Outside the range of a dozen miles, it would be impossible to see the low hulled galleasses and Evardo could only hope they would weather the tempest.

A sudden cold shiver fouled his thoughts and Evardo stepped back into the lee of a bulkhead. He had been on deck for more hours than he could count. He was exhausted, every joint in his body ached and his face stung from the lash of the salt riven wind. He leaned against the bulkhead, weak from hunger, and for a moment imagined the comfort of a warm meal and his cot in the main cabin. He mercilessly suppressed the reverie and ordered himself to step forward to the centre of the quarterdeck. He had to tolerate what the rest of the crew were enduring and he angrily rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. He could not go below. He was duty bound to stay on deck, and no such meal existed on any ship in the Armada.

Within days of leaving Lisbon Evardo began receiving alarming reports from his quartermaster that most of the ration barrels he had opened contained rotten food and fouled water. The barrels were of poor quality, the timber staves too green to form a proper seal. It was a further repercussion of Drake’s raid on Cadiz over a year before, for one of his prizes had been a trader carrying seasoned barrel staves to Lisbon. Its loss had forced the suppliers to use inferior stock. In the rush to prepare the Armada for sea, the state of the arriving rations had been overlooked. Evardo had been left with no choice but to dump the fetid rations overboard.

The crisis was repeated on every ship in the Armada and Medina Sidonia had issued a fleet-wide order for reduced rations. The duke then sent word ahead to the provincial governor of Galicia, ordering him to send out supplies when the fleet reached Cape Finisterre. But the rendezvous with the supply ships was never made and after five days of waiting off the cape, while a favourable wind finally arrived to bear the fleet northward to the entrance of the English Channel, Medina Sidonia had been compelled to order the Armada into La Coruña to restock.

It was a bitter and frustrating set-back, one Evardo had felt keenly, but he had taken heart from the fact that the diversion would be just a delay, not realizing that the Spanish fleet was poised for an even greater blow. Before darkness fell, Medina Sidonia had managed to lead thirty-five ships into the harbour of La Coruña. The remainder of the fleet had been obliged to remain off shore and await the light of dawn before making their approach. It was during that night that the storm had unexpectedly arrived, tearing out of the south-west of the deep Atlantic to scatter the fleet beyond the furthest reaches of the Bay of Biscay.

‘Helm answering new course,’ Mendez shouted near at hand. ‘New heading north-north-west.’

Evardo nodded grimly and glanced over his shoulder at the rain swept outline of the Isles of Scilly as they passed abaft of the Santa Clara . With fortune’s favour, he would see them again soon, but until then he could do nothing but wait for the storm to relent.

Robert leaned out over the gunwale of the quarterdeck and drank in the cool breeze blowing over the larboard quarter. He filled his lungs, savouring the taste of the open sea air and checked the line of the hull as it cut through the racing waves. The galleons of the English fleet surrounded him on all sides and Robert smiled as he spotted his nearest companion, the Antelope , taking advantage of the fair wind by laying on extra sail.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert called. ‘Main top gallants, ho!’

‘Main top gallants aye, Captain,’ the master replied and men were sent dashing to the rigging.

With a critical eye Robert checked the trim of his ship, finding no flaw in the master’s work, and his gaze wandered once more to the ships sailing on the flanks of the Retribution . The fleet was bearing south with Howard in the van, following his order, and Drake’s plan, for a pre-emptive strike against the Armada.

For long days a terrible south-westerly storm had savaged the waters off Plymouth, reinforcing the supply-induced captivity of the English fleet. In its wake a strong northerly wind had blown up, a fresh and constant breeze that seemed to implore the crews to raise sail and go on the offensive. Hamstrung by short rations, the fleet had continued to wait but then, on the 3rd July, a full month’s supply of rations arrived in Plymouth.

The crews had spent that entire night frantically restocking their ships. The following morning Howard had raised his standard and led the fleet out through the protective headlands of Plymouth. The wind had proved fickle. Squalls had threatened the fleet’s progress off the Scillies and again north-west of Ushant, but the skies had eventually cleared to a deep blue and the clouds now raced in irregular shreds ahead of the fleet.

‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert called. ‘What’s our position?’

‘About 120 nautical miles north-north-east of The Groyne, Captain.’

Robert nodded. The Retribution was making close to eight knots. Fifteen hours would see them at the door to the Armada’s lair.

‘All hands, clear the decks for action.’

The crew reacted instantly to Robert’s command and the ship came alive with the sound of shouted orders from junior officers.

During the south-westerly storm, reports had been received in Plymouth from the Scillies telling of numerous distant towering sails. There could be little doubt, the Armada was at sea in the Bay of Biscay. The English fleet commanders had devised that the same wind that now hastened the English south had probably blown the Armada back to one of its home ports. In these waters that meant The Groyne, the port the Spanish called La Coruña. With luck they were still there, neatly docked and ripe for the taking.

Robert watched the crew at work. Each man knew his task and they moved without comment or pause. Their bellies were full, their weapons primed and a strong breeze bore them on. The Retribution was as ready as Robert could make her. She was a weapon poised for the fight and Robert felt the first stirrings of battle lust in his chest. His doubts were forgotten, banished by action and the future that raced towards him. The reasons his men fought would become his own and his would become theirs, their common bond as Englishmen overcoming all others.

Evardo drummed his fingers impatiently on the gunwale as he watched the supply laden patache approach. She was the last one and Evardo looked to the main deck of the Santa Clara where the quartermaster was sorting the fresh supplies that had already been received before ordering them down into the hold.

‘Captain Mendez,’ Evardo called. ‘Inform the quartermaster that he is to speed his progress and clear the main deck for the next load. I will brook no delays.’

‘Yes, Comandante ,’ Mendez replied and he hurried from the quarterdeck.

Evardo began pacing the deck. His ship had been one of the last to reach La Coruña. She was therefore not yet fully restocked and Evardo feared that the order to sail might come before he was ready to answer the call.

Not a single vessel or life had been lost in the storm and Medina Sidonia had insisted that God had watched over them all, declaring His intervention to be a miracle. Despite this assertion however, and the fresh supplies that were already banishing the last of any sickness amongst the crews, the morale of the men remained low. The duke had recognized this and ordered the men of each ship to land on the island of San Antón in the harbour to have their confessions heard and receive a blessing. Evardo had believed it to be a clever move, a reaffirmation that the men were carrying out God’s will, but the fact that Medina Sidonia had insisted the ceremony take place on an island had not escaped him. If they had been allowed on the mainland some of the men would have undoubtedly tried to desert.