John Stack - Armada

Robert stood in the centre of the quarterdeck, his eyes restless. The ragged line of attack had long since disintegrated, the battle descending into a chaotic brawl, with each English ship acting as an independent command, swooping in to fire their guns before sailing away to reload. The lone Spanish galleon was off the starboard bow. She was a massive ship, at least a thousand tons and the Retribution had already twice given her the fire of her every cannon.

Spanish reinforcements were beginning to arrive. The first of these had been four galleasses. The sight of their blood red hulls and crowded decks had brought every man on board the Retribution to a standstill. Only the rising sea and wind had thwarted these mongrel ships from closing. Robert remained wary of their position, fearing their blunt nosed rams and heavy bow cannons.

‘Quarterdeck, ho! Enemy ships approaching off the stern.’

Robert looked aft as the cannons beneath him boomed once more. His vision was spoiled for a moment by smoke and he coughed violently. Larkin was keeping up a tremendous rate of fire; Robert estimated just under three shots-per-gun-per-hour. He glanced at the target of their heavy guns, the lone Spanish galleon that still sailed defiant and unbroken. Her rigging and canvas was lacerated but the galleon showed no signs of mortal injury and her crew seemed far from the brink of surrender as her small calibre deck guns continued to fire sporadically.

Over the stern more than a dozen Spanish warships were descending rapidly on their beleaguered comrade. Robert studied their line of advance. The wind was holding firm. There was little danger the Spanish would be able to outmanoeuvre the English galleons but they were poised to deprive the English of their first prize.

‘Hard about,’ Robert called over his shoulder, the Retribution turning her bow towards the oncoming threat.

Three ship lengths away an English galleon was unleashing bow chasers on the audacious Spanish galleon. Even from four hundred yards, Robert could see Spaniards fall. Parts of the superstructure had shattered under the onslaught. The Retribution would be given one last chance to inflict such a blow on the 1000 ton behemoth but Robert already knew it would not be enough to slay the galleon. He prayed that the English fleet might instead take a prize from the smaller ships coming to her aid.

‘Two points to starboard.’

Mendez repeated Evardo’s order and the helmsman responded with alacrity, the Santa Clara ’s bow turning slightly to larboard. The San Juan was now directly ahead, three hundred yards. Two English galleons had just sailed across her stern, raking her decks with a withering fire, but now they were withdrawing in the face of the Santa Clara and the dozen ships behind her, bringing themselves back to windward of this new threat.

Off the larboard side, the sea was alive with English warships. The Santa Clara had already taken erratic fire from their long range cannon, but Evardo had not responded, knowing he would need every shot in his arsenal.

‘ Capitán Mendez. Make ready to take in the courses and lay to. Set your helm to take us between the San Juan and the English. We must go directly to her aid.’

‘But Comandante …’

‘I mean to draw the English fire from the San Juan and give her a chance to withdraw.’

Mendez made to argue again but seeing the comandante ’s expression, he swallowed his retort. With grim resignation he nodded his assent.

The San Juan was two hundred yards ahead. The fire directed at the Santa Clara began to concentrate, her ever increasing proximity to the centre of the maelstrom drawing the attention of the more heavily engaged English warships. At one hundred yards the San Juan filled Evardo’s vision, his mind oblivious to the English jackals and the increasing storm of fire. Fifty yards. Mendez called for a final touch on the whipstaff and the furling of the courses, the Santa Clara swooping in like a bird of prey under the larboard beam of the San Juan . The squall line of the fire storm swept over the Santa Clara , consuming her in a wave of iron. Behind her the other ships of the vanguard wing closed in, determined to bedevil the enemy’s attempt to take one of their own. But for now, the Santa Clara stood alone.

For the briefest moment Robert hesitated, awed by the display of courage. The landward wing of the Armada had fled before the English guns, giving Robert cause to hope that the Spanish had no stomach for the fight, but any such thoughts were now banished by the sight of a single Spanish galleon standing square before a stricken comrade, becoming a partial shield for the larger ship.

‘It’s her,’ Seeley shouted angrily beside him. ‘It’s the whoreson who targeted us in the first attack!’

Robert looked to the masthead banners of the Spanish galleon. His eyes narrowed, this unasked-for revenge dual in the midst of a battle filling his thoughts. In the moment of the hull’s perfect pitch, the cannons of Retribution fired their deadly charge across the chasm that separated the mortal enemies of England and Spain.

Evardo stood tall at the gunwale, his knuckles white from the intensity of his grip on his sword, his face turned towards the enemy barrage, striving to subdue his instinct to take cover. Some men feared death, but for Evardo it was the somehow more terrible fate of a grievous wound, the loss of a limb, or his sight, or the slow lingering death of a stomach wound. Every passing round shot fed his fear, but he refused to give in. His lips moved almost of their own accord, repeating a benediction to God, asking his divine patron for protection. With feigned indifference he glanced at the crew working around him, willing them strength to endure.

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.