John Stack - Armada

Robert contemplated the course change for a second.

‘So ordered, Mister Seeley, lay close. Helm to north-north-east.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Seeley moved to the fore rail of the quarterdeck and shouted a string of commands, the crew responding swiftly as thousands of hours of sail-craft guided them. Robert took a moment to observe Seeley’s handling of the manoeuvre. Sailing a square-rigged ship close-hauled was a delicate task, requiring a touch that could not be taught or imitated. It was an intuitive ability, granted only to the best sailing masters and Robert nodded with satisfaction as Seeley quickly struck the perfect balance between wind and sail.

He turned his attention to the gap between the enemy’s landward wing and the coastline. At the leading edge of the Isle of Portland was the headland, Portland Bill, but beyond that, some three miles to the south-east and below the surface of the sea was a sandbank known as The Shambles.

‘Captain,’ Miller called. ‘The Ark Royal is coming about.’

Robert looked to the distant flagship. Howard had come to the same conclusion and the ships closest to the Ark Royal were already falling into her wake as it turned to outflank the enemy. Half a dozen ships closer inshore, including the Retribution , had pre-empted Howard’s command. The Triumph was leading the pack, Martin Frobisher’s 1,100 ton galleon, the largest in the English fleet. Robert called for Seeley to bring the Retribution up closer to Frobisher’s galleon.

Evardo felt his spirits soar as the squall of cannon fire erupted. There would be no escape for the English. Through the gathering clouds of gun smoke half a mile away he tried to see whether any of the English ships had finally been boarded in the close quarter fighting.

Thirty minutes before almost every fighting ship of the Armada had turned simultaneously north-north-west to cut off the enemy’s attempt to outflank the Armada to landward. Most of the English ships, and Evardo recognized their flagship amongst them, had quickly gone about to opposite tack, reversing their tactic by trying to force the seaward flank. With the wind to command the galleons and Levanters of de Leiva and de Bertendona had cut across their path and were now heavily engaged with the enemy.

But not every English ship had turned and the Santa Clara and a number of other warships had been ordered to hold the landward flank at all costs. Beyond dividing his forces to allow the transport ships to remain a safe distance from the fighting, Medina Sidonia had done little to organize a coherent attack and the skirmishes that were rapidly developing were a confusion of individual duals and ripostes.

‘ Comandante ,’ Mendez called and indicated off the starboard bow.

Under blood red sails and oars de Moncada’s four Neapolitan galleasses were forging a path to the headland. They had the bit between their teeth. A small group of English ships, no more than a half dozen, were trapped on the far side of Portland Bill. They had cut their course to the flank too finely, and close inshore, in the lee of the headland, they were becalmed and completely cut off.

Evardo ordered the Santa Clara to pursue the galleasses, eager to share in the spoils. Like the wind, this gift was surely heaven sent. He clasped the crucifix around his neck as the deck tilted beneath him.

The wind was light, but it filled the sails and bore the Santa Clara on. Four other galleons of the Squadron of Castile slipped into her wake and within a dozen ship-lengths they formed into a rough echelon behind her. Evardo gave them only scant attention. His focus was firmly fixed on the fearsome galleasses a quarter-mile ahead and the hapless prey beyond them.

Robert flinched as the muzzles of the galleasses’ heavy bow chasers disappeared behind billows of smoke. The air screeched with passing round shot and from fifty yards away he heard a scream of pain from a crewman of the Golden Lion.

‘Steady boys,’ he shouted.

The Spanish galleasses advanced at speed, their blunt-nosed rams surging with every pull of the oars, their decks crammed with heavily armed soldiers.

‘Frobisher has led us into a death trap,’ Seeley cursed quietly so only Robert could hear.

‘Fear not, Thomas. Frobisher is no fool.’

When it became obvious that the Spaniards would cut off the English fleet’s attempt to outflank them to landward, and Howard had gone about to the opposite tack, Frobisher had signalled the galleons sailing behind the Triumph to stay on course and follow him. Robert had complied, deferring to Frobisher’s seniority, quickly figuring out the commander’s plan. Along with four other galleons Frobisher had led them into the lee of the headland. The Retribution could barely make steerage speed in the flat calm and so close to the coastline Robert had dropped anchor, transforming his nimble, mobile warship into a vulnerable target, ripe for boarding.

Initially their presence had gone unnoticed and Robert had felt the first sliver of uncertainty that Frobisher’s plan might not work. That feeling had turned to shame when he watched Howard engage the enemy while his galleon skulked idly out of the enemy’s range. A lookout’s call had ended those misgivings. They had been spotted, by four galleasses and a troop of galleons. There was nowhere to run. The Triumph and her consorts were hamstrung by the breathless air and Robert carefully estimated the range as the galleasses sped onwards.

‘Mister Miller,’ Robert called. ‘Orders to Mister Larkin; tell him to give the Spaniards a taste.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Mister Seeley. Prepare to weigh anchor and present the larboard broadside.’

‘Will I order the men to make ready to repel boarders?’

For a moment Robert did not reply. He looked to the Triumph .

‘I believe Frobisher would tell you that won’t be necessary.’

Seeley hesitated for a moment, puzzled by the captain’s response, but the urgency of the moment compelled him to move. He shouted his orders as Larkin let fly with his longer range cannon.

Robert’s hand went to the hilt of his sword and he drew the blade an inch from the scabbard. The Spanish galleasses were less than twelve hundred yards away and were still coming on apace. Their course was steady, their hulls slicing through the calm waters with Portland Bill off their starboard beams.

Again Robert estimated the range. The Spaniards had passed The Shambles. The underwater ridge lay a mile behind them in their wakes. The enemy should be in position. They had taken the bait, but Frobisher’s plan relied not only on location, but on timing. As the galleasses consumed the distance between them and the English galleons, Robert began to pray that Frobisher had indeed judged the conditions correctly.

Evardo drew his sword and twisted the weapon slowly in his hand, examining the keen edge as the sunlight reflected off the long narrow tapered blade. He glanced up at the galleasses two hundred yards ahead, marvelling at their sleek, spear-like hulls and the hypnotic glide of the oars as they rose and fell in seemingly effortless grace. The stranded English galleons would be helpless against such predators. Evardo became acutely aware of the weight of the sword in his hand, knowing he would soon have a chance to wield it on the deck of an English ship.

Evardo checked the line of his galleon. He nodded, confident that Mendez was garnering every knot of speed he could from the light breeze. The galleasses would certainly reach the English first. Their lead was increasing fractionally with every draw of the oars, but once the galleasses engaged at close quarters the Santa Clara and the galleons behind her would be upon the enemy in minutes.