John Stack - Armada

The enemy flagship was almost invisible in the gun smoke, the cannons’ disgorgement holding sway over the breeze that tried in vain to clear the air. Only the muzzle blasts of heavy Spanish weapons could be seen, fiery sparks spurting out of the gloom as the enemy answered defiantly to every attack run.

‘Quart—ho!—off—quarter!’

Robert was unable to comprehend the lookout’s call above the din of battle but he followed his outstretched hand and saw a second enemy warship emerge off the bow of the Spanish flagship. She was a behemoth, a towering merchantman, her decks crammed with soldiers. She erupted in smoke, firing off a single broadside that sliced through the rigging of the Elizabeth Jonas not thirty yards off the Retribution ’s bow.

‘Mister Miller, orders to the Master Gunner; new target off the flagship’s bow. Mister Seeley, steady as she goes. Look to your helm.’

The Retribution completed its turn to larboard, her hull cutting cleanly through the swell. Robert felt the tilt of the deck beneath his feet, sensing the movements of his ship; the response of the Retribution to the wind in her sails and the bite of her rudder in the blue-green sea. The sensation steeled Robert’s every nerve. He was master of a creature that knew no fear, a warship that obeyed his every command and he would match her will ounce for ounce. As his galleon swung into range of the Spanish he roared a command to set loose the wrath of Retribution .

‘ ¡Fuego! ’

The Santa Clara shuddered at the ferocity of her broadside cannonade. Evardo called for an immediate course change, turning his galleon in as tight a circle as possible as they came in under the stern of the San Martín . At almost twice her tonnage and ordnance the flagship towered over the Santa Clara but they stood shoulder to shoulder, taking the enemy’s punishment as they denied them leave to advance.

Evardo checked the line of his ship, ignoring the firestorm that swept his decks. On the far side of the flagship a Guipúzcoan merchantman was holding station. Beyond them Evardo recognized another galleon of the Castilian Squadron, the San Juan Bautista or the San Pedro, he could not be sure which. For nearly thirty minutes the San Martín had been alone, now she had allies and with each arrival the flagship was spared more of the English fire.

On the fo’c’sle Nathaniel stood behind the wall of Spanish musketeers lining the gunwale. He had no weapon to wield against the distant English warships. Alvarado stood close by, yelling orders to his men, urging them on, to increase their rate of musket fire and speed the loading of the falcon pedreros .

The fight was hopelessly one sided, with the English warships advancing individually to within three hundred yards before firing their cannons and sailing away again almost unscathed. The Spanish could only reply with side arms and the smaller, more easily serviced guns on the fore and aft castles. Their main guns were silent.

In the midst of battle Nathaniel could not quell his blood lust and he echoed the gutter curses of the Spaniards, cries that fuelled the conflict that raged within him. The Spanish were firing on his countrymen but if Nathaniel was to return to England then the English navy would have to be defeated.

Dice-shot cut a swathe through the ranks close to Nathaniel, striking down the soldiers manning a swivel-mounted 3 pound falconete . He rushed to take command of the gun, taking hold of the trailing handle, pointing it at the nearest English ship. He hesitated. For him the Northern Rebellion had been a bloodless uprising. Never before had he wilfully drawn English blood.

A Spanish soldier ran to Nathaniel’s side, a lighted taper in his hand. He glanced at Nathaniel, checking to see if his aim was set. For a moment Nathaniel could not move. He nodded. The soldier dropped the taper to the touchhole. The falconete bucked in Nathaniel’s hand, spewing out a cloud of smoke that engulfed him.

‘Reload!’

Men rushed to Nathaniel’s command. A war cry rose to his throat, born from the depths of his hatred for the Protestant monarch, but he could not cry out. Were the men on the English warships truly his enemy? For all he knew his son was amongst them and Nathaniel stepped back from the gun before angrily silencing his remorse. His path was set; he had to see it through. Victory for the Spanish was crucial.

Another English ship sailed into position opposite the Santa Clara , her bow chasers firing in unison. Shouted warnings of incoming fire were lost to the smash of timber and the cries of the wounded. Alvarado called for a volley of fire, his command followed by the cackle of muskets. Suddenly his strident voice ceased and Nathaniel turned to see Alvarado fall. The rate of fire from the fo’c’sle fell away as more men looked to their stricken captain. In the distance the English warship turned broadside.

‘Back to your stations, resume your fire,’ Nathaniel shouted. ‘Ready the pedreros. Fire as they bear.’

The soldiers reacted to the voice of command.

‘You men, get below. We need more power and shot.’

Nathaniel drew his sword. ‘ ¡Apunten, Fuego! ’

The two pound pedreros fired as the English ship let fly with the heavy guns of its first broadside. More men fell around Nathaniel and he began to shout the words of encouragement he had heard Alvarado call.

Off the stern quarter the San Martín was withdrawing towards the centre of the Armada as more Spanish trouble-shooters completed the shield around her. The English rate of fire was falling. Denied their prize many of the enemy warships were disengaging. Only a few were continuing the fight but they remained out of reach, deftly using the advantage of the wind and their faster ships to dictate the pace of the battle.

CHAPTER 16

8 p.m. 3rd August 1588. The English Channel, off the Isle of Wight.

Robert moved slowly back along the cramped gun deck, ducking his head beneath the smoke-stained beams as he stepped over the ordnance arranged behind each cannon. The men were gathered between the guns, chatting aimlessly as they tucked into their first hot meal of the day. The tinny smell of stewed beef overrode the stench of burned gun-powder and the musky odour of men crowded together below decks in the mid-summer heat.

One of the crew had a fife and was playing an ancient sea shanty, a traditional tune that prompted many to hum along. There was laughter but Robert marked its brittle tone and he saw how exhausted his men were, weighted down by the low ebb often experienced after the blood rush of battle. But the hot meal and a double ration of beer were beginning to raise their flagging spirits, and an animated game of dice had begun amidships in the space between two culverins.

Robert reached the aft section and stood silently for a moment as he watched the surgeon make one of the wounded comfortable. He reached out and touched the breech of a cannon. Following the battle the day before off Portland Bill, when the Spanish had been denied Weymouth, there had been further skirmishes earlier that morning and although many hours had passed since then the cannon was still warm. He removed his hand and looked to the crewman under Powell’s care. He was no more than a lad, one of the quarter gunner’s mates who fetched and carried on the gun deck. His chest was heavily bandaged. Two more crewmen lay supine beyond him.

Powell had brought all of the seriously injured up from his surgery on the orlop deck. At night the smell of blood would draw rats from the depths of the lower hold and, left unattended, the unconscious wounded would be easy prey for the scavengers. Robert caught the surgeon’s attention and Powell rose stiffly, arching his back as he stepped forward.