John Stack - Armada

The senior officers began to discuss the proposal in detail, with those for and against making their arguments to the duke.

After some minutes Medina Sidonia raised his hand for silence. His instructions were to avoid engaging with the English fleet if at all possible. However he had already contravened those instructions when he ordered the fleet to attack off Portland Bill. He had deemed that attack to be tactically necessary and could defend his decision. He considered Morale’s plan one last time. It could be argued that tactically an ambush would be to the Armada’s ultimate advantage.

‘I have heard enough,’ he began. ‘We rendezvous with Parma within days. That is our primary mission. But I agree that our chances of success will be greatly increased if we can first inflict some casualties on the English fleet and gain some sea-room to windward. Your plan is approved, Comandante Morales.’

‘Thank you, your grace.’

‘Might I make one amendment?’ de Leiva asked, forestalling Evardo’s departure. ‘A single ship might be too easily overwhelmed before reinforcements arrive.’

‘We will hold,’ Evardo replied.

‘I do not doubt your resolution or that of your crew, Comandante . But for the plan to succeed, no ship will be able to advance to your aid until after the English have clapped sides. I believe two ships together would stand a better chance.’

Medina Sidonia considered the proposal. With no experience of naval warfare to draw upon he quickly deferred to one of his most trusted advisors.

‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘I will call for a volunteer from my own squadron of Portugal to act as the second. Don de Leiva, you will be in charge of the reinforcements.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Then it is settled. Comandante , a ship from my squadron will seek you out before dusk. After dark you will both lay to and fall off from the fleet. With luck and God’s favour tomorrow will see the Armada claim its first prizes.’

Evardo nodded. He glanced around the room, looking each senior commander in the eye for a moment before withdrawing from the cabin.

CHAPTER 17

5 a.m. 4th August 1588. The English Channel, off Dunnose Point.

‘Quarterdeck, ho! Enemy stragglers a mile off the larboard bow!’

‘All hands, battle stations,’ Robert shouted, running to the fo’c’sle where he was joined by Seeley. Off the larboard bow was the shadowy coastline of the Isle of Wight. The Armada was close to Dunnose Point, the most southerly point on the island and from there the coast swept inward to the eastern entrance to the Solent. The two Spanish galleons were in close support of each other but completely isolated from the Armada’s defensive formation. It was a perfect opportunity and Hawkins’s squadron was closest to the prize, however just before dawn the westerly breeze had died away.

‘Where is the cursed wind?’ Seeley spat.

‘Coxswain! Launch the longboat,’ Robert shouted over his shoulder. He turned to Seeley. ‘If we’ve no wind, Thomas, then we’ll just have to use brawn. Cast a line from the bow to the longboat and hail any oared coasters nearby. Tell them we need a tow.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ Seeley said with a wry smile and left the fo’c’sle.

Robert wondered how the isolated galleons could have got so far out of formation. One or both of them must have encountered some problem. Either way they were a prize worth pursuing. The commander of the Victory had come to the same conclusion and had already lowered his ship’s boat. The two Spanish galleons would soon be under English guns.

‘I count at least a dozen.’ Nathaniel was standing amidst the senior officers on the quarterdeck.

Evardo smiled. The English were as predictable as the rising of the sun. They had taken the bait regardless of the conditions. Fifty yards off the starboard beam the San Luís , an 830 ton galleon of the Portuguese squadron under Comandante Mexía, was readying for action.

In the distance the crescent formation that had carried the Armada thus far was no more. It was widely suspected that the English had a second squadron of warships further along the coast operating out of Dover and so the fleet was now arrayed in a new formation, one that had been devised to allow for a running defence should the Armada be attacked from the front or behind. It was more rounded, with a strong vanguard led by the flagship and a rearguard commanded by de Recalde and de Leiva. The transport and auxiliary ships were in the centre.

‘All hands to their posts, mis capitánes ,’ Evardo said. ‘Prepare to repel boarders.’

‘Si, mi Comandante ,’ the men spoke as one.

The approaching English warships being towed towards them had increased in number. Two ships were in the lead and were closing at a faster speed with the assistance of small oar-powered dispatch boats. One was a galleon that looked similar in size to the San Luís . The other was a smaller warship comparable to the Santa Clara .

Evardo felt a shiver of doubt run up his spine and angrily shook off the sense of foreboding. The San Luís and Santa Clara were going to be more heavily outnumbered than he had expected, certainly more than El Gran Grifón was the morning before. Evardo could not suppress the tentacles of fear that crept over his resolve. He thought of Abrahan and how, as a boy, his mentor had taught him that without fear there could be no courage. The memory steeled his nerve and he tried to recapture the impulse that had compelled him to volunteer, the desire to prove his mettle to all.

The boom of cannon split the still air and Evardo flinched as the round shot swept past his deck. The two leading English galleons were five hundred yards away. The second one fired her bow chasers. One of the shots struck the San Luís , the crack of timber followed an instant later by the scream of an injured sailor. The men of the Santa Clara began to shout defiantly at the oncoming English, single voices that quickly grew until the ship was awash with strident calls, an outburst that banished all fears and opened the floodgates of battle lust.

Evardo allowed the noise to feed his soul. He hoped the sound would carry to the ear of every Englishman, compelling them to answer the Spanish taunts and end their cowardly tactics of firing from a distance. The San Luís and Santa Clara were all alone. This was the enemy’s opportunity to close and board.

Robert climbed hand over hand, his grip firm on the ratlines as he ascended the shrouds through the heavy pall of gun smoke. Bullets zipped through the air, the near misses causing him to spin his head around while beneath him he could hear the heavier whoosh of small calibre round shot. With every step the smoke cleared further and he quickly reached the fighting top above the main course.

Two lookouts and musketeers were stationed there and they moved aside to allow their captain to climb atop the head of the main course. Robert took a grip on the main mast and felt a tremor run through it as the heavy guns of his ship were fired on the decks. He steadied his feet and looked to larboard, the clearer air affording him his first view of the Spanish galleons since the Retribution had fired its broadside.

The enemy ships were two hundred yards off the beam. With no wind their masthead banners hung limp, frustrating any attempt to identify them from such a distance. The smaller galleon was to the fore while behind her the heavier warship was engaged with the English ships that had attacked from the opposing flank. It was the closest that the Retribution had engaged any enemy ship so far and Robert could immediately see the effects the shorter range was having on the Spanish galleons. Their courses were shot through in dozens of places, with rigging and tackles hanging like gallows’ ropes from the stays. The upper decks were heavily damaged, with railings and superficial fittings shot away in several places. Robert counted a score of hits in the hull, although it seemed none had penetrated.