John Stack - Armada

Evardo sensed the moment to attack, the heart in his chest aching at the thought of sending the Englishman to his Protestant hell, of finally healing the wound to his pride that Varian had opened at Cadiz. He parried another strike, the blades rasping against each other. Evardo recovered and he lunged forward, leading with the tip of his sword. Varian sidestepped and struck down, turned his blade inside but Evardo was ready for the counter stroke and he whipped back his sword to reverse his attack, inflicting a shallow flesh wound on Varian’s thigh. The Englishman gave ground. They circled and Evardo attacked again, pushing the fight towards the bow.

The flames consumed the mainmast, racing up to the tops, creating a vortex of warm air that rushed across the deck. Robert held his breath and focused all his strength on defending himself against the blur of steel that had suddenly become the Spaniard’s sword. His eyes burned from the heat and he felt desperation creep into his reactions as Morales pressed forward relentlessly, his attack never faltering, never abating.

Around them everything was alive with flame, as if they were fighting on the deck of the devil’s own ship and Robert took heart. The Hope was still on course, he had done his duty. He centred his balance. As Morales lunged he riposted, side swiping his blade, forcing the Spaniard to break off.

They circled again, breathing heavily, blood running from their flesh wounds. The hesitation that had caused Robert to stay his killing blow at Cadiz, to show mercy to a fellow Catholic, was gone. It had been cauterized out of him by a war between nations, a struggle that demanded every ounce of his loyalty if England was to survive.

For Evardo, Varian was nothing more than a cursed foe. England was the enemy of Spain and a plague upon Christendom. The English navy had to be defeated and the heretic Queen had to fall. It had been ordained by God and Evardo was willing to spill every last drop of his blood to achieve the will of the divine.

They rushed forward as one, their war cries intertwining, each one calling to God. They were enemies, and on the flame strewn decks of the fire-ship they would fight to the death.

Nathaniel jumped, clawing at the gunwale until his grip held and he heaved himself up. Two more Spanish soldiers jumped with him and they clambered over onto the deck together. Nathaniel ignored them. He took in the entire deck with a single glance. The other Englishman was aft, a Spanish soldier dead at his feet. The Englishman saw them and shouted defiantly, goading them on. The soldiers with Nathaniel did not hesitate and they began to run aft.

Robert and Morales were in the bow. They were locked chest to chest, their blades trapped between them. Nathaniel ran towards them, his sword singing from his scabbard. There was a mighty crack over his shoulder. The lifting yard of the mainmast gave way. It plummeted to the deck, dragging with it the flaming remnants of the main sail onto the two Spanish soldiers. They screamed as the pyre consumed them, the waist of the ship exploding in flames.

A blast of searing heat washed over Robert and Evardo, knocking them both off balance. Their blades separated and Evardo hooked up the hilt of his sword, smashing the pommel into the side of Robert’s head. He fell to the deck and Evardo was immediately upon him, bringing the tip of his sword to his chest.

‘Now it ends,’ he whispered.

‘No!’

Evardo spun around. Young was rushing towards him, his sword charged. Evardo brought up his blade just in time to stop a killing strike and he stumbled backwards. Young came at him again, his expression maniacal, shouting words in English that Evardo could not understand.

Nathaniel hammered his blade down on Evardo’s as if he were wielding an axe, his fury knowing no bounds. Evardo backed away, too stunned to counter attack. He circled around, his feet guiding him to the starboard side where he had boarded. Nathaniel pushed him across the width of the deck, his blows never ceasing. The fire from the burning mainmast clawed at them. They reached the bulwark and with a final effort Nathaniel pounded down on Evardo’s upturned blade until the Spaniard lost his footing and fell over the side.

Seeley ran to the stern. He wavered, his hand on the rope tethered to the skiff. The fallen yard had effectively cut the deck in two. He couldn’t reach the captain. His only chance was to cast off, to lay to in the skiff and hope that the captain would jump overboard in time. With the wind abaft the flames would quickly engulf everything forward of the main mast. The mizzen sail above the tiller was still untouched but its lower rigging was already aflame. Within a minute the canvas would be alight.

Another explosion in the mid section rocked the deck beneath his feet. Seeley took a firm grip on the rope and climbed out over the aft gunwale. He quickly sidled down the rope into the cool sea and swam to the skiff, climbing in as further blasts erupted on the deck above.

An explosion ripped across the waist, hurling debris into the air. A flaming shard fell onto Nathaniel’s head. He swept it away. The heat was unbearable. The air was being sucked from his lungs and he coughed violently as he staggered across the deck to the prone figure of his son. He knelt down beside him and took him by the shoulders. The side of his face was covered in blood. He was badly dazed.

‘Robert.’

For a moment his eyes cleared.

‘Father?’

Nathaniel lifted his son to his feet and took his weight around his shoulder. They staggered forward together towards the larboard side. A falling block struck Nathaniel a glancing blow on the head, knocking them both to the deck. Nathaniel’s vision swam, but his instinct to save his son drove him to his knees. He tried to stand, his head spinning, the heat of the fire clawing at his skin, searing his flesh and singeing the hair on his arms. He didn’t know which way to go. The flames seemed to be on all sides. Above him the sky was ablaze.

He heaved Robert up and staggered to his feet. His hands were scratched and blistered. Every sense screamed at him to move. He lurched forward. Above the roar of the fire, he could hear the tortured sound of the mizzen mast failing under the onslaught of the fire, the whip cracks as rigging snapped. He stumbled on, dragging Robert with him. The larboard bulwark was ahead and with the last of his reserves he hoisted Robert over the side into the sea.

He fell against the gunwale. He couldn’t breathe. There was no air, the fire had consumed it all. He stood up to jump overboard. A minion exploded nearby, its double shot gouging out the barrel, spewing forth blazing iron fragments that pierced Nathaniel’s flesh, the force of the explosion knocking him overboard.

Evardo struck out for the patache. As he reached the side he was lifted clear out of the water by the crew. The English barque was fifteen yards off the beam, every inch of her deck aflame. Evardo watched it burn. He couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. What had possessed Young? Did the duke attack him just to defend some anonymous Englishman? It was an act of sheer madness. Young had no loyalty to his countrymen. He believed in Spain’s cause, so much so that he rallied Alvarado’s men in the battle off Portland Bill and took command of them at Evardo’s request. It didn’t make sense.

‘ Comandante .’

Abrahan indicated over the bow of the Águila .

The windermost ships of the Armada were less than three hundred yards away and as Evardo looked to them in the outer glow of the fires all thoughts of Young fled from his mind. The larger ships of the Armada had already slipped and buoyed their anchors and were moving off to the east. Evardo spun around and looked across the breadth of the anchorage. Eight fire-ships were alight, but only two of these had been intercepted and grappled. The others were bearing down on the fleet. The sound of distant explosions rippled across the waters, each one causing more ships to slip their anchors and surrender their position, the fear of hellburners magnified many times on the larger, less manoeuvrable ships in the tightly packed formation. The sight filled Evardo with despair.