John Stack - Armada

The English had the devil’s own luck. Their fire-ship attack should never have succeeded to such an extent. They had not been true hellburners as was first believed and not one single Spanish ship had been struck or destroyed. The fire-ships had sailed harmlessly onto the shore, but a combination of strong currents and the increasing force of the south-westerly wind had prevented the Armada from regaining its anchorage. The Santa Clara had struggled in vain for hours. The more cumbersome hulks and urcas that made up the majority of the fleet had fared much worse and had been driven further east.

Only the San Martín and four other ships had managed to regain their original anchorage. They were now over a mile to the west of the Santa Clara , heavily engaged with an overwhelming force of enemy warships. The duke had sent out dispatch boats to rally the fleet to his position. The Santa Clara had been one of those to respond, yet they could scarcely make headway against the strengthening wind. Evardo glanced at the other warships nearby that were similarly engaged in a bitter struggle with the prevailing conditions. Of equal concern was that Mendez had slipped and buoyed the Santa Clara ’s two anchors in Calais roads. Without them the galleon would be unable to await Parma’s army or even approach a coastline with safety. Evardo suspected that every ship in the fleet had suffered a similar loss.

Evardo had thought of Nathaniel Young many times during the night. He still could not fathom his behaviour. Had he felt some loyalty to his fellow countryman? Was that why the duke had attacked him? It seemed implausible, given what he had known of Young, but he could think of no other explanation. The duke had denied Evardo the satisfaction of killing Varian, but it mattered little. He had bested the English captain, and it was likely that both Young and Varian had been consumed by the inferno.

He turned his face away from the wind. For the moment the English were concentrating on the San Martín and her coterie of escorts but that situation would not last – they would undoubtedly range beyond Calais. From before dawn the crew of the Santa Clara had readied the ship for battle. Despite the heavy weather, every gun had been loaded, and soldiers were positioned in the fighting tops and castles, their muskets and arquebusiers primed and ready. As the sun rose Padre Garza had given absolution to a large number of the crew on the main deck.

Evardo took hope as he watched his men make their final preparations. The enemy had the weather gauge, they would not engage at close quarters. The warships of the Armada would be forced to fight a defensive action once more, but if they could somehow reform, and hold their position off the Flemish coast, they might yet carry the day. Everything depended on the weather and their ability to hold the English at bay. One element was in the hands of God, the other was in their own. Evardo turned back to the unfolding battle beyond his reach, praying that God would grant them the chance to fulfil His calling and retake possession of the seas off Calais.

The bow of the Retribution soared over the swell, her chasers erupting with fire at the zenith. White gunpowder smoke fled before the galleon on the wind, sweeping over the tightly packed cluster of Spanish galleons, following the round shot that had smashed into their heart. The Retribution came hard about, heeling over under the press of the wind, her rigging creaking and groaning as the waves slammed broadside into the hull. Another English galleon was hard on her heels, letting fly with their own chasers as they swept into position.

On the quarterdeck Robert looked to the heavens. He felt numb. So much had happened in the past twelve hours. He had been so sure of who his father was; a traitor, a Judas who had turned against his own countrymen. But then, in the final moments of his life, Nathaniel Young had taken up the sword for England, shattering all of Robert’s conceptions. It was a transformation that brought him little comfort, he would never have a chance to know the man who had saved his life.

In the darkest hours before dawn, as the crew of the Retribution readied the ship for action, Robert had bathed his father’s body, cleaning away the blood from his terrible wounds before binding him in a simple cloth shroud. For the second time in his life he had felt completely lost and alone. He had blown out the solitary candle in the cabin and in his mind’s eye he had pictured his father as he had remembered him when he was a boy, a tall solemn man who had disappeared so suddenly one night from his life.

In the darkness Robert had sat down to wait. When they had returned to the Retribution Seeley had walked away from him without a word. Robert had not seen him again and as the hours passed he had surmised that Seeley had gone to the commander’s flagship to report what he had discovered. Robert had the patience of a career sailor, built over a lifetime of long hours on watch, but every minute spent waiting for the authorities to storm into his cabin had felt like an eternity. He had been consumed by hopelessness. If he could not convince Thomas of his loyalty, a man whom he had fought with side by side, then he had no hope of persuading others. At dawn one of the crew had knocked on the cabin door.

‘Message from the sailing master, Captain. Enemy in sight.’

Robert had been stunned by the message and had gone aloft to find Seeley on the quarterdeck. As before not a word was exchanged and Robert had taken up his duties as if nothing had happened.

From the corner of his eye Seeley surreptitiously watched the captain. He didn’t know how he should feel about him. Seeley’s admiration for Robert had grown over the year since the captain had come on board. Now he felt like a fool. The captain’s deception had left him with a deep sense of betrayal, and yet the respect he had had for the captain was based on what he himself had witnessed, the bravery and determination Robert had shown in every encounter with the Spanish.

He was plagued with doubts, uncertain as to whether he had made the right decision in deferring the captain’s arrest. The Armada’s defensive formation had been broken. The enemy were vulnerable. If the English navy struck with sufficient speed and depth then the battle could finally be won. There could be no half measures and Seeley feared that at a crucial moment the captain might show mercy to his fellow Roman Catholics. Seeley resolved to watch him closely. He would ensure that the captain was taking the fight to the Spanish at every turn. Then, after victory had been secured, he would fulfil his duty and hand the captain over to the authorities.

The call of a yeoman caught Seeley’s attention and he shouted the order to bring the Retribution full about with the wind abaft. Despite the conditions a small group of Spanish warships had gathered in a loose formation to leeward. The Spanish flagship and her escorts, the ships that had taken the initial brunt of the English attack, had already weighed anchor and were sailing west to join the centre of a reforming Armada.

Robert cursed their fortune. Two hours before, at dawn, the English fleet had swooped down on the small group of Spanish warships that had somehow managed to regain their anchor points. They had quickly engaged them from three sides, punishing the Spaniards for their tenacity, but before any real damage could be inflicted Howard had suddenly broken off the engagement, leading his ships in pursuit of another prize, a galleass that had run aground off Calais. That the prize was significant was not in doubt, nor was the danger of leaving such a powerful ship to their rear, but Howard’s diversion had given the Spanish flagship and the rest of the scattered Armada a respite, one they were now taking advantage of.