John Stack - Armada

The Retribution and a dozen other warships had stayed on station, keeping the flagship under sporadic fire, but the shape of the battle was rapidly changing. A running battle was about to begin along the coast off Gravelines. Robert called for the Retribution to bear away as the English fleet began to gather anew to windward. The weather was changing. Squalls of rain swept across the distant seascape, obscuring the far reaches to the horizon. Seeley called for shortened sails, straightening the trim of the hull as the fleet began to pursue the enemy.

The Spaniards swiftly formed a rough crescent, similar to the defensive formation that had seen them through the Channel. But now that formation consisted only of warships, a fighting rearguard to protect the scattered transport ships to leeward. The English fleet closed in, passing four hundred yards, their guns remaining silent, the experiences of the past week and the dwindling supplies of ammunition causing every master gunner to hold his fire. At three hundred yards the English fleet began to dissipate, their already loose formation breaking up as individual ships sought targets amongst the weathermost ships of the trailing horns.

On the quarterdeck Robert marked his target and Seeley brought the Retribution to bear, the crew swarming over the rigging. The galleon plunged through the trough of a roller, sea spray blasting over the bowsprit.

‘Stand ready, men!’ Robert roared. ‘For God, Elizabeth and England!’

The crew cheered at the call, their war cries interspersed with the continued orders of the yeomen and officers. The warship surged through another swell, shaking off the sheet of seawater that washed over the fo’c’sle.

‘Tops’ls and sprit ho!’

One hundred yards. The Retribution raced onwards, her cutwater slicing through the crests. Seeley called for another change to the sheets, determined to steady the hull and give Larkin’s gunners every advantage. Robert stood beside the master on the quarterdeck, his eyes on the target. The Spanish warship was dead ahead, eighty yards, the bow of the Retribution pointing amidships of her starboard side.

‘Steady, Thomas,’ Robert said, loud enough that only Seeley could hear.

Seventy yards. The Spanish cannons erupted in defiance, the round shot searing towards the Retribution , raking the fo’c’sle with fire. A falcon took a direct hit, the burning fragments of its mounting cutting down two of the crew, their cries sending men running to their aid.

Sixty yards. The Spanish ship filled Robert’s vision, its towering castles bristling with soldiers, their musket fire a rising crackle of deadly shot that punctured the air, cutting down another man, and another, and another.

‘Steady, steady —.’

Fifty yards.

The thunderous boom of the bow chasers fractured the air.

‘Hard a larboard,’ Robert shouted in the same instant.

‘Hard a larboard,’ Seeley roared. ‘Mizzen ho! Veer sheets to the main course! Prepare to lay aboard!’

Like a scythe the Retribution cut through the turn, sweeping parallel to the Spanish warship. The broadside guns fired in sequence, each retort fuelling the growing din and smoke of battle. Across the narrow gap Robert witnessed the hammer blow of each round shot, the appalling devastation wrought by the close quarter salvo. On all sides the soldiers in his crew were firing their muskets and arquebuses. Seeley bore away, the galleon beginning the turn that would present the second broadside. Robert stood transfixed, his gaze locked on the Spanish warship and the gaping wounds in her hull. Larkin was right, at such a close range nothing could withstand the firepower of an English galleon.

The solid ball of forged iron blasted through the heavy oak timbers, the wood disintegrating into a hail of lethal splinters in a span of time no eye could observe, cutting men down before they could scream their last. The round shot smashed into the barrel of a media culebrina , tossing the 2,500 pound gun from its mounting, the force of the blow throwing men across the deck like chaff before the wind. Another round exploded across the gun deck of the Santa Clara , slaying all in its path before punching out through the hull, leaving only destruction in its wake.

On the deck above Evardo felt the vibrations of the strikes ripple through his body. He roared in anger at the English galleon sweeping past his ship, her cannon inflicting deep and terrible wounds on the Santa Clara . The enemy were engaging at an incredibly close range, never more than a hundred yards. At the outset of the battle, for the briefest of moments, Evardo had thought the English galleons were finally closing to board. De Córdoba’s men had massed expectantly at the gunwales, urging the English on, willing them to fight hand-to-hand, but the enemy had pursued their previous tactics, the wind giving them every advantage as their nimble galleons swooped in like birds of prey, each attack drawing more and more Spanish blood.

The crew of the Santa Clara stood their ground at the gunwales, the proximity of the English galleons finally allowing the soldiers a change to effectively fire their small arms. The air was thick with the harsh crackle of gunfire. The man-killing falconetes and falcon pedreros were being fired almost continually, their barrels blistering to the touch, but for every Englishman that fell on the opposing galleon, many more were being lost among Evardo’s crew.

The English were firing their main cannon at an unbelievable rate and already the decks of the Santa Clara were awash with blood from the injured and dying. The air was rank with the smells of battle, of blood and viscera, voided bowels, gun smoke and fire, a fetid miasma that clung to the back of Evardo’s throat. All around him he saw men being obliterated by the withering enemy fire. Shot after shot struck the fore and aft castles, turning them into bloody shambles. No protection could be sought behind the weathered hull and through the gaping holes Evardo could see the vulnerable innards of his galleon, the stanchions and deck beams torn asunder by iron.

His galleon and his men were paying a terrible price for their fortitude. Evardo called on every ounce of his determination, compelling himself to stand firm. He looked about the quarterdeck. Mendez stood near at hand, his voice raised as he relayed his orders, his focus entirely on the position of the Santa Clara . He was seemingly oblivious to the English, as if their attack was no more than a storm, the incoming fire merely a driving rain that could be ignored.

Not two hundred yards away the Portuguese galleon San Felipe was taking fire from nearly a score of English ships. Her foremast, the guns on her poop deck, and much of her rigging had already been blown away. Blood ran freely from the scuppers but amidst the smoke Evardo spied the comandante Don Francisco de Toledo on the quarterdeck, calling on the nearest enemy galleon to come to close quarters. His entreaty was answered by an Englishman in the opposing maintop, shouting what seemed to be a call for de Toledo to surrender his ship. In sight of all the Englishman was promptly shot down and a defiant blaze of musket fire followed the enemy galleon as it turned away from the San Felipe .

The sight further steeled Evardo’s will, filling his belly with fire. Many of the English galleons were dashing forward, trying to drive a wedge into the formation in an effort to create a breech. Their aggression had already resulted in collisions amongst the Spanish ships but the crescent formation was holding firm, maintaining the protective screen that kept the English jackals from the transport ships to leeward. With the wind rising and the English committing more and more ships to the battle Evardo knew it would take more than determination to hold the line. The main guns of the Santa Clara were silent, their preloaded shot long since fired. But while his crew could still draw breath, and his galleon could bear more punishment, Evardo vowed to keep them in the fight.