Armada (29 page)

The crew of the
Retribution
exploded into frantic activity at Robert’s commands. Men spilled out from the lower decks and ran to the rigging. The gun-ports slammed open and on Larkin’s command the cannons were run out. Robert went quickly to the quarterdeck where Seeley and Miller were waiting for him. He issued terse orders to both and they moved away to command the crew, giving Robert another opportunity to study the Spanish fleet, this time with a tactical eye. He smiled.

The number of English ships waiting in the lee of Rame Head had reached a tipping point soon after the
Retribution
had joined them, and in the darkness of the small hours Howard had given the command to sally out. The ships at hand had sailed beam-reach on a southerly course, right across the expected approach of the Spanish Armada. The remainder, who had yet to warp out of Plymouth, had taken a different course to act as a diversionary force; tacking along the coastline as far west as dawn would take them.

The
Retribution
had sailed with Howard. Robert had spent the entire time on deck, never daring to go below, constantly expecting to see the running lights of the Armada looming out of the darkness. As the command was given to turn westerly and then northerly he had begun to believe that the incredible feat they had set out to achieve had been met. His first sight of the Spanish Armada had thrust that belief from his mind, but it now returned to him in full force.

Howard had done it; the English fleet were to windward of the Spanish. They had taken the weather gauge, the all important advantage of being able to approach or withdraw from the enemy at will. Robert felt the first stirrings of blood lust within him as his ship came up to battle tempo. They were ready to attack. Robert was waiting only for the order to advance from the flagship, but in those brief moments of pause the sight of the Spanish fleet arrested him once more. The massive formation of ships began to transform right before his eyes.

Evardo’s gaze shifted continuously as the
Santa Clara
turned beneath him, his mind at once on the fleet of English ships to windward, on the trailing line of enemy ships to the north along the coastline, and on the dexterous manoeuvres of the ships surrounding his galleon as the Armada redeployed to Medina Sidonia’s orders. Above him the rigging was alive with men. The shouted commands of Mendez filled his ears and in the periphery of his vision he checked the identity of the ships closest to the
Santa Clara
with the plan of deployment.

‘We are in position,
Comandante
,’ Mendez said close at hand. Evardo nodded his approval of the sailing captain’s flawless control of the galleon.

The Armada was now in combat formation, a massive crescent with the wings trailing back in the direction of the enemy threat. The larger ships were sailing in tight formation, with the dispatch carrying feluccas and zabras darting between them, feeding communications to every point in the fleet. De Leiva’s vanguard had become the left wing with de Recalde’s rearguard on the opposing landward wing. Medina Sidonia continued to command the vulnerable centre, allowing him to dictate the direction and speed of the entire fleet, secure in the knowledge that any enemy vessel that attempted to approach the vital transport ships would have to run the gauntlet of the protective wings. The Armada could now defend itself without halting the main battle group.

Evardo brought his captains aft to the poop deck to study the English fleet.

‘The masthead lookout estimates close to eighty ships to windward,
Comandante
.’

‘We should have bottled them up at Plymouth when we had the chance,’ Alvarado growled. ‘Now they are loose in their own home waters.’

‘His majesty did not give us leave for such actions,’ Evardo said, fixing Alvarado with a hard stare. Despite his own reservations he was angered that one of his captains should openly question the orders of his superiors.

‘There are at least thirty more sail there,’ Mendez pointed to the coastline.

The line of English ships slowly tacking into the wind on the flank of de Recalde’s distant rearguard was poised to join the main enemy fleet and Evardo’s brow creased as he tried to think what additional threat they posed.

‘They are fine sailors,’ Mendez remarked grudgingly.

Evardo spun around.

‘Then we are well matched,’ he replied, a hard edge to his voice. He looked to the faces of his captains, seeing in each the grim expressions of seasoned fighters.

‘Ready your men,
mis capitánes
.’

Evardo turned his attention to the line of his ship and its position at the outer end of the vanguard wing. They were ready to receive the enemy and Evardo closed his eyes in prayer. He called on God to keep him strong, to give him the courage to endure until the victory had been won, and to protect his ship and her crew. They were in the service of the Almighty and Evardo’s gaze climbed to the Armada’s standard trailing out from the head of the mainmast, his lips moving silently as he mouthed the battle cry imprinted there.

‘
Arise O Lord and vindicate Thy Cause!
’

Standing beside Seeley at the fore rail of the quarterdeck, Robert watched the Armada transform into a defensive crescent, over two miles wide from wing to wing.

‘
Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis
,’ he whispered involuntarily.

Seeley’s eyes darted to his captain.

‘Quarterdeck, ho,’ a lookout called. ‘
Disdain
beginning her run!’

All eyes went to the 80 ton bark and the crew watched in silence as it sailed out alone to approach the Armada. Isolated between the fleets, her small size accentuated the massive crescent formation. Howard had sent the
Disdain
out to issue a challenge, a traditional gesture in the absence of a formal declaration of war. Robert felt his pulse quicken as the tiny bark sailed gallantly on between the wings, closing on the centre before spinning around broadside to the main body of the Spanish fleet. She fired a single cannon, the shot disappearing into the massed ranks of the Armada.

The distant sound brought an enormous cheer from the crew of the
Retribution
, strengthening Robert’s resolve to seek battle. The Armada was indeed a sight to behold. Spain had conquered the far reaches of the globe with her navy and with its power King Philip had humbled countries and monarchs. But here, in the English Channel, the men of a single nation would stand in defiance of that authority.

The crew of the
Retribution
hailed from across the southern counties of England, from Cornwall and Devon, Sussex and Kent. They were noblemen and commoners, men of substance and men in search of fortune. They were adventurers and patriots, privateers and merchants. Each man had been drawn to the conflict by different motives but under the banner of Saint George they were all Englishmen.

The
Disdain
came neatly about and began beating its way back towards the fleet. Almost immediately Howard’s
Ark Royal
broke ranks and the warships nearest her began to fall in behind in a rough line as she set course for the seaward flank of the Armada.

‘Courses and tops’ls, ho. Helmsman, hard a larboard!’

‘Yeoman of the jeers, main course, ho!’

The
Retribution
swooped into position under Robert’s orders. He checked the sun. It was some three hours after dawn and the wind was steadily rising, stirring up the sea. White horses fled before the bow. The uneven line of warships sailed below the seaward flank of the Armada and then turned sharply to cut across the rear. Robert kept his gaze locked on the windermost Spanish ships, those on the outer edges of the trailing wing, but they stayed firmly on course, seemingly oblivious to the approaching English attack.

The first ripples of cannon thunder fled on the wind as the
Ark Royal
fired her heavy bow chasers and she bore in to within four hundred yards to loose her first broadside into the enemy ranks. She luffed up to go about, allowing her stern guns to come to bear and then turned neatly away, firing her second broadside guns as she tacked upwind to reload. A second English warship repeated the sequence, followed by another and another.

‘Two points to starboard,’ Robert roared, his voice carrying above the sound of cannon fire from the ships ahead, the outlines of the enemy ships visible through the massive clouds of gun smoke.

Like a warhorse reacting to the touch of a warrior rider the
Retribution
responded to the helmsman’s hand on the whipstaff, her cutwater slicing through the chop, her sails filled with the freshening breeze, her deadly cannon coming swiftly to bear. The bow chasers boomed, smoke billowing over the fo’c’sle. Robert called for another subtle touch on the whipstaff to present the
Retribution
’s starboard broadside to the enemy. He held his breath, his gaze locked on the enemy ships amidst the smoke, the white clouds erupting with the muzzle flashes of angry Spanish cannons.

The enemy were swiftly abeam. The
Retribution
soared over the crest of a wave. Robert whispered the command to fire, willing Larkin to respond, his fists balled by his side, consumed by the urge to let fly at the enemy. Through the deck beneath him, he heard the first utterance of the master gunner, but the sound was engulfed within the span of a heartbeat by the deafening roar of the broadside guns firing in sequence and the
Retribution
shuddered in recoil.

‘Come about. Hard a starboard!’ Robert roared, gun smoke smothering his every sense. He felt the hull turn beneath him, his balance shifting with the fall of the deck.

The wind swept the enveloping smoke from the
Retribution
as the galleon began its turn to larboard. The crew were working without conscious thought, training and duty combining to control their every reaction. Oblivious to the sporadic whistle of passing shot, the acrid smell of gun smoke, and the hellish noise of the cannons’ roar, they strove to wield the fearsome weapon that was the
Retribution
.

‘Come here and fight, you English
bastardos
!’ Evardo roared, his face mottled with rage and frustration, his sword charged in his hand.

From four hundred yards away the English warship fired its cannon. Iron shot tore across the open water. The air whistled with fire, and a rigging line parted with a whip-crack, a crewman screamed as a searing cannon ball obliterated his limb, the individual sound lost in a cacophony of defiant shouts, the Spanish crew baying for English blood, cursing them to engage like men.

The enemy had the weather gauge. They had the advantage of manoeuvrability and while Evardo had expected them to fire some devastating salvos with their heavy bow chasers the English were using a tactic like none that he had ever witnessed in battle, with each warship sailing roughly in the wake of the vessel in front of them, weaving a pattern that allowed each to present all their guns before sailing on. They were intent on attacking but were not closing to board. Did the English really believe they could win the battle with cannon fire alone? The approach defied the logic of Spanish military strategy and Evardo could only surmise it was an act of desperation by the English, the tight formation of the twenty ships of the vanguard wing proving too much for their nerve.

The wind was holding steady at west-north-west and Evardo’s hands trembled as he willed it to come about. Every warship in the vanguard had turned towards the attack. The bow of the
Santa Clara
was as close up to the wind as Mendez could bring her. Another half a point and the galleon would be in irons, but still the English would not approach. Evardo was powerless to close as endless waves of gun smoke from the distant cannonades swept over the decks. Near at hand he heard the boom of Spanish cannons from the ships flanking the
Santa Clara
. They were expending their pre-loaded shots in vexation and Evardo struggled to contain the same impulse. Once fired the cannons would be difficult to reload and Evardo had to believe there was still a chance, however slim, that he might be given the opportunity to close and board an enemy ship.

The angry shouts of the crew rose as the next English galleon sailed into position, the black maws of her cannons exposed along her painted hull. Evardo looked to her decks and above to her masthead banners. Suddenly his eyes shot wide in recognition. Within an instant the galleon had disappeared behind an explosive wall of fire and smoke, but its image remained indelible. It was her. It was the
Retribution
. As the shot from her cannon struck the vanguard Evardo ran to the shrouds to climb above the obstructions on the quarterdeck.

Through wind and speed the English galleon cleared the cloud of her own gun smoke. Evardo’s eyes watered as he tried to focus on the distant enemy quarterdeck as it swung away. It was crowded with men. There was no way Evardo could confirm if one of them was the man he could see so clearly in his memory, but he was sure that Robert Varian was on board. Smoke erupted from her stern guns, obscuring his view. He jumped back down to the deck.

‘
Capitán
Mendez! Fall off. Bring the larboard broadside to bear!’

The sailing captain hesitated for a second, his every instinct telling him it was madness to present the full profile of his ship to the enemy’s fire. Evardo strode towards him, his expression unholy, his sword still charged in his hand.

‘Helmsman,’ Mendez shouted. ‘Hard a larboard.’

The
Santa Clara
turned swiftly and heeled over with the force of the wind. Mendez sent every available man to the shrouds, his voice loud as he steadied the helm, his galleon out of sync in the close quarter formation of the vanguard.

Evardo rushed below to the gun deck, roaring to Suárez, the gunners’ captain, to come forward. He manhandled him to the nearest gun port on the larboard side, pointing out the
Retribution
through the banks of drifting smoke and the ever-moving galleons of the English attack.