Armada

Evardo registered the gentle kiss of air on the back of his neck. He turned around but it was gone and as he began to believe he had imagined the sensation a tiny gust of wind dried the moisture on his lips. Spinning around he looked aloft to the masthead banners of the La Rata, his right index finger pointing north as he orientated himself. The banner stirred in a lacklustre attempt to unfurl. Evardo held his breath. It stirred again, and Evardo smiled as the banner started to dance. The rigging groaned. A ripple ran across the main course and everyone around the table stood up. The wind was rising, but not from the west. It was blowing from the north-east. It was a light breeze, no more than a couple of knots, but it was enough. The Armada had the weather gauge.

Evardo turned to the flagship in the distance. The Armada’s primary mission was to secure Parma’s crossing, not defeat the English fleet, but surely, Evardo thought, the duke would realize that the easterly wind was a gift granted by the divine. He silently compelled the duke to act. A plume of smoke shot out from the side of the San Martín and the boom of single cannon rolled across the Armada. The pace of Evardo’s heart quickened, and he didn’t dare to believe his eyes. The duke was lowering the topsails of the San Martín. It was the signal to engage the enemy.

‘All hands, battle stations!’

A dozen voices repeated the command in half as many seconds, shattering the pre-dawn calmness of the Retribution. Men ran to the shrouds and rigging, pushing past each other on the narrow decks, their frantic pace hastened by the strident calls of the officers. A deep rumble permeated the air and the decks trembled as the cannons were run out, the gun crews shouting as one as each was made fast and ready.

Robert was on the quarterdeck, his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed slightly against the wind blowing into his face. The frustration of the previous twenty-four hours was forgotten. Now there was only focus. The enemy had the weather gauge, granted to them by a trick of the wind. They were coming about, the ships of the fighting wings making the turn with a pace that spoke of their eagerness to take advantage of the conditions. Whatever action needed to be taken to counteract the threat had to be taken fast. Robert turned to his sailing masters.

‘Options.’

‘We should come about north-north-easterly,’ Seeley said first. ‘Sail close-hauled to the wind and try to outflank them on the landward wing to regain the weather gauge.’

Robert nodded. ‘Mister Miller?’

‘No signal yet from Howard, Captain. But I agree with the Master. The bastards might take this opportunity to make a play for Weymouth.’

Robert contemplated the course change for a second.

‘So ordered, Mister Seeley, lay close. Helm to north-north-east.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Seeley moved to the fore rail of the quarterdeck and shouted a string of commands, the crew responding swiftly as thousands of hours of sail-craft guided them. Robert took a moment to observe Seeley’s handling of the manoeuvre. Sailing a square-rigged ship close-hauled was a delicate task, requiring a touch that could not be taught or imitated. It was an intuitive ability, granted only to the best sailing masters and Robert nodded with satisfaction as Seeley quickly struck the perfect balance between wind and sail.

He turned his attention to the gap between the enemy’s landward wing and the coastline. At the leading edge of the Isle of Portland was the headland, Portland Bill, but beyond that, some three miles to the south-east and below the surface of the sea was a sandbank known as The Shambles.

‘Captain,’ Miller called. ‘The Ark Royal is coming about.’

Robert looked to the distant flagship. Howard had come to the same conclusion and the ships closest to the Ark Royal were already falling into her wake as it turned to outflank the enemy. Half a dozen ships closer inshore, including the Retribution, had pre-empted Howard’s command. The Triumph was leading the pack, Martin Frobisher’s 1,100 ton galleon, the largest in the English fleet. Robert called for Seeley to bring the Retribution up closer to Frobisher’s galleon.

Evardo felt his spirits soar as the squall of cannon fire erupted. There would be no escape for the English. Through the gathering clouds of gun smoke half a mile away he tried to see whether any of the English ships had finally been boarded in the close quarter fighting.

Thirty minutes before almost every fighting ship of the Armada had turned simultaneously north-north-west to cut off the enemy’s attempt to outflank the Armada to landward. Most of the English ships, and Evardo recognized their flagship amongst them, had quickly gone about to opposite tack, reversing their tactic by trying to force the seaward flank. With the wind to command the galleons and Levanters of de Leiva and de Bertendona had cut across their path and were now heavily engaged with the enemy.