Armada

‘What is it?’

‘The wind, Comandante,’ the captain replied, alarm registering in his voice and expression. ‘It’s shifting.’

Evardo’s gaze shot up to the masthead. The banners were thrashing in the breeze but they were no longer pointing away from the north-east. They had spun around to the call of a new wind, a stiff southerly breeze that mocked Evardo even as he watched it take hold of the sails.

In his heart Evardo knew it was God’s punishment. He had lost patience with the Armada. He had granted them a favourable wind, a divine force to allow them to bring the fight to the enemy, only to see it squandered through uncertainty. Now He had given the weather gauge back to the English.

‘So be it,’ Evardo said quietly. Before the day was through he would prove that the Spanish were worthy of God’s favour.

‘Captain Mendez, bring us about.’

‘Si, mi Comandante,’ Mendez replied, seeing in his superior’s face the ferocity he had witnessed when he ordered the Santa Clara into the breech before the San Juan.

Robert wiped the sea spray from his face, his hand lingering over his mouth as he tasted the salt water, his nostrils filled with the smell of the sea-borne breeze. He was standing on the bowsprit, leaning out over the surging bow, his hand tightly gripping a foremast stay. To windward the English fleet was redeploying, taking immediate advantage of the weather gauge, their earlier fighting withdrawal swiftly becoming a vigorous counter attack.

From the moment the wind had changed the flotilla around the Triumph had headed away from Portland Bill to link up with the main body of the fleet. Howard had set a convergent course with Frobisher’s cohort, but only those galleons closest to the Ark Royal had taken their lead from the admiral. Further south Drake, in the gaudily painted Revenge, was attacking the Spanish seaward flank with upwards of fifty English ships.

The Retribution was sailing close-reach to the southerly wind. Howard’s centre was directly ahead but over a dozen enemy warships were beating towards the Ark Royal in an obvious effort to oppose Howard’s course. Robert quickly assessed the situation. The English had the weather gauge but the Spanish were desperately trying to retain the initiative.

‘Let them try,’ Robert muttered as he left the bowsprit. He ordered Seeley to maintain their heading, a course that would take them right into the developing storm of battle in the centre.

‘Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis,’ Evardo whispered in awe as he watched the San Martín sail into the maw of the English centre, the deafening roar of enemy cannon shaking the very heavens as the flagship was consumed by a cloud of gun smoke that concealed the terrifying conditions within. The Santa Clara was beating against the wind, trying to claw its way back into a battle that had little shape and strategy. Like bare-knuckle prize fighters each side was pummelling away at each other, searching for weaknesses that could be exploited.

To the south-west the seaward flank of the Armada was being hard pressed. Medina Sidonia had engaged the English centre. The duke had evidently decided that the seaward flank was in greater danger and several warships bore away from the San Martín to sail in support of the rearguard. Now the duke was alone in his attack. Evardo shouted to Mendez to lay on more sail and speed their approach.

‘Bear away!’ Robert roared above the thunderous thump of cannon and the concussive sound of musket fire.

The air around the quarterdeck was alive with the sounds of passing shot, an invisible predator that gave no warning to those it took. Robert’s eyes were everywhere at once. The Retribution was one of a cadre of galleons supporting Howard in his attack on the Spanish flagship, their close formation sailing testing every master’s skill as the galleons wove in and out of each other’s wakes, laying on their fire in turn upon the Spanish foe, before sailing upwind to reload their guns and returning to the fray.

The enemy flagship was almost invisible in the gun smoke, the cannons’ disgorgement holding sway over the breeze that tried in vain to clear the air. Only the muzzle blasts of heavy Spanish weapons could be seen, fiery sparks spurting out of the gloom as the enemy answered defiantly to every attack run.

‘Quart—ho!—off—quarter!’

Robert was unable to comprehend the lookout’s call above the din of battle but he followed his outstretched hand and saw a second enemy warship emerge off the bow of the Spanish flagship. She was a behemoth, a towering merchantman, her decks crammed with soldiers. She erupted in smoke, firing off a single broadside that sliced through the rigging of the Elizabeth Jonas not thirty yards off the Retribution’s bow.

‘Mister Miller, orders to the Master Gunner; new target off the flagship’s bow. Mister Seeley, steady as she goes. Look to your helm.’