Armada

Two lookouts and musketeers were stationed there and they moved aside to allow their captain to climb atop the head of the main course. Robert took a grip on the main mast and felt a tremor run through it as the heavy guns of his ship were fired on the decks. He steadied his feet and looked to larboard, the clearer air affording him his first view of the Spanish galleons since the Retribution had fired its broadside.

The enemy ships were two hundred yards off the beam. With no wind their masthead banners hung limp, frustrating any attempt to identify them from such a distance. The smaller galleon was to the fore while behind her the heavier warship was engaged with the English ships that had attacked from the opposing flank. It was the closest that the Retribution had engaged any enemy ship so far and Robert could immediately see the effects the shorter range was having on the Spanish galleons. Their courses were shot through in dozens of places, with rigging and tackles hanging like gallows’ ropes from the stays. The upper decks were heavily damaged, with railings and superficial fittings shot away in several places. Robert counted a score of hits in the hull, although it seemed none had penetrated.

As the first ship to engage, along with the Victory, the Retribution had the most advantageous firing position. Sitting stationary in the water, she was still tethered to the ship’s longboat and two coasters, with Seeley and Miller in constant communication with the coxswain, ensuring that no trick of current turned the galleon’s hull off true. From the distinctive boom of the heaviest guns, Robert estimated Larkin’s men were averaging a rate of just under twenty minutes a shot from the larboard battery.

Despite the range and intensity of this fearsome barrage the gunwales of the Spanish galleons were heavily lined with soldiers. Their swords were drawn, their mouths open in grotesque masks of anger, their taunts and curses lost by language and the almost constant roar of cannon fire. Robert lifted his gaze to the men directly across from him on the fighting tops of the nearest Spanish galleon. Each one was crammed with musketeers, loading and firing as quickly as they could in the confined space of the tops.

Robert saw one of them turn his musket towards him, the sweep of the barrel changing to the black circle of a muzzle as the soldier took aim. The Spaniard fired, disappearing behind a puff of smoke. At two hundred yards he was well beyond effective range. In the continuous whine of passing shot he briefly wondered where the bullet meant for him had struck. The smoke around the Spaniard’s head cleared and he lowered his gun to see the result of his shot, his face twisting in fury as he discovered he had missed. He raised his fist and screamed some obscenity, his voice lost in the din of battle.

Robert did not respond, glancing instead at the two musketeers beside him. They too were taking pot shots at the enemy galleons but it was obvious from their frustrated expressions that they were not hitting any targets. Robert looked down at the eerie cloud of gun smoke that enveloped his ship. At two hundred yards his cannon were firing at half the distance they had engaged at on the first day. But it was not close enough. The Spanish crew of the nearest warship was being badly mauled by the larboard broadsides. There were wounded and dying on every open deck, but the galleon itself had suffered no heavy damage. Robert let go of the mainmast and readied himself to climb down. If they were going to destroy the enemy galleon they were going to have to get a lot closer.

The noise on the Santa Clara was like the opened gates of hell, a terrible clamour of tormented screams and war cries, of shouted orders amidst the boom and whine of gun fire. Shot, dice and bullets saturated the air, giving little sanctuary to those on the weather decks. Underfoot the timbers ran with fresh blood. Smoke filled every throat, searing the eyes and flooding the nostrils with a scorched smell that barely masked the odour of torn flesh and rank sweat. Battle lust filled every heart, suppressing the instinct to yield, creating a trance-like courage that kept every man at his post through the endless hail of fire.

Evardo thought his heart would burst. Frustration and anger consumed him. The God-cursed motherless English were not closing to board. The enemy had overwhelming numbers, the San Luís and Santa Clara were isolated. If the tables were reversed a Spaniard would not hesitate to grapple on and take the prize. Yet the English were persisting with their infernal tactics, firing their cannon at a rate that beggared belief.