Armada

Sunlight pierced the remnants of the cloud of gun smoke and Robert shielded his eyes as he finally spied the outlines of the approaching reinforcements. They were on course for the heart of the fray and were poised to split open the becalmed English flotilla. The heavy bow chasers of the galleasses would wreak terrible carnage at close range but Robert was more fearful of the leviathan one of them had in tow. The carrack was undoubtedly crammed with soldiers who would quickly overwhelm any English crew in a boarding attack. Furthermore a ship that size could be carrying cannon serpentines and royals, massive guns firing shots of over 50 pounds that would smash through the timbers of even the strongest hulls.

For the first time since the battle began Robert didn’t know what he should do and for precious seconds both his reason and courage floundered. So close to the attack and the advance of the reinforcements, the Retribution was best placed to counter the threat, but no single English galleon was a match for a Spanish galleass or a carrack of that size. Only the combined firepower of a score of galleons would divert such a force. Robert was paralysed by doubt. Despite Howard’s new squadrons, the English captains were used to fighting as individuals. There was no guarantee that if the Retribution stood to face the Spanish reinforcements she would be joined by others in time to form an effective defence. Alone, his ship would be overrun.

Many of the ships in the thick of the fight seemed oblivious to the approaching danger. Others in the flotilla were coming about but with only their own longboats to tow them, their progress was extremely slow. Robert felt his resolve harden. With three boats towing his ship he had the advantage and the imperative. He turned to the enemy. If he hoped to deter the Spaniards from pressing home their attack he knew he had to bring as many guns to bear as possible.

‘Mister Miller,’ Robert shouted, swallowing the last of his fears. ‘Orders to Mister Larkin; tell him to bow the broadside guns. Mister Seeley, order the coxswain to bring the prow about and then strike the tow lines. We make our stand here!’

The Retribution quickly completed her turn in the calm waters, her bow coming about to point directly at the oncoming galleasses. The guns of both broadsides had been run out and bowed, their muzzles turned as far forward as possible. Five hundred yards away the Spanish galleasses swept onwards, their blood red oars propelling them across the surface. Robert closed his mind to the fight over his shoulder; the English cannonade that continued to batter the two wretched Spanish galleons. He focused on the oncoming ships and prayed for the strength to endure. His fate and that of his crew were now firmly in the hands of God and the other captains of the English fleet.

The galleasses surged across the surface, their rams furrowing through the swell, creating a bow wave that swept along the length of their hulls. Their massive oars glided through the water, devouring the strength of some nine hundred slaves, their backs straightening through the draw. The gap quickly fell to four hundred yards.

‘Steady, boys,’ Robert shouted, his call echoed by every officer.

The Retribution was a warship built for speed and manoeuvrability, with a massive, complex rig that readily consumed the labour of its sailing crew when the ship was in motion. Becalmed, the majority of the crew were deprived of the frantic duty that would see them through battle and they could do nothing but watch the approaching enemy in silence.

Suddenly Larkin let fly with the bow chasers and the crew roared in response, a release that put courage into the heart of every man. Only Robert remained silent, his gaze locked on the centre galleass. Her six bow chasers were run out, the pitch-black muzzles falling and rising with the swoop of the bow. Robert could almost see the Spaniards behind the long barrels, the smouldering flame on their linstocks poised above the touchholes and as the oars of the galleass propelled her through the upswing the cannons fired in a blaze of fiery smoke.

The volley of iron shot struck a terrifying blow, each ball tearing a bloody path across the decks of the Retribution. The timbers of the superstructure exploded, propelling razor sharp splinters in every direction that shredded the courses and riggings. The hull boomed with the strike of a massive round, a 50 pound ball from a cañón de batir that ripped across the fo’c’sle, blasting a saker from its mounting, obliterating its gun crew.