Armada

He looked to his sword. The blade had been snapped off half-way along its length and he let it fall from his hand. He picked up a discarded arquebus and checked the priming. It was loaded and he took the place of a fallen soldier in the front line. He raised the weapon and pointed it at the Retribution. The heaving deck and choking smoke made accuracy impossible and he lowered his head against the flash as he pulled the trigger. The arquebus bucked against the middle of his chest, a solid punch and Evardo roared a guttural curse at the English warship as he tossed the weapon aside.

The rate of fire fell away as the Retribution sailed beyond the starboard bow. Evardo spat the last of the bile from his mouth and stepped back from the gunwale. The roar of battle gave way to the wailing of the injured. Men were shouting on all sides, rushing to bring more ammunition aloft and take the wounded below. The lines reformed at the gunwales while the last of the 2 and 3 pound shot were loaded into the falcon pedreros and falconetes.

Mendez called for the sails to be shortened further. He was bleeding heavily from a shoulder wound, the blood dripping from his limp arm, staining the side of his breeches. Evardo stood beside him and watched as the sailors followed the captain’s command, their task made almost impossible by the damaged sheets. They had little time. Beyond the bow the Retribution was making ready to attack again.

‘Bear away. Prepare to come about on Larkin’s command!’ Robert ordered.

The Retribution turned neatly through the wind, bearing away to gain sea room. On all sides the battle raged, the Armada struggling desperately against wind and fire, the English sustaining the pressure, giving no quarter, England to their backs and the fate of the realm in their hands.

The Retribution came full about with the Santa Clara four hundred yards off her larboard bow. The carriages trundled across the deck, the gunners hauling on the loaded guns, the black barrels thrusting out through the ports beyond the muzzle rings. Seeley steadied the helm and the wind stretched the canvas to its limits. The galleon shot forward. Seeley struggled to hold their course, the rising sea battering the hull and rudder, constantly threatening to turn their keel off true.

The Retribution came broadside to the Santa Clara, thirty yards off her beam. The four guns of the larboard battery fired almost as one, their shot flying over the main deck of the Spanish ship as it dipped into the trough of a massive swell. The smoke of small arms erupted and was whipped away by the breeze. Men shouted war cries from both sides, their voices hollowed by the wind, their battle lust waning, leaving only hatred for an enemy they could not defeat.

Robert saw the Spanish commander on the opposing quarterdeck.

‘Morales!’

His voice carried clearly above the dwindling noise of battle and Evardo spun around. They stared at each other across thirty yards of angry sea as their galleons raced onwards. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Neither one of them had been victorious. Both lived in defiance of the other and bound by an unbreakable connection, forged by war, they would be enemies forever.

A call rang out from the mast head of the Retribution. Robert turned. A massive Spanish galleon was approaching off the bow and Seeley quickly bore away, widening the gap between the two ships. Robert looked back to Morales but the change in course had obscured his view and the Spaniard was lost from sight. The Retribution came back to windward. The larger Spanish galleon sailed in to lay aboard of the Santa Clara, shielding her from further attacks. With grim resignation Robert ordered Seeley to heave to.

Heavy squalls rolled in from the north-west and across the width of the Armada the English fleet began to disengage and draw away. The shot lockers of almost every fighting ship were empty. There was nothing more the English fleet could do. Although they continued to shadow the Spaniards they soon lost sight of the Armada in the squalls. They had fought to their last round. Now the outcome was in the hands of the Almighty. The north-westerly picked up even greater strength, forcing the Armada ever onwards towards the Bank of Flanders. For the Spaniards the day had not yet ended, but for the English, the Battle of Gravelines was over.

CHAPTER 21

9 a.m. 9th August 1588. The Banks of Flanders.

All around Evardo men fell to their knees, praising God on high. Padre Garza led them in prayer, intoning a benediction, and they responded fervently, their hands clasped tightly, their smiling faces lifted to the grey heavens.