Armada

The only hope the English had of carrying the battle was to blast the Spaniards out of the water. Any closer contact could only end in defeat. But how to find that balance, Robert wondered, glancing over his shoulder at the seemingly ineffectual attack they had just unleashed on the seaward flank. Too far away and their shot did not have enough power to inflict serious damage, too close and they ran the risk of being grappled and boarded.

The boom of gunfire ahead caught Robert’s attention and he went back to the quarterdeck as Howard’s Ark Royal engaged the landward wing. He glanced over the side. The cannons of the starboard broadside were reappearing, fully loaded and ready to fire again.

‘Quarterdeck, ho. Enemy redeploying!’

The ships of the Spanish wing began breaking ranks, turning independently in the face of the English attack.

‘They’re attempting to close?’ Seeley was unable to discern the enemy’s intention.

‘No,’ Robert’s pulse quickened. ‘They’re running. They’re retreating to the centre.’

The solid coherent posture of the landward wing disintegrated in the time it took the Retribution to cover a dozen ship-lengths. Only one Spanish ship remained on station, one ship that did not run but rather turned her broadside to the enemy. It was a sight to see, a single enemy vessel facing down the extended English attack from two sides, but Robert’s command instincts overrode any semblance of admiration. The isolated Spanish ship was vulnerable and for the first time there was a chance to draw real blood.

‘¡Cobardes!’ Evardo cursed in shame, the appalling sight of his countrymen fleeing before the enemy forcing foul-tasting bile to the back of his throat. He spat over the side. The English ships were clouded with gun smoke, the boom of their cannons a continuous roll of thunder across the two miles of open water between the wings. They were holding their attack line, not turning in to pursue the fleeing Spanish ships. Evardo felt his chest constrict as he saw the reason. A single ship was holding them at bay, a massive galleon that was now the eye of the fire storm. Evardo shouted up to the masthead to identify the ship.

‘I think it’s the San Juan, Comandante.’

‘Juan Martínez de Recalde’s command,’ Mendez said close at hand.

‘Abrahan’s ship,’ Evardo whispered in reply.

The lookout called down once more from the masthead, this time to direct Evardo’s attention to the centre of the crescent. De Moncada’s four galleasses had left their station and were advancing rapidly against the wind to the aid of the San Juan. Two feluccas had also detached and were heading for the vanguard wing. The lead felucca quickly tacked to de Leiva’s La Rata Encoronada, remaining there for only a moment. As it pulled away from the command ship the La Rata came about to sail beam reach across the mouth of the crescent. Evardo watched the other felucca approach the Santa Clara with mounting expectation.

‘The Duke’s compliments, Comandante,’ the captain of the felucca called as it sailed past. ‘You are given leave to break formation and sail to the San Juan’s assistance.’

Evardo spun around and began shouting commands before the end of the message was delivered. The Santa Clara heeled hard over as the felucca sailed on to deliver Medina Sidonia’s order to the other warships of the vanguard.

The Santa Clara fell into the wake of de Leiva’s massive carrack, quickly closing the initial gap and overtaking her on the lee. A dozen other ships had detached from the vanguard wing and they sailed swiftly with the wind abeam as Moncada’s galleasses closed in on the intense fighting around the San Juan. Evardo went to the fo’c’sle. Less than a mile away, the San Juan was enveloped in gun smoke. The noise of cannon fire was all consuming, making it almost impossible to think. The sound filled Evardo’s mind, fuelling his aggression and cutting all threads of restraint and reason. Abrahan was in danger, the San Juan was in peril and with a galleon to command Evardo knew that God was giving him his first opportunity to regain his reputation.

He turned to go back to the quarterdeck when a sudden concern made him go below to the gun deck. The English were still firing at the San Juan from a distance. Even with their initial overwhelming numbers, they had not closed to board the isolated galleon and it was clear the enemy were hell bent on destroying the San Juan with cannon fire alone. Until they gained the advantage of the weather gauge the Santa Clara and every other Spanish sailing warship would have to fight using English tactics and return fire with fire.