Armada. John Stack
Robert leaned into the turn as the Retribution came full about, beginning anew a figure-of-eight as it held station at the periphery of the melee. The galleon was flanked by the other larger ships of the English fleet, creating a partial blockade of the upper harbour while the smaller vessels, their crews complemented by additional men from the galleons, wreaked havoc amongst the tightly packed remnants of the Spanish supply fleet. There were over forty ships of every hue, from Spain and all her major allies and dominions, an unprecedented bounty on which the English crews continued to feed. Their appetite was insatiable even after hours of plunder, yet there were ships closer to the centre of the formation that were still untouched.
The evening was foreshortened by a false horizon of clouds to the west behind which the sun had already fallen and the sky was rapidly darkening. Robert took his gaze from the pillage to look to the harbour mouth. The fort of Cadiz was firing its cannon sporadically. It was a futile gesture of defiance, a hollow warning against attacking the meagre flotilla of supply ships that had sought refuge there. Across the mouth, the Spanish galleys that had been driven off earlier had re-emerged from the refuge of shallow water but seemed unwilling to advance once more into the fray.
Robert turned his attention to the chaotic scene of the supply fleet once more. He smiled. The prize from such an attack would be substantial and as the master of a galleon his share could well be in excess of a year’s pay on board his own ship, the Spirit. Drake’s unorthodox change in the established plan had been inspirational, for without supplies the Spanish war fleet in Lisbon were hamstrung and Robert whispered a prayer of thanks. England would surely be spared the threat of invasion for another season.
‘The wages of sin is death sayeth the Lord,’ Robert heard and he turned to see Seeley approach, his face twisted in a malicious grin. ‘Today, with His guiding hand, we have shown the papists that they are not safe from our wrath anywhere, on the Main, in the Atlantic and now in their own home waters.’
Robert nodded, sharing that joy, although he felt a thread of unease as he looked at the younger man’s manic face, conscious that, to Seeley, the triumph of England took second place to the triumph of his faith.
‘Where is the Spy?’ the master’s mate asked.
‘Two hundred yards off the larboard beam,’ Robert replied, pointing to the English pinnace drawing away from a merchantman many times its size.
Captain Morgan had taken a hundred crewmen of the Retribution on board the Spy at the outset of the attack on the upper harbour and had thereafter ravaged at least a half-dozen vessels, boarding each with impunity, the watching guns of the galleons making the Spanish mindful only of their lives and not of their possessions. The pinnace turned towards the Retribution and Robert saw the captain signal to him from the fore deck of the Spy. The two ships drew alongside.
‘Mister Varian, man the longboat with twenty armed men and make haste to follow me to that galleon,’ Morgan shouted with elation, pointing to the Spanish warship amidst the remaining untouched merchantmen, ‘I mean to take her and I want you to command the prize crew.’
‘Aye, Captain,’ Robert replied with gusto. ‘Coxswain to the main! Launch the boat!’
Robert looked to the Spanish galleon. There were men on the quarter- and poop decks. They were motionless and Robert paused, his brow creasing in puzzlement. The Spanish crew’s attitude was completely at odds with the pandemonium on board the surrounding Spanish ships. He quickly dismissed his hesitation. The only other Spanish galleon in the upper harbour had fallen in the opening minutes of the battle without a shot fired and Robert could only assume the Spaniards he could see were merely resigned to that same fate, knowing there was no escape.
The longboat was launched and Robert followed the last of twenty men down the rope ladder, taking station at the stern.
‘Lay on, boys,’ the coxswain shouted and the boat drew away under oars.
The Spy was already weaving its way towards the Spanish galleon but Robert ordered the coxswain not to follow. The smaller size of his boat allowed them to take a more direct route and they kept pace with the approach of the faster pinnace. The Spanish galleon towered over them as the longboat drew closer. Robert kept his gaze locked on the Spaniards he could see and the muzzles of the cannons on the gun and main decks. The coxswain deftly altered the course of the boat to spoil any aim as the cover from the surrounding boats fell away. Robert felt uneasy, not only because they were exposed under enemy guns, but again because the Spanish crew, although they had no weapons in hand, seemed strangely unperturbed by the approach of the longboat and pinnace.
The longboat was twenty yards from the galleon when the Spy swept in across its course. Morgan brought the starboard of the pinnace up against the hull of the galleon below the main deck and ordered the crew to lash on before leading them aboard. Robert brought the longboat up against the larboard of the Spy. He and his men boarded and crossed the deck of the pinnace. They drew their swords as they did so while others nursed the flames on the slow match of their arquebuses.
Robert glanced at the aft decks of the galleon and noticed that the Spaniards there had disappeared. Ahead of him Morgan and more than twenty men were already on the main deck, with more clambering up to join them, their infectious enthusiasm for such an easy prize spurring them on. The men of the longboat joined the back of the push, each man eager to get aboard and find some part of the plunder they could claim as their own. Robert’s misgivings were lost in the rush and he led his men in their calls to those in front to hasten their step while all the while the Spanish guns remained quiet.
Evardo tried to quell the blood lust in his veins as he held his men in check. Their hunger for the order to charge was a palpable force in the confines of the enclosed main deck under the quarter. He looked out through a chink in the door. The English were fanning out across the main deck. Thirty men, now forty, their weapons drawn but loosely held. The enemy were still thrilled by the ease of their boarding but Evardo knew it would not last. Their wits were sure to return and they would soon question the deserted decks. He looked to the man leading the English, studying his expression.
Evardo drew up his hand and the two gunners stepped forward, smouldering linstocks in their hands. When the English began their attack on the outer edges of the fleet hours before Evardo had begun his own preparations for the defence of the Halcón. The crew had hauled two medio cañónes from their positions at the stern end of the main deck and brought them forward to behind the doors leading to the open main deck, lashing them to new mountings in the bulkhead. They were loaded with grapeshot and the crew now stood poised behind them, their weapons drawn, their eyes locked on their captain.
Evardo looked at Abrahan and the older man nodded. They were ready. He set his gaze on the English captain one last time and then backed away from the door to stand between the cannons. The grapeshot would splinter the door into a thousand pieces, adding to the carnage. He glanced at the two gunners and then slowly drew his own sword. The blade rasped against the mouth of the scabbard. He drew in a breath, summoning up the depths of his will to banish the English from his deck and let fly his command with a roar that gave vent to the fury of his soul.
‘¡Fuego!’
The firestorm consumed the Englishmen closest to the door in a hail of iron and timber. The grapeshot ripped through their flesh to fly onwards to the men behind and the air was whipped by the passing of a thousand missiles as the thunderous roar of the cannons and billowing smoke overwhelmed the main deck. The cannonade slaughtered twenty men, obliterating them at a stroke, while twice that number fell with shattered limbs and torn flesh, and the deafening blast was echoed by the screams of dying men.
Robert was blown to the deck, the men around him falling like sheaves under the sickle as the shock wave blasted over them. The air was rent from Robert’s lungs and a cry of pain caught in his throat as a shard of bone pierced his left arm. He stumbled up and reached out for the bulwark he had cleared only moments before at the head of his men. He was surrounded by turmoil. The uninjured stood dazed while underfoot the injured screamed on the blood-soaked deck.
The smoke began to