Читать книгу Armada - John Stack - Страница 8

29th April 1587. Cadiz, Spain.

Don Pedro de Acuña paced the aft deck of the Asuncion, the command galley of a flotilla of nine anchored in the lee of Cadiz. He walked with his arms folded behind his back and his foot traced a line in the timbers of the deck. He was a short man, with a solid frame and his shoulders swayed in time with the gentle roll of the deck beneath him. De Acuña glanced up at the city as he made his turn at the portside bulwark, his mind drifting back to the meal in the governor’s house the evening before and the company thereafter. A smile crept onto his face as he pictured the youthful beauty who had shared his bed.

The wind ebbed for a moment and de Acuña’s nose wrinkled at the stench from the galley slaves. There were 144 of them chained to their oars on the open main deck. De Acuña looked upon them with disgust. They sat languidly at their oars, their heads bowed in silence with only the occasional rasping cough emanating from their ranks. They were condemned men, sentenced to serve at the oars of the Asuncion at the King’s pleasure and de Acuña thought again of how welcome the governor’s house would be after the confines of the galley.

The day on board his command ship had been like any other over the previous month; long and tedious, but thankfully it was coming to an end. The sun was already dropping at pace towards the western horizon behind El Puerto de Santa Maria on the far side of the harbour mouth. He looked to the supply fleet anchored a mile further up the harbour, their individual hulls and masts indistinguishable save for the 1,000 ton Genoese merchantman and one of a pair of galleons he knew to be amongst them, its high castles silhouetted against the evening sky.

De Acuña’s gaze remained fixed on the distant galleon, a magnificent evolving breed of ship so different to the aged galleys of his command. At Lepanto the galley had reigned supreme but now they were rapidly becoming obsolete in an age where warships were not only measured by the number of men and cannon they could carry, but also how far they could project that power. The sturdy ocean-going galleons had pushed the borders of the Spanish Empire to the four corners of the globe but its success had left ships such as the Asuncion languishing in home waters, relegated to guarding merchants and victuallers, a loathsome task for the once noble galley and its comandante.

‘Ships approaching bearing north-west,’ a lookout called and de Acuña spun around to look beyond the harbour mouth and the tip of the headland of Cadiz. A fleet of sail were strung out across the sea lane to the harbour, their number difficult to gauge. De Acuña smiled. Juan Martínez de Recalde’s squadron, he thought to himself. Their arrival from the Bay of Biscay was long overdue. He called the galley’s captain to his side.

‘Signal the El Gato. Tell them to come alongside,’ he ordered and the captain called to the patache, a small sailing ship attending the galleys.

The El Gato tacked swiftly into position and de Acuña transhipped onto the nimble craft, ignoring the salute of its captain as he ordered him to make haste to the edge of the harbour mouth. De Acuña wanted to welcome the commander of the Biscayan squadron personally, knowing how influential and powerful de Recalde was. As the El Gato swung away, de Acuña made his way to the foredeck, his eyes searching for de Recalde’s flagship, the Santa Ana, a magnificent 760 ton galleon that had been launched only the year before.

The oncoming ships bore on, now less than a mile away, and de Acuña’s eyes narrowed as he noticed for the first time that none of them had their masthead banners unfurled. He scanned the broad front of the squadron, searching again for the flagship, but the galleon in the van looked unlike any he had seen before. He felt a slight chill of unease but quickly dismissed it, angry at his sudden nervousness. The Santa Ana could be sailing at the rear of the squadron, or might even have disengaged at Lisbon.

De Acuña kept his attention on the lead galley. Its decks were frantic with activity and its sails remained unfurled although the harbour mouth was almost upon them. The gap fell to four hundred yards and de Acuña could now make out individual figures on the fo’c’sle. His eyes narrowed against the wind as he tried to focus, unease creeping up his spine once more. They were spaced out along the gunwale and seemed to be…muskets! They were carrying muskets!

‘Bear away!’ de Acuña shouted and he gazed in horror as an eruption of smoke burst forth from the bow chasers of the galleon, followed a heartbeat later by the boom of cannon.

The sea in front of the El Gato exploded and water flew up in a torrential spray. The salvo fell mercifully short and the patache heeled over into the turn, its nimble hull, under a full press of canvas, sailing swiftly out of the path of the incoming ships. De Acuña counted the number of enemy ships, his anger at the deviousness of the surprise attack overriding his alarm that such a powerful fleet was arrayed against him. For a moment he wondered who they could be, but he realized quickly there was no other foe who would dare to attack one of the greatest ports in Spain. The galleons were English!

He looked to his galleys. They had already slipped their anchors and the finely balanced vessels were quickly coming up to their attack speed. He called to the captain to steer an intercept course to the Asuncion, eager to take command of the flotilla, knowing that every passing minute was one lost to the enemy, and he swiftly made the aft deck of his galley.

‘Signal the squadron to form rank and present their bows to the enemy. We must try to hold the line here at the harbour mouth.’

The crew of the Asuncion responded with alacrity while all around the other galleys separated to gain sea room, turning to bring their two fore mounted, preloaded, medio cañónes to bear.

De Acuña watched his squadron manoeuvre with pride, their movements precise and controlled although they were facing an enemy many times their superior in both number and firepower. The archaic strength of a galley to ram and board could only be used against becalmed galleons, not those with the wind to command. His squadron were following his orders without question, but de Acuña realized that before his ships had fired even a single shot, they were doomed to fight a losing battle.

Evardo heard the cannon’s report a mile away. Its sound was muted by distance and he looked to the mouth of the harbour. A fleet of sailing ships was on the cusp of entering. The welcoming salvo marked them as de Recalde’s squadron but Evardo noticed with curiosity that they were sailing under a full press of canvas, a seemingly unwise approach at speed into the confines of the harbour mouth.

‘Why such haste?’ Abrahan asked, echoing Evardo’s thoughts.

‘Perhaps he is carrying orders of some import,’ he suggested, seeing in Abrahan’s expression the same doubt he felt himself. He looked back to the harbour mouth, his gaze sweeping its breadth.

‘De Acuña’s galleys,’ he breathed, noticing their changing aspect, ‘they’re sallying out to intercept the fleet.’

Evardo hesitated for a moment longer.

‘Clear for action,’ he roared, walking swiftly to the centre of the quarterdeck. ‘Raise the anchor. Hoist top gallants and mizzen.’

The crew of the Halcón sprung into action. The men spilled out from below decks to take to the shrouds while below the capstan of the anchor rope began to turn under the strident commands of a deck officer.

Evardo looked to Abrahan and the older man nodded in tacit agreement of the call to arms. Suddenly the air was rent with the distant sound of cannon fire, its intensity ending all doubt. Many of the crew of the Halcón froze and looked to the harbour mouth.

‘As you were!’ Evardo roared, the crew reacting to the whip crack of his command. He looked aloft. ‘Masthead, report!’

‘At least a dozen warships, galleons,’ the lookout called, ‘with smaller sail to the rear.’

‘What flag?’ Evardo shouted.

‘I see none, Comandante.’

‘And de Acuña’s galleys?’

‘They are fanning out in front of the attackers to close the harbour mouth.’

Evardo looked to the distant fight. ‘Que coraje,’ he whispered, his chest filling with pride for de Acuña’s forlorn daring.

The Halcón pressed forward slightly as the first sails took the light wind, the galleon coming up short against the anchor rope until the flukes gave way. The crew hauled in the remaining line.

‘Shall I call for topsails and courses, Comandante?’ the ship’s captain asked as Evardo looked to the waters surrounding the Halcón. The supply ships on all sides were already slipping their anchor cables in panic, raising their sails oblivious to the proximity of the other boats around them.

‘Hoist no more sail until we clear these other boats,’ Evardo replied, cursing his lack of foresight in not placing the Halcón in more open water.

The galleon came up to steerage speed and Evardo watched the sea ahead as the captain called out his orders to the helmsman, the two men working together to try to thread the Halcón through the heaving labyrinth of ship infested waters. A sudden crash caused Evardo to spin around and he stared in anger at a collision between two merchantmen. The crews were calling across at each other in futile rage, while underneath, Evardo could feel the panic beginning to envelop the hapless supply fleet. He looked ahead once more at the ships cutting loose across the path of the Halcón, realizing with dread that they were all but trapped.

‘Bring the larboard broadside to bear, Mister Varian.’

‘Hard to larboard,’ Robert shouted to the captain’s command and the Retribution turned tightly to starboard, presenting its port broadside to the Spanish galleys. On the gun deck beneath the main, Larkin, the master-gunner, waited patiently for the galleon to settle on its new course. He called out for the gun crews to stand ready. They stood with their linstocks poised. A bead of smoke trailed from each slow match.

Larkin, a bull of a man with hands blackened from his trade, had trained the crews relentlessly. On the gun deck he was in direct command of the most powerful weapons on the Retribution, two demi-culverins, eight culverins, and two cannon-pedros chasers both fore and aft that could hurl a 24 pound iron shot. On the main deck above he was ably seconded by the gunner’s mate, Peters, who had under his charge a further two demi-culverins, eight lighter sakers and eight man-killing falcons.

The Retribution completed the turn and Larkin stared out the foremost gun port to the squadron of Spanish galleys. Their bow mounted guns were firing intermittently, creating a cloud of smoke which compromised Larkin’s aim but with an experienced eye he pictured the outlines of his prey beyond the shroud. The outer galleys of the squadron passed before him and still he waited. The galleys surrounding the lead ship were more tightly packed.

‘Steady, boys,’ he shouted.

The Retribution swooped into the trough of a wave, its cutwater slicing up a spray of water. Larkin felt the recovery of the hull in the pit of his stomach, the beginning of the upswing as the galleon began its climb up the next swell. He took a half-breath.

‘Fire!’

As one, the linstocks fell on the touchholes of the guns. Larkin’s command was followed a heartbeat later by Peters’s on the main and the galleon bucked with the force of the double cannonade. The upper decks were engulfed in a blanket of gunpowder smoke and the deafening thunder of the broadside temporarily stunned the gun crews. The Retribution reeled but, like a prize fighter recovering from a blow that had winded but not wounded, the galleon quickly steadied.

Larkin was at once roaring at his crews, his throat and eyes burning from the foul smoke that filled the cramped gun deck. The men strained at the ropes to run in the four-wheeled carriages of their weapons and the pulleys squealed in protest as the guns, some of them weighing over 3,000 pounds, rolled across the deck. The crews’ discipline made them oblivious to the results of the first wave of fire they had unleashed upon an enemy. Every action counted down the time it would take them to ready their guns to fire again.

Cannon balls tore across the three hundred yards of open water towards the Asuncion and the galleys flanking her, striking even as the Spanish crews registered the eruption of smoke from the English galleon. De Acuña straightened his back and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his every instinct screaming at him to take cover, while his rank and honour commanded him to stand tall on the fore deck.

A brace of cannon balls whistled over his head, striking the rigging of the Asuncion. Another slammed into the mainmast and the timber disintegrated in a rain of splinters that tore through the ranks of rowers on the open decks, the arrow-like fragments piercing flesh and spirit, spreading blood and panic amongst the defenceless slaves. The heavier cannon-pedro balls struck the hull and oars. The iron shot did not pierce the oak timbers of the bow but the fifteen foot long oars were snapped clean and the recoil of the blow broke the hands and wrists of the slaves still holding their charge.

The Asuncion was a maelstrom of noise. The screams of the injured fuelled the chaos of the panicking slaves and they tore the flesh of their ankles as they fought against the shackles holding them fast. De Acuña closed his mind to the noise and fixed his attention on the formation of enemy galleons, watching as the next ship sailed into position to deliver a broadside. Around him the crew worked frantically to reload the medio cañónes, their single preloaded 20 pound shot long since expended.

After the opening salvo the leading English galleons had formed into a ragged line and had in turn presented their guns to his squadron of galleys with devastating results. The next galleon swinging into position would be the sixth to make its attack run and de Acuña looked to the galleys on his flanks, his nerve faltering at the sight. The scuppers of each ship ran red, as if the galleys themselves were bleeding from the terrible wounds the enemy cannon balls had inflicted. More than one had been dismasted while the closest galley to the Asuncion was listing badly, its crew working desperately to pump out the ceaseless tide of seawater.

De Acuña had known from the start the odds were impossibly stacked against him but he had nevertheless stood firm where others might have fled. Now that resolve was failing. The relentless cannonades of the enemy ships had pierced his courage, forcing him to accept his position was beyond hopeless and bordering on madness. He called the galley captain to his side.

‘Take the rowers in hand and signal the other galleys. We sail for El Puerto de Santa Maria.’

The captain nodded and was away. De Acuña turned back to the enemy formation, his gaze falling on the galleon reaching the zenith of its attack run. Its cannons were run out and the baleful black eyes of the muzzles tracked the galleys of his command before disappearing behind an explosion of gun smoke. The boom of cannon was followed by the dreadful whine of round shot tearing through the air. De Acuña’s squadron reeled once more under the hammer blow, unable to respond in kind, and as they turned towards the shelter of El Puerto de Santa Maria, de Acuña could only hope his stand had given the supply fleet time to disperse into the shallows of the upper harbour.

‘Hard to starboard! Make way!’ Evardo roared with impotent fury, but it was too late and he was thrown to the deck as the Halcón collided with the trading carrack that had cut under the bow of the galleon. The momentum of the larger warship bore her on, locking the two vessels together in a tighter embrace. The bowsprit of the Halcón snapped off in the rigging of the carrack and the galleon pitched violently as its hull ground along the starboard bow of the smaller ship before coming to rest in a tangle of shattered spars.

‘God curse them,’ Evardo raved as he stumbled to the gunwale to look out over the carnage.

The Halcón had been close to escape when the gunfire from the outer harbour had suddenly ceased. All eyes had turned to see the galleys of de Acuña disperse and the enemy ships advance towards the upper harbour. Many ships of the supply fleet had already fled into the confines of Puerto Real at the head of the upper harbour or were beating up the shallows to take shelter under the guns of the fort of Cadiz. The centre however was still in chaos, and when the enemy ships finally unfurled their banners to reveal themselves as English, the last threads of restraint had unravelled.

From that moment the remaining supply ships reversed their efforts to flee and instead sailed closer to the Halcón, seeking protection under her guns, believing perhaps that the English would not attack the formidable warship.

‘Take in the sails and make ready to come about,’ Evardo shouted. His eyes darted to each point of his galleon and beyond to the approaching English ships. ‘Capitán, send men forward with axes and cut us free.’

‘We cannot flee,’ a calm voice said. ‘You must make ready to defend the ship from boarders.’

Evardo spun around to Abrahan. His angry retort died on his lips as he absorbed the older man’s words.

‘We have only seventy-five men on board,’ he said, speaking aloud his concern and his reason for attempting to flee, ignoring the temptation to lament the absence of his soldiers.

‘Then you must find a way to tip the odds more in your favour,’ Abrahan replied, his relaxed tone giving Evardo strength and reason for patience. He looked to the men attacking the entangled rigging of the Halcón and realized that even if he succeeded in getting underway, the loss of the bowsprit and the sheer numbers of English galleons would make his capture inevitable. He needed time. De Recalde’s squadron was overdue and might only be hours away. Or perhaps word was already sweeping inland of the attack and reinforcements could soon be on hand. Either way Abrahan was right; his only option was to make a stand.

He quickly assessed his own position, reversing his role so as to view the fight from the English side. Their galleons would not be able to approach the Halcón through such crowded waters, not without risking collision. They were also unlikely to fire upon the Halcón, viewing her as a prize, and Evardo’s face twisted in contempt as he contemplated such a fate for his ship. He concluded the enemy would therefore advance with boarding parties in smaller boats. The guns of the Halcón were preloaded, ready to deliver a single powerful broadside against an enemy galleon, but these guns, ranged over allied ships, would have unpredictable success against small nimble enemy boats. The only guns of value would be the falconete swivel guns but there were too few of these.

The English would board, Evardo now accepted that as inevitable, but with Abrahan’s help, he could manipulate where that attack would take place. He smiled coldly, now seeing the battle to come from his own side, knowing what he must do to secure his ship. The English would attack, but instead of repelling them he would draw them in. He would allow them a foothold on his deck, let them board in numbers, and then unleash on them a blaze of hellfire to drive them back into the sea. The Halcón would not fall without a fight.

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 clear and Robert looked for the captain, seeing for the first time the massacre that was once the front ranks. Morgan was gone and in the sight of such callous butchery Robert felt a rage unleash within him that he had never before experienced. He felt the hilt of his sword in his hand, a part of his mind wondering how he had held onto it. He tightened his grip.

A sudden visceral war cry cut through the air and Robert turned to see the Spanish rush from the gaping wounds in the bulkhead behind which the cannons still smouldered. They surged forward, a second storm of fire, and Robert saw the men around him take a step back, the wounded calling for their comrades to gather them up as panic began to engulf the English. He stepped forward. The deck upon which he stood had already been paid for with English blood. It was theirs. He raised his sword above his head.

‘Stand fast, Retribution!’ he roared and charged forward towards the Spanish.

The uninjured men to his flanks and those yet to board were temporarily stunned by the sudden call. For a moment their flight was checked. Shaw, the boatswain, was first to react, seeing the man who had saved him rush towards the enemy. He followed without hesitation.

‘On, Retribution!’ he shouted and the cheer was taken up by a dozen men, then twenty more as flight became fury and fury begat fight. They followed the master into the fray, every man on board the Spy taking to the gunwales to seize the prize they had come to claim.

Evardo ran out through the splintered doorframe at the head of his men, their war cries filling his heart as he beheld the ruin of the English ranks. He watched one of the enemy turn his back, then another, their hesitation turning to panic and rout in the span of a breath. He shouted anew, urging his crew on, knowing the Halcón was his.

A sudden cry from amidst the English ranks caught his attention and in disbelief he saw one of the enemy running towards his men, his sword raised, his face twisted in a grotesque mask of fury. The Englishman’s valour rippled across the enemy ranks, gathering men up, and like a seventh wave overcoming a receding tide the shattered English attack began to coalesce, drawn together by a single man.

Evardo reacted without thought, his anger at such a reversal guiding his sword and he turned to charge directly towards the English leader. Suddenly an enemy sailor spun around in front of him, launching into an attack and Evardo was forced to defend himself, dropping his blade to parry the first strike. His sword spun in a tight arc and slashed low, beginning a sequence of strikes that Abrahan had taught him years before. Within seconds his blade sliced into the English sailor’s stomach. Evardo twisted the blade savagely, hot blood and viscera gushing over his hand. He wrenched the sword back from the sucking flesh and the sailor fell with an agonized scream.

Evardo stepped back, his sword charged once more. The lines of attack were now completely merged and anarchy reigned. The Spanish charge had been blunted and absorbed. The fight was descending into a brawl and Evardo threw his sword up once more as another Englishman rushed at him. Order was lost and the desperate sounds of combat filled the air; the furious war cries and screams of men and the crack of arquebuses as bullets were fired at point blank range.

Evardo fought on, his sword guided by a desperate anger. The vision of a charging Englishman flashed through his mind. With a terrible dread, he took his first step backwards, the fury of the English attack already reaching a crescendo, spurred on by a demonic leader. The enemy sailor before him fell, but out of the corner of his eye he saw men of his own crew fall. His previous confidence fled. The odds were no longer in his favour and already beyond his control, and as he shouted for his men to take heart, he could hear the hollow ring in his own words, the desperation that spoke of a hopeless defence of a galleon already lost. Only one option remained, one chance: to strike off the head of the hydra and he sought out the English leader once more. A savage vow passed his lips as he spotted him and he charged his sword to fight across the blood soaked deck.

Robert’s vision began to clear slowly and his mind registered the numbing pain in his sword arm as he hacked his blade down again and again on the upturned sword of a Spanish sailor, the defender calling out with a pleading voice that Robert could not hear or understand. He whipped his sword around, the razor edge slicing through flesh until it struck bone, and the Spaniard’s cries cut short as he fell to the deck.

Robert stepped over him and sensed for the first time the men on all sides who moved forward with him. He had attacked alone, oblivious to all save the need to take the ship for the fallen but now he realized the entire crew was to his back and he pushed deeper into the fight. A bullet whipped past his head and another struck through a fold in his sleeve but still he pressed on, sensing that the pendulum of battle was poised to swing in his favour.

From the edge of his vision he saw a Spaniard rush towards him and he spun around, throwing his sword up instinctively as the parried Spanish blade swept within a hair’s breadth of his head. The Spaniard did not hesitate but came on again and Robert took his first step back as he desperately tried to defend himself against the blur of steel. He locked his gaze on his attacker, knowing the eyes betrayed the sword and suddenly realized he was fighting the Spanish commander, recognizing him as the man who led the initial enemy charge, the man who had wrought such slaughter amongst his countrymen for the fate of a galleon already sealed. He swung his blade to parry a strike before twisting it sharply. The steel edges of the two swords cut along each other, drawing the two men closer together, locking them chest to chest.

‘You,’ Evardo cursed in Latin, ‘damn you and your God-cursed crew to hell.’

Robert’s eyes darkened at the invective. ‘Murderous son-of-a-whore,’ he spat, ‘you will rot there first.’

Robert could smell the Spaniard’s breath and his face, twisted with exertion, filled his vision. Robert leaned into the attack and tightened his grip through the blood and sweat on the hilt of his sword, seeking to dominate the contest of strength. He bent his knees slightly, coiling the power of his lower body and pushed forward with all his might, breaking the bond between the two swords. The point of his blade darted under the Spaniard’s sword but his opponent reacted with incredible reflexes, blocking the killing strike.

Robert reversed his attack, trying to push the Spaniard off balance, but again he recovered and the Spaniard spun his sword around, putting the momentum of his entire body into the blow, the strike of the blades numbing the fingers of Robert’s hand. Evardo lunged forward, striking low, and Robert recoiled as the Spaniard’s blade sliced across his exposed thigh, cutting the flesh deeply. He stepped back, his balance thrown by the leg wound, and the Spaniard came on, his attack unceasing.

Robert felt his breath catch in his constricted throat. His mouth was dry and tasted foul. He was losing and his defence became ever more frantic as he felt the serpent of fear uncoil in his stomach. The sensation angered him and he stood firm, unwilling to give another inch of ground. He slapped the next strike down with the flat of his blade, breaking the sequence of the Spaniard’s attack and gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg as he centred his balance.

He jabbed his sword downwards, looking for the killing strike against the groin. Evardo blocked and made to counter strike but again Robert struck low, forcing the commander to defend. Without warning Robert slashed his sword upward and Evardo tilted back to avoid the point of the sword, hooking his own blade around. Robert followed through. The blades rasped against each other, forcing the Spaniard ever backwards and Evardo lost his footing as he pitched over the inert body of a fallen crewman.

Robert was immediately upon him, his sword darting for the Spaniard’s chest. In that instant he caught sight of something that made him stop and his arm trembled as he held the point of his sword an inch from the captain’s flesh.

‘Yield,’ he said, the muscles of his arm and shoulder calling on him to drive home the strike, his eyes locked on the crucifix hanging around the commander’s neck, the reason he hesitated to deliver the fatal blow.

Evardo looked up at the mottled face of his enemy. He felt the grip of his sword and knew with certainty that if he moved to knock away the Englishman’s blade he was a dead man. A curse rose to his lips but he held back, the instinct to survive surfacing through his anger. The sounds of battle swept over him and he heard the tone of desperation in the Spanish cries. The Halcón was lost. What chance his crew had had been lost from the moment the English counter attacked. He looked with hatred upon the man who had precipitated that reverse.

‘I yield,’ he spat and he stood up slowly, his arms outstretched.

Robert kept his sword charged, wary of the Spaniard, knowing that the initial relief of salvation could rapidly twist into shame and an overriding urge to fight on.

The last of the Spanish defence collapsed quickly. Many saw their captain capitulate and they threw up their arms to plead for quarter. Others fought on, but they were hopelessly outnumbered and easily overwhelmed. As the last blow was struck, Evardo looked about the ruin that was his main deck. He drew his sword across and, taking the blade in his hand, presented the hilt to Robert.

‘I am Comandante Evardo Alvarez Morales of the Halcón,’ he said evenly, with only his eyes betraying the depth of his anguish and bitterness.

‘Robert Varian, Master of the Retribution.’

Evardo nodded, noting the name. ‘The ship is yours, señor,’ he said and the words tore the fabric of his soul as he lowered his gaze to his empty sword hand. He glanced up, studying the face of his enemy. There would be another time, another battle, God would see to that, and Evardo vowed he would make the Englishman pay a heavy coin for taking the Halcón.

Robert stepped back through the ranks of his own men, a sword hanging loosely from each hand. He limped heavily. His breeches were already soaked through with blood and the forgotten injury to his left arm began to throb. A surge of bile rose to the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. He sheathed his own sword and reached out for the gunwale, grateful for the support. Through the remnants of battle smoke on the main deck of the Halcón, he looked out over the scene fading in the last light of the day.

On all sides the pillage of the Spanish supply fleet continued unabated. It was as if the slaughter onboard the galleon had never taken place and Robert sought out the Retribution, taking a strange comfort from the sight although he had not long known the ship. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. It was Shaw.

‘Drink,’ he said and handed Robert a flask.

Robert opened his parched lips and drank deeply. It was Madeira wine, and the liquid burned his throat. He spluttered but brought the flask back to his mouth, eager to rid himself of the foul taste of battle. He nodded to the boatswain and handed him back the flask. For a moment the wine checked the slip of his flagging strength.

‘Secure the ship,’ he said, ‘make sure none of those poxed Spaniards are skulking below decks, and start sending the injured back to the Retribution.’

‘Aye, Master,’ Shaw replied and shouted to the men around him, organizing them quickly.

Robert felt light headed. He glanced at his injured leg. The pain had turned to a dull ache. The enemy captain’s sword in his left hand felt heavy and he looked to it, pausing for the first time to examine why he had spared the Spaniard. An uncontrollable fury had driven him to charge when all around him faltered and when he had recognized the captain for who he was, that fury had only intensified. Yet he had stayed his blade from delivering the fatal strike because of the simple crucifix he had seen hanging around the Spaniard’s neck.

The man was his enemy, as were all who threatened the sovereignty of Elizabeth and the sacred soil of England. But Robert shared a bond with these Spaniards, a union of faith that stopped him from striking home the point of his sword past a crucifix. His mind flooded with questions about the depths of his own loyalties but he savagely repressed them, recalling instead the blind fury of his charge, the anger he had felt at the butchery of his countrymen and captain. England commanded his loyalty first, not his faith. He repeated these words to himself as darkness began to encroach from the periphery of his vision. It quickly enveloped him and as he slipped into unconsciousness the mantra faded from his lips, replaced by a creeping doubt that his words held any meaning.