The King's Armada

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  With a fresh wind on the morning of August 2, 1588, both fleets prepared for battle. As the Armada moved forward toward its meeting with Parma’s troops, García and the three cadets paced the quarterdeck along with the captain and ship’s officers. The crew was battle-ready and cannon fire could be heard at a distance. This was high adventure.

  During the day scattered fights could be seen, cannon thundered and smoke rolled over both fleets. Considerable powder and shot were spent, but very little damage was done to either fleet. Through August 4th the English harassed the Armada, attempting to pick off stragglers, but with little success. The swift English fleet clung tenaciously to the weather gauge, the wind at their back in every attack.

  The English denied the Armada a safe anchorage and contact was broken off, permitting the English to rearm and the Armada to sail free until Saturday, August 6th when they dropped anchor at Calais. The Army of Flanders was less than 30 miles away.

  But at that time, due to poor communications, a message from Parma arrived that his army would not be ready to embark for England for another six days. Medina Sedonia’s heart sank. The Armada was short on supplies. The English fleet waited to windward just out of cannon range, to leeward were the treacherous Banks of Flanders and he was stuck for six days.

  On the night of August 6, with the Armada safely anchored at Calais, reprovisioning having been carried forward during the day, María snuggled in bed and whispered to García, “Where are your fireships?”

  “Has it been a week?”

  “A week has slipped by. Your witchcraft is a flop,” she chided.

  “Patience. Our ships are closely grouped and we are on a lee shore. The English are to windward. It’s a perfect setup for fireships.”

  “Not a shot has hit La Anunciada and we have confused the enemy. The Armada is safe, but the English are at peril.”

  “Patience,” García counseled. “Parma and his Army of Flanders is not ready. The Dutch have blockaded his passage. His open barges would sink even in a rough sea. There has been a total breakdown in communications.”

  María considered his words. “I can wait. We have heard the cannon roar and whiffed the gunpowder. It’s stimulating, my love. My heart is on fire.”

  “That’s not the only thing.”

  During the day of the seventh, Spanish officers were ashore and provisions continued to flow to the Armada. Blockading the harbor, the English felt some action was called for.

  Medina Sedonia was well aware that a fireship attack might be effective against the huddled Armada. He sent small craft, pinnaces, to screen the fleet and attempt to grapple and drag any fireships into the shallows. The attack came at midnight, alarms were sounded and García and his cadets rushed to the quarterdeck.

  Eight fireships pushed by the wind bore down on the Armada. They were packed with combustibles, their vicious guns double loaded so they would fire when the heat reached them. In a gallant effort, the pinnaces managed to grapple two of the fireships and beach them in shallow water. But the six came on.

  Captain Alvares rallied the crew to begin wetting down the vessel while García’s troopers helped with the bucket brigade. “What a lovely sight,” Don Diego said as she viewed the oncoming fireships, ablaze against the night sky. I shall never forget this moment. To be in love, to be in battle. If I die tonight, my life was well spent.”

  At that moment word came from Medina Sidonia for all vessels to cut or slip anchors and disperse. In an odd twist, the greatest damage inflicted by the fireships was the loss of the Spanish anchors. Because of strong tides, some vessels had three anchors out. All were lost and the Armada fell into confusion. Nevermore could they anchor with safety. In the confusion of cutting away anchor lines, large hulks were set adrift, collisions were common, some causing frightful damage.

  With the coming of dawn, the Spanish were able to regroup to some extent and followed a nine-hour running battle during which the San Mateo and San Felipe received their death blows. Other vessels were hard hit and an estimated 1,000 of the Spanish died by drowning or cannonade and musket fire.

  Gacia later learned that Cadet Rafael de Aranda, who had been so taken with Francisco as a young man, had been killed by a musket ball aboard BertenDoña’s flagship, La Regazona.

  At the end of the day the Spaniards were in despair and there was no hope of herding the Army of Flanders to the English coast. The Armada, in ragged formation and licking its wounds, was driven before the wind toward the North Sea. The only hope was to sail round the Scottish and Irish coasts and return to Spain via the Atlantic Ocean. But many of the vessels had taken a mauling, were leaking badly, rigging shot away and supplies dwindling.

  There was frenzied activity all through the broken Armada that night. Surgeons worked non-stop, running gear was repaired, sprung hulls and shot damaged vessels were repaired as best they could be. With sullen gray dawn, the English were nowhere in sight, and García knew their shot lockers were empty and they would give no more trouble to the badly battered fleet. At this point many of the Spanish vessels could have turned and made their way back through the channel, possibly doing great harm to the English. But the orders were to skirt Scotland and Ireland, returning via the Atlantic. The rough weather of the North Sea and Atlantic would demand its toll.

  After a quick breakfast, García searched the cabin for Poncho. He had not seen the dog since the beginning of yesterday’s action. La Anunciada had not come through the long day’s battle unscathed. There were leaks below the waterline, the foremast had been truncated and the exhausted seamen were still at the task of re-rigging. She was far from seaworthy.

  García began to become alarmed after a quick search of the cabin. He had not yet debriefed the Yorkie on the fate of La Anunciada. Also he feared for the dog’s life. Perhaps the small creature had been washed overboard.

  He called the cadets together and suggested that each take a trooper and go through the vessel looking for Poncho. García himself would have a look through the officer’s quarters. Mid morning came and still no canine!

  Then Francisco reported back that she had heard that two men in a storage room in the bow of the ship had boasted that they would have dog meat for lunch. García checked his belly gun, summoned Jesus, and the two made their way forward. Sure enough, two men were crouched in an empty storage room, one clutching Poncho, the other working on a small fire in a metal container.

  “That is my dog,” García said, entering the room. “I’ll have him back.”

  “Sorry, you’re too late,” the younger man said. “Food is short and this dog’s value lies in its meat. Stick around and you can have a front leg.”

  “I am a captain in the King’s army and this is my sergeant,” he gestured to Jesus. “And we demand custody of the dog.”

  “I’m sorry, captain, but I too am a captain. We are survivors from the San Mateo. And we will eat this dog. And this is my sergeant.” He gestured toward the older man who picked up a short musket. García noticed that the slow match was smoldering and assumed the weapon was loaded and primed.

  “You would shoot me over a dog?” García questioned.

  “Food is scarce. On the San Mateo our fish and half the meat spoiled and had to be jettisoned. The flour was full of bugs. We must eat.”

  “Food is plentiful on La Anunciada,” García said. “We will feed you.”

  “We will see to that after the dog has been eaten,” the captain said. He withdrew a wicked looking dagger from his boot.

  “If you harm the dog, I will kill you.”

  The captain smiled. “My sergeant will kill you. Isn’t that obvious?”

  “I will first kill your sergeant. Then it will be your term. But tell me, what is your name? I would like to know what captain it is who escaped death on the San Mateo, then went to his reward on La Anunciada.” With good timing, García was certain he could shoot the sergeant before the musket fired. First the slow match had to be applied to the firing pan, then
there was always a slight delay before the weapon fired.

  “I am Captain Largo Azaña and my sergeant is called simply El Toro.”

  García eyed the sergeant who remained at the ready. “He has the neck of a bull, but where are his horns? I fear he is simply a lamb, fit for slaughter.”

  “You will find the musket ball unforgettable in your heart. So if you’ll give me the courtesy of your name, we’ll get on with it.”

  “Of course,” García replied. “I am Captain Don Pedro García, late of Madrid. And my sergeant is called Jesus.”

  Azaña pondered a moment. “Might you be the man who killed Don Alonso de Monzon, the swordsman, not once, but twice?”

  “It is difficult to slay a man twice. I merely badly maimed him the first time. But his wounds healed slightly and he pressed me the second time. I had little choice. Of course in your case...”

  Azaña held up his hand to stop García in mid sentence. “You may have the dog. Alonso was a mean spirited man and killed a friend of mine in a trumped up affair of honor. I am grateful to you, Don Pedro, as are many others.”

  “Thank you. And you will find we do have sufficient food. I oversaw the loading of it myself. And we will need it for the work ahead.”

  El Toro set the musket aside and García took Poncho from him. “It could be a long, rough haul back to Spain. But our ship is still afloat.”

  García petted Poncho and the dog wagged all over and licked his fingers. “I invite you to join my command, Captain Azaña, and you too El Toro. It is important we keep the troops healthy and in good spirits. Weather conditions being what they are and the ship’s condition what it is, neither good, we may have to come ashore on the Irish coast. Which will mean keeping the men armed and organized as a fighting unit. I have a plan.”

  Largo Azaña shrugged. “We are all adventurers here. Our hope to clip the English wings has failed. So let us be mindful of our safety and a speedy journey home. My sword is at your command.” García led the way to the officers’ quarters and turned El Toro over to Jesus. Poncho could not believe his good fortune. The fire was already kindled, the dagger drawn, but he too had a plan. To wrench free and throw himself on the musket, thus preventing the slow match from reaching the powder. He thanked his lucky dog stars that it never reached fruition. He recalled a former life when he indeed had his throat cut. He had been a Persian fighter and was captured by the force led by Alexander the Great.