by L. E. Waters
“A beautiful northeast wind, Alvaro!”
“Yes, Captain, it will be in our favor!”
Alvaro turns around, points for us to go to the horses, and then points belowdecks. We get the message and obey. This fight is different. The cannon fire and the guns won’t cease. Our ship shudders every time the cannons are fired, and we expect to see massive casualties when we come on deck that night but see none.
“Alvaro, no one was hurt?”
“Oh, Juan had a nasty kickback of the cannon and was sent below, but other than that, not a scratch.”
He lights his pipe and turns to us. “You see, the English are faster than us, but as long as our longer-range cannons stay in the positions we’re in, it’s at a standstill.” He looks concerned, suddenly. “Either Parma shows or we’ll have to last as long as our supplies do.”
Fighting begins again, but this time, we stay above deck. Alvaro notices us but doesn’t point us belowdecks. Andres, Pepe, and I all hang over the starboard side as the British ship’s sides flash at the gunports, and we each point to where it will land in the water. Every once in a while, the cannonball will hit with a weak thud against one of the closer ship’s strong hulls. But what we really enjoy is when one hits and crashes through the upper deck, sending splinters flying through the air. We’re sorry when the fighting stops that night and can’t wait for it to continue the next day, but the winds change.
The armada begins to move up the channel again, with the English trailing behind, provoking skirmishes, testing our borders. Finally, reaching the Flemish coast, we all anchor. Parma never came.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
At midnight, an English signal gun goes off, and it summons all the sailors to deck.
“What is it?” I ask Pepe, who is the first up the ladder.
“It looks like the English are up to something,” he says as we hand Bella up.
Alvaro’s at the bow with a leg up on an overturned bucket, and we immediately go to him. He’s watching the commotion of boats taking sailors off some of the English ships. He directs Pepe. “Go get the captain right away.”
Pepe’s off running as eight ships’ masts in the distance catch fire, the sails still open and flapping in the pitch dark. From this distance, it appears like eight burning crosses.
Immediately, the sailors go running around the ship like a disturbed beehive. Everyone shouts, everyone runs; all the while, my eyes are fixed on the mesmerizing fires coming toward us. Halfway across the bay, they burst out in flames across the deck and down below, with fire spurting out from their gunports.
Alvaro shouts, “Don’t cut the anchors! Leave the anchor buoys as the duke instructed!”
But no one’s listening.
One sailor screams, “Giambelli’s infernal machines! They’ll kill us all as soon as they explode!”
“Cut the cables!” another sailor yells as he runs and hits the anchor lines with an ax.
The captain fires off his gun. Pepe’s heaving from the running he just did, with his hands on his knees.
“Attention or I’ll shoot!”
All on deck regain their composure as ships collide around us.
“Hear that, boys? That’s the result of idiot sailors who all cut anchor just to collide with the one hundred thirty ships ass-to-ass in this shallow harbor!” He scans his loaded gun around the deck at every sailor. “Now do as I say, or I will shoot every last poltroon here.”
Behind the captain, small pinnace ships tow two fire ships away, but the remaining six are still advancing, threatening to explode any minute.
He turns and barks to a group of sailors, “Heave the anchor buoys overboard and up mainsail!” He points to another group who goes off dutifully.
“Bring the ship’s head round!” he screams up to the sailors climbing the riggings. “Then reset the sails for a safe course!”
He then turns and says to Alvaro, “Get to the helm and steer clear of the fire ships, but keep up off those damned shoals!”
Everyone ducks at the sound of the explosion, even the captain, but after a moment, we realize it’s English cannons going off. Though it wasn’t the explosion we expected, the cannons severely damage the ships that are trying to tow the fire ships away and cause the pinnaces to give up towing the remaining ships coming at us.
We gasp as we barely miss other Spanish ships racing for safety. Pepe, Andres, and I watch the six remaining ships float, blazing, past the spots our ship had just rested. We wait for the explosion, but our hearts sink as they uneventfully burn themselves down.
“Eight ships can scatter one hundred thirty ships!” the captain says, shaking his head. “What a trick.”
“Captain, where should we go?” Alvaro asks.
“The duke wants us to drop anchor immediately, then go back to the anchor buoys in the morning.”
“But, Captain, the crew cut both our anchors. All we have is a kedge on board, and that’ll be useless with this tide.”
“Well, then, we must go with the tide and see where we are at dawn.” The captain stares out across the water. “There must be three hundred anchors at the bottom of that harbor now.” He looks at Alvaro. “I’m beginning to wonder which side God is on.”
With that, he makes the sign of the cross up to the Virgin flapping on the flag above us in the wind.
Chapter 7
I awake alone in the morning. I must have slept through Andres and Pepe leaving. As I hurry out under the stairs, a strange panic of being forgotten hits me. Images of Pepe and Andres plotting to leave me behind and going off together happily flood my brain and only make me climb up on deck faster. My heart slows as I come upon the sight of Pepe leaning against the mast, washing his face, alone.
“Where’s Andres?” I ask.
He points as the water’s streaming into his squinted eyes between splashing. I look where his finger leads and see Andres sitting on a bucket with his pants down around his knees. As he spies me, he gives an unabashed and lazy wave, and I laugh inside about my paranoia. Not wanting to go to Andres in his activity, I turn back to Pepe, who’s feverishly throwing water, not only on his face, but splashing out around him, getting everything wet.
“Hey, what about the water shortage?” I say with a smile.
“Eh,” he says as he’s wiping his face now. “This is the only way I can do it without touching my face.”
“Everyone touches their face when they wash.”
“Not me.”
The deck’s busy for this hour of the morning. The sailors carry a look of worry and a task on their minds. I should’ve been more concerned with what’s happening around us, but I still feel unsettled.
I venture, “Why did you guys leave me down there when you woke up?”
He shrugs. “We tried to wake you but you were dead to the world.”
That makes me feel even better, and I realize there’s nothing to worry about.
“How are you doing over there, Andres?” Pepe yells down deck.
“My rear’s sick,” Andres says, and we both laugh and roll in the folded canvas under us.
“Seriously, I might need some more rags over here,” Andres pleads.
Pepe checks around and finds some ripped-up cotton and goes over to give it to him. He reaches out with his head away and drops them just within Andres’s reach and runs back like a cannon went off.
“Hey, I can’t reach it!” he says as his white rump pulls out of the bucket, exposing the red indentation the bucket was causing. Once he has them in his hands, he yells, “They’re dirty!”
We’re having so much fun that we forget all the commotion. Suddenly, Alvaro’s voice comes within earshot. “We’re trapped on a lee shore!” He hits his hand on the mast.
Philippe says, “We all got back into formation as best we could without anchors”—he points to Alvaro—“and that was quite a feat.”
Alvaro scans the water. “We’re still stuck with this wind, and the English have the uppe
r hand again.”
A shot of cannon fire rings out, and Pepe and I stand up to see where it’s coming from. I catch Andres standing, pantsless, with his mouth open in surprise and worry, looking for the direction of fire.
“The English are firing on the duke’s ship. It’s begun again.” Alvaro commands the sailors out of the path to the captain’s quarters.
Pepe and I turn to see Andres rushing around, pulling his pants up and emptying his bucket over the side. In his rush, he doesn’t tie his pants tight, and every time he reaches to dump the bucket, his pants fall to his knees again. Then he pulls them half up with one hand, grabbing the bucket, he comes back running to us. He trips on his droopy pants and goes rolling to starboard with the dirty bucket. Pepe and I drop to our knees, laughing at the sight as Andres curses, “Stupid pants!”
We’re still laughing by the time we get belowdecks and hear the most cannon fire we’ve heard yet. Within a few hours, our ship’s taking fire, and Philippe comes down in search of us.
“Boys!”
Pepe pokes his head out. “No boys here!”
“Whatever you are, get down in the galleys and help pump!”
Unsure what that means, we go farther down into the ship and see the ship’s taking on water through small holes in the hull. A filthy man is sweating profusely at the pump, and I guess he must have been doing this for hours. Bella, who followed us down, puts one paw in the water and decides to go back up the ship.
“You boys better take this seriously. You stop for a minute, and we’re at the bottom of the ocean.”
He throws down the pump and walks away, and I quickly pick it up and continue. Pepe and Andres watch, and every time one gets tired, we switch. Every once in a while, something crashes against the hull with such force it sends the pumper to the floor. When we get back up, a new fresh leak appears. Even though there are four pumpers continuously pumping in our section alone, the water keeps rising.
“Can the cannons break the hull?” Andres asks as he’s pumping and staring at the hull.
Another pumper answers him, “Sure as the wind changes.” He spits, and I watch as the frothy spittle makes its way over to us in the putrid tide under our feet—obviously some are using the bilge to relieve themselves.
“This hull may take a few beatings, but it gets enough beatings and it’ll pop like a pimple.” He laughs at our worried looks. “But don’t you worry your pretty faces. You won’t know what even hit you.”
We don’t talk for hours after that. We don’t even know what time it is and if it’s still light out. No one has come down to relieve us or bring us water or food. Our stomachs are growling constantly, and surprisingly, it’s Alvaro who comes to our rescue.
“I hate to break you girls’ hearts, but your time’s up.”
I drop the pump gladly, and we run back up on deck. I hadn’t realized how stagnant and wet the air in the hull was, and the fresh rain-misted breeze that hits me is very welcome. It’s dusk, and in the faint light, I see we’re clearly losing the battle. The skies are grey and filled with the promise of much more rain, and the strong wind’s distressing the ocean. The English appear to have pulled back outside the pathetic formation that seems to have gone from the bird shape to a loose, hole-filled crescent shape, a sea of floundering sinking ships with split masts and broken riggings. As Alvaro hands us three wine bags and our rations, I watch as divers are sent overboard to try to repair some of the damage. Pepe, Andres, and I quietly sit to eat, and we look at each other in surprise, since Alvaro stays with us as we’re eating.
First, he stares out over our heads, but then he starts talking. “You missed quite a fight, ladies.”
We nod, and Andres asks, “Do you think they won?”
Alvaro lets out a puff of laughter. “I am sure they won.”
“How do you know?” Pepe asks.
“Look around you.” He puts his hands out, and his eyes flash with emotion. “The English haven’t had one ship damaged, yet every ship of ours has been cracked.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand it. We have longer range, better gunpowder, and we’ve been hitting their ships with greater accuracy. Yet their hulls are not breaking, and ours seem made out of paper!”
“Tell us about the fight.” Pepe’s curious eyes open fully to absorb his tale.
“The English broadsided us within full range. Both our ships let loose with the cannons. All of the sailors took command and maneuvered as best as we could. I shouted to the English with our grappling hooks at the ready to ‘Come to close quarters!’”
Then he realizes we don’t know what that means, and he explains, “So we could board their ship Spanish style.” He stretches his legs out and begins chuckling at the memory. “So then an Englishman replies from the top of the mast with his sword in the air, ‘Good soldiers! Surrender on fair terms!’” He laughs. “And our musketeer gave him his answer with a bullet in the side of his head!” He can barely finish his story through his laughter. “And we all cheered as he fell from his great height.”
Pepe crushes a balled fist. “I wish I was there for that.”
Andres and I exchange looks, unsure how we feel about the story.
“Well, the English retreated after, and we called them ‘Protestant hens’ and clucked and strutted around the deck.”
“It sounded like we won, then,” Andres says, confused.
“They left, all right, but it seems we’re worse for the wear now.” Alvaro cleans his fingernails.
We hear an uproar on the ships near us and get up to watch as a vessel nine ships away begins to go under.
Alvaro gasps. “It’s the Maria Juan.”
The flagship sends out a rescue boat, but they save only one boatful before the whole deck slips under the darkening water. No one has to tell us there were more than two hundred men on that ship that sank below with the Virgin flag.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
No one feels like talking after seeing that, and everyone either goes to work repairing the ship or sleeps. After a whole day of pumping, I can’t tell you who fell asleep first that night, but the groaning and moaning of those injured during battle found us in our deep sleep. A sailor awakens us halfway through sleep that night, sending us to go back to the galleys.
“I never wished I was shoveling poop so much,” Andres says as we stagger back down into the ship.
The water is disturbingly higher. When we left, it was past our ankles, but now it’s mid-calf. We pump and pray until dawn.
“Captain calls all hands on deck!” someone calls down to us.
Everyone except the wounded and a few pumpers are present. There is a sea of defeated faces, even before the captain speaks. The crowd parts as the captain walks through. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, with his swollen eyes and disheveled hair. He makes no eye contact and paces in a hypnotic trance for longer than is comfortable. Suddenly he glances up, almost surprised we are all still there.
He squints up at the sky and begins, “I’m not going to blow smoke up your asses and tell you we have a chance in hell here.” He brings his wise gaze around and looks in every sailor’s eyes before continuing, “You have all fought too bravely and sailed too skillfully for me to let you down like that.” He stares at his shoes for a moment. “I will tell you thanks to our talented leadsman here that we are a deadly six fathoms away from shore.” The sailors tense as I gather that must be far too close. “We have no choice here; the wind hasn’t changed and is forcing us on the shoals.” He pauses again uncomfortably long. “Goddamn Parma never showed, and with that, the leadsmen that know these waters. We’re like a blind man sailing right now, with the English waiting upwind, ready to attack at any moment, and we’re completely out of shot.”
I feel sick and watch as every sailor’s face falls even further than I thought possible.
He again scans the faces. “My courageous men, we’re awaiting either quick death or a miracle. Get out your rosaries, my Catholic sinn
ers, and pray for whichever one you prefer.”
And with that, he walks back to his quarters in a solemn stride as sailors nod respectfully at his honesty. After he leaves, despair comes over like a heavy mist, and everyone retreats within to pray for deliverance. Pepe, Andres, Bella, and I curl in to sleep especially close that night.
“I don’t know how to swim,” Andres worries right as I close my eyes.
Pepe’s eyes open wide. “How can you not know how to swim, living right on a bay?”
“My mother never taught me.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not going to sink,” I try.
Pepe says, “If we do sink, you just have to grab on to anything that will float.”
That makes him feel better than my lie, and I catch him glancing around the ship, probably looking for things that will float.
No one could sleep, though, since the feeling that at any moment you might hear the scraping sound of the hull tearing against the rocky coast and will have only seconds to escape keeps you awake.
By morning, we’re all exhausted. The winds haven’t changed but at least have weakened to some small relief. As we’re tiredly mucking the stalls, we hear a cracking of sails and a cheer across the deck.
Andres calls down, “Pepe! Luis!”
We bolt up the ladder and see the sails are flapping in the southwest direction, and the boat’s already turning toward the ocean.
“A miracle!” someone shouts, and everyone claps, not only on our ship, but celebrations ring out on every ship. The captain’s door opens, and he gives two brisk steps out to see what has occurred. Several tears trickle down his tense face, which cracks into a tight smile as he turns to go back into his room.
Not a single ship has grounded.
Chapter 8
The captain leaves the next day to meet with the war council on the flagship. When he returns, he gives orders to, “Obey the wind.”
