The Confident Hope of a Miracle

by Neil Hanson

  The sides of the holds were cleared, with all the stores stacked near the centreline of the ship, aiding stability, but also so that “the carpenters may the sooner and surer find the enemy’s shot and stop the leaks.” As protection against “the spoil of the enemy’s cannon,” a double row of “elm planks or the like wood that will not splinter” four or five inches in thickness had been erected right along “the midships part” on each deck. Held in place by stanchions, the planks were set four feet apart and the void was stuffed with “junks of cables, old ropes, sea-gowns, beds or the like, and so made cannon-proof.” All seamen who could be spared from manning the guns or trimming the sails could “withdraw themselves to that side of the barricade . . . most remote from the enemy, and hereby safeguard themselves from the violence of their great shot in general, and especially from cross-bar and chain shot which is the chief spoil of men.” The bombardiers on the upper deck also prepared “the usual buckets and tubs full of vinegar and water, and all the customary preparations of old sails and wet blankets, to protect the ships against fire thrown upon them.” Screens and waistcloths were erected to conceal the gunners and musketeers on the deck from the enemy gunners and snipers, and anti-boarding nets were rigged to make it more difficult for boarding parties to clamber aboard. Other crewmen carried “fire-pots”—incendiary devices thrown onto the decks of an enemy ship—and “casting stones to be made use of during a fight” to the deck and the poop, and hauled more of them up to the fighting tops in rope nets and buckets.

  The men of both fleets must have spent a troubled night, knowing that the morning would bring the start of a battle in which many would inevitably die. In muttered conversations in their cramped quarters or in the night watches on deck, like all warriors, in all eras, men spent some of the night hours making dispositions of their keepsakes and personal belongings. Some wrote letters of farewell with the help of the few literate men among them, and all sought pledges from their fellows that, if they should fall in battle, their last words and what money they had would be carried to their wives and children. But all knew that if they died or were maimed, their families would face destitution. Many men must have passed the night in thought and prayer, recollection and regret. Away to the north-east, the faint glow cast into the night sky by torches and lanterns burning in Plymouth’s lanes and around the harbour showed that in the city, too, few were sleeping. Ships were still warping out through the hours of darkness and a few supplies were still being loaded aboard the last stragglers.

  Medina-Sidonia spent much of the night praying and pacing the deck of his flagship. The moon rose at two in the morning and the topmen strained their eyes in its faint light. Dim shapes might have been moving in the darkness to seaward, grey against grey, or it might only have been the roiling and eddying of the mist over the water. During that short summer’s night the wind had backed to west-north-west and should have improved the Armada’s position still more, but when the dawn light began to strengthen on that Sunday morning, 31 July, “80 ships were discovered in the weather.” Far from the Armada holding the weather gauge, the main body of the English fleet was already upwind. Howard and his commanders had not waited, passive victims of the Armada. During the night, “leaving five ships cruising in the sight of us to make us think that the rest of his fleet was there,” the English fleet did what it could “to work for the wind,” tacking close-hauled into the wind across Whitsand Bay, beating its way slowly abreast of and then beyond the Armada. Many of the English captains had been sailing these waters all their lives. They knew every shoal and shifting sandbank from the Thames to the Lizard, and the contours of the coasts and seabed. They had learned to read the tides, clouds and changing winds, and the surface signs that showed the complex pattern of currents in the depths, and they steered their ships to where the tidal stream flowing westwards on the ebb was at its strongest.12

  As day broke, a further squadron of eleven English ships (Medina-Sidonia’s figure; a Spanish soldier on the San Marcos, Pedro Estrade, recorded only seven) was still beating its way west, making a series of six short, steep tacks between the Armada and the Eddystone just offshore, using the back eddy that runs when the flood tide is at its peak. A signal flag was raised on the mizzen-mast of the leading vessel and at once there was a flurry of activity. Orders were bellowed, the gunports hauled upwards, thudding against the oak flanks of the ships, and the cannon were run out. At the limit of the seaward reach of each tack, within long gun range of Recalde’s Biscayan ships, there was a series of explosions like the low, rolling thunder of a distant summer storm, as each galleon in turn loosed a burst of cannon fire, then swung away onto the landward tack. Even as Medina-Sidonia watched, powerless to intervene, the squadron turned onto its final tack to rejoin its admiral. Many of the Spanish commanders were already aware of what formidable opponents they faced. The rest now could see for themselves the speed and manoeuvrability of the English “race-built” galleons.

  None of the Spanish great ships could sail anywhere near as fast or as close to the wind. Unless the wind changed, the nature of the ensuing battle and the range at which it was fought would now be entirely in the hands of the English. Holding the weather gauge also conferred one other vital advantage. All sailing ships heel over before the wind. For the English ships upwind this would have the effect of depressing the elevation of their guns, making it easier to target the upperworks and particularly the hulls of the enemy ships. For the Spaniards downwind, heeling over would cause the elevation of their guns to be pushed skywards, making it harder to bring them to bear on the target, and also expose the most vulnerable portion of the hull to enemy fire. “Any stiff gale making them to slope, turns up their keels towards us while we shoot them between wind and water, and their sloping to the lee side so turns up the mouths of their ordnance on the weatherside which is towards us, that they are found to shoot clean over our ships that lie low and snug as the mariners term it.” Some even claimed “that it is impossible to receive any great shot from an enemy to the leewards that can endanger the sinking of the ship, for . . . by letting fly only the sheets and thereby righting the ship . . . the hole or piercing of the shot is brought so far above the water that no peril can ensue and . . . it may easefully and speedily be stopped.”13

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Greatest Navy that Ever Swam upon the Sea

  For much of Elizabeth’s reign, a hermit living in the ruins of the medieval St. Michael’s Chapel at the lonely outpost of Rame Head on the foreland south-west of Plymouth had been paid to keep watch for enemy fleets. In these troubled times the watch had been augmented, no doubt to the hermit’s impotent fury as his cherished solitude was violated, and two local men, John Gibbons and Henry Wood, were also paid “for watching at Rame Head . . . when the Spaniards were upon the coast.” A single beacon had been lit at the first sight of the Spanish fleet, but that and the presence of the local Justice of the Peace to confirm the sighting and order the firing of all three beacons to summon the armed militias to the coast were superfluous; Plymouth and the surrounding country had been alive with reports of the coming of the Armada since the previous afternoon. Commanding the seas west past Whitsand Bay and across the Sound to Wembury Point in the east, and out beyond the sunken menace of the Eddystone Rocks, Rame Head offered an unrivalled view of the great fleets as they prepared to do battle. As the daylight strengthened, a steady procession of men from the village of Rame, a mile inland, made their way over the rabbit-cropped turf and along the footpath between tufts of sea-pinks and clumps of bracken. They crossed a narrow land-bridge flanked by rocky cliffs dropping sheer to the sea, and, as they completed the stiff climb to the chapel on the summit, they looked out on an ocean that seemed black with ships from horizon to horizon.1

  Medina-Sidonia at once fired the signal gun to bring his fleet into its battle order. As the ships manoeuvred into their prearranged positions, their guns were run out and lashed into place. The sheer size of the Armada made it intimidat
ing, but many of the ships within it were useless in a fight, hulks and transports that were virtually unarmed and defenceless without the great galleons, galleasses and carracks to protect them. While anchored at Corunna, the senior Spanish commanders had discussed their fighting tactics to meet the threat of the faster and better-gunned English ships. There was no dispute about the formation when out of sight of the enemy. They would advance in a single broad column, like an army in line of march, with the fighting strength divided between the vanguard and the rearguard and the weaker vessels shielded in the centre.

  In battle, nine of the ten members of Medina-Sidonia’s war council had argued for a formation adapted from that routinely used by galley fleets in the Mediterranean and successfully employed at Lepanto and Terceira. Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the preponderance of army officers in the Armada and the precedence given to them in the overall chain of command, it was also remarkably similar to the formation used by Spanish troops in land battles. Three fighting units, vanguard, centre and rearguard in the routine order of march, would deploy in line abreast in battle, with the rearguard advancing and the vanguard withdrawing to present a broad front to the enemy, and shielding behind it the vulnerable transport sections—the siege train on land, the hulks at sea. The tenth commander, Pedro de Valdes, once more in a minority of one, proposed a more fluid and flexible formation with the “weak and slow vessels in the centre [and] the fighting ships divided equally into a rearguard and vanguard . . . thus the vanguard can support the rearguard, or should the attack come from ahead, the rearguard can reinforce the van.” He was overruled.

  When they first sighted it, most English observers called the Spanish formation a “half-moon” or “crescent,” like the curved blade of a headsman’s axe. In fact it was more the shape of a bird of prey in flight, with a small group of fighting ships including the flagship and the galleasses at the head, flanked by the squadrons of Portugal and Castile, and then extending out in two great trailing wings, the squadrons of Biscay and Andalusia on one side and those of Guipuzcoa and the Levant on the other. At the heart, encircled by the fighting ships, were the storeships and hulks, and the pinnaces and ships of the second line. The individual squadrons were deployed in line abreast, just like a galley fleet with its preponderance of forward-firing armaments would do. Indeed, the formation was not substantially different from that adopted at Lepanto, even down to the screen of galleasses operating in front of the fleet. The importance that the Armada’s commanders attached to maintaining this solid defensive formation is indicated by the punishment for any captain breaking it without good cause: “forfeiture and death with disgrace,” though a dozen or so of the most formidable galleons and galleasses were given roving commissions, with the freedom to break ranks in reaction to a threat from the enemy.

  Manoeuvring with remarkable precision, the Armada now adopted its chosen formation, several miles across. Accustomed only to the loose formations required in rough Atlantic waters, no English fleet could have matched the discipline of such manoeuvres, routine to the Spanish after so many years of Mediterranean sea battles against the Turks. The weaker ships of the Armada now lay protected in the centre of the formation and any ship damaged in the fighting could also be “recovered into the midst of the fleet.” Any English ship foolish enough to attack there would find itself encircled and the wind taken from its sails, leaving it helpless to resist grappling and boarding, as the Spaniards desired. In those circumstances, the huge numerical superiority of the Spanish marines would be certain to prevail. As long as the formation held, attacks could be launched in relative safety only against the wings, one commanded by de Leiva, the other by Recalde, where the most powerful fighting ships held station. Medina-Sidonia believed that “either of the two horns of our formation, with their supports and the two galleasses which accompany the first four ships, would be able to cope with one of the enemy’s fleets.” He was now to be given the opportunity to test that belief.

  The Armada made an awesome spectacle as it rode the swell that morning, “the greatest navy that ever swam upon the sea.” Even though their tonnage was actually very similar, the towering fore- and sterncastles made the Spanish ships appear much bigger than the English galleons. “The Spanish fleet with lofty turrets like castles, in front like a half moon, the wings thereof spreading out about the length of seven miles, sailing very slowly through with full sails, the winds being as it were tired of carrying them and the ocean groaning under the weight of them.” Flags and pennants fluttered from every mast-top and yard, and the upperworks of the warships were richly decorated and gilded. The galleasses were particularly vivid, painted in scarlet and gold, and the crews at their bronze guns were protected by highly decorated shields; “the oars all red, the sails had upon them the bloody sword.” The officers and men aboard were as richly attired as their ships, their dress maintaining strict gradations of class and rank. The Spaniards regarded uniforms as bad for morale and a soldier’s or seaman’s dress was a matter of individual taste and financial circumstances, provided he did not dress above his station. Beneath their armour, itself often chased in gold, the nobles, officers and gentlemen of the Armada wore jewels, gold insignia and silks and velvets of crimson, royal blue, gold and purple, embroidered with gold thread. Violet was particularly favoured, as the dyes to produce it were so expensive that they were beyond the reach of all but the very rich. The “principal men” of the Armada also “had crosses upon their suits,” emphasizing the crusade on which they were embarked. 2

  Officers, ensigns, soldiers and mariners of long standing wore outfits that in colour and decoration, if not in opulence, competed with those worn by the gentlemen volunteers. The clothing taken from a group of Spanish prisoners in London’s Bridewell, by no means the most exalted men of the Armada, included “a blue cloak of rash [a type of smooth cloth] with a gold lace round about it, a pair of breeches of murrey [mulberry, i.e. purple] tinsel of silk with a gold lace, and a buff jerkin laid over likewise with gold lace. Of the sergeant Pelegrin, a pair of blue velvet hose with a gold and silver lace and a jerkin of wrought velvet, lined with taffeta . . . Of the ancient bearer Cristobal de Leon, a leather jerkin perfumed with amber and laid over with a gold and silver lace.” The musketeers, a self-elected elite, distinguished themselves from the common soldiery by wearing a crimson sash around one arm, broad-brimmed hats, banded and richly decorated with plumes—even the morions they wore in battle were plumed—and a bandoleer across their chest, hung with a string of ornate small powder flasks, each holding a single charge. The arquebusiers occupying the next rung of the military hierarchy wore plainer outfits but still trimmed them with lace and tassels, and even the slaves at the oars of the galleasses were dressed in red jackets, though in the heat and terrible exertion of battle they often rowed naked.

  The English fleet and its men looked drab and tawdry by comparison. Lord Howard and other nobles wore the fine clothes, ruffs, lace and jewels befitting their station, but commanders such as Drake and Frobisher dressed in plain utilitarian fashion at sea. Deckhands wore wool shirts and long breeches, woollen hats and long coats or leather jerkins, and the fabrics were either self-coloured or dyed in dull, natural shades of brown and green. The sleeveless jerkins were wind- and weatherproof when new, but wild weather, baking sun, salt air and frequent soakings in spray and seawater soon left the leather cracked and brittle. Among the crewmen, only the master gunners stood out. It was an exalted profession and those who followed it were dressed accordingly, in banded hats and robes of red velvet trimmed with gold embroidery. The red cross motif on the sails and some of the flags of the Armada provoked fury among the English, who thought it an attempt to deceive them about the nationality of the ships by mimicking the cross of St. George, but it was in fact the Burgundian emblem: a white ground, emblazoned with a saltire raguled red—a diagonal red cross resembling two crossed branches, inspired by the rugged cross on which St. Andrew was crucified. It had been adopted as the Spanish flag
by Philip’s father, Charles V.

  The English fleet was decked with flags and pennants “by way of trim and bravery . . . hung out at every yardarm and at the heads of the masts.” Pennants also served to identify the ships of different squadrons. The “ships of the Admiral’s squadron are to hang them out in their maintops, those of the Vice-admiral’s squadron in their fore-tops, those of the Rear-admiral’s [Hawkins] in their mizzen tops.” In all, 32 flags of St. George had been purchased for the fleet, 15 ensigns, 110 pennants and 70 streamers, 46 of which were flown by Howard’s flagship, the Ark Ralegh. The royal standard, the rose of the House of Tudor, was at the head of the Ark’s mainmast, and the cross of St. George flew from almost every English ship, along with “flags of the Queen’s arms . . . ensigns of silk . . . and pennants great and small.” The Elizabeth Bonaventure flew “a bloody flag”—the plain red flag used to signal “engage the enemy.” The upper works of the Queen’s galleons were decorated with geometric patterns in her colours of green and white, but the paintwork was cracked and sun-faded, and the hulls were tarred black from the deck to the waterline. The remaining ships were a motley collection; a handful lavishly decorated, but most as plain as a parson’s coat. These were working ships and working men, and their worth would be proved in combat, not on parade. 3