‘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.