‘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