by J. D. Davies
Aboard the Jennet, Jack and Tom heard that there seemed to be suspicious movement aboard the great hulk that lay between the Minion and the Spanish ships beyond it. Hawkins sent a messenger over to demand an end to any underhand activity, and the viceroy sent back respectful assurances that the Spaniards, for their part, had no such intent. As it was, the Stannards busied themselves in ensuring that the Jennet was ready for any eventuality. Like every ship in the fleet, axes stood next to the cables that secured the hull to the mooring ring, and by the capstan. The ship’s entire armoury of small arms, arquebuses, pikes, swords, bills, and crossbows, together with ammunition, was massed on deck, carefully concealed behind canvas and wood screens in case any Spaniard in the fort should venture to look closely at the English ships. Piles of round shot and chain shot lay alongside each saker, along with tubs of water to cool the gun barrels after each firing. But all the while, men murmured among themselves at the admiral’s folly in allowing the Spanish fleet into the harbour at all.
As the sun began to set, Jack Stannard received an invitation from Hawkins to sup with him aboard the Jesus.
‘Supper?’ said Tom incredulously. ‘With the peril we’re in?’
‘Aye, supper,’ said Jack. ‘But I can’t turn down our admiral, and may glean something of his intentions. Besides, he’ll be thinking that the Spanish won’t attack at night, and in that, I don’t doubt he’s right.’
Jack climbed down into the Jennet’s pinnace, which lay between the ship and the shore, forming a bridge between the two. As he did so, something made him turn to look at his son and wave, as he had always done when the little boy on the quay at Dunwich had stood weeping as his father set off on another voyage. He also called out the words he had always shouted from his ship as it moved away from its berth.
‘Dominus tecum, Tom.’
Thomas Stannard seemed taken aback by being addressed thus, but replied nonetheless.
‘And also with you, father.’
Then Jack turned and was gone from his son’s sight.
* * *
The scene in the great cabin of the Jesus was unexpected. Hawkins, dressed in one of his finest outfits, had assembled a gathering of a dozen or so of his officers and gentlemen volunteers, of whom Robert Barrett was the only one that Jack knew well. The ten Spanish hostages, elegantly dressed but clearly nervous young men, stood together, reminding Jack of the huddle of their countrymen in the room in Westminster so many years before. Their counterparts who had gone to the Spanish flagship as surety for the truce included Edward Dudley’s old adversary George Fitzwilliam. Hawkins’ pages, among them his own nephew, Paul, and the black lad, Samuel, were serving wine into the admiral’s finest Venetian glass, unused since the entertaining of the merchants of Tenerife. Strangest of all, the admiral had once again assembled his band of musicians, who were playing works that Jack recognised, and sometimes even hitting the right notes.
‘Jack Stannard,’ said Hawkins. ‘Welcome, cousin. Here, take some wine. All’s well aboard the Jennet?’
‘Well indeed. We are as prepared as we can be, Admiral.’
‘Good. And no doubt you’re wondering why I should commit such folly as to entertain in my cabin, when the Spaniards may seek to slaughter us at any time?’ Jack made no reply, but suspected that his face told its own story; in any case, Hawkins did not wait for an answer. ‘Why, it’s all one of the oldest games, Jack. They seek to reassure us that they have no warlike intent. Well, I don’t believe them, and for all the viceroy’s assurances, I suspect that they’re secretly putting men into the hulk. But, in turn, we seek to reassure them that we have no such intent either, even though we are fully ready for battle, and what better way of doing that than for them to hear sounds of merriment coming from our flagship?’
Jack thought it a dubious line of reasoning, but Hawkins seemed to have entire faith in it, so he kept his peace.
Hawkins lowered his voice. ‘But I know you’ve lied to me again, Jack Stannard.’
Jack felt a grip of ice around his heart.
‘Lied? How, Admiral?’ Hawkins knew of Jack’s efforts at Walsingham’s behest, and he knew he adhered to the old faith. What else could the admiral possibly construe as a lie?
‘You know I love music,’ said Hawkins, merrily. ‘Hence my band, yonder, which many – Drake for one – consider a frippery and an indulgence. But I have heard it said, John Stannard of Dunwich, that you possess the finest singing voice in the fleet – that you once sang before Cardinal Wolsey himself. Now, is that true?’
‘I can hold a note,’ said Jack. ‘And yes, our choir sang before the cardinal, just the once.’
‘And you’ve concealed that truth from me this entire voyage, which I account a lie, cousin. I have no right to ask you here, in this place and in these circumstances, but I crave your indulgence, and hope you’ll give us a song or two.’
It was madness. Jack knew that somewhere in the hereafter, his beloved Alice would be laughing uncontrollably, probably in company with the shade of Thomas Ryman. Yet a part of him was still the young boy who wanted nothing more than to perform before the great, and there in the harbour of San Juan de Ulúa, the Queen of England’s admiral was asking him to sing. So he nodded, and went over to talk to Hawkins’ musicians.
From the Spanish ships, just as from the English, Jack Stannard’s voice could be heard clearly. The viceroy of New Spain went up on deck to listen, and exchanged an astonished look with Admiral Luxan. High up in the tower of the fort, Captain Antonio Delgadillo shook his head: so it was true what they said, that the English were all madmen. Aboard Jennet, Tom Stannard heard the distant but unmistakable sound of his father’s voice, and wept.
Jack sang on, giving his audience ‘Greensleeves’, ‘John Barleycorn’, ‘I Shall No More to Sea’, and four or five more. In his mind, he was no longer aboard a ship, thousands of miles from England; he was singing again to his Alice, as he had done to woo her in Dunwich, so many years before, and it seemed to him that he had never sung so well in his life.
‘The sin of pride, Jack Stannard,’ Alice would have said. The thought made him smile.
His performance was greeted by cheers and applause from all, including the Spaniards. The admiral and all the others present in the great cabin of the Jesus praised him to the heights and plied him continually with wine.
‘The sin of drunkenness, Jack Stannard.’ He could almost hear her voice creeping softly from the damp timbers of the Jesus.
When the evening finally ended, Hawkins insisted that it would be too hazardous for Jack to attempt to return to the Jennet, and that he should take a bed for the night aboard the flagship before going back to his own ship at dawn. If the Spaniards were going to attack, said the admiral, they would not do so before then.
Against his better judgement, Jack accepted the offer.
* * *
He was wakened at dawn by the unmistakable sounds of a ship’s crew making ready for action. He made his way to the upper deck, and found armed men moving swiftly to man the sides of the huge old flagship. He went to the quarterdeck, where he found Hawkins, dressed in his armour, standing close by a number of his other officers. Of Robert Barrett, there was no sign. It seemed he had been sent to the viceroy to deliver a protest about the Spaniards’ suspicious activity, but had not returned.
‘Never trust a Spaniard,’ said Hawkins. ‘My fellow servants of King Philip, and this is how they respect a truce. I fear I have undone us all, cousin Stannard, but best to be certain.’
Jack looked around. There was clearly activity ashore, with the sounds of running men and the occasional glint of a blade or breastplate through an embrasure. Closer at hand, there was movement aboard the hulk, and it was this on which Hawkins was focused. With Jack and a half-dozen others at his side, he crossed over to the Minion to take a closer look, taking a crossbow from the hands of his nephew as he did so. Jack, meanwhile, took up a loaded arquebus from one of the stacks standing ready on the Minion’s de
ck.
There was clearly activity within the Spanish hull: the sounds of large numbers of men trying and failing to move about silently. In the bow, ropes were being loosened and adjusted to inch the hulk closer to the Minion. Suddenly, one man came into plain view on the upper deck, a senior officer by the looks of his elaborate armour and helmet. He glanced about, as though uncertain of where he was, then saw Hawkins standing upon the fo’c’sle of the Minion.
‘It’s the vice admiral,’ said Hawkins. ‘Ubilla. I think we need no further proof of what they’re about, by God.’
There were more shouts ashore, within the fort; shouts in English, proclaiming an alarm. Hawkins shouted something at Ubilla, his Spanish so rough that even Jack could get a sense of it. England’s admiral accused Spain’s of deceit and ungentlemanly conduct, to which Ubilla replied in rapid Castilian that the two Englishmen found hard to follow. But they both caught Ubilla’s final words: that he was a fighter.
‘You are quite right!’ cried Hawkins, then took aim and loosed his quarrel.
There were shouts aboard the hulk, and Spanish troops rushed forward to cover their vice admiral. Jack lifted his arquebus, took aim and fired, feeling the vicious kick of the gun into his shoulder. As the smoke cleared, he had the satisfaction of seeing one of the soldiers at Ubilla’s side slump to the deck, clutching at his chest.
The shots from Hawkins and Jack were the signal for general battle to commence. A trumpet sounded aboard the viceroy’s flagship, the capitana, and men emerged from cover to attack the English positions ashore. Guns fired, steel struck steel, but it was clear to the admiral and his party, crossing back to the Jesus, that the men at the shore batteries were hopelessly outnumbered and would be overwhelmed in short order.
Aboard the Jesus, just as aboard the Minion to larboard and the Swallow to starboard, men were hacking at the mooring cables and manning the guns without waiting for orders from their officers. Jack knew that Tom and the men of Dunwich would be doing the same aboard the Jennet. He wished he could return to his ship, and cursed himself for accepting the admiral’s invitation to sing; but there was no time for that now. The only way he would get back to Tom, and the only way the English fleet would extricate itself from its desperate position, was by fighting for their lives.
The bows of the Spanish hulk came round, and struck the bows of the Minion. Screaming triumphantly, Spanish troops began to leap over onto the deck of the English ship. Most of the Minion’s men seemed to be below decks, no doubt readying her larboard battery, so very few came forward to resist the onslaught. Seeing this, Hawkins immediately barked out an order.
‘God and St George, repel those treacherous villains! Rescue the Minion! Trust in God that the day will be ours!’
With a roar, men from the Jesus began to leap onto the lower deck of the adjacent Minion and charged to the defence of their countrymen. By now, though, both of the great English ships had severed their head ropes and were beginning to drift out from their berths, so there were no more than a few minutes before the hulk and the Minion were breaking apart, stranding the Spanish vanguard and preventing reinforcements from coming across from the hulk. Steadily, the advantage of numbers shifted in favour of the English, who pressed the Spaniards further and further back into the bows of the Minion. Seeing their colleagues in the front ranks perish on heretic pikes and swords, many of the others abandoned the fight and jumped into the waters of the anchorage.
The Jesus and the Minion were finally clear of their berths, and Hawkins ordered the helm of the flagship brought over. Men were sheeting sails home, but as yet the ship had little momentum. The Spaniards on the upper deck of the hulk were now opening up a furious fire with their arquebuses and crossbows, and the English ships responded in kind.
‘Admiral!’ cried Jack. ‘Have you a weapon to spare?’
He had left the arquebus he had fired against the Spaniard on the hulk aboard the Minion.
‘Of course,’ said Hawkins, then turned to his nephew. ‘Paul, supply an arquebus to Captain Stannard here, and keep him well supplied with powder and shot!’
The lad grinned. ‘Aye, aye, uncle!’
He collected a weapon from the pile by the mizzen mast and handed it to Jack, who primed it in the manner that old Thomas Ryman had once taught him. As he did so, he looked around, assessing the state of the battle. The Jesus and the Minion were beginning to edge slowly westward, clearing the stern of the hulk. The greatest ships of the Spanish flota were still secured to their mooring rings, their crews making no attempt to bring them out to take on the English vessels.
‘Why don’t they unmoor?’ shouted Jack, above the din upon the upper deck of the Jesus. ‘The wind would favour them just as much as us.’
‘Not their way of fighting,’ said John Hawkins. ‘The viceroy is a soldier – fought under Alba himself, they say. So he wants a land battle, which is why he put men into the hulk, hoping to surprise and board the Minion, then us. But it’s not the way Englishmen fight, eh, cousin Stannard? Let’s show them what is!’
First the Minion, then the Jesus had a clear line of fire against the first of the huge Spanish ships, the almirante, or vice admiral’s flagship. Jack watched, impressed, as several great shots from the Minion struck their target. The Jesus was so close behind her fellow royal man-of-war that she would be able to fire well before the gun crews of the Minion had been able to reload. Hawkins and his master gunner bellowed encouragement to their own gun crews, manning the starboard battery. Then England’s admiral judged his moment.
‘Steady… steady… Give fire!’
The sakers on the upper deck of the Jesus opened fire, followed moments later by the culverins on the gun deck below. The range was point blank, and Jack Stannard witnessed the effect of a broadside from a great man-of-war. He had seen a sea fight before at the battle between the English and French fleets off Portsmouth in 1545 when the Mary Rose went down, taking his friend and mentor Thomas Ryman with it. But he had watched that from a distance, and in any case, there had only been a few desultory exchanges of fire, at the very limit of both fleet’s ranges.
This was a very different affair. The firing of the guns made even the huge hull of the Jesus shudder, as though it was being torn apart. The noise outdid the loudest thunder Jack had ever known. Flame spat from the mouths of the sakers, then thick smoke that made him choke and cough rolled back over the deck. But the effect of the broadside was even more astonishing. The English shot wreaked devastation on the almirante, shattering the delicate stern gallery and windows of the great cabin, driving vast holes through the hull and sending huge splinters of wood inward or upward. The swivel guns on the fore- and aftercastles of the Jesus fired a barrage of chain shot, tearing through the standing rigging and decapitating at least a half dozen Spaniards who were trying to reinforce the quarterdeck. Jack fired his own arquebus, but had no particular target; if any men were left alive on the upper deck of the almirante, they were keeping their heads down.
The guns of the Jesus were hauled inboard for reloading. The ship was still barely moving, so by the time the starboard battery was ready to fire again, the relative positions of the two vessels had changed little. The master gunner went from gun to gun, judging the best moment to fire. Once again, the English guns roared out, but now they were often firing into the holes they had already made, so their shot had to be penetrating into the very depths of the Spanish ship.
There was only a moment’s warning of what was about to happen. What seemed to be a deep rumbling, far inside the hull, burst into a great explosion that drowned out even the noise of the English cannon. The central part of the upper deck of the almirante seemed to lift bodily upwards in a column of flame and thick black smoke, then shatter into a thousand shards of wood. Simultaneously, the blast burst out of both sides of the hull. Jack staggered to keep his footing, and that action saved him from the huge splinter that flew through the place where he had been standing just a moment before.
The
men of the Jesus began to cheer wildly, but Hawkins and his officers immediately went about the deck, ordering them to resume their stations. The almirante might be destroyed, but the English ships were now edging toward the admiral’s ship, the capitana. Its mainmast continued to fly the standard of the viceroy of New Spain, so it was likely that Don Martín was still aboard.
Jack caught the eye of John Hawkins. The admiral nodded grimly, but Jack could see the triumph in his expression.
Against all the odds, perhaps England would, after all, taste victory this day.
Twenty-Seven
Away to the east, the Jennet, her mooring hawsers cut, edged away from her berth, and Tom Stannard prepared to give the orders to bring her around, to make sail, and to join the larger ships in the battle taking place beyond the hulk. But although he and his men cheered when they saw the almirante blow up, Tom could see something his father and Hawkins could not, and it chilled him to the very heart.
Outside the fort, the English had thrown up temporary gun batteries to complement the cannon within the fort itself. Guns had been taken out of the larboard batteries of the larger ships, and they were trained on the Spanish vessels. But from the Jennet, Tom was able to see the huge force the Spanish had sent ashore at dawn. These troops fanned out from the fort, overwhelming the men Hawkins had deployed to defend the fortifications. Worse, they were now shifting the positions of the guns in the makeshift batteries, training them to fire on the English fleet instead of the Spanish. Tom did not doubt that within the fort, exactly the same would be happening. That being so—
The first of the shore guns opened up, those now trained towards the Jesus and the Minion. Tom watched as the Spaniards found their range, and more and more shot hit the two great ships, especially Hawkins’ flagship. He prayed for his father, but never reached the amen. Two great shots struck the water no more than a few feet from the bow of the Jennet, sending up huge spouts that soaked those on deck. The next salvo was bound to hit, and the Jennet, warping out of her berth and still virtually bow-on to the mooring, could not bring any guns to bear in reply.