Armada. John Stack

time the massacre that was once the front ranks. Morgan was gone and in the sight of such callous butchery Robert felt a rage unleash within him that he had never before experienced. He felt the hilt of his sword in his hand, a part of his mind wondering how he had held onto it. He tightened his grip.

      A sudden visceral war cry cut through the air and Robert turned to see the Spanish rush from the gaping wounds in the bulkhead behind which the cannons still smouldered. They surged forward, a second storm of fire, and Robert saw the men around him take a step back, the wounded calling for their comrades to gather them up as panic began to engulf the English. He stepped forward. The deck upon which he stood had already been paid for with English blood. It was theirs. He raised his sword above his head.

      ‘Stand fast, Retribution!’ he roared and charged forward towards the Spanish.

      The uninjured men to his flanks and those yet to board were temporarily stunned by the sudden call. For a moment their flight was checked. Shaw, the boatswain, was first to react, seeing the man who had saved him rush towards the enemy. He followed without hesitation.

      ‘On, Retribution!’ he shouted and the cheer was taken up by a dozen men, then twenty more as flight became fury and fury begat fight. They followed the master into the fray, every man on board the Spy taking to the gunwales to seize the prize they had come to claim.

      Evardo ran out through the splintered doorframe at the head of his men, their war cries filling his heart as he beheld the ruin of the English ranks. He watched one of the enemy turn his back, then another, their hesitation turning to panic and rout in the span of a breath. He shouted anew, urging his crew on, knowing the Halcón was his.

      A sudden cry from amidst the English ranks caught his attention and in disbelief he saw one of the enemy running towards his men, his sword raised, his face twisted in a grotesque mask of fury. The Englishman’s valour rippled across the enemy ranks, gathering men up, and like a seventh wave overcoming a receding tide the shattered English attack began to coalesce, drawn together by a single man.

      Evardo reacted without thought, his anger at such a reversal guiding his sword and he turned to charge directly towards the English leader. Suddenly an enemy sailor spun around in front of him, launching into an attack and Evardo was forced to defend himself, dropping his blade to parry the first strike. His sword spun in a tight arc and slashed low, beginning a sequence of strikes that Abrahan had taught him years before. Within seconds his blade sliced into the English sailor’s stomach. Evardo twisted the blade savagely, hot blood and viscera gushing over his hand. He wrenched the sword back from the sucking flesh and the sailor fell with an agonized scream.

      Evardo stepped back, his sword charged once more. The lines of attack were now completely merged and anarchy reigned. The Spanish charge had been blunted and absorbed. The fight was descending into a brawl and Evardo threw his sword up once more as another Englishman rushed at him. Order was lost and the desperate sounds of combat filled the air; the furious war cries and screams of men and the crack of arquebuses as bullets were fired at point blank range.

      Evardo fought on, his sword guided by a desperate anger. The vision of a charging Englishman flashed through his mind. With a terrible dread, he took his first step backwards, the fury of the English attack already reaching a crescendo, spurred on by a demonic leader. The enemy sailor before him fell, but out of the corner of his eye he saw men of his own crew fall. His previous confidence fled. The odds were no longer in his favour and already beyond his control, and as he shouted for his men to take heart, he could hear the hollow ring in his own words, the desperation that spoke of a hopeless defence of a galleon already lost. Only one option remained, one chance: to strike off the head of the hydra and he sought out the English leader once more. A savage vow passed his lips as he spotted him and he charged his sword to fight across the blood soaked deck.

      Robert’s vision began to clear slowly and his mind registered the numbing pain in his sword arm as he hacked his blade down again and again on the upturned sword of a Spanish sailor, the defender calling out with a pleading voice that Robert could not hear or understand. He whipped his sword around, the razor edge slicing through flesh until it struck bone, and the Spaniard’s cries cut short as he fell to the deck.

      Robert stepped over him and sensed for the first time the men on all sides who moved forward with him. He had attacked alone, oblivious to all save the need to take the ship for the fallen but now he realized the entire crew was to his back and he pushed deeper into the fight. A bullet whipped past his head and another struck through a fold in his sleeve but still he pressed on, sensing that the pendulum of battle was poised to swing in his favour.

      From the edge of his vision he saw a Spaniard rush towards him and he spun around, throwing his sword up instinctively as the parried Spanish blade swept within a hair’s breadth of his head. The Spaniard did not hesitate but came on again and Robert took his first step back as he desperately tried to defend himself against the blur of steel. He locked his gaze on his attacker, knowing the eyes betrayed the sword and suddenly realized he was fighting the Spanish commander, recognizing him as the man who led the initial enemy charge, the man who had wrought such slaughter amongst his countrymen for the fate of a galleon already sealed. He swung his blade to parry a strike before twisting it sharply. The steel edges of the two swords cut along each other, drawing the two men closer together, locking them chest to chest.

      ‘You,’ Evardo cursed in Latin, ‘damn you and your God-cursed crew to hell.’

      Robert’s eyes darkened at the invective. ‘Murderous son-of-a-whore,’ he spat, ‘you will rot there first.’

      Robert could smell the Spaniard’s breath and his face, twisted with exertion, filled his vision. Robert leaned into the attack and tightened his grip through the blood and sweat on the hilt of his sword, seeking to dominate the contest of strength. He bent his knees slightly, coiling the power of his lower body and pushed forward with all his might, breaking the bond between the two swords. The point of his blade darted under the Spaniard’s sword but his opponent reacted with incredible reflexes, blocking the killing strike.

      Robert reversed his attack, trying to push the Spaniard off balance, but again he recovered and the Spaniard spun his sword around, putting the momentum of his entire body into the blow, the strike of the blades numbing the fingers of Robert’s hand. Evardo lunged forward, striking low, and Robert recoiled as the Spaniard’s blade sliced across his exposed thigh, cutting the flesh deeply. He stepped back, his balance thrown by the leg wound, and the Spaniard came on, his attack unceasing.

      Robert felt his breath catch in his constricted throat. His mouth was dry and tasted foul. He was losing and his defence became ever more frantic as he felt the serpent of fear uncoil in his stomach. The sensation angered him and he stood firm, unwilling to give another inch of ground. He slapped the next strike down with the flat of his blade, breaking the sequence of the Spaniard’s attack and gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg as he centred his balance.

      He jabbed his sword downwards, looking for the killing strike against the groin. Evardo blocked and made to counter strike but again Robert struck low, forcing the commander to defend. Without warning Robert slashed his sword upward and Evardo tilted back to avoid the point of the sword, hooking his own blade around. Robert followed through. The blades rasped against each other, forcing the Spaniard ever backwards and Evardo lost his footing as he pitched over the inert body of a fallen crewman.

      Robert was immediately upon him, his sword darting for the Spaniard’s chest. In that instant he caught sight of something that made him stop and his arm trembled as he held the point of his sword an inch from the captain’s flesh.

      ‘Yield,’ he said, the muscles of his arm and shoulder calling on him to drive home the strike, his eyes locked on the crucifix hanging around the commander’s neck, the reason he hesitated to deliver the fatal blow.

      Evardo looked up at the mottled face of his enemy. He felt the grip of his sword and knew with certainty that if he moved to knock away the Englishman’s blade he was a dead man. A curse rose to his lips but he held back, the instinct to survive surfacing through his anger. The sounds of battle swept over him and he heard the tone of desperation in the Spanish cries. The Halcón