Armada. Chapter One

 CHAPTER ONE

The sea flashed green, a bright opal beneath the sun, and gliding across it, like two trees of towering sail, a galleon, the San Felipe, sailed for Spain. The waters south of the Florida Keys, tepid and undulating, might have assured safety from coast hugging pirates, but the threat of gales, posed even greater dangers.

The San Felipe, an escorting warship, served the perilous duties of protecting a treasure fleet across thousands of miles of ocean, and with its bristling armament of forty-two cannon, appeared ready to destroy any foe in its path.

    Onboard the galleon, Diego Cortez, a carpenter, sulked over wooden projects on a table below the main mast. Behind him, a triangular sheet of cloth, the lateen sail, billowed in the breeze above a lofty stern castle of slanting decks, while at the bow loomed another wooden forecastle, not as towering, supporting a mast for two square sails.

Diego sported the liveliest of bronze faces amongst his crew. His slick black hair gave him a spirited look of such youthful gaiety--he won over mortality with a grin. As the sun rose, bleeding through the main sail, he picked up his carpenter's saw, felt its teeth, pricked a finger, and content over its sharpness, set the tool on the table. His thoughts raced over completed jobs: repairs on floorboards below decks, another table built for the officers' mess, and a cask of foul smelling meats thrown overboard to feed the fishes. Contemplation of the last task upset his stomach.

A day for a carpenter consisted of rigorous repairs, plugging up holes busted out from long months at sea, or the more demanding jobs below, requiring the ability to work in darkly lit confines and amongst unbearable stenches. The greatest dangers came with the sudden catastrophes which could beset a vessel: the ravages of a storm and running aground, yet Diego felt content these troubles would not harass him.

    "So carpenter, are you ready for another chair?" The request came early. A brown bearded captain in a close-fitting jacket, a black doublet, bent over Diego's workman's bench.

"Yes, captain, you desire another chair?" Diego replied. "Right away."

"May God bless it with as sturdy a make as your last accomplishments, yet one of your chairs has chipped, a curse upon it, and I am in need of another."

"I will have it to you by sunset," Diego replied, and after crossing himself, he went to work on another project. He had worked harder on previous tasks, his craftsmanship resulting in wonderful creations. He finished the chair by midday and while weighing his achievement, a lookout in a crows-nest hollered out a sighting.

"Warship flying English colors!"

A boatswain in white shirt and trousers gazed up at the lookout. "How many guns?"

"Cannot say," replied the lookout. "But they're English and they have the weather gauge."

"With God's grace," said the captain, standing on the quarter deck. "We will rise out of the fight victorious. We must defend the Madre De Dios."

The captain referred to a Carrack trailing the San Felipe, a merchant vessel of towering stern and bow castles, its deep holds carrying a priceless cargo of gold bullion, silver, and other treasures from the Americas.

"I pray their Queen has only sent one," the captain said, turning to his officer on watch. "They have the wind in their sails. Ready the cannon."

"Yes, captain," answered an armor-plated officer. Diego lugged his chair up to the quarter deck. He ran downstairs, sprinted between tiers of cannon for the prow, and leaned over a castle-like construction to shiver over the sight of a closing danger.

The English warship, bearing down with three towering foresails and decks crowded with white garbed gunners, passed nearby, firing shot. Iron balls smashed against hulls, sweeping clouds of smoke across decks. The San Felipe, groaning under the onslaught, got wracked by musket fire that killed a sailor, who with a fateful clutch at his belly, fell overboard.

Diego ran downstairs for the main deck. To his horror, he noticed a chewed up lateen sail.

The high-backed stern of the retreating enemy, replete with carved decorations and overhanging balcony, bobbed upon a wave, firing shots from rear ports.

"It's sailing for the Madre De Dios," warned a lookout, pointing at the English warship, its open sails like white clouds fronting a storm. It drifted for the doomed Carrack, firing its guns.

A cannonade shot through the calm. Flashes and smoke erupted from broadside ports. The attacker kept its distance, using heavy artillery to smash out sides of the Madre De Dios, sending sections of its forecastle in a plummet for the sea. It amazed Diego to see such ruin.

The English warship sliced a larboard turn, its sails tacking the wind, and came out for another approach. The San Felipe swung around to intercept.

A breeze carried the galleon over choppy waters for the enemy, its bowsprit rising upon a wave. Diego's anticipation for an ambush materialized when looking over at his right, he found the gun ports of the Madre De Dios open, and then with a glance forward, the three foresails of the doomed assailant, barreling into the trap.

"We have the wind gauge," an officer said, referring to the galleon's favorable position in the breeze. "The English do not stand a chance!"

A fish caught in its momentum is fated to swallow the bait, and like the fish, the English warship, driven by wind, fell victim to its own propulsion. As its bowsprit drifted for the invisible hook, bombarding cannon from both sides pummeled its hull. The English fired their broadsides. Gun smoke arose, masking the fire fight.

A swivel gun atop the gunwale of the English warship fired grapeshot against Spanish defenders, shattering limbs and mutilating bodies with deadly sprays.

Diego, noticing the guns kill accuracy, ducked below the prow railing, and from his position, looked below him at gun crews struggling to fire their cannon. A sudden calm in the action caused him to stand and spy upon the warship, yet as he rose, the nearby bulwark bucked him into an accompanying wall. Breathless from his flight, he got up, heard iron shot slamming against the forecastle and the hull groaning beneath him. He suspected the worse.

Diego looked behind him, shaken by a sudden queasiness, as he watched a lateen sail teetering upon a smashed masthead break off and fall overboard under the weight of cloth. His gaze went to the English warship, sailing away from battle, a shattered hull sinking low in the water. The ship drifted further into the Carrack's blasting culverins, and above their roaring muzzles, Spanish soldiers boarded, clashing it out with remaining English belligerents. Knights raced about decks, a flood of steel, slashing through sailors with battle axes. They overwhelmed the quarter deck, took the crew captive, and brought the battle to a quick finish.

"It appears our riggers have been eased of their labors, carpenter," an armor-clad soldier said to Diego, pointing at the severed mizzenmast stump, then out to sea. "They have sent long boats."

Two long boats, their beams weighed down by a mast, rowed for the San Felipe.

Diego, searching for topside damages, went for the stern, constructed a makeshift platform of wooden planks, anchored it to the forecastle railing with pulleys, and reeled himself down to inspect holes. Wounds torn into topside chambers stared at him like a pockmarked face. He hammered in wooden plugs to cover them. Splashes below distracted his work, and during brief interludes, he looked down to watch divers, stripped to their loins and secured by ropes, sink beneath the waves to plug damages. He knew accompanying sailors, working below decks, would assist their efforts.

Memories of home invaded Diego's efforts. As his mallet pounded a wooden plug into a hole, the tavern of Seville returned to him. His mouth watered at the remembrance of his sea-dried lips touching a beer-filled cup, and his tongue, a dying barnacle, trying to writhe out for its watery deliverance. The desire quickened his swing against a plug. He felt the release.

"Diego, I hear we are sailing on," hollered down his carpenters mate, a sun-baked fellow in floppy shirt. His fingers tapped against a black chest pocket, then went through his tawny hair, arising out of the motion to return for the dark blot stitched into gray cloth. "We will drop anchor in the Azores. Do you think the saints will bring us through?"

"What maddened words you speak, Rodriguez?" Diego looked up at his friend in astonishment. "Our ship will never make the Azores. Does our captain not worry of gales? Only the blessed Mary could get us through with a leaking keel. It would be our undoing."

"But these ports are infested with English pirates! They will sink us to the bottom if we drop anchor."

"And chance a battered ship against a gale? I would rather spar with the English." Again, Seville invaded Diego's thoughts, with its beer smelling casks assuring him of safe-passage across the Atlantic. "I pray we do not hit the Florida gales. Do you not recall our last voyage?"

"The reefs! The saints be with us. If it was not for our expert pilot, we would have been split upon the rocks, all hands lost! We would have grown wings to fly for the Virgin Mother."

"Yes, a tragedy, but we sailed quick for Spain with our feet on steady planks."

"You should sway the captain to turn back, but I know him, when his mind is set, one must have the golden key to unlock his chest."

No, I trust his decision," Diego said.

"So will you come for dinner or sit here to swallow the plug?"

Diego laughed at his mate's words and dropped his mallet to feel a tense bicep. His labors had toughened his arms. He felt an onrush of fatigue and laid down on the platform, stretching out his sinewy body on planks.

Underneath a beating sun, his eyes stared above him, and in contemplation, he tried guessing upon the meal being served out. Hardtack? No, such a bitter bread had been swallowed for breakfast, then he remembered the salted fish. He climbed onboard and ran below to satisfy a ravenous hunger made more intense by an afternoon clash.

On the gun deck: rot, smoke, and powder smells made for an unpleasant rubbing against sweaty shoulders. Diego ran by sailors to steal a plate, slapped down three servings of fish from an open cask, and went for a table between cannon.

"So it's still sturdy after a three month's voyage." Diego felt the table's edge, ending his test with a fist slam.

"Si," Rodriguez said, tapping his black pocket, before returning his hand to the plate, to fork out a fish. "And in battle or storm, it has not shattered against bulkheads. Amazing!"

Diego stared out of gun portals at pink sky then looked back amongst an aisle of planks. "How is the flooding?" He remembered divers swimming below to make repairs. "Has all the water been pumped out?"

"Yes, all out. I have seen worse in the gale off Santo Domingo." Rodriguez forked out another fish.

"And we will see more of the gale with our sailing for Spain." Diego swallowed down a fish. "So what of your game of cards? Have you beat Montoya?"

"Montoya, heh. He owes me many ducats! You know my heart when it comes to money." Rodriguez tapped against the black pocket on his breast again. "My heart beats black blood for ducats! It can keep a secret for any price, but Montoya, I must tell you is in a shameful way. He has nothing."

"And how will he repay?"

"Bind his hands and throw him overboard. I was thinking with a fight against you! If you win, he owes me double earnings, if he wins, forfeit all, unless you would like to wager against him."

"To fight Montoya?" Diego laughed at his challenge. The Castilian stood as a competent fighter. He had beaten black-bearded Hernandez, who had killed many of Barbary pirates in hand to hand combat during Tunisian campaigns. "It would be a tough fight. If I faltered, would you save me?"

"I could never survive the likes of a beast."

A cask fell, releasing a putrid slime onto the decks. Its watery frights splashed against Diego's feet. He looked up to find Montoya, the robust sailor, struggling to reseal it. His sweaty head of hair, a gunpowder black, shone curly in sunlight. Fountains of discolored wash spat from cut staves and as he poked into openings, a desperate plight to plug the flood, spouts gushed out to soak nearby sailors.

"Look at the loser fight!" Rodriguez spun around to watch Montoya stumble with his dripping load. "He loses not only his game of cards but his dinner."

Sailors gathered around to throw fermenting piles of fish out of gun ports. The smelly chore caused unrest amongst the crew. A sailor broke out in aggression against Montoya. He tossed a fish outside a gun portal, spun around, and swung a fist at him. He missed. Montoya ducked behind a barrel, shot out, and slammed the thrower into cannon. The stunned victim got up, his ascent met by knuckles, and its perfect hit between the eyes, knocked him out.

"An easy win," Diego said, confident in a successful approach. He shot out of his chair, hunching low in hopes of catching Montoya by surprise, and then lunged for his opponent to launch an uppercut. The fist slammed into the sailor's lower jaw. He spat out blood and threw a hand against Diego's face, but the carpenter ducked in time, and threw a jab at his chest, a crippling blow.

The muscle-bound Montoya became a wreck before the eyes of the crew, staggering in his attempts to keep his feet steady. He lost balance and fell unconscious against a gun carriage.

A thrown joker card, flung by Rodriguez, landed on the fallen sailor's chest, an adieu to his fate.