The days of the mighty Armada were numbered as the Duke of Medina Sidonia led his fleet on and anchored on the 27th off Calais. He was well aware that he was not in a good position for he was open to attack from Lord Howard and the weather was deteriorating fast. But for the Spaniards there was nowhere left to go.
The Duke realised that it would be impossible for Parma to join him for his forces would be annihilated. The small craft needed to shuttle the men and horses of Parma’s army to the galleons anchored, by virtue of their size, in deeper water, would be blown to bits by the small, swift ships of the English fleet to whom the shallower waters off the Flemish coast presented no problem.
Howard’s squadrons anchored a mile to windward and he sent to Dover for fireships. Next morning he was joined by Lord Henry Seymour with the blockading fleet, comprising fifteen of the Queen’s own ships plus thirty others and the Lord High Admiral decided to force battle. As the fireships had not arrived, eight merchantmen were used. They were packed with anything that would burn and were coated with pitch and gunpowder and at midnight on the 28th their crews sailed them as close as they could on the strong east-going tide. After lashing their helms they took to the boats, throwing blazing torches into the floating, pitch covered merchantmen.
The Armada was riding two anchors to each ship and in close formation and sheer panic ensued as the fireships erupted into blazing infernos within their midst.
The glare from the blazing ships lit up the features of the man the Spaniards called “El Draque” and feared as they feared the devil himself, as he watched with grim satisfaction the chaos which the fireships were causing.
He turned to Edward Allgrave who stood beside him.
“Look at them, running like rabbits from the hounds. The fools are cutting their cables!”
“Aye and are running foul of one another. Look at that!” Edward replied and they watched as one galleon ran aground, her rudder completely wrenched off by the cable of a fleeing galleon.
“Can you see what ship she is?” Drake asked.
“The San Lorenzo, I think.”
“That should put paid to their formation and tomorrow we shall show them what mettle we are made of!”
At first light on the 29th the Spanish fleet was scattered along the coast for miles, its crescent-shaped formation, which had been maintained from the day of its sighting, gone for good. Medina Sidonia desperately tried to re-group and managed to get fifteen of his best ships together but the English, reinforced by a fifth squadron under Seymour, attacked immediately. Lord Howard remaining to make certain of the grounded San Lorenzo.
All was ready aboard the Revenge and determination filled the heart of every man aboard. As the wind filled her sails and the flags of St. George and England streamed in the wind, Drake ordered the drummer to beat his flagship into action. The sound of that drum, carried on the morning air, instilled fear into the hearts of the Spaniards aboard the San Martin for they knew that “El Draque” had singled them out.
Edward stood between his two sons. “Today shall settle the fate of England. Whatever happens, do your best, that is all that can be expected of you.”
Drake’s voice rose above the beating of the drum as he cried.
“For Elizabeth! For England!”
The cheers of his crew were drowned by the first salvo from the San Martin which fell short to starboard and the fight for England’s freedom commenced.
The Spaniards' aim was inaccurate; their galleons slow and cumbersome while the English ships again and again raked them with their deadly, accurate fire. The noise was deafening and smoke filled the air and was so dense that it was almost impossible to see any great distance. The Captains had to bawl their orders above the noise and never in his young life had Paul Allgrave witnessed such appalling carnage as the English ships pounded the towering Spaniards with salvo upon salvo of cannon fire. He had seen men wounded and dying when he had fought with Frobisher, but nothing to compare with this. His father he had not seen for hours and Martin he had seen once, his left arm useless from an ugly wound. He himself had been caught by a flying splinter and the blood had dried and matted on his face though he felt no pain.
Once more they sailed towards the battered galleons, their guns blazing. The San Martin, the Ram, the San Matteo and the San Felipe in turn were blasted yet again. Their rigging was cut, shattered masts lay strewn across their decks. Rudders, yards and bowsprits had been shot away. Their white sails, which had but a few days ago billowed proudly in the wind, hung blackened and in shreds.
He stared in horrified fascination as they fired once more at the reeling San Antonio of Padua, for from her lee scuppers poured a steady stream not of water but of bright, scarlet blood. The life blood of Spain and her empire was being poured into the stormy waters of the English Channel as the Battle of Gravelines raged.
At noon Lord Howard came up and the English tried to drive the Armada eastwards towards the shoals off the Flemish coast while the Spaniards tried desperately to reach the North Sea. For eight hours the battle raged until in the late afternoon, a fierce storm blew up and the Spaniards ran before it.
The men of the English fleet watched them go and a great cheer rang out aboard the Revenge. With the rain sluicing down their faces men dragged themselves up: some with mortal wounds, all exhausted, their faces blackened and their clothes in rags, to watch in triumph as the broken, battered remnants of the greatest fleet in the world was driven by the north-westerly wind closer to complete destruction upon the shoals.
Edward Allgrave found both his sons and they stood, soaking wet, all three bleeding from their wounds as they watched the Spanish ships.
“They are going to founder!” Martin yelled above the wind.
“No. The wind is changing,” his father replied.
“Look! Look over there!” Paul shouted and they turned to watch as the Santa Maria went down in a foaming, churning sea with the loss of all hands.
The wind changed to southwest and the defeated Armada fled northwards. The had come with such confidence, believing themselves invincible. Certain of blasting the English fleet into oblivion and of driving the red-headed, heretic, bastard from her throne but what was left of that avenging host struggled towards Spain. Many were wrecked on the west coast of Ireland; twelve on the Connaught coast alone and their crews massacred by the barbarous Irish. Lord Howard pursued them as far as the Firth of Forth before firing a final salvo and turning for home.
When he reached Margate with his men half-starved, their clothes in rags and many of them dying from dysentery, he wrote to Elizabeth.
In the desire for victory they did not stay for the spoils of the ships they lamed. Their prize is the safety of England and they have earned the highest honour, for all the world never saw such a force as was theirs!