The limited medical supplies I carried in my satchel did not provide enough strapping, so I tore off the long tail of the sailor’s shirt and used that instead. I had some poppy syrup, however, so I mixed some of it with wine I found in the captain’s cupboard. Once the man woke I would give it to him to ease the pain.

The soldier came back with two thin planks which would provide adequate splints to hold the leg rigid until I could bring the man ashore. With that thought, I turned and asked, ‘Could you see where we are? Is the battle still going on?’

I realised that my hearing had recovered and there seemed less noise than before surrounding us.

‘We’re in amongst the English fleet now, Doctor.’ It was the soldiers who had fetched the wood. ‘The b’yer lady Spaniards are running away downwind like a pack of sheep. We’re following and firing from time to time, but they can’t get away fast enough, the b’yer lady cowards. Me and the lads, we never even got a musket shot at ’em.’ He hawked and would have spat, to show his low opinion of an enemy who would not stay and fight, but realised he was in the captain’s cabin and began to cough and choke instead. His fellow grinned and thumped him on the back till he got his breath back.

‘Let them go,’ I said with a grin. ‘You bloodthirsty fellows! The sooner they are gone from English waters, the better.’

At that moment my patient began to stir and I was occupied giving him the poppy juice and reassuring him that no grave damage had been done to him or to the ship. I nodded to the soldiers to go.

‘I thank you for your help,’ I said. They went off, still grumbling that they had had no chance to use their muskets against the enemy.

Once the sailor was eased and falling asleep, I went out on deck myself. The entire scene had changed. The Spanish fleet, in a ragged cluster, was sailing before the wind in a north-easterly direction, or else they had simply given up and allowed the wind, which was still blowing strongly, to take them where it would. The English fleet was following demurely behind, occasionally letting off a round of shot when the distance between the fleets allowed. Over towards the starboard shore, which must be France, or the Spanish Netherlands, or even free Flanders, a few enemy ships had pitched up, either caught on the shoals or seeking refuge after serious damage.

I found Andrew down near the base of the mainmast, where some of the sailors were fixing up a jury-rig for the mainsail. Andrew, like his men, was disappointed at having had no opportunity to join in the fight.

‘You will have opportunity enough,’ I said tartly, ‘if those ships make landfall in the Thames or along the Essex shore. Every soldier we can muster will be needed then.’

‘They are running away with their tails between their legs like beaten curs,’ he said. ‘They will not dare to attack now. They’ve not managed their rendezvous with Parma’s land army. Without them, what can a parcel of sailors do on land?’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but I would not be so confident until every Spanish hull is out of English waters. Remember, they are carrying soldiers as well as sailors. Where do you think they will go from here?’

Captain Faulconer must have heard me, for he joined us.

‘This wind has been our saving. It has made it possible for us to use our guns as they should be used, keeping them at a distance, and herding them away from their Netherlandish army. If it continues to blow, they will be forced out into the German Ocean and we will block their way back down the Channel. There is only one way they can go. Up the east coast and around the top of Scotland. Good luck to them!’

He grinned, his mouth fierce in the depths of his black beard. ‘Those are wild waters, up there in the north, where the German Ocean and the Atlantic meet, knocking their heads together. The heights of the two can vary by several yards and they tussle against each other like savage boars. Then the ships must find their way through the scattered Scottish islands and down past Ireland, before ever they see the Bay of Biscay and Spain again.’

As the afternoon wore on, the English fleet began to lose interest in chasing the enemy. They had been seen off with very little loss of life on our side. When it seemed that the last dying efforts of the battle were over, I tackled the captain.

‘Where are we now?’ I asked.

‘Nearly back where we started,’ he said. ‘Off the coast of the free Netherlands.’

‘There can be no reason for us to linger any more, Captain,’ I said. ‘You know that your orders from Sir Francis were to return directly to Dover. I have no criticism of your wish to do your duty and join the battle, but now we must make all speed back to England.’

I realised I sounded somewhat pompous. ‘Besides, your ship is in need of repairs and one of your sailors should receive better care than I can give him on board ship.’

It seemed I had no real need to persuade him, now that dusk was creeping over us. There was little attraction in hanging about out in mid Channel or pursuing the Spaniards east and north. He sent a messenger over in a dory to Sir Martin Frobisher’s flagship, the Ayde, which was lying near to us, hove to, with an explanation of who we were and why we were now leaving for Dover. In half an hour the messenger had returned with Frobisher’s agreement and we turned south and west again. At once the waves slapped us hard and the wind fought against us. It was going to be a rough sailing, and once again by night.

Until now we had been running before the wind in pursuit of the scattered Spanish fleet which was limping away into the dark waters of the German Ocean. Even at a distance we could see how many of the ships bore the scars of battle – broken masts and spars, canvas and rigging dragging along decks and over the gunwales, shattered planks where hulls had been stove in by our cannon balls. They would have a journey of many hundreds of miles before they could reach a friendly port. I wondered whether they could hope for a welcome on the Irish coast. Periodically during the Queen’s reign attempts had been made to launch attacks on England by rebels in Ireland in alliance with Catholic forces from Spain or France. There was a chance we might see those ships again, sailing toward us from the west. However, unless they could join forces with Parma’s land army still stranded in the Low Countries, they could not pose the threat that we had survived by this day’s action. Without that strong south-westerly wind, what might have happened?

And it was a fierce wind indeed, for as we turned head into it, the Good Venture shuddered like a frightened horse, trying to leap sideways on to the blast, while the sailors struggled to keep her on her new course. Despite the jury rig, our own mainsail was but partially serviceable. We must depend for the most part on the foresail and staysail. To add to our difficulties, the tide, having ebbed during the battle, had turned again and was flowing up the Channel in the same direction as the wind. Against these two implacable forces of nature, the Good Venture, fine ship that she was, could make but slow progress.

As it was growing dark, the crew began to light lanterns and hoist them aloft, fore and aft, to make our presence clear to the remainder of the English fleet, which loomed around us in the gloom. Lights were being raised on other ships as well, and soon a constellation of nautical stars was dancing above the waves while the stars overhead appeared and vanished as the clouds continued to roll eastwards on the high winds of heaven. For the most part the English fleet was hove to, but a few, like us, were fighting their way south and west – some, no doubt, also making for Dover, others heading further, for Plymouth or Portsmouth. Either they were damaged or the commanders of the fleet had sent them home bearing despatches or wounded men.