Chapter Twenty Seven.
How Ludar sailed North and I South.
The next day (it was Saturday), I was hovering near Captain Desmond’s quarters on some excuse to enquire after my comrade, when there came a summons for hands forward, and a general stir as of something untoward afoot.
So far as I could judge, we were bowling along before a smart westerly breeze with all canvas set, just about where the Channel straitens betwixt Dover on the English side and Calais on the French. Though we were towards the French side, we could clearly see the white cliffs of England to our left, and betwixt us and them, scarcely a mile to rear of us, hovered a certain number of English craft which had not followed their greater ships into Dover. To our right the towers and steeples of Calais town rose up clear and bright, while straight ahead of us the long line of the Armada, of which we closed in the rear, swept forward as though they would dart clean past the Straits and make for the Dutchman’s land beyond.
But as I went forward I marked a rapid passing of signals along the line, and a crowding on each ship at the forecastle. The great anchors of the Rata were swung in readiness over the prow, and a score of men stood by to pay out the cable. Then, as we strained our eyes eagerly ahead, we could see the tall masts of the Duke’s ship, and of all the ships betwixt him and us, suddenly swing round into the wind’s eye. There was a great flapping of canvas, a rattle of chains, and a plunging of anchors, and then, as if by magic, the great Armada stood still, at bay.
It was easy to guess the object of this strange movement, and as I looked away towards the English fleet, I felt uneasy. For so suddenly was the Spanish fleet halted, and so near upon its heels were the pursuers, that, unless these could halt as suddenly, they would assuredly slip past, and so give the Spaniard—what he so greatly desired and longed for—the wind of them.
Already the young nobles on the Rata were laughing at the smart policy of their Admiral, and rejoicing in the near prospect of a turning of the tables—(for could they once get the Englishman betwixt them and the Duke of Parma’s fleet, which was waiting on the Dutch coast, they would crumple him up like chaff between two mill-stones)—already, I say, they were counting on seeing the enemy run past them, down the wind; when, lo, with a derisive shot or two into the air, the Englishmen put about quietly, and after hovering a little, and running a little in the teeth of the wind to get a nice distance from us, they dropped anchor too, and turned every one his broad-stern upon us, so that we might all have an eye full of the Queen’s ensigns which floated there.
I confess I lifted my hat in joy and loyalty to see how cunningly the Don had been out-reached. And the Spanish oaths which hissed out from a hundred lips, as they saw the same thing, sounded to me (Heaven forgive me!) like music.
So overjoyed was I, that without leave I went off, laughing, to tell Ludar the news. But alack! at the very entrance to the officer’s quarters, whom should I run against but Don Alonzo himself? So smartly did I come against him, that, had I not caught him roughly by the arm, he might have fallen backwards.
When he saw who it was, his brow darkened (and little wonder!) and he said something in Spanish that I was glad I did not know the meaning of. He recovered himself, however, and drew up coldly a moment after.
“This eternal printer!” said he. “The way to the main-mast you know already, sirrah. Take with you this time to the top three days’ rations. If you are found lower than the top-mast yard before then, you swing at the bowsprit.”
I was sorely tempted to retort then—so put about was I—that there was less chance of my countrymen seeing me if I swung at his bowsprit than if I swung at his stern. But I prudently forebore.
“Sire,” said I, “permit me first—”
He turned on me with such a look that I ventured no more parley; and sad at heart, wondering what Ludar would think of me for not coming to him, and wishing this cursed sea-fight was at an end, I went to the hold for biscuits and a bottle of water, and, with no better armour than this, crawled miserably aloft.
Little I guessed what a revenge I was to have on the Dons before my three days were over!
For a while, not a little of my pleasure in seeing her Majesty’s ships on the right side of the wind was lost by this untoward accident. And since the wind freshened increasingly during the day, and the Channel in those Straits is wickedly rough, I was soon too ill and out of humour to think of anything at all. I had more than one mind to venture an escape, and perhaps swim to the French coast. Yet, so long as Ludar was on the ship, I could not do it; and he in his grandee’s quarters was as close a prisoner from me as if he had still been in the Tower.
I was growing tired of the Invincible Armada, and thought with longing of the snug parlour in the printing house without Temple Bar, where I had sat of old, listening to the music of a certain sweet voice which now seemed all but lost to me in the howling of winds and booming of guns and grinding of Spanish teeth.
Where now was she, and that fair maiden whom Ludar loved? What hope were there of our ever meeting or hearing of one another’s fate?
The night passed, and as Sunday dawned, I could see the English ships still hovering not far to rearward; while across, toward the English coasts, shone many white sails, as of the greater Queen’s ships returning to join the fleet.
The wind slackened, so that the anchorage of the Armada, which had been sore strained in the night, held good; and with the French town so close on their flank, I thought, despite their loss of the wind, they rode safely enough where they were, and would have leisure to say mass and celebrate their popish rites without fear of disturbance that Sunday.
So it fell out. All day long bells sounded instead of cannons, and instead of powder the smoke of incense rose to where I perched. Moreover, I could guess, by the merry laughter which now and then came the same way, that their Don-ships were in better heart than yesterday. Perchance the Duke of Parma was already on his way.
As for the English, they lay quietly in their moorings, sparing powder and shot too, and, as it seemed, ready to wait on the Spaniard for the next move.
Towards nightfall, I seemed to detect a stir in their quarters; and presently some seven or eight moderate sized craft fell out of the line, and, with sails set, bore down our way. I marvelled very much that if an attack was to be made, it should be left to ill-armed craft like these to make it, while the greater ships hung idle at a distance. But I supposed it was but a device to take off the Spaniard’s notice from something else, and waited curiously to see the result.
They came leisurely towards us, those eight ugly craft, about a cable length apart, steering towards the very centre of our line. As they approached night fell rapidly. But still they held on. I could see their lights hoisted one by one, and strained my ears to catch the first sound of a shot.
Strange to say, they saved their powder. The last I saw of them, as night closed in, they were bearing down full in the wind, each with his cock-boat in tow, within a gunshot’s distance of the centre of our line. One of the Spaniards there gave them a disdainful shot, by way of challenge; but they gave never an answer.
Then, all of a sudden, there was a flare, and a roar of flame which leapt up and lit the heavens; and eight blazing vessels drifted full into the middle of the Invincible Armada.
Never shall I forget the scene that followed. There was a moment of bewilderment and doubt; then a hurried random shot or two; then, as the burning masses, spreading before the wind, scattered their fires within the lines, a mighty shout, a rush of footsteps on deck, a hacking of cables and running of chains, a frantic hauling round into the wind; and then, amid panic cries, the galleons of Spain swung round, and, huddled together with tails turned, stood out for sea.
The glare of the English fire-ships lit up the sea like a lake of hell, and amidst the roar of the flames, and the yells of the Spaniards, might be heard the crashing of bowsprits and tumbling of masts, as galleon ran into galleon in the race for safety. A few of them took fire from the English fire-ships; some blew up; others, stove in by their own consorts, foundered miserably; some went ashore on the shallows; but most got into the wind and fled for their lives out of the Straits.
The Rata, being last of the line, escaped with little hurt; for all the vessels ahead of her had cleared off before she got under weigh.
That was a merry night for me up in my perch. I hallooed and cheered, and shouted “God save the Queen!” till I was hoarse. I jeered the King of Spain, and hooted his men. No one heard me; but it did me good.
When day broke, there we were, the glorious Armada, like a scared flock of sheep, six miles away from Calais, looking round at one another with white faces, and counting the cost of that night’s fireworks. A few charred hulks drifting in the distance were all that were left of the terrible brands which had routed the Don from his beauty sleep; while many a disabled galleon on our side told of the panic they had caused. Like sheep, at a safe distance, the Spaniards swung round cautiously to face the danger that had passed; and a cry presently arose, not unmingled with shame, of “Back to Calais!”
But the cunning Englishmen had risen too early in the morning to permit that. Already their sails crowded the western horizon and, as we lay in a long crooked line, waiting the Admiral’s signal to beat up again for our lost anchorage, down they bore upon us—half of their sail swooping on the right of our line, the other half on the left.
Then followed the biggest battle of all that great sea-fight. For, taking us on either flank, the Englishmen, coming for the first time to close quarters, huddled our ships in towards the centre, sending us one on the top of the other, so that for every ship they sank by their own shot, another went down, stove in by her next neighbour. Where I was, the smoke was soon so dense that I could see but little clearly. More than once, I know, the Rata was in the thick of the fight, pounding away at the Englishmen, and receiving broadside after broadside in return, which crashed against the hull and shook me where I hung at the mast-head. The sails round me were riddled with shot, and once or twice I, coming suddenly into view, became a special target for the enemy’s marksmen.
Little cared I! For at every shot that day the banner of Spain tottered lower and lower to its fall, and the flag of old England spread wider and more proudly in the breeze!
Presently, I remember, an English ship named the Vanguard, slipped suddenly in betwixt the Rata and another tall Spaniard, so close that we swung there all three together, with our yards entangled, and blazing away at one another, till I wondered if there could be a man left alive below.
As for me, up where I was, I thanked Heaven that the smoke around me rose in clouds and hid me. As it was, many a bullet, shot at random, whizzed through the cords to which I clung, and once a great booming shot tore away the streamer at the mast-head. But so busy were all down below that no one troubled himself to look for the skulker aloft, who sat there, as it seemed, above the clouds, not even knowing, as the day wore on, whether the Rata still belonged to the King of Spain or to her glorious Majesty.
Suddenly, hard by, I heard a loud shout, and looking round, saw, on the yard-arm of the Englishman’s ship, a smoke-bedimmed fellow, with his knife betwixt his lips, crawling towards where, at every lurch, the pole on which I squatted swung across his own. I was in a sore strait when I saw him. For how could I fight against my Queen? Yet, if I let him and the fellows that swarmed up the tackle after him pass, what of my debt of honour to the King of Spain?
The matter was settled for me; for, perceiving me as we swung together, the fellow made a wild grab at me, and, slashing with his knife at the hand by which I clung to the mast, forced me to quit my hold, and clutch at him instead. Then, as I did so, the masts swung asunder, and, lo and behold, I was no longer on the Rata, but a prisoner of my own Queen.
I made a dash to spring back to the Spanish ship, but it was too late. The Don was already hauling off, and every moment the gap between him and the English ship became wider. Half-a-dozen stout British hands held me fast, and as many blades at my breast warned me that the game was up.
“Hands-off, comrades!” I shouted; “I am an Englishman.”
At that they laughed, and bade me say my prayers, for my hour was come, and they had other work on hands.
“God save her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, and curse the King of Spain!” cried I.
Then one or two of them stared round, and cursed me for a Jesuit.
“I am no Jesuit, but a London ’prentice lad,” said I, “and have broken heads better than yours for my Queen before now, as I will prove to any two of you that like, even here.”
This pleased them better, and they bade me, as I loved my Queen, take a musket and slay them the first Spaniard I could spy on the enemy’s deck.
“Give me the gun,” said I, with a laugh, “and bullets enough for every dog of them.”
At that moment the smoke below me drifted, so that I could just espy, as in a frame of cloud, a little spot on the deck of the Rata, where stood a man. He was tall like a giant. The tawny hair waved carelessly in the wind. He carried no weapon, but leaned with both hands heavily on the rail, like a man wounded, and his face, when he turned it, was pale. There was a grim smile on his lips as he watched the panic-stricken sailors hauling off their ship; and once he turned and looked up, not at me, but at where I had been.
“Fire!” shouted the men at my side, “or we strike.”
I dropped the gun into the waves below, and with a mighty lump in my throat, whipped out my knife and waited for what should follow.
They fell back amazed at my madness, and, while they consulted what to do with me, I took my chance to grip the first of them by the throat and swing him off his perch.
At that moment a shrill whistle came up from below.
“You are wanted on deck, comrade,” said I; “will you go down by the mast, or a shorter way?”
“The mast,” he gasped.
So I had my way, and we all went below together.
The English captain—one Admiral Winter—swore roundly when he saw me; and, when he heard my story, said he had bellies enough to fill without a great hulk of a fellow like me to eat more. And he promised me, if he caught me idle at my work, he would trip me by the heels himself. Whereat I thanked him and went forward.
But I was in doleful dumps. For I had lost my friend—perhaps for ever.
“Come, haul away, land lubber that thou art,” cried a voice at my side. Looking round, whom should I see but that same Will Peake, the mercer’s man of London Bridge, with whom I had had so many a merry bout in times past.
He was too busy just then to do aught but grin in my face and bid me haul away. For the other Spanish ship had fared worse than the Rata, and was already heeling over on her side.
“Haul away, you hulking lubber,” yelled Will, “or she’ll be on her beam-ends before we are clear.”
So, for five minutes, we and a parcel of other fellows worked might and main to cut away tackle and clear ourselves of the doomed galleon, which settled over farther and farther, showing her whole broadside from gunwale to keel, and blazing despairingly heavenward with her guns.
“Why not give her a broadside to help her over?” asked one who worked near.
“Because,” said Will, wisely, “we have no shot left to do it.”
“What!” I asked, “are we in such a plight as that?”
“’Tis true,” said Will; “I heard it from the gun officer an hour ago. And not only are we at an end, but so is all her Majesty’s fleet.”
“Then we are lost!” I said.
“No doubt,” replied he. “Yet we had merry sport with the Don while it lasted; and methinks he will run a bit without our help, before he find out that we fight him with one arm bound.”
So it turned out. The fight dragged on through the afternoon, and ship after ship of the King of Spain went to her doom, or drifted helplessly on the mud banks of Gravelines. But the English fire dropped shorter and shorter; and as evening closed (had the enemy but known it!) we had scarce a broadside left among us.
Yet Heaven remembered us in our extremity. For no sooner had our guns become mute than the south wind came down on us with a burst, catching us in the small of our backs, and sending the Don away in front of us, staggering and reeling seaward, for his very life.
’Twas a sad spectacle for me. I had long since lost sight of the Rata. In vain I scanned the smoke-laden horizon for a sight of her. I never saw her more. I could fancy Ludar stalking the deck, or scaling the masts wildly, in search of me; and then, when he found me not, with the cloud deep on his noble brow, crawling to his berth in the dark to tell himself that I was dead.
I wished that night he could have thought it truly!
Will Peake, when the work of the day was done, was in vast great humour to find me of the ship’s company. He had scarce known me at first, so changed was I by the perils of the last weeks. A score or more of swashbuckling ’prentices were on board the ship, he said; and, presently, when I saw them all, and heard their jests, and knocked some of their heads together, I could have believed myself in Cheapside. Having been some two weeks on board, they were mightily proud of their seamanship, and delighted to call me (who had sailed as many seas as they had ponds), landlubber.
However, it mattered not, and we spent a merry night—at least they did—scudding before the wind, and watching the Spanish lanthorns rocking uneasily in the darkness a mile ahead of us.
When daylight came, there they were in a long disorderly line, never looking back, with canvas set, and still running. Some of our ships hung close on their heels, like dogs at a flying ox; but scarce a shot boomed, and never a tack did the Dons slack off their northward course.
As for us, there were two good reasons why we, on the Vanguard, should not keep up the chase. We had neither shot to fire nor food to eat. When I came forward that morning to receive my morsel of biscuit with the rest, I understood how ill-pleased Master Winter had been to see another hungry body on board his ship. Even yesterday, as we had helped the bodies of the brave fellows who had fallen for their Queen overboard, it was plain to see that there was something of consolation joined to the pity we all felt for our lost comrades; and the sight of my beggarly rations when I received them made it clear what that consolation was.
So when, after a day’s chase, the word was given to put about, and beat up for Margate Roads, scarce a man among us had the stomach to grumble.
’Twas a long, dismal voyage that, in the face of the tempest—with short and tedious tacks that sometimes left us at the day’s end little nearer our haven than at the beginning. And long before Margate was reached half of our company was sick with famine.
I think as brave as any men who fought in that great sea-fight were the few fellows of Will Peake’s sort who kept up heart and spirit on that sorry voyage back to Margate. I know I myself had been tempted often enough to give over but for his cheery word in my ear; and if half the crew remained loyal to their captain till we reached land, Master Winter owed it not a little to his ’prentice-sailors. As for me, I was plague-stricken before we passed the Thames mouth, and when at last we dropped anchor in Margate Roads, Will told me he doubted whether I was worth the lifting ashore.
Yet he did as much for me and more. He nursed me like my own brother, and when, a week or two later, I was able to stand on my feet and set one foot before another Londonwards, I owed it to him that I found myself at last once more in the great city, and had life left in me to look round and know where I stood.