"Pile them up against the outer gate, my men."
Again and again the attempt to fire the gate failed, for the defenders issued out and knocked down the pile. This went on for two hours.
What was the vice-admiral doing? Was he smiling in his superior manner? We know what the admiral was doing, and all his men knew.
There he was in his shirt sleeves—regardless of his dignity—his arms laden with faggots, his face black with soot and streaming with sweat, laughing, encouraging his mates. "Now it burns!" "A cheer—what is it, lads?"
"The white flag of truce is hoisted, Sir Francis, instead of the Spanish."
The commandant had sunk under his wounds, the garrison had surrendered. On hearing this—miraculous they thought it—the castle and fort of St. Vincent also capitulated, and the English fleet could water at ease.
Drake had laughingly promised he would "singe King Philip's beard," and now he wrote to Walsingham: "We have taken forty ships, barks and caravels and divers other vessels more than a hundred ... the hoops and pipe-staves were above 16,000 tons in weight, all which I commanded to be consumed by fire—no small waste unto the King's provisions."
In order to goad the Marquis of Santa Cruz into coming out to fight, Drake lay off Cascaes in sight of Lisbon for three days, sending messages to taunt him: "Sir Francis Drake will be happy to convey the Spanish admiral to England, if at any time the Marquis should think of sailing in that direction."
But Philip had given strict orders, "While Drake is on the coast, not a man is to be moved." A fine compliment for a king to pay a hard-working seaman! And how the English crews must have laughed and rubbed their hands in glee as the merry taunt went round to the forecastle; for it was intended to hearten them quite as much as to irritate Santa Cruz.
And Drake had heard that a rich East India caravel was on its way home to Spain, and he told his men he should go to the Azores and pick it up. That would fill their pockets and delight the speculators in England.