“She’s going to fight us, isn’t she, Cap’n?” he said. “Is it your pleasure that the crew go to prayers?”
“To prayers?” reiterated George. “With that galley within a quarter of a mile of us? There is no time for that, now, Sir Thomas. We shall be engaged within the next two minutes, therefore you must e’en go to prayers on behalf of all hands, while we do the fighting.”
“I’ll do both,” retorted the chaplain; “I’ll pray first and fight a’terwards!” And therewith he removed his cap, sank down upon his knees—those of the crew who happened to see him also uncovering—murmured a few words, and then, rising to his feet, calmly seized a long bow and a quiverful of arrows, drew a shaft from the quiver, fitted it to the string, and prepared to do his part manfully in the impending fight.
Meanwhile those in the galley seemed somewhat undecided as to what to do. Like the rest of her class she was fitted at the bow with a powerful beak or ram, just level with the surface of the water, the office of which was to pierce an enemy’s ship about the water-line and so cause such a serious leak as to effectually distract the attention of the defenders. But in the present case there appeared to be some hesitation with regard to the adoption of this mode of attack, and George soon came to the conclusion that the galleon’s cargo—the nature of which he had not yet found time to investigate—must be so enormously rich that the Spaniards were unwilling to risk its loss by ramming her. Certainly they did not at the moment appear to contemplate such a manoeuvre, for instead of pulling with all their strength, in order to get good way upon the galley, so that she might strike an effective blow, the slaves were doing little more than just give her steerage way. And seeing this, George suddenly determined upon a bold step. To cross a galley’s bows was, under ordinary circumstances, simply to invite disaster, but noting the apparent hesitation of the galley’s captain, Saint Leger determined to risk it in the present case; therefore, first signing to the helmsman to keep the ship away a trifle more, he turned to his crew and shouted: “Gunners, depress the muzzles of your pieces sufficiently to sweep yonder galley’s deck, and fire just so soon as you can be sure to hit her. I am going to risk crossing her bows. Archers, stand ready to discharge your shafts. And let the waits play up ‘Ye gallant sons of Devon.’ If so be that there are any English among the galley-slaves, ’twill hearten the poor souls up a bit to know that some of their own countrymen be close at hand.”
And therewith the waits—some half a dozen instrumentalists—launched forth with an air that was at that time as familiar to every Devon man as his own name, though it is nearly if not quite forgotten now. Ten seconds later, every man on the galleon’s decks, from George downward, was shouting the fine old song at the top of his voice, the melody going far out over the water and causing the haughty Dons on the galley’s poop to stare in amazement.
Almost at the same instant the galley’s culverin spoke again. This time the piece was aimed to hit, and it did so, piercing the galleon’s larboard poop bulwark and passing so close to George’s head that he distinctly felt the wind of it, while a big splinter from the bulwark not only knocked off his steel headpiece, but also scored his scalp so shrewdly that in a moment he was almost blinded by the blood that streamed down into his eyes. The force of the blow caused him to stagger for a moment, and three or four men stationed at the smaller ordnance on the poop rushed toward him, fearing that he was badly hurt. But with a smile he ordered them back to their stations as he wiped the blood out of his eyes with his kerchief, and the next instant a loud twanging of bowstrings told that the archers had got to work. A final glance at the galley showed George that her oarsmen were still pulling slow and that there was ample room for the galleon to cross her bows; he therefore signed to the helmsman and the great ship went surging past, while her ordnance, great and small, belched forth a perfect tornado of bullets, nails, jagged fragments of iron and what not upon the deck of the devoted craft. When the smoke cleared away it was seen that the oars were drooping motionless in the water, and that of all that great crowd who a moment earlier stood upon her deck, scarcely a paltry dozen still remained upright. That terrific storm of missiles had most effectually done its work.
On the after deck but one solitary officer, clad in a complete suit of splendid armour, and with the hilt of his broken sword in his hand, stood among a heap of slain, and, seeing him, George sprang up on the rail of the galleon and hailed him:
“Do you surrender, señor, a buena guerra?” he demanded.
“What else can I do, señor, seeing that you have slain the whole of my crew with your infernal broadside?” he demanded. “Yes, señor,” he continued, “I surrender the ship, but I am disgraced for ever, and I will not increase my humiliation by becoming your prisoner.”
And therewith he calmly walked to the side of the galley and deliberately sprang overboard, sinking instantly, of course.