Next morning thirteen great ships appeared, and proved to be a Mexican fleet returning with a new Viceroy or Governor from King Philip. A solemn and peaceful agreement was made, and the Spanish ships were moored alongside the English ones, which were already in possession of the harbour. However, the Spaniards afterwards broke faith and fell upon the English, and a great and fierce fight took place, which lasted from ten in the morning until night. The Angel and the Swallow were sunk, and the Jesus so damaged that it could not be brought away.
As the remaining ships were sailing away, the Spaniards sent two “fire ships” after them. This was not an unusual way of fighting in those days. The empty, burning ships were sent to try and fire the enemies’ ships, and were borne along, flaming, by the wind, an awful and terrifying sight. The men on the Minion became panic-stricken, and set sail without orders. Some of the men from the Judith followed in a small boat. The rest were forced “to abide the mercy of the Spaniards,” which, Hawkins says, he doubts was very little.
“The same night,” he goes on, “the Judith forsook us in our great misery. In the end, when the wind came larger, we weighed anchor and set sail, seeking for water, of which we had very little. And wandering thus certain days in these unknown seas, hunger forced us to eat hides, cats and dogs, mice, rats, parrots, and monkeys.”
Some of the men asked to be put on land, rather than risk shipwreck and starvation in the overcrowded boat. Hawkins did, in the end, get safely home, with his weather-beaten ship, and the survivors of his feeble, starving crew. But he says that, if all the miseries and troubles of this sorrowful voyage were to be written, the tale would be as long as the “Book of Martyrs.” Some of the men that were left also reached England, after weary wanderings and years of terrible sufferings. Some were put to death as heretics, and others were sent to the galleys as slaves. Others, more fortunate, were sent to serve in monasteries, where the monks made kind and gentle masters.
Five days before Hawkins reached England, the little Judith struggled into Plymouth Harbour with Drake and his load of men. William Hawkins sent him at once to London on horseback, “post, post haste,” as the old letters say. He carried letters to the Lords of Council, and to Sir William Cecil, the Chief Secretary of the Queen. So he rode swiftly along the country roads, only stopping to fling himself off one weary, smoking horse on to the back of a fresh one. The people would gather round him as he made the change, and wonder what great news was going to town.
William Hawkins said in his letter: “There is come to Plymouth, at this present hour, one of the small barks of my brother’s fleet, and as I have neither writing nor anything else from him, I thought it good, and my most bounden duty, to send you the captain of the same bark. He is our kinsman, and is called Francis Drake.”
He was to tell the whole story, and the Queen was to hear it. He was to tell of the losses of John Hawkins, and of his absence, which his brother says “is unto me more grief than any other thing in the world.”
Drake was much blamed at the time for deserting his general. It is difficult for us to see what he could have done. His little ship was crowded, and he had small store of food and water, and he no doubt thought it best to get home as soon as possible. His story of Spanish treachery and English loss must have roused the countryside. The excitement was at its height when the Minion appeared off Cornwall.
A man “for goodwill” came riding to William Hawkins, at Plymouth, to get help. He sent a bark, with thirty-four mariners and a store of fresh food and other necessaries. And again letters were sent to London with the news. Haste! haste! post haste!
