In wrath and grief, set of face, hot of heart, they burst at last from the tunal into the open with sky and sea, the plain, the town and the river before them--the river where the ships lay in safety, the Cygnet and the Phoenix close in shore, the Mere Honour and the Marigold in midstream. The ships in safety--then what meant those distant cries, that thrice repeated booming of a signal gun, that glare upon the river, those two boats filled with rowers making mad haste up the stream, that volley from the Mere Honour's stern guns beneath which sank one of the hurrying craft?
Turned to stone they upon the hillside watched disaster at her work. The Cygnet was a noble ship, co-equal in size and strength with the Mere Honour, well beloved and well defended. Now for one instant of time a great leap of flame from her decks lit all the scene and showed her in her might; it was followed by a frightful explosion, and the great ship, torn from her anchorage, wrecked forever, a flaming hulk, a torch, a pyre, a potent of irremediable ruin, bore down the swift current and struck the Phoenix.... Once more the Mere Honour's cannon thundered loud appeal and warning. In the red light cast by her destroyer the galleon began to sink, and that so rapidly that her seamen threw themselves overboard. Yet burning, the Cygnet kept on her way. Borne by the tide she passed from the narrow to the wider waters; to-night a waning star, the morn might find her a blackened derelict, if indeed there was sign of her at all upon the surface of the sea.
Around the base of the hill swept the Admiral and his force. Vain had been the attack upon the fortress, heavy the loss of the English, but it was not the Spanish guns which had caused that retreat. Where were Robert Baldry and his men? What strange failure, unlooked-for disaster, portended that heavy firing at the rear of the fortress?... The signal gun! The ships!
John Nevil and his company left attacking forever the fortress of Nueva Cordoba, and rushed down the hillside towards plain and river. Forth from the town burst Ambrose Wynch with the guard which had been left in the square--but where were Robert Baldry and his men? Were these they--this dwindled band staggering, leaping down from the heights, led by Henry Sedley, gray, exhausted, speaking in whispers or in strained, high voices? No time was there for explanation, bewildered conjecture, tragic apprehension. Scarcely had the three parties joined, when hard upon their heels came De Guardiola and all his men-at-arms. Nevil wheeled, fought them back, set face again to the river, but his adversaries chose not to have it so.
They achieved their purpose, for he gave them battle on the plain, at his back the red light from the river, before him that bitter, triumphant fortress. Hard and long did they fight in a death struggle, fierce and implacable, where quarter was neither asked nor given. Nevil himself bore a charmed life, but many a gentleman adventurer, many a simple soldier or mariner gasped his last upon Spanish pike or sword. Not fifty paces from the river bank Henry Sedley received his quietus. He had fought as one inspired, all his being tempered to a fine agong of endeavor too high for suffering or for thought. So now when Arden caught him, falling, it was with an unruffled brow and a smile remote and sweet that he looked up at the other's haggard, twisted features.
"My knighthood's yet to seek," he said. "It matters not. Tell my Captain that as I fought for him here, so I wait for him in Christ His court. Tell my sister Damaris--" He was gone, and Arden, rising, slew the swordsman to whom his death was due.
Still fighting, the English reached the brim of the river and the boats that were hidden there. The Mere Honour and the Marigold were now their cities of refuge. Lost was the town, lost any hope of the fortress and what it contained, lost the Cygnet and the Phoenix, lost Henry Sedley and Robert Baldry and many a gallant man besides, lost Sir Mortimer Ferne. Gall and vinegar and Dead Sea fruit and frustrated promise this night held for them who had been conquerors and confident.
They saw the Cygnet, yet burning, upon her way to the open sea; from the galleon San José it was gone to join the caravels. Wreckage strewed the river's bosom, and for those who had manned the two ships, destroyer and destroyed, where were they? Down with the allegartos and the river slime--yet voyaging with the Cygnet--rushing, a pale accusing troop towards God's justice bar?... The night was waxing old, the dawn was coming. Upon the Mere Honour Baptist Manwood, a brave and honest soul who did his duty, steered his ship, encouraged his men, fought the Spaniard and made no more ado, trained his guns upon the landing, and with their menace kept back the enemy while, boatload after boatload, the English left the bank and reached in safety the two ships that were left them.
The day was breaking in red intolerable splendor, a terrible glory illuminating the Mere Honour and the Marigold, the river and the sandy shore where gathered the flamingoes and the herons and the egrets, as the Admiral, standing on the poop of the Mere Honour, pressed the hands of those his officers that were spared to him, and spoke simply and manfully, as had spoken Francis Drake, to the gentlemen adventurers who had risked life and goods in this enterprise, and to the soldiers and mariners gathered in the waist; then listened in silence to the story of disaster. Nor Robert Baldry nor Henry Sedley was there to make report, but a grizzled man-at-arms told of the trap beyond the tunal into which Baldry had been betrayed. "How did the Dons come to know, Sir John? We'll take our oath that the trench was newly dug, and sure no such devil's battery as opened on us was planted there before this night! 'Twas a traitor or a spy that wrought us deadly harm!" He ended with a fearful imprecation, and an echo of his oath came from his fellows in defeat.
Michael Thynne, Master of the Cygnet, a dazed and bleeding figure, snatched from the water by one of the Marigold's boats, spoke for his ship. "Came to us that were nearest the shore a boat out of the shadow--and we saw but four or maybe five rowers. 'Who goes there?' calls I, standing by the big culverin. 'The word or we fire!' One in the boat stands up. 'Dione,' says he, and on comes the boat under our stern." He put up an uncertain hand to a ghastly wound in his forehead.... "Well, your Honor, as I was saying, they were Spaniards, after all, and a many of them, for they were hidden in the bottom of the boat. 'Dione,' says they, and I lean over the rail to see if 'twere black Humphrey clambering up and to know what was wanted.... After that I don't remember--but one had a pistolet, I think.... There was another boat that came after them--and we were but twenty men in all. They swarmed over the side and they cut us down. They must ha' found the magazine, for they fired the ship--they fired the Cygnet, Sir John, and it bore down with the tide and struck the Phoenix." His voice falling, one caught and drew him aside to the chirurgeon's care.