In spite of their number we stuck closely to them, the flagship of Van Tromp, who fought in a manner worthy of our former foeman, his redoubtable sire, being singled out as a prize worth taking. Three vessels engaged his ship, and were within an ace of making him haul down his flag, when de Ruyter threw seven of his largest vessels between Van Tromp and our shattered ships. Then through the smoke we perceived that sixteen ships had reinforced the already superior number of the Dutchmen, and, to save ourselves from total destruction, Albemarle hoisted a signal for the English to retreat slowly towards the mouth of the Thames.
Smarting under the disgrace, we obeyed, firing as we went. Scarce thirty English ships remained out of the fifty-four that commenced the fight. Keeping close together, and yawing from time to time in order to deliver a broadside at our pursuers, we held doggedly on our course, till at length a flat calm set in, and both fleets lay inactive at a mile apart, in which situation darkness again overtook us.
Through sheer exhaustion our men were unable to execute even the smallest, necessary repairs, and throughout the short summer's night they slept heavily at their posts.
As daylight dawned upon the third day of the fight we continued our retreat, and as a faint southerly wind sprang up the enemy drew near with the intention of renewing the fight, concentrating their efforts on Albemarle's ship, which, covering the retreat, presented an undaunted spectacle to our relentless foes.
The Prince Royal was next in line ahead, and so close were we that one of Albemarle's officers hailed us to the effect that the admiral had expressed his intention of firing the magazines should things come to the worst.
Shortly after midday a loud shout rose from the Dutch ships, and their rigging was alive with men gazing southward and frantically waving their arms.
"Send a man aloft there," ordered Sir George Ascue, his face crimson with excitement, "and see what those beggars are clamouring over."
The command was obeyed with alacrity, and several of our vessels also sent a seaman to the masthead on a similar errand.
"Sail, ho!" sang out the lookout. "There's a fleet hull down to the south'ard."
"Heaven grant 'tis Rupert's squadron!" ejaculated our captain; "though methinks by their noise those scurvy Dutchmen are sure 'tis de Beaufort."