There fell a dead silence: all in the room knew that the ship was lost, but it was terrible to hear it again. The lad’s face broke into lines of grief, and he spoke huskily.
“Gone down with the dead and wounded; and the rest of the fleet a mile away.”
Then the lieutenant went on to describe how he himself had been deputed to bring the San Juan into port with the wounded on board, while the captain and the rest of the crew by Drake’s orders attached themselves to various vessels that were short-handed, and how the English fleet had followed what was left of the Spaniards when the fight ended at sunset, up towards the North Sea.
When he finished his story there was a tremendous outburst of cheering and hammering upon the table, and the feet and the pike-butts thundered on the floor, and a name was cried again and again as the cups were emptied.
“God save her Grace and old England!” yelled a slim smooth-faced archer from Appledore.
“God send the dons and all her foes to hell!” roared a burly pikeman with his cup in the air. Then the room shook again as the toasts were drunk with applauding feet and hands.
Anthony turned to the landlord, who had just ceased thumping with his great red fists on the table.
“What was the captain’s name?” he asked, when a slight lull came.
“Maxwell,” said the crimson-faced man. “Hubert Maxwell—one of Drake’s own men.”