Nothing could have stood before the tremendous outpouring of such incredible rage.
The gallant men of Spain fought on, and met us bravely, brave with something more than the courage which is born of dark despair. For, to say the truth, never yet saw I any of that nation—even of its commonalty—that might be called a coward.
It is my belief, and good reason have I for it, that no more doughty men ever wielded sword or pike than those of Spain, nor were there any better sailors in those days in all the world. There be many, who, having regard to what she was—this great power of Spain—and considering what has happened to her, and how she is now shorn in no small degree of her glory, can account for it in no other way than by saying that she lieth under the Wrath of God. Howbeit, this is too high a matter for me. Only know I full well that the crew of the Capitana, whether fighting men or sailors, made such a stern and grim battle against us that grey morning in the Bay of Galway, as the most valiant knights could not have bettered.
Near the centre of the poop there rose up a mast, and around this our enemies gathered in a cluster, among them being some half-armed men whom I took to be the adventurers whose ensigns floated beside the standard of the galleon, and who carried themselves with an air.
They had had no time to have their armour put upon them and fastened with proper care, but as they proved themselves to be accomplished swordsmen they made a determined resistance to us. If they had come at me when I appeared at the top of the steps, I should never have reached the deck of the poop alive; they had, however, tarried too long in the attempt to be clothed with their harness.
They were surrounded, and, though I offered them their lives, declaring that they would be held for ransom and would be well treated by Grace O’Malley, they would not listen to me, preferring rather to die, fighting, so long as the breath was in them, like the valiant men of Spain they were.
One only, who appeared to be the captain of the ship, I commanded to be taken alive—a business which was done with difficulty, so madly did he struggle, notwithstanding that the blood flowed in streams from several of his wounds.
“Yield yourself,” said I, “Señor Captain, for the ship is ours, and further fighting is useless. Give me your parole.”
But he refused, snarling and showing his teeth like a mad dog. Then I ordered him to be bound, and laid on the deck for the present.
The greater part of the galleon was now in our hands, but there still remained a band of Spaniards in the forecastle, who galled us with the fire from their pieces and the arrows of their bows. When they saw how their comrades had been overcome on the poop castle, they cut down the spar which had been lashed to the broken foremast, and using it and the sailcloth about it as a kind of barricade went on firing at us from behind this shelter.