Telling Calvagh, who had come out of the fight without a scratch, to take what men he thought needful, I directed him to attack the forecastle, and at the same time protected his assault of it by a discharge from the poop of a small cannon I found there loaded. This position of the Spaniards, however, was one of such strength that they inflicted heavy loss upon us before they were all put to the sword.
We were now masters of the entire vessel, but its capture had cost us dear. Fifteen of the Irish were killed, and as many more wounded, several of them seriously; and when the sun rose across the dim outline of the hills away beyond Galway its rays fell upon decks that ran dark with blood, and upon a wearied band of men, whose gasping breath came and went in sobs of pain, now that the excitement was past, and who threw themselves down in sheer exhaustion. I myself was sore spent, but the day was only begun, and the rest of the wine fleet might come into view at any moment. Therefore I bade my men rise up as soon as they had rested somewhat, and then endeavoured to put the Capitana into sailing trim.
While this was being done I shaped our course for Inisheer, remaining on the Capitana myself with some of my crew, and sending Calvagh to take charge of The Cross of Blood. I also had the captain of the galleon brought before me, to see if I could get any information from him about the other ships of the fleet.
“Señor Captain,” said I, “the chance of war has delivered you and your ship to me. Ye fought well, and I am grieved that so many valiant souls no longer see the light; yet would I have spared them, as many as I could, but they would not. You are in no danger of your life, if you will but answer the questions I ask of you.”
I spoke in English, my knowledge of Spanish being slight, but I judged that the captain of a ship trading to Ireland, and particularly to the English city of Galway, would be certain to understand the English tongue. At first it appeared, however, as if he did not comprehend my words.
“Kill me, kill me!” he exclaimed in Spanish, while his face was distorted with impotent rage.
Replying to him mildly that I had no intention of putting him to death, I informed him that I had no sufficient acquaintance with his own language, and therefore I was unable to converse with him in it.
“You surely understand English,” said I.
One of the Irish who was on guard over him thrust a dagger into him for an inch or more before I knew what he would be about, whereupon the Spaniard cursed him and us and himself and his ship and the day he was born in as good English as ever I heard.
“I shall tell you nothing,” said he. “No, by St. Jago, nothing, nothing, nothing!”