How long it went on I know not. For a cry suddenly came of “Hands below!” and down we went to patch up with all our might the holes the English shot had made on the water line. And here we worked all night, amongst a swearing, savage gang, who threatened aloud to blow up the ship rather than fight any more, and wished themselves safe back in the drinking-shops of Lisbon.
When, about midnight, half-stifled with the heat, we came on deck, the Rata was running before the wind at the rear of the Armada, heading for the French coast; and the lanthorns of the English had dropped a league behind.
Never saw I a company so changed as were the gallants of Spain by that day’s fight. They still cursed, and laughed, and shouted. But when they shook their fists it was at the lights ahead, and when they dropped, silent and downcast, their faces were turned to the lights astern.
“Humphrey,” said Ludar to me, as we stood a moment looking round before we turned to go to our quarters, “I like not this business.”
“Why,” said I, “the Spaniard is being beaten, and he knows it. Our English sea-dogs are too many for him.”
“Ay,” said he, with a curl of his lip, “your English are brave enough when there is no helpless woman’s head to be taken. But it is because these Dons are a pack of curs that I like this business less and less.”
“It contents me well enough to see them shuffled and routed,” said I.
“Yes; but how is it to end? A little more, and instead of sailing up Channel, we shall be sailing down; instead of finding ourselves in London, we may arrive in Lisbon. What then?”
This had never occurred to me, I had calculated so surely on finding myself back in England, that I had forgotten we were prisoners on the Rata, and must even go wherever she took us.
“How can we get away?” I asked. “If we swim to the English they will mistake us for spies or Spaniards. And we are too far from the shore.”