But I was in doleful dumps. For I had lost my friend—perhaps for ever.
“Come, haul away, land lubber that thou art,” cried a voice at my side. Looking round, whom should I see but that same Will Peake, the mercer’s man of London Bridge, with whom I had had so many a merry bout in times past.
He was too busy just then to do aught but grin in my face and bid me haul away. For the other Spanish ship had fared worse than the Rata, and was already heeling over on her side.
“Haul away, you hulking lubber,” yelled Will, “or she’ll be on her beam-ends before we are clear.”
So, for five minutes, we and a parcel of other fellows worked might and main to cut away tackle and clear ourselves of the doomed galleon, which settled over farther and farther, showing her whole broadside from gunwale to keel, and blazing despairingly heavenward with her guns.
“Why not give her a broadside to help her over?” asked one who worked near.
“Because,” said Will, wisely, “we have no shot left to do it.”
“What!” I asked, “are we in such a plight as that?”
“’Tis true,” said Will; “I heard it from the gun officer an hour ago. And not only are we at an end, but so is all her Majesty’s fleet.”
“Then we are lost!” I said.