Howard, carrying his own flag in the _Ark Raleigh_, joined
Drake at Plymouth with seventeen others.
Still the numbing hand of his mistress pursued him. Food supplies had
been issued to the middle of June, and no more was to be allowed. The
weather was desperate--wildest summer ever known. The south-west gales
brought the Atlantic rollers into the Sound. Drake lay inside, perhaps
behind the island which bears his name. Howard rode out the gales under
Mount Edgecumbe, the days going by and the provisions wasting. The
rations were cut down to make the stores last longer. Owing to the many
changes the crews had been hastily raised. They were ill-clothed,
ill-provided every way, but they complained of nothing, caught fish to
mend their mess dinners, and prayed only for the speedy coming of the
enemy. Even Howard's heart failed him now. English sailors would do what
could be done by man, but they could not fight with famine. 'Awake,
Madam,' he wrote to the Queen, 'awake, for the love of Christ, and see
the villainous treasons round about you.' He goaded her into ordering
supplies for one more month, but this was to be positively the last. The
victuallers inquired if they should make further preparations.
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