It had been fought on both sides with peculiar determination. In the
English there was the accumulated resentment of thirty years of menace
to their country and their creed, with the enemy in tangible shape at
last to be caught and grappled with; in the Spanish, the sense that if
their cause had not brought them the help they looked for from above,
the honour and faith of Castile should not suffer in their hands.
It was over. The English drew off, regretting that their thrifty
mistress had limited their means of fighting for her, and so obliged
them to leave their work half done. When the cannon ceased the wind
rose, the smoke rolled away, and in the level light of the sunset they
could see the results of the action.
A galleon in Recalde's squadron was sinking with all hands. The _San
Philip_ and the _San Matteo_ were drifting dismasted towards the Dutch
coast, where they were afterwards wrecked. Those which were left with
canvas still showing were crawling slowly after their comrades who had
not been engaged, the spars and rigging so cut up that they could
scarce bear their sails. The loss of life could only be conjectured, but
it had been obviously terrible. The nor'-wester was blowing up and was
pressing the wounded ships upon the shoals, from which, if it held, it
seemed impossible in their crippled state they would be able to work
off.
Pages:
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262