The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper
Effingham; but as he approached the coast of Spain, the wind changed, and as he was afraid the enemy might effect the passage to the Channel unperceived, he returned to its entrance, whence the ships were withdrawn, some to the coast of Ireland, and the larger part to Plymouth, where the men were allowed to come ashore, and the officers made merry with revels, dancing, and bowling. The enemy was so long in making an appearance, that even Elizabeth was persuaded the invasion would not occur that year; and with this idea, Secretary Walsingham wrote to the admiral to send back four of his largest ships. “Happily for England, and most honourably for himself, the Lord Effingham, though he had relaxed his vigilance, saw how perilous it was to act as if all were safe. He humbly entreated that nothing might be lightly credited in so weighty a matter, and that he might retain these ships, though it should be at his own cost. This was no empty show of disinterested zeal; for if the services of those ships had not been called for, there can be little doubt, that in the rigid parsimony of Elizabeth’s government, he would have been called upon to pay the costs.”
THE FIRST SHOT AGAINST THE ARMADA.
The Armada, now completely refitted, sailed from Corunna on July 12th, and when off the Lizard were sighted by a pirate, one Thomas Fleming, who hastened to Plymouth with the news, and not merely obtained pardon for his offences, but was awarded a pension for life. At that time the wind “blew stiffly into the harbour,” but all hands were got on board, and the ships were warped out, the Lord Admiral encouraging the men, and hauling at the ropes himself. By the following day thirty of the smaller vessels were out, and next day the Armada was descried “with lofty turrets like castles, in front like a half-moon; the wings thereof speading out about the length of seven miles, sailing very slowly though with full sails; the wind,” says Camden, “being as it were weary with wafting them, and the ocean groaning under their weight.” The Spaniards gave up the idea of attacking Plymouth, and the English let them pass, that they might chase them in the rear. Next day the Lord Admiral sent the Defiance pinnace forward, and opened the attack by discharging her ordnance, and later his own ship, the Ark Royal, “thundered thick and furiously” into the Spanish vice-admiral’s ship, and soon after, Drake, Hawkins, and Frobisher, gave the Admiral Recalde a very thorough peppering. That officer’s ship was rendered nearly unserviceable, and he was obliged to crowd on sail to catch up with the others, who showed little disposition for fighting. After a smart action in which he had injured the enemy much, and suffered little hurt himself, Effingham gave over, because forty of his ships had not yet come up from Plymouth. During the night the Spaniards lost one of their ships, which was set on fire, it was believed, by a Flemish gunner, whose wife and self had been ill-treated by the officer of the troops on board. The fire was quenched, after all her upper works had been consumed; but when the Spaniards left the hulk, they abandoned fifty of their countrymen, “miserably hurt.” This night was remarkable for a series of disasters and contretemps. A galleon, under the command of one Valdez, ran foul of another ship, broke her foremast, and was left behind. Effingham, supposing that the men had been taken out, without tarrying to take possession of the prize, passed on with two other vessels, that he might not lose sight of the enemy. “He thought that he was following Drake’s ship, which ought to have carried the lanthorn that night; it proved to be a Spanish light, and in the morning he found himself in the midst of the enemy’s fleet;” but he managed to get away unobserved, or at all events unpursued. Drake, meantime, was mistakably following in the dark and stormy night a phantom enemy, in the shape of five Easterling vessels. Meantime, the English fleet not seeing the expected light on Drake’s ship, lay-to during the night. Drake, next morning, had the good fortune to fall in with Valdez, who, after a brief parley, surrendered, and the prize was sent into Plymouth. Drake and his men divided 55,000 golden ducats among them, as part of the spoil on board. The hulk of the galleon was taken to Weymouth, and although burned almost to the water’s edge, the gunpowder in the hold remained intact and had not taken fire. The next day there was considerable manœuvring and skirmishing, but with no very memorable loss on either side. A great Venetian ship and some smaller ones were taken from the enemy, while on our side Captain Cook died with honour in the midst of the Spanish ships, in a little vessel of his own. Both sides were wary; Effingham did not think good to grapple with them, because they had an army in the fleet, while he had none; our army awaited their landing. The Spaniards meant as much as possible to avoid fighting, and hold on till they could effect a junction with the Prince of Parma. Next morning there was little wind, and only the four great galleases were engaged, these having the advantage on account of their oars, while the English were becalmed; the latter, however, did considerable execution with chain-shot, cutting asunder their tacklings and cordage. But they were now constrained to send ashore for gunpowder, with which they were either badly supplied, or had expended too freely. Off the Isle of Wight, the English battered the Spanish admiral with their great ordnance, and shot away his mainmast; but other ships came to his assistance, beat them off, and set upon the English admiral, who only escaped by favour of a breeze which sprung up at the right moment. Camden relates how the English shot away the lantern from one of the Spanish ships, and the beak-head from a second, and that Frobisher escaped by the skin of his teeth from a situation of great danger. Still this was little more than skirmishing. “The Spaniards say that from that time they gave over what they call the pursuit of their enemy; and they dispatched a fresh messenger to the Prince of Parma, urging him to effect his junction with them as soon as possible, and withal to send them some great shot, for they had expended theirs with more prodigality than effect.” On the other hand the English determined to wait till they could attack the enemy in the Straits of Dover, where they expected to be joined by the squadrons under Lord Seymour and Sir William Winter. Meantime Effingham’s forces were being considerably increased by volunteers; “For the gentlemen of England hired ships from all parts at their own charge, and with one accord came flocking thither as to a set field.” Among the volunteers were Sir Walter Raleigh, the Earls of Oxford, Northumberland, and Cumberland. On the evening of the 27th the Spaniards came to anchor off Calais, and the English ships, now 140 in number, “all of them ships fit for fight, good sailors, nimble and tight for tacking about which way they would, anchored within cannon-shot.” A squadron of about thirty ships belonging to the States, acting in conjunction with the Admiral of Zeeland and his squadron, effectually blockaded Dunkirk, and the poor Prince of Parma, with his pressed men constantly deserting, his flat-bottomed boats leaky, and his provisions not ready, could do nothing.
The Spanish ships were almost invulnerable to the shot and ordnance of the day, and “their height was such that our bravest seamen were against any attempt at boarding them.” These facts were well understood by Elizabeth’s ministers, and the Lord Admiral was instructed to convert eight of his worst vessels into fire-ships. The orders arrived so à propos of the occasion, and were so swiftly executed, that within thirty hours after the enemy had cast anchor off Calais, the ships were unloaded and dismantled, filled with combustibles and all their ordnance charged, and their sides being smeared with pitch, rosin, and wildfire, were sent, in the dead of the night, with wind and tide, against the Spanish fleet. When the Spaniards saw the whole sea glittering and shining with the reflection of the flames, the guns exploding as the fire reached them, and a heavy canopy of dense smoke overhead obscuring the heavens, they remembered those terrible fire-ships which had been used so effectively in the Scheldt, and the cry resounded through the fleet, “The fire of Antwerp!” Some of the Spanish captains let their hawsers slip, some cut their cables, and in terror and confusion put to sea; “happiest they who could first be gone, though few or none could tell which course to take.” In the midst of all this fearful excitement one of the largest of the galleases, commanded by D. Hugo de Moncada, ran foul of another ship, lost her rudder, floated about at the mercy of the tide, and at length ran upon Calais sands. Here she was assailed by the English small craft, who battered her with their guns, but dared not attempt boarding till the admiral sent a hundred men in his boats, under Sir Amias Preston. The Spaniards fought bravely, but at length Moncada was shot through the head, and the galleas was carried by boarding. Most of the Spanish soldiers, 400 in number, jumped overboard and were drowned; the 300 galley-slaves were freed from their fetters. The vessel had 50,000 ducats on board, “a booty,” says Speed, “well fitting the English soldiers’ affections.” The English were about to set the galleas on fire, but the governor