with food and merchandise—a few with golden ingots and bars of silver.
In silence they marched along and spent the night about a mile from the road, where they could plainly hear the carpenters working on their ships—which they did at night because of the fierce, torrid sun during the day. Next morning—the first of April, but not an April Fool’s day by any means—they heard such a number of bells that the Maroons began to chuckle and say, “You will have much gold. Yo Peho! Yo Peho! This time we will all be rich!”
Suddenly three mule trains came to view, one of fifty long-eared beasts of burden; two of seventy each, with every animal carrying three hundred pounds weight of silver, amounting to nearly thirty tons. The sight seemed almost too good to be true. With a wild shout the ambuscaders leaped from their hiding places to rush frantically upon the startled drivers. In a few moments the train was in possession of Drake and his French and half-negro associates, who chuckled and grunted like peccaries.
The leading mules were taken by the heads and all the rest lay down, as they always do when stopped. The fifteen soldiers who guarded each train were routed, but not before they had wounded the French captain most severely and had slain one of the Maroons. Silver bars and gold ingots were there aplenty. They were seized and carried off, while, what was not transported, was buried in the earthen burrows made by the great land crabs under fallen trees, and in the sand and gravel of a shallow river.
“And now for home,” cried a valorous sea farer, after a party had returned with a portion of the buried treasure, which was divided equally between the French and the English. Much of that left in the sand crab holes had been discovered by the Spaniards—but not all. Thirteen bars of silver and a few quoits of gold had rewarded the search of the expectant voyageurs.
“Yes,” cried all. “Sails aloft for Merrie England!” So, spreading canvas, the bold adventurers were soon headed for the foggy and misty isle from which they had come. On Sunday, August ninth, 1573—just about sermon time—they dropped anchor in the peaceful harbor of Plymouth.
“And the news of the Captain’s return brought unto his people, did so speedily pass over all the church, and fill the minds of the congregation with delight and desire to see him, that very few, or none, remained with the preacher. All hastened to see the evidence of God’s love and blessing towards the gracious Queen and country, by the fruit of the gallant mariner’s labor and success.”
“To God alone,” spake an humble citizen of Plymouth, “be the Glory.”
DRAKE’S GREATEST VICTORY ON THE SPANISH MAIN.
(The surrender of Don Anton to Sir Francis Drake, March 1, 1579.)
And all echoed these pious sentiments, in spite of the fact that Drake was a robber, a pirate, and a buccaneer. But was he not their own countryman?
The scene now changes. It is a gray day at Plymouth and anxious faces peer into the street from the windows of the low, tiled houses. A crowd has collected upon the jutting cliffs and all gaze with eager eyes towards the ocean. Men speak in hushed and subdued voices, for there is trouble in the air.
Among the knots of keen-eyed English there is one small party which seems to be as joyous as a lot of school-boys. Five men are playing at bowls, and one of them is stout, and well knit, and swarthy visaged with long exposure to the elements. He is laughing uproariously, when a lean fellow comes running from the very edge of those beetling cliffs which jut far out into the gray, green Atlantic.
“Hark’ee, Captain Drake!” he cries. “Ships are in the offing, and many of them too! It must be the fleet of Philip of Spain come to ravage our beauteous country!”
“Ah, indeed,” answers the staunch-figured captain, without looking up. “Then let me have one last shot, I pray thee, before I go to meet them.”
And so saying, he calmly tosses another ball upon the greensward, knocks aside the wooden pins, then smiling, turns and strides towards the waterside.
Thus Drake—the lion-hearted—goes out to battle with the great Armada of Philip of Spain, with a smile upon his lips, and full confidence in his ability to defeat the Spaniards at home as well as on the Spanish Main. Let us see how he fared?
Smarting with keen anger at Drake and his successful attacks upon his western possessions, Philip—the powerful monarch of Spain—determined to gather a great fleet together and to invade England with a mighty army.
“That rascally pirate has beaten me at Cadiz, at Cartagena, and at Lisbon,” the irate king had roared, with no show of composure. “Now I will sail against him and crush this buccaneer, so that he and his kind can never rise again.”
A mighty fleet of heavy ships—the Armada—was not ready to sail until July, 1588, and the months before this had been well spent by the English in preparation for defense, for they knew of the full intention of their southern enemy. Shipwrights worked day and night. The clamoring dockyards hummed with excitement, while Good Queen Bess and her Ministers of State wrote defiant letters to the missives from the Spanish crown. The cold blood of the English—always quite lukewarm in their misty, moisty isle—had begun to boil with vigor. The Britons would fight valiantly.
As the lumbering galleons neared the English coast, a heavy mist which hid them, blew away, and the men of England saw the glimmering water fairly black with the wooden vultures of old Spain. The Spaniards had come ready to fight in the way in which they had won many a brilliant victory; with a horde of towering hulks, of double-deckers and store-ships manned by slaves and yellow-skinned retainers, who despised big guns and loved a close encounter with hand thrusts and push of pike. Like a huge, wooden octopus this arrogant fleet of Arragon moved its tentacles around the saucy, new-made pinnaces of the tight little isle.
“The boats of the English were very nimble and of good steerage,” writes a Spaniard, “so that the English did with them as they desired. And our ships being very heavy compared with the lightness of those of the enemy, it was impossible to come to hand-stroke with them.”
This tells the whole story. With a light wind astern—the war ships of the English bore down easily upon the heavy-bottomed Spanish galleons and fired their guns at the hulls of the enemy.
“Don’t waste your balls upon the rigging,” cried Drake through a trumpet. “Sight low and sink ’em if you can. But keep away from the grappling hooks so’s not to let ’em get hold of you. If they once do—you’re lost!”
Now was the sound of splitting of boards, as the solid shot pumped great holes in the sides of the high rocking galleons. Dense clouds of vapor hung over the struggling combatants—partly from a sea fog which the July sun had not thoroughly burned away, and partly from the spitting mouths of the cannon. Fire burst from the decks, the roar of the guns was intermingled with the shrill wails of the slaves, the guttural cries of the seamen, the screams of the wounded and the derisive howls of those maddened by battle. The decks were crimson with blood; sails split and tore as the chain-shot hummed through the rigging, and the sharp twang of the arquebusques was mingled with the crash of long-barrelled muskets.
No men can fight like those who are defending their own homes. At Gettysburg, the Army of the Potomac—twice beaten in an attack upon the South in the enemy’s country—struggled as it had never done before—and won. It had nowhere battled as when the foe was pushing it back upon its own soil and cities.
So here—no fighters ever bled as did the English when the greedy hands of Spain were clutching at their shores. The light ships hung near the Spaniards at a distance and did not board until spars were down and the great rakish hulls were part helpless. Then—with a wild cheer—the little galleons—often two at a time—would grapple with the enemy and board—cutlasses swinging, pistols spitting, and hand-spikes hewing a way through the struggling, yellow-faced ruffians of Philip of Arragon.
While the awful battle raged, fire ships were prepared on shore and sent down upon the Spanish fleet, burning fiercely and painting the skyline