IT is the afternoon of July 19, in the year of grace 1588. You are gazing at the terraced bowling-green of the Pelican Inn that looks down upon the blue waters of Plymouth Sound. A group of admirals and captains is gathered on the closely-shaven lawn, men of mark every one of them, and sea-dogs all. They are waiting, “as lions in their lair wait for the passing of a herd of deer.”

“See those five talking earnestly in the centre of a ring which longs to overhear and yet is too respectful to approach close. Those soft, long eyes and pointed chin you recognize already; they are Walter Raleigh’s. The fair young man in the flame-coloured doublet, whose arm is round Raleigh’s neck, is Lord Sheffield. Opposite them stands, by the side of Sir Richard Grenville, a man as stately as he, Lord Sheffield’s uncle, the Lord Charles Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral of England; next to them is his son-in-law, Sir Robert Southwell, captain of the Elizabeth Jonas. But who is that short, sturdy, plainly-dressed man who stands with legs a little apart and hands behind his back, looking up with keen gray eyes into the face of each speaker? His cap is in his hands, so you can see the bullet head of crisp brown hair and the wrinkled forehead, as well as the high cheek-bones, the short square face, the broad temples, the thick lips, which are yet as firm as granite—a coarse, plebeian stamp of man. Yet the whole figure and attitude are that of boundless determination, self-possession, energy; and when at last he speaks a few blunt words, all eyes are turned respectfully upon him—for his name is Francis Drake.

“A burly, grizzled elder, in greasy, sea-stained garments contrasting oddly with the huge gold chain about his neck, waddles up, as if he had been born, and had lived ever since, in a gale of wind at sea. The upper half of his sharp, dogged visage seems of brick-red leather, the lower of badger’s fur; and as he claps Drake on the back, and, with a broad Devon twang, shouts, ‘Be you a-coming to drink your wine, Francis Drake, or be you not?—saving your presence, my lord!’ the Lord High Admiral only laughs, and bids Drake go and drink his wine with John Hawkins, admiral of the port.”

As they lift their long-necked Dutch glasses a rough-bearded old sea-dog bursts in upon them and cries to the Lord Admiral,—

“My lord! My lord! They are coming! I saw them off the Lizard last night.”

“Who, my good sir?”

“The Armada, your worship—the Spaniard! You’ll find them here before nightfall, my lord.”

“Then we must haste,” observes the Lord High Admiral; and turning to Drake, he says, “I must command the help of your counsel, vice-admiral.”

“And it’s this, my good lord,” replies Drake, who has taken up a bowl and is now aiming it at the jack: “they’ll come soon enough for us to show them sport, and yet slow enough for us to be ready; so let no man hurry himself. And as example is better than precept, here goes.” So saying he aims his bowl. Hawkins follows suit, and the game is played to a finish.

“There, vice-admiral,” cries the veteran, “you’re beaten, and that’s the rubber. Pay up three dollars, old high-flyer, and go and earn more, like an honest adventurer.”

“Well,” says Drake, pulling out his purse, “we’ll walk down now and see about these young hotheads. As I live, they are setting to tow the ships out already!—breaking the men’s backs overnight to make them fight the lustier in the morning! Well, well, they haven’t sailed round the world, John Hawkins.”

And John Hawkins, with a hearty “bye-bye” to the bystanders, waddles off with the remark, “We’re going to blow the Dons up now in earnest.”

Meanwhile the lordly fleet of Spain, swelling in white clouds of sail to the heavens, speeds on towards the shores of our threatened land.

Why, you ask, is the Spaniard bent on invading England?

Who does not know something of the exploits of the sea-dogs—how they harried King Philip’s territories in America, and how no treasure ship put out from the ports save in fear and trembling? Philip, the most powerful monarch of Europe, and the champion of the Pope, had been hard hit by Drake and his fellows. He saw clearly that unless England were crushed he could not retain his empire in the New World. Further, his Flemish subjects were in desperate revolt against him, and English troops had now joined them. How he hated England! She should bite the dust, and he would stake the whole strength of his kingdom, the wealth of the two Indies, the flower of Spanish chivalry on the enterprise. It was a Crusade—nothing less. The Pope had excommunicated the heretic Elizabeth, and the martyred Queen of Scots had bequeathed England to him on the scaffold. Holy Church would fight for him, and victory was already assured. So every dockyard in Spain rang with the hammers of shipwrights, and all Latin Christendom sent him volunteers. The sea was covered with vessels freighted with arms and provisions streaming to the mouth of the Tagus. Cadiz harbour was thronged with transports, provision ships, powder vessels—a hundred sail of them—many of a thousand tons and over, loading with stores for the Armada.

Drake begged Elizabeth to let him fit out a fleet and sail along the coast of Spain to see what was going on. Very reluctantly she consented, but ere his vessels were hull down a courier galloped into Plymouth with orders that under no condition was he to enter a Spanish port or haven. The courier arrived too late—Drake, knowing the mind of his mistress, had sailed, and recall was impossible. In five days he was at Cape St. Vincent, and a day later he saw before him the forest of masts in the harbour of Cadiz. In dashed Drake, with a fair wind and flood tide, past the batteries, which hurled a storm of shot and shell at him. He did not pause to reply, but pushed on, seized and sank the guardship, took possession of the Spanish shipping, and looted everything of the slightest service to him. Then he set the hulls on fire, cut the cables, and left them blazing beneath the walls of the town. He had, in his own pleasant phrase, “singed the King of Spain’s beard.” He had delayed the Armada for a whole year, and had spoiled his Catholic Majesty to the tune of a million ducats, without losing a boat or a man!

Home came Drake, begging the queen to let him play the same game on the Tagus, where fifty great galleons, the main strength of the fighting naval force of Spain, were assembled. But the queen would not consent; she would provoke the King of Spain no further. Negotiations for peace had begun, and must not be interrupted.

In the spring of the next year the Armada was ready, and the whole Spanish nation, smarting under the indignity of Drake’s exploit, was burning to revenge itself on England. It consisted of one hundred and thirty vessels, half of them being galleons of the largest size. The ships were manned by eight thousand sailors, and overcrowded with twenty thousand soldiers, besides slaves, servants, and priests. Every noble family in Spain sent a son to fight for the holy cause. The ships, however, were ill-found and ill-provisioned, and were commanded by a modest gentleman who confessed that he was no seaman, that he hardly knew a mast from an anchor, and that when he ventured out in a boat he was always seasick. To meet this vast fleet England had but thirty-four ships in the royal navy, but almost every seaport and many rich merchants and noblemen fitted out craft to fight the Spaniard. Their crews numbered eighteen thousand men, all good seamen, and their commanders were sea-dogs all.

The Spanish Lord High Admiral—the Duke of Medina Sidonia—received his orders directly from Philip. He was to fight no battle, but was to haste with all speed to the North Foreland and there communicate with the Duke of Parma, who was in the Netherlands with thirty thousand men waiting to cross. The army would be landed, and England would be at his feet! So much for instructions. On May 14, 1588, the Armada dropped down the Tagus, and as the galleons came out the blustering north wind met them, and day by day they drifted to leeward until they were off Cape St. Vincent. The wind changed at last, and the ships steered northward again, their crews in a terrible state owing to the stinking water and the putrid pork, fish, and bread which fraudulent contractors had foisted on them. The ships were obliged to put into Corunna, with crews too weak to man the yards, and ready to desert in shoals.

At last the Armada got under way again, and the old seaman who burst in upon the admirals and captains on the Pelican bowling-green told a true tale: the Armada was coming without a doubt. Badly, indeed, was the English fleet prepared to meet them. Elizabeth’s niggardly soul would not permit her to provide sufficient stores and provisions for the fleet. The English sailors were ill-clothed and ill-provided in every way, but they did not complain. They tightened their belts and prayed for the speedy coming of the enemy. Their prayer was soon to be answered.

The Armada was now in the Channel, sailing crescent-wise. As it passed by, out went the Plymouth fleet, hanging on to its rear like grim death. The English guns were far more powerful than those of the Spaniards, and they poured in broadsides at a safe distance with deadly effect. Further, they could fire five shots to the Dons’ one. Every broadside told, and the effect of the shot and splinters on the overcrowded Spanish ships was terrible.

So the Armada pursued its way, and Howard “plucked out its feathers one by one.” For a week the running fight was kept up. During the first few days the English were badly hampered by want of powder and provisions, but now that danger was imminent there was no lack of ammunition and stores. Off Calais the fleets faced each other, and a long day’s battle was fought. On the night of Sunday, July 28, a memorable council of war was held in the Ark’s main cabin, attended by Howard, Drake, Seymour, Hawkins, Martin Frobisher, and others. The conference was short, for there was no time to lose. Eight useless vessels were immediately coated with pitch—hulls, spars, and rigging. Pitch was poured on the decks and over the sides, and men were told off to steer them. The night was dark as the grave; a faint westerly wind was curling the waters; and towards midnight the look-outs on the Spanish galleons saw several phantom-like vessels bearing down on them.

Suddenly the ships broke into a blaze from water-line to truck, and lighted up the scene like noonday. The Spaniards lost their heads, and in their panic they slipped their cables and put to sea, uncertain which way to steer. Drake and Hawkins now bore down upon them, pouring in cataracts of round shot. The decks of the Spanish ships were like slaughter-houses. The Spanish shot flew high over the low hulls of the enemy, while every English broadside found its billet. Not until his magazines were empty and his last cartridge was fired did Drake draw off.

Then a gale sprang up and the Dons were forced to steer up the North Sea. The English closely followed them, and “the Lord sent His wind and scattered them.” Of the proud fleet which left Spain for the conquest of the heretic isle only fifty-three shattered vessels returned to Spain. Thousands of Spanish corpses strewed the shores of the Orkneys, the Western Isles, and the Atlantic coast of Ireland. Scarcely a noble family in Spain but mourned a relative slain or drowned.

Thus England and English liberty were saved. All honour to you, noble sea-dogs! May Britain never lack sons of your breed! To you we owe freedom, literature, commerce, and empire, and above all the mastery of that