So Drake has weighed anchor, and away up Channel with all his squadron, the moment that he saw the Spanish fleet come up; and with him Fenner burning to redeem the honor which, indeed, he had never lost; and ere Fenton, Beeston, Crosse, Ryman, and Lord Southwell can join them, the Devon ships have been worrying the Spaniards for two full hours into confusion worse confounded.

But what is that heavy firing behind them?  Alas for the great galliasse!  She lies, like a huge stranded whale, upon the sands where now stands Calais pier; and Amyas Preston, the future hero of La Guayra, is pounding her into submission, while a fleet of hoys and drumblers look on and help, as jackals might the lion.

Soon, on the south-west horizon, loom up larger and larger two mighty ships, and behind them sail on sail.  As they near a shout greets the Triumph and the Bear; and on and in the lord high admiral glides stately into the thickest of the fight.

True, we have still but some three-and-twenty ships which can cope at all with some ninety of the Spaniards:  but we have dash, and daring, and the inspiration of utter need.  Now, or never, must the mighty struggle be ended.  We worried them off Portland; we must rend them in pieces now; and in rushes ship after ship, to smash her broadsides through and through the wooden castles, “sometimes not a pike’s length asunder,” and then out again to re-load, and give place meanwhile to another.  The smaller are fighting with all sails set; the few larger, who, once in, are careless about coming out again, fight with top-sails loose, and their main and foreyards close down on deck, to prevent being boarded.  The duke, Oquenda, and Recalde, having with much ado got clear of the shallows, bear the brunt of the fight to seaward; but in vain.  The day goes against them more and more, as it runs on.  Seymour and Winter have battered the great San Philip into a wreck; her masts are gone by the board; Pimentelli in the San Matthew comes up to take the mastiffs off the fainting bull, and finds them fasten on him instead; but the Evangelist, though smaller, is stouter than the Deacon, and of all the shot poured into him, not twenty “lackt him thorough.”  His masts are tottering; but sink or strike he will not.

“Go ahead, and pound his tough hide, Leigh,” roars Drake off the poop of his ship, while he hammers away at one of the great galliasses.  “What right has he to keep us all waiting?”

Amyas slips in as best he can between Drake and Winter; as he passes he shouts to his ancient enemy,—­

“We are with you, sir; all friends to-day!” and slipping round Winter’s bows, he pours his broadside into those of the San Matthew, and then glides on to re-load; but not to return.  For not a pistol shot to leeward, worried by three or four small craft, lies an immense galleon; and on her poop—­can he believe his eyes for joy?—­the maiden and the wheel which he has sought so long!