“We have the army of Spain before us,” wrote Drake, from the Revenge, “and hope with the grace of God to wrestle a pull with him.  There never was any thing pleased me better than seeing the enemy flying with a southerly wind to the northward.  God grant you have a good eye to the Duke of Parma, for with the grace of God, if we live, I doubt not so to handle the matter with the Duke of Sidonia as he shall wish himself at St. Mary’s Port among his orange trees.”

But Howard decided to wrestle no further pull.  Having followed the Spaniards till Friday, 12th of August, as far as the latitude of 56d. 17’ the Lord Admiral called a council.  It was then decided, in order to save English lives and ships, to put into the Firth of Forth for water and provisions, leaving two “pinnaces to dog, the fleet until it should be past the Isles of Scotland.”  But the next day, as the wind shifted to the north-west, another council decided to take advantage of the change, and bear away for the North Foreland, in order to obtain a supply of powder, shot, and provisions.

Up to this period, the weather, though occasionally threatening, had been moderate.  During the week which succeeded the eventful night off.  Calais, neither the ’Armada nor the English ships had been much impeded in their manoeuvres by storms of heavy seas.  But on the following Sunday, 14th of August, there was a change.  The wind shifted again to the south-west, and, during the whole of that day and the Monday, blew a tremendous gale.  “’Twas a more violent storm,” said Howard, “than was ever seen before at this time of the year.”  The retreating English fleet was, scattered, many ships were in peril, “among the ill-favoured sands off Norfolk,” but within four or five days all arrived safely in Margate roads.

Far different was the fate of the Spaniards.  Over their Invincible Armada, last seen by the departing English midway between the coasts of Scotland and Denmark, the blackness of night seemed suddenly to descend.  A mystery hung for a long time over their fate.  Damaged, leaking, without pilots, without a competent commander, the great fleet entered that furious storm, and was whirled along the iron crags of Norway and between the savage rocks of Faroe and the Hebrides.  In those regions of tempest the insulted North wreaked its full vengeance on the insolent Spaniards.  Disaster after disaster marked their perilous track; gale after gale swept them hither and thither, tossing them on sandbanks or shattering them against granite cliffs.  The coasts of Norway, Scotland, Ireland, were strewn with the wrecks of that pompous fleet, which claimed the dominion of the seas with the bones of those invincible legions which were to have sacked London and made England a Spanish vice-royalty.