IV

Myriads of sea-birds, frightened by the thunder of the guns, fled

screaming; the palm-fringed shores of the bay showed through the smoke

brown and dim and far removed; hot indeed was the tropic morning in the

core of that murk and flame and ear-splitting sound. Each of the

combatants carried three tiers of ordnance; in each the guns were served

by masters at their trade. Cannons and culverins, sakers and falcons,

rent the air; then the _Cygnet_, having the wind of the Spaniard, laid

her aboard, and the harquebusiers, caliver, and crossbow-men also began

to speak. Together with the great guns they spoke to such effect that

the fight became very deadly. Twice the English strove to enter the huge

_San José_, and twice the Spaniards, thick upon her as swarming bees,

beat them back with sword and pike and blinding volleys from their

musketeers. From the tops fell upon them stones and heated pitch; the

hail-shot mowed them down; swordsmen and halberdiers thrust many from

their footing, loosening forevermore their clutching fingers, forever

stayed the hoarse shout in their throats. Many fell into the sea and

were drowned before the soul could escape through gaping wounds; others

reached their own decks to die there, or to lie writhing at the feet of

the unhurt, who might not stay for the need of any comrade. At the

second repulse there arose from the galleon a deafening cry of triumph.

Ferne, erect against the break of the _Cygnet's_ poop, drawing a cloth

tight with teeth and hand above a wound in his arm from which the blood

was streaming, smiled at the sound, knotted his tourniquet; then for the

third time sprang upon that slanting, deadly bridge of straining ropes.

His sword flashed above his head.

"Follow me--follow me!" he cried, and his face, turned over his

shoulder, looked upon his men. A drifting smoke wreath obscured his

form; then it passed, and he stood in the galleon's storm of shot,

poised above them, a single figure breathing war. Seen through the

glare, the face was serene; only the eyes commanded and compelled. The

voice rang like a trumpet. "St. George and Merry England! Come on,

men!--come on, come on!"

They poured over the side and across the chasm dividing them from their

foes. A resistless force they came, following the gleam of a lifted

sword, the "On--on!" of a loved leader's voice. Sir Mortimer touched the

galleon's side, ran through the body a man of Seville whose sword-point

offered at his throat, and stood the next moment upon the poop of the

_San José_ Robert Baldry, a cutlass between his teeth, sprang after him;

then came Sedley and Arden and the tide of the English.

The Spanish captain met his death, as was fitting, at Ferne's hand; the

commandant of the soldiers fell to the share of Henry Sedley. The young

man fought with dilated eyes, and white lips pressed together. Sir

Mortimer, who fought with narrowed eyes, who, quite ungarrulous by

nature, yet ever grew talkative in such an hour as this, found time to

note his lieutenant's deeds, to throw to the brother of the woman he

loved a "Well done, dear lad!" Sedley held his head high; his leader's

praise wrought in him like wine. He had never seen a man who did not his

best beneath the eyes of Sir Mortimer Ferne.... There, above the

opposite angle of the poop, red gold, now seen but dimly through the

reek of the guns, now in a moment of clear sunshine flaunting it

undefiled, streamed the Spanish flag. Between him and that emblem of

world-power the press was thick, for around it at bay were gathered many

valiant men of Spain, fighting for their own. They who by the law of the

strong were to inherit from them had yet to break that phalanx. Sedley

threw himself forward, beat down a veteran of the Indies, swept on

towards the goal of that hated banner. His enemies withstood him, closed

around him; in a moment he was cut off from the English, was gazing into

Death's eyes. With desperate courage he strove to thrust aside the

spectre, but it came nearer,--and nearer,--and nearer. The blood from a

cut across his temple was blinding him. He dashed it from him, and

then--that was not Death's face, but his Captain's.... Death slunk away.

Ferne, whose dagger had made that rescue, whose sword was rapidly

achieving for the two of them a wizard's circle, chided and laughed as

he fought:

"What, lad! wouldst have played Samson among the Philistines? A man

should better know his strength.--There, señor! a St. George for your

San Jago!--Well done again, Henry Sedley! but I must show you a better

_passado_.--Have at _thee_, Don Inches!--Ah, Captain Baldry, Giles

Arden, good Humphrey, give you welcome! Here's room for

Englishmen.--Well, die, then, pertinacious señor!--Now, now, Henry

Sedley, there are lions yet in your path, but not so many. Have at their

golden banner an you prize the toy! No, Arden, no--let him take it

single-handed. Our first battle is far behind us.... Now who leads here,

since I think that he who did command is dead? Is it you, señor?"

The poop was a shambles, the _San José_ from stem to stern in sorry

case. Underfoot lay the dead and wounded, her guns were silenced, her

men-at-arms overmastered. They had fought with desperate bravery, but

the third attack of the English had been elemental in its force. A

rushing wave, a devastating flame, they had swept the ship, and defeat

was the portion of their foes. Waist and forecastle were won, but upon

the poop a remnant yet struggled, though in weakness and despair. It was

to one of this band that the Captain of the _Cygnet_ addressed his

latest words. Even as he spoke he parried the other's thrust, and felt

that it had been given but half-heartedly. He had used the Spanish

tongue, but when an answer came from the mailed figure before him it was

couched in English.

"Not so, valiant sir," it said, and there was in the voice some haste

and eagerness. "Say rather I am led. Alas! when a man fights with his

sword alone, his will being traitor to his hand!"

"Since it is with the sword alone you fight, Spaniard with an English

tongue," replied his antagonist, "I do advise you to go seek your sword,

seeing that without it you are naught." As he spoke he sent the other's

weapon hurtling into the sea.

Its owner made a gesture of acquiescence. "I surrender," he said; then

in an undertone: "He yonder with the plume, now that De Castro lies

dead, is your fittest quarry. Drag him down and the herd is yours."

Ferne stared, then curled his lip. "Gramercy for your hint," he said. "I

pray you that henceforth we become the best of strangers."

A shout arose, and Sedley bore down upon them, his right arm high,

crumpled in his hand the folds, tarnished with smoke, riddled by shot,

of the great ensign. It was the beginning of the end. Half an hour later

the red cross of St. George usurped the place of the golden flag. That

same afternoon the _Cygnet_ and the _San José_--the latter now manned by

an English crew, with her former masters under hatches--appeared before

La Rancheria, stormed the little settlement, and found there a slight

treasure of pearls. More than this was accomplished, for, boat-load

after boat-load, the Spanish survivors of the fight were transferred

from the galleon to a strip of lonely shore, and there left to shift for

themselves. One only of all that force the Captain of the _Cygnet_

detained, and that was the man who had used the tongue of England and

the sword of Spain. With the sunset the _Mere Honour_ and the

_Marigold_, having left desolation behind them at New Cadiz, joined the

_Cygnet_ and her prize where they lay at anchor between the two spits

of sand that formed the harbor of La Rancheria.

In the _Mere Honour's_ state-cabin the Admiral of the expedition

formally embraced and thanked his Captain, whose service to the common

cause had been so great. It was, indeed, of magnitude. Not many hours

had passed between the frenzy of battle and this sunshiny morning; but

time had been made and strength had been found to look to the cargo of

the _San José_". If wealth be good, it was worth the looking to, for not

the _Cacafuego_ had a richer lading. Gold and silver, ingots and bars

and wrought images, they found, and a great store of precious stones. To

cap all fortune, there was the galleon's self, a great ship, seaworthy

yet, despite the wounds of yesterday, mounting many guns, well supplied

with powder, ammunition, and military stores, English now in heart, and

lacking nothing but an English name. This they gave her that same day.

In the smoke and thunder of every cannon royal within the fleet _San

José_" vanished, and in his place arose the _Phoenix_.

Exultant, flushed, many of them bearing wounds, the officers of the

expedition and the gentlemen adventurers who had staked with them

crowded the cabin of the _Mere Honour_. The sunshine streaming through

the windows showed in high light bandaged heads or arms and faces

haggard with victory. Wine had been spilled, and in the air there was

yet the savor of blood. About each man just breathed some taint of

savagery that was not yet beaten back after yesterday's wild outburst

and breaking of the bars. In some it took the form of the sleek

stillness of the tiger; others were loud-voiced, restless, biting at

their nails. Only to a few was it given to bear triumph soberly, with

room for other thoughts; to the most it came as a tumultuous passion, an

irrational joy, a dazzling bandage to their eyes, beneath which they

saw, with an inner vision, wealth a growing snowball and victory their

familiar spirit. Among the adventurers from the _Cygnet_ there was,

moreover, an intoxication of feeling for the man who had led them in

that desperate battle, whose subtle gift it was to strike fire from

every soul whose circle touched his own. He was to them among ten

thousand the Captain of their choice, not loved the least because of

that quality in him which gave ever just the praise which bred strong

longing for desert of fame. Now he stood beside the Admiral, and spoke

with ardor of the Englishmen who had won that fight, and very tenderly

of the dead. They were not a few, for the battle had been long and

doubtful. Simply and nobly he spoke, giving praise to thirsty souls.

When he had made an end, there was first a silence more eloquent than

speech, pregnant with the joy a man may take in his deed when he looks

upon it and sees that it is good; then a wild cheer, thrice repeated,

for Sir Mortimer Ferne. The name went out of the windows over the sea,

and up to every man who sailed the ship. One moment Ferne stood, tasting

his reward; then, "Silence, friends!" he said. "To God the victory! And

I hear naught of New Cadiz and other fortunate ships." He drew swiftly

from its sling his wounded arm and waved it above his head. "The

Admiral!" he cried, and then, "The _Marigold_!"

When at last there was quiet in the cabin, Nevil, a man of Humphrey

Gilbert's type, too lofty of mind to care who did the service, so that

the service was done, began to speak of the captured galleon. "A noble

ship--the _Star_ come again, glorious in her resurrection robes! Who

shall be her captain, teaching her to eschew old ways and serve the

Queen?" His eyes rested upon the galleon's conqueror. "Sir Mortimer

Ferne, the election lies with you."

Ferne started sharply. "Sir, it is an honor I do not desire! As Admiral,

I pray you to name the Captain of the _Phoenix_."

A breathless hush fell upon the cabin. It was a great thing to be

captain of a great ship--so great a thing, so great a chance, that of

the adventurers who had bravely fought on yesterday more than one felt

his cheek grow hot and the blood drum in his ears. Arden cared not for

preferment, but Henry Sedley's eyes were very eager. Baldry, having no

hopes of favor, sat like a stone, his great frame rigid, his nails white

upon the hilt of his sword, his lips white and sneering beneath his

short, black, strongly curling beard.

The pause seemed of the longest; then, "Not so," said the Admiral,

quietly. "It is your right. We know that you will make no swerving from

your duty to God, the Queen, and every soul that sails upon this

adventure, which duty is to strengthen to the uttermost this new sinew

of our enterprise. Mailed hand and velvet glove, you know their several

uses, and the man whom you shall choose will be one to make the

galleon's name resound."

Ferne signed to the steward, and when the tankard was filled, raised the

sherris to his lips. "I drink to Captain Robert Baldry, of the

_Phoenix_!" he said, bowed slightly to the man of his nomination, then

turned aside to where stood Henry Sedley.

Around the cabin ran a deep murmur of reluctant assent to the wisdom of

the choice and of tribute to the man who had just heaped before his

personal enemy the pure gold of opportunity. Few were there from whom

Baldry had not won dislike, but fewer yet who knew him not for a captain

famous for victory against odds, trained for long years in the school of

these seas, at once desperate and wary, a man of men for adventure such

as theirs. He had made known far and wide the name of that his ship

which the sea took, and for the _Phoenix_ he well might win a yet

greater renown.

Now the red blood flooded his face, and he started up, speaking thickly.

"You are Admiral of us all, Sir John Nevil! I do understand that it is

yours to make disposition in a matter such as this. I take no favor from

the hand of Sir Mortimer Ferne!"

"I give you none," said Ferne, coldly. "Favors I keep for friendship,

but I deny not justice to my foe."

The Admiral's grave tones prevented Baldry's answer. "Do you appeal to

me as Admiral? Then I also adjudge you the command of the galleon. The

_Star_ did very valiantly; look to it that the _Phoenix_ prove

no laggard."

"Hear me swear that I will make her more famous than is Drake's _Golden

Hind_!" cried Baldry, his exultation breaking bounds. "Sir John, you

have knowledge of men, and I thank you! Sir Mortimer Ferne, I will give

account--"

"Not to me, sir," interrupted Ferne, haughtily. "I have but one account

with you, and that my sword shall hereafter audit."

"Sir, I am content!" cried the other, fiercely, then turning again to

the Admiral, broke into a laugh that was impish in its glee. "Ah, I've

needed to feel my hand on my ship's helm! Sir John, shall I have my

sixty tall fellows again, with just a small levy from the _Mere Honour_,

the _Marigold_, and the _Cygnet_?"

"Yes," answered the Admiral, and presently, by his rising, declared the

council ended, whereupon the adventurers dispersed to their several

ships where they lay at anchor in the crystal harbor, the watchmen in

the tops straining eyes, on the decks mariners and soldiers as jubilant

as were ever men who did battle on the seas. Only the _Cygnet's_ boat,

rocking beneath the stern of the _Mere Honour_, waited for its Captain,

who tarried with the Admiral.

In the state-cabin the two men sat for some moments in silence, the

Admiral covering with his hand his bearded lips, Ferne with head thrown

back against the wall and half-closed eyes. In the strong light with

which the cabin was flooded his countenance now showed of a somewhat

worn and haggard beauty. Drunken and forgotten was the wine of battle,

gone the lofty and impassioned vein; after the exaltation came the

melancholy fit, and the man who, mailed in activities, was yet, beneath

that armor, a dreamer and a guesser of old riddles, had let the fire

burn low, and was gone down into the shadowy places.

"Mortimer," spoke the Admiral, and waited. The other moved, drew a long

breath, and then with a short laugh came back to the present.

"My friend ... How iron is our destiny! Do I hate that man too greatly?

One might say, I think, that I loved him well, seeing that I have lent

my shoulder for him to climb upon."

"Mortimer, Mortimer," said Nevil, "you know that I love you. My friend,

I pray you to somewhat beware yourself. I think there is in your veins a

subtle poison may work you harm."