University of Virginia Library

Our ships lay under Florez. You will mind
'Twas three years after Effingham had chased
The Pope's Armada from our English side.
We had been cruizing in the Western Main,
Singeing some Spanish beards; and now we lay,
Light-ballasted, with empty water-casks,
And half our crews disabled; our six sail—
Beside two pinnaces and victuallers—
Pester'd and rommaging, all out of sorts.
My ship was Richard Grenville's, The Revenge.
They knew Sir Richard in the Spanish seas,
And told wild stories of him; their brown dames
Frighted the babes with fancies of his deeds.
So hard-complexion'd was he (they would say)
That, when a health was drunk, he crush'd the glass
Between his teeth and swallow'd cup and all.
And then his blood-draughts.—Tush! such idle tales!
We only knew a gallant gentleman
Who never turn'd his back on friend or foe.

Well, lying by Florez—as I told you now,
The Spanish force unlook'd for hove in sight:
A force of fifty-three great men-of-war.
Lord Thomas, taking note of their array,
Deeming it vain to grapple with such odds,
Signall'd his company to weigh or cut;
And so all did except our Grenville's ship.
You see, we anchor'd nearest to the town,
And half our men were sick on shore. Beside,
Sir Richard never hurried from a fight.
We got our sick on board and safely stow'd
Upon the ballast; and, that done, we weigh'd.
By this the Spaniard's on our weather-bow;
And some would fain the captain should be led
To back his mainsail, cast about, and trust
Our sailing. Nothing of that mind was he.
He would not so—he said—for any fear
Disgrace his flag, his country, or himself;
But pass their squadrons through despite of all,
Forcing the Seville ships to give him way.
And thus he did on divers of the first,
So—as we mariners say—they sprang their luff,
And fell under our lee. But windward bore
A huge high-cargéd ship—the Spaniards call'd
San Philip, took the breeze out of our sails,
And ran aboard us. Then, entangled so,
Four others, two upon our starboard bow,
And two on the larboard, up and boarded us.
We help'd San Philip from our lower tier,
And flung her back; the other four closed in,—
Drove on us like so many hornet-nests,
Thinking their multitudes could swarm us down.
We brush'd them off and brush'd them off again.
The fight began at three o' the afternoon;
And all the night through we kept up the game:
Darkening the stars and the full harvest-moon
With the incessant vomit of our smoke.
Ship after ship came on at our Revenge,
Ne'er less than two big galleons on her side,
Boarding her, as the tides wash up a rock,
To fall off broken and foaming 'mid the roar
Of their own thunder. They so ill approved
Our entertainment, that by break of day
They had lost appetite for new assaults;
And slunk far from us, like a ring of dogs
About a crippled lion, out of reach
Of daring that has taught them due respect,
Watching till his last agony spends itself.
Some fifteen of them grappled us in vain.
Two we had sunk, and finely maul'd the rest.
But, as day broaden'd out, it show'd our plight:
No sail in view—but the foes that hemm'd us round,
Save one of the pinnaces, which had hover'd near
To mark our chance, and now, like hare with hounds,
Was hunted by the Spaniards,—but escaped.
A bare one hundred men was our first count;
And each slew his fifteen. But by this time
Our powder was all used, and not a pike
Left us unbroken. All our rigging spoil'd;
Our masts gone by the side; our upper works
Shatter'd to pieces; and the ship herself
Began to settle slowly in the sea.
It was computed that eight hundred shot
Of great artillery had pierced through her sides.
Full forty of our men lay dead on deck;
And blood enough, be sure, the living miss'd.
Sir Richard, badly hurt at the very first,
Would never stand aside till mid of dark:
When, as they dress'd his wounds, he was shot through,
The surgeon falling on him. Still he lived,—
Nor blench'd his courage when all hope was gone;
But, as the morning wore, he call'd to him
The master-gunner, a most resolute man,
And bade him split and sink the unconquer'd ship,
Trusting God's mercy, leaving to the foe
Not even a plank to bear their victory.
What worth a few more hours of empty life,
To stint full-handed Death of English fame?

Brave Gentleman! I think we had no heart
To sink so rare a treasure. Some of us
Were stiffening in our pain, and faintly cared
For loftier carriage; cowards were there none;
But so it was, that we among us chose
An honourable surrender,—the first time
Our captain's word refusing. I must own
The Spaniard bore him very handsomely.
Well-pleased he was to give us soldier terms
Rather than tempt the touch of our last throe;
And courteously were the conditions kept.
The Spanish Admiral sent his own state-barge
To fetch our dying hero,—for our ship
Was marvellously unsavoury; and round
The Southern warriors reverently throng'd
To look upon the mighty in his death:
So much his worth compell'd acknowledgment.
And well nigh a new battle had burst out
'Twixt the Biscayans and the Portugals,
Disputing which had boarded The Revenge.

For him, he bade them do even as they would
With his unvalued body. A few hours,
And Death bow'd down to crown him. Never sign
Of faintness show'd he; but in Spanish said
These words, so they might be well heard by all.

‘Here with a joyful and a quiet mind
I Richard Grenville die. My life is closed
As a good soldier's should be, who hath fought
For country's sake, and for his faith and fame.
Whereby from this body gladly parts my soul,
Leaving behind the everlasting name
Of a true soldier and right-valiant man
Who did the work that duty bade him do.’

When he had finish'd these and other words
Of such-like grandeur, he gave up the ghost
With stoutest courage. No man on his face
Could see the shade of any heaviness.
So He and Death went proudly on their way
Upon the errand of Almighty God;
And God's smile was the gladness of that path.

And now immediately on this great fight
So terrible a tempest there ensued
As never any saw or heard the like.
Nigh on a hundred sail of merchantmen
Join'd their Armada when the fight was done,—
Rich Indian argosies. Of all the host
But thirty-two e'er reach'd a Spanish port.
Their men-of-war, so riddled by our shot,
Sank one by one; and our Revenge herself,
Disdaining any foreign mastery,
Regarding else her captain's foil'd intent,
Went down, as soon as she was newly mann'd,
Under Saint Michael's Rocks, with all her crew.
The Spaniards said the Devil wrought their loss,
Helping the heretics. But we know well
How God stands by the true man in his work;
And, if he helps not, surely will revenge
The boldly dutiful. My tale is done.

Sir Walter Raleigh—Grenville's cousin, he—
Has given the tale in fitter words than mine.
My story looks like shabby beggar's rags
About a hero. But you see the Man.
The diamond shines however meanly set.
Sir Walter laid his cloak before the Queen;
But Grenville threw his life upon that deck
For Honour's Self to walk on. 'Twas well done.
For fifteen hours our hundred kept at bay
Ten thousand: one poor ship 'gainst fifty-three.
The Spaniard proved that day our English pith.
No new Armada on our cliffs shall look
While English Valour echoes Grenville's fame.

I have some strength left. I will hence to sail
With Master Davis. Home is very calm;
But Honour rideth on the crested wave.