, and they made Finisterre. It then came on
to blow, and they were scattered. The Duke with half the fleet crawled
into Corunna, the crews scarce able to man the yards and trying to
desert in shoals.

The missing ships dropped in one by one, but a week passed and a third
of them were still absent. Another despairing letter went off from the
Duke to his master. He said that he concluded from their misfortunes
that God disapproved of the expedition, and that it had better be
abandoned. Diego Florez was of the same opinion. The stores were
worthless, he said. The men were sick and out of heart. Nothing could be
done that season.

It was not by flinching at the first sight of difficulty that the
Spaniards had become masters of half the world. The old comrades of
Santa Cruz saw nothing in what had befallen them beyond a common
accident of sea life. To abandon at the first check an enterprise
undertaken with so much pretence, they said, would be cowardly and
dishonourable. Ships were not lost because they were out of sight. Fresh
meat and bread could be taken on board from Corunna. They could set up a
shore hospital for the sick. The sickness was not dangerous. There had
been no deaths. A little energy and all would be well again. Pedro de
Valdez despatched a courier to Philip to entreat him not to listen to
the Duke's croakings. Philip returned a speedy answer telling the Duke
not to be frightened at shadows.

There was nothing, in fact, really to be alarmed at. Fresh water took
away the dysentery. Fresh food was brought in from the country. Galician
seamen filled the gaps made by the deserters. The ships were laid on
shore and scraped and tallowed. Tents were pitched on an island in the
harbour, with altars and priests, and everyone confessed again and
received the Sacrament. 'This,' wrote the Duke, 'is great riches and a
precious jewel, and all now are well content and cheerful.' The
scattered flock had reassembled. Damages were all repaired, and the only
harm had been loss of time. Once more, on the 23rd of July, the Armada
in full numbers was under way for England and streaming across the Bay
of Biscay with a fair wind for the mouth of the Channel.

Leaving the Duke for the moment, we must now glance at the preparations
made in England to receive him. It might almost be said that there were
none at all. The winter months had been wild and changeable, but not so
wild and not so fluctuating as the mind of England's mis