Still fighting, the English reached the brim of the river and the boats
that were hidden there. The _Mere Honour_ and the _Marigold_ were now
their cities of refuge. Lost was the town, lost any hope of the fortress
and what it contained, lost the _Cygnet_ and the _Phoenix_, lost Henry
Sedley and Robert Baldry and many a gallant man besides, lost Sir
Mortimer Ferne. Gall and vinegar and Dead Sea fruit and frustrated
promise this night held for them who had been conquerors and confident.

They saw the _Cygnet_, yet burning, upon her way to the open sea; from
the galleon _San José_ it was gone to join the caravels. Wreckage
strewed the river's bosom, and for those who had manned the two ships,
destroyer and destroyed, where were they? Down with the _allegartos_ and
the river slime--yet voyaging with the _Cygnet_--rushing, a pale
accusing troop towards God's justice bar?... The night was waxing old,
the dawn was coming. Upon the _Mere Honour_ Baptist Manwood, a brave and
honest soul who did his duty, steered his ship, encouraged his men,
fought the Spaniard and made no more ado, trained his guns upon the
landing, and with their menace kept back the enemy while, boatload after
boatload, the English left the bank and reached in safety the two ships
that were left them.

The day was breaking in red intolerable splendor, a terrible glory
illuminating the _Mere Honour_ and the _Marigold_, the river and the
sandy shore where gathered the flamingoes and the herons and the egrets,
as the Admiral, standing on the poop of the _Mere Honour_, pressed the
hands of those his officers that were spared to him, and spoke simply
and manfully, as had spoken Francis Drake, to the gentlemen adventurers
who had risked life and goods in this enterprise, and to the soldiers
and mariners gathered in the waist; then listened in silence to the