The ship, her tiller shot away, and her helmsman killed,
staggered helplessly a moment, and then fell up into the wind.
"Well done, men of Devon!" shouted Amyas, as cheers rent the welkin.
"She has struck," cried some, as the deafening hurrahs died away.
"Not a bit," said Amyas. "Hold on, helmsman, and leave her to patch
her tackle while we settle the galleys."
On they shot merrily, and long ere the armada could get herself to
rights again, were two good miles to windward, with the galleys
sweeping down fast upon them.
And two venomous-looking craft they were, as they shot through the
short chopping sea upon some forty oars apiece, stretching their long
sword-fish snouts over the water, as if snuffing for their prey.
Behind this long snout, a strong square forecastle was crammed with
soldiers, and the muzzles of cannon grinned out through port-holes, not
only in the sides of the forecastle, but forward in the line of the
galley's course, thus enabling her to keep up a continual fire on a
ship right ahead.
The long low waist was packed full of the slaves, some five or six to
each oar, and down the center, between the two banks, the English could
see the slave-drivers walking up and down a long gangway, whip in hand.
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