ce
himself could wish," a formidable fleet gathered round him. Frobisher
was his vice-admiral, Francis Knollys his rear-admiral, and Thomas
Fenner his flag-captain. Christopher Carleill was there, too, as
lieutenant-general, with a full staff and ten companies under him. No
such privateering squadron had ever been seen before. It consisted of
two battle-ships and eighteen cruisers, with their complement of
store-ships and pinnaces; it was manned with a force of soldiers and
sailors to the number of two thousand three hundred, and it is not
surprising that constant difficulties delayed its departure.

Yet delay was dangerous in the extreme. The Spanish party had again
taken heart, and were whispering caution in the Queen's ear. Even
Burghley grew nervous that she would repent; but at last he got
sailing-orders sent off, and, with a sigh of relief, entered in his
diary that Drake had gone. To his horror came back a letter from the
admiral still dated from Plymouth, instead of from Finisterre, as he had
hoped, and he sent down a warning to urge the immediate departure of the
fleet. August wore away, and the equipment was still incomplete, when
Drake, who was now in constant dread of a countermand, was alarmed by
Sir Philip Sydney's suddenly appearing at Plymouth and announcing his
intention of accompanying the expedition. Determined to have no more to
do with courtiers and amateur soldiers, he secretly sent off a courier
to betray the truant's escapade to the Court. He must even be suspected,
in his desperation, of having set men in wait to intercept and destroy
any orders that were not to his liking. The precaution was unnecessary.
Sydney was peremptorily stopped, and ere any letter came to stay Drake,
too, the wind had shifted northerly, and, all unready as he was, he
cleared for Finisterre.

There he arrived on September 26th. He was clear away, but that was all.
He was short both of water and victuals. There had not even been time to
distribute the stores he had, or to issue his general orders to the
fleet. He smelt foul weather, too; and, determined to complete somewhere
what he had left undone at Plymouth, he boldly ran in under the lee of
the Bayona Islands in Vigo Bay. The old Queen's officers were aghast.
Entirely dominated by the prestige of Spain, they believed that nothing
could be done against her except by surprise, and they trembled to see
their admiral thus recklessly fling his cards upon the table. But he