Sir Francis wanted to organise a defence about the market place but a dozen of Veysey’s followers shouted their dissent; these were men of Mousehole who knew that all they possessed in the world was being destroyed. They had fled to save their lives but now that they were reinforced they wanted to return and fight.
Sir Francis by right should have taken command, but I could see that he was swayed by the general mood and by the bold manner of Veysey. For my own ends I edged my horse nearer.
“They’re fighting for their homes, sir. If they are left three hours to cool in the market place waiting for an attack they may go too cold to resist at all.”
“What do you think, St Aubyn?”
“We might do one as well as the other. I don’t see neither is likely to stay an army.”
What swayed the choice was the arrival of some thirty more men, a half of this number armed with old guns and eager to come to grips with the enemy. Like new water in a stream blocked with twigs, all suddenly gave way; and we began to move towards Mousehole.
It was an unorderly throng, sixty or seventy afoot, with about a score of horsemen, mostly centred in the middle around Sir Francis, but a few like myself edging forward after Veysey who knew and led the way.
And it was a strange march too, for we traversed the open green which skirted the sea, and the fog, capricious as always, had come down in a sudden cloud on the water so that we could not see fifty yards from shore. As always with fog the world seemed the quieter, and here were no stragglers nor fleeing women. Our march was deadened by the grass; seventy men scuffled across it, twenty horses clumped into the turf; there was only the sound of creaking leather and shaking bits, the occasional clank of a pike or the rattle of a caliver.
When to save time we cut off a corner and tramped across the shingle, the sudden noise of stones, of tramping feet, of slipping and clattering hooves was like an outbreak of giant hailstones. We reached the other side and tramped into silence again.
The carpet of fog lifted its corner off the sea and we could see some of the invading fleet.
They were four long black galleys, their masts stark, their oars out like the feelers of sea animals. On the foremast of each vessel a red and yellow flag hung. Small boats were ferrying soldiers ashore.
An acrid smell of burning. We were still two miles from Mousehole; between us and it the fishing hamlet of Newlyn was in flames. The nearest of the boats was putting down its load a quarter of a mile away. As the soldiers jumped out they fell quickly into line, the thin sun glinting on their breastplates.
Veysey came spurring back to Godolphin. “Sir, our way’s barred. If we’re to go on at all we’d best take to the ‘ills and make a circle.”
Sir Francis said: “No … We’ll deploy here. We may hold them for a while.”
As he spoke there was a puff of smoke in the prow of the leading galley, then the clap of a gun and a ball whistled overhead. We had been seen and saluted.
Just as the press to go forward had been a common choice, so now was the halt. These galleys would carry 20 to 30 cast pieces each, and if they began to fire them on us we should be disposed of very quick. A marching body of men is a fine target for a 51b. shot.
This must have occurred to everyone at the same time, for there was now a general move to retreat. The gentlemen did their best to stop this, shouting Godolphin’s order. But just at the wrong moment a second ball whistled over, and this was a more cogent argument than any we had. In a body the men gave way.
But as they moved, two of the galleys began to move also, fifteen oars a side propelling the long hulls through the water, more than ever like sea animals after a prey.
And the prey was us. They used their main armament no more. Perhaps with the prospect of a sea battle against Drake and Hawkins within the next few days they felt they could not afford to waste shot, but small arm fire flew after us and there was always the greater threat in reserve.
Being on horseback, all Godolphin and the other riders could do was keep pace with the retreating men. Just before we turned the corner of the bay I stopped and looked back and could see the Spanish soldiers slowly advancing in two lines about fifty paces apart. Over to the right a glint of armour betrayed where a party on reconnaissance were climbing the hill from which they might discover ambushes and overlook Penzance.
At that moment Constable Veysey was shot from his horse beside me and rolled over in the grass. That finished his followers; they broke and began to run in all directions away from the enemy. Sir Francis swore and drew his sword and sat his rearing horse shouting at them, but apart from his own few an fled.
Veysey was unconscious but not dead, and we could find no wound nor bleeding; we rolled him over and saw the back of his leather jerkin torn in three places by the impact of spent bullets; we got him slung over the saddle and followed in pursuit of the flying men.
By the time we came into the market place the retreating force had melted away. A few stragglers, late arriving for the advance, had assembled in the square, but they were almost all armed only with pikes and pickaxes and a few carried bows and arrows.
It was now ten o’clock and the hot sun was beating down out of a cloudless sky, though the secretive fog still limited the horizon. There was no time as yet for any but the most neighbouring of lieutenants to bring succour. We could certainly expect nothing from Pendennis, since they would have to hold their musters in readiness for an attack on the harbour.
Sir Francis stared at the clusters of houses, now mainly empty but one or two with women or elderly people peering anxiously from between part closed shutters.
“Thus are we prepared,” he said to St Aubyn bitterly. “Scarcely better so, if at all, than when the first Armada came. If they have the force they can cut off the peninsula and be in command of all Penwith by nightfall.”
“There’s nothing we can do to stop ‘em,” said St Aubyn. “Nothing till help comes.”
An old woman came out of a house pushing a barrow. On it were loaded her personal possessions: some pewter, a calico quilt, a candlestick, a brass chafing dish. She scarcely looked at us as she pushed her burden steadily out of the town.
One of the Godolphin servants came up. “If ee please, sur, the Spanish be advancin’ now. They be at the foot of thtill, no moretn half a mile away.”
“In what numbers?”
“Oh, I should say, three, four ‘undred of ‘em. They be carrying a banner, and moron half of ‘em’s in mail.”
Sir Francis looked at Chiverton and at St Aubyn, then sheathed his sword.
“We must abandon the town. See that no one stays, you Parker, and you Crinnis. We’ll go by slow stages and keep to the higher ground by Gulval. That way we may have the enemy in sight “
“Sir,” I said, “in that case I ask leave to be excused.” When he looked at me in surprise I said: “I have a friend in Paul. I don’t know in what peril she stands; I must go and see.”
“The way is barred, Maugan. That must be plain to you.”
“Not by a circuitous inland route. It must be possible to approach the village from the north or west.”
“If the Spaniards take Penwith they will take you, and this time your release may not be so well come by.”
“It’s a risk I must run.”
Sir Francis pulled his horse round. “I don’t know what your father will say to me, but I cannot stop you if you wish to go.”