In the October of '87 certain news arrived in England of the gigantic
preparations being made in Spain and elsewhere: and hearts began to beat,
and tongues to clack, and couriers to gallop. Then as the months went by,
and tidings sifted in, there was something very like consternation in the
country. Men told one another of the huge armament that was on its way,
the vast ships and guns--all bearing down on tiny England, like a bull on
a terrier. They spoke of the religious fervour, like that of a crusade,
that inspired the invasion, and was bringing the flower of the Spanish
nobility against them: the superstitious contrasted their own _Lion_,
_Revenge_, and _Elizabeth Jonas_ with the Spanish _San Felipe_, _San
Matteo_, and _Our Lady of the Rosary_: the more practical thought with
even deeper gloom of the dismal parsimony of the Queen, who dribbled out
stores and powder so reluctantly, and dismissed her seamen at the least
hint of delay.
Yet, little by little, as midsummer came and went, beacons were gathering
on every hill, ships were approaching efficiency, and troops assembling
at Tilbury under the supremely incompetent command of Lord Leicester.
Among the smaller seaports on the south coast, Rye was one of the most
active and enthusiastic; the broad shallow bay was alive with
fishing-boats, and the steep cobbled streets of the town were filled all
day with a chattering exultant crowd, cheering every group of seamen that
passed, and that spent long hours at the quay watching the busy life of
the ships, and predicting the great things that should fall when the
Spaniards encountered the townsfolk, should the Armada survive Drake's
onslaught further west.
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