_Nombre de Dios_. _Moonlight_. _The bright Caribean sea and luminous sky_. _The islands with their picturesque forms and foliage_. _The ample bay with its rivers_. _The land covered with forest_. _The mountains in the far distance_, _with snow-clad summits_, _above the range of the highest clouds_.
DRAKE. Land of wonder! Beauty! Richness! Abundance! which poets in their wildest flights of fancy never dreamed of.—Beyond!—The vast continent, stretching one knows not whither. Whose bowels teem with gold. The appanage of a single crown. Such is the greatness and the wealth of Philip—enough to conquer or to bribe the world wasted in his feeble hand. Our cockle-shells have sailed these summer seas without control. Spain’s giant frame asleep—incapable—or paralysed. How easy to sweep her from the sea. That looms in the future. It flits before me like distant land—now seen in sunshine—now lost in haze—a shapeless form. Still the vision never leaves me. Even in my sleep my country grapples her; always triumphant—fiercer—stronger every time. The death struggle wakes me—I see it clearly—Spain falls—and England takes her place. Here comes our canoe of observation, her low black outline scarce distinguishable from a ripple of the ocean (_the boat comes alongside_, JOHN DRAKE _and_ OXENHAM, _with an Indian_, _climb upon the deck_) Well Brother, I trust a good report?
JOHN DRAKE. The course is clear. Seize the batteries and take what you like.—There’s not an armed ship in the harbour.
DRAKE. I’ll give them a lesson for the one they taught me at San Juan de Ulloa. Therefore cut down, burn, destroy—save only gold, silver, jewels, and things worth carrying away. I’ll teach them to leave off their bloody work.
OXENHAM. Well, General, we have done pretty fair, to put our hands in practice. For months we have sailed through these parts—sacking towns, burning houses, sinking ships, crews and all, plundering and taking prizes, without being over scrupulous as to kind or quantity. Has there been a church, within our reach, where we have left a chalice, or a crucifix, worth carrying away?
DRAKE. The real work is now beginning. This Nombre de Dios is the shipping port for Spain—the store house of her treasure. Gold abounds here. Men, women, children—the proud Castillian—the feeble Creole—the wild Indian, are covered with it. Who is this you have brought with you?