Ewell turned back to the rail and peered hopefully through the rain. He saw nothing but, straining his eyes, he suddenly glimpsed dull shapes. The French were upon him. Ewell cursed trying to conceal his panic. Perhaps he could out-run them. But it was early morning and a full day had to elapse before the darkness fell. The English captain knew, at the bottom of his heart, that his ship could not make it. He had no illusions about the French. They had little love for English sailors and the rules of chivalry did not apply to war at sea.

The weather did not break and by noon the French were closing in on them. Two huge cogs, merchantmen converted to war, their great sails had lent them speed, even time to separate so they came in on either side of the English ship. Ewell saw the blue flags adorned with the silver lilies and, more foreboding, beneath them, the Oriflamme pennant which indicated that the French were not taking prisoners. The huge poops of the French were crowded with archers, the decks glistened with massed armour and Ewell saw the faint plume of black smoke which showed that the French had catapults. Ewell looked around in desperation, there was little he could do, surrender was out of the question for, at sea, prisoners were rarely taken. He breathed deeply, prayed to St. Anne and put on his rust-stained breastplate and battered steel helmet. The French closed in on either side, their catapults sending huge, glowing balls of fiery pitch up into the dull grey skies. The first one missed but soon they found their range and a rain of fire fell on the Saint Christopher.

The pitch caught the sail, the rigging and woodwork and the tongue of flame licked greedily and grew. The crew made frantic attempts to douse the flames with sand and water but to no avail. Other missiles, huge fiery black clumps caught the sails, turning them into curtains of fire, while the look-outs, trapped in the rigging, screamed and fell in flames to the deck. Ewell shouted at his archers to loose and turned just in time to see one of the French ships crash alongside, its soldiers pouring like a river over its side. The English archers accounted for a few who screamed and twirled as the ugly, jagged crossbow quarrels ripped the flesh of chest and neck, but the French were too many. The second ship also closed, disgorging its troops.