Volume I Part 49 (1/2)

Next to an honest seaman I love best An honest landsman. What more goodly task Than teaching brave men seamans.h.i.+p?” He had filled His s.h.i.+ps with soldiers! Out in the teeth of the gale That raged against him he had driven. In vain, Amid the boisterous laughter of the quays, A pinnace dashed in hot pursuit and met A roaring breaker and came hurtling back With oars and spars all trailing in the foam, A tangled ma.s.s of wreckage and despair.

Sky swept to stormy sky: no sail could live In that great yeast of waves; but Drake was gone!

Then, once again, across the rolling sea Great rumours rushed of how he had sacked the port Of Cadiz and had swept along the coast To Lisbon, where the whole Armada lay.

Had snapped up prizes under its very nose, And taunted Santa Cruz, High Admiral Of Spain, striving to draw him out for fight, And offering, if his course should lie that way, To convoy him to Britain, taunted him So bitterly that for once, in the world's eyes, A jest had power to kill; for Santa Cruz Died with the spleen of it, since he could not move Before the appointed season. Then there came Flying back home, the Queen's old Admiral Borough, deserting Drake and all aghast At Drake's temerity: ”For,” he said, ”this man, Thrust o'er my head, against all precedent, Bade me follow him into harbour mouths A-flame with cannon like the jaws of death, Whereat I much demurred; and straightway Drake Clapped me in irons, me--an officer And Admiral of the Queen; and, though my voice Was all against it, plunged into the pit Without me, left me with some word that burns And rankles in me still, making me fear The man was mad, some word of lonely seas, A desert island and a mutineer And dead Magellan's gallows. Sirs, my life Was hardly safe with him. Why, he resolved To storm the Castle of St. Vincent, sirs, A castle on a cliff, grinning with guns, Well known impregnable! The Spaniards fear Drake; but to see him land below it and bid Surrender, sirs, the strongest fort of Spain Without a blow, they laughed! And straightway he, With all the fury of Satan, turned that cliff To h.e.l.l itself. He sent down to the s.h.i.+ps For f.a.ggots, broken oars, beams, bowsprits, masts, And piled them up against the outer gates, Higher and higher, and fired them. There he stood Amid the smoke and flame and cannon-shot, This Admiral, like a common seamen, black With soot, besmeared with blood, his naked arms Full of great f.a.ggots, labouring like a giant And roaring like Apollyon. Sirs, he is mad!

But did he take it, say you? Yea, he took it, The mightiest stronghold on the coast of Spain, Took it and tumbled all its big bra.s.s guns Clattering over the cliffs into the sea.

But, sirs, ye need not raise a cheer so loud It is not warfare. 'Twas a madman's trick, A devil's!”

Then the rumour of a storm That scattered the fleet of Drake to the four winds Disturbed the heart of England, as his s.h.i.+ps Came straggling into harbour, one by one, Saying they could not find him. Then, at last, When the storm burst in its earth-shaking might Along our coasts, one night of rolling gloom His cannon woke old Plymouth. In he came Across the thunder and lightning of the sea With his grim s.h.i.+p of war and, close behind, A shadow like a mountain or a cloud Torn from the heaven-high panoplies of Spain, A captured galleon loomed, and round her prow A blazoned scroll, whence (as she neared the quays Which many a lanthorn swung from brawny fist Yellowed) the sudden crimson of her name _San Filippe_ flashed o'er the white sea of faces, And a rending shout went skyward that outroared The blanching breakers--”'Tis the heart of Spain!

The great _San Filippe_!” Overhead she towered, The mightiest s.h.i.+p afloat; and in her hold The riches of a continent, a prize Greater than earth had ever known; for there Not only ruby and pearl like ocean-beaches Heaped on some wizard coast in that dim hull Blazed to the lanthorn-light; not only gold Gleamed, though of gold a million would not buy Her store; but in her cabin lay the charts And secrets of the wild unwhispered wealth Of India, secrets that splashed London wharves With coloured dreams and made her misty streets Flame like an Eastern City when the sun Shatters itself on jewelled domes and spills Its crimson wreckage thro' the silvery palms.

And of those dreams the far East India quest Began: the first foundation-stone was laid Of our great Indian Empire, and a star Began to tremble on the brows of England That time can never darken.

But now the seas Darkened indeed with menace; now at last The cold wind of the black approaching wings Of Azrael crept across the deep: the storm Throbbed with their thunderous pulse, and ere that moon Waned, a swift gunboat foamed into the Sound With word that all the Invincible Armada Was hoisting sail for England.

Even now, Elizabeth, torn a thousand ways, withheld The word for which Drake pleaded as for life, That he might meet them ere they left their coasts, Meet them or ever they reached the Channel, meet them Now, or--”Too late! Too late!” At last his voice Beat down e'en those that blindly dinned her ears With chatter of meeting Spain on British soil; And swiftly she commanded (seeing once more The light that burned amid the approaching gloom In Drake's deep eyes) Lord Howard of Effingham, High Admiral of England, straight to join him At Plymouth Sound. ”How many s.h.i.+ps are wanted?”

She asked him, thinking ”we are few, indeed!”

”Give me but sixteen merchantmen,” he said, ”And but four battles.h.i.+ps, by the mercy of G.o.d, I'll answer for the Armada!” Out to sea They swept, in the teeth of a gale; but vainly Drake Strove to impart the thought wherewith his mind Travailed--to win command of the ocean-sea By bursting on the fleets of Spain at once Even as they left their ports, not as of old To hover in a vain dream of defence Round fifty threatened points of British coast, But Howard, clinging to his old-world order, Flung out his s.h.i.+ps in a loose, long, straggling line Across the Channel, waiting, wary, alert, But powerless thus as a string of scattered sea-gulls Beating against the storm. Then, flying to meet them, A merchantman brought terror down the wind, With news that she had seen that monstrous host Stretching from sky to sky, great hulks of doom, Dragging death's midnight with them o'er the sea Tow'rds England. Up to Howard's flag-s.h.i.+p Drake In his immortal battle-s.h.i.+p--_Revenge_, Rushed thro' the foam, and thro' the swirling seas His pinnace dashed alongside. On to the decks O' the tossing flag-s.h.i.+p, like a very Viking Shaking the surf and rainbows of the spray From sun-smit lion-like mane and beard he stood Before Lord Howard in the escutcheoned p.o.o.p And poured his heart out like the rending sea In pa.s.sionate wave on wave: ”If yonder fleet Once reach the Channel, hardly the mercy of G.o.d Saves England! I would pray with my last breath, Let us beat up to windward of them now, And handle them before they reach the Channel.”

”Nay; but we cannot bare the coast,” cried Howard, ”Nor have we stores of powder or food enough!”

”My lord,” said Drake, with his great arm outstretched, ”There is food enough in yonder enemy's s.h.i.+ps, And powder enough and cannon-shot enough!

We must re-victual there. Look! look!” he cried, And pointed to the heavens. As for a soul That by sheer force of will compels the world To work his bidding, so it seemed the wind That blew against them slowly veered. The sails Quivered, the skies revolved. A northerly breeze Awoke and now, behind the British s.h.i.+ps, Blew steadily tow'rds the unseen host of Spain.

”It is the breath of G.o.d,” cried Drake; ”they lie Wind-bound, and we may work our will with them.

Signal the word, Lord Howard, and drive down!”

And as a man convinced by heaven itself Lord Howard ordered, straightway, the whole fleet To advance.

And now, indeed, as Drake foresaw, The Armada lay, beyond the dim horizon, Wind-bound and helpless in Corunna bay, At England's mercy, could her fleet but draw Nigh enough, with its fire-s.h.i.+ps and great guns To windward. Nearer, nearer, league by league The s.h.i.+ps of England came: till Ushant lay Some seventy leagues behind. Then, yet once more The wind veered, straight against them. To remain Beating against it idly was to starve: And, as a man whose power upon the world Fails for one moment of exhausted will, Drake, gathering up his forces as he went For one more supreme effort, turned his s.h.i.+p Tow'rds Plymouth, and retreated with the rest.

There, while the s.h.i.+ps refitted with all haste And axe and hammer rang, one golden eve Just as the setting sun began to fringe The clouds with crimson, and the creaming waves Were one wild riot of fairy rainbows, Drake Stood with old comrades on the close-cropped green Of Plymouth Hoe, playing a game of bowls.

Far off unseen, a little barque, full-sail, Struggled and leapt and strove tow'rds Plymouth Sound, Noteless as any speckled herring-gull Flickering between the white flakes of the waves.

A group of schoolboys with their satchels lay Stretched on the green, gazing with great wide eyes Upon their seamen heroes, as like G.o.ds Disporting with the battles of the world They loomed, tossing black bowls like cannon-b.a.l.l.s Against the rosy West, or lounged at ease With faces olive-dark against that sky Laughing, while from the neighboring inn mine host, White ap.r.o.ned and blue-jerkined, hurried out With foaming cups of sack, and they drank deep, Tossing their heads back under the golden clouds And burying their bearded lips. The hues That slashed their doublets, for the boy's bright eyes (Even as the gleams of Grecian cloud or moon Revealed the old G.o.ds) were here rich dusky streaks Of splendour from the Spanish Main, that shone But to proclaim these heroes. There a boy More bold crept nearer to a slouched hat thrown Upon the green, and touched the silver plume, And felt as if he had touched a sunset-isle Of feathery palms beyond a crimson sea.

Another stared at the blue rings of smoke A storm-scarred seaman puffed from a long pipe Primed with the strange new herb they had lately found In far Virginia. But the little s.h.i.+p Now plunging into Plymouth Bay none saw.

E'en when she had anch.o.r.ed and her straining boat Had touched the land, and the boat's crew over the quays Leapt with a shout, scarce was there one to heed.

A seaman, smiling, swaggered out of the inn Swinging in one brown hand a gleaming cage Wherein a big green parrot chattered and clung Fluttering against the wires. A troop of girls With arms linked paused to watch the game of bowls; And now they flocked around the cage, while one With rosy finger tempted the h.o.r.n.y beak To bite. Close overhead a sea-mew flashed Seaward. Once, from an open window, soft Through trellised leaves, not far away, a voice Floated, a voice that flushed the cheek of Drake, The voice of Bess, bending her glossy head Over the broidery frame, in a quiet song.

The song ceased. Still, with rainbows in their eyes, The schoolboys watched the bowls like cannon-b.a.l.l.s Roll from the hand of G.o.ds along the turf.

Suddenly, tow'rds the green, a little cloud Of seamen, shouting, stumbling, as they ran Drew all eyes on them. The game ceased. A voice Rough with the storms of many an ocean roared ”Drake! Cap'en Drake! The Armada!

They are in the Channel! We sighted them-- A line of battles.h.i.+ps! We could not see An end of them. They stretch from north to south Like a great storm of clouds, glinting with guns, From sky to sky!”

So, after all his strife, The wasted weeks had tripped him, the fierce hours Of pleading for the sea's command, great hours And golden moments, all were lost. The fleet Of Spain had won the Channel without a blow.

All eyes were turned on Drake, as he stood there A giant against the sunset and the sea Looming, alone. Far off, the first white star Gleamed in a rosy s.p.a.ce of heaven. He tossed A grim black ball i' the l.u.s.trous air and laughed,-- ”Come lads,” he said, ”we've time to finish the game.”

BOOK XI

Few minutes, and well wasted those, were spent On that great game of bowls; for well knew Drake What panic threatened Plymouth, since his fleet Lay trapped there by the black head-wind that blew Straight up the Sound, and Plymouth town itself, Except the s.h.i.+ps won seaward ere the dawn, Lay at the Armada's mercy. Never a seaman Of all the sea-dogs cl.u.s.tered on the quays, And all the captains clamouring round Lord Howard, Hoped that one s.h.i.+p might win to the open sea: At dawn, they thought, the Armada's rolling guns To windward, in an hour, must shatter them, Huddled in their red slaughter-house like sheep.

Now was the great sun sunken and the night Dark. Far to Westward, like the soul of man Fighting blind nature, a wild flare of red Upon some windy headland suddenly leapt And vanished flickering into the clouds. Again It leapt and vanished: then all at once it streamed Steadily as a crimson torch upheld By t.i.tan hands to heaven. It was the first Beacon! A sudden silence swept along The seething quays, and in their midst appeared Drake.

Then the jubilant thunder of his voice Rolled, buffeting the sea-wind far and nigh, And ere they knew what power as of a sea Surged through them, his immortal battle-s.h.i.+p _Revenge_ had flung out cables to the quays, And while the seamen, as he had commanded, Knotted thick ropes together, he stood apart (For well he knew what panic threatened still) Whittling idly at a sc.r.a.p of wood, And carved a little boat out for the child Of some old sea-companion.

So great and calm a master of the world Seemed Drake that, as he whittled, and the chips Fluttered into the blackness over the quay, Men said that in this hour of England's need Each tiny flake turned to a battle-s.h.i.+p; For now began the lanthorns, one by one, To glitter, and half-reveal the shadowy hulks Before him.--So the huge old legend grew, Not all unworthy the Homeric age Of G.o.ds and G.o.d-like men.

St. Michael's Mount, Answering the first wild beacon far away, Rolled crimson thunders to the stormy sky!

The ropes were knotted. Through the panting dark Great heaving lines of seamen all together Hauled with a shout, and all together again Hauled with a shout against the roaring wind; And slowly, slowly, onward tow'rds the sea Moved the _Revenge_, and seaward ever heaved The brawny backs together, and in their midst, Suddenly, as they slackened, Drake was there Hauling like any ten, and with his heart Doubling the strength of all, giving them joy Of battle against those odds,--ay, till they found Delight in the burning tingle of the blood That even their hardy hands must feel besmear The harsh, rough, straining ropes. There as they toiled, Answering a score of hills, old Beachy Head Streamed like a furnace to the rolling clouds Then all around the coast each windy ness And craggy mountain kindled. Peak from peak Caught the tremendous fire, and pa.s.sed it on Round the bluff East and the black mouth of Thames,-- Up, northward to the waste wild Yorks.h.i.+re fells And gloomy c.u.mberland, where, like a giant, Great Skiddaw grasped the red tempestuous brand, And thrust it up against the reeling heavens.

Then all night long, inland, the wandering winds Ran wild with clamour and clash of startled bells; All night the cities seethed with torches, flashed With twenty thousand flames of burnished steel; While over the trample and thunder of hooves blazed forth The lightning of wild trumpets. Lonely lanes Of country darkness, lit by cottage doors Entwined with rose and honeysuckle, roared Like mountain-torrents now--East, West, and South, As to the coasts with pike and musket streamed The trained bands, horse and foot, from every town And every hamlet. All the s.h.a.ggy hills From Milford Haven to the Downs of Kent, And up to Humber, gleamed with many a hedge Of pikes between the beacon's crimson glares; While in red London forty thousand men, In case the Invader should prevail, drew swords Around their Queen. All night in dark St. Paul's, While round it rolled a mult.i.tudinous roar As of the Atlantic on a Western beach, And all the leaning London streets were lit With fury of torches, rose the pa.s.sionate prayer Of England's peril: _O Lord G.o.d of Hosts, Let Thine enemies know that Thou hast taken England into Thine hands!_ The mighty sound Rolled, billowing round the kneeling aisles, then died, Echoing up the heights. A voice, far off, As on the cross of Calvary, caught it up And poured the prayer o'er that deep hush, alone: _We beseech Thee, O G.o.d, to go before our armies, Bless and prosper them both by land and sea!