Chapter 13

Now through the great doors of the Council-room Magnificently streamed in rich array The peers of England, regal of aspèct And grave. Their silence waited for the Queen: And even now she came; and through their midst, Low as they bowed, she passed without a smile And took her royal seat. A bodeful hush Of huge anticipation gripped all hearts, Compressed all brows, and loaded the broad noon With gathering thunder: none knew what the hour Might yet bring forth; but the dark fire of war Smouldered in every eye; for every day The Council met debating how to join Honour with peace, and every day new tales Of English wrongs received from the red hands Of that gigantic Empire, insolent Spain, spurred fiercer resentments up like steeds Revolting, on the curb, foaming for battle, In all men's minds, against whatever odds. On one side of the throne great Walsingham, A lion of England, couchant, watchful, calm, Was now the master of opinion: all Drew to him. Even the hunchback Burleigh smiled With half-ironic admiration now, As in the presence of the Queen they met Amid the sweeping splendours of her court, A cynic smile that seemed to say, "I, too, Would fain regain that forthright heart of fire; Yet statesmanship is but a smoother name For the superior cunning which ensures Victory." And the Queen, too, knowing her strength And weakness, though her woman's heart leaped out To courage, yet with woman's craft preferred The subtler strength of Burleigh; for she knew Mary of Scotland waited for that war To strike her in the side for Rome; she knew How many thousands lurked in England still Remembering Rome and bloody Mary's reign. France o'er a wall of bleeding Huguenots Watched for an hour to strike. Against all these What shield could England raise, this little isle,-- Out-matched, outnumbered, perilously near Utter destruction?

So the long debate Proceeded.

All at once there came a cry Along the streets and at the palace-gates And at the great doors of the Council-room! Then through the pikes and halberds a voice rose Imperative for entrance, and the guards Made way, and a strange whisper surged around, And through the peers of England thrilled the blood Of Agincourt as to the foot of the throne Came Leicester, for behind him as he came A seaman stumbled, travel-stained and torn, Crying for justice, and gasped out his tale. "The Spaniards," he moaned, "the Inquisition! They have taken all my comrades, all our crew, And flung them into dungeons: there they lie Waiting for England, waiting for their Queen! Will you not free them? I alone am left! All London is afire with it, for this Was one of your chief city merchant's ships-- The _Pride of London_, one of Osborne's ships! But there is none to help them! I escaped With shrieks of torment ringing in these ears, The glare of torture-chambers in these eyes That see no faces anywhere but blind Blind faces, each a bruise of white that smiles In idiot agony, washed with sweat and blood, The face of some strange thing that once was man, And now can only turn from side to side Babbling like a child, with mouth agape, And crying for help where there is none to hear Save those black vizards in the furnace-glow, Moving like devils at their hellish trade...." He paused; his memory sickened, his brain swooned Back into that wild glare of obscene pain! Once more to his ears and nostrils horribly crept The hiss and smell of shrivelling human flesh! His dumb stare told the rest: his head sank down; He strove in agony With what all hideous words must leave untold; While Leicester vouched him, "This man's tale is true!" But like a gathering storm a low deep moan Of passion, like a tiger's, slowly crept From the grey lips of Walsingham. "My Queen, Will you not free them?"

Then Elizabeth, Whose name is one for ever with the name Of England, rose; and in her face the gleam Of justice that makes anger terrible Shone, and she stretched her glittering sceptre forth And spoke, with distant empires in her eyes.

"My lords, this is the last cry they shall wring From English lips unheeded: we will have Such remedies for this as all the world Shall tremble at!" And, on that night, while Drake Close in his London lodging lay concealed Until he knew if it were peace or war With Spain (for he had struck on the high seas At Spain; and well he knew if it were peace His blood would be made witness to that bond, And he must die a pirate's death or fly Westward once more), there all alone, he pored By a struggling rushlight o'er a well-thumbed chart Of magic islands in the enchanted seas, Dreaming, as boys and poets only dream With those that see God's wonders in the deep, Perilous visions of those palmy keys, Cocoa-nut islands, parrot-haunted woods, Crisp coral reefs and blue shark-finned lagoons Fringed with the creaming foam, mile upon mile Of mystery. Dream after dream went by, Colouring the brown air of that London night With many a mad miraculous romance.

There, suddenly, some augury, some flash Showed him a coming promise, a strange hint, Which, though he played with it, he scarce believed; Strange as in some dark cave the first fierce gleam Of pirate gold to some forlorn maroon Who tiptoes to the heap and glances round Askance, and dreads to hear what erst he longed To hear--some voice to break the hush; but bathes Both hands with childish laughter in the gold, And lets it trickle through his fevered palms, And begins counting half a hundred times And loses count each time for sheer delight And wonder in it; meantime, if he knew, Passing the cave-mouth, far away, beyond The still lagoon, the coral reef, the foam And the white fluttering chatter of the birds, A sail that might have saved him comes and goes Unseen across the blue Pacific sea. So Drake, too, played with fancies; but that sail Passed not unseen, for suddenly there came A firm and heavy footstep to the door, Then a loud knocking: and, at first, he thought "I am a dead man: there is peace with Spain, And they are come to lead me to my doom." But, as he looked across one shoulder, pride Checking the fuller watch for what he feared, The door opened; and cold as from the sea The night rushed in, and there against the gloom, Clad, as it seemed, with wind and cloud and rain, There loomed a stately form and high grim face Loaded with deadly thoughts of iron war-- Walsingham,--in one hand he held a map Marked with red lines; the other hand held down The rich encrusted hilt of his great sword. Then Drake rose, and the other cautiously Closing the door drew near the flickering light And spread his map out on the table, saying-- "Mark for me here the points whereat the King Philip of Spain may best be wounded, mark The joints of his harness;" and Drake looked at him Thinking, "If he betray me, I am dead."

But the soldier met his eyes and, with a laugh, Drake, quivering like a bloodhound in the leash, Stooped, with his finger pointing thus and thus-- "Here would I guard, here would I lie in wait, Here would I strike him through the breast and throat." And as he spoke he kindled, and began To set forth his great dreams, and high romance Rose like a moon reflecting the true sun Unseen; and as the full round moon indeed Rising behind a mighty mountain-chain Will shadow forth in outline grim and black Its vast and ragged edges, so that moon Of high romance rose greatly shadowing forth The grandeur of his dreams, until their might Dawned upon Walsingham, and he, too, saw For a moment of muffled moonlight and wild cloud The vision of the imperious years to be! But suddenly Drake paused as one who strays Beyond the bounds of caution, paused and cursed His tongue for prating like a moon-struck boy's. "I am mad," he cried, "I am mad to babble so!" Then Walsingham drew near him with strange eyes And muttered slowly, "Write that madness down; Ay, write it down, that madman's plan of thine; Sign it, and let me take it to the Queen." But the weather-wiser seaman warily Answered him, "If it please Almighty God To take away our Queen Elizabeth, Seeing that she is mortal as ourselves, England might then be leagued with Spain, and I Should here have sealed my doom. I will not put My pen to paper." So, across the charts With that dim light on each grim countenance The seaman and the courtier subtly fenced With words and thoughts, but neither would betray His whole heart to the other. At the last Walsingham gripped the hand of Francis Drake And left him wondering.

On the third night came A messenger from Walsingham who bade Drake to the Palace where, without one word, The statesman met him in an anteroom And led him, with flushed cheek and beating heart, Along a mighty gold-gloomed corridor Into a high-arched chamber, hung with tall Curtains of gold-fringed silk and tapestries From Flanders looms, whereon were flowers and beasts And forest-work, great knights, with hawk on hand, Riding for ever on their glimmering steeds Through bowery glades to some immortal face Beyond the fairy fringes of the world. A silver lamp swung softly overhead, Fed with some perfumed oil that shed abroad Delicious light and fragrances as rare As those that stirred faint wings at eventide Through the King's House in Lebanon of old. Into a quietness as of fallen bloom Their feet sank in that chamber; and, all round, Soft hills of Moorish cushions dimly drowsed On glimmering crimson couches. Near the lamp An ebony chess-board stood inlaid with squares Of ruby and emerald, garnished with cinquefoils Of silver, bears and ragged staves; the men, Likewise of precious stones, were all arrayed-- Bishops and knights and elephants and pawns-- As for a game. Sixteen of them were set In silver white, the other sixteen gilt. Now, as Drake gazed upon an arras, nigh The farther doors, whereon was richly wrought The picture of that grave and lovely queen Penelope, with cold hands weaving still The unending web, while in an outer court The broad-limbed wooers basking in the sun On purple fleeces took from white-armed girls, Up-kirtled to the knee, the crimson wine; There, as he gazed and thought, "Is this not like Our Queen Elizabeth who waits and weaves, Penelope of England, her dark web Unendingly till England's Empire come;" There, as he gazed, for a moment, he could vow The pictured arras moved. Well had it been Had he drawn sword and pierced it through and through; But he suspected nothing and said nought To Walsingham; for thereupon they heard The sound of a low lute and a sweet voice Carolling like a gold-caged nightingale, Caught by the fowlers ere he found his mate, And singing all his heart out evermore To the unknown forest-love he ne'er should see. And Walsingham smiled sadly to himself, Knowing the weary queen had bidden some maid Sing to her, even as David sang to Saul; Since all her heart was bitter with her love Or so it was breathed (and there the chess-board stood, Her love's device upon it), though she still, For England's sake, must keep great foreign kings Her suitors, wedding no man till she died. Nor did she know how, in her happiest hour Remembered now most sorrowfully, the moon, Vicegerent of the sky, through summer dews, As that sweet ballad tells in plaintive rhyme, Silvering the grey old Cumnor towers and all The hollow haunted oaks that grew thereby, Gleamed on a casement whence the pure white face Of Amy Robsart, wife of Leicester, wife Unknown of the Queen's lover, a frail bar To that proud Earl's ambition, quietly gazed And heard the night-owl hoot a dark presage Of murder through her timid shuddering heart. But of that deed Elizabeth knew nought; Nay, white as Amy Robsart in her dream Of love she listened to the sobbing lute, Bitterly happy, proudly desolate; So heavy are all earth's crowns and sharp with thorns! But tenderly that high-born maiden sang.

SONG

_Now the purple night is past, Now the moon more faintly glows, Dawn has through thy casement cast Roses on thy breast, a rose; Now the kisses are all done, Now the world awakes anew, Now the charmed hour is gone, Let not love go, too._

_When old winter, creeping nigh, Sprinkles raven hair with white, Dims the brightly glancing eye, Laughs away the dancing light, Roses may forget their sun, Lilies may forget their dew, Beauties perish, one by one, Let not love go, too._

_Palaces and towers of pride Crumble year by year away; Creeds like robes are laid aside, Even our very tombs decay! When the all-conquering moth and rust Gnaw the goodly garment through, When the dust returns to dust, Let not love go, too._

_Kingdoms melt away like snow, Gods are spent like wasting flames, Hardly the new peoples know Their divine thrice-worshipped names! At the last great hour of all, When thou makest all things new, Father, hear Thy children call, Let not love go, too._

The song ceased: all was still; and now it seemed Power brooded on the silence, and Drake saw A woman come to meet him,--tall and pale And proud she seemed: behind her head two wings As of some mighty phantom butterfly Glimmered with jewel-sparks in the gold gloom. Her small, pure, grey-eyed face above her ruff Was chiselled like an agate; and he knew It was the Queen. Low bent he o'er her hand; And "Ah," she said, "Sir Francis Walsingham Hath told me what an English heart beats here! Know you what injuries the King of Spain Hath done us?" Drake looked up at her: she smiled, "We find you apt! Will you not be our knight For we are helpless"--witchingly she smiled-- "We are not ripe for war; our policy Must still be to uphold the velvet cloak Of peace; but I would have it mask the hand That holds the dagger! Will you not unfold Your scheme to us?" And then with a low bow Walsingham, at a signal from the Queen, Withdrew; and she looked down at Drake and smiled; And in his great simplicity the man Spake all his heart out like some youthful knight Before his Gloriana: his heart burned, Knowing he talked with England, face to face; And suddenly the Queen bent down to him, England bent down to him, and his heart reeled With the beauty of her presence--for indeed Women alone have royal power like this Within their very selves enthroned and shrined To draw men's hearts out! Royal she bent down And touched his hand for a moment. "Friend," she said, Looking into his face with subtle eyes, "I have searched thy soul to-night and know full well How I can trust thee! Canst thou think that I, The daughter of my royal father, lack The fire which every boor in England feels Burning within him as the bloody score Which Spain writes on the flesh of Englishmen Mounts higher day by day? Am I not Tudor? I am not deaf or blind; nor yet a king! I am a woman and a queen, and where Kings would have plunged into their red revenge Or set their throne up on this temporal shore, As flatterers bade that wiser king Canúte, Thence to command the advancing tides of battle Till one ensanguined sea whelm throne and king And kingdom, friend, I take my woman's way, Smile in mine enemies' faces with a heart All hell, and undermine them hour by hour! This island scarce can fend herself from France, And now Spain holds the keys of all the world, How should we fight her, save that my poor wit Hath won the key to Philip? Oh, I know His treacherous lecherous heart, and hour by hour My nets are drawing round him. I, that starve My public armies, feed his private foes, Nourish his rebels in the Netherlands, Nay, sacrifice mine own poor woman's heart To keep him mine, and surely now stands Fate With hand uplifted by the doors of Spain Ready to knock: the time is close at hand When I shall strike, once, and no second stroke. Remember, friend, though kings have fought for her, This England, with the trident in her grasp, Was ever woman; and she waits her throne; And thou canst speed it. Furnish thee with ships, Gather thy gentleman adventurers, And be assured thy parsimonious queen-- Oh ay, she knows that chattering of the world-- Will find thee wealth enough. Then put to sea, Fly the black flag of piracy awhile Against these blackest foes of all mankind. Nay; what hast thou to do with piracy? _Hostis humani generis_ indeed Is Spain: she dwells beyond the bounds of law; Thine is no piracy, whate'er men say, Thou art a knight on Gloriana's quest. Oh, lay that golden unction to thy soul, This is no piracy, but glorious war, Waged for thy country and for all mankind, Therefore put out to sea without one fear, Ransack their El Dorados of the West, Pillage their golden galleons, sap their strength Even at its utmost fountains; let them know That there is blood, not water, in our veins. Sail on, my captain, to the glorious end, And, though at first thou needs must sail alone And undefended, ere that end be reached, When I shall give the word, nay, but one word, All England shall be up and after thee, The sword of England shall shine over thee, And round about thee like a guardian fire; All the great soul of England shall be there; Her mighty dead shall at that cry of doom Rise from their graves and in God's panoply Plunge with our standards through immortal storms When Drake rides out across the wreck of Rome. As yet we must be cautious; let no breath Escape thee, save to thy most trusted friends; For now, if my lord Burleigh heard one word Of all thou hast in mind, he is so much The friend of caution and the beaten road, He would not rest till he had spilled thy hopes And sealed thy doom! Go now, fit out thy ships. Walsingham is empowered to give thee gold Immediately, but look to him for more As thou shalt need it, gold and gold to spare, My golden-hearted pilot to the shores Of victory--so farewell;" and through the gloom She vanished as she came; and Drake groped, dazed, Out through the doors, and found great Walsingham Awaiting him with gold. But in the room Where Drake had held his converse with the Queen The embroidered arras moved, and a lean face, White with its long eavesdropping upon death, Crept out and peered as a venomous adder peers From out dark ferns, then as the reptile flashes Along a path between two banks of flowers Almost too swift for sight, a stealthy form --One of the fifty spies whom Burleigh paid-- Passed down the gold-gloomed corridor to seek His master, whom among great books he found, Calm, like a mountain brooding o'er the sea. Nor did he break that calm for all these winds Of rumour that now burst from out the sky. His brow bent like a cliff over his thoughts, And the spy watched him half resentfully, Thinking his news well worth a blacker frown. At last the statesman smiled and answered, "Go; Fetch Thomas Doughty, Leicester's secretary."

Few suns had risen and set ere Francis Drake Had furnished forth his ships with guns and men, Tried seamen that he knew in storms of old,-- Will Harvest, who could haul the ropes and fight All day, and sing a foc'sle song to cheer Sea-weary hearts at night; brave old Tom Moone The carpenter, whose faithful soul looked up To Drake's large mastery with a mastiff's eyes; And three-score trusty mariners, all scarred And weather-beaten. After these there came Some two-score gentleman adventurers, Gay college lads or lawyers that had grown Sick of the dusty Temple, and were fired With tales of the rich Indies and those tall Enchanted galleons drifting through the West, Laden with ingots and broad bars of gold. Already some had bought at a great price Green birds of Guatemala, which they wore On their slouched hats, tasting the high romance And new-found colours of the world like wine. By night they gathered in a marvellous inn Beside the black and secret flowing Thames; And joyously they tossed the magic phrase "Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and laughed And held the red wine up, night after night, Around their tables, toasting Francis Drake. Among these came a courtier, and none knew Or asked by whose approval, for each thought Some other brought him; yet he made his way Cautiously, being a man with a smooth tongue, The secretary of Leicester; and his name Was Thomas Doughty. Most of all with Drake He won his way to friendship, till at last There seemed one heart between them and one soul.