Chapter 21

Now like a white-cliffed fortress England shone Amid the mirk of chaos; for the huge Empire of Spain was but the dusky van Of that dread night beyond all nights and days, Night of the last corruption of a world Fast-bound in misery and iron, with chains Of priest and king and feudal servitude, Night of the fettered flesh and ravaged soul, Night of anarchic chaos, darkening the deep, Swallowing up cities, kingdoms, empires, gods, With vaster gloom approaching, till the sun Of love was blackened, the moon of faith was blood. All round our England, our small struggling star, Fortress of freedom, rock o' the world's desire, Bearing at last the hope of all mankind, The thickening darkness surged, and close at hand Those first fierce cloudy fringes of the storm, The Armada sails, gathered their might; and Spain Crouched close behind them with her screaming fires And steaming shambles, Spain, the hell-hag, crouched, Still grasping with red hand the cross of Christ By its great hilt, pointing it like a dagger, Spear-head of the ultimate darkness, at the throat Of England. Under Philip's feet at last Writhed all the Protestant Netherlands, dim coasts Right over against us, whence his panoplies Might suddenly whelm our isle. But all night long, On many a mountain, many a guardian height, From Beachy Head to Skiddaw, little groups Of seamen, torch and battle-lanthorn nigh, Watched by the brooding unlit beacons, piled Of sun-dried gorse, funereal peat, rough logs, Reeking with oil, 'mid sharp scents of the sea, Waste trampled grass and heather and close-cropped thyme, High o'er the thundering coast, among whose rocks Far, far below, the pacing coastguards gazed Steadfastly seaward through the loaded dusk. And through that deepening gloom when, as it seemed, All England held her breath in one grim doubt, Swift rumours flashed from North to South as runs The lightning round a silent thunder-cloud; And there were muttering crowds in the London streets, And hurrying feet in the brooding Eastern ports. All night, dark inns, gathering the country-side, Reddened with clashing auguries of war. All night, in the ships of Plymouth Sound, the soul Of Francis Drake was England, and all night Her singing seamen by the silver quays Polished their guns and waited for the dawn.

But hour by hour that night grew deeper. Spain Watched, cloud by cloud, her huge Armadas grow, Watched, tower by tower, and zone by zone, her fleets Grapple the sky with a hundred hands and drag Whole sea-horizons into her menacing ranks, Joining her powers to the fierce night, while Philip Still strove, with many a crafty word, to lull The fears of Gloriana, till his plots Were ripe, his armaments complete; and still Great Gloriana took her woman's way, Preferring ever tortuous intrigue To battle, since the stakes had grown so great; Now, more than ever, hoping against hope To find some subtler means of victory; Yet not without swift impulses to strike, Swiftly recalled. Blind, yet not blind, she smiled On Mary of Scotland waiting for her throne, A throne with many a strange dark tremor thrilled Now as the rumoured murderous mines below Converged towards it, mine and countermine, Till the live earth was honeycombed with death. Still with her agate smile, still she delayed, Holding her pirate admiral in the leash Till Walsingham, nay, even the hunchback Burleigh, That crafty king of statesmen, seeing at last The inevitable thunder-crash at hand. Grew heart-sick with delay and ached to shatter The tense tremendous hush that seemed to oppress All hearts, compress all brows, load the broad night With more than mortal menace.

Only once The night was traversed with one lightning flash, One rapier stroke from England, at the heart Of Spain, as swiftly parried, yet no less A fiery challenge; for Philip's hate and scorn Growing with his Armada's growth, he lured With promises of just and friendly trade A fleet of English corn-ships to relieve His famine-stricken coast. There as they lay Within his ports he seized them, one and all, To fill the Armada's maw.

Whereat the Queen, Passive so long, summoned great Walsingham, And, still averse from open war, despite The battle-hunger burning in his eyes, With one strange swift sharp agate smile she hissed, "Unchain _El Draque_!"

A lightning flash indeed Was this; for he whose little _Golden Hynde_ With scarce a score of seamen late had scourged The Spanish Main; he whose piratic neck Scarcely the Queen's most wily statecraft saved From Spain's revenge: he, privateer to the eyes Of Spain, but England to all English hearts, Gathered together, in all good jollity, All help and furtherance himself could wish, Before that moon was out, a pirate fleet Whereof the like old ocean had not seen-- Eighteen swift cruisers, two great battleships, With pinnaces and store-ships and a force Of nigh three thousand men, wherewith to singe The beard o' the King of Spain. By night they gathered In marvellous wind-whipt inns nigh Plymouth Sound, Not secretly as, ere the _Golden Hynde_ Burst thro' the West, that small adventurous crew Gathered beside the Thames, tossing the phrase "Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and singing Great songs of the rich Indies, and those tall Enchanted galleons, red with blood and gold, Superb with rubies, glorious as clouds, Clouds in the sun, with mighty press of sail Dragging the sunset out of the unknown world, And staining all the grey old seas of Time With rich romance; but these, though privateers, Or secret knights on Gloriana's quest, Recked not if round the glowing magic door Of every inn the townsfolk grouped to hear The storm-scarred seamen toasting Francis Drake, Nor heeded what blithe urchin faces pressed On each red-curtained magic casement, bright With wild reflection of the fires within, The fires, the glasses, and the singing lips Lifting defiance to the powers of Spain.

SONG

Sing we the Rose, The flower of flowers most glorious! Never a storm that blows Across our English sea, But its heart breaks out wi' the Rose On England's flag victorious, The triumphing flag that flows Thro' the heavens of Liberty.

Sing we the Rose, The flower of flowers most beautiful! Until the world shall end She blossometh year by year, Red with the blood that flows For England's sake, most dutiful, Wherefore now we bend Our hearts and knees to her.

Sing we the Rose, The flower, the flower of war it is, Where deep i' the midnight gloom Its waves are the waves of the sea, And the glare of battle grows, And red over hulk and spar it is, Till the grim black broadsides bloom With our Rose of Victory.

Sing we the Rose, The flower, the flower of love it is, Which lovers aye shall sing And nightingales proclaim; For O, the heaven that glows, That glows and burns above it is Freedom's perpetual Spring, Our England's faithful fame.

Sing we the Rose, That Eastward still shall spread for us Upon the dawn's bright breast, Red leaves wi' the foam impearled; And onward ever flows Till eventide make red for us A Rose that sinks i' the West And surges round the world; Sing we the Rose!

One night as, with his great vice-admiral, Frobisher, his rear-admiral, Francis Knollys, And Thomas Fenner, his flag-captain, Drake Took counsel at his tavern, there came a knock, The door opened, and cold as from the sea The gloom rushed in, and there against the night, Clad as it seemed with wind and cloud and rain, Glittered a courtier whom by face and form All knew for the age's brilliant paladin, Sidney, the king of courtesy, a star Of chivalry. The seamen stared at him, Each with a hand upon the red-lined chart Outspread before them. Then all stared at Drake, Who crouched like a great bloodhound o'er the table, And rose with a strange light burning in his eyes; For he remembered how, three years agone, That other courtier came, with words and smiles Copied from Sidney's self; and in his ears Rang once again the sound of the two-edged sword Upon the desolate Patagonian shore Beneath Magellan's gallows. With a voice So harsh himself scarce knew it, he desired This fair new courtier's errand. With grim eyes He scanned the silken knight from head to foot, While Sidney, smiling graciously, besought Some place in their adventure. Drake's clenched fist Crashed down on the old oak table like a rock, Splintering the wood and dashing his rough wrist With blood, as he thundered, "By the living God, No! We've no room for courtiers, now! We leave All that to Spain." Whereat, seeing Sidney stood Amazed, Drake, drawing nearer, said, "You ask More than you dream: I know you for a knight Most perfect and most gentle, yea, a man Ready to die on any battle-field To save a wounded friend" (even so said Drake, Not knowing how indeed this knight would die), Then fiercely he outstretched his bleeding hand And pointed through the door to where the gloom Glimmered with bursting spray, and the thick night Was all one wandering thunder of hidden seas Rolling out of Eternity: "You'll find No purple fields of Arcady out there, No shepherds piping in those boisterous valleys, No sheep among those roaring mountain-tops, No lists of feudal chivalry. I've heard That voice cry death to courtiers. 'Tis God's voice. Take you the word of one who has occupied His business in great waters. There's no room, Meaning, or reason, office, or place, or name For courtiers on the sea. Does the sea flatter? You cannot bribe it, torture it, or tame it! Its laws are those of the Juggernaut universe, Remorseless--listen to that!"--a mighty wave Broke thundering down the coast; "your hands are white, Your rapier jewelled, can you grapple that? What part have you in all its flaming ways? What share in its fierce gloom? Has your heart broken As those waves break out there? Can you lie down And sleep, as a lion-cub by the old lion, When it shakes its mane out over you to hide you, And leap out with the dawn as I have done? These are big words; but, see, my hand is red: You cannot torture me, I have borne all that; And so I have some kinship with the sea, Some sort of wild alliance with its storms, Its exultations, ay, and its great wrath At last, and power upon them. 'Tis the worse For Spain, Be counselled well: come not between My sea and its rich vengeance." Silently, Bowing his head, Sidney withdrew. But Drake, So fiercely the old grief rankled in his heart, Summoned his swiftest horseman, bidding him ride, Ride like the wind through the night, straight to the Queen, Praying she would most instantly recall Her truant courtier. Nay, to make all sure, Drake sent a gang of seamen out to crouch Ambushed in woody hollows nigh the road, Under the sailing moon, there to waylay The Queen's reply, that she might never know It reached him, if it proved against his will.

And swiftly came that truant's stern recall; But Drake, in hourly dread of some new change In Gloriana's mood, slept not by night Or day, till out of roaring Plymouth Sound The pirate fleet swept to the wind-swept main, And took the wind and shook out all its sails. Then with the unfettered sea he mixed his soul In great rejoicing union, while the ships Crashing and soaring o'er the heart-free waves Drave ever straight for Spain. Water and food They lacked; but the fierce fever of his mind To sail from Plymouth ere the Queen's will changed Had left no time for these. Right on he drave, Determining, though the Queen's old officers Beneath him stood appalled, to take in stores Of all he needed, water, powder, food, By plunder of Spain herself. In Vigo bay, Close to Bayona town, under the cliffs Of Spain's world-wide and thunder-fraught prestige He anchored, with the old sea-touch that wakes Our England still. There, in the tingling ears Of the world he cried, _En garde_! to the King of Spain. There, ordering out his pinnaces in force, While a great storm, as if he held indeed Heaven's batteries in reserve, growled o'er the sea, He landed. Ere one cumbrous limb of all The monstrous armaments of Spain could move His ships were stored; and ere the sword of Spain Stirred in its crusted sheath, Bayona town Beheld an empty sea; for like a dream The pirate fleet had vanished, none knew whither. But, in its visible stead, invisible fear Filled the vast rondure of the sea and sky As with the omnipresent soul of Drake. For when Spain saw the small black anchored fleet Ride in her bays, the sight set bounds to fear. She knew at least the ships were oak, the guns Of common range: nor did she dream e'en Drake Could sail two seas at once. Now all her coasts Heard him all night in every bursting wave, His topsails gleamed in every moonlit cloud; His battle-lanthorn glittered in the stars That hung the low horizon. He became A universal menace; yet there followed No sight or sound of him, unless the sea Were that grim soul incarnate. Did it not roar His great commands? The very spray that lashed The cheeks of Spanish seamen lashed their hearts To helpless hatred of him. The wind sang _El Draque_ across the rattling blocks and sheets When storms perplexed them; and when ships went down, As under the fury of his onsetting battle, The drowning sailors cursed him while they sank.

Suddenly a rumour shook the Spanish Court, He has gone once more to the Indies. Santa Cruz, High Admiral of Spain, the most renowned Captain in Europe, clamoured for a fleet Of forty sail instantly to pursue. For unto him whose little _Golden Hynde_ Was weapon enough, now leading such a squadron, The West Indies, the whole Pacific coast, And the whole Spanish Main, lay at his mercy.

And onward over the great grey gleaming sea Swept like a thunder-cloud the pirate fleet With vengeance in its heart. Five years agone, Young Hawkins, in the Cape Verde Islands, met-- At Santiago--with such treachery As Drake burned to requite, and from that hour Was Santiago doomed. His chance had come; Drake swooped upon it, plundered it, and was gone, Leaving the treacherous isle a desolate heap Of smoking ashes in the leaden sea, While onward all those pirate bowsprits plunged Into the golden West, across the broad Atlantic once again; "For I will show," Said Drake, "that Englishmen henceforth will sail Old ocean where they will." Onward they surged, And the great glittering crested majestic waves Jubilantly rushed up to meet the keels, And there was nought around them but the grey Ruin and roar of the huge Atlantic seas, Grey mounded seas, pursuing and pursued, That fly, hounded and hounding on for ever, From empty marge to marge of the grey sky. Over the wandering wilderness of foam, Onward, through storm and death, Drake swept; for now Once more a fell plague gripped the tossing ships, And not by twos and threes as heretofore His crews were minished; but in three black days Three hundred seamen in their shotted shrouds Were cast into the deep. Onward he swept, Implacably, having in mind to strike Spain in the throat at St. Domingo, port Of Hispaniola, a city of far renown, A jewel on the shores of old romance, Palm-shadowed, gated with immortal gold, Queen city of Spain's dominions over sea, And guarded by great guns. Out of the dawn The pirate ships came leaping, grim and black, And ere the Spaniards were awake, the flag Of England floated from their topmost tower. But since he had not troops enough to hold So great a city, Drake entrenched his men Within the Plaza and held the batteries. Thence he demanded ransom, and sent out A boy with flag of truce. The boy's return Drake waited long. Under a sheltering palm He stood, watching the enemies' camp, and lo, Along the hot white purple-shadowed road Tow'rds him, a crawling shape writhed through the dust Up to his feet, a shape besmeared with blood, A shape that held the stumps up of its wrists And moaned, an eyeless thing, a naked rag Of flesh obscenely mangled, a small face Hideously puckered, shrivelled like a monkey's With lips drawn backward from its teeth. "Speak, speak, In God's name, speak, what art thou?" whispered Drake, And a sharp cry came, answering his dread, A cry as of a sea-bird in the wind Desolately astray from all earth's shores, "Captain, I am thy boy, only thy boy! See, see, my captain, see what they have done! Captain, I only bore the flag; I only----"

"O, lad, lad, lad," moaned Drake, and, stooping, strove To pillow the mangled head upon his arm. "What have they done to thee, what have they done?" And at the touch the boy screamed, once, and died.

Then like a savage sea with arms uplift To heaven the wrath of Drake blazed thundering, "Eternal God, be this the doom of Spain! Henceforward have no pity. Send the strength Of Thy great seas into my soul that I May devastate this empire, this red hell They make of Thy good earth." His men drew round, Staring in horror at the silent shape That daubed his feet. Like a cold wind His words went through their flesh: "This is the lad That bore our flag of truce. This hath Spain done. Look well upon it, draw the smoke of the blood Up into your nostrils, my companions, And down into your souls. This makes an end For Spain! Bring forth the Spanish prisoners And let me look on them."

Forth they were brought, A swarthy gorgeous band of soldiers, priests, And sailors, hedged between two sturdy files Of British tars with naked cutlasses. Close up to Drake they halted, under the palm, Gay smiling prisoners, for they thought their friends Had ransomed them. Then they looked up and met A glance that swept athwart them like a sword, Making the blood strain back from their blanched faces Into their quivering hearts, with unknown dread, As that accuser pointed to the shape Before his feet. "Dogs, will ye lap his blood Before ye die? Make haste; for it grows cold! Ye will not, will not even dabble your hands In that red puddle of flesh, what? Are ye Spaniards? Come, come, I'll look at you, perchance there's one That's but a demi-devil and holds you back." And with the word Drake stepped among their ranks And read each face among the swarthy crew-- The gorgeous soldiers, ringleted sailors, priests With rosary and cross, a slender page In scarlet with a cloud of golden hair, And two rope-girdled friars. The slim page Drake drew before the throng. "You are young," he said, "Go; take this message to the camp of Spain: Tell them I have a hunger in my soul To look upon the murderers of this boy, To see what eyes they have, what manner of mouths, To touch them and to take their hands in mine, And draw them close to me and smile upon them Until they know my soul as I know theirs, And they grovel in the dust and grope for mercy. Say that, until I get them, every day I'll hang two Spaniards though I dispeople The Spanish Main. Tell them that, every day, I'll burn a portion of their city down, Then find another city and burn that, And then burn others till I burn away Their empire from the world, ay, till I reach The Imperial throne of Philip with my fires, And send it shrieking down to burn in hell For ever. Go!" Then Drake turned once again, To face the Spanish prisoners. With a voice Cold as the passionless utterance of Fate His grim command went forth. "Now, provost-marshal, Begin with yon two friars, in whose faces Chined like singed swine, and eyed with the spent coals Of filthy living, sweats the glory of Spain. Strip off their leprous rags And twist their ropes around their throats and hang them High over the Spanish camp for all to see. At dawn I'll choose two more."