Chapter 22

Across the Atlantic Great rumours rushed as of a mighty wind, The wind of the spirit of Drake. But who shall tell In this cold age the power that he became Who drew the universe within his soul And moved with cosmic forces? Though the deep Divided it from Drake, the gorgeous court Of Philip shuddered away from the streaming coasts As a wind-cuffed field of golden wheat. The King, Bidding his guests to a feast in his own ship On that wind-darkened sea, was made a mock, As one by one his ladies proffered excuse For fear of That beyond. Round Europe now Ballad and story told how in the cabin Of Francis Drake there hung a magic glass Wherein he saw the fleets of every foe And all that passed aboard them. Rome herself, Perplexed that this proud heretic should prevail, Fostered a darker dream, that Drake had bought, Like old Norse wizards, power to loose or bind The winds at will.

And now a wilder tale Flashed o'er the deep--of a distant blood-red dawn O'er San Domingo, where the embattled troops Of Spain and Drake were met--but not in war-- Met in the dawn, by his compelling will, To offer up a sacrifice. Yea, there Between the hosts, the hands of Spain herself Slaughtered the Spanish murderers of the boy Who had borne Drake's flag of truce; offered them up As a blood-offering and an expiation Lest Drake, with that dread alchemy of his soul, Should e'en transmute the dust beneath their feet To one same substance with the place of pain And whelm them suddenly in the eternal fires. Rumour on rumour rushed across the sea, Large mockeries, and one most bitter of all, Wormwood to Philip, of how Drake had stood I' the governor's house at San Domingo, and seen A mighty scutcheon of the King of Spain Whereon was painted the terrestrial globe, And on the globe a mighty steed in act To spring into the heavens, and from its mouth Streaming like smoke a scroll, and on the scroll Three words of flame and fury--_Non sufficit Orbis_--of how Drake and his seamen stood Gazing upon it, and could not forbear From summoning the Spaniards to expound Its meaning, whereupon a hurricane roar Of mirth burst from those bearded British lips, And that immortal laughter shook the world.

So, while the imperial warrior eyes of Spain Watched, every hour, her vast Armada grow Readier to launch and shatter with one stroke Our island's frail defence, fear gripped her still, For there came sounds across the heaving sea Of secret springs unsealed, forces unchained, A mustering of deep elemental powers, A sound as of the burgeoning of boughs In universal April and dead hearts Uprising from their tombs; a mighty cry Of resurrection, surging through the souls Of all mankind. For now the last wild tale Swept like another dawn across the deep; And, in that dawn, men saw the slaves of Spain, The mutilated negroes of the mines, With gaunt backs wealed and branded, scarred and seared By whip and iron, in Spain's brute lust for gold, Saw them, at Drake's great liberating word, Burst from their chains, erect, uplifting hands Of rapture to the glad new light that then, Then first, began to struggle thro' the clouds And crown all manhood with a sacred crown August--a light which, though from age to age Clouds may obscure it, grows and still shall grow, Until that Kingdom come, that grand Communion, That Commonweal, that Empire, which still draws Nigher with every hour, that Federation, That turning of the wasteful strength of war To accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace, That gathering up of one another's loads Whereby the weak are strengthened and the strong Made stronger in the increasing good of all. Then, suddenly, it seemed, as he had gone, A ship came stealing into Plymouth Sound And Drake was home again, but not to rest; For scarce had he cast anchor ere the road To London rang beneath the flying hoofs That bore his brief despatch to Burleigh, saying-- "We have missed the Plate Fleet by but twelve hours' sail, The reason being best known to God. No less We have given a cooling to the King of Spain. There is a great gap opened which, methinks, Is little to his liking. We have sacked The towns of his chief Indies, burnt their ships, Captured great store of gold and precious stones, Three hundred pieces of artillery, The more part brass. Our loss is heavy indeed, Under the hand of God, eight hundred men, Three parts of them by sickness. Captain Moone, My trusty old companion, he that struck The first blow in the South Seas at a Spaniard, Died of a grievous wound at Cartagena. My fleet and I are ready to strike again At once, where'er the Queen and England please. I pray for her commands, and those with speed, That I may strike again." Outside the scroll These words were writ once more--"My Queen's commands I much desire, your servant, Francis Drake."

This terse despatch the hunchback Burleigh read Thrice over, with the broad cliff of his brow Bending among his books. Thrice he assayed To steel himself with caution as of old; And thrice, as a glorious lightning running along And flashing between those simple words, he saw The great new power that lay at England's hand, An ocean-sovereignty, a power unknown Before, but dawning now; a power that swept All earth's old plots and counterplots away Like straws; the germ of an unmeasured force New-born, that laid the source of Spanish might At England's mercy! Could that force but grow Ere Spain should nip it, ere the mighty host That waited in the Netherlands even now, That host of thirty thousand men encamped Round Antwerp, under Parma, should embark Convoyed by that Invincible Armada To leap at England's throat! Thrice he assayed To think of England's helplessness, her ships Little and few. Thrice he assayed to quench With caution the high furnace of his soul Which Drake had kindled. As he read the last Rough simple plea, _I wait my Queen's commands_, His deep eyes flashed with glorious tears. He leapt To his feet and cried aloud, "Before my God, I am proud, I am very proud for England's sake! This Drake is a terrible man to the King of Spain."

And still, still, Gloriana, brooding darkly On Mary of Scotland's doom, who now at last Was plucked from out her bosom like a snake Hissing of war with France, a queenly snake, A Lilith in whose lovely gleaming folds And sexual bonds the judgment of mankind Writhes even yet half-strangled, meting out Wild execrations on the maiden Queen Who quenched those jewelled eyes and mixt with dust That white and crimson, who with cold sharp steel In substance and in spirit, severed the neck And straightened out those glittering supple coils For ever; though for evermore will men Lie subject to the unforgotten gleam Of diamond eyes and cruel crimson mouth, And curse the sword-bright intellect that struck Like lightning far through Europe and the world For England, when amid the embattled fury Of world-wide empires, England stood alone. Still she held back from war, still disavowed The deeds of Drake to Spain; and yet once more Philip, resolved at last never to swerve By one digressive stroke, one ell or inch From his own patient, sure, laborious path, Accepted her suave plea, and with all speed Pressed on his huge emprise until it seemed His coasts groaned with grim bulks of cannonry, Thick loaded hulks of thunder and towers of doom; And, all round Antwerp, Parma still prepared To hurl such armies o'er the rolling sea As in all history hardly the earth herself Felt shake with terror her own green hills and plains. _I wait my Queen's commands!_ Despite the plea Urged every hour upon her with the fire That burned for action in the soul of Drake, Still she delayed, till on one darkling eve She gave him audience in that glimmering room Where first he saw her. Strangely sounded there The seaman's rough strong passion as he poured His heart before her, pleading--"Every hour Is one more victory lost," and only heard The bitter answer--"Nay, but every hour Is a breath snatched from the unconquerable Doom, that awaits us if we are forced to war. Yea, and who knows?--though Spain may forge a sword, Its point is not inevitably bared Against the breast of England!" As she spake, The winds without clamoured with clash of bells, There was a gleam of torches and a roar-- _Mary, the traitress of the North, is dead, God save the Queen!_ Her head bent down: she wept. "Pity me, friend, though I be queen, O yet My heart is woman, and I am sore pressed On every side,--Scotland and France and Spain Beset me, and I know not where to turn." Even as she spake, there came a hurried step Into that dim rich chamber. Walsingham Stood there, before her, without ceremony Thrusting a letter forth: "At last," he cried, "Your Majesty may read the full intent Of priestly Spain. Here, plainly written out Upon this paper, worth your kingdom's crown, This letter, stolen by a trusty spy, Out of the inmost chamber of the Pope Sixtus himself, here is your murder planned: Blame not your Ministers who with such haste Plucked out this viper, Mary, from your breast! Read here--how, with his thirty thousand men, The pick of Europe, Parma joins the Scots, While Ireland, grasped in their Armada's clutch, And the Isle of Wight, against our west and south Become their base." "Rome, Rome, and Rome again, And always Rome," she muttered; "even here In England hath she thousands yet. She hath struck Her curse out with pontific finger at me, Cursed me down and away to the bottomless pit. Her shadow like the shadow of clouds or sails, The shadow of that huge event at hand, Darkens the seas already, and the wind Is on my cheek that shakes my kingdom down. She hath thousands here in England, born and bred Englishmen. They will stand by Rome!"

"'Fore God," Cried Walsingham, "my Queen, you do them wrong! There is another Rome--not this of Spain Which lurks to pluck the world back into darkness And stab it there for gold. There is a City Whose eyes are tow'rd the morning; on whose heights Blazes the Cross of Christ above the world; A Rome that shall wage warfare yet for God In the dark days to come, a Rome whose thought Shall march with our humanity and be proud To cast old creeds like seed into the ground, Watch the strange shoots and foster the new flower Of faiths we know not yet. Is this a dream? I speak as one by knighthood bound to speak; For even this day--and my heart burns with it-- I heard the Catholic gentlemen of England Speaking in grave assembly. At one breath Of peril to our island, why, their swords Leapt from their scabbards, and their cry went up To split the heavens--_God save our English Queen!_" Even as he spake there passed the rushing gleam Of torches once again, and as they stood Silently listening, all the winds ran wild With clamouring bells, and a great cry went up-- _God save Elizabeth, our English Queen!_

"I'll vouch for some two hundred Catholic throats Among that thousand," whispered Walsingham Eagerly, with his eyes on the Queen's face. Then, seeing it brighten, fervently he cried, Pressing the swift advantage home, "O, Madam, The heart of England now is all on fire! We are one people, as we have not been In all our history, all prepared to die Around your throne. Madam, you are beloved As never yet was English king or queen!" She looked at him, the tears in her keen eyes Glittered--"And I am very proud," she said, "But if our enemies command the world, And we have one small island and no more...." She ceased; and Drake, in a strange voice, hoarse and low, Trembling with passion deeper than all speech, Cried out--"No more than the great ocean-sea Which makes the enemies' coast our frontier now; No more than that great Empire of the deep Which rolls from Pole to Pole, washing the world With thunder, that great Empire whose command This day is yours to take. Hear me, my Queen, This is a dream, a new dream, but a true; For mightier days are dawning on the world Than heart of man hath known. If England hold The sea, she holds the hundred thousand gates That open to futurity. She holds The highway of all ages. Argosies Of unknown glory set their sails this day For England out of ports beyond the stars. Ay, on the sacred seas we ne'er shall know They hoist their sails this day by peaceful quays, Great gleaming wharves in the perfect City of God, If she but claim her heritage." He ceased; And the deep dream of that new realm the sea, Through all the soul of Gloriana surged, A moment, then with splendid eyes that filled With fire of sunsets far away, she cried (Faith making her a child, yet queenlier still) "Yea, claim it thou for me!" A moment there Trembling she stood. Then, once again, there passed A rush of torches through the gloom without, And a great cry "_God save Elizabeth, God save our English Queen!_" "Yea go, then, go," She said, "God speed you now, Sir Francis Drake, Not as a privateer, but with full powers, My Admiral-at-the-Seas!" Without a word Drake bent above her hand and, ere she knew it, His eyes from the dark doorway flashed farewell And he was gone. But ere he leapt to saddle Walsingham stood at his stirrup, muttering "Ride, Ride now like hell to Plymouth; for the Queen Is hard beset, and ere ye are out at sea Her mood will change. The friends of Spain will move Earth and the heavens for your recall. They'll tempt her With their false baits of peace, though I shall stand Here at your back through thick and thin; farewell!" Fire flashed beneath the hoofs and Drake was gone.

Scarce had he vanished in the night than doubt Once more assailed the Queen. The death of Mary Had brought e'en France against her. Walsingham, And Burleigh himself, prime mover of that death, Being held in much disfavour for it, stood As helpless. Long ere Drake or human power, They thought, could put to sea, a courier sped To Plymouth bidding Drake forbear to strike At Spain, but keep to the high seas, and lo, The roadstead glittered empty. Drake was gone!

Gone! Though the friends of Spain had poured their gold To thin his ranks, and every hour his crews Deserted, he had laughed--"Let Spain buy scum! Next to an honest seaman I love best An honest landsman. What more goodly task Than teaching brave men seamanship?" He had filled His ships 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 mass 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 hell itself. He sent down to the ships For faggots, 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 faggots, 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 brass 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 ships 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 ship 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 ship 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 ships are wanted?" She asked him, thinking "we are few, indeed!" "Give me but sixteen merchantmen," he said, "And but four battleships, by the mercy of God, 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 ships 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-ship Drake In his immortal battle-ship--_Revenge_, Rushed thro' the foam, and thro' the swirling seas His pinnace dashed alongside. On to the decks O' the tossing flag-ship, 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 poop And poured his heart out like the rending sea In passionate wave on wave: "If yonder fleet Once reach the Channel, hardly the mercy of God 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 ships, 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 ships, Blew steadily tow'rds the unseen host of Spain. "It is the breath of God," 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-ships and great guns To windward. Nearer, nearer, league by league The ships 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 ship Tow'rds Plymouth, and retreated with the rest.

There, while the ships 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 gods Disporting with the battles of the world They loomed, tossing black bowls like cannon-balls Against the rosy West, or lounged at ease With faces olive-dark against that sky Laughing, while from the neighboring inn mine host, White aproned 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 gods) 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 ship Now plunging into Plymouth Bay none saw. E'en when she had anchored 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 horny 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-balls Roll from the hand of gods 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 battleships! 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 space of heaven. He tossed A grim black ball i' the lustrous air and laughed,-- "Come lads," he said, "we've time to finish the game."