BOOK X

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.”