One night as, with his great vice-admiral...

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.”