Book X

Across the AtlanticGreat rumours rushed as of a mighty wind,The wind of the spirit of Drake. But who shall tellIn this cold age the power that he becameWho drew the universe within his soulAnd moved with cosmic forces? Though the deepDivided it from Drake, the gorgeous courtOf Philip shuddered away from the streaming coastsAs a wind-cuffed field of golden wheat. The King,Bidding his guests to a feast in his own shipOn that wind-darkened sea, was made a mock,As one by one his ladies proffered excuseFor fear of That beyond. Round Europe nowBallad and story told how in the cabinOf Francis Drake there hung a magic glassWherein he saw the fleets of every foeAnd 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 bindThe winds at will.

And now a wilder taleFlashed o'er the deep--of a distant blood-red dawnO'er San Domingo, where the embattled troopsOf Spain and Drake were met--but not in war--Met in the dawn, by his compelling will,To offer up a sacrifice. Yea, thereBetween the hosts, the hands of Spain herselfSlaughtered the Spanish murderers of the boyWho had borne Drake's flag of truce; offered them upAs a blood-offering and an expiationLest Drake, with that dread alchemy of his soul,Should e'en transmute the dust beneath their feetTo one same substance with the place of painAnd 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 stoodI' the governor's house at San Domingo, and seenA mighty scutcheon of the King of SpainWhereon was painted the terrestrial globe,And on the globe a mighty steed in actTo spring into the heavens, and from its mouthStreaming like smoke a scroll, and on the scrollThree words of flame and fury--Non sufficitOrbis--of how Drake and his seamen stoodGazing upon it, and could not forbearFrom summoning the Spaniards to expoundIts meaning, whereupon a hurricane roarOf mirth burst from those bearded British lips,And that immortal laughter shook the world.

So, while the imperial warrior eyes of SpainWatched, every hour, her vast Armada growReadier to launch and shatter with one strokeOur island's frail defence, fear gripped her still,For there came sounds across the heaving seaOf secret springs unsealed, forces unchained,A mustering of deep elemental powers,A sound as of the burgeoning of boughsIn universal April and dead heartsUprising from their tombs; a mighty cryOf resurrection, surging through the soulsOf all mankind. For now the last wild taleSwept 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 searedBy whip and iron, in Spain's brute lust for gold,Saw them, at Drake's great liberating word,Burst from their chains, erect, uplifting handsOf rapture to the glad new light that then,Then first, began to struggle thro' the cloudsAnd crown all manhood with a sacred crownAugust--a light which, though from age to ageClouds may obscure it, grows and still shall grow,Until that Kingdom come, that grand Communion,That Commonweal, that Empire, which still drawsNigher with every hour, that Federation,That turning of the wasteful strength of warTo accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace,That gathering up of one another's loadsWhereby the weak are strengthened and the strongMade stronger in the increasing good of all.Then, suddenly, it seemed, as he had gone,A ship came stealing into Plymouth SoundAnd Drake was home again, but not to rest;For scarce had he cast anchor ere the roadTo London rang beneath the flying hoofsThat 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 lessWe have given a cooling to the King of Spain.There is a great gap opened which, methinks,Is little to his liking. We have sackedThe 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 struckThe first blow in the South Seas at a Spaniard,Died of a grievous wound at Cartagena.My fleet and I are ready to strike againAt once, where'er the Queen and England please.I pray for her commands, and those with speed,That I may strike again." Outside the scrollThese words were writ once more--"My Queen's commandsI much desire, your servant, Francis Drake."

This terse despatch the hunchback Burleigh readThrice over, with the broad cliff of his browBending among his books. Thrice he assayedTo steel himself with caution as of old;And thrice, as a glorious lightning running alongAnd flashing between those simple words, he sawThe great new power that lay at England's hand,An ocean-sovereignty, a power unknownBefore, but dawning now; a power that sweptAll earth's old plots and counterplots awayLike straws; the germ of an unmeasured forceNew-born, that laid the source of Spanish mightAt England's mercy! Could that force but growEre Spain should nip it, ere the mighty hostThat waited in the Netherlands even now,That host of thirty thousand men encampedRound Antwerp, under Parma, should embarkConvoyed by that Invincible ArmadaTo leap at England's throat! Thrice he assayedTo think of England's helplessness, her shipsLittle and few. Thrice he assayed to quenchWith caution the high furnace of his soulWhich Drake had kindled. As he read the lastRough simple plea, I wait my Queen's commands,His deep eyes flashed with glorious tears.He leaptTo 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 darklyOn Mary of Scotland's doom, who now at lastWas plucked from out her bosom like a snakeHissing of war with France, a queenly snake,A Lilith in whose lovely gleaming foldsAnd sexual bonds the judgment of mankindWrithes even yet half-strangled, meting outWild execrations on the maiden QueenWho quenched those jewelled eyes and mixt with dustThat white and crimson, who with cold sharp steelIn substance and in spirit, severed the neckAnd straightened out those glittering supple coilsFor ever; though for evermore will menLie subject to the unforgotten gleamOf diamond eyes and cruel crimson mouth,And curse the sword-bright intellect that struckLike lightning far through Europe and the worldFor England, when amid the embattled furyOf world-wide empires, England stood alone.Still she held back from war, still disavowedThe deeds of Drake to Spain; and yet once morePhilip, resolved at last never to swerveBy one digressive stroke, one ell or inchFrom his own patient, sure, laborious path,Accepted her suave plea, and with all speedPressed on his huge emprise until it seemedHis coasts groaned with grim bulks of cannonry,Thick loaded hulks of thunder and towers of doom;And, all round Antwerp, Parma still preparedTo hurl such armies o'er the rolling seaAs in all history hardly the earth herselfFelt shake with terror her own green hills and plains.I wait my Queen's commands! Despite the pleaUrged every hour upon her with the fireThat burned for action in the soul of Drake,Still she delayed, till on one darkling eveShe gave him audience in that glimmering roomWhere first he saw her. Strangely sounded thereThe seaman's rough strong passion as he pouredHis heart before her, pleading--"Every hourIs one more victory lost," and only heardThe bitter answer--"Nay, but every hourIs a breath snatched from the unconquerableDoom, that awaits us if we are forced to war.Yea, and who knows?--though Spain may forge a sword,Its point is not inevitably baredAgainst 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 yetMy heart is woman, and I am sore pressedOn every side,--Scotland and France and SpainBeset me, and I know not where to turn."Even as she spake, there came a hurried stepInto that dim rich chamber. WalsinghamStood there, before her, without ceremonyThrusting a letter forth: "At last," he cried,"Your Majesty may read the full intentOf priestly Spain. Here, plainly written outUpon this paper, worth your kingdom's crown,This letter, stolen by a trusty spy,Out of the inmost chamber of the PopeSixtus himself, here is your murder planned:Blame not your Ministers who with such hastePlucked 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 southBecome their base.""Rome, Rome, and Rome again,And always Rome," she muttered; "even hereIn England hath she thousands yet. She hath struckHer 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 windIs on my cheek that shakes my kingdom down.She hath thousands here in England, born and bredEnglishmen. They will stand by Rome!"

"'Fore God,"Cried Walsingham, "my Queen, you do them wrong!There is another Rome--not this of SpainWhich lurks to pluck the world back into darknessAnd stab it there for gold. There is a CityWhose eyes are tow'rd the morning; on whose heightsBlazes the Cross of Christ above the world;A Rome that shall wage warfare yet for GodIn the dark days to come, a Rome whose thoughtShall march with our humanity and be proudTo cast old creeds like seed into the ground,Watch the strange shoots and foster the new flowerOf 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 EnglandSpeaking in grave assembly. At one breathOf peril to our island, why, their swordsLeapt from their scabbards, and their cry went upTo split the heavens--God save our English Queen!"Even as he spake there passed the rushing gleamOf torches once again, and as they stoodSilently listening, all the winds ran wildWith clamouring bells, and a great cry went up--God save Elizabeth, our English Queen!

"I'll vouch for some two hundred Catholic throatsAmong that thousand," whispered WalsinghamEagerly, 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 beenIn all our history, all prepared to dieAround your throne. Madam, you are belovedAs never yet was English king or queen!"She looked at him, the tears in her keen eyesGlittered--"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-seaWhich makes the enemies' coast our frontier now;No more than that great Empire of the deepWhich rolls from Pole to Pole, washing the worldWith thunder, that great Empire whose commandThis 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 worldThan heart of man hath known. If England holdThe sea, she holds the hundred thousand gatesThat open to futurity. She holdsThe highway of all ages. ArgosiesOf unknown glory set their sails this dayFor England out of ports beyond the stars.Ay, on the sacred seas we ne'er shall knowThey 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 filledWith fire of sunsets far away, she cried(Faith making her a child, yet queenlier still)"Yea, claim it thou for me!"A moment thereTrembling she stood. Then, once again, there passedA 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 wordDrake bent above her hand and, ere she knew it,His eyes from the dark doorway flashed farewellAnd he was gone. But ere he leapt to saddleWalsingham stood at his stirrup, muttering "Ride,Ride now like hell to Plymouth; for the QueenIs hard beset, and ere ye are out at seaHer mood will change. The friends of Spain will moveEarth and the heavens for your recall. They'll tempt herWith their false baits of peace, though I shall standHere 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 doubtOnce more assailed the Queen. The death of MaryHad brought e'en France against her. Walsingham,And Burleigh himself, prime mover of that death,Being held in much disfavour for it, stoodAs helpless. Long ere Drake or human power,They thought, could put to sea, a courier spedTo Plymouth bidding Drake forbear to strikeAt 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 goldTo thin his ranks, and every hour his crewsDeserted, he had laughed--"Let Spain buy scum!Next to an honest seaman I love bestAn honest landsman. What more goodly taskThan teaching brave men seamanship?" He had filledHis ships with soldiers! Out in the teeth of the galeThat raged against him he had driven. In vain,Amid the boisterous laughter of the quays,A pinnace dashed in hot pursuit and metA roaring breaker and came hurtling backWith oars and spars all trailing in the foam,A tangled mass of wreckage and despair.Sky swept to stormy sky: no sail could liveIn that great yeast of waves; but Drake was gone!

Then, once again, across the rolling seaGreat rumours rushed of how he had sacked the portOf Cadiz and had swept along the coastTo Lisbon, where the whole Armada lay.Had snapped up prizes under its very nose,And taunted Santa Cruz, High AdmiralOf Spain, striving to draw him out for fight,And offering, if his course should lie that way,To convoy him to Britain, taunted himSo bitterly that for once, in the world's eyes,A jest had power to kill; for Santa CruzDied with the spleen of it, since he could not moveBefore the appointed season. Then there cameFlying back home, the Queen's old AdmiralBorough, deserting Drake and all aghastAt Drake's temerity: "For," he said, "this man,Thrust o'er my head, against all precedent,Bade me follow him into harbour mouthsA-flame with cannon like the jaws of death,Whereat I much demurred; and straightway DrakeClapped me in irons, me--an officerAnd Admiral of the Queen; and, though my voiceWas all against it, plunged into the pitWithout me, left me with some word that burnsAnd rankles in me still, making me fearThe man was mad, some word of lonely seas,A desert island and a mutineerAnd dead Magellan's gallows. Sirs, my lifeWas hardly safe with him. Why, he resolvedTo storm the Castle of St. Vincent, sirs,A castle on a cliff, grinning with guns,Well known impregnable! The Spaniards fearDrake; but to see him land below it and bidSurrender, sirs, the strongest fort of SpainWithout a blow, they laughed! And straightway he,With all the fury of Satan, turned that cliffTo hell itself. He sent down to the shipsFor faggots, broken oars, beams, bowsprits, masts,And piled them up against the outer gates,Higher and higher, and fired them. There he stoodAmid the smoke and flame and cannon-shot,This Admiral, like a common seamen, blackWith soot, besmeared with blood, his naked armsFull of great faggots, labouring like a giantAnd 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 gunsClattering over the cliffs into the sea.But, sirs, ye need not raise a cheer so loudIt is not warfare. 'Twas a madman's trick,A devil's!"Then the rumour of a stormThat scattered the fleet of Drake to the four windsDisturbed the heart of England, as his shipsCame straggling into harbour, one by one,Saying they could not find him. Then, at last,When the storm burst in its earth-shaking mightAlong our coasts, one night of rolling gloomHis cannon woke old Plymouth. In he cameAcross the thunder and lightning of the seaWith his grim ship of war and, close behind,A shadow like a mountain or a cloudTorn from the heaven-high panoplies of Spain,A captured galleon loomed, and round her prowA blazoned scroll, whence (as she neared the quaysWhich many a lanthorn swung from brawny fistYellowed) the sudden crimson of her nameSan Filippe flashed o'er the white sea of faces,And a rending shout went skyward that outroaredThe blanching breakers--"'Tis the heart of Spain!The great San Filippe!" Overhead she towered,The mightiest ship afloat; and in her holdThe riches of a continent, a prizeGreater than earth had ever known; for thereNot only ruby and pearl like ocean-beachesHeaped on some wizard coast in that dim hullBlazed to the lanthorn-light; not only goldGleamed, though of gold a million would not buyHer store; but in her cabin lay the chartsAnd secrets of the wild unwhispered wealthOf India, secrets that splashed London wharvesWith coloured dreams and made her misty streetsFlame like an Eastern City when the sunShatters itself on jewelled domes and spillsIts crimson wreckage thro' the silvery palms.And of those dreams the far East India questBegan: the first foundation-stone was laidOf our great Indian Empire, and a starBegan to tremble on the brows of EnglandThat time can never darken.But now the seasDarkened indeed with menace; now at lastThe cold wind of the black approaching wingsOf Azrael crept across the deep: the stormThrobbed with their thunderous pulse, and ere that moonWaned, a swift gunboat foamed into the SoundWith word that all the Invincible ArmadaWas hoisting sail for England.Even now,Elizabeth, torn a thousand ways, withheldThe 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 themNow, or--"Too late! Too late!" At last his voiceBeat down e'en those that blindly dinned her earsWith chatter of meeting Spain on British soil;And swiftly she commanded (seeing once moreThe light that burned amid the approaching gloomIn Drake's deep eyes) Lord Howard of Effingham,High Admiral of England, straight to join himAt 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 seaThey swept, in the teeth of a gale; but vainly DrakeStrove to impart the thought wherewith his mindTravailed--to win command of the ocean-seaBy bursting on the fleets of Spain at onceEven as they left their ports, not as of oldTo hover in a vain dream of defenceRound fifty threatened points of British coast,But Howard, clinging to his old-world order,Flung out his ships in a loose, long, straggling lineAcross the Channel, waiting, wary, alert,But powerless thus as a string of scattered sea-gullsBeating against the storm. Then, flying to meet them,A merchantman brought terror down the wind,With news that she had seen that monstrous hostStretching from sky to sky, great hulks of doom,Dragging death's midnight with them o'er the seaTow'rds England. Up to Howard's flag-ship DrakeIn his immortal battle-ship--Revenge,Rushed thro' the foam, and thro' the swirling seasHis pinnace dashed alongside. On to the decksO' the tossing flag-ship, like a very VikingShaking the surf and rainbows of the sprayFrom sun-smit lion-like mane and beard he stoodBefore Lord Howard in the escutcheoned poopAnd poured his heart out like the rending seaIn passionate wave on wave:"If yonder fleetOnce reach the Channel, hardly the mercy of GodSaves 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 soulThat by sheer force of will compels the worldTo work his bidding, so it seemed the windThat blew against them slowly veered. The sailsQuivered, the skies revolved. A northerly breezeAwoke and now, behind the British ships,Blew steadily tow'rds the unseen host of Spain."It is the breath of God," cried Drake; "they lieWind-bound, and we may work our will with them.Signal the word, Lord Howard, and drive down!"And as a man convinced by heaven itselfLord Howard ordered, straightway, the whole fleetTo 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 drawNigh enough, with its fire-ships and great gunsTo windward. Nearer, nearer, league by leagueThe ships of England came: till Ushant laySome seventy leagues behind. Then, yet once moreThe wind veered, straight against them. To remainBeating against it idly was to starve:And, as a man whose power upon the worldFails for one moment of exhausted will,Drake, gathering up his forces as he wentFor one more supreme effort, turned his shipTow'rds Plymouth, and retreated with the rest.

There, while the ships refitted with all hasteAnd axe and hammer rang, one golden eveJust as the setting sun began to fringeThe clouds with crimson, and the creaming wavesWere one wild riot of fairy rainbows, DrakeStood with old comrades on the close-cropped greenOf 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-gullFlickering between the white flakes of the waves.A group of schoolboys with their satchels layStretched on the green, gazing with great wide eyesUpon their seamen heroes, as like godsDisporting with the battles of the worldThey loomed, tossing black bowls like cannon-ballsAgainst the rosy West, or lounged at easeWith faces olive-dark against that skyLaughing, while from the neighboring inn mine host,White aproned and blue-jerkined, hurried outWith foaming cups of sack, and they drank deep,Tossing their heads back under the golden cloudsAnd burying their bearded lips. The huesThat slashed their doublets, for the boy's bright eyes(Even as the gleams of Grecian cloud or moonRevealed the old gods) were here rich dusky streaksOf splendour from the Spanish Main, that shoneBut to proclaim these heroes. There a boyMore bold crept nearer to a slouched hat thrownUpon the green, and touched the silver plume,And felt as if he had touched a sunset-isleOf feathery palms beyond a crimson sea.

Another stared at the blue rings of smokeA storm-scarred seaman puffed from a long pipePrimed with the strange new herb they had lately foundIn far Virginia. But the little shipNow plunging into Plymouth Bay none saw.E'en when she had anchored and her straining boatHad touched the land, and the boat's crew over the quaysLeapt with a shout, scarce was there one to heed.A seaman, smiling, swaggered out of the innSwinging in one brown hand a gleaming cageWherein a big green parrot chattered and clungFluttering against the wires. A troop of girlsWith arms linked paused to watch the game of bowls;And now they flocked around the cage, while oneWith rosy finger tempted the horny beakTo bite. Close overhead a sea-mew flashedSeaward. Once, from an open window, softThrough trellised leaves, not far away, a voiceFloated, a voice that flushed the cheek of Drake,The voice of Bess, bending her glossy headOver the broidery frame, in a quiet song.

The song ceased. Still, with rainbows in their eyes,The schoolboys watched the bowls like cannon-ballsRoll from the hand of gods along the turf.

Suddenly, tow'rds the green, a little cloudOf seamen, shouting, stumbling, as they ranDrew all eyes on them. The game ceased. A voiceRough 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 seeAn end of them. They stretch from north to southLike 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 hoursOf pleading for the sea's command, great hoursAnd golden moments, all were lost. The fleetOf Spain had won the Channel without a blow.

All eyes were turned on Drake, as he stood thereA giant against the sunset and the seaLooming, alone. Far off, the first white starGleamed in a rosy space of heaven. He tossedA grim black ball i' the lustrous air and laughed,--"Come lads," he said, "we've time to finish the game."