Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FRANCIS DRAKE; A TRAGEDY OF THE SEA, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FRANCIS DRAKE; A TRAGEDY OF THE SEA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Good-morrow, winter. / still the winds are foul
Last Line: Drake. Christ comfort me!
Subject(s): Drake, Sir Francis (1540-1596); Sailing & Sailors; Sea; Tragedy; Ocean


TIME, 1578

At sea, off the coast of Patagonia, on board the Pelican, the
Elizabeth,
and the Plymouth.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

FRANCIS DRAKE.
THOMAS DOUGHTY, his friend.
FRANCIS FLETCHER, Chaplain.
JOHN WINTER, Captains
LEONARD VICARY,
WILLIAM CHESTER,
GENTLEMEN-VENTURERS.
SEAMEN.

Deck of the Elizabeth. Fleet in the offing.

JOHN WINTER. THOMAS DOUGHTY.

DOUGHTY (coming aboard). Good-morrow, Winter. Still the
winds are foul.
I would they blew from merry England shores.
WINTER. I would they had not blown you to my ship.
None are more welcome elsewhere. Strict commands
Forbid this visiting from ship to ship.
DOUGHTY. These orders are most wise,—I doubt not that;
Yet must I learn that any here afloat
Is master of the gentlemen who venture
Their ducats and their lives. Let him make laws
To rule rough sailors; they are not for us.
WINTER. Yet one must be the master. Ill it were
If, drifting masterless, this little realm
Of tossing ships obeyed not one sure helm.
I shall but serve you if I bid you go.
DOUGHTY. The Pelican is twice a league away.
'T is time the several captains of the fleet
Should learn how little mind the seamen have,
Ay, and the gentlemen, to hold our course.
Now, were we all of us of one firm mind,
This cheating voyage should end, and that full soon.
This in your ear. Did I dare speak of Burleigh—
[Winter recoils.
WINTER. Have you a mind to lose us both our heads?
I would not ill report you, but your words
Sail near to treason, both to Queen and Friend.
DOUGHTY. I pray you but this once be patient with me.
My actions shall not lack support in England.
If I might dare say all, you best of any
Would know the admiral has no better friend.
The ships decay; the sailors mutiny;
Before us lies a waste of unknown seas;
Methinks authority doth beget in men
A certain madness. Think you if we chance
To ruin peaceful towns and scuttle ships,
And rouse these Spanish hornets on their coasts,
Think you the dearest counsellor of the Queen—
I may not name him—will be better pleased
With him that hurts or him that helps this voyage?
WINTER. I think your enterprise more perilous
Than half a hundred voyages, good friend—
I pray you risk not losing of the name,
For you are greatly changed from him I knew
This some time past of gentle disposition;
In danger tranquil; gay, and yet discreet;
Learned in the law, a scholar and a soldier.
DOUGHTY. An old-time nursery trick: comfits before,
And after comes the dose; then sweets again.
WINTER. Be not so hasty; hear me to the end,
And be my careful friendship early pardoned.
I have heard you say of late you lack advancement.
There is advancement no man need to lack
Who makes his Duty like a mother's knees,
Where all his prayers are said. This man you were.
What other man is this I hardly know:
One that of all his natural endowments
Makes but base use to stir the meaner sort,
To darken counsel with a mist of words,
To scatter falsehood, and to sow distrust;
And all as lightly as a housewife flings
The morning grain amidst her cackling crew.
DOUGHTY. You have done well to ask my pardon first.
WINTER. Nay. I do hold the bond of friendship strong;
And he who wills to keep his friends must know
To stomach that they lack. I would indeed
You had not spoken as you have to-day.
DOUGHTY. What matters it? My words are safe with you.
WINTER. Safe as my countenance will let them be;
Safe till the admiral asks, and, like a boy,
I stand a-twiddling of uneasy thumbs,
On this foot, now, or that, red in the face.
By Heaven! what fetched you on this hated voyage?
DOUGHTY. A trick. A fetch indeed!
WINTER. Nay, that's not so.
Trick or no trick, this is not English earth,
Nor Drake the man who on the Devon greens
Sat half the night a-talking poesy.
I have seen many men in angry moods,
But this man's wrath is as the wrath of God,
Instant and terrible. Pray you, be warned,
And if your soul be capable of fear—
DOUGHTY. Fear!
WINTER. Ay, a healthful virtue in its place.
Had I been but the half as rash as you,
My very sword would tremble in its sheath.
DOUGHTY. And yet I have no nearer friend than he.
WINTER. You judge men by their love, as maidens do.
DOUGHTY. And not an ill way, either, as earth goes.
The admiral in his less distracted times
Hath some rare flavor of the woman in him.
WINTER. Oh, that's the half of him: no lady wronged,
No pillaged church, no hurt of unarmed man,
Will stain his record at the great account.
Have then a care. The gentle, just, and brave
Are ill to anger.
DOUGHTY. What I say to you
I not less readily shall say to him,
Trusting the friendly equity of his love.
WINTER. A certain devil lurks in every angel,
Else had there never been a strife in heaven.
Now on my soul I wonder at the man.
Thrice has he warned you as a brother might,
And once removed you from a high command.
'T is very strange to me how men may differ.
No doubts have I; along these savage coasts
Magellan sailed. Are we not English born?
DOUGHTY. I neither have forgotten nor forget.
Thanks for your patience. There is more to say
That might be said.
WINTER. I would it had been less.
I think it well no other hears your words.
DOUGHTY. Oh, fear not I shall rashly squander speech.
WINTER. Spend not your thoughts at all. Be miserly.
These wooden walls have echoes; to and fro
Some wild word wanders, till, on each return,
We less and less our own mind's children know.
All gold they say is of the devil's mint;
But words are very devils of themselves.
I do commend you to a fast of speech.
DOUGHTY. It might be wise—but you'll not talk of this.
WINTER. Nay, that I will not. It is you will speak.
A restless tongue is ever no man's friend.
Come, let us shift the talk. 'T is perilous.
[Winter, as he speaks, walks to the rail.
How huge and bloody red the moon to-night!
This utter quiet of the brooding sea
I like not over well; nor yon red moon.
So, there's a breeze again, and now 't is still.
We shall have storms to-morrow.
DOUGHTY. Reason good,
Before our ships are scattered far and wide,
That I should speak what others dare not speak.
WINTER. Nor I dare hear. My mother used to say
That silence was a very Christian virtue.
When I talk folly, be the Moon my friend;
There are no eavesdroppers among the stars.
DOUGHTY. Her sex, they say, are leaky counsellors;
And, too, she shares your secrets with a man,
Red i' the visage now. Here's three to keep
Your pleasant indiscretions.
WINTER. Happy Moon!
That ere a day is dead shall England see.
Ah, gentle dame, shine on our island homes;
Kiss for my sake a face as fair as thine;
Go, tell our love to every maiden flower
That droops tear-laden in our Devon woods.
DOUGHTY. I dreamed last night that never more again
Should I see England.
WINTER. That's as God may will.
I dare not think on England. Why should you?
What ails you now that you should look behind
When honor cries come on?
DOUGHTY. To be a child!
Is that your largest wisdom?
WINTER. Yes, well said!
Child, woman, man—the nobler life hath need
That man be all of these.
DOUGHTY (is silent a moment). I would that I
Were always near you, Winter. Drake has power
To tempt resistance as no other can.
With you, dear friend, my soul abides in peace.
WINTER. Seek you such peace as comes to those alone
Who have for friend the duty of the hour.
DOUGHTY. Enough of preaching.
WINTER. Well, so be it then;
But guard that restless tongue. When night is come,
And all these mighty spaces overhead
And all this vast of sea lie motionless,
God seems so near to me, ill deeds so far,
That all my soul in gentled wonder rests.
[They are silent a time.
DOUGHTY. Mark how the southward splendor of the cross
Shines peace upon us. When the nights are calm,
I joy to climb the topmast's utmost peak,
And, hanging breathless in the unpeopled void,
Note how the still deep answers star for star.
WINTER. See, the wind freshens. Get you to your ship.
Come not again. This seeming quiet sea
Is not more dangerous than a man we know.
DOUGHTY. 'T is not the danger checks me; yet be sure
I shall not spare to think upon your words.
You have my thanks. Good-night, and merry dreams.
See that you keep my counsel.
WINTER. Said I not,
'T was safe with me?
DOUGHTY (goes over the rail to his boat). Good-night, and better
winds.
WINTER. Good-night to you.
The devil take the man.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE. VICARY. WINTER.

WINTER. It sorts not with my honor that I speak.
DRAKE. Enough to know John Winter will not speak;
A cruel verdict is the just man's silence.
I have been patient, but the end has come.
What breeds these discontents? I know the man.
Were he twin brother of my mother's womb
He should not live to mar my Prince's venture.
(To Vicary.) Are you struck silent, like my good John Winter?
What substance is there in this mutinous talk?
VICARY. Too little substance, not enough to eat;
A prating parson, and some empty bellies.
A very mutinous thing's an empty paunch.
DRAKE. Now here's a man has never a plain answer.
Out with it in good English.
VICARY. As you will,
I pray you pardon me my way of speech;
I cannot help it. I was born a-grinning,
Or so my mother said. If death's a jest,
I doubt not I shall never die in earnest.
DRAKE. Now on my soul this passes all endurance;
Grin, if it please you, but at least speak out.
VICARY. I never had as little mind to speak.
DRAKE. I have heard you jesting with a Spanish Don
When sore beset and well-nigh spent with wounds.
I think some counsel lies behind your mirth.
VICARY. Were I the admiral I would preach a sermon.
DRAKE. A sermon!
VICARY. Ay! and that a yardarm long,
And to conclude, a parson and a rope.
Also good rum's a very Christian diet,
And vastly does console a shrunken belly.
DRAKE (smiling). Well, my gay jester, is there more to say?
VICARY. I sometimes think we carry on our ships
Too large a freight of time.
DRAKE. Talk plain again.
It takes three questions to beget an answer.
VICARY. Now, as the world runs, that's unnatural many.
DRAKE. I think you will not speak.
VICARY. No, I'm run dry.
I am as barren as a widowed hen.
DRAKE (laughing). Out with you. Go!
VICARY (aside). And none more glad to go.
[Exit Vicary.
DRAKE. One that must needs be taken in his humor.
WINTER. 'T is a strange disposition that has mirth
For what breeds tears in others.
DRAKE. No, not strange.
But I've no jesting in my heart to-day.
The straits lie yonder, dark and perilous;
The Spaniards' villainies sit heavy here.
[Strikes his breast.
Their racks are red with honest English blood;
The dead call, "Come." Ah, Winter, by my soul,
When Panama is ours, when their galleons lie
Distressful wrecks, and England's banner flies
Unquestioned on the far Pacific sea,
Then—
WINTER. Is it so? Runs your commission thus?
DRAKE. Once past the straits, and all shall know my errand.
Here is the warrant of Her Majesty,
And here the sword she bade me call her own.
WINTER. Did Doughty know of this?
DRAKE. Ay, from the first.
WINTER. A double treason.
DRAKE. Counsel me, John Winter.
The sailors murmur, and the gentlemen
Sow quarrels and dissension through the fleet.
My dearest friend betrays my dearest trust.
What means this gay boy's chatter about time?
WINTER. A riddle easily read, if you but think
What use the devil has for idle hours.
DRAKE. I have long meant to make an end of that.
Go tell these lazy gentles, Francis Drake
Bids them to haul and pull as sailors do;
Ay, let them reef and lay out on the yards.
I'll bid 'gainst Satan for their idleness.
Belike they may not care to go aloft;
Then, on my word, I've bilboes down alow.
WINTER. Thou wouldst not set a gentle i' the stocks?
DRAKE. Gentle or parson, let them try me not.
'T is said a gibbet stands on yonder shore:
There brave Magellan hanged a mutinous Don.
Let them look to it. See I be obeyed.
None shall be favored. Fetch me now aboard
This traitor Doughty, and no words with him.
WINTER. Ay, ay, sir.
DRAKE. Go. Let there be no delay.

[Winter in his boat beside the Plymouth.
DOUGHTY (descending). What means this summons?
WINTER. Hush! I may not speak.
Give way there, men. (To Doughty.) Have you your tablets with you?
[Takes them and writes:
"Take care. Be warned. The devil is broke loose."
DOUGHTY. Why am I bidden?
WINTER. Way—give way there, men!
DOUGHTY. Will you not answer me?
WINTER. Not I, indeed.
Way there, enough! Ho, there, aboard!
[Doughty goes aboard the Pelican.
DOUGHTY. Good-day.

Deck of Pelican.

DOUGHTY. FLETCHER.

FLETCHER. I think there is some mischief in the air.
'T is said the admiral has sent for you.
DOUGHTY. I'm haled aboard with no more courtesy
Than any meanest ruffian of the crew.
Were I in England he should answer me.
FLETCHER. This is not England.
DOUGHTY. Oh, by heaven! no!
(Aside.) Time must be won. I've been a loitering fool.
(Aloud.) I would that I could clear my mind to you.
FLETCHER. Why not to me? What other is so fit?
Is not confession like an act of nature?
DOUGHTY. I am like a wine thick with confusing lees.
To-day they settle, and to-morrow morn
Another shakes me, and I'm thick again.
[Fletcher watches him. Both are silent for a moment.
You are both man and priest.
FLETCHER. Add friend to both.
DOUGHTY. We said, most reverend sir, both man and priest.
Had you been more of man, yet all of priest,
Confession had been easier.
FLETCHER. More of man!
Grant you I lack the courage of the sea,
Think you it takes none to be now your friend?
I have the will, ay, and the resolution,
To help you when I think you most need help.
I guess the half your lips delay to tell.
DOUGHTY (looking about him). Enough. Time passes, and you should know
all.
My Lord of Burleigh much mislikes this voyage.
Who helps to ruin it will no loser be.
Had I but known this ere my florins went
To help a foolish venture!
FLETCHER. But the Queen—
DOUGHTY. Hath ever had two minds, as is her way.
(Points north.) Now there advancement lies. (Points south.) And that
way
death.
FLETCHER. Art in the service of my Lord of Burleigh?
Not more than thou am I this admiral's man.
DOUGHTY. And I am no man's man; I am the Queen's.
I shall best serve my God in serving her.
Shall it be Prince or friend? I may not both.
FLETCHER. Is he thy friend?
DOUGHTY. Of late I doubt it much.
Now hath he closer counsellors than I.
FLETCHER. He loves thee not. This ill-advisèd voyage
Goes to disaster in these unknown seas
Where some foul devil led the sons of Rome.
'T is said that demons lit them down the coast.
This nine and fifty years no Christian sail
Has gone this deathful way. The admiral
Knows not the sullen temper of the fleet.
(Looks at DOUGHTY steadily). There should be one—a friend—to
bid him turn
And set our prows toward England. Think on that.
DOUGHTY. But who shall bell the cat? What mouse among us?
FLETCHER. If but we English mice were of one mind!
DOUGHTY. Soon shall we be so. You have unawares
Made firm my purpose. 'T is not in your kind
To court such peril as our talk may bring.
The more for this have you my thanks. Enough.
The counsel given me—
FLETCHER (alarmed). I gave you none.
DOUGHTY. Oh, rest you easy. It is safe with me.
As you are priest, so I am gentleman;
Now in the end it comes to much the same.

Enter CHESTER.

CHESTER (to DOUGHTY). The admiral would see you instantly. [Exit.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE. I would this man had been less dear to me;
Another I had long since crushed. The rat
Which gnaws the planks between our lives and death
I had as lightly dealt with. For love's sake
And all the honest past that has been ours
Once shall I speak. Once more: [A knock.
Ho there! Come in.

Enter CHESTER and DOUGHTY.

CHESTER. The land lies low to westward, and the wind
Blows fair and steady. [DRAKE looks at the chart.
DRAKE. Ay, St. Julian's isle.
[Exit CHESTER.
(To DOUGHTY). Pray you be seated.
DOUGHTY. I am ordered hither.
'T were fit I stand.
DRAKE. Yes, I am admiral;
But there are moments in the lives of all
When the stern conscience of a too great office
Appals the kindlier heart that fain would be
Where indecisions breed less consequence.
I said, be seated. [DOUGHTY obeys.
Are you not my friend?
Forget these rolling seas, the time, the place,
This mighty errand which my Prince has sped.
Think me to-day but simple Francis Drake,
And be yourself the brother of my heart.
DOUGHTY. There spoke the old Frank Drake I seemed to lose.
DRAKE. Let us try back. We are like ill-broken dogs.
Our lives have lost the scent.
DOUGHTY. Nay, think not so.
DRAKE. Ah, once I had a friend, a scholar wise,
A soldier, and a poet; dowered, I think,
With all the gentle gifts that win men's hearts.
Of late he seems another than himself;
Of late he is most changed, and him I knew
Is here no more. Ah, but I too am double,
And one of me is still your nearest friend,
And one, ah, one is admiral of the fleet.
Let him that loves you whisper to your soul
The thing he would not say. You understand.
Ah, now you smile. A pretty turn of phrase
Did ever capture you. 'T was always thus.
We have seen death so often, eye to eye,
That fear of death were idle argument;
Yet in such words of yours as men report
A deathful sentence lurks. Oh, cast away
These mad temptations, won I know not whence.
Last night I fell to thinking, ere I slept,
Of those proud histories of older days
You loved to tell amid the tents in Ireland.
Trust me, no one of these that shall not fade
Before the wonder of this English tale
Of what El Draco and his captains did.
And when, at twilight, by our Devon hearths
Some old man tells the story, shall he pause,
And say, But one there was, of England born,
That sowed the way with perils not of God,
Breeding dissension, casting on his name
Dishonor—
DOUGHTY (leaping up). Now, by heaven! no man shall say—
DRAKE (smiling and quiet, puts a hand on each shoulder of DOUGHTY).
Hush! you will waken up that other man.
Read not my meaning wrong. I am sore beset.
Before me lie dark days. The timid shrink;
The gentlemen, who should have been my stay,
Fall from me useless. Yet, come what come may,
For England's glory and my lady's grace,
I go my way. Well did he speak who said,
"Heaven is as near by water as by land."
And therefore, whether it be death or fame
That waits in yonder seas, I go my way.
Yet, if I lose you on this venturous road,
Half the proud joy of victory were gone.
I have been long; you, patient. Rest we here.
DOUGHTY. Yes, I am more than one man; more's the pity.
If I have sinned, forgive me, and good-night.
DRAKE. Thou shalt stay with me on the Pelican.
DOUGHTY (aside). So, so. A child in ward! (Aloud.) Again, good-
night. [Exit.
[Enter VICARY.
VICARY. The water shoals. A land lies west by south.
There seems good anchorage in the island's lee.
DRAKE. We shall find water here, good fruit and fish.
Send in a boat for soundings. Signal all
To anchor where seems best; and Vicary,
Set thy gay humor to some thoughtful care
Of him that left just now. I hold him dear.
VICARY. I would to heaven he were safe in England.
DRAKE. And I, and I. He is more like a child
Than any man my life's experience knows.
Yet he is dangerous to himself and us;
Too fond of speech; too cunning with the tongue;
That tempts to mischief like a sharpened blade.
VICARY. Ah, words! words! words! Ye children of the fiend,
On all your generated repetitions
Is visited your parents' wickedness.
He keeps boon company with each man's humor,
Is gay with me, is chivalrous with you,
At Winter's side a grave philosopher.
I shall set merry sentinels for his guards,
And there my wisdom ends.
DRAKE. My Thanks. No more.
[Exit VICARY.

Deck of Pelican. Ships at anchor near the north end of the island of St.
Julian.

DOUGHTY. WINTER. SEAMEN.

WINTER. These are my orders.
DOUGHTY. I may not to shore;
And for the reason? Drake shall give it me.
[Turns to the men.
I hear there is no water on these shores.
1ST SAILOR. That in the casks is but mere mud of vileness; rot in the
mouth, and stenches in the nose.
2D SAILOR. And for the biscuits, they are moldy green, and inhabited like
an owl's nest with all manner of live things.
3D SAILOR. It will be worse in the lower seas. There the men are eleven
cubits tall.
2D SAILOR. Nay, feet, and that's enough.
4TH SAILOR. Where scurvy Dons have gone, good English may.
DOUGHTY. We gentles are no better off than you.
Here is an order, we shall pull and haul
And lay aloft. What! Lack ye meat to-day?
Here are grubs to spare. These caverned biscuits hold
Small beeves in plenty. Here's more life, I think,
Than we are like to find on yonder coast.
1ST SAILOR. A Portugee did tell me once there was no day in the straits
where we must sail, and all the sea be full of venomed snakes.
DOUGHTY. Nay. That's a foolish fable. True it is that in the straits are
mighty isles of ice, with sail and mast. They beat about, men say, like
luggers
on a wind, and never man to handle rope or sail.
FLETCHER. The boats are come again, and no water, none! Alas, this
miserable voyage!

Enter VICARY from boat.

VICARY. Not so, good chaplain. Underneath a cliff I found a spring as swee
t
as England's best.
Good store of shellfish, too, and these strange fruits.
(To DOUGHTY). You're but an old wife at these fireside tales. Lord, lads!
there's wonders yonder. It is twice as good as a fair in May. There's only a
merry-go-round that's called a swirlpool. Round you go, a hundred years, ship
and all, not a farthing to pay, and then home to bed, with addled pates, as
good
as drunk, and no man the poorer. [The men laugh.
1ST SAILOR (aside). He do lie to beat a rusty weather-cock.
2D SAILOR. But men do say there's hell-traps set along the rocks, and all
the waters boil like witch's pots.
VICARY (laughs). The tale is gone awry. When last I sailed this way,
no
fire would burn, and all the little fiends were harvesting of mighty icicles
to
keep the daddy devils from frosted toes.
1ST SAILOR (aside). He be a lively liar. He be a very flea among
liars.
[All laugh.
VICARY. The seas be rum, and all the whales mad drunk. [Laughter.
I thought my laughter trap was baited well.
4TH SAILOR (aside). He don't starve his lies. A very pretty liar. His
lies be fat as ever a Christmas hog.
VICARY. Tom Doughty, I'll match lies with you, my lad,
The longest day of June. A song, a song!
SAILORS. A song, a song! The captain for a song!
VICARY. Here's for a song. The admiral bids say Your rum is doubled for a
week to come.
So, here we go. Be hearty with the burden.

SONG.

Queen Bess has three bad boys,
Such naughty boys!
They sailed away to Cadiz Bay
To make a mighty noise.
Heave her round!
Heave her round!
Such bad boys!
Yo ho!

There's wicked Master Drake,
As likes to play with guns;
He sailed away to Cadiz Bay
To wake the sleepy Dons.
Heave her round! etc.

These be three captains small,
None taller than a splinter.
One does admire to play with fire,
That's little Jacky Winter.
Heave her round! etc.

There's one does love to fight,
It might be Billy Chester.
And they're away to Cadiz Bay
Before a stiff sou'-wester.
Heave her round! etc.

Don Spaniard sings, Avast!
What's doing with them grapples?
We're just Queen Bess's naughty boys,
We're only stealing apples.
Heave her round! etc.

They filled their little stomachs,
They had a pretty frolic.
The boys as ate the apples up
Was n't them as had the colic.
Heave her round! etc.

Small Frank he shot his gun,
And Willy played with fire.
To see those naughty boys again
No Spaniard do desire.
Heave her round; etc.

VICARY. Well tuned, my lads. Now who of you's for shore?
DOUGHTY (aside to a mate). There'll be no songs down yonder.
WINTER (leaning over him). What, again?
More mischief, ever more? Dark is the sea
Where you will sail. What fiend possesses you?
This in your ear. The priest is no man's friend.
If I do know the malady of baseness,
There's one that needs a doctor.
DOUGHTY. You are wrong.
I have no better friend, none more assured.
WINTER. Indeed, I think you are too rich in friends.
Better you had a hundred eager foes
Than this man's friendly company. One step more,
One slight excess of speech, some word retold—
And you are lost to life.
DOUGHTY. He dare not do it!
WINTER. Dare not! I think it oft doth chance a man
Knows not his nearest friend as others do.
As for your priest—I greatly fear a coward.
The day will come when honest Francis Drake
Will shake all secrets from him as a dog
Shakes out a rat's mean life. Beware the day!
Well do I know the admiral's silent mood;
Then should men fear him, and none more than you,
Because he dreads the counsel of his heart.
[Exeunt both.

Deck of the Pelican. Evening, a week later. The fleet at anchor near the
south
end of the island of St. Julian. Sailors at the capstan.

WINTER. Now, then, to warp her in. Round with the capstan.
Sailors and gentlemen, bear all a hand!
DOUGHTY. Not I, by heaven! Not I! My father's son
Stains not his sword-hand with this peasant toil.
GENTLEMEN. Nor I! nor I! nay, never one of us.
WINTER. Do as I bid you!
DOUGHTY. Not a hand of mine
Shall to this sailor work.
WINTER. That shall we see.
[Walks to the cabin. Boatswain whistles.
Men man the capstan, singing:

Yo ho! Heave ho!
Oh, it's ingots and doubloons,
Oh, it's diamonds big as moons,
As we sail,
As we sail.
Yo ho! Heave ho!

Oh, it's rusty, crusty Dons,
And it's rubies big as suns,
As we sail, etc.

Oh, it's pieces by the scores,
And it's jolly red moidores,
As we sail, etc.

Oh, we'll singe King Philip's beard,
And no man here afeard,
As we sail, etc.

Enter VICARY.

VICARY. Well sung. Well hauled, my lads. (To DOUGHTY). A word
with you.
You will attend the admiral in his cabin.
(Aside to DOUGHTY.) 'Ware cat, good mouse! The claws are out to-night!
DOUGHTY. 'T were better soon than later. After you.
[Exeunt.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE. WINTER.

Enter VICARY, followed by DOUGHTY.

DRAKE. Pray you be seated. (To DOUGHTY.) Nay, not you, not you.
(To WINTER.) Arrest this gentleman.
WINTER. Your sword, an't please you.
[Receives it.
DRAKE. I charge you here with treason to the Queen.
You shall to trial with no long delay.
DOUGHTY. What court is this with which you threaten me?
DRAKE. Now, by St. George, your lawyer tricks and quibbles
Shall help you little. I am Francis Drake,
The Queen's plain sailor, and the master here.
DOUGHTY. Master!
DRAKE. Ay, master! Traitor to the Queen,
This long account is closed. All, all is known,
Since when, at Plymouth, on the eve we sailed,
My Lord of Burleigh bought you; what the price
The devil knows—and you.
DOUGHTY. My Lord of Burleigh!
I pray you speak of this with me alone.
What I would say is for a secret ear.
DRAKE. No, by my sword, not I!
DOUGHTY. Then have your way.
No law can touch me here. This is not England.
DRAKE. Where sails a plank in English forests hewn,
There England is. This deck is England now,
And I a sea-king of thus much of England.
Put me this man in irons! See to it!
Let him have speech of none except yourselves.
[Exeunt WINTER and DOUGHTY.
(To VICARY.) I have too long delayed.
VICARY. That may well be.
DRAKE. I hear he hath great favor with the crews,
A maker of more mischief than I guessed.
VICARY. Men love him well.
DRAKE. He hath too many friends.
This is the very harlotry of friendship.
Go now, and pray that when command is yours
You have no friends. See that strict guard be kept.
[Exit VICARY.
(Alone.) I would that God had spared me this one hour.

Pelican. DOUGHTY in irons on the deck, seated upon a coil of ropes,
leaning against a mast.

WINTER (to the guards). Back there, my men!
DOUGHTY. You are most welcome, Winter.
I am very glad of company. My soul
Is sick to surfeit of its own dull thoughts.
I like not lonely hours. What land is that?
WINTER. St. Julian's cape.
DOUGHTY. Is that a cross I see?
It seems, I think, the handiwork of man.
WINTER. No cross is that; there stout Magellan hanged
Don Carthagene, vice-admiral of his fleet.
DOUGHTY. Wherefore?
WINTER. 'T is said he did dislike the voyage,
And had no mind to pass the narrow straits.
DOUGHTY. The strait he chose was narrower; mayhap
He had no choice—as I may not to-morrow.
[Is silent a few moments.
A little while ago, the scent of flowers
Came from the land. Their nimble fragrance woke,
As by a charm, some sleeping memories.
I dreamed myself again a fair-haired boy,
A-gathering cowslips in my mother's fields.
[Pauses.
There is no order that I shall not sing;
I can no mighty treason set to song.
WINTER. Sing, if it please you. I'll be glad it doth.
What song shall 't be?
DOUGHTY. Ah me, those Devon lanes!
[Sings.

SONG.

I would I were an English rose,
In England for to be;
The sweetest maid that Devon knows
Should pick, and carry me.
To pluck my leaves be tender quick,
A fortune fair to prove,
And count in love's arithmetic
Thy pretty sum of love.
[The men come nearer.
Oh, Devon's lanes be green o'ergrown,
And blithe her maidens be,
But there be some that walk alone,
And look across the sea.

1ST SAILOR. 'T is a sad shame so gay a gentleman Should lie in irons.
2D SAILOR. Ay, the pity of it.
WINTER (to the men). Off with you there! (To DOUGHTY.) The
devil's
in your tongue!
Why must you sing of England? Follow me.
I think you would breed mutiny in heaven.
[Exit.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE. Enter FLETCHER.

FLETCHER. I come as bidden. What may be your will?
DRAKE. Think you a man may serve two masters?
FLETCHER. Nay,
'T is not so writ.
DRAKE. Yet there are some I know
Would have me serve a dozen, and my Queen.
Shall I serve this man's doubt, and that man's fear
Who bade these cowards follow me to sea?
And you, that are Christ's captain,—what of you?
Were I a man vowed wholly unto God,
I should have courage both of God and man;
And fear's a malady of swift infection.
FLETCHER. I think my captain has been ill informed.
DRAKE. Ah, not so ill. Look at me, in the face;
A man's eyes may rest honest, though his soul
Be deeper damned than Judas. Thou art false!
False to thy faith, thy duty, and thy Prince!
Now, if thou hast no righteous fear of God—
By heaven! here stands a man you well may fear.
FLETCHER. Indeed I know not how I've angered you.
DRAKE. You shall know soon. And—look not yet away—
You have hatched treason with her larger help
Of one that hath more courage. Spare him not
If you have hope to see another day.
What of your plans? I charge you, sir, be frank.
What has he told that you should fear to tell?
FLETCHER. We did but talk. Perchance I may have said
I do not love the sea, that some aboard
Would be well pleased to stand on English soil.
DRAKE. If you have any wisdom of this world,
A coward heart may save a foolish head.
I asked you what this traitor Doughty said,
You answer me with babble of yourself.
Speak out, or, by my honor,—no light oath,—
I shall so score you with the boatswain's lash
That Joseph's coat shall be a mock to yours.
FLETCHER. You would not—dare—
DRAKE. I think you know me not.
You have my orders. Is it yes, or no?
FLETCHER. I pray you, sir, consider what you ask.
No priest of God may, without deadly sin,
Tell what in penitence a troubled soul
Has in confession whispered. Ask me not.
DRAKE. If I do understand your words aright,
Save for the idle talk of idle men,
He hath said nought to you except of sin
Such as the best may in an hour of shame
Tell for the soul's relief. If this be so,
Nor I, nor any man, may question you.
FLETCHER. I do assure you that I spoke the truth.
DRAKE (perplexed, walks to and fro. Turns suddenly, offering the hilt
of
his sword). Swear it upon the cross-hilt of my sword.
Swear! (Fletcher hesitates.) As my God is dear, thou art more false
Than hell's worst devil. Ho! Without there! Ho!
FLETCHER. Nay, I will swear.
DRAKE. Too late. Without there! Ho!
Send me the boatswain's mate. Without there! Ho!
If I confess thee not, thou lying priest,
May I die old—die quiet in my bed.
Ho there! And quick!
FLETCHER. I pray you—let me think.
It may be that I did not understand.
It might be that he talked to me, a man,
As man to man. I think 't was even so.
DRAKE. Out with it—quickly! Speak! Out! Out with it!
FLETCHER. I think, he said, the purpose of this voyage
Was hid, and all of us are cheated men.
It seems, he said, that if the gentles here
Were of one mind, and stirred the crews to act,
We might see England and our homes again.
DRAKE. What more?
FLETCHER. Asked whom we'd get to bell the cat.—
And that the Queen your errand did not guess.
DRAKE. So! Said he that? Go on; your tale lacks wit.
FLETCHER. Also, that storms and ever-vexing winds
Did show God's will.
DRAKE. I think you trifle, sir.
Did he talk ever of my Lord of Burleigh?
FLETCHER. I fear to speak.
DRAKE. Fear rather to be silent.
Here lies the warrant of her Majesty:
'T is she, not I, commands.
FLETCHER. He seems to say
They would best serve my Lord of Burleigh's wish
Who marred this venture, ere the power of Spain
Was roused to open war. I can no more.
DRAKE. See that your memory fail not on the morrow!
Go thank the devil in your prayers to-night
For that your skin is whole. Begone! Begone!
[Exit FLETCHER.
Now know I what it costs a woman-prince
To keep her realm. The great should have no friends.

Enter VICARY, WINTER, and CHESTER.

DRAKE. Call all the captains and the officers.
The court shall meet to-morrow morn, at eight.
There shall be charges ready in due form;
You, all of you, shall hear the witnesses.
And, Winter,—we are far from England now,—
See that this trial be in all things fair,
As though each man of you, an ermined judge,
Sat in Westminster. Let no words of mine
Disturb the equities of patient judgment.
I would not that, when you and I are old,
Uneasy memories of too hasty action
Should haunt us with reproach. But have a care.
My duty knows no friend; be yours as ignorant.
Our fortunes and the honor of the Queen—
I should have said her honor and our fortunes—
Rest in your hands. See that my words be known.
WINTER. To all?
DRAKE. To all, sailors and gentlemen.
[Exeunt the captains.

WINTER, VICARY, and CHESTER without.

CHESTER. I'm like a child that fain would run away
To 'scape a whipping.
WINTER. There are none of us
More sore at heart than Drake.
VICARY. I know of one.
I would a friend were dead ere break of day,
And all to-morrow's story left untold.
I think that I shall never laugh again.
[They reach the deck.
CHESTER (pointing to the gibbet on the shore).
It may be yon long-memoried counsellor
Made hard the admiral's heart.
VICARY. That might be so.
I wandered thither, yesterday, at eve,
And found a skull. Didst ever notice, Winter,
How this least mortal relic of a man
Does seem to smile? Hast ever talked with skulls?
They are courteous ever, and good listeners.
And never one of them, or man or maid,
That is not secret. There's another virtue;
For what more honest and more chaste than death?
Now then, this skull that grins an hundred years—
Pray think how mighty must the jest have been;
And then, how transient are our living smiles.
WINTER. Ill-omened talk. A graver business waits.
VICARY. Give me an hour. I am not well to-day.
I will be with you very presently. [Exit VICARY.

Evening of the day of the trial and condemnation of DOUGHTY. Time,
sunset.
Ashore on St. Julian's Island.

WINTER. VICARY. DRAKE.

DRAKE walking to and fro under the trees.

WINTER (coming up and walking beside him). What orders are there?
DRAKE. See the prisoner,
And bid him choose the hour and the day.
WINTER. And for the manner of the execution?
The court said nothing; sir, it lies with you.
What is your pleasure?
DRAKE. Say my will, John Winter.
The gallows and the rope!
VICARY (returning). Must that be so?
'T is a dog's death, and not a gentleman's.
DRAKE. I have at home a very honest dog.
VICARY. Wilt pardon me if once again I plead?
DRAKE. Plead not with me. No plea the heart can bring
My own heart fails to urge.
WINTER. I made no plea.
The man I loved this morn for me is dead.
But there are those in England—far away—
Mother and sister—
DRAKE. Sir, you have my orders!
Henceforth no friends for me! This traitor dies,
As traitors all should die, a traitor's death.
The man's life judges him, not you, nor I.
VICARY. Indeed, the manner of a man's departure,
Whether upon a war-horse or an ass,
Doth little matter, as it seems to me,
If those he leaves feel not the fashion of it.
Now, many a year that rope will throttle me,
Who am no traitor, and who like not well
What treachery this man's nature moved him to.
DRAKE. It seems to me that good men's lives are spent
In paying debts another makes for them.
I have my share. Take you your portion, too.
Be just, I pray you, both to him and me.
Now, here's a man that was my closest friend.
In Plymouth, ay, in London, ere we sailed,
Against the pledge myself had given the Queen,
He told the purpose of my voyage to Burleigh,
Pledging himself to wreck this enterprise,
Lest we should rouse these Spanish curs to bite.
That I do hold the warrant of the Queen
None but this traitor knew, and, knowing it,
Has set himself to brewing discontent,
Stirred mutiny amidst my crews, cast wide
The seed of discord, till obedience,
That is the feather on the shaft of duty,
Failed, and my very captains questioned me.
One man must die, or this great venture dies;
This man must die, or we go backward home,
Like mongrel dogs that fear a shaken stick.
WINTER. Yet none of us have asked his life of you.
DRAKE. I ask it of myself; shall ask it, sir,
Knowing how vain and pitiful my plea.
I have said nothing of the darker charge,
The covert hints, the whispering here and there
Of how my death might please my Lord of Burleigh,
And settle all these mutinous debates.
I think't was but an idle use of speech;
I think he meant not it should come to aught.
WINTER. Nor I.
VICARY. Nor I. He hath confessed to all
Except this single charge. That he denied.
DRAKE. And now no more! And hope not I shall change.
Yet will I well consider all your words.
Rest you assured if there be any way
That both secures the safety of this voyage
And leaves this man to future punishment,
I shall not miss to find it.
WINTER. That were well.
I somewhat fear the temper of the men.
And these grave statesmen, closeted at home,
Have slight indulgence for the sterner needs
That whip us into what seems rash or cruel.
DRAKE. Ah, many a day 'twixt us and England lies,
And the peacemaker's blessing rests on time.
If death await me in the distant seas,
I shall not fear to meet a higher Judge.
If fortune smile upon our happy voyage,
No man in England that will dare to say
I served not well my country and my God;
The Queen will guard my honor as her own.
But, come what may, sirs, I shall act unmoved
By any dread of what the great may do,
Though we should prick this sullen Spain to war.
VICARY. Now, by St. George, could we but stir the Dons
To open fight! The Queen has many minds,
But when the blades are out, and Philip strikes,
As strike he will, these wary counsellors
Will lose her ear amid the clash of swords.
DRAKE. Pray God that I do live to see the day
When all the might of England takes the sea,
And we, that are the falcons of the deep,
Shall tear these cruel vultures, till our beaks
Drip red with Spanish blood!
VICARY. May I be there!
DRAKE (gravely). Trust me, we all shall live to see that hour.
God gives us moments when the years to come
Lie easily open like a much-read book.
Oppressed with weight of care, in these last days
I seem to see beyond this bitter time.
We shall so carry us in yon Rome-locked seas
That all the heart of England shall be glad,
And the brown mothers of these priest-led Dons
Shall scare unruly children with my name.
And then, and then, I see a nobler hour.
A day of mightier battle, when their fleets
Shall fly in terror from our English guns,
And through the long hereafter we shall sail
Unquestioned lords of all the watery waste.
Oh, 't was a noble dream!
VICARY. But what were life
Without the splendid prophecy of dreams?
DRAKE. At least, a moment they have given release
From sadder thought of that which has to be.
The night is falling. Get we now aboard.
To-morrow you shall have my final judgment.

A cabin in the Pelican. Early morning. The day after the trial and
condemnation of DOUGHTY.

DOUGHTY. Enter WINTER.

DOUGHTY. Is there an hour set? When shall it be?
WINTER. That rests with you. Alas, too well you know
That, being charged with certain grave offences,
Of which, to our great grief, you are not cleared,
The court decreed your death. Now, I am come
To offer you thus much of grace—
DOUGHTY. As what?
WINTER. Either to be at morning left ashore,
Or to be held till, at convenient time,
A ship may carry you to England, there
To answer for your deeds the Lords in Council;
Or will you take to be here done to death
As runs our sentence?
DOUGHTY. Would I had no choice.
That's a strange riddle! Here be caskets three.
'T is like the story in the Venice tale.
Thank Francis Drake for me. I'll think upon it.
And send me Leonard Vicary with good speed.
WINTER. Is there aught else a man may do for you?
DOUGHTY. Yes, come no more until I send for you.
WINTER. Have I in anything offended you?
DOUGHTY. No, you have too much loved me; that is all.
The sting lies there.
WINTER. I do not understand.
DOUGHTY. And I too well. Wilt send me Vicary?
WINTER (aside). As strange a monitor for a mortal hour
As e'er a sick life's fancy hit upon. [Exit.
DOUGHTY (alone). This is a sad disguise of clemency.
Death seemed a natural and safe conclusion.
As one serenely bound upon a voyage,
I had turned my back on all I did hold dear,
And looked no more to land. I think, indeed,
Almost the very touch and sound of life
Seemed fading, as when sleep comes wholesomely.
Now I am in the wakened world again.
And all the blissful company of youth,
Love, friendship, hope, the mere esteem of men,
Beckon, and mock me like to sunlit fields
Seen from the wave-crests where a swimmer strives,
Struck hither, thither, by uneasy seas.
Christ to my help! Ah, counsel always best.

How should I bide upon these heathen shores?
Knowing how frail I be, how strong a thing
Is the contagion of base men's customs.
Alas! alas! I ever have been one
That wore the color of the hour's friend.
What! risk my soul, that hath an endless date,
For days or years of life? That may not be.

What! home to England? I, a tainted man;
That's the gold casket where temptation lies.
There is no unconsidered blade of grass,
No little daisy, and no violet brief,
That does not hurt me with its sweet appeal.
[Walks to and fro.

I mind me of an evening—O my God!
No! That way anguish waits. I'll none of that.
Twice, in my dreams last night, I saw her come;
And twice she cried, "First Honor, and then love!"
And came no more. O Jesu, hear my prayer,
And let me never in that other world
Meet the sad verdict of those troubled eyes
I kissed to tears the day we sailed away.

Enter VICARY.

You are most welcome; sit beside me here.
I found my sentence in a woman's eyes.
VICARY. I understand.
DOUGHTY. How ever apt you are;
That took my fancy always. Now, it saves
The turning of a dagger in a wound.
I have chosen death.
VICARY. And chosen well, I think.
There was not one of us that said not so;
Not one but wishes life were possible.
DOUGHTY. Set that aside. It is not possible.
And put no strain upon your natural self
To be another than the man you are.
Do you remember once a thing you said,—
How for the wise the soul has chapels four?
One, that I name not. One, a home of tears.
One, the grave shrine of high philosophy.
And one, where all the saints are jesters gay.
Smile on me when I die. In that dim world
I am assured men laugh, as well they may,
To see this ant-heap stirred. Oh, I shall look
To see you smile.
VICARY. I pray you talk not thus.
DOUGHTY. And wherefore not? A moment, only one,
The thought of England troubled my decision;
But that is over. Yet, a word of home.
There is a maid in Devon—(hesitates.) Pardon me.
When, by God's grace, you see her, as you must,
Tell her I loved her well—and what beside
I leave to you. I shall not hear the tale.
Be gentle in the way of your report.
Ah me! by every cross a woman kneels;
I doubt not, Leonard, that some Syrian girl
Sobbed where the thief hung dying. Now, good-by!
Go! and remember—I shall hold you to it.
[Exit VICARY.
Oft when the tides of life were at their full,
I have sat wondering what the ebb would be,
And what that tideless moment men call death.
I think it strange as nears the coming hour,
I willingly would fetch it yet more near.
VICARY (without, as he goes on deck). He asks a smile where nature
proffers tears.
I have laughed tears before, and may again.
Here dies a man who, like that heir of Lynne,
Has madly squandered honor, friendship, love,
And hath no refuge save the dismal rope.
Shall that bring other fortunes than he spent?
Ah me! I loved him well,—and I must smile—
That will seem strange to men. I sometimes wish
I could feel sure that Christ did ever smile.

Enter DRAKE.

DRAKE. I come to hear thy choice.
DOUGHTY. My choice is made.
Death, and no long delay. And be not grieved;
You will—ah, well I know you—feel the hurt.
Were you to say, "Take life, take hope again,
Take back command," and bid me mend my ways,
The mercy were but vanity of kindness.
Never could I be other than I am;
Yet think of me as but the minute's traitor.
You have been merciful. 'T is I am stern.
Not you, but I, decree that I shall die.
A sudden weariness of life is mine;
Let me depart in peace—
DRAKE. Must it be so?
Another court may clear you.
DOUGHTY. Urge me not.
Another court! There is but one high court
May clear my soul of guilt. I go to God.
There shall be witnesses you cannot call.
Let this suffice. No man can move me now;
And rest assured I never loved you more.
DRAKE. I thank you. Now, what else?
DOUGHTY. I choose to die.
Go we ashore at noon, and eat at table,
Like gentlemen who speed a parting friend
Upon a pleasant and a certain voyage:
And I would share with you the bread of God. [Pauses.
There is but one thing more—
DRAKE. Speak! Oh, my God!
Except—except mere life, there is no thing
I would not give you; yea, to my own life.
DOUGHTY. You cannot think that I would ask my life?
DRAKE. Pardon, sweet gentleman, and sweeter friend.
DOUGHTY. There is a maid in Devon—oh, Frank Drake!
It must not be the gibbet and the rope!
The axe and block, men say, cure all disgrace.
DRAKE. So shall it be.
DOUGHTY. I knew you not unkind.
I pray you leave me now. God prosper you.
You cannot know how kind a thing is death.

Island of St. Julian. Table spread at noon, under the trees. DRAKE
seated
with DOUGHTY and other officers. In the background, a block, with the
headsman, sailors, and others.

VICARY and WINTER approach the table.

VICARY. Didst hear, John Winter, what he said to him?
WINTER. I had but come ashore. What said he,
Leonard?
VICARY. First, he would have the admiral take the bread;
Then, when in turn the priest did come to him,
He said, "I would another man than you
Were here to give me of this bread of God.
Yet, as for this dear body of my Lord,
A pearl that's carried in a robber's pouch
Doth lose no lustre;" and with no more words
Took of the sacrament; and so to table.
[They approach sadly and in silence.
DOUGHTY (looking up). Come, come, I'll none of this! Here are bent
brows;
You go not thus to battle. Shall one death
Disturb our appetites and spoil our mirth?
Am I not host? They'll not be bid again
Who come not merry. (Aside to VICARY.) See you fail me not.
Some men ask prayers. I only ask a smile.
(Aloud.) Come, gentlemen, I put this hardship on you.
There might be many questions, much to say.
DRAKE. I shall sit here forever, if you will,
But talk I cannot.
DOUGHTY. Nay, but that is strange.
'T is the glad privilege of the gentle-born
To see in death an honest creditor,
That any day may ask the debt of life.
What! must I make the talk? That's naughty manners.
I never was a happier man than now.
There's few among you shall have choice of deaths.
And you, Frank Drake,—if God should bid elect—
What way to death wouldst choose?
DRAKE. I do not know—
Not in my bed, please God.
DOUGHTY. Speak for him, Leonard.
I think my friend has shed his wits to-day.
Once he was readier—
VICARY. Were I Francis Drake,
When waves are wild and fly the bolts of war,
And timbers crash, and decks are bloody red,
Then would I pass, slain by my loving sea,
As died the hurt Greek by a friendly sword.
DOUGHTY. Full bravely answered. Winter, what of you?
WINTER. As God may will. I have no other thought.
DOUGHTY (to VICARY). And what, dear jester, Leonard, what of you?
VICARY. Oh, between kisses, of a morn of May,
Or in the merriest moment of a fight,
When blades are out, and the brave Dons stand fast—
Upon my soul, I can no more of this,
You ask too much of man. I can no more!
[Leaves the table.
DOUGHTY. Now, here's a dull companion. Go not yet—
Or go not far, and let not sorrow cheat me.
VICARY, Oh, I shall smile. Rest you assured of that.
[Moves away.
DOUGHTY. I thought he had been made of sterner stuff.
There's a too gentle jester. (To DRAKE.) Think you, Frank,
That we shall meet in heaven?
DRAKE. Such is my trust.
[They talk in whispers.
DOUGHTY (aloud). The wind lies fair to south. Friends, gentles, all,
It were not well to lose a prospering hour.
God send you kindly gales and gallant ventures!
Strike hard for me, John Winter! When the Dons
Are thick about you and the fight goes ill,
Cry, This is for remembrance! This, and this!
And you, dear Leonard, when the feast is gay
Drink double for your friend. Be sure my lips
Shall share with yours the laughter and the cup.
[Rises, as do all.
Now, then: The Queen and England! (Drinks.) (To DRAKE.) Take my love.
Still let me live a friendly memory—
Come with me.
DRAKE. No, I cannot, cannot come!
[Moves away.
DOUGHTY (To VICARY, as they walk to the block.) What, not a
smile?
Not one? That's better, Leonard,
Albeit of a rather sickly sort.
Come hither, Francis Drake. (DRAKE approaches.) Good-by, dear friend.
[Kisses him on both cheeks. Kneels, and the axe falls.
VICARY. God rest this soul!
WINTER. Amen!
DRAKE. Christ comfort me!






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