THREE BROKEN MARINERS.
"Art not coming abroad, Dolly? 'Tis a most rare morning."
Morgan was leaning his length against the side-post of the door of
Mistress Stowe's kitchen; his head reached to the lintel, and the smoky
rafters of the low ceiling were within easy reach of his hand. Dolly
stood near the fire, her face rosy with the heat, and her pretty gown
hidden beneath a long apron. She glanced through the window into the
sunny yard, and then at a pile of dainty cakes she had just kneaded and
fashioned.
"Nay, Johnnie, I'll not come this morning. I promised our hostess to
bake her some confections after our forest fashion, and I cannot leave
so delicate a duty only half done. Go thou with Master Jeffreys, and
bring back two lusty appetites. I will bide at home, housewife
fashion, and prepare ye the wherewithal to satisfy the appetites when
ye have gotten them."
"Where is thy father?"
"With Mistress Stowe in her parlour. She is showing him some rare
things that her brother brought from the Spanish Main. He will have
eyes for nothing else this side of noon."
So Morgan joined Jeffreys, and the two went along Chepe westwards
towards St. Paul's. At the end of the great street stood the gate
known as the "Little Gate," and they went under the low archway into
the cathedral precincts. Inside, the place was as busy as Chepe
itself. Shops clustered under the wall, their gaudy signs swinging and
creaking in the September breeze, and 'prentices cried their masters'
wares and importuned passing folk to buy. The two men pushed their way
through the throng towards the northern transept of the great church,
and there found their path blocked again by a crowd that stood around
St. Paul's cross and pulpit, all ears for the words of a popular city
preacher. The cleric's discourse was more of a political oration than
a sermon. He thundered against "Rome" and the "Scarlet Woman," and
denounced the King of Spain as the veritable "child of the devil," and
he called upon all men to be up and doing something for the destruction
of the "monster." Master Jeffreys stopped to listen, and Morgan had
perforce to stay with him. The reverend orator dwelt in glowing terms
on the riches of the Indies, the rights of all Christians to a share
therein, and the greed of Spain in refusing other nations a proper
share. He played upon his audience as a skilled player upon a harp,
touching each string of emotion in turn, and then striking a chord to
which all strings would vibrate. For a moment he excited religious
emotion, then political fervour, then greed, love of glory and
adventure, then national pride and hatred of Spain, then all these
together by one cunning sentence. The forester out from the west felt
his heart beating rapidly, his ears warming and tingling, and his right
hand fidgeting with the handle of his sword. His companion could not
keep still, and hot ejaculations sprang from his lips. He was a true
Devon man of that roaring time, sailor, patriot, and pirate all rolled
into one.
"By my beard, Master Morgan," he gasped, "I have been feeling ill and
full of strange qualms and sinkings these many days past. 'Twas an
active spirit rebelling against imprisonment in an idle body. I must
to sea again--this dalliance in towns and in the company of sleek
shopkeepers and peacock-garbed gallants is slow death to a fellow of
mettle. I must get me down to Plymouth again, and join any bold
captain that hath a mind to turn his ship westward ho!"
Morgan sighed. "Bones o' me!" he exclaimed, "the parson hath stirred
something within my bosom also."
The sermon--if such it could be called--being ended, the two young men
went with the crowd through the church door, and into the dim and lofty
transept. And what a crowd it was to find in London's principal
church! The passage through the building from north to south was a
public thoroughfare. Porters, hucksters, errand boys went through with
basket and handbarrow, passing across aisles and nave before the very
screen that shut in choir and altar. Pedlars stood against the tall
pillars, and pushed the sale of their wares. Men bought and sold and
bargained as in the churchyard outside or Chepe beyond. Servants stood
for hire; bravoes lurked behind the gray stone columns in dark corners,
ready to take the price of blood from any hand that offered it. Broken
men, needy adventurers, dissolute women--all had their regular stations
in the sacred building, which was fair, market, and general rendezvous
for every class and trade, legitimate or illegitimate, that had its
footing in London Town.
Master Jeffreys elbowed his way into the nave and strode down the
middle aisle, Morgan at his heels, full of astonishment and healthy
country disgust. Any gallant who came strutting along to show his fine
feathers received scant courtesy or elbow-room from the indignant
forester. He thrust more than one roughly aside, without so much as a
"by your leave," and his angry face, huge frame, and athletic build
forced the hustled ones to keep civil tongues in their heads. Near the
western door a knot of brown-faced, lean-looking men were standing, and
one started forward at the sight of Jeffreys, hesitated a moment, and
then put forth his hand.
"Little Timothy! or tropic suns have blinded my eyes," he cried.
Jeffreys scanned the speaker's weather-stained face.
"It's not Paignton Rob, surely?"
"It's all that's left of him, Timothy."
"Thou art shrunken."
"And lopped, brother, lopped."
"Spain?"
"Inquisition."
"Indies?"
"Vera Cruz. Shall I introduce my friends? We are nigh broken, and not
too proud to accept a little charity from a Devon man. Thy heart used
not to beat in a niggard's bosom."
"It has not changed lodgings, Rob. Wilt know my friend here? This is
Master Morgan of Gloucestershire--a good west countrie man, to say the
least. He has had his cut at King Philip, and is a friend of our
gallant Raleigh."
"Then I'm open to love him," cried Paignton Rob, holding out a hand
that had lost a thumb. "'Tis a poor grip that fingers can give, Master
Morgan," he said apologetically. "The monks of Vera Cruz can best tell
thee where little 'thumbkin' is."
Johnnie took the proffered hand. "I am proud to know one who has
sailed the Western Ocean," he replied.
The mariner called up his two friends, who proved thumbless like
himself.
"Nick Johnson, and Ned his brother, both of Plymouth town. Master
Timothy Jeffreys, henchman to Sir Walter Raleigh, and Master Morgan,
friend."
Hand-clasps went round. Jeffreys peeped into the purse that hung at
his girdle.
"Here is the price of a few flagons of sack, friends. Have you a fancy
for any particular tavern?"
"All taverns are alike to thirsty men," answered Rob. "Lead us where
thou wilt; we'll speak our thanks under one signboard as well as
another."
"What say you then to the 'Silver Lion' in Dowgate?"
"'Tis a good house."
The party left the cathedral by the western door, went south through
the churchyard, and out at the gate that led riverwards. Thence they
strode down a steep street towards the Dowgate quay, halting at a
gabled and timbered tavern within a stone's throw of the water. Down a
flight of three steps they went into the sanded parlour, and seated
themselves round a corner table. The drawer came bustling up with a
"What do ye drink, my masters?"
"Bring us five flagons of sack," said Timothy.
"And a crust for our teeth," whispered Paignton Rob. The ears of the
serving-man were keen, "Shall it be a venison pie?" he said.
"A venison pie," broke in Morgan; "and I pay."