I
It was pitch dark in Deptford Creek, neither moon nor star. Uneasily
walking by the waterside on the squelching mud flats, or on the
landing-stage among tuns and chests and beams and piles of stone
ballast, you might just make out the mast and round hull of the cog
_Rose Mary_, as she swung slowly at her moorings. On the one side, the
broad flood of the Thames shone dully like molten lead or thick oil;
on the other, one or two lights glimmered faintly from Deptford town.
There was a smell of tar and bilge-water and stale beer.
Beneath the light of the lantern, which burned dimly on the poop of
the _Rose Mary_, lay Peter the Shipman comfortably on a coil of rope.
By his side was a stoup of the strongest French wine he had been able
to find in the cog’s hold. He had reason to be merry that night, so
he trolled jolly choruses to himself between his long draughts. The
_Rose Mary_ had sailed from Bordeaux with the tide on the night of
the last Wednesday, and here she was, gotten into Deptford Creek safe
and sound by the Friday midnight. Never had he made such an easy and
speedy passage. Besides, in his purse he bore certain pieces of silver,
which he had gotten from the chapman of the Bordeaux ward at easy
purchase, together with a rose noble, which he had picked from the
purse of a young squire, who had taken passage with him to England.
Peter chuckled. He thought to himself, ‘To-morrow early shall I leave
these knaves, Thomas and Ralph, to unlade, and will I forth to the
Golden Cock in Deptford to my leman Kate, to be jolly and to play me
with her all the day, and I shall have great plenty of silver to buy
me as much good ale as I want (curse this feeble French wine!), and as
many delicate cakes and puddings and pies and ripe Kentish cherries as
I can get into my belly. And the day after that shall I to Newington
with that knave Ralph, to his wench’s by the Green, and stay there till
all my money is spent, and then, heigho, for my pretty little Bette at
Bordeaux. Beshrew my heart, how I love the girl, now I’ve left her a
day or two.’
Then he burst out into a sailor’s catch.
‘Who leadeth so merry, so merry his life,
As the Shipman of Sandwich, who wanteth a wife.’
At the sound of his voice a woman came out of the darkness and stood
at the edge of the landing-stage in the faint light cast by the ship’s
lantern. She was clad in many-coloured and tawdry garments, and from
his place on the poop Peter could discern the chalk and rouge plastered
on her cheeks and the bright vermilion on her lips; he knew her for a
wench of the town. She peered into the cog.
‘What, pretty Peter,’ she cried to him, ‘art home again, good fellow?
Thou ’rt welcome, by my troth. Come now and sup with me at the Pair of
Oars. There is pretty company there, I warrant thee, Lilias Lightbody,
Martha Kittlelegs, and Cicely Shakesheets and other jolly wenches and
their fellows, as merry a crew as one’s heart could desire. Convey me
thither, my little pigsnye, for I did ever dote on thee.’
‘Nay, good Belle, I am fast,’ quoth Peter, ‘the Devil be damned for it.
I cannot stir till morning, with the cog to be berthed and the hold to
be cleared.’
‘The Devil damn thee for a liar,’ cried the woman. ‘Thou couldst
if thou wouldst, I warrant. Hast thou worn thy rotten carcass out
in France that thou art afeared to put foot ashore, thou whoreson
fish-head, thou? Thou art a radish and no man, a filthy remnant, a dead
dog----’
‘What, thou old beldame,’ cursed Peter in good set terms, ‘thou
scarecrow, thou bundle of rags and bones and paint, thou whited
sepulchre, thou old corruption, thou waiting gravewoman. Hook thyself
to some dead-drunken land lubber, for thou makest me retch to look on
thee. Go to, thou art past thy trade, get thee to a hospital, thou.’
The woman replied to him with another volley of abuse, and then
turning, retreated slowly into the darkness whence she came. Peter
howled jeers and ribaldry after her as long as he judged her within
earshot; then he settled himself once more upon his coil of rope and
applied himself to his wine-stoup.
He laughed aloud. He had suddenly called to mind how he and other
good fellows in the _Holy Trinity_ had pillaged the Fleming barge off
Gravelines, and how, after they had rummaged the vessel from stem to
stern, they had hurled the mariners into the sea to swim their way
home, if so they might. He remembered one fat Fleming in especial, who
had made them almost burst with laughter, such comic antics did he cut
when he understood what fate was to befall him. His face had turned
pasty white and his eyes yellow with fear, he had pattered prayers
like a priest in mortal terror of Hell Fire, and when they shoved him
overboard into the sea, and he struck the water plump like a lump of
lead, he had screamed out ‘Mother!’ ’Twas truly comical to hear such a
fat old devil cry out for his mother as though he had been a two-years’
child. Peter fingered the dagger, which hung round his neck on a
lanyard; it was a good dagger of fine Spanish steel, it had once hung
from that same Fleming’s neck.
A bell began to toll from the town solemnly and dolefully.
It was the passing bell, rung that Christian men might pray for a
soul upon the threshold of the great darkness. Peter listened for the
mournful strokes, mechanically he counted them up till ten, and then
began from one again.
Suddenly the bell ceased.
Peter knew that the soul had gone out into the darkness, and he crossed
himself and said _Pater Noster_, as he had been taught to do as a child.
Then the fat Fleming recurred to his mind, but somehow he did not make
him laugh this time. ‘Poor devil,’ he thought, and said _Pater Noster_
again. He pondered silently for a long time, and his mind began to be
strangely disturbed.
‘Pah!’ quoth he, shaking himself, and took another draught of wine,
but the liquor had no taste and he put the tankard down. He looked
upward to the sky; there was still no moon or stars to be seen,
only blackness overhead and blackness all round, save for a little
lightening in the East where the day would presently break. He thought
of the woman who had just left him; then he thought of his mother, whom
he had not seen these five years--five years which he had spent in
roving, smuggling and pirating from the Hanse Ports to the Holy Land.
God knows how many more sins he had piled on his conscience since the
day he had last bid her farewell in the tiny apple-orchard behind the
house. Then she had had a mad notion of going on a pilgrimage with
him to Saint Thomas at Canterbury, and he had told her to keep her
old bones safe by the fireside and to leave such junketings to young
wenches. ‘Ah,’ she had answered, ‘I should be easier in my mind had
thou and I made vows together at the tomb of the Holy Thomas.’ He had
replied to her roughly to keep house and to say her prayers at home,
and had trudged away without more ado in his ill-temper. He remembered
her now standing under the trees and looking sadly after him. He
thought there had been tears in her eyes, and at the time he had been
fain to whistle to make his mind the easier.
Peter was an evil fellow, and he knew it. There were few knavish
trades asea or ashore to which he had not turned his hand. Many were
the gallows that ached for him, many were those who had vowed to have
their own by him again, and many were the souls who would accuse him
before the Righteous Judge at the Dreadful Doomsday. Yet his mother
had taught him _Ave_, _Pater Noster_, and _Credo_ as soon as he might
run and talk, and had nurtured him in all good religion. Truly she was
a godly woman, this mother of his, and she had borne a graceless son.
Surely she would sit with the Saints at last around Our dear Lord’s
feet, while he would have his portion in the Lake which burns with
fire. If only with a word he could undo five years, why, then he might
start again.
Through the darkness came the glimmer of moving lights and the sound
of far-off voices singing in modulation and time. He propped himself
on his elbow and strained his eyes and ears. The swinging lights
approached, the singing came nearer; he heard the sound of feet on
the rough causeway. A band of pilgrims, having risen before it was
yet light, went on their way to Saint Thomas of Canterbury with their
lanterns and staves in their hands, and their mouths filled with divine
songs. In Gregorian cadence they sang the penitential psalms, and Peter
listened as a man in a dream to their solemn chanting growing fainter
and fainter in the distance, and watched their glimmering lanterns
extinguished one by one in the obscurity.
It was as though he had seen a vision of the Saints of God going up
with their lamps burning to the altar of the Most High, singing ‘Holy,
holy, holy.’ He gazed after them, long after they had disappeared, with
wide eyes and parted lips.
‘She was right,’ he said at length, speaking slowly to himself. ‘She is
a godly woman. She shall go on pilgrimage with me, though it be to Rome
itself.’
He thought of the blessed Saint Godric and how he had borne his mother
Romewards on his back, and how an angel had come down from Heaven to
help them on their way.
He waited for the morning to break.