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The Golden Galleon
By ROBERT LEIGHTON
_Crown 8vo._ _Cloth elegant._ _Illustrated_
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The Wreck of the "Golden Fleece"
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London: BLACKIE & SON, Limited
[Illustration: A PERILOUS SITUATION]
The Golden Galleon
BEING A NARRATIVE OF THE ADVENTURES
OF MASTER GILBERT OGLANDER, AND OF
HOW, IN THE YEAR 1591, HE FOUGHT UNDER
THE GALLANT SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE IN
THE GREAT SEA-FIGHT OFF FLORES, ON
BOARD HER MAJESTY'S SHIP _THE REVENGE_
BY
ROBERT LEIGHTON
Author of
"The Pilots of Pomona" "Olaf the Glorious" "The Thirsty Sword" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY R.I._
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
PREFACE.
In this present amphibious story I have tried to represent some of the
conditions of life ashore and afloat in the glorious days of Queen
Elizabeth; but I must state, to begin with, that the only portion of the
narrative that is actually based upon historical fact is the account of
Lord Thomas Howard's expedition against the West Indian treasure-ships.
In this part of the story I have closely followed the original report of
the last fight of _The Revenge_, as it was written by Sir Walter Raleigh
some few weeks after the battle.
My friend Commander C. N. Robinson tells me that Sir Richard Grenville's
disregard of Admiral Howard's instructions was, strictly speaking, a
breach of discipline. Whether or not this was the case need not here be
discussed. All that we need remember just now is that Sir Richard was
one of the bravest of the many brave men of his splendid time, and that,
undismayed by the almost certain prospect of defeat, he led a forlorn
hope, plunged into the glorious fray, and fought to the death with a
boldness which has never been excelled in all the course of our naval
history.
Grenville was not a great admiral as Drake and Nelson were great, and
this most memorable action upon which his fame must always rest was not
an example of the supremest heroism, simply because his success or
failure involved no high or very noble principle. But the worst that can
be said of his daring exploit is that it was the Balaclava charge of the
Spanish war; at its best it was an example, and a very grand example, of
that British pluck and intrepidity which have ever been the
distinguishing characteristics of our fighting countrymen; and I shall
be glad if, in writing this story, I help in some measure to instil into
my young readers a fuller pride in the navy which has secured for
England her supremacy upon the seas.
ROBERT LEIGHTON.
CONTENTS.
Chap. Page
I. Timothy Trollope, 11
II. The Young Heir of Modbury, 25
III. The Man with the Scarred Cheek, 39
IV. At the Sign of the Pestle and Mortar, 52
V. Rapiers to the Rescue, 65
VI. Table-talk at Modbury Manor, 84
VII. The Instinct of a Brute Dog, 102
VIII. The Old Buccaneer, 118
IX. Concerning a Stolen Letter, 138
X. A Rapier and a Riding Whip, 157
XI. The Affray on Polperro Beach, 175
XII. Baron Champernoun, 195
XIII. Outward Bound, 205
XIV. A Chain of Penance, 223
XV. In Search of the Plate Fleet, 232
XVI. The Green Light upon the Sea, 248
XVII. Sir Richard Grenville, 257
XVIII. Drusilla's Letter, 264
XIX. A Splendid Disobedience, 276
XX. The Last Fight of the "Revenge", 290
XXI. Prisoners and Captives, 311
XXII. The Great Cyclone, 321
XXIII. The Writing in the Book, 328
XXIV. Peter Trollope shuts up Shop, 343
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
A Perilous Situation _Frontis._ 327
"God hath been truly merciful in that he hath brought
me safely back" 48
"Timothy caught him by the neck and hurled him back" 73
"And how fares it with the old shipmate?" 147
"Timothy disarmed the fellow, and with a forward
thrust pierced him in the chest" 191
"Ay, but how came ye aboard, my lad?" 219
"For the love of Heaven cut the thing in twain!" 253
The Great Fight on board the _Revenge_ 300
"He made a lunge at Gilbert, aiming a blow at his
heart" 342
THE GOLDEN GALLEON.
CHAPTER I.
TIMOTHY TROLLOPE.
"Tim," said Peter Trollope, looking up from the oily whetstone that lay
on the edge of the table in front of him, and slowly wiping the blade of
the razor on the broad palm of his hand, "I want thee to go fetch me
some more herbs."
"Herbs?" repeated Tim from the far corner of the shop, where he was
sprawling upon the floor side by side with a very ugly-looking bull-dog.
"Ay," returned his father, running the edge of the razor along his
thumb-nail to test its keenness. "My stock is at an end, and I have none
left to make up the physic for Cap'n Cruse's sick wife. 'Tis some
hellebore roots that I need most, and a little meadow-saffron and
jasmine, and, if thou canst come upon them, a handful of yew-berries.
You will find them all in Modbury Park if I make no mistake--over
against the plantation of fir-trees where we saw the dead hind. I'd have
thee go there this morning; and see that thou tarry not over long by the
way, for I shall need thy help in distilling them."
Timothy rose slowly to his feet. There was a look of glum discontent on
his face. It was evident that he was in nowise willing to obey his
father's behest.
"What!" cried Peter, glancing at the lad with sharp reproof. "Dost
object to the journey? Now, prithee, what wild boy's adventure hast thou
on hand that is more to thy humour?"
Timothy looked dreamily out through the little latticed window towards
the quay, and his eyes wandered for a time among the masts and riggings
of the ships.
"I was but thinking to go out for a sail in Ambrose Pennington's
fishing-boat," he said in a sulky undertone.
"A plague on your fishing-boats!" exclaimed Peter somewhat angrily.
"Y'are for ever thinking of the sea and ships and all such mischievous
inventions! I'll not have it, look you. And to-day, so please you,
you'll do my bidding and go fetch me these herbs, and there's an end
on't."
Timothy made no answer, for at this moment a hairy-faced mariner entered
the shop, making a great noise upon the sanded floor with his heavy
sea-boots.
"Give you good-morning, Master Whiddon," said Peter Trollope with a bow
and a smile, as he offered the man a chair in the middle of the room.
"What may be your honour's will?"
"Trim me my beard, Master Trollope," returned the seaman, seating
himself in the chair and stretching out his legs in front of him; "and
tell me your news; for 'tis a good two years since I was last ashore in
Plymouth, and I am full eager, as you may be sure, to learn all that
hath happened in my absence."
Timothy opened a little locker under the window and drew forth a large
canvas wallet, which he strapped over his shoulder. Then he crossed over
to a door and disappeared into an inner room behind the shop, leaving
his father to attend to his customer and retail news that to the boy, at
all events, was as stale as a last year's chestnut.
Peter Trollope was a barber-surgeon. He carried on his useful art (for
in his deft hands it was in truth an art) at the sign of the Pestle and
Mortar, down against Sutton Pool. He was a great man in Plymouth town,
by reason of his entertaining talk and his skill alike in surgery and in
hairdressing; and his little shop was the lounging-place of all the idle
young gallants of the port, who came in to discuss the latest news from
London, to gossip about their neighbours' affairs and about the ships,
or to learn the tricks and fashions in the new art of taking tobacco.
Men who had received sword-wounds in street frays or damaged skulls in
tavern brawls came to him to have their hurts dressed and plastered; he
had a famous tincture for the toothache, a certain remedy for
melancholy, and at curing the common ailments of children and old women
no doctor in the town could beat him. Mariners just home after a long
voyage came to him to have their overgrown locks shorn and their beards
singed. Poor workmen and apprentices came to him to be polled for
twopence, were soon trimmed round as a cheese, and dismissed with a
hearty "God speed you, my master!" There were many high and mighty
gentlemen among his customers too, I do assure you; for he had starched
the beard of the great Sir Walter Raleigh, curled the moustachios of
brave Sir Francis Drake, and tied up the lovelocks of courtly Sir
Anthony Killigrew.
The Pestle and Mortar stood facing the busy wharf at the corner of one
of the narrow alleys that led up into the town. The upper windows of the
house looked out across the Pool, where all the ships and fishing-boats
were harboured. From these upper windows you could, if you had only been
there, see down upon the ships' decks and watch the brown-faced seamen
at their work of discharging the merchandise that they had brought from
distant climes; and in the street below there was the channel where, on
wet days, the rain-water rushed by in a deep stream; and where, when the
rain had ceased, young Timothy Trollope and his playmates used to go out
in their bare feet and sail their tiny boats, and imagine these bits of
rough-hewn stick to be Spanish galleons, laden with gold, or corsair
galleys with cargoes of Christian captives for the slave-markets of
Algiers.
Timothy's games had always some connection with ships (which, I suppose,
was natural enough, seeing that he had been born and brought up in sight
of the sea, and with the smell of tar rope and bilge-water for ever in
his nostrils), and all his boyish ambitions were of travel and
adventure, fostered, it may be, by the travellers' talk he had heard
from the mariners who gossiped with his father in the barber's shop.
Many of these adventurous mariners, remembering past benefits that they
had received at the hands of the kindly barber-surgeon, or perhaps being
short of money (as they ofttimes were, in spite of the vast treasures
that they had voyaged and fought for in far-off regions), had given or
sold to him many relics of their travels in foreign lands, and the shop
was a veritable museum of curiosities from all parts of the known world.
Here was a live poll-parrot brought home by one of Sir Richard
Grenville's seamen from Virginia; the jaws of a giant shark that had
been killed by John Hawkins' boatswain off the west coast of Africa; a
Turk's scimitar, a Patagonian's war-club, a red Indian's tobacco-pipe,
an Icelander's harpoon, and even some of the so-called gold brought back
by Sir Martin Frobisher from distant Greenland. People who had never
crossed the seas regarded these things with wonder and reverence, but
seamen were wont to scoff at them, and to declare that they were but
the sweepings and refuse of ships' cabins. Peter Trollope, however, was
proud of his curious collection; and often, when business was slack, he
would sit in his chair by the fire and look at the things each in turn,
and grumble that Providence had not made him an adventurer instead of a
quiet, stay-at-home barber-surgeon.
Master Thomas Cavendish, the great explorer, when he was fitting out his
ship, the _Hugh Gallant_, for his voyage round the world, had once said
to him:
"Peter, thou art too good a man to be wasting thy palmiest days at the
clipping of hair. Those strong big limbs of thine should rather be
employed in the hauling of ropes, the shifting of heavy guns, or
fighting against the Spaniards. Now, my ship will be a-sailing out of
Plymouth Sound in a few days' time, wilt shut up shop and join us? I do
faithfully promise that thou shalt come back home again at the end of
two brief years a wealthier man than ever the use of such trifling
instruments as scissors and curling-irons can make thee."
But Peter was already a married man, with a growing family of boys to
keep and to clothe and to send out upon the world, and he chose the
certainty of an easy livelihood rather than the promise of riches which
were to be gained, if at all, by deserting his home and leaving his wife
and children to shift for themselves. He had reflected, too, that if
there were Spaniards to be fought abroad, there was also a threatened
danger from the same dread enemy at home in England, and that Queen
Elizabeth had as great need for landsmen to defend her coasts as for
mariners to extend her power beyond the seas. And, indeed, when that
danger arrived (as it did in the year 1588, when Timothy was a boy of
twelve years old) Peter proved himself ready and willing to fight for
his country, albeit the sum of his work on that glorious occasion was no
more than to help to light the bonfire on Plymouth Hoe--the first of
those beacon-fires which flashed along the coast to warn all England of
the coming of King Philip's great armada.
The memorable rout of the Spanish ships had taken place just two years
before the opening of my story, and Timothy Trollope was now a
well-grown lad of fourteen. He could remember all the events of the
chase up the Channel, for he had heard the story repeated many times by
men who had fought upon the Queen's ships. He was reminded of them every
day; and even this morning as he strode through the town with his bag
over his shoulders on his way to Modbury, he saw a group of the Spanish
prisoners of war standing in the market-place--dark-visaged,
evil-looking men, who seemed to be for ever plotting and scheming how
they might escape from England and get back to their own orange groves
in sunny Seville.
Tim hated the Spaniards (as I suppose all English boys hated them at
that time), and he was careful to pass the señors at a very safe
distance, believing that there was danger in being close to them, and
that under their long black cloaks each of them carried a rapier or a
stiletto ready to his hand, to draw upon any unwary person who should
happen to betray by look or sign the enmity that was in the hearts of
all the townsfolk, young and old. For although the prisoners were out on
their parole and were strictly forbidden to carry arms, yet Timothy
always secretly mistrusted them, and suspected them, not without reason,
of carrying weapons which they were only too ready to use.
It was a long walk from Plymouth to Modbury Park; but the morning was
fine, and Timothy, having left the town behind, tramped merrily along
the shady country lanes, slashing with his stick at the rank weeds that
grew at the wayside, and fancying that each nettle and foxglove that he
laid low was a proud Spaniard whom he had slain.
As he crossed the fields by a footpath leading towards Beddington
Dingle, a covey of partridges, alarmed at his approach, rose with a
noisy whirr of wings from the stubble. In the woods of the dingle he
watched a squirrel running along the high branch of an oak-tree, and in
a ditch at the farther border of the wood he startled a rat, and
loitered there for a long, long time trying to discover the hole into
which the animal had escaped.
While he was searching he heard voices from behind him, mingled with the
screaming of hawks, the yelping of dogs, and the tinkling of bells.
"Well cast off aloft, ah!--well flown!" cried one voice.
"Now she hath seized the fowl," cried another, "and 'gins to plume
her--rebeck her not!--stand still and check her!"
Timothy turned quickly round. High in the air he saw a heron flying,
pursued by a couple of falcons, that whirled about their quarry,
shunning its spear-like beak. At a moment of advantage one of the hawks
mounted yet higher, and then, swooping down, struck like a thunderbolt
upon her prey and seized the fowl within her talons. A shower of
feathers floated down into the midst of the joyous crowd of men and
women who were watching the sport from their horses' backs in the
stubble-field.
It was a very gay and courtly company. Here on their prancing horses
were many elegant gentlemen wearing plumed hats and bright-coloured
capes; ladies with their snow-white ruffs and their long velvet gowns
that almost swept the daisies and dandelions at their horses' feet; and
all were laughing and calling aloud in their excitement as they compared
the merits of their birds, or made wagers on the success of their
flights.
Near to where Timothy stood, an old gentleman with a pointed white beard
and a russet-coloured doublet rode on a very large chestnut horse. He
carried a merlin hawk perched on his fist, but he seemed to take less
interest in the sport than did his younger companions. Timothy had seen
him many times before, both in Plymouth and at Modbury Park, and knew
him to be the great Baron Champernoun, the lord of the manor of Modbury,
a noted soldier and courtier. A very beautiful lady rode by his side,
wearing a sombre black gown and a wide black hat with black feathers.
She looked strangely out of place among her gaily-dressed friends, and
Timothy wondered why she should wear this habit of gloom, until he saw
her face, when he at once recognized her as the Lady Elisabeth Oglander,
and knew that her reason for shunning bright colours in her apparel was
the death of her most noble husband, the honourable Edmund Oglander, who
had fallen in battle in the Netherlands while fighting against the
Spaniards.
She drew rein, and the master falconer approached her with his square
frame round his waist, on which were perched some half-dozen hawks with
their hoods and bells and their scarlet tufts. The lady leaned over on
her saddle and took a hawk from the falconer's hand. The bird flapped
its wings in great commotion until it was fairly perched on the fingers
that held it. Then the Lady Elizabeth, holding her hand aloft, rode off
across the field, followed presently by the rest of the hawking party,
while Tim Trollope watched them disappear round a corner of the wood.
As he turned to continue his way he came face to face with a boy of
about his own age, who was carrying some dead partridges--spoils of the
chase.
"Helloh, Will!" cried Timothy, recognizing the lad. "I had thought you
were at work on Modbury farm. Hast had a rise in the world that you are
out here at the heels of the gentlefolks?"
"A rise, do you call it?" returned Will. "That is as it may be. For my
own part I do call it but a change of labour. I get no more pay for't, I
promise you; and 'tis a vast deal harder work than the herding of cattle
or the tending of sheep. I like it not, Tim; and 'tis certain I shall
not stand it much longer." He dropped his burden on the grass at his
feet and gazed idly about him with a dreamy look in his eyes. Presently
he added, "I am for the sea, if peradventure I can get a ship to take
me. I'd leave to-morrow an I could get someone to take my place."
Timothy glanced quickly at his young friend.
"I'll take it!" he cried eagerly. "I'll take your place, and gladly. For
I have been wanting these many months past to go to work, and, since my
father will not suffer me to go to sea, why, there is nothing I'd like
better than to be in the service of my Lord Champernoun."
And with this new idea in his head he went on his way, inwardly
resolving that on the very next day he would go up to Modbury Manor and
apply to his lordship's bailiff, entreating him to give him work, either
on the farm or else in the mews where the hawks were kept. And he had
little doubt that when once he had got promise of employment there would
be no possible opposition from his father.
This thought of his father reminded him that he had not yet begun to
gather the herbs for which he had been sent out, so he went on over the
fields until he came to the fir plantation in Modbury Park, and there in
a quiet hollow he began to fill his wallet with such roots and berries
as the barber-surgeon had bidden him bring home.
He had walked round by the lake, and was unearthing the root of a rare
herb which he knew that his father would set great store by, when,
without the warning of any previous sound or movement he felt himself
suddenly seized from behind and held firmly by his leather belt.
Now, although the hand which held him was a very tiny one, yet it
gripped him with surprising tenacity, and the suddenness of the assault
was such that the lad, knowing that he was a trespasser on private
ground, was greatly alarmed. He thought at once of my lord's gamekeeper,
and he dreaded the consequences. He struggled to wrench himself away,
and turned to confront his assailant. Instead of the man that he had
expected, he beheld a little maid whose large blue eyes regarded him
with an expression of ferocity that would have been terrible if it had
not been merely assumed. She wore a lace-trimmed frock of golden-brown
velvet that came down nearly to her toes. There was a crimson silk sash
about her waist and a milk-white ruffle round her neck, and her cheeks
were rosy with glowing health. She was beautiful to behold. But Tim
thought nothing of her beauty; he was only astonished that so dainty a
little gentlewoman, the granddaughter of a noble baron as he knew her to
be, should display such boldness as to lay hands upon him, the son of a
poor barber. He looked at her in amazement.
"Certes, Mistress Oglander," said he in his confusion, "how you did
startle me! I heard not your approach."
"That is scarcely to be believed," quoth she, still gripping his belt,
"for we have been firing our guns into your quarter this half-hour
past!" Then tugging at him with renewed energy, she added, "You are now
fairly conquered and our lawful prize of war."
"Nay, Mistress Oglander," stammered Timothy, "I know not what you mean!
I am but gathering a few poor herbs for my father, Master Trollope, the
barber-surgeon of Plymouth, and I beg you to release me."
Mistress Oglander looked strangely incredulous, and for a moment she
relaxed her hold of him. She glanced round as though in search of
someone whom she expected to see among the trees at the edge of the
lake.
"I care not whose son you may be," said she. "In real truth you are no
man's son; nor, so please you, am I Drusilla Oglander; for you are a
Spanish treasure-ship that I have captured on the high seas, while I am
the good ship _Prudence_ of Falmouth, who now intendeth to take you as
my prize to England."
Timothy seemed to apprehend her purpose, for he calmly yielded himself
to her humour.
"An that be the way of it all," quoth he, "then am I well content. But I
do pray that England doth lie at no great distance from this spot, for I
must get home with my bag of herbs for the which my father is
impatiently waiting."
"'Tis but a little way beyond the beeches yonder," explained Drusilla,
indicating three tall trees that grew in the midst of a shrubbery at the
far end of the little lake. "'Twill take but a few moments to cross the
Atlantic Ocean, and then we are there."
She drew him onward for some yards, when suddenly he stopped. She
glanced at him in quick alarm.
"Nay," she cried, "you must not sink! You are to be refitted when we
reach port, and then, you know, you will be made into an English ship."
But Timothy still hesitated, and even made a movement as if to free
himself and run away.
"Why are you sinking?" questioned little Drusilla, to whom his movements
seemed to imply that he had been seriously damaged in the late battle.
"It cannot be that the shots I fired struck you below the water!"
"'Tis my heart that sinketh," returned Tim. "Prithee, who and what are
the men I see lurking under yonder trees?"
Drusilla smiled.
"The one sitting down with his back to the railings," said she, "is the
_Santa Barbara_ galleon--a poor hopeless wreck. The other--well, I
scarce know what he is at this moment, for he hath been so many things
this morning that 'tis hard to remember. But I think he was the
mule-train the last time--the mule-train that Drake captured near to
Nombre de Dios. Gilbert was Captain Drake. Gilbert doth always like to
be Captain Drake whenever 'tis possible, and will never consent to be a
Spaniard, unless it be King Philip himself or else the great Marquis of
Santa Cruz."
"Master Gilbert can scarce be blamed for his choice," remarked Tim. And,
understanding from what the girl had said that there was no reason for
the fear that had come over him, he meekly suffered himself to be taken
into port in the character of a captive treasure-ship.