deliberation, Tamworth had had an opportunity to speak to her. He
stated that Marlowe was secreted in the heart of London, but where he
would not disclose; that an early meeting was devoutly prayed for, and
that the main purpose of his presence at the inquest was to arrange for
it; that the church of St. Olave in the Old Jewry was deemed the most
convenient place; that she was to be at its entrance upon the following
Sabbath night at ten o’clock. This was as much as could be communicated
in the short space of time allowed. A ready assent was given by her,
and with this, Tamworth left the tavern and returned to London. His
departure had been too hasty; for with a delay of a few moments he
would have discovered the frustration of his plans for the meeting. By
the light of such discovery another tryst might have been arranged but
it was darkness that ensued. Anne never appeared before the church of
St. Olave.
Tamworth had been careful to avoid raising suspicions that he had
anything more than a passing interest in the wife of Francis Frazer.
It was this that caused him to leave before the hour which he thought
would mark her departure. If he had at any moment entertained the idea
that the coroner would bind her over to attend before the Grand Jury,
or in Court, he had dismissed such idea with the thought that sureties
for her attendance would be readily secured. The coroner did bind her
over despite Tamworth’s recent exposition of the law concerning the
wife’s incompetency to testify against her husband. She was unable to
secure bail.
While Anne was testifying before the coroner in such manner as to
secure the peace of Marlowe, Bame was as zealously working for an
exactly contrary object. If we should here announce that at length the
efforts of Anne became perverted and joined those of the man who worked
for destruction, it would seem that this narration was descending to a
travesty of life; but such a concatenation of events followed, and it
arose as a natural sequence. While Tabbard, with only temporary concern
and that mainly of pecuniary character, had brought about the meeting
of the lovers, and circumvented the police to his own destruction,
she, whose heartstrings were interlaced with those of the man whom the
rustic Tabbard had aided, had involved him in an affair which was to
eclipse his ascending star, and was to place him in the hands of his
arch enemy. When, in the Windmill tavern, Bame had recognized Tabbard
and imagined evil from the hobnobbing of the latter with the constable,
his fear of a miscarriage of his plot of destruction had been increased
by seeing the exultant expression on Tabbard’s face as he destroyed
the warrant. At that moment the character of the scattered paper was
unknown to him. All that had transpired in the Windmill forced him to
the conclusion that he had been outwitted. He had only reached this
stage of mind when Tabbard’s glass fell from his hand and the stricken
man rolled to the floor. Bame was the first one to reach the victim. He
heard his words, and then picked up the largest pieces of the warrant.
His apprehensions were verified; Marlowe had escaped him.
That night he held a vigil over the dying Tabbard, who had been removed
to a bed chamber of the tavern, a cramped room in a corner of the
building, with a round window looking down in the Old Jewry. Until
the end came, Bame remained beside the dying man, not in the spirit
of a ministering angel, but to gain information of the whereabouts of
Marlowe. Tabbard’s disconnected utterances about Deptford and some one
whose interest he held at heart, conveyed no absolute assurance that
Marlowe could be found in the locality mentioned; but it was a straw
at which the hearer grasped. The armorial device of the house of
Surrey upon the hilt of Tabbard’s short sword proclaimed the wearer’s
dependency upon the Duke of that name. Bame knew of Sayes Court, the
country place of the Duke at Deptford, and at once in mind he placed
the actor there. Had not the theaters closed for the season? Had
not the Duke withdrawn to Sayes Court during the prevalence of the
plague in London? Was it not more than probable that the company of
actors, of which Marlowe was a member, was gathering at Deptford for
the entertainment of royalty? These were the mental questions of the
Brownist, and carried affirmative answers with them.
After taking the corpse of Tabbard to the death-cart, Bame, first
taking care to see that no member of his sect was within sight, had
re-entered the tavern, braced himself up with a glass of charnico,
and fallen asleep at one of the lap-room tables. It was but a short
doze, for the morning stir began early. He partook of breakfast where
he sat, then full of his intent to see Gyves punished, and Marlowe
apprehended, he passed into the street. Shop blinds were being taken
down, and the street criers beginning their day-long noise. The latter
shook him uncomfortably, for the night had given him no rest, and there
was naught that appealed to his wants in the cries of “rushes green”
and “hot sheep’s feet.” He required no rushes for the floors of his
dwelling and his hunger had been appeased. The citterns played by
some barbers close at the corner, where he paused to consider whether
he should go first to his home or to the Justice, was not unpleasant
music, but it grated harshly on his Puritanical ears; and reviving his
thoughts of playhouses and their orchestras, it started him toward
the Justice’s office. Tabbard’s horse, still standing at the corner
of St. Olave, attracted his attention as he waited for the Justice to
dress himself and come below. It was a strange place for a horse to be
tied. The church was closed and there were no open windows near at hand
into which the rider could have vanished. Tabbard’s spurs had raised
the query as to where the dead man had left his horse, and in this
forlorn-looking steed he read the answer. He determined to put him to
use as soon as a proper lapse of time gave additional assurance that he
was right in attributing ownership to Tabbard.
In the stuffy den of the Justice, he spread the proof of Gyves’ offense
upon the table, and swore to a complaint against him for a misdemeanor
in allowing an accused person to escape. Then he applied for an alias
warrant on the old charge of blasphemy against Marlowe, but as it
appeared that the latter had fled the country, the Justice declined to
act further until he had assurance that the accused was within reach of
his process. Bame insisted, but the Justice shook his whole heavy body
with the violence of his negatives.
“What can be done?” demanded Bame.
“See the public prosecutor.”
“Can you not advise for the sake of the church?”
“Lay the charge before the higher authorities.”
“What, before the Queen? That has been done.”
“For what purpose, when your charge was made here?”
“To give it greater publicity.”
“Was it made strong?” questioned the Justice.
“All that was necessary was to quote from his writings, and to pound
into the ears of the Queen the quotation from Marlowe’s ‘Jew of Malta’:
‘Many will talk of title to a crown:
What right had Caesar to the empery?
Might first made kings, and laws were then most sure
When like the Draco’s they were writ in blood.’”
“Good,” said the Justice, “you were equal to your task, but you should
have made it even more bitter; for if the Queen is not moved by your
first accusation, she will not be by anything later.”
“It showed that he reviled religion; that he persuaded one man to
become an atheist; that he meant to utter false money of the kingdom.”
“’Tis the same charge you made and swore to here. Is it wholly true?”
“Can any crime be too heinous to attribute to an atheist?” asked Bame
with a vicious expression on his face.
“Then such judicial process may issue from the King’s Bench to bring
him in from any county in England wherever he may be found. You must
await the action of that higher court.”
“’Tis a grave public duty,” said Bame, solemnly, “and I now go to
Deptford to locate him in case the Queen should move the King’s Bench
to action.”
Bame met with many delays before he rode Tabbard’s horse across London
Bridge. The verdict of the coroner’s jury had been returned, and the
body of the slain man was being followed to its resting place in the
churchyard of St. Nicholas when Bame overtook the small funeral cortege
just beyond the Golden Hind. The majority of the train were actors and
they bore the rough board coffin on their shoulders. In answer to his
query, they had honestly but not correctly stated that the deceased was
Marlowe, and Bame, feeling that the object of his wrath had forever
escaped him, abruptly reined in his horse.
“Where are you taking the body?” he asked.
“To St. Nicholas,” came the answer.
“’Tis unfit for Christian burial,” he exclaimed.
He was about to say more, but glances from several members of the
group froze his utterance. The glances meant violence. They came from
the eyes of men who recognized him as a member of the sect which not
only cursed their profession but was endeavoring to crush them out of
existence. He swung his horse’s head around and dug his heels in the
animal’s flanks. For his own good, his flight had been well timed, for
all that reached him were their merited execrations.
At the Golden Hind he learned of the events of the past twenty-four
hours, and as he talked in the tap-room, through the center came the
coroner. Anne was with him. She was to accompany the officer to the
house of the sheriff. The meeting between uncle and niece was not
without an exhibition on her part of something approaching filial
affection. In his own household he had ever presented himself as
devoid of all the sterner and harsher traits which made him an object
of dislike and hatred in the outer world, and great sympathy and love
had existed between them. Her elopement had shaken these sentiments in
him, but this meeting had revived them. They conferred apart while the
good natured coroner attempted to drown the heat of his late exciting
session by many deep bowls with Dodsman and several obsequious and
admiring loungers.
Many were the questions with which Bame plied his niece. Whom had
she married? How came she here? Where had her husband fled? All were
answered except the last, she maintaining even with Bame that Marlowe
was the dead man.
At the conference between Bame and Anne, it was decided that he should
journey at once to Canterbury and inform her father of her unfortunate
situation. There appeared no other plan by which she could be released.
Bame and Crossford should stand as sureties for her future appearance.
The former agreed to bring about a reconciliation. But then there was
a matter which to her seemed of more pressing importance. She required
a courier for the opposite direction, that is, toward London. It took
some deliberation to formulate her story and as much more to determine
whether it were safe to convey even this story to Bame. The question
of safety concerned Marlowe only. Her road for the meeting on the
following Sunday evening at the church of St. Olave was blocked as
effectually as though prison bars held her in. The promise for her
appearance there had gone from her freely. Neither she, nor Tamworth,
had suggested any means or method for further communication between
herself and Marlowe, should their meeting, as proposed, be prevented.
The thought of his being a fugitive from justice had appalled her as to
its far reaching consequences to herself. It was only in some foreign
country, unknown to herself, that she had pictured him. Tamworth’s
communication had scattered her fears. The order of the coroner for
her detention had again plunged her into a deeper pit of despair. Here
was the opportunity to convey the reason of her inability to meet
him as promised, and to post him of her future. She realized that it
was a dangerous matter to run anyone into contact with Marlowe, but
here she apprehended no danger. Up to the time of her departure from
Bame’s house, she knew that Bame was a stranger to the man in question.
It was not only unlikely but highly improbable that he, a devout
Brownist, should know the licensed player, and unlicensed writer. Thus
reasoning, she placed the man she loved into the hands of his most
implacable enemy.
It was one of her husband’s friends, she said, who would be at the
entrance of the parish church of St. Olave at ten o’clock on the
evening of June --. The meeting had been arranged before the duel at
the tavern. It concerned his departure from England. His flight, she
continued, would prevent the meeting. It was a matter of great concern,
and at the moment of the separation between herself and husband she had
promised to meet the man who would be in waiting for him. Would Bame
act in her behalf? The statement was plausible, but Bame saw more in
it than her words conveyed. However, whether the meeting was of her
own concertion, with a nameless man or with her husband, whom Bame had
never seen, did not seem of importance. What message was he to bear?
She wrote, in few words, of her predicament and prospects; she sealed
it, and delivered it to Bame. The missive ran thus: “I have word of thy
present safety and rejoice; for my situation had made me fearful of
thine own. To thy request for me to meet thee, I returned my promise;
but now the hope of compliance hath vanished. I am held as a witness.
If the termination of my imprisonment is dependent upon thy arrest,
I pray that I may never be at liberty. However, I have hope of an
early release, and of going to my father’s house in Canterbury. In the
meantime be content, I pray thee, with the assurance of my love. The
bearer is to be trusted. He is my uncle and will return here with thy
answer. Let it be of where I can find thee later. Sealed with my love.
Anne.”
* * * * *
It has taken many pages to narrate events covering only a full day in
space of time; but in comparison with the vast harvests of literature
that have been gleaned from the sowing of the night of June 1, 1593,
this sole noting of the steps of the husbandmen who scattered the seed,
is but a single sheaf. And now with the coroner’s verdict in, Francis
Frazer buried under the name of Christopher Marlowe, the latter darkly
brooding in obscure safety, and the world so cony-catched that only
after an interval of 300 years doth it see clearly, we will trace the
dark events leading up to the darker ending of Bame.
Richard Bame was hung at Tyburn on the 6th of December, 1594. That
event is historical, and it is well to fix it in the mind of the
reader before drawing his attention to a narration of what may have
been the reasons for this tragedy. In this connection it is also well
to emphasize a few other historical facts. The accusation against
Marlowe for blasphemy was actually placed before the Queen [note 31].
If Marlowe’s death followed so closely on the heels of this proposed
vigorous prosecution of him for that ecclesiastical crime, it was a
remarkable coincidence. Conviction would have been certain. It required
no reading between the lines of Faustus and the Jew of Malta. Flight,
or concealment, was the only escape for him. What was better calculated
to stay a search and avert apprehension, than a report of death? The
reports, many and contradictory, appeared [notes 9-13].
But why was his accuser hung? Was it due to revengeful influences
working for Marlowe, that Bame, wearing the cockade of the condemned,
passed through crowds down Tyburn-road on his last earthly ride? Or was
this horrible culmination of his days due wholly to his own misapplied
zeal and a catastrophe of criminal character?
THE SACKING OF ST. OLAVE.
_What God, or fiend, or spirit of the earth,_
_Or monster turned to a manly shape,_
_Or of what mould or metal be he made,_
_Let us put on our meet encountering minds._
--_I Tamburlaine, ii, 6._
_What art thou that ursurp’st this time of night_
_Together with that fair and warlike form_
_In which the majesty of buried Denmark_
_Did sometimes march?_
--_Hamlet, i, 1._
A storm of almost unprecedented fury had prevailed in London from
early evening on June --, 1593. The wind, coming strong from the
northeast, increased in violence as the hours passed, and out of heavy
black clouds the rain fell in torrents. It was a night for everyone in
Middlesex to be well housed and forgetful of the sea. Again and again,
the sole inmate of the oratory in the Prince’s Wardrobe had looked
out into the night. He could not see beyond the flying buttresses at
the edges of the window, except when an occasional flash of lightning
seared the darkness. Under these flashes the near churchyard appeared
as fleeting and as sorrowful as the face of the fallen angel in our
dreams; and the venerable walls of St. Olave looked even more venerable
and gloomy as they stood forth with startling distinctness. Every
cranny became a marked feature of its visible side and the long windows
from their deep setting showed the thickness of the masonry and the
rankness of the century-growth of vines that clustered around them.
It was the night on which Marlowe expected meeting Anne, and the storm
made him apprehensive that their plans might be frustrated. This
uneasiness caused him to leave the oratory long before the appointed
hour. Tamworth was not in his apartment as Marlowe entered it, and
with lighted candle descended the stairs into the underground passage
leading to the church. He reached its end with hasty steps, and having
on a previous night succeeded in putting in working order the hinges
on the slab that had blocked further passage, he entered the chancel
of the church. A darkness as absolute as that of the night prevailed
in the church, except where, at the distance of a hundred feet, the
lights from the chantry shone across a strip of benches or rude pews.
He crept cautiously to the open door of this chantry to see that no one
was in it and then retraced his steps to the chancel where he lowered
the raised slab to its place, taking care to feel its distance from the
rail near at hand. He then passed through the body of the church, and
having reached the middle door at the front, he unbolted it and stepped
without. He felt across every step of the wide entrance, and finding
that he was alone, he took up his station near the door which he had
loosely closed.
It was about this time that Bame left his house and started for St.
Olave. Before doing so he had taken off his conventional garb and
donned his shabbiest suit. Bame was not accustomed to carry any weapon,
but the storm and the darkness prompted him to belt a sword to his
waist. It was with difficulty that he made any progress in the storm,
and at length reached the steps of the church. Here he stood for a
moment in the meager shelter afforded by one of the columns of the
portico, and then began moving with extended hands toward the entrance.
He could see nothing, and for some time in his measured progress he
encountered nothing but open space or the stone wall. Suddenly a flash
of lightning illuminated the portico. In it he saw a man in loose
cloak standing beside him. Neither had realized the presence of the
other until the flash revealed it; but in it Bame caught no glimpse of
Marlowe’s face.
“Hold!” he said, as the cloaked figure stepped backward and again was
entirely enveloped by the darkness. If there were any answer to this
command, it was drowned by the roll of thunder which followed the
lightning.
“You await a lady here, do you not?” continued Bame, proceeding on the
theory that the man was Francis Frazer, “Well, I come with word from
her.”
Still no answer came. Bame reached forward and touched the shoulder of
the silent figure, saying as he did so, “I come from Anne.”
“So, what is the message?”
“She is held in custody by the coroner.”
“For what purpose?”
“As a witness before the grand jury.”
“When did you see her?”
“On the day of the inquest.”
“Who are you?”
There was something in the voice that struck Bame peculiarly. He had
heard it before, but somehow it created a feeling of awe, and an
involuntary shudder passed through him. The reason of this feeling was
not apparent. He was anxious to determine its cause. He answered the
last question by one like it.
“Who are you?”
“What is the purpose of your query? Are you not satisfied that I am
the person whom you seek? You came from one at Deptford. Is that not
sufficient to assure you? If she did not tell you who I am, there is no
occasion for your knowing.”
Bame felt impelled to say that the reason of his asking was because he
thought he knew the speaker, or at least the voice was familiar; but
his natural caution restrained him. He said with ill reason:
“Before I delivered the message I wished to be assured that you were
the one for whom it was intended.”
“Out upon you,” said the other, “If she gave you no name, my telling it
could give you no assurance; but this talk is idle while gusts of rain
blow in upon us. You have found me. Have done with words. What is the
message?”
“It is written,” said Bame.
“Well, give it me,” exclaimed the other impatiently.
“There is an answer expected.”
“And you are to bear it?”
“Yes; where can you read while I wait?”
“Within the church. A light burns in the chantry.”
Bame fumbled in the pocket of his doublet, and then he said: “I can not
distinguish it from other papers. I require a light to find it. Let us
step to the nearest tavern.”
“Nay, ’twould be a waste of time. Follow me.”
He pushed on the door behind him, and Bame heard hinges creak, but all
about him was still wrapped in darkness.
“Into the church?” he faltered.
“Aye. Not a word.”
His hand was grasped and he followed. He felt his entrance to be
a sacrilege and his awe concerning his companion increased his
trepidation. When at length the entrance to the body of the church was
reached, a faint glow of light could be seen from a narrow space in
one wall. Toward this they moved up the dark aisle, feeling the unseen
pews as they passed. Upon facing this glowing space, they perceived
the chantry. It was so small that it hardly merited the name; but,
rising from the marble floor, was the low, richly-carved tomb of the
founder of the church, with raised font before it, and, in niches in
the wall behind it, six blazing candles. Its walls were of solid stone
and no other door or windows opened from it. The arched ceiling rose
scarcely eight feet overhead and bore no tracery nor stucco work upon
its surface. Into this chantry they entered. Bame, forgetting to make
a pretended search in his pocket for the message, hastily handed it to
Marlowe. And now the lights were near and strong enough to show clearly
the faces of the two men. Bame’s eyes and mouth bespoke an astonishment
that almost robbed him of the power of speech. He recognized the man
beside him, but the latter without even a glance at his companion,
nervously broke the seal of the letter, and passing around the tomb,
held it so that the rays from the candles fell upon it. Bame had
noticed that Marlowe was without a sword, and before the second line of
the message had been read he interrupted the reading with the words:
“I thought thou wast dead.”
Marlowe raised his eyes and glared in wonder at the speaker, who
continued:
“Thou art Christopher Marlowe.”
Marlowe leaned back against the wall with his hands so tightly clenched
that their nails almost entered his palms. The scowl grew deep on
his face, but no words came from his lips. It seemed no occasion for
speech, and action on his part was forestalled; for Bame had drawn his
short sword.
“I am Richard Bame. You have undoubtedly heard of me as the uncle of
Anne.”
“And as the swearer of false and vile charges against the man of whom
you speak,” said Marlowe, his voice impetuously breaking forth.
“Against yourself,” interrupted Bame, “but not as a false accuser.
Listen to me.”
“But why should I; and why have you drawn a weapon? You see that I am
defenseless. You came in the character of a bearer of good tidings;
why do you now assume a violent front? Is it not enough that I am the
friend of the one from whom you come--your niece? Have I ever wronged
you? Put down your sword! even though the time were opportune for
murder, the sanctity of the place should stay your hand. Doth not its
holiness appeal to thee?”
Bame began with the echo of the last word: