THE CAMP AT TILBURY.
To describe minutely the magnificent force assembled at Tilbury, and the
camp there, would be both a tedious and a twice-told tale. My Lord of
Leicester (who had the ordering of all matters thereunto appertaining)
had arranged things not altogether so unskilfully. It was at his
instigation, and invitation too, that the Queen herself paid a visit to
her troops there; for, says his letter to her on this occasion, "If it
may please your Majesty, your army being about London, as at Stratford,
East Ham, Hackney, and the villages thereabout, shall be not only a
defence, but a ready supply to Essex and Kent, if need be. In the
meantime your Majesty, to comfort this army, and the people of both
these counties, may (if it so please you) spend some days to see both
camps and forts." And so the bold Tudor, in martial array, visited the
camp; and never, perhaps, did the world witness a more heroic sight. The
glorious sun of a summer's day poured its rays upon a glittering host.
Line beyond line they stood enranked on either side, and beyond the
blockhouse, as the Queen landed; and as the drums rattled, and the
cannon roared, when she stepped from her barge, down went ensign, and
pike, and caliver.
The Earl of Leicester and his officers received her on landing; and two
thousand horse, dividing into two brigades, together with two thousand
infantry, formed her immediate guard.
The next day she reviewed her troops on the hill near Tilbury church,
attended by the Earls of Leicester and Ormond. She wore a corslet of
polished steel upon her breast, (a page bearing her plumed helm,) and
thus, bare-headed, and carrying a marshal's truncheon in her hand, she
rode through the ranks amidst the most deafening cheers; after which she
harangued the host in a speech of considerable length.
The scene was one likely to make a deep and lasting impression upon the
minds of all who witnessed it. The assembled troops were, in
themselves, worthy of note; for, besides the regular and trained
infantry and cavalry of the period, there stood enranked, and _doing the
duty of private volunteers_, some of the noblest in England. The gentry
of the various counties had donned their harness, and come forth to do
the duty of common soldiers; scarfed, and plumed, and belted, they stood
there, resolved to lay down their life, ere they yielded one foot of
their native land to the invader. As the Queen passed on amidst this
steel-clad host, there was one who stood somewhat apart, and in an
interval of the lines of infantry; he raised his voice amidst the
general enthusiasm, as the royal Tudor rode along the rank near which he
was posted; and then he lowered his weapon, and as he leaned upon it,
keenly observed the whole scene.
He saw that lion-hearted woman, and who had then borne the sceptre for
thirty years; her body cleped in steel; her high pale forehead furrowed
with care; her bright and piercing eye, and her majestic form unbent by
the pressure of years. He saw her thus, mounted upon her magnificent
steed, like a true daughter of the Plantagenet, vindicating the honour
of her kingdom. He saw her thus, undismayed by the tremendous armament
threatening her coast, pass on from rank to rank, "with cheerful
semblance, and sweet majesty;" and as she rode--
"A largess universal, like the sun,
Her liberal eye did give to every one."
Those who have stood in the ranks of an English battalion can perhaps
best imagine the proud feeling which must have animated the breast of
Shakespeare at this moment. His eye passed rapidly over the glittering
files, and then it dwelt with curiosity upon the stern features of the
troops, as each glance was bent upon that one form, "so regal, so
majestical;" and, as he looked upon the expression of those bearded
men, he felt that no power which the invader could bring would be
likely to subdue such a host. The English might be struck
dead--blasted--annihilated by some wrathful bolt from the skies, but,
unless the power of Heaven fought against them, no foreign force could
subdue that _island-host_ upon their own ground. And then, whilst he
gazed upon this inspiriting sight, as the Queen passed off the ground,
and took her way "so strongly guarded" amongst the innumerable white
tents, a wild flourish of martial music floated through the air, the
firm unbent forms of the soldiery relaxed, the sword point was lowered,
the pike trailed, drum and fife sounded, and the various companies
wheeled off then-several positions and followed through the camp. As
column after column moved past, still that observant eye was rivetted
upon them. The musqueteers in the front rank; the pikemen in a dense
column behind; then came the cavalry, slow and stately, with a rushing
ringing sound, the horses reined back to keep time to the trumpets'
clang. Squadron after squadron, they moved past with stately pace and
slow; the several leaders armed in steel, galloping up and down the
ranks, and giving the word as they wheeled round and moved off the
field. They were led by one scarce two-and-twenty years of age, who
seemed, on his magnificent charger, with his beaver raised, "the prince
of chivalry," the "arm and burgonet of men." The young Earl of Essex,
just then in the zenith of his fame, and to whom the Queen had given
command of the cavalry.
And so the eye of the "poor player" pierced through the camp and
witnessed all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war;"
himself, in his humble suit of buff, with buck and breast and helm of a
common soldier, the greatest man there. He saw the tented field, so as
only a nation's "endeavour for defence" could have shown it him. He
mingled amongst tho white tents of the soldiery, and he visited the huts
made of boughs of trees and poles, beneath which many of the gentry from
the various counties and their followers were sheltered.
At this period of his life his profusion had made him known to many of
the nobles and leaders present, and those who fell in with him were
pleased to have a word with "the pleasant Willie" amidst the excitement
and bustle of the hour. As he turned from the scene, and, with his
companions threaded his way amidst the crowd of soldiers, suttlers, and
the other accompaniments of a huge army, he was met and accosted by one
high in authority amongst the host.
"Ah! Will Shakespeare," said the noble, "hast thou too put thyself in
arms? 'Fore Heaven, man, thou shalt come with me to my tent. See, here
is my Lord of Southampton, and other gallants, 'the very elements of the
camp,' would fain have a rouse ere they wait upon the Queen. Come, man,
a word from thee will spice the cup. No denial," continued the noble, as
Shakespeare endeavoured to excuse himself on the plea of wishing to make
on toward Dover that night. "No denial. Come, thou shalt cup us this day
in the field. I could better lack the best of my followers on the day of
battle than lose thee now we have once met here. What says't thou, my
Lord of Southampton, thou canst not excuse the gentle William, eh?" And
so it was late in the day ere Shakespeare left the tented field of
Tilbury.
When he did so he crossed over a bridge of boats and barges which had
been drawn across the Thames at Gravesend. This bridge had been
constructed for the purpose of opposing the passage of the invading
fleet, should any portion of the expedition succeed in crossing the
Nore, and to afford a means of communication for supplies of men and
munition from Kent and Sussex.
With two or three companions (and who, like himself, were resolved to
hasten to the coast and, if possible, get on board some vessel at
Dover,) Shakespeare hastened, after leaving Gravesend, along the Old
Kent Road, then the most beaten track in England.
Thus then, under circumstances so peculiar, the players found themselves
in the county of Kent, that interesting county, which has been the
battle-ground of the English for so many centuries, and which yet
retains the ancient name Caesar,[20] conferred upon it upwards of
eighteen hundred years before.
[Footnote 20: Caesar denominated this county, Cantium; time, therefore,
has made no further alteration than in giving it an English sound.]
Much as was the traffic on this thoroughfare at the period of our story,
the road was still in a very primitive state, thickly shadowed by trees
on either side, ill kept and full of deep ruts and quagmires, whilst the
country on either hand seemed one entire forest, and thus, amidst the
bustle of the time, troops marching and counter-marching, "posts tiring
on," pack-horses, and wains, and carriers occasionally overtaking them,
Shakespeare took his way.
We leave our readers to imagine the feelings of the poet as he passed
along this, the old Roman road.
As his eye pierced through the gloom, he beheld the road ascending
through a leafy tunnel, and as he mounted a steep hill, he looked into
the thick shadow on either hand, and then stopped and contemplated the
place with a curious eye. It is more than probable, whilst he looked
upon this locality, covered as it was with enormous trees, the road
darkened by their shadow, the overhanging bank covered with fern, the
crow winging to his nest, the moon just beginning to appear, that some
passages he had perused in one of the old chronicles of England flashed
across his brain, for in the scene thus beheld at so sweet an hour
Shakespeare looked upon GAD'S HILL.
And now, as the players left the woodlands, and descended the hill on
the other side, a magnificent sight was presented to their
view,--looking in the pale moonlight like some romantic view exhibited
during the scenic hour, the Keep of Rochester, white and spectral,
towered above the flanking walls that surrounded it; the rushing waters
of the river flowing just beneath; the old picturesque town (then in
comparison but a hamlet) lying dark and sombre on the left. 'Twas a
scene that spake of former passages in Britain's history; and as
Shakespeare looked upon it he felt the impression. There beneath him
flowed the broad Medway, where the Britons had made their stand against
the legions of Rome. On the bank, surrounded with battled towers,
frowned the tower of the Norman Gundulph, now, as of yore, filled with
glittering troops; the flaming cresset glaring from its walls, and
reflected in the stream. The "panoply of war, grim-visaged, but glorious
war," once again had revived its thick-ribbed towers. And in the old
hostel of the Crown, Shakespeare and his troop slept that night,--a
locality since immortalised, for 'tis _the inn-yard at Rochester_, of
the scenic hour.