THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA.
At a time when every rank of men in England buried all party
distinctions, and prepared with order, as well as vigour, to resist the
violence of the invaders, the Catholics throughout the land were not
found wanting. Many gentlemen of that sect, conscious that they could
not justly expect either trust or authority, entered themselves as
volunteers in the fleet or army, whilst many equipped ships at their own
charge, and gave the command of them to Protestants; others again
bestirred themselves, and animated their tenantry, servants, and
neighbours to join in the defence.
Amongst these, Sir Hugh Clopton and Walter Arderne had manfully
bestirred themselves. Sir Hugh had mustered his servants and followers,
and putting them under conduct of his good friend, Sir Thomas Lucy,
marched off as a simple volunteer to Tilbury Camp, whilst Walter
Arderne, with no less zeal, and tenfold means, (for be it remembered he
was now the possessor of an enormous fortune,) had equipped several
ships at his own charge, intending to join Sir Francis Drake.
And thus having brought our readers to this period of general
enthusiasm, we now almost lose sight of the individuals more immediately
connected with our story in the universal excitement. The huge Armada,
after having by a variety of reports seemed to threaten every foot of
the coast in turn, was at length first discerned making its approach. A
Dutch pirate brought intelligence to Plymouth that the Duke of Medina
Sidonia was in reality in the English Channel. The captains and
commanders of the English vessels were at the moment of this
intelligence being brought playing at bowls at Plymouth; and Sir Francis
Drake, with the true spirit of an English seaman, insisted upon playing
out the game. "Play it out," my masters all, he said, "play it out. We
have plenty of time to win the game first and beat the Spaniards
afterwards."
A south-west wind, however, blew so strongly at the moment that the
vessels had considerable difficulty in warping out. At length, however,
by the tremendous efforts of all hands, (for the anxiety of the troops
and sailors to get at the enemy is hardly to be described,) the English
ships were fairly at sea, and, with every sail set, bearing up for the
enemy.
"And now sits expectant in the air,"
for whilst the sea bears upon its bosom the opposing fleets, the shores
of England are bristling with the armed legions watching the event. The
islanders standing "like greyhounds in the slips straining upon the
start," and thus, whilst "borne by the invisible and creeping wind," the
ships neared each other, was to be seen those characteristics of the
islanders which furnished forth descriptions like the blast of trumpet
to a Briton's ear.
"On! on! you noblest English,
Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof!
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers. Now attest,
That those that you call'd fathers, did beget you;
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war."[21]
[Footnote 21: "Henry the Fifth."]
It is not our purpose fully to describe the action with, and the
discomfiture of, the Huge Don, only such portions of the engagement as
embraces the fate of those connected with our story being necessary.
Suffice it then that the fleet of the mighty Spaniard came on slowly,
awfully, and, according to the description given by Camden, so
tremendous in appearance that the very winds seemed tired of propelling
and the ocean groaned with its weight. That the English ships, dwarfs as
they appeared by comparison, and few as they were in number, resolutely
encountered, and, like bulldogs, which never leave the animal they are
pitted against whilst life lasts, stuck to and worried the bloated Don
till they completely pulled down his pride.
The proximity of Plymouth to the Spanish coast had rendered it probable
that that part of England would be selected by the enemy for his first
attempt, and there accordingly the Queen had appointed as Guardian one
of the noblest and most approved soldiers of her realm. That aspiring
hero, the gallant Sir Walter Raleigh, in himself a host at such a
moment, was appointed Lord-Warden of Plymouth, with office of
Lieutenant-General of the county of Cornwall, and 5,000 men under him.
No post or appointment on land, however, could satisfy such a man, when
he himself knew the element on which the English ought to meet their
foes was the sea. Accordingly, the blast of war and the thunder at the
cannon found Sir Walter amidst the foremost, fighting hand to hand like
some avenger, and covered with the smoke and blood of the hot encounter.
Sir Walter, indeed, with a brilliant company of nobles and gentlemen,
had left Plymouth in a small squadron, and quickly came up with the
Spanish fleet. As they sighted the enemy, it was joined by a small force
fitted out by Walter Arderne, and the two made into the midst of the
fight.
Notwithstanding, however, the desperate valour of Sir Walter Raleigh,
and which at times amounted to rashness, in the present instance he
displayed his superior seamanship, and used discretion. He was aware
that the lighter and less numerous vessels of the English had an
advantage over the unwieldy Spanish galleons, provided the former
avoided close quarters.
He therefore ran near the floating castles of the enemy, and poured in
his broadsides, whilst they found it almost impossible to bring their
great ordnance to bear, ere he was off again. This plan of operation was
adopted by the whole English fleet. Ever asunder, but always in motion,
they took advantage of the wind to tack whenever they could most annoy
the foe; pouring in broadside after broadside, and sheering off out of
range of the Spanish guns, and then again boldly returning ere the
latter could well reload; performing, as Sir Henry Wooton described it,
a perfect morris-dance upon the water.[22]
[Footnote 22: Oldy's "Life of Raleigh."]
It was in vain that the Spanish fleet bore down upon their antagonists,
anxious, by bringing them to a closer action, at once to destroy them.
The skilful English sailors avoided the contact by continually
separating into small divisions. Six of the English ships, however, led
by Sir Martin Frobisher and Lord Thomas Howard, were so disjoined from
the rest, that the galleasses of the Armada came close upon them, and
continued a desperate engagement for many hours. At the same time,
another squadron of the English fiercely assailed the division of the
Armada stationed to the westward; nay, such was the desperation of the
English, that they in a short time disabled every ship in the line
there.
Amidst the storm of hurling iron, hid from one another by volumes of
white smoke which hung upon the waters and enveloped everything around,
two individuals sprang from their vessels, and, followed by their crews,
sword in hand, clambered with desperate energy up the hull of one of the
Spanish ships. The dense smoke on all sides is only relieved by the
rapid volume of fire which seemed to pour out of every part of the
Spaniard. The tearing of timbers, the shriek of agony, the cry of
despair, and the deep curse, is answered by the wild joyous cheer of the
jolly Briton. Amidst a storm of blows, the two leaders, the forlorn hope
of the boarders, gaining the high deck of the Spanish craft, sprung upon
the enemy's deck, where they were instantly followed by their
strong-armed countrymen. What can resist, what can front them and live!
Their blows are like the lightning's flash! Their force, strength, and
ire, is terrible to look upon! They carve a passage; they bear down all
before them! The deck of the Spaniard is slippery with blood; the
thunder of the cannon is even hushed for the instant; and then is heard
the ringing noise of hundreds hand-to-hand,--the cold dull smite of
steel upon the body, the deadly curse, the cry of horror, and the shriek
of death.
During this terrible encounter, even whilst mounting the side of the
Spanish vessel, the two men we have first described caught sight of, and
recognised each other. In the face of him who sprang from a small craft
called the Falcon, one of the sometime players of the Globe recognized
Walter Arderne; and in that countenance beside him, although now with
smoke and powder disguised "as if besmeared in hell," Arderne has for an
instant recognised the features of one known in fair Warwickshire in
happier days. They see, they recognized each other, but their thoughts
are as the red flash of the artillery around them, and the next moment
they are in the midst of blows and death. A contest of this sort, so
fought and followed, is seldom of long duration. One side or other must
generally be overborne; and, accordingly, the entire crew of the Spanish
galleon were either driven to the poop of their vessel, or dead upon her
decks. So numerous, however, were the Spaniards, that even in this
desperate extremity they were formidable; and still the contest raged.
In the midst of the _melee_, the player who we have before seen amongst
the first to board the Spaniard, is now fighting hand-to-hand with the
Spanish captain.
Hard pressed, (for the rapier of the Englishman bears the _invincible_
Don almost to the planks of his vessel,) the latter turns and flies
below. Entering his cabin, he snatches up a pistol, and attempts to fire
it into a huge barrel of gunpowder, and so blow up his vessel. Like
lightning the Englishman strikes the pistol from his grasp, and calls
upon him to yield.
The Spaniard, however, renews the contest like a tiger at bay. Rushing
upon his foe, for the moment he bears him backward; he then as suddenly
turns towards a youth who, crouched in one corner of the cabin, seemed
terrified, and unable to protect himself. Him the Spaniard now rushes
upon, and attempts to pierce with his rapier; but the Englishman again
anticipates him, strikes the weapon aside, and pierces the _invincible_
Don to the heart at the very moment the vessel is captured; and one loud
English cheer fills the air. Curiosity and humanity leads the victor to
approach the boy whom he had so opportunely saved. He drags from before
him the body of the Spanish captain, bids the lad look up and fear
nothing; but, overcome with the terrors of the situation, the lad had
fainted. At this moment the cabin is filled with the excited
captors--they are maddened with rage and blood, and ready to strike down
all before them. Anxious for the poor boy, the gallant player lifts him
up, throws him across his shoulder, and carries him upon deck, never
leaving him till he has placed him in safety in his own vessel.
Amidst the turmoil, confusion, and horror of such a scene, (for, of all
battles, perhaps a sea-fight presents the most savage and desperate
picture of warfare,) the "poor player," who had thus rescued the youth
from death, and borne him to a place of comparative safety, had but
small leisure to pay attention to him.
Nevertheless, as he placed him in the cabin of the English vessel, he
could scarcely fail to observe his extreme beauty; and as the lad came
to himself, and thanked his preserver, the player found, by his accent,
that the lad was English born.
Commending him, therefore, hastily to the care of some of the sailors at
hand, (as his ear again caught the wild huzza of the victors,) the
player again sprang upon the deck of his own ship, and the next moment
was once more amidst the scene of death and slaughter--enveloped in
smoke and fire--deafened with the roar of guns, and in the midst of
crashing timbers and falling spars.
The Spanish galleon had been captured ere he again reached her decks;
but still on went those English red-handed from slaughter to slaughter,
"with ladies' faces, and fierce dragon's spleens," they assailed ship
after ship of the squadron they had become entangled with, and night
only arrested the terrible encounter.
Awful indeed is the destructive power of man, when once his rage is let
loose upon his fellow. Those stately Spanish vessels, covered with
gilding and ornament, and which had come heaving upon the wave, stately
in movement, and beautiful in appearance as a bevy of swans, were now
dismantled wrecks, blackened, half burnt, and, as if tortured into
madness by their swift enemies, they vomited forth their fire at random,
their shot flying over the heads of their adversaries, and hurting each
other in the confusion of the scene.
In other parts of the engagement the English had been equally
industrious; and had it not been for the gross mismanagement of those in
authority, and through whose parsimony the ships ran short of
ammunition, the success would have been instantly followed up; as it
was, the parsimony of the Queen might have cost her her crown, for
thrice were the English baulked in the midst of success for want of
ammunition, and obliged to take advantage of wind to get out of fire,
and as often did they return, like avengers, to smite and destroy.
The sequel of this glorious contest is too well known for us to dwell
upon; only so far as it bears upon our story have we followed it. To
that poor player, the intrepidity of demeanour, the confidence in the
love of her subjects, and the activity and foresight of the royal Tudor,
was not lost. He saw of what his own countrymen were capable; and when
he dipped his pan in his own heart, and described deeds of knightly
fame, he wrote as he felt.
The noble Howard of Effingham, profiting by the faults of the Duke of
Medina, and the difficulties experienced by the Spanish seamen in
manoeuvring their floating castles, made a terrible example of the
enemy, and all around is crushing ruin, flight, and pursuit. Those ships
which were scattered he followed, and the whole fleet of Medina was
already vanquished and flying, when the elements effected the rest.
"So, by a roaring tempest as the flood,
A whole Armada of collected sail
Is scatter'd and disjoined from fellowship."
It was during the continuance of tho storm which followed, and whilst
the few Spaniards who returned to their own shores were filling the ears
of their countrymen with reports of the desperate valour of the English,
and the tempestuous violence of the ocean which surrounded them, that
two solitary travellers took their way along the old Kent road leading
from Sandwich to Canterbury. Having quitted the ships in which they had
arrived at the old Cinque Porte town, the two wayfarers were now making
their way towards the metropolis.
In our own times they would have come under the denomination of
strollers, since one of them was in reality an actor, and, in the form
of the other who walks by his side, our readers must recognise the youth
rescued during the preceding action with the Armada.
Light is the step and joyous the voice of that player. It almost cheers
the heavy heart of the melancholy lad, his companion. Nay, it does, in
some sort, apparently chase from his memory some rooted sorrow; for the
large glowing orbs of the boy are oft-times turned towards the player as
he speaks, and his step becomes more firm as they proceed.
Scarce a mile has been traversed from the town, ere the eye of the
player catches sight of a gray and massive ruin on his right, and the
steps of both are turned towards it.
Long lingered their footsteps beside that magnificent relic, and deeply
ponders the player upon the surrounding scene.
His companion listened to his words with breathless interest. The
glittering helmets of the cohorts of Rome seem to pass within the arena.
Nay, the spirit of the Roman, who reared the fortress, like a rock, upon
that elevation, eighteen hundred years before, seems still to pervade
the spot. There--where the thistle rears its lonely head, and the long
grass of centuries waves in the wind--the shadowy forms of the imperial
soldiery seem to glide by.
"And such," said the youth, as he listened to the words of his
companion, "is in truth the impression felt in each locality where the
pick and spade of the Roman has left trace of his conquering arm. The
feelings you have just described, the shadowy remembrance such locality
seems to conjure up, I have oft-times felt whilst at Clopton."
The player started. "At Clopton?" he said, as he looked curiously at the
expressive countenance of his companion. In both there was a sort of
dreamy recollection of having met before. "At Clopton, boy? True, there
is a Roman trench in the park there. And so, then, thou knowest fair
Warwickshire?"
The youth sighed,--his usual answer when his companion, during their
short acquaintance, had inquired his history. "I do," he said.
"And know you Stratford-upon-Avon?" inquired the player.
"But too well," answered the youth, again sighing.
"Ah," said the player thoughtfully, "then well may I."
"And wherefore?" said the lad, looking archly in his face.
"I was born there," returned the player. "Have friends, wife, children
at Stratford."
"And your name?" inquired the youth.
"Shakespeare, for fault of a better," said the player. And the pair soon
afterwards left the Roman ruin and wended on towards London.