Chapter VIII

Dartmouth--Kingsbridge--Plymouth and the Sound

Past Berry Head, with its crown of golden gorse, its cave known as Ash

Hole, supposed to have been the burial place of soldiers of Cæsar’s

legions, and the house upon its lower slopes which, during the great

French Wars with Napoleon, was used as a hospital, and was afterwards

given to the poet Lyte by King William IV, one is soon in sight of

the rugged pinnacle rock or islet known as the Mewstone, which stands

like a sentinel on guard, just outside the entrance to the Dart. The

scenery from Berry Head southward is of a very different character from

that which distinguishes the coast from Sidmouth to Brixham. The calm

loveliness of red cliffs, rich with vegetation, hung with creepers,

thick with ferns, and gently fissured, is replaced by rock scenery

which grows grander and more beautiful as it becomes more sombre and

rugged, whilst in the background are the fertile heights of Devon

sloping steeply to the cliffs and many groups of outlying rocks off

shore, against which the emerald and indigo sea laps in summer and

roars in winter.

As one draws in closer with the land, one is not slow to realize the

popularity and importance of Dartmouth and the Dart estuary as a haven

and as a port in the strenuous days of old. Even nowadays one might be

within a mile or so of the entrance, and yet remain in ignorance of the

existence of a town of any size, and only suspect it by the presence

of vessels inward or outward bound. The Dart provided just such a

quiet and secure haven as in the days when the Channel was infested

with privateers and even less reputable craft was essential to the

sea-going community of these shores.

Around the river which, rising in the centre of wild and lovely

Dartmoor, then wandering across bogs, plains, and fertile valleys, and

past picturesque towns and villages, finds ultimately so lovely an

outlet into the sea, poets and novelists have woven their webs of song

and fancy, whilst famous artists have recorded its wonderful charm and

beauty upon their canvases. If not one of the most historic rivers of

the British Isles, the Dart may yet claim to be one of those around

which romance and imagination have been most closely entwined. One

cannot talk to Devonians long without becoming aware of the high place

that this changeful river holds in their affections. “It is the most

personal stream I have ever known,” a well-known angler has said. “I

have traversed it from almost its source to its end, where at Totnes

the fresh water meets the salt after a course through moorland bogs,

wide-spreading uplands, and valleys where its brownish waters come

rushing and leaping down, and where shady pools, fit homes of silvery

trout and salmon, tempt the angler to pause. Throughout its often

turbulent course there is nothing monotonous; almost every inch of it

is lovely in its own peculiar way. It is, indeed, a Queen of rivers,

though the native mind ascribes to it the gender of the opposite sex.”

The first glimpse one has of Dartmouth when approaching it from the sea

is the ancient castle of St Petrox standing opposite the ruins of its

mate of long ago on the Kingswear side. Then one catches a vista--how

charming whether in sunshine or when the mists of early morning hang

grey-blue above the houses, and have yet to be dissipated by the sun’s

rays--of the old town which lies almost hidden behind a green slope

of land ending in a cliff. Past the ancient castle, built on the

edge of the cliff and surrounded by the most delightful woods, where

a picturesque old church seems as though almost about to fall into

the water from its apparently perilous site on the very edge of the

precipice, past villas nestling amid the trees, and rocky shores, past

tiny coves, and slaty cliffs, bare except where trees, saplings, or

ferns cling to make them beautiful, one comes at last on jade-coloured

water, to the town, grey-looking and sheltered by high cliffs and downs

behind it, built sheer up from the edge of the river itself.

There, amid lofty hills on either side of the widening river or the

arm of the sea (whichever one pleases to call it) lies what has been

described as “the most beautiful and fascinating town in all Devon.”

Prince, the famous vicar of Berry Pomeroy, whose book, so full of the

Devonian spirit, if somewhat bombastic and ill-balanced in style, may

yet be read with profit by those to whom the history of the past of

“the fighting, glorious county of Devon,” has an interest, describes

it thus, and the description save for a few minor details holds good

to-day. Dartmouth, he says, is “a large and populous town, situated on

the southern side of a very steep hill, which runneth east to west at

considerable length of near a mile, whereby the houses as you pass on

the water seem pensile (pendent), and hang along in rows like gallipots

in an apothecary’s shop; so high and steep is it that you go from the

lower to the higher parts thereof by stairs, and from the bottom to the

top requires no less than a hundred.”

Seen from the water near the _Britannia_ the old town is indeed

charming, with the picturesquely irregular and weathered roofs of

the older houses rising tier upon tier, and the grey-blue smoke of

chimneys hanging like a perpetual and kindly veil softening crudities

of architecture and adding pictorial charm. There are many quaint

houses, more especially those built by Hayman about 1634-1640, in

the Butterwalk, with the huge, pointed gables and overhanging upper

stories wedded to modern fronted shops, in which are displayed “Paris

fashions” and up-to-date goods that at first seem out of character with

such surroundings. There is, indeed, much of interest for the artist

and antiquarian in Dartmouth streets and by-ways, just as at almost

every turn ashore and on the surface of the beautiful land-locked

harbour there is something to arrest the attention of the casual

observer.

Much of the history of this ancient and interesting town is obscured

by the mists of the ages which have passed since the first settlement

was made upon the western shore of the lovely river. But we know that

the waters “upon which Roman triremes and Danish galleys, and later

huge captured galleons swung with the tide,” saw also the assembling

together, at the close of the twelfth century, of the Crusaders’ fleet,

which sailed the long voyage through the Bay to the Mediterranean to

join Richard Cœur de Lion at Messina.

Two centuries later the adventurous spirit which has always animated

the men of Devon in general, and of Dartmouth in particular, found

vent in one of those predatory expeditions against the coasts of

Normandy and Brittany for which the place was afterwards to gain so

renowned a name. In the last year of the fourteenth century one John

Hawley, deciding upon an “enterprise against those pestilent rogues

the French,” chartered all the shipping of which Dartmouth could boast

for this purpose, and in retaliation for the depredations of “the

French pirates upon the coasts of Devon,” set sail for the shores of

Normandy and Brittany. How successful this enterprising merchant’s

little private naval war turned out may be judged from the fact that he

and his captains, or they for him, captured thirty-four French ships

with their cargoes amounting to 1,500 tuns of wine. It is little to be

wondered at that after the return of the ships Dartmouth “ran red with

the luscious wines of France, and that none need go dry so long as they

would drink success to the bold men of the Dart and confusion to the

French.”

Such expeditions as that of Hawley, however, were sure to have their

counterpart in retaliatory descents by the French; and the history of

the town--during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries especially--if

written, would be one long story of daring and piratical adventures

on the part of the men of the Dart, and surprises and alarms from the

French, who on several occasions visited the town and plundered it.

Nature herself would appear, however, to have given some excuse for

these piracies (for to call them aught else would be but the merest

euphemism) in that she had provided a haven so admirably adapted not

only as a base from which to set forth upon such expeditions, but also

as a refuge which though so commodious could yet, on account of its

narrow entrance, be easily defended. In the reign of Edward IV the

burgesses entered into an agreement with their Royal master for the

provision of a “stronge and mightye and defensyve new tower” (now known

as Dartmouth Castle) from which a chain was to be stretched in time of

need to one on the opposite, Kingswear, side of the harbour’s mouth,

for the purpose of keeping out the King’s enemies, the French pirates,

and other marauders, the King agreeing to pay the sum of £30 per annum

for ever for this service, a large amount, when one considers the

difference in the value of money then and now.

That Dartmouth seamen early became famous is abundantly proved by the

circumstance that it was a captain hailing from this western port who

was selected by the immortal Chaucer as one of the characters to ride

in company with the Cook, Prioress, Doctor of Physic, the Franklin, the

Frere, and all the rest of that band of Canterbury pilgrims of long

ago. Amongst the many “pen portraits” he has given us, few, probably,

excel in strength and truth that of the Shipman “of Dertemouthe”;

which, after reading the history, and conning the traditions of the

town in the stirring times of long ago, one can readily accept as

typical of many of the men who, pirates though they were, did their

part to fight the battles of England, and uphold the noblest traditions

of a sturdy seafaring race.

[Illustration: DARTMOUTH]

Chaucer extenuates nothing as he writes (painting a picture of the man,

his day, and surroundings at one and the same time):

A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste;

For ought I woot he was of Dertemouthe.

He rood upon a rouncy as he kouthe,

In a gowne of faldyng to the knee.

A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he

About his nekke under his arm adoun.

The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun;

And certeinly he was a good felawe.

Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he y-drawe

Fro Burdeuxward whil that the Chapman sleepe,

Of nyce conscience took he no keepe.

If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond;

By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.

But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes,

His stremes and his daungers hym bisides,

His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage,

Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.

Hardy he was, and wys to undertake:

With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake;

He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were,

From Gootland to the Cape of Fynystere,

And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne.

His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne.[E]

[E] Chaucer’s _Canterbury Tales_ (Macmillan’s Globe

Edition).

The picture that Chaucer thus paints of the “Shipman of Dertemouthe,”

though it probably was a portrait, nevertheless was also true of the

seamen in those far-off times of almost every sea-going nation, when

the right of the ocean was ever that of the strongest, and the only

law that obtained with the sea-dogs of England, France, Holland, or

Spain was that of might. Whatever the squeamish amongst historians

or moralists may say, the bold sea rovers were a natural evolutionary

growth of the life on the coasts, and those of Dartmouth amongst the

best. But half-a-day’s sail in a swift craft away across the Channel

lay a portion of France not less fitted by Nature to breed pirates

and later on privateers than the fretted coast lines of Devon and

Cornwall with their myriad coves and refuges, to which the bold seamen

could retreat with their plunder, or to make good the damage of battle

or breeze. Just as the sister counties we have mentioned bred their

hordes of sea-rovers, so did the coasts of Brittany and Finistère. The

instinct of piracy and wrecking dominated both English and Bretons

alike, and indeed it was well for England that the bold spirits of

Cherbourg, St-Malo, Morlaix, and Brest (to mention but a few places

where such dwelt) were counterparted by those of Dartmouth, Plymouth,

Fowey, and Penzance.

The men of these ports not only fought when compelled, but (to quote

an old chronicle) “lusted exceedingly after the blood and treasure of

the French corsairs, and other sea rovers.” That the men of Dartmouth

were as doughty fighters ashore as afloat is testified by Walsingham

(amongst others) in his _Chronicle_. In this vivid, and let us hope

veracious, record one finds an account of the attack upon Dartmouth

by Du Chastel, who planned a descent upon the south-western coasts

generally, as well as an attack upon Dartmouth in particular, in

revenge for the depredations of the men of that port on the Breton

coast. The news of Du Chastel’s intention seems to have leaked out, for

when some hundreds of Bretons had been landed with the intention of

attacking from the land side at the same time that their friends made

an attempt from the sea, the former found that the men of the Dart were

prepared to receive them, having entrenched themselves to the number of

several hundred behind a deep ditch.

The women of the town seem to have borne an Amazonian part in the

defence of their hearths and homes, for we learn that they fought

stoutly, “using slings with dire effect, so that many of the invaders,

both knights and common men fell beneath their missiles into the said

ditch.” These and many others were summarily killed by the men, who

appear to have given no quarter even if it were asked. On this occasion

as on many others the men of Devon proved themselves as well able to

defend their homes and possessions as to ravage and take those of other

people, and the French, after losing upwards of 400 killed and wounded,

and leaving another 200 or so of their comrades prisoners in the hands

of the Dartmouth folk, were compelled to seek refuge in their ships as

best they could, and ultimately to abandon the idea of attacking other

towns on the coast, and return to their own shores.

Scarcely a year elapsed, however, ere the Bretons were back again, and

this time, unhappily for the men of the Dart, the news of their coming

did not precede them. Dartmouth was surprised, an entrance was forced,

the town burned, and many--both men and women--were slain. Thus, in the

stirring times of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, ebbed and

flowed the fortune of piratical warfare between the hereditary foes of

the sea-coasts of Brittany and Devon.

But Dartmouth men and Dartmouth ships were never idle, nor were they

always engaged upon mere filibustering expeditions. In the hearts

of Devon seamen the flame of patriotism has ever burned, and so on

more than one occasion they came in the nick of time to the aid

of England, and embarked upon enterprises of national, not merely

personal, significance and importance. It was so half a century before

the expeditions to Brittany, which brought about the descent of Du

Chastel and his force. Then, in 1385, after the death of Edward III

and his warlike son Edward the Black Prince, the French were planning

one of the periodical invasions of England, which on a grand scale

were always doomed to failure, and the English admirals and generals

seemed to have become indifferent, or were, perhaps, worn out by the

long years of fruitless fighting in Guienne, Poitou, and Brittany.

It was then that the Dartmouth men gathered their ships together,

and regardless of treaties or the lack of national support, swept up

the Channel, forced their way into the mouth of the Seine, where the

French fleet was being brought together, and preparations for the

invasion were going on, attacked the enemy, sank several of the ships,

and carried off with them back to Dartmouth four others, including,

Walsingham tells us, a knight’s barge, filled with spoil rich enough to

satisfy the greediest freebooter. This undertaking of Dartmouth folk

was of national importance; although such events were usually much more

of the nature of merchants’ speculations or piracy, which seldom failed

to bring about retribution from the equally bold and enterprising

Bretons. Indeed, there would appear good reason for supposing that

the right to levy “private warfare” was at least tacitly admitted

by both English and French rulers of the period, for in an ancient

volume bearing upon the subject one finds a distinct statement that at

least one English Sovereign, Edward III to wit, aided and abetted his

subjects in this matter, the excuse given being the laxity of the then

Duke of Brittany in restraining his subjects from similar depredations.

Three ports are mentioned, Dartmouth being one, to which the King

afforded “help and notable puissance upon pety Bretayne for to warre.”

It may be remarked in passing that men who had been bred of corsair

stock, who had learned the value of courage and the lust of battle

on the open sea, and the fascination of pillage and rapine as early

as they learned anything, needed little official encouragement to

undertake and continue the predatory warfare beloved and followed

so sturdily by their forbears. Whatever one’s opinion as to the

lawfulness or otherwise of such marauding habits, which often, it may

be admitted, told severely on the innocent, it is well to remember the

historical fact that these sea-rovers of the West of England formed

the nucleus of the British Navy, and the thews and sinews of the power

which enabled England in after years to flout the great Armada of

Philip of Spain, and to stand alone when Europe bowed before the crash

of dynasties, and trembled beneath the tread of Napoleon’s legions.

Out of the murk of piracy and lawless freebooting upon the coasts of

France and Spain was destined to emerge centuries later the material

from which were drawn the navy of Nelson, and the victors of Trafalgar,

and of many another hard fought fight, men indomitable when engaged

at long odds; enterprising and courageous when traversing in solitude

unknown seas and unknown lands; chivalrous (yes, chivalrous in measure)

when a gallant foe yielded; full of belief in the overruling Providence

which had set Britain in the midst of the waters that she might

throughout all the jugglery of Empires and nations remain free.

In the State papers and ships’ log-books which we have seen may be

found material for all the romances that can ever be written of daring

doings in the narrow seas, of the pirates, and afterwards of the

privateers and smugglers who sailed out of Devon and Cornish ports and

coves, and made the Channel during several centuries, war or no war

with France and Spain, almost impossible of safe passage to merchantmen

of the latter nations, except when strongly convoyed.

Of many of the stirring scenes which the port of Dartmouth must have

witnessed, there are unfortunately few historical records. But we know

that it was visited by several of the early Kings. Here, too, in Saxon

times came Sweyn, son of Godwyn, into whose hands Earl Beorn fell a

prisoner, and by him was afterwards put to death about 1049. It was to

Dartmouth that the “Red King” William Rufus came in hot haste from his

hunting of the deer on Dartmoor in 1099, after receiving the news of

the siege of Mans, Dartmouth being the nearest port from which he could

embark.

Just upon a century later, in 1190, came Richard Cœur de Lion with his

army of knights and Crusaders obsessed by the necessity for slaying

infidels, and of themselves dying in a far-off land. King John came to

Dartmouth more than once, notably in 1214, after his defeat at Roche

aux Moines in Anjou. It is this monarch, Leland states, who gave a

charter to the town, confirmed in the succeeding reign by Henry III,

although another writer, Merewether, states that in 1319 the town set

up a claim as having been free in the reign of Henry I early in the

twelfth century.

A less pleasant visitor of Royal blood was Prince Maurice, nephew

of Charles I, who besieged and took the town in 1643, the Royalists

losing possession three years later, when General Fairfax and his

Parliamentarians stormed and captured the place after considerable loss

of life and destruction of property. Charles I was here in 1643, and

(so tradition asserts) held his court in a room of one of the houses in

the Butterwalk, and Charles II visited the place after his Restoration,

some say with fair Mistress Gwynne in his suite.

But after all it is not to Royal folk that Dartmouth owed its fame

in years gone by, but to the sturdy seafarers of whom the famous

navigating sons of Devon, Adrian Gilbert, who (to quote a letter of

Queen Elizabeth herself) “doth travail and seeke, and by divers meanes

indeavoureth and laboureth that the passage unto China and the Isles

of the Moluccas by the northwestward may be known”; Martin Frobisher,

and John Davis of Sandridge; Francis Drake, and John Hawkins are but a

few. It was to John Davis that the task of discovering the sea route

concerning which Sir Humphrey Gilbert (the brother of Adrian) wrote

a _Discourse_ “to prove a Passage by the North-West to Cathay and the

East Indies” was entrusted. In all he made three voyages, in 1585,

1586, and 1587, in vessels which are well described in Chaucer’s words,

“little bote(s) no bigger than a manne’s thought”; and afterwards we

are told that he sailed into southern seas, and eventually was killed

by the Malaccan pirates with whom he had had more than one “brush,”

leaving behind him a permanent memorial in the name of Davis’s Straits

between Greenland and Baffin Land.

To Queen Elizabeth herself some credit must be given for the

encouragement and stimulus her patronage afforded these hazardous

enterprises; and if it was because of the reflected glory which would

accrue to her, or even direct monetary profit, well, what matter?

In Hakluyt one finds how “certain honourable personages and worthy

gentlemen of the Court and Country, with divers worshipful merchants of

London and the West Countrie, moved with desire to advance God’s glory,

and to seek the good of their native country, consulting together

of the likelihood of the discovery of the North-West Passage, which

heretofore has been attempted, but unhappily given over by accidents

unlooked for ... resolved, after good deliberation, to put down their

adventures, to provide for necessary shipping, and a fit man to be

chief conductor of this so hard an enterprise.” Then we are told how

one Master William Sanderson, merchant, of London, became the greatest

of the adventurers in respect of the money he provided, and how he

commended to those who had the adventure in hand one Master John Davis,

“a man very well grounded in the principales and art of navigation,” as

captain and chief pilot of the expedition. One can imagine the meetings

of the adventurers in London, and the zest with which the gentlemen of

the Court, the Queen’s representatives, secret or open, and the worthy

merchants, conned “sea-cards,” the charts of Master Martin Frobisher’s

voyages of a few years before, and the learned and closely reasoned

discourse of Sir Humphrey Gilbert himself regarding the existence of

the Passage. It may be that among these was the chart of friar Andro

Urdaneta, which Sir Humphrey Gilbert states was “made by his own

(Urdaneta’s) experience and travel ... wherein was plainly set down

and described this North-West Passage,” agreeing in all points with

Ortelius’ map.

And then there were the preparations at Dartmouth itself. The gathering

together of a “company of goodlie seamen, not easily turned from any

good purpose, and strong withal in their determination to serve the

Queene’s Most Excellent Majestie and their countrie well and faithfully

in this adventure”; the selection of ships and the fitting out of the

same. They who adventured forth on long voyages in those days indeed

needed stout hearts, for to the perils of the deep and the unknown were

added those of possible starvation and drought.

But at length everything was ready, and (again quoting Hakluyt’s vivid

pages) “all things being put in readiness, we departed from Dartmouth

the 7th of June towards the discovery of the aforesaid North-West

Passage with two barques, the one being fifty tons, named the

_Sunshine_ of London; and the other being of thirty-five tons, named

the _Moonshine_, of Dartmouth. In the _Sunshine_ we had twenty-three

persons, Master John Davis, captain.... The _Moonshine_ had nineteen

persons, William Bruton, captain.”

We are further told that ere the ships dropped the land astern,

doubtless in view of risks of the voyage and difficulties of

revictualling, “the captain and the master drew out a proportion for

the continuance of our victuals.”

One can imagine with what interest the setting forth of Davis and his

adventurous companions was watched by the townsfolk on the quays,

and how doubtless scores of them took the tree-shaded path to the

bluff above the old church of St Petrox to watch the two tiny vessels

gradually pass out of sight to the west as “the wind being at north,

and being fair weather” they departed. How different in dignity and

impressiveness is this simple phrase from the fuss, fume, and noisy

announcement of the departure of modern Polar expeditions, with rampant

personal advertisement, and free “puffing” of commercial wares and

stores.

Few as were the adventurous souls in the _Sunshine_ and _Moonshine_,

there was doubtless many a sad-hearted lass in Dartmouth town that

night. And in the waterside taverns seamen foregathered over their ale

tankards and tots of rum idly speculating as to the existence of a

North-West Passage, and as to whether bold John Davis, Master Mariner,

and his men would ever see Dartmouth harbour again.

But on September 30 of the same year, when the expedition had been gone

just over three months and three weeks, Davis was back again safe and

sound with both his ships. The _Moonshine_, which had been lost sight

of on the 27th, during “a marvellous storm being come in not two hours

before” Davis’ own vessel.

His second voyage commenced from Dartmouth on May 7 in the following

year (1586); and his third on May 19, 1587.

Something of the spirit which actuated these boldly adventuring

mariners of Dartmouth and the old West Country breathes, we think, in

the words with which Sir Humphrey Gilbert closes his learned and famous

_Discourse_.

He says, “for if, through pleasure and idleness, we purchase shame, the

pleasure vanisheth, but the shame remaineth for ever.

“And, therefore, to give me leave without offence always to live and

die in this mind, that he is not worthy to live at all that for fear

of danger of death shunneth his country’s service and his own honour,

seeing death is inevitable, and the fame of virtue immortal.”

From these stirring times of great enterprises is but a step to those

which came but a year or two later, when out of Plymouth hard by

streamed Drake’s little covey of ships on their mission of engaging

the vast Armada, which even when Davis and his intrepid companions set

forth for their voyaging amid Polar ice and northern seas was a menace

that cast a shadow over the national life.

Just as the townsfolk of Dartmouth had crowded to the cliffs at the

harbour entrance to see Davis depart on his voyages, and wave him

God-speed, so climbed they once again to watch the Armada, which Philip

of Spain in his pride had named “Invincible,” “wrecking nought that God

Himself was with the English fleet and Lord Howard of Effingham,” go

surging up the Channel, flags flying, cannon belching, with “pictures

of the Holy Saints, and coats of arms wrought upon their sails”; and

the little English ships hanging to them in hot and furious pursuit.

Then came a time of comparative rest for the beautiful little port

on the Dart, which, however, as we have before stated, saw some of

the storm and stress of the Civil War. With the bold and successful

enterprises of Dartmouth privateers during the long war with Napoleon,

or with those of equally daring smugglers at the end of the eighteenth

and beginning of the nineteenth century, there is no space to deal in

detail. We need only say that the spirit which had formerly actuated

the Hawleys, Davises, Hammonds, Clintons, and Vaughans (to mention

but a few)--many of whose enterprises are set forth in the State

papers--was not now a-lacking when England experienced once more a time

of stress and need, and opportunity for personal gain walked in step

with patriotism.

The greatness of Dartmouth as a seaport has departed. In the

comparative quietude of her streets and alleys one does, however, seem

to catch as it were an echo of other and more splendid days. And in the

types one meets by the waterside and in the purlieus of the quays the

observant can yet trace something of the old seadogs who, adventuring

much, went forth in quest of new worlds and new trade routes, or roved

the Breton coasts in search of conflict and of plunder. The waters of

the harbour are nowadays, however, chiefly ploughed by pleasure craft,

white winged yachts in place of the armed sloops and fast sailing

craft, once bent on pillage, or commerce with Newfoundland and other

far countries.

In the churches--more especially those of St Clement and St

Saviour--one finds rich treasures of architecture, and of monuments

to men and women citizens of Dartmouth famous in adventure, trade, or

philanthrophy. In the former church, which dates from the fourteenth

century and was fortified during the Civil War, are numerous memorials,

the quaint inscriptions which they many of them bear, setting forth

in brief the life history of those they commemorate. But it is the

church of St Saviour, set in the middle of the quaint old town, also

work of the fourteenth century (and earlier), which is the gem of the

place. The exceptionally fine screen is said to be an Armada relic; but

whether this is so or not, it is sufficiently beautiful to merit the

closest attention and examination. All who go to Dartmouth and visit

the church should notice the south side door known as the “Dragon”

Door, quaint with wonderful representations of animals, and dating, so

it is said, from the fourteenth century or even earlier. In the altar

piece, the subject of which is “Christ raising the Widow’s Son,” one

has some of the finest of Brockedon’s work, a distinguished son of the

Dart born at Totnes. And here, too, as in St Clement’s, sleep many

whose names were writ upon the town’s roll of fame in the times when

Dartmouth gave of her best in battle and discovery.

Totnes seems so indissolubly linked with Dartmouth in history and

adventure, that few who come to the outer port with time on their

hands fail, we fancy, to find their way up the beautiful river to that

inner port, now decayed ’tis true like the outer, but yet of more than

passing interest. Of its antiquity there can be as little doubt as of

its picturesqueness; although there are those who scout the theory (or

statement) of that none too veracious chronicler Geoffrey of Monmouth,

that Brutus of Troy landed at Totnes. Which story the devout townsfolk

from time out of mind have striven to keep alive by the preservation

in the pavement of quaint Fore Street of the stone upon which the

princely, world-wide wanderer is said to have rested after his landing.

In the street we have named, near the beautiful old Eastgate, which

stands half-way up its steeply climbing roadway, are some of the most

architecturally interesting houses of the town. Merchants’ palaces of

the time when Totnes was completely environed by its walls, and “its

inhabitants, even in times of trouble, could sleep at ease because

of its strong defences.” It is from the old Norman keep, built, so

’tis said, by Judhael de Totenais, that one obtains what local folk

proudly assert is the finest view in Devon. From it (let the claim pass

unchallenged) one does see a prospect of delight, widely stretching and

cultivated fields and uplands, with distant plum-hued Dartmoor on the

far horizon to the northward. To the south and in front of the lower

town is the beautiful reach of the river up which in ancient times came

the returned vessels from distant lands, richly laden with the spoil

of commerce or pillage which made the Totnes merchants, if not “rich

beyond the dreams of avarice,” yet wealthy amongst their peers.

But Totnes of to-day knows little of sea-borne commerce, and is mainly

given over to the pursuits of a country town of somewhat indifferent

enterprise, with the sole excitements afforded by recurring market

days, and the gossip of the incoming folk from the district round

about. A sharp enough contrast to the stirring days of old when

excitement and adventurous life was the distinguishing feature, and

“none could tell what each tide would bring up from the sea. News of

loss or gain, of returned or missing ships, of wealth for prosperous

merchants or disaster which might make the richest of them poor.”

In the ancient Parish Church of St Mary one has an interesting building

dating from the fifteenth century, replacing a thirteenth century

edifice which in turn stood on the site of a much earlier Norman

church. The beautifully carved screen (said by some authorities to be

the finest in Devon), and the registers which date from the middle

of the sixteenth century, and contain an astonishing amount of most

interesting information regarding the old merchant princes of the

Elizabethan and succeeding periods give St Mary’s Church an unusual

attractiveness for antiquarians and students.

In its old Guildhall, which is a portion of the old priory of St Mary,

granted to the Corporation in the reign of Edward, just behind the

church, Totnes possesses a building alive with historic memories of the

deepest interest, and containing amongst its deeds and records Rolls

of the Guilds from the year 1260, charters of many kings and queens,

some of the oldest as clear and almost as fresh as the day on which the

pens which wrote them were laid down three or four centuries ago. In

its Town Clerks of recent years--especially in Mr Ed Windeatt--Totnes

has generally been fortunate in having gentlemen by whom the old

records and treasures of the town have been appreciated and carefully

preserved. And writers and historians have found their labours much

lightened by the excellent manner in which the documents have been

collated and arranged.

Those who “know their Dart” will if possible leave this beautiful,

sleepy old town, which is set so charmingly on the hillside amid

rounded fertile uplands and many-tinted woods just before sunset. Then

the passage back to Dartmouth down the river, from the brown water

of the Dart to the gradually greening salt water of the estuary, is

one of almost indescribable and unforgettable beauty. It lies past

Sandridge where that intrepid explorer and much adventuring seaman

John Davis was born; and Greenway, where Adrian and Humphrey Gilbert

had their home. And then, just before reaching Dartmouth once more one

passes the mid-river rock of sinister appearance and tradition, known

as the Anchor, to which in former times scolding wives and disobedient

daughters were ferried and left to encounter the rising tide, and (as

we are told) if “when the water was up to their petticoats the same

remained obdurate,” were left until obstinacy yielded to wholesome fear

of a complete ducking, or worse.

As one leaves the interesting and lovely old town of Dartmouth, and

drops the estuary astern, and approaches that long, low headland, Start

Point, which lies eight miles to the south-west, one passes the stretch

of white, sandy beach, near which took place that fierce fight of long

ago between Du Chastel’s Bretons and the men and women of Dartmouth

town. On these sands, too, had landed in the autumn of 1370, another

adventurer, but of more noble kind, namely, the Earl of Warwick, the

“King Maker.”

When once Start Point, with its lighthouse and lighthouse buildings

hung upon the western side of the cliff two hundred feet in the air,

and looking in the strong light as though cut out of ivory, has been

left astern, one comes to the wild looking Prawle Point, with its

signal station, and then into the estuary of Salcombe River, leading up

to Kingsbridge of ancient renown.

Salcombe has been called “one of the prettiest havens in Devon,” and

after a visit one is inclined to agree that the description is not

unmerited. It is indeed a delightful spot, as yet largely unspoiled by

“development”; picturesquely built beneath the shelter of well-wooded

hills. These, clothed with verdure, form a remarkable contrast to the

hills on the Portlemouth side which lie bare and open to the strong

westerly and south-westerly gales which sweep up from the sea. This

same Portlemouth is a straggling collection of ancient, grey-toned

cottages, clinging to the sides of a steeply climbing road. In the

churchyard is a tombstone to the memory of a farmer who was poisoned

by his servant, which is interesting from the fact that the latter’s

punishment of being burned at the stake is set forth upon the stone

so that “all people warning take.” The girl was tried in 1782, and

condemned to be first hanged and then burned; “which barbarous sentence

was duly carried out at Exeter, and was the last instance in England of

such a punishment being inflicted.”

Just before one reaches Salcombe, which nestles amidst its wealth of

myrtles, Portugal laurels, Guelder roses, arbutus, orange and lemon

trees, and sheltered even from the soft south wind by Lambury Point,

one passes Fort Charles, one of the many isolated Royalist strongholds

during the stirring times of the Civil War in the West Country.

Soon after the outbreak of hostilities this fort, which had been

previously repaired and reclaimed from almost a state of ruin by Sir

Edmund Fortescue “who was for the King,” was attacked by Colonel

Weldon, Governor of Plymouth, “who approached with both horse and foot

to the siege, and made a hell for four months of the little fisher town

Salcombe.” That the place should have held out so long was a wonder,

but the end was bound to come. Fort Charles capitulated, but Sir Edmund

Fortescue was allowed to march out with his force with the honours of

war, and to retain the keys of his castle. The latter, however, was

dismantled (making the retention of the keys a somewhat empty form)

and has never since been used or repaired. And thus fell the last place

to hold out for the King in Devon.

Salcombe, with its narrow streets and ancient houses forming so great a

contrast to the newer portions of the town and the villas dotted here

and there amid the wealth of green upon its slopes, has an old-world

atmosphere, and a picturesqueness which makes most who drop anchor in

its fiord-like estuary reluctant to depart, and anxious to return again.

To lovers of English history Salcombe will always be a spot of fragrant

and pleasant memory and pilgrimage, from the fact that it was here that

the great historian James Anthony Froude lived for many years and did

much of the work wherein “he clothed the story of stirring deeds and

historic happenings, which had long since been dead, with flesh and

blood so that it lives again in the minds and hearts of men.” Froude

died here in 1894, and many pilgrims yearly make their way to the

long, low house with a verandah running round it, and its casements

opening out into the charming garden in which he loved to wander, and

where Tennyson came to visit him. It was at Salcombe, too, that the

poet received the inspiration for “Crossing the Bar,” whilst on Lord

Brassey’s _Sunbeam_, and those who have slipped out of the estuary when

the sun is dipping westward can appreciate the picture conjured up in

the opening stanza:

Sunset and evening star:

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the Bar

When I put out to sea.

The tale of Salcombe as regards its former greatness and present-day

comparative decay is similar to that of so many other little ports

which we have visited and described. Leland refers to it in his

_Itinerary_ as a “fisher towne.” But anciently it was more than this.

The records of the number of ships belonging to and trading with

Salcombe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries prove it to have

then been a place of considerable importance. And in the middle of the

former century the Customs returns amounted to a sum of about £5,000

per annum. In the latter half of the eighteenth and early years of the

nineteenth centuries Salcombe was a great smuggling place. Was not,

indeed, the estuary made by Nature herself for such a purpose? And the

smugglers, we are told, “gave much trouble to the riding officers and

‘preventive’ men of the coast from Dartmouth to Plymouth.”

Kingsbridge, once a flourishing port with a considerable Mediterranean

trade, employing some two hundred vessels not a century ago, is no

longer of much commercial importance. The way from Salcombe up to the

further town is a muddy channel, almost devoid of picturesque scenery,

and beset with mudbanks. But amongst the ancient things which survive

at Kingsbridge is the custom of brewing and drinking “white ale,” of

unprepossessing appearance and considerable potency, said to have been

invented at Dodbroke, with which Kingsbridge is so closely connected.

It is, indeed, a curious beverage of almost treacly consistency, made

of malt, hops, eggs, and flour, fermented with grout, and is best

avoided by the stranger.

[Illustration: KINGSBRIDGE QUAY]

In the old Shambles erected in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, which

form a picturesque element in the Fore Street, and in the Church of

St Edmund, dating from the second decade of the fifteenth century,

Kingsbridge holds out some inducement for the visits of antiquarians.

In the quaint inscription on the memorial to one Robert Phillips, just

outside the chancel door is clearly stated a truism for all who run to

read.

Here lie I at the chancel door;

Here lie I because I’m poor:

The further in the more you’ll pay;

Here lie I as warm as they.

Bolt Head, rugged and forbidding of aspect, and the Mewstones which

guard the western side of the Salcombe estuary must be rounded ere

one’s course can be laid for Plymouth, along a rugged and wild coast

deeply and dangerously fissured, in which are the mouths of the

picturesque streams the Avon and Erme. Then come more Mewstones, the

number of which along this coast has often caused us to wonder. These

passed, Plymouth is right ahead.

As one passes up the wide expanse of that unequalled anchorage known as

the Sound, where have floated almost from time immemorial the argosies

and battle fleets of England, and into which so much of the wealth of

the world has been borne in the past as now, the spoil of enterprise or

of war, one realizes something at least of the spirit of ancient times.

Plymouth has forged ahead whilst many of her sister ports of bygone

ages have slowly decayed. Throughout the centuries there has been no

rest, no idle contentment with things that are until they cease to be.

And thus it is that Plymouth, of all the ancient ports of the West

Country on the Channel, has increased in greatness as the years have

rolled by.

Few more inspiring and beautiful pictures are to be found along the

coast than those afforded by Plymouth Sound. Wedded to fine scenery is

bustling commerce. Across the seaway lies the world-famous breakwater,

and behind it all along up to Plymouth the sea is beset with craft of

all kinds; huge trading vessels, mostly three and four masters, which

have voyaged to the ends of the earth; fishing boats, which look like

cockle shells in comparison; destroyers, and torpedo boats; tramp

steamers belching out black clouds of smoke in rivalry with that of

the tugs; and, more majestic than all, the ocean liners and occasional

incoming battleships making their way slowly up the Sound.

There are few spots on blue water where is given so great a touch of

life to things inanimate. And when one comes to an anchor off Drake’s

long low isle, or in the shelter of the beautifully wooded Mount

Edgcumbe, the ghosts of mighty seamen of the past seem to flit across

the scene, and visions of long lost fleets, and adventurers’ galleons

rise unbidden to the mind.

Plymouth is one of those “ancient places in the making of which all

periods of national history have had a share.” It even disputes with

Totnes the honour of having been the landing place of Brutus the

Trojan, when some three thousand years ago he paid a visit to these

shores. The story that the Trojan champion Corianaeus and a giant of

the West Country, one Gogmagog, wrestled a fall on or near the famous

Hoe, in which the latter was ultimately vanquished and cast into the

sea, is a part of the Brutus legend. The Plymouth Fathers of old time

evidently accepted it as having some foundation in fact, as they caused

a representation of the giant to be cut in the turf of the Hoe, which

remained to remind the townsfolk and seafarers alike of the combat

until about the time of the Restoration.

Of the doings and history of the town of Plymouth, known in the

Domesday Book as Sutton or South Town, then having about half a score

of inhabitants, prior to the Norman Conquest (if any town existed,

which one may doubt, notwithstanding Geoffrey of Monmouth) there are

practically no records or traces of any kind. Eventually the Domesday

hamlet increased and became divided into two portions, Sutton Prior, or

the eastern portion, falling to the Priory of Plympton, and the western

part coming through grant by the Crown into the possession of the

family of Valletort, which still forms one of the subsidiary titles of

the Edgecumbe family, whose connexion with Plymouth is so intimate.

The rise of the port was destined to be rapid, for towards the end

of the fourteenth century only three other towns in England had

larger populations. Two of these, it may be noted, were ports--London

and Bristol--and the third the seat of an archbishopric, York. Long

before this period, however, Plymouth possessed a market, and had

sent representatives to Parliament. And in the reign of Henry II it

received its Charter--the first granted by Act of Parliament, a unique

privilege, of which the city fathers have always been justly proud.

The first mayor in pursuance of this charter was elected in 1439,

William Ketherick by name; who (according to records which have been

preserved) was a noted sportsman, and the possessor of “an appetite of

right goodlie proportions, though he was but a little man.” There is a

story that at the banquet he gave on his election, lest his appetite

and that of his guests should run the risk of remaining unsatisfied,

there was included amongst the numerous dishes, joints, and delicacies

provided, a monster pie, into which “every beast, bird, and fish was

put, with spices and other matter,” which measured nearly five yards in

length and one and a half in breadth, and indeed speaks volumes for the

digestions of those times.

Like its neighbour Dartmouth, Plymouth has been almost from time

immemorial the home of daring adventure and warlike enterprises.

And like the sister port it possesses a fine and commodious harbour

(though one less easily defended), singularly well adapted as a base

for expeditions of the kind which marked the fourteenth and fifteenth

centuries more especially. But although many of the ships and fleets

which sailed out of the Sound for the coasts of France, Spain, and the

Americas in bygone times were unauthorized freebooters, early in the

existence of Plymouth more truly national expeditions set sail from

its quays. For example, towards the close of the thirteenth century a

great fleet of upwards of 320 vessels assembled for an attack upon the

French coasts; and in 1355--some sixty years later--Edward the Black

Prince came here for a similar purpose. And during the wars between

the Houses of York and Lancaster there was stir in the old streets

by the waterside marking from time to time the arrival of some Royal

fugitive or exile. Here, too, came unfortunate Margaret of Anjou, the

dauntless, sleepless foe of Edward IV; and the not less unfortunate

Duke of Clarence. In the first year of the sixteenth century there

landed at Plymouth yet another ill-starred lady, the Princess Katherine

of Aragon, on her way to marry Prince Arthur, and destined afterwards

to become the wife of his brother Henry VIII. She was entertained right

royally by the citizens of Plymouth, chiefly by one of the merchant

princes of the port, named Paynter, who lived in a magnificent mansion

not far from the waterside, which has, alas! in recent years shared the

fate of most historical buildings that come in the way of modern and

commercial progress.

But although many books might be written concerning the sailing of

the Plymouth corsairs against “the damnable pirates out of St-Malo,

Morlaix, and Brest,” and other smaller ports of the Breton coast, and

afterwards of the daring doings of ships which, leaving the port as

honest traders to the Spanish Main, or West Coast of Africa, yet, when

on the high seas, hoisted the black flag of piracy, we have no space to

spare in which to describe them in detail. Nor, indeed, to deal with

the “bloody adventures of bold seamen out of Plymouth, on the opposite

coasts,” nor to recount the marvellous exploits of those who ranged the

Spanish Main, and became passing rich by reason of the singeing of the

Dons’ beards, and the booty which fell to daring enterprise and bold

adventure, where no man valued either his own life or the lives of his

foes.

It is impossible, however, to pass without a somewhat detailed mention

of the most eventful period of the town’s history when “by some

concatenation of Fortune and circumstance so many brave and gallant

men of skill and resource dwelt in or came to Plymouth, that they might

in the hour of England’s need take upon themselves her strong defence.”

It is not too much to say that Plymouth came to its own in the great

days of Elizabeth. For then the magnificent harbour for a time became

the centre and focus of all that was noblest and most strenuous in

national life and effort. And the position that Plymouth then attained

has never been entirely lost. It is the one great old-time port of the

South-West coasts which has known no decline and seen no decay.

In the streets of the old town, which has largely passed away to

make room for the needs of strenuous modern commerce, were enacted

stirring scenes; which, indeed, as one writer phrases it, “made the

very pavement stones and quays of the town the stage of history.” Here

were gathered, at all events, most of the foremost actors in the great

pageantry of the Elizabethan age and the Armada period. Here came

Drake, Sir John Hawkins, Martin Frobisher, Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord

Howard of Effingham, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Lord Seymour, and many more

sea lords of the Channel and the wider seas beyond. It was the work of

these, and others almost as famous and equally daring and patriotic,

to raise England to the pinnacle amongst the nations of the world that

she occupied by the end of the reign of Elizabeth, and has never since

lost. To them in a large measure must be given the credit of planting

the seeds of Empire throughout the then known world, which by their

efforts in adventure and discovery was so considerably extended during

the latter part of the sixteenth century. To these intrepid seamen and

explorers of Plymouth and other Western ports we owe not only that

shining gem India, but also the vast America we so unhappily lost, the

Empire in the South Seas, and the territory of the frozen North lands

which cling close to the Pole.

It is, however, more particularly with the great Armada and the setting

forth of that band of intrepid adventurers for conscience’ sake, the

Pilgrim Fathers, that the history of Plymouth is linked with that

of the nation for all time. On the Hoe, now “tamed,” but otherwise

much as it was in Drake’s and Raleigh’s time, the merchant princes of

Plymouth were in those far off days wont to forgather, to discuss the

news of the day, and to watch the outgoing and incoming of the ships

in which their fortunes were embarked. And it was to the Hoe that

the bold adventurers, who sailed forth into unknown as well as known

seas, bearing with them the fortunes of others with their own lives as

surety, turned their last gaze as they dropped away down the Sound out

into the deep waters.

It is recorded, too, that when any ship was setting forth on an errand

of importance, not only did the vessel salute the shore with guns, and

the music of the ship’s band (where such could be mustered), but the

guns upon the Hoe were fired, the crowd gathered upon it to witness the

departure huzza-ed, and music was played.

One can, therefore, easily imagine the excitement which seized upon

the town on that Sunday in August, in the year 1573, when the news

came from the look-out that Drake was back from one of his adventurous

voyages, and, as a writer of the time says, “all people came rushing

out of the churches, insomuch that there were few Christian souls left

to hear the preacher.”

The same spirit which had made adventurers (and perhaps on occasion

pirates) now made heroes, instinct with a high ideal of England’s

honour and renown. Those were days in which Englishmen bandied no words

with the Dons of Spain, but spoke with ball with the breath of powder,

as the following instance of Sir John Hawkins’s treatment of the

Spanish admiral who failed in naval etiquette will show. It happened

that the Spanish fleet, some fifty sail, sent to bring Queen Anne of

Austria from Flanders to Spain, entered (to quote Sir Richard Hawkins)

“betwixt the island and the maine without vayling their topsayles, or

taking in of their flags.” Sir John Hawkins, on seeing this, made no

delay, but commanded his gunner to shoot at the flag of the Spanish

admiral’s ship as a gentle hint of the breach of etiquette. Again

quoting, we find “they (the Spaniards) persevered arrogantly to keep

the flag displayed, whereupon the gunner at the next shot lact the

admirall through and through, whereby the Spaniards finding that the

matter began to grow earnest, took in their flags and topsayles and so

ran to an anchor.”

As was not unnatural the Spanish admiral sent a boat to Sir John, in

command of an officer of rank, to demand an explanation. The English

admiral, however, promptly declined to afford any, and moreover told

the Spaniard plainly that “as in the Queene’s port ... he had neglected

to do the acknowledgement and reverence which all owe to another

majestie,” he must depart within twelve hours whether in fair wind or

foul, “upon pain to be held as a common enemy.”

It was to men like these that the fate of England could be so surely

entrusted. For to dauntless courage and marvellous skill in the arts

of seamanship was added the fear of God in their hearts, sometimes

curiously obscured it is true, but in reality genuine and inspiring.

For some time before the ships of the Armada cast loose their moorings

in Lisbon on May 19, 1588, and set out upon the conquest of England

under the command of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the English fleet,

under the command of Lord Charles Howard, Sir Francis Drake, and Sir

John Hawkins had been collected together and marshalled in Plymouth

Sound awaiting the news that the Spaniards were in the Channel. The

ships had been chosen and “found” by men who knew what value to place

upon sound ships, rigging, and fittings; and under the eye of Howard,

Seymour, Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, and others who afterwards bore

their gallant part, the English ships (some mere cockboats) which rode

at anchor under the lee of Mount Edgcumbe, waiting for the advent of

the enemy, and “straining at the cables to get at the Spanish Dons,”

were made ready.

[Illustration: CREMILL POINT, PLYMOUTH]

The Spanish fleet entered the Channel off the coast of Cornwall on

July 19 in dirty weather. Up from the Bay the Spanish admiral in the

_San Martin_ had led the van, “showing lights at night, and firing

guns when the weather was hazy.” On their arrival at the mouth of the

Channel they found English fishing boats acting as scouts, and so the

news of the Armada’s coming was first brought to land, and flashed

along the coast by desperate riders, and at night by kindled watch

fires. Froude gives us an arresting and detailed picture of the dangers

which had beset the English fleet in Plymouth Sound during the period

of waiting--dangers of exhausted provisions and depleted resources,

which were (so the historian states) due to the parsimony of Elizabeth

and some of her counsellors. Medina Sidonia summoned his captains

aboard the flag-ship to decide upon a course of action. Whether they

should await the attack of the English fleet as they proceeded up the

Channel, or attempt a surprise and fall upon it as it lay in Plymouth.

The King’s orders, however, were to make for Margate roads and effect

the junction with Parma. So the great unwieldy galleons, crammed to

repletion with men, priests, and treasure, made their way up the

Channel slowly, and, at first, in order like the shape of a half-moon.

“Long before the Spaniards saw the Lizard,” writes Froude, “they had

themselves been seen, and on the evening of the 19th (of July), the

beacons along the coast had told England that the hour of its trial was

come.

“To the ships at Plymouth the news was as a message of salvation.

By thrift and short rations, by good management, contented care, and

lavish use of private means, there was still one week’s provisions,

with powder and shot for one day’s sharp fighting, according to English

notions of what fighting ought to be.... All wants, all difficulties

were forgotten in the knowledge that he (the enemy) was come, and that

they could grapple with him, before they were dissolved by starvation.”

In this great hour of national danger it must be remembered that the

nation was at one. Differences of political faith and of religion were

abandoned, “there was saddling and arming in village and town, and

musters flocking to their posts.” And on the night of the 19th, with a

strong wind setting up the Sound, the English ships, and a few of the

privateers, were warped out behind the shelter of Mount Edgcumbe, so

that they could readily get clear away to sea. And thus it happened

that on the morning when the Spaniards caught their first glimpse of

the Cornish coast there were forty ships lying in wait for them in

Plymouth Sound.

Froude presents a vivid picture of the succeeding hours when he writes,

“The day wore on; noon passed and nothing had been seen. At length,

towards three in the afternoon, the look-out men on the hill reported

a line of sails on the western horizon ... they swept on in a broad

crescent ...; and as the hulls showed clear, it was seen that report

had not exaggerated the numbers said to be coming. A hundred and fifty

large and small were counted and reported to Lord Howard....”

A hundred and fifty, and beneath the haven lay to meet them but forty

odd! There was no hesitation, however. One after the other cables

were slipped, or anchors weighed on board the English ships, and

they dropped away down the Sound, whilst thousands watched their

setting forth with beating and anxious hearts, for the magnitude of

the undertaking was great enough to appal the stoutest. The night

was cloudy, and it was full dusk ere the Spanish admiral saw that

Howard was waiting, and prepared for him. The English ships flitted

to and fro between the Armada and the land most bewilderingly, “so

that the Spaniards could by no means reckon or make sure of their size

or number.” Seeing that to enter the Sound without first fighting an

action was quite impossible, Medina Sidonia flew the signal to heave to

for the night, confident in his superior numbers.

Next day’s dawn found the Spanish fleet and the English ships not yet

in touch. The breeze rose with the sun, and about eight o’clock the

former got under way with a view of closing with Howard’s ships. But

to the Spanish admiral’s astonishment he found the enemy easily took

and kept the weather gauge, and either approached or left at will his

clumsy “high towered, broad-bowed galleons, which moved like Thames

barges piled with hay; while the sharp, low English sailed at once two

feet to the Spaniard’s one, and shot away as if by magic in the eye of

the wind.”

The action, which, with short intervals, was destined to last for

almost a week, commenced by Howard’s flag-ship, the _Ark_, and three

others of the English vessels running down upon the Spanish rear line,

and whilst traversing it “firing successively into each galleon as they

passed, then wearing round and returning over the same course.”

The Spanish commanders were struck with astonishment, and with the

English “firing four shots to one,” the huge galleons were raked

again and again, and their over-numerous crews thrown into confusion.

Meanwhile the rest of the gallant little English ships, the masts of

some of which scarce came above the poops of their enemies, were one by

one getting into action on similar conditions.

The fight went on through the long morning and into the afternoon, with

the Spaniards always wearing and endeavouring to get at close quarters

with their nimble foes, but always failing to do so. The Spanish ships

being to leeward and canting over to the wind found their shots fly

high over the smaller English craft, and their guns could not be

sufficiently depressed to overcome this disadvantage.

Towards evening a ship was detached from the English fleet to carry a

report of the events of the day to Lord Henry Seymour, and a messenger

rode off in hot haste to London to ask urgently for more powder and

ammunition, of which the English were already running short. During the

night Drake went in pursuit of some vessels which apparently had left

the main body of the Armada, and Howard himself and his other ships

clung close to the Spaniards “sparing powder, but firing an occasional

shot to prevent the enemy from recovering from their confusion.”

Terrified by these tactics and the superb seamanship of Howard’s ships,

the Spanish huddled together like a flock of frightened sheep, and in

the night several vessels fell foul of one another, and much damage was

done in consequence. Amongst those which met with such misadventure

were the _Santa Catalina_ and the _Capitana_. The latter, a galleon of

1,200 tons, carrying the flag of Pedro de Valdez, the only commander

on the Spanish side with any reliable or extensive knowledge of the

Channel, was so damaged that she was abandoned to her fate (though the

Spanish admiral-in-chief, Medina Sidonia, sent a boat to take off her

very essential commander, who gallantly refused to desert his ship),

and next morning fell a prey to Drake on his return from chasing what

had proved to be not Armada galleons but Flemish traders. The prize

proved of unexpected value. We have already mentioned what ultimately

became of the _Capitana_, but an interesting sidelight regarding

the treatment in those days, of prisoners of war, more especially

foreigners--who were looked upon by the lower classes of English people

as little better than savages--is afforded by a letter from Gilbert to

Walsingham dated a few days before the final scattering of the Armada.

He wrote, “The cost of keeping them (the _Capitana_ prisoners) was

great, the peril great, the discontent of the country people greatest

of all,” and so, “to save expense, they were fed on the refuse of their

own provisions, which was too bad to be taken away, the fish stinking,

and the bread full of worms.”

It is not inconceivable that had the rough-dealing fishermen of Brixham

had their way with regard to the Spaniards, the difficulty of feeding

them would not have long troubled those in authority. Prisoners of

war in those days in any country found little consideration if unable

themselves to pay ransom, or if their rank was not sufficiently high to

make redemption probable.

During the succeeding few days the fight went on amid storms and

varying winds, the English admiral supplying his necessities of powder

and provisions (and dire necessities these were) from the stores of

the enemies’ ships which were captured, or which in their unwieldy

manœuvres had come into collision, been irreparably damaged and

abandoned by the Spaniards.

Knowing nothing of the coast the Spanish commander entreated the Duke

of Parma (who lay at Calais) most earnestly to send him pilots. All

through that long, running fight up Channel the English policy had been

to avoid as far as possible close engagement; to worry the stragglers

of the Spanish fleet; to snap up any laggards; and engage any which had

out-sailed (as did the _San Marcos_) the main body.

Concerning these tactics the Spanish commander wrote to the Duke of

Parma, “The enemy pursue me. They fire upon me most days from morning

till nightfall; but they will not close and grapple.” Then the writer

goes on to request assistance, and, more than anything, powder and

shot, as his stock was running low.

At length, having traversed the whole length of the Channel, harassed

by the “English bloodhounds, Howard, Hawkins, Drake, Frobisher, and

the rest,” the Armada straggled into Calais roads. There were missing

vessels; and downcast hearts aboard most of the galleons which had won

to Calais through the ceaseless English fire.

The Armada brought up on the edge of shoal water, which made it

difficult to deliver such an attack as would best have pleased and

served the English commanders. And so, after a consultation aboard

Howard’s own ship, in which “Sheffield, Seymour, Southwell, Palmer,

Drake, Hawkins, Winter, Fenner, and Frobisher assembled, with the

fate of England in their hands,” it was decided to launch against the

great Armada the fire-ships which were destined to complete “with the

additional and saving grace of God’s warring elements,” the final

destruction of the proud fleet of Philip of Spain.

Eight of the smaller vessels which had attached themselves to the

English fleet were selected for the heroic service. Their rigging and

spars were smeared with pitch, their decks and holds filled with all

the most combustible rubbish to which hands could be put, and then,

late at night, when “the tide--set directly down from the English

position to where the ships of the Armada ... lay” the fire ships were

loosed on their mission of destruction with their several crews to

pilot them to their destination, when they were to lash the helm fast,

belay the sheets, and set the vessels on fire.

Froude describes the scene thus, using as his authorities the letters

of eyewitnesses, Howard, Drake, Winter, and other accounts now in the

Record Office. “When the Spanish bells were about striking twelve,

and, save the watch on deck, soldiers and seamen lay stretched in

sleep, certain dark objects, which had been seen dimly drifting on

the tide where the galleons lay thickest, shot suddenly into pyramids

of light, flames leaping from ruddy sail to sail, flickering on the

ropes, and forecastles, foremasts and bowsprits a lurid blaze of

conflagration.... Panic spread through the entire Armada; the enemy

they most dreaded was upon them.”

The success of the fire-ships was complete, so far as frightening

the Spanish into putting to sea was concerned. Most of the galleons,

after some confusion and damage, got clear of the shoals, and lay-to

about six miles from the shore. Then when daybreak came, some were

seen aground on Calais Bar. During the next few days the running fight

was resumed, as at first the galleons strove to regain their former

anchorage off Calais, but were driven along the Dutch coast, ultimately

to speed northwards towards Scotland, with Howard, Drake, Hawkins, and

the rest of the English captains in hot pursuit.

“Without pilots, in a strange sea, with the autumn storms prematurely

upon them, and with no friendly port for which to run, he (Medina

Sidonia) became utterly unmanned.... On, therefore, sped the Armada

before the rising breeze, the English still following. Then as ship

after ship became leaky or disabled by the ever-rising storm, and was

abandoned with callousness bred of ‘a wonderful fear,’ what remained

of the great fleet of Philip of Spain passed for a time out of English

ken, and rushed northwards to destruction and dismemberment.”

Howard was at last compelled to abandon the chase. Froude tells us “the

English had but three days’ provisions left, and to follow further so

ill-provided, with the prospect of a continuing storm, was to run into

needless danger.”

Thus, with the return of Howard’s ships to Margate and Harwich, was

the “greatest service ever done by an English fleet ... successfully

accomplished by men whose wages had not been paid from the time of

their engagement, half-starved, with their clothes in rags and falling

off their backs, and so ill-found in the necessaries of war that they

had eked out their ammunition by what they could take in action from

the enemy himself.”

Plymouth’s share in the most glorious event in national history was the

chief and ever unforgettable one. And for this reason we have told the

story of it somewhat fully.

It was from Plymouth that Sir Walter Raleigh set sail with other bold

adventurers for America, where he took possession of Virginia, calling

the new colony after his none too grateful mistress, Queen Elizabeth,

on July 13, 1584.

Plymouth, also, saw the setting forth of a much more significant and

peaceful expedition to that New World of which so little was even then

known, when the Pilgrim Fathers from Leyden, after sojourning awhile

in the great West country port, stepped once more aboard the schooner

_Mayflower_, on September 6, 1620, and casting loose, adventured out

into the wide ocean, which washed the shores of far distant America as

well as those of their native land. It was in remembrance of the last

spot in England to give them harbourage that New Plymouth was named.

The vessel which bore so rich a cargo of faith to the New World, and

has enjoyed such fame, was destined to have a prosaic end. After she

had borne the “Pilgrim Fathers” safely across the Atlantic, she was

sold as a trader, and after many years in the East India Company’s

service was lost off Masulipatam on the east coast of India.

Plymouth played its gallant part in the Civil War. The Royalist

forces recognized the importance of the possession of such a town and

attacked it almost continuously for several years. It also had to stand

actual and protracted siege. Over and over again the Royalist troops

under Charles I, dashing and gallant Prince Rupert, and many other

distinguished generals assailed the town, only time after time to be

repulsed with heavy loss. Then came the culminating event one Sunday

morning when the slopes and hillside to the north and north-east of the

town surged and rang with the tide and cries of fierce conflict. It

was the Royalists’ last effort, and with their defeat the siege was

finally abandoned.

Charles II when he came to the throne did not forget the “malignancy”

of the men of Plymouth, nor the stout defence they had offered to his

father’s attack. It was probably to the latter fact that the existence

of “The Citadel,” which Charles II built, may be ascribed. For,

although nominally for the defence of the town on the sea side, it is

significant that the greater proportion of the guns with which it was

provided were trained upon the town itself.

Of the many eighteenth-century voyagers who set out from Plymouth, none

was destined to win greater renown than Captain Cook, who made the town

his headquarters previous to all three of his famous expeditions.

The fear of Napoleonic invasion did not perhaps convulse

Plymouth--greatly strengthened as it had become by that time, and kept

by ceaseless bustle and activity from the form of nervous dread which

afflicted the smaller towns of the south and south-western coasts--but

it saw its full share not only of the distress and excitement caused

by the long war, but also of the more terrible effects. Many a proud

line-of-battle ship, frigate, and corvette which left the Sound with

a gallant complement of brave men, colours flying, and bands playing,

returned little more than a shambles or a shattered wreck after one

of those fierce engagements in the Channel or Bay of Biscay for which

the years from just after the French Revolution till well on into the

second decade of the nineteenth century were famous.

[Illustration: PLYMOUTH BREAKWATER]

At the close of the war the great Napoleon, broken in fortune and

spirit, came to Plymouth in the _Bellerophon_, and remained some

little time the object of the greatest curiosity not only to all the

townsfolk, but to the countryside at large, the inhabitants of which

crowded into the place from distant parts to see the man who for two

decades had been the cause of so much misery, and such nights and

days of alarm.

During the war the Plymouth privateers distinguished themselves as

might be expected of vessels hailing from a port with traditions of

Blake, Hawkins, Frobisher, and the rest of those gallant Elizabethan

captains. But of the many gallant actions, often fought against great

odds, and triumphantly brought to an issue, we have no space here to

speak.

Of Old Plymouth there is now, alas! little left. Even half a century

ago there were many of the ancient houses standing in the streets that

the old sea captains trod. But now few of these dwellings remain,

and even the historic streets have in many cases been renamed, thus

unhappily destroying for ever all connection with the past. In St

Andrew’s Street there are still a few quaint houses with projecting

windows, carved corbels, overhanging eaves, and substantial doors

made to resist actual attack as well as to preserve the house against

casual intruders. At the bottom of St Andrew’s Street stands a block of

modern houses, erected in medieval style, and into one of them has been

incorporated much of the woodwork of one of the houses which the more

modern ones replace. This house is interesting as being, at least by

tradition, the dwelling frequently occupied by Sir Walter Raleigh when

in Plymouth. In the High Street, too, there are still a few survivals

of charm and value, with the ancient archways leading into spacious

courts. High Street was, as its name indicates, the chief thoroughfare

in Elizabethan times, and must have known Drake, Raleigh, Hawkins, and

many another Plymouth worthy and bold sea rover. It is in the heart of

the old town where Drake and the chief merchants of his time had their

residences.

Of the old inns and taverns, which, as became a seaport, were once

very numerous, few if any survive. The most famous was the Turk’s

Head, probably dating from the time of Richard Cœur de Lion and the

Crusades, as did most hostelries bearing that and similar names. In

Woolster Street there was the inevitable Mitre Tavern, much resorted to

by the gentlemen adventurers, and the officers of Plymouth merchantmen.

Here, tradition states, was fought, early one autumn morning, after a

night of high play at cards, a “triangular” duel with pistols which

sent two gallant gentlemen to their last account.

In St Andrew’s Church Plymouth has not only one of the largest parish

churches in England, but a building of great antiquity, permeated by

the spirit of the past. The church is practically what it has been

since 1460; the earliest part, which is thought to be the south aisle,

dates from 1385, when it was dedicated to the Virgin.

In this ancient fane many of those who have left their mark on history

have from age to age and time to time worshipped. Here came Katherine

of Aragon, after landing, to return thanks for the protection of Divine

Providence during her voyage from Spain. Here worshipped Drake and

Hawkins, and the rest of their comrades (brave fighters all, but devout

after their kind and age); and after them the Puritans to take the oath

of the solemn league and covenant; and here Charles II is said to have

accomplished the gift of healing by touching for the King’s evil. And

although the body of Admiral Blake rested here in company with that of

Sir Martin Frobisher only for a time before transference to Westminster

Abbey, the heart of the intrepid admiral is popularly supposed to lie

buried within the church.

But, after all, those who remain in the Sound below Stonehouse,

with its famous Royal William Victualling Yard, and Devil’s Point,

concerning the origin of the name of which there is so much local

dispute, and do not penetrate to the region of the Hamoaze, the Lynher

River, St Germans Creek, and the upper reaches of the Tamar, which can

be navigated in a dinghy as far as Weir Head itself, know but half the

beauties and attractions of Plymouth.

Devonport Dockyard, too, is always a place of interest and fascination

to seafaring folk. The town seems to shut itself off from the other two

towns, and in the past this apparent exclusiveness has led to municipal

friction. For a long time the “Dockyard town” was but indifferently

supplied with water, and Plymouth firmly refused to allow any of its

supply--dating from the days of Drake, who had a good deal to do with

getting it for the town--to be diverted to Devonport. Now, however,

Devonport has its own water drawn from inexhaustible Dartmoor, and the

town has flourished so amazingly that, although the youngest of naval

ports, it has become the one of greatest activity and renown.

But there is no space for us to descant in detail of the charming

places upon the shores of Tamar, Hamoaze, and St Germans River. Even

pretty, old-fashioned Saltash, with its fishermen’s cottages clinging

to the steep hillside, so that the blue smoke from the lower often

seems to veil the higher dwellings, and its ancient church can only be

mentioned in passing; and so, too, the fact that its corporation takes

precedence of that of Plymouth, and has jurisdiction over the Sound.

St Germans, called after St Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre, who came

over to Britain in the fifth century, and founded upon the banks of

the beautiful Lynher River a monastery, which caused the place to

become an important centre of religious life and secular industry,

can but be referred to briefly. The church, with its Norman west

front and recessed porch, is of unusual interest, as is also the

thirteenth-century octagonal, north-west tower.

Port Eliot, the seat of the Eliot family, whose ancestor, Sir John

Eliot, played so prominent a part in the period just anterior to the

Civil War, stands quite close to the great church, which, separated

from it only by greensward and a narrow road, is well worth a visit.

But all these things, including Landulph, with its old church and the

monument to Theodore Paleologus, of Pesaro in Italy, “descended from ye

Imperyail lyne of ye last Christian Emperors of Greece”; and the Castle

of Tremanton on Lynher River can only be visited by one who has much

time at his disposal.

Of the beauties of Mount Edgecumbe a great deal has from time to time

been written. Under its shelter lay Howard’s fleet, and along its shady

avenues have walked many of the greatest sons of the West Country in

past centuries. It is this, as Garrick calls it, “mount of all mounts

in Great Britain” that attracts the eye as one enters the Sound, and it

is at this lovely heritage of tree-crowned heights, valleys, and wide,

stretching sward that one gazes when, with the anchor weighed, one

drops down the water bound further west.