Spaniards. Seven hundred English prisoners banded themselves under
command of Sir William Stanley, and turned upon their gaolers. The
Armada spread her sails, and let herself drive faster still.
Northwards, ever northwards! It was the only way left open to Spain.
For four days the "Ark Royal" kept chase of the miserable relics of this
once-grand Armada. When the Orkneys were safely passed, Lord Howard
drew off, leaving scouts to follow Medina, and report where he went. If
he had gone on for two days longer, he would not have had a charge of
powder left.
Five thousand Spaniards had been killed; a much larger number lay
wounded or ill; twelve of the most important ships were lost; provisions
failed them; the fresh water was nearly all spent. One of the galleons
ran aground at Fair Isle, in the Shetlands, where relics are still kept,
and the dark complexions of the natives show traces of Spanish blood.
The "Florida" was wrecked on the coast of Morven--where her shattered
hulk lies yet. Medina made his way between the Faroe Isles and Iceland,
fled out to the high seas, and toiled past Ireland home. The rest of
the fleet tried to reach Cape Clear. Forty-one were lost off the coast
of Ireland: many driven by the strong west wind into the English
Channel, where they were taken, some by the English, some by the
Rochellois: a few gained Neubourg in Normandy. Out of 134 ships, above
eighty were total wrecks.
So ended the Invincible Armada.
England fought well. But it was not England who was the conqueror,
[Note 5] but the south wind and the west wind of God.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. This was the same Duke of Guise who took an active part in the
Massacre of Saint Bartholomew. He was assassinated at Blois, December
23, 1588--less than six months after the invasion of the Armada.
Note 2. The Greeks did not reckon by kalends. The Romans, who did,
when they meant to refuse a request good-humouredly, said jokingly that
it should be granted "in the Greek kalends."
Note 3. The name of Fleming's vessel does not appear.
Note 4. I am not responsible for this translation, nor have I met with
the original.
Note 5. No one was more thoroughly persuaded of this than Elizabeth
herself. Thirteen years afterwards, at the opening of her last
Parliament, the Speaker thought proper to remark that England had been
defended from all dangers that had attacked her by "the mighty arm of
our dread and sacred Queen." An unexpected voice from the throne
rebuked him. "No, Mr Speaker: by the mighty hand of God."
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE WRECK OF THE "DOLORIDA."
"And therefore unto this poor child of Eve
The thing forbidden was the one thing wanting,
Without which all the rest were dust and ashes."
"Heardst ever the like of the gale this night, Barbara?" asked Blanche,
as she stood twisting up her hair before the mirror, one morning towards
the close of August.
"'Twas a cruel rough night, in sooth," was the answer. "Yet the wind is
westerly. God help the poor souls that were on the sea this night!
They must have lacked the same."
"'Twas ill for the Spaniard, I reckon," said Blanche lightly.
"'Twas ill for life, Mistress Blanche," returned Barbara, gravely.
"There be English on the wild waters, beside Spaniards. The Lord avert
evil from them!"
"Nay, I go not about to pray that ill be avoided from those companions,"
retorted Blanche in scorn. "They may drown, every man of them, for
aught I care."
"They be some woman's childre, every man," was Barbara's reply.
"O Blanche!" interposed Clare, reproachfully. "Do but think of their
childre at home: and the poor mothers that are watching in the villages
of Spain for their lads to come back to them! How canst thou wish them
hurt?"
"How touching a picture!" said Blanche in the same tone.
"In very deed, I would not by my good-will do them none ill," responded
Barbara; "I would but pray and endeavour myself that they should do none
ill to me."
"How should they do thee ill, an' they were drowned?" laughed Blanche.
The girl was not speaking her real sentiments. She was neither cruel
nor flinty-hearted, but was arguing and opposing, as she often did,
sheerly from a spirit of contradiction, and a desire to astonish her
little world; Blanche's vanity was of the Erostratus character. While
she longed to be liked and admired, she would have preferred that people
should think her disagreeable, rather than not think of her at all.
"But, Blanche," deprecated Clare, who did not enter into this
peculiarity of her sister, "do but fancy, if one of these very men did
seek thy gate, all wet and weary and hungered, and it might be maimed in
the storm, without so much as one penny in his pocket for to buy him
fire and meat--thou wouldst not shut the door in his face?"
"Nay, truly, for I would take a stout cudgel and drive him thence."
"O Blanche!"
"O Clare!" said Blanche mockingly.
"I could never do no such a thing," added Clare, in a low tone.
"What, thou wouldst lodge and feed him?"
"Most surely."
"Then shouldst thou harbour the Queen's enemy."
"I should harbour mine own enemy," said Clare. "And thou wist who bade
us, `If thine enemy hunger, feed him.'"
"Our Lord said that to His disciples."
"And are not we His disciples?"
"Gramercy, maiden! Peter, and John, and Andrew, and the like. 'Twas
never meant for folk in these days?"
"Marry La'kin! What say you, Mistress Blanche?--that God's Word was not
meant for folk now o' days?"
"Oh ay,--some portion thereof."
"Well-a-day! what will this world come to? I was used to hear say, in
Queen Mary's days, that the great Council to London were busy undoing
what had been done in King Harry's and King Edward's time: but I ne'er
heard that the Lord had ta'en His Word in pieces, and laid up an handful
thereof as done withal."
"Barbara, thou hast the strangest sayings!"
"I cry you mercy, Mistress mine,--'tis you that speak strangely."
"Come hither, and help me set this edge of pearl. Prithee, let such
gear a-be. We be no doctors of the schools, thou nor I."
"We have souls to be saved, Mistress Blanche."
"Very well: and we have heads to be dressed likewise. Tell me if this
cap sit well behind; I am but ill pleased withal."
Heavy rapid steps came down the corridor, and with a hasty knock, Jennet
put her head in at the door.
"Mrs Blanche! Mrs Clare! If you 'll none miss th' biggest sight ever
you saw, make haste and busk [dress] you, and come down to hall.
There's th' biggest ship ever were i' these parts drove ashore o' Penny
Bank. Th' Master, and Dick, and Sim, and Abel 's all gone down to th'
shore, long sin'."
"What manner of ship, Jennet?" asked both the girls at once.
"I'm none fur learnt i' ships," said Jennet, shaking her head. "Sim
said 'twere a Spaniard, and Dick said 'twere an Englishman; and Abel
bade 'em both hold their peace for a pair o' gaumless [stupid] noodles."
"But what saith my father?" cried excited Blanche, who had forgotten all
about the fit of her cap.
"Eh, bless you!--he's no noodle: Why, he said he'd see 't afore he told
anybody what 't were."
"Barbara, be quick, dear heart, an' thou lovest me. Let the cap be;
only set my ruff.--Jennet! can we see it hence?"
"You'll see 't off th' end o' th' terrace, right plain afore ye," said
Jennet, and summarily departed.
There was no loitering after that. In a very few minutes the two girls
were dressed, Blanche's ruff being satisfactory in a shorter time than
Barbara could ever remember it before. Clare stayed for her prayers,
but Blanche dashed off without them, and made her way to the end of the
terrace, where her sister presently joined her.
"She is a Spaniard!" cried Blanche, in high excitement. "Do but look on
her build, Clare. She is not English-built, as sure as this is Venice
ribbon."
Clare disclaimed, with a clear conscience, all acquaintance with
shipbuilding, and declined even to hazard a guess as to the nationality
of the ill-fated vessel. But Blanche was one of those who must be (or
seem to be; either will do) conversant with every subject under
discussion. So she chattered on, making as many blunders as assertions,
until at last, just at the close of a particularly absurd mistake, she
heard a loud laugh behind her.
"Well done, Blanche!" said her father's voice. "I will get thee a ship,
my lass. Thou art as fit to be a sea-captain, and come through a storm
in the Bay of Biscay, as--thy popinjay." [Parrot.]
"O Father, be there men aboard yonder ship?" said Clare, earnestly.
"Ay, my lass," he replied, more gravely. "An hundred and seventy
souls--there were, last night, Clare."
"And what?"--Clare's face finished the question.
"There be nine come ashore," he added in the same tone.
"And the rest, Father?" asked Clare piteously.
"Drowned, my lass, every soul, in last night's storm."
"O Father, Father!" cried Clare's tender heart.
"Good lack!" said Blanche. "Is she English, Father?"
"The Dolorida, of Cales, [Cadiz] my maid."
"Spanish!" exclaimed Blanche, her excitement returning. "And what be
these nine men, Father?"
"There be two of them poor galley-slaves; two sailors; and four
soldiers, of the common sort. No officers; but one young gentleman, of
a good house in Spain, that was come abroad for his diversion, and to
see the sight."
"Who is this gentleman, Father?--What manner of man is he?"
Sir Thomas was a little amused by the eagerness of his daughter's
questions.
"His name is Don John de Las Rojas, [a fictitious person] Mistress
Blanche,--of a great house and ancient, as he saith, in Andalusia: and
as to what manner of man,--why, he hath two ears, and two eyes, and one
nose, and I wis not how many teeth--"
"Now prithee, Father, mock me not! Where is her--"
"What shouldest say, were I to answer, In a chamber of Enville Court?"
"Here, Father?--verily, here? Shall I see him?"
"That hangeth on whether thine eyes be shut or open. Thou must tarry
till he is at ease."
"At ease!--what aileth him?"
Sir Thomas laughed. "Dost think coming through a storm at sea as small
matter as coming through a gate on land? He hath 'scaped rarely well;
there is little ails him save a broken arm, and a dozen or so of hard
bruises; but I reckon a day or twain will pass ere it shall be to his
conveniency to appear in thy royal presence, my Lady Blanche."
"But what chamber hath he?--and who is with him?--Do tell me all
thereabout."
"Verily, curiosity is great part of Eve's legacy to her daughters.
Well, an' thou must needs know, he is in the blue chamber; and thine
aunt and Jennet be with him; and I have sent Abel to Bispham after the
leech. [Doctor.] What more, an't like the Lady Blanche?"
"Oh, what like is he?--and how old?--and is he well-favoured?--and--"
"Nay, let me have them by threes at the most. He is like a young man
with black hair and a right wan face.--How old? Well, I would guess,
an' he were English, something over twenty years; but being Spanish,
belike he is younger than so.--Well-favoured? That a man should look
well-favoured, my Lady Blanche, but now come off a shipwreck, and his
arm brake, and after fasting some forty hours,--methinks he should be a
rare goodly one. Maybe a week's dieting and good rest shall better his
beauty."
"Hath he any English?"
"But a little, and that somewhat droll: yet enough to make one conceive
his wants. His father and mother both, he told me, were of the Court
when King Philip dwelt here, and they have learned him some English for
this his journey."
"Doth his father live?"
"Woe worth the day! I asked him not. I knew not your Grace should
desire to wit it."
"And his mother? Hath he sisters?"
"Good lack! ask at him when thou seest him. Alack, poor lad!--his work
is cut out, I see."
"But you have not told me what shall come of them."
"I told thee not! I have been answering thy questions thicker than any
blackberries. My tongue fair acheth; I spake not so much this week
past."
"How do you mock me, Father!"
"I will be sad as a dumpling, my lass. I reckon, Mistress, all they
shall be sent up to London unto the Council, without there come command
that the justices shall deal with them."
"And what shall be done to them?"
"Marry, an' I had my way, they should be well whipped all round, and
packed off to Spain. Only the galley-slaves, poor lads!--they could not
help themselves."
"Here 's the leech come, Master," said Jennet, behind them.
Sir Thomas hastened back into the house, and the two sisters followed
more slowly.
"Oh, behold Aunt Rachel!" said Blanche. "She will tell us somewhat."
Now, only on the previous evening, Rachel had been asserting, in her
strongest and sternest manner, that nothing,--no, nothing on earth!--
should ever make her harbour a Spaniard. They were one and all "evil
companions;" they were wicked Papists; they were perturbators of the
peace of our Sovereign Lady the Queen; hanging was a luxury beyond their
deserts. It might therefore have been reasonably expected that Rachel,
when called upon to serve one of these very obnoxious persons, would
scornfully refuse assistance, and retire to her own chamber in the
capacity of an outraged Briton. But Rachel, when she spoke in this way,
spoke in the abstract, with a want of realisation. When the
objectionable specimen of the obnoxious mass lifted a pair of suffering
human eyes to her face, the ice thawed in a surprisingly sudden manner
from the surface of her flinty heart, and the set lips relaxed into an
astonishingly pitying expression.
Blanche, outwardly decorous, but with her eyes full of mischief, walked
up to Rachel, and desired to know how it fared with the Spanish
gentleman.
"Poor lad! he is in woeful case!" answered the representative of the
enraged British Lion. "What with soul and body, he must have borne
well-nigh the pangs of martyrdom this night. 'Tis enough to make one's
heart bleed but to look on him. And to hear him moan to himself of his
mother, poor heart! when he thinks him alone--at least thus I take his
words: I would, rather than forty shillings, she were nigh to tend him."
From which speech it will be seen that when Rachel did "turn coat," she
turned it inside out entirely.
"Good lack, Aunt Rachel! what is he but an evil companion?" demanded
irreverent Blanche, with her usual want of respect for the opinions of
her elders.
"If he were the worsest companion on earth, child, yet the lad may lack
his wounds dressed," said Rachel, indignantly.
"And a Papist!"
"So much the rather should we show him the betterness of our Protestant
faith, by Christian-wise tending of him."
"And an enemy!" pursued Blanche, proceeding with the list.
"Hold thy peace, maid! Be we not bidden in God's Word to do good unto
our enemies?"
"And a perturbator of the Queen's peace, Aunt Rachel!"
"This young lad hath not much perturbed the Queen's peace, I warrant,"
said Rachel, uneasily,--a dim apprehension of her niece's intentions
crossing her mind at last.
"Nay, but hanging is far too good for him!" argued Blanche, quoting the
final item.
"Thou idle prating hussy!" cried Rachel, turning hastily round to face
her,--vexed, and yet laughing. "And if I have said such things in mine
heat, what call hast thou to throw them about mine ears? Go get thee
about thy business."
"I have no business, at this present, Aunt Rachel."
"Lack-a-daisy! that a cousin [then used in the general sense of
relative] of mine should say such a word! No business, when a barrelful
of wool waiteth the carding, and there is many a yard of flax, to be
spun, and cordial waters to distil, and a full set of shirts to make for
thy father, and Jack's gown to guard [trim] anew with lace, and thy
mother's new stomacher--"
"Oh, mercy, Aunt Rachel!" cried lazy Blanche, putting her hands over her
ears.
But Mistress Rachel was merciless--towards Blanche.
"No business, quotha!" resumed that astonished lady. "And Margaret's
winter's gown should, have been cut down ere now into a kirtle, and
Lucrece lacketh both a hood and a napron, and thine own partlets have
not yet so much as the first stitch set in them. No business! Prithee,
stand out of my way, Madam Idlesse, for I have no time to spend in
twirling of my thumbs. And when thou find thy partlets rags, burden not
me withal. No business, by my troth!"
Muttering which, Rachel stalked away, while Blanche, instead of fetching
needle and thread, and setting to work on her new ruffs, fled into the
garden, and ensconcing herself at the foot of the ash-tree, gazed up at
the windows of the blue chamber, and erected magnificent castles in the
air. Meanwhile, Clare, who had heard Rachel's list of things waiting to
be done, and had just finished setting the lace upon Jack's gown,
quietly possessed herself of a piece of fine lawn, measured off the
proper length, and was far advanced in one of Blanche's neglected ruffs
before that young lady sauntered in, when summoned by the
breakfast-bell.
The leech thought well of the young Spaniard's case. The broken arm was
not a severe fracture--"right easy to heal," said he in a rather
disappointed manner; the bruises were nothing but what would disappear
with time and one of Rachel's herbal lotions. In a few weeks, the young
man might expect to be fully recovered. And until that happened, said
Sir Thomas, he should remain at Enville Court.
But the other survivors of the shipwreck did not come off so easily. On
the day after it, one of the soldiers and one of the galley-slaves died.
The remaining galley-slave, a Moorish prisoner, very grave and silent,
and speaking little Spanish; the two sailors, of whom one was an
Italian; and one of the soldiers, were quartered in the glebe barn--the
rest in one of Sir Thomas Enville's barns. Two of the soldiers were
Pyrenees men, and spoke French. All of them, except the Moor and the
Italian, were possessed by abject terror, expecting to be immediately
killed, if not eaten. The Italian, who was no stranger to English
people, and into whose versatile mind nothing sank deep, was the only
blithe and cheerful man in the group. The Moor kept his feelings and
opinions to himself. But the others could utter nothing but
lamentations, "_Ay de mi_!" [alas for me] and "_Soy muerto_!"
[literally, "I am dead"--a common lamentation in Spain.] with mournful
vaticinations that their last hour was at hand, and that they would
never see Spain again. Sir Thomas Enville could just manage to make
himself understood by the Italian, and Mr Tremayne by the two
Pyreneans. No one else at Enville Court spoke any language but English.
But Mrs Rose, a Spanish lady's daughter, who had been accustomed to
speak Spanish for the first twenty years of her life; and Mrs Tremayne,
who had learned it from her; and Lysken Barnevelt, who had spoken it in
her childhood, and had kept herself in practice with Mrs Rose's help--
these three went in and out among the prisoners, interpreted for the
doctor, dressed the wounds, cheered the down-hearted men, and at last
persuaded them that Englishmen were not cannibals, and that it was not
certain they would all be hung immediately.
There was one person at Enville Court who would have given much to be a
fourth in the band of helpers. Clare was strongly disposed to envy her
friend Lysken, and to chafe against the bonds of conventionalism which
bound her own actions. She longed to be of some use in the world; to
till some corner of the vineyard marked out specially for her; to find
some one for whom, or something for which she was really wanted. Of
course, making and mending, carding and spinning, distilling and
preserving, were all of use: somebody must do them. But somebody, in
this case, meant anybody. It was not Clare who was necessary. And
Lysken, thought Clare, had deeper and higher work. She had to deal with
human hearts, while Clare dealt only with woollen and linen. Was there
no possibility that some other person could see to the woollen and
linen, and that Clare might be permitted to work with Lysken, and help
the human hearts as well?
But Clare forgot one essential point--that a special training is needed
for work of this kind. Cut a piece of cambric wrongly, and after all
you do but lose the cambric: but deal wrongly with a human heart, and
terrible mischief may ensue. And this special training Lysken had
received, and Clare had never had. Early privation and sorrow had been
Lysken's lesson-book.
Clare found no sympathy in her aspirations. She had once timidly
ventured a few words, and discovered quickly that she would meet with no
help at home. Lady Enville was shocked at such notions; they were both
unmaidenly and communistic: had Clare no sense of what was becoming in a
knight's step-daughter? Of course Lysken Barnevelt was nobody; it did
not matter what she did. Rachel bade her be thankful that she was so
well guarded from this evil world, which was full of men, and that was
another term for wild beasts and venomous serpents. Margaret could not
imagine what Clare wanted; was there not enough to do at home? Lucrece
was demurely thankful to Providence that she was content with her
station and circumstances. Blanche was half amused, and half disgusted,
at the idea of having anything to do with those dirty stupid people.
So Clare quietly locked up her little day-dream in her own heart, and
wished vainly that she had been a clergyman's daughter. Before her eyes
there rose a sunny vision of imaginary life at the parsonage, with Mr
and Mrs Tremayne for her parents, Arthur and Lysken for her brother and
sister, and the whole village for her family. The story never got far
enough for any of them to marry; in fact, that would have spoilt it.
Beyond the one change of place, there were to be no further changes. No
going away; no growing old; "no cares to break the still repose," except
those of the villagers, who were to be petted and soothed and helped
into being all good and happy. Beyond that point, Clare's dream did not
go.
Let her dream on a little longer,--poor Clare! She was destined to be
rudely awakened before long.
CHAPTER SIX.
COSITAS DE ESPANA.
"On earth no word is said, I ween,
But's registered in Heaven:
What's here a jest, is there a sin
Which may never be forgiven."
Blanche Enville sat on the terrace, on a warm September afternoon, with
a half-finished square of wool-work in her hand, into which she was
putting a few stitches every now and then. She chose to imagine herself
hard at work; but it would have fatigued nobody to count the number of
rows which she had accomplished since she came upon the terrace. The
work which Blanche was really attending to was the staple occupation of
her life,--building castles in the air. At various times she had played
all manner of parts, from a captive queen, a persecuted princess, or a
duchess in disguise, down to a fisherman's daughter saving a vessel in
danger by the light in her cottage window. No one who knows how to
erect the elegant edifices above referred to, will require to be told
that whatever might be her temporary position, Blanche always acquitted
herself to perfection: and that any of the airy _dramatis personae_ who
failed to detect her consummate superiority was either compassionately
undeceived, or summarily crushed, at the close of the drama.
Are not these fantasies one of the many indications that all along
life's pathway, the old serpent is ever whispering to us his first
lie,--"Ye shall be as gods?"
At the close of a particularly sensational scene, when Blanche had just
succeeded in escaping from a convent prison wherein the wicked. Queen
her sister had confined her, the idea suddenly flashed upon the
oppressed Princess that Aunt Rachel would hardly be satisfied with the
state of the kettle-holder; and coming down in an instant from air to
earth, she determinately and compunctiously set to work again. The
second row of stitches was growing under her hands when, by that subtle
psychological process which makes us aware of the presence of another
person, though we may have heard and seen nothing, Blanche became
conscious that she was no longer alone. She looked up quickly, into the
face of a stranger; but no great penetration was needed to guess that
the young man before her was the shipwrecked Spaniard.