“I, and the Catholic Philip, King of Spain,
Ere I shall want, will cause his Indians
To rip the golden bowels of America.”
—MARLOWE, in _The Massacre at Paris_.
“Ralph Contempt!”
The name transformed them instantly. The old perfervid recklessness
rekindled fire in Marlowe’s eyes, while the lineaments of Vytal’s face
contracted and grew sharper with rigid hate.
“Let one of us return,” suggested the poet, “and bring a force to help
capture him. It cannot be that he is alone with Towaye.”
Vytal dissented. “We should lose time by going to Croatan, and even the
absence of one would jeopard our chances. If we find we need assistance,
Manteo can seek it later. It is most probable that, alone or not, Frazer
will strive either to board the shallop and sail or to prevent you from
doing so.”
“How so? He has no knowledge of my intention.”
“Be not so sure. The conjectures of Frazer are as good as certainty.
Doubtless he has already guessed the meaning of the ship, for it would
not lie there idly waiting without reason. Quick! We must meet the two
and take them by ourselves. Lead us, Manteo, that we may come upon them
unobserved.”
Without a word the Indian re-entered the woods, and, coming to a trail
that ran parallel with the coastline, made a sign to the others, bidding
them avoid dry brushwood on the pathway that their tread might be
unheard. For some time they followed him, cautiously keeping on a strip
of mossy earth which bordered the trail and muffled their footsteps. It
was now high noon, and the sun shone in a clear sky. March, just dying
into April, had lost its harshness at sight of spring and grown more
tender, as a crabbed parent grows tender with the child of his old age.
The air, bracing and clear, seemed to fill their lungs with a breath of
immortal life, while the sea’s untroubled breast, just visible through
rifts in the arras of blossoms, bespoke a joy too deep for surface
emotion.
Finally, as their guide turned with finger to lips, Vytal and Marlowe
halted. Through a low interstice in the foliage a sight met their eyes
which, although expected, caused them to draw their weapons instantly,
for on the shore stood Towaye, with bow in hand, facing their cover, and
beside him Frazer, lying on the beach, idly patting the sand into little
moulds, as a child builds toy castles. The beach, sandy and shelving,
rose gradually on either side, until, terminating in two high ridges or
bulwarks of sand, it fell away again in long, flat sweeps to the north
and south. Thus Frazer and Towaye occupied a naturally fortified square,
two sides of which were formed by the sand-bank and two by forest and
water. To reach them unobserved was therefore impossible, and an open
encounter must necessarily ensue. As the odds favored the aggressors
by three to two, there appeared to be small hazard in boldly forcing
an issue. Unfortunately, however, Manteo was unarmed save for a wooden
truncheon, and Vytal carried only his rapier. But Marlowe, ready to
defend himself against Breton mutineers or pirates on the high seas, was
better provided, his rapier being supplemented by a pistol and poniard.
Ordinarily, with these weapons he would have found no difficulty in
placing Towaye _hors de combat_, but the occasion demanded unusual
strategy.
“Your dagger to Manteo,” whispered Vytal. “Cover Towaye with the firearm.
Nay, don’t shoot from here. You are too far for accuracy. If possible,
merely wound him. We must take the Indian alive and force him to reveal
Frazer’s motives. Where is the shallop?”
“Farther on beyond the headland.”
“Good! Now at them!”
Side by side the three emerged quickly from the woods. A sudden viperish
hiss from his ally caused Frazer to turn instantly, and the enemies stood
face to face. Swiftly Towaye started to raise his bow, but swifter still
Marlowe’s pistol sprang to a deadly aim. Yet the poet, fearing to kill,
withheld his bullet. In the next instant he would have changed his aim
and fired, but the risk of missing his opponent altogether and receiving
the arrow in his own breast held him motionless. Thus between these two
there was temporarily a deadlock, while both stood transfixedly waiting
for the slightest error of movement on the other’s part.
Vytal, however, being in the first second unimpeded, rushed toward his
adversary with rapier drawn.
“Halt!” The peremptory cry came from Frazer in a sharp note of menace,
as, guarding himself with a rapier in one hand, he now raised with the
other a small curved horn to his lips. Keeping it poised as though ready
at an instant to sound an alarum, he called threateningly: “Two hundred
Winginas lie within the forest waiting. A single blast means death to
each of you;” then, with a laugh, “I pray you reconsider the expediency
of attacking me now.”
Vytal stood still, controlling himself by a great effort. In his place
doubtless the poet and many another would have rushed forward with rash
impetuosity, but the campaigner’s trained hand could even compass that
which to a brave soldier in the heat of fight is the most difficult of
tactics, namely, the lowering of his sword.
The two men stood at gaze, Vytal fettered by the realization that his own
death would in all probability mean the decimation of the whole colony,
and Frazer by the rigid Fate before him.
For once the soldier hesitated. Instinct hinted that threats of alarum
were empty, but reason demanded caution. The possibility that an
overwhelming force lay near at hand in ambush was by no means slight.
Suddenly Vytal uttered a low order to Manteo, who thereupon, step by
step, retreated almost imperceptibly toward the woods.
“Halt!” Again the horn touched Frazer’s lips. “I forbid you,” he said,
“to arouse the settlers.” But Manteo only looked to Vytal for a sign.
“Remain,” said the latter, calmly, and the deadlock was now complete.
“It is strange, Master Frazer,” observed the poet, still covering Towaye
with his pistol, “that your horn forbears so long. In troth, I begin to
doubt its efficacy.”
Frazer laughed. “At any instant I am ready to prove it, Sir Poet. ’Troth,
’tis only a feeling of kindness that delays your doom, mingled perhaps
with a slight curiosity. Doom, say I? Yea, doom. This colony will perish.
Perchance you know not that John White, your governor, hath come to the
very shore of Roanoke and departed.[9] His own men played mutineers. He
could not seek you at Croatan. Ay, on my oath, ’fore God, a ship came and
went away. ’Tis common report in England. Roanoke is deserted, say they;
Virginia, a savage wilderness.”
Glancing at Vytal, whose face had gone livid as death, he laughed
derisively. “Therefore I blame you not, Sir Soldier,” he added, with
feigned contempt, “for planning this secret desertion.”
“Desertion!” cried Marlowe. “Fool! Think you John Vytal would desert?”
But his outburst was suddenly interrupted by Vytal. “Look to your lock!
Have a care, Towaye! an the arrow rises another inch, you fall.” Marlowe
regained his aim, yet his thoughts returned immediately to Frazer.
“Fool,” he repeated. “’Tis _I_ who—”
“Hush!” said Vytal.
But the warning was too late, and Frazer laughed once more. “Ay, hush
now, an you will, for the secret’s out. ’Twas for this I mentioned Vytal.
It shall now be my duty—I may say my delight—to detain _you_.”
With an oath Marlowe started as though he would have rushed upon the man
who so daringly taunted and harassed them. But a word from Vytal, more
sudden and apprehensive than before, again restrained him.
“Beware!”
Towaye’s bowstring was already pulled, and in the next second an arrow
grazed Marlowe’s cheek. With a cry to Manteo the poet rushed forward. “We
have him now! Quick! Bind his arms!”
“Halt!” For the third time Frazer’s lips seemed to kiss affectionately
the horn. “A move, a shot, and, by God, I blow!”
The poet, impotent with rage, stood still, and Manteo once more
haughtily obeyed the order. Even Vytal, in whose eyes a dangerous light
gleamed cruelly, made no advance. A bold plan was quickly maturing in
his mind. To hide it he exclaimed, as though chagrined, “Cursed horn, it
defeats us! I can fight against swordsmen, not musicians.”
Frazer started, seemingly with a new impulse. “So be it, then. I fear not
your little bodkin. Come, we will decide the issue with our blades.”
Vytal’s plan, however, prohibited a duel. “Nay, there is trickery in the
suggestion. Besides, I do not of a choice tilt with stage-jesters.”
At this Frazer appeared to become enraged as they had never seen him.
“Stage-jester!” he cried, hoarsely. “Dost know, sirrah, who it is you
thus address? Who am I?” The question came in a tone of high fury, and,
receiving no response, he answered it himself, as if the assertion
burst from him against his will. “I am not Frazer, not Ralph Contempt,
but Arthur Dudley. Dost hear? Arthur Dudley, the son of Elizabeth and
Leicester!” His manner, calming, became supercilious. “Gentlemen, you see
before you the heir apparent to the English throne.”
“Liar!” It was Marlowe who spoke, and then for a moment there was
silence, while Frazer’s lip curled scornfully.
“Oh, you doubt me, gentles. Yet I care not.” He took on a grandiose air,
whether natural or assumed, they could not tell. “I seek not to convince
such men as you. There is one even greater than my mother who knows the
truth. I speak of the King of Spain!”[10]
He paused, as an actor pauses to heighten the effect of a sensation. But
as Vytal only met his glance with a cold stare, he resumed, nonchalantly:
“We have tried once to invade England, on whose throne Philip would have
placed me, but we failed. Now that was but a first attempt. Mark you, the
end is not yet.” He stood erect, as if striving to match his height with
Vytal’s. “Perhaps you wonder why I have come twice to America? On this
point I will satisfy your curiosity. It is because we would lop off this
much of my beloved mother’s dominions and amputate a limb, as it were,
while waiting to seize the trunk. If all else fail, I shall at least be
the King of Virginia and St. Augustine.”
He said no more, but waited interestedly now as a spectator of the play
instead of an actor.
Inexorably Vytal stepped forward, bending his well-tempered weapon in
both hands like a bow.
Frazer smiled. “Ah, do you seek to break it and vow allegiance?” he
inquired, with mock graciousness, “or merely to prove it of Toledo make?
In the former case, I create you Knight of the Bodkin; in the latter,
believe me, I know well ’tis a supple blade.”
“Unluckily,” returned Vytal, wholly disregarding his banter, “it is my
duty to cross swords with you. Whether or not you have been so bold as
purposely to bring it on yourself by this outrage, I cannot tell. Yet
this one thing I know: a man’s duty and reverence are ever to his liege
sovereign. In the name of my queen’s honor I am compelled to fight. Save
for your scandalous insult I would have taken you alive, but now—to it!”
“Stay! First, I pray you, bid the poet and Manteo make no further attack
on Towaye, and ask them both to remain here. Only on this condition will
I throw aside the horn, trusting to your honor for fair play.”
Vytal inclined his head. “Manteo, stand by; and you, Kyt, control Towaye
with your aim, but shoot not unless he move.”
At this Frazer appeared satisfied. “Towaye, wait. I will end the
discussion with their leader first; later we can argue with the others.”
So saying, he let fall his horn to the sand beside him.
“I would to God,” muttered Marlowe, “I had killed him that day in the
‘Tabard.’”
Frazer caught the tenor of the wish and smiled again. “Sir Poet,” he
said, rolling back the sleeves of his doublet, “then we discussed the
baiting of a bear, and I waxed eloquent for the pastime. Again we are
in the same position, you disapproving from mercy to the animal, I
enthusiastic of very love for the sport. But now ’tis not a bear I would
fain see pestered; ’tis better still—a wolf!” Whereupon, as his arms were
now bared to the elbows, he raised his rapier and saluted the soldier
with an easy grace. “I wait!”
The weapons crossed, slithered, separated, and crossed again. Then Vytal
lunged, and Frazer, falling back apace, parried successfully, even as the
point touched his doublet. Next, in feigned alarm, his arm, wavering,
left the heart exposed, and Vytal thrust again. But the stroke was
answered with lightning speed, and, save for an even swifter parry, the
response would have been final.
Now, with extreme caution, weapons apart, now with seemingly rash bursts
of daring, the two fenced for several minutes, the advantage appearing
to change with every move.
To Marlowe, even more than to the principals, the moment was desperate.
For, being forced to guard Towaye, he could follow the contest only by
the sound of the rapiers, which, in rasping voice, told him that Frazer
had mastered the art of fence since their fight on London Bridge. With
astonishment and apprehension he wondered why the ring and slither were
so long continued, for his straining ears could not explain that which a
single glance, had he dared to risk it, would have made evident.
Behind Frazer the water shone like a vast burning-glass, while behind
Vytal the forest was a soft background of shade. The glare almost blinded
Vytal’s eyes; the shadows rested Frazer’s. And the latter made the most
of his advantage. With quick and varied sidelong springs he used the
reflected sunlight as a second weapon, more baffling than the first.
Nevertheless, with brows contracted and lids lowered, Vytal so screened
his eyes when Frazer, with steps aside, brought the glare into play, that
he contrived to gain despite the disadvantage.
Gradually his opponent fell back toward the water’s edge.
The weapons played faster and more furiously than before, the sound of
Frazer’s quick-drawn breath mingling itself with the hoarse whisper of
steel as the irresistible swordsman impelled him backward inch by inch.
Strangely enough, he had never once made a move toward the horn, and now
it lay well beyond his reach.
Suddenly at the water’s brink Vytal’s rapier, darting forward, zigzagged
about its foe like a flash of forked lightning, and Frazer fell to one
knee. At this Vytal would have thrust it home, but his great height
compelled him to lean so far forward that the water, in which he now
stood ankle-deep, cast up its glare directly into his eyes, and for
a second he was subject to a retinal blur, while splotches of silver
obscured his vision. At this instant Frazer, springing to an erect
position, lunged viciously, but the thrust was parried with blind
instinct, and Vytal’s half-closed eyes saw his adversary fall back,
steadily back, before him into the sea.
Now they stood up to their knees in water, Vytal gaining, until even
their scabbards were submerged. Again and again the soldier had striven
to turn his foe, but never had he met so dexterous and strategic an
opposition. Yet there seemed to be no doubt as to the issue, for at the
last Frazer, merely endeavoring to control the other’s point, was content
to recede on the defensive. And soon Vytal foresaw that his opponent,
who, besides being many inches shorter than himself, was also farther
from the shore, would in a moment be struggling in deep water, since even
now he was forced to keep his sword-arm at a high level for free play.
Having no desire thus to drown him, Vytal purposely fell back a pace, his
innate sense of justice forbidding him to avail himself of the advantage,
though he had well earned it, and even though his enemy, in the same
position, would have profited thereby with no compunction.
Yet even as he fell back a mocking laugh escaped from Frazer’s lips,
and Vytal, no longer generously hesitating, thrust with fatal intent.
Quicker still, however, Frazer dived beneath the water, and the soldier
now looked out across a circle of shining ripples that widened until they
passed him and reached the shore. And Frazer, with full-inflated lungs,
still remained below the surface.
Impassively Vytal turned, and, regaining the shore, amazed Marlowe by
blowing on the horn.
“God’s pity! why do you do that?” asked the poet, still holding his
pistol on a level with Towaye’s heart. “It means our massacre.”
“Nay,” said the soldier, “he would have tried to regain it were there
allies near. His threat was hollow. I seek to arouse the town.” He looked
at the two men before him as they stood facing each other, the poet
threatening, the Indian sullen, and added, mercilessly, “Fire!”
“To kill?”
Vytal turned to Manteo. “He is _your_ enemy, my brother.”
“To kill,” said the chief, “for he is a traitor to the men of his blood.”
The poet shuddered. “Do you, then, avenge them,” he said, handing
the pistol to Manteo, and the lord of Roanoke inclined his head. A
pistol-shot rang out. Towaye fell with a groan, mortally wounded.
A face rose to the surface of the water, invisible behind a rock,
and a pair of lips opened wide to admit air, then closed tightly and
disappeared.
“Now, make haste,” said Vytal to Manteo. “Get you over yonder ridge and
intercept our enemy if he lands there.” Without a word the Indian sprang
to the sand-bank, and, clearing it, was lost to view. Vytal turned to
Marlowe. “Stay here. He is a fox, and may retrace his course, supposing
that we have gone to the right and left in search of him. I guard the
northern shore,” and instantly Vytal disappeared beyond the second
bulwark.
“He is not a fox, but a fish,” muttered Marlowe, reloading his pistol.
Almost before the words were spoken a head appeared above the surface of
the water. The poet raised his weapon and took aim.
“Oh,” exclaimed Frazer, unconcernedly, as he waded inshore, “is this thy
boasted poetry, to shoot me like a dog?”
Marlowe impatiently drew a rapier, while Frazer came to the beach.
“Once more,” he said, “the crown prince must fight with a commoner.”
Then, feigning to thrust at Christopher, he suddenly swerved, and with
his left hand grasped the horn which he and Vytal in turn had let fall
near the water.
“This was the signal,” he declared, still menacing the poet with a
flashing blade. “Not one blast, but three!” And he blew thrice in rapid
succession.
Instinctively Marlowe turned toward the forest, expecting to see a horde
of savages rush therefrom upon him. But in that instant of error only
a single figure crossed his vision, fleet as Mercury, and, to his deep
mortification, even before he could change rapier for pistol, he saw
Frazer vanish in the woods.
In a fit of wild exasperation the poet started headlong in pursuit; but
he had scarcely crossed the beach when Vytal and Manteo, recalled by the
horn’s flourish, reappeared from beyond the ridges.
“There, in there!” cried Christopher, and would have rushed forward again
had not the soldier restrained him.
“How long is it since he escaped you?”
“One minute. You heard the alarum. He fled immediately.”
Vytal turned to Manteo. “Will you follow him?”
“Yes.”
“Hasten, then,” and the chief, with noiseless tread and eyes keenly
perceptive of every telltale twig and leaf, made his way into the forest.
“He understands the stalking of game,” observed Vytal. “It is best so.”
Marlowe’s face clouded dismally. “Ay, ’tis best so, and ’tis best that
I sail away. Twice this fellow hath outwitted me with the simplest
trickery. I am not worthy to remain.”
“Ah,” said Vytal, with an even deeper note of self-conviction, “these
things belong not to your calling. We do not require carpentry of
vintners, nor a crop of wheat from fighting-men. But to mine they do
belong, and, Christopher—” the voice sounded harsh and unreal—“I have now
failed at mine own work—failed!”
He prodded the little sand-hills of Frazer’s inconsequent building with
the point of his rapier. “Failed!” He seemed to be on the threshold of
new knowledge. A word hitherto utterly unknown and unregarded was being
cut deep into the granite of his character.
The poet watched him, and saw the keen, unfathomable eyes for once cast
down in self-reproach.
“Failed!” The soldier straightened himself and looked about at the shore
and water as at a new world.
Now, suddenly, his eyes, flashing the old fire of their indomitable
resolve, met Marlowe’s. “Failed, but in the end I shall succeed.”
A short sigh of relief escaped the poet’s lips; not that he had doubted,
but that he had awaited, seemingly an age, this reassertion of power.
“Yes,” he said, “yours was not really failure. Can Fate be thwarted? Nay;
yet for a time little men, elated and audacious in their puny grandeur,
may break its august decrees and laugh at the inevitable. Vytal, read
yourself; interpret the cryptograms your sword hath hewn; translate your
nature into words, and, even though you withhold the meaning from us all,
you will have attained to the consummative pinnacle of manhood.” The
poet’s fervid eyes, gazing at his friend, became orators.
For a moment Vytal’s face softened, while a fleeting smile crossed it
sadly. “I must return now to the town.”
“And I,” said Kyt, “to my birthland. You have been a ‘queen’s defender.’
This much of the gypsy’s prophecy has been fulfilled. I will tell her
Majesty, and, in gratitude, I doubt not, she will send hither assistance
to you all. Yet, Vytal, my soul is consumed with fear for you and
Mistress Dare.”
Vytal shrugged his shoulders. “I have not yet worthily defended her, but
the day will come.”
“Yes,” returned the poet, “of a certainty the day will come.
Ne’ertheless, have a care, I pray you, when again you meet this Frazer.
His strategy is unsurpassed, his cunning resourceful and never spent.
I could feel happy even now, in leaving, were the actor dead and his
incongruous blue eyes closed, his lips uncurled. Well, I tarry no
longer. The moment hath come for me to go. I pray you say nothing of my
departure. Let them think that I have been slain by some wild beast, or
if, by ill-luck, they see the sail, let them believe I have deserted.”
Vytal shook his head. “That I will not. When you are gone I shall tell
them of your sacrifice. They must know the truth. A surreptitious leaving
and elopement shall not be their charge against you.”
The poet’s face grew troubled. “But they will blame you,” he objected;
“they will kill you for your share in the concealment of my plan.”
“Let them try,” returned Vytal. “I care not; now, farewell.”
“Farewell.” The two separated abruptly, and Marlowe, with a light step,
artificially careless, made his way to the headland beyond which lay the
Breton shallop awaiting him.
In the evening, under cover of darkness, a canoe, propelled by one man,
came stealthily to the southern shore of Croatan, and went away again
with two occupants. Later these two boarded a vessel that hovered about
near the mainland. The ship, the canoe, the people were shadows—all
wraiths of unreality. But suddenly, after the vessel had crept away, far
to the eastward, and the land was seen no more, a low, weird song arose
at the first moment of light. It was from many voices, sailorly and
strong, but the tongue and the tune were strange save to the stalwart
singers.
“Ann eoriou zo savet; setu ar flik-ha-flok!
Krenvat ra ann avel; mont a reomp kaer a-rog;
Stegna reeur ar gweliou; ann douar a bella;
Va c’halon, siouaz d’in; ne ra med huanada.…”
(“The anchors are up; hark to the _flik-flok_!
The wind freshens; we speed on our course;
The sails blow full; the land recedes;
Alas! my heart voices only sighs…”)
Handsome, dark faces, prescient with some mystery of the sea, were
revealed slowly as the gray light spread. Umbrous eyes, that seemed
sleeping, though unclosed, and whose looks were dreams begetting dreams,
gazed out to the eastern line. For the sun had not yet risen.
“Ann eoriou zo savet; setu ar flik-ha-flok!
Krenvat ra ann avel; mont a reomp kaer a-rog…”
Then, as the sound of the men’s deep voices died away across the sea, a
woman’s voice rose higher, in limpid, silvery tones, yet with words that
seemed incongruous in the still gray hour of dawn. For the sun had not
yet risen.
“Let the world slide, let the world go;
A fig for care and a fig for woe;
If I can’t pay, why, I can owe,
And death makes equal the high and low—
Be merry, friends!”
But the truest singer of them all lay in the bow, shrouded by the
daybreak mist, and silent in the depths of slumber.
For the sun had not yet risen.
* * * * *
Thus Christopher Marlowe—an impression, a song, a vivid but fleeting
picture—passed from the life of a new-world people.