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