CHAPTER IV
“Whose eyes being turned to steel
Will sooner sparkle fire
Than shed a tear.”
—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
Eleanor Dare stood alone near the bulwark of the fly-boat, her thoughts shapeless, until at last a dark object, also without form, rose and fell on the water within range of her unseeing vision. Slowly her consciousness grew more acute, and the thing became real to her. Slowly it took shape and became a boat, a ship’s cock-boat, contending with all its little bravery against the waves. She heard, with an increasing heed to them, the shouts of men from the deck of the Admiral, and noticed for the first time that the governor’s ship, having stood back upon her course, was now abreast of the fly-boat. But soon her eyes, with a renewed attention to the realities of her surroundings, saw the Admiral stand away again to the westward. She perceived with surprise that, considering the gale, the larger vessel carried an unwarrantable spread of canvas; and realized, not without alarm, that the fly-boat, if thus outsailed for many hours, must soon be left astern far beyond the regulation distance. And as to the small boat: was its present plight merely the unfortunate result of an attempt to bring some message from one ship to the other, or was it the outcome of a fell design on the part of Ferdinando? This last suspicion in Eleanor’s mind was not without foundation, for she had already entertained misgivings.
Suddenly a yet graver fear came to her. For the fly-boat’s pilot, who at first had luffed his vessel up into the wind, imitating the example of the Admiral’s master, now sent her plunging ahead again, paying no heed to the rowers, who struggled vainly in the fly-boat’s wake. Realizing this, Eleanor, at last fully aware of the small boat’s predicament, and alive to the demands of the moment, hurried aft to remonstrate with the helmsman. She was not certain that the pilot’s intentions were treacherous, nor that the cock-boat had been seen. Furthermore, being ignorant of the rowers’ identities, she supposed them to be but mariners of the Admiral’s crew. But they were men elevated for the moment to a position of supreme importance by mortal danger, the leveller of all degrees.
With good policy, on her way aft, Eleanor gave the alarm to all she passed, and thus brought many with her to the pilot. The latter, a burly seaman, whose unkempt red hair and beard swathed his pock-marked face like a flaming rag, showed much astonishment at seeing a number of his passengers, led by a woman, excitedly running toward him, as fast as might be, considering the lurch and reel of the clumsy ship.
“There is a small boat astern of us,” said Eleanor, arriving first at the helm. “Ferdinando must have forgotten her. There hath been some mistake.”
The pilot turned, with a grunt of incredulity, and glanced off in the direction of her outstretched hand. “I see naught,” he returned, gruffly. “’Tis an illusion of the sight.”
But at that instant a voice came after them over the water from the darkness far astern. They heard but a feeble note, an inarticulate sound, yet the voice of Hugh Rouse, stentorian and resonant, had flung out the incoherent cry from his great lungs in full power, to beat its way against the wind. With constantly failing strength it overtook the ship and died a mere whisper on eager ears. But there could be no mistake; a score of men had heard. For an instant the pilot hesitated and glanced at the little company furtively under his fiery beetle-brows. Then, with a hoarse command to his crew, he shoved the helm hard down, and once more turned the fly-boat into a stupid, tentative thing, hanging in the wind, drowsily expectant and poised in awkward fashion, like a fat woman on tiptoe looking for her child.
And the child went to her slowly with faltering steps. Tumbling over the ridges of water and picking herself up again, nothing daunted, the cock-boat came finally into view. In a few minutes the rowers were on the ship’s deck. Vytal, whose sinews were of steel, and Hugh Rouse, a great rock of hardihood, showed small fatigue, but Roger Prat, who had just recovered consciousness, leaned heavily against the bulwark, striving to force a jest through chattering teeth, while the water still dripped from his clothes.
Marlowe stood apart, seemingly all-forgetful of his exertion, his dark eyes intent on the face of Eleanor Dare.
Many torches, now, in the hands of inquisitive voyagers, were throwing lurid streaks of flame across the gloom. Their light fell full upon Eleanor, revealing to the poet a realization of his dream. In all the rich colors of his limitless fancy he had pictured her often to himself since the night of their flight from London Bridge. The picture now was corporate, and Fancy inadequate before the Real. The many proffers of assistance, the come and go of hasty figures, the general commotion and curiosity were lost to Marlowe’s heed.
At last, when the by-standers had separated, he approached her, and, speaking her name, bowed low. As though awaking from a deep reverie, she turned, and gradually recognition came into her eyes.
“Ah, Master Marlowe, it is you; I had not thought to see you again so soon.”
“How so, Mistress Dare; did I not tell you I might come?”
“Yes; now I remember you hinted that, if in the morning the wind blew west, you would follow it. The responsibility of decision was too great for you.”
“Perhaps; moreover, there is much wisdom, methinks, in leaving our destiny to the wind, for the human heart is no less fickle and wayward in its guidance of our steps, and following that, we blame ourselves, yet who would arraign the breeze as purposeless and false?”
She made no answer at first, but looked off across the stretch of water, now growing wider between them and the Admiral. “I trust,” she said at length, half to herself, “that we shall have no cause to complain against the breeze. ’Twas but last night I thought a storm menaced our advance. Ah, well, ’tis a hazardous voyage at best. I wonder that you, who were not forced to come, should court so many perils.”
“Not forced,” he said, lowering his voice; “what, then, is force? Ay, madam, ’tis force and the hazard bring me here. The very peril compels me.”
He sought to hold her glance, but could not, for again she was looking off to the larger ship.
“You consider the risk so grave, then?” she queried, with a troubled air.
“The gravest, madam,” he answered, a look of reckless pleasure crossing his face; “with glittering danger so woven through the warp and woof of future days as to seduce a man’s best wisdom and seem a golden fleece. We court the danger for the danger’s sake.” His words came as an undertone to her thoughts, disturbing, but not breaking, abstraction, until suddenly, as if with an impulse, he questioned her. “I would fain ask you, Mistress Dare, concerning your departure that night from Southwark, and your friend in the barge, a man—” he broke off, for he had put the question with no need of further inquiry.
“That is readily answered,” she replied, nevertheless, with hesitancy. “You see, I durst not return to Lambeth through the borough, and thus expose us both again to danger, although I knew that my father would entertain misgivings and grave fears for my safety. When you know him better you will recognize his deep solicitude for every person’s welfare; how much more, then, for his daughter’s?”
“Know him better!” exclaimed Marlowe, in surprise. “But I have never seen him.”
“Indeed, you must have met him. My father is the governor of this colony—Governor John White.”
“But—but you,” ejaculated the poet, in bewilderment, “are Mistress Dare.”
“Being the wife,” she declared, with an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice, “of Master Ananias Dare, one of my father’s twelve assistants. It was he who came in the barge that night on his way to join us at Lambeth, and, seeing me in such sorry plight, decided to retrace his way with me to London.”
“A wife!” and then Marlowe said a strange thing, as though wording a second thought that rushed to him on the heels of his first shock. “It will kill him.” He was speaking of another man even in that moment—thinking and speaking of another man. For the intensity of that other, the naked soul, the dominant will, the inexorable fatality were compelling, by sheer force, the homage of his immediate circle. It was simply the irresistible power of a great character at work. And there is no human influence so near omniscience.
She paid no heed to his low exclamation, but, with a few irrelevancies, left him.
He had but little time to seek the meaning of her abrupt departure, for at this moment Vytal joined him and tersely revealed the facts regarding the plot of St. Magil. The poet showed more surprise on hearing of St. Magil’s presence than on having his instinctive suspicions verified concerning Ferdinando’s treachery.
“Dost thou know the extent of this treason?” he asked.
“Nay, therein lies the rub. The pilot is doubtless far from clean-handed, and, for aught we know, several others among us, in greater or less degree, conspire to work our ruin.”
“Yes,” observed Marlowe, thoughtfully, “in St. Magil’s words, as you o’erheard them, I seem to hear the whisper of a wide conspiracy in which even the Spaniards of St. Augustine will play their part. But tell me, would not decisive action here and now defeat them more surely than cautious measures?”
“I think not,” replied the soldier, turning in the direction of approaching footsteps. “Who comes?”
“’Tis I, captain, a wet dog, at your service.”
“Get you below, Roger, for warmth, and a change of garments.”
“’Tis impossible, sir; such as I find adequate attire most difficult to borrow. Hast never seen me in a moderate doublet? The sight, they say, is worthy of a stage play. Moreover, the only warmth of interest now lies in the oven of Sheol, wherein, ’tis my ardent hope, Master Pilot will soon be roasting by your command.”
Vytal smiled. “Justice demands patience,” he said. “Do you, then, seek Hugh, bidding him go among the mariners with eyes and ears awake. And likewise make investigation for yourself. Find an you can the limits of the plot, map out its course, survey the field. Bring proofs. ’Tis better so.”
“Justice!” muttered Roger to himself, starting away—“’tis always justice!” Joining Rouse, he thrust his hand through the big soldier’s arm. “A stoup of liquor, Hugh, will loose my tongue, and fit it well for questions. ’Tis to be all questions now, and never an answer from our lips. Big lout, think’st thou it is in thee to hint a query and induce reply with never a trace of eagerness? Nay, but follow me, King Lud’s Lord Chancellor—Heaven preserve his forsaken Majesty—ay, sirrah, follow me, and praise good fortune for the chance. Be mute. Keep tongue between teeth, and thy great paw well within a league of sword-hilt.” And so the garrulous Prat ran on, after his usual important manner, until they had gained the forecastle.
In the mean time Vytal and Marlowe, near the main-mast, were striving, by discussion and induction, to obtain a more comprehensive grasp of the situation. The soldier had long suspected St. Magil of treasonable intrigues, the nature of which, however, was undiscoverable. In the Low Country camps for the last three years there had been rumors of treachery, with which Sir Walter’s name had been vaguely associated. Some had openly pronounced him a spy in the pay of Philip of Spain, while others had as firmly declared him loyal to Henry and Elizabeth.
“We are his match at least in sword-play,” observed Marlowe, finally. “’Twas proved conclusively upon the bridge.”
“We are his match,” returned Vytal, with a quiet confidence, “in all things.”
“I trust we may prove this, too,” said the poet, regarding his companion with marked admiration.
“We shall.”
It was now nearly midnight, and the wind left a long, rolling sea, in which the fly-boat lay wearily, like a landsman in a hammock, uncomfortably asleep. The decks were deserted save for the burly figure of the pilot at the helm, the two shadows near the main-mast, and a ghost-like sailor here and there on watch. The Admiral’s dim light had gone down over the horizon.
“Desolation,” muttered Marlowe. “All desolation. It seems as though the God—if God there be—were sleeping.”
“There is a God,” said Vytal, simply.
The poet smiled sceptically, and would have rejoined at some length, but a cloaked figure came to them out of the darkness. It was Eleanor Dare. Marlowe started back as though struck without warning, and turned to Vytal with a jealous look. But the glance of enmity passed as quickly as it came, leaving only deep affection and sympathy in the poet’s face. Instinctively he made as though to withdraw, and they, to his regret, offered no remonstrance. “You will find me,” he said, “with the steersman. It may be well to watch him closely.” And he left them.
“Captain Vytal,” began Eleanor, “you must act with all speed. Indeed, I know not but that even now I am too late.” Despite her ominous words, she was speaking coldly, with a calmness almost mechanical. “We are in the hands of traitors paid by Spain.”
“I know it well, Mistress Dare.”
“You know it?”
“Yes;” and he told her very briefly the facts within his knowledge.
“It is worse than that. St. Magil withheld the full truth from Ferdinando. There is a conspiracy afoot to land us on the coast of Portugal. Before morning some twenty men in Sir Walter’s pay will come upon the deck and overpower the mariners now here. I tell you, in order that you may summon as many soldiers hither from below, and save us.”
“I thank you,” he said, “but it cannot be.”
“Cannot be!”
“Nay, for we know not who is loyal. My men and I must meet the knaves alone.”
“Alone! God forgive me! It is the second time I place your life in peril.”
“On the contrary, the second time you make it worth the living. But how came this knowledge to your ears?”
She hesitated only for an instant, and then answered him, with an icy chill in her tone, “From my husband.”
“Your husband!” There was no tremor in the voice, but only a harsh finality, like the sound of a sword breaking. And for a moment, in which a lifetime seemed to drag itself ponderously by, there was utter silence.
“Take me to Master Dare,” said Vytal, at last, mechanically. “We shall do well to confer together concerning the matter.”
She looked up at him with wonder and surprise. “You would see him?” she asked, as though her ears had deceived her; then, with a new bitterness: “I fear you will gain but little by the interview. My husband is”—her voice sank lower, with a note of deep shame in it, the shame of a great pride wounded—“is not himself.” Then, turning, she led the way down to a large cabin in which the captain and the governor’s assistants were accustomed to hold conference pertaining to the colony and voyage. “He is there,” and she left Vytal at the cabin door.