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.”