Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

We shall pass over this second evening at the merchant's house without entering into any details thereof, only remarking that it passed more pleasantly than the former one, there being at the supper-table some dishes which an Englishman could eat, and which his stomach might probably digest. At an early hour Sir Osborne cast himself upon his bed, and slept, though every now and then the thoughts of his approaching voyage made him start up and wonder what was the hour; and then, as Skippenhausen did not appear, he would lie down and sleep again, each half-hour of this disturbed slumber seeming like a whole long night.

At length, however, when he just began to enjoy a more tranquil rest, he was awakened by the seaman; and dressing himself as quickly as possible, he followed to William Hans's parlour, where the worthy merchant waited to drink a parting cup with his guests and wish them a prosperous voyage.

As the easiest means of carrying their harness, Sir Osborne and Longpole had both armed themselves; and as soon as they had received the Fleming's benediction in a cup of sack, they donned their casques and followed the captain towards the vessel.

It was a dull and drizzly morning, and many was the dark foul street, and many the narrow tortuous lane, through which they had to pass. Wapping, all dismal and wretched as it appears even now-a-days to the unfortunate voyager, who, called from his warm bed in a wet London morning, is rolled along through its long, hopeless windings, and amidst its tall, spiritless houses, towards the ship destined to bear him to some other land; and which, with a perversion of intellect only to be met with in ships, stage-coaches, and other woodenheaded things, is always sure to set out at an hour when all rational creatures are sleeping in their beds; Wapping, I say, as it stands at present, in its darkness and its filth, is gay and lightsome to the paths by which worshipful Master Skippenhausen conducted Sir Osborne and his follower towards his vessel. Sloppy, silent, and deserted, the streets boasted no living creature besides themselves, unless, indeed, it was some poor mechanic, who, with his shoulders up to his ear's, and his hands clasped together to keep them warm, picked his way through the dirt towards his early toil. The heavens frowned upon them, and the air that surrounded them was one of those chill, wet, thick, dispiriting atmospheres which no other city than London can boast in the month of May.

There is a feeling of melancholy attached to quitting anything to which we have, even for a time, habituated our hopes and wishes, or even our thoughts: however dull, however uninteresting, a place may be in itself, if therein we have familiar associations and customary feelings, we must ever feel a degree of pain in leaving it. I am convinced there is a sort of glutinous quality in the mind of man, which sticks it to everything it rests upon; or is it attraction of cohesion? However, the knight had a thousand sufficient reasons for feeling melancholy and depressed, as he quitted the capital of his native land. He left behind him hopes, and expectations, and affection, and love; almost all those feelings which, like the various colours mingled in a sunbeam, unite to form the light of human existence, and without which it is dull, dark, and heavy, like heaven without the sun. And yet, perhaps, he would have felt the parting less had the morning looked more brightly on him; had there been one gleam of light to give a fair augury for willing hope to seize. But, no; it was all black and gloomy, and the very sky seemed to reflect the feelings of his own bosom. Thus, as he walked along after the captain, there was a stern, heavy determination in his footfall, unlike either the light step of expectation or the calm march of contentment. What he felt was not precisely despair: it was the bitterness of much disappointment; and he strode quickly onward, as if at once to conquer and to fly from his own sensations.

At length a narrow lane brought them to the side of the river, where waited a boat to convey them to the Dutchman's ship, which lay out some way from the bank. Beside the stairs stood a man apparently on the watch, but he seemed quite familiar with Master Skippenhausen, who gave him a nod as he passed, and pointing to his companions said, "This is the gentleman and his servant."

"Very well," said the man; "go on!" and the whole party, taking their places in the boat without further question, were speedily pulled round to the vessel by the two stout Dutchmen who awaited them. As soon as they were on board, the captain led the knight down into the cabin, which he found in a state of glorious confusion, but which Skippenhausen assured him would be the safest place for him, till they had got some way down the river; for that they might have visiters on board, whom he could not prevent from seeing all that were upon the deck, though he would take care that they should not come below.

"Ay, Master Skippenhausen," cried Longpole; "for God's sake fetter all spies and informers with a silver ring, and let us up on deck again as soon as possible, for I am tired of being hid about in holes and corners, like a crooked silver groat in the box of a careful maid; and as for my lord, he looks more weary of it than even I am."

The master promised faithfully, that as soon as the vessel had passed Blackwall he would give them notice, and then proceeded to the deck, where, almost immediately after, all the roaring and screaming made itself heard which seems absolutely necessary to get a ship under way. In truth, it was a concert as delectable as any that ever greeted a poor voyager on his outset: the yelling of the seamen, the roaring of the master and his subordinates, the creaking and whistling of the masts and cordage, together with volleys of clumsy Dutch oaths, all reached the ears of the knight, as he sat below in the close, foul cabin, and, joined to his own painful feelings, made him almost fancy himself in the Dutch part of Hades. Still the swinging of the vessel told that, though not as an effect, yet at least as an accompaniment to all this din, the ship was already on her voyage; and after a few minutes, a more regular and easy motion began to take place, as she glided down what is now called the Pool.

However, much raving, and swearing, and cursing, to no purpose, still went on, whenever the vessel passed in the proximity of another; and, as there were several dropping down at the same time, manifold were the opportunities which presented themselves for the captain and the pilot to exercise their execrative faculties. But at length the disturbance began to cease, and the ship held her even course down the river, while the sun, now fully risen, dispelled the clouds that had hung over the early morning, and the day looked more favourably upon their passage.