It Was Marlowe: A Story of the Secret of Three Centuries

by Wilbur Gleason Zeigler

It could be stated in one sentence that Richard Bame was tried at the Old Bailey for felony, found guilty, and hung at Tyburn; but what pictures would that present of the tragedy? The session-hall of the old court and the straggling road to Tyburn would be less to the mind than the substance of the vaguest dream; and he, who endeavored to cover with eternal infamy our eldest and greatest master of the drama, would steal away like a thief in the night, unnoticed and soon forgotten. It is not my purpose to close the chapter of the miscreant’s life in so summary a manner.

While from the window of the oratory, Marlowe had seen the church consumed to ashes no news of the arrest and impending trial of Bame had reached his ears. It was during the progress of the conflagration that he had told Tamworth of the startling events of the night, and the recital had greatly disturbed the lawyer. He saw in the fact of Bame’s recognition of his friend, a menace against the safety of Marlowe, for the prying Bame might endeavor to unravel the mystery concerning the burial of the dramatist and his later appearance in bodily form. This apprehension, however, was soon quieted. Tamworth learned of Bame’s arrest, and then that he was about to be brought to trial.

All this information was sedulously kept from Marlowe, for Tamworth knew not what Marlowe might do to save the accused, not that his hatred had abated, but he might have scruples against one being hung for an offense of which one was innocent. In the mind of the lawyer, Bame deserved the severest punishment known in the law for his false charges against the dramatist. Marlowe could do nothing except with peril to his own safety. He could swear that Bame was not in the church for any unlawful purpose, but to appear as a witness would be to deliver his own body into the hands of the executioner. The disclosure was, therefore, delayed until some time after the fatal day of December 6th, 1594.

It was at one of the sessions of the Old Bailey, during a time when human life was at the lowest estimate it ever reached in England, that Richard Bame was brought to trial for the burglary of the church of St. Olave. Pento and Badly, two of the arrested robbers, had preceded him in the dock, and having been found guilty of the same crime of which he was accused, had received the death sentence. In anticipation of the coming of the Brownist, the gallery which projected from one side of the square hall, was filled. The lower benches were also occupied, and here and there amid the forms of the ordinary lookers-on, could be seen gray-coated Puritans. Their numbers excited comment, and it began to be whispered that the man to be tried was one of the dissenters. Some of them were there to testify to his previous good character, others were there from curiosity. Bame was well known among the congregations from the Tribulation of Tower Hill and the Lime House, not particularly as a shining example of devotion, but as a tireless worker for their interests. It was a grave question whether the fire of persecution that burned within him was kept alive by wild and extravagant notions of what man’s duties were to God, or whether he was simply a tool in the hands of some strong and unscrupulous man who had private wrongs to redress. He was blind and emotional enough for a fanatic, but while he expended this frenzy upon apostates and non-observers in the lower ranks of life, his small courage appeared unequal for an attack upon those capable of defense. So, when the attack upon Marlowe was known, the belief arose that he was being prompted and upheld by some one high in authority [[note 38]]. The truth of the matter can never be known. However, Bame conducted himself upon his trial like one who had friends powerful enough to hold the wheels of the prosecution. This conduct may have arisen from his innocence of the charge on which he was tried.

With firm steps he crossed the uncovered Newgate yard from his temporary cell, and as he entered the Old Bailey with like movement the crowd noticed with murmured approval his air of a martyr. Boldness of demeanor is always the subject of admiration with the people; but, again, a miserable exterior may create a counter wave of feeling. So it was in this case. As soon as Bame reached the dock, and with face from the audience, displayed only his ragged garments and unkempt locks the enthusiasm vanished. He now presented a woeful appearance. He was still attired in the discarded garments which he had donned on the night of the storm, and there was nothing to distinguish him from an ordinary vagabond. His wife had brought his customary street suit—the gray garb of the Puritan—to the jail, but the turnkey had roughly ordered her away with it, expressing himself as being averse to allowing jail birds to impose with fine feathers on the court or the jury. Thus Bame was on a footing with the ruffians who had preceded him at the bar on a like charge.

One warning had been impressed upon him before entering the hall, by the felons in the adjoining cells, who had said:

“A gilded sword, with point upward, is suspended against the crimson-padded wall behind the judge. You will see it when you go in, but mind you this: Turn your eyes from the sword as soon as the judge begins his charge, and keep from gazing upon it until the jury returns with its verdict.”

“Why so?” Bame had asked.

“It is the sword of justice, and it will fall upon you. We were found guilty. We looked upon the sword.”

The jailer had overheard this conversation and said with an expressive smile: “The records show that 99 out of 100 look upon the sword and the hundredth man never returns here to tell whether he looked upon it or not. It must be true.”