Transcribed from the 1876 Arliss Andrews edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

DRAKE:

OR THE

TRANSFER OF THE TRIDENT

A National Drama

BY

WILLIAM MAC OUBREY,

OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, BARRISTER.

“Thus saith the lord which maketh a way in the sea, and a path in the mighty waters.”

“The isles shall wait upon me, and on mine arm shall they trust.”—Isaiah xliii., 16, and li., 5.

LONDON:
Printed and Published for the author by Arliss Andrews,
31, Museum Street, Bloomsbury, W.C.

1876.

Dramatis Personæ.

Drake (Sir Francis).

Earl of Leicester.

Lord William Howard, Earl of Effingham.

Cecil, afterwards Lord Burleigh.

Don Bernardino de Mendoza, Spanish Ambassador.

Sir Edward Killigrew.

Sir Edward Horsey.

Thomas Cobham, son of Lord Cobham.

Sir John Hawkins, Bolton, and Hampton, his Captains.

William Hawkins, Bill Carvell, &c.

John Oxenham, Thomas Moone, Sayers.

Comagre (Indian Cacique).

Chiruca (his son).

English and Foreign Spies.

Joe Jolly (Landlord of the Blue Anchor).

Lord — (General of the El Dorado).

Poet, (who sings the National Ode).

Sailors, Spaniards, Indians, Attendants, Page.

Queen Elizabeth.

Mrs. Ashley (her Chamberwoman).

TO THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE.

Brethren,

The first great object which I have had in view, in the construction of this Drama, was to bear my humble acknowledgment to an Allwise Providence, who alone could have developed the unprecedented might of the Anglo-Saxon Race—and who alone could have laid the foundations, or builded up, the giant structure of the British Empire—so vast, so rich, so powerful—unparalleled in extent, or wealth, or population—in arts and arms, in manufactures, in literature and laws, in civilization and commerce, in the history of mankind. Great have been the four preceding Empires of Prophecy! each, for its allotted period, having dominion over the Earth; but of none of them, as of England, could it be said “The abundance of the sea shall be converted unto thee.”—(Isaiah lx, 5)

Whilst I would put on record my own conviction, I would invite the attention of my countrymen to the assured fact, that no enlarged views of policy of our statesmen, no magnitude of our armaments, no superior science of our Generals, have wrought this wonder, for our race and country. The peculiar Glory of England is, that her greatness is the work of God! to whom is known from the beginning the destiny of his world and the means of carrying it out—when to put forth the fury of his anger and the strength of battle. Indeed! on taking a summary view over the wondrous past—over the steps in her career—the evidence is striking, that her success and conquests have been gained, without the aid or counsel—not seldom, in defiance of her statesmen, by inexperienced generals, and with totally inadequate means. That often her leading men and government have favoured to their utmost her enemies, and poured ignominy and vituperation, injustice and persecution, on those that served her, the valiant and the wise who have achieved her triumphs and her greatness. This has been peculiarly the case with regard to the great Actors with whom we are at present concerned, whose transactions and virtues we would illustrate, and of the age of which we have endeavoured to give “the form and pressure.”

It is impossible to doubt that the strength of England lies in her Navy—that her Navy results from her commerce—her vast and unequalled commerce from her manufactures; therefore that we cannot err in selecting the reign of Elizabeth, as the starting point in her progress. And examining closely the transactions and opinions, the struggles and changes during that reign, we may clearly discover, not only the truth of the statement, but the manner and the agency by which her success was achieved. It certainly was not by the statesmen—of these most, steeped in baseness and corruption, were ready to sell their services for direct bribes to the enemies of their Queen and country. Some were in the interest; of Spain, some in that of France, or the Queen of Scots. Those that were for their Queen were entirely wrong in their views and policy, which, if carried out, would have frustrated forever the prosperity of England.

All were at variance among themselves. The Queen differed with them all in her principles and policy. She loved her country, its glory and independence; and to secure these, pursued her own eccentric and mysterious path, urged on by impulse, instinctive, spiritual or Angelic, maintaining it with apparent self-will and unreasonableness, perverseness and irresolution, vacillation and caprice. But still, in proud and lonely grandeur, with unflinching courage and firmness, undeterred by the fear of war or assassination, “Semper Eadem,” against all opposition. She foiled with unexampled and unfailing skill, traitors and spies, and false advisers, and every species of secret or open foe, constrained to fence, deceive, betray, even to coquet, to save her country, her throne, and her life! She came through it all in triumph with the trident of the ocean in her grasp, acknowledged by the Nations, as the “Queen of the Sea, the Restorer of Naval glory.” Even the Pope (Sixtus V.) forgetting the policy of his faith, was struck with admiration of “this valiant and noble woman.” The name of her great hero, Drake (Il Draco) was constantly in his mouth, who, he said, “took the King of Spain by the beard,” and he ascribed the exploits which filled Europe with their fame to the high spirit of the Queen who sent him out.

The reign of Elizabeth is one of the most glorious epochs in the history of our Nation—a most important crisis in the Destiny of the World.

The Feudal system, which, with brute force, had trampled down humanity in its own blood, had spent its fury. That Iron Age was fast fading away. A brilliant dawn had unexpectedly appeared, of that Intelligence, which with the power of Science and Manufactures, Commerce, and the rights of Man, was to rule the world. Our great race, having “renewed its strength in the Islands” with the “abundance of the sea converted” to it, was now to go forth on its mission, and push its people to the utmost bounds of the everlasting hills.

The Wars of the Roses, battle and the block, had consumed the Barons, the Knights, and the Men-at-arms. The Church, which had endeavoured to strangle Liberty and Thought itself, was now a crumbling and bloody ruin, shorn of its pomp, its authority, and its land.

A New Power was rising from the Sea, before which the Earth was to quail, and its despotisms to succumb. Elizabeth was the head, the Elect of Providence, to lead it forth into action, and the noble Spirits who were driven by the bigotry and persecution of the Marian faction to the liberty of the wild waves, as freebooters, were the accomplished instruments to effect its purpose. Light and Darkness, Liberty and Despotism, had once more entered on a mortal struggle, and the Ocean was the arena on which they were to fight it out—Spain and the Pope on one side, England on the other. That Struggle it is the purpose of the present Drama to represent, its Nature, its Conduct, its Agents, and its Issue.

We shall just make a sketch, take a view of the combatants who were to enter the lists for this great contest—as of yore, Rome and Carthage, for the possession of the world. Not to take into account the Pope, whose influence on any side was so vast over the minds of men; and which was entirely against England, Spain, whose own people were then the foremost military nation by sea and land, had also under her command the whole of the princes of Italy, the House of Austria with its vast connexions, the Low Countries, the seat of Arts, Manufactures, trade and Commerce; America—a New World!—pouring the wonderful wealth of its mines into her lap; lastly Portugal, and with it the Commerce of the East.

England stood alone against a giant that bestrode the world! and what was she at that moment? Weakened by civil war in many a bloody field—disorganized by misgovernment, divided by religion, and rival claims to the Crown—without a regular army, or her ancient discipline, without much of a Royal Navy, or the finances to create one. A girl of twenty-five, her presiding genius, by her own singular wisdom, without Statesmen whose advice she could follow—her very Cabinet Council in receipt of bribes from her enemies—war in Ireland aided by Spain—France threatening her through Scotland—thus distracted, to be invaded by the whole power of Spain!

Where were the Iron men who, a few years ago, swept France before them in every battle, though outnumbered by twenty to one, until they made it an appanage to the Crown of England? They were sleeping in their bloody shrouds on many a field like that of Touton and Barnet, or their bones had been stuck to moulder on City gates and Castle walls. In their days no one dreamt of invasion. But now! although the spirit of the men of a later day, who chased the Chivalry of France at the battle of the spurs, and smote down the might of Scotland on red Flodden, was still burning in the bosoms of their descendants, from many causes—such as the confusion in the succession to the crown, the decay of the Feudal system, the total change in military science, England without an Army, or sufficient Navy, or finances to create one, was quite unprepared for war.

Considering the vast odds, the success of Spain seemed certain—the ultimate triumph of England by herself, a thing absolutely impossible. The rational mind is constrained to the conclusion that it was the work of God for the purpose of developing the Anglo-Saxon race, a new ordering of the nations, and a new disposal of the possession of the Earth. All which directly followed, or is still in progress.

It is necessary for our purpose to take note also of the mode or means by which this mighty duel was carried on. Philip aspired to universal dominion; England was the great obstacle that stood in his way. His first endeavour was to obtain the hand of Elizabeth, and thus to become its king as he had been before. Failing in this, he tried to flatter and cajole her, by his Ambassadors and hirelings, into a belief that he was her friend, without whom she could not reign; whilst all the time he was labouring to have her assassinated—organizing rebellion against her by Jesuit spies—Then he tried more openly to ruin her Commerce and her Naval power, by seizing English ships in his ports, confiscating them and their cargoes, delivering over their crews to the Inquisition to be burned at the stake, or consumed by cruel treatment in his dungeons. Finally, he slily invaded Ireland, in order to wrest it from England. All this without a declaration of war. Nay! whilst his Ambassadors were pretending peace and amity. The English Government was paralysed, and it would seem as if our Commerce was to have been suppressed, and our very maritime existence stamped out in blood. England, however, was not left to a weak, divided, or corrupt Government for defence. The proud fierce Briton of that day was not slow to take his own part, or that of his county against any odds. The ships of Commerce went armed for war, and fearlessly flouted their saucy flag in the face of the foe, whose Royal Navy, in terror, gave them generally what Sailors call a wide berth!

Patriotic Nobles, Gentlemen, Merchants, and Adventurers, rallying to their standard the bold fishermen and sailors of the Western Counties, at their own expence, fitted out a Volunteer Navy. They covered the Channel and the Ocean with a swarm of Privateers, which not only securely defended England, but preyed fearlessly on the Coast and Commerce of Spain, plundering Churches, sacking towns, burning or sinking ships, crews and all, making prize of whatever was worth carrying away, and audaciously putting up to open auction in our seaports any Great Officer, Noble, or Merchant, who could find money or friends to pay his ransom. The tide of blood if not of battle was turned. Philip was not only frustrated in his object of Conquest, but became alarmed for his own. His losses were enormous, and even his military operations in the Low Countries were seriously embarrassed.

Drake, by his wonderful achievements in the West Indies and the Pacific, gave the finishing blow. His seizure of three millions completely crippled Spain. Alva’s army was in mutiny for their pay, and had Drake been allowed to pursue his own bold plan, Philip would have been driven from the Sea in a month.

These are the men who have founded the greatness of their Country, and base and ungenerous is the Englishman who, reaping the fruits of their valour, would withhold from them his tribute of grateful fame. Instead of that, they have been loaded with reproach and vituperation—called pirates! cutthroats! robbers!—whilst the atrocities of the Spaniards are entirely overlooked as if they were legitimate warfare, whereas our Volunteers with their cruizers were the only defence of their Country, and their acts, inadequate, but most justifiable retaliation. I have endeavoured to do them justice, I have summoned them from the dead to speak their own sentiments, and plead their own cause.

I have essayed also, as a most important task, to remove a vulgar prejudice, very general on the minds of both parties, and to do justice to the Catholic Nobility of England, who framed, and have in every age upheld her liberties and constitution against encroaching Popes and tyrannical kings. It is a common, almost universal, political error that the age of Mary and Elizabeth was a mere struggle between Protestants and Roman Catholics for ascendancy. Gardiner, the uncompromising persecutor of the Protestants, who desired to set up the Inquisition, and to extirpate heresy with fire and sword, was “fiercely jealous” of the independence of England, and when the Spanish Ambassador urged the marriage of Mary with Philip, he told him that Nobles and people were against the Pope, and against foreign interference of all sorts, that Mary could not marry Philip without a dispensation from the Pope, which must be kept secret. The country would not tolerate it.—(Froude, vi, 119.)

Queen Mary herself told Commendone, the Pope’s messenger, that for the present she was in the power of the People, of whom the majority mortally detested the Holy See, and that the Lords of the Council were in possession of vast estates which had been alienated from the Church, and they feared their titles might be called in question.—(Froude vi, 89. Citing letter of Pope Julius III, to Pole). Yet certainly there was not one Protestant on her Council. Paget, and he was not a Protestant, was the only man who favoured the Spanish match. But he was opposed to persecution, and would not permit the Queen to alter the succession. He told Gardiner that if she should send Elizabeth to the Tower her own life would not be safe for a single day.—(Froude vi., 120.)

The nation was unanimous in the dread of a marriage between their Queen and Philip. They feared that England might then sink into a Spanish dependency, and have to endure the horrors inflicted on the Low Countries. They wished to keep their country isolated and not entangled in the wars of the continent. They therefore desired that their Queens should marry with the English Nobility (Froude vi, 92), who were then as they are now, every way superior in family fortune, the eminent qualifications of mind or body—above all in social and political importance, to any rank or class of men in the world, many of the great Houses of the Aristocracy being allied to our Plantagenet kings, the greatest heroes, legislators, and rulers that ever governed men.

It is true that Protestantism, the right of private judgment, is favourable to Civil Liberty, as was evident in the struggle of our Puritan Fathers with the Stuarts. But the principles of the English Constitution were laid before Protestantism had a being or a name. Who were the men that wrung from the tyrant John the Great Charter at Runnemede, and many another after it, and maintained them in defiance of all the thunders of Rome?—Who passed the Statutes of Premunire, of Provisors, of Mortmain, and all the other Acts for restraining the illegitimate authority of the Pope and the Clergy, and defending their estates and country against both Regal and Ecclesiastical Despotism? The Catholic Nobility of England, who knew well how to distinguish between their Creed and their Civil Polity, between their duty to their Church and their duty to their Country, to themselves—to Posterity! And so long as that Posterity are worthy of the great inheritance they have bequeathed to them, so long as Englishmen shall be capable of appreciating Civil Liberty and the value of their Constitution, the founders of that Constitution shall receive their just reward, Immortal Glory!

Where is that Constitution now? Let the Protestant Parliaments that have legislated during late years, and regardless of our Ancient Constitution, have delivered over Englishmen to be taxed by boards, without the consent of Parliament, and to be fined! imprisoned! degraded! ruined! in their persons, characters, and fortunes, by arbitrary Magistrates, Councils, and Officials, without Trial by Jury, and who but for the timely protest and warning of the Judges, would have abolished that great Bulwark of Civil Liberty altogether. Let them answer! Let the great Thaumaturgists who pulled the strings of these parliamentary puppets, and before whom they danced, answer! England may some day awake from her torpor, to examine that legislation, and to ask the question—Where?—Then—What then?

Some people not sufficiently read in the history of those times, may be startled at the extraordinary nature of the facts which constitute the action of the Drama; and may consider them exaggerated, if not altogether improbable. I intended a National Drama, and I have adhered to history. I shall be borne out by authority. Those who are well informed, will recognise in the first Act the actual picture our seaboard presented at the time. The pious Catholic may feel scandalized at the treatment of the Pope, and the sack of Rome by the generals of Charles the Fifth at the head of a Spanish army. I have not invented the transaction. It would be impossible to exaggerate its atrocity. And Philip with all his zeal for his professed religion, so long as it subserved his ambition, was quite ready to repeat his father’s lesson, if the Pope had trespassed on his dominion. Further, though he was anxious to have Elizabeth assassinated, he was entirely opposed to the Bull of Excommunication, or the Pope’s interference in the temporal government of her kingdom.

With respect to myself and the literary merits of my work, I am very sensible of the little fame (as small as the emolument) that can accrue to me. It was not my aim to contest the palm of genius and eloquence with the great Dramatists of the age, who with so much talent and success, minister to the amusement of the Public. My humble effort must be regarded as a literary experiment—I was anxious to test whether Truth was not stronger than Fiction, and if so, whether the Drama might not, in abler hands, become the great Pioneer, if not the exponent and teacher of history. Secondly, whether it could not be conducted on principles free from the objections which Moralists now raise against it. I have therefore carefully excluded everything having a tendency to excite those emotions, which the wisdom of Philosophers, and the guides of society in every age have agreed ought to be kept in abeyance.

The Greeks, in timid foresight of the abuse, forbade that women should appear upon the stage. Without going so far I have shunned the evil they feared. There is not a love scene in my Drama, nor anything which could minister to that dangerous passion. I had a higher aim! to call the attention of my country to the origin and principles of her greatness; to hold up to her view the valour, the achievements, the glory of our ancestors; to excite in their descendants a generous rivalry, and to rouse again the national pride: the spirit and the patriotism of England. If I shall have succeeded in this, I shall have attained the summit of my ambition—I shall have reaped the priceless reward—the satisfaction of having done my duty!

I cannot conclude without my humble acknowledgment of the public debt to Mr. Froude, who has done so much to vindicate the character of Elizabeth and the glory of his country from the foul aspersions of a party alike hostile to England and humanity; and my personal obligation, for through his great History, suggesting the subject, and so much of the material for the construction of my Drama.

WILLIAM MAC OUBREY.

DRAKE:
or the
TRANSFER OF THE TRIDENT.

ACT I.

Scene I.—PLYMOUTH—A STREET ALONG THE QUAY.

The harbour and ships, sailors swaggering about with a bold, saucy, defiant air, richly dressed, displaying a profusion of silks, gold, and jewelry; their women also flaunting in rich dresses.—Enter an English spy.

English Spy, (In a serious musing attitude)—I have watched this game from its beginning, when Mary married Philip. With all the might of Spain and Rome to back her she failed to crush a seeming helpless girl. The young Nobility, the proud hold chivalry of England took her part! On high paced steeds they rode her escort, or thronged her house with levies which shamed the deserted Court. Where’er she moved abroad, the roaring multitude surged round her, unbonneted to their idol as she passed. I saw that Church and Spain must lose! Elizabeth would be Queen at last! (He walks a few steps with a satisfied air.) When Mary’s reign was closed, what shouts of joy broke from emancipated London! A pall as black as death seemed lifted off men’s souls. What tables of rejoicing lined the streets! What blazing bonfires reddened all the walls! Catholic and Protestant forgot their creeds to hail the rising sun of Liberty! I said Priests and Monks may plot. There is one only party in the State. England for herself against the World! So hath it been of yore, so let it be for ever. No foreign Despot will she ever brook. (He walks proudly). What experience has been mine? Poverty! Power! Influence! rare companions! meeting only in the Monk—and he a Jesuit, a Missionary; what lands I have visited, what dangers and hardships encountered! hunger, thirst, travel, fatigue; frozen in the snows of Siberia, burnt to a living cinder in the Torrid Zone; perils by sea and land, the barbarous savage with open violence or poisoned weapon; still worse the pestilence that walketh in darkness. All have I endured. (His reverie is interrupted—startled by tremendous shouts and cheers of a violent crowd rapidly approaching).

Crowd, (behind the scenes). Hurrah for England! Down with Spain and her inquisition! Hurrah for the El Dorado! Hurrah for the General!

(Startled) What terrible hurly, burly now? Another gust of the rising tempest that is to shake the nations!

Enter a turbulent crowd of sailors, bursting in with a great banner on which is blazoned a ship in gold, and in similar letters the name “El Dorado,” cheering and shouting with violent gestures and confusion.

Crowd. Hurrah for the Virgin Queen! Down with Spain and her Inquisition.

1st Sailor. The Queen! God bless her, and give her a good English husband. No foreign rule here!

2nd Sailor. Confusion to Philip and all Foreigners! England for the English!

3rd Sailor. Aye! Aye! lads. We’ll keep them out! No landing of the foe on our coasts. Our cruizers will keep the channel clear.

4th Sailor (with energy). The Channel’s ours!

Spy (aside) No doubt, they will clear it of everything that carries gold, or other foreign valuables, without being over particular about their nationality.

The chief or general, standing beside the banner, a tall powerful man, though young, sunburnt, and weather-beaten, gaudily dressed as silk, velvet, gold and jewels can make him. In his broad belt plaited with gold, are stuck a brace of heavy pistols, richly chased with silver, and a long dagger hafted with gold and diamonds. On his head a blue velvet cap with a gold band. On the velvet, emblazoned with jewels, a ship with the words “El Dorado.” He holds forth in his left hand a large ingot, or bar of gold.

Chief. Look ye here, ye sons of the Ocean Queen, ye storm-birds that have the daring spirit of your sea-king race, that love the raging surf, and the mountain wave when it rolls the highest! Ye of the forward step, and the ready fist, who wish for a little of this! (holding out the ingot). (Cheers). Who’ll volunteer for the good ship El Dorado? We don’t want every lubber that may offer, only roaring boys that are not afraid to board a Spanish galleon without counting the square feet of her lumbering hull, or the hundreds of her cowardly crew. The El Dorado has a speedy forefoot, I can tell you; she can run the Caribs in about a fortnight, and we don’t care who knows the When and the Whither, not as much as one!—Copper!—Maravedi! (snapping his fingers).

Crowd, (cheering), Hurrah! That’s the talk and no bunkum! We know you, General. We’ll follow you to the death.

1st Bystander. Who is he? A gallant bearing and tall! He looks a hero born for command.

2nd Bystander. So he ought to look; Don’t you know him? That’s young Lord —. (He whispers the name), one of Elizabeth’s early lovers. One of the five hundred young nobles who rode beside her in defiance of Mary’s wrath. When his idol was insulted at Court, he behaved so violently that he became a marked man, and the persecution growing hot, he took to the sea for vengeance on the Spanish party. Now he sticks to it, you perceive, for something else, (with a knowing look).

Chief. Now then! who’s for the free flag and the gold coast? We have already seventy hands, and want a few to make up a hundred. That’s enough of Englishmen to carry any of their goldships, or any Spanish town in the world. We want especially the sons of our brave men who have died in Spanish dungeons, or by fire and faggot! (Shouts of indignation and hurrah for the General).

Crowd. Here we are, General! We’ll man your guns for you! Hurrah! We’ll pay them off all old scores!

1st Sailor, (in a swaggering tone.) I have searched the whole coast, from Rio de la Hacha to San Juan, have been up the Darien and the Bocco del Torro, I know every creek where a Cruizer can lie like an Alligator for her prey.

2nd Sailor. And I every coral-reef, from the Windward islands to Bahama. I’ll pilot you, General.

Chief. Come on then, my Bullies!—To the brave ship El-Dorado! March!

They advance with the Standard singing and stamping in time as sailors do when weighing anchor; the crowd following and joining in with excitement, as they chant the following doggerel.

Our free born comrades languish.
In dungeons, and in pain:
We’ll tear them from their anguish,
Or take revenge on Spain. (Cheers.)

Come on ye Tars! we’ll all go,
With hearts both true and bold:
We’re bound for El-Dorado,
And we will have the gold! (Cheers. Exeunt singing.)

We’re bound for El-Dorado
And we will have the gold!

Spy, (looking after them.) A tempting offer! had I not a deeper game upon the die of Fate, and a loftier stake to play for than all the gold of the Indies—the liberty of the world! How many parts I have filled in social life! A bigot and inquisitor in Despotic Rome, I saw fierce Bourbon, called the Constable, rush with hot valour on her wall; I fired the death-shot! saw the Apostate fall! ’Twas vain! The mighty wave swept on resistless. The City of the Caesars and the Popes—the twice Mistress of the world—lay helpless under the ruffian foe, defiling what fierce Vandal and noble Goth majestic in strength and courage spared. No place was sacred. No party safe. The sanctuaries of religion, the sepulchres of the dead, the very tomb of St. Peter rifled for their wealth; Guelph and Ghibeline, Priest and Layman, the vilest trades and callings taxed for contributions when plunder failed;—and when the blood-hound scent for gold came to fault, torture was applied, without respect to rank, or sex, or age, to wring the last scudo from the prostrate people. There was a spoil! ten millions of gold! the garnered harvest of centuries of corruption, the imposts of a taxed world gathered in one stagnant pool. Offerings of pilgrims, gifts of the dying; the orphan’s patrimony; the widow’s dower; extortions of Ecclesiastical Courts; indulgences; the liquidated value of every vice, lust and crime! bribes for which Heaven had bartered its joys, and hell had commuted its torments of the damned! The sack of Imperial Rome! (holding up his hands in dismay) Satanic Bourbon! Infernal Tempter! Thou knew’st the mystic Solder which alone could weld that Rebel Host, mad with lust and hunger, discordant, dissolute, through battle, fatigue, and famine! And hurl the blazing Meteor on the goal of thy Vengeance and Ambition! I beheld the Holy Father himself a prisoner in his castle of St. Angelo; his jailors! the Catholics of Spain. My eyes were opened! I fled from the Desolation. Before me spread an Earthquake of Republics, a wreck of Nations. France and Spain had torn the land. I took refuge in the fleet of Dorea with the Spirits that were left. Genoa rose at his heroic summons. We proclaimed the Republic. Yes! I saw that last flame of Italian Glory! It flickered and went out for ever. Through the once free cities of Italy I harangued the Infidel—in democratic clubs on the rights of Nature—the Republicans on their laws—to gather up the broken fragments of their liberties, and arm against the spoilers of the land. In Holland I preached freedom through the grim creed of Calvin, and urged the dull Flemmings to defend their Constitutions. I have been all things to all men. My single foe—Despotic Spain—My creed, its overthrow. In England two characters by turns. A conspirator to assassinate the Queen with fanatics who would deluge the land with blood, destroy their own and other’s freedom, and yield our glorious Island to a foreign tyrant—the execrable Philip. And now I am an agent of the unselfish Patriot, Walsingham (I would trust none other!)—to foil this foul conspiracy, and save my native country from slavery and ruin. I must to the “Blue Anchor” to meet this Arch-plotter for the Church and Philip. I’ll search his inmost thoughts. I’ll sound the very depths of all his treason! (Exit.)

Scene II.—“THE BLUE ANCHOR”—THE TAP ROOM.

Ornamented with model ships of every form and rig; all of a warlike character. Here and there are hung up arms, chiefly those used at sea, with Parrots and curious birds, shells and other productions of foreign climes, all indicating that the owner and his friends are familiar with distant lands, in fact, all maritime contributions. The room is filled with sailors and their women, profusely decorated with gold, reckless of expenditure, playing at dice for gold pieces, and displaying masses of gold and silver articles, chalices and cups, the fruit of plunder by land and sea. Their bold dashing air shows a character not likely to hesitate about what they would attack, and themselves ready to take their own part, or that of England, against the world. They call for wines of the most expensive sorts like men habituated to wealth. The two spies at a table, served with a flagon of wine and cups of silver, by the landlord. The foreigner is much surprised at the scene.

1st Sailor. Mine Host there! Some Hippocras for the ladies! and—and—more Gascony!

2nd Sailor (saucily). Bear a hand, Joe Jolly! or Jolly Joe! another measure of that old Sack. You’re an old sack yourself. Ho! here he comes, rolling like a dismasted ship in the trough of the sea (laughter). Ha! Ha! Ha!

Enter Host, scowling fiercely and holding out in his right hand menacingly a great tankard of Wine.

Host. I say, Cut-throat! Belay your damned tongue! Don’t you think to make a butt of me for your gibes, or I’ll give you this (holding out the tankard) on your head!

The sailor laughs and holds out by the muzzle his heavy pistol as if to show its weight.

2nd Sailor. If you did, Joe, I would, and that quickly too, make a butt of yours. Look you! Butt to Butt. This has cracked many a skull as thick as Joe Jolly’s.

All (interfering). Avast there! Enough of that messmates! Here, Jolly, drink with me! Here, Joe (says another party), drink with us! Hurrah! old chap!

English Spy (to his companion). I made our appointment here, Brother, to give you an idea of what is going on in the world—a mighty revolution—which I think neither His Majesty of Spain nor His Holiness yet comprehends, and to show you the character of our people. You will thus understand with whom you have to deal.

Foreign Spy. They surprise and almost frighten me with their fierce demeanour and warlike defiant air.

English Spy. Of that anon. Now, Brother what of the Great Cause in the Low Countries? There the struggle is at present.

Foreign Spy, (Slowly and with emphasis), And there, brother, it is almost ended. William the silent is silent for ever! (The English spy starts with surprise). That Arch-Heretic, the Prince of Orange, is no more!

English Spy. What? The Prince of Orange dead!

Foreign Spy, (With bitter emphasis), Three poisoned bullets did for him, spite of all his caution! Parma outmanœuvred him. Philip is at the right game of war now!

English Spy, (Interested to excitement), How? How was this, brother? It will be a thunder clap to Europe!

Foreign Spy. It was difficult; William was so closely guarded; so many attempts had failed. He seemed unapproachable. We found the fitting tool! (He pauses, watching his startled companion with exultation, then continues). Balthazzar Gerard, an enthusiast from Burgundy. We fanned the Bigot-flame, and armed his fiery soul with all the panoply of Faith the church could give, a Martyr’s Crown! Immediate bliss in Heaven. Philip added earthly honours, nobility and estates in Spain. Balthazzar swallowed the baited hook, and counted not the cost! (He pauses, looking at his deeply interested and astounded companion.)

English Spy, (Eagerly), Pray go on, Brother! He was seized of course! how did he proceed, or obtain access?

Foreign Spy. He repaired to the palace at Delft, petitioned for protection and aid, he pretended to be a Calvinist whose father was executed, and himself a fugitive for his religion. The mask was sufficient, he obtained employment, and was at length received into the palace. There he watched his opportunity, and as the Prince was passing through his hall to dinner fired into him three poisoned bullets. The victim dropped, “William the Silent” was no more.

English Spy, (with emotion), Villain! He was cut down, or seized, tortured, hung!

Foreign Spy. Quick as his bullets he bounded from the hall, crossed the court-yard, and gained the city wall, where aid was ready.

English Spy, (Hurriedly), Good God! The perfidious traitor escaped.

Foreign Spy. There, just as the tiger was about to spring, a strong hand arrested him. His Spanish title, his broad lands, his order of St. Jago vanished, and the dread spectre of rack and dungeon rose before his eyes, but Balthazzar was a hero and accepted death. They dragged him to the rack, ’twas vain! They tried every torture ingenuity could invent, or the wickedness of Heretics employ to tear from this soldier of the church a confession of his employees. Balthazzar fixed his eye upon his Martyr’s crown, and pointing to his dislocated limbs, with grim but triumphant smile, heaved his last breath, said “Ecce Homo,” and expired.

English Spy, (Shocked and excited), Oh! Brother, this is horrible!

Foreign Spy, (Rather Surprised), But the end, Brother, justifies the means. You see the good cause advances! ’Tis Philip’s most successful warfare; thus Murray in Scotland, Coligny at Paris, and now the Prince of Orange at Delft have paid the penalty of heresy. These were only the horns Brother, the head itself shall be cut off. In England is the very head of Heresy! She must fall next, and then the Church’s triumph is complete. Philip himself, great as he is, must bow as kings of yore, and hold the stirrup.

English Spy, (Aside), This will do for Walsingham, he’ll trap the wolves! (To his companion), We’ll talk of this anon, Brother.

Cheers and shouts without, tumult, rushing, and cheers. Shouts of “To the Market-place.” The cheers taken up by the sailors within, who brandish their gold goblets and shout, “Hurrah for old Plymouth,” “Hurrah for the Craft!”

1st Sailor. What’s up messmates?

2nd Sailor. Some Spanish prize, I’ll warrant; It’s no mere row that, I know the heavy tread of a Rover’s crew. That’s the game for me. Let’s out and join the fray. (Exeunt sailors, rushing in confusion).

English Spy, (hurriedly), Come! Brother come, there is much that you must see here before you make up your horoscope of the future. (Exeunt spies).

Scene III.—THE MARKET PLACE.

A great crowd surging along, pushing, fighting, and hallooing in the rear of a compact body of Rovers or freebooters, well armed, bringing with them a band of Spanish prisoners, captured in a ship in the channel, bound from Cadiz to the Low Countries, with a rich cargo of Silks, Wines, and other such articles of value, besides a quantity of money, for the payment of the Troops there. Among the captives, Soldiers of rank, Noblemen, Great Merchants. Some are hauled along in irons, screaming for mercy, to be kept prisoners till ransomed. A group of three, the assumed property of one party, are about being put up to auction. A Sailor stands upon a barrel with an axe in his hand for a hammer, as auctioneer. Jews and Spectators in front, ready to bid, and chaffing the extemporized Auctioneer.

Several Voices. Why don’t you go on, Bill Sayers! go on! go on! put one of the Hidalgos up. (Laughter.)

Whilst the chief is bargaining with a rich Jew aside, a Ruffian grasps at one of the Spanish Captives.

Ruffian. I should like one of those gold buttons.

The leader, Tom Cobham, turning from the Jew, brandishes his axe not very particular whether or not it lopped off an arm.

Tom Cobham, (fiercely.) Back varlet! on your life, I’ll cleave the first man, to the brisket, who dares to lay hand on one of them! (Sweeps round him with his terrible weapon, the crowd fall back. Turning to the Jew again) I’ll tell you what, Isaac! We cannot deal!

Isaac. They’re not worth an Angel more. There’s not an Hidalgo among them. Only traders like myself.

Tom Cobham. You Jews can jabber all the languages in the world. But I have robbed Churches, sacked towns along the coast of Spain, from Cadiz to Finisterra, have plundered her gold ships, and seized her Merchantmen (he pauses musing) ever since the execution of Sir Thomas Wyatt, and I can talk Spanish as well as you. They are Nobles, every one of them.

Isaac (whispering in his ear.) There now! I will do no more.

Tom Cobham (turning away indignant.) Two thousands Rials! Not even Sovereigns! We only count in Sovereigns, you old screw! You mean to rob. It’s not the price of the gold lace and buttons on their coats, not to speak of the jewels, silk, and velvet. Speak up, or be off! I know what to do with them.

Isaac (again whispering). There now! That’s because you are a friend, Tom. By the Holy Moses and all the Prophets, I’ll not advance another Rose Noble.

Tom Cobham (considering). Well! I’ll take your note of hand. I know you, Isaac. I’m in haste. I want to get to sea. There’s something coming down the wind that far beats this. I say, old hard fist, you’ll clear a good fire hundred out of this job. Well! well! business! business! I’m in a hurry. (Exeunt Sailors, Jews and Captives, the latter apparently pleased with the arrangement. The Market Place and its frequenters, Booths, Stalls for Gold and Silver, Casks of Wine being measured out for sale.)

English Spy. There’s a sight for you! Booths where richest silks are sold as basest stuffs to peasants at a rustic fair. Casks of Gascony drawn for the mob like Common Beer.

Foreign Spy (amazed). Gold and Silver weighed on open stalls.

English Spy. Our Seaboard is the Mart of Precious Metals, debased in price by quantity. Merchants come here to buy. It costs the vendors nothing. Our Seamen take it as their right from Spain.

Foreign Spy (in deep refection). What waste of luxury! Masses of wealth surpassing proudest Capitals.

English Spy (scrutinizing his amazed companion). You seem bewildered, Brother, I thought you should be. Engaged about this serious business, ’tis well, you see, to understand the Drama that’s being acted in the world. These are the Actors, not Priests and Politicians, blind with their own cobwebs, self-wove before their eyes. What think you of the scene?

Foreign Spy. Horror-struck—amazed—such lawless violence—such heaps of Gold and Silver—altar-plate made common traffic! Grandees of Spain put up to open auction! It passes comprehension.

English Spy (smiling). Philip knows it all, and cannot help himself. He sees his Gold-ships captured, or sunk, crews and all—his merchants plundered; Cities sacked and churches rifled on his own coast; His Officers and Nobles sold like slaves by public auction; kept in chains till ransomed; shuts his eyes and must endure the affront. (He walks aside with a grim smile, and triumphant air. Then returns and continues solemnly.) There is a Crisis now in the affairs of mankind. Providence re-adjusts his plan to open another chapter in the course of Destiny. ’Tis a New Power that rises from the sea, and has its source at Plymouth; to rule the world, and set the nations free! (He walks aside eyeing his companion exultingly.) I’ve seen it for some time, and in my waking dreams, this little Isle expands and fills the Globe, whilst Spain recoils, and shrinks before it like a burning scroll. (He walks with triumph—then slowly, with emphasis). Here’s food for thought, Brother! (aside) Now for proud Spain’s Ambassador, and learn his plans to murder Queen Elizabeth.

Foreign Spy (serious but firm). The prospect for the Church is ominous and gloomy. Still, Brother, we must cut off the Head of Heresy! Let us be moving, (going).

English Spy (aside as they go off). Cut off the Head! Still the power remains to crush thy Despotism—the stone to strike the Image, and crumble it to dust! (Exeunt).

Scene IV.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

Enter the Queen and the Earl of Leicester.

Leicester (laughing). Ha-Ha-Ha! I cannot see it. Excommunicated! How is it possible? Even the Pope cannot put one out of his house who never was in it. Ha! Ha! Ha! It’s a joke. Excommunicated indeed! Because a fellow like a thief in the night nails a paper on the Bishop of London’s door, your Majesty is to be deprived of your throne and life. All the world knows the Statue of Premunire.—(with emphasis and deliberation) No Bull can be published here without the licence of the Crown. This is poor thunder from the Vatican. Not thus did Leo roar, and yet a German Monk laughed him to scorn, burned his Bull in the open Market-place, and challenged him to prove his title before the Christian world. Ha! Ha! Ha! (He walks about laughing—then comes up to the Queen sarcastically) Pius the Fifth is no Hildebrand, his wretched missive thus stolen into the kingdom is no more than waste paper. The thunder of the Seven Hills has lost the bolt. Ha! Ha! Ha!

Queen. By the Rood, Robin, I agree with you; It is an insolent joke (She laughs to herself grimly). The world begins to see it too. France contemptuously suppressed his Bull, Philip forbade him to issue it and refuses to permit its publication in his dominions, (with proud defiance) I have answered his insolence in my own way, by hanging up his messenger at the very door where he committed the offence. Ha! Ha! Ha!—He’ll carry no more messages.

Leicester. Well! Is there one Catholic Nobleman in England who did not acquiesce in the execution of Felton? Parliament too gave a quick and substantial reply, by passing an immediate act, without a dissentient voice. “That to affirm by word or writing that the Queen is not Queen, or not entitled to the Crown, or that any other person ought to be Queen, even without an overt act, shall be High Treason.”

Queen. And the Nation indignant, shouted its assent. I plant my throne, Leicester in the hearts of my people! They are the true foundation of all Political right.—They are my Guards! My bulwark! my support!—I did not wait for an Act of Parliament to hang Felton.

Leicester (rubbing his hands and laughing). No! No! Your father’s daughter for that! It was a masterly counter-thrust for him. I should like to see the Pope’s face when he considers your position. (He walks musing, then confronts the Queen) Here you stand an excommunicated Princess; entirely unscathed by his thunder. Your throne is as firm as the primeval rock. You hold prisoner Mary, that was Queen of Scotland, the Dowager Queen of France, the Representative of Papal claims upon the throne. Yet not one member of the Catholic Nobility is ready to do the behests of the Pope in regard to your life or title.

Queen. And the people! the Great English people! the fearless! the free! Are they not more enthusiastic than ever? When do I show myself among them that they do not crowd around me with the idolatry of devotion, proud to kiss the hem of my robe, or touch the horse that bears me. Woe to the assassin who should lift a finger! He would be torn limb from limb. Yes! Yes! Leicester, I am safe among my People (she walks about confidently then stands and passionately continues) They know I love them, and will never betray their liberties or their honour (walking aside with emotion).

Leicester. You are the only Sovereign in the world that can freely move abroad without other guards than the people.

Queen. The Catholics of England never did, and never will, acknowledge the power of the Pope to annul their liberties, or to interfere in the government of their country. They will hear the Mass, but they will have none of his Bulls. They have had too much of Ecclesiastical Courts, and Appeals to Rome. That question was decided long ago, when the Clergy tried to substitute the Canon for the Common Law, and Parliament and People proclaimed with one voice “We will not have the Laws of England changed” (she walks with a triumphant air).

Leicester. The Court of Rome takes credit for great cunning and deep policy. Their present folly does surprise me; to threat without the power to strike. On whom does it rely? On France or Spain? Neither could permit the other to attack us, and concert is impossible ’twixt elements ajar.

Queen. They both are suing me for favours and alliance. Nay! every Power in Europe.—I am the Arbitress of Nations.

Leicester (fiercely). Besides! Our Naval heroes boldly say, their fleets combined could never land an army on our shores, and if they could, England like one man would rise and dash invasion from her! (He walks exultingly aside).

Queen. I believe it all, Leicester. My faith is in my country! In my people! Nor would their Queen in such an hour be wanting. Elizabeth would lead the van with them to conquer, or with them to fall. (She walks with a fierce and triumphant air) Yet, Leicester! Though with thoughts like these my Lion spirit rises to the occasion, there are times when sadness sits brooding o’er me, and in the lone, darkness of my soul, kindred and goblin forms arise, the brood of melancholy to fright my woman weakness. William, Prince of Orange, butchered in his Palace! the loaded pistol! the assassin’s knife! ever at one’s defenceless breast—Ah! Leicester (she shudders with horror) ’tis too much to bear! too much! too much! (she weeps and turns aside with great emotion, Leicester approaching her with deep sympathy, and kneeling, kisses her robe, to which he timidly ventures to apply his lips).

Leicester. My honoured Mistress! My beloved Queen! God, who raised you up His chosen instrument, has hitherto supported, and will preserve you. (The Queen turns abruptly and surprised).

Queen. What, Robin! This from thee? Art thou turned Puritan, man?

Leicester. Of late, my Queen, I have had dreams! Visions of Prophetic import, which seem to touch the times.

Queen. Dreams! Dreams that touch the times, belong to anxious brains like mine, troublous as my checkered life, with danger and alarm. Thine are of thyself, of love and selfish gain, intrigues with traitor wenches of my Court that pay me hollow homage, and take the pay of France, or Philip, or the Queen of Scots, or even thyself! (Looking at him piercingly).

Leicester, (attempting to speak). Oh! My loved Mistress!

Queen (interrupting him), Nay! Nay! Ne’er deny it, Leicester. I watch the games of all, and play my own! (with a grim smile).

Leicester (earnestly, as to repel the insinuation). My Liege, my thoughts are capable of proof. The vision long hath left my brain, and found material body. Art hath moulded it in jewelled gold, and given it tongue prophetic! Futurity will unfold the truth; but it would be presented to you on the throne. May it please your Majesty to be seated.

Queen. What mean you, man? Robin! No mummery now, my mood is serious! (Leicester bows solemnly), Well! Well! I will indulge you. (She gives him her hand and he leads her to the throne).

Leicester. My Liege! It is behind the arras, permit me to introduce it.

Queen (impatiently). Do as thou listest and be quick. (He goes for the intended present). There’s something in it, else he’s acting well. What can it be?

He returns with a splendidly gilt and ornamented box, lays it down, and opening it, withdraws a group of statuary of jewelled gold. Approaching the throne, he kneels on one knee, and presents it to the Queen, who all the time watches the proceeding with intense interest, then takes the present with great surprise and curiosity.

Leicester. Behold, my Liege! The symboled future! May the God of England verify it soon.

He buries his face in his hands and continues kneeling. The Queen eyeing it for a moment, on all sides, in deep abstraction, rushes from the throne, and placing it on a highly ornamented table under the light, examines it curiously, not without awe, as if something supernatural. Leicester, still kneeling, watches her askance.

Queen (slowly). Magnificent! sublime! Art indeed, which can embody thought in gold, and almost shape the lips to speech. Prophetic Vision! Symboled future, humph! The future still to me is mystic, dark, and awful. (She looks around for Leicester, who is still kneeling before the throne and watching the Queen with great anxiety askance). No more of that play-acting; up man, and expound thy riddle. (Leicester comes forward, and taking up the group in one hand, whilst he points with the other to the figures, thus explains their meaning, the Queen, anxiously awaiting the result).

Leicester. The central figure, seated on a throne, with features so beautiful, the express image of Majesty itself, is the Queen of England! the likeness unmistakeable. At her feet kneeling, is the so-called Queen of Scots. Around the stormy ocean your bulwark, strength, and power. On either side, figures of France and Spain overwhelmed in the waves, whilst Neptune, rising in front, presents to you the globe, and does homage to the true Sovereign of the seas.

Queen. Oh Leicester! Leicester! (The Queen sinks upon a chair, overcome by the weight of thought and the tumult of her ideas). Prophetic Vision! Symboled Future! I am lost in a tumult of thoughts, and hopes, and fears. Call Ashley! Be quick! Quick, my Lord! Exhausted! Overcome! (Exit Leicester. She leans sobbing on the chair, her face buried in her hands).

Re-enter the Earl of Leicester with Mrs. Ashley, who rush to her assistance.

Curtain falls.

ACT II.

Scene I.—THE HARBOUR OF SAN JUAN DE ULLOA.

It is surrounded by high cliffs with batteries. An Island at the mouth. Spanish and English ships. The town. Deck of the “Jesus” of Lubeck.—Sir John Hawkins, Drake, Hampton, Bolton. A Council of War. Thunder! Lightning! Tempest!

Hawkins. Comrades, we may well thank God for this refuge. We had a narrow escape in that gale. I thought the “Jesus” of Lubeck would never weather it. Our voyage has been prosperous beyond expectations. Above a million and a half netted, with four hundred Negroes still on hands. To have left it all behind, with our bodies to the sharks, in the Gulf of Mexico, would have been a calamity. Now with our freight of enormous value, even if we were rid of our remaining Negroes, we could not move till we refit. This old hulk in her present condition, would never float to England. Besides, the possibility of falling in with a Spanish fleet—our canvas in rags, and spars in this state. Weigh it well, comrades!—Weigh it well.

Bolton. This is the very spot for us; we ride here in safety. Neither wind nor sea can touch us. And we are masters of the place. Our guns on the island command the entrance, the town is at our own mercy, the fortified heights are in our hands; we could sink the whole Navy of Spain in five minutes.

Drake. I should be very sorry to see the whole Navy of Spain for the present. There are twelve first-rate ships here, and two hundred thousand pounds worth of gold and silver in them, which with what we have already made, and our pearls, emeralds, and precious metals, would be a goodly return—say something like two millions. It would give us some weight in our native country! Heh! (He walks about with a smile, as they stare at him excited) Why Old England has not seen the like. How jolly Plymouth would shout with all her Tars. By St. George, I think I see the uproar when they should behold our Gallant Navy riding in the Sound. (He looks at them as they gaze in excitement—even Hawkins is surprised) It is a great temptation! Philip might threaten. Cecil might grumble and make notes; the Jesuits might plot; but England and our noble Queen would look at us with other eyes. I say, take the treasure and the ships; put the town to ransom; and let us be off! I don’t like the look of the place. Delays are dangerous. Action! action! for me. I hate Spain and her people. Treachery, perfidy, and cruelty make up the mind and character of a Spaniard.

Hawkins. Hitherto we have acted within law, and under treaty, solemnly made between Spain and England.

Drake. I have no faith in and treaty or peace subsisting between the nations (He comes up to Hawkins, looks at him archly in the face. All observing with great interest) Why man, you forget the small exchange of national amenities just before our departure.

Hawkins (laughing) Oh! you allude to that Spanish ship which—

Drake (interrupting with comical seriousness) I mean the Spanish man-of-war, with Flemish prisoners, who came for shelter into Plymouth Harbour. You fired upon her with the Castillian flag at her main; made her haul down her colours, and deliver up her prisoners, which you sent home to fight against Spain. You remember the stir Philip made about it, and when the Queen sent you an angry message (Lord, she never meant it—a mere blind) you audaciously told her that you deserved her thanks for maintaining the honour of the country (laughter). You know we sailed under the protest of De Silva and have carried on our trade by force of arms.

Bolton. We could not venture to sea without repairs. We want at least a week.

Hampton. Oh! we could soon victual—seize the ships, levy contributions, put the town to ransom, and make sail.

Hawkins. But then, you see the Treaty. What would the Council say? What would Cecil say? He is against us as it is. Besides, the legitimate trade we are carrying on—a million! in a single voyage. This in my opinion is better than booty and open war.

Drake. Treaty!—Peace!—Legitimate trade!—Hawkins don’t deceive yourself; bits of paper cannot disguise the virulent hostility subsisting between Spain and England. The legitimate trade we are carrying on in ships armed to the teeth! It is nothing but open war—a defiance of Philip and his power. Talk of the Council being against us, and what Cecil may say. (Contemptuously). Cecil! who can see no other way to keep up our Navy than an Act of Parliament to compel the Protestant People of England to eat fish. Ha! Ha! Ha! (laughter in which the crews join. With emphasis). Bluff King Hal and his Parliament, thought Beef at a farthing a pound was the right way to keep up the stout hearts and strong arms of Englishmen, who themselves have ever been the true and only defence of their Country and Freedom. (He walks aside indignant. Laughter—caught up and echoed back with tremendous cheers by the sailors around and below decks). Whenever Britons, in sloth and ignorance shall delegate their duty to a Council, or a Government, they will forfeit their high Destiny—their Commission from on High!—Their safety and their Liberties will sink together in the dust of Rottenness, and the proud Island of the Brave and Free, remain only a bleak, deserted, and ruined rock amid the breakers, a monument of the past; a warning to the future, like Tyre and Carthage, and Great Rome herself. England can only fall through treason and corruption. (Cheers from the sailors and shouts).

Sailors. May God defend us from that. We can defend us from our enemies ourselves, Hurrah!

Hawkins. The Jesus is a wreck, can scarcely float, her mainmast sprung—she could not go to sea.

Drake. Abandon her then.—Here are plenty of ships fit for a voyage, with treasure in them. Take your choice, burn the rest, and make sail with what we have. Put no faith in Spaniards. They will consider the treaty as so much waste paper, when it serves their ends to do so. They fear and hate us, and neither bonds nor treaties will stop them in their vengeance. Our only treaty to rely on is in ourselves when we are too strong for them—God grant it may ever be so—or woe to Merry England.

Hawkins. Abandon the Jesus! You forget that she is the Queen’s ship—the only one in the expedition. Do you know the temper of our good Queen? She will expect her ship back, and also her share of the profit. What if, instead, I should bring the Kingdom under heavy demands from Philip for our infraction of the Treaty; I ask you, do you know her temper, or what her Royal and gentle Majesty would say? Heh!

Drake (laughing as at a joke). Fire and Steel! I should think I did, Ha! Ha! Ha! I know our Royal Mistress well. Her Majesty is a good Protestant, but she has two idols set up in her heart, whose worship she will never abandon for any other creed, “ambition and avarice;” the love of power, and the love of gold. Give her these, what cares she for an old hulk. Let her know that her heroes can sweep the seas, that we defy, and soon shall break the force of haughty Spain. Above all, drench her with gold and show me the power on earth that can drag it from her. (He walks aside with his hands up). She will swallow man the gold of the Indies, but believe me, disgorge it, never. Temper! Fire and Steel! I think I see her temper on the receipt of a dispatch from Philip, that clerk king, whose sceptre is his pen with which he dooms brave men to death, and nations to slavery, whilst he himself, the veriest slave to Monks and Priests, delegates the authority of his high office to what he calls the Holy House of the inquisition. Restitution forsooth! What she would say! “God’s death,” she would exclaim, “Is the fellow a fool, to ask me for money? Let him catch Hawkins and Drake, and the rest of the freebooters himself, and take what satisfaction he can out of them.” That is pretty much what she would say. But if he should come himself to demand it, I think she would be very likely to box his Royal ears for him, and tell him to go and be hanged, as she did the stout Earl of Essex, when he had the impudence to turn his back upon her. (Laughter.)

Hawkins. This is bold advice, Drake, but I do not like the responsibility.

Drake. Responsibility! To whom? To our Queen? She will hold us responsible, only for failure in our enterprise. In plain words, for bringing home no money. Besides, she has no jurisdiction here, nor are we sailing under her flag, or the authority of a Lord High Admiral, or his Court. We Rovers sail under our own red bunting, acknowledging no Courts; and fight our way, not palter about Treaties. Law cannot defend us; should the Spaniards but get us into their clutches, would they vouchsafe to us, trial in a lawful court? No! We should have neither law nor mercy. The Inquisition! Torture! the Auto-de-fe, that is fire and faggot, would be our lot. For my part, I will acknowledge no responsibility, but to God, upon His own ocean! So long as I live, I shall consider it my best duty to him, to make war upon Spaniards, who are alike his enemies and ours. Is that monster Philip without other motive than the impulse of a cruel nature, to sit unopposed in his cabinet like a spider weaving his webs of slavery for mankind, to monopolise the earth’s surface with all the gold in its bosom, and the whole ocean as well? Why not its circumambient air, that we may ask his leave to breathe? I tell you, Hawkins, that whilst I can muster a keel, and men and Britons to man it, I shall ask no licence from mortal man; I shall boldly take my share of its wild waves, in spite of all the Despots in the world, and claim it as my patrimony from God! (He turns away in great excitement.)

The report of a solitary gun booms along the water, and cuts short the debate. They are all startled, but before there is time for utterance, it is followed by a discharge from the batteries on the island, and successive volleys from a number of Ships in the offing.

Hawkins, (in alarm), What can this mean? Those are no signal guns, no friendly salutes.

Hampton. No, General, no blank cartridges there! The report is too sharp; it has the ring of metal. We are surprised. It is time to get ready, and stand by our guns; it must be a Spanish fleet!

Hawkins. God grant it be not the outward bound fleet of Spain, we must keep them out. Get ready my pinnace! Bear a hand! We must be off to the island, and see to this. Get your ships under weigh, and stand by, to dispute the mouth of the harbour. (Exeunt.)

Scene II.—AN ISLAND WITH BATTERIES COMMANDING THE MOUTH OF THE HARBOUR.

The Spanish fleet of thirteen sail, sent out expressly to look for Hawkins, and to treat him as a pirate. The English forbid entrance. A party of Spaniards, with the Spanish Ambassador and the new Viceroy of Spain, under a flag of truce, await the arrival of the English Commander to treat.

Enter Sir John Hawkins, Drake, Hampton, Bolton, and others.

Spanish Ambassador. Have I the honour to address the great, invincible and renowned, Sir John Hawkins, whose fame is throughout the world?

Hawkins. Your excellency has before you the Admiral and the gallant Captains of a small English fleet, bound on a trading voyage, put in under stress of weather, to victual and re-fit; and for our own security, during the time we find it necessary to occupy the harbour, we intend to prevent the entry of armed vessels.

Ambassador (amazed). But we are the fleet of His Majesty the King of Spain, carrying a thousand soldiers, thirteen galleons with others their consorts and tenders. I have the honour to be his Ambassador, and this is his viceroy, with authority to govern his possessions in the New World. Allow me to present to you Don Martini Henriqnez, viceroy of all the Indies. (Hawkins bows.) This is His Majesty’s town and dominions, and we claim not only free entrance, but entire jurisdiction. The nations are at peace, and we concede to you the right freely to occupy it as friends, to trade and re-fit, with freedom of departure. What would you more?

Hawkins. True, your Excellency, the nations are nominally at peace, but we Englishmen have been in these times of peace treated as worse than enemies in war. We have been attacked by ships carrying the Castillian flag, thrown into prison, tortured, famished in dungeons, given over to the inquisition, to fire and faggot, contrary to the law of nations, and to actual treaty. We must take care of ourselves. Either you shall force an entrance at the cannon’s mouth, which you will not find a very easy matter, or you enter on such conditions as I shall dictate. That we have liberty to trade, victual, and re-fit, and to depart without hindrance or molestation, that the fortifications remain in our hands, and that you give hostages, as a guarantee for their fulfillment.

Ambassador. This, Senor, is a very serious matter. It is against law, reason, and justice that we should be under conditions imposed by a foreigner who has no claim or authority here, to enter our own possessions. I do not know how I should answer to my Royal Master, should I so far compromise his authority and right, conceding to a stranger, the privilege of dictating conditions to our ships in our own waters.

Hawkins. Nor I to answer to my Royal Mistress for the loss of her ships and men by any laxity or cowardice on my part in not defending them. We Englishmen are accustomed to consider our duty to our country paramount over all else, to fight under the national flag till Death or Victory; never to yield a point in debate or battle, but to stick to our guns, and No Surrender!

English All. No Surrender! No Surrender!

Hawkins. Your Excellencies, and you Senores, you see your choice. Either you fight or depart, or enter on our conditions.

Ambassador. I shall retire if you please, and consult with his Excellency. (Exeunt Spaniards. English laughing).

Hawkins (laughing). Well, Comrades, I think I have settled their Excellencies; what think you? They must be off. If they meant fighting, they would have boldly entered like men, and asked no one’s leave. They dare not enter into conditions. Philip would execute them all, and rightly too, the poltrons. It would be complete surrender of his authority.

Hampton. It is not long you would have hesitated with such a fleet, General! I think with you, they will be off if the gale will allow them to weather the headlands. Lord! you frightened them; they turned pale at your very look. That’s the way to talk to them. No backing and filling; no hauling of tacks and sheets with Spaniards. A straight course, good headway; with half a gale blowing. That’s what they can’t stand. (He walks aside haughtily).

Bolton. General, you have spoken like a Tar, and an Englishman. I call that sailing to half a point of the compass. (Turning to Hampton). I am like you, Hampton, for carrying all sail, and keeping the red flag flying. Damn their thirteen ships and their new Viceroy Don Martini Henriquez, too, with his thousand soldiers. What’s all that to us? We can soon settle accounts with them, and their odds.—I never once thought of counting the number of Spaniards or Frenchmen, or of their ships either. Before we shall have sunk or burned the half of them, it will be very difficult to find the other half. We are not only a match for them on the open sea, but here they are at our mercy, keep them out, and then the gale will do for them.

Drake. Well said, Old Rough and Ready, you know how to deal with Spaniards. If you trust them, Hawkins, you will rue it all your life. (Exeunt).

Scene III.—HARBOUR OF SAN JUAN DE ULLOA.

The Spaniards during the night have got possession of the batteries on the heights, filled with men a hulk close to the Minion, in order to board her. Their fleet of thirteen large ships arranged for action; their guns brought to bear on the English, who are unprepared; many of their men having been decoyed into the town, the battle commences with an attack on these. The English fight their way to their boats, and pull for their ships. The Council of War on the deck of the Jesus see it and get ready for action.

Enter Hawkins, Drake, Bolton, and Hampton.

Hawkins. Comrades! This harbour of San Juan de Ulloa wears a different face this morning from that it bore when we last surveyed its beauties from this deck; and doubtless inspires you all with altered feelings. With what hope we entered it, as the last waves of the angry sea broke vainly in our wake, and when we dropped anchor, our shattered barks rode easy as seagulls on the waters of the peaceful bay. We congratulated ourselves on our escape from danger—on the profits of a successful voyage—and we surveyed the beauteous landscape in comfort and security. How vain the dream! How changed the reality!

Bolton. Glad as I was then, General, of its friendly shelter, I would rather the fiercest gale that ever howled its threats in the open ocean, than behold that thunder-cloud gathering over our heads (he points to the batteries). How did they get possession of these forts?

Hawkins. Our men, deceived by pretended friendship, cajoled by favour, and seduced by the fascinations of the Creole women, have been allured into the town. During the night the enemy seized the batteries.

Drake (looking towards the town). They are reaping the bitter fruits of disobedience now, or I am much mistaken. (Shouts, tumult, and confusion of a multitude intermingled with shots and cheers come from the shore.) Hark to that! It is an English cheer and an angry one! It cuts sharp and clear like the tone of a fife through the roar of battle.

Shouts of Sailors on Shore. Hurrah for Moone! Stick to them boys! Hurrah!

Drake. That’s Moone in the front; how he wields his axe! He cleaves them like sheep in the slaughter house. That’s big Jack Winter, with the boat-hook; he handles it as if it were a quarterstaff. How he scatters the little Spaniards! Brave boys, lay on!

Bolton. The crowd falls back before these two men, (great excitement on board the Jesus). Our fellows have the best of it. They have gained their boats and are pulling for their ships. (Shouts continue, the sailors in the boats hail).

Sailors in the Boats. “Jesus a-hoy.” (The sailors on board begin to crowd the deck in great excitement and prepare to cheer).

Hawkins. Hush! No cheers as you value our safety. Silence! Silence in the ship! Boatswain, all hands to quarters in silence. Men to the guns, deck watch, stand by to get under weigh. (He rushes about to restore order).

Hampton. Could not our fellows by a sudden charge surprise the forts?

Hawkins (With assumed confidence). It is too late, alas! But I signed the treaty with an Ambassador of Spain, and with Philip’s Viceroy of all the Indies. We have their honour and the credit of their nation for its fulfilment. Upon its conditions I gave them entry into the harbour, and saved them from destruction. Suppose they have got possession of the batteries, they are bound to give us safe and peaceable right to victual and re-fit, with freedom of departure.

Drake. Oh Hawkins, delusion, mere delusion! A treaty when you have not the means to enforce it. There is not a moment to waste. Action! Action! (With energy) Prepare for instant battle, or it will be every way too late.

Hampton. They are getting into line with springs on their cables, so that every gun may bear.

Drake. And the batteries, they are pointing the guns on us. Look there Hawkins. You have the weather gage, make for them under all sail; with the command of the wind, you can give a double broadside. Set your ship on fire, and run her aboard the Admiral. In the confusion take to your boats and pull for the Minion. We shall pepper away, and get to sea. On the blue water our legs will be too long for them, should they dare to follow us. Goodbye, God bless you, Hawkins, should we not meet again, (they shake hands). No surrender. Victory or death. (Exeunt Drake, Hampton, and Bolton.) (Scene changes.)

Scene IV.—THE BATTLE OF SAN JUAN DE ULLOA.

The harbour filled with burning ships. The Jesus is aboard the Spanish Admiral, both in flames, yet still fighting broadside to broadside. Three hundred Spaniards attempting to board the Minion from a hulk are being repulsed. The Jesus and the Minion in font. The Spanish fleet at the back. Deck of the Jesus.

Hawkins. Blaze away, my sea-dogs, stick to the Admiral. Don’t let him out clear. Hurrah! upon bows and guns. (He turns towards the Minion.) See! They are on the deck of the Minion. Hurrah for Hampton! Stick to them gallant tars. Pike, axe, and cutlass, follow me. (He rushes at their head through the pinnace on to the deck of the Minion, shouts and cheers as they clamber over the bulwarks). Hah! Minion to the rescue! Down with the traitors! Down with the villains, Hah! the axe of Moone! Great Winter, hurl them overboard with a run. Brave men, strong men, hurrah for merry England, the day is ours, God gives us the victory; Hurrah! Hurrah! (with great eagerness). Look to the deck of the Jesus, Hampton. How well our men behave. Fire upon the Admiral, ply shot and shaft. (They shoot) Hah! The long bow of England against the world. These are the scorpions that sting our foes. My gallant fellows have done their work, they are both blazing. It’s all up there, keep the Spaniards in confusion and let our men get away. (They are crowding into their pinnace and leaping overboard). Boats and spars for those that are in the water. (Men run about with spars).

Hampton. Out with the sweeps and try to crawl ahead, we shall fall in with a cap-full of wind, once clear of the vibration of the guns.

Hawkins. Now serve out the ale. (Leaning exhausted against the main-mast, he calls to his cupbearer for Ale). Samuel, fill me a cup of ale, for my very soul is exhausted, but I thank God for this deliverance, (his cupbearer hands him a silver goblet, he comes forward and poises it in the air). Here’s to our Noble Queen and her heroic Tars! (He quaffs the Ale and lays down the goblet, which a cannon shot dashes to pieces the moment his hand quits it, Captain Hampton rushing forward to assist him).

Hampton. Are you hurt, General? That was a narrow escape, but we are accustomed to such chances.

Hawkins. It was the will of God, Hampton—a warning voice to give him the glory. There is no such thing as chance. He has not done with me yet. (Look, he looks around.) But we are all right now. Avast rowing, let us have a view of the battle-field. Heavens! what a wreck, they are utterly disabled. (The harbour is strewn with wreck. The Spanish fleet is blazing; some driven ashore, some sunk, the masts and flags appearing above water).

Hampton. The Jesus is burned to the water-mark, but she has done her work. She has set fire to the Admiral, the flame has spread. They are all either destroyed by fire, shot to pieces, or driven ashore. It is truly marvellous how so small a force should destroy a powerful fleet like that. You ought to have taken Drake’s advice to seize them with all their arms, ships, treasure, and batteries of the place; then we should have been masters of Spain and the Ocean.

Hawkins. Let us be satisfied. You see I was hampered with the Treaty, and our undetermined, perhaps divided Government.

Hampton. Say the traitors in the Government!—Damn the Government!—Damn the Treaty!—But as you have said, General, perhaps we should be satisfied with our lives. There is Drake and the Judith ahead. Pull away my boys, there is not a breath.—What a lull the storm of battle leaves, as if the very Ocean quailed. Hurrah upon the starboard sweeps! Hurrah! (the ship is drawn off, the Orchestra striking up “Rule Britannia.”)

Curtain falls.

ACT III.

Scene I.—PLYMOUTH.

The Hoe—a high ground commanding a view of the Town, Harbour and Sound seaward. Ships sailing in and out. Privateers cruising by the Offing—a number of the same sort in the Harbour ready to make sail at a moment’s notice. William Hawkins, with a Telescope having taken a view.

Hawkins (melancholy and brooding). Not a speck! No hope! All gone! or worse, captured, and then the Inquisition, fire and faggot! Nothing too cruel for Spaniards to Englishmen. My poor Brother!

Enter Sir Henry Killigrew, who comes up to him unseen, one of the many nobles and gentry driven to the sea as daring Buccaniers, by the Marian persecution, now a most confidential agent of the Queen.

Sir Henry Killigrew (clapping him on the shoulder). Well! old friend, what does the Telescope say? For I can guess what you are on the look out for. I came down from London, to have a look myself, and to have a talk with you about these Spanish ships in port, with specie. I shall detain them until the result of this affair is ascertained. The Queen is in a towering rage. You know her temper when she feels not only that she is injured, but that her honour and power are slighted. She says this is a foul business; worse than open war.

Hawkins. My poor Brother, with all his gallant spirit and seamanship, when dealing with the enemy, was so confident in his crotchets of Law and Treaty!

Killigrew. Law and Treaty with the Spaniard; that means let him tie your hands until he cuts your throat and robs you! There is hardly a day without some demand of redress from Philip, whilst even an answer is refused to us for the gravest breaches of Law, human and divine. The state of affairs is ominous. The Council is divided. Men say the Nation is divided; a foul falsehood. This affair of the Queen of Scots with the Duke of Norfolk, the poor fool! an idle threat of rebellion aided by Spain and the Pope. The Queen hardly knows whom to trust. Her reliance is on the Privateers, but we had better retire to talk of these matters. Here comes a suspicious looking rascal (he looks at him) he walks lame! Yet, observe, it is only a limp now and then; and that patch over his eye—it is only put on for a blind; the fellow does not look before him, like a man with one eye; yet he has a bold bearing, and tall. But for the patch and the awkward limp, I should think I knew the rake of his top-mast.

Hawkins (after a view of the new-comer through his telescope—laughing) You know him well. It is bold Tom Cobham, that fought his way with Wyatt, to the very gates of the Tower. He is after some devil’s play, I’ll warrant—and I think I know his game; he wears a disguise in Plymouth; there are so many spies here; he is supposed to be dead, you know.

Killigrew. Of course; it was given out that he was sentenced to an extravagant death—unknown to our laws. It was a trick of the Queen’s. She laughs when she tells how she humbugged the Ambassador, who took it all in, and actually wrote it to his master. Elizabeth knew better than to execute one of Lord Cobham’s sons, who so nearly forfeited their lives in her cause. You know his offence?

Hawkins. Yes, Yes! the Spanish ship he captured, with eighty thousand ducats, in the Bay of Biscay, and which, after sewing up the Captain and all hands in their sails for winding sheets, he sent to the bottom! It was cleverly done, that affair; just like Cobham, who is not the man to do things by halves where Spaniards are concerned. I marvel how the thing got wind. When we scuttle a ship, we expect to hear no more of her: dead men usually tell no tales!

Killigrew. In this case the adage turned out to be untrue; the westerly swell in Biscay’s shallow waters washed eighteen bodies ashore, sewed up in the mainsail; they of course were recognized, and the chase through the chops of the channel was seen by another Spaniard, who knew Cobham’s Sea Eagle before, only too well! Here he comes; let us affect not to know him!

Cobham passes—Then walks round surveying them comically, using his hand as a telescope, held to his covered eye.

Cobham. I am just taking an observation before hailing—you are a pretty pair of land-lubbers, you are, not to recognize a brother tar and messmate, who has only to open his mouth to hang you both for piracy and murder on the high seas; and levying war on Her Majesty’s faithful ally the King of Spain, a hundred times.

They all burst into laughter, with a hearty recognition.

Killigrew. My dear Tom, I am heartily glad to see you; but we were carrying out your own joke, man; when you take your next observation, just remember not to put the glass to the blind eye.

Cobham (laughing). Good, good, I only show a little false bunting for the occasion, to pass unnoticed through the crowd. We have a little business on here, and don’t want to draw attention till it is over. (He takes off the patch). But I find O cannot do this trick well; Tom Cobham fits better his part in the rough work of battle.

Hawkins. Aye, aye, Tom; you may as well open the other port. We could recognize your bold sailing, whatever canvass you should hoist. What’s the game now? I have an idea, these Antwerp-bound Spaniards, eh! They are here, you know under the protection of the law. If they are attacked, Philip will demand redress, and what will the Queen say?

Cobham (indignantly). Say, Say! Let her say what she ought to say. That the banner of England has been trailed through the dirt, in the streets of Madrid, by Public officers in obedience to his own order, as if he had taken it in battle from the Turk. Her Majesty’s subjects, without having committed other offence than that of being free born Englishmen, have been tortured, burned, or famished in inquisition dungeons, and buried like dogs in dunghills; and all this by royal authority, and during peace. Peace! There can be no peace between Spain and England. Talk of protection, does he expect Her Majesty to became his water bailiff, or to erect an ocean police for him? As to our Acts, under what responsibility is she for them? They are our own private Acts. Our ship’s are private property, our crews are volunteers; we sail under our own flag, and are alone responsible for what we do. Let him take care of his own by his means, and seize us if he can. Then it will be scant mercy or justice we shall receive. As for me, I have never sought to cover myself with my country’s flag; I go forth from my Irish cove under my own free bunting, I have a mission of blood and vengeance against Spain and her inquisition, and with the help of God I will never cease a war of extermination until they are destroyed; and, Killigrew, there is a continual voice within me which whispers, “The end it near.”

Killigrew. The government thinks it belongs to them, to demand retribution for the nation, and I can speak for the Queen; she is resolved.

Cobham. Tush! tush! government will never do anything. No! the merchants and sailors must take care of themselves, by self-defence and just retaliation. It is a private war against robbers and murderers. Look at this late affair of the five Bristol briggs at the Azores. The English were getting under weigh as the Spanish Admiral entered the harbour. It was enough that they carried St. George’s Cross at their main. He fires upon them, carries their crews to Cadiz in irons, makes over their property to the Inquisition, confiscates the ships, and throws the men into prison to rot like thousands of their fellows, in hopeless dungeons! (He walks aside indignant).

Killigrew. Well, but it is under negociation.

Cobham (sarcastically). Negociation with the Inquisition, over whose holy house Philip says he has no control, (a bitter laugh.) No, no! the murderers must be put down as the people of St. Malo put them down. The Spanish Inquisition burned at the stake, sixty French sailors from St. Malo, notwithstanding Philip’s entreaty to the contrary. The French manned their pinnaces, looked out for Spaniards, captured one hundred and sent their heads into Spain, leaving one man in every vessel to steer her into port, and show inquisitors the fell retribution of their bloody work! (He walks exultingly). The Spanish Inquisition has meddled no more with French sailors.

Hawkins. All true, about our affair at the Azores. I know merchants in Plymouth, who were owners in the ships. Now about these Spanish ships in port, what? You see they have taken refuge from those sea-hawks outside and from some that are inside, or I’m mistaken. What is that low black, snake-like lugger, with her anchor just atrip, like a greyhound in the leash?

Cobham (with a malicious smile). She is a fishing-boat of mine, with fifty hands in her, ready to make sail the moment the Spaniards move. And those Clippers outside are the sea-hawks of the best blood in England, driven by persecution and tyranny, to the liberty of the ocean. There is ruffling Ned Horsey, Strangway, well known as the Red Rover of the Channel, Carew’s, Tremaine’s, Throgmorton’s—enow—and I think, gentlemen, you know something of two of those clippers yourselves (with a knowing look). Well, you see we have law for what we do. These Spaniards are carrying specie from Spain to support their bloody war against our friends in the low countries, who are gallantly fighting for civil and religious liberty. We have resolved the gold shall never reach its destination—we shall baulk Philip in that at least, and so far, help our brethren in the faith.

Killigrew (laughing as if at a good joke). Hold on! Hold on! every inch there, Tom; is that your only object? Suppose it were to be employed in some work of charity would the Rovers take the same interest in it.

Cobham. Well, Harry, you who have spent such a peaceful life—you who never sunk a Spaniard or overhauled a wine brig, and ran the contents on the sands of Lowestoft, you can do what you like with your share (They laugh at the sarcasm).

Hawkins. I say, Killigrew, that’s a broadside! Tom carries too many guns for you! Ha! ha! ha! (laughter in which all join).

Cobham. But you see I have spent my life fighting for religion and vengeance, and, with the help of God, will so continue to the end (with firm resolution) I can’t forgot the times of Wyatt!

Killigrew. Well, it helps the work, Tom, when there is good plunder as well as vengeance.—Somehow, I cannot help thinking that if they carried corn instead of gold and silver, they might have continued their voyage.

Cobham. That is as it may be. If they hailed from a Protestant country—England or Holland—or carried a neutral flag, Moor, Greek, or Turk.—But Spain and her Inquisition sets my blood a boiling, I would sink one of her ships with all hands; even if freighted with manure or sand. Do you think our blood is to cry to Heaven in vain for vengeance? Not while Thomas Cobham has one shot in the locker—a Rover’s deck, manned with fifty free, daring boys, that can fight five hundred or a thousand Spaniards wherever we meet them on the ocean. But with respect to these Spaniards I cannot see any good reason, why we should not spoil, as well as slay, the Philistines.

Enter Sir Edward Horsey from behind.

Horsey. Praise the Lord! England has still one of her saints left—spoken like a true son of a Puritan! You have chapter and verse for that—go-a-head, Tom,—slay and take possession, and when your hand is in the throat of the common foe, Edward Horsey is not the man to baulk you in your purpose.

They all shake hands with the new-comer, laughing.

Cobham. Ned! I am glad to see you. I beg your pardon! (bowing low). Sir Edward Horsey! Why man, I understand the Queen has knighted you and made you Governor of the Isle of Wight. She is coming to her senses, and recognizing her true friends at last—a Rover of the genuine stamp (laughing exultingly) Governor of the Isle of Wight! No Frenchman or Spaniard will land there I trow. She sees that the real defence of the coast, as well as the ultimate overthrow of Spain and the possession of the Trident, lies with the free flag, and must pass to England through her Freebooters.

Killigrew. Well she is beginning to see, that we are the men that she must rely on at last, and even Cecil is opening his eyes. This last affair of Sir John Hawkins, so base, cowardly, and cruel. Such an outrage upon truth and honour. Her pride has been seriously hurt, and you see she was a large partner in the venture, and the profits of enormous value, entirely lost. This has wounded our Queen in the tenderest part—her pocket. She has sent me down to ascertain if any direct tidings have come to hand—and to consult with William Hawkins and the rest of you, what can be done. She does not like open war, and fears Philip will declare it.

Cobham. How can he further declare it than by his acts? Has he not, as far as Edicts can, closed his Ports against us, and attempted to destroy our trade with the Flemings, who cannot do without us. Bah! has not Hawkins boldly and seamanly answered the challenge just before he sailed, by firing upon a Spanish Man of War, with prisoners, in Plymouth Harbour? What is peace and what war. Well! I fear Spanish justice has overtaken him at last with all his tricks and finesse, and all his gallantry and skill, what is the truth? Is there any intelligence at all, William? That is what I followed you up to hear.

Hawkins. Nothing direct, I fear the worst. That they are all gone down after the battle, or worse perhaps, taken, and handed over to the Inquisition. The dreaded name of Hawkins, would bring down on them, the full vials of Philip’s wrath. Whatever we know, is from Spanish sources—Killigrew can give it authentic, through the Government.

Killigrew. Alas! We expect information here. A terrible battle has been fought. The Queen’s ship the Jesus, with immense value has been captured by the Spaniards, and a vast number of English killed, or made prisoners. Some of the smaller vessels however got away. The Ambassador observes strict silence of Sir John, or Drake, we can learn nothing, the disaster has been terrific, we fear they are all gone. The Queen is in a rage, and says we may go at the treasure ships, that have taken refuge in our ports. I have taken measures to secure those at Southampton, before coming to give you the hint, and to seize these here. She is determined on redress.

Cobham. You see by what I have said, I did not wait for any hints. Don Francisco Diaz, lying there beside my lugger, carries as freight about half a million a Genoese loan to Philip, for which the Duke of Alva hangs fire, his army being in mutiny for their arrears of pay. The Duke promised Philip, that he could make the war self-supporting. He has failed entirely. The Flemings are too much for him in that, they carry off their valuables. He gains battles but there is no plunder! (He turns his eye to the Spanish ship and raising his finger addresses her). Don Francisco Diaz! Thou shalt not deliver thy precious freight at Antwerp! (Cheers in the offing).

Killigrew, (laying his hand on Cobham’s shoulder,) Hush! What’s all that? Something of importance. (They all look.)

Hawkins. What can be up? They are crowding to the beach, and the piers. The cruisers too, they are firing salutes in the offing and showing their bunting. What can it mean? Surely that was a cheer, rolling down upon the wind. Let us go and see, besides, there are queer rumours I should like you to hear whispered about the disaster of our friends, said to come from the Spaniards in the harbour. (A cheer in the offing).

Cobham. That is an undoubled cheer in the offing. There is something ill the wind, go a-head. (Exeunt).

Scene II.

The pier, crowd of sailors, and citizens running as if for some strange news, or standing in groups conjecturing.

Enter W. Hawkins, Sir H. Killigrew, and Sir E. Horsey.

Hawkins. Let us get among the sailors and hear what they think, their instinct for the real is marvellous, as their far-sightedness at sea. Here’s a group of the right sort for us! Pointing to some powerful men of haughty bearing and daring expression, dressed in a superior style, flaunting gold chains and massive jewellery, with Indian silk handkerchiefs carelessly worn, and other marks of wealth obstentiously displayed. They seem not only to stand aloof by themselves but to shoulder their way without considering much whether or not, they give offence. As Hawkins and his companions make their way into the group one of them salutes with an air of recognition.

Sailor. Good day, Captain! If there were Spaniards here, I would say to them “War hawks, make all sail!” (Looking with a knowing wink at his companions).

Hawkins. Why, Bill Carvell! Is it you? What’s all this stir and curiosity about? They are firing salutes, and cheering, in the offing. (Rounds of cheers, firing of salutes, and hoisting of flags by the cruizers echoes along the shore by the people.)

Carvell. It is only that poor cripple limping into the harbour, with broken legs. She is tattered, and torn, wounded and weak; and no mistake whether by storm or battle.

2nd Sailor. Not so overweak, that she cloud not take her own part, in case of need. She has a dammed rakish look about her, like some broken down gentle-woman, whose rank no poverty can conceal! I can see her pride and high spirit, though all her rags. See how she answers the helm, and takes the windward of that great Flemish bark!

3rd Sailor, (with a knowing emphasis and nod). She’s off a long voyage, and carries no freight; unless perhaps, it may be a dust or so of the precious metals. I’m mistaken if she’s not in fighting gear, as well as sailing trim.

4th Sailor. She has passed through a heavy gale, her rigging is sadly mawled.

3rd Sailor. Gale be damned! It has been a thunder storm with iron for hail! No wind or waves ever did that damage. Those bulwarks have shot holes in them, man. Some Spaniard has got the worst of it, with that Falcon.

Hawkins. What think you of her, Bill Carvell? Have you any guess?

Carvell. I am quite out of my reckoning, and yet I think she is no stranger. But you see her spars are so handled, and the main is only a jury mast.

Hawkins. I imagine somehow, I know the sheer of her gunwale, and the manner in which the foremost is stepped, (Aside to himself), can it be? (Shouts of “The Judith, The Judith.” Tremendous cheering). Yes it is! It is the Judith and Francis Drake, if he is alive.

The cheering and rushing about increases. Shouts of hurrah for the Judith. Hurrah for Drake. Hurrah for Hawkins! Down with the Spaniards.