CHAPTER V
“This is the time – heaven’s maiden sentinel
Hath quitted her high watch – the lesser spangles
Are paling one by one.”
To understand aright the mixed feelings of anger and dread which filled the minds of the prisoners as they marched through the narrow streets on their way to the Tower, it is necessary to remember how the gross corruption of the court of the first Stuart had inspired Englishmen with a scandalized disbelief in the wisdom of their sovereign. The Tudors reigned over a people who regarded even their mad temper with a half idolatrous reverence. The great poet of the splendid epoch closed by the reign of Elizabeth fittingly expressed the popular sentiment when he spoke of “the divinity that doth hedge a King.” But James, a slobbering monstrosity, at once shallow and bombastic, claiming by day monarchical privileges of the most despotic nature, and presiding by night over drunken revels of the most outrageous license, had torn beyond repair the imperial mantle with which a chivalrous nation had been proud to clothe its ruler.
In the Puritan north especially was he regarded with fear and loathing. Hence, Mowbray and Sainton, though prepared to face with a jest any odds in defense of their honor or their country, could now only look forward to an ignominious punishment, fraught with disablement if not with death itself, because they had dared to cross the path of one of the King’s favorites. It was a dismal prospect for two high-spirited youths.
“We have brought our eggs to a bad market, I trow,” muttered Sainton, as the gates of the Tower clanged behind them and they halted in front of the guardroom, whilst the leader of their escort was formally handing them over to the captain of the guard.
“I fear me you were ill advised to throw in your lot with mine, Roger,” was all that Walter could find to say.
“Nay, nay, lad, I meant no reproach. Sink or swim, we are tied by the same band. Nevertheless, ’tis a pity I am parted from my staff and you from your sword.”
“Here, they would but speed our end.”
“Like enough, yet some should go with us.”
He looked about him with such an air that the halberdiers nearest to him shrank away. Though fettered, he inspired terror. From a safer distance they surveyed him with the admiration which soldiers know how to yield to a redoubtable adversary.
The troops from Whitehall quickly gave place to a number of warders, and the two were marched off, expecting no other lot for the hour than a cold cell and a plank bed. They saw, to their surprise, that some of the men carried their belongings. This trivial fact argued a certain degree of consideration in their treatment, and their hopes rose high when they were halted a second time near the Water Gate. Soon, the sentinel stationed on the projecting bastion shouted a challenge, the chief warder hurried to his side, and, after some parley, the gate was thrown open to admit the identical boat which they had seen lying alongside the Defiance. Moreover, in the light of the torches carried by those on board, they now perceived that the soldiers and rowers were not King’s men but Spaniards.
The galley was brought close to the flight of steps leading down to the dark water beneath the arch, and the prisoners were bidden go aboard.
Walter hung back. The slight hope which had cheered him was dispelled by the sight of the Spanish uniforms.
“I demand fair trial by men of my own race,” he cried. “Why should we be handed over to our enemies?”
He was vouchsafed no answer. Sullenly, but without delay, the warders hustled him and Roger towards the boat. They could offer no resistance. Their wrists were manacled, and, as a further precaution, a heavy chain bound their arms to their waists. It was more dignified to submit; they and their packages were stowed in the center of the galley; the heavy gates were swung open once more, and the boat shot out into the river. For nearly three hours they were pulled down stream. They could make nothing of the jargon of talk that went on around them. Evidently there was some joke toward anent Roger’s size, and one Spaniard prodded his ribs lightly with the butt of his halberd, saying in broken English: —
“Roas’ bif; good, eh?”
By reason of his bulk, Sainton seemed to be clumsy, though he was endowed with the agility of a deer. Suddenly lifting a foot, he planted it so violently in the pit of the Spaniard’s stomach that the humorist turned a somersault over a seat. His comrades laughed, but the man himself was enraged. He regained his feet, lifted his halberd, and would have brained Roger then and there had not another interposed his pike.
An officer interfered, and there was much furious gesticulation before the discomfited joker lowered his weapon. He shot a vengeful glance at Roger, however, and cried something which caused further merriment.
What he said was: —
“Would that I might be there when the fire is lit. You will frizzle like a whole ox.”
Fortunately, the Englishmen knew not what he meant. Yet they were not long kept in ignorance of some part, at least, of the fate in store for them. The galley at last drew up under the counter of a large ship of foreign rig, lying in the tideway off Tilbury Hope. With considerable difficulty, in their bound state, Mowbray and Roger were hoisted aboard, and taken to a tiny cabin beneath the after deck.
Then there was a good deal of discussion, evidently induced by Roger’s proportions. Ultimately, a ship’s carpenter drove a couple of heavy iron staples into the deck. The big man eyed the preparations, and had it in his mind to pass some comment to Walter. Luckily, his native shrewdness stopped his tongue, else his spoken contempt for the holdfasts might have led to the adoption of other means of securing him.
Two chains, each equipped with leg manacles, were fastened to the staples, and the bolts were hammered again until the chains were immovably riveted in the center. The prisoners were locked into the leg-piece, and their remaining fetters were removed. These operations occupied some time in accomplishments. They had been on board fully half an hour before the halberdiers left them, and they did not know that a tall man, heavily cloaked, who stood behind the screen of soldiers, was furtively watching them throughout.
A sentry, with drawn sword, was stationed at the door when the others departed. The shrouded stranger imperiously motioned him aside and entered. He threw open his cloak. A tiny lantern swinging from the ceiling lit up his sallow, thin face. The piercing black eyes, hawk-like nose, and lips that met in a determined line, would have revealed his identity had not his garments placed the matter beyond doubt. It was the Jesuit whom they had encountered in the doorway of Gondomar’s house.
He regarded them in silence for a moment. Then he smiled, and the menace of his humor was more terrible than many a man’s rage.
“You are not so bold, now that a howling crowd is not at your backs,” he said, speaking English so correctly that it was clear he had dwelt many years in the country.
“It may well be that your holiness is bolder seeing we are chained to the floor,” said Roger.
“Peace, fellow. I do not bandy words with your like. When you reach Spain you shall have questions enough to answer. You,” he continued, fixing his sinister gaze on Walter, “you said your name was Mowbray, if I heard aright?”
“Yes. What quarrel have I or any of my kin with Gondomar that my comrade and I should be entrapped in this fashion?”
“Your name is familiar in my ears. Are you of the same house as one Robert Mowbray, who fell on board the San José on the day when St. Michael and his heavenly cohorts turned their faces from Spain?”
“If you speak of the Armada,” answered Walter coldly, “I am the son of Sir Robert Mowbray, who was foully murdered on board that vessel by one of your order. Nevertheless,” he added, reflecting that such a reply was not politic, “that is no reason why I should be subjected to outrage or that you should lend your countenance to it. My friend and I, who have done no wrong, nor harmed none, save in defense of two ladies beset by roisterers, have been arrested on the King’s warrant and apparently handed over to the Spanish authorities because, forsooth, we pursued certain rascals into the Ambassador’s garden.”
He paused, not that his grievance was exhausted but rather that the extraordinary expression of mingled joy and hatred which convulsed the Jesuit’s face told him his protests were unheeded.
“Domine! exaudisti supplicationem meam!” murmured the ecclesiastic, “I have waited twenty years, and in my heart I have questioned Thy wisdom. Yet, fool that I was, I forgot that a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past.”
The concluding words were in Spanish, but Walter had enough Latin to understand his exclamation in that tongue. It bewildered him, yet he strove to clear the mystery that enfolded his capture.
“I pray you,” he said urgently, “listen to my recital of events as they took place yesterday. When the truth is known it shall be seen that neither Master Sainton nor I have broken the King’s ordinance, or done wrong to Count Gondomar.”
“’Tis not the King of England, so-called, nor the minister of His Most Catholic Majesty, to whom you shall render explanation. Words are useless with those of your spawn, yet shall your neck bend and your back creak ere many days have passed. Would that my sacred duty did not retain me in this accursed land! Would that I might sail in this ship to my own country! Yet I do commend you, Señor Mowbray, and that gross Philistine who lies by your side, to my brethren of the Seminary of San José at Toledo. They shall tend you in the manner that beseemeth the son of him who sent the miraculous statue of our patron to lie deep beneath the waves which protect this benighted England. Gloria in excelsis! Spain is still able, by the Holy office, to revenge insults paid to her saints. Malefico! Malefico!”
Turning to the sentry, the Jesuit uttered some order which plainly had for its purport the jealous safeguarding of his prisoners. Then, with a parting glance of utmost rancor, and some Latin words which rang like a curse, he left them.
“I’ faith,” laughed Roger, quietly, “his holiness regards us with slight favor, I fancy. The sound of your name, Walter, was unto him as a red rag to an infuriated bull.”
“I never set eyes on the madman before yester eve,” said his astonished companion.
“Gad! he swore at us in Latin, Spanish and English, and ’tis sure some of the mud will stick. An auld wife of my acquaintance, who was nurse to the Scroopes, and thus brought in touch with the Roman Church, so to speak, did not exactly know whether priest or parson were best, so she used to con her prayers in Latin and English. ‘The Lord only kens which is right,’ she used to say. I have always noticed myself that the saints in heaven cry ‘Halleluiah,’ which is Hebrew, but, as I’m a sinful man, I cannot guess how it may be with maledictions.”
The Spanish soldier growled some order, which Walter understood to mean that they must not talk. He murmured the instruction to Roger.
“They mun gag me first,” cried Sainton. “Say but the word, Walter, and I’ll draw these staples as the apothecary pulls out an offending tooth.”
Here the sentry presented the point of his sword. His intent to use the weapon was so unmistakable that Roger thought better of his resolve, and curled up sulkily to seek such rest as was possible.
Hidden away in the ship’s interior they knew nothing of what was passing without. Some food was brought to them, and a sailor carried to the cabin their own blankets and clothes on which they were able to stretch their limbs with a certain degree of comfort.
They noticed that their guard was doubled soon after the Jesuit quitted them. One of the men was changed each hour, and this additional measure of precaution showed the determination of their captors to prevent the least chance of their escape, if escape could be dreamed of, from a vessel moored in the midst of a wide river, by men whose limbs were loaded with heavy fetters.
With the sangfroid of their race they yielded to slumber. They knew not how the hours sped, but they were very much surprised when an officer of some rank, a man whom they had not seen previously, appeared in their little cabin and gave an order which resulted in their iron anklets being unlocked. He motioned to them to follow him. They obeyed, mounted a steep ladder, and found themselves on deck.
The first breath of fresh air made them gasp. They had not realized how foul was the atmosphere of their prison, poisoned as it was by the fumes of the lamp, but the relief of the change was turned into momentary stupefaction when they saw that the banks of the Thames had vanished, while two distant blue strips on the horizon, north and south, marked the far-off shores of Essex and Kent.
With all sails spread to catch a stiff breeze the ship was well on her way to sea. The prisoners had scarce reached the deck before a change of course to the southward showed that the vessel was already able to weather the isle of Thanet and the treacherous Goodwin Sands. Roger’s amazement found vent in an imprecation, but Walter, whose lips were tremulous with a weakness which few can blame, turned furiously to the officer who had released them from their cell.
“Can it be true?” he cried, “that we have been deported from our country without trial? What would you think, Señor, if your King permitted two Spanish gentlemen to be torn from their friends and sent to a foreign land to be punished for some fancied insult offered to the English envoy?”
The outburst was useless. The Spaniard knew not what he said, but Mowbray’s passionate gestures told their own story, and the courtly Don shrugged his shoulders sympathetically. He summoned a sailor, whom he despatched for some one. A monk appeared, a middle-aged man of kindly appearance. He was heavily bearded, and his slight frame was clothed in the brown habit, with cords and sandals, of the Franciscan order.
The officer, who was really the ship’s captain, made some statement to the monk, whom he addressed as Fra Pietro, and the latter, in very tolerable English, explained that the most excellent Señor, Don Caravellada, was only obeying orders in carrying them to the Spanish port of Cadiz. Arrived there, he would hand them over to certain authorities, as instructed, but meanwhile, if they gave him no trouble and comported themselves like English gentlemen, which he assumed them to be, he would treat them in like fashion.
“To what authorities are we to be entrusted?” demanded Mowbray, who had mastered the first choking throb of emotion, and was now resolved not to indulge in useless protests.
A look of pain shot for an instant across Fra Pietro’s eyes. But he answered quietly: —
“Don Caravellada has not told me.”
“Belike, then, friend, he only needs the asking,” put in Roger.
The monk shook his head, and was obviously so distressed that Roger went on: —
“Nay, if it be a secret, let it remain so, in heaven’s name. Mayhap I may request your barefooted reverence’s good offices in another shape. At what hour is breakfast served on board this hospitable vessel?”
Fra Pietro answered readily enough: —
“It awaits your pleasure. The Señor Capitan bids me offer you, in his name, the best resources of the ship.”
“Egad, let us eat first, after which all he has to do to get rid of us is to place Master Mowbray and me in a small boat with oars. ’Twill save us much bother and the ship much provender, for I am sharp set as a keen saw.”
Without reply, the monk led them to a cabin where plenty of cold meats, bread, wine, and beer graced the table.
He sat down with them, crossed himself, and ate sparingly of some dry crust, whilst Walter and Sainton tackled a prime joint.
Roger, pausing to take a drink, eyed askance the meager provender which sufficed for Fra Pietro; he made bold to ask him why he fared so poorly.
“It is fast day, and, unfortunately, I forgot to tell the cook to boil me some salted fish.”
“Are there many such days in your calendar?” quoth Roger.
“Yes, at certain periods of the year.”
“Gad, if that be so, you ought to follow the practice of a jolly old priest I have heard of, who, having pork but no fish on a Friday, baptized it in a water-butt saying, ‘Down pig; up pike!’ Then he feasted right royally and without injury to his conscience.”
The monk smiled. He was wise enough to see that the hearty giant intended no offense.
“I do not need such sustenance as your bulk demands,” he said. “I heard the men speaking of your proportions, but, until I saw you with my own eyes I could scarce credit that such a man lived.”
“I take it you are not in league with our captors?” put in Walter, anxious to gain some notion as to the extraordinary circumstances which led up to his present position.
“I am but a poor Franciscan, availing myself of a passage to Lisbon.”
“Do you know the Jesuit who visited us last night?”
“I did not see him.”
“Perchance you may have heard of him. He appeared to hold a high place in the household of Gondomar, the Spanish Ambassador.”
Fra Pietro dropped his eyes and murmured: —
“I think he is Dom Geronimo, Grand Inquisitor of the Holy Office.”
Mowbray pushed away his plate.
“Dom Geronimo!” he cried. “Your priestly titles are unfamiliar. Is he, by any chance, one who was known in former years as Fra Geronimo, a Jesuit from Toledo?”
“The same, I should believe. He is now a dignitary of much consequence.”
“He is a foul murderer! He slew my father by a coward’s blow, during the great sea-fight off Dover. Oh, to think of it! Not yet two days since he stood in front of my sword.”
“I was minded to tap the bald spot on his skull with my staff and you restrained me,” growled Roger.
Mowbray’s bitter exclamation seemed to horrify Fra Pietro. He placed his hands over his ears.
“Madre de Dios!” he murmured, “speak not thus of the head of the Holy Office. Did anyone else hear you your fate were sealed, and the Lord knoweth your case is bad enough without adding further condemnation.”
Sensible that the Franciscan could hardly be expected to agree with the denunciation of his religious superior, Mowbray restrained the tumultuous thoughts that coursed wildly through his brain. He bowed his head between his hands and abandoned himself to sorrowful reflection. A good deal that was hidden before now became clear.
It was not to be wondered at that Sir Thomas Roe should be puzzled by the animosity displayed by an unknown clique in Whitehall against two strange youths who happened to participate, as upholders of the law, in a not very serious brawl. The expression of the Jesuit’s face when he heard Mowbray’s name, the determined measures adopted by Gondomar to capture those who had defeated the cleverly planned abduction of the two girls, the remorseless hatred of Dom Geronimo’s words when he visited the captives overnight, all pointed to one conclusion. The Jesuit was, indeed, the fanatic who killed Sir Robert Mowbray on board the San José, and he was ready, after twenty years, to pursue the son with a spleen as malevolent as that which inspired the assassin’s blow that struck down the father.
How crafty and subtle had been the means adopted to crush Roger and himself! Were fair inquiry held, no charge could have lain against them. So an unworthy monarch, already a dupe in the game of king-craft played by Spain, had weakly consented to allow the royal warrant to become an active instrument in the hands of an implacable bigot. Swift and sure was Dom Geronimo’s vengeance. They had the misfortune to cross his path without the knowledge even of his identity, and now they were being ferried to Spain for some dread purpose the mere suspicion of which chilled the blood in Mowbray’s veins.
And Nellie Roe! She, with her beautiful and imperious cousin, was left in the city which harbored a hostile influence so venomous, so pitiless, and yet so powerful. The suspicion that she, too, if only because a Mowbray was her rescuer, might fall under the ban of the Jesuit, wrung a cry of anguish from his lips. Hardly knowing what he did, and not trusting himself to speak, he rushed on deck with the mad notion of throwing himself overboard in a vain attempt to swim ashore. As he emerged from the companionway a whiff of spray struck him in the face. The slight shock restored his senses. A heavy sea was running, and the coast was six miles distant. To spring over the bulwarks meant suicide. Moreover, could he desert Roger? It was not to be thought of. Though death might be a relief, he must stick to his loyal friend, no matter what the ills in store.
Meanwhile, Roger, in his homely way, was telling Fra Pietro the story of their adventures. The monk, who seemed to be of a very kind and benignant disposition, said little. But he listened attentively. Later, when Mowbray had steeled his heart to endurance, Fra Pietro spoke gently to him, and, when the pair were stricken with sea-sickness, he tended them like a skilled nurse.
And so the days passed until, with a favoring gale, they neared the Portuguese coast, and the Sparta, for thus was the ship named, bore up for Cape Finisterre and thence ran steadily, under the lee of the land, down to the harbor of Lisbon. Fra Pietro, with whom they had contracted a very real friendship, although his beliefs and opinions ran counter to theirs on almost every topic they discussed, was greatly concerned when the captain’s edict went forth that during the vessel’s stay in port the two prisoners must be chained in their cabin.
Yet he sought and obtained permission to visit them, and twice he brought them a goodly supply of fresh fruit and a flagon of the famed wine of Oporto. The Sparta was not tied to a wharf. She dropped anchor well out in the harbor, and communication with the shore could only be made by means of a boat.
Fra Pietro came to see his English friends for the last time. There were always two sentries on duty at the cabin door now, so it was evident that Señor Caravellada meant to discharge his trust with scrupulous fidelity.
It is natural that the worthy monk, knowing full well the dreadful fate that awaited the two youths at the end of the voyage, should be much downcast during this farewell interview.
Yet there was a hesitancy in his manner that did not escape Walter’s eyes. He produced his basket of grapes and peaches and rich pomegranates, while, this time, he carried three wicker-covered flasks of wine.
Then he began to laugh nervously.
“In one of these flagons, that with the broken seal,” he said, “the wine is extraordinarily potent. It has the quality of sending a man into a sound sleep if he imbibe even a small measure, yet it tastes like other wine.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Roger, who had caught a hint from the close attention paid by Mowbray to the monk’s words, “that should be a fine liquor if a man wanted to sleep but could not.”
Fra Pietro held out a luscious bunch of grapes.
“Within a bowshot from this ship,” he said, affecting a gaiety that should hide the serious nature of his words, “there is a Portuguese vessel, the Sancta Trinidad. She sails for the East Indies before dawn. The captain, an honorable man, would give safe asylum to those who were distressed, could they but reach his ship, and in this cluster of grapes is a file. My friends, may God prosper you! Though you are not of my faith I cannot but wish you well. I have striven hard ashore to help you. I have pleaded with those in power, but my words have fallen on deaf ears. Now you know the extent of my poor resources. Dominus vobiscum! In manus tuas, Domine, commendo juventes.”
Tears sprang into his eyes, he lifted his hands to heaven as he called down a blessing on them, and the two bowed their heads before this good and true man, in whom the spirit of Christian charity triumphed over narrow conceptions of dogma.
His prayers seemed to abide with them. When night fell the men whose duty it was to maintain the watch indulged in a carouse, as those who had been ashore not only returned full of liquor but carried with them a liberal supply of wine for their less fortunate comrades.
Hence, though Roger drugged two of the guard into torpor, no suspicion was aroused when the relief came, but the sergeant, growling at the drunkards, determined to take a turn himself on duty. Now this circumstance, at first forbidding, turned out to be providential. Walter had plied the file industriously on his shackles, but it was quite certain that several hours of severe labor would be needed before he could cut through his own and Roger’s anklets. Sainton, with his great strength, might have pulled the staples from the floor, but this would be of little avail if they were compelled to swim to the ship described by Fra Pietro. Moreover, their freedom of movement would be so hampered that they might hardly hope to quit the vessel unperceived, even if a boat were moored to the stern.
As a last resource they determined to adopt this expedient, but the presence of the sergeant, in whose pouch rested the key of their leg irons, gave a new direction to their thoughts.
In the most friendly way, Roger plied him with the doctored wine. Feeling himself becoming drowsy the man would have staggered out. At this, the very crisis of a desperate situation, Sainton gave a mighty tug at his chain. The restraining staple came away, tearing with it half a plank.
Startled almost into full consciousness the sergeant sprang towards him, with sword half drawn. So there was no help for it but to assist the action of the wine. Roger grabbed him by the neck and held him, wriggling, until, to say the least, he was willing to lie very still.
In a minute, or less, they were free. They knew that the hour was long past midnight. The dawn would soon be upon them and there was no time to be lost.
Walter seized the sergeant’s sword and Roger took the sentry’s halberd. They would fight for their lives now, even if they were compelled to face the whole ship’s company. But fortune still favored them. The watch on deck were mustered forward, and the clinking of a can, together with the manner of such speech as they overheard, told them that conviviality was well established there. So they crept to the after part, Roger going almost on all fours to hide his stature. Sure enough, a boat was moored there. They climbed down into her, cast off, and a strong tide quickly carried them away from the Sparta.
They looked about for the Sancta Trinidad, and guessed aright that a fine brig, moored about a cable’s length distant from the Sparta, must be the vessel spoken of by Fra Pietro.
Rowing quietly towards her they hailed her by name and were answered. They were hoisted aboard, and a stoutly built, black-bearded man, who came at the cry of the watch, met them cordially: —
“Ah!” he cried, “Eenglish! One dam big fella! I haf wait you dis hour an’ fear you no come.”
Instantly, though it meant the loss of a good anchor and length of rope, the cable was slipped, a sail or two shaken out, and yards were squared. The ship got some way on her and began to move. In the ghostly light the Sparta looked like a great bird asleep on the dim waste of waters. Soon her outlines faded and were lost in the gloom. As the sails filled and more canvas was spread the Sancta Trinidad showed her mettle and spurned the lively waves from her well tapered bows. The hills merged into the low-lying clouds, the lights ashore became smaller and smaller until they vanished altogether, the ship was well out to sea, and the two youths were saved, they hoped, from the devildoms of Spain.
They went to seek the captain, who greeted them again in the most friendly manner.
“No tank me,” he said, smiling until his teeth gleamed. “You tank Fra Pietro. Him good man. Him come my house an’ nurse my son when him sick wid plague. Por Dios! I do anytink for Fra Pietro!”