by Tom Bevan
Chapter XVIII.
THREE BROKEN MARINERS.
"Art not coming abroad, Dolly? 'Tis a most rare morning."
Morgan was leaning his length against the side-post of the door ofMistress Stowe's kitchen; his head reached to the lintel, and the smokyrafters of the low ceiling were within easy reach of his hand. Dollystood near the fire, her face rosy with the heat, and her pretty gownhidden beneath a long apron. She glanced through the window into thesunny yard, and then at a pile of dainty cakes she had just kneaded andfashioned.
"Nay, Johnnie, I'll not come this morning. I promised our hostess tobake her some confections after our forest fashion, and I cannot leaveso delicate a duty only half done. Go thou with Master Jeffreys, andbring back two lusty appetites. I will bide at home, housewifefashion, and prepare ye the wherewithal to satisfy the appetites whenye have gotten them."
"Where is thy father?"
"With Mistress Stowe in her parlour. She is showing him some rarethings that her brother brought from the Spanish Main. He will haveeyes for nothing else this side of noon."
So Morgan joined Jeffreys, and the two went along Chepe westwardstowards St. Paul's. At the end of the great street stood the gateknown as the "Little Gate," and they went under the low archway intothe cathedral precincts. Inside, the place was as busy as Chepeitself. Shops clustered under the wall, their gaudy signs swinging andcreaking in the September breeze, and 'prentices cried their masters'wares and importuned passing folk to buy. The two men pushed their waythrough the throng towards the northern transept of the great church,and there found their path blocked again by a crowd that stood aroundSt. Paul's cross and pulpit, all ears for the words of a popular citypreacher. The cleric's discourse was more of a political oration thana sermon. He thundered against "Rome" and the "Scarlet Woman," anddenounced the King of Spain as the veritable "child of the devil," andhe called upon all men to be up and doing something for the destructionof the "monster." Master Jeffreys stopped to listen, and Morgan hadperforce to stay with him. The reverend orator dwelt in glowing termson the riches of the Indies, the rights of all Christians to a sharetherein, and the greed of Spain in refusing other nations a propershare. He played upon his audience as a skilled player upon a harp,touching each string of emotion in turn, and then striking a chord towhich all strings would vibrate. For a moment he excited religiousemotion, then political fervour, then greed, love of glory andadventure, then national pride and hatred of Spain, then all thesetogether by one cunning sentence. The forester out from the west felthis heart beating rapidly, his ears warming and tingling, and his righthand fidgeting with the handle of his sword. His companion could notkeep still, and hot ejaculations sprang from his lips. He was a trueDevon man of that roaring time, sailor, patriot, and pirate all rolledinto one.
"By my beard, Master Morgan," he gasped, "I have been feeling ill andfull of strange qualms and sinkings these many days past. 'Twas anactive spirit rebelling against imprisonment in an idle body. I mustto sea again--this dalliance in towns and in the company of sleekshopkeepers and peacock-garbed gallants is slow death to a fellow ofmettle. I must get me down to Plymouth again, and join any boldcaptain that hath a mind to turn his ship westward ho!"
Morgan sighed. "Bones o' me!" he exclaimed, "the parson hath stirredsomething within my bosom also."
The sermon--if such it could be called--being ended, the two young menwent with the crowd through the church door, and into the dim and loftytransept. And what a crowd it was to find in London's principalchurch! The passage through the building from north to south was apublic thoroughfare. Porters, hucksters, errand boys went through withbasket and handbarrow, passing across aisles and nave before the veryscreen that shut in choir and altar. Pedlars stood against the tallpillars, and pushed the sale of their wares. Men bought and sold andbargained as in the churchyard outside or Chepe beyond. Servants stoodfor hire; bravoes lurked behind the gray stone columns in dark corners,ready to take the price of blood from any hand that offered it. Brokenmen, needy adventurers, dissolute women--all had their regular stationsin the sacred building, which was fair, market, and general rendezvousfor every class and trade, legitimate or illegitimate, that had itsfooting in London Town.
Master Jeffreys elbowed his way into the nave and strode down themiddle aisle, Morgan at his heels, full of astonishment and healthycountry disgust. Any gallant who came strutting along to show his finefeathers received scant courtesy or elbow-room from the indignantforester. He thrust more than one roughly aside, without so much as a"by your leave," and his angry face, huge frame, and athletic buildforced the hustled ones to keep civil tongues in their heads. Near thewestern door a knot of brown-faced, lean-looking men were standing, andone started forward at the sight of Jeffreys, hesitated a moment, andthen put forth his hand.
"Little Timothy! or tropic suns have blinded my eyes," he cried.
Jeffreys scanned the speaker's weather-stained face.
"It's not Paignton Rob, surely?"
"It's all that's left of him, Timothy."
"Thou art shrunken."
"And lopped, brother, lopped."
"Spain?"
"Inquisition."
"Indies?"
"Vera Cruz. Shall I introduce my friends? We are nigh broken, and nottoo proud to accept a little charity from a Devon man. Thy heart usednot to beat in a niggard's bosom."
"It has not changed lodgings, Rob. Wilt know my friend here? This isMaster Morgan of Gloucestershire--a good west countrie man, to say theleast. He has had his cut at King Philip, and is a friend of ourgallant Raleigh."
"Then I'm open to love him," cried Paignton Rob, holding out a handthat had lost a thumb. "'Tis a poor grip that fingers can give, MasterMorgan," he said apologetically. "The monks of Vera Cruz can best tellthee where little 'thumbkin' is."
Johnnie took the proffered hand. "I am proud to know one who hassailed the Western Ocean," he replied.
The mariner called up his two friends, who proved thumbless likehimself.
"Nick Johnson, and Ned his brother, both of Plymouth town. MasterTimothy Jeffreys, henchman to Sir Walter Raleigh, and Master Morgan,friend."
Hand-clasps went round. Jeffreys peeped into the purse that hung athis girdle.
"Here is the price of a few flagons of sack, friends. Have you a fancyfor any particular tavern?"
"All taverns are alike to thirsty men," answered Rob. "Lead us wherethou wilt; we'll speak our thanks under one signboard as well asanother."
"What say you then to the 'Silver Lion' in Dowgate?"
"'Tis a good house."
The party left the cathedral by the western door, went south throughthe churchyard, and out at the gate that led riverwards. Thence theystrode down a steep street towards the Dowgate quay, halting at agabled and timbered tavern within a stone's throw of the water. Down aflight of three steps they went into the sanded parlour, and seatedthemselves round a corner table. The drawer came bustling up with a"What do ye drink, my masters?"
"Bring us five flagons of sack," said Timothy.
"And a crust for our teeth," whispered Paignton Rob. The ears of theserving-man were keen, "Shall it be a venison pie?" he said.
"A venison pie," broke in Morgan; "and I pay."