But here is a satirical touch which pleases Ralegh. In a twinkling and a trice, all his spent life is brightened again with honor. As Christ on the Cross could, with a sentence, turn a thief into a saint, so with a few words Walter Ralegh could become a man of honor.
He can leave Bess and Carew that legacy of honor, not given when he sought for it, earned when he had renounced it.
As to the disgrace of his present condition, that is seemingly awarded too. But perhaps prematurely. For this—a man much to be pitied now—is within his power to build upon. Though honor is a castle in the clouds, it has been given to him and is his to do with as he pleases.
He walks away to be a prisoner in the gatehouse of Westminster, possessing at this moment more freedom than he has had in years.
He felt warmth, some gratitude toward Henry Yelverton. Therefore on impulse gave him the one thing he had to give—a servant’s crude walking stick. Perhaps it will bring Yelverton luck, too.
He gave him a stout walking stick, feeling not so much that he did not need it as that Yelverton had forced him to walk out of the hall with all the swagger he could manage.
He has enjoyed a triumph over men and their schemes. Entered the hall as a sick old man. Has left, and in time for dinner.
Meanwhile, as Scripture says, a merry heart can work good medicine.
For I have been a soldier, a courtier, and a seafaring man. And the temptations of the least of these are able to overthrow a good mind and a good man.
RALEGH—Speech upon 29 October 1618
Weather has turned foul. Pins and needles of rain. Wind sweeps across Old Palace Yard to beat on the tiny panes of the porter’s lodge. Where Ralegh has been placed in the upper chamber. Here he has more space and comfort than in either of the prisons which flank the gatehouse, the one ecclesiastical and the other common. Though neither of those is crowded now. For he saw not one face, heard not one call or jeer from the high, slit, barred windows as he came toward the gatehouse. Came knowing he would not lie upon damp straw in either of those places. For he still had a purse, with coins saved as a squirrel hoards nuts, against this day. And the porter would have occasion to supplement his meager wages, and such pennies and farthings as he can glean from other prisoners in his care, with gold.
He was ready to rattle and ring that purse like village church bells at a Whitsun Ale. But the porter was prepared, having known of his own good fortune before the ink of the King’s signature had been powdered dry on the documents.
Greeted Ralegh like an innkeeper meeting a guest. Led the gentlemen all up to a large, low upper chamber, mumbling apologies for the accommodations. Which Ralegh saw at a glance were the best that could be arranged. With solid old oaken furniture, with a trestle table. With a fire on the hearth, having burned a good while, too, for the room was well warmed. And plenty of firewood and faggots. With the room clean and dusted.
Best of all, an adequate bed. Not elegant, but comfortable enough.
Where he lies now, dozing, in the hour after dinner and farewells to the officers and gentlemen who had joined him.
Had decided, never mind expense and trouble, to do well by these guests. Even though this meant sending messengers and boys on errands as far as the city. The affable obsequious porter was prepared for that as well. The trestle table was soon set with pewter plates and knives and spoons, a side table displaying more pewter and earthenware. The porter announced he had two pieces of meat roasting and whiteflour bread fresh baked by his wife. Had two servants—perhaps hired from an inn, for they displayed some modest skill—for carving and serving and boys enough to form a choir, to run and fetch what Ralegh might require. With meantime a cask of good oysters and both sack and ale for the gentlemen while they waited.
Ralegh rattled his purse and gave of it freely. More than the dinner and all arrangements might cost, though not so much as to satisfy the porter beyond future expectation or into a slovenly disregard. Enough to establish Ralegh was the master, though prisoner, and his keeper, a servant, not host. Enough to send the boys scurrying. Enough to furnish dinner for his guests.
And, despite the rude chamber and common furnishings, it was a satisfactory dinner. Ample enough and with plenty remaining for the servants and hangbys and the porter’s larder. The wines were good and the gentlemen joined in his lightheadedness. Not a solemn word was said until farewell.
Now alone, except for his brace of servants from the Tower, who arrived, somewhat sobered by cold rain, coming by cart with his chests, he is content to rest on the bed for an hour, no more, before he must rise and untangle the last knots of his worldly affairs.
Content to allow dinner to settle, the wine to clear from his head, and the weight of his heart to return.
Resting quiet and easy alone as a man can be—in prison is the only privacy, they say—upon the shores of sleep.
Time outside of time, the time of dreams when soul proves itself by leaving the body.
He rests content. It is a time to summon up imaginary ghosts. He will not be angered by the presumption.
From childhood he has known the common beliefs about the spirits of the dead. From a country childhood into the reign of a king who truly believes in ghosts and demons and witches, and not as merely preying upon the delusions of the poor and ignorant, but as the servants of the devil.
The King’s beliefs, made public by his published writings, have given old follies new stature. And given more than one of his Court a cause for secret smiling. And given small comfort to common folk who share those beliefs. At least in the time of the Queen they had the solace of doubting, even while, out of the stubborn liberty of believing what they pleased, they clung to country myths as old as time.
How the coming of death is bodied in the cry of an owl, or a raven’s croaking, or the howl of a wolf, long after none could recall the sound of a wolf in Devon.
How—and they swore they had seen it—at the moment of death a pale flame appeared, dancing outside the window. Then danced away to the churchyard. And you must follow exactly the path of that flame when you marched with the corpse. Or the ghost would return to haunt you.
Indeed? Must follow the charted course of a dancing flame? No doubt over walls, into wells and ponds and bogs, through haystacks and somebody’s bed chamber. Or are we permitted to go around these things? And what of the fellow who permits no procession of mourners to tramp through his garden?
Ralegh has seen funerals and walked in them too. To the solemn ringing of the passing bell in each church, by law, to the funeral wake. Which in the country has such abundance of ale and natural spirits as to make ghosts and wonders a probability.
Has known great men who might have known better, to haunt their living heirs with wills calling for magnificent funerals, extravagant tombs, and splendid inscriptions and effigies, not noteworthy for lifelike portrayal of the dead. Designed in hope of fooling God as well as the devil.
Knows the ways of ghosts. How they appear at midnight, in living form, and with substance no weapon can wound. How crowing of cocks will drive them back to churchyards. Which is why the cock crows all night on Christmas Eve.…
Why, then, I think a fellow should have a cock that will crow upon command. And keep him ever on his shoulder like a talking bird or my lady’s pet squirrel. And what shall we do on a Christmas Eve when the cocks, ignoring the calendar, are quiet? Shall the sexton flap his arms and cry out cockadoodledoo all night?
In wild Ireland has heard how the Irish can turn themselves into wolves. How Ireland is half populated with ghosts.
Well, they fight like wolves and lay an ambush so stealthy a ghost might envy them.
In the playhouse ghosts are more often seen than anywhere else.
And why not? It offers the designers and artificers a chance to demonstrate their craft. It presents an actor occasion to speak in a squeaky voice and to trouble to learn few lines. For ghosts are most particular to whom they speak and not known for wit and idle chatter.
How you can speak to a ghost in Latin and even drive him away with its power.
A good inducement for a lazy lad to study his Caesar, Virgil and Ovid. Though a clever lad may well ask what will happen if the ghost is some ill-educated lout who could not tell Latin from Welsh or the Canting Tongue? Or is it that the very sound of it, recalling the miseries of school days, will drive even the dead out of their wits?
And the Church has prayers for exorcism and its bell, book, and candle for cursing.
Walk softly. Say only the Church must contend with many beliefs, and for the sake of the true faith show itself master over strange faiths.
And Walter Ralegh has been rumored to be a sort of an atheistical necromancer. Keeping company with men like the Earl of Northumberland, Dr. John Dee, and Thomas Hariot.
If study of mathematics and the motions of the stars, of qualities of plants and herbs and minerals, all natural philosophy—is magic, then it is magic of God the Creator—if this is more outrageous than drawing a circle in sand to forbid the devil—a circle which will not keep out a mouse—so be it. At least fools will not dare disturb the privacy of study and experiment.
In short, Walter Ralegh has not much interest in ghosts. Believing that this absence of interest is mutual. He stands upon the Father of Church Fathers, who said it plain and without equivocation. Ralegh wrote in his History: “For when our spirits immortal shall be once separate from our mortal bodies and disposed by God, there remains in them no other joy of their posterity which does succeed than there does of pride in the stone which sleepeth in the wall of a king’s palace. Nor any other shame for their poverty than there does shame in that stone which bears up a beggar’s cottage. For (as St. Augustine has written): ‘The dead, though holy, know nothing of the living. No, not even of their own children. For the souls of the departed are not conversant with the affairs of those who remain.’ ”
Time, while the old man dozes, to summon up ghosts, imagined and imaginary. Nameless except for their roles and stations.
Perhaps he will not be offended if they are to be considered characters in the fashion of the types of Englishmen drawn by Sir Thomas Overbury. Who showed more wit in his book of Characters than he did in his appetite for sweet tarts.
Perhaps Ralegh may ignore an interlude with imaginary ghosts, since they are nameless and of no more dimension than figures in tapestry or stained cloth.
If therefore it be demanded whether the Macedonian or the Roman were the better warrior, I shall answer—the Englishman. For it will soon appear to any that shall examine the noble acts of our nation in war that they were performed by no advantage of weapon, against no savage or unmanly people; the enemy being far superior unto us in numbers and all needful provisions, yes, and as well trained as we, or commonly better, in the exercise of war.
RALEGH—History of the World
Scars on the soldier’s face are partly concealed by his beard. He hides stiffness of one leg by a slow, rolling swagger and, when he stands still, with a wide-footed solid stance. Come closer, note the fatness of lips, often split and healed. Wide flat nose and the little scars at his eyelids camouflaged by heavy brows and more at the corners, lost in a network of wrinkles.
Heavy brows and heavy lids above the eyes. The eyes which now seem light and clear as water in sunlight, now dark and cold as wet stone.
Clothes of rough cloth and several foreign fashions in one, but cut to fit him. Patched and shiny, but brushed neat and clean. Sword and dagger hung from a stout leather belt. Not shiny in dented scabbards, but smooth at the hilt and no fleck of rust from hilt to point. And point filed bright and edges honed keen. Sword and dagger as much a part of his body as his four limbs, fingers, and toes. For in service it would have cost him his life, by regulations, to go outdoors without them.
Calls himself Captain now. Though more than once he has carried all the weapons of the infantry. And served longest as sergeant.
Knows more ways to lie than a Venetian, but cannot be blamed when the world values any counterfeit above all sweaty, worn-smooth, hard-earned coins of truth.
Patience and silence are not his guiding stars.
Best let him speak before he spits on the ground, turns heel, and vanishes.
Speaks in a voice as rough as oak bark, and he affects a number of styles, high and low, whatever suits him, as the chameleon can change its coat to suit the leaf it lands on.
Best give him his head. Let him head for the barn at his own pace and choosing the way.…
Well, now, I’ll talk to you the same as I would to any man. Out of the pure milk of human kindness in me, I’ll allow as how you can’t be as stupid and ignorant as you look. You can probably find your way to the privy and back without messing your clothes or getting lost. And if you can’t, don’t expect me to draw you a chart or hold your hand.
No matter what your mother told you, there are some things a man must do for himself.
I’ll treat you with the same respect I would any green, whey-faced, knock-kneed, rope-backed bumpkin fresh from a country muster; or some pale-faced, weasel-eyed sneak of a rogue pressed out of prison to be a soldier. You’ll find me more fair and just than any justice of the peace. Treat me with respect and try no tricks, for I’ve seen them all so many times I yawn at mention of them, and I’ll treat you the same. Which is more than you deserve.
If it gives you comfort, think on undeniable and unequivocal and immutable truth: the life of a soldier’s better than what you have ever had—and don’t tell me otherwise—or will have again. Enjoy it while you can—until some hairy bastard gives you what you’re good for. Which is the point of a pike straight up your arsehole.
And when that happens, and it most likely will unless you’re a better man than you look, take consolation that you’re finally rid of me. Your immortal soul is free as a bird. I claim no power there. Ask the company preacher, if you can find him and if he’s sober.
Your soul belongs to the preacher and God. It’s the skin of your ass that’s all mine.…
A mere demonstration, sir, no offense meant. To prove you my first point. Which is plain enough.
All soldiering’s the same.
Though I’ve never had time or inclination to read Ralegh’s History, I don’t need a book to make my points.
Has there ever been any man on the face of the earth, since Cain and Abel—which is far enough back to begin, you’ll agree?—in any country whatsoever, any climate or age of time, who has not had to imagine his life and death as a soldier?
Peace is so high prized because there’s damn little of it. In truth there is none and never has been. Not since we were drummed out of Eden.
Even in peacetime there’s always murder and war in men’s hearts.
Add up the number who have lived the life of a soldier.
Millions and millions of ghosts—and if I didn’t believe in ghosts, I wouldn’t be talking to you now, would I?—from all the wars and causes, hover over our heads. Look around you, and odds are favorable you’ll find some of the maimed and the crippled and scarred. And many more, though masked in health, unmarked and whole, who are as inward wounded as any with scars to show.
Weigh it a moment, and you’ll agree that when it comes to the life of a soldier, you possess all necessary knowledge of it at your fingertips.
Even killing has not changed much since Cain. One way is much the same as the other. And there’s no good way to die. Except in your sleep in a feather bed. Agreed?
So I say you’ll have no sweating and straining to imagine any soldier who ever lived.
But any who have been soldiers know it is imagining more than fear, which will come when it comes anyway, that turns the guts to sour pickles and soft jelly, that will take life out of him quicker than a musket ball between the eyes. And so to endure, to live until he dies, a soldier must learn to live, as much as he’s able, here and now. No thought of the sufficient evil of yesterday or regrets for the good of it. No wincing for the wounds and pai
ns of tomorrow.
Take away a man’s past and his future and he’s left with the present. And then it seems the whole of Creation has been treated with a coat of paint.
To be a good soldier is to be drunk on what’s here—a pair of dry socks, birdcalls from a bush, clear water, a bottle of wine, the body of a woman.
No wonder you can’t trust any old soldier. I include myself in the proposition. For if he lives to be old, he will look back to even the worst times as good, when all things were naked and simple.
Those who have never known that time can imagine everything else—pain and discomfort, waste of time, injustice, rage, fear, and horror. Can imagine everything—except what it is to be a soldier.
Here’s a prime example: Item. The world with all its history, knowledge, and contrary evidence, has always believed that men fight and die best for a good cause and do not die well in the service of wickedness.
Allow me—and any old soldiers who may be listening—to laugh out loud.
The cause for being where he is, that’s the first thing a soldier discards to lighten his marching load. His only cause is to live as long as he can. And sometimes he must fight very well for that cause.
Soldiers know there was, is, never shall be any cause or purpose worth dying for.
They die when they have to and as well as they can.
And that’s the first secret of the soldier’s craft.
All wars and fights are the same and all soldiers the same. Agreed? But here comes a turning.
The aim of soldiering is war. But, war or peace, his fighting times are few and far between. Every soldier, living or dead, is blood kin to every other in the experience of fighting. But by the same rule, every soldier is single and unique. For the life of a soldier is most a matter of what he has eaten, pleasure or pain of his boots and uniform, the weight and quality of his gear.
Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh Page 21