The Voyage of the Destiny

by Robert Nye

But when it was known, O then,

  In a two wheeled chariot

  To Tyburn I was carried,

  And the world went ill with me then, then,

  And the world went ill with me then.

  Winwood is dead. The men are drunk on usquebaugh. I sit here thinking of the water of life while others drink it. The worms will eat his cheeks and the maggots his brains. I don’t have to search for his epitaph. I know the passage by heart. Ralph dead means my own death. There is none now to save me. It’s my epitaph too: ‘O eloquent, just and mighty death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words: Hic jacet —’

  But when I came there, O then,

  But when I came there, O then,

  They forced me to swing

  To heaven on a string,

  And the world went well with me then, then,

  And the world went well with me then.

  Dead. This grinning gold devil. Dead. That water of life. Dead. The words of my History. Dead. The words of their song. Dead. Dead. Dead. All dead. All over. All one. All the same. All nothing. Hic jacet

  Here lies

  Why not?

  Why not lie here?

  Why not take Lord Boyle’s advice?

  I am a dead man whatever I do.

  Should I not dig my own grave then? Quietly. Privately. Here. Without pride. Without pomp. In dead Ireland. In this island of death.

  Perhaps.

  Too tired to write more.

  Not tired.

  Done. Spent. Dust. Ashes. Earth. Finished.

  Perhaps—

  34

  18 June

  BY THE KING

  A proclamation declaring his Majesty’s

  pleasure concerning Sir Walter Rawleigh,

  and those who adventured with him

  Whereas We gave Licence to Sir Walter Rawleigh, Knight, and others of Our subjects with him, to undertake a Voyage to the Country of Guiana, where they pretended great hopes and probabilities to make discovery of certain Gold Mines for the lawful enriching of themselves, and these our Kingdoms: wherein We did by express limitation and caution refrain, and forbid them and every of them, from attempting any Act of hostility, wrong or violence whatsoever, upon any of the Territories, States, or Subjects of any foreign Princes, with whom We are in amity: And more peculiarly of those of our dear Brother the King of Spain, in respect of his Dominions and Interests in that Continent:

  All which notwithstanding, We are since informed by a common fame, that they, or some of them, have by an hostile invasion of the Town of S. Thome (being under the obedience of our said dear Brother the King of Spain) and by killing of divers of the inhabitants thereof, his subjects, and after by sacking and burning the said town (as much as in them for their own parts lay) maliciously broken and infringed the Peace and Amity, which has been so happily established, and so long inviolably continued between Us and the Subjects of both our Crowns.

  We have therefore held it fit, as appertaining nearly to our Royal justice and Honour, eftsoons to make a public declaration of Our own utter mislike and detestation of the same insolences, and excesses, if any such have been by any of our Subjects committed: and for the better detection and clearing of the very truth of the said common fame: We do hereby straitly charge and require all Our Subjects whatsoever, that have any particular understanding and notice thereof, upon their duty and allegiance which they owe Us, immediately after publication of this Our pleasure, to repair unto some of Our Privy Council, and to discover and make known unto them their whole knowledge and understanding concerning the same, under pain of Our High displeasure and indignation: that We may thereupon proceed in Our princely justice to the exemplary punishment and coercion of all such as shall be convicted and found guilty of so scandalous and enormous outrages.

  Given at our manor of Greenwich, the ninth day of June, in the sixteenth year of Our Reign of England and Ireland, and of Scotland the one and fiftieth.

  God save the King.

  Imprinted at London by Bonham Norton, and John

  Bill, deputy Printers for the King’s most Excellent

  Majesty.

  Anno M. DC. XVIII.

  *

  This proclamation came into my hands today, delivered at dawn by a horseman dispatched from Lord Boyle.

  With it, a sealed envelope.

  In the envelope, this scribble:

  ‘Sir Walter, be warned. We has promised Gondomar that Our princely justice, translated, means sending you in chains aboard yr own Destiny to be hung, drawn, and quartered by the noted dear Brother of Spain. France now yr only hope. Go to Richelieu at Avignon. He calls you le grand marinier. Why die like a dog when you could live like a lion? Set sail directly. For France! For new life!’

  Intramus.

  Run will I never.

  I set sail directly.

  For England.

  35

  21 June

  The voyage of the Destiny is done. Our anchor holds us fast in Plymouth Sound. I have sent my sails ashore. In a moment, when I have written here, I shall follow them.

  *

  Last entry in the ship’s log.

  These men, and these alone, sailed home with me:

  Captain Samuel King, late of the Encounter;

  Sir John Holmden, gentleman;

  Mr Robert Burwick, master;

  Robin Rogers, my page;

  Christoval Guayacunda;

  Rev Mr Samuel Jones, chaplain;

  William Gurden, master gunner;

  George Inglesant, Peter Munday, Jack Savage, John Stowe, Saul Turpin, Francis Thackeray, Luke Grimes, soldiers;

  Thomas Benbow, Robert Drury, Davy Flint, Matthew Pym, Mark Ratsey, Isaac Lampman, Ben Frost, Miles Standish, sailors.

  That is all.

  22 souls.

  *

  It is one year and nine days, exactly, since I sailed forth for Guiana from this same port of Plymouth.

  Then, there were trumpets and drums. Farewell feasts for my captains, all paid for by the mayor and the townsfolk. Fireworks and bonfires on Rame Head. Church bells pealing. Clear call and echo of clarions across Sutton Pool, so loud the water seemed to ripple with their music Salutes of cannon from every vessel anchored in the Sound.

  The cannons stand dumb today. No church bells welcome us. No trumpets raised in fanfare. Sailors crowding the decks of the forest of tall-masted ships into which we have come stare at us in absolute silence as though we were ghosts. Cockboats and pinnaces scuttle out of our path as if we brought plague into Plymouth.

  When I set forth it was at the head of a fleet which consisted of 14 brave ships and one thousand men.

  One ship and 22 brave men have returned.

  I forced no man to come.

  *

  Our crossing from Kinsale to Plymouth took three days and 10 hours. We had sweet seas and smooth, and a very fair following wind. The weather, you might say, was excellent.

  36

  1 July

  THE LIE

  Go, soul, the body’s guest,

  Upon a thankless arrant;

  Fear not to touch the best;

  The truth shall be thy warrant

  Go, since I needs must die,

  And give the world the lie.

  Say to the Court, it glows

  And shines like rotten wood;

  Say to the Church, it shows

  What’s good, and doth no good:

  If Church and Court reply,

  Then give them both the lie.

  Tell Potentates, they live

  Acting by others’ action,

  Not loved unless they give,

  Not strong but by affection:

  If Potentates reply,

  Give potentates the lie.
r />   Tell men of high condition

  That manage the estate,

  Their purpose is ambition,

  Their practice only hate:

  And if they once reply,

  Then give them all the lie.

  Tell them that brave it most,

  They beg for more by spending,

  Who, in their greatest cost,

  Seek nothing but commending:

  And if they make reply,

  Then give them all the lie.

  Tell zeal it wants devotion;

  Tell love it is but lust;

  Tell time it metes but motion;

  Tell flesh it is but dust:

  And wish them not reply,

  For thou must give the lie.

  Tell age it daily wasteth;

  Tell honour how it alters;

  Tell beauty how she blasteth;

  Tell favour how it falters:

  A nd as they shall reply,

  Give every one the lie.

  Tell wit how much it wrangles

  In tickle points of niceness;

  Tell wisdom she entangles

  Herself in over-wiseness:

  And when they do reply,

  Straight give them both the lie.

  Tell physic of her boldness;

  Tell skill it is prevention;

  Tell charity of coldness;

  Tell law it is contention:

  A nd as they do reply,

  So give them still the lie.

  Tell fortune of her blindness;

  Tell nature of decay;

  Tell friendship of unkindness;

  Tell justice of delay:

  And if they will reply,

  Then give them all the lie.

  Tell arts they have no soundness,

  But vary by esteeming;

  Tell schools they want profoundness,

  And stand too much on seeming:

  If arts and schools reply,

  Give arts and schools the lie.

  Tell faith it’s fled the city;

  Tell how the country erreth;

  Tell, manhood shakes off pity;

  Tell, virtue least prefeneth:

  And if they do reply.

  Spare not to give the lie.

  So when thou hast, as I

  Commanded thee, done blabbing,

  A Ithough to give the lie

  Deserves no less than stabbing,

  Stab at thee he that will,

  No stab thy soul can kill.

  *

  These verses written this morning, between seven and eleven o’clock, in my lodgings at the Pope’s Head in Looe Street, the product of a broken mind, a body racked by ague, but an unbent and unbending spirit.

  Truth to tell, I have little else to do but turn my hand to verse-making. The voyage over, I am filled with a sense of futility. If only the King would arrest me, then at least I

  would know where I stood But nine days have passed

  since my arrival, and no sign of a warrant. I spend my time in these rooms, their curtains drawn to shut out the sun’s insult. England seems to be enjoying the hottest summer in living memory. Three times, at night, I have ventured out to walk, upon the Hoe. I met no one. But I was followed. I never turned my head to flatter the King’s agents with any advertisement of my knowing that they were there. Who they are and what they are supposed to be doing, I care not. Just paid informers keeping an eye on the old fox, I suppose.

  I am worn out. I sleep a great deal, both by night and by day. No visitors come. I eat sparsely, and always in my chamber. Sam King pays the reckoning. Sam, Robin, the Indian, and the Reverend Mr Samuel Jones - these are the only ones here at the inn with me. The rest of my last crew have gone their ways. I believe this to be sensible. Robin tells me that the whole of Plymouth, from St Nicholas Island to the Hoe, is plastered with copies of that proclamation. My men might be threatened with the rack, or worse, to make them testify against me at my trial. I have urged the remaining four to leave me also. Sam says he is too old, Robin too young! (Such jests are masks upon the face of courage.) Why our ship’s chaplain stays close by me, I cannot say. There was never much love lost between us. I respect his cloth. It is possible that he respects my sash as Admiral. As for the Indian: I have offered on numerous occasions to let him go free, promising always that money could be drawn from my estate to pay for his passage to Spain, whence he could find some galleon bound for Guiana. He refuses these offers without reason. He seems determined to accompany me to the end. Perhaps he merely wants to see my head cut off?

  *

  The Destiny still lies in Plymouth Sound. Sam takes a cockboat daily to inspect her. He reports that no officials of the harbourmaster have been on board. Even more surprisingly, no tHicves. That pathetic cargo of tobacco rests untouched in her hold. It is as though all Devon held its breath, frightened and indolent, sweating under the summer sun as if that sun were the eye of King James himself, waiting to see what I’ll do next, or what will be done to me more likely.

  I wait also, but with breath unbated.

  I have written to George, Baron Clapton, repeating the facts of what transpired at San Thome, together with some account of my difficulties in getting even one ship back to England. Clapton was Winwood’s friend. He is of the Privy Council. However, I do not indulge myself with the vain hope that it lies within his power to save me, even should he want to. But a trial by my peers, is that too much to ask for? Not a fair trial, notice. I know the law too well to ask for that. But a trial in open court, that would be something. The verdict is a foregone conclusion. But at least I’d have the chance to put my case. Then let History be my judge, the only judge (in this world) worth his cap.

  *

  I have sent word also to Bess.

  She should be here soon.

  My Penelope.

  Whose one eye will love and rejoice, while the other must weep for this Ulysses.

  37

  3 July

  Bess came yesterday. She brought Carew. Also bad news from London. News which confirms my worst fears.

  No trial is to be granted me. The King has promised Gondomar that, once taken, I shall be handed over to him instantly for public execution in Madrid.

  So the Earl of Cork was right. He has long ears.

  The Privy Council don’t like it. They’d prefer my death here, upon English soil. Clapton spoke of a trial first. James just laughed at him. He’s over-ruled his Council. All for Gondomar. No, all because he hates me. I’m the man

  A warrant is being issued for my arrest.

  *

  To be hanged in the square at Madrid! I cannot believe it. To die at the hands of King Philip! It’s one of James’jokes. That twisted wit. That filthy slobbering humour. To select the very death that will most belittle me. Like a common pirate. In front of an audience of Spaniards. To be spat on by enemies. To be jeered at. To be cursed and execrated by Papist priests. My last agony to be witnessed by a mob of scoffing strangers. Under an alien sun in an alien place.

  I thought my Lord Boyle was exaggerating. To make me run. He didn’t exaggerate. He knows the King’s mind to a turd. The only bit he got wrong was his guess that I’d be sent in chains to Spain aboard my own ship. I am to be spared that indignity. No doubt Count Gondomar will provide a cage for my safe custody and transport.

  Is this, then, my destiny? A dirty dishonourable end? Neck snapped like a beggar’s? This the end of my third voyage? To die as Guattaral!

  Dear Christ, it is a torment to believe it, but believe it I must.

  King James, in his apishness, would deny Sir Walter Ralegh his own death.

  I am condemned to be snuffed out by Spaniards as this thing they call Guattaral.

  *

  Nightfall.

  I can stand it no longer.

  Bess begs me on her knees to run for France. All last night, all today, I’ve borne her weeping. I must fly before the warrant comes, she says. Not says. Screams. And Carew kneels there with her, t
ears pouring down his face, raising his piping voice whenever she stops to draw breath. O my son, my living son, must your father turn coward to please you?

  I am too spent to think, to feel, to argue any more.

  So be it.

  I will go.

  Sam King just brought to me a Frenchman, one Manourie, a doctor of physic. He is the ship’s surgeon of a vessel now lying off the Sound. A merchant, the Jeanne d’Arc, she sails for Havre tomorrow. At midnight, on the ebb-tide, Manourie goes to join her. Bess has given Manourie her pearl necklace. So I go too.

  *

  Dawn, 4 July.

  We got within half a mile of the French vessel. I couldn’t do it. I told Manourie to turn back.

  I gave him my jacinth seal and my captain’s gold whistle.

  He cursed. He would miss his boat. He couldn’t understand me.

  I promised him a diamond.

  He turned round. He brought me back here.

  Sam King was with us. He said nothing. Sam knows me too well.

  Bess was hysterical. She clawed at me. ‘You’re mad!’ she kept shouting. Manourie fetched us a sleeping draught. We had to hold her, Sam and I, until Robin could coax her to drink it. Bess has peace now. She’s asleep. I hear her snoring.

  Carew stares at me. He’s silent. He’s stopped crying.

  Boy, one day you will see through your father. You will understand this moment and all else. Know why his pride is broken finally. How he has earned, and now deserves, this death. It is all here. Even in those Instructions. Read hard. As I have written. Know your father.

  The Indian just came. He asked me what poor Carew cannot ask.

  I gave him the answer. God knows if he understood it. ‘Because I am Guattaral,’ I said.

  38

  11 July

  A week has passed. The longest week of my life. Bess will scarcely speak to me. She sits picking at a piece of embroidery, then unpicking all she has done. Carew is out of his depth. He plays with toy soldiers. My ague has been bad. Manourie brings me medicine. I have taught Sam King to play chess. He has no aptitude. He wins game after game. I sit waiting for knocks on the door. The Indian went for a walk. They threw stones at him, then ran away. Robin plays the gamba in the evenings. Bess weeps. I have to tell Robin to stop. The heat is intense. I can’t sleep. My tobacco smoke makes the room foul. We are still here at Plymouth, but we shall be leaving tomorrow. I am going to London. I am going to give myself up.