The Voyage of the Destiny

by Robert Nye

  For whereas the Mine was described to be three miles short of the town, they went not three miles but three score leagues beyond it, till at last they were forced to return. And all now doubted the story which Sir W.R. had told them, and cursed Keymis, who, for his part, fell into a sort of stupor of despair, from which nothing *************** and had he really intended a Mine they must have carried spades, pickaxes, and taken refiners, surely? But none of these carried they with them.

  The 13th of February we at Trinidado received news from them in the river, of the taking of the town and the missing of the Mine.

  Sir Walter then protested to the Captains (as most of them told me) his own innocency, which to approve he would call Keymis to a public account in their presence before he spake with him privately. Which promise he never performed.

  At their coming to us, which was the 2nd of March, Sir Walter made a motion of going back again, and he would bring them to the Mine; the performance of which at that time was altogether improbable, if not impossible. Our men weary, our boats split, our ships foul, and our victuals well-nigh spent. Then again he cried for the taking of St Joseph’s. But no man would go with him, and the morning after that we disembogued.

  From thence we fell down to the Caribee Islands till we came to Nevis: there we put into the bay the 12th of March. In which time Sir Walter promised to propound unto the Captains very often, as I heard, yet another project. He spoke now of a French Commission. Yet I never saw it, nor any man I know of ever did.

  He now likewise freely gave leave to any of the Captains to leave him if they pleased, or thought they could better themselves in their own intendments. Whereupon Captain Whitney and Captain Wollaston, with their ships, left him the 6th of March.

  Sir Warham St Leger (as I often heard him confidently report) one day in private desired to know of Sir Walter, whether he intended to come to England or no? To which he answered (with reverence to God and your Lordships be it spoken) that by God he would never come there, for if they got him there, they would surely hang him.

  Being desired then by Sir Warham to tell him what course he would take, he said he would go to Newfoundland, victual and trim his ships, and then lie off about the Isles of the Azores, to wait for some of the homeward-bound treasure ships of the King of Spain; that he might get something to bid himself welcome into France or elsewhere. As to the Mine, he never spoke more of it, so that no man doubted but that no Mine had ever existed ********** the Captains

  presumed severally that they had been much abused in this project both by Keymis and Sir W.R. ******************** Sir Walter’s uncertainty and many delays, his duplicity, the several changes of plan, resolved all to leave him, and consort no longer with him *******************

  As for Sir Walter’s return, whether it were willing or constrained, I give it as my opinion that a so-called mutiny amongst the men of his ship was arranged by him and those close to him, to make his return first to Ireland and thence into England appear in a more favourable light, and thus to avert the righteous and lawful displeasure of His Majesty. He made long delay at the harbour of Kinsale in Munster, so that many worthy men left him, being sure in their hearts (as was told to me) that he purposed presently to fly into France. ********** his crew so evanished and depleted, he came into Plymouth the 21st of June. I have ever considered it my duty (both to God and your Lordships) to lie close by him. From his lodgings here at the Pope’s Head he has made already one attempt to join with a French vessel, in which cowardice his prevention was not clear, yet I suspect that the Frenchman would not have him, knowing His Majesty’s anger and also the lawful displeasure of King Philip of Spain.

  In conclusion, I give it as my considered belief, having regard to all the matters whereof I have written, that this voyage to the continent of Guiana was a mere stratagem whereby Sir Walter hoped to have respite from his imprisonment in the Tower; that there never was a Mine, and that his man Keymis knew this from the start; finally, that Sir W.R. undertook this illusory pursuit, at the cost of the lives and souls of many honest gentlemen, the better to slight the King’s Majesty and his authority, and to stir up great trouble against the King’s brother of Spain.

  Of his inward thoughts and reasonings I cannot further speak, being never altogether in the confidence of so troublous and irregular a man. His ascendancy over others is most terrible. The only gentlemen that were near inward with him, as I hear and think, were Captain Samuel King, Sir John Holmden, his nephew Captain George Rawley, the master of our ship, Mr Robert Burwick, and some of the cHicf seamen, but of them but few. ******************** …. his strange dispositions most apparent in this choosing to consort with a heathen savage, to whom (I have heard it said) he poured out the darknesses of his secret soul as never to me, God’s humble representative, yet a man of much Christian education. Touching this Indian, also, I with my own ears heard him once declare to Sir W.R. that there never had been gold in his land of Guiana. Whereupon, Sir Walter seemed not to evince surprise, but rather to the contrary.

  Thus, Right Honourable Lords, in the simplicity of truth, free from all sinister affection, I have endeavoured to perform what by His Majesty’s proclamations I am bidden to make known, though labouring with much weakness, which I refer to Your Lordships’ views and favourable censure. My pen has never before been used to so high employment, but my prayers shall never cease to mount to the throne of Grace, that God will be pleased to make you all glorious in Heaven whom he hath made so gracious and honourable on earth. Your honoured Lordships’ ever to be commanded,

  Samuel Jones.

  *

  With clergymen like this, what need of the Devil?

  *

  Tell friendship of unkindness;

  Tell justice of delay

  I shall set forth tomorrow for London.

  39

  16 July

  The comedy continues. I am its clown. Does King James plot the action and write every line of the speeches? He must do. Each scene-shift and stage-direction bears the indelible mark of that cunning cruel wit. What a loss to the theatre that this mighty genius has to play King in real life! How he must roll about giggling with Villiers in his cups at Whitehall! For if it’s not James who is master-minding each crazy twist and mocking turn of my fate, then I must consider that God himself has a mind not unlike our queer King’s - and that is no thought for a man to bear who must accept a near appointment with Him

  *

  We journeyed, by carriage, a meagre twenty miles towards London. Then, at Ashburton, the carriage was stopped, and a most familiar face peers in the window. A nervous, handsome face, weak-chinned, pig-eyed, with the faintest fuzz of hair on its upper lip. A friendly face, at last. With a diffident smile. Sir Lewis Stukeley’s face! My kinsman. My cousin.

  ‘Sir Walter,’ says he. ‘I am very glad to meet you, Sir Walter.’

  ‘Cousin Lewis,’ I reply. ‘Uncommonly good weather, don’t you think?’

  ‘Too hot for my liking,’ grumbles Stukeley, wiping sweat from his brow with kid gloves. ‘Too hot to be travelling, and that’s a fact. But, then, it’s even hotter in London.’

  ‘Ah, you have ridden from London. How strange that we should meet. That’s where I am going.’

  ‘You? Going? To London?’ (His voice breaks like a boy’s, with incredulity.)

  ‘To London,’ I repeat. ‘I have business there.’

  ‘It’s very hot in London,’ Stukeley stammers.

  ‘So you said, my dear cousin, so you said.’ I nod to him politely. ‘Well, I must press on, however hot the day. You will give my best regards to your lady mother?’

  He grabs at the door.

  ‘But, Sir Walter—’

  ‘Yes, cousin?’

  ‘Sir Walter, I don’t know how to put this ‘He starts biting his nails. I wait patiently. He stops biting his nails. Then he says: ‘Sir Walter, this meeting of ours—’

  ‘Most extraordinary. Quite a coincidence.’

  He’s blushing
. ‘Yes. No! That’s the point. It’s not exactly a coincidence, you see. I mean, I’m very glad I met you—’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Did I? Well, I meant it. You know that.’ He sees Bess sitting in the corner of the carriage. Off comes his feathered hat with a wide flourish. ‘Lady Ralegh! You too! To London?’

  Bess stares at him, face as white as her dress.

  ‘Cousin Lewis,’ she snaps. ‘You will excuse me. I have heard quite enough of these pleasantries. My husband travels to London. To the furnace! Are you really not aware of what is happening?’

  Poor Stukeley hangs his head. He looks away.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he mutters. ‘I thought it better—’

  ‘There is a warrant out for his arrest!’

  Then Stukeley smiled. He smiled with pride. He beamed at us.

  ‘I have no warrant.’ ‘You?’

  ‘I volunteered.’

  ‘You volunteered. To come and arrest my husband!’

  He bit his lip. ‘Lady Ralegh, you do me wrong. I come to assist Sir Walter in this time of difficulty. I am his friend and his kinsman. My wish is to help:

  ‘Then knock him unconscious!’ cried Bess. ‘Knock him unconscious and carry him aboard any boat bound for France!’

  ‘Peace, wife,’ I said.

  ‘He’s mad, cousin Lewis! He cares nothing for me or our child! He knows what the King intends. He knows how they’ll kill him in Spain. But he’s out of his wits. He won’t help himself. If you really want to help him then you must—’

  I clapped my hand over Bess’s mouth. ‘Sir Lewis is Vice Admiral of Devon,’ I said. ‘He serves our gracious Sovereign Lord, King James.’ ‘As you do,’ Stukeley said.

  ‘As I do, yes. I am his faithful subject. That’s why I journey to London. To save him the labour of arresting me. To give myself up.’

  Stukeley smiled his approval. Then he said: ‘Sir Walter, I have long admired your courage. Lady Ralegh is distraught, and I understand. Be sure of it, I shall forget what she said.’

  ‘You are kind, cousin Lewis.’

  ‘Think no more of it. This business is most disagreeable, yet it seems to me that all may not be lost. My purpose, in any case, is to make everything as easy as I can for you. When I heard the bad news I—’

  Bess bit my hand.

  ‘Bad news!’ she shrieked. ‘The King sells him to Spain to be butchered and you call it bad news! Dear God, are you lunatic too?’

  Carew, clutching his mother’s skirts, started crying. I had had enough of all this.

  ‘You will let cousin Lewis explain his errand,’ I commanded. ‘Sir, I take it that you bear the King’s authority?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But no warrant for my arrest?’

  ‘I went to the Lord Admiral. I told him no more than what he knew already. That you are a man of high honour. That I am your kinsman. In the circumstances, he agreed that no formal warrant would be necessary.’

  Stukeley spoke simply and with dignity. What he said rang true - up to a point. Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham, Lord Admiral of all England, was never a good friend to me. He’s too much a Howard for that - his family close ranks when it suits them; they’ve held positions of power for centuries; and old Charles, now a venerable foul-tempered octogenarian, is one of the few men in England who’ve succeeded in prospering under King James with their titles granted by Queen Elizabeth still intact. Yet the Howards know somewhat of honour. A different breed from those who came south with King James. It crosses my mind, also, that this ancient Lord Admiral might just have remembered the praise I heaped upon him in that salvo of a sentence about the Armada. Then again, his generosity in waiving the need for a warrant could well have been prompted by guilt. He took my share of the booty at Cadiz. He lost no time in making profit by my fall. The minute I was safely in the Tower, this same honourable Howard seized my wine licences. He got more than £9000 from that. How sweet are the quirks of human nature!

  Stukeley said: ‘I shall tell him you were on your way to London. It proves that our confidence was not misplaced.’

  I said nothing. I got down from the carriage. I handed Stukeley my sword and my sash.

  ‘I am yours to command,’ I told my cousin.

  He grinned nervously, swatting at flies. ‘If it wasn’t so damned hot,’ he muttered. ‘I never knew a summer like it. England’s an oven. Men are dying of this, I’ve heard tell.’

  I had a fit of coughing.

  Bess had hysterics.

  And at this point the second carriage of our entourage pulled up beside us. It contained Sam King, Robin, the Indian, and Manourie. The little Frenchman tumbled out and gave me a phial of physic for my fever. He was wearing a long russet gown with hanging sleeves, and on his head a filthy greasy hat with what looked like a rat-hole eaten in it. The Indian climbed down too. He has refused to adopt any English apparel. He stood there, arms folded, jaws chewing, skin glistening in the pitiless sunlight. An incongruous scene.

  As bizarre as any I ever saw on the Devonshire highway.

  Stukeley’s face was a study in stupefaction. He gazed from the Indian to me, from me to Manourie, then back to the Indian again. I began to feel sorry for my kinsman. Bess wasn’t helping much by shouting at the lot of us.

  ‘These are my friends,’ I explained, effecting introductions most formally, once the physic had done its trick. ‘Each one of them is what you call a man of high honour. For they have chosen of their own free will to travel with me to London. If I may presume to speak for them, then I give my word that they will accept your authority as whole-heartedly as I do.’

  I offered Stukeley my hand. He seized hold of it like a conspirator. Not letting go, he drew me aside and into the shade of the hedgerow.

  ‘Sir Walter,’ he said quickly in a low voice, so that no one else could hear him, ‘there is no need at present for you to give yourself up to his Majesty. Indeed, sir, there are many good reasons why you should not. The Lord Admiral trusts me. I have his ear on the Council. It will be sufficient that I send word to him that you are now in my custody. Cousin, I recommend delay! Let us return to Plymouth. Treat my house there as your own.’ His voice sunk to a whisper. ‘I will explain all to you in private. Believe me, I have only your best interests at heart, and I have thought long and deeply in this matter. Another week in Plymouth could be vital?

  A further bout of coughing shook my frame. Without relinquishing his fervent grip of my hand, Sir Lewis placed his free arm about my shoulders.

  ‘Plymouth!’ he breathed in my ear. ‘I know what I’m talking about!’

  I was past caring if he knew his jerkin from his hose.

  ‘I gave you my sword,’ I said. ‘There is no need to cajole me. I shall do whatever you say.’

  ‘Excellent,’ cried Stukeley, slapping me on the back like some idiot schoolboy, so that I coughed again and had to spit blood in the dust. ‘You will see, my dear cousin. One week could make all the difference.’

  ‘With luck,’ I remarked, ‘it might rain.’

  He looked blank.

  ‘You complained of the heat,’ I reminded him. ‘You have galloped - doubtless, post-haste - all the way from London. I can quite appreciate your need for rest and refreshment. And - who knows? - in a week it might turn cooler. A little comfort of cloud for my funeral procession.’

  Sir Lewis did not smile. ‘You jest, Sir Walter.’

  ‘My weakness,’ I said. ‘One problem: You intend to provide for my friends?’

  Stukeley looked again, bemusedly, at Manourie and the Indian. He tried hard not to shudder. Then he nodded.

  ‘Cousin, your friends are mine also. I am honoured to have them as my guests. Naturally, Lady Ralegh and your son—’

  ‘They carry on to London,’ I announced. ‘That is, if my kind keeper will permit it—’

  A wise decision, cousin,’ Stukeley agreed. ‘But, now, I beg you, let us have no more of this talk of arrests and keepers. I am your brother,
your kinsman. I am your friend.’

  ‘I hear you,’ I said.

  *

  I sit here writing in a pleasant garden. I have a footstool for my wounded leg. The bees are busy in the rosemary. Robin comes now and again to replenish my water jug. In the wide fields beyond the river, they harvest the hay. Red currants hang down the stone wall like drops of carnelian. The sun throws his golden net across the green wood. Pretty stuff.

  Pretty damned stuff and nonsense.

  Just like Christopher Marlowe’s stupid poem:

  Come live with me and be my love, A nd we will all the pleasures prove, That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yields

  Thank God, I’ve forgotten the rest of it. Silver drivel. Something about gowns made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull, wasn’t it? And beds of roses to rhyme with fragrant posies; that sort of thing. The Passionate Shepherd to his Love. He knew it was pure rubbish, the crafty little son of a shoemaker. He could cobble better verses than that. They that love not tobacco and boys are fools. He said that to me once. I agreed about the tobacco. Kit was all right, though Cecil said he made a lousy spy. My poem tossed off as an antidote to his praise of bumpkins and pumpkins made him laugh. The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd, I told him:

  If all the world and love were young,

  And truth in every shepherd’s tongue.

  These pretty pleasures might me move

  To live with thee and be thy love….