The Voyage of the Destiny

by Robert Nye

  Manourie rubbed at his nose. ‘You are right. He is certainly mad.’

  ‘That was the final proof,’ I said. ‘My cousin is a crazy, greedy pig. But now, to be sure of escape, we have to cast pearls before him.’

  The little Frenchman sighed. ‘Milord, vous avez raison. I don’t like it. What do you want me to do?’

  I pointed to my leathern coffer. ‘There is a jewel in there. It is made in the fashion of hail, powdered with diamonds, with a ruby in the midst. Take it to him. It is worth £150. Tell him that besides that jewel, he shall have £50 in money.’

  ‘I need say nothing else?’

  ‘Not a word. Such things speak direct to my cousin’s heart.’ Manourie bowed, and departed.

  *

  No agony for my kinsman this time. He appeared beside my bed within five minutes.

  ‘Cousin Walter,’ he said, ‘you have made the right decision. I thank you for the gift. It is very fine. As for the £50, though ‘

  ‘That is merely a token,’ I said wearily.

  ‘Ah. I knew it!’

  ‘As soon as you have seen me safely into France, my wife will send a further £1000.’

  Stukeley smiled. ‘Cousin Bess is generous. But—’

  ‘And you may keep the tobacco money.’

  Stukeley whistled. ‘That’s more like it! Naturally, I’m not doing this for the profit, cousin. But a man must live, eh?’

  In his case, I did not perceive the necessity.

  I bit my tongue.

  Stukeley breathed on the jewel, then polished it busily on his doublet. ‘Now, cousin,’ he said proudly, ‘I shall tell you how you may escape. I know a certain Frenchman call La Chesnay—’

  I cut him short.

  I told him I had made my own arrangements. All that was required of him was that he would not interfere. That he relaxed his close surveillance once we got to London. That he kept his mouth shut tight. That he obeyed my every order. As to the actual plan, I was selective in what I said, but I told him sufficient to make him feel confident that it had a fair chance of working. I implicated no one save Sam King. That was unavoidable.

  When I had finished speaking, Stukeley nodded.

  ‘Sir Walter, it shall all be as you wish.’

  I hope so, cousin.’

  ‘You trust me now? At last! I am deeply honoured.’

  ‘Well, honour is the subject of my story.’

  ‘That sounds like another quotation, cousin.’

  ‘Cousin, it is.’

  ‘Dr Campion, cousin?’

  ‘No, cousin. Mr Shakespeare.’

  Stukeley kept smiling. ‘I am glad to hear of something in Shakespeare that a plain man like myself can understand. Most apt. And it fits your great destiny, Sir Walter.’ He got up to go. ‘My guards must remain with you for the present. I regret it. But we must keep up the show. Once we reach Broad Street Well, you shall see. You can trust me, cousin.’

  *

  I could do with some usquebaugh.

  I could do with some hemlock.

  Honour?

  Honour’s a word.

  And that is Shakespeare too.

  *

  I shall trust Sir Lewis Stukeley when I see the coast of France.

  49

  8 August

  We reached Broad Street this afternoon.

  Bess is here. And Carew.

  Also Sam. All has gone to plan. The ketch lies off Tilbury, just 25 miles down river from London Bridge.

  I can hardly believe it.

  One last voyage. Short and sweet.

  Short follies are best.

  Sweet folly of freedom.

  *

  Bess is pleased with me at last. She goes about singing. She gives it as her opinion that cousin Lewis was to be trusted from the start. Needless to say, Stukeley is much flattered. They get on handsomely together. This evening she supped with him. Partridge.

  (I ate apart. I still keep up this pretence of a foul sickness, though Bess can’t see why. How can I tell her that I don’t share her confidence in our crazy kinsman? It would cause only disquietude. God knows I have given her enough.)

  Bess says she will join me in Paris, bringing Carew, and that my nephew George has promised to assist her once they have word that I am there. I say we should lie low in some smaller place. She says anywhere they speak French and don’t hang husbands!

  *

  Sam’s not so pleased that Stukeley is now involved. But when Robin and Manourie told him of the watchdogs he became convinced, albeit grudgingly - as I am - that we really have no other choice at all.

  That guard has been relaxed. The Devil only knows what Stukeley told them. I don’t care. He’s kept his word. He’s mad. But he’s kept his word.

  I write this in a room by myself.

  That’s something.

  *

  Robin says Dr Manourie appeared at supper wearing a new hat! He’s also bought himself a suit of embroidered taffeta, in the latest fashion of the Court of the King of France. He fluttered like a maypole each time he bowed to Bess (which was often, Robin says), with knots of silk ribbon whirling in all directions.

  Some light relief for them, and not unwelcome.

  Robin grieves and peeves. Because he now has no part to play in getting Stukeley drunk over a viol de gamba lesson. I said he could still do that in France. Only he should give the lesson.

  *

  The Indian is scared out of his wits by London.

  The shouts in the streets. The traffic of coaches and carts. The crowds of people bustling. The taverns and shops. Spires, palaces, bells. It is all too much for him. He wept when our carriage passed through Ludgate.

  This house alarms him also. So many rooms. So many corridors. So many nooks and crannies. He got lost in it. Carew heard him crying in an attic. My son took his hand and showed him the way back down the stairs.

  *

  He came in here just a moment ago, the Indian. He stalked round and round the walls, running his hands in bewilderment down the leather-bound spines of my books.

  ‘Guattaral is a poet,’ he said. ‘To think that I once thought he was a pirate!’

  Then he stood a long while at the window, staring down to watch the lighting of the lamps.

  ‘Do you wish you hadn’t come?’ I asked him gently. ‘Would you rather be at home in Sogamoso?’

  He shrugged, without turning. (It’s strange, how I have come to like that shrug now.) ‘I was homeless at home,’ he answered. ‘Your London just serves to remind me this whole world is a place apart.’

  He went then.

  He said he would pray to his gods to attend us tomorrow.

  *

  It has to be tomorrow.

  Sam King urged me to fly this very night. Jack Leigh would be prepared, he said, no trouble. Doubtless his ship, the Greyhound, is straining at her leash

  But I am too used up to escape tonight.

  And tomorrow is Sunday. Sunday night the Thames will be quieter and safer.

  Besides, I wanted things to work out the way they have. I need this night with Bess. I need it badly.

  50

  10 August

  The third voyage is all over, bar the shouting.

  My destiny has come full circle.

  In my heart, did I ever expect otherwise?

  No. I didn’t.

  It is exactly as I expected, to the last rank Judas kiss.

  O had Truth power, the guiltless could not fall,

  Malice, vainglory, and revenge triumph;

  But Truth alone cannot encounter all….

  And so Sir Walter Ralegh is at home again.

  At home.

  In the Tower of London.

  Where he belongs.

  Cold walls to you I speak, butyou are senseless.

  The dog returns to his vomit.

  Here’s what happened—

  *

  We left my wife’s house in Broad Street at a minute before midnight. Conditions were
perfect for escape. No moon. A thick summer fog steaming up from the river. The streets deserted. The night as black as the inside of a wolfs mouth.

  We went slowly and by side ways, avoiding the great houses of Westminster. The coachman knew his London. He needed no torches. The horses’ hooves were muffled. You could hardly hear the creak of a piece of harness. Perhaps he’d padded that. Or the fog served to mute it.

  There were five of us crammed in that carriage: myself, the Indian, Robin, Manourie, and Stukeley, The Frenchman was wearing his absurd Parisian finery. My cousin, as usual, had dressed himself up in the sort of plumage fashionable about fifty years ago. He looked like a pregnant whore in his peascod doublet. High-heeled velvet slippers, peach-coloured. Puffed sleeves. Red garters. Slashed hose. A white wheel of a ruff round his neck. I noted that huge hideous antique sword again. He held it between his legs, his fingers playing nervously with the black hilt. I wondered aloud at the fact that, knowing my disease, he did not mind sitting opposite me. Responding, my kinsman waxed most eloquent in protestations of loyalty and love. He was only too willing, he said, to share whatever fate befell me. I had other things to worry about, so let the matter drop.

  Manourie said nothing. The whole journey, he stared at the bright buckles on his shoes.

  The Indian, arms folded, seemed wrapt in his own thoughts to an equal degree. Maybe more. His jaws moved all the time as he chewed on a leaf. It was so quiet you could hear when he swallowed his saliva.

  Not far from my old residence, Duiimiii House, Robin broke the silence by tugging at my sleeve and whispering that he had an urgent need to pass water. Stukeley swore. He did not want us to stop. ‘Let the page piss in his breeches,’ he suggested. ‘We have no time to waste, sir, for such nonsense.’ I reminded my cousin civilly that I was the one who was giving the orders now. Robin got down from the carriage and relieved himself while we all waited. It took a long time. Well, it seemed to. Two minutes which felt like two hours. Stukeley kept consulting his pocket-watch. I heard him pray under his breath. ‘God damn that boy’s kidneys,’ he prayed. When poor Robin clambered back in beside me, his face was as white as any ghost’s. ‘I’m not frightened,’ he said loudly; ‘don’t think that.’ I assured him we had none of us supposed it. We continued on our way, a little faster.

  The fog had thinned when we passed round Temple Gardens. But as soon as we began to descend the lane from Middle Temple and entered the maze of cobbled alleys which wind down to the waterfront it came swirling back with a vengeance. Mist swelled up from the Thames in a pestilent cloud. It penetrated the carriage. It made me cough.

  Stukeley clapped a kercHicf to his mouth. I smelt its perfume. An odour of pomander and pomade.

  ‘We must be there,’ my cousin spluttered, choking. ‘I can tell it is Alsatia by the stink.’

  I said nothing. The carriage moved on inch by inch. The horses were walking now. It was pitch dark.

  ‘Sir Walter,’ Stukeley begged, ‘for Christ’s sweet sake will you tell the man to stop? We’ll go headlong down Whitefriars Stairs! We’ll drown in the river.’

  I leaned out of the window. I could not see the Thames. But I heard it lapping.

  Then the carriage jerked to a halt at a single low word of command barked out of the fog right ahead of us.

  I waited.

  I heard footsteps hurrying. One man.

  The door was wrenched open from outside. Two hands reached in to greet me. It was Sam.

  *

  Good Sam. Faithful Sam. He had two wherries waiting. He took my arm. He guided me down Whitefriars Stairs. In fact, I could probably see a little better than the others. My eyes have still not quite forgotten the dark of the Tower. All the same, I was glad of Sam’s grip. It was brotherly.

  Manourie tripped and fell on a broken step. The Indian caught him. I heard my cousin ask for Robin’s hand. Then, halfway down, Stukeley screeched. A rat had run over his peach slippers. We froze. But the night was as quiet as a tomb. My own feet got soaked. The water was flooding the landing stage.

  Two wherries. Their watermen waiting.

  Sam handed me into the first. Then he got in himself. Stukeley scrambled to take his place beside us. ‘Gentlemen should go together,’ he explained.

  So the Indian and Robin took the second boat. The Indian had to carry Manourie in his arms. The doctor was moaning and groaning. He had twisted his ankle, he complained.

  ‘Row,’ said Sam.

  The watermen rowed.

  *

  The fog began to lift as we went down river. I sat in the stern of our wherry. I could not see the other, but I knew by the splash of its oars that it followed close behind. Sam was perched in our bows, peering forwards. My cousin had plumped himself next to me. A cork popped. He had opened a bottle of wine.

  ‘Celebration,’ I murmured, ‘seems somewhat premature.’

  ‘You think so? Well, bon voyage, as friend Manourie would say.’

  Stukeley drank.

  Then he offered me the bottle.

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘You will wait till we reach Gravesend?’

  ‘I will wait till I reach the end of all Gravesends.’

  Stukeley grunted. ‘I forgot. You never drink.’ He took another swig. He was guzzling greedily. ‘It gives a man heart,’ he declared. ‘Tell me, cousin, have you never been tempted?’

  ‘Bedlam,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I pointed to the left bank. ‘Little Bedlam. The Bridewell. The prison for madmen.’

  Stukeley whistled softly through his teeth. ‘You can see in the dark! You are a bat!’

  ‘Bats go by ears and noses and sensitive wings. I can’t see a thing, I assure you. I just know we must be passing by the Bridewell. You can tell by the swerve in the Thames.’

  ‘Fancy!’ My kinsman belched. ‘Of course it was Bridewell Palace once. In King Harry’s day.’

  This statement seemed addressed to himself. I felt no comment was necessary. Truth to tell, I had no wish to talk with him. Sam was glancing back over his shoulder. Utter silence was best.

  By the time we reached Blackfriars the fog lay in patches on the sluggish water. Our watermen kept close to the nearside bank. I could just make out the one wall still left standing of the monastery.

  Stukeley drank some more wine. I was glad he had his bottle. It kept him quiet.

  I looked back. The second wherry was right behind us. The night was still dark. But I made out the shape of the Indian.

  *

  Baynard’s Castle has three towers. I hoped that I’d see none of them. But I saw two. A wind was getting up. The fog was lifting. Those towers loomed murky against a sky now less than sable.

  Puddle Wharf. Paul’s Wharf. Queenhithe.

  More wharves. More quays. Dowgate.

  Sam told the men to row faster. Their oars rose and dipped, pulled, rose again, dipped again. Bankside, and the fog was suddenly gone. Now there was a faint gleam of starlight on the drops of dripping water as the watermen feathered. By the Bear Garden, past the Rose and the Globe theatres. By Southwark, with its whorehouses and its jails.

  Faster. Sam urged the men on. Faster.

  But the men could not row any faster.

  One of them blasphemed inventively. My cousin professed himself shocked. There was no need for this haste, he said. He drank some more wine. Smacked his lips.

  The darkness seemed to be melting by the minute. Of course, it was not. It was night yet. But I could see the lanterns twinkling on Ebbgate. Could see. And did not want to see at all.

  At least the Thames herself ran quicker now.

  Ran down towards the twenty narrow arches of London Bridge.

  *

  Going under London Bridge is like shooting a rapid. The piers of the great arches are protected by timber frameworks called starlings, and these jut so closely together that the current creates its own force to rush and tumble between them in spate. You must fall all of six feet. Even by daylight
, it’s dangerous. At night, you need very skilful watermen. We had them.

  We shot under the Bridge without mishap.

  I looked back.

  The second wherry plunged after us, spinning sideways as one of its watermen had to fend with his oar to avoid direct collision with a starling.

  I thought they were going to sink.

  They did not.

  Their oars pulled long, deep, and regularly again. They took up their position right astern of us.

  I saw the Indian stand. He was raising his arms high in triumph.

  ‘That’s that,’ Stukeley said. ‘The worst’s over. I suppose it was.

  For him.

  For me, the worst was just about to begin.

  *

  Cousin Lewis had finished his wine. He tossed the empty bottle overboard. He grabbed me by the sleeve. His face pressed close.

  ‘Sir Walter,’ he said, ‘I expect you wonder why I wear these excellent clothes?’

  Nothing was further from my mind. I stared at him, stupefied.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ he confided. ‘They’re not mine, you know. At least, they are now. But they were not made for me.’

  I could believe it. His plumpness made that doublet like a corset. The codpiece looked as tight as a chastity belt. He was like a toad about to come bursting out of its skin. All save his legs. His hose were wrinkled and baggy; he hadn’t the calves for them.

  ‘Cut by the best tailor in Cornhill,’ Stukeley said proudly. ‘Cost a packet, I can assure you. And that was when money was money. In your own dandy day.’

  ‘Whose are they?’ I asked, being curious now.

  ‘Mine,’ said Stukeley.

  ‘Yes, yes, but you said—’

  ‘Do you reckon me a second-hand man?’ My cousin’s voice, for a moment, touched hysteria. Then he calmed down. Mopped his brow with his silk handkercHicf. ‘Forgive me. But these clothes - they are an emblem of my honour. I did not purchase them. This suit is my inheritance, you see.’

  I see,’ I said. ‘My patrimony.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Stukeley twanged the rose-red garter against his thigh. ‘King Harry wore that once!’ ‘And the rest?’ I said.

  Stukeley scowled. Then he smiled. He kept on smiling. ‘This garter was a gift. A token. A blessing. King Harry himself bestowed it on my father. He wore it always. It was a sign, you understand. You know who my father was?’