The Voyage of the Destiny

by Robert Nye

  ‘To doubt is not to deny. All men, if they are honest, must admit to doubt. This time tomorrow I shall have my doubts, with all my other sins, absolved and washed away by the most precious blood of our Saviour Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Tounson. ‘Yet it seems to me that there is something in you which makes light of death.’

  ‘I have never feared it’

  ‘There! You speak too proudly, sir, too cheerfully. Why, the dear servants of God, the saints themselves, meeting their ends in better causes than yours, have shrunk back and trembled a little!’

  ‘My flesh may tremble,’ I said. ‘My soul does not.’

  Tounson picked at the ruff at his neck. ‘Yet you die by the axe! You die the death of a traitor!’

  My pipe had gone out. I lit it again with a coal plucked from the fire with a tongs.

  I shall die by the axe,’ I said. ‘Sir, that manner of death might seem grievous to others. For myself, it holds no terror in particular. It is a swift death, and a clean one. I would rather die that way than of some slow burning fever.’

  ‘But your treason, Sir Walter—’

  ‘Mr Dean, I shall die a sinner. I have lived, as all men live, a life full of sin. I pray God to forgive me. But I shall not die a traitor, because I have committed no treason. I know that. God knows it.’

  Tounson looked uncomfortable.

  ‘You intend to proclaim this on the scaffold?’

  ‘I shall stand upon my innocence in the fact.’

  ‘And deny the King’s justice?’

  ‘It is not for me to fear or to flatter kings. I am now Death’s subject. The great God of Heaven is my sovereign.’ Tounson sighed, shaking his head. ‘I see I waste my time with you, Sir Walter—’ ‘I trust not.’

  ‘But if you intend to die—’

  ‘I shall die as well as I can, with God’s help, and there’s an end to it.’

  ‘You speak like a stoic’

  ‘Then you mishear me. We are both of us Christians, Mr Dean. You will bring me the Holy Sacrament in the morning?’

  Tounson’s mouth fell open. Then he nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  Tounson got up in a hurry. ‘You will forgive me. But I have many duties. This is quite a busy week for me, you know.’

  ‘I sympathise.’

  ‘Today is a Feast Day. St Simon and St Jude. And tomorrow is the day of the Lord Mayor’s Show.’ ‘Indeed? I had forgotten.’

  ‘Yes. Well ‘Tounson clasped his prayer-book to his breast. ‘Sir Walter, I shall pray for you,’ he muttered.

  ‘I thank you,’ I said. ‘I shall pray for you also, Mr Dean. I shall pray especially that despite your many duties it does not slip your mind that you are God’s servant.’

  Tounson stared at me, frowning.

  ‘The Sacrament,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow at dawn.’

  *

  The King has been ill advised. That is, if it was his Majesty’s hope to be rid of me quietly.

  Tomorrow is the day of the Lord Mayor’s Show.

  All London rises early to watch the procession. There will be crowds up from the country too, no doubt. The beheading of Sir Walter Ralegh will provide a splendid prelude. I can be sure of a good audience, at least.

  *

  The Feast Day of St Simon and St Jude. That’s appropriate also. Our Lord’s most obscure apostles, martyred together in Persia. Simon was nicknamed the Zealous. Nothing else known about him for certain. Jude was of course the other Judas. The Judas who was not Iscariot. The patron saint of the desperate, the intercessor in lost and hopeless causes. I sit here in fine company, you see.

  *

  My second, inspiration I owe to Apsley. No sooner had the busy Dean gone than the door of my chamber was unlocked again.

  It was Christoval.

  He has been set free from the Tower. He is to be given lodgings for this one night in some other room of the Gatehouse. Tomorrow he is to be allowed to witness my execution.

  The Sheriffs permitted us just five minutes of talk. That proved sufficiënt.

  ‘What will you do after tomorrow?’ I asked him. ‘I have been trying to find you service—’

  He shook his head. He told me that arrangements had already been made. Count Gondomar’s agents will escort him in his travels to Madrid. Thence he will go back to Guiana on some Spanish vessel.

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘They will use you as a witness. Your destiny now is to spend the rest of your life singing the one song: the fall of Don Guattaral!’

  He smiled.

  Then he said:

  I shall hide in the thickest bushes. Amongst the trees around Lake Guatavita. Where the leaf grows. As for singing, I never had any voice for that. Nor shall I shout. But, be sure, I shall tell your story to any who will listen.’

  ‘Like the mocking bird?’ I said.

  ‘Like the hermit thrush.’

  When the Sheriffs’ men came to put an end to our interview, Christoval held out his right hand. I grasped it. He said:

  ‘I told you once, long ago, that I came to see Guattaral die. I shall be there tomorrow, by the scaffold. But I shall not see Guattaral die.’

  ‘You will shut your eyes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am glad of it. Life is perfected by death, you told me that too, and it is true. But what do you mean? There is no escape, no avoiding it. You will see Guattaral die.’

  Christoval shook his head slowly.

  He spoke his last words to me in English.

  ‘I shall see more than I came for,’ he said. ‘I shall see the death of Sir Walter Ralegh.’

  *

  Dean Tounson’s visit told me that I must speak out. Christoval’s that I must speak out in plain language. He learned to say my name. I must learn no less.

  *

  Midnight

  Bess came. Now she has gone. I can hardly write about this.

  We are good at our goodbyes, my wife and I. We must have said more farewells than most in marriage.

  Yet this last good night tonight was graceless. We sat side by side on the bed. I held her close in my arms. I asked her not to be there tomorrow by the scaffold. She protested.

  ‘You have suffered enough,’ I said. ‘I beg you, Bess. Do not see this. Remember me living.’

  She wept. I kissed her tears away. I turned our talk to gooseberry creams and sweet strawberries. Bess gave me her promise at last. She would not watch me die.

  Then she said:

  ‘Wat, it would have been different, wouldn’t it? If Damerai had lived—’

  It was my turn to weep. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I can’t say, Bess. Perhaps the truth is I was not a man for marriage.’

  ‘But Damerai— He slipped through my fingers like a bird, Wat. Like a bird. Like a fledgeling. That little heart. I can still feel it beating. O my poor chick, my bantam—’

  I stopped my wife’s lips with a kiss to comfort us both.

  Then I said briskly:

  ‘It was God’s will, Bess. You take good care of Carew.’

  She promised that she would. She said she would entrust him with my papers when he was old enough. ‘He will need to be a hundred,’ I remarked.

  Bess managed to smile.

  Then she said shyly: ‘Wat, I have read what you wrote. Every word of it. About yourself. About the Queen. About me.’

  ‘Forgive me, wife. I fear I was often confused—’

  ‘No matter. Wat, I read what you said. I read it as you

  wrote it, with the heart. And I know now what I always knew.

  That Bess Throgmorton married a true man. A true man,

  and a truthful. I love you more, Wat, now I have read those

  writings.’

  I could not see her face for the tears in my eyes. I said:

  ‘Then you love me more than I could ever love. God bless you.’ I said:

  ‘Bess Ralegh.’

  ‘Swisser Swatter,’ she said.

  ‘Remember him,
Bess.’

  I shall remember him. I shall remember you, husband.’ Then she told me that she had received a note from the Privy Council, giving her permission to bury my body. I answered her smiling.

  It is well, Bess, that you may dispose of it dead. You did not always have the disposing of it when it was alive.’

  *

  My last written words. I have inscribed them in my Bible. A poem. I began this poem, years ago, for Bess, that first night I met her. It was the one beginning: Nature that washed her hands in milk The end of that poem I could never get right. It needed my end to right it. It is right now. By the simple addition of two lines at the end of its last stanza it has become a poem in itself. I think it will do. It stands. I must sleep now to be ready for tomorrow.

  *

  Even such is Time, which takes in trust

  Our youth, our joys, our all we have,

  And pays us but with age and dust;

  Who in the dark and silent grave,

  When we have wandered all our ways,

  Shuts up the story of our days.

  But from this earth, this grave, this dust,

  My God shall raise me up, I trust.

  56

  THE EXECUTION OF SIR WALTER RALEGH WITH HIS SPEECH IMMEDIATELY BEFORE HE WAS BEHEADED

  (as collated from contemporary accounts by his son Carew)

  **********

  Upon Thursday the 29th of October, 1618, after he had received Communion in the morning, and eaten his breakfast heartily, and smoked tobacco, and made no more of his death than if he had been about to take a journey, my father Sir Walter Ralegh was conveyed by the Sheriffs of London to a scaffold in the Old Palace Yard at Westminster.

  The tirpe was about nine o’clock.

  The weather was bright, cold, and frosty.

  There were great crowds, with many gentlemen present.

  My father wore a hair-coloured doublet of fine satin, with a black wrought waistcoat under it, a pair of black taffeta breeches, a pair of silk stockings of ash colour, a long black velvet gown, and a high-crowned hat with a peacock’s feather in it.

  He appeared upon the scaffold with a smiling countenance.

  After a proclamation of silence by an officer appointed, my father put off his hat, and he addressed himself to speak in this manner:

  ‘My honourable good Lords, and the rest of my good friends that come to see me die, I thank God of his infinite goodness that He has vouchsafed me to die in the light, in the sight of so honourable an assembly, and not alone in the darkness.’

  Then, perceiving that some of his friends, including my Lord Arundel, were leaning from high windows and that they could not easily hear him, his voice being weak, my father called out to them:

  ‘I shall seek to strain my voice, for I would wish to have all your Honours hear me.’

  But my Lord Arundel called down:

  ‘Nay, sir. We shall rather come down to you upon the

  scaffold.’

  Whereupon the Earls of Arundel and Oxford and Northampton, and other men of distinction but lesser rank, were permitted by the Sheriffs of London to join my father Sir Walter Ralegh upon the scaffold. He saluted every one of them severally, then began again to speak.

  ‘As I said, I thank my God heartily that He has brought me into the light to die, and has not suffered me to die in the dark prison of the Tower. I thank God also that my ague does not afflict me at this time. I prayed that I might be spared it. That prayer has been answered, I believe.’

  Then my father denied all the charges of treason laid against him by King James and the Privy Council.

  He said:

  ‘For a man to call God to witness to a falsehood at any time is a grievous sin, and what shall he hope for at the Tribunal Day of Judgement? But to call God to witness to a falsehood at the time of death is far more grievous and impious, and a man that does so cannot have salvation, for he has no time for repentance, and there is no hope for him. Very well. I call to God to witness, as I hope to see Him in his kingdom, which I trust will be within this quarter of this hour, that I, Sir Walter Ralegh, was never a traitor to King James. I am guilty of no treason. I never was. If I speak not true, O God, let me never come into Thy kingdom!’

  My father bowed his head.

  And then he cried:

  ‘It is not for me to fear or to flatter the King! In this I speak now, what have I to do with kings? I have nothing to do with them. I have now to do with God, therefore to tell a lie now to get the favour of the King would be something worse than vanity. I am Death’s subject, and the great God of Heaven is my Sovereign before whose tribunal seat I am shortly to appear. I say again to you most solemnly: I was never a traitor. If I speak false, let the Lord blot out my name from the Book of Life!’

  My father paused.

  When he went on he spoke of what had happened since his sailing back from Guiana, and all the charges and suspicions which had been laid against him then. He spoke of Manourie and Stukeley and how they had betrayed him. He held his head high.

  I confess,’ he said, ‘I did attempt to escape. I knew it would go hard with me. I desired to save my life. And I do likewise confess that I did dissemble and feign myself sick at Salisbury. But I hope it was no sin. The prophet David, a man after God’s own heart, did for the safety of his life make himself a fool. He let his spittle fall upon his beard, and went upon all fours like a beast, to escape the hands of his enemies. Yet it was not imputed to him as a sin. I intended no ill against King James by doing likewise. I intended only to prolong time until his Majesty came, hoping for some commiseration from him.

  I forgive the Frenchman and Sir Lewis Stukeley. They betrayed me. I forgive them for that betrayal. I have received the Sacrament this morning at the hands of Mr. Dean, who stands here now beside me, and taking the Sacrament I have forgiven all men their trespasses against me, even as I pray God to forgive me mine. Yet, touching upon this Sir Lewis Stukeley, my kinsman and keeper, I believe I am bound in charity to warn others against him. He is no honest man. But I ask God to forgive my cousin the wrongs he has done me, as I hope to be forgiven my own wrongs.’

  The Sheriffs grew restive.

  My father said:

  A little more. Only a little more, and I shall be done.’

  Then he told, in simple fashion, the story of his last voyage to Guiana. It was at all material points the same as he has told it in these papers, so I shall not repeat every word he said. Sufficient to report that this story came as news to many in that great throng about the scaffold. For there were some there who had believed that he did not even return of his own free will to England, and others who thought that he had all along intended to fly away, but when my father came to the end of his account all men knew otherwise. Not just by his own word either, for he turned suddenly to Lord Arundel.

  ‘My Lord, I am glad that you are here. Your Lordship stood with me in the gallery of my ship at my departure. And I remember how you took me by the hand and said you had but one thing to ask me. “Tell me freely and faithfully,” you said. “Do you intend to return home, Sir Walter? Whether your voyage has good fortune or ill, will you come back to England?” And I gave your Lordship my hand, and I said: “Whatever happens, I give you my word I shall return.” I gave you that pledge, and I have kept it.’

  ‘You did,’ said Lord Arundel. ‘It is true. I remember it perfectly.’

  My father bowed.

  Then he spoke of other minor matters that troubled him. He had heard it falsely said that he carried vast sums of money abroad with him. He had heard it falsely said that he intended to abandon his own men upriver in Guiana. He had heard it falsely said that he stinted dying sailors of a little water.

  These things are trivial. What interests me is that my father Sir Walter Ralegh thought them not trivial even in his own extremity. It mattered to him that the least lie should not go uncorrected. He stood there, a stride away from death, and went over the account books of the Destiny, piec
e by piece, point by point, pound by pound.

  When he had done, he smiled and said:

  ‘I am now at this instant to render my own account to God, and I swear as I shall appear before Him, all this that I have spoken is true.’

  The Sheriffs now stepped forwards, thinking the speech finished.

  But my father held up his hand.

  ‘I have one more word to say. It concerns my Lord of Essex.’

  There was silence then.

  There was silence. There was stillness.

  No one had expected this.

  Then my father said:

  ‘Many lies and slanders have been told against me in my time, but there is none that makes my heart bleed more than this. It is said that I was the persecutor of my Lord of Essex, and that I rejoiced in his death. It is said that I stood in a window to watch him when he suffered, and that I puffed out tobacco smoke in disdain of him, to mock him.

  ‘God be my witness, I did no such thing. These eyes of mine shed tears for him when he died. And as I hope to look God in the face hereafter, I swear that my Lord of Essex could not even have seen my face in his last moments. For I was far off in the Armoury. Where I could see him, but he saw not me.

  I confess I was indeed of a contrary faction. But I knew my Lord of Essex for a noble gentleman. I bore him no ill will. I pitied him.

  ‘After his death, it went the worse with me. I got the hatred of many who had claimed to wish me well in better days. And those who set me against him, to their own advantage, afterwards set themselves against me, for the selfsame reason. They were my greatest enemies, perhaps. I shall not name them. Those still living will know who they are. And God knows the hearts of them all, the living and the dead.

  ‘My soul has been many times grieved that I was not nearer my Lord of Essex when he died. Because, as I was told afterwards, he asked for me on the scaffold, and desired that we should be reconciled.’

  Some say that my father’s voice shook as he said this. But most are agreed that it did not Captain Samuel King, my father’s oldest friend, has told me that in all the time my father was upon the scaffold there appeared not the least alteration in him, either in his voice or his countenance. And the Indian, Christoval Guayacunda, who had also befriended my father, remarked to me that although he could not follow or understand many of the things my father said, yet he knew that his spirit never faltered. Indeed, he seemed as free from all apprehension of death, said the Indian, as if he had come there rather to be a spectator than a sufferer.