Westward Ho! by Charles Kingsley (book club reads txt) đ
- Author: Charles Kingsley
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VIII. HOW THE NOBLE BROTHERHOOD OF THE ROSE WAS FOUNDED
IX. HOW AMYAS KEPT HIS CHRISTMAS DAY
X. HOW THE MAYOR OF BIDEFORD BAITED HIS HOOK WITH HIS OWN FLESH
XI. HOW EUSTACE LEIGH MET THE POPEâS LEGATE
XII. HOW BIDEFORD BRIDGE DINED AT ANNERY HOUSE
XIII. HOW THE GOLDEN HIND CAME HOME AGAIN
XIV. HOW SALVATION YEO SLEW THE KING OF THE GUBBINGS
XV. HOW MR. JOHN BRIMBLECOMBE UNDERSTOOD THE NATURE OF AN OATH
XVI. THE MOST CHIVALROUS ADVENTURE OF THE GOOD SHIP ROSE
XVII. HOW THEY CAME TO BARBADOS, AND FOUND NO MEN THEREIN
XVIII. HOW THEY TOOK THE PEARLS AT MARGARITA
XIX. WHAT BEFELL AT LA GUAYRA
XX. SPANISH BLOODHOUNDS AND ENGLISH MASTIFFS
XXI. HOW THEY TOOK THE COMMUNION UNDER THE TREE AT HIGUEROTE
XXII. THE INQUISITION IN THE INDIES
XXIII. THE BANKS OF THE META
XXIV. HOW AMYAS WAS TEMPTED OF THE DEVIL
XXV. HOW THEY TOOK THE GOLD-TRAIN
XXVI. HOW THEY TOOK THE GREAT GALLEON
XXVII. HOW SALVATION YEO FOUND HIS LITTLE MAID AGAIN
XXVIII. HOW AMYAS CAME HOME THE THIRD TIME
XXIX. HOW THE VIRGINIA FLEET WAS STOPPED BY THE QUEENâS COMMAND
XXX. HOW THE ADMIRAL JOHN HAWKINS TESTIFIED AGAINST CROAKERS
XXXI. THE GREAT ARMADA
XXXII. HOW AMYAS THREW HIS SWORD INTO THE SEA
XXXIII. HOW AMYAS LET THE APPLE FALL
WESTWARD HO!
HOW MR. OXENHAM SAW THE WHITE BIRD
âThe hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.â
All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North Devon must needs know the little white town of Bideford, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge where salmon wait for autumn floods, toward the pleasant upland on the west. Above the town the hills close in, cushioned with deep oak woods, through which juts here and there a crag of fern-fringed slate; below they lower, and open more and more in softly rounded knolls, and fertile squares of red and green, till they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt-marshes, and rolling sandhills, where Torridge joins her sister Taw, and both together flow quietly toward the broad surges of the bar, and the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell. Pleasantly the old town stands there, beneath its soft Italian sky, fanned day and night by the fresh ocean breeze, which forbids alike the keen winter frosts, and the fierce thunder heats of the midland; and pleasantly it has stood there for now, perhaps, eight hundred years since the first Grenville, cousin of the Conqueror, returning from the conquest of South Wales, drew round him trusty Saxon serfs, and free Norse rovers with their golden curls, and dark Silurian Britons from the Swansea shore, and all the mingled blood which still gives to the seaward folk of the next county their strength and intellect, and, even in these levelling days, their peculiar beauty of face and form.
But at the time whereof I write, Bideford was not merely a pleasant country town, whose quay was haunted by a few coasting craft. It was one of the chief ports of England; it furnished seven ships to fight the Armada: even more than a century afterwards, say the chroniclers, âit sent more vessels to the northern trade than any port in England, saving (strange juxtaposition!) London and Topsham,â and was the centre of a local civilization and enterprise, small perhaps compared with the vast efforts of the present day: but who dare despise the day of small things, if it has proved to be the dawn of mighty ones? And it is to the sea-life and labor of Bideford, and Dartmouth, and Topsham, and Plymouth (then a petty place), and many another little western town, that England owes the foundation of her naval and commercial glory. It was the men of Devon, the Drakes and Hawkinsâ, Gilberts and Raleighs, Grenvilles and Oxenhams, and a host more of âforgotten worthies,â whom we shall learn one day to honor as they deserve, to whom she owes her commerce, her colonies, her very existence. For had they not first crippled, by their West Indian raids, the ill-gotten resources of the Spaniard, and then crushed his last huge effort in Britainâs Salamis, the glorious fight of 1588, what had we been by now but a popish appanage of a world-tyranny as cruel as heathen Rome itself, and far more devilish?
It is in memory of these men, their voyages and their battles, their faith and their valor, their heroic lives and no less heroic deaths, that I write this book; and if now and then I shall seem to warm into a style somewhat too stilted and pompous, let me be excused for my subjectâs sake, fit rather to have been sung than said, and to have proclaimed to all true English hearts, not as a novel but as an epic (which some man may yet gird himself to write), the same great message which the songs of Troy, and the Persian wars, and the trophies of Marathon and Salamis, spoke to the hearts of all true Greeks of old.
One bright summerâs afternoon, in the year of grace 1575, a tall and fair boy came lingering along Bideford quay, in his scholarâs gown, with satchel and slate in hand, watching wistfully the shipping and the sailors, till, just after he had passed the bottom of the High Street, he came opposite to one of the many taverns which looked out upon the river. In the open bay window sat merchants and gentlemen, discoursing over their afternoonâs draught of sack; and outside the door was gathered a group of sailors, listening earnestly to some one who stood in the midst. The boy, all alive for any sea-news, must needs go up to them, and take his place among the sailor-lads who were peeping and whispering under the elbows of the men; and so came in for the following speech, delivered in a loud bold voice, with a strong Devonshire accent, and a fair sprinkling of oaths.
âIf you donât believe me, go and see, or stay here and grow all over blue mould. I tell you, as I am a gentleman, I saw it with these eyes, and so did Salvation Yeo there, through a window in the lower room; and we measured the heap, as I am a christened man, seventy foot long, ten foot broad, and twelve foot high, of silver bars, and each bar between a thirty and forty pound weight. And says Captain Drake: âThere, my lads of Devon, Iâve brought you to the mouth of the worldâs treasure-house, and itâs your own fault now if you donât sweep it out as empty as a stock-fish.ââ
âWhy didnât you bring some of they home, then, Mr. Oxenham?â
âWhy werenât you there to help to carry them? We would have brought âem away, safe enough, and young Drake and I had broke the door abroad already, but Captain Drake goes off in a dead faint; and when we came to look, he had a wound in his leg you might have laid three fingers in, and his boots were full of blood, and had been for an hour or more; but the heart of him was that, that he never knew it till he dropped, and then his brother and I got him away to the boats, he kicking and struggling, and bidding us let him go on with the fight, though every step he took in the sand was in a pool of blood; and so we got off. And tell me, ye sons of shotten herrings, wasnât it worth more to save him than the dirty silver? for silver we can get again, brave boys: thereâs more fish in the sea than ever came out of it, and more silver in Nombre de Dios than would pave all the streets in the west country: but of such captains as Franky Drake, Heaven never makes but one at a time; and if we lose him, good-bye to Englandâs luck, say I, and who donât agree, let him choose his weapons, and Iâm his man.â
He who delivered this harangue was a tall and sturdy personage, with a florid black-bearded face, and bold restless dark eyes, who leaned, with crossed legs and arms akimbo, against the wall of the house; and seemed in the eyes of the schoolboy a very magnifico, some prince or duke at least. He was dressed (contrary to all sumptuary laws of the time) in a suit of crimson velvet, a little the worse, perhaps, for wear; by his side were a long Spanish rapier and a brace of daggers, gaudy enough about the hilts; his fingers sparkled with rings; he had two or three gold chains about his neck, and large earrings in his ears, behind one of which a red rose was stuck jauntily enough among the glossy black curls; on his head was a broad velvet Spanish hat, in which instead of a feather was fastened with a great gold clasp a whole Quezal bird, whose gorgeous plumage of fretted golden green shone like one entire precious stone. As he finished his speech, he took off the said hat, and looking at the bird in itâ
âLook ye, my lads, did you ever see such a fowl as that before? Thatâs the bird which the old Indian kings of Mexico let no one wear but their own selves; and therefore I wear it,âI, John Oxenham of South Tawton, for a sign to all brave lads of Devon, that as the Spaniards are the masters of the Indians, weâre the masters of the Spaniards:â and he replaced his hat.
A murmur of applause followed: but one hinted that he âdoubted the Spaniards were too many for them.â
âToo many? How many men did we take Nombre de Dios with? Seventy-three were we, and no more when we sailed out of Plymouth Sound; and before we saw the Spanish Main, half were gastados, used up, as the Dons say, with the scurvy; and in Port Pheasant Captain Rawse of Cowes fell in with us, and that gave us some thirty hands more; and with that handful, my lads, only fifty-three in all, we picked the lock of the new world! And whom did we lose but our trumpeter, who stood braying like an ass in the middle of the square, instead of taking care of his neck like a Christian? I tell you, those Spaniards are rank cowards, as all bullies are. They pray to a woman, the idolatrous rascals! and no wonder they fight like women.â
âYouâm right, captain,â sang out a tall gaunt fellow who stood close to him; âone westcountry-man can fight two easterlings, and an easterling can beat three Dons any day. Eh! my lads of Devon?
âFor O! itâs the herrings and the good brown beef, And the cider and the cream so white; O! they are the making of the jolly Devon lads, For to play, and eke to fight.â
âCome,â said Oxenham, âcome along! Who lists? who lists? whoâll make his fortune?
âOh, who will join, jolly mariners all? And who will join, says he, O! To fill his pockets with the good red goold, By sailing on the sea, O!â
âWhoâll list?â cried the gaunt man again; ânowâs your time! Weâve got forty men to Plymouth now, ready to sail the minute we get back, and we want a dozen out of you Bideford men, and just a boy or two, and then weâm off and away, and make our fortunes, or go to heaven.
âOur bodies in the sea so deep, Our souls in heaven to rest! Where valiant seamen, one and all, Hereafter shall be blest!â
âNow,â said Oxenham, âyou wonât let the Plymouth men say that the Bideford men
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