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The Worlds of Gilbert and Sullivan

Francis Drake's Story! :-

Chapter I: Escape From the Inquisition!

. . . It was early on Monday morning. Brrr! It was very early on Monday morning; cold and dark! We were still dreadfully sleepy. But the cottage was restless and stirring. Prince, whining and fretful, energetically nuzzled our faces to wake us. In our bemused semi-quiescent state we imagined we could hear disturbing bangs and terrible screams in the distance. 

I remember it was Monday because the previous day the family had attended Sunday Service in Papa's Protestant meeting rooms in Tavistock. Afterwards, instead of the usual pleasant chat about local events and the visiting fair at Tavistock, there was much talk of fear and disquiet about a threatening Spanish-led Catholic Prayer Book Rebellion. 

Anyway, early one Monday morning Prince, our house-dog, urgently whimpered and nudged Francis to wake him. Papa then rushed into our room and told us to dress quickly and come immediately out to the wagon. I recall there was a bitter smell of burning in the air. The sky was lit up over the other side of the estate, an ominous flickering backdrop to a cacophony of far-off bloodcurdling inhuman cries. We hastily clambered into the wagon and, pulled by Bess our farm pony, hurried along the track round Tavistock and up into the wilds of Dartmoor . . .

However let's start at the beginning . . . 

During this story we are entering the rough, tough, bold buccaneering days of:-

1. The sailor against the unknown in the Age of Discovery - when men set out in tiny wooden vessels into vast uncharted waters, guided by maps plotted by guesswork; and  

2. A handful of Englishmen standing against the mighty forces of Philip II: lord of Spain, the New World, the Netherlands, and Portugal with Brazil and the Indies.

I had been with the Drake family since Francis was a small boy. He lived with his mother, Mary Mylwaye (I think her name was Mary) and Edmund Drake his father, (who we all addressed as Mama and Papa) and a rapidly growing family of male siblings. Edmund (Papa) was once a sailor, but when he married he settled down in the family business and became a skilled craftsman and yeoman farmer. In addition he was a passionate Martin Luther supporter, and was appointed our local Protestant preacher.

These were difficult and dangerous times, and I remember Mama and Papa making lots of 'ship's biscuits' and packing the cart with all sorts of food and essentials during the previous  few days. They also assiduously 'greased' its wheels, axles and other moving parts with tallow, and fed us and our pony Bess with extra rations. It now became clear why: speed and silence were now our two watchwords.

Suddenly there was a desperate need to flee the estate before the vengeful Cornish Catholic lynch mob arrived to burn our house and murder us Protestants. One had only to see the decimated ruins of the beautiful Benedictine Abbey in Tavistock, reduced to rubble by the late King Henry, in order to understand something of their wrath. It was now obvious that this was no idle threat, they had already started attacking our friends on the other side of the estate and in Tavistock. We therefore acted with alacrity, discretion and determination and hastened quietly away to try to escape with our lives.

We avoided the main trade routes, keeping to animal tracks around Tavistock and into Dartmoor. Prince and Francis knew this area intimately and were able to guide Bess through treacherous terrain which included dangerous bogs that could trap the unwary and hazardous open seemingly-bottomless water-filled ancient redundant mineral mines, using only the intermittent light of the quarter-moon and stars. Keeping very quiet and avoiding habitation we made our way east into the moor.

Papa pondered on taking us to London. Or alternatively to Calais where he thought we would be safe to make a new life in the heavily fortified last surviving English stronghold on the European continent. Calais, recently strengthened by King Henry, was considered to be impregnable, and therefore seemed the safer of the two at the time.

These then were Papa's alternative objectives. How to achieve either was still very doubtful. For the moment we were relieved to be alive. As we cautiously headed deeper into the moor we could hear the distant howling of the local wolf-pack echoing across the hills and woods. Their hunting calls served to heighten the problem of how we could get away from the murderous Catholic mob and reach either of our desired destinations safely? This and a thousand other questions (like the fatuous: WHY? Why? why?) pounded furiously in our heads . . .

Click the galleon's mizzen-mast pennant (green) to continue the exciting Francis Drake's Story! . . . with:-

Chapter II: The Refuge!

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