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The Worlds of Gilbert and Sullivan

Francis Drake's Story! :-

Chapter II: The Refuge!

Before we had gone very far into Dartmoor it became evident that we would be less vulnerable if we travelled the 250 or so miles by ship, but how to locate one and not be caught by the Catholics seemed an insuperable problem. Meanwhile Francis said he knew the whereabouts of a safe cave on the moor (well, it was an old disused copper-mine actually) where we could rest and hide during the daytime. So, we agreed and went to locate it. Bess was then freed about a mile away to enable her to graze and forage for food and to evade predators ( both lupine and Homo-sapiens) and other dangerous animals such as wild boar and wolves. The cart was also carefully covered with branches and secreted in a nearby wooded thicket to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

The cave was well concealed behind a screen of overgrown bushes and long grasses. It was gouged into the foot of a tor¹, which made it virtually unassailable from above. Its solitary access was via a boggy marsh and an ill-defined path that was known only to Prince, Francis (Frankie) and his childhood friend Liz, and which immediately obscured any tracks with squelchy mud and water. Prince entered first to signal that all was well and that no snakes or other undesirable squatters had taken up residence.

This conjured up recollections of an earlier occasion when the three friends Prince, Francis and Liz unsuspectingly entered the mine and were then trapped by a snake. It slid from within the cavern to block the entrance. Prince barked a warning. Francis and Liz spun round and, numbed at the sight of the intimidating viper, were initially rooted to the spot with shock-horror. The dog positioned himself between the children and the serpent and growled at the beast. Occasionally he lunged at it, but swiftly backed off on Francis' command. Meanwhile the reptile 'stood its ground' with malevolent tenacity. Francis and Liz quickly checked that there were no more snakes lurking inside the cave. They also collected a pile of heavier stones and rocks as defensive ammunition in the event of need. Francis tried hurling an occasional rock at the creature to discourage it. But it menacingly hissed its defiance and obdurately continued to blockade the exit. Liz urged caution and patience; and after three hours of tense, nail-biting endurance the three breathed a collective sigh of relief when the snake slid stealthily away across the marsh. After this chilling adventure Liz's father commiserated with them and explained that the snake was probably waiting for the sun's heat to warm its blood before launching off to hunt for smaller creatures to assuage its appetite. And he praised them for not panicking, for their courage and presence of mind, and taking defensive precautions while waiting until the animal moved away of its own volition.

The cave was a regular haunt of Frankie and Liz and was also home to hundreds of sleeping bats. She told him her real name was Eliza, which meant "God is satisfaction" but she much preferred to be called simply Liz. She was the Catholic daughter of a local farmer. Her mother was a Catholic, her father a recently converted Protestant. They farmed a small holding on the the Crowndale estate, and were firm friends of the Drake family.

Frankie and Liz had spent many happy hours with Prince in their secret retreat, reading (not Prince, of course!) or escaping from their noisy younger brothers. They had both been well taught by their parents and were excellent readers. The old mine was near some long extinct prehistoric settlements, which were a bit creepy and used to intrigue (and scare) them when they were younger. From this covert hide, however, they had enjoyed observing the wild flowers, grasses, bushes, gorse, and heathers of Dartmoor seasonally grow, bloom and fade over the years; and the birds, animals and amphibians of moor and marsh regenerate in their annual cycles. And from the top of the tor, a difficult ascent which they often scaled with care but with consummate ease, they had a bird's-eye view of the multifaceted and kaleidoscopically evolving great expanse of Dartmoor.

From early in the year they were fascinated with the progress of swathes of snowdrops giving way to crocuses, primroses and cowslips. In the woods carpets of bluebells decked the ever-changing undergrowth of mosses, fallen trees and fungi. Then a blaze of yellows materialized in the meadows, led by kingcups, buttercups and dandelions interspersed with delicate daises. The foxgloves and  ferns provided a backdrop for exotic but shy little iris and orchids; whilst the wild roses shouted their warm-coloured messages of approaching Summer. Liz had transplanted a variety of these natural beauties into a little garden at the back of their farm cottage. She tended it with love and care, and was becoming something of an authority on wild (and now not so wild) flowers and loved their every petal and scent. (They all look the same to me! [Weeds?]). "Now Felix, you did promise not to intervene too often. You can join in but we don't want to spoil the story, do we?" (Sorry).

Both Francis and Liz were interested in locating and identifying edible wild nuts, fruits and mushrooms in season (We needed to get up very, very early for the mushrooms!); enjoyable additions to the family cuisine. They would first make baskets from rushes, then line them with leaves before garnering these natural harvests for their homes. This never-ending occupation was always in demand by persistent growing-family appetites.

The two children shared the wonders of observing the scooping and looping antics of dragonflies, butterflies and moths on the marsh; listening to the bleating of sheep and seeing the frolicking of their young lambs (amazing how they can run and leap!). They silently surveyed the herds of deer as they grazed and foraged on plain and in woods. Ears to the ground they identified the distant thunder of galloping groups of wild ponies. During the evening twilight they watched for the swinging flight of bats out of barn, cave and steeple, bent on hunting on the wing. (How do they do it in the dark?) They recognised the bark of the dog-fox, saw the flash of the stoat and heard the scream of his trapped prey, and they distinguished between the songs of countless birds including their natural predators: the hawks and the owls. 

Francis periodically went with the men of the estate on their stalking expeditions for larger game. It was on one such sortie that he first spotted the golden hart. The men had dubbed the young stag in this manner because he was a very large deer and when he moved the sunlight reflected from his coat with a majestic golden glow. This special stag was considered too valuable to kill and was excluded by the hunters to enable him to sire the next stronger generation. Francis and Liz got to know him very well, and he recognised them as friendly and none-threatening to the herd.

One day the golden hart brought a spectacular young daughter to show to them: a Golden Hind. She was beautiful, intelligent with a friendly disposition, and the children hailed her as 'Goldie'. Full of wonderment they watched her grow, eventually developing into a superb leader of the herd. One day a local hunting-group were following Goldie's trail. Liz heard them and, spotting the golden hind, shooed her off - away from the danger of the advancing huntsmen. Goldie seemed to appreciate what Liz was doing and later acknowledged her compassion by becoming a frequent visitor to their cave environs.

Francis was, however, also developing into an expert hunter and with Prince's assistance he would often hunt hares, rabbits and other small-game with his trusty sling using a pouch of carefully selected deadly sharp-edged pebbles off the moor. They would then return proudly home with their prized trophies: essential supplements to meat supplies in Mama's (and Liz's parents') larder.

Liz got to know all the birds and their songs, from the cocky redbreast with his beautifully performed early-morning reveille and convivial regard for the tools of the farmer or gardener, to the blackbird's heavenly evensong. She listened avidly to the thrush's skilfully repetitive trills, each one striving to out-perform the earlier; and watched him crack captured snail's shells on his chosen natural anvil. She recognised the magnificent liquid-bugling of the diminutive wren, and the cheery chirping families of chattering sparrows. The chaffinch regularly sang her an eager song from 'his' nearby fruit trees. And she often heard the night calls of the owls when they signalled their intentions to each other as they swooped on silent wings over the countryside, hunting for prey.

She frequently gazed in awe at the seemingly endless flock of hundreds of playful rooks on their evening homeward flight, calling to each other and enjoying aerial games as they returned to their galleried quarters from foraging expeditions in farmers' hard-won fields of crops; masters of their windy environment. Francis' father used to differentiate between rooks and their larger cousins the crows by declaring: "If there are only one or two rooks then they are crows; but if there are several crows then these are rooks." (I hope you are able to follow this logic!)

(I remember Francis used to imitate the rooks' sport: "Tick". "I touched you so you're ON". "No you missed, so you keep the Tick". "Mum, I didn't miss; he's ON and he isn't playing fair". "Now dears play properly and nicely, and keep up with the flock or we won't bring you tomorrow". "Oh, mum . . . Tick. Now I did touch you so . . .") Liz giggled uncontrollably at Francis' impressions. She also thrilled at the geometric high-flying formations of duck, geese and swans on their powerful thrumming wings, over-wintering in this island's watering places; chatting sociably as they effortlessly coasted the air-currents.

And in late April - early May, as the Cuckoo's distinctive call heralded the English Summer, our intrepid pair witnessed the miracle of returning swifts, swallows and martins dominating the skies of their adopted northern home. Liz was fascinated by the shrieking synchronised families of swifts, the largest of the cousins, wheeling and squealing at rooftop level. (Once again I remember Francis parodying their activities: "This is Red Leader. This is Red Leader. Close up. Keep a tight formation. Pack in tight as we take this left curve. Keep in tight Number 2". "But Number 3 is edging me out of the Flight sir!". "Don't argue. Now follow me closely. We're swinging Right, round that tree". "What tree?" "Stop arguing Number 2. Keep a tight formation". "Number 3 is edging me out of the squadron again sir". "No I'm not, he's just a bad flyer". "Stop bickering you two". "Number 4 reporting - Cluster of Flying-ant bandits at 3-oclock." "Thank you Number 4. Maintain formation. Prepare for attack". "Number 3 reporting - urgent." "Go ahead Number 3." "Black Hawk predator at 11-oclock high." "Thank you Number 3. I see him. Dive and peal-off." "Scatter and re-group at the Ancient Oak. Red Leader over and out."

"Right, now that wasn't really up to standard, so the squadron will go round again and repeat the exercise". "This is Red Leader. This is Red Leader. Close up. Keep a tight formation . . .").  At least I think that's what Francis said. I may not have it quite right. (I guess you may be about 4 Centuries out). Oh! I'm not so sure about that, Felix. Children are children the world over, in any period of history, if they're allowed their freedom. (Well, yes. I expect you're right. But, I ask you, Red Leader . . .?)

Again Liz found it difficult to stop giggling at Francis' mimicry - pretending to be a bird and racing round with flapping arms outstretched as wings. The younger children were sometimes allowed to join in with these games. Their squeakings and screechings were a joy to behold. Even the farmyard chickens seemed to join in the frivolity. However the younger children had to obey the orders of Red Leader. (Best spoken nasally into an empty cup or basin, for authentic sound effects!) The game invariably terminated with the whole 'squadron' collapsed and totally overwhelmed with irrepressible high spirits, unable to resist Francis' hilarious antics and Liz's infectious laughter. There were grazed knees and a few cuts and bruises, but it was wonderful sport and lots of fun - almost as though they were anticipating a future destiny. (But then Francis was nothing if not a dreamer. Can you imagine human beings flying over Dartmoor? What next!)

Liz could watch for hours the smaller tri-coloured swallows with trailing streamers speedily and silently skimming the ground at grass-top height. And there was no more exotic sight than the tiny high-flying aerobatic white-breasted martins, swooping and diving. All of them were intent on catching the myriad flying insects of the long summer days to feed their young. When the days shortened in the Autumn they would all gather and disappear, only to return and re-perform their miracle again in the lengthening days of the following  Spring. 'Where do they come from, these "swallows"; and where do they go?'  she asked herself. 'Someday, someone will discover the answer to this mystery and then the magical spell may be broken.'

But, Liz maintained, at the apex of this annual ornithological treat was the skylark. Five minutes (well, perhaps up to 3 or 4 consecutive minutes; mustn't exaggerate) of his glorious sustained airborne song was one of the world's most musically inspiring experiences. When Francis offered to collect and blow her an egg from a skylark's clutch as a keepsake, she remonstrated sharply with him and told him to confine his stealing of eggs to the farm chickens and ducks - they apparently didn't mind. (Now from my viewpoint a bird is a bird, and an egg is an egg! Although considering their culinary qualities I do admit that some taste good whilst others taste fowl! Ouch! Forgive the pun.) "Felix . . .!" (Sorry.)

Francis once asked Liz why most birdsong appeared to be concentrated in early morning or late evening. She said she didn't know but her father thought it might be something to do with the males marking out their territories - warning off other males of the species. "Also", she suggested, "the male birds sing particularly beautiful love-songs to attract their mates". 'During the day-time', she pondered, 'they also sing (scold?) to warn their young about predators and other dangers'. "Or maybe they just sing to enjoy themselves", she proclaimed. " Perhaps they like their own singing . . ." He tried to get his head round this, why and how it could be so; but then he thought: 'well, as it sounds so beautiful to us it must also be beautiful to them, so why not sing for their own enjoyment? And then we get the spin-offs from all this expressive melodious activity .'

Jerked back harshly from his reveries to their present plight, Francis was suddenly aware of how the 'Refuge' had the power to evoke such vivid recollections. 'All gone?' he silently queried. And recalling their exodus, those fires and the hair-raising screams across Crowndale, he asked himself: 'Where is Liz now? Has she survived the mob? OR, has she been taken from us along with all those wonderful childhood memories . . .?'

Click the galleon's main-mast pennant (red) to progress deeper into the exciting . . .

Francis Drake's Story! :-

Chapter III: A Night Visitor!

Footnote 1    A tor is a rocky outcrop - spectacular examples of which exist in the Devon and Cornish moors. Return to story.

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