Nicholas Bracewell's hand was much in evidence, and not just in the smooth stage management of the afternoon. He had been involved in the creation of the play and had supplied Hoode with endless details about the navy, its ships, its language, its traditions. Again, Nicholas had suggested a number of scenes which involved ordinary English seamen and the privations they suffered. It not only gave Hoode an opportunity for low comedy, it threw the world of admirals and captains into sharp relief.
One of the Armada myths of the day was that scarcely a hundred English lives were lost in the engagement. Though technically true, it did not take account of the immediate consequences of the battle. Despite widespread illness from rough seas and stale beer, the England seamen had served bravely. Then their water ran out and they were forced to drink their own urine. Typhus began to kill them like flies and some ships lacked enough men to weigh anchor.
Gloriana Triumphant did not dwell on all this but it was not ignored. A fuller, rounder, more honest picture of life at sea began to emerge. Samuel Ruff and Benjamin Creech were ideal seamen, tough, comic, long-suffering and endlessly loyal. The standees in the pit connected with the men at once.
But the real hero of the play and the afternoon was Lawrence Firethorn in a part that enabled him to use all his wolvish energy and all his technical tricks. He was by turns rough, romantic, outspoken, tongue-tied, base and noble. His wooing of the Queen was a mixture of subtle comedy and surging passion, and it was at this point that his performance was directed up at Lady Rosamund Varley. It was quite hypnotic.
Lady Rosamund was enthralled and Lord Westfield was enraptured. Even the Earl of Banbury was reduced to impotent silence. Roger Bartholomew was captivated in another way. The sight of Firethorn at once sharpened his urge to act and delayed the moment. It was as if Bartholomew wanted to build up maximum fury before he moved. His chance came in the fifth act
Nicholas Bracewell had spent a long time devising the sea battle and it had a whole battery of complex effects. Agile stagekeepers were kept running around to provide various effects and George Dart was the western wind on a blustery day. Firethorn stood on the poop deck and yelled his orders. Ruff, Creech and the other seamen sweated on the gun deck below. The mast was secured by the ropes. The cannons were positioned on both sides of the vessel.
Through the open trap door in the middle of the stage could be heard the swishing of water. As the battle intensified, water was thrown up on stage to splash and soak and run. One of the seamen, apparently hit by a cannon ball, was knocked through the trap door and into the sea. It was a simple device but it pleased the audience and worked well.
Action became more frenetic as the play moved towards its climax. Firethorn shouted and bellowed to fine effect as his vessel came under intense bombardment. At the pull of a rope, half the rigging on the mast came adrift and fell to the stage. Explosions, fireworks, drums, cymbals, gongs and trumpets were used to augment the sound and din the ears. Metal trays of fire were slid onstage to suggest areas of the deck that had been hit. Buckets of water filled from the trap door were thrown over the flames to douse them.
Firethorn now gave the command and the cannon went off, not one as in the earlier play, but four in ascending order of volume. Even this effect was topped. As the booming echoed and reverberated around the playhouse, the figure of a small man in black climbed on to the balcony of the second gallery and launched himself off with a wild cry of despair.
Misjudging his leap, he landed in the folds of the sail, which broke his fall before hurtling him to the stage with sufficient force to knock him unconscious. It was a breathtaking moment and the audience had never seen anything like it. Neither had Lawrence Firethorn but he coped with the situation magnificently. Everyone believed it was part of the play and he did not break faith with them. With two extempore lines, he ordered his men to gather up the body of the Spanish dog and throw it overboard. Roger Bartholomew was lowered unceremoniously through the trap door.
In trying to ruin the play and achieve immortality by his public act of suicide, the tormented poet had enhanced the drama and simply given himself a worse headache.
Martin Yeo came on to knight her faithful sea dog then the piece ended to sustained applause and cheering. The whole company had been superb and overcome all their problems.
Nobody noticed that Bartholomew missed his bow.
*
Lady Rosamund Varley waited with friends in a private room and marvelled afresh at the remarkable stunt they had seen. Gloriana Triumphant was well-named. It had consigned God Speed the Fleet to a watery grave. Edmund Hoode's play would rule the waves.
Refreshments were served while the chat continued, then Lord Westfield brought in Lawrence Firethorn. He began with an elegant bow to Lady Rosamund and her radiant smile shone for him alone. Though he was introduced to the others in the room, he hardly heard their names. Only one person existed for him.
She extended a gloved hand for him to kiss.
'You were superb, Master Firethorn,' she congratulated.
'I was inspired by your presence, Lady Varley.'
'You know how to flatter, sir.'
'Truth needs no embellishment.'
Her brittle laugh rang out then she moved in closer.
'What is your next play to be?' she asked.
'Whatever you wish, Lady Varley.'
'Me, sir?'
'We have a large repertory. How would you care to see me?'
'As Hector.'
Their eyes were conversing freely and they talked with a pleasing directness. Firethorn was entranced by her coquettish manner and she was fascinated by his boldness.
'When would you have me play, Lady Varley?'
'As soon as it may suit you, sir.'
'The performance will be dedicated to you.'
'I would regard that as a signal honour, Master Firethorn '
'Shall I send word when a date has been set?'
'I will be mortified if you do not.'
'Then it will be soon, that I can promise you.'
'Good,' she said evenly. 'I'll hold you to that, sir.'
'And I will hold you, Lady Varley.'
The assignation was made. In a crowded room, and at the first time of meeting, they had agreed to a tryst. He was quite transported. The afternoon had blessed him. It is not given to many men to defeat the Spanish Armada and conquer Lady Rosamund Varley within the space of a few hours.
*
Benjamin Creech left the playhouse with some of his fellows but he soon left them to head off on his own. Like the rest of the company, he had enjoyed the exhilaration of performance and it had left him with the same feeling of release. In his case, however, that feeling was tempered by something else. A man with divided loyalties finds it difficult to rejoice.
Nobody knew the taverns of London as intimately and as comprehensively as he did, so he had no difficulty in finding the one to which he had been summoned. A stroll along Eastcheap, a left turn, then a right, and he was there. At the sign of the Beetle and Wedge. Feeling his thirst deepen, he went in through the door and ducked beneath the low beam.
'Hello, Ben. Thank you for coming.'
'Aye.'
'Let me buy you a drink, old fellow. Wine or beer?'
'Beer.'
'You haven't changed, I see. Come and sit down.'
'Aye.'
Creech lowered himself into a chair opposite his host and looked up into the dark, satanic features. When the drinks were served, they raised their cups and clinked them together.
