In the beginning of the fight I had a hundred for me; volleys, boardings, and enterings have done their damage...this composition and exile are the dullest and longest in the history of our Tower; the book I am writing is for Prince Frederick, a slow, slow tacking about; yet you, who respect writing, realize the salvation. Tell me, friend, that I will fare well with my History of the World...

It is still my error that I never a.s.sisted him: it was my error to have shut my mind: there are many I could have helped as I went along. But to pa.s.s by someone great-that is great misfortune.

I hear him telling about how he burned the town of San Jose; I hear him telling about the treachery of the Tarawa Indians; his terrible thirst when his ship ran out of water at sea; he is boarding a Spanish frigate, raiding for guns...

'Sblood, the Spanish are a cruel lot, chaining the caciques, scorching their naked bodies with hot bacon, beating them, starving them, decapitating them...

The Tower

Write to me, lad, before thought's relicts utterly obsess me and the ghouls remove me in their stinking chains. I have seen and heard them, ghouls and ghosts of this town and tower, seen and heard them cringe and bully, nightlong. Stones multiply their menace.

There's an old seadog from Dublin crumpled in a cell here, a grumbling bag: he claims he used to sail with me; by his own confession he is the murderer of his crippled father. He is to be freed in the Spring. Freed? Free-are we ever free, my lad? When I sniff the brined air I am hard put not to cast myself off the Tower-I still hope to see the sails double- reefed and porpoises rising off the bow...

Later he wrote bread-bread-bread. "Time drives the flocks," he said: "I am reading the Amoretti... have you read Spenser recently?

"None can call again the pa.s.sed time," he wrote. I repeated those seven words. I repeat his bread...bread...bread...it is not bread we want. I did not care. Who cares now?

Henley Street

August 1, '15

What times we had, Raleigh, Marlowe, Jonson, and I, Marlowe and his wit, Raleigh and his tales of the sea, Jonson and his satirical pomposities in Latin or Greek.

Then, then...Marlowe's murder crept through our veins and left us dumb or feverish, our very gatherings viewed with disapproval.

Hail drubbed our windows, the chill of complicity and duplicity spread over cobbles, the clatter of horses'

hooves meant torture on the spit of tomorrow: these were hitched to our beads of sweat.

We had seen our share of slings and arrows. Was it important who killed Marlowe? We weren't sure. All threads of evidence were thin threads! We praised Marlowe, shuffled through our worn pockets to bury him- Raleigh at sea now. We excused, blamed, made our exodus.

Ann said, with scorn:

"It's the company you keep! London! Always London!"

As if our plays could be produced in Stratford!

"It's men who blaspheme G.o.d who find the gutter! Listen to what people say about Raleigh! He'll have a bad end!"

So they prophesied over sour beer.

Chris Marlowe was squat, dark, tousle-headed, many- freckled, with wretched teeth and poor eyes. He weighed far too much for a small man-his clothes were sacks at times-his body lost inside for all its bulk. He had character and a voice that conveyed character-his speech superior to many actors. He could memorize lines quickly, and speak them sincerely, interpreting with sound thinking behind them. When nervous he picked his teeth and jogged his foot, when writing or talking, not on the stage. He slumped in his chair habitually, as if he had been on his feet for days. When he spoke, there was Marlowe, bringing you to attention, his eyes serious, the warmth of him coming to you, a piece of currency.

Stratford

Marlowe and I worked throughout the night, troubled by reeky candles, rain and chill. He kept us grinding by saying we'd soon see the sun cross the roof tops.

The sun...where was it?

Our playwriting went badly as we worked at rephrasing, changing, cutting, adding. I would write a scene and he would recompose it, or he would start out and then I would revise. We had to have our three acts finished by noon, for our players.

Red-eyed, Marlowe sipped ale, his quill chronicling, squeaking, or head on his arms, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a fragment of sleep.

Rain over the house, over the mansard, clicking against the gla.s.s, sounding colder and colder, dampening our spirits and our paper, making my knees and ankles ache...rain.

I wanted to toss myself on the cot and smother myself with blankets and call it a day. Marlowe said we'd soon see the dawn. G.o.d's bodkins!

In that four-square room, cluttered with Greek and Roman masks, posters, books, and dirt, we wrote t.i.tus over and over. When the ma.n.u.scripts were ready for the theatre even the rain sounded tired.

In those days, for economy's sake, we often cut each other's hair, sitting in the doorway or on the steps, when the weather was good. Draped in sheet or towel, I sat on a chair while Marlowe snipped. Scissors and comb usually put him in a whistling mood. Gently puffing a tune, he scissored away-the slowest barber in London. He liked to complain about the color of my hair, saying he wished it was as black as Oth.e.l.lo's so he could see it easily.

"I've cut so many bad lines from your plays this job should be easy."

Chris was better at barbering than I. He said I didn't keep my mind on my work.

"If I had the money, I'd certainly excuse you. Come on, no more time out for jotting down lines. Let's get through this mess. Presently, it will be dark. I never trust you by candlelight."