FROM THE SPANISH
The galleon Spanish Rose was built in Saint Mary of the Bells by the Lord Alva of Meroquinez. He built her for one of the beauties of the court, whom he loved in a stately manner, that was ceremonious, like the worship of a relic. Being a rich man he built her of costly things, of cedarwood from the East, of Indian rosewood, so that each plank of her was sweet to smell. Her fastenings were of wrought silver, curiously beaten. The streets of the silver workers rang noisily for a twelvemonth over the lovely hammering of them. Her decks were beautifully inlaid by the parquetters of Verona, who made in them delicate patterns of coloured woods more brilliant than the seaweeds. The figure-head, carved in a hard wood, was the work of that artist who carved the Madonna in St. James's Church at Seville. It was a design of the Rosa Dei, bursting her golden petals that the cross might show, a rare piece, sweetly wrought; the folk came far to see it. Her sails were of a fine bleached canvas, edged with red Cordoba leather. They bore a wreathed intricacy of roses, embroidered in crimson or yellow silk by the ladies of Meroquinez. The roping was of that precious hemp which grows only on the Sacred Hill (in Igorroti, in Luzon), so that an ell of it was worth a Florence crown by the time it reached the Spanish riggers' hands. Her high stern, that was built in three decks, had painted bulwarks, each of which bore some painted history of the sea, each history by some Italian.
There one might see Ulysses, in his red-beaked galley, as he rowed past those piping trulls the sirens. There was the barge of Antony, hung with purple, taking the Egyptian beauty along Nilus. There was Saint Brandan Bright Hair, in his curragh of holy wood, with his singing monks about him. There was the fishing-boat of Peter, that was long worshipped by the Galileans when the spring fisheries were in hand. There was the Genoan in his bark, his yellow banner blowing out bravely. There was Arion at his luting. There were the strange sailors of Atlantis, the seven brothers that loved the merrows of the sea, as the Arabian poet has set down. Also there was painted lively the great Flood, with green waves running fiercely, tossing the Ark skyward. Opposite thereto was a table of the Last Day, the sea stilled, with drowned mariners, made glorious, ascending in triumph to the harping of sainted hosts. Within her, in her cabins, she was wrought with more beautiful things. For in the decks of the cabins were roses, worked in parquetry of scarlet logwood, with green leaves, in stained fir, surrounding the heavy blossoms. The bulkheads were of precious wood, carven in pilasters that had gilded roses at their tops. There was a painting on each cabin wall, of Elizabeth with her roses, of Mary in the flowered field, or of those other hallows that have the rose as their symbol. The doorways were hung with blue arras of Persia, or with grey tapestry, splendid with purple peacocks, from the nuns' looms at Ephrata. Each cabin was lit with a silver lamp, that swung in gimbals above a mirror. In every cabin was a silver crucifix, above an old censer of flowered copper, studded with jewels, which sent up scented smoke at every canonical hour. The cabin beams were painted in designs of flowers, but always of red or crimson flowers, such as the rose or poppy, to symbolize love in her activity or weakness. Inlaid upon certain parts of the walls, such as those at the carved bed's head, were curious transcripts from Holy Writ, in praise of love, or verses of the amorous poets, such as Ovid or Petrarch. In each cabin was a cabinet, like a reliquary for richness, containing the precious books of love, written upon vellum, in coloured inks, by fine penmen to whom art was a religion. There might you see Messer Dante, or some rare scroll sealed in red wax, written in Greek, with the tale of Psyche. These books were bound in a green leather, to signify their immortality, while on the cover of each book some jeweller had fashioned a rose in tiny rubies, that typified the love of the saints.
Now about the decks of this wondrous galleon were stands of curious armour, all scrupulously bright. At her ports, which had every one a wreath of painted roses round it, were cannon of polished brass that shone like gold. Above these were the close fights, or strips of canvas, running the length of the deck, all curiously painted with the Lord Alva's arms, in a design of coloured shields that showed the blazonings of his family. The mariners were all Spaniards from Boca Gara, the little port of Meroquinez fronting the Atlantic. The soldiers were but few in number, some twenty swords from Estremadura, who had been in the Indies under Oviedo. They wore bright armour inlaid with gold. In their helmets they wore jewels, or gloves, or feathers, that were the gifts of ladies whom they had served. Their sword-belts were of green leather, in token of hope. Their swords had, every blade of them, drawn blood in the defence of beauty. If I had the pens of twenty poets I might not tell the glory of the stately life they lived, on board the Spanish Rose, the ship built for the Lord Alva's lady. For, in lieu of the exercises common to soldiers or shipmen, they would gather about the mast to hear some pleasant singing in praise of love by one of the Provençal poets, of whom the ship carried nine. Or the lutenists would take their viols, playing some sweet music that for its beauty was like a woman's hair. In the twilights, at Boca Gara, while the ship was fitting for the sea, those on board of her would gather at the mast, with their censers, to sing their vespers, at the first rising of the evening star.
At night, when the moon was up, some of the mariners, coming from the mysterious darkness in the bows, would light the lantern on the poop, a lantern shaped like a rose. The glass of it was stained crimson, so that when lit it burned like a red rose through the darkness, a sight passing a rose in beauty. All of these amorous subtleties, all of this extravagance of beauty, was for the Lady Alathe of Ayamonte, the woman whom Lord Alva loved. He had courted her during the months while the ship was being fitted for the sea; for he had vowed to bring his bride home to Meroquinez, by water, in a ship fitting her birth. When the Spanish Rose was ready, her crew on board, her bows blessed by the priests, she sailed out from Boca Gara to a noise of singing that mingled with the bells of St. Mary's Church. She reached Ayamonte after three weeks' sailing along the coast, anchoring one sunny afternoon beneath the blossomed orange groves which scent the houses of the port. He was married the next day at the cathedral, while all the bells in the town rang as they ring at Easter, in exultation. After a solemn leave-taking he set sail again (his bride with him) for his home at St. Mary of the Bells.
There are nine rocks, submerged at high water, about a league to the south-east of Ayamonte Harbour. They go by the name of the Nine Drowned Maidens. They are a menace to shipping, but latterly they have been marked by a lighthouse. It is thought that the Lord Alva's pilot had been made merry with Greek wine (though some say the ill-steering was done by a knight of the bride's company, who loved the lady too well to suffer her to belong to another). At any rate the Spanish Rose struck upon the rocks during the noontime, when her gay complement, so like a bed of tulips for brilliant colour, were drinking to the lady's health. She sank in less than a minute, in deep, calm blue water, with all her company on board. All that was saved of her was an Italian lute, strung with gay, silk ribbons, which floated ashore the next day.
Less than ten years ago, when the Ayamonte folk were laying the foundations for their lighthouse, a diver came upon some weeded wreck of her, fairly well preserved, lying on the sand, with a sort of grey silt spreading over her like a cloak. He recovered a few relics from her, such as bits of timber, brass nails, or rusty ironwork, which may be seen at the town museum to this day. The scheme for raising her fell through for lack of funds, but it may be that some American millionaire, greedy of dollars, will form a company to strip the wreck. Perhaps some poor Spanish diver, thrusting through into her central-cabin, will then come across the bones of those great lovers, in the perished magnificence of their bridal banquet, their bony hands still clutching the cups, their whitened fingers still splendid with the wedding rings.