n the huge yellow ruff, with sharp chin, minute imperial, and
self-satisfied smile, is Richard Hawkins, the Complete Seaman, Admiral
John's hereafter famous and hapless son. The elder who is talking with
him is his good uncle William, whose monument still stands, or should
stand, in Deptford Church; for Admiral John set it up there but one year
after this time; and on it record how he was, "A worshipper of the true
religion, an especial benefactor of poor sailors, a most just arbiter
in most difficult causes, and of a singular faith, piety, and prudence."
That, and the fact that he got creditably through some sharp work at
Porto Rico, is all I know of William Hawkins: but if you or I, reader,
can have as much or half as much said of us when we have to follow him,
we shall have no reason to complain.

There is John Drake, Sir Francis' brother, ancestor of the present stock
of Drakes; and there is George, his nephew, a man not overwise, who has
been round the world with Amyas; and there is Amyas himself, talking
to one who answers him with fierce curt sentences, Captain Barker of
Bristol, brother of the hapless Andrew Barker who found John Oxenham's
guns, and, owing to a mutiny among his men, perished by the Spaniards in
Honduras, twelve years ago. Barker is now captain of the Victory, one of
the queen's best ships; and he has his accounts to settle with the Dons,
as Amyas has; so they are both growling together in a corner, while all
the rest are as merry as the flies upon the vine above their heads.

But who is the aged man who sits upon a bench, against the sunny south
wall of the tavern, his long white beard flowing almost to his waist,
his hands upon his knees, his palsied head moving slowly from side to
side, to catch the scraps of discourse of the passing captains? His
great-grandchild, a little maid of six, has laid her curly head upon his
knees, and his grand-daughter, a buxom black-eyed dame of thirty, stands
by him and tends him, half as nurse, and half, too, as showman, for he
seems an object of curiosity to all the captains, and his fair nurse has
to entreat again and again, "Bless you, sir, please now, don't give him
no liquor, poor old soul, the doctor says." It is old Martin Cockrem,
father of the ancient host, aged himself beyond the years of man, who
can recollect the bells of Plymouth ringing for the coronation of Henry
the Eighth, and who was the first Englishman, perhaps, who ever set foot
on the soil