The First of the English 14 – Gunter · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 14Book 2 · The Providence of God
18
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 14
Book 2 · The Providence of God
GunterEnglish
A few hours after this Chester is at Flushing, now held very strongly by ’t Zeraerts for the Prince of Orange.
Finding that the Dover Lass has not returned from Ireland, after some little trouble with the authorities, who would make a prize of the Esperanza, did not Chester prove himself “The First of the English” and a brother Gueux, he very shortly leaves this port.
Anxious to acquit himself of his promise to Doña Hermoine and deliver his charge at Haarlem, Guy, hoisting the flag of Orange, anchors in the course of the next day at Zandvoort. Landing by boat upon the beach near that little Dutch fishing village, Chester, accompanied by ten of his tars as escort, makes a pleasant journey of five miles through the wooded dunes to the river Spaarne, upon which stream lies the pretty city of Haarlem, basking in the sunshine, its streets filled with bustling burghers, the bells of its great church pealing triumphantly Protestant devotion, the women laughing, the children playing about its neat Dutch homes and gaily colored pentices.
Coming in to the place by St. Jan’s Gate, which is held strongly by burgher guard armed with arquebuses and cross bows, Chester is conducted to Captain Wybout Ripperda, commander of the city, and giving his name and business, he finds that the “First of the English” is very well known by reputation in this city of Holland as a friend of the cause. So very shortly thereafter Guy is permitted to conduct Juffrouw Bodé Volcker to her relatives, the family of her uncle, one Pieter Kies, who has made a fortune by his bleaching fields.
After spending the evening with the prosperous and hospitable Hollander, he leaves the fair Mina happy and contented, though very solicitous about the man she loves.
“If word comes to you of Oliver, you’ll try to let me know,” she pleads, then says, a tremble in her voice: “God bless you for taking care of the helpless. Oliver will thank you for it himself if he lives to meet you,” next smiles: “You are not what you seem to be. You are not the Spanish captain, you are a patriot, like my bachelor, and still,” here her eyes open, “you are the bachelor of Alva’s daughter!” Then seeing consternation on Guy’s face, she adds impulsively: “Trust me, I’ll keep your secret, for I know every kiss of Doña Hermoine is at risk of your life.”
Not altogether satisfied that another has his secret, Chester makes his way to the pretty little inn of the Swan. There he spends a very comfortable night between clean sheets (for the Holland hostelries were very much better than those of Antwerp) mine host being a young, resolute looking Fleming named Hasselaer. He and his mother, a widow of about forty, keep the Swan in very good order.
The next morning, after a pleasant meal, the Englishman repairs to Captain Ripperda and demands passport for himself and his ten followers.
“Certainly,” replies the stout Dutch commander, “I am only happy to be of assistance to one who is such a friend to our cause. May you return to us in a happier day.”
“What could be happier than this?” answers Guy, looking at the pretty scene of bustling trade and thrifty commerce about him.
“Drommelsch! it is pleasant enough now,” says the Dutchman, “but God knows what may come of this war. We are quiet at present, but it is the quiet before the storm. Every town in Holland save Amsterdam is up in arms against Alva, and with this attack in his rear by Oliver at Mons, the news of which has just been brought to us, and with assistance from French Huguenots, as Condé and Coligny promise us, perchance when the cloud breaks it will not contain so much thunder and lightning—but God knows!”
And God does know what Ripperda does not, for had that stout Dutchman guessed what was coming to him and his, how they shall soon be eating the grass in the streets to try to keep their souls in their bodies, and then only saving themselves ultimately for Alva’s torturers and executioners, he and every man, woman and child that throng the streets of happy Haarlem would fly from it, leaving behind their household goods and their beloved homes as if they were accursed by God.
But everything is very bright and pleasant now, as Chester makes his exit through the St. Jan’s Gate and returns to Zandvoort, where, signaling his vessel, a boat is sent to him and he is soon on board the Esperanza again, and returning to Flushing there meets the Dover Lass.
“You left every Spaniard of them safe in Ireland?” Guy says to Dalton.
“Yes, every mother’s Don of them is safe with the O’Toole. They can speak Irish by this time,” answers his first officer.
Chester is greeted with three ringing cheers by the Dover Lasses—cheers of joy and delight, for their commander has come back with his life—doubtless he has come back with the gold.
“Now for the treasure!” cries Dalton, heartily, but his weather-beaten face grows gloomy as Guy exclaims: “No treasure for the present!”
Likewise the men are disappointed also, for each of them, when he saw his captain alive, expected instantly the twenty promised doubloons in hand.
Failure makes trouble for Guy, who is compelled to sail to England to obtain money to pay his crew and to have the keys made.
In London, though he gets the keys of the Viceroy’s treasure house manufactured by three very cunning locksmiths and has them carefully put away in his strong box on the Dover Lass, the treasure house of his country does not seem to open to him.
He cannot negotiate a loan with bankers and silver-smiths, for he will give no hint of where he expects to find the booty he speaks of, and most of them guess it is the West Indies—a long cruise with great risk of shipwreck and capture.
He cannot get aid from Queen Elizabeth, who claps her hands angrily on her pocket as he petitions for money, and says: “Sir Guy Chester, it is luck that I leave you with your head! Who robbed my arsenals of powder? Who but you and that weazen Burleigh? If those Hollanders were not making it unpleasant for my friend of Alva methinks it would have been high treason.”
So Guy, not daring to tell his story of the Duke’s treasure, finds himself in sorry plight, some of his crew leaving him for other captains who can pay them advance money. Finally growing desperate, he comes one day to Lord Burleigh and says to him: “You like money as much as any man.”
“You’re right,” replies Burleigh, rubbing his hands.
“I can’t tell you where I’m going to get this money, but there is a treasure box to be unlocked by a man willing to risk his life. I am willing to risk mine. I know where the treasure is.”
“Where?”
“That I shall never tell. But you have had my word before about certain matters and you have found my word was truth. In fact, I’ve made your name as statesman.”
“You have made my name as statesman?”
“Yes, by my advice about the Gueux, you are now called the astute, the wise, far-seeing old fox Burleigh.”
“Yes, at the risk of my weazen head,” replies his lordship, glumly. “Nevertheless you want to talk to me about—money?”
“Yes! Advance me six thousand crowns and if I come back alive I’ll pay you sixty thousand—ten for one. You’d better make it ten thousand crowns, then you’ll have a hundred thousand. It is like dicing. I risk my life, you risk your money.”
“I value my ten thousand crowns more than you do your life,” chuckles his lordship, and sends him away.
But about this time Francis Drake, happening to come back from the Spanish Main, his vessel heavily laden with silver ingots from some captured galleon, and Guy having set report afloat that his treasure is also in the West Indies, his lordship, in the course of a few days, sends after Chester and tells him that he cannot advance the money himself, but for a commission he can get certain London merchants to advance ten thousand crowns at the terms of payment Guy has offered.
With a jump the young man accepts, and this sum of money being turned over to him, refits his vessel, fills up his crew to fighting strength, which is easy as most of his best men, headed by Dalton and Croker, have never left him, and sets sail for the Netherlands, notwithstanding it is wintry weather now, to arrive in Flushing early in December. Here he has hardly dropped anchor when surprises come upon him.
A boat boards him from the shore and Achille, who now acts as cabin boy, comes screaming down the hatch-way: “Monsieur Oliver! My master, the painter Oliver!”
In a jump, and with a shout of joy, Chester is on deck, and Englishman as he is, permits himself to be embraced and kissed, even in sight of his grinning crew for it is Oliver, and he is as one returned from the dead, as Alva has recaptured Mons and gibbeted most of its defenders.
“Come in the cabin and tell me your news. You’re no artist now, you’re only a fighting man,” mutters Guy with a mighty grip of the hand and watery look in his eye, as he gazes on Antony.
“Tell me your news—what of the woman I love?” cries the painter.
“Safe.”
“Thank God!”
“Come in, I’ll tell you.”
In the cabin, each gives to the other revelation that astounds him. Oliver tells of his capture of Mons, how he himself slew the gatekeeper on guard at daybreak as his eight men, concealed in vegetables, and drawn in market carts, passed into the town; how Louis of Nassau, who was in waiting in the wood outside with five hundred horsemen, each with a footman mounted behind, got in, Oliver and his eight heroes holding the gate against the Spanish garrison until they passed the drawbridge. Then the details of Alva’s siege against them; how they hoped for success, having been promised succor from France; next the news of the fête of Catharine de Medici, the awful massacre of St. Bartholomew, when all the best blood of the Huguenots flooded the streets of Paris, and no aid of the dead Coligny could come to them; how Orange was beaten in his attempt to relieve them; how finally he, Oliver, Louis of Nassau, and some others escaped from Alva’s clutches, who, now having no fear of France, with every Huguenot chief struck down, is gathering together a great army of Spanish mercenaries to make the conquest of Holland, intending to use Amsterdam as his center, it being the only town in his hands.
“By the by,” says Guy, “speaking of Spaniards, have you heard anything of our friend, Major Guido Amati?”
“Colonel Guido Amati.”
“The deuce you say—promoted?”
“Yes. You’re a step nearer the Viceroy’s daughter,” laughs Antony. “Haven’t you heard? When Mondragon a month ago raised the siege of Tergoes, Major Guido Amati, heading the Spanish infantry, marched at night across the flooded Drowned Lands of South Beveland, where one step from the path meant drowning, where one hour’s delay in making that four hours’ crossing meant death by the rising tide, and so came in the darkness to rise in front of ’t Zeraert’s soldiers as if by magic in the morning, crossing a place we thought passable by only fishes or birds. For that march Mondragon reported Major Guido Amati for promotion. It was immediately granted; it generally takes a year. So you see you have been doing very well. Probably Doña de Alva is very proud of you now.”
“Thank God,” laughs Guy, “my villain namesake has got to fighting again, and I’ll probably behave myself,” then says: “Have you heard of her?”
“No, except she is still as beautiful as ever, but more haughtily cold. Even Noircarmes, it is rumored, scowls and twists his mustachios when Doña de Alva’s name is mentioned. Now tell me of my love.”
On this, Guy, giving an account of his curious morning in Antwerp and how he had taken, by Doña de Alva’s command, Mina Bodé Volcker from torture and disgrace, Oliver, with tears in his eyes, cries out: “God bless her and curse her father. How can so tender a heart have Alva for a father?”
A moment after he adds, somewhat anxiously: “Where did you take my Mina?”
“To Haarlem.”
“Haarlem!” This is a wailing shriek. “Good God, man, why did you do that?”
“Her father sent her there to her relative, Pieter Kies.”
“Haarlem!” The painter is transfixed with horror. “It is almost now surrounded!” he groans. “Haarlem! it is the town Alva has sworn to let no living man, woman nor child escape from. Haarlem! Haarlem! My God! Is she still there?”
“I don’t know. I left her there, safe and happy waiting for you—her last words were of you.”
“Haarlem! we must get there. We must try to save her. It is especially decreed that all refugees there shall have the torture as well as death. My Mina is a refugee. Help me, Englishman—you put my love into the fire—help me draw her forth!” moans Oliver, in almost unreasoning anguish.
“Don’t reproach me,” mutters Guy. “I did the best I could for her. But I’ll help you get her out—with my life I’ll help you get her out.”
“God bless you,” cries Oliver. “And your crew?”
“They follow me.”
“God bless them!”
Then forgetting his treasure and turning once more his back upon his love he hungers for, Guy departs with his painter friend, who has now become a warrior, upon their errand of rescue that to succeed must be immediate.
Dalton remarks to Guy as he receives orders to hoist the anchor and sail for the North: “This is hardly fair to those who assisted you with money, Captain Chester.”
“Friendship before commerce—my friend’s happiness before the fortune of English bankers and usurers!” answers his commander. “Dalton, you have a sweetheart in England; what would you do to save her from Alva’s troops?”
“Fight ’till I died.”
“Then, man, my friend has his betrothed in Haarlem!”
“Then I’ll fight for his sweetheart, too,” cries the rough lieutenant; and this story passing about the Dover Lass, the men sharpen their cutlasses and battle axes and give three cheers, singing in their cheery British way:
“We’re going to fight for Portsmouth Poll.”
The next day they make Delft, and find there is no chance of getting to Haarlem by way of Leyden. Here also they learn of the awful massacre at Naarden, five hundred burghers killed in the church, the rest of the inhabitants butchered by one means or another. The details are not complete, the affrighted peasants dare not visit the place from which comes up the wail of women and children heard three miles away. It is the Dutch town in the hands of Spanish soldiery, given up to loot and spoil, murder and ravage; it is the same tale as Mechlen, as Zutphen, the same tale wherever Alva’s veterans conquer.
This makes Oliver desperate. He shudders at what he hears, but whispers with pale lips to Guy: “Our only chance is to get into the Zuyder Zee and by it into the Y and above Haarlem. That way is yet open.”
“Perhaps!” returns Guy, doubtfully, “But it’s taking desperate chances. Both going and returning we’ve got to sneak past Amsterdam, where Alva is with all his army and probably war ships besides.”
“Mon Dieu! You’re not going to desert her?” cries the Franco-Fleming pathetically.
“No, but I must be sure she is in Haarlem before I risk the lives of my men in such desperate service. It is December, the ice will shortly be forming.”
Making inquiries, Chester soon discovers the last man who has come in from Haarlem, a wild-eyed wretch, half dazed with fear, for he has just escaped several patrols of Spanish, who hang up or slaughter in some cruel way all they meet.
To their questioning he answers: “Yes, I was in Haarlem—but I’ve escaped with my life—you see—with my life. I saw the smoke of Naarden burning, I heard the wail—”
“But Haarlem!” cuts in Guy. “Answer my questions quick and I will give you money.” For the poor wretch is destitute and dependent upon public alms. “Do you know one Pieter Kies?”
“Of course, one of the town council.”
“Is he there?”
“Yes.”
“Is there staying with him a fair-haired girl, with bright blue eyes?”
“Oh, you mean the sweetheart of the patriot painter, the one they honor in the name of Oliver of Mons.”
This settles the matter. Oliver goes to screaming in his French way: “Nom de Dieu! there’ll be no mercy for her, Mina will be tortured because I love her,” then whispers hoarsely to Guy: “Save her, Englishman! If you call yourself my friend, save her.”
“I’ll do everything man can.”
“Then quick! Hoist anchor and get under way for the Zuyder Zee! Speed is her safety.”
“For this affair I must make preparation,” answers Chester, who greatly doubts the wisdom of this move.
“Preparation? Have we not arms and powder! Hurry, as I love her! HURRY!” begs Antony.
Spurred by his friend’s despairing words, Chester makes quick but accurate provision for this trip. He first looks about for pilot knowing the inland waters in which he is to sail his ship, and quickly engages a harum-scarum Friesland freebooter called ’t Hoen (Anglice the Chicken). This man at once orders the Dover Lass to be lightened as much as possible.
“Six inches draught of water, more or less, may mean our lives over the Zuydergat,” says ’t Hoen, who, with all his wildness, is a calculating seaman.
So the Dover Lass is made flying light; provisions, water, ammunition, is all she carries.
Then, though the sailors jeer, ’t Hoen calls out: “How many of you skate?”
“Oho! this is a (winter) garden party with dames and wenches and lighted fires upon the ice,” jeers the boatswain.
Without giving answer to this ’t Hoen goes off and buys for every man that can perform upon them a pair of long, sharp Friesland skates. Bringing these on board the ship he says, “Captain Chester, we’ll run away with these if the worst comes to the worst,” which gives Corker a glum face, he not liking the idea of deserting ship even to save his life.
These preparations are made with such energy by Chester and his men that they are delayed at Delft scarce four hours.
Crowding sail upon the Dover Lass they the next day enter that ocean lake of Holland called the Zuyder Zee, and passing Enkhuyzen, get news that Alva is preparing to cut off Haarlem from succor and provisions.
That evening, getting off Amsterdam, they lie off and on, ready to sneak past the place in the darkness into the Y, and by the next morning would reach Haarlem before Alva and save the girl from the danger of the siege.
But that night the providence of God in numbing, freezing weather and chilling breath just from the Arctic, is upon them. The placid water becomes ice. The breeze is not strong enough to give them headway to crush through it.
The next morning all about them is a vast sheet of deep blue ice, and imprisoned within it is their vessel and three others of the Gueux, fortunately all near together, perhaps bound upon a similar errand. They are now helpless, they cannot retreat, they cannot go forward.
The city of Amsterdam, filled with Alva’s army, is looking at them, only four miles away.
