The First of the English: A Novel
his daughter shall go into his shop and sell his silks and satins
behind his counter, as her mother did, though they say he’s worth a
million crowns or more.”
“Donder en Bliksem!” growls the brewer, “what’s a million crowns, or
two million, either, now—it’s only so much more for the accursed tenth
penny tax to eat up.”
“Yes, God help every one,” assents the printer. “The tenth penny tax
will in time take all we have.”
Then the brewer shakes his head sadly over a mug of strongest Flemish
ale and the printer sips his Rhine wine in silence; for Alva has just
levied his celebrated tenth penny tax, which decrees that every
transfer of merchandise in the Netherlands shall yield one-tenth of its
amount to the royal treasury, each and every time it is bought or sold.
This, of course, on active business means ultimately complete
confiscation and absolute ruin to the great trading classes of Brabant,
Flanders and Holland.
This tenth penny tax does not make the crowd very loving to the
smattering of Spanish and Italian officers of the garrison, who stride
about with jingling spurs and clattering swords and armor, caring very
little whether they tread on burghers’ toes or not, and burying every
now and then their fiercely curled mustachios in flagons of Spanish
wine, mine host and his assistants serving them with greatest deference
and humility; for Antwerp writhed and groaned, but still lay prone
under the iron heel of Spanish military rule—from noble to peasant,
from merchant to fisherman.
Among these military gallants none swagger more proudly than Ensign de
Busaco. Seeing Guy, this ferocious little dandy strides over, and,
slapping the Englishman cordially on the shoulder, cries: “What do you
wager, Capitan Guido, on the drinking bout? I am offering even
doubloons on the Drunkards of Brussels.”
“That’s hardly fair,” says Guy, “six drunkards to one drunkard. But sit
down, and remember your promise of last night to join me in a friendly
beaker.”
“Gracios, Señor Capitan,” murmurs the young officer, and soon he and
Chester are chatting over the juice of the grape.
“You have come, I suppose, from the Middelburg garrison,” remarks the
Spaniard, “to see about your back pay. We haven’t had a stiver here,
one of us, for a good many months, and I imagine you are no better off.
But the tenth penny, my boy, will open up the paymaster’s department of
the army If it doesn’t—” he looks savagely round, “we intend to take
things into our own hands. This is a rich city, eh, for looting; the
spoils of the Indies and Peru right here within our grasp. Some day
we’ll make mincemeat of these burghers and take their goods and
chattels and wives and daughters into our keeping for a day or two, eh!
Booty and beauty!”
“God help them,” thinks Guy, looking round the place, and into his mind
coming a vision of that awful “Spanish Fury” that broke forth on
Antwerp a few years afterwards. But he turns the conversation,
murmuring: “Of course we haven’t been paid, but still I have a few
doubloons in my pocket!” then cries: “Boy, another flask of wine!”
This the two discuss together, the Spaniard telling the Englishman
that, though Floris is owned to be the greatest wine bibber in the
world, it is thought that the Six Drunkards of Brussels have some
extraordinary plan for defeating him, at least so it is whispered
about, and that if he has any money to venture on the game, to put it
against the artist.
“They’ll win, my boy,” he laughs. “I’ve seen little Tomasito himself
drink eighteen flagons and never flinch a hair. Fancy what he will do
when stimulated by the magnificent banquet that is going in there,” he
points to the great wedding room at the rear, “and with the chance of
winning five hundred guilders and side bets as well. Besides, De Guerra
has been strangely happy for the last day, and he is never chuckling
except when he sees the ducats ahead. But I think I can get a bet from
Valdes, of our regiment. He has seen Floris drink, and swears that no
man under heaven is his equal. Excuse me on this little matter of
business,” and Ensign de Busaco rises and joins a group of Spanish
officers at the other end of the room, much to Guy’s pleasure, for he
sees that the painter, Antony Oliver, has returned and is anxiously
looking at him.
As the Spaniard turns his back the Flemish artist is by Chester’s side
whispering: “I have done your errand.”
“She will come?”
“Yes, but I had great difficulty. She was as chilly as an iceberg at
first, asking how I dared bring such an audacious message.”
“And then?” queries Guy eagerly.
“Then I gave her the ring and told her that it was necessary for your
safety that she meet you; that you had periled yourself coming to this
town for her escort when you were absent from your garrison without
leave.”
“What next?” says Chester.
“Next she said nonchalantly: ‘I shall be at the house of the burgher
Bodé Volcker at three o’clock this day. My duenna, the Countess de
Pariza, thinks she would like to see the merchant’s daughter dance
again.’”
“Anything else?” mutters Guy, discontentedly.
“Oh, yes, she also remarked that her duenna would probably spend some
of her time, as she usually did, cheapening the silks, laces and
velvets in the merchant’s stock, while she would remain in the
burgomaster’s house and enjoy herself with the arts and graces of
Señorita Wilhelmina. ‘Where you will be, too, I suppose?’ she laughed,
‘Señor Oliver, and, perchance, the gentleman whose messenger and envoy
you are. Have you transferred your service from my father to the
Capitan Guido?’ At this,” says Oliver, with a slight chuckle, “I had
the audacity to remark, ‘Perhaps it may be all in the family,’ and left
her as red as the ruby ring she was holding in her hand.”
This makes Chester flush with delight, and the room which had been dark
and gloomy to him at the painter’s first words, is very sunny and
bright.
A moment after it is brighter still, as Oliver remarks: “I never saw
Hermoine de Alva blush at the mention of a human being before. Neither
do I think, my audacious gallant, there is a man in this world, saving
her own father, to whom she would accord a meeting. But you’d better
stop drinking,” he adds, “or you’ll be considered one of the Drunkards
of Brussels yourself, and we’ve something more than a drinking bout on
hand. Come, they are going in, I see my enemy and know he has my fate
in his hands.” He looks anxiously across the room, for there stands
Vasco, surrounded by his five fellow topers, all bearing the arms of
Brussels on their doublets.
As De Guerra’s eyes meet those of Oliver a smile of cruel triumph
lights them up, and, with one quick, perchance unconscious, gesture,
his hand goes to his bosom, as if to reassure himself that something
very precious to him is still safe and ready.
“See that movement?” whispers Guy to Antony. “That’s to be certain of
the letters that are your ruin if you don’t get them now!”
“And will,” gasps the painter, though his hand trembles slightly, as he
feels to make sure on his part that he has the poison of the Antilles.
With this the two join the surging throng that is now squeezing into
the great painted room at the rear of the inn, in which the grand
weddings of Antwerp are celebrated. This is now set apart for the
banquet which is to test the drinking powers of Antwerp’s genius and
the Brussels’ society for the prevention of intemperance—by drinking up
all the liquor in the world themselves.
A minute later there is a wild cry—“He has come!” the people turning
from the dining-room and rushing toward the entrance of the house to
see De Vriendt, the artist, riding up upon his white horse, followed by
six of his pupils.
This gives Guy and Oliver an easier entrance to the banquet room, of
which they take advantage, finding themselves in a high, heavily
studded apartment, with beautifully carved balustrades and roof beams,
the walls decorated by paintings and frescoes, some of them from the
brush of the contesting artist himself.
In the center is a large oaken table, with seats for seven, covered
with everything that can increase the thirst and appetite for wine—salt
fish, caviare, and viands steeped in oil, which is supposed to develop
the capacity of man for liquor—all these decorated and arranged in
highest style of Netherland garniture; for there are flowers on the
table, and a wreath of roses with which to crown the victor. The whole
is a horrible hurly-burly of art, mediæval luxury and barbaric vice.
Six seats about the board are occupied by the Drunkards of Brussels,
Vasco de Guerra sitting at the foot of the table as manager and captain
of his band of topers. Each man has before him an immense silver
frankforter or beaker glass holding a quantity of wine that would put a
temperance society in convulsions of righteous indignation.
The seat at the head of the table is reserved for the one man who
contests against the many; the glory of Antwerp; the great genius who
is going to drown it in drink; the great toper who, in honor of his
city and a wager of five hundred guilders, is going to drink these six
other topers under the table; while all around this board dedicated to
gluttony and to Bacchus stands a melange of the masculine society of
the town, from Spanish General Vargas to little Ensign de Busaco; from
the fat merchant prince to the brawny representative of the Butchers’
Guild—even to little Achille Touraine, who comes crawling and sneaking
in between the legs of the assembly to reach his master, getting
viciously kicked and spurred in this business by several dandy officers
whose uniforms he disarranges in his transit.
“I am here as you directed, Monsieur Oliver,” he pants. “That is, part
of me—one of the officer’s spurs lanced me like my father does his
bleeding patients, and my face has been scraped as papa does his
shaving customers. But I—I couldn’t get here before, it took so long
for Marvedie and me to eat the last of the pigeon pie.”
Here the boy’s voice is drowned by the buzz that greets the entrance of
the painter; as De Vriendt comes striding in, his pale Flemish face and
mild blue eyes lighted with a convivial smile, while tossing his hat on
high he cries: “Welcome, brother junketers of Brussels!” taking his
seat at the head of the table.
This is responded to in kind, little Tomasito remarking: “Greeting,
brother pig of Antwerp.” A sally of mediæval wit, that makes the crowd
roar with laughter, though Floris’s pale face grows red with
humiliation—for one moment.
The next he has forgotten all save the pleasure of the wine cup, for a
serving man places before him an immense Frankforter of strongest
Markobrunner, and in the love of the liquor he forgets his love of the
esteem of his fellows and townsmen. Rising from his chair he calls out:
“Let us begin, Drunkards of Brussels. The terms of the wager are
settled. I drink every one of you under the table, and leave you all
there.”
“Those are the terms, Señor Floris,” murmurs De Guerra, a snicker in
his voice, and the six topers stand up, each man in his place, and each
with flagon in his hand, filled to the brim with the same strong wine
that faces De Vriendt.
“Then DOWN!” cries Floris, and each man tosses off his ration with a
smack of delight, at which the crowd cries bravo.
But the contestants have hardly seated themselves and got pick at
caviare or salted herring or potted anchovy, when the attendants have
refilled their beakers, and Floris shouts: “Again!”
With this they rise once more, and down flies the Rhenish wine; then
take to eating—for with drunkenness goes gluttony.
So the drinking bout goes on, viewed with varying faces by the crowd,
the excitement growing higher; but none have faces like Guy Chester and