The First of the English: A Novel
to wear ship. Send twenty men aft to handle the lateen sail! See the
two anchors stoppered at thirty fathoms! Tell the starboard division to
arm themselves with pikes, cutlasses and axes—only steel. I want no
noise about this business! Order three men to stand on the weather bow
with grappling hooks.”
A minute later he sees the flashes of firearms a cable’s length ahead
broad upon his larboard bow.
“Helm a starboard!” he cries to the men at the tiller. “That’s enough;
steer small, I tell you. Set the spanker!”
A minute after they are just passing the boats, and nicely calculating
for the drift, which is tremendous, he suddenly wears his ship, giving
his orders by speaking trumpet. “Hard a starboard—slack away the lee
braces. Haul taut the weather fore and main braces!” And as soon as the
vessel comes round bracing his fore yards very sharply and jibbing his
lateen sail, which, though nearly blown from its bolt ropes, drives the
vessel hurriedly into the slack water formed by the current of the East
Schelde meeting that rushing in by the main estuary.
The next minute he has ranged up alongside two boats, and his starboard
division, taking tow lines in their hands, have sprung into the boats,
boarding them and capturing them.
These are soon swinging alongside of his lee quarter, protected from
the sea and the wind, while he is dropping anchor in the slack water
formed by the South Beveland flats and marshes.
There has apparently been no contest in the boats, as his men have
taken their occupants too much by surprise.
A minute later the boatswain clambers back on board the Dover Lass and
reports: “We’ve got ’em both!”
“What are they?”
“One’s an enemy and one’s a friend.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“Dirk Duyvel and his band of Sea Beggars; and Dirk’s thunderin’ mad and
swears he is being badly treated.”
“Who’s the enemy?”
“A Spanish pleasure galley or State barge, judgin’ by the fol-de-rols
and awnings.”
“Who are on board her?”
“Rowers, who are begging for their lives, and two or three women, all
of ’em fainted but one. There was an Italian, Spaniard or something,
but Duyvel and his band when they captured the boat tied a rope round
him, threw him overboard and towed him, and I guess he’s drowned by
this time.”
“Very well, pull the Italian up and bring him on board. Also send Dirk
to me.”
A minute later a stalwart-looking Dutch sea-dog comes over the side,
stamping his heavy boots and uttering a curse with every stamp.
“Come here, Dirk, what are you growling about?” laughs the young
captain.
“What am I growling about? Donder en Bliksem! I’m growling about YOU!
What have you come between me and my prize for? Who are you, anyway?”
“You don’t recognize me, Dirk? Come this way.”
The captain throws open the door of his cabin and motions the Dutch
seaman in. There is a flickering candle or two and a swinging lamp
hanging from the skylight transom that give a subdued and melancholy
glow to the scene, though the darkness of the night has been so intense
that both the Dutchman and Englishman blink their eyes as they enter.
A second later Dirk cries: “Bij den hemel! I didn’t recognize the
voice. It’s Captain Chester, the First of the English!”
This nickname that he gives to Guy is one the Hollanders had bestowed
on him upon his first making his appearance among them as secret scout,
envoy and general agent of Queen Elizabeth; though England, being
nominally at peace with Spain, his sovereign has publicly disavowed the
acts of this man who has been risking his life for her interests day by
day, and night by night, off the coasts of the Hollands, watching the
unequal fight the Netherlanders are making against the power of Philip
of Spain, and the frightful cruelties, ravages, burnings, flayings,
killings and torturings of Alva, his viceroy. This soubriquet, De
Eersteling der Engelschen, the First of the English, has apparently
been given in the faint hope of his not being the last of the English;
that others will come over after him and help them fight for freedom of
thought, and that they will be, if not openly protected, at least
secretly supported, by the power of the daughter of Henry VIII., whom
Philip has sworn to crush, as well as them, in the interests of his
religion. For, utterly defeated at Jemmingen, and out-generaled and
dispersed at Friesland, their Staatholder and Prince now in exile in
Germany, the adherents of William the Silent have no hope, save in the
active intervention, or at least covert assistance, of England.
On recognizing the Saxon the face of Dirk Duyvel assumes a sleepy
smile, though he mutters savagely: “Captain Chester, your act is not
the act of a Beggar of the Sea.”
“Odds, herrings and turbots! You know I am one of you just the same,”
laughs the young man, exhibiting a medal which is strung about his
neck, from which hang two or three Beggars’ cups in metal, and on which
is inscribed: “En tout fidelles au Roy!” and an armed bust of Philip
II. of Spain.
“It’s a curious emblem for an English subject to wear,” continues Guy,
“but since I joined and became one of you, for the purposes of the one
who—who sent me here,” he hesitates a little over his words, “I have
acted to you as a brother Gueux, and abided by the principles of the
Beggars of the Sea—if they have any. Have they, Dirk?” he jeers.
“Answer me, you sea robber. Didn’t you steal your own brother’s vessel
last year?”
“Well, there’s two sides to that story, captain,” guffaws the Dutchman.
Then he goes on anxiously: “But you’re not going to steal my prize?”
“No, only to help you take care of it. And you need my aid to-night;
for in this wind, without me, you would never get back to your vessels.
Where are they?”
“About four miles down the East Schelde, round the point.”
“Then your boat would never make them. You would be blown into
Sandvliet or past the forts and into Alva’s grip, unless you landed on
a dyke and took the chance of being shot off-hand by his Spanish
mercenaries. You couldn’t anchor your boats here, they’d be swamped;
without the lee of my vessel you would be in the arms of the mermaids
in ten minutes, or in Alva’s hands in two hours. Which would be worst?”
“I think Alva would be worstest for me and for you! He hates the ‘First
of the English’ more as even he does us rebels,” grins the Dutchman. He
shivers though, at that name, dreaded by every Netherlander, and more
than all by those he had made outlaws, and forced for very livelihood
to become, under the name of Gueux (Beggars of the Sea), half way
pirates and robbers, though still apostles of freedom under William of
Orange.
“Now, what have you captured? Tell me all about it,” breaks in the
Englishman, who has bright, flashing steel blue eyes and dancing,
gallant, wavy chestnut hair, in strong contrast to the Hollander, who
has a quiet, sleepy, soft countenance, embellished with a contented
grin—one Dirk Duyvel never changed, whether saying his prayers, looting
a ship, or cutting a Spaniard’s throat.
“Well, we drifted down here,” he answers. “The gale wasn’t as high
then, or we wouldn’t have come. We saw a dyke burst down this side of
Sandvliet and went over to take charge of the farmers’ goods, so if
they came to life again we might return em. While doing this we saw a
barge put off from a pleasure house that was being washed out, and it
looked as if there might be plunder aboard. Well, we followed it. It
was trying to get into the river to go to Antwerp, but we shot the
sailors, and had just captured the boat and thrown an Italian overboard
and were looking for plunder, and finding none, except the women, three
of whom fainted when I talked to ’em and told what we were going to do
with ’em, when you came alongside; and before I knew it I was down with
two of your swash-bucklers on top of me with daggers at my throat,
making remarks about my life.”
This dissertation is here interrupted by the entry of the boatswain,
who touches his cap and deposits an inanimate and drowned form upon the
cabin locker, remarking sententiously: “The Italian’s come aboard,
captain.”
“Let’s see if we can get life into him.”
But after a short examination Chester makes the sign of the cross and
whispers: “He’s past revival. All the leeches, surgeons and
blood-letters on earth couldn’t make his heart beat again,” placing his
hand upon the man’s bosom.
Even as he says this he suddenly starts and exclaims: “There’s
something in the breast of his coat; something sewn in.”
“Duivelsch! Is it money he’s got in his jacket?” screams the Dutch
freebooter; then he continues sorrowfully: “And to think that we missed
it when we searched his pockets before we threw him overboard. Is it
money? If it is, it’s MY money.”
“It isn’t money, its papers,” remarks Chester, cutting away the
Italian’s doublet and pulling out a packet carefully wrapped in oiled
silk.
“Then if it’s only papers, you can have them,” observes the Netherland
Beggar of the Sea generously. The Englishman is examining the documents
that are disclosed to him.
A moment more of perusal and Guy appears surprised; then deeply
impressed, mutters to himself: “I wonder—can it be?—I can’t make out
the accursed Spanish cipher.”
Two minutes more of anxious inspection and a sudden flash comes in his
eyes.
He turns to Dirk Duyvel and says shortly: “How much do you want for
your capture? All of it! You have given me the papers, now what do you
want for the boat?”
“The boat’s a fine boat!”
“But it’s no use to you!”
“And then there’s the three women. I might get a ransom for them.”
“From whom?”
“From their fathers or brothers or lovers; they wouldn’t like to know
that they were carried off by the Beggars of the Sea, the champions of
freedom,” says Duyvel with a hideous chuckle, “and one of ’em is very
beautiful.”
“Humph! how could you see this dark night?”
“I couldn’t see, I heard. Her voice is as sweet as the softest stop in
the grand organ at Amsterdam, the one they call the ‘angel’s voice.’”
“What do you want for the whole lot?” asks the Englishman, trying to
appear indifferent, and attempting the tone of a man making a bargain
at a haberdasher’s.
“A thousand crowns.”
“Three hundred,” answers Chester, shortly.
“Five hundred crowns, anyway.”
“Three hundred in silver,” and the young captain opens a locker in his
cabin and produces a bag of carolus guilders. “Better take this in
hand,” he says, “than bargain on the shore, with the chance of being
captured and strung up. Three hundred for the whole lot, women, boat,
everything, and I take the goods off your hands!”
“What do you want to do with them?”
“That’s my business,” says the Englishman, looking once more over the
papers he has taken from the dead Spaniard or Italian, for the dress
and appearance of the dead man indicates that he is such. “And I’ll
tell you what I’ll do,” continues Guy, “if this matter turns out as it
may, I’ll make it two hundred more on my next return from England.”
“Well, the plunder is yours, only count the money down.”
This is soon done, Chester writing a receipt and quittance for the
same, which the Dutchman signs. A moment later Captain Guy remarking
carelessly: “Duyvel, you had better lie by us in your boat till
morning, or you will never outlive this storm,” steps on deck, and
taking his first officer aside, says shortly: “You will take command of
this vessel, Lieutenant Dalton, until my return.”
“You are going to leave the ship to-night?”
“Yes, some information that I have just received makes it necessary
that I go to Antwerp to-night.”
“To Antwerp! Into Alva’s clutches; INTO HIS VERY JAWS?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“In that Spanish barge lying beside us.”
“You’ll take some of your men?”
“No.”