The First of the English: A Novel
days before I return from Brussels with the keys. Besides,” says the
painter, “I have had a carrier pigeon from Louis of Nassau to-day,
which makes it necessary that I go to the capital to obtain a little
information. Every town save Amsterdam is up in Holland, and—now an
attack in the rear. I’ve had word they are ready to rise. It would be a
shame that all the Netherlands were up in arms and Mons, my native
place, still fly the flag of Alva.”
“Then you think Antwerp will rise?”
“No, neither Antwerp nor Brussels, their Spanish garrisons are too
strong, but they are weakening them day by day. By the by, I saw our
little friend De Busaco march out this afternoon with his company for
the north.”
“Then some day Antwerp may have a chance.”
“Pish! Antwerp thinks of nothing but trade. Trade destroys patriotism.
All the burghers want is to be let alone with their commerce. But take
my word for it, this place will suffer more than any other town in the
Netherlands. Antwerp will be the man on the fence, and the man on the
fence is always shot at from both sides. But I must go to Bodé
Volcker’s.”
“Ah! The fair Wilhelmina!” laughs Guy. “I would go with you, but the
debonnaire officer Guido Amati appearing as Andrea Blanco, captain of
trading vessel, would make old Niklaas open his eyes. But you are
anxious to visit him. So good night and—good bye.”
“Yes, I must have word with Mina. God knows what may happen to me in
Brussels.” Then the painter adds suddenly: “But I must also take care
of you. Promise me, Guido,” his tone is very anxious, “if you cannot
sleep here, that you will at least come every night and every morning
and see if carrier pigeon has brought message from me. I shall take six
birds with me. You know how the little bell rings as they enter the
cote. They may be of infinite importance to your safety—to your life,
for God knows when Alva’s suspicion may fall upon me.”
So these two men wring hands together.
The next morning the painter leaves for Brussels, taking Achille with
him, carrying six pigeons, and Guy goes to unloading his vessel as
rapidly as possible.
This he does for three days, taking every precaution. No man leaves his
ship at night. No liquor is drunk, for the men know their lives depend
upon circumspection, and the hardiest of them shudders as he thinks of
Alva’s death. Even Corker himself, tough old mariner that he is, tells
his captain that he is nervous and cannot sleep nights.
“It seems,” says the old salt, “so much like havin’ a grip on your
windpipe. Sometimes I feels as if I was chokin’, an’ Bill Chucksin
scared us last night screechin’: ‘For God’s sake, don’t burn me alive!’
It’s had a bad effect on the men.”
“No, a good effect,” remarks Guy. “I’ve noticed they’ve been very
careful all day.”
Then he turns to the boatswain and says: “Tell the men from me that
every Jack tar of them, if this is a success, shall own Portsmouth for
three days, and shall make the Jews rich by each man buying two
watches, one for each fob pocket. How are you getting on with the
unloading, José?”
“Pretty well, Señor Capitan Blanco,” replies the tar with a wink. “The
fore hold is empty and by to-morrow morning we’ll have cleaned out the
aft and main holds and swept decks. But the consignee’s coming on
board, Señor Capitan Blanco,” and with a few muttered Spanish words the
boatswain strides forward, for he doesn’t like to encounter visitors.
Guy watches with cloudy brow his consignee come up the gang plank. It
is the fourth day—he has not heard from Oliver, and he is very anxious.
“Do you generally sleep on board?” remarks Jan Olins, after the usual
greeting to his captain.
“No, on shore. Sometimes at the inn you recommended, and sometimes with
a friend of mine, an artist.”
“Well, to-night it will be a great favor to me if you will remain on
the vessel. You can’t leave the town after the gates are closed at
nightfall.”
“Certainly. What do you wish me to do?”
“Step into your cabin with me, and I’ll tell you,” replies the Fleming.
And the two getting behind closed doors, Olins whispers. “Under the
false flooring of this cabin, you know, you have twelve cases of goods
that are not in the manifest.”
This Guy does not know, but he immediately assents to the same.
“These cases must be got out late to-night and not delivered at our
warehouse, but where I shall personally show you.”
“To-night, after dark?”
“Yes, late at night. The moon goes down at ten. Eleven will do for the
hour. Tell your men it is two guilders apiece for each of them, and for
yourself, Captain, the usual tariff.”
“What is the usual tariff for smuggling in the port of Antwerp?” asks
Guy.
“Hush! we don’t call it that, we simply call it avoiding the tenth
penny,” mutters the merchant. “You’ll receive one hundred guilders for
your share of the business.”
“Then give me your hand on the hundred guilders, my hearty,” replies
Chester, knowing that to refuse to smuggle would simply be to
acknowledge himself not up to mark as merchant captain.
“Very well, we can consider the matter arranged,” whispers Olins,
gripping Guy’s outstretched fingers, and goes on shore.
Alone by himself, Chester laughs: “I think I’ll see what I’m
smuggling,” and being a man of action, quickly has some of the false
floor of his cabin up, and getting down among the cases opens one.
After examining its contents and refastening its cover very securely,
the Englishman comes up again whistling softly, but with a great
respect for Mr. Jan Olins in his heart.
Then he takes his way up to Oliver’s studio, and getting in unnoticed,
for the painter has left him his keys, draws the curtain away from
Antony’s altar piece and gazes upon the fair face that he longs to see.
But even as he looks upon the beautiful eyes of Madonna Hermoine, the
sound of wings above reminds him of his errand.
He goes hastily up, and examining the dove cote, is astounded to see
all six pigeons in it and no letter upon any of them.
Coming away he ponders upon this matter very earnestly, finally
concluding that by some accident the birds must have escaped from
confinement and returned to their home.
Then Guy goes on board his ship and that night by the aid of Corker and
some of his crew, under the personal direction of Mr. Jan Olins,
conveys the twelve cases of goods upon which no duty is paid, very
quietly and secretly to a large warehouse some distance nearer the main
quay of the city.
In this they are entirely unmolested, but in leaving the warehouse,
chancing to look up, Chester sees by the lantern Olins carries to guide
their path, the name of Niklaas Bodé Volcker in large letters over the
archway, and is further impressed by observing that gentleman’s young
son, the snickering Jakob, who has been apparently waiting for the
goods, have word of mouth with Burgher Jan Olins.
“Aha!” thinks the Englishman. “If I wanted a hold upon Bodé Volcker
I’ve got one, though I don’t see how he could help me at present.”
Then they return cautiously to the Esperanza unnoticed and unmolested,
though the guard boats are doing their duty outside the line of
shipping, which is very dense, and in the shadow of which their boat
glides very quietly, Olins himself going back with them and remaining
on board the vessel, as he cannot enter the town until after daybreak.
This he does, leaving Chester asleep in his bunk, though somewhat
disturbed in his early morning nap by the noise of his men holystoning
and washing down the decks.
Five minutes after Sir Guy Chester wakes up to discover that he has
need of somebody’s aid in this city of Antwerp, immediate, imperative,
to save his life.
“There’s a boy come on board, Captain. He says he’s got a letter to you
particular,” whispers his boatswain in his ear, “so I made bold to wake
you up.”
“Humph!”
“He says it’s instanta.”
“What kind of a boy?”
“A Frenchy.”
“Achille!” And Chester, thoroughly awake, springing up from his bunk,
orders: “Send him down at once!”
It is Achille with a note from Oliver.
“You’re Captain Andrea Blanco?” asks the messenger.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re to read this at once,” says the boy, handing his missive,
which bears evidence of being written in great haste and agitation.
It has no address, but is in Oliver’s hand, and reads:
“Fly! Fly quickly—for God’s sake—for your life, and if possible
save the boy who brings this. He has been my servant—they’ll
torture him for evidence. The hand is descending upon me. I have
only time to say God bless you. Good bye.”
“How came you to bring this?” asks Guy, his lips trembling a little and
his face growing pale.
“He told me—”
“He!—who?”
“Monsieur Oliver; he told me to get a pigeon,” says the boy, “and I
went to the coop and somehow—for he cried to me to hurry—I let the door
open and they all got out and flew away. Then I went to him and told
him.”
“And he?”
“I think he must be sick. He screamed ‘Mon Dieu! what have you done?’
Then he said to me, ‘You’ve let the pigeons go, you must take a
letter—Misericorde! my friend!’ Then he gave me money to get a horse
and told me to ride as fast as I could and to get here last night in
time to get through the town before the gates closed and give this to
Captain Andrea Blanco on the ship Esperanza. And then to do what he
told me.”
“Then why were you not here last night?” demands Guy, in awful tones.
“The stableman cheated me in the horse, curse him—the beast was lame
and I didn’t get to the Emperor’s Gate until just as it was closing, so
I had to stay at home all night, but I brought it here as soon as the
gates were open. But you’re not Captain Andrea Blanco, you’re Captain
Guido Amati,” adds Achille, who has kept curious eyes on Guy ever since
he came into the cabin.
“Both.”
“That’s funny.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about thinking whether it’s funny or not,” says
Chester in a quarter-deck tone that astonishes the French boy. “Sit
down!”
“I’d—I’d like to go home for breakfast,” mutters Achille nervously.
“Stay here, have breakfast with me, and do as I tell you. That’s what
your master bids you do.”
Thus commanded, and a very savory breakfast making its appearance,
Achille sits down and eats, though Guy does not join him, for he is
thinking with all his soul what he shall do.
He can, perhaps, find safety himself in flight, but leave his men to be
butchered or executed he will not. Every instinct of manhood compels
him to stay with those whose lives he has put into such desperate
jeopardy. Besides this poor French boy who has unwittingly risked his
life to save him. But one thing can save them all! That is to get them
out on the open sea on the Esperanza. He has lost last night’s chance
of preparation by the failure of Achille’s horse. But he guesses that
suspicion will not fall upon him for the next few hours. Brussels is
thirty miles away, and even after word arrives it will take some time
for the Spanish spies to discover that Andrea Blanco has dined with
Oliver the traitor twice and breakfasted once at the Tower of the
Angels.
Altogether he thinks he is sure of six hours. So ordering the last few
bales of cargo and hides to be discharged as quickly as possible, and
bidding Achille to keep himself close in the cabin, he goes out
hurriedly to the office of his consignees, which is just opening for
the day’s business.
Here getting word in the private office with the senior partner, he
says: “I have discharged my cargo. Can’t you give me consignment in
ballast to some place?”
“Absurd!” answers the florid Jacobszoon. “Why should we send you with
ballast when we can get charter money for you? Wait here until cargo is
obtained.”
“You must give me a consignment in ballast.”
“Why?”