The First of the English: A Novel
“Because the custom house officers are loitering about my vessel.”
“Verdomd! you been smuggling!” cries the senior partner. “If you’ve
been getting us into trouble by your infamous sailor notions on that
point, Captain Blanco, you can stay here and face it. I won’t help
you.”
This answer is discouraging. It shows Chester that Jacobszoon knows
nothing of his junior’s operations with the twelve cases of goods.
Guy goes out and loiters about the entrance of the office, determined
to see Olins.
That gentleman is an early office bird, notwithstanding his vigil of
the night before, and he encounters him coming down Wool street.
“I must have a word with you, Mijn Heer Olins,” he says.
“Yes, come to the office.”
“No, in private, and not at your office.”
“Very well, this wine room,” answers Olins, looking hard at Guy, and
leads the way to a place of refreshment with which apparently he is
familiar, as the two get a private room together.
“Now,” he says, “is it the money for that smuggling business, Capitan
Blanco? I’ll have it for you in a few minutes, if your crew is
impatient.”
“No, it’s to demand that you give me an immediate consignment in
ballast from this port.”
“Impossible!” cries Olins shortly; then whispers: “Why do you want it?”
“Because I’m suspected of smuggling.”
“What, that lace last night?” mutters the Fleming, his face growing
set.
“No lace,” says Chester shortly.
“A—ah! You must leave Antwerp on the tide,” whispers Olins, a bead of
perspiration on the center of his forehead. “But where can I send you?”
“Get me papers to Amsterdam.” This is the first place that comes into
Guy’s head.
“Very well, they shall be obtained. But,” adds the merchant nervously,
“without a charter it would look very suspicious!”
“I’ll get you the charter,” cries Guy, a sudden idea flashing through
his brain.
“From whom?”
“From your fellow patriot, Bodé Volcker.” This is in his ear.
“Good God! You know—”
“Yes, arquebuses, packed in lace, that is not a fine—but death,”
whispers Guy. “Fill out an order for charter to Amsterdam.”
And the merchant, sitting down to write this, Chester admires him—for
patriot Jan Olins’ handwriting is as firm and regular as commercial
copper-plate.
“Get the papers through the custom house at once,” whispers Guy.
Then hurrying to his ship once more he dives into his cabin to reappear
a few moments after, rearrayed not as Andrea Blanco, merchant mariner,
but as Guido Amati, the dashing soldier of Spain, for he judges this
the best guise in which to have his interview with ex-Burgomaster Bodé
Volcker.
At the merchant’s warehouse he is disappointed to find that Niklaas is
still at his home upon the Meir. Making his way there a sudden idea
comes to him, that he can do this business better as debauchee
spendthrift than in any other guise. He will come apparently as spy for
bribe; he will demand gold, but get charter papers.
Willing to play ignoble role for such result, he tosses about his hair,
disheveling it, slouching his hat over his eyes and assuming the gait
of partial drunkenness, he continues his way to the Bodé Volcker
mansion and enters the business portion of the house.
A number of clerks are there, the general routine of the office is
going on quite briskly. Here he is received most obsequiously by bowing
clerk, who asks almost tremblingly his name and desires—for these
Spanish soldiers of fortune were quick with blow of hand or knife to
Flemish townsmen. Demanding word with Bodé Volcker, he is shortly shown
into that gentleman’s private office next his counting room.
Here, with well-assumed drunken leer and one or two suggestive
hiccoughs, he closes and locks the door, the merchant gazing at him in
astonishment, perhaps alarm, for Guy’s appearance, with matted, tossed
about hair, and rolling eyes, a strange excitement in them, brought
about by his desperate situation, gives him the look of having just
risen from a late and prolonged debauch.
“Yer know me—y’know me—I’m—I’m Major Guido A—Amati, o —er—Romero’s
foot,” hiccoughs the pseudo Spanish roisterer.
“Yes, I—I had the honor of seeing you at my house once, Captain Amati.”
“Major—Major Amati de Medina—don’t you forget th’ De Medina. Sit—sit
down and—hic—sign this!” And Guy presses the merchant into his chair
from which he has half risen, and slaps in front of him the charter
paper.
“What—what is this?” stammers Bodé Volcker.
“It’s an article ’f charter—firm of Jacobszoon & Olins, for Cap’n
Andrea Blanco—you know Cap’n Andrea—Andrea Blanco?” he winks cunningly,
“of—er ship Esperanza.”
“A charter in ballast?” cries Niklaas, commercial instinct rising in
him. “What drunken nonsense is this? There’s no money in charter in
ballast.”
“Not er charter in ballast, but charter to—convey twelve cases of
goods—landed las’ night at yer warehouse—’bout twelve ’clock. See the
pint, Bodé Vol—Volcker?” And this being emphasized with drunken leer
and wink, Bodé Volcker sees the point with an awful gulp of terror,
then gasps: “You—you’re accusing me of smuggling; that—that’s only a
fine!”
“Yesh—fine of your head!”
“Smuggling lace—the fine of my head—you’re drunk!” replies the
merchant, plucking up courage.
“Smuggling arquebuses—packed in lace—time of war—is torture as well.”
“Good God!” cries Niklaas, “arquebuses! I have been imposed upon—that
villain Olins—arquebuses!” And Guy knows that Bodé Volcker is not a
patriot, but only a smuggler.
“Jush th’ same—cost your—hic—your head,” hiccoughs Guy. Then he
suggests, with drunken leer: “I couldn’t bear to have my future
banker—th’ man who’s going to give me all—hic—the gambling money I
want, pass out of the world. See the pint, Bodé Volcker!”
“How much money do you demand? I’m—I’m a poor man!”
“You’ll be a poorer man soon! See the pint, Bodé Volcker!” and avarice
grins at fear.
“How much money do you want?” pleads the man of commerce.
“Lotsch; but we’ll talk ’bout that afterwards,” hiccoughs Chester.
“Sign this charter—get vessel ’way first, then we’ll have bottle or two
together, and I’ll draw a ducish big draft on you.”
“You’ll not betray me—you’re sure they’re arquebuses?”
“Call in custom house officers—open ’em and see!” cries Guy.
But this is too horrible for contemplation. Bodé Volcker signs with a
palsied hand the charter paper of the Esperanza to leave Antwerp
forthwith for Amsterdam and other ports on general trade.
“As you love yourself, Bodé Volcker—my dear banker, Bodé Volcker,—get
those goods on board at once,” whispers Guy, pocketing the charter
paper, “and—and bring me a bottle of wine.”
“Yes, I’ll give orders instantly,” gasps the merchant.
But even as he rises to do this there is a whirr of wheels, a clack of
whip outside, and a clatter of horses’ hoofs as a post chaise,
apparently at desperate speed, dashes into the courtyard.
A moment afterwards all thought of drunkenness leaves with one flash
the mind of the Englishman. A voice imperative but sweet; a voice that
sets Guy’s heart beating more than the danger of detection, more even
than the terror of death, says outside the door: “Announce to your
master Hermoine de Alva!”
“Good heavens! Alva’s daughter!” mutters the burgomaster. “She must not
see you. Leave by the back door!”
But Chester would not leave now for death itself.
“Oho! gay Bodé Volcker! ladies,” hiccoughs Guy in a feeble attempt to
keep up his character. “I never desert ladies.”
“Quick!” whispers the old gentleman. “You must remain until this
business is settled and I give you orders for the goods,” and hastily
pushes Chester into a little waiting room just out of his private
office, muttering: “The drunken fool—in the hands of a miserable,
gambling debauchee. My God! poor Bodé Volcker!”
Then Guy’s heart commences to throb. The place he has been put into by
Niklaas has a little lattice door, through it all sound in the sanctum
of the merchant can be easily heard. It has apparently been constructed
and used for this very purpose, to further chances of gain and vantage
over his customers by the commercial Fleming himself.
Almost as Guy enters he starts astonished. For these strange words come
to him in impressive but charming voice: “Señor Bodé Volcker, I have
driven from Brussels post haste to bid you, as you love her, get your
daughter out of Antwerp—INSTANTLY!”
CHAPTER XIII.
“GOOD HEAVENS! WHAT AN INTRODUCTION!”
“This is a curious errand, Doña de Alva,” returns the old man, bowing
to the earth. “Why do you wish my daughter out of Antwerp?”
“Because the order is even now speeding from Brussels to seize upon and
confine your daughter in the Spin-House.”
“The Spin-House! Lieve Hemel! An honorable confinement there might do
the minx good,” says the old man severely. “She has been headstrong and
willful lately. Has she made some careless breach of city regulation.
Perchance she has worn train longer than burghers’ daughters are
permitted. We sometimes, Doña de Alva, send our headstrong daughters
and even the wives of our bosom to the wholesome silence of the
Spin-House in Antwerp.”
“Not the part of the Spin-House I mean.”
“Great heavens, you don’t mean—the place for abandoned women—the
harlots of the town?” gasps Bodé Volcker.
“Yes.”
“Merciful God! With the fearful scourging of welcome and farewell they
give to those poor creatures?”
“Yes.”
“My Mina!” shrieks the old man. “My Mina!” wringing his hands in
despair. Then he cries: “For what crime?—for what crime do they send my
daughter to be disgraced and tortured—what crime?”
“She is the affianced bride of Antony Oliver, the traitor.”
“Oliver, your father’s under-secretary?”
“Yes. It is thought she must have known his sedition. Oliver fled from
Brussels yesterday. Get your daughter out of Antwerp. I won’t have a
woman, innocent or guilty, so degraded and debased,” goes on Hermoine,
almost desperately herself, for the old man is sobbing and wringing his
hands, and seems incapable of action.
But this stings the Flemish father into rage. His tears vanish. His
eyes blaze. He rises before the beautiful daughter of the man who would
degrade his child and mutters: “But your father who does this thing,
Alva, the tyrant, the coward, the oppressor—”
“You forget, burgher, you are speaking of the Viceroy to the Viceroy’s
daughter.” The tone is commanding but sad. “I pardon your treason, for
you know not what you say. But do not dare to criticise my father’s
policy of State. In that even I do not interfere, though I am sick—sick
of the blood, sick of the butcheries each day’s report brings from the
army or the execution shambles in the Horse Market. Each day I pray to
the Virgin to make my father’s heart more merciful. Each night I pray
‘No more blood.’ God knows I have importuned him to spare, but he will
not. He says it is the policy of the government, that he is as merciful
as God, the church and his King will permit him to be, and goes on
executing. Every time I see a woman in black I fear it is my father’s
doings. I am here to save your daughter. Get her away! If you cannot, I
WILL.”
Seeing the old man appears so overcome that he can hardly walk, she
cries out eagerly, “Get a boat—a ship, quick! It’s the only chance. Get
her to some town or country where my father does not rule. Do you
suppose he’ll forgive any one connected by love or by blood with this
Oliver, who had his private ear, who ate the bread of his household,
and who betrayed him? Quick, get your daughter out of Antwerp! Stay, it
is better that I do it. I shall be safe, you might be punished for
saving your own child. Bring your daughter here. What your trembling
limbs refuse to do I’ll do for you.”
Here sudden inspiration seems to come into the old merchant. He sobs: