The First of the English: A Novel
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