The First of the English: A Novel
on deck and is putting all sail upon the Esperanza. Seeing that every
rag draws and the tide being with them, the boat flies down the river
at such a speed that he hardly thinks he will be overtaken, and prays
that the custom house officers and guard boat at the fort do their
business quickly.
These Spanish officials, hailing them at Lillo, Guy gets them on board
and makes the officer in charge so happy by hospitality and a roll of
doubloons pressed into his ready hand—suggesting haste on account of
the tide and wind, that his ship’s business is very urgent—that they
are soon allowed to pass. With a sigh of relief Chester, still keeping
all sail up, drives down the Schelde, and at five o’clock in the
evening they are alongside the Dover Lass in Krom Vliet, and are
discharging the treasure into the armed vessel.
At seven the transfer has been completed; for Chester has now one
hundred and twenty-five men working as seamen always work in sight of
prize money.
This done, Guy speaks to Dalton. “Have you obtained as I directed, a
chaplain of the Catholic Church from Zeeland?”
“Yes, and it was the devil’s own job,” says that blunt officer. “I got
about the only one the Dutch had left alive on the islands. There was
another, but Michael Krok had cut off his ears, and I didn’t know
whether he could splice a legal knot,” for Guy has been compelled to
make confidant of his first officer in this business.
“Ask him to step here,” Chester says.
And the priest being brought to him, the captain remarks: “You have
been kindly treated, holy father?”
“With every care. Your fare is so bounteous, I would it had not been a
fast day. It is almost continual starvation for me now. The Dutch have
dispersed my flock, both of parishioners and sheep.”
“You know the reason that I sent for you?”
“Yes, I was told it was to perform a sacrament of the church, which I
am here to do; and have stayed on that island to do,” he points to
Beveland, “in spite of persecutions, in spite of threats, in spite of
blows and outrage. Ask any Beggar of the Sea whether Father Anastasius
ever faltered before them, and there is only one of them who has ever
treated Catholic priests as if they were men of God. ‘The First of the
English,’ though he wars against Alva, is a true son of Rome. As such I
come to do his bidding.”
“You know me?” mutters Guy.
“Yes, that is why I came so readily.”
“Then you’ll journey with me to perform a sacrament of the Church?”
“I would do that for any one demanding it.”
Guy knows this is so; for Father Anastasius is celebrated all over
Zeeland as a priest who loves his Lord better than he loves his life,
and who will do his duty to the humblest as well as to the highest, as
commanded by his Church.
“Put Father Anastasius in my gig with me,” Chester says shortly to
Dalton. “Arm it and man it!”
“It is done.”
“Are the long boat and cutter ready also?”
“Yes.”
“How many men all told?”
“Sixty.”
“That leaves sixty on the Dover Lass; plenty to handle, enough almost
to fight her. You will remain in charge of the vessel, Corker will
command the boats. They are well armed?”
“Yes, pistols, arquebuses, pikes and battle axes, everything as trim as
if it were a boarding party, not a troubadour affair,” answers the
lieutenant.
At eight o’clock dusk has fallen on both land and sea, and calculating
an hour will be sufficient to take them across to the summer house
where his love is waiting for him, Chester puts off in his gig, taking
the Roman Catholic priest with him, and followed by the long boat and
cutter, the men giving way with sturdy muscles as they are anxious now
to leave this spot, the very value of their prize making additional
danger for them.
Forty minutes after this, just off the dyke, where they turn up to
Sandvliet, they meet a boat from Antwerp filled with Italian musicians,
rebec players and mandolins, flutes and harps, and decorated as for a
fête.
These in the early forenoon have been engaged for this purpose in
Antwerp by Achille, who still officiates as cabin boy. They are all
quite merry and are singing a gay Tuscan love song.
“This is my little water party,” whispers Guy to Corker, whom he has
sitting by him giving him his last instructions. “The lady will think
it a pleasure sail upon the river.”
“Oho! Abduction!” laughs the boatswain.
“Yes—to make her I love and honor—my wife,” answers Chester. Then he
whispers: “She is Alva’s daughter.”
To which Corker returns a prolonged whistle and muttered: “Good God!”
and listens with rather awe-struck face as Guy gives him his last
orders: “Take the long boat, guard the dyke between the house and
Sandvliet, preventing troops coming that way if alarm is given. The gig
and cutter will watch the other side of the house.”
For Chester fears at the last moment some lackey or the Countess de
Pariza may send some word of what is going on to Sandvliet or Lillo, or
something unexpected may mar his plan and he knows if he loses Hermoine
now he loses her forever.
A minute after he whispers exultingly: “See, the house is en fête and
lighted up; she is ready for me, my bride!” Then speaking a few words
of caution to Corker, the long boat comes alongside and that sturdy
seaman gets into her stern sheets and takes command of her.
Two minutes after Guy touches the landing stage.
“Under that casement, musicians, and play there a soft Venetian
serenade,” he whispers to the leader of the Italians, pointing to the
great oriel window blazing with lights.
“Si, gracioso, Señor,” the leader of these unfortunate devils replies;
for Guy has hired them for his festival with princely hand, feeling
himself financially a Midas. “A pleasant evening, Señor, a pleasant
evening!” And the happy Italian kisses his hand to his liberal patron
and goes with his serenaders to meet what fate has prepared for them.
To this Guy answers nothing, but springs upon the landing and whispers
to his cockswain: “Have the boat ready to start on the instant,” then
says to the priest: “I pray thee come with me, holy father.”
So the two go up the stairs on to the dyke and walk along the path by
the little garden toward the mansion, that is scarce a hundred yards
away.
“It is a summer night,” says Guy, “Father Anastasius, would you mind
taking a seat among these trees until I summon you? It is the sacrament
of marriage I shall ask at your hands, and would have word with the
lady before I bring you to her.”
“At your pleasure, Captain,” replies the man of God. “I can tell my
beads for you and offer up prayers for your wedded state as well under
the sky as in a palace.”
Then, unarmed save by the rapier common to cavaliers and the keen
stiletto he always wears in his breast, for he does not wish to
frighten his love by undue display of weapons, Chester raps on the door
of the house.
This is promptly opened by Alida, who whispers: “She is there, my lord,
waiting for you, and oh, so happy! Take the compliments of one who
loves you both and is your slave.”
The Moorish girl would kiss his hand, but he is too eager for this, and
steps into the room with the great oriel window, to find it lighted by
perfumed lamps and decorated with flowers, ribbons and hanging vines,
as if for a gorgeous festival.
Then, from the oriel window where she has been looking for him, sweeps
a dazzling vision of radiant beauty, a glorious beam upon her face, of
love and happiness complete, and he whispers to her: “My bride, thou
art too beautiful for earth!”
He is right, for the girl is dressed as a bride, in gleaming,
glimmering, glistening white, some exquisite creation of the looms of
Lyons. She has orange flowers in her hair, her beautiful shoulders and
maiden bosom gleam like ivory, and her white arms are pure as alabaster
as they close softly round him, and she whispers: “My Guido, at last!
See what I have for thee. Come with me, now we shall be happy.
Perchance if I entreat him, he will permit us to be one this night.”
Her fairy fingers point to the chapel, as she laughs: “I have a
surprise for him, too. It is because I have prayed to her that the
Madonna looks so kindly on me this night.”
At this Guy gives a start and becomes radiant himself, though he
scarcely understands, for, following Hermoine’s hand, he sees the
curtains are raised showing the chapel; wax tapers are burning now in
hundreds on its altar, there are flowers upon it, and everything seems
ready for some religious ceremony.
“Don’t look at it too long; come with me. He will be astonished when I
tell him the reason.”
“He! Who?”
“Quick, I’ll lead you to him.” They are at the curtains of the great
arches between this room and the dining saloon, she cries: “Draw up the
draperies!”
As they rise, she whispers: “Guido, on your knees before my father, who
has promised that you shall be my husband—on your knees and thank him
as I do!” and prostrates herself before the gaunt figure in black who
always wears the golden fleece, the Viceroy of the King of Spain, My
Lord of Alva!
Suddenly she is astounded, for instead of dropping on his knees, her
Guido springs from her with a wild cry of horrified amazement, and lays
hands upon his sword.
At that same instant eight Spanish arquebusiers spring in at the open
windows and catching him with sword half drawn, have bound his hands,
but not without desperate struggle. Before it is done there is a dead
Spaniard lying at his feet.
At this the girl starting up cries: “Guido! are you mad to kill a
Spanish soldier?” next says haughtily: “Fellows, release that gentleman
immediately!”
But the men only look at her father.
“Unhand that gentleman! You don’t know what you’re doing. Unbind him!
He is Colonel Guido Amati, the future son-in-law of your Viceroy!” Then
she says apologetically to Guy: “It is some horrible mistake, my Guido.
Don’t struggle with them, they may kill you.” For Chester is silently
trying to force his way to the window that he may throw himself out of
it into the waters of the Schelde.
Then Hermoine, turning to her father, cries: “Command your soldiers to
release the man I love. Is this the way you keep promise to me, your
daughter?”
On this the Duke asks: “Who is this man? Somebody tell me. Do you
recognize him? Who is he?”
Coming from behind him the bluff Sergeant of Romero salutes and
whispers into the Viceroy’s ear: “It is ‘The First of the English!’”
With this there is a horrid burst of merriment from Alva, and he
laughs: “Ho, ho! The fox at last. My daughter, you have gained the ten
thousand crowns reward. This is the man I hungered for. Come here and
kiss your father!”
Over all this to the girl’s astonished senses rises the soft music of
the harps, mandolins and rebecs floating through the windows from the
musicians on the barge playing serenade upon the summer water outside.
Hearing this music and seeing the Englishman’s design, Alva orders
sharply: “His boat—take care of that! Let none escape!”
Immediately there is a volley fired from the room right into the boat
floating beneath the window, and fearful cries and screams and shrieks
go up from murdered Italy; as flute players die with note upon their
lips, and wounded musicians drown beneath the window.
At this moment, with mighty bound, tearing himself free from those who
hold him, Chester, this man she loves, her Guido, is beside her
shuddering: “Why have you done this thing?”
“Why have I done this thing? Because of love of you!” she answers back.
“Why have you killed that man there?” For she does not yet understand.
But her father says: “Come hither, Hermoine, I will explain.”
To this she says: “No, no!” Alva is coming toward her and she cries to
him: “Stand where you are! Don’t dare to touch me till you tell me why