The First of the English: A Novel
three days at a time, “The Painted House” of Antwerp easily holds the
vantage.
“Welcome to the Painted House!” cries the voluble innkeeper. “Welcome
señor—colonel?”
“No, captain,” says Guy.
“Welcome to anyone who is in the employ of the State, civil or
military.”
“I would like a room and bed.”
“Impossible!”
“Impossible?”
“Yes; my house has been crowded all day.”
“You must give me a cot.”
“Well, a cot over the stable. My house has been full—you have heard the
news! The great drinking bout takes place to-morrow between our
celebrated artist, Frans Floris and the Six Drunkards of Brussels.
People have come from the neighboring places to see it. A delegation is
here from Brussels itself. It is rumored that the Duke in person will
arrive to-morrow. Perhaps he will honor me—perhaps he will come to see
the greatest drinking bout that has ever taken place in Flanders,
Brabant or Holland! I shall have twenty barrels of Rhine wine on tap.”
“Twenty barrels for six drunkards?” laughs Chester.
“Oh no; all the town will be here, all the town will get drunk also!”
“I wish the town would be more quiet,” says Guy, who thinks he will
have little chance of sleep, judging by the convivial sounds that come
to them from within.
“Hush!” whispers the innkeeper nervously, as they enter. “Don’t disturb
them. They are,” and his eyes expand in admiration, “they are the Six
Drunkards of Brussels taking supper!”
“Apparently the Six Drunkards of Brussels,” remarks Guy, who is
unimpressed by the sounding title, “are not holding themselves back
much for to-morrow. They are doing pretty well now.”
“Yes, that is the beauty of it,” says mine host, waving his Flemish
hands in admiration. “That is the reason they are called drunkards;
nothing will ever make them drunk. They have finished six gallons of
wine and are just commencing. They have a lovely pigeon pie in front of
them; I made it myself from birds furnished by Señor Vasco de Guerra
himself. He is the leader of the Six Drunkards, though the betting is
still two to one on our Netherland painter, the greatest artist of his
day, the Raphael of the low countries, our honor, our glory, our debtor
(for he owes me four thousand Carolus guilders), but still the pride of
Antwerp! Will you not have bite and sup, señor Capitan, before retiring
to the attic over the stable?”
“Yes, a quart of Rhine wine will be enough for me,” says Guy. “Or,
rather,” he suggests, “as you are celebrated for your beer, I will take
some of that,” the Englishman upholding his national beverage.
“The finest in all Flanders. And then we have some malt from London.”
“That’s it!” cries Guy, forgetting his Spanish character, “English malt
for me!” then checks himself and mutters: “I’ve been drinking Rhine
wine all day.”
His host departing, he lounges about while his meal is being prepared,
tracing figures with his toe on the white sand of the floor, and
reading among other placards on the walls of this, the wine room of the
inn, one announcing the grand drinking bout between Frans de Vriendt,
nicknamed Floris, and the six most celebrated topers of Brussels. This
is placarded side by side with Alva’s generous offer of three thousand
carolus guilders for the Englishman’s head.
A moment later he finds himself placed at a table near the one occupied
by the six champions of Brussels. Carelessly he gets interested in
them, for they are six of the most remarkable looking people his eyes
have ever rested upon.
During their conversation he catches their names.
Vasco de Guerra, apparently the leader of the party; Tomasito, called
by his companions the one-eyed, an ensign of De Billy’s Waloons, who
lost an optic at Aremburg’s defeat, and Pablo Mendez are Spanish
officers, and apparently, from their conversation, consider themselves
nobles of rank and distinction. The other champions are more modest in
their self-assertion, except as regards the amount of liquid that they
can consume. Two are addressed as Alphonse de la Noel and Conrad de
Ryk, both Netherlanders, one of Brabant and the other of Holland; the
last member of the party is a sneaking little Italian, designated as
Guisseppi Pisa, a dealer in perfumes and women’s powders from the
capital.
Having nothing better to do as he drinks his beer, Guy Chester listens
to their conversation in a languid, dreamy way, as the exertions of the
night have made him very tired.
“Par Dios!” remarks Vasco de Guerra, who is tall and has big, opaque,
fishy eyes, and a long drooping mustache which has in it that single
lock of grey which is generally considered proof of extreme
dissipation, “I see our adversary Floris has painted a caricature of
us.”
“Diablo! Is it insulting?” cries Tomasito, the one-eyed, a little
Spaniard of diabolical disposition, famous as well for his cruelty on
the battle-field as for his dissipation in the banquet hall.
“No,” says Mendez, laughing, “only he has painted us all under the
table.”
“Sapristi!” chuckles the Italian Pisa. “He may paint us under the
table, but he can’t drink us under the table.” Then he calls: “Pot-boy!
another stoup of strong Rhine wine. I must get in training for
to-morrow’s bout. Marietta is coming from Brussels to do honor to my
drinking powers.” This is emphasized by a hideous wink and a leer at
his companions, who cry: “Brava! the health of Marietta, the prettiest
light of love in Brussels!” and pour down great flagons of wine in
compliment to wicked little Guisseppi, whose powders and laces have
captured the leader of the demi-monde of the capital.
While this is being brought Mendez exclaims: “Caramba! there are no
more pigeons in this pie,” withdrawing a knife with which he has been
exploring the open pasty before him, and licking his fingers
regretfully in the absence of a napkin. “You only gave us six pigeons,
Captain Vasco.”
“That was all I shot with my cross-bow,” answers De Guerra.
“You shot pigeons with your cross-bow?” jeers Conrad de Ryk.
“Certainly!—to-day—here!”
“Bah! your hand trembles, Vasco, as if you were paying over the five
hundred guilders we have wagered against the painter!” sneers De la
Noel.
“Notwithstanding, I shot them,” returns Vasco, a strange light coming
into his fishy eyes; “and I not only killed the six pigeons, but I
shall kill—another! We’ll have a banquet when I get my reward for his
head!” He grinds his teeth at these words.
“His head?” cries one.
“The reward of three thousand caroli for the Englishman’s caput?”
shouts another, pointing to the placard, and making Guy’s hand
involuntarily seek his sword.
“Bah!” chuckles Vasco. “Do you think I am going on the briny deep to
get seasick and have that English pirate cut my throat? No, there are
rewards nearer home, when I kill my seventh pigeon we’ll have more
pigeon pie and a carouse with a little of the money.”
This rather equivocal promise is greeted with cheers and a clattering
of beakers and flagons. The Six Drunkards of Brussels seem to like
pigeon-pie as well as the little son of the surgeon and blood-letter,
Jacques Touraine.
But Guy’s attention is called from the scene of conviviality. The host,
bowing before him, says humbly: “Señor capitan, your bed is ready, the
sheets are clean, nobody has slept in them for three days!”
Following Van Oncle, who carries a wax candle, Chester is escorted to a
loft over the stable, which is at least airy and well ventilated, as it
has several open windows which nobody has taken the trouble to close.
A moment after he finds himself practically alone—the only occupant of
the neighboring cots being in a drunken sleep, the others have not yet
come in. Securing his valuables (and most carefully of all that which
he deems the most valuable—the miniature of the lady whose name he does
not know, but whom he now knows he loves heart and soul), Captain Guy
Chester looks carefully to his arms, then goes to bed. Then taking a
last dreamy look at the fair, delicate face and glorious eyes and red
lips that he has kissed once, but swears to kiss again, he goes to
sleep calmly and peacefully in the city of his enemies, under the flag
of Spain and Alva, while in the room below, the streets about him, and
on the walls of every guard-house in Brabant and Flanders, are placards
offering three thousand carolus guilders for the head of the “First of
the English.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE PATRIOT PAINTER.
The sun is well up in the heavens when Guy opens his eyes. In contrast
to the night before, the gale has died away and the sun is shining
brightly as if to mock the farmers and peasants of the surrounding
fields and polders, whose cattle are still drowning or starving, for
the flood gives no signs of receding. A little of this Chester can see
as he makes hasty toilet; looking from his window he gets a glimpse of
the river, which is still at its height, and upon whose bosom still
float the carcasses of drowned sheep, cattle, hogs, and even human
beings.
But the city seems now to pay little heed to this. The gale has gone
down, ships are preparing to sail out of the Schelde for the Indies and
the Mediterranean; the merchants have removed their wares to places of
safety; mediæval commerce stops no more its battle of trade and
bargain, for the disasters of humanity—than that of to-day.
The hum of traffic comes floating up to Guy from the neighboring
Shoemarket and Egg streets. All the guilds of Antwerp are at work this
day, and seemingly happy, save that of the Butchers, which has lost
many fat beeves that have been pastured on the great meadows running
out to the big Kowenstyn dyke.
As it is late in the morning most of those who have occupied the
surrounding cots during the night have departed on their way.
Consequently Guy, having, after the manner of sailors, slept ready to
go on deck, slips on doublet and cloak uninterrupted save by the snores
of a toper who is still in drunken slumber.
Then going down to the wash-room of the house, upon the lower floor,
the Englishman makes hasty ablution, succeeding by the bribe of a
stiver in obtaining an unused towel for the purpose.
This being done, and feeling very bright, vivacious and cheery,
notwithstanding he catches glimpses of the placard in the wine room
offering a reward for his head, Chester passes out and makes his way
rapidly through the dirty alleys of the lower portion of the town to
Wool street. Remembering his unsuccessful inquiries at the Bodé Volcker
mansion, the Englishman has concluded that he will see if he can obtain
further information from the French blood-letter and barber about the
arrival of his lodger. For speed is vital to the business that has
brought Guy into the clutches of his enemies, and every moment that he
stays in the town of Antwerp adds to his danger of recognition and
arrest; too many Flemish traders from Zeeland and the islands of
Holland journey to this great commercial city, some of these know the
“First of the English” quite well by sight, and a few of them, for
three thousand carolus guilders would sell anything upon earth,
including themselves.
Arriving at the barber’s pole of Jacques Touraine, Chester receives a
pleasant surprise. The voluble little Frenchman darts out to meet him,
crying: “He is anxious for you; I told him you had asked for him!”
“He—who?” gasps Guy.
“Why, my lodger, the painter, Antony Oliver. He came in from Brussels
this morning. He is as eager to see you as you are to see him.”
But the last of this speech is lost upon the Englishman, who has darted
up two flights of stairs to the top of the house, where, under the
tiled gables, amid the swallows’ nests, is the lodging room and atelier
of Antonius Oliver (familiarly called Antony), geographical map maker,