CHAPTER VIII.
“THE UNGAINABLE!—BUT I’LL GAIN HER!”
“Look,” says the painter, leading the way to a window opening on the street.
And Guy, from the curtains of Bodé Volcker’s house, sees the man of the death’s face, before whom the crowd cower and tremble, bow to his saddle-bow before the coach of his daughter, his face illuminated by the proud eyes of father’s love.
“Egad! I think I’ve run up my account with him,” mutters the Englishman. Then he turns suddenly to Antony and says: “A word with you. On my first visit here, for my safety you invented for my use the name of Captain Guido Amati, of Romero’s foot. There is another living Guido Amati, Captain of Romero’s foot.”
“Certainly there is,” returns Oliver, and astounds Guy. “I took the name from the roster of Romero’s regiment. It was then quartered in Friesland, two hundred miles from here, the most distant of all the Netherland provinces, and I thought it better to give you a name that could be verified. But what does this matter?”
“Matter!” replies Chester glumly. “Only this, that I have just learned that Guido Amati has been promoted on my account to Major in his regiment; that Captain Guido Amati of Romero’s foot has been behaving in some wild, reckless kind of manner, apparently with ladies, and that Major Guido Amati has just been severely cautioned to behave himself from this time forth most circumspectly. Zounds!” he goes on savagely, “if this gentleman I am christened after doesn’t take good care he’ll have an account to render to me, who have now his sins on my shoulders!”
Then he bursts into a laugh in which Oliver joins, and says more complacently: “But I’ve also got the reputation of being the bravest man in the army. Besides, I am the third cousin of the Duke of Medina Cœli, and, I imagine, entitled to keep my hat on in the presence of Philip II. of Spain.”
“Very well, my grandee,” returns Antony smiling. “Here is the bill the Countess de Pariza has run up against you—two hundred guilders! That’s your half of the affair. If his Highness of Alva hadn’t chanced along I imagine she’d have bought all in Bodé Volcker’s warehouses.”
“A—ah,” sighs Guy, passing over the money, “I’d give everything I have for another tête-à-tête with my—my promised wife,” he struggles with a tear as he thinks of the beautiful being whose love he has captured by a coup de main.
“YOUR PROMISED WIFE!” gasps Oliver. “Morbleu! you have been making hay,” next shortly says: “By heaven, if Alva ever puts hand on you and knows this, dread the reckoning, my audacious Englishman. Besides, you’ll have to be quick about this matter if you ever get her!”
“Why so?”
“Alva will not remain in the Netherlands much longer. The country is crushed (pacified he calls it), though the embers are smouldering. He’s collecting the tenth penny tax, but not paying the troops. Some of the money he sends to Spain—just enough to keep Philip quiet, but the balance—God knows what he does with it, though I guess it is for transmission to Italy or to Spain, to make him equal in wealth to many a king.”
“By St. George, if I could get my hands on it,” answers the Englishman, the instinct of the sea rover coming up in him. “That would be a fitting dower for his fair daughter.”
“As far as my information goes,” says Oliver, “no living man has put his eyes on where he keeps this treasure, though I have a suspicion. The great statue that he is erecting, the one that will be undraped next week, in the enceinte of the Citadel here, has something peculiar in its dimensions. Its pedestal is enormous. The workmen employed upon its base have been brought from Italy, and are under the direct personal supervision of Paciotto, his engineer. These having finished the pedestal, have all been reshipped, bountifully rewarded, to their native country. Not one has been permitted to remain in the Netherlands. There’s a secret in that statue!”
Further consideration of this is suddenly broken in upon by the entrance of the ex-burgomaster and his daughter. The old gentleman seems pleased.
“You’ll stay and sup with me, gentlemen, I hope,” he remarks. “I am happy to announce that my daughter Mina has been an obedient little girl this afternoon, and sold goods for me in my shop—four hundred guilders worth, to the Countess de Pariza, two hundred paid in cash, something that never happened to me before in my dealings with the nobility. But then,” he chucks Mina under the chin, “my little girl is a very sharp business woman. Some day she’ll be as valuable as her poor mother was.”
“Father,” says the young lady, taking advantage of the circumstances, “can I go to the Duchess of Aerschot’s?”
“Humph! Well, you’re young, you shall be happy; but don’t keep the horses out all night; you know I use them in the goods van in the morning. Gentlemen, remain, and I’ll show you my little girl is not only a good saleswoman, but a cook and housewife.”
“Father!” ejaculates the young lady very sternly, “Remember that we have a Frenchman-cook in the house!”
But Guy does not stay to test the cuisine of the Bodé Volcker mansion. Having had his tête-à-tête with brunette, he gives Oliver a chance of interview with blonde, and goes off to the Painted Inn, where Antony promises to join him early in the evening.
It is now dark, and seating himself in the wine room, which is illuminated by oil lamps and flickering candles, the Englishman orders a bounteous supper, knowing that he may be up all the night returning to his ship. Success has given him appetite, though he scarce knows what he is eating, for his whole meal is a succession of recollections, each one a rapture. These rhapsodies are suddenly and disagreeably broken in upon.
A man, apparently from his dress and demeanor the captain of some trading vessel, strides into the room followed by a burgher, and with a muttered oath slaps himself into a chair at the table next to Chester. “Voor den duivel!” he growls, “not permitted to pass the city gates to go to my own ship. What’ll become of my cargo, half landed. The mate and drunken crew will be having a fine time!”
“Calm yourself, Captain,” says his consignee in soothing tone. “The regulation is very unusual. You will doubtless be permitted to pass through the gates to the quay at daylight.”
“Yes, giving me the expense of a berth at an inn, and my comfortable cabin unoccupied. Another guilder wrung out of me in this port of Antwerp. If this thing goes on, the commerce of this place will be damned forever.”
“But it will probably never occur again,” says the merchant. “Such a thing has not been heard of before for a year.” And the two go into conversation discussing the why’s and wherefore’s of this unusual vigilance at the gates.
Guy gets to meditating upon this also. He had noticed before, during the early part of his meal, this same captain, apparently the guest of the same merchant at supper at one of the tables. Half an hour before this they had gone out; they have now returned, the captain having evidently been unable to pass the guards. If such orders have been issued the word of the night is probably useless. What can have caused it? Can it be some suspicion of his presence in the town?
Even as he meditates, Oliver enters, a very serious look on his face. Stepping up to Guy’s table he seats himself by him and whispers: “Come with me.”
“Why?” This is a whisper also.
“Orders have been given for nobody to pass out of the gates of Antwerp to-night.”
“The reason?”
“I don’t know, unless they suspect your presence in the town. Come to my lodgings with me.”
“No, I shall remain here,” replies the Englishman firmly.
“Why?”
“For two reasons. First, I won’t put further jeopardy upon you. Second, if orders are given for no one to pass the gates, I expect they will very shortly come to the quick ears of a young lady who is interested in one Major Guido Amati de Medina, an officer of Romero’s foot, absent from his post without leave. Incidentally to-day I mentioned to her that I stopped at the Painted Inn. This is the place where she would send to find me. But don’t stay with me, Oliver. My seizure in your company might bring suspicion on you—sit at another table!”
“I won’t leave you, when perchance I can aid you,” says the generous artist. Then he mutters suddenly: “By heaven, perhaps it has come now!”
And it has, though not as Antony fears, for little Ensign de Busaco, swinging through the door, takes one glance about the room and strides up to the Englishman.
“I want you,” he says, while Guy’s hand quietly seeks the dirk in his bosom. “I want you to take one of the state barges down to Sandvliet to-night.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, I was unable to obtain leave to remain out of barracks to-night at the provost marshal’s office, and went to the Citadel to get it. While there I was summoned to Doña de Alva. She remarked to me that Captain Amati, who had brought her barge up so successfully last night, was just the man to take it down this evening. It goes on some errand of the young lady. She charged me to give this note to you, and to conduct you through the Citadel to the place of landing the night before, where the rowers and a new crew will be ready—I believe the Beggars of the Sea killed the last.”
With this he presents a sealed letter to the Englishman in the handwriting that he loves.
Breaking the seal of Alva, Guy hastily reads:
My Dearest Guido.
I can’t help calling you that. It is, perhaps, rash, but that is how I think of you.
It is just now known to me that the gates of the city are closed to egress to-night, information of some daring pirate or outlaw being concealed in Antwerp having reached headquarters. Knowing the necessity of an officer absent without leave reaching Middelburg before his commission, I am despatching my galley to my country house at Sandvliet to bring up some articles left behind in the hasty retreat of last night. Will you not be kind enough to steer the boat down the Schelde as successfully as you steered it up?
Ensign de Busaco will pass you through the Citadel.
Praying that God will watch over you and bring you back to me with as much love in your heart as I have for you in mine, I am, as I ever shall be, your
HERMOINE.
“You look happy,” laughs De Busaco, “at an order for a long night boat journey?”
“I am always at the orders of Doña de Alva,” remarks Guy. “Come!”
“Quick,” replies the little Ensign. “I’ve got my leave to stay out of barracks this night. The sooner we get through with this the sooner I am free for my affair.”
So, Guy hastily settling his score, the three leave the Painted Inn and making their way to Beguin street, stride rapidly along that thoroughfare to the Esplanade, where Oliver, in low tones, and with hearty grasp, says: “Good-bye.”
“God bless you!” mutters Guy.
And though they speak it not, as their hands clasp they mean friendship and brotherhood.
A few minutes after Chester and De Busaco are at the Citadel, where, passing over the drawbridge and through the great gateway, Guy learns that the word of the night has been changed and is now “San Sebastian,” countersign “Corpus Christi.”
From here they pass through the enceinte right by the statue of Alva, De Busaco remarking parenthetically: “They’ve got his arm up to-day. They’ll be all ready to show him off next week. Caramba! that means the trouble of a dress parade. And no pay day yet. Some day we may dig out our arrears from this hollow pedestal. Alva is cunning, but his troops have their eyes open also!”
Going across this great fortification, they come out at the little sally-port in the moat where Guy had landed the night before. Here they have no difficulty of exit. The same galley that the Englishman brought up is waiting for them; the rowers in place with a new crew, to whom De Busaco introduces him as the officer who will take charge of the boat to Sandvliet; then goes on his way with a hasty “Adios, Señor!” for the little ensign is behind in his appointment with some young lady of the city.
Just as the boat is casting off, for Guy does not waste much time about this matter, a waiting maid, one of the Moorish handmaidens of the night before, comes running over the little drawbridge crying: “Stay!—one moment—stay!”
Then, as Guy stands up in the barge, she whispers to him, holding out a belt of heavy leather: “Buckle this round your waist, Señor Capitan, my mistress charges me to tell you to be careful of it. It is the one you left in the boat so carelessly last night.”
“Oh—ah, yes,” says the Englishman, to whom lies this day have become easy. “I was looking for it. I didn’t know where I’d left it,” and buckling it about him, wonders what the deuce is in it.
“Egad, it’s not a life preserver,” he thinks. “It would send me to the bottom like a shot.”
Anyway, whatever it is, he is enraptured to get it from the hands of Hermoine de Alva.
But he has not much time to think of this; he has called to the rowers and the boat is now under way and gliding through the moat that surrounds the great bastions of the Spaniard.
Five minutes after they are in the open river, and, though the tide is against them, they are en route toward Sandvliet and safety. Keeping well across by the further bank of the river they pass unchallenged, though Guy can see the lights of several guard and patrol boats moving among the shipping on the city’s edge.
“Give way, my lads,” cries the Englishman enthusiastically, “and I’ll stand a cask of wine when we reach Sandvliet.”
Thus adjured the men bend to their oars, while the cockswain of the barge gets into quite friendly chat with Chester, telling him that this place they are going to is a beautiful summer chateau used sometimes by Alva himself, but mostly by his daughter, to enjoy the fresh sea breezes blowing up the Schelde estuary during the hot months of summer.
“We came down very early this year,” he says, “the weather was so pleasant. Fortunately I was in Antwerp last night, otherwise I would have been done to death with poor Antonio and the rest by those murdering Beggars of the Sea.”
The conversation of this man whiles away the time, and in three hours, the wind aiding them a little, they are off the Fort of Lillo.
Here four guard boats are on duty, one of them stopping their barge. As the Costa Guarda comes alongside, her commander recognizing a state barge of Alva, and Guy giving him the new words of the night, which have apparently been sent hurriedly down to Lillo, the captain of the boat wishes Chester God-speed, remarking: “Take care of yourself. It is reported that the First of the English is somewhere down below. Two galleys, the Santa Cruz and the Holy Trinity, go down to see if they can capture this pirate to-morrow morning.”
“Thank you for the information,” replies Guy, as his boat dashes on its way.
At the last dyke left standing by the flood below Fort Lillo, Guy sees three lanterns displayed in line and knows his boat is awaiting him. He suddenly says: “I’ve piloted you through the worst of the journey. You are now within a mile of the country place. What is it named?”
“Bella Vista,” replies the cockswain.
“Very well, take the galley to Bella Vista and perform the errand you are charged with. Here’s two doubloons for the wine I promised you and the crew. Land me upon the dyke. A boat is awaiting me there. I am going duck shooting on the Drowned Lands; if my men row fast enough I shall get there for the morning flight. I have arquebuses and a cross bow in my skiff.”
The two doubloons making the men very happy, they quickly land Guy upon the dyke and depart on their way.
A few minutes after the Englishman, getting to the three lanterns, waves them.
Continuing this some little time, the splash of oars is heard, and a boat comes very cautiously through the darkness, feeling its way up to the land, apparently fearing ambuscade.
“Ahoy!” shouts Guy.
Then he hears Martin Corker cry: “Give way, lads! That’s the captain’s voice,” and with three or four sturdy strokes the boat glides up to the dyke.
A moment after Chester, pulled by English arms, is driving as fast as oars can take him towards the Dover Lass. The little ship is difficult to discover, as she has no lights out; but the boat, giving flash signals, the vessel hangs up a lantern to show them where to find her.
Upon his deck Chester receives report from his first officer:
“I’m glad you’re here,” says Dalton. “We would have been attacked to-morrow, I think. I am sure a patrol boat came down the river to see if they could discover us.”
“We’ll not be attacked to-morrow,” laughs Guy, and taking speaking trumpet, he gives orders to break ground with the anchor and to hoist the head sails.
“You’re not going to fight the Spaniards?”
“No, run away to England. I have such an important communication for my Queen it would be treason if I risked losing it.”
Then, his vessel being handy, and his crew numerous, the Dover Lass is very quickly under way, driving down the Schelde for the open ocean.
And in the cabin is Guy Stanhope Chester, securing under lock and key the spoils of this strange trip to Antwerp.
These are: a package of letters in cipher touching the assassination of Elizabeth of England, and the key by which to read them; a ruby ring that tells him he has won the love of the Viceroy’s daughter, and two letters in her handwriting.
“Egad, I’ve done pretty well,” thinks Guy. Then he looks at the miniature he has carried with him for over three years and mutters: “Marvelous that I at last should find and win her. Who says romance died with the troubadours? Egad, I feel like a troubadour myself. Ta-la-la!”—and taking troubadour step, he suddenly mutters: “Gadzooks! I have also something else,” for the heavy belt about his waist reminds him of the last thing Doña de Alva has sent to him.
Inspecting it he finds it is really a strong leather bag, made to buckle on securely.
Opening it he growls: “Pish!” for it is laden with golden doubloons, but a moment after pounces on a little packet that he has swept out with the coin. Then he suddenly laughs: “Egad! She didn’t know I had one of her before,” for another miniature of his fair Castilian sweetheart greets his devouring eyes. A little note is folded up with the portrait. It reads:
“Dearest:
“I have taken the liberty of sending you my face to help you remember it. It is not the living image for you to carry with you; God knows I wish it were. But some day when Major Guido Amati de Medina becomes a General, I’ll make it the real one—oh God! what happiness!
“I have taken the liberty of enclosing with this a hundred golden doubloons. The officers in the Middelburg garrison have not been paid for over a year, and I would wish a gentleman who is one day to wed the daughter of Alva to live in suitable style, appointment and equipage. If you hesitate to accept this I shall not think you love me as I want you to. It is but a little first payment in advance on the dower of
“Your future spouse,
“HERMOINE DE ALVA.”
“My future spouse she shall be,” cries Guy. Then in that wildness passion brings to young hearts he puts the two miniatures of the exquisite beauty who has just signed herself his future wife before him, and chuckles: “Behold my old love—the unfindable that I have found! See my new sweetheart, the ungainable, that, by heaven! I will win and wear as my wife, though she be the daughter of Alva, mine enemy.”