CHAPTER XI.
MAJOR GUIDO AMATI HAS A SPREE.
Chester is not the man to long for Alva’s treasure without desperate and immediate efforts to get them. He is soon on board the Dover Lass, and, locking himself in his cabin, makes examination of the packet he has taken from the doublet of Paciotto, who is now hanging, food for the crows, in the market-place of Flushing.
On carefully opening the parchment wrapping he discovers drawings of three large keys to their exact size and dimensions, numbered, respectively, one, two and three. Beneath directions for their use:
“For first door use in succession keys numbers one, two and three.
“For second door, keys numbered three, two and one.
“For third door, key number two, then number one, then number three.
“Use exactly in the order noted. Any change in this rotation may injure locks.”
Besides this there is a sketch showing the direction and length of the passage under the Citadel, also where the sluice gate connected with the statue of Alva opens into the vaulted passage, and how that can be made immovable so that even if the statue is destroyed the waters of the Schelde will not enter the passageway to drown those at work upon the doors.
These drawings and directions are upon the finest and lightest Italian paper, so as to be of very small bulk and easy of concealment.
Of these he makes an exact and careful copy, this he deposits in his strong box in the cabin of the Dover Lass. The original he carefully secures upon his person.
Then the Englishman goes to meditating. To gain this treasure it is evident that he must not only go to Antwerp for a sufficient time to have the keys manufactured by some skilled locksmith, but also have with him a vessel and crew, capable of conveying away the booty after he has obtained it. To visit Antwerp alone is an achievement of the greatest danger. To take with him any portion of his crew with a vessel and lie off the docks seems to him impossible.
But finally, after turning over the enterprise in his mind again and again (for he will not even trust the secret to Dalton, his first officer, who he knows is true as steel), the following simple yet ingenious plan comes to him: He will take the Dover Lass and with her capture Spanish merchantmen until he finds one the captain of which has never been in Antwerp, though consigned to merchants in that place. Having taken possession of this vessel he will dispose of the captain and crew so that they will never come to light again. He himself will assume, under disguise, the name and post of the captain of the vessel. He will take, carefully selected from his crew, such men as most resemble Spanish and Flemish tars, and sail the vessel deliberately up to Antwerp, using his papers and clearings from the Spanish port, and deliver his cargo to the consignee of the vessel as if he were the very captain whose place he has assumed. While discharging his cargo he can probably (with the assistance of Antony Oliver, if he can but find him in the place) obtain possession of the treasure of the Duke, load his vessel with it, taking cargo in the meantime as regular trader for any port to which he may be consigned or chartered by Antwerp merchants.
Then, when once more on the open sea, he will sail to England and land his treasure with the same impunity that Drake and Hawkins and other English freebooters carry in their captured ingots from the Spanish main. In fact, he will assert Alva’s gold came from a captured galleon and pay Elizabeth her ten per cent. upon the same, the usual impost on such plunder.
One hour after making these resolutions the Dover Lass is under way for the open ocean, and in the next few days his fleet little vessel overhauls and captures two or three vessels consigned to Antwerp. But none of these are exactly fitted for his purpose. Their captains he finds by close questioning and overhauling their logs have been in Antwerp before and are known there, or some of their crew have relatives or friends about the place, or there is something in their charters that make them unsuitable.
Therefore he sends these in and sells them for what they will bring, cargoes and ships, in the town of Flushing, which is now safe in the hands of the Prince of Orange, whose banner many more towns and cities in the Netherlands are hoisting at this time, some to their undoing and the butchery of their inhabitants—men, women and children.
The money received for these forced sales of stolen goods is hardly a tenth of their value, for coin is very scarce in the Netherlands under Alva’s tenth penny tax, though it gives Chester a sufficiency to do what he wishes in Antwerp.
All this business takes time, and it is nearly a month after he has possessed himself of Paciotto’s secret that Guy Chester overhauls and captures the caravel Esperanza, commanded by one Andrea Blanco, whose log shows she has never been in Antwerp, having been employed chiefly in the West Indies. This Captain Blanco he finds by deft questionings, fearful threats, and a guess at his patois, comes from Hispaniola—in fact, the whole crew have never been in Flemish waters before.
The vessel is the one for his purpose, being a strong barque of something over three hundred tons, and Guy notes rather a fast sailor, though not to be compared with the Dover Lass, and is armed, having seven demi-culverins on each broadside. In fact, she has made some little show of resistance to the Dover Lass, which in these desperate times would generally have insured the butchery of the crew, especially as it is now to their captors’ interests to put them where they will never tell any tales upon the Antwerp docks.
Against his judgment, Chester cannot bring himself to in cold blood destroy them.
Therefore, summoning Dalton to him, he says curtly to his chief officer: “It is necessary that I in person take our prize, the Esperanza, act as her captain, and with thirty of my men sail her to Antwerp.”
“Going to Antwerp!” growls his lieutenant bluntly. “Going to the devil! And who’ll go with you into Alva’s very jaws?”
“You would, if I asked you, Dalton,” answers his commander. “Call up the crew.”
And these coming aft to the mainmast, Chester looks over his hundred and twenty-five “Dover Lasses,” devil-may-care’s, from cook and cabin boy up, and says to them without palaver: “Now, my men, I’ve got the best job on hand we ever had—more plunder in it. To do it I must take thirty of you and sail our prize to Antwerp. If we don’t succeed you know what Alva will do with us. It’ll be fire, not water. If I win, it’ll be twenty doubloons to every man of the crew of the Dover Lass, and two hundred to you, Dalton, and the other officers in proportion. But every man of the Esperanza’s crew gets twenty doubloons extra for his risk, and it is a desperate one—therefore I ask for volunteers. All willing to go with me to the devil step onto the quarter-deck.”
Then every man jack of his crew with a rush is around him on the quarter-deck, Dalton crying: “For God’s sake, take me with you, captain. I won’t let you go alone.”
But Chester says: “It is necessary that you take charge of the Dover Lass,” and selects those to go with him very carefully, picking out such men as will appear most like sailors of a trading ship, and being fortunate in finding twenty-seven of them who speak Spanish, having picked up more or less of the language about the West Indies and Mediterranean.
Therefore he only takes twenty-seven, headed by Martin Corker, who growls that he has cut enough Spanish throats to have picked up the lingo.
The preparations being finished, Chester takes his first lieutenant into his cabin and speaks very seriously: “These are my orders. Iron every man of the Spanish crew who are in the hold of the Dover Lass with double manacles, leg and wrist. Take no chance of their escaping. Make your trip with all despatch, and land them upon the west coast of Ireland.”
“What! among those murdering barbarians? I’ll have to be careful that we don’t get our own throats cut,” says Dalton. For at that time the west coast of Ireland was an Ultima Thule regarded with horror by all Jack tars, no wrecked sailor ever returning from it.
“Rendezvous,” he adds to Dalton, “at Flushing as soon as you have done your errand. Wait for me there.”
“But if you don’t return?”
“Then you’ll be captain of the Dover Lass. I shall come back, though. But don’t as you value my life, and the lives of those poor devils with me, let any of this Spanish crew, the captain least of all, get out of your hands, until you have consigned them to the O’Brien’s, O’Toole’s, or some wild murdering Irish chief, who’ll enslave them, and from whose savage clutches there will be as little hope of escape as blackamoors stolen from Africa have in the Indies!”
“Trust me for that. No garlic-eating Don of them ever sees his mother again. If there’s a chance of a Spanish man-of-war catching me—over they go,” says Dalton, his gesture is very suggestive.
Then the Dover Lass shapes her course for the Hebrides, taking the northern route to Ireland to avoid any chance of encountering Spanish armed vessels.
While Sir Guy Chester, disguised as Captain Andrea Blanco, with his twenty-seven volunteers, all made as unlike English sailors as possible, upon the good ship Esperanza, and floating the flag of Spain, with Martin Corker at the helm, sails for the Schelde estuary.
Arriving there in early morning, he gets past Flushing by the narrowest squeak, being desperately pursued by some of his brother Beggars of the Sea, and early in the afternoon makes the Fort of Lillo. Here he finds three Spanish war galleys and great activity, and being boarded by a Spanish patrol boat he shows his charter papers and consignment to the firm of Jacobszoon & Olins, who do business on Wool street just off the English quay, Antwerp.
These being satisfactory, taking advantage of the tide, late on a bright May day, the setting sun gilding the beautiful tower of the church of Our Dear Lady, Chester drops anchor off the city front, and again passing satisfactorily the custom officials, takes his consignment papers and charter to the house of Jacobszoon & Olins.
“Hoezee! You escaped those plundering Gueux, my worthy Captain Blanco,” cries the senior partner Jacobszoon, a florid, paunchy individual.
Jan Olins, a man of clean cut face and precise manner, remarks: “You must have handled your vessel very well. If the government doesn’t put down these Dutch freebooters, good bye to the commerce of Antwerp.”
Then the two invite their successful captain to supper. “Come with us,” says Jacobszoon, “it will be my night away from home. We’ll have a friendly bottle at the Painted Inn.”
But Guy is not anxious to visit the Painted Inn, being exceedingly eager to put eyes upon Antony Oliver, and excuses himself on the plea that he must return to his vessel.
“Ah, you’ll sleep on board?” says the junior partner.
“Probably,” replies the captain, “until I have my vessel alongside the quay.”
“Well, the Tower of the Angels is a very good inn not far from here,” suggests Jacobszoon. “It will also be convenient to your ship.”
“Thank you, I’ll remember it,” and getting away from the two gentlemen who seem to be greatly delighted at the arrival of their ship and are inclined to be effusive in their hospitality, Chester in the course of a few minutes’ stroll up Wool street, finds himself before the painted pole of the barber surgeon.
The night is dark, there is no lamp in the hall, and he is not recognized by the little blood-letter, who lets him in. So going up the three flights of stairs, he finds with unexpected joy that Antony Oliver opens the door in answer to his knock.
To his further delight Guy is himself unrecognized even by the painter’s sharp eyes. Antony has been working at his altar piece. The setting sun comes in upon and halos the glorious face and divine eyes of Hermoine de Alva. With lover’s rapture the Englishman strides toward the canvas. To Oliver’s quick and anxious remark: “What is your business?” he answers nothing, being rapt in contemplation of his sweetheart!
“Your business, señor?”
“Oh—ah! yes! Have you had any pigeon pie lately?” whispers Chester, waking up.
“Morbleu!” ejaculates the Flemish artist. “Captain—no Major Guido Amati!”
“Not this trip,” says the other shortly, closing the door, “but one Andrea Blanco, captain of the Spanish galleon Esperanza, with hides, tallow and Spanish wine, consigned to Jacobszoon & Olins, and discharging her cargo at the English quay.”
“But still, my Guido,” whispers the painter, and the impulsive Franco-Fleming throws his arms round Guy’s neck and imprints two tender kisses, one on each cheek.
“Is your infernal boy here?” mutters the Englishman savagely, who does not care for this kind of salute.
“Oh, I’ve dismissed Achille for the day. He is down stairs with his family,” says Oliver. “But what brings you here? Mademoiselle Hermoine?”
“She is here—in Antwerp?” cries Guy excitedly, his heart beating wildly and a lover’s joy in his eye.
“No, fortunately she is in Brussels.”
“Fortunately?”
“Yes, because I can see you would take desperate chances to have an interview with her, and with five thousand crowns on your head.”
“Five thousand?”
“Yes—you’ve gone up in the market lately. Alva has heard how you sent the Gueux against him laden with powder and ball to fight for their breakfasts. No provisions, no water, but plenty of powder, eh? That was a glorious stroke. But Queen Elizabeth has disowned you once more, and Alva has proclaimed that your caput is worth five thousand crowns. Parbleu! how he hates you now. If he only knew”—and the painter bursts into laughter, then says very seriously: “What makes you take this awful risk again, my Guido?”
“Bar the door and listen,” whispers the English captain. This being done, he says under his voice: “On my last visit here I won the love of Alva’s daughter. On this visit I shall win all Alva’s tenth penny gold.”
“Diable! you’re crazy!”
“Harken to my story and see if I am,” and sitting down Chester tells his strange tale of Paciotto’s revelation and post-mortem vengeance upon the dictator of the Netherlands.
This wondrous story is listened to with exclamations of astonishment. As he closes Guy exhibits the drawings of the keys and tracings of the subterranean passage under the bastion, saying: “Now, do you believe?”
“Yes,” replies the painter slowly, “I do! Alva has made the troops think the pedestal of his statue is his treasure house. Alva did know that Flushing would be captured three days before it fell. Therefore he must have sent Paciotto there with design. I believe you.”
“Then,” says Guy, “take a third of Alva’s gold and help me get it.”
“With all my soul!” answers Oliver enthusiastically. “My share shall be devoted not to myself, but to my country. I’ll make war upon Alva with his own tenth penny tax. But you’re hungry.”
“No, I dined on board ship.”
“Oho! a lover’s appetite.”
“Yes. How is she? You have been in Brussels—how is she?”
“Yes, I returned from there but two days ago,” replies the painter, sighing. “I wanted to have a last go at my altar piece before I ran away to the war.”
“I must. With all the Netherlands rising up in arms, could I keep from the field? Besides, the hand is getting closer to me. Soon I shall have to fly. Nom de Dieu! that last was a narrow squeak,” continues Oliver, “the day the news came of the taking of Briel by the Sea Beggars.”
“How? Were you in danger?”
“Judge for yourself. You know this tax is crushing everybody. The bakers will not bake, the butchers will not slaughter, the people will not trade. Now this did not please His Highness of Alva, so he sent for the hangman and told him to make eighteen nooses and some twelve foot ladders and take his orders from Don Frederico to hang in front of his own door each of the eighteen principal bakers of Brussels, as a warning to their fellows to go to baking at once. That very night the news of the taking of Briel came and saved them, for the capital got excited over it and Alva having other matters to attend to forgot the bakers. In the morning I was sent for suddenly. ‘Oliver,’ says His Highness, ‘Find me the fellow who manufactured that.’ And he poked under my nose a caricature of himself looking eagerly about for his spectacles, and written underneath:
“ ‘On April Fools’ Day,
Duke Alva’s Briel was stolen away.’
“Briel you know is the Flemish for spectacles. ‘This horrible and audacious caricature’ went on His Highness ‘was found placarded near my palace. Find me the villain painter of it.’ ‘How can I, your Highness?’ I gasped. ‘You can better than any man. You’re an artist’ snarled the Duke. ‘Hang me if the fellow’s style of drawing isn’t something like yours. He must have studied under the same master. Find me the seditious dauber!’ So I went away, but my knees shook—for I was the painter! But I can’t stand this dangling over boiling oil any longer, and I’m going to fight—and die perchance; but like a man with a sword in my hand, not like a criminal on the rack.”
“And Doña Hermoine,” interjects Guy, “how did it affect her?”
“What affect her?”
“The news of the taking of Briel.”
“I don’t believe she thought of it at all. Routs and fêtes occupy that young lady’s time,” replies the artist “not politics. Besides, she has an ardent admirer in General Noircarmes—”
“’S’death!—has she forgotten me?” mutters the Englishman.
“No I think it is because she remembers you.”
“How?”
“Well, for the first two weeks after you went away she was joy itself; no face so radiant, no eyes as brilliant, no wit as flashing, in the whole of Alva’s court, and there are many beautiful women in Brussels. And then—”
“Well, what then?”
“Then she grew sad, and for a month or so had a very hard time of it.”
“What caused her grief? Do you know?”
“Yes, I can guess.”
“What?”
“You!”
“I!”
“Yes. Word came from Middelburg that you had been behaving very badly, my boy,” says Oliver, with a little chuckle.
“I—badly?”
“Very badly!” guffaws Oliver. “The report was that on receipt of his commission Major Guido Amati went on a most prolonged and excessively hilarious debauch of joy.”
“Good heavens! The infernal villain!”
“He is,” assents Oliver. “It is said Major Guido Amati has the very handsomest mistress in Middelburg.”
“Oh, God of heaven—a mistress!” shudders Guy.
“Parbleu! How moral you seem to have got,” jeers Antony.
“He’ll—he’ll ruin me! What an ingrate villain she’ll think me! Damnation! to have my reputation hang upon this drinking debauchee,” falters Guy. Then he cries out: “What shall I do? Advise me, Oliver. I must go to Middelburg and meet him hand to hand; I must kill this fellow before he ruins my every hope of happiness on earth.”
“Don’t,” chuckles Oliver, “for if you kill Major Guido Amati, Hermoine de Alva will go in to mourning.”
“Mourning for him?”
“No, for YOU. If I am not mistaken she loves you very deeply. But your conduct, my dear boy, has given her great unhappiness.” Then in spite of himself the painter bursts into a laugh and jeers: “Diable, I see you doing penance for Major Guido Amati’s sins at the feet of your lady love! But come to supper.”
“I can’t eat. Don’t laugh at me.”
“Oh yes you can. If fair Hermoine didn’t have spasms of rage and despair each time she thinks Major Guido Amati is a very wild, reckless fellow, then it would be time to lose your appetite. When Doña Hermoine de Alva ceases to care for what Major Guido Amati does, then let Guy Chester despair.”
“On this view of the case I’ll go to supper with you,” answers Guy heartily.
And the two go off, not to one of the great inns of Antwerp this time, but to the near-by Tower of the Angels, where they get a fearful meal, though Chester seems to have an appetite now—even for its unsavory cuisine and sour wine.
Coming back from this they fall to discussing the immediate business of Guy’s visit to this city of his enemies, and decide upon the following plan: Chester is to go to work unloading his vessel in sailor style. Oliver, from his knowledge of the town, is to make the necessary investigations and have the keys manufactured.
“It wouldn’t be safe,” he says, “to have them all made by one locksmith. I’ll make a copy of this drawing, placing the draft for each key on a separate piece of paper. You keep the originals. I’ll leave a draft of key number one with a mechanic that I know, the drawing of number two with a locksmith in another part of the city. In fact, I’d better have the other two keys made in other towns, as their guilds bring workmen together and word might get about of our orders, for these keys are very curious in their design, and will cost a good deal of money.”
“As to that,” says Guy, “I’ve got plenty for the business.”
So it is finally settled that one key is to be made at Antwerp, one at the near-by town of Malines, and the other in the capital itself. Antony is also to investigate the house near the Esplanade and see if it is as described and kept by the old deaf and dumb Spanish woman. “I must go at once to Brussels to have the key made, leaving one on the route at Malines,” says Oliver.
“Let me take the journey,” suggests Guy very eagerly. “You have work to do here.”
“And haven’t you—unloading your ship. Besides,” replies Antony, “it isn’t to have the key made that you want to go to Brussels. It is to get word with Hermoine de Alva.” Then he goes on, sternly, “No matter what she may do, no matter what she may think, keep away from her for God’s sake, until this business is settled. Suspicion upon you now would ruin everything. Forget you are Major Guido Amati de Medina, a dashing soldier and lover of the Viceroy’s daughter; remember you are only Andrea Blanco, a common merchant captain, who cares but for grog and charter money; get to unloading your vessel to-morrow morning.”
“Very well,” mutters Guy, the painter’s advice being sound but unpalatable. “I’ll get on board at once.”
“You can’t. You’ve got to stay with me to-night. The gates are closed and you have no young lady to give you the word of the night or offer you a government barge to take you safely out of Antwerp!” laughs Oliver, then continues more seriously: “Tête Dieu! that was a narrow squeeze. They had report you were here. Nothing on earth but Alva’s daughter could have saved you. Remember that Hermoine de Alva that night kept you and perhaps me from the faggot or the cord. And now five thousand crowns on your head,” the artist sighs.
Notwithstanding this gloomy suggestion, these two young men, so accustomed to danger, have a very pleasant night over a bottle of wine in the painter’s studio, discussing Antony’s altar piece, which is quite near completion, the beautiful eyes of Hermoine de Alva gazing from the canvas upon her English sweetheart, as if welcoming him once more, not to the city of his enemies—but to the city of his love.