CHAPTER XXII.
“OHO! THE FOX AT LAST!”
All this day during which his sweetheart has been obtaining papa’s consent, Chester has worked like a beaver laying in winter store. The seamen under Bodé Volcker’s direction have got out all the silver, some of which is in ingots, the rest in Spanish dollars, into the cellar, and by the very earliest sunrise at the opening of the city gates, the first load comes into the hold of the Esperanza, for this is more bulky, though not nearly as valuable, as the gold.
Working at this with that diligence that men always give to looting treasure, they succeed in getting all of it into the hold of the Esperanza by twelve o’clock in the day.
Martin Corker, who has been at the house of Mother Sebastian assisting in the shipment since Chester has taken charge of the Esperanza, coming down with the last load, says to his captain: “Bodé Volcker wants to see you at the house of old Dumb Devil like a flash.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t bring out the chest of jewels. He feared some of the men might buccaneer it on the sly, it’s so easily handled, and is probably very valuable.”
With a muttered imprecation on the merchant’s commercial care, for Chester is now anxious to set sail, he strides rapidly up to the house of Mother Sebastian, and there finds Niklaas in company with four seamen, the last who have remained in charge.
“Did I not tell you that I didn’t wish to make entry into the treasure chamber during the day?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want to take the chance of losing the jewels,” returns the merchant.
“Well, since there’s no help for it,” Guy mutters, “I suppose I must go in again.” This he does to find everything as before. Returning from his journey under the moat to the vault below the great Bastion of the Duke, bearing in his hand the chest that is presumed to contain jewels, he laughs: “Everything is all right, this is the last of Alva’s nest-egg.”
“You have locked all the iron doors?”
“Yes.”
Then they put the flagstones in place, closing up the entrance to the vault, and bed down the stones of the cellar on top of it; next sweeping the dust over it again and the seamen pocketing for luck money a few stray coins that had fallen out of one of the sacks, the cellar of Señora Sebastian is as they found it. Then Bodé Volcker leaving another bottle of rum by the side of the snoring dumb woman, they shake off the dust of the house with a sigh of relief from their feet.
“You have the clearance papers?” whispers Guy.
“Yes, I’ll get them at my office.”
“Very well, then we’ll hoist sail,” says the Englishman; and taking the case containing the jewels in his own hands, though he has covered it with a cloak, Guy goes on board the Esperanza.
Then his crew make ready to draw out from their moorings and go down the Schelde, while Guy waits impatiently for his clearance papers, for every instant seems an hour of agonized suspense to him.
As he stands gazing eagerly up into the streets of Antwerp, Bodé Volcker makes his appearance, pale, agitated, hurrying as fast as his fat legs can carry his fat body. He comes up the gang plank gasping and holding out to Guy the papers, says: “Captain Andrea Blanco, your clearances.”
“You are going on shore again?”
“No, as I’m a frightened man! God help me, I daren’t stay here. Take me to the cabin, something terrible has happened.”
“What?” gasps Guy, though he gives orders to the men to cast off and get under way. This they do in a flash and Martin Corker takes the helm. As they sail down the Schelde Guy goes into the cabin and whispers to the merchant, who is half fainting: “What’s the matter, what’s frightened you so?”
“My God, my God! the hand moved!”
“What hand?”
“THE HAND ON ALVA’S STATUE!”
“Great heavens!—When?”
“When you went into the vault at twelve o’clock to-day, the right hand of the statue of Alva moved. They’ll be at the house of the woman Sebastian by this time. The statue guarded Alva’s treasure. God help us if they get messenger to Lillo to stop vessels before we get down! The garrison are talking about it as if it were supernatural. They say it predicts the fall of Haarlem; but I know it predicts that people have gone into Alva’s treasure house. That’s what the infernal statue was put there for,” cries Bodé Volcker.
But the last of this speech is made to an empty cabin, for Chester is 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 you have forgotten your promise to me!”
Then he of Alva, with voice that seems to her harsh as the judgment trumpet of our Lord will seem to those who have no hope in eternity, answers: “This man is not the man you thought you loved. This is not Guido Amati. He was killed at the Battle on the Ice, slain by this English rover, this accursed pirate, this scum of the sea, this base-born clown, who aped a Spanish noble to win your trust and love.”
“Base-born clown!” breaks out the Englishman. “That’s a lie, when coupled with the name of Chester. My lord of Alva, you speak to belted English knight. My accolade was given by the Queen’s own hand. I have in me the blood of the Stanhopes, who fought with William the Conqueror; my cousin is a Stanley and wears Earl’s coronet. Nobility I have enough for you and yours. Do you think I would have sullied her I love by luring her to wed ignoble blood? Look—on my breast I bear the golden spurs of knighthood!”
At this the girl, who has cowered under the words that brand the man she loves as one of the ignoble, seizing from Chester’s breast the trinkets that show he is of her rank and class, holds them up before my lord of Alva, and cries out in almost happy voice: “He’s noble! Father, do you hear, HE’S NOBLE! Now you can’t refuse, he’s noble, though he is—” she pauses here and falters to Guy, for now she somewhat understands, “Are you the—‘The First of the English?’ ”
“YES!”
The answer comes haughtily and proudly, and with it there is a sudden light in her brain, and she gasps: “Ah, now I know—! This—this Oliver his friend—the day he rescued me, the day they said the English rover was in Antwerp.” Then she whispers, almost exultation in her voice: “Twice, my love, that day I saved you; to-day I will save you again!”
But this dies away into one awful wailing cry, as he of Alva, in a voice as unyielding as the Rock of Ages, says harshly: “Gomez, bring in the executioner!”
“The executioner! Father, you don’t understand. This is the man I love.”
“You love him?” jeers the Duke. “You love an enemy of your country? This man who was a friend of Oliver, the traitor in my household, whose attack on Mons gave Orange time to rise with all of Holland; this man who robbed me for his queen of my Italian treasure? Bah! you must hate him, girl, as I do,” and he turns to give further orders.
At this mention of stolen wealth there is a jeering laugh from Guy, despite himself, but Hermoine puts hand upon his lips and whispers pleadingly: “Don’t anger him, for my sake, my Guido—my Englishman. I can twist papa about my little finger,” and tries to laugh in his face, “See me!”
With this she is about Alva’s neck murmuring: “What nonsense do you talk? You always do as your Hermoine tells you. Papa dear, shall I pull your naughty beard?”
But he says: “Child, you do not understand. I’ll send to France for gewgaws and new dresses for you. You will soon forget,” then raises up his voice—“THE EXECUTIONER!”
But she will not be put off and apes to laugh: “The executioner?—for the man you have promised me as husband? What NONSENSE! You mean the priest. Goosey dear, send for the priest at once!”
But Alva answers harshly: “To shrive him were he not a heretic,” next says sternly, “Gomez, why are you waiting? You have my orders—THE EXECUTIONER!”