CHAPTER III.
THE SIX DRUNKARDS OF BRUSSELS.
A moment after, as Chester presses the ring upon his little finger, a young Spaniard, almost a boy, with dark fiery eyes and ornamented by an incipient mustache that he attempts to curl fiercely, in full uniform with breastplate and plumed steel cap, enters the apartment and says briskly: “I am the officer deputed to escort you from the Citadel, señor. Permit me to present myself as Ensign José de Busaco, of Mondragon’s Arquebusiers.”
“And in return,” answers Guy, throwing on his boat cloak and preparing to follow the young man, “I beg to announce myself as the Capitan Guido Amati, of Romero’s Musketeers.”
“Of the Middelburg garrison, I presume,” remarks the ensign, as they leave the house together. “I suppose you have run up for a little roistering at Antwerp. Middelburg is a desperately sleepy place; I was quartered there three years ago. Brabant is slow also now since we smashed Louis of Nassau up at Jemmingen. I cut ten German throats there,” adds the boy very fiercely and very proudly.
“Diablo! You are a fighter,” mutters Guy.
“Pooh! these German burghers and townspeople were nothing against us Spanish veterans,” replies Ensign de Busaco. “We killed eight thousand, you remember, and lost only eight men. That was Alva’s generalship. He has put up a big monument to himself over there,” and the boy points across the great enceinte of the citadel through which they are passing on their way to the main gate leading to the city.
Following his gesture in the gloom Chester can see the pedestal of that great statue made of the cannon taken at Jemmingen, which the pacificator and ravager of the Netherlands is erecting to his own honor and glory, greatly to the disgust of Philip of Spain, who does not care to have his generals too famous.
“Jake Yongling has made a great figure of the Viceroy. It is sixteen feet high, and with the pedestal nearly thirty. Here’s the last one of the arms,” continues the boyish warrior, giving a careless kick to the representation in iron of his general, lying on the ground. Then he whispers mysteriously: “They say this statue has a secret. What does the Duke with his tenth penny tax, eh; where does he put the money?”
But, passing this, they are soon at the great military causeway that leads to the drawbridge across the moat that gives egress to the Esplanade of the city. Above the massive archway of its heavy gate, chiseled in stone, is a shield with a royal castle with three towers, on each a raven, and each guarded by a wolf—the arms of Alva; beneath, the collar of the Golden Fleece, from which hangs, as if in mockery of this country conquered by blood and fire, a representation of the Lamb of God. This decoration is easily revealed to Guy as he passes by flaming flambeaux, some of which are held in the hands of the guard and others stuck in the niches in the wall.
The military etiquette of the place compels Chester’s attendant to report to the officer of the day.
To do this they enter a guard-room, well lighted by a dozen burning candles, and while the young ensign is making his report and receiving order for the lowering of the drawbridge, Chester carelessly looking over a number of military placards on the dingy wall, sees one that, sound as are his nerves, causes him a quiver, for it reads as follows:
LARGESS!
THREE THOUSAND CAROLUS GUILDERS!
Whereas, a certain Englishman named Guy Stanhope Chester, and better known among the inhabitants of these Netherlands as De Eersteling der Engelschen (The First of the English), who has been disowned and disavowed by his Queen, Elizabeth of England, on March twenty-first of the year 1571, resisted arrest by our own armed Spanish galley, Santa Cruz, and has since been acting against the weal of these provinces of Spain, killing and murdering the soldiers and sailors of Philip Rex, this will be warranted for any governor of our towns or garrisons to make payment of the above sum to any one delivering the body or head of said named Guy Stanhope Chester, whom we hereby proclaim as pirate and outlaw, by order of
(Signed) ALVA, Viceroy.
(Countersigned) JUAN DE VARGAS, President of the Council.
This is posted up among various military orders pertaining to the Citadel, and one or two other proclamations of outlawry or taxes. After the first emotion Guy reads it calmly, and is relieved that the description attached to the proclamation is faulty in several particulars.
“All right, Captain Guido! I’ve got the order!” says the young ensign, clapping him on the shoulder. Then he continues: “Ah! you’re reading about the First of the English,” and as they turn away together he runs on vivaciously: “Three thousand Carolus guilders! That would be an addition to my pay. Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on him! Three thousand guilders! We’d have a banquet, wouldn’t we, Señor Capitan, bought by the pirate’s head!”
Here the young Spaniard is cut short in his speech by the necessity of giving the countersign and passing himself and his companion through the gates, as the drawbridge is lowered. This is easily accomplished, as a strong detachment of the garrison are under arms, and a portion of the troops have just moved out to reinforce the Spanish guard in the town and to give as much assistance as possible in protecting the property of the government that is endangered upon the wharves and quays of Antwerp by the flood, which is apparently still rising; the town being still lighted up and the church bells still ringing out their alarms.
“Here I must leave you,” says De Busaco, after they have passed the drawbridge and the last line of sentries; “What inn will you lodge at? the Red Lion? That has the best wine, I think.”
“No,” answers Guy shortly, for he has considered this point; “I shall rest at the Painted House. It is more quiet.”
“Is it?” laughs the young man. “You don’t know what’s going to happen there to-morrow. Par Dios! half the burghers of the city will be there to see it, and half the officers of the garrison. You have not heard the news? The great painter, the Raphael of the Netherlands, Frans Floris, has accepted the wager of the ‘Six Drunkards of Brussels’ that he will drink them all under the table at one sitting. Sapristi! from stories about him, I believe he’ll do it. I shall come in to see it; I pray I may meet you there!”
“Very well, come in and drink a flagon with me!” says Chester, thinking that being seen with this Spanish officer will be additional passport to him in this city of his enemies, with a price set on his head. At this young De Busaco, for the two have chatted together quite jovially as they have passed along, and have grown to be rather en comrade, remarks: “You see your way across the Esplanade; the street of the Beguins is straight ahead of you!” and with a friendly salute marches back to the Citadel.
For one second the Englishman turns after him, a question that has been on his mind every instant since he left her, is now full upon his lips. The next moment he pauses, thinking, “No—to ask from the officer in whose charge she placed me the name and station of my—my love—” he rolls the sound in his mind as if it were a very sweet morsel—“would be too dangerous. I at least should know the lady I have escorted to Antwerp.”
So he strides across the Esplanade, which is kept free of trees and all other impediment to the fire of the guns of the Spanish Citadel, that dominates this Flemish town. Cogitating upon this being of his dream, Chester mutters: “That painter can tell me, he knows,” and quickens his pace.
A moment after the Englishman finds himself at the entrance of the great street of the Beguins, which leads into the heart of the city. Here, clapping his hands several times, he calls out: “Link boy! Light! Link boy!” which in the course of a little time brings to him a wandering urchin of the street carrying a flaming pine torch.
“Which way, your nobleness?” asks the Arab, for Guy’s manner and bearing are patrician.
“To Wool street! The house of Jacques Touraine.”
“Oh! The blood-letter and barber,” answers the boy. “I know his painted pole.”
So skipping along ahead of the young Englishman’s rapid strides, they proceed down the street of the Beguins, lighted occasionally by lamps hanging from the gable ends of the houses of the burghers, and pass by the imposing Church of our Dear Lady of Antwerp, now known as the Cathedral Notre Dame, from which the chimes come every quarter of an hour, silvery and sweet upon the midnight air. Then they dive into the labyrinth of narrow streets filled with the mediæval filth that still clings to them even to this day, making toward the northern end of the town.
A few minutes of struggling through close alleys and they stop at a long pole painted in alternate stripes of red, blue and white, that distinguishes the house of Monsieur Jacques Touraine, the little French leecher, surgeon, blood-letter and barber.
Late as it is there is no need to knock and rouse him, for this gentleman is in front of his door, talking excitedly in his Gallic way to several of his neighbors. He has a little child of some seven years of age by the hand, and is saying nervously: “Mon Dieu! if the tide reaches here!”
“Drommelsch!” answers one of his companions, “The devil himself couldn’t make the flood run up this hill! The mark of the deluge of 1300 is fifty feet below us.” Then he gives a hideous laugh and jeers: “How you French hate water.”
Breaking in upon this colloquy, Guy beckons the barber to one side and says to him: “Is the painter who lodges with you, Antony Oliver, in to-night?”
The answer he gets is discouraging: “No, he is in Brussels.”
“Ah!” assents Guy, the corners of his mouth drooping at these words, for it is this Oliver he has braved so much to see, and he dares not remain long in Antwerp. Then he asks anxiously: “Do you know when he will return?”
“To-morrow. He will come with his master, the Duke of Alva, to-morrow. He is herald and under-secretary to the Viceroy.”
“Yes!” cries the little boy, “I’m so glad of it, because when Monsieur Oliver comes we have so much pigeon pie. I like pigeon pie—don’t you?”
“Desperately,” laughs Guy, relieved at the knowledge of the painter’s quick return.
“Then I hope you won’t ask Monsieur Oliver for my share of pigeon pie,” babbles the child. “Perhaps, though, we won’t get any—a man carried so many pigeons away to-day.”
“Well, here’s a stiver to buy pigeon pie for yourself, my little man,” laughs Chester, giving the child a coin. Then he says to the father: “You are sure about your information?”
“Oh, I think so. You can make absolutely sure by asking his great friends, the Bodé Volckers. They will certainly know. He is a nice man, this Oliver, and a great painter—at least, he thinks himself a great painter. He has my son Achille as his student—my youngest is the little Maredie, the one who likes pigeon pie,” babbles the Frenchman, who has apparently been relieved from fear of the flood and pleased by Guy’s douceur to his child. Then he queries suddenly: “Haven’t I seen you before? You came to visit Monsieur Antony six months ago.”
“Yes,” answers the Englishman shortly, and to prevent further interrogation queries: “Can you tell me where the Bodé Volckers’ live?”
“Oh, every one knows that; he is our ex-Burgomaster, the merchant prince, Niklaas Bodé Volcker, who lives on the Place de Meir.”
“Ah, the Place de Meir, thank you, señor,” answers Guy. He turns away, and calling the link boy again, says: “Bodé Volcker’s!”
“That means two stivers more,” cries the urchin; “anyone that would visit a burgomaster’s could afford two stivers.”
“Four, if you take me there quickly.”
“FOUR? Pots dit en dat! you must be a count,” cries the delighted child, and, skipping vivaciously before his patron, he soon guides him back past the cathedral to the magnificent residence where old Bodé Volcker, merchant prince of that day, whose argosies sailed to the Indies, the Baltic and the Mediterranean, lived in great state and pomp and wealth, but for all that was still only a merchant, trader and burgher; and to the haughty nobles of that day nothing more than the dust of the earth—unless they wanted to borrow his money. But as has always been the case, great financial success has prompted social ambition. Niklaas Bodé Volcker’s family is even now knocking at noble and aristocratic doors.
Evidences of this comes to Guy almost as he reaches the portals of the merchant.
The house is pretentious, being built of cut stone around a large courtyard, the archway to this permitting a carriage to drive in, and acting as the entrance to the mansion itself, which is lighted up, one portion more brilliantly than the other. This is apparently the counting and sample room of Niklaas Bodé Volcker himself. From out its open doors several clerks and half a dozen porters are passing, and big vans of goods are arriving loaded with what are apparently cloths, silks and satins from the flooded water-front. Everyone seems to be on the alert.
“I must see Heer Bodé Volcker for a moment,” says Guy to a bustling apprentice.
“Must see Heer Bodé Volcker to-night?” gasps the man; “the night in which his warehouses are all flooded?”
“I must see him. Do you hear me, fellow? Quick!” mutters Chester, who, being of gentle blood, is accustomed to command merchants, burghers, tradesmen and the like.
“That’s impossible, unless you go to the docks,” returns the apprentice. “Heer Bodé Volcker is seeing to the removal of his perishable merchandise at his big warehouse below the English quay.”
Baffled in this direction, our adventurer turns his steps from the counting room and going to the principal entrance of the house finds a voluble servant girl in conversation with a man who is apparently the family coachman, the horses and equipage being drawn up in front of the house. They are evidently discussing the inundation of the city, for the girl is interspersing her periods with a good many excited “Och Armes!” and “Groote genades!”
As there are lights in the front windows of the house Guy immediately addresses the girl, saying: “Is it possible for me to see any of the members of Niklaas Bodé Volcker’s family?”
“I’m not sure,” is the answer. “If Mijn Heer would step in I’ll ask.”
She emphasizes this with a respectful courtesy, as Guy’s ready hand puts a few stivers into hers. His manner is commanding, his appearance aristocratic, his hand is generous, and the girl is anxious to do his bidding.
Turning toward the right she shows the way into a large vaulted room hung with Spanish stamped leather, the furniture and appointments of which have all the indications of wealth, even luxury, as it has tapestries upon its floor, and many of the articles of its furnishing have been imported from Italy, Spain, and even Turkey itself, some of the rugs being from the looms of Ispahan and Bokara. The apartment is illuminated by a handsome swinging candelabra full of lighted wax candles. From this room a carved oaken stairway leads apparently to the upper apartments of the house.
“Wiarda Schwartz!” cries the girl; “Wiarda!” clapping her hands. Receiving no answer to this she says: “I’ll be back in a minute,” and running lightly upstairs returns in a few minutes followed by a bright, vivacious, dark-eyed lady’s maid, whose attire indicates she is the favorite of her mistress, and whose short muslin skirts and white, high Friesian peasant’s cap denotes the soubrette.
In answer to the girl’s rather off-hand courtesy, Chester remarks: “I am the Captain Guido Amati, of Romero’s foot. Can I see Vrouw Bodé Volcker for a moment?”
“Not unless you go to the other world,” answers the girl pertly. “Vrouw Bodé Volcker has been dead four years.”
“That is going further than walking to the warehouses for her widower,” smiles Guy. Then he asks: “Can I see the mistress of the house?”
“Oh, you mean Freule Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker,” says the girl. Next adds majestically: “Freule Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker is at present at the fête of the Countess de Mansfeld.”
Remembering the Countess Mansfeld’s lackey’s slurring remarks about the daughter of an ex-burgomaster dancing in his highest priced silks for the entertainment of the company, it is difficult for Chester to fight down a chuckle. However, being very anxious for information, he suggests: “Then, perhaps, you can answer my question. Do you know when Antony Oliver, the herald of the Duke of Alva, is returning to Brussels?”
And this ruins Captain Guido Amati in the estimation of Wiarda Schwartz, maid in waiting to the ex-burgomaster’s daughter. She says with pert arrogance: “Well, I never! That good-for-nothing, beggarly painter? I know nothing about him. I had supposed Mijn Heer Captain was acquainted with the nobility!”
As Guy passes out of the house without information, he sees Mademoiselle Schwartz’s pert nose very much up in the air and Mademoiselle Schwartz’s red stockinged ankle and shapely foot patting the floor in jeering gesture.
“There is nothing but to be quiet and sleep until morning. I might as well get some of that,” cogitates the Englishman. “God only knows what to-morrow will bring to me.”
So getting hold of the link boy again, who has evidently loitered about in hopes that Guy’s visit at the Bodé Volckers’ will be short, Chester gives him his orders, and is conducted to the inn known as “The Painted House,” celebrated for its wine and beer, and situated on the Shoemarket opposite the Place de Meir. It is but a few steps from the residence of the merchant, and can be easily distinguished, Guy notes as he approaches, by its high, painted gables, which give it its name.
Lights are showing from its lower rooms, the pentice or wooden awning in front of it is ornamented by evergreens and shrubs and illuminated by swinging lamps; chairs and tables are under these, on which lounge several of the better-to-do burghers of the town, a couple of Spanish officers, and half a dozen travelers. Late as it is the sound of revelry comes from the main inner room.
He is welcomed at the door by mine host, the obsequious Herman Van Oncle, who is making a fortune out of his famous supper parties and weddings, for this is the house of festivity par excellence of the town. Den Rooden Leeuw (“Red Lion”) may be more aristocratic, but for wine bibbing, beer drinking and gorgeous wedding festivities that last 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?”
“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.”