Produced by Al Haines.
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LEATHERFACE
_A TALE OF OLD FLANDERS_
BY
BARONESS ORCZY
AUTHOR OF "THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL"
NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
[Transcriber's note: several passages in this book use "f" for "s" to convey the archaic long "s" as "f".]
By BARONESS ORCZY
THE BRONZE EAGLEA BRIDE OF THE PLAINSTHE LAUGHING CAVALIER"UNTO CAESAR"EL DORADOMEADOWSWEETTHE NOBLE ROGUETHE HEART OF A WOMANPETTICOAT RULE
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANYNEW YORK
CONTENTS
Prologue: Mons, September, 1572
BOOK ONE; BRUSSELS
CHAPTER
I. The Blood Council II. The Subject Race III. The Ruling Caste IV. Justice V. Vengeance
BOOK TWO: DENDERMONDE
VI. A Stranger in a Strange Land VII. The Rebels VIII. The Watcher in the Night IX. A Divided Duty X. Enemies XI. Utter Loneliness
BOOK THREE: GHENT
XII. Reprisals XIII. My Faithful Watch-dog XIV. The Tyrants XV. Two Pictures XVI. The Right to Die XVII. Truth and Perfidy XVIII. The Last Stand XIX. The Hour of Victory
Epilogue
PROLOGUE: MONS, SEPTEMBER, 1572
PROLOGUE
MONS: SEPTEMBER, 1572
It lacked two hours before the dawn on this sultry night early inSeptember. The crescent moon had long ago sunk behind a bank of cloudsin the west, and not a sound stirred the low-lying land around thebesieged city.
To the south the bivouac fires of Alva's camp had died out one by one,and here the measured tread of the sentinels on their beat alone brokethe silence of the night. To the north, where valorous Orange with ahandful of men--undisciplined, unpaid and rebellious--vainly tried toprovoke his powerful foe into a pitched battle, relying on God for theresult, there was greater silence still. The sentinels--wearied andindifferent--had dropped to sleep at their post: the troops, alreadymutinous, only held to their duty by the powerful personality of thePrince, slept as soundly as total indifference to the cause for whichthey were paid to fight could possibly allow.
In his tent even Orange--tired out with ceaseless watching--had gone torest. His guards were in a profound sleep.
Then it was that from the south there came a stir, and from Alva'sentrenchments waves of something alive that breathed in the darkness ofthe night were set in motion, like when the sea rolls inwards to theshore.
Whispered words set this living mass on its way, and anon it wascrawling along--swiftly and silently--more silently than incoming waveson a flat shore--on and on, always northwards in the direction of thePrince of Orange's camp, like some gigantic snake that creeps with bellyclose to the ground.
"Don Ramon," whispered a voice in the darkness, "let Captain Romero dealwith the sentinels and lead the surprise attack, whilst you yourselfmake straight for the Prince's tent; overpower his guard first, thenseize his person. Two hundred ducats will be your reward, remember, ifyou bring Orange back here--a prisoner--and a ducat for each of yourmen."
These were the orders and don Ramon de Linea sped forward with sixhundred arquebusiers--all picked men--they wore their shirts over theirarmour, so that in the melee which was to come they might recognise oneanother in the gloom.
Less than a league of flat pasture land lay between Alva's entrenchmentsat St. Florian near the gates of beleaguered Mons, and Orange's camp atHermigny. But at St. Florian men stirred and planned and threatened,whilst at Hermigny even the sentinels slept. Noble-hearted Orange hadraised the standard of revolt against the most execrable oppression ofan entire people which the world has ever known--and he could not getmore than a handful of patriots to fight for their own freedom againstthe tyranny and the might of Spain, whilst mercenary troops were left toguard the precious life of the indomitable champion of religious andcivil liberties.
The moving mass of de Linea's arquebusiers had covered half a league ofthe intervening ground; their white shirts only just distinguishable inthe gloom made them look like ghosts; only another half-league--lessperhaps--separated them from their goal, and still no one stirred inOrange's camp. Then it was that something roused the sentinels fromtheir sleep. A rough hand shook first one then the others by theshoulder, and out of the gloom a peremptory voice whispered hurriedly:
"Quick! awake! sound the alarm! An _encamisada_ is upon you. You willall be murdered in your sleep."
And even before the drowsy sentinels had time to rouse themselves or torub their eyes, the same rough hand had shaken the Prince's guard, thesame peremptory voice had called: "Awake! the Spaniards are upon you!"
In the Prince's tent a faint light was glimmering. He himself was lyingfully dressed and armed upon a couch. At sound of the voice, of hisguards stirring, of the noise and bustle of a wakening camp, he sat upjust in time to see a tall figure in the entrance of his tent.
The feeble light threw but into a dim relief this tall figure of a man,clad in dark, shapeless woollen clothes wearing a hood of the same darkstuff over his head and a leather mask over his face.
"Leatherface!" exclaimed the Prince as he jumped to his feet. "What isit?"
"A night attack," replied a muffled voice behind the mask. "Six hundredarquebusiers--they are but half a league away!--I would have been heresooner only the night is so infernally dark, I caught my foot in arabbit-hole and nearly broke my ankle--I am as lame as a Jew's horse ...but still in time," he added as he hastily helped the Prince to adjusthis armour and straighten out his clothes.
The camp was alive now with call to arms and rattle of steel, horsessnorting and words of command flying to and fro. Don Ramon de Linea, aquarter of a league away, heard these signs of troops well on the alertand he knew that the surprise attack had failed. Six hundredarquebusiers--though they be picked men--were not sufficient for aformal attack on the Prince of Orange's entire cavalry. Even mercenaryand undisciplined troops will fight valiantly when their lives dependupon their valour. De Linea thought it best to give the order to returnto camp.
And the waves of living men which had been set in motion an hour ago,now swiftly and silently went back the way they came. Don Ramon when hecame once more in the camp at St. Florian and in the presence of Alva'scaptain-in-chief, had to report the failure of the night attack whichhad been so admirably planned.
"The whole camp at Hermigny was astir," he said as he chawed the ends ofhis heavy moustache, for he was sorely disappointed. "I could not riskan attack under those conditions. Our only chance of winning was bysurprise."
"Who gave the alarm?" queried don Frederic de Toledo, who took no painsto smother the curses that rose to his lips.
"The devil, I suppose," growled don Ramon de Linea savagely.
And out at Hermigny--in Orange's tent--the man who was calledLeatherface was preparing to go as quietly and mysteriously as he hadcome.
"They won't be on you, Monseigneur," he said, "now that they know yourtroops are astir. But if I were you," he added grimly, "I would haveevery one of those sentinels shot at dawn. They were all of them fastasleep
when I arrived."
He gave the military salute and would have turned to go without anotherword but that the Prince caught him peremptorily by the arm:
"In the meanwhile, Messire, how shall I thank you again?" he asked.
"By guarding your precious life, Monseigneur," replied the man simply."The cause of freedom in the Low Countries would never survive yourloss."
"Well!" retorted the Prince of Orange with a winning smile, "if that beso, then the cause of our freedom owes as much to you as it does to me.Is it the tenth time--or the twelfth--that you have saved my life?"
"Since you will not let me fight with you..."
"I'll let you do anything you wish, Messire, for you would be as fine asoldier as you are a loyal friend. But are you not content with thesplendid services which you are rendering to us now? Putting aside mineown life--which mayhap is not worthless--how many times has your warningsaved mine and my brother's troops from surprise attacks? How manytimes have Noircarmes' or don Frederic's urgent appeals forreinforcements failed, through your intervention, to reach the Duke ofAlva until our own troops were able to rally? Ah, Messire, believe me!God Himself has chosen you for this work!"
"The work of a spy, Monseigneur," said the other not without a touch ofbitterness.
"Nay! if you call yourself a spy, Messire, then shall the name of 'spy'be henceforth a name of glory to its wearer, synonymous with theloftiest patriotism and noblest self-sacrifice."
He held out his hand to the man with the mask, who bent his tall figureover it in dutiful respect.
"You see how well I keep to my share of the compact, Messire. Neveronce--even whilst we were alone--hath your name escaped my lips."
"For which act of graciousness, Monseigneur, I do offer you my humblethanks. May God guard your Highness through every peril! The cause ofjustice and of liberty rests in your hands."
After another deeply respectful bow he finally turned to go. He hadreached the entrance of the tent when once more the Prince spoke to him.
"When shall I see you again--Leatherface?" he asked cheerily.
"When your Highness' precious life or the safety of your army are indanger," replied the man.
"God reward you!" murmured Orange fervently as the man with the maskdisappeared into the night.
BOOK ONE: BRUSSELS
CHAPTER I
THE BLOOD COUNCIL
I
Less than a month later, and tyranny is once more triumphant. Mons hascapitulated, Orange has withdrawn his handful of mutinous troops intoHolland, Valenciennes has been destroyed and Mechlin--beautiful,gracious, august Mechlin--with her cathedrals and her trade-halls, herancient monuments of art and civilisation has been given over for threedays to the lust and rapine of Spanish soldiery!
Three whole days! E'en now we think on those days and shudder--shudderat what we know, at what the chroniclers have told us, the sacking ofchurches, the pillaging of monasteries, the massacre of peaceful,harmless citizens!
Three whole days during which the worst demons that infest hell itself,the worst demons that inspire the hideous passions of men--greed,revenge and cruelty--were let loose upon the stately city whose soleoffence had been that she had for twenty-four hours harboured Orange andhis troops within her gates and closed them against the tyrant'ssoldiery!
Less than a month and Orange is a fugitive, and all the bright hopes forthe cause of religious and civil freedom are once more dashed to theground. It seems as if God Himself hath set His face against the holycause! Mons has fallen and Mechlin is reduced to ashes, and over acrossthe borders the King of France has caused ten thousand of his subjectsto be massacred--one holy day, the feast of St. Bartholomew--tenthousand of them!--just because their religious beliefs did not coincidewith his own. The appalling news drove Orange and his small army toflight--he had reckoned on help from the King of France--instead of thatpromised help the news of the massacre of ten thousand Protestants!Catholic Europe was horror-stricken at the crime committed in the nameof religion; but in the Low Countries, Spanish tyranny had scored avictory--the ignoble Duke of Alva triumphed and the cause of freedom inFlanders and Hainault and Brabant received a blow from which it did notagain recover for over three hundred years!
II
Outwardly the house where the Duke of Alva lodged in Brussels was notdifferent to many of the same size in the city. It was built of redbrick with stone base and finely-carved cornice, and had a high slateroof with picturesque dormer windows therein. The windows on the streetlevel were solidly grilled and were ornamented with richly-carvedpediments, as was the massive doorway too. The door itself was of heavyoak, and above it there was a beautifully wrought niche which held astatue of the Virgin.
On the whole it looked a well-constructed, solid and roomy house, andMme. de Jassy, its owner, had placed it at the disposal of theLieutenant-Governor when first he arrived in Brussels, and he hadoccupied it ever since. The idler as he strolled past the house wouldhardly pause to look at it, if he did not happen to know that behindthose brick walls and grilled windows a work of oppression more heinousthan this world had ever known before, was being planned and carried onby a set of cruel and execrable tyrants against an independent countryand a freedom-loving people.
Here in the dining-hall the Duke of Alva would preside at the meetingsof the Grand Council--the Council of Blood--sitting in a high-backedchair which had the arms of Spain emblazoned upon it. Juan de Vargasand Alberic del Rio usually sat to right and left of him. DelRio--indolent and yielding--a mere tool for the carrying out of everyoutrage, every infamy which the fiendish brain of those tyrants coulddevise wherewith to crush the indomitable spirit of a proud nationjealous of its honour and of its liberties: and de Vargas--Alva's doubleand worthy lieutenant--no tool he, but a terrible reality, active andresourceful in the invention of new forms of tyranny, new fetters forthe curbing of stiff-necked Flemish and Dutch burghers, new methods forwringing rivers of gold out of a living stream of tears and blood.
De Vargas!--the very name stinks in the nostrils of honest men evenafter the lapse of centuries!--It conjures up the hideous image of ahuman bloodhound--lean and sallow of visage, with drooping, heavy-liddedeyes and flaccid mouth, a mouth that sneered and jested when men, womenand children were tortured and butchered, eyes that gloated at sight ofstake and scaffold and gibbet--and within the inner man, a mind intenton the science of murder and rapine and bloodshed.
Alva the will that commanded! Vargas the brain that devised! Del Riothe hand that accomplished!
Men sent by Philip II. of Spain, the most fanatical tyrant the world hasever known, to establish the abhorrent methods of the SpanishInquisition in the Low Countries in order to consolidate Spanish rulethere and wrest from prosperous Flanders and Brabant and Hainault, fromHolland and the Dutch provinces enough gold to irrigate the thirsty soilof Spain. "The river of gold which will flow from the Netherlands toMadrid shall be a yard deep!" so had Alva boasted when his infamousmaster sent him to quell the revolt which had noble-hearted Orange forits leader--a revolt born of righteous indignation and an unconquerablelove of freedom and of justice.
To mould the Netherlands into abject vassals of Spain, to break theirindependence of spirit by terrorism and by outrage, to force Spanishideas, Spanish culture, Spanish manners, Spanish religion upon thesepeople of the North who loathed tyranny and worshipped their ancientcharters and privileges, that was the task which the Duke of Alva sethimself to do--a task for which he needed the help of men as tyrannicaland unscrupulous as himself.
Granvelle had begun the work, Alva was completing it! The stake, thescaffold, the gibbet for all who had one thought of justice, one desirefor freedom. Mons razed to the ground, Valenciennes a heap of ruins andashes, Mechlin a hecatomb. Men, women and children outraged andmurdered! Whole families put to the torture to wring gold fromunwilling
givers! churches destroyed! monasteries ransacked!
That was the work of the Grand Council--the odious Council of Blood, themembers of which have put to shame the very name of religion, for theydared to pretend that they acted in its name.
Alva! de Vargas! del Rio! A trinity of fiends whose deeds would shamethe demons in hell! But there were others too, and, O ye gods! werethey not infinitely more vile, since their hands reeked with the bloodof their own kith and kin? Alva and his two bloodhounds were strangersin a strange land, owing allegiance to Spain alone--but CouncillorHessels sat on this same infamous board, and he was a patrician ofBrabant. And there was Pierre Arsens, president of Artois, there was deBerlaymont and Viglius and Hopper--gentlemen (save the mark!) andburghers of Flanders or Hainault or the Dutch provinces!--and who canname such creatures without a shudder of loathing?
III
As for don Ramon de Linea, he was just the usual type of Spanishsoldier--a grandee of Spain, direct descendant of the Cid, so heaverred, yet disdained to prove it. For in him there was no sense ofchivalry--just personal bravery and no more--the same kind of braveryyou would meet in a tiger or a jaguar. In truth there was much incommon between don Ramon and the wild feline tribes that devastate thedeserts: he had the sinuous movements, the languorous gestures of thosecreatures, and his eyes--dark and velvety at times, at others almost ofan orange tint--had all the cruel glitter which comes into the eyes ofthe leopard when he is out to kill. Otherwise don Ramon was afine-looking man, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, a son of the South, withall those cajoling ways about him which please and so often deceive thewomen.
Leatherface: A Tale of Old Flanders Page 1
