John McPake and the Sea Beggars

by Stuart Campbell

  ‘Away and shite!’ said Mick.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Shush,’ said Cornelius, shepherding the dogs and his companions into the shelter of bushes bowed with snow. As their breath hung in the night air he pointed to the lights in the next field where the soldiers had set up camp. Three small braziers equidistant from each other attracted a storm of small insects diving catastrophically into the flames.

  Several soldiers wandered through the camp having removed the heavy helmets which lay on the ground with their visors up, a random scattering of small decapitated heads.

  A solitary guard wandered round the perimeter, his cocked crossbow pointing towards the snow on the ground. The soldier nearest to the hunters scrunched his shoulders and stretched his head from left to right and back again. Their lances had been stuck in the ground in a clump, a strange tree of weapons. A knot of men crouched before the fire playing cards. They took it in turn to hold their hand toward the flames to distinguish between the clubs and the aces.

  As one of the soldiers walked directly towards them, the hunters shrunk back into the darkness. Cornelius gripped his stave, ready to crush the man’s skull if he spotted them. The soldier lowered the front of his breeches and relieved himself, sighing as the stream of urine arched towards the hidden men. He said something to himself and wandered back to join the others.

  A dozen or so horses fretted and steamed in the improvised pound, pawing at the brown churned snow, unable to settle after the excursions of the day. A boy moved among them wiping them down with a blanket: Michel. Johannes felt as if he had been punched in the stomach, he leapt forward and was hauled back by Balthasar and Cornelius. ‘It’s my boy, it’s my boy!’ he shouted, before Balthasar placed his hand across his mouth and forced him to the ground.

  ‘Patience, Johannes, patience. We must plan. Be still. Michel might sleep with the horses. We must wait until the others have returned to their tents, then we may have a chance.’

  Johannes rocked on his heels, ‘Let me get him now, while he’s there.’

  ‘Balthasar’s right,’ said Cornelius, comforting Johannes. We must wait.’

  At intervals Michel appeared at the side of a different horse which he patted and dried with slow gentle movements. Johannes failed to suppress a sigh that consumed every second of one slowly exhaled breath. Sometimes the boy paused and stared into the night, as if listening. Johannes rose on his knees and waved his arm. This time Cornelius restrained him, pulling him back to the ground.

  After the interminable ache of an hour or more, during which Johannes sat clenched and tight, the gamblers slouched ever lower towards the dying fire before lying on their sides and resting their heads on their hands. The game was incrementally less compelling than the lure of sleep to which they all eventually succumbed, choosing the residual warmth of the fire to the chill of the tents. There was no sign of Michel; the hunters could only hope that he too was sleeping on the far side of the beasts that were still padding the frozen ground.

  Balthasar signalled that Cornelius should crawl towards the enemy. He was the smallest and arguably the fittest of the three. Johannes struggled with the decision but saw the logic behind it.

  Balthasar peered through the darkness to check that the dogs were still sleeping as Cornelius edged forward on his elbows. He passed within a man’s length of the sleepers curled round the fire, one of whom started in his dreams, grunting words of disagreement before subsiding once more.

  The fire had melted the adjacent snow. Cornelius gasped as he dragged his body through the heart-stopping wetness, his swollen clothes making the effort of inching forward almost impossible. He could no longer feel his fingers through the sodden gloves. Trying hard to stop shaking he levered himself towards the horses.

  Balthasar held Johannes by the shoulders in a gesture that was part comforting and part restraining. ‘My son, my son,’ whispered Johannes.

  The nearest horse stared into the night, spooked by the invisible presence of a perceived threat. Cornelius stayed motionless but the damage had been done. The horse threw back its head and brayed as if its final moment had come. The other horses attempted to turn in tight circles of panic and bumped into each other, a maelstrom of flank, leg and breath. The soldiers stirred then jolted into violent wakefulness. They added their battle cries to the commotion from the horses and grabbed at the swords piled high near the gray ash. Cornelius leaped to his feet and ran back into the darkness that hid his equally startled companions.

  For a moment Johannes couldn’t take in what happening. He stood up and reached out to Cornelius who hurled himself into his arms. Balthasar had already roused the sleeping dogs with a sharp whistle and had reached for his stave. The foremost of the pursuers launched himself into the darkness that had swallowed Cornelius. His progress was abruptly halted as his neck was pierced by Balthasar. He gurgled and for a split second Balthasar felt him hanging heavy on the end of the pole as if he had levered a dead sheep from a ditch.

  The dogs hurled themselves at the onrushing soldiers and tore at clothes and flesh. Assuming that they were under attack from an entire army of Flemish beggars, the soldiers scrambled to extricate themselves from the unseen devils and ran back to the camp to rouse their companions. In an instant the three hunters and dogs turned and ran into the night knowing they only had minutes before the full force of the Spanish troops would cut them to threads.

  They quickly put distance between themselves and their pursuers. As a cloud snuffed out the moon Johannes lost his footing, tumbled down an embankment, and landed on the frozen surface of a river. Balthasar quickly ushered the other two men and dogs onto the ice. Moments later they felt the riverbank shake from the weight of the passing troops.

  TWELVE

  Mick and John approached the three crouching figures with the exaggerated gait of pantomime villains. The drinkers, clutching cans of Special Brew, looked at the strangers violating their space. The tallest shouted something in a foreign language and kicked at a heap of broken bricks. His two companions picked up pieces of rubble and hurled them at the intruders. ‘Asylum seeking bastards!’ shouted Mick, momentarily forsaking his Socialist principles. Clutching his bloodied face, John stumbled back to the hole in the fence, ducked through and ran towards the housing scheme. Mick was nowhere to be seen.

  John heard the horses pounding in his wake, he heard the disembodied sirens from police cars on the main road, he heard the Spanish cries in his head, he heard one of the small children shouting after him, ‘I told you mister, there’s bad men in there.’ He saw a dog howling at him from a balcony. He saw the red-eyed hounds.

  Walking fast helped the nightmare to fade. Perhaps it hadn’t happened. The encounter with vagrants on the outskirts of Edinburgh was just a variant on his usual delusions. The evidence was compelling. He had assumed Mick had been with him but Mick was nowhere to be seen. Anyway, where were the Voices? No, none of it had happened. He felt relieved.

  After no more than a moment’s hesitation during which he pretended to prevaricate, John went into the off-licence in Stenhouse Road and congratulated himself for his subtle impersonation of someone with a genuine choice to make: Bells (too many maudlin New Years that only heralded more of the same), Teachers (a too painful reminder of his short lived career in the classroom), Black and White (a too simplistic view of the world, racial even). By now the Asian shopkeeper had noticed the dried blood on his temple and decided that if he wanted to pay, fine, if he just pocketed the bottle and left, that would be fine too. In the event John paid for a bottle of McKay’s (no associations) and left. His joyful anticipation was compounded by an equal measure of crushing guilt and self-loathing.

  Paradoxically the best way to dispel these thoughts was to open the bottle and make a start.

  The orgasmic hit of spirit on belly made him gasp. He re-aligned his oesophagus with his stomach and poured until he was breathless and blinded by a sun that had appeared from nowhere to hold out promises of holidays and laug
hter.

  That infinitesimal millisecond of euphoria was snuffed out by the fearful realisation that the Bastard would persecute him mercilessly for his weakness. So it proved.

  ‘Look at you, a stupid grin on your face, lurching your way into that bus queue, upsetting that woman. It’s a bit like the good old days, isn’t it, John. Where shall we start? It’s no use getting upset, you should have thought of that before you bought the bottle. At least your Dutch delusions are comparatively harmless and take you away from the past. But it won’t go away, will it? Will it? Which video shall we take down from the shelf? How about this one, After Class 2004. Do you recognise that awful looking man in the tweed jacket and the desperate expression? Yes, full marks, sir! It’s you, and you are trying to persuade that delightful third year girl from your history class not to tell anyone that she caught you necking a bottle of spirits in the store cupboard at the back of the class, before stuffing your mouth with peppermints. To be honest, John, they probably sacked you because of the peppermint ectoplasm that exuded when you walked – staggered – by. Shall we fast forward?

  This is brilliant; I am Christmas Past in the horror movie of your life! That must be your appearance before the General Teaching Council accused of threatening that same nice little girl. Do you remember how angry her parents were? And that time they came round to your house and spoke to your wife. Do you remember your wife? Hang on, she’s here somewhere. Yes, there she is, that must be your bedroom. Did you ever have good sex there or were you always a failure at everything? Pull yourself together, it’s only a commercial!’

  John hauled himself up the hostel steps and searched frantically for the key. The alcohol had made him anxious and paranoid. There was altogether too much stuff in his pocket: letters, anonymous and full of hate, bills unpaid, solicitors’ final demands, hundreds of unmarked jotters, articles cut from the papers. Too much stuff. Where was the key?

  Somewhere among the court summons, the letter of dismissal, junk mail feet high.

  Others had crowded on to the steps. He was jostled by his wife, by his sneering head of department, by the Governor from the Home, the asylum seekers in the condemned building, the Asian shopkeeper reluctant to sell him the drink. The school secretary who told him he was suspended and could he hand in the key, the kids who chased him on their bikes taking it in turn to spit at him, his key worker losing patience, the psychiatrist who never, ever made eye contact with him, the neighbour who sided with his wife, the private detective who ripped him off, the Sheriff’s Officer at the door, the class of adolescents chanting at him as he cowered in the book cupboard (he never did order more copies of The Hitler Years: A guide for schools), the brown-coated janitor who led him away, the Marchmont neighbours who complained about the shouting, the laughing lads who set his cardboard bed alight under the arches. Underneath the Arches … I dream my dreams away … Underneath the arches … On cobblestones I lay … Every night you’ll find me … Tired out and worn …

  Beneath the halo of street light he saw his former friends running in slow motion towards him mouthing silent abuse: the paper boy too scared to put the Evening News through the letter box in case the psycho got him; Sarah, consumed with disgust and loathing; the fat woman on the ward who cried all the time and wet herself.

  The key turned and he slipped inside leaning heavily against the door to keep them all out. Eventually he gave up and curled into a foetal position waiting for the first blow to be struck.

  Desperate to eat but conscious that the merest hint of food would make him vomit John pushed the cereal round his bowl.

  ‘Heavy night?’ asked Richard, looking up briefly from the sonata he had been tapping out on a napkin.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Beverley, ‘John’s been dry for a month, haven’t you John? A new record, I think.’ John couldn’t bring himself to correct her.

  ‘Can I tell this next bit?’

  By all means, Jester, there has been little light relief so far. You can take over until the end of the chapter.

  ‘Can I drop the italics for a while?’

  Just this once …

  ‘That’ll be effing right,’ said Kevin, ‘I saw you sneaking up to your room with the brown paper poke in your pocket.’

  ‘A lot of Ps in that sentence,’ said Paul, not looking up from Nostromo.

  ‘A lot of Ps in Dennis’ room,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Beverley, ‘if you lot didn’t go on at him when he does come down it might help.’

  ‘If he had a shower some time, that might help,’ retaliated Kevin.

  ‘Pots and kettles,’ murmured Mick from beneath his black beanie. ‘Watch yourself, Johnnie Boy, they’re spying on you, sending in reports. Your drinking habits are on file now. Lock your door, old son, security will come soon. Your goods and chattels will be confiscated. There will be poundings at the end of your street. You’ll be tagged, curfewed and monitored.’

  ‘I wish my social security would come soon,’ said Kevin.

  ‘You owe me,’ said Richard, suddenly interested. ‘I gave you those tabs the other day.’

  ‘Look,’ said Beverley, ‘if I find out, Kevin, that you’ve been cadging medication from other residents you’ll be in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘It was fucking aspirin.’

  ‘Language’, said Beverley.

  ‘It was aspirin.’

  ‘And I’m the Prince of Rome,’ said Mick, suddenly fond of the idea he had conjured from nowhere. ‘I shall issue a Bull.’

  ‘No change there then, it’s always bull with you,’ said Kevin.‘You will all bow to me in St Peter’s Square.’

  ‘That’s Muslims’ said Kevin. ‘Kissing the ground with their arses in the air. It’s part of ramadamadingdong.’

  ‘Better than kissing their arses,’ said Mick. ‘Like the appeasers.’

  Not bad, Jester, not bad.

  ‘Can I just finish off the chapter as you said?’

  Do it in one sentence.

  ‘Beverley shook her head and left to make the evening meal. John was lost in blackness.’

  Fine.

  THIRTEEN

  The men slept under the arch. By curling around their masters the dogs had lent them their warmth and hot breath. Balthasar wondered for a fleeting second why the end of his stave was red.

  ‘I want this to end,’ said Johannes.

  ‘It’s because of you we’re here,’ said Cornelius, immediately regretting what he had said.

  ‘We’ll see it through,’ said Balthasar, alarmed at Johannes’ anguish.

  ‘Pish, shit and holy farts!’ said Cornelius, trying to retrieve the situation.

  ‘Shrivelled pope’s testicles,’ contributed Balthasar, with little enthusiasm for the game.

  ‘The suppurating bowels of Cardinals, and angel dung,’ said Johannes, consumed with gratitude for his friends who were risking all for him.

  After stretching they conferred briefly and agreed to fight their way through the falling snow and put as many miles as possible between themselves and the soldiers who would inevitably return.

  The tumbling white clung to their clothes and faces. It stung their eyes and slid into their mouths, the flakes melting on their tongues. Speech was impossible and each step was heavier then the last. Johannes felt the weight of a young Michel clinging to his leg as had been his wont, obliging his father to walk as if he were completely unaware of the grinning small child holding on for all he was worth.

  Through squinting eyes Cornelius glanced at the blizzard and calculated the average space between the falling motes of heavy whiteness, more numerous than heavenly bodies in the firmament. In a previous life he had stood on the threshold of his cottage and stared in awe at a shower of stars that had raked its way across the northern sky. It was clearly a sign of his good fortune and he had offered thanks for the gift of a wife before closing the door, undressing and sliding into bed alongside Geertje.

  Balthasar was puzzled at how the dogs managed t
o keep going even though the snow was deeper than their legs were long. Somehow they still managed to pull themselves forward with a rhythm reminiscent of the new loom recently purchased at great expense from the squinty-faced Westphalian merchant. At intervals the dogs looked behind to check that the men were keeping up.

  As the dawn broke the snow assumed a reassuring brightness. Apart from the pain and numbness of the cold the main obstacle to their progress was debilitating hunger. In their haste to escape from the camp Balthasar had left behind the holster of food.

  Imperceptibly the snow eased, Cornelius measured once more the average distance between the flakes, a hand span rather than the width of a small bird. The calculation gave him little pleasure. Hunger was making him angry and he improvised an elaborate curse to distract himself.

  ‘May Spanish wombs grow sterile, may their lackey army of lascivious monks choke on their Eucharist.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Johannes.

  ‘May the whorish nuns stuffing their bellies on vittles stolen from the mouths of children die of plague. May their tongues turn into rotten salamanders.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘May the hideous Duke of Alva’s balls be torn from his body by jealous eunuchs … ’

  ‘Where do the jealous eunuchs come from? Are there many of them?’ asked Johannes.

  ‘Trust me, they live in the Hapsburg court,’ said Cornelius. ‘Legions of them.’

  ‘Do you remember the day he passed through the village with his torturers, mercenaries and hangmen?’ asked Balthasar. ‘The Holy Bible had its own horse festooned in silver cloth. Silver cloth for God’s sake!’

  Shortly afterwards a consignment of codpieces in a muslin bag and a clutch of tiny pearls had been delivered to the cottage by a smirking retainer. Wilhelmiens’s fingers were still bleeding from stitching the woollen stockings that had suddenly become popular with the troops camped in the wood. She had no alternative but to agree to sew the pearls onto the codpieces which she then stuffed with spare cloth. What men they must be. What a shock to their women when they tear off the reinforced cloth to reveal the full glory of their mice-like genitals. He regretted linking Wilhelmien and genitals in the same thought. It had been a long time. Many years, he reflected.