Panic thumped him in the chest and choked the air from his lungs. He was going to die, as simple as that. He slid down the wet wall and lay in the foetal position, his limbs trembling, his thoughts a turbulent soup of small demons, non sequitors and overwhelming fear.
FIFTY-FOUR
‘Watch what you’re doing!’ shouted Cornelius, as a fat militia man stood on his hand, eager to step from the galley and join his companions as they waded towards the Landscheiding.
Urged by the crews, the soldiers clambered onto the dyke and rushed in both directions with fixed bayonets. Disappointed at meeting no resistance from the Spanish who were scuttling away as fast as they could run along the dyke, they shouted back towards the boats and made beckoning gestures. The galley admiral urged the remaining men to leave their oars and take the pickaxes and shovels that he handed them as they disembarked
Balthasar stepped up to his knees in the cold water. ‘I’m too old for this,’ he said.
‘Come on Granddad,’ retorted Cornelius, jabbing him in the behind with a large trenching tool. Johannes paused for the briefest moment on the gunnels before stepping into the water. He took in the whole of the vast sky, the muted sun struggling to muscle aside the entrenched clouds; a single skylark soared upwards. He knew with absolute certainty that Michel was near! In that certainty he joyfully launched himself further away from the edge of the boat than he intended and fell backwards into the water. Cornelius pulled him up. ‘No need for the bathhouse now,’ he said.
Quickly organised into lines, the crew were set to work digging channels in the dyke to accommodate the explosives being laid by the pioneers. They crouched down and covered their heads when the order was given. The precautions proved inadequate for Balthasar who was hit in the temple by a stone hurled into the air by the explosion. When the dust cleared the others saw him clutching his head. Cornelius staunched the blood and held onto the older man who had staggered into his arms. When satisfied that the cut was superficial Cornelius sat his friend down and offered him water.
‘A war wound,’ said Johannes.
‘You might get a medal,’ said Cornelius.
While Balthasar rested, the hundred or so other men lifted the dislodged rocks and passed them down the line. The militia rested on their rifles and passed comment on progress as the breach grew wider.
The workers at the foot of the emerging gulley were working up to their knees in the water now being held back by the thinnest of barriers. When the breakthrough was made the men cheered and worked harder to turn the culvert into a channel through which the fleet might sail.
Soaked to the skin, the first line of workers was hauled up the sides of the dyke to be replaced by their peers. This process continued for several hours. The weavers pulled their weight but were increasingly aware of the taunt that they could only work with their hands and not their muscles. Finally provoked, Cornelius dropped the stone with which he had been struggling and grabbed the legs of the nearest taunter sitting on the dyke.
‘You miserable piece of Utrecht shite! Low Country puke! Empty-scrotumed eunuch!’ he spluttered, shovelling his struggling adversary into the water. Balthasar and Johannes nodded at each other in unspoken admiration of their friend’s capacity for abuse.
‘An experiment!’ declared Cornelius. ‘Let us see if these hands which evidently lack the strength for menial tasks can hold this unruly turd of a man under the water until he drowns!’
The victim’s fellow workers, all from the same village, understood the message and, muttering, returned to their duties.
The galleys nearest to the dyke rocked as the Delfland waters finally flowed into Rynland. The raucous cheers startled a line of geese that was floating by. Complaining loudly, the birds took to the skies, flying in a long low line before landing on a quieter stretch of water.
As the men returned to their boats a commotion was apparent further along the dyke. Firmly back behind their oars, the crews could only watch as the troops engaged in hand-to-hand combat. There was a strange unreality about the dumb show where a contingent of Spanish troops could be seen running towards the militiamen. As a boy, Cornelius would squat at the foot of the showman’s striped booth and watch delightedly through his fingers as Jan Klaazen gave En Klazien what for.
Balthasar was simply disconcerted watching men killing each other just yards from where he sat, quite unable to intervene. His every sinew strained as he ducked and thrust in physical empathy with the Dutch soldier closest to him. As he looked closer he noticed that the foreigner was no more than fourteen years old. At the moment when the boy was stabbed through the heart by his Dutch enemy, Balthasar wondered if his mother even knew he had enlisted. For a second the two adversaries clutched each other in a passionate embrace before the man extricated himself, and with all his force, hurled the young boy into the water where he lay face down, his blood merging with the current.
‘Narrator, you’re on top of your game. Despite being forbidden to engage with the enemy by the Admiral, the French defied orders and engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Because of the proximity to the dyke the fleet could not fire for fear of hitting their own troops. La Garde excused himself by saying, nor without some justice, that in a first encounter like this, it was important to strengthen the confidence of the troops, and not to encourage the delusion that our men were not equal to the Spanish.’
Thank you, Academic. Can I continue?
‘Be my guest.’
Word soon spread among the men lying exhausted on the galleys that another dyke lay beyond the present one. The Groeneweg, a full foot higher than the Landscheiding, would also have to be breached. And beyond it lay another. Progress to Leyden would be slow. Johannes’ earlier certainty had evaporated. Increasingly he was haunted by the visions of starvation conjured by Blindman. As the stranded cattle lowed in the fading light he heard Michel crying for his father; as the chill night air rolled over the flooded lands he saw his cold son lying on the slabs of the street.
‘Boisot has sent for reinforcements. We wait on the dark water until daybreak.’ The men groaned as the Admiral, his hand still cupped to his ear, passed on the message shouted by a small red-faced geuzen from the nearest boat.
Johannes’s anxiety spread though his limbs. His foot tapped in the bilge. As a consequence his knee knocked against the underside of the shared oar. The agitation woke his companions on either side who had fallen asleep the moment they were in a sitting position.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Balthasar.
‘Michel.’
Balthasar and Cornelius nodded in the dark, unable to conjure any words that would bring comfort to their friend.
The light rain that fell during the night insinuated itself into the bones of the crew, their jute and animal skin clothing became inexorably heavier. Eventually the great puppeteer took pity on his shivering, waterlogged charges and, one by one, cut their strings until they slumped onto the oars where they slept fitfully.
Through half open eyes Johannes looked at the first flickering of dawn playing on the floodwaters. Around him men stretched and sighed. Cornelius woke muttering nonsensical words that carried nuances of affection, as if reluctantly bidding farewell to a lover obliged to leave before daylight. ‘Another day,’ said Balthasar, stating the obvious.
‘Aye,’ agreed Johannes.
Commotion from the neighbouring galleys alerted the crew to the presence of a small armada that had arrived during the night. They had been joined by five companies of Frenchmen and four from Noyelles’ regiment of Walloons. Their own craft rocked alarmingly as the crew rushed to the far side to hail the new arrivals. Friendly greetings and insults were traded across the waters. By now the pale sun had sufficient energy to pick out the helmets of the foreign militiamen. After the provisioning boat had completed its rounds, the Admiral tossed loaves and sausages to the crew.
‘The new day was a reprise of the previous one,’ explained the Academic, bursting enthusiastically into John’s
head. ‘The galleys advanced towards the Groenweg; 600 soldiers disembarked only to find that the dyke was undefended, the weavers again joined the pioneers and stood up to their thighs in water for most of the day manhandling rocks to breach the dyke.’
Academic, while I appreciate your contributions, please remember that I’m the Narrator.
‘Give me a while longer, I’m enjoying this … Cheers accompanied the first galley to penetrate the new channel. The weavers watched both its progress towards the next obstacle, the Voorweg, and its speedy return. Word soon passed round the exhausted labourers that the dyke was heavily defended. It appeared that Valdez had dug in with 3000 troops and heavy artillery … See, this narration stuff is easy … The mood of early enthusiasm was replaced by the sombre realisation that they would have to stay on the Groeneweg until yet more reinforcements could be raised. It could be five more days until they reached Leyden.’
‘The suspense is killing me … ’
‘Bastard, why do you always turn up and spoil things?’ asked the Academic.
‘I was getting bored in that tunnel, he’s started wetting himself, I ask you! He’s less keen on train spotting now, I can assure you of that! Like John, I prefer it here although it is rather damp, I’m getting a bit fed up with the gray skies and there is something undeniably tedious about these Dutch boys … ’
‘He won’t last five more days,’ said Johannes, ‘Five days!’
‘Excellent plan! Keep him in the tunnel for five more days … ’
Both of you, just shut up! Where was I?
Yes. ‘He won’t last five more days,’ said Johannes. ‘Five days!’
‘You don’t know that,’ chided Cornelius.
‘He’s a strong boy,’ added Balthasar. ‘Don’t distress yourself. All will be well,’ he added without conviction.
Pleased to be back on dry land the weavers watched idly as the same peasant who had passed on information about the dykes threw a final armful of wood onto the fire. He was grinning foolishly, wallowing in his new role as camp provider. The men cheered as the revitalised flames chased each other into the twilight. Johannes’ heart sank as the new day’s light fell on the face of Blindman. What was he doing on the Groeneweg? The smirk on his face confirmed that he had already located the position of the weavers. After standing stock still for a moment he moved slowly towards them. The other recumbent men changed position to let him pass.
‘Why have you returned to threaten our peace?’ asked Cornelius, tempted to topple the unwanted visitor into the flames.
Despite the knot in his stomach Johannes knew they had to listen no matter how bad the news.
‘Plague,’ he whined. ‘It has been important to separate those dying of disease from those dying of starvation. The Big Bellies bloated with air and want are starving. Those with apples growing from their groin and armpits, fecund buboes of pus ripe for picking, have the plague. Those with stumbling gait and slurred tongues are vexatious. The apothecaries pull at their hair and stroke their chins as they deliberate; is it the delirium of plague or the craven need for the oblivion of drunkenness? Prisoners fretting under the shadow of the axe now earn coins by dragging the plague-riddled from their homes and throwing them in cellars and pits where they groan and plead.’
‘Ah, book me a holiday there,’ said the Bastard serenely.
Shut up!
‘Where is Michel?’ shouted Johannes, pulling himself within inches of Blindman’s face. As happened before when challenged, he stood silent and motionless. A small thread of mucus hung from his nose. He let it drip rather than wipe it with his sleeve.
‘Please,’ begged Johannes.
‘All in good time. See the queue forming at the flesher’s door?’ Blindman pointed a languid hand towards the dawn. ‘Outside lie the skins of dogs, thick-haired pelts from the pampered. Thin mean skins peppered by the bites of fleas from pauper lairs. Look, see, there’s the brown coat peeled from the night watchman’s beast, greased by tiny urchin hands. Inside on the white slab lie their lard-veined and gristled corpses. Of course the dog meat is rationed, a cupped hand of offal for each child, a small leg for each adult; it’s only fair … ’
The drowned hounds bounded into Balthasar’s head. He glanced across the water as if they might still be swimming, trying to catch up.
‘During the night the pelts too will disappear dragged away by phantoms and wraiths who will scrape, boil, chew and choke on the dog leather.’
‘Where’s Michel?’ whispered Johannes.
‘Do you see the tower?’ asked Blindman. The weavers saw nothing but hazy darkness where the early morning sky and the water blurred together.
‘Look harder: St Pancras’ tower in the square. If you concentrate on the window openings you will see a small figure climbing slowly from one flight to the next. He rests frequently. He is carrying a taper the flame of which he protects with his hand from the wind that is growing stronger with every step. There! He’s made it to the top. Slowly he touches the taper to the snake of powder that winds towards the parapet. It catches; the flame squirts towards the charge. See, the heavens blaze as the volcanic twins, sulphur and saltpetre, embrace in the ecstasy of fire!’ Blindman threw out his arms as if to embrace the twins himself.
Bemused, the weavers scoured the sky for any sign of ecstasy, nothing, not even a single star left over from the night.
‘You lie!’ roared Johannes, rushing at Blindman who stepped aside from the men and sank back into the night.
Cornelius waved his fist in the direction of the disappearing Blindman. ‘If you ever come back I’ll pluck the dead eyes from your sockets, I’ll snap your scrawny neck, and I’ll bury a pikestaff up your arse … next time tell Satan to come himself and not send his stinking messenger!’
Some of the geuzen who were still sleeping twitched as the commotion crept into their fading dreams of home.
‘It’s all true, at least distinctly plausible,’ shrieked the Academic. ‘It’s a matter of historic record that once the sluices had been opened a messenger penetrated Leyden to give hope to the inhabitants. To acknowledge receipt of the message someone flashed a signal from the tower. The Spanish troops outside were so astonished they fired blindly at the city walls.’
‘I’m really bored now’ moaned the Bastard. ‘Total nonsense. I want to go back to the tunnel. I want to make real mischief!’
FIFTY-FIVE
In the tunnel John attracted the attention of several rats. Despite the darkness their eyes were visible as pin pricks of light darting across the rails and over his shoes. On two occasions he hugged the cold stone at the back of the alcove as commuter trains thundered through, inches away. After the second time he was aware of warmth spreading down his thigh. He had wet himself again.
‘One of yours I think,’ said the young policeman, ushering Mick into the hostel with mock politeness.
‘Where did you leave John?’ asked Beverley, having taken repossession of Mick and signed for him as if he had been sent by recorded delivery. ‘For goodness sake, where is
he?’
Mick sank deeper into his seat in the dining room, his eyes completely hidden by his beanie.
‘I’m not saying,’ he growled.
‘In the name of the wee man, why not?’
‘I’ve just been savagely beaten by the fascists.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘I have so.’
‘According to that officer they gave you tea and a bacon roll which is more than you deserve.’
‘Good cop, bad cop routine. I’ve got bruises.’
‘Yes, you fell down the stairs the other night, drunk. Have you forgotten? You asked Janet if she wanted to see your tadger.’
‘Fine girl that.’
‘Listen to me! Where did you leave John?’
‘I’m not saying.’
‘What if he’s in danger?’
‘We’re all in danger. Our cards are marked. They listen to our thoughts. They speak to us
through the TV. Brainwashed. The forces of darkness, repression and retribution.’
‘When was your medication last reviewed?’
‘You see, you’re just one of them. Administer the chemical cosh. Compliance through drugs. I’ll not surrender! You’ll not break me.’
‘Perhaps you should have a lie down, Mick. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘I reckon that’s your last chance gone then, John. Even your old mucker won’t save you. You’re a bit stuck old son.’
Come on, Bastard, give him a break.
‘No chance. Hang on a minute, another train coming.’
For a fleeting flash of a moment the look in the driver’s eyes suggested he had seen some movement in the tunnel. He sounded his horn as the carriages roared past, flickering like slides in an Edwardian magic lantern show.
‘Don’t let me stop you, John. If you think the honourable thing would be to step out then go for it. It would all be over in a second. Then rest. Peace. Perhaps the next train that passes.’
‘He’s still alive!’ said Johannes.
‘What?’
‘Michel’s in the tower. We’ll find him.’
‘This is getting silly. Sometimes I lose all patience with you, John. Here I am thinking of your best interests and all you can do is seek some spurious solace in a delusionary world. I really think you should do the honourable thing and step in front of the next Intercity. He’s waiting for us. Keep the faith!’
‘Research shows that on average train drivers are absent from work after a fatality for at least four months. Post-traumatic stress disorder is predictably common. Arguably if the incident happens in the dark the psychological consequences for the driver will be minimal. He may feel a slight bump, that’s all.’
‘See, even the Academic agrees with me. The time is right.’
FIFTY-SIX
For five days and five nights the beggars, pioneers and militia whiled away the hours on the Groeneweg. The narrow stretch of land had been progressively abandoned by farmers who had left their poultry to fend for themselves. Initially the soaking crews kicked the birds out of their way or swiped at them with their tools but, as they thawed in front of numerous small fires, the men organised a competition to find who could strangle the most hens in a minute. The indignant birds took evasive action darting between the legs of their would-be captors.
John McPake and the Sea Beggars Page 26
