‘Come here, you vicious little feathered sod!’ A geuzen whose hand was bleeding from fresh scratches bit into the bird’s neck and threw its twitching corpse into the air. ‘Look, look, the runt has learned to fly after all!’ The men cheered and took avoiding action as the dead bird fell among them with a last defiant flurry of feather and beak.
‘Poor little thing,’ whined another in tones of mock sympathy while holding a petrified foul tightly into his chest. ‘Come to Papa. Don’t be anxious, pretty thing.’
‘It’s a hen, it wants cock!’ shouted his companion, making as if to lower his breeches.
‘It’s certainly prettier than your wife!’
‘ … and more willing by the looks of it!’
As the dead birds fell from their stranglers’ arms they were instantly plucked amid a snowstorm of feathers and windmilling arms. Meanwhile the fires were stoked, the birds were caked in mud and left to roast in the heart of the flames.
‘Do you remember the wedding in St Oedenrode village?’ asked Balthasar.
‘I remember the young maid with the squint,’ said Cornelius.
‘And you a married man,’ chided Johannes.
‘Not then I wasn’t,’ said Cornelius, defensively. ‘Her father found us in the barn. He had a squint as well. And a scythe … ’
‘Is that how you lost your manhood?’ asked Balthasar.
When the geuzen lay sated, clutching their swollen bellies and staring at the stars, two brothers from a village in Friedland moved back along the dyke to inspect the condition of the roosters they had earlier isolated in separate huts. In the morning they proudly announced that a cockfight had been arranged for that evening and that they would manage the betting. Excitement spread through the camp.
‘I know loads of jokes about cock fighting.’
Shut up Jester.
‘The internet is awash with apologists for the barbaric sport. We are told that practitioners spend untold hours caring for hundreds of birds, studying breeding lines and engaging in complex networks of trade and reciprocity. Many have held quasi-spiritual beliefs, viewing the cockfight in metaphorical, almost Darwinian terms … ’
For goodness sake, Academic.
Johannes felt uneasy. He remembered Michel’s aversion to chicken and heard Antonia’s ranting condemnation in his ears. At the time he had supported her and forced the white meat into his son’s mouth. He had choked and retched before retreating to a corner of the house where he lay sobbing. Johannes felt a sudden compulsion to make a sacrifice to whichever God was shaping their destiny, Lutheran, Anabaptist or Catholic. A small act of mercy might make all the difference.
Accordingly when the rest of the men were busy reinforcing the breach that had partially collapsed during the night, he walked to the hut and quietly released the birds.
For much of the next day the men could talk of nothing else. Guilder and promissory notes were exchanged. Shortly before sunset a sizeable crowd had gathered as the brothers made their way towards the huts. The beggars were confident that their bird, Boisot, would quickly tear the eyes and throat from Durant, the bird championed by the militia. When the older of the two brothers broke the news that there would not be a fight, the two factions in the crowd howled with dismay before turning on each other.
Champions for each side were quickly identified. Delighted that they would not, after all, be denied blood a score of men at the heart of the crowd linked arms and formed a ring. The two champions, stripped to the waist by their supporters, went through various routines calculated to intimidate their opponent.
The choice of the heart biter to uphold the pride of the sea beggars was unanimous. Representing the militia was the young subaltern who had hurled the Spanish boy soldier into the flooded water. After circling each other the protagonists engaged. As fists connected with skulls the spectators, baying like curs, were soon splattered with blood. The heart-biting beggar pounded at his opponent’s eye until it swelled like a ripe quince. When the soldier’s eye sunk closer to his cheek the ring broke ranks and a mass brawl erupted. The curdling mass of riot soon attracted the attention of the dyke’s more peaceful residents who rushed either to take sides or separate the warring factions.
Only when the commander of the Walloons discharged his arquebus did the fighting subside. As the injured lay on the ground it became apparent that the allies had inflicted more damage on their own than had the Spanish. A sombre mood descended over the camp. Johannes wondered what the gods would think of him now.
‘I wonder who released the birds,’ mused Cornelius.
Balthasar and one of the pioneers had recognised each other. He was a distant relative of Wilhelmein and the two of them spent many hours reminiscing.
Cornelius coped badly with the inaction and took to walking out along the dyke. On his return from one such excursion he was mistaken for a spy and endured a rigorous altercation with one of the guards. Only when he threatened to disembowel the official with his own pike was he grudgingly allowed to continue.
Johannes, increasingly distressed by the delay, concentrated on whittling pieces of driftwood he had rescued from the flood.
‘What’s that?’ asked Balthasar.
‘An ox,’ said Johannes who had already carved a small goat, a chicken which was in fact the same size as the goat, and a dog. ‘They are for Michel.’
FIFTY-SEVEN
As John stood rigid in the darkness he listened to the Voices reminiscing. It was if they knew that he was about to die and, knowing they would soon be homeless, were attempting something like reconciliation.
‘You’ve gone soft over the years,’ said the Bastard. ‘You’ve mellowed; you’re not the man you were.’
‘Two thousand years is a long time.’
‘Just the twinkling of an eye. We were a great team, and it almost worked. Bread, power and glory. Happy days.’
‘“And when the tempter came to him, he said, if thou be the son of God, command that these stones be made of bread.” You see, you’ve got a mention in the Bible.’
‘Thank you, Academic. You have your uses.’
‘Look, I know we disagree a lot but, do you think, when the time comes and John has gone, that we could reform the group and take to the road again. Perhaps a t-shirt, THE OLD TESTAMENT WILDERNESS TOUR AD 23 …THE HAYMARKET TUNNEL 2012.’
‘We must think about it. Meanwhile there is a job to be finished.’
‘John, listen to me.’ John was surprised; the Tempter rarely spoke with such authority. He was usually no more than a bit player wheedling and cajoling around the edges of his head. ‘Life has not been good to you. You deserve better. You are a man of many gifts who has been thwarted at every turn. Career, relationships, self-esteem all emptied into the sand.’
‘The desert imagery is good; it provides continuity with the first time.’
Academic, don’t distract us. We are nearing the climax. Carry on, Tempter, you are doing very well.
‘Thanks, Boss. John, you are essentially blameless. Abandoned by your father, neglected and forsaken by your mother, abused by the system, you nevertheless fought back. You got through university. Heroic really, courage in the face and all that, but then the downward spiral.’
‘It’s called the cycle of exclusion, it’s a paradigm for individual decline, you know, drink problems, dismissal, divorce, homelessness. A vicious circle in layman’s terms … ’
John’s head was convulsed by a sharp pain. Bizarrely he was convinced that the Bastard had finally punched the Academic.
‘My teeth, my teeth!’
‘As I was saying, you are the innocent victim of your own life, but we have great powers … ’
‘Great powers,’ intoned the Bastard.
‘You see, John,’ said the Tempter, “we can turn back time and stop at a moment that suits you. We have an extensive catalogue to choose from. Let me turn the pages for you. Do you remember this? If memory serves me right this was just before you went to university. A
summer job on that fruit farm. Yes, that’s your ladder resting against the tree. And where are you? There you are, lying in the grass during your lunch break, your sleeves rolled up, brown arms. Just enjoying the sun and feeling sated and content in a way you have never known since. You chose the spot carefully to avoid the cluster of fallen plums covered in bloated drunken wasps scarcely able to drone in the turgid heat. When you close your eyes all you see are succulent purple Vics hanging ripe for the picking. You are daydreaming about the years to come in the fecund groves of academe. New friends, lots of beautiful intense young women eager to be your lovers. You feel slightly roused. We can take you back there, John, no problem.’
‘No problem at all,’ reiterated the Bastard.
‘We have the power.’
‘Feel the sun and listen for the Approach.’
Another screeching train decelerated as it entered the tunnel.
‘Feel the sun, John, and when you’re ready, take that one small step.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
‘Jesus’ Blood!’ shouted Balthasar, above the bombardment. The half cannon on the adjacent corn barge fired the first of its twenty-six-pound balls. The galley was swamped by a small wave generated by the displacement and the crew choked in the smoke drifting across the water. Johannes rammed a finger in each ear as further salvos of hot metal tore through the air towards the Spanish forces dug in either side of the bridge on the Voorweg.
The weavers had no alternative but to wait patiently at their oars as the more experienced geuzen were entrusted with firing and replenishing the smaller cannons attached to the prow of their own vessel. Cornelius extricated himself from the restraining oar to help aboard a soldier staggering through the shallow water dabbing a rag at a wound on his temple.
‘Come, old fellow, sit with us. You’ve done your bit.’
The injured man was followed by his equally dazed and bleeding companions. The cannon they had been firing had wrenched itself from the deck whereupon the splintered planks surrendered. The ship promptly sank to the depth of a man’s arm and nestled on the field beneath it. Other boats, similarly split asunder by the vicious recoil from the guns, also slumped into the water. Completely deafened, Balthasar could only watch as the daylight was progressively swallowed by smoke and fire.
As the man-made meteor storm howled and shrieked above them he saw once more the triptych that had frightened him as a child. Dragged to church by his God-fearing parents and unable to follow the sophistry of the Jesuitical sermon, his eyes were irresistibly attracted to the devils and demons tumbling through a red sky into the maul of hell.
The gateway to perdition was depicted as a large mouth with broken metal teeth surmounted by massive protruding nostrils one of which was pierced by a ring. A single mad eye stared from beneath a wooden shutter on which squatted three small crows. In the foreground a grotesque creature had contorted itself until it could stare from beneath its own legs, holding out a begging bowl with a wooden spoon sticking, inexplicably, out of its arse.
‘We’ve been missing the Bruegel influence. This sounds reminiscent of Dulle Griet or Mad Meg which can be seen at the Musee Mayer van den Bergh in Antwerp. She is a kind of female hell-fiend … ’
You’re showing off again as well as knocking me off my stride.
‘Interestingly, the barrel of a cannon, dating from the time of Philip the Good, in the Friday Market at Ghent, still bears this name … ’
Enough!
‘ … just as Scotch and Irish guns are called ”Mad Meg” and “Roaring Meg”… ’
Balthasar looked at Johannes who was similarly transfixed by the battle. ‘We’ll get there’ he said, ‘we’ll get there.’
No sooner had he consoled his friend than they both heard the order to retreat. Men were still wading and stumbling into the water throwing aside the floating planks and debris in their determination to find a place on one of the boats. Because of the tightly packed nature of the flotilla it was soon apparent that they could not easily escape the Spanish bombardment.
‘If you can stand, leave the boats. Take to the water. Push them by hand!’ Leading by example the Admiral stepped into the water. Cornelius followed him before howling with pain as his thigh became pincered between the hulls of his own galley and that of a corn barge. Balthasar and Johannes forced their bodies into the gap. ‘There’s a man trapped here,’ shouted Balthasar, veins bulging in his neck.
‘Move back!’ urged Johannes. Eventually the boats drifted slightly apart allowing Cornelius to free his leg. His companions, with the help of the same villagers who had earlier mocked the strength of the weavers, managed to heave him onto the galley where he lay cursing. ‘I’m not going home with one leg,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘We can always make you a cart, stick a pike on the font and use you as a weapon,’ said Balthasar.
‘The retreat was a sombre affair made worse by persistent rumours that, tired of fighting from a distance, the French captains, Durant and Catteville, had given the order for their men to land and engage the enemy from behind the peat stacks on the causeway. Noticing too late that the fleet had retreated they took to the water attempting to wade towards the now distant flotilla. Unable to believe their good fortune the Spanish shot them dead where they floundered … ’
Sometimes, Academic, I think you get all this guff from Wikipedia, but thank you nonetheless.
As they slowly returned to the Landscheiding Johannes felt unremitting dread at the realisation that each laborious pull on the oar was taking him further away from Michel.
‘Keep the faith,’ said Balthasar.
‘Mick, you must tell us. He’s your friend, he’s at risk.’ Beverley had exhausted her entire repertoire of gambits. She had threatened, encouraged, offered inducements. She had tried flattery, collusion with his paranoid delusions, sarcasm even, but he was not for divulging anything about John’s whereabouts.
‘I’m not a grass. You’ll not break me. I’ve to live with myself when all this has blown over. John’s his own man. And you ken what the poet said … ’
Beverley had no idea. Derek too tried his best to persuade Mick that there were genuine concerns over John’s safety. They walked down the garden together. Derek glanced into the latest shallow grave that Jack had dug the night before. ‘It happened in Croatia,’ said Mick. ‘It’s always the same. “Let’s go for a walk,” all friendly like. “And by the way, that’s where you’ll be buried if you don’t clype on your pal.”’
By suppertime the other residents had also turned against Mick. Without taking his eyes of the third paragraph on page 172 of the Penguin edition of Nostromo which was proving particularly difficult to memorise, Paul spoke. ‘You’re a disgrace Mick.’
‘Why don’t you say it as it is … ’ muttered Beverley. ‘I’m going to bring your silence up at the house meeting.’
‘Big fat hairy deal,’ retorted Mick. ‘I’m bringing up the fact that you poison the atmosphere with reactionary bourgeois literature. Who cares a shite about what happened to the lighthouse keeper on the island on effing Great Isabel?’
‘There’s no f in Great Isabel,’ said Paul, staring ever more intently at the difficult paragraph.
‘Well, John,’ said the Bastard. ‘You made the wrong choice there didn’t you? I can’t believe that you stepped back in that cowardly way. You had the chance of unending happiness, everlasting content, endless sun but no, you chose to cling to the sad delusion that there you could find hope in your fantasy world. It beggars belief.’
‘Beggars, sea beggars … ’ sniggered the Jester.
‘We too have limited patience, John. We were trying to help, trying to show you a way out of this tunnel, out of this life of unremitting misery, but do you take it? No. However I have consulted with your fellow Voices and we have decided that, because we all have your best interest at heart, we will give you one more chance. Remember you owe us big time after all the kindness we have shown you. Don’t think for one mom
ent it has been easy living in your head. Over to you, Tempter.’
‘Thanks, Boss. Here’s another picture for you, John. I think this was taken even further back; the picture is a bit faded. It’s sunny again. Look at the bird, a distant speck in the blue sky resting on a current of warm air. And that’s you, see, lying on the cliff top. There’s someone next to you. It’s Rebecca, isn’t it? You met her soon after you left the home. You had taken a few days away from the interim hostel or whatever they called it. Your bikes are lying on the path. The half empty bottle of cider is lying between you. Do you remember how moments earlier Rebecca had almost made herself ill with laughter? You had chased her through the dunes impersonating an owl by blowing on the stretched blade of coarse grass held between your thumbs. Listen. The sea sounds distant but comforting. Every seventh wave is a large one, you explained. She counted to six then made a loud roaring noise like a nursery giant that convulsed the pair of you. A small insect has landed on her cheek and she tries to blow upwards from her mouth to dislodge it. You flick your hand towards it and she smiles. Your eyes are closed now. The sun warm on the lids. It feels as if they are open and that the motes you chase are kites in the sky. Close your eyes, John, we can take you back. We have the power. Listen, listen. The rails are humming. It sounds like a gentle wind eager to embrace you. Step out to meet it. Open wide your arms. Join her, John, she’s still waiting for you. Join her!’
FIFTY-NINE
Gerda greeted them like lost friends. ‘Boys’ she cried, ‘what kept you?’
John McPake and the Sea Beggars Page 27
