“Our money! Our money!”
“There is no money,” del Rio shouted. His hands were slimy with sweat; his back itched, expecting the dagger point between his shoulder blades. “Go to The Brill—destroy the Beggars—they have your money!”
“We won’t move a step until we’re paid!”
Beyond the soldiers, now, del Rio saw, with a certain small surprise, the townspeople were crowding closer. One, a woman, had even pushed in among the soldiers, to hear what they were saying. He dragged his attention from this. He forced his voice steady, his face calm; he looked down on this mad mutinous army like a father on disobedient sons.
“The Beggars stole your money. Destroy them, and the King will give you all you desire, for love of your valor. If you do not, if you continue to defy his wishes, then—”
The yellow-bearded man caught the bridle of del Rio’s horse and dragged the slim head down and sideways in the milling of his arms. “Then we will sack Antwerp!”
Another raw-throated yell went up from the soldiers. The woman elbowed her way even closer. Her face was bright with fury, her eyes direct and clear; she looked up into del Rio’s face and shouted, “You cannot let them. The city is in your charge—on your head, if harm comes to these people who are your responsibility.”
Del Rio blinked at her; he had seen her before somewhere, but his unsettled mind would not connect her with any other memory. A woman of the people. His horse staggered. The yellow-bearded man was wrenching the poor beast’s head around again.
“Our money! Our money, or Antwerp burns!”
Now another outcry rose, this from the townspeople, not the brutal yell of the soldiers, but a wail of terror and rage kept silent too long, bursting forth now irresistibly. They pressed closer around the soldiers, and del Rio saw, in the calm of despair, that they outnumbered the soldiers, and they carried weapons—not pikes, but clubs of wood, and rakes from their gardens, and knives from their kitchens. There were as many women among them as men, which gave their collective voice its higher pitch, its birdlike clarity. He tore his gaze away, back to the yellow beard.
“You are treading the edge of disaster. Now, while you can, form ranks, obey your officers, and make yourselves an army again—”
“The Beggars!”
The clear feminine voice rose above all the racket like a flag above the surge and chaos of the crowd. It was the woman of the people. She had climbed up on something, not far from del Rio; she was pointing out over the crowd toward the river, and her voice pierced the clamor.
“The Beggars! The Beggars are coming!”
A gasp went up from the soldiers and the townspeople alike, as if they drew one breath into one set of lungs. Every head turned. There, on the muddy Schelde, beyond the supply barges tied up at the citadel wharves, a white sail glided, and beyond it another, and beyond that, another still.
“The Beggars. The Beggars are coming!”
The townsfolk roared. They rushed forward in a single mass against the soldiers, and like reeds before the scythe the men of Spain went down.
“Wait,” del Rio shouted, but his voice was lost in the screaming and shouting of the men around him. They were running. The yellow-bearded man still had del Rio’s horse, and he dragged it around by the bridle and led it in a wild plunge down the parade ground. The other soldiers followed in a ride toward the shelter of the citadel.
“Wait,” del Rio shrieked. No one heeded him. He waved his arms and wrenched at his reins; he twisted to look across the surging crowd at the river, where the three sails, drifting closer, revealed themselves to be no more than garbage scows. No one stopped. With the townspeople hewing and clawing at their backs, King Philip’s army fled in a wild rout into the new fortress, del Rio hustled along in their midst, and slammed the gates, and hid.
Hanneke did not think it would last very long. She sat with her knees tucked up to her chest on the pounded earth of the parade ground and watched the people of Antwerp dancing in rings on the lower meadow. They had done a wonderful thing; they had driven off the evil that had hung so long over their heads, but she did not think it would stay away long.
Nearby her was the dead horse she had stood on when she called the name of the Beggars and brought a phantom navy to these people’s aid. A dozen women in bloody aprons were butchering it; they would eat meat tonight. The men were breaking into the supply barges along the river, and would find more food there. But it would not last.
What would last was in the north, where the Beggars had taken a city and could stand, their backs to the ever-nourishing sea. Even now, she knew, from the shortened speech of the Spanish governor, the Duke of Alva was planning a counterattack on The Brill; and that would be the measure of the future, not this business here in Antwerp.
It was there that she was called to go. What called her she had no name for: only, as she sat looking over the slope, the rings of dancers, the women cutting up the dead horse, the children, who finding bits of wood, pretended to fight, the young mothers nursing their babies, the old men standing deep in talk, the citadel behind them, the broad brown reach of the river like a hem along the foot of the slope—she saw in this variety an order, like the order of the starry sky at night, too large for a human mind to comprehend, but clear enough to God. In that order she moved like a wisp of dandelion seed that sailed the wind.
Her brother. She had not heard from him in years, but he had gone to sea. She gave no hope, no longing expectation to finding him ever again, but the wind that brushed her cheek and urged her north was the air that filled his sails. She stood up, shaking the dirt from her dress, and started away down the road.
23
“Heave!”
The men threw themselves against the rope; with a whir and a groan the block rolled the slack line through and took the weight of the big brass cannon. Jan leaned over the edge of the rampart to watch the gun climb slowly up through the air toward him. With one outstretched hand he motioned the men to pull.
They leaned into the rope, hoisting the cannon, nose first, up into the air, while the three sailors around it supported it in their arms like a great brass baby. Behind Jan there was an ominous popping of wood. He screwed his head around toward the mast they had rigged against the city wall to carry the block and tackle. The mast popped again.
“Avast! Let her down.” Frantically he milled his arms at the four men on the rope.
They let the rope slide. Singing through the rollers, it flew slack, and the cannon sank down toward the ground; but the mast was splitting, end to end, with a scream like a murdered man. Jan leapt down off the wall. The cannon fell in its net of ropes. The men around it took the weight on their arms and it bore them down to their knees, their mouths flying open at the shock. Someone watching wailed. Jan flung himself at the big gun, wrapped his arms around the barrel, braced his legs, and planted himself. The cold weight dropped into his embrace, crushing his shirt, driving him down. He gasped. Other men rushed in around him. With their help he lowered the great gun down to the street.
“Aaah.”
His breath exploded from him in relief. The other men clapped him on the shoulders.
“I thought I was dead,” said Marten. Naked to the waist, he held out his arms, where bands of bruises already purpled the flesh where the gun had fallen. “Until I saw you there.”
He flung one arm around Jan’s neck and hugged him. Jan nudged him away with his elbow.
“Enough of that. We need another sheer. Two masts, this time—lash them together.” He looked up at the rampart over his head, where the gun was to sit. It seemed an immense distance. He thrust off his doubts and pointed to various men of his crew.
“You and you, go fetch the masts. Get sound ones. Marten, bring me thirty fathoms of line—anchor cable, if you can find it.” He wiped the sweat from his face on his sleeve. A long rip opened the white linen from shoulder to elbow. He fingered the edge. “My wife won’t like the looks of that.”
“Your wife is
glad enough it’s just your shirt.” Eleanor came up the street toward him, smiling, but pale as the shirt itself. A basket hung on her arm. “I brought you dinner. Have you time to eat?”
He took her up on the rampart to share the meal with her. They sat looking out over the fields outside The Brill. Cows grazed on the meadow grass below the wall. The land stretched flat as a table out to the dike; not a tree grew on it. Jan ate bread and the good yellow cheese of the district.
Two women in white starched coifs were coming along the top of the dike toward the city, baskets on their arms, probably from the onion fields on the far side. A dog gamboled along ahead of them, its head turned toward them. They were townspeople, some of the few who had come back to The Brill after the Beggars seized the town.
He wondered what the rest would do—if they would come back. He hoped not all. The house where he was living suited him very well, and he had no desire to give it up to its rightful owner.
“Who is that?” Eleanor pointed.
Jan shaded his eyes with his hand. Coming along the flat lowland was a troop of horsemen.
“Lumey,” he said. “Back from another raid.”
Eleanor leaned over the basket, looking for the knife, and cutting herself another slice of bread spread fresh butter over it. She wore a blue dress, the cloth smooth and plump over her breast. “Is he your leader?”
Jan moved his shoulders, having no answer he liked to that question. Now that the double file of horsemen was closer, he could see Lumey himself in the lead, his beard bright with ribbons. The gaudy coat he wore was the embroidered vestment of a Catholic priest. The line of prisoners he dragged in his train was doubtless made up of priests. Jan turned his head and spat over the wall.
“Good cannot come of his bloody deeds,” said Eleanor, her eyes lowered.
In his heart Jan agreed with her, but he would not say so; Lumey was their leader, by word of the Prince of Orange, and if they argued with that now, where would they stop arguing? Now they needed unity, of mind, of purpose, of leadership. Lumey gave orders well enough, when the need called for it. Jan stood up, brushing the crumbs from his thighs. As he always did, he turned to look north, where the dike curved around to shut out the sea.
The wind was fierce out of the north today, driving the waves hard against the rocks on the outside of the dike. White fingers of spume flew up over the earthen wall.
“Here come your men,” Eleanor said.
He went down to rig the sheer to the wall and raise the cannon up into place to defend The Brill.
“I have heard,” Lumey said tenderly, “that priests have no balls. What do you say to that?”
He sat in a chair before the first of his victims, a young man in a cassock, his eyes round and glistening with fear. He was tied by the arms and waist to an upright beam of the house. Jan squirmed to see this. The chair he had taken was too small for him. He cast a longing look at the door.
“Well, he’s not talking,” Lumey said, genially. “We’ll have to see for ourselves.”
He held a broad-bladed fish knife in one hand, and reaching it out he slipped it into the front of the priest’s sober dark gown and with a twist of his wrist slashed it open from the priest’s waist to the hem. The young man whimpered. Against the wall behind him, the other captives mumbled their prayers and strained against their bonds.
Jan said, “You’re mad, Lumey.”
Around the room, the admiral’s other guests agreed with that. Lumey only laughed. With the saw-toothed fish knife, he lifted up half the priest’s garment.
“By God! It was a lie all this time. He does have balls.”
The knife probed the priest’s genitals. Jan’s hand slipped down to his crotch. The small hairs crawled on his nape and the insides of his thighs. Sweat pebbled the face of the young priest; he was staring away, over Lumey’s head, into the darkness, his eyes glassy.
“Well,” Lumey said. “Priests should have no balls. I shall remedy this one’s defect right—now—”
The shriek from the young man’s lips struck through Jan like a shock of lightning. He leapt up out of his confining chair and made for the door.
“Woman-hearted, are you, sailor boy?” Lumey roared in exaltation, and held up the dead parts on the tip of his fish knife. Jan opened the door. The other priests lined the wall beside it; some overflowed with prayers, and one had fainted, and more than one were cursing like seamen. Jan gave them an instant’s sympathetic glance.
“Keep courage,” he said, and went out to the street.
Baron van Treslong was already out there, leaning up against the wall that separated the house from the common thoroughfare, twining his fingers together. Jan stood beside him a long moment before either of them spoke.
Van Treslong said, “God help me, I know they are Papists, but I would save them if I could.”
“We’ve got pistols,” Jan said. “Let’s go back in there and stop this—this—”
“You are still young,” van Treslong said, and taking Jan’s arm he steered him away down the street, away from Lumey’s house, where now as they left another shriek rang out. “Things are still very simple to you, Master van Cleef.”
“They are Dutch,” Jan said.
The dark houses on either side were deserted. Their footsteps rang hollow in the empty street. Van Treslong’s arm was linked with Jan’s, a heavy pressure like a chain. Suddenly he longed for the sea and its simple order.
“If we offend Lumey, he will leave,” said van Treslong. “Together with his ships and crews, and probably several other captains and their ships and crews. And then how will we hold The Brill? Besides, Orange made him admiral. Only Orange can remove him.”
They turned the corner. To the left now was the harbor, where their ships rocked at anchor, their masts gaunt against the starry sky. Jan kicked a stone across the wharf.
“Orange,” he said, scornful. “That nothing prince.”
“Hold,” van Treslong said. “Speak well of the Prince of Orange.”
“Why should I? What does he, but sit in safety at some friendly court and write us letters that send other men out to die? We took The Brill. We have seized our fortunes by God’s grace, not Orange’s.”
“Hold,” a harsh voice called behind them, and they wheeled around, separating. It was the watch, manned by local Calvinists, who walked up toward them under their lantern and peered into their faces.
“Good evening, Captain. Good evening, sir.” Tipped their hats, and went off down the street. Jan watched them go, bouyed up by their respect; he began to feel a little better about Lumey.
Van Treslong came back to his side. “You have never met the Prince.”
“No.”
“Then let me ask you this, if there were a man in all things so unlike Lumey as an angel to the Devil himself—who is gentle even to captive enemies, who thinks ever of the long view and the people’s good, who counts his own advantage last of all his necessaries, and who understands statecraft as a needlewoman does her handiwork—would you not want him to help us make our country free?”
He flung a quick glance at Jan, who shut his lips and would not speak; he saw he was being led along like a child.
“Think on it,” said the baron. “We must make our country free of the King who has always ruled us, free of Spanish law and Catholic order—make a whole new kingdom, as it were, the way a set of carpenters and masons builds a house from the ground up.”
They turned into the broad main street that ran past the town hall to the land gate. Jan shoved his hands under his belt. Van Treslong’s words fascinated him; he had given no thought to any of this before. It had never occurred to him that they would have to shape their country again. It had seemed to him that countries had shapes as people did, from their birth, that could not change.
“Can you do it?” the baron said. “I cannot. I do not know what to do—who should do what the King did, in the old way, or even what it was he did, really. How to order church and sta
te so that both thrive, how to keep the peace without tyranny, how to hear the voices of all the sorts of people, how to make new laws and judge the old ones, how to speak to other countries and have them speak to us—I know nothing of this. Orange knows. He is no soldier. But he’ll make a king.”
“Hunh.” Jan walked on awhile, van Treslong at his elbow and his eyes lowered, thinking of all this—thinking, too, that van Treslong knew a deal more than he admitted. He shook himself.
“Why are we talking like this? There will be no new kingdom. When Alva gets here, we’ll all be dead.”
Van Treslong said, “That’s in God’s hands.”
“You brought us here. Taking The Brill was your idea. Did you plan it all simply that we should die?”
The baron said, “I planned nothing. I only asked of you, of all of us, that we—you put it best, van Cleef—that we be greater than pirates.” He smiled; they were in the main street, beside the canal, and the few houses where people still lived shed the light from the lanterns over their doors in trails across the water. Jan could see the baron’s face in the faint glow. “If we die, yet we cannot fail. Everyone now will know what we have chosen to die for. Others will make the same choice. In time, there will be enough. More than enough.”
Jan said, “A human sacrifice.”
“I hope not.”
“Damn it, I don’t want to die. I just got married.”
“It’s your choice.”
They walked on toward the gate, where voices were rising; Jan at first paid no heed to that, his head heavy with arguments and counterarguments. Reaching the open square before the gate, he caught the voices in his ear and stopped.
“We cannot let you in!” someone was calling, on the top of the wall. “Wait until morning.”
Faintly, another voice answered, unintelligible, from beyond the wall. Van Treslong stepped forward. “What’s this?”
On the top of the wall, the sentry wheeled around. “Captain—my lord—some woman’s come, she wants to join us. Shall I open the gate and let her in?”
The Sea Beggars Page 38
