What fame is--Ulrich was to learn!
He saw in Messina the hero of Lepanto revered as a god. Wherever the
victor appeared, fair hands strewed flowers in his path, balconies and
windows were decked with hangings, and exulting women and girls, joyous
children and grave men enthusiastically shouted his name and flung
laurel-wreaths and branches to him. Messages, congratulations and gifts
arrived from all the monarchs and great men of the world.
When he saw the wonderful youth dash by, Ulrich marvelled that his steed
did not put forth wings and soar away with him into the clouds. But he
too, Navarrete, had done his duty, and was to enjoy the sweetness of
renown. When he appeared on Don Juan’s most refractory steed, among
the last of the victor’s train, he felt that he was not overlooked, and
often heard people tell each other of his deeds.
This made him raise his head, swelled his heart, urged him into new
paths of fame.
The commander-in-chief also longed to press forward, but found himself
condemned to inactivity, while he saw the league dissolve, and the fruit
of his victory wither. King Philip’s petty jealousy opposed his wishes,
poisoned his hopes, and barred the realization of his dreams.
Don Juan was satiated with fame. “Power” was the food for which he
longed. The busy spider in the Escurial could not deprive him of the
laurel, but his own “word,” his highest ambition in life, his power, he
would consent to share with no mortal man, not even his brother.
“Laurels are withering leaves, power is arable land,” said Don Juan to
Escovedo.
It befits an emperor’s son, thought Ulrich, to cherish such lofty
wishes; to men of lower rank fame can remain the guiding star on life’s
pathway.
The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there he could find what
he desired.
Don Juan let him go, and when fame was the word, Ulrich had no cause to
complain of its ill-will.
He bore the standard of the proud “Castilian” regiment, and when strange
troops met him as he entered a city, one man whispered to another: “That
is Navarrete, who was in the van at every assault on Haarlem, who, when
all fell back before Alkmaar, assailed the walls again, it was not his
fault that they were forced to retreat... he turned the scale with his
men on Mook-Heath... have you heard the story? How, when struck by two
bullets, he wrapped the banner around him, and fell with, and on it,
upon the grass.”
And now, when with the rebellious army he had left the island of
Schouwen behind him and was marching through Brabant, it was said:
“Navarrete! It was he, who led the way for the Spaniards with the
standard on his head, when they waded through the sea that stormy night,
to surprise Zierikzee.”
Whoever bore arms in the Netherlands knew his name; but the citizens
also knew who he was, and clenched their fists when they spoke of him.
On the battle-field, in the water, on the ice, in the breaches of
their firm walls, in burning cities, in streets and alleys, in
council-chambers and plundered homes, he had confronted them as
a murderer and destroyer. Yet, though the word fame had long been
embittered to him, the inhumanity which clung to his deeds had the least
share in it.
He was the servant of his monarch, nothing more. All who bore the name
of Netherlander were to him rebels and heretics, condemned by God,
sentenced by his king; not worthy peasants, skilful, industrious
citizens, noble men, who were risking property and life for religion and
liberty.
This impish crew disdained to pray to the merciful mother of God and the
saints, these temple violators had robbed the churches of their statues,
driven the pious monks and nuns from their cloisters! They called the
Pope the Anti-Christ, and in every conquered city he found satirical
songs and jeering verses about his lord, the king, his generals and all
Spaniards.
He had kept the faith of his childhood, which was shared by every
one who bore arms with him, and had easily obtained absolution, nay,
encouragement and praise, for the most terrible deeds of blood.
In battle, in slaughter, when his wounds burned, in plundering, at the
gaming-table, everywhere he called upon the Holy Virgin, and also, but
very rarely, on the “word,” fame.
He no longer believed in it, for it did not realize what he had
anticipated. The laurel now rustled on his curls like withered leaves.
Fame would not fill the void in his heart, failed to satisfy his
discontented mind; power offered the lonely man no companionship of
the soul, it could not even silence the voice which upbraided
him--the unapproachable champion, him at whom no mortal dared to look
askance--with being a miserable fool, defrauded of true happiness and
the right ambition.
This voice tortured him on the soft down beds in the town, on the straw
in the camp, over his wine and on the march.
Yet how many envied him. Ay! when he bore the standard at the head of
the regiment he marched like a victorious demi-god! No one else could
support so well as he the heavy pole, plated with gold, and the large
embroidered silken banner, which might have served as a sail for a
stately ship; but he held the staff with his right hand, as if the
burden intrusted to him was an easily-managed toy. Meantime, with
inimitable solemnity, he threw back the upper portion of the body and
his curly head, placing his left hand on his hip. The arch of the broad
chest stood forth in fine relief, and with it the breast-plate and
points of his armor. He seemed like a proud ship under swelling sails,
and even in hostile cities, read admiration in the glances of the gaping
crowd. Yet he was a miserable, discontented man, and could not help
thinking more and more frequently of Don Juan’s “word.”
He no longer trusted to the magic power of a word, as in former times.
Still, he told himself that the “arable field” of the emperor’s son,
“power,” was some thing lofty and great-ay, the loftiest aim a man could
hope to attain.
Is not omnipotence God’s first attribute? And now, on the march from
Schouwen through Brabant, power beckoned to him. He had already tasted
it, when the mutinous army to which he belonged attempted to pillage a
smithy. He had stepped before the spoilers and saved the artisan’s life
and property. Whoever swung the hammer before the bellows was sacred to
him; he had formerly shared gains and booty with many a plundered member
of his father’s craft.
He now carried a captain’s staff, but this was mere mummery, child’s
play, nothing more. A merry soldier’s-cook wore a captain’s plume on the
side of his tall hat. The field-officer, most of the captains and
the lieutenants, had retired after the great mutiny on the island
of Schouwen was accomplished, and their places were now occupied by
ensigns, sergeants and quartermasters. The higher officers had gone
to Brussels, and the mutinous army marched without any chief through
Brabant.
They had not received their well-earned pay for twenty-two months, and
the starving regiments now sought means of support wherever they could
find them.
Two years since, after the battle of Mook-Heath, the army had helped
itself, and at that time, as often happened on similar occasions,
an Eletto--[The chosen one. The Italian form is used, instead of the
Spanish ‘electo’.]--had been chosen from among the rebellious subaltern
officers. Ulrich had then been lying seriously wounded, but after the
end of the mutiny was told by many, that no other would have been made
Eletto had he only been well and present. Now an Eletto was again to
be chosen, and whoever was elected would have command of at least three
thousand men, and possibly more, as it was expected that other regiments
would join the insurrection. To command an army! This was power, this
was the highest attainment; it was worth risking life to obtain it.
The regiments pitched their camp at Herenthals, and here the election
was to be held.
In the arrangement of the tents, the distribution of the wagons which
surrounded the camp like a wall, the stationing of field-pieces at
the least protected places, Ulrich had the most authority, and while
exercising it forced himself, for the first time in his life, to appear
gentle and yielding, when he would far rather have uttered words of
command. He lived in a state of feverish excitement; sleep deserted his
couch, he imagined that every word he heard referred to himself and his
election.
During these days he learned to smile when he was angry, to speak
pleasantly while curses were burning on his lips. He was careful not to
betray by look, word, or deed what was passing in his mind, as he feared
the ridicule that would ensue should he fail to achieve his purpose.
One more day, one more night, and perhaps he would be
commander-in-chief, able to conquer a kingdom and keep the world in
terror. Perhaps, only perhaps; for another was seeking with dangerous
means to obtain control of the army.
This was Sergeant-Major and Quartermaster Zorrillo, an excellent
and popular soldier, who had been chosen Eletto after the battle of
Mook-Heath, but voluntarily resigned his office at the first serious
opposition he encountered.
It was said that he had done this by his wife’s counsel, and this woman
was Ulrich’s most dangerous foe.
Zorrillo belonged to another regiment, but Ulrich had long known him and
his companion, the “campsibyl.”
Wine was sold in the quartermaster’s tent, which, before the outbreak of
the mutiny, had been the rendezvous of the officers and chaplains.
The sibyl entertained the officers with her gay conversation, while they
drank or sat at the gaining-table; she probably owed her name to the
skill she displayed in telling fortunes by cards. The common soldiers
liked her too, because she took care of their sick wives and children.
Navarrete preferred to spend his time in his own regiment, so he did not
meet the Zorrillos often until the mutiny at Schouwen and on the march
through Brabant. He had never sought, and now avoided them; for he knew
the sibyl was leaving no means untried to secure her partner’s election.
Therefore he disliked them; yet he could not help occasionally entering
their tent, for the leaders of the mutiny held their counsels there.
Zorrillo always received him courteously; but his companion gazed at him
so intently and searchingly, that an anxious feeling, very unusual to
the bold fellow, stole over him.
He could not help asking himself whether he had seen her before, and
when the thought that she perhaps resembled his mother, once entered his
mind, he angrily rejected it.
The day before she had offered to tell his fortune; but he refused
point-blank, for surely no good tidings could come to him from those
lips.
To-day she had asked what his Christian name was, and for the first
time in years he remembered that he was also called “Ulrich.” Now he
was nothing but “Navarrete,” to himself and others. He lived solely for
himself, and the more reserved a man is, the more easily his Christian
name is lost to him.
As, years before, he had told the master that he was called nothing but
Ulrich, he now gave the harsh answer: “I am Navarrete, that’s enough!”