THE LAST STAND
I
The word has gone round, we must all assemble in the cathedral
church--every burgher, every artisan, every apprentice who belongs by
blood to Ghent must for the nonce cast aside pick and shovel: the dead
can wait! the living claim attention.
Quite a different crowd from that which knelt at prayer this morning!
It is just two o'clock and the sacred edifice is thronged: up in the
galleries, the aisles, the chancel, the organ loft, the pulpit,
everywhere there are men--young and old--men who for two days now have
been face to face with death and who wear on their grim faces the traces
of the past fierce struggle and of the coming cataclysm. There are no
women present. They have nobly taken on the task of the men, and the
dainty burghers' wives who used to spend their time at music or
needlework, wield the spade to-day with as much power as their strength
allows.
Perfect order reigns despite the magnitude of the crowd: those who found
no place inside the building, throng the cemetery and the precincts.
Behind the high altar the Orangist standard is unfurled, and in front of
the altar rails stand the men who have fought in the forefront of the
insurgents' ranks, who have led every assault, affronted every danger,
braved musket fire and arrow-shot and burning buildings and crumbling
ruins, the men who have endured and encouraged and cheered: Mark van
Rycke the popular leader, Laurence his brother, Pierre Deynoot, Lievin
van Deynse, Frederic van Beveren and Jan van Migrode, who is seriously
wounded but who has risen from his sick bed and crawled hither in order
to add the weight of his counsel and of his enthusiasm to what he knows
van Rycke will propose.
Yes! they are there, all those that are left! and with them are the
older burghers, the civic dignitaries of their city, the Sheriffs of the
Keure, the aldermen, the vroedschappen, the magistrates, and the
High-Bailiff himself--he who is known to be such a hot adherent of Alva.
It is he who has convened this meeting--a general rally of the citizens
of Ghent. He called them together by roll of drums and by word of mouth
transmitted by volunteer messengers who have flown all over the town.
This morning we spent in prayer--to-day is a day of peace--let us meet
and talk things over, for if wisdom waits upon enthusiasm, all is not
lost yet. The proposal has come from the High-Bailiff, at the hour of
noon when men only thought of the grim work of burying the dead, and
women wandered through the streets to search for the loved one who has
been missing since yesterday.
But at the word of the High-Bailiff the men laid aside their picks and
spades. If all is not lost, why then there's something still to do
and--the dead must wait.
And every man goes to the cathedral church to hear what the High-Bailiff
has to say: the church and precincts are crowded. In silence every one
listens whilst he speaks. He has always been a faithful subject of King
Philip, an obedient servant of the Regent and the Lieutenant-Governor:
his influence and well-known adherence to the King has saved the city
many a time from serious reprisals against incipient revolt and from
many of the horrors of the Inquisition. Now, while up there in the
Kasteel Alva impatiently awaits the arrival of fresh troops which will
help to crush the rebellious city, the High-Bailiff pleads for
submission.
He has faith in the human tiger.
"Let us throw ourselves at his feet," he urges, "he is a brave soldier,
a great warrior. He will respect your valorous resistance if he sees
that in the hour when you have the advantage over him you are prepared
to give in, and to throw yourselves upon his mercy. Let us go--we who
are older and wiser--let those who have led this unfortunate revolt keep
out of the way--I will find the right words I know to melt the heart of
our Lieutenant-Governor now turned in wrath against us--let us go and
cry for mercy and, by God, I believe that we shall get it."
Like the waves upon the sea, the crowd in the church moves and
oscillates: murmurs of assent and dissent mingle from end to end, from
side to side: "No!--Yes!--'Twere shameful!--'Twere wise!--There are the
women to think of!--And the children!--He will not listen!--Why this
purposeless abasement?"
Van Rycke and the other leaders make no comment upon the High-Bailiff's
appeal--even though their whole soul revolts at the thought of this
fresh humiliation to be endured by the burghers of Ghent, once so proud
and so independent! But they won't speak! Mark knows that with one
word he can sway the whole of this crowd. They are heroes all--every
one of these men. At one word from him they will cast aside every
thought save that of the renewed fight--the final fight to the
death--they are seething with enthusiasm, their blood is up and prudence
and wisdom have to be drilled into them now that they have tasted of the
martyr's cup.
You can hear Father van der Schlicht's voice now. He too is for
humility and an appeal for mercy on this the festival day of the Holy
Redeemer. The Lieutenant-Governor is a pious man and a good Catholic.
The appeal is sure to please his ears. Oh! the virtues that adorn the
Duke of Alva in the estimation of his adherents! He is pious and he is
brave! a good Catholic and a fine soldier! mercy in him is allied to
wisdom! he will easily perceive that to gain the gratitude of the
citizens of Ghent would be more profitable to him than the destruction
of a prosperous city. See this truce which he himself suggested: was it
not the product of a merciful and a religious mind? To pray in peace,
to obey the dictates of the Church, to give the enemy the chance of
burying the dead!--were these not the sentiments of a good and pious
man?
Messire Henri de Buck, senior Schepen and Judge of the High Court, has
many tales to tell of the kindness and generosity of the Duke. Oh! they
are very eloquent, these wealthy burghers who have so much more to lose
by this revolt than mere honour and mere life!
And the others listen! Oh yes! they listen! need a stone be left
unturned? and since Messire the High-Bailiff hath belief in his own
eloquence, why! let him exercise it of course. Not that there is one
whit less determination in any single man in the crowd! If the
High-Bailiff fails in his mission, they will fight to the last man
still, but ... oh! who can shut his heart altogether against hope? And
there are the women and the children ... and all those who are old and
feeble.
God speed to you then, my Lord High-Bailiff--Charles van Rycke, the
pusillanimous father of a gallant son! God speed to all of you who go
to plead with a tiger to spare the prey which he already holds between
his claws! The High-Bailiff will go and with him Father van der
Schlicht and Father Laurent Toch from St. Agneten, and Messire de Buck
and Francois de Wetteren: all the men who two days ago were kneeling in
the mud at the tyrant's feet, and presented him so humbly with the gates
of the city which he had sworn to destroy. There is no cheering as they
detach themselves from the group of the rebel leaders who still stand
somewhat apart, leaving the crowd to have its will.
No cheering, it is all done in silence! Men do not cheer on the eve of
being butchered; they only look on their standard up above the high
altar behind the carved figure of the Redeemer, and though they have
given silent consent for this deputation to the tyrant they still murmur
in their hearts: "For Orange and Liberty!"
Jan van Migrode, weak and ill from his wound, has had the last word. He
begs that every one should wait--here--just as they are ... in silence
and patience ... until the High-Bailiff and his friends come back with
the news ... good or bad! peace or renewed fighting--life or
death!--whichever it is they must all be together in order to decide.
Just at the last the High-Bailiff turns to his son.
"You do not approve of our going, Mark?" he asks with some diffidence.
"I think that it is purposeless," replies Mark; "you cannot extract
blood out of a stone, or mercy out of the heart of a brute!"
II
They go, the once proud burghers of the city of Ghent, they go to throw
themselves for the last time at the feet of that monster of tyranny and
cruelty who even at this hour is gloating over the thought of the most
deadly reprisals he hath ever dealt to these down-trodden people.
They go with grave yet hopeful faces, in their dark robes which are the
outward sign of the humility, the loyalty which dwell in their hearts.
The crowd have wished them God speed! and as they file out of the
stately cathedral and through the close, the men stand respectfully
aside and eye them with a trustful regard which is infinitely pathetic.
Their leaders have remained beside the altar rails, grouped together,
talking quietly among themselves: Mark van Rycke, however, goes to
mingle with the crowd, to speak with all those who desire a word with
him, with the men whose heart is sore at the humiliation which they are
forced to swallow, who would sooner have died than see the dignitaries
of their city go once again as suppliants before that execrable tyrant
whom they loathe.
"What is thine idea, van Rycke?" most of the men ask him as they crowd
around him, anxious to hear one word of encouragement or of hope. "Dost
think the tyrant will relent?"
"Not unless we hold him as he holds us--not unless we have him at our
mercy."
"Then what can we do? what can we do?"
"Do?" he reiterates for the hundredth time to-day, "do? Fight to the
last man, die to the last man, until God, wearied of the tyrant's
obstinacy, will crush him and give us grace."
"But we cannot win in the end."
"No! but we can die as we have lived, clean, undaunted, unconquered."
"But our wives, our daughters?"
"Ask them," he retorts boldly. "It is not the women who would lick the
tyrant's shoes."
The hour drags wearily on. In imagination every one inside and around
the cathedral follows the burghers on their weary pilgrimage. Half an
hour to walk to the Kasteel, half an hour for the audience with the
Duke, half an hour to return ... unforeseen delay in obtaining
admittance ... it may be two hours before they return. Great many of
the men have returned to the gloomy task of burying the dead, others to
that of clearing the streets from the litter which encumbers them: but
even those who work the hardest keep their attention fixed upon the
cathedral and its approach.
Van Rycke had suggested that the great bell be rung when the burghers
came back with the Duke's answer, so that all who wished could come and
hear.
III
And now the answer has come.
The High-Bailiff has returned with Fathers van der Schlicht and Laurent
Toch, with Aldermen de Buck and de Wetteren and with the others. They
have walked back from the Kasteel bareheaded and shoeless with their
hands tied behind their back, and a rope around their neck.
That was the Duke of Alva's answer to the deputation of Flemish
patricians and burghers who had presented themselves before him in order
to sue for his mercy. They had not even been admitted into his
presence. The provost at the gate-house had curtly demanded their
business, had then taken their message to the Duke, and returned five
minutes later with orders to "send back the beggars whence they came,
bareheaded and shoeless and with a rope around their necks in token of
the only mercy which they might expect from him!"
The bridge had been lowered for them when they arrived, but they were
kept parleying with a provost at the gate-house: not a single
officer--even of lower rank--deigned to come out to speak with them; the
yard was filled with soldiers who insulted and jeered at them: the
High-Bailiff was hit on the cheek by a stone which had been aimed at
him, and Father Laurent Toch's soutane was almost torn off his back.
Every one of them had suffered violence at the hands of the soldiery
whilst the Duke's abominable orders were being carried out with
appalling brutality: every one of them was bleeding from a cut or a blow
dealt by that infamous crowd who were not ashamed thus to maltreat
defenceless and elderly men.
When they crossed the open tract of country between the castle moat and
the Schelde a shower of caked mud was hurled after them from the
ramparts; not a single insult was spared them, not a sting to their
pride, not a crown to their humiliation. It was only when they reached
the shelter of the streets that they found some peace. In silence they
made their way toward the cathedral. The crowds of men and women at
work amongst the dead and the wounded made way for them to allow them to
pass, but no one questioned them: the abject condition in which they
returned told its own pitiable tale.
The cathedral bell had tolled, and from everywhere the men came back to
hear the full account of the miserable mission. The crowd was dense and
not every one had a view of the burghers as they stood beside the altar
rail in all their humiliation, but those who were nearest told their
neighbours and soon every one knew what had happened.
The younger leaders ground their heels into the floor, and Jan van
Migrode, sick and weak as he was, was the first to stand up and to ask
the citizens of Ghent if the events of to-day had shaken them in their
resolve.
"You know now what to expect from that fiend. Will you still die like
heroes, or be slaughtered like cattle?" he called out loudly ere he fell
back exhausted and faint.
Horror had kept every one dumb until then, and grim resolve did not
break into loud enthusiasm now, but on the fringe of the crowd there
were a number of young men--artisans and apprentices--who at first sight
of the returned messengers had loudly murmured and cursed. Now one of
them lifted up his voice. It raised strange echoes in the mutilated
church.
"We are ready enough to die," he said, "and we'll fight to the end,
never fear. But before the last of us is killed, before that execrable
tyrant has his triumph over us, lads of Ghent, I ask you are we not to
have our revenge?"
"Yes! yes!" came from a number of voices, still from the fringe of the
crowd where the young artisans were massed together, "well spoken, Peter
Balde! let us have revenge first!"
"Revenge! Revenge!" echoed from those same ranks.
Every word echoed from pillar to pillar in the great, bare, crowded
church; and now it was from the altar rails that Mark van Rycke's voice
rang out clear and firm:
"What revenge dost propose to take, Peter Balde?" he asked.
The other, thus directly challenged by the man whose influence was
paramount in Ghent just now, looked round at his friends for approval.
Seeing nothing but eager, flushed faces and eyes that glowed in response
to his suggestion, the pride of leadership entered his soul. He was a
fine, tall lad who yesterday had done prodigies of valour against the
Spanish cavalry. Now he had been gesticulating with both arms above his
head so that he was easily distinguishable in the crowd by those who had
a clear view, and in order to emphasize his spokesmanship his friends
hoisted him upon their shoulders and bearing him aloft they forged their
way through the throng until they reached the centre of the main aisle.
Here they paused, and Peter Balde could sweep the entire crowd with his
enthusiastic glance.
"What I revenge would take?" he said boldly. "Nay! let me rather ask:
what revenge must we take, citizens of Ghent? The tyrant even now has
abused the most sacred laws of humanity which bid every man to respect
the messengers of peace. He is disloyal and ignoble and false. Why
should we be honourable and just? He neither appreciates our loyalty
nor respects our valour--let us then act in the only way which he can
understand. Citizens, we have two thousand prisoners in the cellars of
our guildhouses---two thousand Walloons who under the banner of our
common tyrant have fought against us ... their nearest kindred. I
propose that we kill those two thousand prisoners and send their heads
to the tyrant as a direct answer to this last outrage."
"Yes! yes! Well said!" came from every side, from the younger artisans
and the apprentices, the hot-headed faction amongst all these brave
men--brave themselves but writhing under the terrible humiliation which
they had just endured and thirsting for anything that savoured of
revenge.
"Yes! yes! the axe for them! send their heads to the tyrant! Well
spoken, Peter Balde," they cried.
The others remained silent. Many even amongst the older men perhaps
would have echoed the younger ones' call: cruelty breeds cruelty and
oppression breeds callous thoughts of revenge. Individually there was
hardly a man there who was capable of such an act of atrocious barbarism
as the murder of a defenceless prisoner, but for years now these people
had groaned under such abominable tyranny, had seen such acts of wanton
outrage perpetrated against them and all those they held dear,
that--collectively--their sense of rightful retribution had been warped
and they had imbibed some of the lessons of reprisals from their
execrable masters.
At the foot of the altar rails the group of leaders who stood as a
phalanx around Mark van Rycke their chief, waited quietly whilst the
wave of enthusiasm for Balde's proposal rose and swelled and mounted
higher and higher until it seemed to pervade the whole of the sacred
edifice, and then gradually subsided into more restrained if not less
enthusiastic determination.
"We will do it," said one of Balde's most fervent adherents. "It is only
justice, and it is the only law which the tyrant understands--the law of
might."
"It is the law which he himself has taught us," said another, "the law
of retributive justice."
"The law of treachery, of rapine, and of outrage," now broke in Mark's
firm, clear voice once more; it rose above the tumult, above the hubbub
which centred round the person of Peter Balde; it rang against the
pillars and echoed from end to end of the aisle. "Are we miserable
rabble that we even dream of murder?"
"Not of murder," cried Balde in challenge, "only of vengeance!"
"Your vengeance!" thundered Mark, "do you dare speak of it in the house
of Him who says 'I will repay!'"
"God is on our side, He will forgive!" cried some of them.
"Everything, except outrage! ... what you propose is a deed worthy only
of hell!"
"No! no! Balde is right! Magnanimity has had its day! But for this
truce to-day who knows? we might have been masters of the Kasteel!"
"Will the murdering of helpless prisoners aid your cause, then?"
"It will at least satisfy our craving for revenge!"
"Right, right, Balde!" they all exclaimed, "do not heed what van Rycke
says."
"We will fight to-morrow!"
"Die to-morrow!" they cried.
"And blacken your souls to-day!" retorted Mark.
The tumult grew more wild. Dissension had begun to sow its ugly seed
among these men whom a common danger, united heroism, and courage had
knit so closely together. The grim, silent, majestic determination of a
while ago was giving place slowly to rabid, frenzied calls of hatred, to
ugly oaths, glowing eyes and faces heated with passion. The presence of
the dozen elderly patricians and burghers still bare-headed and
shoeless, still with the rope around their necks, helped to fan up the
passions which their misfortunes had aroused. For the moment, however,
the hot-headed malcontents were still greatly in the minority, but the
danger of dissent, of mutiny was there, and the set expression on the
faces of the leaders, the stern look in Mark van Rycke's eyes testified
that they were conscious of its presence.
IV
Then it was that right through this tumult which had spread from the
building itself to the precincts and even beyond, a woman's cry rang out
with appalling clearness. It was not a cry of terror, rather one of
command, but so piercing was it that for the moment every other cry was
stilled: Peter Balde's adherents were silenced, and suddenly over this
vast assembly, wherein but a few seconds ago passions ran riot, there
fell a hush--a tension of every nerve, a momentary lull of every
heart-beat as with the prescience of something momentous to which that
woman's cry was only the presage.
And in the midst of that sudden hush the cry was heard again--more
clearly this time and closer to the cathedral porch, so that the words
came quite distinctly:
"Let me get to him ... take me to your leader ... I must speak with him
at once!"
And like distant thunder, the clamour rose again: men and women shouted
and called; the words: "Spaniard!" and "Spy!" were easily
distinguishable: the crowd could be seen to sway, to be moving like a
huge wave, all in one direction toward the porch: hundreds of faces
showed plainly in the dull grey light as necks were craned to catch a
glimpse of the woman who had screamed.
But evidently with but rare exceptions the crowd was not hostile: those
who had cried out the word "Spy!" were obviously in the minority. With
death looming so near, with deadly danger to every woman in the city
within sight, every instinct of chivalry toward the weak was at its
greatest height. Those inside the cathedral could see that the crowd
was parting in order to let two women move along, and that the men in
the forefront elbowed a way for them so that they should not be hindered
on their way. It was the taller of the two women who had uttered the
piteous yet commanding appeal: "Let me go to him!--take me to your
leader!--I must speak with him!"
She reiterated that appeal now--at the south porch to which she had been
literally carried by the crowd outside: and here suddenly three stalwart
men belonging to one of the city guilds took, as it were, possession of
her and her companion and with vigorous play of elbows and of staves
forged a way for them both right up to the altar rails. Even whilst in
the west end of the church the enthusiastic tumult around Peter Balde
which this fresh incident had momentarily stilled, arose with renewed
vigour, and the young artisans and apprentices once more took up their
cry: "Revenge! Death to all the prisoners!" the woman, who was wrapped
up in a long black mantle and hood, fell--panting, exhausted,
breathless--almost at Mark van Rycke's feet and murmured hoarsely:
"Five thousand troops are on their way to Ghent ... they will be here
within two hours ... save yourselves if you can."
Her voice hardly rose above a whisper. Mark alone heard every word she
said; he stooped and placing two fingers under her chin, with a quick
and firm gesture he lifted up the woman's head, so that her hood fell
back and the light from the east window struck full upon her face and
her golden hair.
"I come straight from the Kasteel," she said, more clearly now, for she
was gradually recovering her breath, "let your friends kill me if they
will ... the Duke of Alva swore a false oath ... a messenger left even
last night for Dendermonde...."
"How do you know this?" queried Mark quietly.
"Grete and I heard the Duke speak of it all with my father just now,"
she replied. "He asked for the truce in order to gain time.... He
hopes that the troops from Dendermonde will be here before nightfall ...
the guards at the gate-houses are under arms, and three thousand men are
inside the Kasteel ready to rush out the moment the troops are in
sight."
It was impossible to doubt her story. Those who stood nearest to her
passed it on to their neighbours, and the news travelled like wild-fire
from end to end of the church: "They are on us! Five thousand Spaniards
from Dendermonde to annihilate us all!"
"God have mercy on our souls!"
"God have mercy on our women and children!"
Panic seized a great many there; they pushed and scrambled out of the
building, running blindly like sheep, and spread the terrible news
through the streets, calling loudly to God to save them all: the panic
very naturally spread to the women and children who thronged the streets
at this hour, and to the silent workers who had quietly continued their
work of burial. Soon all the market squares were filled with shrieking
men, women and children who ran about aimlessly with wild gestures and
cries of lamentation. Those who had kept indoors all to-day--either
fearing the crowds or piously preparing for death--came rushing out to
see what new calamity was threatening them, or whether the supreme hour
had indeed struck for them all.
Inside the cathedral the cries of revenge were stilled; dulled was the
lust to kill. The immense danger which had been forgotten for a moment
in that frantic thirst for revenge made its deathly presence felt once
more. Pallid faces and wide-open, terror-filled eyes were turned toward
the one man whose personality seemed still to radiate the one great ray
of hope.
But just for a moment Mark van Rycke seemed quite oblivious of that wave
of sighs and fears which tended toward him now and swept all thought of
mutiny away.
He was supporting Lenora who was gradually regaining strength and
consciousness: just for a few seconds he allowed tumult and terror to
seethe unheeded around him: just for those few seconds he forgot death
and danger, his friends, the world, everything save that Lenora had come
to him at the hour when his heart yearned for her more passionately than
ever before, and that she was looking up into his face with eyes that
told so plainly the whole extent of her love for him.
Only a few seconds, then he handed her over to the gentle care of Father
van der Schlicht, but as with infinite gentleness he finally released
himself from her clinging arms he murmured in her ear: "God reward you,
Madonna! With your love as my shield, I feel that I could conquer the
universe."
Then he faced the terror-stricken crowd once more.
V
"Burghers and artisans of Ghent," he called loudly, "we have two hours
before us. The perjured tyrant is bringing five thousand fresh troops
against us. If by nightfall we have not conquered, our city is doomed
and all of us who have survived, and all our women and children will be
slaughtered like sheep."
"To arms!" cried the leaders: Jan van Migrode and Lievin van Deynse,
Pierre Deynoot and the others.
"To arms!" was echoed by a goodly number of the crowd.
But a great many were silent--despair had gripped them with its icy
talon--the hopelessness of it all had damped their enthusiasm.
"Five thousand fresh troops," they murmured, "and there are less than
four thousand of us all told."
"We cannot conquer," came from Peter Balde's friends at the west end of
the church, "let us at least take our revenge!"
"Yes! Revenge! Death to the Walloons!" they cried.
"Revenge! yes!" exclaimed Mark van Rycke. "Let us be revenged on the
liar, the tyrant, the perjurer, let us show him no mercy and extort from
him by brute force that which he has refused us all these years--civil
and religious freedom."
"Van Rycke, thou art raving!" broke in the men who stood nearest to
him--some of them his most ardent supporters. "Alva by nightfall will
have three times the numbers we have. The gates will be opened to his
fresh troops."
"We must seize the Kasteel and the gates before then!" he retorted.
"How can we? We made several assaults yesterday. We have not enough
men."
"We have half an hour wherein to increase their numbers."
"Thou art raving," they cried.
"Not one able-bodied man but was fighting yesterday--not half their
number knew how to handle pike or lance, musket or crossbow."
"Then we must find two thousand men who are trained soldiers and know
all that there is to know about fighting. That would make it a two to
one fight. Burghers of Ghent, which one of you cannot account for two
Spaniards when the lives of your women and your children depend on the
strength of your arm?"
"Two thousand men?" The cry came from everywhere--cry of doubt, of
hope, of irony or of defiance.
"How are we to get them? Where can we get them from?"
"Come with me and I'll show you!" retorts Mark and he immediately makes
for the door.
The other leaders stick close to him as one man, as do all those who
have been standing near the altar rails and those who saw him even when
first he turned to them all, with eyes glowing with the fire of the most
ardent patriotism, with the determination to die if need be, but by God!
to try and conquer first!
It was only those who were in the rear of the crowd or in the side
aisles who did not come immediately under the spell of that magnetic
personality, of that burning enthusiasm which from its lexicon had
erased the word "Failure!" but even they were carried off their feet by
the human wave which now swept out of the cathedral--by the south
door--bearing upon it the group of rebel leaders with Mark's broad
shoulders and closely cropped head towering above the others.
The throng was soon swelled to huge proportions by all those who had
been hanging about in the precincts all the afternoon unable to push
their way into the crowded edifice. The tumult and the clamour which
they made--added to the cries of those who were running in terror
through the streets--made a pandemonium of sounds which was almost
hellish in its awful suggestion of terror, of confusion and of misery.
But those who still believed in the help of God, those in whom faith in
the justice of their cause was allied with the sublime determination of
martyrs were content to follow their hero blindly--vaguely marvelling
what his purpose could be--whilst the malcontents in the rear, rallying
round Peter Balde once more began to murmur of death and of revenge!
Mark led the crowd across the wide cathedral square to the guild-house
of the armourers--the fine building with the tall, crow-step gables and
the magnificent carved portico to which a double flight of fifteen stone
steps and wrought-iron balustrade gave access. He ran up the steps and
stood with his back to the portico fronting the crowd. Every one could
see him now, from the remotest corners of the square--many had invaded
the houses round, and heads appeared at all the windows.
"Burghers of Ghent," he called aloud, "we have to conquer or we must
die. There are less than four thousand of us at this moment fit to bear
arms against Alva's hordes which still number seven. Five thousand more
of them are on their way to complete the destruction of our city, to
murder our wives and our children, and to desecrate our homes. We want
two thousand well-trained soldiers to oppose them and inflict on the
tyrant such a defeat as will force him to grant us all that we fight
for: Liberty!"
"How wilt do that, friend of the leather mask?" queried some of the men
ironically.
"How wilt find two thousand well-trained soldiers?"
"Follow me, and I will show you."
He turned and went into the building, the whole crowd following him as
one man. The huge vaulted hall of the guild-house was filled in every
corner with Walloon prisoners--the fruit of the first day's victory.
They were lying or sitting about the floor, some of them playing hazard
with scraps of leather cut from their belts; others watched them, or
merely stared straight in front of them, with a sullen look of
hopelessness: they were the ones who had wives and children at home, or
merely who had served some time under Alva's banner and had learned from
him how prisoners should be treated. When the leaders of the
insurrection with Mark van Rycke at their head made irruption into the
hall followed by a tumultuous throng, the Walloons, as if moved by a
blind instinct, threw aside their games and all retreated to the
furthest end of the hall, like a phalanx of frightened men who have not
even the power to sell their lives. Many of those who had rushed in, in
Mark's wake, were the malcontents whose temper Peter Balde's hot-headed
words had inflamed. Awed by the presence of their leaders they still
held themselves in check, but the Walloons, from their place of retreat,
crowded together and terrified, saw many a glowing face, distorted by
the passion to kill, many an eye fixed upon them with glowering hatred
and an obvious longing for revenge.
Then Mark called out:
"Now then, friends: in two hours' time the tyrant will have twelve
thousand troops massed against us. We have two thousand well-trained
soldiers within our guild-houses who are idle at this moment. Here are
five hundred of them--the others are close by! with their help we can
crush the tyrant--fight him till we conquer, and treat him as he would
have treated us. Here is your revenge for his insults! Get your
brothers to forswear their allegiance and to fight by your side!"
A gasp went right through the hall which now was packed closely with
men--the five hundred Walloon prisoners huddled together at one end, and
some four thousand men of Ghent filling every corner of the vast arcaded
hall. In the very midst of them all Mark van Rycke hoisted up on the
shoulders of his friends--with gleaming eyes and quivering
voice--awaited their reply.
The malcontents were the first to make their voices heard:
"These traitors," they shouted, "the paid mercenaries of Alva! Art
crazy, van Rycke?"
"The Spanish woman hath cajoled thee!" some of them exclaimed with a
curse.
"Or offered thee a bribe from the tyrant," cried others.
"We'll hang thee along with the prisoners if thou darest to turn against
us," added Peter Balde spitefully.
"Hang me then, friends, an ye list," he said with a loud laugh, "but let
me speak while ye get the gallows ready. Walloons," he added, turning to
the prisoners who were regarding him with utter bewilderment, in which
past terror still held sway, "ye are our kith and kin. Together we have
groaned under the most execrable tyrant the world has even known.
To-day I offer you the power to strike one blow at the tyrant--a blow
from which he will never recover--a blow which will help you to win that
which every Netherlander craves for: Liberty! Will ye help us to strike
that blow and cover yourselves with glory?"
"Aye! aye!" came from the Walloons with one stupendous cry of hope and
of relief.
"Will you fight with us?"
"Yes!"
"Die with us?"
"Yes!"
"For the freedom of the Netherlands?"
"For Liberty!" they cried.
But all the while murmurings were going on among the Flemings. Their
hatred of the Walloons who had borne arms against their own native land
and for its subjugation under the heel of an alien master was greater
almost than their hatred against the Spaniards.
"The Walloons? Horror!" they shouted, even whilst Mark was infusing
some of his own ardent enthusiasm into the veins of those five hundred
prisoners. "Shame on thee, van Rycke!" whilst one man who has remained
nameless to history cried out loudly: "Traitor!"
"Aye! traitor thou!" retorted van Rycke, "who wouldst prefer the lust of
killing to that of victory!"
"Burghers of Ghent," he continued, "in the name of our sacred
Motherland, I entreat you release these men; let me have them as
soldiers under our banner ... let me have them as brothers to fight by
our side ... you would shed their blood and steep your souls in crime,
let them shed theirs for Liberty, and cover themselves with glory!"
"Yes! yes!" came from the leaders and from the phalanx of fighting men
who stood closest to their hero.
"Yes! yes! release them! Let them fight for us!"
The call was taken back and echoed and re-echoed until the high-vaulted
roof rang with the enthusiastic shouts.
"Walloons, will you fight with us?" they asked.
"To the death!" replied the prisoners.
"One country, one people, one kindred," rejoined Mark with solemn
earnestness, "henceforth there will be neither Flemings nor Walloons,
just Netherlanders standing shoulder to shoulder to crush the tyrant of
us all!"
"Netherlanders! Orange and Liberty!" cried Walloons and Flemings in
unison.
"Give them back their own arms, provosts," commanded Mark, "our
untrained men have not known how to use them! and follow me, friends!
We have not gathered our reinforcements together yet. In half an hour
we shall have two thousand brothers under our flag!"
"Long live Leatherface! To arms, brothers!" were the last shouts which
rang through the hall, ere Mark van Rycke led his followers away to the
nearest guild-house and then to the next, where two thousand Walloon
prisoners were by the magic of his patriotism and his enthusiasm
transformed into two thousand friends.
VI
Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry fills the air. It is
long before the evening Angelus has begun to ring, but from far away the
news has come to every captain at the city gates that reinforcements are
on the way from Dendermonde. No one can respect a truce which hid the
blackest perfidy ever perpetrated by a tyrannical master against a brave
people. As soon as the news has filtrated into the heart of the city
the Orangists rush to their arms, reinforced by two thousand trained
troops; their battle cry becomes triumphant.
"Netherlands! Orange! and Liberty!" resounds defiantly from end to end
of the city.
The besieging force rush the Kasteel! they sow the open tract of ground
around the moat with their heroic dead; again and again they rush for
the breach: culverins and falconets upon the ramparts are useless after
a while: and a shower of heavy stones falls upon the plucky assailants.
There are five hundred Walloon bowmen now who know how to shoot
straight, and some musketeers who vie with the Spaniards for precision.
They cover the advance of the halberdiers and the pikemen, who return to
the charge with the enthusiasm born of renewed hope.
The Bruegge gate has fallen, the Waalpoort is in the insurgents' hands:
Captain Serbelloni at the Braepoort is hard pressed, and up in the
Meeste Toren of the Kasteel Alva paces up and down like a caged tiger.
"Bracamonte or nightfall!" he cries with desperate rage, for he cannot
understand why the Dendermonde troops are detained.
"Surely that rabble has not seized all the gates!" Twice he has ordered
a sortie! twice the moat has received a fresh shower of dead. The
breach has become wider: the Orangist halberdiers are fighting foot by
foot up the walls. They have succeeded in throwing their bridge made of
pikes and lances across the moat, and soon they are crossing in their
hundreds.
"Heavens above, how come they to be so numerous?"
Captain de Avila has been severely wounded: three younger captains have
been killed. The Orangist falconets--a light piece of artillery and not
easy to use--works incessantly upon the breach. Alva himself is
everywhere. His doublet and hose are torn, too, his breast-plate and
tassets are riddled with arrow-shot; he bleeds profusely from the hand.
His face is unrecognisable beneath a covering of smoke and grime. Rage
and fear have made him hideous--not fear of personal danger, for to this
he is wholly indifferent, but fear of defeat, of humiliation, of the
heavy reprisals which that contemptible rabble will exact.
He insults his soldiers and threatens them in turn; he snatches musket
or crossbow, directs, leads, commands ... and sees his wildest hopes
shattered one by one.
The din and confusion from the city itself is hardly heard above the
awful pandemonium which reigns in and around the besieged Kasteel. The
Vleeshhuis on the Schelde is a mass of flames; the roof suddenly falls
in with a terrific crash which seems to shake the very earth to its
depths: there is not a single window left in the Meeste-Toren, and the
rooms, as well as the yard below, are littered with broken glass.
"We have no more balls left, Magnificence," reports the captain in
charge of the artillery. "What must we do?"
"Do?" cries the Duke of Alva fiercely. "Throw yourselves into the moat
or get the musketeers to turn their muskets against you; for of a
certainty you will be massacred within the hour."
Inside the city it is hell let loose. Fighting--hand to hand, pike to
pike--goes on in every street, on every bridge, under every doorway,
aye! even beneath the cathedral porch. The doors of the houses have all
been broken open and men who are wounded and exhausted crawl under them
for shelter and safety. The women and children had all been ordered to
go inside their own homes before the first battle cry of the Orangists
rang out; a goodly number of them, however, took refuge in the churches,
and there were defended by companies of Walloons posted at the doors.
The bridges are fought for inch by inch; when at last they fell into the
hands of the Orangists they are destroyed one by one.
Hell let loose indeed! Desperate men fighting for freedom against a
tyrant who has never known defeat. The evening Angelus was never rung
on that Lord's Day--the feast of the Holy Redeemer--but at the hour when
day first fades into evening Mark van Rycke--superb, undaunted and
glowing now with the ardour of victory--leads the final assault on the
Kasteel.
"Netherlanders! For Liberty!" he cries.
A stone has hit his shoulder, there is a huge cut across his face, the
sleeve has been torn right out of his doublet, his bare arm and the hand
which wields an unconquered sword gleam like metal in the fast gathering
twilight.
"To the breach!" he calls, and is the first to scramble down the
declivity of the moat and on to the heap of masonry which fills the moat
here to the top of the bank.
An arrow aimed at his head pierces his right arm, a stone hurled from
above falls at his feet and raises a cloud of dust which blinds him, a
heavy fragment hits him on the head; he stumbles and falls backwards,
down to the brink of the moat.
"Never mind me," he calls, "for Liberty, Netherlanders! The Kasteel is
yours! hold on!"
He has managed to hold on for dear life to the rough stones on the
declivity, crawling along the top of the bank to escape being trampled
on by the pikemen. The latter have a hot time at the breach: the
Spanish musketeers, under the Duke of Alva's own eyes, are firing with
remarkable accuracy and extraordinary rapidity, whilst from the ramparts
the shower of heavy stones makes deadly havoc: twice the Walloons have
given ground--they are led by Laurence van Rycke now--who twice returns
to the charge.
Mark struggles to his feet: "Hold on, Walloons! the Kasteel is ours," he
cries.
And while the Walloons continue the desperate fighting at the breach, he
gathers together a company of Flemish swordsmen, the pick of his little
army, those who have stuck closely to him throughout the past two days,
who have fought every minute, who have been decimated, lost their
provosts and their captains, but have never once cried "Halt!" and never
thought of giving in.
A hundred or so of them are all that is left: they carry their sword in
their right hand and a pistol in their left. They follow Mark round the
walls to where the moat melts into the wide tract of morass which
surrounds the north-east side of the Kasteel.
The shadow from the high walls falls across the marshy ground, the men
move round silently whilst behind them at the breach and on the bridge
the noise of musketry and falling masonry drowns every other sound.
Now the men halt, and still in silence they strip to their skins; then
with their pistols in their right hand and their sword between their
teeth they plunge ankle deep into the mud. They are men of Ghent every
one of them--men of the Low Countries who know their morasses as
mariners know the sea: they know how to keep their foothold in these
slimy tracks, where strangers would inevitably be sucked into a hideous
grave.
They make their way to the foot of the wall, they move like ghosts now,
and are well-nigh waist deep in the mud. Night closes in rapidly round
them: behind them the sky is suffused with the crimson reflection of an
autumnal sunset. Their arms, chests and backs are shiny with sweat,
their hot breath comes and goes rapidly with excitement and the scent of
danger which hovers behind them in that yawning morass and ahead of them
on the parapet of those walls.
"Victory waits for you, my men," says Mark in a commanding voice, "up on
yonder wall. Whoever is for Orange and for Liberty, follow me!"
Then he starts to climb, and one by one the men follow. What atoms they
look up on those high walls, crawling, creeping, scrambling, with hands
and knees and feet clinging to the unevenness in the masonry, or scraps
of coarse grass that give them foothold: like ants crawling up a
heap--on they go--their bare backs reflect the crimson glow of the sun.
Mark, their hero, leads the way, his torn arm and lacerated shoulder
leave a trail of blood upon the stones.
At the breach the Walloons must be hard pressed, for cries of triumph
follow each volley from the Spanish musketry.
"On, on, Netherlanders! for Orange and Liberty!"
Now Mark has reached the top: his arm is over the parapet, then his
knee. The look-out man has seen him: he shoulders his musket to give
the alarm, but before he can fire Mark is on him, and three more
Flemings now have scrambled over the wall. This portion of the Kasteel
is never seriously guarded: the morass is thought to be impassable, and
forms the only guard on the northeast wall; but these men of Ghent have
conquered the morass and they are on the walls, and have overpowered the
look-out men ere these have had time to scream.
Naked, sweating, bleeding at hands and knees, they look like wraiths
from some inferno down below. They rush down helter-skelter into the
castle yard. The Spanish musketeers caught in their rear whence they
never expected attack, down their weapons and run with a mad _Sauve qui
peut_ to the shelter of the Meeste-Toren. The Walloons--not
understanding what has happened--see the Spaniards running and seize the
lucky moment. Laurence van Rycke leads them through the breach, and
they rush into the yard with pikes and halberds fixed and fill it
suddenly with their cry of triumph: then they fight their way round to
the gatehouse and lower the bridge, and the Flemings in their turn come
pouring into the Kasteel.
Within ten minutes every Spaniard inside the Kasteel has laid down his
arms: the stronghold is in the hands of the Orangists, and Mark van
Rycke up on the iron balcony outside the Duke of Alva's council chamber,
surrounded by his naked stalwarts, demands the surrender of the
Lieutenant-Governor of the Netherlands in the name of Orange and of
Liberty.
Then without a sigh or a groan he throws up his arms, and those who are
nearest to him are only just in time to catch him ere he falls.