THE SECRET OF THE STATUE.
This matter of ammunition delays Guy in England several days. But the
fleet little Dover Lass soon makes the trip to the Netherlands,
carrying every inch of canvas she can show, and early in April Chester
finds himself once more off the mouth of the Schelde, and sighting the
town of Flushing is astounded but delighted to see the yellow, white
and blue flag of Orange floating over the place.
“Zounds!” he cries to his first lieutenant, “the Gueux have landed and
taken Flushing! There are two vessels sailing in with the flag of
Orange at their peaks. Overhaul them and get me the news, Dalton.”
In the course of half an hour the Dover Lass comes alongside the
vessels that are commanded by Captain De Ryk of Amsterdam. From him he
learns that the Gueux have not only taken Flushing, but have taken
Briel, a strongly fortified town upon the island of Voorne, where the
Rhine estuary reaches the German ocean. Their success has been the
spark to illuminate the patriotism of Holland and the Netherlands. Town
after town is declaring for the Prince of Orange as the Staatholder of
Philip Second, and against Alva, for curiously enough, such was the
respect with which royalty was regarded at that time that Orange still
announced himself as the vassal of the Spanish crown, though fighting
against its sovereign with all his might of arm and strength of brain.
Curiously enough also the two vessels of De Ryk, having left England
somewhat later than the rest of the Gueux, have on board five hundred
stout English volunteers, who greet Guy with shouts of Saxon welcome.
For Burleigh, pondering upon Elizabeth’s remarks, is anxious for his
weazened head, and is now giving every aid in his power to this raid of
the Beggars of the Sea.
So the Dover Lass and the two Gueux ships are wafted by light breezes
toward Flushing quay. Just as they make landing there, a great
commotion arises in the town. Some quarter of an hour before this they
have noted a small pinnace with single mast and lateen sail headed from
the south, Antwerp-way, pass to the dock before them. From this three
gentlemen in very fine clothes and with Spanish appearance have landed
laughingly, and strolled up into the town.
Even as De Ryk and Chester step upon the quay, these three come running
hurriedly from out the center of the place toward the dock, pursued by
such a motley mob as quiet Flushing never saw before. It is as if two
hundred priests and nuns, drunk with blood, were after them, for all
these monks and nuns are brawny pirates, some having hassocks and cowls
upon them, others wearing the robes of nuns. Their leader, fierce Dirk
Duyvel himself, is habited as lady abbess, and all are armed to the
teeth with pistol and pike or sword and arquebus.
“Down with the murderous Spanish!” cry some. “Hang them up on high,
quick!” yell others. “Into the sea with Alva’s butchers!” is the shout
of the rest, all this larded with fearful imprecations and terrible
Dutch oaths.
Seeing their retreat to their boat cut off by De Ryk’s men, the leader
of these three Spaniards comes speeding ahead of his foremost pursuers,
and bowing before De Ryk takes off from his finger a gaudy signet ring,
and presenting it to the Gueux captain, pants: “I—I surrender to you.
I—I did not know this town was in possession of the—the rebels. By this
ring guard me from sudden death. I am noble. I can pay a large ransom.
I am Alva’s engineer.” He says this anxiously and breathlessly, for the
crowd are upon him.
Guy now recognizes him with astonishment, as Paciotto, Alva’s great
military engineer, whom he had seen at the Captain General’s side in
Antwerp.
“You know me?” Paciotto gasps.
“Too well!” cries the throng, who now have hands on him.
“Too well!” mutters De Ryk, “But I’ll save you from immediate
damnation,” and he and Guy and one or two of his officers with drawn
swords protect these three men, who in another minute would have been
hacked to pieces by the Beggars of the Sea. For these sea rovers,
having drunk victory at the Briel, are now drunk with blood also,
having requited in kind upon the Spaniard some of the butcheries of the
last five years—one or two of the most ferocious eating Castilian heart
with gusto and drinking Italian blood con amore. Every one of them has
some butchered brother or murdered father or outraged wife to make him
as inhuman as his foes. What chance has any officer of Alva’s with such
a mob? Guy soon finds Paciotto has not even choice of his manner of
death.
While De Ryk and he save the Italian from immediate violence a number
of the Gueux have boarded the little Spanish sloop in which he came and
butchered the hapless crew with wild shouts of joy and triumph.
A moment after the Italian is dragged to the Raadhuis where Van
Tresslong, who commands, is in consultation with the Burgomaster,
“Schout” and other officials of the town; most of his captains being
with him.
“By our martyrs,” cries the Dutch vice-admiral, “this day is fortunate.
Here is one of Alva’s very pets right in our hands—a court-martial for
the Italian gentleman!”
“I beg for law of war, William de Blois, Lord of Tresslong,” says
Paciotto, quite haughtily, though hope has left his face.
“The same law of war that Alva gave to my murdered brother, when he
executed him with seventeen other nobles in the Brussels horse market,”
answers the Fleming.
“Yes, justice and mercy,” jeers one of his captains. “The same justice
that Alva gave to my father when he cried for quarter at Jemmingen. The
same mercy that De Bossu, but two days since, gave at Rotterdam.”
“With such judges I am condemned beforehand,” sighs the Italian, as Van
Tresslong and his officers take seats about a drum head.
Then as the court is being sworn the Dutch Vice-Admiral, who has a long
head, remarks: “We must make the Burgomaster one of our court. That
will nail him to our cause. He will hold Flushing, as he values his own
head, against Alva.”
So the Burgomaster, nolens volens, is made a member of the court, and
Paciotto is put upon trial for his life.
“Of what do you accuse me?” asks the unfortunate officer. “Of being a
loyal subject of your king, Philip of Spain? Of that I plead guilty.”
“Bah!” replies Van Tresslong, “you’re the pet and confidant of Alva,
who butchers us. That’s why we’ll have your life. Also, with your
Italian engineering art you built for him his stronghold, the citadel
of Antwerp.”
“If that deserves death, then execute me,” murmurs the Italian, “but I
pray you with the sword.”
“Hold!” cries Guy, who has English sympathy with the under animal in
the fight, “As your military counsel I will defend you in this court.”
“Do not waste your words for me, señor,” says the Italian sadly. “These
Flemish dogs are licking their chops already for my blood.”
But Guy, unheeding this, goes to pleading for this unfortunate officer
of Spain, using at times, in his impulsive way, a vehement eloquence
that is so uncomplimentary to Paciotto’s accusers that did the
Englishman not wear the Gueux medal himself, and, above all, were he
not the man who had given to their hands the four ships loaded with
powder and ammunition, Sir Guy Chester himself might not have come
scathless from out this council of the Beggars of the Sea.
In spite of Chester’s imprecations and implorings the Gueux officers
make very short work of the affair, and in less than five minutes by
the ticking Dutch clock that stands facing them in the hall, they
condemn the Italian engineer not to death with the sword, but to the
dog’s death—by the noose.
And sentence being given, the Italian cries suddenly: “How long is it
since Flushing has been in danger of falling into your hands?”
“About three days,” says a Gueux captain. “But what does that matter to
you, who are to die in three minutes?”
At this Paciotto, smiting his hands together and his eyes flashing with
anger even above their despair, utters these astounding words:
“My God! Sacrificed. Holy Virgin! Killed for my secret!” And suddenly
whispers to Guy: “You are the First of the English?”
“Yes.”
“Ask the Dutch officers that I may have ten minutes in which to make my
peace with God, alone with you, who, from the rosary you wear upon your
neck, must be of my faith.”
This appeal is answered by Van Tresslong with a surly “Yes!”
Whereupon Paciotto, his hands even now bound with the ligatures of
execution, is thrust into a little adjoining room from which there is
no escape, and into which, moved by the Italian’s pleading eyes, and,
perchance, prompted by some latent curiosity, Chester follows him.
“Close the door,” the Italian whispers. Then he bursts out still under
his breath: “You are the only one who has been my friend in this my
last hour on earth. Behold my reward! I can give you a fighting chance
to become one of the magnates of this earth.”
“How?”
But the Italian scarcely answers this, muttering: “Sacrificed! The
shadow of death is over me—put there by him of Alva, who never spares
what it is his interest to destroy. This town threatened—for three
days! He knew of this outbreak of the Gueux—that Flushing would be a
place of extreme danger, and sent me here ostensibly to complete the
fortifications, but really that his secret should pass away—with my
life. For I am the only man in the Netherlands who knows it.” Then he
breaks out suddenly, whispering hoarsely: “You, I am told, are one who
cares as nothing for his life. Would you, for enormous wealth, avenge
me of my enemy, though at a desperate risk?”
“For enormous wealth I would risk my life—nay, almost my soul,” gasps
Guy, whose great thought, since he has won the love of Viceroy’s
daughter, has been to gain station, power and gold enough to give her
Viceroy’s state and pomp.
“Then, First of the English, you are the man fitted for my post-mortem
reckoning with Alva. The man who dared to visit Antwerp; I remember you
there—looking straight in the Viceroy’s face—his proclamation for your
head posted on the wall above you. You are the man to give me
vengeance. Listen to the secret of Alva’s statue.”
“Alva’s statue!” cries Guy, recollection of Oliver’s words coming to
him.
“Hush! Don’t interrupt me. My time is very short. This great statue the
Duke has erected to his honor is partly for another purpose! To protect
the treasure he has gathered from his tenth penny tax, that he means to
transport to Spain for his own use, honor and profit. The pedestal—”
“Ah, I remember. The pedestal of unusual size—it contains the booty of
the Netherlands,” whispers Chester.
“Bah! No, Alva is too astute for that. The statue and its pedestal
contain nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“And yet,” says the Italian, “the statue is the guardian of Alva’s
treasure.”
“How?”
“Hearken. While altering and rebuilding the Citadel of Antwerp, I, as
chief engineer, discovered an old vaulted way made for purposes of
sally. It ran from the great Bastion of the Duke under the moat to a
place of egress in the city itself, a house just beyond the Esplanade.
Under secret instructions from the Captain-General, I excavated at the
Citadel end of this passage in the solid rock thirty feet under ground
a chamber. This chamber holds the treasures of Alva. The earth and
solid masonry of the great bastion of the Duke are heaped upon it. It
would take weeks of labor to dig down from the Citadel to obtain it,
and explosives enough to blow up the bastion. Therefore it cannot be
reached from the Citadel. But from the town it is accessible, though
impossible to one not knowing its secret, for it has been guarded by
every art the mechanism of Giovanni Alfriedo, an ingenious Italian
imported from Venice, could give to its defense. Yet it is easy and
quick of access to those who have the secret, and I am the only man
save Alva that knows it now—Giovanni himself being slain by pirates on
his return voyage to Venice, perchance by order and design.”
“Thy time is up!” shouts Van Tresslong, thundering on the door.
“Ten minutes more for the soul of a dying man,” murmurs Paciotto.
“Yes, time that he may die in his church,” cries Guy, desperate now for
Alva’s secret.
So a few minutes more are given to them, not for mercy, but to find a
hangman. For the town executioner is absent at Middelburg and word of
this being now brought to Van Tresslong he raises his voice in the
crowd in front of the town hall, proclaiming largess for a hangman.
But none wish to undertake this degrading office—save one man, who
being told Paciotto is a Spaniard, cries: “I’ll do the job, I’ll hang
the Spanish forever! Only I must have liberty to attack and kill anyone
who scorns me for having been a Spaniard’s hangman,” and makes his
preparations with noose and ladder.
While they are finding executioner for him, Paciotto rapidly whispers
in Guy’s ear: “The entrance to the passage is from a house now occupied
by an old deaf and dumb woman, Señora Sebastian. She knows nothing
about it, the place having been rented to her at little stipend after
the work had been completed. You take up four stones in the center of
the cellar and it shows you the passageway. But this vaulted gallery at
two places before you come to the moat, and one right under the fosse
itself, is guarded by iron doors of strength sufficient to resist
anything but barrels of gunpowder. Each of these doors is opened by
ingenious locks. According to the device of this skilled mechanic, each
of these locks requires three peculiar keys that must be used in a
certain varying order. Employed outside of this rotation the locks will
yield no vantage to the keys. Any attempt to blow down the iron gates
with powder would destroy the passageway itself, and let the Schelde in
upon and drown you.”
“But what has the statue to do with this?” whispers Guy.
“Ah! that is Alva’s cunning joke upon his turbulent soldiery. By the
Captain General’s mystery in regard to it half the mercenaries of his
Antwerp garrison swear that the statue itself is the storehouse of
Alva’s gold. This is by his design. He does not fear the citizens
taking his treasure, but that his own soldiers, unpaid for years, may
break into open mutiny. The first thing they would seize would be the
booty of their commander. Therefore the first thing they would break
into for his gold would be the pedestal of his statue. That done, the
vaulted passageway from the town would be impassable to anything save
fish, for the statue is so contrived that if disturbed on its base a
sluice gate is opened and the waters of the moat flood the only path to
Alva’s treasure. After that, even if they discovered the true hiding
place of his gold, it would be a month before the mercenaries could
obtain it by mining and blowing up the Bastion of the Duke. Within that
month the mutiny would certainly be put down and the treasure saved.”
“But the keys?” whispers Guy impatiently, for the rising murmurs of the
crowd outside shows him time is precious.
“I have here—open my doublet and cut away the lining,” whispers
Paciotto, “for my hands are bound—drafts of each key with its number,
from which you can have them made, besides an account of how they
should be used; also a drawing of the excavation leading to the
treasure of the Duke. Give me vengeance on him—you mean to try, I can
see it in your face—if you succeed, a rare surprise for him of Alva.
How he will rave when in his empty treasure house he finds no plunder.
All his tenth penny tax gone; the thing for which he has imperilled his
favor with the king, the thing for which he has crushed these
Netherlands to the earth. No gold for Alva—no gold—ho! ho!—ha! ha!—he!
he!” and bursts into hideous despairing chuckle—his last laugh on
earth.
Even as Guy takes from him a small package carefully sealed up in
parchment cover, the door is thrown open, and Tresslong, De Ryk, and
the Gueux officers enter.
“It is time the gallows should bear its fruit!” cries the admiral.
“And you have no mercy?” says the Italian.
“None to the confidant of Alva. We give you your master’s mercy!”
Then they seize him and drag him out, he desperately crying: “Give me
the death of a gentleman—not the gallows, but the sword. I am as noble
as Egmont and Horn—I will have death by the sword, the noble’s death.”
But this mention of Egmont and Horn, the two murdered chiefs of the
Netherland nobility, produces rage not consideration, and Paciotto is
forced out on to the square facing the town hall. Here he looks up at
the ladder standing against the gallows, upon which already the two
officers who had accompanied him dangle; then putting despairing eyes
on Chester, murmurs: “Remember, avenge me!”
So, in the midst of all that laughing, jeering gang of Beggars of the
Sea, some gazing at him from the crowded square, others for better view
climbing the riggings of their ships, that are but half a hundred yards
away, most of them habited as monks and nuns, in fantastic garments,
the spoil of the nunnery at Briel, Pedro Paciotto, engineer and man of
science, gallant and man of war, steps up the ladder, a crucifix upon
his lips, and though he is hung like a dog, dies like a gentleman and a
Catholic.
But Guy scarce sees the convulsed limbs and dying agony. His eyes have
before them only the heaping gold of Alva, the taxes of the
Netherlands, the mighty treasures of the father that he will make his
daughter’s wedding dower.