“GET YOUR DAUGHTER OUT OF ANTWERP.”
The next morning each sets about the business he has given himself.
Chester goes down to the quay very early, fearing, perhaps, some
indiscretion of his seamen, who are not much accustomed to mercantile
ways, and warping his vessel up to the dock, begins to unload his cargo
with a speed that pleases his consignees very greatly.
Jan Olins comes down personally to inspect the discharging of the
vessel, and pats Guy upon the shoulder, saying: “You’re doing well,”
then goes down into the hold and himself carefully inspects all its
contents, rather to Chester’s surprise, but he, not being a merchant
captain, puts it out of his mind, supposing it is the custom for
traders to look thus carefully after their cargoes.
That afternoon Chester, still continuing his labor, suddenly bolts into
his cabin and locks himself in. For he has seen the junior partner,
Olins, approaching the vessel in company with Niklaas Bodé Volcker, and
fears recognition by the father of the fair Mina, whose hospitality he
has once enjoyed.
Fortunately they do not come on board, only inspecting the vessel from
the gang plank, and very soon they go away.
Shortly after this Chester goes up to the town to meet Oliver.
This gentleman reports as follows:
“There is a house as described and located by Paciotto, a tumble-down,
ramshackle old affair, in by no means a good neighborhood. It is kept
by an old deaf and dumb Spanish woman who goes under the name of Señora
Sebastian, but is commonly known by the sailors she takes as boarders
(this house being near the docks) as ‘Mother Dumb Devil,’ referring
probably to her temper.”
“That’s the place. I’ll put some of my men to lodge there at once,”
says Guy.
“Not yet, not until we get the keys. Use your men in discharging your
vessel as rapidly as possible. Key number one I have already ordered
made from its draft. Number three I will take to-morrow to Brussels,
leaving number two en route at Malines. Get your cargo out of your
vessel as fast as you can.”
“How long will you be in Brussels?”
“Until the key is made, probably five days,” replies Oliver.
“So long? You know speed is vital. I shall have my ship unloaded by
that time.”
“It can’t be done sooner. The locksmith says it will take him at least
four days to finish the one ordered here. Consequently it must be five
days before I return from Brussels with the keys. Besides,” says the
painter, “I have had a carrier pigeon from Louis of Nassau to-day,
which makes it necessary that I go to the capital to obtain a little
information. Every town save Amsterdam is up in Holland, and—now an
attack in the rear. I’ve had word they are ready to rise. It would be a
shame that all the Netherlands were up in arms and Mons, my native
place, still fly the flag of Alva.”
“Then you think Antwerp will rise?”
“No, neither Antwerp nor Brussels, their Spanish garrisons are too
strong, but they are weakening them day by day. By the by, I saw our
little friend De Busaco march out this afternoon with his company for
the north.”
“Then some day Antwerp may have a chance.”
“Pish! Antwerp thinks of nothing but trade. Trade destroys patriotism.
All the burghers want is to be let alone with their commerce. But take
my word for it, this place will suffer more than any other town in the
Netherlands. Antwerp will be the man on the fence, and the man on the
fence is always shot at from both sides. But I must go to Bodé
Volcker’s.”
“Ah! The fair Wilhelmina!” laughs Guy. “I would go with you, but the
debonnaire officer Guido Amati appearing as Andrea Blanco, captain of
trading vessel, would make old Niklaas open his eyes. But you are
anxious to visit him. So good night and—good bye.”
“Yes, I must have word with Mina. God knows what may happen to me in
Brussels.” Then the painter adds suddenly: “But I must also take care
of you. Promise me, Guido,” his tone is very anxious, “if you cannot
sleep here, that you will at least come every night and every morning
and see if carrier pigeon has brought message from me. I shall take six
birds with me. You know how the little bell rings as they enter the
cote. They may be of infinite importance to your safety—to your life,
for God knows when Alva’s suspicion may fall upon me.”
So these two men wring hands together.
The next morning the painter leaves for Brussels, taking Achille with
him, carrying six pigeons, and Guy goes to unloading his vessel as
rapidly as possible.
This he does for three days, taking every precaution. No man leaves his
ship at night. No liquor is drunk, for the men know their lives depend
upon circumspection, and the hardiest of them shudders as he thinks of
Alva’s death. Even Corker himself, tough old mariner that he is, tells
his captain that he is nervous and cannot sleep nights.
“It seems,” says the old salt, “so much like havin’ a grip on your
windpipe. Sometimes I feels as if I was chokin’, an’ Bill Chucksin
scared us last night screechin’: ‘For God’s sake, don’t burn me alive!’
It’s had a bad effect on the men.”
“No, a good effect,” remarks Guy. “I’ve noticed they’ve been very
careful all day.”
Then he turns to the boatswain and says: “Tell the men from me that
every Jack tar of them, if this is a success, shall own Portsmouth for
three days, and shall make the Jews rich by each man buying two
watches, one for each fob pocket. How are you getting on with the
unloading, José?”
“Pretty well, Señor Capitan Blanco,” replies the tar with a wink. “The
fore hold is empty and by to-morrow morning we’ll have cleaned out the
aft and main holds and swept decks. But the consignee’s coming on
board, Señor Capitan Blanco,” and with a few muttered Spanish words the
boatswain strides forward, for he doesn’t like to encounter visitors.
Guy watches with cloudy brow his consignee come up the gang plank. It
is the fourth day—he has not heard from Oliver, and he is very anxious.
“Do you generally sleep on board?” remarks Jan Olins, after the usual
greeting to his captain.
“No, on shore. Sometimes at the inn you recommended, and sometimes with
a friend of mine, an artist.”
“Well, to-night it will be a great favor to me if you will remain on
the vessel. You can’t leave the town after the gates are closed at
nightfall.”
“Certainly. What do you wish me to do?”
“Step into your cabin with me, and I’ll tell you,” replies the Fleming.
And the two getting behind closed doors, Olins whispers. “Under the
false flooring of this cabin, you know, you have twelve cases of goods
that are not in the manifest.”
This Guy does not know, but he immediately assents to the same.
“These cases must be got out late to-night and not delivered at our
warehouse, but where I shall personally show you.”
“To-night, after dark?”
“Yes, late at night. The moon goes down at ten. Eleven will do for the
hour. Tell your men it is two guilders apiece for each of them, and for
yourself, Captain, the usual tariff.”
“What is the usual tariff for smuggling in the port of Antwerp?” asks
Guy.
“Hush! we don’t call it that, we simply call it avoiding the tenth
penny,” mutters the merchant. “You’ll receive one hundred guilders for
your share of the business.”
“Then give me your hand on the hundred guilders, my hearty,” replies
Chester, knowing that to refuse to smuggle would simply be to
acknowledge himself not up to mark as merchant captain.
“Very well, we can consider the matter arranged,” whispers Olins,
gripping Guy’s outstretched fingers, and goes on shore.
Alone by himself, Chester laughs: “I think I’ll see what I’m
smuggling,” and being a man of action, quickly has some of the false
floor of his cabin up, and getting down among the cases opens one.
After examining its contents and refastening its cover very securely,
the Englishman comes up again whistling softly, but with a great
respect for Mr. Jan Olins in his heart.
Then he takes his way up to Oliver’s studio, and getting in unnoticed,
for the painter has left him his keys, draws the curtain away from
Antony’s altar piece and gazes upon the fair face that he longs to see.
But even as he looks upon the beautiful eyes of Madonna Hermoine, the
sound of wings above reminds him of his errand.
He goes hastily up, and examining the dove cote, is astounded to see
all six pigeons in it and no letter upon any of them.
Coming away he ponders upon this matter very earnestly, finally
concluding that by some accident the birds must have escaped from
confinement and returned to their home.
Then Guy goes on board his ship and that night by the aid of Corker and
some of his crew, under the personal direction of Mr. Jan Olins,
conveys the twelve cases of goods upon which no duty is paid, very
quietly and secretly to a large warehouse some distance nearer the main
quay of the city.
In this they are entirely unmolested, but in leaving the warehouse,
chancing to look up, Chester sees by the lantern Olins carries to guide
their path, the name of Niklaas Bodé Volcker in large letters over the
archway, and is further impressed by observing that gentleman’s young
son, the snickering Jakob, who has been apparently waiting for the
goods, have word of mouth with Burgher Jan Olins.
“Aha!” thinks the Englishman. “If I wanted a hold upon Bodé Volcker
I’ve got one, though I don’t see how he could help me at present.”
Then they return cautiously to the Esperanza unnoticed and unmolested,
though the guard boats are doing their duty outside the line of
shipping, which is very dense, and in the shadow of which their boat
glides very quietly, Olins himself going back with them and remaining
on board the vessel, as he cannot enter the town until after daybreak.
This he does, leaving Chester asleep in his bunk, though somewhat
disturbed in his early morning nap by the noise of his men holystoning
and washing down the decks.
Five minutes after Sir Guy Chester wakes up to discover that he has
need of somebody’s aid in this city of Antwerp, immediate, imperative,
to save his life.
“There’s a boy come on board, Captain. He says he’s got a letter to you
particular,” whispers his boatswain in his ear, “so I made bold to wake
you up.”
“Humph!”
“He says it’s instanta.”
“What kind of a boy?”
“A Frenchy.”
“Achille!” And Chester, thoroughly awake, springing up from his bunk,
orders: “Send him down at once!”
It is Achille with a note from Oliver.
“You’re Captain Andrea Blanco?” asks the messenger.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re to read this at once,” says the boy, handing his missive,
which bears evidence of being written in great haste and agitation.
It has no address, but is in Oliver’s hand, and reads:
“Fly! Fly quickly—for God’s sake—for your life, and if possible
save the boy who brings this. He has been my servant—they’ll
torture him for evidence. The hand is descending upon me. I have
only time to say God bless you. Good bye.”
“How came you to bring this?” asks Guy, his lips trembling a little and
his face growing pale.
“He told me—”
“He!—who?”
“Monsieur Oliver; he told me to get a pigeon,” says the boy, “and I
went to the coop and somehow—for he cried to me to hurry—I let the door
open and they all got out and flew away. Then I went to him and told
him.”
“And he?”
“I think he must be sick. He screamed ‘Mon Dieu! what have you done?’
Then he said to me, ‘You’ve let the pigeons go, you must take a
letter—Misericorde! my friend!’ Then he gave me money to get a horse
and told me to ride as fast as I could and to get here last night in
time to get through the town before the gates closed and give this to
Captain Andrea Blanco on the ship Esperanza. And then to do what he
told me.”
“Then why were you not here last night?” demands Guy, in awful tones.
“The stableman cheated me in the horse, curse him—the beast was lame
and I didn’t get to the Emperor’s Gate until just as it was closing, so
I had to stay at home all night, but I brought it here as soon as the
gates were open. But you’re not Captain Andrea Blanco, you’re Captain
Guido Amati,” adds Achille, who has kept curious eyes on Guy ever since
he came into the cabin.
“Both.”
“That’s funny.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about thinking whether it’s funny or not,” says
Chester in a quarter-deck tone that astonishes the French boy. “Sit
down!”
“I’d—I’d like to go home for breakfast,” mutters Achille nervously.
“Stay here, have breakfast with me, and do as I tell you. That’s what
your master bids you do.”
Thus commanded, and a very savory breakfast making its appearance,
Achille sits down and eats, though Guy does not join him, for he is
thinking with all his soul what he shall do.
He can, perhaps, find safety himself in flight, but leave his men to be
butchered or executed he will not. Every instinct of manhood compels
him to stay with those whose lives he has put into such desperate
jeopardy. Besides this poor French boy who has unwittingly risked his
life to save him. But one thing can save them all! That is to get them
out on the open sea on the Esperanza. He has lost last night’s chance
of preparation by the failure of Achille’s horse. But he guesses that
suspicion will not fall upon him for the next few hours. Brussels is
thirty miles away, and even after word arrives it will take some time
for the Spanish spies to discover that Andrea Blanco has dined with
Oliver the traitor twice and breakfasted once at the Tower of the
Angels.
Altogether he thinks he is sure of six hours. So ordering the last few
bales of cargo and hides to be discharged as quickly as possible, and
bidding Achille to keep himself close in the cabin, he goes out
hurriedly to the office of his consignees, which is just opening for
the day’s business.
Here getting word in the private office with the senior partner, he
says: “I have discharged my cargo. Can’t you give me consignment in
ballast to some place?”
“Absurd!” answers the florid Jacobszoon. “Why should we send you with
ballast when we can get charter money for you? Wait here until cargo is
obtained.”
“You must give me a consignment in ballast.”
“Why?”
“Because the custom house officers are loitering about my vessel.”
“Verdomd! you been smuggling!” cries the senior partner. “If you’ve
been getting us into trouble by your infamous sailor notions on that
point, Captain Blanco, you can stay here and face it. I won’t help
you.”
This answer is discouraging. It shows Chester that Jacobszoon knows
nothing of his junior’s operations with the twelve cases of goods.
Guy goes out and loiters about the entrance of the office, determined
to see Olins.
That gentleman is an early office bird, notwithstanding his vigil of
the night before, and he encounters him coming down Wool street.
“I must have a word with you, Mijn Heer Olins,” he says.
“Yes, come to the office.”
“No, in private, and not at your office.”
“Very well, this wine room,” answers Olins, looking hard at Guy, and
leads the way to a place of refreshment with which apparently he is
familiar, as the two get a private room together.
“Now,” he says, “is it the money for that smuggling business, Capitan
Blanco? I’ll have it for you in a few minutes, if your crew is
impatient.”
“No, it’s to demand that you give me an immediate consignment in
ballast from this port.”
“Impossible!” cries Olins shortly; then whispers: “Why do you want it?”
“Because I’m suspected of smuggling.”
“What, that lace last night?” mutters the Fleming, his face growing
set.
“No lace,” says Chester shortly.
“A—ah! You must leave Antwerp on the tide,” whispers Olins, a bead of
perspiration on the center of his forehead. “But where can I send you?”
“Get me papers to Amsterdam.” This is the first place that comes into
Guy’s head.
“Very well, they shall be obtained. But,” adds the merchant nervously,
“without a charter it would look very suspicious!”
“I’ll get you the charter,” cries Guy, a sudden idea flashing through
his brain.
“From whom?”
“From your fellow patriot, Bodé Volcker.” This is in his ear.
“Good God! You know—”
“Yes, arquebuses, packed in lace, that is not a fine—but death,”
whispers Guy. “Fill out an order for charter to Amsterdam.”
And the merchant, sitting down to write this, Chester admires him—for
patriot Jan Olins’ handwriting is as firm and regular as commercial
copper-plate.
“Get the papers through the custom house at once,” whispers Guy.
Then hurrying to his ship once more he dives into his cabin to reappear
a few moments after, rearrayed not as Andrea Blanco, merchant mariner,
but as Guido Amati, the dashing soldier of Spain, for he judges this
the best guise in which to have his interview with ex-Burgomaster Bodé
Volcker.
At the merchant’s warehouse he is disappointed to find that Niklaas is
still at his home upon the Meir. Making his way there a sudden idea
comes to him, that he can do this business better as debauchee
spendthrift than in any other guise. He will come apparently as spy for
bribe; he will demand gold, but get charter papers.
Willing to play ignoble role for such result, he tosses about his hair,
disheveling it, slouching his hat over his eyes and assuming the gait
of partial drunkenness, he continues his way to the Bodé Volcker
mansion and enters the business portion of the house.
A number of clerks are there, the general routine of the office is
going on quite briskly. Here he is received most obsequiously by bowing
clerk, who asks almost tremblingly his name and desires—for these
Spanish soldiers of fortune were quick with blow of hand or knife to
Flemish townsmen. Demanding word with Bodé Volcker, he is shortly shown
into that gentleman’s private office next his counting room.
Here, with well-assumed drunken leer and one or two suggestive
hiccoughs, he closes and locks the door, the merchant gazing at him in
astonishment, perhaps alarm, for Guy’s appearance, with matted, tossed
about hair, and rolling eyes, a strange excitement in them, brought
about by his desperate situation, gives him the look of having just
risen from a late and prolonged debauch.
“Yer know me—y’know me—I’m—I’m Major Guido A—Amati, o —er—Romero’s
foot,” hiccoughs the pseudo Spanish roisterer.
“Yes, I—I had the honor of seeing you at my house once, Captain Amati.”
“Major—Major Amati de Medina—don’t you forget th’ De Medina. Sit—sit
down and—hic—sign this!” And Guy presses the merchant into his chair
from which he has half risen, and slaps in front of him the charter
paper.
“What—what is this?” stammers Bodé Volcker.
“It’s an article ’f charter—firm of Jacobszoon & Olins, for Cap’n
Andrea Blanco—you know Cap’n Andrea—Andrea Blanco?” he winks cunningly,
“of—er ship Esperanza.”
“A charter in ballast?” cries Niklaas, commercial instinct rising in
him. “What drunken nonsense is this? There’s no money in charter in
ballast.”
“Not er charter in ballast, but charter to—convey twelve cases of
goods—landed las’ night at yer warehouse—’bout twelve ’clock. See the
pint, Bodé Vol—Volcker?” And this being emphasized with drunken leer
and wink, Bodé Volcker sees the point with an awful gulp of terror,
then gasps: “You—you’re accusing me of smuggling; that—that’s only a
fine!”
“Yesh—fine of your head!”
“Smuggling lace—the fine of my head—you’re drunk!” replies the
merchant, plucking up courage.
“Smuggling arquebuses—packed in lace—time of war—is torture as well.”
“Good God!” cries Niklaas, “arquebuses! I have been imposed upon—that
villain Olins—arquebuses!” And Guy knows that Bodé Volcker is not a
patriot, but only a smuggler.
“Jush th’ same—cost your—hic—your head,” hiccoughs Guy. Then he
suggests, with drunken leer: “I couldn’t bear to have my future
banker—th’ man who’s going to give me all—hic—the gambling money I
want, pass out of the world. See the pint, Bodé Volcker!”
“How much money do you demand? I’m—I’m a poor man!”
“You’ll be a poorer man soon! See the pint, Bodé Volcker!” and avarice
grins at fear.
“How much money do you want?” pleads the man of commerce.
“Lotsch; but we’ll talk ’bout that afterwards,” hiccoughs Chester.
“Sign this charter—get vessel ’way first, then we’ll have bottle or two
together, and I’ll draw a ducish big draft on you.”
“You’ll not betray me—you’re sure they’re arquebuses?”
“Call in custom house officers—open ’em and see!” cries Guy.
But this is too horrible for contemplation. Bodé Volcker signs with a
palsied hand the charter paper of the Esperanza to leave Antwerp
forthwith for Amsterdam and other ports on general trade.
“As you love yourself, Bodé Volcker—my dear banker, Bodé Volcker,—get
those goods on board at once,” whispers Guy, pocketing the charter
paper, “and—and bring me a bottle of wine.”
“Yes, I’ll give orders instantly,” gasps the merchant.
But even as he rises to do this there is a whirr of wheels, a clack of
whip outside, and a clatter of horses’ hoofs as a post chaise,
apparently at desperate speed, dashes into the courtyard.
A moment afterwards all thought of drunkenness leaves with one flash
the mind of the Englishman. A voice imperative but sweet; a voice that
sets Guy’s heart beating more than the danger of detection, more even
than the terror of death, says outside the door: “Announce to your
master Hermoine de Alva!”
“Good heavens! Alva’s daughter!” mutters the burgomaster. “She must not
see you. Leave by the back door!”
But Chester would not leave now for death itself.
“Oho! gay Bodé Volcker! ladies,” hiccoughs Guy in a feeble attempt to
keep up his character. “I never desert ladies.”
“Quick!” whispers the old gentleman. “You must remain until this
business is settled and I give you orders for the goods,” and hastily
pushes Chester into a little waiting room just out of his private
office, muttering: “The drunken fool—in the hands of a miserable,
gambling debauchee. My God! poor Bodé Volcker!”
Then Guy’s heart commences to throb. The place he has been put into by
Niklaas has a little lattice door, through it all sound in the sanctum
of the merchant can be easily heard. It has apparently been constructed
and used for this very purpose, to further chances of gain and vantage
over his customers by the commercial Fleming himself.
Almost as Guy enters he starts astonished. For these strange words come
to him in impressive but charming voice: “Señor Bodé Volcker, I have
driven from Brussels post haste to bid you, as you love her, get your
daughter out of Antwerp—INSTANTLY!”