THE BERSERKER OATH.
In the course of time Chester recovers from Spanish bullet wound,
though not very rapidly, the surgery of that day being crude,
unscientific and quite often deadly. When he regains his strength he
finds the Dover Lass frozen in at the harbor of Enkhuyzen.
Guy perceives they have made a terrible mistake in sailing to the
northward. Had they remained at Delft they would probably by this time
have got the girl out of Haarlem over the frozen lake.
Now, between them and the hapless city stands the great dyke along the
Y, patrolled by Alva’s soldiers, protected by Alva’s forts, cutting off
North Holland effectually from giving succor to the besieged.
His vessel will be useless for several months on account of the ice,
and besought by Oliver, who has divided his time between nursing his
wounded comrade and making desperate attempts to elude the vigilance of
Alva’s troops and get to Haarlem, Chester finally makes his way across
Waterland to Egmont. Here Diederick Sonoy, who holds North Holland for
the Prince of Orange, is getting together an expedition to attack the
Diemerdyk at some vulnerable point and fortify it, cutting off
Amsterdam and the Spaniards from supplies, as they have been cutting
off Haarlem.
“Pardieu!” remarks Oliver, as they make the journey over frozen lakes
and by villages half buried in snow, “if I had had my altar piece with
me I could have finished it between skirmishes. I’ve done nothing for
my art, nothing—even for my love.” He wrings his hands desperately.
“What have I done for mine?” mutters Guy.
“Diable!” says the painter, who guesses what is in his companion’s
mind. Alva’s treasure will be undisturbed until the Duke leaves the Low
Countries. Not even riot of unpaid troops will make him disgorge it. It
is salted down for the winter.
“You are sure the Duke has no hint of your having the keys made?”
interjects Guy uneasily.
“Certainly not—for I never had them manufactured—I felt I was suspected
even when I reached Malines—so I gave no order about the keys, and
before I fled from Brussels destroyed the drafts,” answers Oliver. A
moment after he adds, with a smile: “As for Alva’s daughter, she is
probably mourning for Colonel Guido Amati de Medina.”
This idea of her grieving for his death makes Guy desperate, and he is
crazy to get within glance of Hermoine’s bright eyes. This is almost
impossible until the ice leaves his vessel free.
To kill time he takes to killing Spaniards, joining the expedition
Sonoy on the very first indication of spring gets together for the
assault on the Diemerdyk.
This consists of a number of galleys and flat-bottomed boats filled
with eight hundred soldiers, which moves soon after the frost of winter
passes away and the inland waters become navigable.
The point of attack has been carefully selected where the dyke is
narrowest and most susceptible of defense against troops coming from
Amsterdam. On one side of the little narrow causeway are the waters of
the Y, on the other is the Diemer Lake, cutting off Amsterdam from
Muyden, and provisions and supplies coming from Utrecht and the South.
The attack is sudden and unexpected. The Spanish patrols, taken by
surprise, are easily driven off, and Sonoy, cutting the dyke, strongly
entrenches himself upon the narrow causeway, thinks the deed is done,
and goes off smilingly to Edam for reinforcements.
As for Oliver, joy is in his soul. He can see the spire of the Haarlem
Groote Kerk not twenty miles away, and thinks he and his love will soon
press lips again.
But this cutting off of his supplies makes the Spanish governor at
Amsterdam desperate. He forthwith despatches a great force of
arquebusiers and pikemen together with two hand-drawn cannon along the
causeway, and the Seigneur de Billy, a tried veteran of many campaigns,
commander at Muyden, sends four hundred Walloon infantry to attack upon
the other side.
These, together with a force of Spanish armed galleys and bateaux,
unfortunately make the assault during Sonoy’s absence. His troops,
though brave, are without supreme commander. They are composed chiefly
of the crews of the Gueux vessels, the commander of each one wishing to
dominate the others. Thus disputing among themselves, they resist the
attack without discipline and mutual support.
The consequence is that when the cannon open upon them they are not
charged and captured as they must be, and soon solid shot smash the
hastily thrown up defenses of the Dutch. Already some of the Gueux have
abandoned the dyke and taken to their bateaux and flat-bottomed boats
to defend them against the Spanish galleys, as well as to be ready to
escape.
“We must charge the guns,” cries Chester. And he and Oliver, followed
by some fifty desperate men, make the effort. Getting over their
breastwork they plunge into the Spanish spearmen, and with push of pike
cut their way to one gun, and, were they supported, would be,
perchance, successful, though every step costs a life. But they are not
reinforced, and are finally driven back, losing a man at every foot of
dyke, the Spaniards butchering the wounded.
From this melée Guy Chester drags out, stricken unto death, his friend
the painter. Struggling to the entrenchment, he finds it deserted; all
the men who should defend it having fled to near-by boats—save one,
John Haring, from the town of Horn. Hero-like, he has planted himself
in the narrowest part of the causeway before the coming foe and holds
the place armed only with sword and shield, against a thousand veterans
of Alva’s army. Fortunately these can only get at him one or two at a
time, as the dyke is very narrow and the deep water of the Diemer Lake
is on one side of it, and the rapid waters of the Y flow on the other.
Haring’s defense gives Guy breathing time.
Bending over his friend, he mutters between clenched teeth: “Don’t
fear! These dogs of Spaniards shan’t get you alive.” Then he brushes
the death sweat from his comrade’s brow, and with great sighs looks
upon the face he loves growing ashen and its lips becoming blue.
These open now in gasping, broken speech: “Save yourself.”
“And you, too!”
“Save yourself!” Oliver’s eyes have an agony in them that is not all
the agony of death. “Save yourself to save my love. Swear to me, Guido,
my friend, to save her!”
“That was done already,” whispers Guy hurriedly; “What else?”
“Only—but you are—not an—artist. Ehu! I would have liked—to have
finished my—altar piece. I see—real—angels—now—”
The last word is breathed upon the air in dying sigh, as Antony Oliver
turns his blue eyes to heaven and his patriot soul goes where there are
real angels and the true Madonna.
Then Chester raises his bloodshot eyes to find his strait almost as
desperate as the dead man’s. The Spaniards are charging them both front
and rear. The Dutch bateaux have all been driven half a mile away; on
the Y side Spanish vessels intervene and cut off all retreat.
Guy gives one quick glance seeking chance of life, and finds it on the
Diemer Lake. Some fifty yards from shore is a small shallop that,
belonging to the Spanish patrol surprised at the place, has been cut
from its moorings during the fight; it is the only boat on the Diemer
side.
With the instinct of emergency he springs beside Haring, crying:
“There’s our only chance!”
Together they make one quick, dashing onslaught on the Spaniards to
gain time for the plunge, then spring into the Diemer. As they
disappear a shout of rage goes up from Alva’s mercenaries, and Spanish
arquebus balls splash the water all about them. But rising from their
dive side by side and stroke by stroke, they make the boat, and
assisting each other, clamber in, and taking oars, are soon out of
shot.
Then chancing to gaze at the dyke Guy shudders and turns away his head.
“They’re cutting his head off,” whispers Haring. “It’s worth two
thousand caroli at Alva’s tent.”
Guy knows whose head the Dutch sailor means, and his soul grows very
hard and cruel to the Spaniards. But this only adds to his resolve to
keep his vow to his dead comrade, even at the cost of life.
“It was a Berserker oath,” he mutters, “but I’ll keep it.” And gazes at
his foes who have done his friend to death with something of that noble
madness that burned in the Berserker’s veins, that rage to slay his
enemies without thought of life, that exultation to kill, no matter
whether he goes down or no, so long as he has his fill of slaughter and
revenge.
But the Dutch sailor’s voice brings fighting from the romantic to the
matter of fact basis. He says: “Captain Chester, we’re in a bad way.
We’re on the wrong side of the Diemerdyk. Without weapons we’re in a
bad way. We can’t recross it to our friends, for the whole causeway is
now lined by those infernal Spanish troops. But, we’ve sent a few of
them ahead of us to-day, and will do for a few more before they do for
us, though we’ve only got teeth and nails to do it with,” the two
having been compelled to throw away their arms to gain the boat.
“We’re not on the wrong side of the Diemerdyk,” Guy returns stoutly.
“At least, I am not.”
“Why?” asks Haring, opening his eyes.
“Because I go to Haarlem, and you’re the man to take me there. You know
all this country?”
“Every drop of water, every grain of sand in it. That’s why I fight for
it.”
“Then you, perhaps, know some way by which we can get from here to the
Haarlem Lake.”
“Without arms?” says the Dutchman. “It’ll be difficult; we can’t fight,
and I—I hate to run from Spaniards!”
“Fly now, sneak next, fight afterwards,” mutters Guy, “and we’ve got to
be quick about it.” For the Spaniards are attempting to get a boat
across the causeway to pursue them. Fortunately there are two pairs of
oars in their boat, which is a light one, and bending to these Haring
and Chester take course toward the southwest end of the little Diemer
pond, scarce two miles in length.
They are now safe from immediate pursuit, as the Spaniards, seeing them
row away, have desisted in their efforts to get a boat over the dyke;
so the two go into hasty consultation.
“It’s impossible to escape that way,” explains Haring, pointing to the
east, where the Utrecht road borders the lake. “That’s too heavily
patrolled. We may get out at the west where the lake joins the river
Amstel. It’s only a mile south of Amsterdam; they have guard boats
there.”
This is the direction in which Guy wants to go, and he eagerly assents
to this proposition, suggesting: “In the waterways and lakes with which
this country is covered is there not some route by which we can get
ourselves in this boat to the Haarlem meer?”
“Yes, there’s one way,” replies Haring. “But the first six miles will
be with our lives in our hands. The last twelve miles will be in the
debatable land where we may meet enemies and have to fight them, or
friends who will give us succor. If we had arms,” mutters the
Hollander, “we would have a fighting chance to get to Haarlem Lake, and
then a running one of dodging Alva’s vessels.”
“Arms!” mutters Guy, “you have your sailor’s knife, and I have got my
poniard.”
“Voor den duivel! Then this affair goes with poniards and knives,” says
Haring with a grim chuckle. “It always pleases me to get within stab of
a Spaniard.”
Next the two examine the boat carefully; finding that she has a mast
and sail stored forward, which pleases them, as there is a slight
breeze that is favorable. Steeping this mast they hoist sail.
Then Haring, who is examining the lockers in the boat, suddenly gives a
cry of joy.
“What is it?” asks Guy.
“Provisions! These rascally Spaniards have treated us well. Here’s a
flask of Spanish wine that I love as well as I hate the men who made
it, and plenty of rye bread and salted herring, with oil to grease
them. They’ll slide down beautifully. This is a lucky jump off.”
“Yes, and here’s a better,” cries Guy.
“What could be better than grub?” asks the Hollander.
“Arms!”
In the locker in the other side of the boat Chester has found four
Spanish arquebuses with ammunition, a sword and a battle axe. So the
two go to congratulating each other, for now they feel equipped for
their adventure.
A quarter of an hour afterwards they near the place where the Diemer
Lake joins the pretty little river Amstel, which comes flowing from the
south. A guard-house stands at the point of junction, the flag of Spain
floating over it. A couple of Spanish soldiers are lounging in front of
it; but the day is balmy and sleepy, the boat under its sail makes no
noise, and before Alva’s veterans exactly wake up the little shallop
ranges within fifty feet of them.
“Now,” whispers Guy, “in memory of Oliver!”
With this come two reports, and the soldiers lie doubled up with
arquebus balls between their ribs, as the little skiff enters the
Amstel river. But there are five comrades of the two Spanish gentlemen
who lie moaning out their lives in front of the guard-house. These
hastily run to a boat, and with wild cries of rage and revenge are soon
in pursuit of the murderers of their comrades.
“That was a good stroke,” mutters the Hollander. “I had expected to
meet three or four guard boats here, but all the surrounding patrols
have been weakened for the attack on the Diemerdyk. Push on, they are
coming after us.” The two take to their oars, but it is hard work
rowing against the current, and four men are pulling the Spanish boat,
which commences to overhaul them.
“Row on, Haring, while I load the arquebuses. I’m a little quicker at
it than you,” says Chester. A moment after he adds: “Let them come now,
we’ve got four loaded guns, two for each of us.”
Dropping the oars the two await the approaching Spanish patrol, who
come on, thinking they will have an easy victory, as there are five men
in the boat, two only rowing now, the other three blowing their slow
matches and getting their guns ready.
But this does not suit the Englishman and Fleming.
Were one of them wounded the other would surely perish. They take to
their oars again, and hastily round a little wooded point upon which
the willows are just beginning to expand their leaves, forming a slight
shelter.
Suddenly grounding the skiff behind the screen of the thicket, they
spring on shore, each carrying two guns, and crawl across the point in
turn to catch the Spanish boat just as she rounds it. From this
ambuscade their four arquebuses discharged within twenty feet of their
pursuers, puts one dead over his rowlocks and two others desperately
wounded.
Saluted in this ferocious manner the Spaniards, with a cry of surprise
and terror, turn their boat about down the river.
“Not one of ’em must go back to send cavalry after us!” whispers
Haring.
“Then come on, and we’ll nail the other two,” answers Guy. Reloading
their guns they fly to their shallop again, and after a desperate pull,
overtake the Spaniards, who row for their lives, but are no match on
the water for Gueux sailors.
Two or three shots and one of Alva’s veterans cleft to the chin with
battle axe, and the Spanish patrol boat floats down the river manned
only by corpses.
“That was fortunate,” says the Hollander. “There’s now no one to give
the alarm. Until we pass the guard-house at Ouderkerk we’ll probably
meet no Spanish troops. But they sometimes have a whole company there.
We must get past it after darkness.”
With this they turn about and keep on up the pretty little river, which
flows with a quiet, sluggish current, and at five o’clock in the
evening conceal themselves in a patch of willows, taking very good care
that no one shall notice them. What peasants they have seen have fled
from them. Here, not daring to kindle a fire, the two eat salt herring
and oily bread convivially, and wait for approaching darkness.
This comes deep and heavy over land and water; there is no moon this
night. Haring and Guy, muffling their oars, row cautiously up the
stream, and in half an hour see the lights of Ouderkerk. Then groping
along upon the opposite shore, the Dutchman acting as pilot, and
apparently knowing every sandbank in the stream, they would get past
this place, which is only a small village, undiscovered, were it not
for the barking of a few curs, which produces a challenge from the
Spanish sentry on the river bank.
Not answering this, the two bend to their oars as silently, but as
strongly, as possible, and after a little the dogs cease barking, and
the sentry resumes his beat, apparently thinking, as he has seen
nothing or heard nothing, that nothing has passed him. In fact, after
they are beyond the place, they discover by the yellings of the curs
that the Spaniard is apparently kicking them for having aroused him.
Nearly all that night they pass up the river, and by daybreak are happy
to find themselves, having made their way there by a small connecting
stream, in the Leg Meer, a long, narrow patch of water that nearly
reaches the Haarlem Lake. Passing along this in the early morning they
are pursued and overtaken, and that would probably be the end of them,
were it not friends instead of enemies who come upon them.
It is a small bateau patrolling this debatable water in behalf of the
Prince of Orange.
From its captain they get the information that De Bossu has just put
more galleys on the Haarlem Lake, and that they will have a hard time
to get through the Spanish, as the Dutch fleet is refitting at the Kaag
at the south end of the lake. “You had better not go,” suggests the
Holland commander.
But Guy, confident that every day will bring more vessels of Alva’s
upon the Haarlem Meer, making his course more difficult, insists upon
going, and Haring is not the man to stay behind.
“Well, if you’ve made up your mind to it,” replies the Dutch captain,
“We’ll help you on your way.”
His sailors assist Guy and Haring in getting their boat from Leg Meer
across the polders by a water ditch that runs beside a dyke and launch
it upon the Haarlem Lake.
“Now,” says Chester, “what provisions can you spare. It were an outrage
against humanity if we went into that starving town and took not one
sack of meal to their hungry mouths.”
“You’re right,” answers the bateau commander. “We’ll give you three
hundred pounds of flour, which is all your boat can safely carry.”
“Now you take your lives in your hands,” continues the captain. “You’d
better go in at night. You’re safer at the south end. But as you get
near Haarlem, look out! The Spaniards have two or three galleys always
off the Fuik.”
Taking the advice of their friends, and getting from them a bottle of
spirits that cheers the two greatly, Haring and Guy set sail and speed
across the Haarlem Lake to two small islands on the western side some
four miles south of Haarlem.
There they lie until the night sets in once more, and then in the
darkness, though they have a narrow squeak of it from a patrol galley,
get in to the Fuik and land at one of the small forts built there to
keep open communication between the lake and the leaguered city.
Here they are welcomed by a crowd of gaunt, hungry but determined-eyed
citizens, who, under the stress of siege, have become more enduring
than veterans. For all history shows that when the citizen rises to
defend home and wives and children, no soldier is so enduring of
hunger, of thirst, of wounds, of torture, as he who battles within
sight of his roof-tree and returns each night from the horrors of war
to caress his wife and little ones, the sight of whom makes him go
forth again more desperate, more enduring, and more heroic for their
kisses and their tears.