"Netherlands! Orange! and Liberty!" resounds defiantly from end to endof the city.
The besieging force rush the Kasteel! they sow the open tract of groundaround the moat with their heroic dead; again and again they rush forthe breach: culverins and falconets upon the ramparts are useless aftera while: and a shower of heavy stones falls upon the plucky assailants.There are five hundred Walloon bowmen now who know how to shootstraight, and some musketeers who vie with the Spaniards for precision.They cover the advance of the halberdiers and the pikemen, who return tothe 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 theMeeste Toren of the Kasteel Alva paces up and down like a caged tiger.
"Bracamonte or nightfall!" he cries with desperate rage, for he cannotunderstand why the Dendermonde troops are detained.
"Surely that rabble has not seized all the gates!" Twice he has ordereda sortie! twice the moat has received a fresh shower of dead. Thebreach has become wider: the Orangist halberdiers are fighting foot byfoot up the walls. They have succeeded in throwing their bridge made ofpikes and lances across the moat, and soon they are crossing in theirhundreds.
"Heavens above, how come they to be so numerous?"
Captain de Avila has been severely wounded: three younger captains havebeen killed. The Orangist falconets--a light piece of artillery and noteasy to use--works incessantly upon the breach. Alva himself iseverywhere. His doublet and hose are torn, too, his breast-plate andtassets are riddled with arrow-shot; he bleeds profusely from the hand.His face is unrecognisable beneath a covering of smoke and grime. Rageand fear have made him hideous--not fear of personal danger, for to thishe is wholly indifferent, but fear of defeat, of humiliation, of theheavy reprisals which that contemptible rabble will exact.
He insults his soldiers and threatens them in turn; he snatches musketor crossbow, directs, leads, commands ... and sees his wildest hopesshattered one by one.
The din and confusion from the city itself is hardly heard above theawful pandemonium which reigns in and around the besieged Kasteel. TheVleeshhuis on the Schelde is a mass of flames; the roof suddenly fallsin with a terrific crash which seems to shake the very earth to itsdepths: there is not a single window left in the Meeste-Toren, and therooms, as well as the yard below, are littered with broken glass.
"We have no more balls left, Magnificence," reports the captain incharge of the artillery. "What must we do?"
"Do?" cries the Duke of Alva fiercely. "Throw yourselves into the moator get the musketeers to turn their muskets against you; for of acertainty you will be massacred within the hour."
Inside the city it is hell let loose. Fighting--hand to hand, pike topike--goes on in every street, on every bridge, under every doorway,aye! even beneath the cathedral porch. The doors of the houses have allbeen broken open and men who are wounded and exhausted crawl under themfor shelter and safety. The women and children had all been ordered togo inside their own homes before the first battle cry of the Orangistsrang 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 thehands of the Orangists they are destroyed one by one.
Hell let loose indeed! Desperate men fighting for freedom against atyrant who has never known defeat. The evening Angelus was never rungon that Lord's Day--the feast of the Holy Redeemer--but at the hour whenday first fades into evening Mark van Rycke--superb, undaunted andglowing now with the ardour of victory--leads the final assault on theKasteel.
"Netherlanders! For Liberty!" he cries.
A stone has hit his shoulder, there is a huge cut across his face, thesleeve has been torn right out of his doublet, his bare arm and the handwhich wields an unconquered sword gleam like metal in the fast gatheringtwilight.
"To the breach!" he calls, and is the first to scramble down thedeclivity of the moat and on to the heap of masonry which fills the moathere to the top of the bank.
An arrow aimed at his head pierces his right arm, a stone hurled fromabove falls at his feet and raises a cloud of dust which blinds him, aheavy 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 isyours! hold on!"
He has managed to hold on for dear life to the rough stones on thedeclivity, crawling along the top of the bank to escape being trampledon by the pikemen. The latter have a hot time at the breach: theSpanish musketeers, under the Duke of Alva's own eyes, are firing withremarkable accuracy and extraordinary rapidity, whilst from the rampartsthe shower of heavy stones makes deadly havoc: twice the Walloons havegiven ground--they are led by Laurence van Rycke now--who twice returnsto the charge.
Mark struggles to his feet: "Hold on, Walloons! the Kasteel is ours," hecries.
And while the Walloons continue the desperate fighting at the breach, hegathers together a company of Flemish swordsmen, the pick of his littlearmy, those who have stuck closely to him throughout the past two days,who have fought every minute, who have been decimated, lost theirprovosts and their captains, but have never once cried "Halt!" and neverthought of giving in.
A hundred or so of them are all that is left: they carry their sword intheir right hand and a pistol in their left. They follow Mark round thewalls to where the moat melts into the wide tract of morass whichsurrounds the north-east side of the Kasteel.
The shadow from the high walls falls across the marshy ground, the menmove round silently whilst behind them at the breach and on the bridgethe noise of musketry and falling masonry drowns every other sound.
Now the men halt, and still in silence they strip to their skins; thenwith their pistols in their right hand and their sword between theirteeth they plunge ankle deep into the mud. They are men of Ghent everyone of them--men of the Low Countries who know their morasses asmariners know the sea: they know how to keep their foothold in theseslimy tracks, where strangers would inevitably be sucked into a hideousgrave.
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 roundthem: behind them the sky is suffused with the crimson reflection of anautumnal sunset. Their arms, chests and backs are shiny with sweat,their hot breath comes and goes rapidly with excitement and the scent ofdanger which hovers behind them in that yawning morass and ahead of themon the parapet of those walls.
"Victory waits for you, my men," says Mark in a commanding voice, "up onyonder wall. Whoever is for Orange and for Liberty, follow me!"
Then he starts to climb, and one by one the men follow. What atoms theylook up on those high walls, crawling, creeping, scrambling, with handsand knees and feet clinging to the unevenness in the masonry, or scrapsof coarse grass that give them foothold: like ants crawling up aheap--on they go--their bare backs reflect the crimson glow of the sun.Mark, their hero, leads the way, his torn arm and lacerated shoulderleave a trail of blood upon the stones.
At the breach the Walloons must be hard pressed, for cries of triumphfollow 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 hisknee. The look-out man has seen him: he shoulders his musket to givethe alarm, but before he can fire Mark is on him, and three moreFlemings now have scrambled over the wall. This portion of the Kasteelis never seriously guarded: the morass is thought to be impassable, andforms the only guard on the northeast wall; but these men of Ghent haveconquered the morass and they are on the walls, and have overpowered thelook-out men ere these have had time to scream.
Naked, sweating, bleeding at hands and knees, they look like wraithsfrom some inferno down below. They rush down helter-skelter into thecastle yard. The Spanish mus
keteers caught in their rear whence theynever expected attack, down their weapons and run with a mad _Sauve quipeut_ to the shelter of the Meeste-Toren. The Walloons--notunderstanding what has happened--see the Spaniards running and seize thelucky moment. Laurence van Rycke leads them through the breach, andthey rush into the yard with pikes and halberds fixed and fill itsuddenly with their cry of triumph: then they fight their way round tothe gatehouse and lower the bridge, and the Flemings in their turn comepouring into the Kasteel.
Within ten minutes every Spaniard inside the Kasteel has laid down hisarms: the stronghold is in the hands of the Orangists, and Mark vanRycke up on the iron balcony outside the Duke of Alva's council chamber,surrounded by his naked stalwarts, demands the surrender of theLieutenant-Governor of the Netherlands in the name of Orange and ofLiberty.
Then without a sigh or a groan he throws up his arms, and those who arenearest to him are only just in time to catch him ere he falls.
CHAPTER XIX
THE HOUR OF VICTORY
I
To the women and children shut up in the different churches and in thehouses throughout the city, during those terrible hours whilst theirhusbands, brothers, sons were making their last desperate stand, it wasindeed hell let loose; for while the men were doing, they could onlywait and pray. It was impossible for them even to wander out to try andhelp the wounded or to seek amongst the dead for the one dear face, themirror of all joy and happiness. They all sat or knelt huddled uptogether, their children closely held in their arms, murmuring thosevague words of comfort, of surmise, of hope and of fear which comemechanically to the lips when every sense is lulled into a kind oftorpor with the terrible imminence of the danger and the overwhelmingpower of grief.
The danger in the houses was greater than in the churches, foreverywhere the horrible concussion of artillery and the crash of fallingmasonry broke the windows and shook the floors. But many women havethat same instinct which causes the beasts of the forests to hide withintheir lair; they feel that they would rather see their home fall inabout their heads, than watch its destruction from a safer distance.Clemence van Rycke refused to leave her house when first Laurencereceived Lenora's warning of the impending catastrophe; she refused toleave it now when her sons were face to face with death and any moment astray cannon ball might bring the walls down with a crash.
She sat in the high-backed chair in the small withdrawing-room where,less than a week ago, the first card was played in that desperate gamefor human lives which was finding its climax at this hour; she sat quitestill--staring into the empty hearth with that stolidity peculiar tothese women of the North--and which is only another, calmer, form ofcourage. The High-Bailiff, sullen and silent, sat close to the tablewith his head buried in his hands. Since his return from hishumiliating errand this afternoon he had not spoken a word to anyone--hebelieved that the Orangist cause was doomed, and both his sons certainof death. What happened to him after that he really did not care.
Pierre and Jeanne sat in the hall together, quietly telling their beads.The din outside was deafening, and the evening hour was slowly creepingon--day yielded to twilight; a brilliant sunset lit up for a while thedesolation of an entire city, then sank into a blood-hued horizon,adding its own lurid light to the crimson glow of burning buildings.
And as the veils of night fell more heavily over the city, gradually thedismal sounds of cannon and musketry were stilled. Pierre came in aftera while carrying a lamp.
"Firing has ceased," he said, "men are running down the streets shoutingthat the Kasteel is in our hands and that the Duke of Alva hassurrendered to Leatherface!"
He put the lamp down and prepared to go, for Clemence and theHigh-Bailiff have made no comment on the joyful news--perhaps it hasfailed to reach their dulled senses, perhaps they do not believe it. Atany rate, what is victory to them if two brave sons have fallen for itssake?
But already the cries through the streets become more insistent and moresure; men and women run hither and thither up and down the NieuweStraat, and as Pierre stands by the open door, peering curiously outinto the gloom, people shout to him as they rush by:
"Van Rycke has seized the Kasteel! The Duke of Alva is a prisoner inour hands."
Clemence hears the cries. She can no longer doubt her ears. "Mark?Laurence?" she calls out. "Where are they?"
The High-Bailiff rouses himself from his apathy. "I will go to the TownHouse," he says, "and will be back with news."
"News of Mark--and of Laurence," cries the mother.
The High-Bailiff goes, and she remains alone in the narrow room, withjust the feeble light of the lamp upon her pale face and tremblinghands. Now and then still, right through the night, a terrific crashshakes the house to its foundations, or a sudden lurid light flaresupwards to the sky--roofs are still falling in, crumbling ruins stillburst into flames, but firing and clash of steel have ceased, and fromthe various churches the peals of bells send their triumphant callthrough the night.
The hours go by. It is nigh on ten o'clock now. The High-Bailiff hasnot yet returned, but Laurence has just come back--wounded and exhaustedbut full of the glorious victory.
"Where is Mark?" queries the mother.
"Mark is hurt ... but he will be here anon," says the boy, "the men havemade a stretcher for him--he would not be tended at the Kasteel--hebegged to be brought home--oh! mother dear, how we must love him afterthis!"
Clemence hastily gives orders that Messire Mark's room be made ready forhim at once. Jeanne, buxom and capable, is rendered supremely happy bythis task.
"Mother dear," whispers Laurence, "next to Mark himself, we all owe oursalvation to Lenora."
He has no time to say more, even though Clemence's face has hardened atmention of that name which she abhors; for Pierre has just come runningin breathless and trembling with excitement.
"Mevrouw," he stammers, "it is the noble lady ... the Spanish lady ...it is..."
Before Laurence could further question him, he has uttered a cry ofsurprise, which is echoed by one of horror from Clemence. Lenora wasstanding under the lintel of the door. Clemence rose from her chair asif moved by a spring and stood up, rigid, and with arm raised, pointingstraight to the door:
"Go!" she commanded sternly.
But Lenora advanced slowly into the room. She was whiter than the ruffat her throat, her black mantle hung round her in heavy folds, but thehood had fallen back from her head, and her golden hair with the yellowlight of the lamp falling full upon it looked like a gleaming aureolewhich made her eyes appear wonderfully dark by contrast and her beautymore ethereal than it had been before. Laurence gazed on her inspeechless wonder, but Clemence, full of hatred for the woman whom shebelieved to be the author of all the misery of the past few days, stillpointed to the door, and sternly, relentlessly, in a voice whichquivered with the passion of intense hatred, she reiterated her command:
"Go!"
"They are bringing Mark home," said Lenora quietly; "he is wounded ...perhaps to death ... I could not get to hear ... but when he opens hiseyes he will ask for me. I cannot go unless he sends me away."
"They are bringing Mark home," assented the mother, "and 'tis I who willtend him. Never shall thy treacherous hand touch my son..."
"Mother," broke in Laurence firmly, "she is Mark's wife and she hassaved us all."
Clemence gave a loud sob and fell back in her chair. Laurence tried invain to comfort her. But Lenora waited quietly until the worst ofClemence's paroxysm of tears had passed away, then she said with thesame patience and gentleness:
"I know, mevrouw, that from the first I was an intruder in your house.I, too, have oft in the last few miserable days longed in vain that Markand I had never met. But do you not think, mevrouw, that our destiniesare beyond our ken? that God ordains our Fate, and merely chooses Histools where He desires?"
"And Satan, too, chooses his tools," murmured Cl
emence through hertears. "Oh go! go! I beg of you to go," she added with suddenpassionate appeal; "cannot you see that the sight of you must be tortureto us all?"
"Will you let me stay until I have seen Mark?" said Lenora calmly, "andthen I will go."
"I will not let you see him," protested Clemence with the obstinacy ofthe weak. "I would not allow a spy like you to come near him ... aye! aspy ... an assassin mayhap ... how do I know that you are not anemissary of our tyrants? how do I know that beneath your cloak you donot hold a dagger?..."
Laurence was trying his best to pacify his mother and throwing patheticlooks of appeal to Lenora the while, whilst the girl herself was bravelytrying to hold herself in check. But at this last cruel taunt sheuttered a cry of pain, like a poor wild creature that has been hurt todeath. In a moment she was across the room, down on her knees beside theold woman and holding Clemence's trembling hands imprisoned in her own.
"Hush! Hush!" she implored wildly, "you must not say that ... you mustnot ... Heavens above, have you not realised that when I acted as I did,I did so because I believed God Himself had shown me the way? You callme base and vile ... I swear to you by all that I hold most sacred thatI would gladly die a thousand deaths to undo the work of the past fewdays ... you speak of an assassin's dagger ... I believed that my cousinRamon was murdered ... foully and in the dark ... by the man who wasknown as Leatherface ... my father made me swear that I would avengeRamon's death ... what could I do? what could I do? I believed that Godwas guiding me ... I spied upon you, I know ... I found out your secretsand gave them to my father ... but he had commanded me and I had no oneelse in the world ... no one ... only my father ... and I believed inhim as I believe in God...."
Leatherface: A Tale of Old Flanders Page 32