John McPake and the Sea Beggars

by Stuart Campbell

  ‘Just a passerby,’ said Janet, sensing John’s confusion.

  ‘And are you getting any relief from the Voices?’

  ‘No. We are all present, if not very correct. At your service, ma’am,’ said the Academic. John thought he could hear him clicking his heels as he continued.

  ‘I’m keeping abreast of recent research into psychosis. I’m especially intrigued by the findings emerging from the Bethlem and Maudsley Hospitals based on mind-mapping techniques. The imaging seems to demonstrate that when patients experience auditory hallucinations activity is increased in Broca’s area, that part of the brain which we normally use to generate our own inner “mental” speech, strongly suggesting that voices are essentially self-generated in the same way that most of us would say the words of a poem or a prayer silently to ourselves.’

  ‘Total bollocks,’ said the Bastard.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rosa, ‘did you say something?’ John shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you dare suggest that I don’t exist! You self-serving, toadying bookworm.’

  ‘But the research says … ’

  ‘Up yours!’

  John was aware that the normally supportive and insightful Janet was looking shocked. Surely he had not repeated out loud what he had just heard in his head? Mortified he covered his mouth with his hand.

  ‘A touch of the old Tourettes today?’ asked Rosa. She instantly regretted the question that should have been confined to the notes she was scribbling. ‘Any word from your brother?’

  John looked as if he was fit to burst.

  ‘No word yet but still looking, still looking,’ said Janet who was growing increasingly anxious on John’s behalf.

  ‘Tell them about the latest note,’ said the Tempter urgently. ‘It’s a real breakthrough after all these false starts. This time it will be different.’

  The Bastard snorted but didn’t see the point of saying anything. It was all so stupid; he didn’t need to waste his breath.

  Janet placed a consoling arm on his shoulder. ‘Probably enough for today, what do you think?’ she asked, in a tone which made apparent it was a statement not a question.

  With the meeting concluded, John went through to the lounge. There was no one there apart from Derek leaning forward from the settee pressing both thumbs into a small console while staring hard at his laptop on the table. Almost unable to breathe with anger John felt the pain of his blood pounding in his temples. It was an unfamiliar and deeply unpleasant sensation. He felt frightened by the intensity of his feelings and quite, quite powerless.

  ‘Hi John, how’d it go?’ asked Derek, without raising his eyes from the small screen where a naval battle was being fought. Without waiting for an answer, he sighed noisily as a man-of-war disappeared into a jagged-edged cartoon of pink smoke. Martial music filled the room. ‘You should try this, John, you saw Pirates of the Caribbean at Christmas didn’t you?’

  FORTY-SIX

  The man-of-war materialised from nowhere, cleaving a path through the mist on the starboard side. Johannes choked on the smoke. ‘Lucifer’s furnace!’ he spluttered, eyes smarting and ears ringing with the sound of cannon fire. Moving his arms in front of his face as if swimming through the black haze, he saw that Balthasar was standing next to him, stock still, as if in shock. Cornelius was gripping the handrail and staring at the wooden hulk looming out of the mist.

  Armed with grappling irons and muskets the geuzen were ready for the impact when it came. A squat sailor had dropped his weapon and was staunching a wound in his forearm, cursing all the while, but mesmerised by the dark moving wall of timber towering like a giant’s shadow over a frightened child.

  Within seconds they were thrown from their feet as the Spanish monster sliced into their flimsy vessel, lifting it, skewered, on its prow. The horizon toppled onto itself and, for a moment, the two ships groaned like elderly lovers trying to extricate themselves from a routine coupling. The deck splintered and the sea rose to engulf them along with the first wave of men who hurled themselves into their midst, howling and hacking at everything and everyone in their way.

  Johannes grasped at a pike that appeared inches from his throat, wrestling until its owner toppled backwards over the gunnels, a small devil tumbling headfirst down the margins of an illuminated manuscript. Johannes’ hands were bleeding profusely.

  Cornelius waited until his chosen victim swung against the side of the ship on a thick rope before jabbing his elbow into the man’s face. The stricken invader relinquished his grip and fell soundlessly into the water.

  Balthasar was being chased round the topsy-turvy deck by a small madman determined to strangle his quarry with his bare hands. The madman tripped on a trailing rope and was kicked in the head for his pains by a passing crewman.

  Johannes, still sucking on his bleeding hand, watched as the Leader sliced the heavy air with his cutlass before thrusting it neatly through his opponent’s windpipe. For several moments the two enacted a slow motion dance at sword’s length until the Leader extracted his bloody weapon from the man’s throat.

  A knot of men floundering on the swamped deck attempted to swivel a small cannon towards the man-of-war. One of the beggars, who had been protecting a burning taper in his cupped hands as if it were a sacred flame, approached.

  ‘Move your arse, dumb shit!’

  The celebrant placed the taper against the powder hole and was instantly killed by the resulting explosion and blowback. The hot cannon flew through the air and effectively cut one of the enemy sailors in half. Meanwhile, a gaping orifice had appeared in the side of the man-of-war. Once the smoke cleared from the edges of the charred hole a gaggle of beggars seized their chance and jumped into the open maul, slaughtering the stunned enemy sailors staggering towards them.

  As he struggled to keep his balance on the violently tipping ship, Johannes found himself staring at the crow’s nest where Blindman stood motionless and serene. He moved his head slowly in one direction and then the next as if directing the battle from his perch. One tilt of the head coincided with a Spanish sailor losing his footing whereupon he was promptly decapitated by a sea beggar. Another tilt and an enemy clutched his eye and sank to his knees. Blindman nodded in the direction of the Dutch flotilla emerging from the mist.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Derek, ‘something’s happening. Over there!’ He zoomed in on a corner of the screen and, pressing furiously on the console, fired several small puffs of smoke at a figure disappearing behind the capstan. ‘Bugger!’ he said as the figure reappeared further along the deck.

  Like a bird in the mouth of a dog the sea beggars’ craft was being routinely ducked into the sea in the hope that it would eventually give up and drown. The man-of-war’s mainsail had become partially detached and billowed over the smaller vessel. Johannes struggled against the canvas shroud. Unbidden, he saw an image of Michel, much younger, trapped under the blanket in his parents’ bed.

  Once free of the sail he surveyed the many bodies strewn across the deck. Some were groaning; someone else called on his mother. The carnage had ceased and the only men still standing were his fellow beggars. To his relief Cornelius was nearby on his knees and holding his head, but was uninjured as far as Johannes could tell. Balthasar meanwhile was offering water to one of the fallen.

  Johannes looked out to sea and saw that the man-of-war was now completely encircled by the flotilla of small Dutch ships that had thrown off the cloak of mist and joined the fray. ‘We’re not alone. Christ has not forsaken us!’ shouted a geuzen, his face a mess of blood.

  The man-of-war now resembled a wounded deer surrounded by a pack of curs. Balthasar felt a fleeting pang of loss as the drowned hounds came to mind. Men were now swarming up the sides of the galleon, their shouts ringing out above the creaking of wood and the suck of the waves which still tugged at their own stricken ship.

  The three men reached out to each other just as the invading sea covered their knees and the shock of cold water made them cry out.

/>   ‘Sons of whores and bitches!’ shouted Cornelius.

  ‘Hold fast to one another,’ urged Balthasar. They waded in a strange dance for a few moments before surrendering to the inevitable. Their vessel detached itself from the man-of-war and gracefully sank, leaving the weavers floating alongside clothing, barrels, drinking vessels, doors, gun port covers, splinters of wood torn loose by cannon fire, and the semi-submerged bodies of their dead fellow beggars and newly acquired enemies.

  Several of the beggars were hanging on to floating spars with one arm while waving with the other. They were encouraged in their efforts by their compatriots, now in complete command of the captured man-of-war and peering down at them.

  The survivors grabbed the ropes hanging over the side and were hauled upwards to accompanying cheers.

  ‘God be thanked!’ spluttered Johannes.

  ‘Fishers of men,’ said Balthasar, accepting two outstretched hands.

  Once all were on board the collective mood changed. In the aftermath of the battle some of the crew sat silently on the deck, others still jabbed excitedly at each other as if unable to curb the urge to kill and maim. A sailor retched over the side either from a stomach wound or his inability to digest the horror he had just witnessed. Someone else was quietly humming a tune that Johannes recognised as the lullaby that Antonia used to sing to Michel before she sank into her dark soundless world.

  The Leader was going from man to man mock punching them on the chest, holding them by the shoulders to shake them from their private reveries, or putting a consoling or congratulatory arm around them. Many of the crew were strangers to him from the other boats but all were embraced and thanked. He turned his attention to the gaggle of prisoners staring blankly at the dark sea.

  The order soon came. ‘Overboard with every last son of a fornicating Spanish whore!’ The more powerful geuzen easily manhandled the terrified captives and hurled them like sacks of corn over the low wooden balustrade. One of them, a terrified young lad made eye contact with Johannes for the instant before he was upturned and pitched overboard.

  Johannes moved towards him. The other sailors lined the gunnels to mock the flailing, drowning men. Johannes looked on horrified as the young lad sank beneath the boiling water. ‘In Christ’s name!’ he shouted, before Balthasar motioned him to step away.

  ‘Choose your battles,’ he cautioned. ‘Save your strength for Leyden. Save your anger for those who are holding Michel.’ Johannes grudgingly saw the wisdom in the older man’s words.

  Shouts of joy preceded the appearance back on deck of three sailors who were tugging behind them a bound wooden chest. Those able to move quickly gathered round as the Leader attacked the lock with an axe.

  As the lock sprang the lid was raised to reveal layer on layer of clothes and finery. The Leader sank to his knees and brought out armfuls of uniforms, dress coats and plumed hats that he tossed to his men like a demented saint dispensing largesse to the poor. ‘Satan’s vestments! Lucifer’s hose. Dress for the wedding, boys!’

  At the bottom of the chest were several women’s dresses of silk and velvet. ‘Where are the nuns?’ shouted the Leader, whereupon the three unfortunate women, who had survived the battle unscathed, were produced from the back of the crowd. ‘Put these on, ladies, tonight we dine like the kings of Spain!’

  Balthasar struggled to tie his newly acquired red breeches which did not quite match his girth, Cornelius stood resplendent in an overlong woollen coat while Johannes roared with laughter as he pulled on a jacket that had previously belonged to a member of his Spanish Majesty’s Grand Army. ‘Bring me the roasted balls of an Anabaptist!’ he shouted.

  A stumpy barrel and a fistful of tankards had been carried up from below deck by one of the sailors. Once the barrel had been spiked the rum was dispensed to the crew.

  ‘This is ringing a bell … yes, the sea beggars did have a notable success when they outmanoeuvred the Spanish fleet off Enckhuysen, sank the greater part of it and captured the admiral’s flagship, and Bossu himself … but that was in 1573, I’m getting increasingly uncertain about your chronology, Narrator … ’

  Quiet!

  The Leader could barely contain his pleasure in the size of his capture. William himself would soon hear and rush to congratulate all involved, while saving the highest praise for the Courageous Leader who had masterminded the whole operation. Preening himself, and wallowing in anticipated fame, conveniently distracted the Heroic Leader from the truth that no one in the sea beggars’ fleet knew how to sail a ship of such size. Already the vessel was wandering across the waves in a listless undirected manner. Rising to the challenge he gave the order that the ship was to be searched deck by deck in the hope that skulking somewhere in the bulwarks they might find a skilled navigator.

  The weavers were dispatched to search the lower deck.

  Below decks the men ducked between the crew’s hammocks swinging with the motion of the waves. All were empty. Balthasar poked each one from underneath just to make sure. Towards the end of their search his fist met resistance. There was someone in the hammock.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  When he put his hand in his pocket the next morning, John found the crumpled leaflet that had been given to him by the Holy Joe on the street. He smoothed it out with the back of his hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mick asked, already bored by children’s television. John passed over the piece of paper.

  A TOWN BUILT ON A HILL CANNOT BE HIDDEN. TRUST THE LORD

  ‘Don’t trust any lord,’ said Mick. After a small diatribe against the ills of monarchy and privilege in general he looked up. ‘It’s from the Sermon on the Mount. A fine socialist tract.’ He then looked into the middle distance.

  HOU HAPPIE THE PUIR AT IS HUMMLE AFORE GOD,

  FOR THEIRS IS THE KINGDOM O HEAVEN!

  HOU HAPPIE THE DOWFF AN DOWIE,

  FOR THEY WILL BE COMFORTIT!

  HOW HAPPIE THE DOUCE AN CANNIE,

  ‘FOR THEY WILL FAA THE YIRD!

  I don’t believe in the God shite but the words are grand. The line you’ve got there comes later: A toun biggit on a hill-tap canna be holdit.’

  ‘Lorimer’s translation of The New Testament in Scots, published in 1983 by Southside Press if my memory serves me right,’ said the Academic, genuinely impressed by Mick’s unexpected erudition.

  ‘Who cares?’ mumbled the Bastard.

  ‘It’s a sign, it’s a sign!’ said the Tempter. ‘False starts are inevitable. He wasn’t at the seaside. We were too late, he had moved on.’

  ‘Moved on my arse, he’s dead.’

  ‘It’s Arthur’s Seat! You’ll meet him on Arthur’s Seat.’

  ‘And probably Uncle Tom Cobley and King Arthur himself surrounded by his Court at Camelot, somewhere under Salisbury Crags.’

  ‘No no, I think you’re wrong there,’ interjected the Academic. ‘Malory identified Winchester as the original location, though John Leland in 1542 made a case for Cadbury Castle in Somerset. Colchester is probably the frontrunner at the moment, and as for Tom Cobley … ’

  ‘Who cares a shit!’

  ‘Mark my words, he’s on Arthur’s Seat,’ persisted the Tempter.

  ‘This is doubly interesting, John,’ intoned the Academic. ‘The sermon on the Mount was held as the most important passage in the Bible by those self-same Anabaptists that take up so much of your time in your other world. For the early believers the sermon provided the moral framework for their system of ethics which was essentially non-violent. Indeed they were vehemently opposed to war in all its forms.’

  ‘Get a life!’ sneered the Bastard.

  Mick was saying something but John couldn’t concentrate, distracted by the argument raging in his head. He stared at the screen that was changing rapidly as Mick flipped between channels. A purple lion with a yellow mane was driving a toy train though an alien landscape peopled by ballerinas apparently pirouetting on rotating toilet rolls.

  ‘I pity the kids today,’
sighed Mick.

  A Batman clone was driving a skidoo at great speed round skyscrapers with white pizza boxes piled precariously on his pillion. It wasn’t going to end well. A perfect ethnic mix of cartoon firemen stood alongside their sparkling red vehicle.

  ‘Political correctness,’ said Mick, ‘What’s wrong with Captain Pugwash? Seaman Stains, Roger the cabin boy, you couldn’t make it up.’

  Mick’s beanie had nodded several times in response to John’s mentioning a trip up Arthur’s Seat. ‘Tramping stills the mind,’ he said.

  The odd couple attracted not a glance from the early morning joggers, many of whom were, in any case, running away from their own tormentors, analysing things said the night before or practising the fine words that would later in the day make their bosses see the error of their ways.

  Mick shot a warning glance at the two swans that had wandered onto the path running alongside the lower loch. ‘Vicious bastards, the swan and the midge,’ he muttered.

  ‘Mythic creatures,’ commented the Academic, already out of breath from the pace of the walk. ‘As a symbol in alchemy the swan was neither masculine nor feminine, but rather symbolised hermaphoditism.’

  ‘That would suit you fine, John,’ suggested the Jester who was enjoying the misty morning. ‘You could just turn over and have sex with yourself.’

  ‘Shut up the pair of you,’ said the Bastard.

  ‘Don’t listen to them, John, “Today’s the day you will find him. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Trust the Lord.”’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘Exactly,’ retorted the Tempter, who did not normally dare challenge the Bastard. John wondered if this was significant. Perhaps today would be different. A breakthrough at last.

  Mick, fully engaged with his own Voices, gestured dismissively with his right arm that smacked into the midriff of a lycra-clad woman overtaking at speed. ‘Oy!’ she shouted.