by C. D. Baker
Pieter now faced young Wil. Not a boy any longer, he thought. Nay …no longer. He’s learned much. Ah, so very brave, noble and strong; a fine young man… broad-shouldered and handsome. Ha! Look at that flowing hair and the set in those steely blue eyes; confident, but now humble; youthful, but wise for his years. He reached a shaking hand toward his young friend and, when their palms met, Wil plunged into the old man’s arms. “I love you, Pieter,” he choked. “I’ll miss you.”
“I … I …” Pieter stammered, “I am without words. You are like a son to me. The son I never had. I bid you grace and peace for all years to come.” Pieter’s eyes so filled with tears the boy became but a golden blur as he turned away. He wiped them on his worn sleeve and watched helplessly as the ship’s plank was removed. He then aimed his failing sight on all of his beloved and faded into his own thoughts, paying no heed to the shouts and orders of the seamen scrambling through the rigging and lowering the sweeps. But, when the thick hemp ropes were jerked off their squeaking pilings, his mind returned with a start. His heart sank and he swallowed hard. The creaking ship then eased subtly from its rest and began sliding toward the sea and away from the reach of Pieter’s outstretched arms.
The gallant crusaders started waving from the galley’s rail and calling his name. The old man bit his lower lip to stop its quivering and closed his eyes. Gertrude stepped beside the priest and laid her head against him. She wrapped her arm around his waist and gently hugged him as she wiped tears from her own eyes.
Pieter patted the girl on her shoulder and turned a loving eye toward the congregation of strange new faces staring hopefully at him. He smiled. As the ship now slipped quickly away he raised his hand limply and whispered, “Farewell, my beloved.”
Pieter watched the rising sun cast its beautiful golden light across the tips of the San Marco’s tall masts. Her sails were dropped into place, snapping and fluttering and filling with fresh morning air. She lurched forward awkwardly, heaving into the blue water with a splash and leaning toward the far edge of the curved harbor.
Seagulls called and shrieked overhead and the sounds of a new day began to fill the wharf behind him, but Pieter thought only of his children, his beloved lambs, disappearing before his eyes. He felt so very much alone.
Suddenly a loud voice interrupted his thoughts. “You can see them again, Pater.”
Pieter was startled. “Eh? What was that?”
“I say, you can see them again.” The voice came from the throng of newcomers gathered behind him. Pieter turned and saw a pleasant-looking, earnest boy, fourteen perhaps, and smiling politely.
“Ah, ja, my young friend, I’ll see them with the angels someday.”
“Nay, ‘tis not what I meant to say. If you walk along that line you shall find a jetty. And at its end is a place where the ships pass quite close, close enough to see the sailors’ faces.”
Pieter’s heart jumped for joy and he hugged the surprised lad. “Ja? Well then, m’thanks!” he blurted. “May the saints protect you for your kindness.”
“And I thank you for your blessing. I—”
“Ah, ‘tis good to hear, lad—you say the jetty is by there?” He pointed east.
The boy laughed. “Aye. But you needs not hurry; the wind is failing already and it takes some time for them to row. And you’ve this good fortune as well: When they near the jetty you’ll find this captain getting as close by it as he can.”
“And why would that be?”
“I’ve heard it to be a wager among the sailors. Each ship works to claim the honor of coming closest to the point without grounding or rowing into a rock.”
“Such vanity,” said the priest. “But such vanity has such profit for us!” He turned and started toward the jetty in great haste. However, his time-taught instinct for better manners nudged him to stop and he did. He spun around and faced the boy again. “Begging your pardon, lad, I failed to ask your name.”
“Rudolf,” the boy answered. “Rudolf from the mountains near to Liestal.”
A sudden chill charged through Pieter and he stared, open-mouthed and astonished. He thought for a moment. Nay, could never be unless … a miracle, perhaps? “Would your papa be Dieder?”
“Aye.”
“And your Mutti, Gerta?”
“Aye,” he murmured. “Aye. Do you know them?”
Pieter cried out and embraced the lad. “Ja! They gave us charity in a time of need. God bless them, and I’ve a message for you! Y’Mutti says, ‘Tell Rudolf we love him very much and miss him.’”
Rudolf’s face twisted with bittersweet joy. “I … I can barely believe this! Oh, Pater, I miss them so … might… might I join you if y’return to those parts?”
“Aye. Aye, a thousand ayes, lad! But, ach, we must catch our ship!”
Pieter took the boy by the shoulder and led his new friends in a charge across the docks. Down the wharves they raced, Rudolf and the old man in the lead and a long line of vagabonds following close behind. Paying no attention to the scoffs and ridicule of all around, the parade of misfits pressed on until they reached the turn to the peninsula which narrowed to a rocky jetty at its end. They stopped to catch their breath and took an accounting of the San Marco’s location. It had stalled in mid-harbor and a relieved Pieter sighed.
The band hurried, nonetheless, and Pieter led them with his staff in hand, looking very much like a shepherd leading a ragged herd of grateful sheep! These sheep laughed, however, quite amused with their new friend’s amusing gait and they squealed with delight when he smiled at them with his faithful tooth.
The company passed by rows of houses and shops, past the shipwright’s building and the caulkers’ guild, the sailmaker and a brawling tavern. Finally, all panting, they found themselves clambering on the rocky end of the long jetty.
“By the saints, Papa Pieter,” announced a little voice behind him, “we made haste, but see how far away the ship is yet.”
Pieter froze. Papa Pieter? With visions of his beloved Maria filling his mind’s eye, he whirled about to see the tiny face of Ava staring at him happily. For a moment, disappointment washed over him, but he smiled and laid a hand on the dear girl’s head. “Ah, blessings on the San Marco,” he wheezed.
The jetty’s rocks were difficult and hazardous to climb across. They were formed in ages past as long layers of black stone turned edge upright so that each step needed great care. But no obstacle in all of creation would obstruct Pieter’s determined purpose and, with a minimum of scraped shins and hushed oaths, the old man and his throng finally arrived at the jetty’s point.
The rising sun felt warm as did the ocean’s waves splashing over the dangling feet of the laughing children. Pieter had the good fortune of finding one flat boulder upon which he was able to sit his weary rump, and from this spot he fixed his eyes on the timid sails of the San Marco.
Certain that he had a little time to wait, the old man closed his eyes and breathed deeply of salt air. He smiled as the spray of crashing waves sprinkled his white head. The sound of the sea was calming and the gentle chatter of the children warmed his soul. He could have asked for no sweeter lullaby, other than to hear the soft voice of Maria or the pleasant chuckle of Karl. Pieter’s mind began to drift again to old memories when he heard the faint sound of a distant voice calling his name.
The old man turned and saw someone coming toward the jetty. He pulled himself up, trying to focus, but could only see the blurred image of a large, shaggy man. Perhaps a dog as well? he thought.
“Oh, please, dear God, no more magistrates—no dogs to chase us!” he muttered, angry and fearful that the simple joy of a last farewell would be spoiled. He cast a wistful glance at the San Marco and huddled his children as the stranger came closer. He seems anxious, thought Pieter. Hurried and quite forceful of stride.
The more he studied the approaching man the more he imagined something strangely familiar in him. Perhaps it was his stride, or something else … he could not quite see.
/> Unable to contain his consternation and curiosity any longer, Pieter began crawling over the rocks toward his visitor. Pieter stood erect and confident, as if to bar all danger to his flock. But no sooner had he set his jaw than the man’s dog yelped and bolted toward him. The priest swallowed and gripped his staff with both hands, bracing himself against the charging beast. His mouth dried and his heart pounded but he remained steadfast and determined!
The dog ran like the wind, streaking toward the terrified old man like a bolt of gray lightning. But suddenly, Pieter’s heart seized within his heaving chest and he dropped his staff. Tears of joy filled his eyes and he threw open his arms. “Oh, dear God in heaven, oh, dear God—Solomon, Solomon!” he cried.
Pieter fell to his knees as his faithful friend bounded into his arms and rolled him to the ground, squirming and lurching, wagging and whining and licking until his master begged for mercy. “Solomon … Solomon!”
The panting stranger finally reached the happy reunion and cried in a desperate voice, “Hear me, Pieter! Pieter pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his robe. He squinted at the man standing in the bright light of the morning’s sun. Unable to discern the silhouette, Pieter shielded his eyes with his hand and looked again. He gasped. “Friend! Friend! By the saints above …” He lunged toward the dusty one-armed man and embraced him. “I… I am speechless.”
Friend was in no mood for an embrace. He brushed past Pieter and stumbled into the crowd of strange faces gathering about. “Where are my sons?” he cried.
Pieter was confused. “Who … who are your sons?” he asked, incredulously.
“Karl and Wil!” Friend answered. “My name is Heinrich, Heinrich of Weyer! Where are they?”
Pieter hesitated. “Heinrich of Weyer? Father of Karl and Wil … and Maria? How can it be?” The slack-jawed old man pointed a finger at the ship. “Wil is aboard …”
He did not finish. Heinrich immediately blurted, “Hear me! They needs off the ship—they’re to be sold as slaves!”
All eyes widened in shock as they turned toward the San Marco whose sails had gone limp. Staring at the wheezing man in horror, Pieter’s mind raced. “Are you sure, man?”
“Aye!” cried Heinrich. “I heard it with my own ears in the tavern just beyond.” He pointed an impatient finger to the row of buildings not far away. “We needs get them off that ship!”
Pieter nodded, numbly. The San Marco was now ploughing hard toward them. Pieter could see sailors climbing up the masts and he knew they were about to trim her to full sail. A stiff breeze gusted into his face and his mind raced. He clutched his temples with his fists and begged God to deliver them all as he rushed toward the water’s edge.
On board the ship, Wil and his comrades were leaning against the salt-smoothed wooden rails and bidding farewell to Genoa and to their many friends left behind. They felt good under the warm, new-day’s sun and faced contentedly into the fresh sea air. Several of the crusaders laughed at each other as they wobbled about the deck, tripping and pitching with the roll of the waves beneath them.
Wil closed his eyes. He loved the screeches of the gulls following overhead, the splash of the sea against the bow and the snap of the sails. Next to him stood fair Frieda, watching the shoreline pass by with an expression of wonder and joy which graced her pretty face like no adornment of mere gold or silver ever might. Wil opened his eyes and smiled at her.
He looked about the busy galley, ignoring two snickering guards standing close by. The lurching of the ship created a restful rhythm and he thought he had never felt such peace in all his life. He offered a quick prayer of thanks to his Savior as he scanned the mountains rising behind the city. Karl is looking over us, he mused. And perhaps Maria as well…. His mind carried him to the abbey in Arona and he closed his eyes again.
Then, with a start he opened them. It must have been the wind, he chuckled to himself. But a moment later he thought he heard it again. He looked about the ship and then at the masts above. Karl? Maria? Are you there? “Ach! I must be mad.”
Conrad poked him in the side. “Eh? You’ve something to say?”
“N-nay … I thought I… oh, never y’mind.”
The sails then drooped, fluttering feebly in timid air and the captain ordered his crew about sundry duties. For the next hour the ship languished in a gently rolling sea until the oarsmen were finally ordered to their places. And, with a few growls and kicks from the mate, the ship soon lurched forward again finding a new rhythm as it swept through the water.
The children watched with interest as the oars dipped in ordered sequence, pushing the ship through the water like so many arms, first reaching and dropping, then lifting in unison. But, after a time, the jib caught a fresh wind and the mainsail swelled, proud and firm like the breast of a puffed cockbird.
The San Marco splashed forward toward a jetty just ahead and the children crowding the port side watched its approach. Suddenly, Frieda pointed to its edge and she squealed. “Look, look, everyone! Look, methinks … methinks … I see Pieter’s white head and the others … waving to us.”
The eager crusaders crammed against the rail. Wil cried out above the rest, “Aye! ‘Tis Pieter … hello, Pieter!”
The sailors were not pleased with the unusual display and became suddenly agitated. Captain Gaetano sensed some vague, indiscernible risk to his cargo and whispered close to Otavio’s ear. The mate cast a menacing scowl at the crusaders and beckoned a few hands to come close.
As the ship forged ever nearer to the jetty, Wil and his fellows cheered all the more, jubilant and grateful for the surprise greeting. Wil shielded his eyes from the bright sun and leaned his shoulders over the rail. “Hello, Pieter!” he bellowed. “Good Pieter, ever-faithful Pieter. I’ll surely miss you.”
Otto suddenly fell silent for a moment and peered at the jetty more carefully. He nudged Wil. “Would that be Solomon?”
Wil’s mouth dropped and he stretched forward to focus on the gray dog crowing at Pieter’s side. “Aye. Mein Gott, ‘tis Solomon, I am certain of it! Frieda, Conrad … look! Solomon!”
All nearly wept at the sight of the unkempt dog, nose high in the air and tail wagging. But before another could speak Frieda suddenly exclaimed, “And … and look, ‘tis Friend from Basel!”
“Friend? Aye!” Chills ran up Wil’s spine.
Frieda wiped tears of joy from her cheeks and waved again to the jetty when something about Pieter suddenly caught her eye. She whispered to Wil, “Something’s amiss … I can feel it. He is waving, but oddly. It seems they’d all be beckoning us to come ashore.”
Wil laughed. “Ja? Ach, but y’know Pieter and his odd humor. And he did truly want us to return home with him. He thinks we’ve not the pluck to get on without him!”
Frieda wasn’t so sure.
Plunging into the surf, Pieter, Heinrich, and the children were now screaming frantically and flailing their arms. Oh, could the ship but hear their desperate cries! The San Marco was now close enough for them to see the faces of their comrades and close enough for the crusaders to swim safely to shore. But it would be just a few moments before opportunity would pass. Pieter cupped his hands and wailed his warnings but his beloved simply smiled and waved in return. And poor Heinrich’s booming voice did little but frighten gulls off the wave-splashed rocks and he cursed in frustration.
Pieter, despairing and failing of hope, fell to his knees on the sharp rocks and begged God for wisdom. He groaned and stretched his opened hands toward heaven. “Oh, dear God, have mercy!” he cried. “Help us, guide us … carry our words to their ears! Tell me what to do!”
Frieda would not be stilled and she tugged stubbornly on Wil’s sleeve. “I beg your leave, Wil, but I do very much believe them to be beckoning us.”
Her insistent tone inclined Wil to consider her words more carefully and he strained to hear the calls from shore. The sounds of the ship made it difficult for the boy to discern any single word, but he agreed the calls seemed more lik
e commands than farewells. A cold fear suddenly gripped him, for indeed, something was amiss.
“Bambini!” a voice from the deck boomed. “Avanti… ‘tis time to go below.”
Wil turned and looked into the hard eyes of Otavio and the stern faces of a surly group of sailors forming a wall behind him and his crusaders. Wil feigned confusion and shrugged innocently as he cast another look at the jetty. And, when Wil’s gaze fixed on Pieter, his legs felt suddenly weak.
The sailors saw the old man as well and one roared, “Look at that beggar, spinning on those rocks like m’child’s toy top. Old fool!”
Now squeezing Wil’s arm with both her hands Frieda whispered desperately, “The signal, Wil. The signal! Can y’not see? He calls us to come!”
On the sharp-edged rocks Pieter was frantically spinning and spinning, falling and slipping only to climb to his feet to spin again. And Solomon was spinning too … just like in Dunkeldorf.
But we’ve come this far, thought Wil. Nay …it cannot be. We’ve come this far.
Otavio’s voice roared at the lad, “Move off! To the hold with the whole litter of y’fevered scum.”
Wil hesitated, now caught in a predicament he had never imagined and without the wisdom of another to guide him. He needed more time. “Beggin’ your leave, sire, we’ve paid handsomely for passage and we’d be entitled to bid our friends farewell.”
While Otavio raged, Wil turned a quick eye toward the shore once again and now saw Friend spinning by Pieter, his one arm outstretched. Then there and there again, one after another of the children began to open their arms and spin until the whole of the company were turning ’round and ’round.
Wil wrestled within himself and had but seconds to answer either the call to end his crusade, or the one to save it. And, worse yet, he knew not which was which, nor what the better end ought be!