Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

“No,” answered Hans, “the water is too shallow under the bank, and they know it. Bring me a burning brand.”

Foy crept forward, and returned with the fire.

“Now light the slow-match, master.”

Foy opened his blue eyes and a cold shiver went down his back. Then he set his teeth and obeyed. Martin looked at Hans, muttering,

“Good for a young one!”

Hans nodded and said, “Have no fear. Till that match burns to the level of the deck we are safe. Now, mates, hold fast. I can’t go past that boat, so I am going through her. We may sink on the other side, though I am sure that the fire will reach the powder first. In that case you can swim for it if you like, but I shall go with the Swallow.”

“I will think about it when the time comes. Oh! that cursed astrologer,” growled Martin, looking back at the pursuing ship, which was not more than seven or eight hundred yards away.

Meanwhile the officer in command of the boat, who was armed with a musket, was shouting to them to pull down their sail and surrender; indeed, not until they were within fifty yards of him did he seem to understand their desperate purpose. Then some one in the boat called out: “The devils are going to sink us,” and there was a rush to bow and stern to get up the anchors. Only the officer stood firm, screaming at them like a madman. It was too late; a strong gust of wind caught the Swallow, causing her to heel over and sweep down on the boat like a swooping falcon.

Hans stood and shifted the tiller ever so little, calculating all things with his eye. Foy watched the boat towards which they sprang like a thing alive, and Martin, lying at his side, watched the burning match.

Suddenly the Spanish officer, when their prow was not more than twenty paces from him, ceased to shout, and lifting his piece fired. Martin, looking upwards with his left eye, thought that he saw Hans flinch, but the pilot made no sound. Only he did something to the tiller, putting all his strength on to it, and it seemed to the pair of them as though the Swallow was for an instant checked in her flight—certainly her prow appeared to lift itself from the water. Suddenly there was a sound of something snapping—a sound that could be heard even through the yell of terror from the soldiers in the boat. It was the bowsprit which had gone, leaving the jib flying loose like a great pennon.

Then came the crash. Foy shut his eyes for a moment, hanging on with both hands till the scraping and the trembling were done with. Now he opened them again, and the first thing he saw was the body of the Spanish officer hanging from the jagged stump of the bowsprit. He looked behind. The boat had vanished, but in the water were to be seen the heads of three or four men swimming. As for themselves they seemed to be clear and unhurt, except for the loss of their bowsprit; indeed, the little vessel was riding over the seas on the bar like any swan. Hans glanced at the slow-match which was smouldering away perilously near to the deck, whereon Martin stamped upon it, saying:

“If we sink now it will be in deep water, so there is no need to fly up before we go down.”

“Go and see if she leaks,” said Hans.

They went and searched the forehold but could not find that the Swallow had taken any harm worth noting. Indeed, her massive oaken prow, with the weight of the gale-driven ship behind it, had crashed through the frail sides of the open Spanish boat like a knife through an egg.

“That was good steering,” said Foy to Hans, when they returned, “and nothing seems to be amiss.”

Hans nodded. “I hit him neatly,” he muttered. “Look. He’s gone.” As he spoke the Swallow gave a sharp pitch, and the corpse of the Spaniard fell with a heavy splash into the sea.

“I am glad it has sunk,” said Foy; “and now let’s have some breakfast, for I am starving. Shall I bring you some, friend Hans?”

“No, master, I want to sleep.”

Something in the tone of the man’s voice caused Foy to scrutinise his face. His lips were turning blue. He glanced at his hands. Although they still grasped the tiller tightly, these also were turning blue, as though with cold; moreover, blood was dropping on the deck.

“You are hit,” he said. “Martin, Martin, Hans is hit!”

“Yes,” replied the man, “he hit me and I hit him, and perhaps presently we shall be talking it over together. No, don’t trouble, it is through the body and mortal. Well, I expected nothing less, so I can’t complain. Now, listen, while my strength holds. Can you lay a course for Harwich in England?”

Martin and Foy shook their heads. Like most Hollanders they were good sailormen, but they only knew their own coasts.

“Then you had best not try it,” said Hans, “for there is a gale brewing, and you will be driven on the Goodwin Sands, or somewhere down that shore, and drowned and the treasure lost. Run up to the Haarlem Mere, comrades. You can hug the land with this small boat, while that big devil after you,” and he nodded towards the pursuing vessel, which by now was crossing the bar, “must stand further out beyond the shoals. Then slip up through the small gut—the ruined farmstead marks it—and so into the mere. You know Mother Martha, the mad woman who is nicknamed the Mare? She will be watching at the mouth of it; she always is. Moreover, I caused her to be warned that we might pass her way, and if you hoist the white flag with a red cross—it lies in the locker—or, after nightfall, hang out four lamps upon your starboard side, she will come aboard to pilot you, for she knows this boat well. To her also you can tell your business without fear, for she will help you, and be as secret as the dead. Then bury the treasure, or sink it, or blow it up, or do what you can, but, in the name of God, to whom I go, I charge you do not let it fall into the hands of Ramiro and his Spanish rats who are at your heels.”

As Hans spoke he sank down upon the deck. Foy ran to support him, but he pushed him aside with a feeble hand. “Let me be,” he whispered. “I wish to pray. I have set you a course. Follow it to the end.”

Then Martin took the tiller while Foy watched Hans. In ten minutes he was dead.

Now they were running northwards with a fierce wind abeam of them, and the larger Spanish ship behind, but standing further out to sea to avoid the banks. Half an hour later the wind, which was gathering to a gale, shifted several points to the north, so that they must beat up against it under reefed canvas. Still they held on without accident, Foy attending to the sail and Martin steering. The Swallow was a good sea boat, and if their progress was slow so was that of their pursuer, which dogged them continually, sometimes a mile away and sometimes less. At length, towards evening, they caught sight of a ruined house that marked the channel of the little gut, one of the outlets of the Haarlem Mere.

“The sea runs high upon the bar and it is ebb tide,” said Foy.

“Even so we must try it, master,” answered Martin. “Perhaps she will scrape through,” and he put the Swallow about and ran for the mouth of the gut.

Here the waves were mountainous and much water came aboard. Moreover, three times they bumped upon the bar, till at length, to their joy, they found themselves in the calm stream of the gut, and, by shifting the sail, were able to draw it up, though very slowly.

“At least we have got a start of them,” said Foy, “for they can never get across until the tide rises.”

“We shall need it all,” answered Martin; “so now hoist the white flag and let us eat while we may.”

While they ate the sun sank, and the wind blew so that scarcely could they make a knot an hour, shift the sail as they might. Then, as there was no sign of Mother Martha, or any other pilot, they hung out the four lamps upon the starboard side, and, with a flapping sail, drifted on gradually, till at length they reached the mouth of the great mere, an infinite waste of waters—deep in some places, shallow in others, and spotted everywhere with islets. Now the wind turned against them altogether, and, the darkness closing in, they were forced to drop anchor, fearing lest otherwise they should go ashore. One comfort they had, however: as yet nothing could be seen of their pursuers.

Then, for the first time, their spirits failed them a little, and they stood together near the stern wondering what they should do. It was while they rested thus that suddenly a figure appeared before them as though it had risen from the deck of the ship. No sound of oars or footsteps had reached their ears, yet there, outlined against the dim sky, was the figure.

“I think that friend Hans has come to life again,” said Martin with a slight quaver in his voice, for Martin was terribly afraid of ghosts.

“And I think that a Spaniard has found us,” said Foy, drawing his knife.

Then a hoarse voice spoke, saying, “Who are you that signal for a pilot on my waters?”

“The question is—who are you?” answered Foy, “and be so good as to tell us quickly.”

“I am the pilot,” said the voice, “and this boat by the rig of her and her signals should be the Swallow of The Hague, but why must I crawl aboard of her across the corpse of a dead man?”

“Come into the cabin, pilot, and we will tell you,” said Foy.

“Very well, Mynheer.” So Foy led the way to the cabin, but Martin stopped behind a while.

“We have found our guide, so what is the use of the lamps?” he said to himself as he extinguished them all, except one which he brought with him into the cabin. Foy was waiting for him by the door and they entered the place together. At the end of it the light of the lamp showed them a strange figure clad in skins so shapeless and sack-like that it was impossible to say whether the form beneath were male or female. The figure was bareheaded, and about the brow locks of grizzled hair hung in tufts. The face, in which were set a pair of wandering grey eyes, was deep cut, tanned brown by exposure, scarred, and very ugly, with withered lips and projecting teeth.

“Good even to you, Dirk van Goorl’s son, and to you, Red Martin. I am Mother Martha, she whom the Spaniards call the Mare and the Lake-witch.”

“Little need to tell us that, mother,” said Foy, “although it is true that many years have gone by since I set eyes on you.”

Martha smiled grimly as she answered, “Yes, many years. Well, what have you fat Leyden burghers to do with a poor old night-hag, except of course in times of trouble? Not that I blame you, for it is not well that you, or your parents either, should be known to traffic with such as I. Now, what is your business with me, for the signals show that you have business, and why does the corpse of Hendrik Brant’s foster-brother lie there in the stern?”

“Because, to be plain, we have Hendrik Brant’s treasure on board, mother, and for the rest look yonder—” and he pointed to what his eye had just caught sight of two or three miles away, a faint light, too low and too red for a star, that could only come from a lantern hung at the masthead of a ship.

Martha nodded. “Spaniards after you, poling through the gut against the wind. Come on, there is no time to lose. Bring your boat round, and we will tow the Swallow to where she will lie safe to-night.”

Five minutes later they were all three of them rowing the oar boat in which they had escaped from The Hague towards some unknown point in the darkness, slowly dragging after them the little ship Swallow. As they went, Foy told Martha all the story of their mission and escape.

“I have heard of this treasure before,” she said, “all the Netherlands has heard of