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

No, he could not; it was too horrible. Moreover, how dared he enter the other world so unprepared, so steeped in every sort of evil? What, then, could he do to save his character and those whom his folly had betrayed? He looked round him; there, not three hundred yards away, rose the tall chimney of the factory. Perhaps there was yet time; perhaps he could still warn Foy and Martin of the fate which awaited them.

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Adrian started forward, running like a hare. As he approached the building he saw that the workmen had left, for the big doors were shut. He raced round to the small entrance; it was open—he was through it, and figures were moving in the office. God be praised! They were Foy and Martin. To them he sped, a white-faced creature with gaping mouth and staring eyes, to look at more like a ghost than a human being.

Martin and Foy saw him and shrank back. Could this be Adrian, they thought, or was it an evil vision?

“Fly!” he gasped. “Hide yourselves! The officers of the Inquisition are after you!” Then another thought struck him, and he stammered, “My father and mother. I must warn them!” and before they could speak he had turned and was gone, as he went crying, “Fly! Fly!”

Foy stood astonished till Martin struck him on the shoulder, and said roughly:

“Come, let us get out of this. Either he is mad, or he knows something. Have you your sword and dagger? Quick, then.”

They passed through the door, which Martin paused to lock, and into the courtyard. Foy reached the gate first, and looked through its open bars. Then very deliberately he shot the bolts and turned the great key.

“Are you brain-sick,” asked Martin, “that you lock the gate on us?”

“I think not,” replied Foy, as he came back to him. “It is too late to escape. Soldiers are marching down the street.”

Martin ran and looked through the bars. It was true enough. There they came, fifty men or more, a whole company, headed straight for the factory, which it was thought might be garrisoned for defence.

“Now I can see no help but to fight for it,” Martin said cheerfully, as he hid the keys in the bucket of the well, which he let run down to the water.

“What can two men do against fifty?” asked Foy, lifting his steel-lined cap to scratch his head.

“Not much, still, with good luck, something. At least, as nothing but a cat can climb the walls, and the gateway is stopped, I think we may as well die fighting as in the torture-chamber of the Gevangenhuis, for that is where they mean to lodge us.”

“I think so too,” answered Foy, taking courage. “Now how can we hurt them most before they quiet us?”

Martin looked round reflectively. In the centre of the courtyard stood a building not unlike a pigeon-house, or the shelter that is sometimes set up in the middle of a market beneath which merchants gather. In fact it was a shot tower, where leaden bullets of different sizes were cast and dropped through an opening in the floor into a shallow tank below to cool, for this was part of the trade of the foundry.

“That would be a good place to hold,” he said; “and crossbows hang upon the walls.”

Foy nodded, and they ran to the tower, but not without being seen, for as they set foot upon its stair, the officer in command of the soldiers called upon them to surrender in the name of the King. They made no answer, and as they passed through the doorway, a bullet from an arquebus struck its woodwork.

The shot tower stood upon oaken piles, and the chamber above, which was round, and about twenty feet in diameter, was reached by a broad ladder of fifteen steps, such as is often used in stables. This ladder ended in a little landing of about six feet square, and to the left of the landing opened the door of the chamber where the shot were cast. They went up into the place.

“What shall we do now?” said Foy, “barricade the door?”

“I can see no use in that,” answered Martin, “for then they would batter it down, or perhaps burn a way through it. No; let us take it off its hinges and lay it on blocks about eight inches high, so that they may catch their shins against it when they try to rush us.”

“A good notion,” said Foy, and they lifted off the narrow oaken door and propped it up on four moulds of metal across the threshold, weighting it with other moulds. Also they strewed the floor of the landing with three-pound shot, so that men in a hurry might step on them and fall. Another thing they did, and this was Foy’s notion. At the end of the chamber were the iron baths in which the lead was melted, and beneath them furnaces ready laid for the next day’s founding. These Foy set alight, pulling out the dampers to make them burn quickly, and so melt the leaden bars which lay in the troughs.

“They may come underneath,” he said, pointing to the trap through which the hot shot were dropped into the tank, “and then molten lead will be useful.”

Martin smiled and nodded. Then he took down a crossbow from the walls, for in those days, when every dwelling and warehouse might have to be used as a place of defence, it was common to keep a good store of weapons hung somewhere ready to hand, and went to the narrow window which overlooked the gate.

“As I thought,” he said. “They can’t get in and don’t like the look of the iron spikes, so they are fetching a smith to burst it open. We must wait.”

Very soon Foy began to fidget, for this waiting to be butchered by an overwhelming force told upon his nerves. He thought of Elsa and his parents, whom he would never see again; he thought of death and all the terrors and wonders that might lie beyond it; death whose depths he must so soon explore. He had looked to his crossbow, had tested the string and laid a good store of quarrels on the floor beside him; he had taken a pike from the walls and seen to its shaft and point; he had stirred the fires beneath the leaden bars till they roared in the sharp draught.

“Is there nothing more to do?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Martin, “we might say our prayers; they will be the last,” and suiting his action to the word, the great man knelt down, an example which Foy followed.

“Do you speak,” said Foy, “I can’t think of anything.”

So Martin began a prayer which is perhaps worthy of record:—

“O Lord,” he said, “forgive me all my sins, which are too many to count, or at least I haven’t the time to try, and especially for cutting off the head of the executioner with his own sword, although I had no death quarrel with him, and for killing a Spaniard in a boxing match. O Lord, I thank you very much because you have arranged for us to die fighting instead of being tortured and burnt in the gaol, and I pray that we may be able to kill enough Spaniards first to make them remember us for years to come. O Lord, protect my dear master and mistress, and let the former learn that we have made an end of which he would approve, but if may be, hide it from the Paster Arentz, who might think that we ought to surrender. That is all I have to say. Amen.”

Then Foy did his own praying, and it was hearty enough, but we need scarcely stop to set down its substance.

Meanwhile the Spaniards had found a blacksmith, who was getting to work upon the gate, for they could see him through the open upper bars.

“Why don’t you shoot?” asked Foy. “You might catch him with a bolt.”

“Because he is a poor Dutchman whom they have pressed for the job, while they stand upon one side. We must wait till they break down the gate. Also we must fight well when the time comes, Master Foy, for, see, folk are watching us, and they will expect it,” and he pointed upwards.

Foy looked. The foundry courtyard was surrounded by tall gabled houses, and of these the windows and balconies were already crowded with spectators. Word had gone round that the Inquisition had sent soldiers to seize one of the young Van Goorls and Red Martin—that they were battering at the gates of the factory. Therefore the citizens, some of them their own workmen, gathered there, for they did not think that Red Martin and Foy van Goorl would be taken easily.

The hammering at the gate went on, but it was very stout and would not give.

“Martin,” said Foy presently, “I am frightened. I feel quite sick. I know that I shall be no good to you when the pinch comes.”

“Now I am sure that you are a brave man,” answered Martin with a short laugh, “for otherwise you would never have owned that you feel afraid. Of course you feel afraid, and so do I. It is the waiting that does it; but when once the first blow has been struck, why, you will be as happy as a priest. Look you, master. So soon as they begin to rush the ladder, do you get behind me, close behind, for I shall want all the room to sweep with my sword, and if we stand side by side we shall only hinder each other, while with a pike you can thrust past me, and be ready to deal with any who win through.”

“You mean that you want to shelter me with your big carcase,” answered Foy. “But you are captain here. At least I will do my best,” and putting his arms about the great man’s middle, he hugged him affectionately.

“Look! look!” cried Martin. “The gate is down. Now, first shot to you,” and he stepped to one side.

As he spoke the oaken doors burst open and the Spanish soldiers began to stream through them. Suddenly Foy’s nerve returned to him and he grew steady as a rock. Lifting his crossbow he aimed and pulled the trigger. The string twanged, the quarrel rushed forth with a whistling sound, and the first soldier, pierced through breastplate and through breast, sprang into the air and fell forward. Foy stepped to one side to string his bow.

“Good shot,” said Martin taking his place, while from the spectators in the windows went up a sudden shout. Martin fired and another man fell. Then Foy fired again and missed, but Martin’s next bolt struck the last soldier through the arm and pinned him to the timber of the broken gate. After this they could shoot no more, for the Spaniards were beneath them.

“To the doorway,” said Martin, “and remember what I told you. Away with the bows, cold steel must do the rest.”

Now they stood by the open door, Martin, a helmet from the walls upon his head, tied beneath his chin with a piece of rope because it was too small for him, the great sword Silence lifted ready to strike, and Foy behind gripping the long pike with both hands. Below them from the gathered mob of soldiers came a confused clamour, then a voice called out an order and they heard footsteps on the stair.

“Look out; they are coming,” said Martin, turning his head so that Foy caught sight of his face. It was transfigured, it was terrible. The great red beard seemed to bristle, the pale blue unshaded eyes rolled and glittered, they glittered like the blue steel of the sword Silence that wavered above them. In that dread instant of expectancy Foy remembered his vision of the morning. Lo! it was fulfilled, for before him stood Martin, the peaceful, patient giant, transformed into a Red Vengeance.

A man reached the head of the ladder, stepped upon one of the loose cannon-balls and fell with an oath and a crash. But behind him came others. Suddenly they turned the corner, suddenly they burst into view, three or four of them together. Gallantly they rushed on. The first of them caught his feet in the trap of the door and fell headlong across it. Of him Martin took no heed, but Foy did, for before ever the soldier could rise he had driven his pike down between the man’s shoulders, so that he died there upon the door. At the next Martin struck, and Foy saw this one suddenly grow small and double up, which, if he had found