CHAPTER II
THE FRACAS BY THE POSTERN GATE
Thus am I proved right in saying that but for the conglomeration ofminor circumstances within the past half hour, the great events whichsubsequently linked the fate of a penniless foreign adventurer with thatof a highly honourable and highly esteemed family of Haarlem never wouldor could have occurred.
For had the three philosophers adhered to their usual custom of retiringto the warmth and comfort of the "Lame Cow," situate in the Kleine HoutStraat, as soon as the streets no longer presented an agreeable lollingplace, they would never have known of the tumult that went on at thishour under the very shadow of the cathedral.
But seeing it all going on before them, what could they do but join inthe fun?
The details of the picture which had the low postern gate for itscentral interest were gradually becoming more defined. Now the figure ofa woman showed clearly under the flickering light of the resin torches,a woman with rough, dark hair that hung loosely round her face, and barearms and legs, of which the flesh, blue with cold, gleamed weirdlyagainst the dark oak panelling of the gate.
She was stooping forward, with arms outstretched and feet that vainlytried to keep a foothold of the ground which snow and frost had renderedslippery. The hands themselves were not visible, for one of them waslost in the shadows behind her and the other disappeared in the grip ofsix or eight rough hands.
Through the mist and in the darkness it was impossible to see whetherthe woman was young or old, handsome or ill-favoured, but her attitudewas unmistakable. The men in the forefront of the crowd were trying todrag her away from the shelter of the gate to which she clung withdesperate obstinacy.
Her repeated cries of "For the love of Christ!" only provoked loud andbibulous laughter. Obviously she was losing her hold of the ground, andwas gradually being dragged out into the open.
"For the love of Christ, let me go, kind sirs!"
"Come out quietly then," retorted one of the men in front, "let's have alook at you."
"We only want to see the colour of your eyes," said another with mockgallantry.
"Are you Spanish spies or are you not, that's all that we want to know,"added a third. "How many black-eyed wenches are there among ye? Papistswe know you are."
"Papists! Spanish spies!" roared the crowd in unison.
"Shall we bait the Papists too, O Diogenes?" came in dulcet tones fromout the shadow of the stuccoed wall.
"Bah! women and old men, and only twenty of these," said his companionwith a laugh and a shrug of his broad shoulders, "whilst there are atleast an hundred of the others."
"More amusing certainly," growled Socrates under the brim of his hat.
"For the love of Christ," wailed the woman piteously, as her bare feetburied in the snow finally slid away from the protecting threshold, andshe appeared in the full light of the resin torches, with black unkempthair, ragged shift and kirtle and a wild terror-stricken look in herblack eyes.
"Black eyes! I guessed as much!" shouted one of the men excitedly."Spaniards I tell you, friends! Spanish spies all of them! Out you come,wench! out you come!"
"Out you come!" yelled the crowd. "Papists! Spanish spies!"
The woman gave a scream of wild terror as half a dozen stones hurledfrom the rear of the crowd over the heads of the ringleaders camecrashing against the wall and the gate all around her.
One of these stones was caught in mid air.
"I thank thee, friend," cried a loud, mocking voice that rang clearlyabove the din, "my nose was itching and thou didst strive to tickle itmost effectually. Tell me does thine itch too? Here's a good clothwherewith to wipe it."
And the stone was hurled back into the thick of the crowd by a sure andvigorous hand even whilst a prolonged and merry laugh echoed above thegroans and curses of the throng.
For an instant after that the shouts and curses were still, thecrowd--as is usual in such cases--pausing to see whence this unexpecteddiversion had come. But all that could be seen for the moment was a darkcompact mass of plumed hats and mantles standing against the wall, and atriple glint as of steel peeping from out the shadows.
"By St. Bavon, the patron saint of this goodly city, but here's a feastfor philosophers," said that same laughter-loving voice, "four worthyburghers grappling with a maid. Let go her arm I say or four pairs ofhands will presently litter the corner of this street, and forty fingersbe scattered amongst the refuse. Pythagoras, wilt take me at twoguilders to three that I can cut off two of these ugly, red hands withone stroke of Bucephalus whilst Socrates and thou thyself wilt onlyaccount for one apiece?"
Whilst the merry voice went rippling on in pleasant mocking tones, thecrowd had had ample time to recover itself and to shake off itssurprise. The four stalwarts on in front swore a very comprehensive ifheterogeneous oath. One of them did certainly let go the wench's armsomewhat hastily, but seeing that his companions had recovered courageand the use of their tongue, he swore once again and more loudly thistime.
"By that same St. Bavon," he shouted, "who is this smeerlap whoseinterference I for one deeply resent. Come out, girl, and show thyselfat once, we'll deal with thy protector later."
After which there were some lusty shouts of applause at this determinedattitude, shouts that were interrupted by a dulcet high-pitched voicesaying quietly:
"I take thee, friend Diogenes. Two guilders to three: do thou strike atthe pair of hands nearest to thee and while I count three...."
From the torches up above there came a sharp glint of light as it struckthree steel blades, that swung out into the open.
"One--two----"
Four pairs of hands, which had been dragging on the woman's arm withsuch determined force, disappeared precipitately into the darkness, andthus suddenly released, the woman nearly fell backwards against thegate.
"Pity!" said the dulcet voice gently, "that bet will never be decidednow."
An angry murmur of protest rose from the crowd. The four men who hadbeen the leaders of the gang were pushed forward from the rear amidstshouts of derision and brandishing fists.
"Cowards! cowards! cowards! Jan Tiele, art not ashamed? Piet, go forthem! There are only three! Cowards to let yourselves be bullied!"
The crowd pushed from behind. The street being narrow, it could onlyexpress its desire for a fight by murmurs and by shouts, it had noelbow-room for it, and could only urge those in the forefront to pick aquarrel with the interfering strangers.
"The blessing of God upon thee, stranger, and of the Holy Virgin...."came in still quivering accents from out the darkness of the passage.
"Let the Holy Virgin help thee to hold thy tongue," retorted he who hadname Diogenes, "and do thou let my friend Socrates close this confoundeddoor."
"Jan Tiele!" shouted someone in the crowd, "dost see what they aredoing? the gate is being closed...."
"And bolted," said a flute-like voice.
"Stand aside, strangers!" yelled the crowd.
"We are not in your way," came in calm response.
The three muffled figures side by side in close if somewhat unnumericalbattle array had taken their stand in front of the postern gate, theheavy bolts of which were heard falling into their sockets behind themwith a loud clang. A quivering voice came at the last from behind theiron judas in the door.
"God will reward ye, strangers! we go pray for you to the HolyVirgin...."
"Nay!" rejoined Diogenes lightly, "'twere wiser to pray for Jan Tiele,or for Piet or their mates--some of them will have need of prayers inabout five minutes from now."
"Shame! cowards! plepshurk! At them Jan! Piet! Willem!" shouted thecrowd lustily.
Once more stones were freely hurled followed by a regular fusillade ofsnowballs. One of these struck the crown of a plumed hat and knocked itoff the wearer's head. A face, merry, a trifle fleshy perhaps, but withfine, straight brow, eyes that twinkled and mocked and a pair of full,joyous lips adorned by a fair upturned moustache, met the gaze of anhundred glowering e
yes and towered half a head above the tallest manthere.
As his hat fell to the ground, the man made a formal bow to the yellingand hooting crowd:
"Since one of you has been so kind as to lift my hat for me, allow meformally to present myself and my friends here. I am known to mycompeers and to mine enemies as Diogenes," he said gravely, "aphilosopher of whom mayhap ye have never heard. On my left standsPythagoras, on my right Socrates. We are all at your service, includingeven my best friend who is slender and is made of steel and hath nameBucephalus--he tells me that within the next few minutes he means tobecome intimately acquainted with Dutch guts, unless ye disperse and gopeaceably back to church and pray God to forgive ye this act ofcowardice on New Year's eve!"
The answer was another volley of stones, one of which hit Socrates onthe side of the head:
"With the next stone that is hurled," continued Diogenes calmly, "I willsmash Jan Tiele's nose: and if more than one come within reach of myhand, then Willem's nose shall go as well."
The warning was disregarded: a shower of stones came crashing againstthe wall just above the postern gate.
"How badly these Dutchmen throw," growled Socrates in his gruff voice.
"This present from thy friends in the rear, Jan Tiele," rejoinedDiogenes, as he seized that worthy by the collar and brandished a stonewhich he had caught in its flight. "'Tis they obviously who do not likethe shape of thy nose, else they had not sent me the wherewithal toflatten it for thee."
"I'll do that, good Diogenes," said Pythagoras gently, as he took boththe stone and the struggling Jan Tiele from his friend's grasp, "andSocrates will see to Willem at the same time. No trouble, I give thee myword--I like to do these kind of jobs for my friends."
An awful and prolonged howl from Jan Tiele and from Willem testifiedthat the jobs had been well done.
"Papists! Spaniards! Spies!" roared the crowd, now goaded to fury.
"Bucephalus, I do humbly beg thy pardon," said Diogenes as he rested thepoint of his sword for one moment on the frozen ground, then raised itand touched it with his forehead and with his lips, "I apologize to theefor using thee against such rabble."
"More stones please," came in a shrill falsetto from Pythagoras, "here'sPiet whose nose is itching fit to make him swear."
He was a great adept at catching missiles in mid-air. These now flewthick and fast, stones, short staves, heavy leather pouches as well ashard missiles made of frozen snow. But the throwers were hampered by oneanother: they had no elbow-room in this narrow street.
The missiles for the most part fell wide of the mark. Still! the numbersmight tell in the end. Socrates' face was streaming with blood: a clumpof mud and snow had extinguished one of the torches, and a moment ago astone had caught Diogenes on the left shoulder.
The three men stood close together, sword in hand. To the excited gazeof the crowd they scarcely seemed to be using their swords or to heedthose of their aggressors who came threateningly nigh. They stood quitequietly up against the wall hardly making a movement, their sword handand wrist never appeared to stir, but many who had been in the forefronthad retired howling and the snow all around was deeply stained with red:Jan Tiele and Willem had broken noses and Piet had lost one ear.
The three men were hatless and the faces of two of them were smearedwith blood. The third--taller and broader than the others--stood betweenthem, and with those that pressed him closely he bandied mocking words.
"Spaniards! Papists!" yelled the crowd.
"If I hear those words again," he retorted pleasantly, "I'll run threeof you through on Bucephalus as on a spit, and leave you thus ready forroasting in hell. We are no Spaniards. My father was English and myfriend Pythagoras here was born in a donkey shed, whilst Socrates firstsaw the light of day in a travelling menagerie. So we are none of usSpaniards, and you can all disperse."
"Papists!"
"And if I hear that again I'll send the lot of you to hell."
"Art thou Samson then, to think thyself so strong?" shouted a shrillvoice close to him.
"Give me thy jawbone and I'll prove thee that I am," he retorted gaily.
"Spies!" they cried.
"Dondersteen!" he shouted in his turn, swearing lustily, "I am tired ofthis rabble. Disperse! disperse, I tell ye! Bucephalus my friend wilthave a taste of Dutch guts? Another ear? a nose or two? What, ye willnot go?"
"Spaniards! Spies! Papists!"
The crowd was gathering unto itself a kind of fury that greatlyresembled courage. Those that were behind pushed and those that were infront could no longer retreat. Blood had begun to flow more freely andthe groans of the wounded had roused the bellicose instincts of thosewhose skin was still whole. One or two of the more venturesome had madeclose and gruesome acquaintance with the silent but swift Bucephalus,whilst from the market place in the rear the numbers of the crowd thuspacked in this narrow street corner swelled dangerously. The new comersdid not know what had happened before their arrival. They could not seeover the heads of the crowd what was going on at this moment. So theypushed from behind and the three combatants with their backs against thewall had much difficulty in keeping a sufficiently wide circle aroundthem to allow their swords free play.
Already Socrates, dizzy from the blood that was streaming down hissharp, hooked nose, had failed to keep three of his foremost assailantsat bay: he had been forced to yield one step and then another, and theelbow of his sword arm was now right up against the wall. Pythagoras,too, was equally closely pressed, and Diogenes had just sent an overbold lout sprawling on the ground. The noise was deafening. Every onewas shouting, many were screaming or groaning. The town guard, realizingat last that a tumult of more than usual consequence was going on insome portion of the city, had decided to go and interfere; their slowand weighty steps and the clang of their halberds could be heard fromover the Grootemarkt during the rare moments when shouts and clamoursubsided for a few seconds only to be upraised again with redoubledpower.
Then suddenly cries of "Help!" were raised from the further end of DamStraat, there where it debouches on the bank of the Spaarne. It was awoman's voice that raised the cry, but men answered it with calls forthe guard. The tumult in front of the postern gate now reached itsclimax, for the pressure from behind had become terrible, and men andwomen were being knocked down and trampled on. It seemed as if thenarrow street could not hold another human soul, and yet apparently moreand more were trying to squeeze into the restricted space. The trampled,frozen snow had become as slippery as a sheet of glass, and if the guardwith their wonted ponderous clumsiness charged into the crowd withhalberds now, then Heaven help the weak who could not elbow a way outfor themselves; they would be sure to be trampled under foot.
Every one knew that on such occasions many a corpse littered the roadswhen finally the crowd disappeared. Those of sober sense realized allthis, but they were but small units in this multitude heated with itsown rage, and intoxicated with the first hope of victory. The threestrangers who, bare-headed, still held their ground with their backs tothe wall were obviously getting exhausted. But a little moredetermination--five minutes respite before the arrival of the guard, afew more stones skilfully hurled and the Papists, Spaniards orSpies--whatever they were--would have paid dearly for their impudentinterference.
"Papists, have ye had enough?" yelled the crowd in chorus as a stonewell thrown hit the sword arm of the tallest of the three men--he whosemocking voice had never ceased its incessant chatter.
"Not nearly enough," he replied loudly, as he quietly transferredfaithful Bucephalus from his right hand to his left.
"We are just beginning to enjoy ourselves," came in dulcet tones fromthe small man beside him.
"At them! at them! Papists! Spies!"
Once more a volley of stones.
"Dondersteen! but methinks we might vary the entertainment," criedDiogenes lustily.
Quicker than a flash of lightning he turned, and once more graspingBucephalus in the partially disabled hand he tore with the
other theresin torch out of its iron socket, and shouting to his two companionsto hold their ground he, with the guttering lighted torch chargedstraight into the crowd.
A wild cry of terror was raised, which echoed and re-echoed from one endof the street to the other, reverberated against the cathedral walls,and caused all peaceable citizens who had found refuge in their homes tothank the Lord that they were safely within.
Diogenes, with fair hair fluttering over his brow, his twinkling eyesaglow with excitement, held the torch well in front of him, the sparksflew in all directions, the lustiest aggressors fled to right and left,shrieking with horror. Fire--that most invincible weapon--hadaccomplished what the finest steel never could have done; it soberedand terrified the crowd, scattered it like a flock of sheep, sent itrunning hither and thither, rendering it helpless by fear.
In the space of three minutes the circle round the three combatants wasseveral metres wide, five minutes later the corner of the street wasclear, except for the wounded who lay groaning on the ground and one ortwo hideous rags of flesh that lay scattered among heaps of stones, tornwallets, staves and broken sticks.
From the precincts of the Grootemarkt the town guard were heard usingrough language, violent oaths and pikes and halberds against thestragglers that were only too eager now to go peaceably back to theirhomes. The fear of burnt doublets or kirtles had effectually soberedthese over-flowing tempers. There had been enough Papist baiting toplease the most inveterate seeker after excitement this night.
A few youths, who mayhap earlier in the evening had indulged too freelyin the taverns of the Grootemarkt, were for resuming the fun after thepanic had subsided. A score of them or so talked it over under theshadow of the cathedral, but a detachment of town guard spied theirmanoeuvres and turned them all back into the market-place.
The bell of the cathedral slowly struck the last hour of this memorableyear; and through the open portals of the sacred edifice the cathedralchoir was heard intoning the First Psalm.
Like frightened hens that have been scared, and now venture out again,the worthy burghers of Haarlem sallied out from the by-streets into theGrootemarkt, on their way to watch-night service: Mynheer theburgomaster, and mynheer the town advocate, and the mevrouws theirwives, and the town councillors and the members of the shooting guilds,and the governors and governesses of the Alms-houses. With ponderousBibles and prayer-books under their arms, and cloaks of fur closelywrapped round their shoulders, they once more filled the Grootemarktwith the atmosphere of their own solemnity. Their serving men carriedthe torches in front of them, waiting women helped the mevrouws in theirunwieldy farthingales to walk on the slippery ground with becomingsobriety.
The cathedral bells sent forth a merry peal to greet the incoming year.