Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (62 page)

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 like 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!

Why… oh, God, why? Not my crusade! Why the signal? What to do? What to
…. The lad was paralyzed, suddenly bound by a dreadful alliance of stubborn ambition and tainted reason. But it was his love that would set the lad free, and nothing else. He had learned to simply trust the old man’s love and, in the end, that was suddenly quite enough.

The boy had barely formed the orders in his mouth when the sailors rushed him and his startled crusaders. Wil cried as loud as he could, “Jump! All jump! Over the sides … now!”

His comrades heard his command plainly though could barely believe it. But they had no time to consider his words, for they now needed to fly and scramble from the many hands grabbing and grasping at them.

“Jump I say!” Wil shrieked. He snatched a confused little boy by the belt and threw him screaming into the water. Then, with a quick heave, he tossed another and then another. But escape would be no easy task. None would claim these seafarers to be less than a nimble and strong-handed lot. These swarthy fellows could grasp wet cord in high winds with the ease of a knight to his reins and scampering children ought to have been easy prey.