They were headed northwards along the edge of the riding-ground called Koekamp, which was limned on this side by the big canal that ran straight to Scheveningen. Vla wanted to turn her nose out of the stinging sea-wind and stray off into the Koekamp, which was what she did for a living. Every time her nose bent that way, Eliza gave her a sharp reprimand, and a dig on that side with her foot. So progress was balky, and relations between horse and rider were tense, as long as the Koekamp and then the Malieveld beckoned to their right. But once they had ridden clear of such temptations, Vla seemed to understand that they were riding up the canal to Scheveningen, and settled down noticeably. Another pinch caused Vla to break into a canter, which was both smoother and faster. Very soon after that Eliza was galloping down the canal-side hollering “Make way in the name of the Stadholder!” whenever she saw anyone in the way. But this was rarely, for by now they were out in open country, and cows were more common than people.
Jack had been right, she decided-remaining on the back of a galloping horse without benefit of saddle was a question of balance, and of anticipating the horse’s movements, while also relying on some cooperation from the horse! Soon Vla began to sweat, which made her slippery, and then Eliza had to abandon all pretense of holding on by brute force and rely entirely on a very complicated and ever-changing sort of sympathy between her and the mare.
Fatio did not catch up with her until she was most of the way to Scheveningen. They were being pursued, at a distance, by two men who were presumably members of the St. George Guild. As long as these did not draw close enough to loose any pistol-balls in their direction, they did not especially care. It could all be explained later.
“The ship… we saw…” Eliza shouted, forcing out the occasional word when not gasping for breath or being jolted by the mare. “’Twas the jacht?”
“The same… It is… Meteore, the flagship… of the Duc… d’Arcachon! We may… assume it… to be full… of dragoons!” Fatio returned.
Behind them, someone had begun blowing a horn from the top of a watch-tower in the Hague. It was a signal to the sheriff in Scheveningen, who was answerable to the town council of the Hague; very soon Fatio and Eliza would find out how diligent this sheriff was, and how well he had organized his watchmen.
They reached the boat-house at Scheveningen at ten minutes past ten o’clock. As they approached, Eliza saw a sand-sailer out on the beach, being worked on by a ship-wright, and cried “Aha!” thinking they’d arrived in time. But then she noticed wheel-tracks in the sand, and followed them north up the beach until she saw another sailer, already a mile away, heeled over by the sea-breeze.
The boat-house was not really a single house, but a horseshoe-shaped compound of diverse sheds, shacks, and workshops scabbed on to one another, crammed with distracting detaiclass="underline" tools, forges, lathes, lofts… Eliza got lost in that detail for a few moments, then turned around to look behind them, and discovered a landscape of pandemonium in their wake: breathless Guildsmen from the Hague, Blue Guards, marines from ships in the harbor, enraged members of Scheveningen’s Watch, all seemingly contending with one another to lay hands first on Fatio-who was trying to explain everything in French. He was throwing unreadable looks at Eliza, half pleading for assistance, half wanting to defend her from the mob.
“Fire guns!” Eliza shouted in Dutch. “The Prince is in danger.” Then she explained what she could, in what little Dutch she had. Nodding his head the whole time was the Captain of the Blue Guards, who, she collected, had always taken a dim view of the Prince’s beach-sailing anyway. At some point he decided he had heard plenty. He fired a pistol in the air to silence the crowd and tossed the empty, smoking weapon to a guardsman, who tossed him a loaded one back. Then he uttered a few words in Dutch and everyone scattered.
“What did he say, mademoiselle?” Fatio asked.
“He said, ‘Guards, ride! Watchmen, fire! Sailors, launch! Others, get out of the way!’ “
Fatio watched in fascination: a squadron of mounted Blue Guards took off hell-for-leather up the beach, galloping in pursuit of the Prince. Sailors were sprinting down towards the waterfront, the gunners on the harbor batteries were loading their cannons. Anyone with a loaded firearm was shooting in the air; but the Prince, far away in a cosmos of wind and surf, could not hear them. “I suppose we belong in the category of ‘others,’” Fatio said, a bit dejectedly. “It will be all right, I suppose… those cavalrymen will catch up to him anon.”
The sun had found a rift in the high clouds and illuminated veils of steam rising from the sweaty coats of their horses. “They’ll never catch him,” Eliza demurred, “in this wind he can out-sail them with ease.”
“Perhaps the Prince will take notice of that!” Fatio said, startled by a ragged volley of cannon-fire.
“He’ll only assume it is a salute, for some ship approaching the harbor.”
“What can we do, then?”
“Follow orders. Leave,” Eliza said.
“Then pray tell why are you dismounting?”
“Fatio, you are a gentleman,” Eliza called over her shoulder, kicking off the rabbit-pelts and stepping barefoot across the sand towards the other sailer. “You grew up near Lake Geneva. Do you know how to sail?”
“Mademoiselle,” said Fatio, dismounting, “on a rig of this plan I can out-sail a Dutchman. I want only one thing.”
“Name it.”
“The craft will heel over. The sail will spill wind and I will lose speed. Unless I had someone small, nimble, tenacious, and very brave, to lean out of the vehicle on the windward side, and act as a counterweight.”
“Let us go and defend the Defender then,” Eliza said, climbing aboard.
THEY COULD NOT POSSIBLY BEmoving as fast as it seemed, or so Eliza told herself until they caught up with the squadron of Blue Guards. With a twitch of the tiller Fatio could have veered round them as if they were standing still. Instead he let out the main-sheet and spilled a huge dollop of air, causing the sailer to drop to what felt like a slow walking pace-and yet they were staying abreast of the galloping Guards. The sailer dropped back onto all three wheels and Eliza, leaning way out on what had been the high side, nearly planted her head in the sand. Fortunately she was gripping with both hands a line that Fatio had hitched round the mast, and by pulling hard on this she was able to draw herself up faster than the zooming sand could lunge at her. And now she had a few moments to wipe spray and grit out of her face, and to tie her hair into a sodden knot that lay cold and rough against her neck. Fatio had got the attention of some of the Blue Guards by gesticulating and shouting in a hotchpotch of languages. Something came flying towards them, tumbling end-over-end, plopped into the mainsail, and slid down the curved canvas into Fatio’s lap: a musket. Then another, flung by a different Guard, whirled just over their heads and embedded itself barrel-first in the sand, surf swirling around its stock, and fell away aft. Now a pistol came flying toward them and Eliza, finally ready, was able to reach up and slap it out of the air with one hand.
Instantly Fatio hauled in on the sheet and the sailer hurled itself forward. He got in front of the foremost of the Guards and then veered up away from the surf onto drier and firmer sand. Eliza had had time to shove the pistol into her coat-sash now, and to get that rope wrapped securely round her hands; Fatio hauled the sheet in recklessly, and the sailer bit so fiercely into the wind that it nearly capsized. One of its wheels was spinning in the air, flinging sand and water at Eliza, who clambered over its rim, planted both of her bare feet on the end of the axle, and let the rope slither through her numb hands until she was leaning back almost horizontally and gazing (when she could see anything) at the undercarriage of the sand-sailer.