Chapter 1

The Merciful Outlaw

Adriaen Wens was tired of hauling sand for his father. He had been hauling sand and mixing mortar all day for three days, and his back felt as if it were breaking.

"We gotta take work where we can find it," his father insisted when Adriaen complained about having to work in Asperen, Holland—sixty miles north of their home in Antwerp, Belgium—even though everyone said the winter of 1543 was the harshest they could remember in a long time.

But a wealthy merchant in Asperen had heard of Mattheus Wens’s skill as a stonemason and hired him to build a new fireplace. "We should thank God for any work we can get," Mattheus chided his son. "Otherwise we couldn’t even afford to put turnips on our table. Then where would Mother and the little ones be? Buck up now; we’ll be goin’ home soon . . . if you’ll hustle and fetch me some more sand."

Just outside of Asperen, his father had found a pit with clean sand, perfect for mixing the mortar that would hold the stones together. "It’s not easy to find clean sand in this marshy region," his father had said. "And if it’s dirty, the mortar will crumble. So watch what you’re doing. I don’t want you bringin’ me mud."

Adriaen pulled his hat lower and hoisted the yoke onto his muscled shoulders. Though he was small, he was strong for a boy of fifteen, but the wooden buckets that hung from each end of the yoke were heavy even when empty. He slammed the heavy wooden door closed with a thump and headed down the narrow cobblestoned street toward the edge of town. He didn’t bother to turn as he heard a loud commotion behind him. But suddenly someone hit the left arm of his yoke, spinning him around and almost knocking him down.

"Sorry, friend," a kid about his own age called as he dashed past Adriaen. "Whatcha doin’ with those buckets? Come on with us . . . this should be fun!"

"Where ya goin’?" Adriaen called, but the boy was gone, pushed along by a crowd of excited people pouring down the street like flood waters through a broken dike. Adriaen caught the sleeve of another passerby. "What’s happenin’?"

"The fox has escaped, but the thiefcatcher’s hot on his trail!" said the man, pulling away. Adriaen was buffeted along as people hit the yoke across his shoulders. The crowd had become a real mob. If he wasn’t careful, he could trip and be trampled.

Suddenly, a narrow walkway opened up between two buildings. Adriaen dropped his sand buckets and yoke into the opening, and joined the crowd at a trot. The people acted as if they were going to a circus. He caught snatches of excited talk:

"That chap was fast . . ."

"Gone like a rabbit. Dodged right under that thiefcatcher’s arm . . ."

"If the thiefcatcher would lose a little weight, he could’ve had him—heh, heh—but . . ."

At the edge of town the cobblestoned street turned into a dirt road of frozen ruts, and the tightly packed buildings gave way to scattered shacks with small gardens around them. Then the crowd surged past farmland dotted with isolated houses, barns, and windmills across the open fields. The frosty ground was hard with yellow stubble sticking above a dusting of snow.

Adriaen ran to get to the head of the slowing crowd. As he pushed to the front Adriaen could see two figures—one behind the other—jogging along a short ways ahead.

"He’s got him now," wheezed a red-faced man who walked a few steps and then trotted a little to catch up. "They’re headin’ right for the canal with no bridge for miles either way."

"What’d he steal?" asked Adriaen.

"Ha! Prob’ly nothin’ more than a crust o’ bread, but he sure gave Hartog the slip—dodgin’ this way and that all around the town square whenever Hartog made a grab for him. The burgomaster was so mad, he threatened to hire a new thiefcatcher and lock ol’ Hartog in the stocks!" The man wheezed a short laugh. "I told Hartog that he spends too much time with a mug of beer in his face, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Now . . . ha! He finds out he’s not so fast as he used to be."

Adriaen glanced at the man’s red face and watery eyes and noted how hard he puffed as they hurried along. The man probably knew from experience how much Hartog drank . . . the experience of keeping up with him, mug for mug.

The crowd arrived at the bank of the canal in time to see the fugitive scamper gingerly out onto the slick ice while the thiefcatcher stood on the bank yelling threats at him.

"Come on, Hartog! Go get him!" yelled someone.

"Yeah, what’s keepin’ ya?"

Dark water could be seen through the smooth surface of the ice. Anyone could tell that the ice wasn’t very thick. The fugitive was wiry and light; the thiefcatcher was stout.

Hartog tested his footing; the ice held. He took another step.

"After him, man! He’s getting away. Let’s see you earn your bread for a change," someone in the crowd heckled.

"Yeah, and your beer, too," added the red-faced man, causing the whole crowd to roar with laughter.

The fugitive was almost to the other bank when the thiefcatcher decided to go for it. Taking little steps as though he were barefoot and didn’t want his toes to freeze, he danced out onto the ice. Suddenly the surface began to pop and snap as if someone were cracking a whip. Lines in the ice spread from under Hartog’s boots. He scampered faster with his arms outstretched to keep his balance, but water was oozing up through the cracks.

The fugitive reached the bank.

Hartog was only a few yards from safety when, with a cry, more cracking, and a great whoosh, he dropped through the ice. His arms slapped wildly, churning the dark water into a white foam, but he sank lower and lower.

The crowd was screaming advice: "Swim for it!" "Grab the edge, man!"

Then the thiefcatcher went under, and everyone fell silent.

He surfaced coughing and choking. "Help!" he managed to gasp as he turned toward the bank where his fellow citizens stood helplessly watching. "Somebody help me!"

No one moved.

"Please, somebody!" pleaded Hartog. "Help me!"

But everybody knew that, with the ice so thin and already cracked from Hartog’s attempted crossing, it would have been suicide to follow him.

Adriaen noticed that the fugitive had stopped running. He stood looking back a moment, then started running again just as Hartog’s cries for help were choked off by the frigid water.

The outlaw glanced back over his shoulder as the thiefcatcher’s body sank below the surface of the black water. He stopped running, turned, and started walking back along the opposite canal bank, watching the hole in the ice. His steps got faster and faster, and when the thiefcatcher didn’t bob quickly to the surface, he broke into a run.

Just as the man arrived at the point where he had climbed the bank, the waters began to stir again, and Hartog’s head slowly broke the surface, water streaming down his anguished face. He coughed and tried to yell something, but he was too weak to keep fighting.

The fugitive looked across the canal at the crowd; then he ripped off his coat and scrambled down the bank. At the edge of the ice, he fell onto his stomach and slid out on the ice, crawling with his arms and legs to scoot forward.

When he was within reach, he threw his coat out ahead of him into the hole of icy water where the drowning man could grasp it. But Hartog was too far gone to realize that help was at hand. The fugitive yelled at him, pulled his coat back, and cast it out again so that it slapped the water just behind the thiefcatcher’s head.

But it was no good; the man was slowly slipping under. With one motion, the fugitive slid forward a few more feet until his face was over the open water, and then he reached out and grasped the hair of the drowning man.

He pulled him to the edge of the ice, then scooted himself back. He tried to pull the man up onto the ice, but the angle was wrong and the man was too heavy. Finally, the outlaw took the risk of standing up on the ice so he could lift the man.

The edge of the ice began to break, but the fugitive kept his hold as he shuffled backward and was able to pull the man’s head and shoulders out of the water. Little by little, he got the man’s heavy body up onto the ice. The thiefcatcher began to revive. Coughing and sputtering, he was able to pull his legs out of the water, and with the help of the fugitive, he began to crawl.

Together they made it safely to the bank as a great cheer went up from the crowd across the canal. When the two men were both safely standing on the shore, the fugitive put his coat around the shoulders of the freezing man as the man clung to him.

On the other side of the canal, a carriage pulled to a stop behind the onlookers, and a very fat, fancily dressed man stepped out. Seeing the crowd open a path as the man made his way to the edge of the canal, Adriaen figured that he must be the town mayor—known in those parts as the burgomaster.

"Good work, thiefcatcher!" the burgomaster yelled across the canal. "Keep a tight hold on that man. We don’t want him getting away again."

The crowd booed loudly, and the thiefcatcher yelled back, "But he just saved my life. Why should I hold him? He pulled me from the canal!"

"Let him go!" came cries from the crowd.

"Yeah, give the man a break," others joined in with a supportive cheer.

The burgomaster turned his great body toward the people, his face stern and frowning. "We don’t conduct justice by giving people ‘breaks,’ " he said loudly enough for all to hear. Then he turned back toward the canal and yelled, "Don’t you dare let go of that man, Hartog. I want him brought in now!"

There was no doubt that the thiefcatcher was holding on to the fugitive, but it was more to hold himself up as he shivered than to prevent the man from escaping. "Please, sir," he called back. "I’m nearly frozen, and the man saved my life. He could have easily gotten away . . . but he came back to help me."

"Let him go!" rose the cries from the crowd again.

"You hold him fast," bellowed the burgomaster. "His coming back to rescue you just shows what fools these heretics are."

"Heretic?" As the word was whispered through the crowd, the mood suddenly changed. "Let him burn," someone muttered, and soon others picked up the call. "Let him burn! . . . Let him burn!"

Adriaen was astonished. The same people who had just appealed for the man’s release a few minutes ago were now shouting for his death. They acted like a circus crowd demanding more "entertainment." "To the stake!" they cried.

"But I’m shaking so bad with cold . . . I don’t think I can walk, sir," protested the thiefcatcher from across the canal, clutching his prey.

"Don’t worry, Hartog!" yelled the red-faced man who was still near Adriaen. "You’ll soon be able to warm yourself with the same fire that cooks your man."

The mob roared with laughter.

"You keep a tight hold on him, or I’ll have you executed in his place. Then you’ll know what warm is," threatened the burgomaster. "Now . . . head west along the canal toward Walen’s Crossing. I’ll drive my carriage down that way and meet you at the bridge. Understood?"

With that, the burgomaster climbed back into his carriage, and with a snap of the driver’s whip, the horses wheeled back the way they had come.