Pilgrims of Promise (2 page)

Chapter One

SCARS OF MERCY

T
here are moments in the times of men when the hearts of angels fail, and their legions join with breathless mortals to plead before the throne of grace. And in this sacred pause, it is as though all the world lies in wait for mercies to rain from heaven, for the mighty hand of God to stay contrary winds, and for a troubled few to find deliverance in the triumphant herald of a kindly Providence.

It was a moment such as this, on the twenty-eighth day of September in the year of our Lord 1212, when the sun shone brightly over the salt-splashed rocks of Genoa’s jetty. Far above the few stray clouds, beyond the yellow star, a host of heavenly beings looked on as their fellow warriors battled the servants of evil to save the lifeblood of one and the spirit of another.

Below, atop the jagged black rocks, a weary and frightened old man begged his God to deliver them from the day’s sorrow, while another stood in the pounding surf with his face uplifted, abandoning all ways except the way of faith.

“Help!” cried the desperate, shrill voices of a company of children floundering in the sea. “Help us!”

Pieter tore his attention from the plummeting body of young Wil and cast his gaze across the water at the flailing arms of his precious ones. The old man roared to the anxious cluster of children standing slack jawed by his side. “Everyone! All who can swim, go! Save these as you can!”

Without hesitation, the brave young lads and maidens clambered down the dark rocks and plunged into the water. As the relentless waves pushed them backward again and again, they coughed and sputtered their way from the jetty’s safe edge to depths where bare toes could no longer bounce upon the sea’s gravel bed. Those who were able swam awkwardly toward the frantic, grasping hands of their floundering comrades.

Bellowing cries of anguish, Heinrich could do no more than rock forward and back again, pleading with his God, the angels, Mother Mary, and all the saints gone before to give strength to these failing children—and to spare his beloved sons. He fixed his eye on the spot where he had seen Wil enter the sea after leaping from the cursed, wicked ship of devils.
Does he still live, or is he lost?
He scanned the bobbing heads between the jetty and the vessel for a glimpse of red hair. “Oh, that Karl is among them!” he cried.

Many of the child crusaders who had jumped ship took hold of an assortment of debris that they had wisely thrown overboard. These fortunate ones clung desperately to their dubious crafts and slowly, so terribly slowly, struggled closer to the waiting jetty and the anxious hands stretched toward them.

Pieter stumbled about the rocks, rushing in and out of the water with one sputtering child after another in his grasp. Heinrich, too, dragged coughing crusaders to safety, all the while shouting for his children. He ran from one child to the next, lifting chins and turning faces. He did not find either lad.

He looked up into the sky, brokenhearted and desperate—all hope was fast fading. Then the voice of a young woman reached his ear. “Sir Friend, he shall live.”

For a moment Heinrich said nothing. He closed his eye in disbelief and then opened it in faith. “Aye, girl, so he shall!” The man stood upright and boldly rushed once more to the water’s edge. There, joined by Pieter, dripping Solomon, and a growing host of believers, Heinrich faced the blue water of the rolling sea.

A gull called overhead, and then another echoed the lonely call as a wave splashed loudly to one side. For a quiet moment all watched in utter silence, until Heinrich cried the sound of heaven’s joy. “There! There is my son!”

In an instant, a flock of pointing fingers gestured excitedly toward the golden head of Wil, half-submerged, yet clearly visible in the roll of the sea. As though with one voice, Heinrich and Pieter shouted for swimmers to race out with what flotsam had washed ashore. The lad’s father could barely restrain himself as he splashed into the surf, urging Rudolf, Paul, Helmut, and an exhausted, though bravely determined, Otto to the rescue. The four paddled furiously toward their friend.

Pieter joined Heinrich, and both men stood chest deep in water, shouting encouragement to the brave crusaders. Little Heinz plunged into the water followed by Frieda, her sister Gertrude, and nearly a dozen others. Poor Heinrich cursed his missing arm as he stared helplessly at the flotilla of swimmers challenging the sea to save his son. He watched breathlessly as Wil’s head rose in the swells, and with each roll his pounding heart leapt for joy. For a moment the lad disappeared from sight in the troughs, and the man’s mind flew to Karl. “Pieter,” he said anxiously, “what about my Karl?”

Pieter pursed his lips. “Pray for Wil, my son. Well speak of Karl soon enough.”

The answer chilled Heinrich, but before he could reply, desperate cries from the water drew his attention. He craned his neck but saw little more than furious splashing and lurching bodies. “Trouble, Pieter!”

The old man nodded. “What I would give for the strength of my youth!”

The children standing on the jetty watched nervously as their fellows floundered in the deep waters. From their vantage point, the scene near Wil had become chaotic. Most of the swimmers had turned back and were now crawling against the current toward the safety of the black rocks. However, it seemed as though Wil had somehow been snatched from the water and laid atop a floating litter.

Finally, the first swimmers returned and were pulled from the sea by the hands of their fellows. Others came behind, most coughing, gasping for air, and some in tears. Frieda staggered onto the shore wailing in grief. Her hair hung in dripping strands across her heaving shoulders, and her eyes were wide with terror. Heinrich and Pieter ran to her as Heinz collapsed at her feet.

“Gertrude!” she shrieked. “My sister!”

Pieter placed his arm around her, and she fell into his embrace sobbing and trembling. Dripping wet and gasping for breath, Heinz turned a sad face to Heinrich. “Gertrude … drowned.”

Heinrich paled. “I remember her.”

The young boy nodded. “We got near … Wil … and she just… sank.”

Heinrich turned a quick, though compassionate, glance toward Frieda before hurrying back to the water’s edge. Coming toward him, ever so slowly, was Wil, guided by four rescuers. He had been balanced facedown along a plank. His limbs dangled limply over the sides, and he was close enough now for Heinrich to see swirls of blood around the satchel still slung across his shoulder. “Pieter! Come quickly!”

The man gave Frieda a tender squeeze and then made his way for the surf, where he waited alongside the anxious baker.

“See … there is blood in the water.”

Pieter nodded. “With that much, ‘tis a good chance he’s alive, though perhaps not for long. He must be badly cut. I‘ll need thread, wax, and a good needle.” He thought for a moment, then summoned little Heinz, Ava, and another strapping lad. “You three, hear me well. Run as fast as your legs will carry you to the sailmaker’s shop along that path, right over there. Tell him we need a roll of thin thread, a candle, some sailcloth, and a stitching needle. Tell him we‘ll pay later, but you must hurry! ‘Tis most urgent.”

Heinz narrowed his squinty eyes. “And if he won’t give ‘em up, or if he isn’t there?”

Without a blink the priest replied, “Then take what we need and run like the wind!”

The three sprinted away as Pieter splashed behind Heinrich into deeper water, where they awaited the four exhausted lads slowly lurching toward them. “Good men!” cried Heinrich. “A little farther now … just a bit more!”

Straining forward, Heinrich and Pieter stretched out their hands. At last, Heinrich laid his thick fingers on the arm of Otto and pulled him toward shore. Pieter grabbed hold of Rudolf and the group rolled forward in a gentle swell. Falling, stumbling, and tripping about the wet rocks, all hands seized Wil’s body and slid him off the board and into a cumbersome six-way embrace as they struggled to carry him to the flat boulder Pieter had so calmly sat upon that very morning. “Methinks he’s nearly dead!” cried Otto.

“Quickly, let me see him!” ordered Pieter impatiently. He and Heinrich rolled the motionless lad to his back and looked him over hopefully. But, alas, none saw any signs of life. His color was drained, his skin ghostly white, and his lips faded purple. His limbs and torso had been sliced into red ribbons; a long gash split his left cheek. Heinrich looked to Pieter with a forlorn, despairing face and silently implored the old priest to do something.

Pieter stared at the face of his beloved young friend and wanted to weep. A breeze tousled his hair and seemed to carry a message to him. He suddenly looked up, for he thought he could hear Karl’s voice whispering to him, “But there
are
miracles, Pieter.” The old man nodded to the unseen face and, to the astonishment of the others, answered out loud. “Aye, lad, there are miracles indeed!” He abruptly bent low to lay his head on Wil’s chest, then rolled the lad on his belly and pressed hard on his back.

“What—?”

“Not now, Heinrich!”

Water suddenly gushed from the boy’s lungs as Pieter pressed firmly. He quickly folded Wil’s hands under his face and alternated pulls on his bent elbows with pushes on his back. The children stared dumfounded as the man kept pressing and pulling, pulling and pressing, all the while pleading with heaven for mercy. Some thought he had surely gone mad.

At last, blood began to ooze more generously from the lad’s wounds, and Pieter shouted for joy. The children now believed he had truly lost his mind. He rolled Wil to his back and listened to a heart beating very, very weakly. “God be praised!” shouted the old man. “Now, where’s m’thread?”

At that moment, all heads spun about to see three of their fellows sprinting wildly across the rocks, racing away from a shouting guildsman chasing them with a brandished knife. At once Heinrich jumped to his feet and drew his dagger. He moved toward the man as the imps scampered past him with a handful of supplies.

“Father Pieter!” cried Ava as she fell at the priest’s feet panting. She proudly opened her palm and presented Pieter with two thin needles, both slightly arced.

“Perfect!” cried Pieter.

Heinz arrived next with a ball of thread and a smile as wide as the blue horizon. “Thread!” he boasted.

“Aye, lad, well done!”

The third comrade presented a stout candle and an armload of cloth. He handed Pieter his treasure with a nervous glance backward.

Meanwhile, Heinrich held the cursing sailmaker at bay with the point of his long dagger. “Hear me, whether you understand me or not!”

The man growled. “
Ladro!”

Heinrich nodded. “Aye, take this.” He tilted his head toward his satchel and motioned for the man to back away. When the man had taken several steps backward, Heinrich put the dagger in his teeth and plunged his hand into his coin pouch. He produced five silver pennies and tossed them to the grumbling fellow.

The sailmaker picked up his pennies and narrowed his gaze at the broad-shouldered, shaggy German’s menacing appearance and glistening dagger. Deciding he’d be better off not pressing the matter, he turned away, leaving a string of blasphemies in his wake.

By now Pieter was working furiously over the unconscious Wil. Surrounded by nearly two score of gawking onlookers, he barked orders to many. “You boys … build us a fire there.” He tossed his head toward an empty field about two bowshots south. “You four, tear this cloth into strips. You, Otto!”

“Aye, sir.”

“Scour the shore for anything we might use for a night’s camp; then take a counting of our company.”

Heinrich hurried to Pieter’s side. “Shall he live?”

The old man looked up with a resolute expression. “
Ja
! Somehow I
can feel
it! Now help me press cloth into these wounds till I sew them.”

The baker nodded and took hold of a handful of bandages that he pressed firmly on Wil’s most severe wounds. “Ah, dear boy, you must fight!” He turned toward Pieter, whose fingers were nimbly dragging thread across the wax candles. “I’ve not yet seen Karl. I fear the worst.”

Pieter looked up sadly. “I’ve not time now, Heinrich. We must save this one.” The old man wondered why Heinrich made no query of Maria.