Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

After leaving Seville, two years earlier, the José y María had sailed to a place called the Netherlands, a loose federation of seventeen provinces on the north coast of Europe between France and Germany. For historical reasons that Barney had never quite untangled, the Netherlands was ruled by the Spanish king. Felipe’s army stationed here had fought in Spain’s war against France.

Barney, Carlos and Ebrima were expert metalworkers, and so they had been made gunners, maintaining and firing the big artillery pieces. Although they had seen some action, gunners did not usually become involved in hand-to-hand fighting, and all three had survived the war without suffering injury.

The peace treaty between Spain and France had been signed in April 1559, almost a year ago, and Felipe had gone home, but he had left his army behind. Barney guessed the king wanted to make sure that the incredibly prosperous Netherlanders paid their taxes. But the troops were bored, resentful and mutinous.

Captain Gómez’s company was garrisoned at the town of Kortrijk on the river Leie. The citizens did not like the soldiers. They were foreigners, they carried arms, they got noisily drunk and, because they got no pay, they stole. The Netherlanders had a streak of obstinate insubordination. They wanted the Spanish army gone, and they let the soldiers know it.

The three friends wanted to get out of the army. Barney had a family and a comfortable home in Kingsbridge, and he wanted to see them again. Carlos had invented a new type of furnace that was going to make him a fortune one day, and he needed to get back into the iron-making industry. What Ebrima saw in his future Barney was not sure, but it certainly was not a life of soldiering. However, escape was not easy. Men deserted every day, but, if caught, they could be shot. Barney had been alert for an opportunity for months, but none had offered itself, and he was beginning to wonder whether he was being too cautious.

Meanwhile, they spent too much time in taverns.

Ebrima was a gambler, obsessively risking what little money he had in a dream of getting more. Carlos drank wine whenever he could afford it. Barney’s vice was girls. The tavern of St Martin in the Old Market of Kortrijk had something for each of them: a card game, Spanish wine and a pretty barmaid.

Barney was listening to the barmaid, Anouk, complaining in French about her husband while Carlos made a single glass last all afternoon. Ebrima was winning money from Ironhand Gómez and two other Spanish soldiers. The other players were drinking hard, shouting loudly when they won or lost, but Ebrima was quiet. He was a serious gambler, always careful, never betting very high or very low. Sometimes he lost, but often he won just because others took foolish risks. And today luck was with him.

Anouk disappeared into the kitchen, and Carlos said to Barney: ‘There should be standard sizes of cannonball throughout the Spanish army and navy. That’s what the English do. Making a thousand iron balls the same size is cheaper than making twenty different sizes for twenty different guns.’ As usual, they spoke Spanish to one another.

Barney said: ‘And then you’d never find yourself trying to use a ball one inch too large for your barrel — as has happened to us more than once.’

‘Exactly.’

Ebrima stood up from the table. ‘I’m through,’ he said to the other players. ‘Thank you for the game, gentlemen.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Gómez bad-temperedly. ‘You have to give us a chance to win our money back.’

The other two players agreed. One shouted: ‘Yes!’ and the other banged the table with his fist.

‘Tomorrow, maybe,’ said Ebrima. ‘We’ve been playing all afternoon, and I want a drink, now that I can afford one.’

‘Come on, one more hand, double or nothing.’

‘You don’t have enough money left for that bet.’

‘I’ll owe you.’

‘Debts make enemies.’

‘Come on!’

‘No, Captain.’

Gómez stood up, knocking the table over. He was six feet tall, and broad in proportion, and he was flushed with sherry wine. He raised his voice. ‘I say yes!’

The others in the tavern moved away, seeing what was coming.

Barney stepped towards Gómez and said in a quiet voice: ‘Captain, let me buy you another drink, yours has spilled.’

‘Go to hell, you English savage,’ Gómez roared. Spaniards considered Englishmen to be northern barbarians, just as the English regarded the Scots. ‘He has to play on.’

‘No, he doesn’t.’ Barney spread his arms in a let’s-be-reasonable gesture. ‘The game has to stop some time, doesn’t it?’

‘I’ll say when it stops. I’m the captain.’

Carlos joined in. ‘That’s not fair,’ he said indignantly. He was quick to be angered by injustice, perhaps because he had suffered so much himself. ‘We’re all equal when the cards are dealt.’ He was right — it was the rule when officers gambled with enlisted men. ‘You know that, Captain Gómez, and you can’t pretend you don’t.’

Ebrima said: ‘Thank you, Carlos,’ and he stepped away from the fallen table.

‘Get back here, you black devil,’ said Gómez.

On the rare occasions when Ebrima got into an argument, sooner or later his antagonist would use skin colour in an insult. It was tediously predictable. Fortunately, Ebrima’s self-control was formidable, and he never took the bait. He did not respond to Gómez’s jibe, except to turn his back.

Like all bullies, Gómez hated to be ignored. Furious, he hit Ebrima from behind. It was a wild, drunken punch, and it only clipped Ebrima’s head, but the fist at the end of the arm was the iron artificial hand, and Ebrima staggered and fell to his knees.

Gómez came after Ebrima, obviously intending to hit him again. Carlos grabbed the captain from behind, trying to restrain him. Gómez was now enraged and out of control. He struggled. Carlos was strong, but Gómez was stronger, and he fought free of Carlos’s grasp.

Then, with his good hand, he drew his dagger.

Barney now joined in. He and Carlos tried desperately to restrain Gómez while Ebrima struggled to his feet, still dazed. Gómez threw off both his assailants and stepped towards Ebrima, raising his knife arm high in the air.

Barney realized fearfully that this was no longer a mere tavern brawl: Gómez was intent on murder.

Carlos made a grab for Gómez’s knife arm, but Gómez batted him sideways with a sweeping blow of his iron-handed arm.

But Carlos had delayed Gómez for two seconds, just enough time for Barney to draw his own weapon, the two-foot-long Spanish dagger with the disc-shaped hilt.

Gómez’s knife arm was high in the air, his iron hand extended outwards for balance. His front was undefended.

As Gómez brought his knife down, aiming for the exposed neck of the dazed Ebrima, Barney swung his dagger in a wide arc and stabbed Gómez in the left side of his chest.

It was a lucky stroke, or perhaps a very unlucky one. Although Barney had swung wildly, the sharp double-edged steel blade slipped neatly between Gómez’s ribs and penetrated deep into his chest. His roar of pain ended abruptly after half a second. Barney jerked out the blade, and a gush of bright red blood came out after it. He realized the blade had reached Gómez’s heart. A moment later Gómez collapsed, his knife falling from limp fingers. He hit the floor like a felled tree.

Barney stared in horror. Carlos cursed. Ebrima, coming out of his daze, said: ‘What have we done?’

Barney knelt down and felt Gómez’s neck for a pulse. There was none. The blood had stopped pumping from the wound. ‘Dead,’ Barney said.

Carlos said: ‘We’ve killed an officer.’

Barney had stopped Gómez murdering Ebrima, but that would be difficult to prove. He looked around the room and saw that the witnesses were leaving as fast as they could go.