Chapter One
SCARS OF MERCY
There 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.”