The hanging lamp throws its ruddy light over the room, over the weapons therein, the maps on the wall, the floor on which bloody bedclothes lie strewn about, on the bed where Antonio Valani moans and rambles in a raging fever, on Myga van Bergen kneeling where the pillows are at the end of the bed, on lieutenant Leone della Rota who is standing next to where his friend is dying and wild, strange glances cast by the wounded man towards the forcibly taken maid.
At noon Leone della Rota had heard with equanimity from Admiral Spinola and the governor of Antwerp that the escape of the sea beggar was attributable to him. With somewhat less equanimity he had also received the news that, in the absence of someone more suitable, he was to be entrusted with the overall command of the Genoese galleon for the expedition of the following day.
Neither the governor nor the admiral had inquired after the presence of a young woman on board ship.
As he had had a lot of work to do both on board and on land, the day had flown by for Lieutenant della Rota and he had only been able to devote a small amount of time to his dying friend. But on board and on land, indeed everywhere, the young Genoan was pursued by the image of the beautiful Flemish damsel whom he was currently holding captive on his ship, who would be subject to his every whim, without the slightest vestige of protection, once his friend was dead. At first he sought to banish all such thoughts from his mind, but time and again they forced themselves upon him and there was no way that he could escape them and soon he gave up the struggle completely. The pretty child appeared to him in her desperation all the more charming. Among the sailors and men-at-arms, in the admiral's antechamber, in the streets of the town she appeared in his mind's eye as he saw her kneeling in a cabin of the Andrea Doria, wringing her hands. The wildest of passions broke out inside him in bright flames and he sought to overcome with the most convoluted sophistry the resistance of his conscience.
What earthly use would it be to Antonio if he, Leone, were to send this woman back to where she came from?
And now Leone recalled those moments during which he had held the young woman's delicate body in his arms, during which he had carried the unconscious girl through the gunsmoke and the streets. Then the wind had blown the damsel's fair hair into his face.
"No, no, no, Antonio Valani, your right to this fair booty ceases with your life! All's fair in love and war, Antonio Valani. Strike your colours and pass away. Then your luck will devolve on me and tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be defeated and someone else will have the victory. All's fair in love and war, my poor Antonio!"
With such thoughts in his head the lieutenant had walked into the cabin at twilight and now he stood, as we have shown him, between the dying man and Myga all of a tremble in the glimmer of the flickering ship's lantern.
The idea of carrying the wounded captain ashore had been mooted, but with all the strength of a life about to be extinguished Antonio Valani had expressly forbidden this. He wanted to die on board his ship and not in a hospital. He had not forgotten in his delirium that Leone had brought the Flemish maiden that he loved onto the Andrea Doria. The nearer he is to death, the more he clings to this love, the more violently it manifests itself. In life he might almost have concealed it had his turbulent companion Leone della Rota not meddled in it. As he lies dying, his brain casts off all restraint; Antonio Valani no longer hides anything of what he has formerly felt and kept a secret.
Poor Myga! See how she kneels there at the feet of the mortally wounded captain with her hair spread out, white as a ghost, wringing her hands! No salvation, none!
The waves of the Scheldt have swallowed up her betrothed, who was impotent to prevent the depraved corruption of his beloved and who had precipitated himself into the river's cold waters so as not to participate in her dishonour.
And where is God in all this? Woe is me, the night is too dark and the mind of the unfortunate maiden too disturbed to be able to remember the great Redeemer from all of life's troubles. No power on heaven or on earth can protect her from scandal and disgrace. Poor Myga van Bergen!
The clock in the tower of the cathedral chimed eleven, the single chimes succeeding one another slowly and echoing in Myga's mind.
The noise of the town gradually diminished again and once again one light after another went out behind the city wall constructed by the Italian civil engineer, Paciotti.
The calm grew ever deeper. From time to time, however, wild cries and rejoicing rang out. From time to time too there came the raucous singing of a stray band of soldiers or the cry of a nightwatchman and the "Halt! Who goes there?" of patrols.
And once again the clock whirred in the tower of the Cathedral ofOur Lady—midnight!
Antonio Valani lifted himself up from his pillow and cast about him mad glances from his eyes aglow with fever.
"Where is she? Leone, Leone—wine, lights and love! Leone, where are you? Where are you holding her? Where are you keeping her hidden? She's mine, you traitor, you treacherous Leone—the girl belongs to me! Hahaha, I'm not dead like you thought, Leone. I'm alive and holding on to what is mine."
Myga van Bergen's forehead was touching the floor of the cabin and Lieutenant della Rota gently pushed the delirious man back onto his bed and tried every way he could to calm him down, but it seemed as if all the strength and feeling of the dying man had to burst out afresh in all their fullness before they faded away forever.
Again and again the delirious Antonio tried to escape from the arms of Leone.
"All hands on deck. To the oars! To the oars! Long live the king! They're flying their flag—the sea beggars' flag. Fire at it! Fire at it! Eviva Genova! There goes the admiral, blown to kingdom come! Fire! Fire! It's a living hell! Leone, look after the ship. Look after the ship, Leone. It's all over for us. Woe is me. The beggars' flag. Man the guns. All is lost. All is lost. Look after the ship, look after the ship, Leone!"
The sick man fell back. The lieutenant straightened his pillow for him. Then he approached the kneeling maiden:
"What are you afraid of, signorina? Get up. What is it keeps you down on the floor? I won't harm you, my sweet little dove. You ought to be a queen, the absolute ruler of this good ship of ours. That's war for you. Someone has to strike their colours. Someone else gets to fly them from the flagpole. Poor Antonio! He predicted this—for him the grave, for me the beautiful bounty; I love you. I love you, star of Flanders, white rose of Antwerp. I love you and you're mine—stop ruffling your hair, don't look so wild—you're mine and no-one's going to take you from me!"
"Jan! Jan! Help! Rescue me!" cried the maiden, without knowing what it was she was shouting.
"Forget about your sea beggar," whispered Leone. "Has he not had his revenge on us? Will not poor Antonio be dead within the hour? Why are you so bothered about the body of this sea beggar? Leave him to drift with the tide. Get up. Get up, I say. You shouldn't be injuring your chaste brow by banging it on the floor. What can I say? The sea beggar's dead. Antonio Valani is dying. Take Leone, Leone who is still alive, in the blessed arms of his proud and beautiful queen."
"Mercy! Mercy!" stammered the maiden, but the lieutenant merely laughed:
"Listen, one o'clock! At five o'clock we cast off. Till then you have all the time you want to moan as much as you want, but then away with sighs and complaining. Antonio, poor friend, between now and five you've time enough to die. Don't sit up. Lie down. Your wounds are bleeding again. Lie down. What business of yours is the girl?"
"Leone, Leone, look after the ship! Beware the black galley. Look after the ship!" the dying man screamed in his delirium.
"Who cares about the black galley?" muttered Leone della Rota. "The chase will only begin at five o'clock. Calm down, Antonio, calm down. Everything is as it should be on board. No worries. Sleep. Go to sleep."
Once again the captain sank back and closed his eyes. The last wild burst of excitement was followed immediately by the final moments of exhaustion. The life of Antonio Valani, captain of the Andrea Doria, was drawing to a close.
The lieutenant was all too well aware of it. He sighed and shook his head: "Poor Antonio! Poor friend! Must you set sail so soon? Ah, what good does it do to moan about it, and yet—I wish that day was dawning. I wish this long night were over! Once we're out at sea, once the corpse is overboard, only then will I feel better. I really do wish that morning were here already!"
He paced up and down in the narrow cabin. More than once he brushed against the unfortunate Myga and each time she jerked her arms together and pushed herself nearer to the wall.
"If only I could die," whispered Myga van Bergen. "If only death would come to save me. Let death embrace me as it embraced Jan."
The oil lamp was threatening to go out. Leone della Rota called for another light, more wine. He needed both in this dark night. His soul seemed a wild and desolate place.
VI.The Black Galley.
On Fort Liefkenhoek the banner embroidered with the lion of Leon and the towers of Castile flutters proudly. The same banner flies over Fort Lillo and all the other forts staring into the jaws of hell on both banks of the Scheldt right up as far as the mighty walls of the citadel in Antwerp.
Sharp eyes keep watch over all these ramparts and walls, and the calls and the answering calls of the sentries never stop by day or by night.
The enemy is also close by and vigilant. He can appear at any moment. Who knows the hour at which he will come?
All around Zeeland's coastline the North Sea surges. It is here, on Tholen, on Schouwen, on North and South Beveland, on Walcheren, that the fearsome men of iron live who were first to swear an oath that they would rather be Turks than Papists and who wear a silver half-moon on their hats and carry in their hearts an all consuming, unquenchable hatred for Spaniards. What children mothers give birth to on these sea-sprayed sand dunes! Protect this land, you towers of Castile, keep good watch over the bastion of Flanders, you lion of Leon. "Better a country spoilt than a country lost" was the opinion of Zeeland sailors who, from the defeated Spaniards of Veere and Leyden, tore the hearts from their chests, bit into them and threw them to their dogs to eat.
"Eat this, bitter though it is!"
On Fort Liefkenhoek, on Fort Lillo, on the Kruisschanze, on Fort Pearl and San Felipe, on Forts Maria, Ferdinand and Isabella the cry goes out:
"Keep good watch! Keep good watch!"
The cannons on the Brabant side of the Scheldt and the cannons on the Flemish side are ready to spit out death and destruction onto any venturesome vessel that dares to make its way upstream in the direction of Antwerp.
"Keep good watch! Keep good watch!"
But the night is dark and neither moonlight nor starlight make it any brighter. It is hard to keep watch well on such a night.
How still and warm it is! Only the roaring of the great river sounds on and on against the background of the warning cries of the soldiers on the walls:
"Keep good watch! Keep good watch!"
What is coming from South Beveland towards the western arm of the Scheldt where river and sea meet up with each other and can no longer be told apart? What is gliding over the waves under cover of darkness? It is propelled by a hundred strange arms, flying swift as an arrow just like the ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman. A ship's mighty form cuts through the waves and others come after it, less powerful ones.
What do the men of Zeeland care about darkness? They can find their way over these waters for these waters are their native land. One dark shadow comes after another; they sail on in a straight line—no noise is heard on board, even the rudder runs noiselessly through the waves. Words of command go from mouth to mouth in whispers. Each one on board knows what his duty is, each one is bound by the most solemn of oaths to stick a knife through his neighbour's jaw if his neighbour, by making a noise or by crying out thoughtlessly, jeopardizes the success of the enterprise.
Each one on board will abide by his oath, even were it to mean that he was thus obliged to stab his own brother, father or son.
A light comes up on the left—Fort Lillo!
A light comes up on the right—Fort Liefkenhoek!
The cries of the Spanish sentries fall clearly and audibly on every ear on board the black galley and its accompanying convoy.
Each knife, each grappling hook is kept in readiness. The concealed fuses glimmer near the weapons. The hearts of these daring men are beating strongly.
"Keep good watch! Keep good watch!" can be heard echoing into the distance. A great danger lies behind these bold seamen now. Long live the luck of the sea beggars!
What's that shimmering on the right?
The lights of Dorf and Fort Callao.
What is flickering on the Brabant side of the river?
The lights of the village of Ordam.
How still it is now in this frightful place where the bridge of Alexander Farnese once stood, the engineering wonder of the century! What genius once shone here! What blood once flowed here!
On this spot Giovanni Baptista Plato and Barocci once worked. On this spot Gianibelli's fireship wreaked havoc and filled the air, the water and the surrounding countryside with ruins and mutilated bodies.
Even now, after so many years, many a citizen of Antwerp with republican sympathies, wakes from sleep at night and thinks he has been woken up by the crack of a great explosion that might have been the town's salvation and wasn't.
Soundlessly the black galley glides on over these baleful waters with its shadowy convoy in tow.
"Keep watch! Keep good watch!" goes the cry from the earthworks of San Pedro and Santa Barbara.
Behold the lights of Predigerhof, the lights of Fort Maria, the lights of Fort Ferdinand! A bell, muffled and solemn, chimes in the darkness—the bell in the tower of Our Lady's church in Antwerp.
Two o'clock!
The captain of the black galley is at his post, drawn sword in hand, but another is taking the ship through the darkness of this night.
Were the slightest beam of light to fall on the face of this steersman, you would be startled when you saw his face.
Jan Norris, Myga's betrothed, Myga who is still a prisoner on the Andrea Doria, Jan Norris who has left his love in the power of his deadliest enemy, Jan Norris who did not jump to his death from the deck of that Genoese galleon, Jan Norris is steering the black galley tonight!
The eyes of Jan Norris scan the night, bore through the darkness as if it were broad daylight.
Jan to the rescue! Jan's revenge!
Watch out, Leone della Rota, the night has mischief in store for you. Be careful, Leone della Rota, now is not the time to succumb to the love of a woman and the strong wine of Sicily! Look out for your ship, Leone della Rota, watch out—watch out for the black galley!
On board the Andrea Doria all commands had been issued and carried out. In another three hours the galleon would make its way to the rendezvous point with the four galleys that had already sailed at Biervliet and then the chase in pursuit of the black galley would begin. The crew were using the short respite that had been afforded them to sleep, even the watch on deck were sleeping and the lantern of the man on the gangplank had gone out like all the other lights on board. Was the ship not safe at anchor under the city walls and the walls of the citadel?
Suspended from the mainmast the ship's lantern throws an unsteady and flickering light over the deck. From the windows of the cabin a dim light falls on the dark waters of the Scheldt, which are streaming past it.
In the cabin Leone della Rota stands up at Antonio Valani's bedside.
"It's over," he says. "He's dead. Can you hear me, bella Fiaminga, dead and Leone della Rota is captain on this ship. Can you hear me, my sweet? I'm coming into my own—you too belong to me. With my friend's last breath you became mine."
Once again Leone filled the tumbler with wine.
"Why do you turn away and tremble, beautiful Myga? He's dead. His heart has beat its last. But my heart beats like a hammer, out of control. He was my friend in life. Now, by loving you, I avenge his death."
He lifted the tumbler and emptied it in one.
"A toast, my poor Antonio—you will have on the high seas the graveof a noble sailor. They won't be burying you on land in a hurry.You'll sleep instead below the joyful waves as befits a child ofGenoa. You'll fall asleep in the arms of Neptune's daughter."
"Have pity on me, Lord, let me die. Save me, save me," whimpered the despairing girl, but Leone, now drunk, laughed aloud shrilly.
"Don't look at me like that, my queen—today you belong to me, tomorrow you'll belong to someone else—, that's war, that's life. Do you think I ought to mourn and mumble prayers like a priest over the corpse of my friend? If we were on the shore of the Ligurian Sea, we'd weave roses and myrtle into our hair to celebrate the beauty of the night! In the name of vengeance, in the name of victory, come into my arms, you wanton beggar woman, come and be mine, you pretty heretic."
With a shrill cry Myga van Bergen clung to the post of the bed on which the pale and bloody body of Antonio Valani lay outstretched. She sought the protection of a dead man! But with a raucous cry Leone della Rota gathered up the unfortunate woman into his arms. He covered her mouth and her naked shoulders with burning kisses. Then there was a thud over his head, so that the lamp hanging from the ceiling shook with it. A shout! The sound of a struggle. A second thud. The stamping and tramping of several feet. A wild scream. The loud report of a musket. A fearsome, unsettling cry:
"The beggars! The beggars! The beggars on board! Treachery!Treachery! All'arme! All'arme!"
"What's that? Diavolo!" shouted Leone, letting go of the girl and reaching for his sword. Once more, from his bloody resting place, the body of Antonio Valani raised itself, once more his eyes opened wide to stare at his friend:
"Protect the ship. Traitor! Vile good-for-nothing!"
A stream of dark blood shot out of his mouth and Antonio Valani sank back. Now death truly had him in its grip.
On deck the turmoil after the fall of the first sentry became ever more widespread and loud. The bewildered crew rushed out with the first weapons that had come to hand.
"To arms! Treachery! The beggars!"
The sound of oaths, groans, cries for mercy.
Myga van Bergen fell to her knees once again, while Leone, as he unsheathed his sword, rushed up the cabin stairs. Once on deck his foot bumped against corpses and the wounded. The fight was heaving wildly to and fro and a roar of triumph from the Dutch and the terrific war cry of the beggars: "Sultan before Pope!" were already beginning to drown out the battle cries of the so rudely awoken men of Genoa.
And still their enemies were climbing like cats up the hull of the Andrea Doria. The merchant ships at anchor next to her and small warships seemed to be in the process of being captured for from them were coming battle cries and shots and numerous torches were visible.
In desperation Leone della Rota hurled himself at his nearest enemy, encouraging his men to resistance with words and actions. In the sentry box on the quayside a drum came to life and beat out the Spanish call to arms.
"The sea beggars! The sea beggars! The sea beggars at the gates of Antwerp! Treachery! Treachery! The sea beggars in the town itself!"
Torches were seen along the banks of the river and lights soon appeared in the houses behind the city walls.
"Sultan before Pope! Victory! Victory! The black galley! The black galley! Victory! Victory!" Such were the shouts of the beggars on the Andrea Doria carrying all before them. There was no quarter given. What was not struck or hewn down was thrown overboard. The very words black galley filled the hearts of the Italians with terror and broke their courage more than anything. Some of them fled to dry land, even more of them were hacked down in the first attack. Around the mainmast, in the circle of light radiating from the ship's lantern, a group of men were desperately continuing to fight. Here Leone della Rota stood side by side with the bravest of his crew and the whole of what was happening was finally concentrated in this area. The deck was already slippery with blood and littered with corpses. Many a wild sea beggar fell to Leone's sword.
"Courage! Courage, brave comrades! To me! Help is coming from dry land! Courage! Courage!" shouted Leone, striking down a man from Zeeland, but, where the latter had fallen, a new adversary appeared, stepping over the fallen one.
"Forward! Forward, you sea beggars! Down with foreign tyrants! Down with their flag of shame! Take it down from the mast! Do you know me, you foreign devil, you cowardly abductor of women?"
"Diavolo!" cried Leone, stiff with fright and astonishment, but he composed himself immediately. "You're not drunk then, you beggar? So much the better. Feed on this cold steel then. There!"
"A hit! Myga! Myga! Salvation! Vengeance! Take that, you dog, to hell with you and greet your comrade-in-arms from me, Jan Norris, the sea beggar!"
Leone della Rota from Genoa sank to the floor, drenched in his own blood, and Jan Norris placed his foot on his fallen foe's chest and shouted in his face:
"Myga has been rescued! The ship has been taken! Tell that to them in hell!"
With that he stabbed his deadly enemy through the neck with a long knife.
In the meantime the other Genoans, who had not saved themselves by running away, had also been killed. The skirmish on the Andrea Doria was now at an end and already the sea beggars were busy loosening the chains which bound the ship to the quayside.
Myga van Bergen lay prostrate in the cabin in the arms of Jan who now carried his betrothed out of that terrible room, away from the proximity of the dead body of Antonio Valani up into the freedom of the upper air.
Fighting was still going on on one of the sea-going vessels that had fallen to the Dutch, but already some of her crew were sliding into the water, pushed there by the hands of sea beggars and fiercely and harmoniously the song of the victors resounded through the night:
William of Nassau,I am of German blood.Faithful to my fatherlandI shall remain till death.
The black galley's bugler from the stern of the Andrea Doria was now blowing the same tune townwards and, revelling in the chorus, the galley's victorious crew sang for all they were worth:
That you are by the Spaniards,Oh Netherlands of mine,Harmed and injured, just to think,It makes my poor heart bleed.
Even mortally wounded beggars who could no longer sing sat up on the ground, washed over by these harmonious and solemn sounds, and moved their lips in time with the words of the song. Myga van Bergen too was recalled by them to life and she sang, laughing and crying, held in Jan's arms, the same song of freedom.
"Look, Myga, how I keep my word—I'm taking you home with the sounds of cannon fire and jubilant bells and a flourish of trumpets in my ear! Saved! Saved from a fate worse than death!" Jan Norris was ecstatic.
From the citadel there came the noise of one alarm signal after another. More and more drums sprang into life along the city's walls and enclosures to call as many people as possible to the quayside. And the movements of the great Flanders town became noisier too and many an oppressed and angry heart beat faster at the proud, forbidden sounds that rose in response to the Spanish drumbeats and that grew more insistent as the latter strove to drown them out. Alarm bells rang from every steeple. And now there was a commotion in the town and another commotion emanating out from the citadel towards the quayside. Troops moved along the city walls. Troops pushed down to the river.
But louder than anything there arose above the tumult:
My hope and my protectionAre you, oh God, my Lord.On you I want to build more.Never let me go.That I may nurture pietyAnd serve you all the whileBy driving out all tyrantsWho wound my loving heart.
Thousands of such hearts heard behind the walls that Paciotti had built around the town of Antwerp these strains with delight. Thousands of eyes became moist on hearing their message.
Now there could be no doubt of it. The black galley had performed its finest feat of arms and all that there was left to do now was to bring its prize to a place of safety. Under covering fire from the black galley Jan Norris, now captain on board the Andrea Doria, reached the middle of the Scheldt and gradually sailed downstream. Seven smaller vessels taken as prizes sailed along with the beggars' ships—the black galley brought up the rear.
There was much shooting and firing from the walls of Antwerp and a return of fire from the beggars' ships and the Andrea Doria was now sailing downstream under the beggars' colours, its sails joyously expanded by the morning wind. Don Federigo Spinola was tearing his hair out at such an unheard of thing!
There was passing fire from all the earthworks and forts along the river.
Fortune smiled on the beggars! What affair was it of theirs if the Spaniards aimed well or badly? The wounded below deck, the dead overboard, the black galley's cannons were in action once again before Fort Felipe. Boom, boom. Kruisschanze on the Brabant side of the river.
Now, you men of Holland, look to your laurels, for the last bolt, but also the strongest, needs to be drawn back.
Down there in the morning mist lies Fort Liefkenhoek.
Down there in the morning mist lies Fort Lillo.
Now, you beggars, take up your weapons, whoever among you still has the use of his hands and his feet.
Beggars' luck! Beggars' luck!
All was in readiness in Fort Liefkenhoek, for the commander of the fort had had time enough to give out his orders well in advance. Captain Jeronimo had woken him at two o'clock in the morning.
"Well, what is it?" the colonel had asked, and the old veteran had shrugged his shoulders and said: "It may be a mutiny at Fort Callao, it may be an uprising in Antwerp, but I'd like you to come to the battlements anyway, sir." Reluctantly the commander had appeared on the south-eastern bastion of his fort and listened for a long time. A quarter of an hour later the drummer had once again summoned the garrison to the walls, and an hour later the captain had said: "If I were you, sir, I'd have all of tonight's sentries shot."
How long had the cannon fire lasted along the Scheldt? It was no wonder that everything for the reception of the black galley had been best prepared at Fort Liefkenhoek!
Captain Jeronimo paced darkly up and down before his company and, as the firing came nearer, he glowered all the more as was his wont. He had played the game so long that he had grown weary of it—no, not weary!—, it had become as indifferent to him as breathing. So Captain Jeronimo had merely shrugged his shoulders when a messenger on horseback had ridden overland from Fort Pearl bringing the first detailed account of what had happened on the river near Antwerp. How grimly his comrades had borne themselves, but the old soldier who had served under the Dukes of Alba, Requesens and Farnese had merely turned his back on the messenger and walked back to his company.
"And do they still think they can force this people into compliance with them?" he mumbled to himself. "How long already have they been burying the cream of Spain's youth, the core of its strength in this muddy ground? I pity my poor fatherland."
The cannon in front of Kruisschanze had interrupted his monologue. In the morning mist it was starting to softly snow. It was now no longer possible to see three feet ahead of one.
"Yes, yes," the old soldier mumbled to himself, "fire blindly at them! Listen. There it is again, that damned tune, the funeral dirge for the might and land of Spain. Save your powder. You'll not destroy them with it. Yes, that's right, shoot. Their song sounds all the clearer for it! We all of us know it off by heart now."
Through the cannon fire and the blare of Dutch trumpets CaptainJeronimo hummed to himself:
I am a prince of Orange,Unharmed up until now,Who has the king of SpainAlways allowed his due.
He had not got to the end of this ditty when a cannonball landed in the midst of his company right next to him and six men were killed by it or knocked to the ground wounded. This cannonball had come from the Andrea Doria. Jan Norris had opened fire as he sailed past Fort Liefkenhoek. The fort's cannon answered immediately in the most uncompromising fashion without, however, causing the beggars any significant harm.
On the deck of the Andrea Doria Myga van Bergen stood next to her betrothed. Her eyes were sparkling. What did Spanish cannonballs matter to her? Above the couple's heads the beggars' flag fluttered victoriously and Spinola's standard lay torn under their feet.
"Another broadside, lads, that's the way! Fire, fire, fire in honour of my Myga!" shouted Jan Norris, waving his hat. "There goes the top gallant mast overboard! Never mind, Myga, my sweet! Clear water! Clear water! Listen to how the black galley is surging ahead before Fort Lillo! Sultan before Pope! Clear water! Empty sea! Sweetest Myga, fair and lovely bride, how much I love you!"
"Oh Jan, Jan, never was a bride won so proudly! What great things you have done for me!"
"What things?" laughed Jan Norris. "I merely struck down a foreign ship's officer and bundled overboard the body of a foreign captain. The black galley rescued both of us. Long live the black galley!"
"Long live the black galley!" cheered the crew of the Andrea Doria and, further on to starboard, the black ship itself thundered a riposte, sailing on under the walls of Fort Lillo.
"Leave me be," said Captain Jeronimo to his comrades, who wanted to take him below from the ramparts. "Let me die in the open air. I'll die happier. God be with you, comrades. God be with you all. Look after yourselves. All I can see are young and youthful faces around me. Comrades, I wish you more luck than was granted to Spain's former army here. We did our duty. Dig for us on the battlefield of Jemmingen, in Mockerheide, near Gembloers and Antwerp. It is not to our dishonour that we still occupy the same piece of ground. God be with you, comrades. The old army is going to its grave. God be with you and with Spain forever. Poor Spain!"
Captain Jeronimo was dead, and the officers and soldiers of FortLiefkenhoek's garrison surrounded him in silence.
The noise of cannon fire had died away. All the Dutch ships had gone by the enemy Spanish forts with their sea-borne prize. In the distance the strains of a battle hymn from 1568 were still audible:
Before God I will witness,And all His angel host,That I at all times haveThe King of Spain despised,Because I have Our Lord,Who dwells in majesty,Obeyed without demurAs righteousness decreed.
Towards the open sea these strains continued unabated while the proud sea beggar squadron sailed on with its prize and its bloody wounds and glory slid downstream in a fog that was becoming ever thicker.