Two years had passed. A beautiful October day was dawning; no cloud
dimmed the azure sky, and the sun’s disk rose, glowing crimson, behind
the narrow strait, that afforded ingress to the Gulf of Corinth.
The rippling waves of the placid sea, which here washed the sunny shores
of Hellas, yonder the shady coasts of the Peloponnesus, glittered like
fresh blooming blue-bottles.
Bare, parched rocks rise in naked beauty at the north of the bay, and
the rays of the young day-star shot golden threads through the light
white mists, that floated around them.
The coast of Morea faces the north; so dense shadows still rested on the
stony olive-groves and the dark foliage of the pink laurel and oleander
bushes, whose dense clumps followed the course of the stream and filled
the ravines.
How still, how pleasant it usually was here in the early morning!
White sea-gulls hovered peacefully over the waves, a fishing-boat or
galley glided gently along, making shining furrows in the blue mirror
of the water; but today the waves curled under the burden of countless
ships, to-day thousands of long oars lashed the sea, till the surges
splashed high in the air with a wailing, clashing sound. To-day there
was a loud clanking, rattling, roaring on both sides of the water-gate,
which afforded admittance to the Bay of Lepanto.
The roaring and shouting reverberated in mighty echoes from the bare
northern cliffs, but were subdued by the densely wooded southern shore.
Two vast bodies of furious foes confronted each other like wrestlers,
who stretch their sinewy arms to grasp and hurl their opponents to the
ground.
Pope Pius the Fifth had summoned Christianity to resist the
land-devouring power of the Ottomans. Cyprus, Christian Cyprus, the last
province Venice possessed in the Levant, had fallen into the hands
of the Moslems. Spain and Venice had formed an alliance with Christ’s
vicegerent; Genoese, other Italians, and the Knights of St. John were
assembling in Messina to aid the league.
The finest and largest Christian armada, which had left a Christian
port for a long time, put forth to sea from this harbor. In spite of
all intrigues, King Philip had entrusted the chief command to his young
half-brother, Don Juan of Austria.
The Ottomans too had not been idle, and with twelve myriads of soldiers
on three hundred ships, awaited the foe in the Gulf of Lepanto.
Don Juan made no delay. The Moslems had recently murdered thousands of
Christians at Cyprus, an outrage the fiery hero could not endure, so he
cast to the winds the warnings and letters of counsel from Madrid,
which sought to curb his impetuous energy, his troops, especially the
Venetians, were longing for vengeance.
But the Moslems were no less eager for the fray, and at the close of his
council-of-war, and contrary to its decision, Kapudan Pacha sailed to
meet the enemy.
On the morning of October 7th every ship, every man was ready for
battle.
The sun appeared, and from the Spanish ships musical bell-notes rose
towards heaven, blending with the echoing chant: “Allahu akbar, allahu
akbar, allahu akbar,” and the devout words: “There is no God save Allah,
and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah; to prayer!”
“To prayer!” The iron tongue of the bell uttered the summons, as well
as the resonant voice of the Muezzin, who to-day did not call the
worshippers to devotion from the top of a minaret, but from the masthead
of a ship. On both sides of the narrow seagate, thousands of Moslems and
Christians thought, hoped and believed, that the Omnipotent One heard
them.
The bells and chanting died away, and a swift galley with Don Juan on
board, moved from ship to ship. The young hero, holding a crucifix in
his hand, shouted encouraging words to the Christian soldiers.
The blare of trumpets, roll of drums, and shouts of command echoed from
the rocky shores.
The armada moved forward, the admiral’s galley, with Don Juan, at its
head.
The Turkish fleet advanced to meet it.
The young lion no longer asked the wise counsel of the experienced
admiral. He desired nothing, thought of nothing, issued no orders,
except “forward,” “attack,” “board,” “kill,” “sink,” “destroy!”
The hostile fleets clashed into the fight as bulls, bellowing sullenly,
rush upon each other with lowered heads and bloodshot eyes.
Who, on this day of vengeance, thought of Marco Antonio Colonna’s plan
of battle, or the wise counsels of Doria, Venieri, Giustiniani?
Not the clear brain and keen eye--but manly courage and strength would
turn the scale to-day. Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, had joined
his young uncle a short time before, and now commanded a squadron of
Genoese ships in the front. He was to keep back till Doria ordered
him to enter the battle. But Don Juan had already boarded the vessel
commanded by the Turkish admiral, scaled the deck, and with a heavy
sword-stroke felled Kapudan Pacha. Alexander witnessed the scene, his
impetuous, heroic courage bore him on, and he too ordered: “Forward!”
What was the huge ship he was approaching? The silver crescent decked
its scarlet pennon, rows of cannon poured destruction from its sides,
and its lofty deck was doubly defended by bearded wearers of the turban.
It was the treasure-galley of the Ottoman fleet. It would be a gallant
achievement could the prince vanquish this bulwark, this stronghold of
the foe; which was three times greater in size, strength, and number of
its crew, than Farnese’s vessel. What did he care, what recked he of the
shower of bullets and tar-hoops that awaited him?
Up and at them.
Doria made warning signals, but the prince paid no heed, he would
neither see nor hear them.
Brave soldiers fell bleeding and gasping on the deck beside him, his
mast was split and came crashing down. “Who’ll follow me?” he shouted,
resting his hand on the bulwark.
The tried Spanish warriors, with whom Don Juan had manned his vessel,
hesitated. Only one stepped mutely and resolutely to his side, flinging
over his shoulder the two-handed sword, whose hilt nearly reached to the
tall youth’s eyes.
Every one on board knew the fair-haired giant. It was the favorite of
the commander in chief--it was Navarrete, who in the war against the
Moors of Cadiz and Baza had performed many an envied deed of valor. His
arm seemed made of steel; he valued his life no more than one of the
plumes in his helmet, and risked it in battle as recklessly as he did
his zechins at the gaming-table.
Here, as well as there, he remained the winner.
No one knew exactly whence he came as he never mentioned his family,
for he was a reserved, unsocial man; but on the voyage to Lepanto he
had formed a friendship with a sick soldier, Don Miguel Cervantes. The
latter could tell marvellous tales, and had his own peculiar opinions
about everything between heaven and earth.
Navarrete, who carried his head as high as the proudest grandee, devoted
every leisure hour to his suffering comrade, uniting the affection of a
brother, with the duties of a servant.
It was known that Navarrete had once been an artist, and he seemed
one of the most fervent of the devout Castilians, for he entered every
church and chapel the army passed, and remained standing a long, long
time before many a Madonna and altar-painting as if spellbound.
Even the boldest dared not attack him, for death hovered over his sword,
yet his heart had not hardened. He gave winnings and booty with lavish
hand, and every beggar was sure of assistance.
He avoided women, but sought the society of the sick and wounded, often
watching all night beside the couch of some sorely-injured comrade, and
this led to the rumor that he liked to witness death.
Ah, no! The heart of the proud, lonely man only sought a place where it
might be permitted to soften; the soldier, bereft of love, needed some
nook where he could exercise on others what was denied to himself:
“devoted affection.”
Alexander Farnese recognized in Navarrete the horse-tamer of the
picadero in Madrid; he nodded approvingly to him, and mounted the
bulwark. But the other did not follow instantly, for his friend Don
Miguel had joined him, and asked to share the adventure. Navarrete and
the captain strove to dissuade the sick man, but the latter suddenly
felt cured of his fever, and with flashing eyes insisted on having his
own way.
Ulrich did not wait for the end of the dispute, for Farnese was now
springing into the hostile ship, and the former, with a bold leap,
followed.
Alexander, like himself, carried a two-Banded sword, and both swung
them as mowers do their scythes. They attacked, struck, felled, and
the foremost foes shrank from the grim destroyers. Mustapha Pacha, the
treasurer and captain of the galley, advanced in person to confront the
terrible Christians, and a sword-stroke from Alexander shattered the
hand that held the curved sabre, a second stretched the Moslem on the
deck.
But the Turks’ numbers were greatly superior and threatened to crush the
heroes, when Don Miguel Cervantes, Ulrich’s friend, appeared with
twelve fresh soldiers on the scene of battle, and cut their way to the
hard-pressed champions. Other Spanish and Genoese warriors followed and
the fray became still more furious.
Ulrich had been forced far away from his royal companion-in-arms, and
was now swinging his blade beside his invalid friend. Don Miguel’s
breast was already bleeding from two wounds, and he now fell by Ulrich’s
side; a bullet had broken his left arm.
Ulrich stooped and raised him; his men surrounded him, and the Turks
were scattered, as the tempest sweeps clouds from the mountain.
Don Miguel tried to lift the sword, which had dropped from his grasp,
but he only clutched the empty air, and raising his large eyes as if
in ecstasy, pressed his hand upon his bleeding breast, exclaiming
enthusiastically: “Wounds are stars; they point the way to the heaven of
fame-of-fame....”
His senses failed, and Ulrich bore him in his strong aims to a part of
the treasure-ship, which was held by Genoese soldiers. Then he rushed
into the fight again, while in his ears still rang his friend’s fervid
words:
“The heaven of fame!”
That was the last, the highest aim of man! Fame, yes surely fame was the
“word”; it should henceforth be his word!
It seemed as if a gloomy multitude of heavy thunderclouds had gathered
over the still, blue arm of the sea. The stifling smoke of powder
darkened the clear sky like black vapors, while flashes of lightning and
peals of thunder constantly illumined and shook the dusky atmosphere.
Here a magazine flew through the air, there one ascended with a fierce
crash towards the sky. Wails of pain and shouts of victory, the blare
of trumpets, the crash of shattered ships and falling masts blended in
hellish uproar.
The sun’s light was obscured, but the gigantic frames of huge burning
galleys served for torches to light the combatants.
When twilight closed in, the Christians had gained a decisive victory.
Don Juan had killed the commander-in-chief of the Ottoman force, Ali
Pacha, as Farnese hewed down the treasurer. Uncle and nephew emerged
from the battle as heroes worthy of renown, but the glory of this
victory clung to Don Juan’s name.
Farnese’s bold assault was kindly rebuked by the commander-in-chief,
and when the former praised Navarrete’s heroic aid before Don Juan,
the general gave the bold warrior and gallant trooper, the honorable
commission of bearing tidings of the victory to the king. Two galleys
stood out to sea in a westerly direction at the same time: a Spanish
one, bearing Don Juan’s messenger, and a Venetian ship, conveying the
courier of the Republic.
The rowers of both vessels had much difficulty in forcing a way through
the wreckage, broken masts and planks, the multitude of dead bodies and
net work of cordage, which covered the surface of the water; but even
amid these obstacles the race began.
The wind and sea were equally favorable to both galleys; but the
Venetians outstripped the Spaniards and dropped anchor at Alicante
twenty-four hours before the latter.
It was the rider’s task, to make up for the time lost by the sailors.
The messenger of the Republic was far in advance of the general’s.
Everywhere that Ulrich changed horses, displaying at short intervals
the prophet’s banner, which he was to deliver to the king as the fairest
trophy of victory--it was inscribed with Allah’s name twenty-eight
thousand nine hundred times--he met rejoicing throngs, processions, and
festal decorations.
Don Juan’s name echoed from the lips of men and women, girls and
children. This was fame, this was the omnipresence of a god; there could
be no higher aspiration for him, who had obtained such honor.
Fame, fame! again echoed in Ulrich’s soul; if there is a word, which
raises a man above himself and implants his own being in that of
millions of fellow-creatures, it is this.
And now he urged one steed after another until it broke down, giving
himself no rest even at night; half an hour’s ride outside of Madrid he
overtook the Venetian, and passed by him with a courteous greeting.
The king was not in the capital, and he went on without delay to the
Escurial.
Covered with dust, splashed from head to foot with mud, bruised,
tortured as if on the rack, he clung to the saddle, yet never ceased to
use whip and spur, and would trust his message to no other horseman.
Now the barren peaks of the Guadarrama mountains lay close before him,
now he reached the first workshops, where iron was being forged for the
gigantic palace in process of building. How many chimneys smoked, how
many hands were toiling for this edifice, which was to comprise a royal
residence, a temple, a peerless library, a museum and a tomb.
Numerous carts and sledges, on which blocks of light grey granite had
been drawn hither, barred his way. He rode around them at the peril of
falling with his horse over a precipice, and now found himself before
a labyrinth of scaffolds and free-stone, in the midst of a wild, grey,
treeless mountain valley. What kind of a man was this, who had chosen
this desert for his home, in life as well as in death! The Escurial
suited King Philip, as King Philip suited the Escurial. Here he felt
most at ease, from here the royal spider ceaselessly entangled the world
in his skilful nets.
His majesty was attending vespers in the scarcely completed chapel. The
chief officer of the palace, Fray Antonio de Villacastin, seeing
Ulrich slip from his horse, hastened to receive the tottering soldier’s
tidings, and led him to the church.
The ‘confiteor’ had just commenced, but Fray Antonio motioned to the
priests, who interrupted the Mass, and Ulrich, holding the prophet’s
standard high aloft, exclaimed: “An unparalleled victory!--Don Juan ...
October 7th...! at Lepanto--the Ottoman navy totally destroyed...!”
Philip heard this great news and saw the standard, but seemed to have
neither eyes nor ears; not a muscle in his face stirred, no movement
betrayed that anything was passing in his mind. Murmuring in a
sarcastic, rather than a joyous tone: “Don Juan has dared much,” he gave
a sign, without opening the letter, to continue the Mass, remaining on
his knees as if nothing had disturbed the sacred rite.
The exhausted messenger sank into a pew and did not wake from his
stupor, until the communion was over and the king had ordered a Te Deum
for the victory of Lepanto.
Then he rose, and as he came out of the pew a newly-married couple
passed him, the architect, Herrera, and Isabella Coello, radiant in
beauty.
Ulrich clenched his fist, and the thought passed through his mind,
that he would cast away good-fortune, art and fame as carelessly as
soap-bubbles, if he could be in Herrera’s place.