The Black Galley
A story by Wilhelm Raabe (1831-1910)
I.
Along the walls of Fort Liefkenhoek.
It was a dark and stormy night in the first days of November of
the year 1599 when the Spanish sentry in Fort Liefkenhoek on the
Flemish side of the Scheldt sounded the alarm, urgent drumming
woke the sleeping garrison and each man there, commander-in-chief
and ordinary soldier alike, took up their posts on the fortress's
walls.
The waves of the Scheldt were running high and often disgorging
flecks of foam in the face of the shivering Southerners over the
ramparts. A northeasterly wind whistled sharply down from the
"Provinces", and the Spaniards had already known for a long time
that it was seldom that anything good came to them from that quarter.
In Fort Lillo as well, on the Brabant side of the river, the sticks
of the drums were whirling and the horn was being sounded. One
could hear quite clearly over the noise of the storm and the waters
tossed by a tempest the sound of far-off cannon fire, which could
only be emanating from a battle at sea at the mouth of the Scheldt.
The sea beggars were up to their old tricks again.
What did this race of amphibians care about darkness and storms?
Were not nightfall and stormy weather their best allies? When had
a sea beggar ever been afraid of a stormy sea and darkness when it
came to annihilating the enemy, to outmanoeuvring his deadliest
enemies, those who had laid waste to and oppressed his homeland
won back from the waves.
The war, however, had taken a terrible turn for the worse.
This coming and going of the belligerents had lasted now for two
and thirty years and there was still no foreseeable end to it. The
sowing of the dragon's teeth had yielded a generous harvest--men of
iron had indeed sprung from the blood-drenched earth and even women
had had to forget what kindness and clemency were. There was now a
younger generation who, for this very reason, did not long for peace
because they had never known what peace was.
And if the violence of the war had worsened on dry land, it was
even more horrendous at sea. At least on land prisoners could be
exchanged or ransomed--towns, villages and hamlets could spare
themselves burning and sacking by buying off would-be attackers.
At sea, however, there were no pardons and no ransoms. It was
held to be merciful to put enemy prisoners to the sword without
further ado or to hang them from a yardarm and not to slowly
torture them to death in the cruellest way possible or to nail
them to the deck and sink them along with their captured ship.
Commanding officers and ordinary soldiers on the walls of Fort
Liefkenhoek listened with rapt attention to the cannon fire and
shared their opinions on it. One person would have one view on
the parties to the skirmish, someone else another, but, finally,
whispered at first, then louder and more surely, the word went
from mouth to mouth among the soldiers:
"The black galley, the black galley again!"
Each of them spat out the same message with a tone between anger
and uncanny dread:
"The black galley!"
Towards one o'clock in the morning the wind died down and the
cannons too fell silent. Twenty minutes later there was a sudden
burst of flame in the far, far distance that left the dark water
looking blood-red from an equally bloody flash of lightning. The
garish illumination flickered over hundreds of bearded and wild
faces on the walls of Forts Liefkenhoek and Lillo and, half a
second later, the dull thud of a huge explosion succeeded to the
lightshow, with which the skirmish appeared to be at an end, in
the same way that a tragedy ends with a catastrophe. No more
signs of life could be seen or heard to hint at the continuation
of the struggle. Although the garrisons of the Spanish fortresses
waited patiently, listening out for a long time, they heard no
more signs of gunfire.
"Well, and what do you think about all this, Senyor Jeronimo?" the
commandant of Fort Liefkenhoek asked one of his captains, a gaunt
elderly man with grey hair and a grey beard, covered with scars
from head to toe.
The soldier thus addressed, who until then had been leaning on the
parapet a little away from his comrades in arms, shrugged his
shoulders.
"Don't ask me about it, sir. By God and the Virgin Mary, I gave
up racking my brains a long time ago over what this war has in
store for us. My armour has become attached to my skin and I'll
hold my ground till Judgement Day, but that's as much as I will
do."
"You are very brusque, Senyor," said the commander, who was a much
younger man than the old warhorse and had only recently arrived in
the Netherlands from Castile to take up the post of governor in
this fort on the Scheldt.
"Coronel," said Captain Jeronimo, "for many a long year now I have
clung to my position on this lump of earth and watched the waves
wash over it. You are young, coronel, but your predecessor was
also young and a nobleman. He too stood here next to me, in the
same place that you yourself are standing now, full of youthful
dreams and hopes of victory. Now he lies down there below the
waves and the one who was here before him was killed by a bullet
near Turnhout--he too dreamed of returning crowned by victory to
his castle on the Jarama, back to his young wife--bah! And now I
can cast my mind back to the end of the year 1585 when I got back
from Madrid--then I too believed in victory and honour in this war.
I have ceased to believe in those things and you will as well, mi
coronel, if God lets you live."
"You have a morbid imagination, captain! But tell me, you were
in Madrid in that ever memorable year?"
"Aye, that I was."
"In that glorious year that the great prince won back Antwerp for
us?"
"Yes."
"So you entered the town with Alexander Farnese as a victor? Oh
happy man!"
"No," said the old soldier darkly. "I did not figure in the
victory procession; I had been entrusted with a different task,
a task that made other people in the camp extremely jealous of me.
I was the messenger that the brave prince sent to Don Felipe--may
God have mercy on his soul--to announce the town's surrender."
"You? You, Captain Jeronimo, were permitted to take such a message
to the king? Oh thrice happy man! Please tell us about it as we
cannot yet withdraw from manning the walls."
The other officers of the garrison had gradually drawn closer to
the captain and the commandant so that now, as attentive listeners,
they formed a circle round them. It was only on rare occasions
that Jeronimo could be persuaded to hold forth.
"What is there to say?" the captain began. "In the night of 4 to
5 September 1585 I reined in my breathless nag in front of the castle
of the king in Madrid--I am a native of that town and I can tell you,
gentlemen, that my heart beat faster when I heard once again the
rushing waters of the Manzanares. I had often enough dreamt not long
beforehand in the field hospital where I lay in a fever of the roaring
of this river. And, having reached my final destination, both the good
tidings I had brought with me and the expectation of a fabulous reward
that appeared to me in dreams drove my blood more strongly through my
veins. Darkness and a deathlike silence lay over the castle and the
town itself. I subsequently learned that there had been a great auto
da fe the day before and that the inhabitants of Madrid were sleeping
it off: everyone was asleep, including King Philip himself. The watch
held their pikes to my chest just as my exhausted steed collapsed under
me in the courtyard. I was as out of breath from that last wild ride
as my horse, but I still had sufficient strength left to pant: "Letters
from Flanders! Letters to the King! Letters from Prince Alexander of
Parma! Victory!"
The weapons of the sentries were lowered and courtiers came up to ask
me questions and then I was led through the halls of the castle to the
bedchamber of my Lord and Master. My heart trembled like my weary limbs.
My head was in a whirl when I came to kneel beside the king's bed and
handed him the great prince's letter. Propped up on his elbows, King
Philip left to one side his writing and skimmed through the letter with
his sharp ascetic eyes--his chamberlain held the golden lamp so he could
see properly. I will never forget the king's face, nor the trembling
that overcame his sallow livid features. He sat up in bed, gaunt and
feeble, and uttered a shout that was almost a cry:
"Antwerp has surrendered! Antwerp has surrendered!"
And the lamp in the courtier's hand began to tremble too. The king
got out of bed; against all the rules of court etiquette he leaned on
my shoulder, the shoulder of a simple soldier, covered with the dust and
sweat accumulated along the way. His noble retinue threw a cloak over
his shoulders. The fact was that such glad tidings had not reached the
ears of the king since the news of the victory at Lepanto. He hotfooted
it down the castle corridors to the door of his favourite daughter, Donya
Clara Isabella Eugenia, knocked at the door (for what did His Catholic
Majesty care about etiquette at that moment in time?), at the door of a
princess, opened it slightly, shoved his head into the room and whispered
to his still sleepy daughter, alarmed at the intrusion:
"Antwerp has surrendered! Antwerp has surrendered, Donya Clara!"
The castle became a hive of activity as the great news spread...
"And what about you, Jeronimo?" asked the commander of Fort Liefkenhoek.
"What was your reward for such joyful and glorious tidings?"
"Yes, what was your reward, Jeronimo? Were you dubbed a knight of the
order of Calatrava?" asked the other officers.
"No, I'm not a knight of the order of Calatrava," answered the old war
horse. "And as far as material rewards go, His Catholic Majesty hung
a golden chain around my neck and gave me a commission in his army as
a colonel."
"Ah!" the commander said, and the other officers pushed nearer.
"I know," said the old warrior, "I know full well what that look means,
mi coronel; it means: So why are you here now as my subordinate, as a
poor half invalid mercenary? Isn't that what you're thinking?" As he
asked this question he looked round the circle of men around him. "Well,
I'll tell you, being as I'm getting to that part of my story. Prick up
your ears youngsters. There might be a lesson in this for you. On 13
July 1591 Prince Alexander Farnese set up camp before Fort Knodsenburg,
opposite Nijmegen, in order to lay siege to it, but Gerhard de Jonge, the
Dutch commander, was a brave man and we had our bloody work cut out with
him. To give Alexander a scare Maurice of Orange moved up from Arnhem to
the Betau and proceeded to set up an ambush after reconnoitring the area
around our camp. Seven of our ensigns, Spanish and Italian lancers, rode
out against the enemy. Doughty knights were among them, I can tell you:
Francesco Nicelli, Alfonso Davalos, Padilla, Jeronimo Caraffa and Decio
Manfredi to name but a few. I was bearer of the prince's standard that
day--a plague on it! Up and at the enemy we were and the enemy withdrew
in haste until such time as we fell into the ambush and were wiped out to
a man. God in heaven, I had already sustained thirty war wounds which
scars all over my body bore witness to and I had bled at every close
encounter, but this time, this time, as all my companions lay dead and
bleeding on the field of battle, I alone escaped uninjured. The Duke of
Parma's victorious standard, however, which I had been carrying, was
captured by the enemy! It bore an embroidered figure of Christ with the
motto: Hic fortium dividet spolia or He will apportion the spoils to the
bravest. My honour as a soldier was lost. The following day the golden
chain Don Felipe had given me in token of my sterling service was torn
from off my neck, another more fortunate inherited my post and I was
allowed to lose myself in the ranks as an ordinary mercenary. I changed
my name and re-enlisted in a German regiment. Overnight I became grey
and bent and assumed the rank of captain again under my new name and so
I am your subordinate, commander, and your comrade, gentlemen. Don't
turn away from me!"
The commander of Fort Liefkenhoek reached out his hand to the storyteller
and shook it warmly in silence; the other soldiers present pressed forward
to reach out their hands to him too.
"Enough!" said the veteran. "What difference does it make, for it all
comes down to the same in the end. I have witnessed the eclipse of many
reputations and much honour and fame. King Philip the Second sleeps in
the Escorial, the great prince Alexander Farnese lies in Parma. Where is
Fernando Alvarez de Toledo now? Where is our redoubtable enemy, William
the Silent?"
"Quo pius Aeneas, quo divus Tullus et Ancus? Where is god-fearing Aeneas?
Where are the divine Tullus and Ancus?" laughed a young ensign, who was
fresh out of upper school in Salamanca; but no-one paid attention to him,
and Captain Jeronimo continued. "Enough, comrades. Let each man do his
duty and think himself an honest man. Let the company stand easy, mi
coronel, or we'll all be down with red dysentery tomorrow. That nasty
business down there on the estuary has been put an end to now--and His
Catholic Majesty Philip the Third and his Genoese Excellency, Signor
Federigo Spinola, have one good ship less. Let us go to bed, colonel,
and tomorrow you can find out more details."
"Is that what you think, prophet of doom? Your terrible misfortune has
sapped your courage. Pull yourself together, Jeronimo."
The captain just shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, so be it then," said the colonel. "Give the signal to leave the
walls. Afterwards I'll expect you all to come to my quarters, gentlemen,
for a glass of wine. None of you will be getting any sleep tonight. Have
courage, gentlemen, and long live Spain!"
The officers repeated their commander's last words, but somewhat mutedly.
Then the drums beat the retreat and the troops withdrew from the walls of
Fort Liefkenhoek.
The commander himself held back for a while and, sighing, leant his elbows
on the parapet, cupping his chin in his hands. He stared out in this wise
over the waters and gazed at the night and murmured:
"He's right. This war has a curse on it. For fourteen years now the
Spanish flag has flown yet again on these walls and on the walls and the
towers of Antwerp, but are we for all that one step nearer in our conquest
of this heroic stiff-necked people? How many men have fought and bled for
this tiny flooded lump of clay! How many men have struggled to possess
this wilderness! Like dazzling stars shining through the mists of time
the names appear of both friends and foes, names like Alexander Farnese,
Mansfeld, Mondragone, Johannes Pettin of Utrecht, Aldegonde, Gianibelli,
Giovanni Baptista Plato, Barrai, Capisucchi, Olivera, Paz, La Motta,
Delmonte and a hundred others. But thousands of nameless fighters lie
buried under the sand and under the waves--how many more will sink there
without leaving a trace?"
The garrison had long since disappeared from the walls, and all there was
to hear from the top of Fort Liefkenhoek were the calls and the tread of
the night watch and the roar of the waves and the once again gathering
storm.
The colonel circled his walls one more time and encouraged the twice as
numerous as usual night watch to keep a good lookout; then he went down
to his quarters where his officers, in response to his invitation, had
all come together. Only Captain Jeronimo was missing, as was his wont
when his comrades-in-arms gathered socially. They left him to his own
devices, were sorry that he wasn't there and laughed and joked about his
prophecies.
The captain had indeed been right! His Catholic Majesty and Federigo
Spinola of Genoa had lost a valiant ship during that stormy night. The
next morning charred remnants of the Immaculate Conception were washed
up on the dunes of South Beveland at the feet of heretics, and the evening
tide carried more than one mutilated body in Spanish uniform down to the
walls of Fort Bats. Captain Jeronimo's grim prediction had been proved
true--the sea beggars had emerged victorious from the previous night's
skirmish.
II.
On Board the Andrea Doria.
Fishermen brought the news of the night's happenings to the town of
Antwerp and, depending on where one's political sympathies lay, there
was secret rejoicing or gnashing of teeth among the town's inhabitants.
The name of the Black Galley promptly spread among the populace and was
linked with varying degrees of certitude to the unfortunate events that
had just taken place.
Who, during such a night of storms as the previous night had been, could
have carried out such an action if it were not the crew of the black
galley?
In town squares, in back streets, in workshops, in churches, in the town
hall and in the citadel the rumour was heard. On the warships and the
merchant ships that lay at anchor at the quayside, next to the houses and
walls of the town, the rumour also circulated. Everywhere, as already
mentioned, consternation or masked jubilation were visible on people's
faces.
"The black galley! The black galley!"
That was Federigo Spinola, a noble patrician from Genoa, an enterprising
son of that rich republic's most famous family, who had entered into a
contract with the King of Spain, Philip the Third, to prepare a fleet for
the service of His Catholic Majesty to be used against the Dutch rebels
and to sail it into the North Sea. All booty and all the ships captured
from the heretics became the property of Admiral Spinola and so he went
with an impressive array of galleys and galleons, manned with sixteen
hundred bold sailors, out of Genoa, went through the Straits of Gibraltar,
rounded Cape Saint Vincent, was joined by a large number of audacious
Viscayan pirates and privateers in the Bay of Biscay and later by a large
number of Dunkirk freebooters and appeared on 11 September 1599 in the
port of Sluys, where he dropped anchor and from where he commenced his
activities in the North Sea.
The waters of the North Sea were for the first time furrowed by those
Roman galleys which had only been used hitherto by those who lived on
the shores of the Mediterranean. And so it came about that, at first,
even the intrepid and fearless fisherfolk of Zeeland felt the fear
engendered by the unfamiliar when confronted by these Italian galleys
that struck the waves like the hundred-oar feet of giant water-beetles.
Thus, in the beginning, Federigo Spinola did a roaring trade and won
many a richly laden merchantman and many a poor fishing boat from the
Dutch until the initial shock experienced by the latter had worn off
and they dared more boldly to get to grips with their new enemies. The
States General sent a sizeable squadron and, in the heat of battle, not
only were a large number of enemy privateers annihilated, but they even
went as far as to capture one of the terrible galleys.
This remarkable vessel was brought in triumph back to Amsterdam and
here something similar was built along the same lines and manned with
the bravest hearts and hands. It was of a threateningly black colour
and the newly painted black galley was soon scaring the Spaniards and
Admiral Federigo Spinola out of their wits. The speculative venture
of the Genoan bore from then on no longer such good fruit as it had
done at first.
So the black galley was no ghost ship, no spectral apparition, but a
thing of wood and iron, and neither was its crew a phantom crew.
Beings of flesh and blood clambered aloft in the rigging, set the
sails, loaded the blunderbusses and boarded enemy ships with the
blood-curdling cry:
"Sultan before Pope!"
People were talking about the black galley on the squares and in the
alleyways of Antwerp and everyone wanted to know more about the rumour
that the splendid trireme, the Immaculate Conception, had been scuttled
and blown up the previous night by men of Zeeland.
Then it gradually grew dark again; a thick fog came up from the Scheldt
and came to rest over the town of Antwerp. The lights of the quayside
shimmered redly through the mist and the rigging of the galleon, the
Andrea Doria, dripped with condensation. The ship lay at anchor next
to the harbour walls and the houses on the quayside and on its deck
Captain Antonio Valani, a young man approximately thirty years old,
wrapped in a thick cloak, walked backwards and forwards while the waves
of the river, gently lapping the hull of his ship, washed to and fro
and from the quayside and the town came the dull din of excited locals.
The captain paused in his pacing and stared up at the lights of the
town shimmering over the wall just as at his side his bosun, Leone
della Rota, a boon companion of his youth from la strada Giulia in
Genoa, appeared and put his hand on his shoulder:
"A penny for your thoughts, Antonio."
The man to whom this was directed looked up almost startled.
"Ah, it's you, Leone. Do you bring any news from the outside world?"
"Yes, but it isn't good news by any means. It came to the admiral's
notice from Fort Liefkenhoek that the story about last night was true.
The Immaculate Conception has been dragged down to hell bag and baggage.
Only the cabin boy came ashore alive, landing at Fort Bats clinging on
to an empty water barrel. There was great jubilation among the heretics
and the fishwives of Zeeland--frighteningly ugly creatures, Antonio--
dried the boy off and sent him here to give their regards to His
Excellency the Governor. They took the boy into the citadel. Well,
we'll soon be hearing from the admiral himself."
"God grant it may be so," cried out the Andrea Doria's captain, stamping
the deck with his foot in a temper. "Leone, I can't stand this enforced
idleness of lying at anchor any longer!"
"Idleness?" laughed the ship's bosun. "By the fair frame of Venus, I
didn't know we were being idle. I thought it might be possible to make
use of this time we're lying here at anchor. Corpo di Bacco, I've made
a fine conquest of a strapping wench in town in the tavern with the arms
of Alcantara hanging up outside. You're invited, Antonio."
"You never take life seriously, Leone!" sighed the captain.
"Listen to me," laughed the bosun. "Trust to your instincts, my friend,
and don't give me that. Don't turn away with such a miserable look on
your face. Follow my finger--see, over there, that light over the city
wall in that corner window. Just follow my finger--can you see it?
Antonio, Antonello, captain, little captain of mine, who lives in that
room? Tell me who has lit that tiny light. Is she not the sweetest
child that this northern clime, or should I say this northern bog, has
ever brought forth as long as there has been rain here and that must
have been for a very long time, I think. Has not Antonio Valani, captain
of this good ship, the Andrea Doria, fallen in love body and soul with
the fair hair and the blue eyes of this beautiful Fleming? Another of
your sighs? Antonio, Antonio, by our lovely lady of Cythera, you can be
a pain sometimes!"
Captain Valani turned away indignantly.
"Oh, leave me alone, Leone--go to your buxom wench. I'm giving you the
rest of the night off, up until the first cock crows, just to get you and
your loose tongue off my ship. Go now, I beg you, go and stop torturing
me with your cheerful face. I forgive you the lightness of your blood
and your zest for life, but give me an hour by myself if you are truly my
friend. My life seems like a wilderness at the moment."
"Antonio," said the second-in-command more seriously, "Antonio, on my
honour, it was not my intention to torture you. My plump hostess at the
Alcantara Arms can wait keeping an eye on the door for as long as she has
a mind to. I won't go. What the devil ails you, my friend? How do things
stand with you? Confide in me what it is that oppresses you. It's not
last night's bad news from the Scheldt estuary, that's for sure. Confide
in me. Can it really be true what I took as a joke and treated in fun?
Have you really fallen for the charms of the fair-haired enchantress?"
Captain Valani sighed deeply without answering and Leone went on:
"And she's playing hard to get, hard to get with you, every woman's pin-up
in the strada Balbi and in all the other streets, sidestreets and alleyways
of our dear home town of Genoa. By the goddess of Paphos that calls for
punishment, the most severe punishment. Oh that beautiful barbarian! I
stand ready to serve you, Antonio Valani, my friend and superior, with
sword, heart and head. What can we do to win you the heart of that sweet
child?"
The rest of the conversation between the captain and his bosun was lost in
and interrupted by the shouts of the night watch in the direction of the
gangplank. A whirl of drums resounded from the quayside, torches flickered
and weapons glinted. Admiral Federigo Spinola had come to see how things
were aboard the Andrea Doria and on the other ships of his fleet lying at
anchor under the walls of Antwerp. He was in the foulest of moods as Leone
and Antonio could not help but notice when they hurried to welcome him on
board. The admiral stamped about most grimly surrounded by his captains
who had gathered around him on the main deck of the Andrea Doria. The
unfortunate skirmish of the previous night lay heavy on his heart. If
things were going to continue in this vein, his business interests were
not worth the parchment contract they were written on, countersigned with
the Yo el Rey of King Philip the Third of Spain.
"To sea with you!" cried Admiral Spinola as he raged at his captains. "Put
out to sea and capture that accursed black galley. String up the whole of
its crew from its own yardarms and the devil take their souls. Tomorrow
at daybreak I want the four galleys that are lying here at anchor to weigh
anchor. Do you hear me, gentlemen? The Andrea Doria will stay here and
await further orders. But the galleys will make sail tomorrow good and
early. The message has already been given to the ships' captains at Sluys
to put out to sea with every ship available. The black galley--bring me
the black galley or bring me back Satan himself."
At this the admiral stamped off, swallowing the rest of his harangue, and
the captains looked at one another wryly and then turned their gaze to the
admiral:
"Diavolo, Spanish sound and fury!"
"A task that's easier said than done!"
"Well, what do you think, gentlemen?"
"The black galley, eh?"
"Did you hang your cook yesterday, Francesco?"
"Yes, it's a pity!"
"Spinola sends us to Sluys!"
"To hunt the black galley!"
And so the banter on the Andrea Doria went on till eventually one captain
after another went off to complete preparations for the imminent departure
of their ships.
It was a long time before Antonio Valani and Leone della Rota were able
to find themselves alone on deck.
"So the others are sailing and we have to stay here? Wonderful!" said
Leone. "Let us go hunting on our own account, Antonio, but first to the
tavern I spoke of. You can tell me everything there is to know there of
your relationship with that pretty Flemish woman."
"No, Leone. Leave me alone."
"No, I won't. You should and will tell me. I'm going to cure you, dear
boy. I'm a good doctor in matters like these. Many a one had learnt that
and you are not going to be the exception, Tonino."
Reluctantly the captain allowed himself to be dragged away from his ship.
With an air of annoyance he followed his lieutenant through the streets of
Antwerp to the Alcantara Arms where the fat hostess had fallen for the
jolly della Rota and the scoundrel had a free slate and free accommodation
as often as it seemed agreeable to him. And it was frequently very much
so and just the job for him.
III.
Jan and Myga.
The following evening Myga van Bergen was sitting in one of the high gable
houses behind the city wall on the quayside in Antwerp in the immediate
vicinity of her small night light. As the daughter of the erstwhile rich
and respected merchant, Michael van Bergen, of whom it could now be said:
Supremum diem obiit, senex et pauper (Old age and poverty killed him),
she was dressed in mourning.
As when a sack of newly minted gold coins is shaken, fifteen or twenty
years before the name of the firm of Norris and Van Bergen reverberated in
the ears of everyone, for the firm represented one of the richest merchant
banking houses in the whole of affluent Antwerp. Its ships sailed on
every ocean, its warehouses were full of the most precious treasures from
the Indies and America, its underwriting rooms were full of diligent
underwriters. Twenty years before you could have asked at the Stock
Exchange or at the Oosterling Bank, the great repository of the Hanseatic
League, about the firm of Norris and Van Bergen and you would have heard
good reports of them.
Now it was a different story. Johann Geerdes Norris had died long ago in
Amsterdam and a fortnight since his former business partner had followed
him to the grave in Antwerp as an undischarged bankrupt.
If you had asked now on the Stock Exchange or at the offices of the
Hanseatic League about the firm of Norris and Van Bergen, you would
probably have been asked to repeat your question more than once and
received for your answer a shake of the head. Who could still remember
now the firm of Norris and Van Bergen? Only the oldest merchants and
brokers would still know of it.
But how had such a thing come about?
The answer to that question is easy to give. When the firm of Norris
and Van Bergen was in its heyday, two hundred thousand inhabitants were
gainfully employed in Antwerp. Now they had dwindled to eighty thousand.
is that explanation enough for you?
Let us cast a glance back at days gone by to the twentieth day of August
in that annus horribilis of 1585. On this day those of the reformed
faith held their last service in the cathedral. After the surrender,
which the town had arranged with its mighty conqueror, Prince Alexander
of Parma, the Catholics were to have restored to them the following day
the sacred property of the Blessed Virgin Mary that they had had to leave
so long in the hands of heretics.
It was a solemn and extraordinary moment when, on 20 August, after the
last Protestant sermon, the rolling chords of the cathedral organ were
heard. A deep silence ensued, people sat with heads bowed praying softly
and fervently. Then there was an unexpected commotion--a noise, half a
sigh, half a repressed cry of anger rang out in a painful sort of way. A
murmuring arose, the congregation got up from their seats and ran in an
undisciplined confusion towards the church doors, towards those great
portals, to which the Catholic portion of the population were already
laying siege.
Triumph and defeat!
Monks of every conceivable order pushed contemptuously or threateningly
past the humiliated, still crying or complaining heretics, lifting their
wreathes of roses gaily.
How long ago it now was since they had had to succumb to these very same
heretics who had then cried out to them: "Papen uyt! Papen uyt!" ("Away
with the priests! Away with the priests!").
Such a changeable thing is man's fate and triumph and defeat alternate in
spiritual struggles.
On 20 August the merchant banking house of Norris and Van Bergen was still
strong and well respected. On 27 August the firm was officially wound up.
Alexander Farnese entered the conquered town in triumph; Jan Geerdes Norris
left it with his ten-year-old son and several companions who did not want
to endure a Spanish yoke. Michael van Bergen stayed behind with his little
daughter who was then six years old. Each of the two partners acted true
to character: Norris impulsively and angrily; Van Bergen fearfully and with
timidity. The former flew in the face of bitter destiny and abandoned his
position to resume it elsewhere, the battle having been lost. The latter
bowed to his fate and suffered in silence what he could not hope to alter
for the better.
But all this was a long time ago and our two protagonists are no longer
Geerdes Norris and Michael Van Bergen, but their children Jan and Myga
respectively.
Into what a frightful, devastated, horrid world had the two poor mites
been thrust. How often had maternal lullabies been silenced by the noise
of gunfire both near and distant! How often had their fathers had to take
son and daughter off their knees because they had been summoned by the
warning bell to the walls or to the town hall!
Poor little mites! They had never been able like other children born in
happier times to tumble out of danger in shady woods and on the green grass
of meadows. They had never been able to make crowns from the blue
cornflowers and the red poppies which grew at the edge of tilled fields.
The woods were full of the roaming bands of His Catholic Majesty, the
wild gangs of the forest beggars and lawless and ruthless ragamuffins
that had dispersed there from all over Europe.
The armies of Spain, mercenaries from Germany, England, France and Italy,
the soldiers of the United Provinces under the leadership of the Prince of
Orange fought on the green grass of the meadows and pitched their makeshift
huts and tents there.
Fields of corn, even before the corn in them ripened, even before poppies
and cornflowers bloomed in them, fell victim to the feet and hooves of
invading armies.
Where was there a peaceful hamlet to be found on this downtrodden piece
of earth that the King of Spain saw as his own?
In the dark and narrow sidestreets of the town of Antwerp, behind the high
walls, redoubts and towers of Paciotti, poor children had their playgrounds
and these were often unsafe and perilous. Often the houses of honest
burghers were changed into dungeons in which those who lived there shut
themselves up, in which they themselves had to be their own jailers to
protect themselves against clear and present danger.
These two children's perception of the world must have been very different
to that of other more fortunate children and many a fair blossom was
stifled and annihilated in the bud by the dark and cold cloud that hung
over these troubled times.
How often Jan and Myga during the Prince of Parma's long siege had seen
from their windows where they laid their gaily-coloured dolls and cuddly
animals war with its attendant horrors rampaging through the streets!
It had been decided by their fathers and mothers that Jan and Myga would
one day be a couple while the great firm of Norris and Van Bergen was
still in existence. When the surrender negotiated by Prince Alexander
with the town of Antwerp had once been signed, however, Jan Geerdes
Norris ripped up the contract of forthcoming marriage between his son
and Michael van Bergen's daughter. By this time the wives of both
partners were already dead.
On 27 August 1585 the two children were separated from each other and
the ten-year-old boy and the six-year-old girl sobbed as if their hearts
would break at it, but it was wartime and war splits up people who are
close to one another in ways far crueller. It was felt as a matter of
course that the two children would have forgotten the earliest memories
of their childhood soon enough. We shall see if that was indeed the case.
The years went by and Jan Geerdes Norris passed away as did Michael van
Bergen after his fortune had melted like snow in the sun.
Myga sat in her little room behind the city walls along the quayside in
Antwerp. She was in her black mourning clothes, a beautiful young woman
still pale from her long vigils at the bed of her dying father. She was
spinning. Her eyes were full of tears and her heart was full of pent-up
grief and care. The poor child had been quite alone in the great town
since the death of her father and the times were so unruly that the weak
in society were virtually at the mercy of all random oppression and
insolence.
But was Myga van Bergen completely alone in the world?
Poor child! One of Myga's principal worries was that she was not entirely
alone.
There was still someone to watch over Michael van Bergen's daughter. The
orphan knew full well that at least one heart had remained faithful to her,
that Jan Norris of Amsterdam would have shed his blood to the last drop
for her. Jan Norris, however, was an outcast, under threat of the gallows
if he fell into the hands of the Spaniards in the streets of Antwerp.
And Jan Norris the sea beggar often appeared in various disguises in the
streets of Antwerp.
Jan Norris had not forgotten the memories of his youth as quickly as Jan
Geerdes Norris, his father, thought he would have done.
Jan and Myga were still effectively betrothed to each other. No power on
earth could have separated them--they had sworn to each other an oath that
was mutually binding. What was to become of them, neither of them, as
long as Michael lived, could possibly have said.
Michael van Bergen had now been dead and buried for a fortnight, but Jan
had disappeared months ago. Was he still alive? Had he drowned at sea?
Had the Spaniards boarded his ship, caught him and hanged him?
Who could say?
What would poor abandoned Myga have done with herself, all alone in the
world, if Jan really had been dead?
The night gradually drew on, but Myga was afraid to lie down. She was
unable to sleep for grief and anxiety, so why should she have gone to bed?
It gradually became quite cold in her little room, but she scarcely seemed
to feel the cold and did not put more coal on the tiny fire that was
burning in the grate. She put away her hand loom and covered her face
with her hands, leaning her head on her breast. She sat like this for
quite some time till eventually she got up shivering to seek the shelter
of her bed.
She was bending down once more to check if the bolts on her door had been
correctly adjusted when she heard something and held her breath.
"Myga?" Someone was whispering through the door from outside.
Myga's whole body trembled.
"Oh my God!"
"Myga?" The whispering came again through the keyhole.
With a sudden cry the young woman drew aside the bolts and turned the key
in the lock. The door flew open and the very next moment a young man in
the officer's uniform of a regiment of mercenaries with Spanish markings
on the shoulder was holding Myga in his arms.
"Myga, oh Myga!"
"Oh Jan, Jan, dearest Jan!"
Tender kisses for the next few minutes took the place of words for both
of them. Then Jan Norris sank, completely exhausted apparently, onto the
nearest chair and Myga now noticed for the first time the disarray of her
sweetheart's apparel, noticed that he had lost his hat, that one of his
cheeks was bleeding from a slight graze.
"My God, what's happened, Jan? I'm trembling! Oh, you've been reckless
again--oh Jan, Jan, bad Jan!"
"This time I came within a hair's breadth of being caught, Myga! But
don't worry, sweetheart, they only nearly got me--I'd have been swinging
from the hangman's noose by now if things hadn't passed off so well!"
"Oh Jan, and you actually say that you love me! Do you really want to
save me from this town? Merciful God, you'll perish and so will I, and
my father's dead too. Good God! What's to become of me? Who'll protect
me? Who'll help me?"
"You're right, you're right, poor dear. And your father has died and now
I'm there to comfort you in your distress. But I had to cruise off the
coast of Dunkirk to send those pirates to the bottom--oh, it's hard, Myga,
and yet I could do no other and I can do no other tonight either. Each of
us has to be prepared to give his life to uphold the sacred honour of the
fatherland. Ah, Myga, Myga, love me just a little even though I am a bad
provider. Your poor father, Michael..."
"Leave my poor dead father out of this, Jan! He's alright where he is.
He's at rest now and need no longer fear anyone. The dead are to be envied
in these bloody, fearsome times!"
"Myga, don't talk that way. Your father's death was a great loss, but now
you're my problem. Now you can go with me to Amsterdam, now nothing holds
you back in this sad town of Antwerp. Myga, follow your heart, for happy
days are just around the corner for us, my betrothed. Soon I'll be coming
to fetch you--watch out--with an elegant wedding procession fit for a
queen. Perhaps they'll ring the bells and beat the drums, perhaps they'll
mark the blissful hour with cannon-fire in which I take you away from
Antwerp. You will see if it's not true, what I am telling you now in the
strictest confidence."
"What fantasies, Jan Norris! Tell me how all this is going to come about.
No, don't tell me, as it's all sheer tomfoolery. Tell me about this danger
you have just escaped from by the skin of your teeth. I won't be able to
get it out of my head tonight and that's your fault, reckless madcap Jan."
"Not as reckless as you think, dearest!" said the young man with a smile.
"Otherwise the captain of the black galley would not be using Jan Norris's
head, heart, arms and legs as he is doing. There's something big afoot in
the town. We are about to perform a deed that the children of Antwerp will
still be singing about in a hundred years' time. I'm here to gather secret
information, hence the disguise: the wide breeches of a German mercenary
rather than the trousers of a Zeeland boatman. Listen, Myga. I carried
out my orders on the quayside and learned that four of Spinola's galleys
have set out this morning to hunt down the black galley. Apart from that,
I also found out that your father Michael has died and had a close look at
the last of the Genoese ships still at anchor here, the Andrea Doria, due
to the way in which it's been built and, in the meantime, it got dark.
During the day I often stole glances up at your window, dearest, but did
not find the time to slip in to see you as all sorts of people were hard
on my heels. So I thought I would wait till it went properly dark (I
still have the key to the house) and then turned nimbly into the alleys
until the idea came to me, in front of a brightly-lit tavern door, that
I could spend the night in a tavern and take an opportunity to keep an
eye on the doings of both locals and visitors (because of my orders, you
know!) Well, I went into this tavern, ordered a bottle of wine and sat
down at a table, spreading my elbows as if the whole world belonged to me
and only seeming to feel no compunction or anxiety over poor Myga, whose
father had died without me being there to comfort her. All around me was
a din such as there must have been at the building of the Tower of Babel.
Germans, Burgundians, Spaniards, Italians and Dutchmen chattered, swore
and shouted, each in their own tongue, and all of them were drinking like
fish. Every table and corner were taken up and there remained only two
empty places, next to me as it happened. Then two ill-mannered ruffians
turned up--I recognized both of them: one was the captain of the Andrea
Doria, the other his lieutenant. They climbed over tables and benches
and sat down next to me. I gladly made room for them for their presence
was worth silver and gold to me and every word they uttered I assayed.
I pretended, however, never to have laid eyes on them and drowsily laid
my head on both arms as if to shut out the world, but I had my ears
pricked up for listening. The two foreigners called out for wine and the
younger of the two, the lieutenant, put his arm round the serving wench's
waist. The other, however, looked mournful at this, as though it had
actually made him feel worse. I could have laughed at him, but, by the
brotherhood of the sea beggars, it was no laughing matter! Then their
banter started and, to begin with, all the talk was of our intrepid deed,
of the dance we had led them the previous night, of the journey to kingdom
come of the Immaculate Conception. I rejoiced much to hear this, but I
suddenly froze for they mentioned a familiar name. They started to talk
about you, Myga!"
"About me?" cried the young woman. "God in heaven, the Italian captain
spoke about me! Jan! Jan! Protect me from him! He frightens me!"
"So the dog has set his snares to catch you!" shouted Jan in a hollow
voice and Myga hid her face upon her breast and nodded trembling.
The young sea beggar gnashed his teeth and laughed grimly.
"Revenge is a dish best served cold as that foreign rogue will shortly
learn. Be of good cheer, Myga. Am I not at your side and are there
not many of my boon companions to fall back on if need be? Poor dear,
how you're trembling!"
"Merciful heaven, Jan, I can't help myself. Do not these violent and
arrogant foreigners rule over us? Who can stop them from having their
evil way with us? Take me with you, Jan, out into the night, here and
now!"
Jan Norris held the livid and trembling girl in his arms and tried
everything he knew to reassure her. Once he had been moderately
successful in this, he went on to relate his adventure in the Golden
Lion.
"My hair stood up on my head and all the blood rushed to my brain.
But I had to control myself so that I wouldn't give myself away, and
that was hard work, but Jan Norris managed it and acted as if he didn't
understand a word of Italian. By Count Lumey, they were discussing
with each other a piece of knavery blacker than night, but I succeeded
in understanding everything they were saying. In the early hours of
morning, the day after tomorrow, the Andrea Doria sets sail--her orders
to do so come straight from the admiral himself--and, because the
opportunity is such a favourable one, their clever plan will come into
operation the night before. The untamed dove, Myga van Bergen, will be
captured by Antonio Valani with the help of Satan and lieutenant Leone
della Rota. This house will be pounced on, but so discreetly that no
neighbour will be disturbed thereby, that no cock in the whole of
Antwerp will crow to reveal the dark deed. On to the galleon with
Myga! What larks! Hoist up the anchor, boys, and off we go to hunt
down the rebellious heretics, out into the open sea, for who can hear
at sea the cries for help and the weeping of little Myga? Hell's
teeth, and Jan Norris sits there in the Golden Lion unable to budge,
holding in his hand his knife, unable to strike down these two
whispering rogues!"
"Oh Jan, Jan, for the sake of our two mothers and our love, rescue
me! Don't let me fall into their hands! Death would be a less
terrible fate than that!"
"Calm down, Myga, calm down! There's plenty of time from now till
midnight. Sitting round the fire in Amsterdam we'll remember this
story. Trust me, love of my life, nothing untoward will happen to
you as long as Jan Norris can still stand on his own two feet. But
keep listening; my story isn't over yet. I still have to tell you
how it came about that they sniffed me out as helmsman of the black
galley. That's a much better story than the one I've just been
telling you."
"Oh Jan, Jan, feel how my heart is beating--merciful God, who will
protect poor Myga? Oh Jan, let's go, here and now, immediately.
I can't breathe here any more. The air in this room is choking me!"
"Calm down, Myga, calm down. I'd gladly take you with me right
away, and there'd be a boat ready to take us on board, but listen
down there in the streets--the whole town knows now that men from
the black galley are concealed in disguise within its walls. Just
listen to the rumpus. Making a run for it would be no good as
there's no chance of us getting through unscathed. Sit down and
stop trembling like that. We're still safe and time is the best
counsellor. Think about those times when we'll be sitting round
the fire in wintry Amsterdam. Ha ha, let them look for me down
there. Jan Norris has always been too quick and too cunning for
them. It would also be a pity for the fellow if they hanged him,
wouldn't it, Myga?"
"Oh Jan, Jan!"