Die schwarze Galeere. English Read online

  Produced by Michael Wooff

  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 ofthe year 1599 when the Spanish sentry in Fort Liefkenhoek on theFlemish side of the Scheldt sounded the alarm, urgent drummingwoke the sleeping garrison and each man there, commander-in-chiefand ordinary soldier alike, took up their posts on the fortress'swalls.

  The waves of the Scheldt were running high and often disgorgingflecks of foam in the face of the shivering Southerners over theramparts. A northeasterly wind whistled sharply down from the"Provinces", and the Spaniards had already known for a long timethat 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 sticksof the drums were whirling and the horn was being sounded. Onecould hear quite clearly over the noise of the storm and the waterstossed by a tempest the sound of far-off cannon fire, which couldonly 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 hada sea beggar ever been afraid of a stormy sea and darkness when itcame to annihilating the enemy, to outmanoeuvring his deadliestenemies, those who had laid waste to and oppressed his homelandwon 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 twoand thirty years and there was still no foreseeable end to it. Thesowing of the dragon's teeth had yielded a generous harvest--men ofiron had indeed sprung from the blood-drenched earth and even womenhad had to forget what kindness and clemency were. There was now ayounger generation who, for this very reason, did not long for peacebecause they had never known what peace was.

  And if the violence of the war had worsened on dry land, it waseven more horrendous at sea. At least on land prisoners could beexchanged or ransomed--towns, villages and hamlets could sparethemselves burning and sacking by buying off would-be attackers.At sea, however, there were no pardons and no ransoms. It washeld to be merciful to put enemy prisoners to the sword withoutfurther ado or to hang them from a yardarm and not to slowlytorture them to death in the cruellest way possible or to nailthem to the deck and sink them along with their captured ship.

  Commanding officers and ordinary soldiers on the walls of FortLiefkenhoek listened with rapt attention to the cannon fire andshared their opinions on it. One person would have one view onthe parties to the skirmish, someone else another, but, finally,whispered at first, then louder and more surely, the word wentfrom 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 angerand uncanny dread:

  "The black galley!"

  Towards one o'clock in the morning the wind died down and thecannons too fell silent. Twenty minutes later there was a suddenburst of flame in the far, far distance that left the dark waterlooking blood-red from an equally bloody flash of lightning. Thegarish illumination flickered over hundreds of bearded and wildfaces on the walls of Forts Liefkenhoek and Lillo and, half asecond later, the dull thud of a huge explosion succeeded to thelightshow, with which the skirmish appeared to be at an end, inthe same way that a tragedy ends with a catastrophe. No moresigns of life could be seen or heard to hint at the continuationof the struggle. Although the garrisons of the Spanish fortresseswaited patiently, listening out for a long time, they heard nomore signs of gunfire.

  "Well, and what do you think about all this, Senyor Jeronimo?" thecommandant of Fort Liefkenhoek asked one of his captains, a gauntelderly man with grey hair and a grey beard, covered with scarsfrom head to toe.

  The soldier thus addressed, who until then had been leaning on theparapet a little away from his comrades in arms, shrugged hisshoulders.

  "Don't ask me about it, sir. By God and the Virgin Mary, I gaveup racking my brains a long time ago over what this war has instore for us. My armour has become attached to my skin and I'llhold my ground till Judgement Day, but that's as much as I willdo."

  "You are very brusque, Senyor," said the commander, who was a muchyounger man than the old warhorse and had only recently arrived inthe Netherlands from Castile to take up the post of governor inthis fort on the Scheldt.

  "Coronel," said Captain Jeronimo, "for many a long year now I haveclung to my position on this lump of earth and watched the waveswash over it. You are young, coronel, but your predecessor wasalso young and a nobleman. He too stood here next to me, in thesame place that you yourself are standing now, full of youthfuldreams and hopes of victory. Now he lies down there below thewaves and the one who was here before him was killed by a bulletnear Turnhout--he too dreamed of returning crowned by victory tohis castle on the Jarama, back to his young wife--bah! And now Ican cast my mind back to the end of the year 1585 when I got backfrom 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, micoronel, if God lets you live."

  "You have a morbid imagination, captain! But tell me, you werein Madrid in that ever memorable year?"

  "Aye, that I was."

  "In that glorious year that the great prince won back Antwerp forus?"

  "Yes."

  "So you entered the town with Alexander Farnese as a victor? Ohhappy man!"

  "No," said the old soldier darkly. "I did not figure in thevictory 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--mayGod have mercy on his soul--to announce the town's surrender."

  "You? You, Captain Jeronimo, were permitted to take such a messageto the king? Oh thrice happy man! Please tell us about it as wecannot yet withdraw from manning the walls."

  The other officers of the garrison had gradually drawn closer tothe captain and the commandant so that now, as attentive listeners,they formed a circle round them. It was only on rare occasionsthat Jeronimo could be persuaded to hold forth.

  "What is there to say?" the captain began. "In the night of 4 to5 September 1585 I reined in my breathless nag in front of the castleof 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 therushing waters of the Manzanares. I had often enough dreamt not longbeforehand in the field hospital where I lay in a fever of the roaringof this river. And, having reached my final destination, both the goodtidings I had brought with me and the expectation of a fabulous rewardthat appeared to me in dreams drove my blood more strongly through myveins. Darkness and a deathlike silence lay over the castle and thetown itself. I subsequently learned that there had been a great autoda fe the day before and that the inhabitants of Madrid were sleepingit off: everyone was asleep, including King Philip himself. The watchheld their pikes to my chest just as my exhausted steed collapsed underme in the courtyard. I was as out of breath from that last wild rideas my horse, but I still had sufficient strength left to pant: "Lettersfrom Flanders! Letters to the King! Letters from Prince Alexander ofParma! Victory!"

  The weapons of the sentries were lowered and courtiers came up to askme questions and then I was led through the halls of the castle to thebedchamber 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 andhanded him the great prince's letter. Propped up on his elbows, KingPhilip left to one side his writing and ski
mmed through the letter withhis sharp ascetic eyes--his chamberlain held the golden lamp so he couldsee properly. I will never forget the king's face, nor the tremblingthat overcame his sallow livid features. He sat up in bed, gaunt andfeeble, 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 kinggot out of bed; against all the rules of court etiquette he leaned onmy shoulder, the shoulder of a simple soldier, covered with the dust andsweat accumulated along the way. His noble retinue threw a cloak overhis shoulders. The fact was that such glad tidings had not reached theears of the king since the news of the victory at Lepanto. He hotfootedit down the castle corridors to the door of his favourite daughter, DonyaClara Isabella Eugenia, knocked at the door (for what did His CatholicMajesty care about etiquette at