I
Of that terrible day in Cambray, that fourth of April, 1581, nothing has survived but a memory—a glowing memory of fervour and enthusiasm, of reckless disregard of danger and magnificent deeds of valour; a heartrending memory of sorrow and misery and death.
Five times in as many hours did the armies of the Duke of Parma rush to the assault of the city. Five times did a living rampart of intrepid bodies interpose itself between the mighty hordes and the crumbling walls of Cambray—those intrepid bodies more steadfast than the walls. At one hour after noon the redoubt of Cantimpré is a black mass of charred débris, the Château de Seille is in flames. On the right bank of the Scheldt the walls have a breach through which twenty men can pass, the moats and the river are filled with dead.
But the living rampart still stands. The walls of Cambray are crumbling, but her citizens are steadfast. Halbertmen and pikemen, archers and gunners, they all have a moment's weakness to retrieve, and do it with deeds of indomitable valour. And as they fall, and their numbers become thinned, as that breathing, palpitating wall sustains shock after shock of the most powerful engines of warfare the world has ever known, its gaps are made good by other breasts and other hearts, and with all the spirit which will not rest until it has conquered.
Outside and in, at this hour, all is confusion. A medley of sights and sounds which the senses cannot wholly grasp, dull roar of cannon, sharp retort of musketry, clash of pike and lance and halbert, the terrified shrieks of women and the groans of the wounded and the dying. Round about the walls, in the narrow streets and up on the battlements, a litter of broken steel and staves, of scrap-iron and fragments of masonry and glass, torn jerkins cast aside; for the April sun is hot and the smell of powder goes to the head like wine.