And Death, laughing loud, drank the water that was full of blood.
And the ship having disappeared in the mist, the battle ceased, and the Seven crowned with stars vanished away.
And Ulenspiegel and Nele saw nothing now save the black sky, the surging sea, the dark clouds coming forward on the phosphorescent sea, and close at hand, red stars.
These were the lanterns of the two and twenty assabres. The sea and the thunder were growling dully and faintly.
And Ulenspiegel rang the bell for the wacharm softly, and cried: “The Spaniard, the Spaniard! He is sailing for Flessingue!” And the cry was repeated throughout the whole fleet.
And Ulenspiegel said to Nele:
“A gray hue is spreading over the sky and over the sea. The lanterns burn now but feebly; the dawn lifts, the wind is freshening, the waves throw their spume over the decks of the ships; a thick rain is falling and speedily ceases; the sun rises radiant, gilding the crest of the waves: it is thy smile, Nele, fresh as the morning, sweet as the sun’s ray.”
The two and twenty assabres pass: on the ships of the Beggars the drums are beating, the fifes are squealing: de Lumey cries: “In the Prince’s name, to the chase!” Ewout Pietersen Wort, sub-admiral, cries: “In the name of Monseigneur d’Orange and the admiral, to the chase!” On all the ships, the Johannah, the Swan, Anne-Mie, the Beggar, the Compromise, the d’Egmont, the de Hoorn, on the Willem de Zwyger (the William the Silent,) all the captains cry: “In the name of Monseigneur d’Orange and the admiral!”
“To the chase! Long live the Beggar!” cry the soldiers and sailors. Très-Long’s houlque, on which are Lamme and Ulenspiegel, and called Briele, followed closely by the Johannah, the Swan, and the Beggar, take four assabres. The Beggars fling everything Spanish into the sea, make the inhabitants of the Low Countries prisoners, empty the ships like eggshells, and leave them to float without masts or sails in the roadstead. Then they pursue the other eighteen. The wind blows violently; coming from Antwerp, the sides of the swift ships bend over in the water of the river beneath the weight of the sails swollen like a monk’s cheeks in the wind that comes from kitchens; the assabres go swiftly; the Beggars pursue them into the very roadstead of Meddleburg under the fire from the forts. There a bloody battle joins: the Beggars carrying axes rush on the decks of the ships, soon strewn with lopped-off arms and legs, that have to be thrown into the waves after the combat ends. The forts fire on them: they take no heed, and to the shout of “Long live the Beggar!” take from out the assabres powder, artillery, bullets, and corn; burn the boats when they have emptied them; and make off to Flessingue, leaving them smoking and flaming in the roadsteads.
From there they will send squadrons to pierce the dykes of Zealand and Holland, to help in the construction of fresh ships, and notably of flyboats of one hundred and forty tons carrying up to twenty cannon of cast iron.