"Keep good watch! Keep good watch!"
The cannons on the Brabant side of the Scheldt and the cannons on the Flemish side are ready to spit out death and destruction onto any venturesome vessel that dares to make its way upstream in the direction of Antwerp.
"Keep good watch! Keep good watch!"
But the night is dark and neither moonlight nor starlight make it any brighter. It is hard to keep watch well on such a night.
How still and warm it is! Only the roaring of the great river sounds on and on against the background of the warning cries of the soldiers on the walls:
"Keep good watch! Keep good watch!"
What is coming from South Beveland towards the western arm of the Scheldt where river and sea meet up with each other and can no longer be told apart? What is gliding over the waves under cover of darkness? It is propelled by a hundred strange arms, flying swift as an arrow just like the ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman. A ship's mighty form cuts through the waves and others come after it, less powerful ones.
What do the men of Zeeland care about darkness? They can find their way over these waters for these waters are their native land. One dark shadow comes after another; they sail on in a straight line—no noise is heard on board, even the rudder runs noiselessly through the waves. Words of command go from mouth to mouth in whispers. Each one on board knows what his duty is, each one is bound by the most solemn of oaths to stick a knife through his neighbour's jaw if his neighbour, by making a noise or by crying out thoughtlessly, jeopardizes the success of the enterprise.
Each one on board will abide by his oath, even were it to mean that he was thus obliged to stab his own brother, father or son.
A light comes up on the left—Fort Lillo!