"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?"