translated by Helen Zimmern (1846-1934) & Alice Zimmern (1855-1939)

      And in truth there came a storm, such as had never before raged over these shores within the memory of man, although many a bold north-east wind blows over this low sandy chalky coast all through the year.

      It was about midnight when I was awakened by a thundering crash that made the old house shake to its foundations, followed by a clatter and smash of falling tiles, slamming doors and shutters, which sounded like the report and clatter of the smaller artillery while a battery of thirty-five pounders is being fired. This was the storm that had been so long predicted by Nature and by my own feelings.

      It was two o'clock when we returned to the house. At the first stroke of the bell Paula appeared in the hall, but the director only smiled kindly, patted her cheeks, and stepped on quietly to his own room, whither I followed him. He had not spoken to his daughter, because he could not speak. His face was ashy pale, while dark-red spots glowed on his sunken cheeks. By a movement of his hand he asked me to help him retire to rest, then he gave me a look of thanks and closed his eyes in deathlike exhaustion.

      I had seated myself at his bedside, and never turned my eyes from that pale noble countenance. It was overspread by solemn peace; gradually the red spots disappeared from his cheeks, not a movement revealed that a soul yet dwelt under this lofty forehead. I felt as though I were watching by a corpse.

      Thus slowly and solemnly the hours passed by. In my whole life I never felt any stronger contrast than the calm noble face of the sleeping man formed to the wild fury of the storm which raged on outside with undiminished violence. Well might he sleep! The blessed heights among which his spirit hovered could not be reached by the mightiest pinions of any earthly storm.

      I must also have slept some time, for when I again raised my head the gray dawn was peeping through the closed curtains. The director still lay there, as he had lain in the night, his eyes closed, his white hands folded across his breast. I got up quietly and left the room. I needed air. I must try to shake off the burden that lay on my heart.

      When I stepped across the silent hall I was surprised to see that the hand of the great clock at the foot of the stairs pointed to eight. From the scanty light I should have guessed it to be about five or six. But when I stepped out I soon saw why it could not be lighter. The black coffin-like mantle that had covered the earth in the night had now changed to gray — a pale dawn that was neither night nor day; and the violence of the storm was undiminished. When I left the sheltering gable of the house behind me, I was obliged to plant myself firmly on my feet, so as not to be thrown down. Bending forward, I traversed the garden, usually so lovely, now a desolate scene of ruin. There lay little trees torn up by the roots, and larger ones broken off a few feet above the roots. The path was strewn with branches and twigs; the air was literally filled with whirling leaves. Only the old plane-trees on the terrace seemed as though they would resist the rage of the storm, although their majestic summits were beaten hither and thither in wild waves. I worked my way to the terrace, the only spot from which there was an outlook, even though limited, towards the weather-side.

      Terrible, indeed, it was. The sky and the sea a leaden gray; and between the sky and the sea white spots like snowflakes that a November wind whirls round. These white spots were seagulls, and their mournful cry resounded now and then over to us. On the lofty bastion opposite the storm had pressed down the tall grass, that usually played so merrily in the wind, till it was almost flat, as though heavy rollers had passed across it; and above the long low dam on the right there rose from time to time shining lines, for which I could at first not account. Could these be the crests of waves? It seemed impossible. The dam was twelve feet high, or more, and behind it was a broad sandy beach, on which was a much-frequented bathing establishment. Hitherto I had only seen the sea across the dam in the perspective of distance; but these shining lines, if they were waves, were not dancing out at sea; I could plainly see how they rose and fell and tumbled over each other, and torn off, lashed into dust and foam, were driven on across the dam. It was the surge that had risen up to the edge of the dam.

      Sadder than I had ever felt before, I was seated an hour afterwards in my office.

      Suddenly, through the roar of the storm, penetrated a whining sound that seemed to come from the clouds, followed by other similar single tones; at the same moment the door of the hall was torn open, and in rushed the doctor breathlessly: "It is as we thought," he panted, hurrying past me into the director's room, whither I followed him, with an emotion that was something better than curiosity.

      "It is as we thought," repeated the doctor, taking off his spectacles, and wiping from his face the wet sand and the dust with which he was covered from head to foot. "In an hour, at most two hours, the water will have mounted above the dam, unless it should make a breach before, which is to be feared, in one or two places."

      "And what precautions are being taken?"

      "Every one is folding his hands calmly. I ran on the spot to the Director of Police and the President to tell them to send every man, who was capable of moving his arms, to the dam; and to summon back the battalion. And — can you believe in such madness? — because no counter-order had come, they marched off an hour ago to the manœuvres, and are now working their way along the high-road, unless the storm has already thrown them all right and left into the ditch, which appears to me more probable. In any case they cannot yet be far; they can be back in an hour or an hour and a half at most, if some messengers are sent to them on horseback. They are more wanted here than in the ditches along the high-road. I represented all this to those gentlemen. What do you suppose the police-director answered? He had been a soldier himself, he said, and knew that an officer must obey orders. He could not for one moment imagine that the battalion could turn back at his command."

      The director paced the room slowly, with his. eyes fixed on the ground.

      "What is the matter?" he asked of a turnkey, who entered the room with an expression of alarm.

      "There are a number of people here, sir."

      "Where?"

      "At the gate, sir."

      "What sort of people?"

      "Most of them are from the street by the bridge, sir. They say they will all be drowned, sir. And because the institution lies so much higher —"

      Without answering a word, the director left the room and the house. We followed him across the courtyard. He had gone out just as he was, in his short silk coat, with neither hat nor cap.

      So he walked on before us, and the storm that raged in the courtyard tore his hair and lashed the ends of his long moustache like the ends of a flag.

      We came to the gate, which the surly, gate-keeper was obliged to unlock. Last night, when one of the prison-doors had been opened, I had seen a horrible sight; here I was to behold a touching mournful spectacle that has remained no less clear in my remembrance.

      There might have been about fifty people, mostly women, but also some men, old and young, and children, some still in their mothers' arms. Almost all carried some possessions in their hands, or had set them down on the ground before them, the first, and not always the best, that they could lay hands on in their hurry and fright. I saw a woman holding a large water-jug on her shoulder, which she grasped with difficulty, as though it would break if she put it down to the ground. I saw a man carrying an empty birdcage that the wind tossed backwards and forwards. Scarcely was the gate opened than all rushed into the yard, as though driven by furies. The porter wanted to hold them back, but the director seized his arm.

      "Not so," said he.

      We had stepped aside to let the wild stream rush past us. Now it spread out over the court-yard, while some hastened towards the building.

      "Stop!" cried the director.

      The people stood.

      "Let in the women and children," said he to his people, "and the old and sick. You men may go in for a moment to warm yourselves; in ten minutes I expect you here again. This is no time for men to sit over the fire."

      Fresh fugitives were already coming through the open gate.

      "Let them in — let them all in!" said the director.

      "Good people," exclaimed I, "comfort yourselves; he will help you, if any human being can help!"

      They pressed towards me. They told me of their great trouble: how the water had been rising ever since midnight almost a foot an hour — that was twelve hours ago now; and in the highest places the dam was only thirteen or fourteen feet high. The Bridge-street and the next one to it, the Swede-street, were situate very little above the level of the sea; and if the dam broke they would all perish. Walter, the commander of the pilots, who understood all about such matters, had always said that something ought to be done about it; but there was never any money for that sort of thing, that was needed for the bastions and casemates on the land side.

      "And they have stuck my two boys into uniform," said an old man. "Now they are lying on the high-road; and there they certainly cannot help us."

      "But he will help you," I said.

      The old man gave me an incredulous glance.

      "He is a good gentleman," said he, "every child knows that; but what can he do?"

      Just then the director came back from the house, and at the same moment, from three different doors, which led to the different wings of the principal buildings, the people from the House of Correction poured forth. There were about four hundred of them, all more or less vigorous men, in their gray workhouse jackets. Most of them were already provided with spades, hoes, axes, and ropes, and whatever other tools and serviceable implements could be taken from the stores of the institution. The men were led by their overseers.

      Thus they came on with military step.

      "Halt! Face!" commanded the overseers; and the men stood drawn up in three ranks, firm and straight, like a company under arms.

      "Come here, you men!" cried the director, in a resounding voice. The people stepped forward. All eyes were fixed firmly on him, while he stood meditating, his head bent down. Suddenly he looked up, swept his gaze over the group, and, in a voice of which no one could have thought his weak chest capable, he spoke:

      "My men, every one of us has had an hour in his life that he would give much to be able to buy back. Now to-day great happiness is granted you. Each of you, whoever he may be, whatever he may have done — each of you will be able to buy back that hour, and be again what he was before, in the eyes of God, of himself, and of all good men! You have been told of the matter in hand. It is to risk your own lives for the lives of others — of women and children! I do not make any vain promises. I do not say, 'What you are going to do will set you free.' On the contrary, I say to you, you will return to this place as you left it — no reward, no freedom, nothing awaits you when your labour is achieved this evening, and that door closes behind you again — nothing but the thanks of your director, a glass of stiff grog, and a soft bed, such as an honest fellow deserves. Will you stand by your director on these terms? Whoever is willing, let him lift up his right hand and exclaim, 'Yes!' at the top of his voice."

      And up flew four hundred arms, and from four hundred throats came a thundering "Yes!" that sounded above the storm.

      In an instant, at the director's command, and under his direction, the troop, joined by those men who had before taken shelter in the institution, was divided into three bands. One of these was led by Süssmilch, the second by me, and the third by a prisoner named Mathes, who had formerly been a shipwright, and was a very intelligent active man. The overseers were drawn up in the ranks.

      "To-day, my children, we are all alike; and every one is his own overseer," said the director. So we marched out to the gate.

      The way along the narrow street into which the chief gate led was not long, and we quickly passed through it; but at the old and rather narrow gateway at the other end of the street, we found a strange unexpected obstacle, which convinced me more than anything that had occurred before of the strength of the storm. The old gateway was really nothing but a wide open archway; yet it took us longer to pass through than if we had been. obliged to burst open the heaviest gates of oak and ironwork, with such violence did the wind press through the opening. Like a hundred-armed giant, he stood outside, and threw back each individual who ventured towards him, as though he were a powerless infant. Only by our combined efforts, taking each other's hands, and holding fast on to the inner rough surface of the gateway, did we succeed in forcing our way through the pass. Then we pressed quickly on along the ramparts, between the tall bastion on one side and the buildings of the institution on the other, till we reached the spot where our help was needed.

      It was the long low dam that touched the bastion, and across which I had often cast longing glances from the terrace on to the sea and the island. It was about five hundred paces in length. Then came the harbour, with its stone moles built out far into the sea. Why this spot was in such imminent danger during a storm was evident at my first glance. The water driven in from the open sea by the violence of the storm was caught, as it were, in a cul-de-sac between the tall bastion that rested on mighty retaining walls and the long harbour-dam. Since it could neither escape to the right nor to the left, it must seek to break through the hindrance that here opposed it. But if the dam gave way, the whole lower part of the town was lost. That must be evident to any one who, looking towards the town from the dam, saw the narrow little alleys of the harbour. Most of the roofs were not even so high as the dam, so that it was possible to see right over them into the inner harbour, which lay on the side of the harbour-suburb opposite to us, and where we could now see the masts of the ships rocking to and fro like reeds.

      I do not think it took me more than a quarter of a minute completely to grasp the situation as I have here represented it; and I am hardly likely to have had more time granted me. My mind and nerves were too much overcome by the sight of the danger we had come to combat. I, who had passed my whole life on the seacoast, who had spent whole days tossed about in little or big vessels, who had watched many a storm — at any rate from the shore — and with unwearied attention and sympathetic shuddering, — I thought I knew the sea. Now I found that I knew it no better than any one can know a bomb, who has never seen one explode, scattering death and destruction around it. Not even in imagination had I come near the reality. This was no longer the sea, consisting of water which forms greater or lesser waves, which waves strike the shore with greater or lesser violence — this was a monster, a world of monsters, who, with wide-open foaming jaws, came roaring, howling, snapping along. No longer was it any definite thing; all shape, even all colour, had disappeared it was chaos that had come to swallow up the world of men.

      I do not think there was one among the whole troop on whom this sight had not a powerful effect. I see them still, those four hundred men, standing where they had stormed on to the dam, with pale faces, their eyes now fixed on the howling chaos, now on their neighbours, and then on the man who had led them hither, and who alone was able to say what ought to be done here and what could be done.

      Never yet had a helpless troop a better leader. The splendid man! I see him with the faithful eyes of love, that look back into the past, so often, in so many situations; and always he appears to me great and beautiful, but never greater and more beautiful than in this moment, as he stood on the highest point of the dam, holding on by a flagstaff that he had caused to be set up there — never greater, more beautiful, or more heroic.

      Yes, his bearing was heroic, and his glance was heroic, as in one moment it grasped danger and deliverance; and there was heroism in his voice, when, in unwearied sharp clear tones, in a few determined words, he gave the necessary orders. Some were to go down into the alleys of the harbour, and bring whatever empty casks, chests, and boxes they could lay hands on; some to go up to the bastion, where there was earth in plenty, with spades, shovels, barrows, and baskets. Some were to descend with saws, axes, and ropes into the neighbouring glacis, to fell the young trees that had for years been awaiting an enemy who was there to-day; others were to go to the neighbouring wharf to invite the ships' carpenters to come and help, and to obtain a few dozen large planks that we absolutely needed either by good words or by force.

      Not half an hour had gone by, and the work, planned with true genius, was in full swing. Here baskets of earth were being lowered into the breaches that the sea had torn in the dam; there stakes were driven in, and a network of branches made between them; elsewhere a wall of planks was being constructed. And all came hurrying and hastening, and digging and shovelling, and hammering and carting, and dragging hundred-weights, with such zeal, such strength, such strong self-sacrificing courage, that the tears still come into my eyes if I only think of it. Then I remember that these were those same men whom society had cast out; those same men who had become thieves, perhaps, for the sake of a few morsels or for some childish desire; the same men I had so often seen creeping sadly through the yards of the institution to their work; the same men whom the storm, striking against the walls of their prison, had last evening roused to frantic terror. There lay the town below them; they could rush in and rob, burn, and murder to their hearts' content — who could prevent them? There lay the wide world open before them; they need only run in, and away — who could keep them back? Here was a labour, more difficult, troublesome, and dangerous than any they had yet done — who could force them to it? There was the storm, at which they trembled yesterday, raging in most terrible form; why did they not tremble to-day? Why did they go joking and laughing into actual danger of death, when they were to fetch in the great ship's mast, driven hither from the harbour, and now cast against the dam like a battering-ram by the waves. Why indeed? I think if all men would answer this "why" as I do, there would be no more masters and servants; then we should no longer hear the old sad song of the hammer that does not want to be an anvil; then — But why answer a question that only the world's history can answer? Why expose the presentiments that we feel in our hearts to a world. that passes indifferently by, or perhaps only stops. to look, to mock at them?

      Whoever saw this labour, whoever saw these men tearing skin from flesh and flesh from bone in their tremendous dreadful exertions, did not laugh; and those who saw it were the poor inhabitants of the harbour-alleys, mostly women and children, for the men had to share in the work. They came and stood below in the shelter of the wall, and looked up with anxious astonished looks at the gray jackets there, whom they had hitherto only regarded with shy suspicious glances, when they were led through the streets, coming in little troops from some external labour. To-day they had no fear of the gray jackets; to-day they prayed that the food and drink might be blessed which they themselves brought of their own free will. They had no fear of the four hundred gray jackets; rather they wished that their number could be doubled or trebled.

      But there were people who lived far out of reach of danger, whose property and lives were not in question at the present moment, and who were therefore in a situation bitterly to resent the improper and unlawful proceedings carried on here.

      I remember that, one after another, the Police-Director von Raharb; the President von Krossow; the lieutenant-general and commander of the fortress, his Excellency Count Dankelheim, came, and endeavoured, by prayers, commands, and threats, to persuade our leader to bring his dreaded brigade once more under bolt and bar. Yes, I remember that towards evening they all came together to attempt a combined storm; and I can still smile when I remember the cheerful calm with which that good brave man drove back their assault.

      "What would you have, gentlemen?" said he. "Would you really prefer that hundreds should lose their lives, and the property of thousands be destroyed, rather than that a dozen, or even a few dozen, of these poor rogues should seek their liberty in flight, which, to tell the truth, they have honestly earned to-day? Besides, when the danger is over, I shall lead them back. Till then, no one shall drive me from here, unless he can do so by force; and fortunately not one of you, gentlemen, is able to do that. And now, gentlemen, this discussion must come to an end, for night is coming on; at most we have only another half-hour to make our preparations for the night. I wish you a good-evening, gentlemen."

      And with these words he waved his hand towards the dignitaries (who retreated with crest-fallen looks), and turned to the spot where his presence was needed.

      More so than ever at this moment; for now, just before the beginning of the night, it seemed as though the storm. were gathering all its strength for one last decisive attack. I feared we must be defeated, that the desperate six hours' labour had been in vain. The gigantic waves no longer retreated; their crests were torn off and tossed across the dam far away into the streets. The crowd assembled below rushed asunder with cries of alarm. Scarcely a single one of us labourers could stand now. I saw daring fellows who had hitherto played with danger turn pale, and heard them say, "It is impossible; it can no longer be done."

      And now came the most horrible act in this dreadful drama.

      A little Dutch ship, that had lain outside on the roadstead, had been torn away from its anchors, and was tossed hither and thither like a nutshell by those dreadful breakers, from the depth to the height, from the height to the depth, and with each wave nearer to the dam that we were defending. We could see the despairing gesture of the unfortunate men who clung to the yards; we could imagine that we heard their cries of alarm.

      "Can we do nothing," exclaimed I — "nothing?" turning to the director with tears of despair in my eyes.

      He shook his head sadly.

      "One thing, perhaps," said he. "If the ship is thrown right up here, we may attempt to hold it firm, so that it is not washed back by the breakers. If we do not succeed, they are lost, and we too; for their vessel, tossed to and fro, would make a breach in the dam that we could not possibly repair. Have some strong stakes struck in, George, and let an end of one of our thickest ropes be fastened to them. There is still the barest possibility, but still it is a possibility. Come!"

      We hastened to the spot where the vessel must probably strand, and from which it was now only a few hundred yards distant. The men had retreated from the dam, and had sought shelter from the boundless fury of the storm wherever they could; but now, when they saw their leader himself seize an axe, they all came back and worked with a sort of madness, compared with which all that they had till now achieved was but child's play.

      The stakes were driven in, the ropes attached to them. I and three other men, who were considered the strongest, stood on the rampart, awaiting the right moment — terrible moments, that froze the blood in the veins of even the boldest, that might have bleached the brown hair of a youth.

      And what we had hardly deemed possible succeeded. An enormous breaker comes rushing on, bearing the boat on its crest. It breaks, it pours forth a deluge that flows over us, but we stand firm. With our nails we hold on to the stakes; and when we are once more able to look round, the ship is lying, like a dead whale, high up on the dam. We rush forward: a hundred hands are at once occupied in throwing ropes round the masts, a hundred others in loosing the pale men — five in number — from the yards, to which they had tied themselves. It is done before the next wave comes in. Will it tear our booty from us? It comes on; and one more, and another; but the ropes hold. Each wave is weaker than its predecessor; the fourth does not even reach the top, the fifth remains far below it. Suddenly there is a pause in the terrible ceaseless thunder that has deafened us for so many hours to-day; the flags on the trembling masts in the inner harbour, that had been lashed eastwards all at once, hang straight down, and then flutter towards the west. The violence of the storm is broken, the wind has changed, the victory is ours!

      The victory is ours. Every one knows it at the same moment. An endless shout of hurrah bursts from the throats of these rough men. They shake each other's hands, they fall into each others' arms. Hurrah! hurrah! and once more, hurrah!

      The victory is ours; it has been dearly bought. When my eyes seek him whom we all have to thank for everything, they no longer find him at the spot where I had last seen him.

      But I see men running to the spot, and I run with them. I run faster than they do, driven by anxiety that lends me wings. I push my way through a few dozen of them closely grouped together, and all are bent over one man, who lies on the ground on the knees of the old sergeant. And the man is deathly pale, and his lips are covered with bloody foam, and round about him the ground is coloured with blood, freshly shed — with his blood, the heart's blood of the noblest of men.

      "Is he dead?" I hear one of the men asking. But this hero must not die yet; he has still one more duty to fulfil. He beckons to me with his eyes as I bend over him, and moves his lips, which give forth no sound; but I have understood him. I put both my arms round him and raise him up. Now his tall, thin, royal form stands upright, leaning on me. All the men can see him — the men he has led hither, and whom he now means to lead back. And now he beckons again with his eyes to his hand, and I take it, as it hangs down limp and wax-like, and it points in the direction of the road along which we came at midday. There was not one man present who durst disobey that dumb silent command. They collect together, they fall into their ranks; the sergeant and I bear the dying leader. So we go back in a long, slow, solemn procession.

      Night has come on; only a few solitary gusts of wind blow past us, and remind us of the terrible day we have all passed through. The prisoners, who have worked outside the house to-day, are sleeping on the bed of a good conscience, which their director had promised them that night. Their director sleeps too, and his pillow is as soft as death for a great and good cause can make it.

(THE END)