 Ports of Call! On Blue Horizons far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands back in us, bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Ports of Call. Plowing through the grey waters of the North Sea, our ship skirts the low-lying coast of heroic Belgium. This coast of shifting sand dunes at the mercy of wind and wave has been preserved from destruction only by centuries of unremitting labor, by building dykes, by draining swamps. They are typical of nature's failure to defend this country. Because of them, the Belgians have learned to rely only on their own courage for safety. Hence, a fierce love of country and a hunger for independence has distinguished these people through long centuries of invasion. We steam up the river's shelt and debark in busy Antwerp. Near this spot, 57 years before Christ, Julius Caesar, the great Roman general, conqueror of all Gaul, returns to his tent after the hardest battle of his campaign. Here, officer, disarm me and prepare my bath. What a magnificent battle. These Belgians fight like tigers. Do yourself not come into the battle when you did, Caesar. They might have. Stop! Don't even say it. The Roman army is unbeatable. Bring me the cheap among the survivors. At once, Caesar. Who is your leader? Our leader was Budwana. Where is he? Dead. What is the name of this tribe? We are all the tribes of the Belgians united. Our confederation was called the Nervy. How many warriors did you bring to this battle? Eighty thousand. And how many of you remain? Perhaps five hundred. Five hundred. I regret every one of those lives. Now hear me, brave chief. I cannot restore your fellow warriors to life. But in tribute to your valor, I do now proclaim that you will henceforth be free from taxes. And that you will have the protection of Rome. And that you will forever be considered not as subjects of Rome, but as her allies. Dismiss these men with all possible honors. And now, Marsalis, take your tablet and stylus. I shall continue dictating my commentaries on the Gallic Wars. Ready? Ready, Caesar. This day we overcame the Nervy. Among all the goals, the bravest of the Belgians. Time passed. The Roman Empire engulfed by successive waves of barbarians disappeared. Flanders was absorbed by Charlemagne's great empire. Then in the Middle Ages, the Low Countries were united in the mighty Duchy of Burgundy. The Spaniards were the next to attempt to break the spirit of the Belgians, when in the 16th century the Protestant Reformation split Europe into two warring camps. Within the forbidding pile of his escurial near Madrid, with the hammer of the masons working on the still unfinished castle of gloom ringing through the drafty corridors, Catholic Philip II of Spain sits brooding on the conduct to pursue in his far-off provinces in Flanders. The flickering light of a candle plays over his white, thin, fanatical face. Half-seen in the shadows, a small group of consulers stir like timid ghosts. This is bad news. These Belgians are ungrateful dogs. I've already withdrawn our troops from their country. I even sacrificed my loyal minister and the cardinal to granville at their insistence. And now, and now they're actually planning a revolt with their dunce that William Irons, that devil, and if ever they deny Holy Mother Church and New Majesty. Well, Father, what is it? Come speak up. Stop shaking. What is it? Sire, prepare for another painful shock. And what is it? Speak. There are new developments in the Low Countries. A courier has just arrived. The Belgian provinces are revolting, not only against the sovereign power of Spain, which is already an unspeakable crime, but they have dared to go even farther. Mother of God, what is this? The rebels have broken into convents. They have desecrated churches. Stop! Stop on your life! Say no more. Santíssima madre de Dios, is it possible? By the soul of my father, they shall pay a heavy price for these crimes. There is only one man to handle these Flemish pigs, one man to drive the devil out of them, the Duke of Alba! Majesty, I met your orders. Oh, ma'am, you've heard this unspeakable blasphemy, the spawn of Satan have committed. You whip them into submission. You fought against the Moors. You've matched cunning with cunning. You've matched force with force. Yours is the iron hand that must fall on Flanders. I'm ready, sir. In that iron hand take the flaming sword, which has sent thousands of the dogs of Islam to purgatory, and with it sweep through Flanders like the scourge of God. Kill, burn, destroy all about you. Exterminate these blasphemers. They will crush treason with a sword and burn heresy at the stake. Go then, Alba, and spare no one. And into the Spanish provinces of the Low Countries came the Duke of Alba, the man of iron. In his wake ran quins and rivers of blood. Six thousand of those who had taken part in the revolt were slaughtered. The counts of egg-mart and horn were treacherously imprisoned. The men beheaded. Unheard of taxes were levied. A new fortress filled with marauding Spanish troops was built in Antwerp. Thousands fled the country in terror. The Duke of Alba, grim and ferocious, crushed Belgium remorselessly with his council of blood. When the wrath of Alba had made 18,000 victims, Philip at last recalled him. But it was only when Philip began to gather all his forces for the invasion of England with his invisible armada that the Spaniards at length loosened their death grip on the Belgian provinces. Antwerp, 1587. The city half in ruins lay a prostrate witness to the wrath of the retiring Spaniards as the young widow of one John Rubens made her way up into the town from the nearly deserted port. She leads by the hand her ten-year-old son. Uncle Mother, the pavement is full of holes. You might twist your ankle. What a desolate sight. See, there are smoking embers under the ruins of these houses. Poor Antwerp. It was so beautiful when I lived here as a little girl. When I was your age, Peter. We'll build it up again, you'll see. And it will be better than before. Now perhaps the Spaniards will leave us alone for a time. And if they come back, we'll chase them out. Oh, what a fine boy. I really believe you'll do great things some day. I want to, Mother, for your sake. I want to become a great artist, so you all be proud of me. Do try hard, Peter, and learn all you can. I'll be so lonely without you. I'll think of you often, Mother. Please don't cry. Oh, no. Of course not. Here's mine here, Van Nort's house. I'm so excited. Wasn't he wonderful to say I could be his pupil? Here, I'll knock. Oh, Peter, darling. Please be a good boy and work hard for me. I will, Mother. Goodbye, darling. The sturdy little boy kept his word. And 20 years later, the name of Peter Paul Rubens was known throughout Europe. Antwerp rose from its smoking ruins to become, with its sister cities of Ghent and Brussels, a great bustling commercial center. And Flemish painting, too, underwent a rebirth with Rubens as the chief figure of its gorgeous, most opulent period. In 1616, one of the master's favorite pupils, Jacob Yordan, the youth of 23, is sitting in his master's studio high up under the eaves of one of Antwerp's lofty houses. By his side is the beautiful young Catherine Van Nort. You see, Catherine, darling, we have broken with the traditions of the past. We are painting life from now on. Skin that is brown, alive, vibrant. Not pale and soft like potato shoots in a cellar, but full, rich forms. Oh, you'll see when Rubens gets back from Italy. Oh, you're all mad about Italy and Italian painting. Are all the Italian women big and fab? Oh, that is not the point. It's the Renaissance, a new birth, a new spirit, new life, modern. Well, all right. But even though I think you're the greatest painter, accepting Rubens in the world, you're really the worst lover. Why? What have I... But we have been engaged for two hours, Jacob, and all you've done is talk about painting. Don't you think you could stop long enough now and then to kiss me? Oh, you darling. Yes. Oh, come in. Great news. Rubens is back from Italy. Anthony van Bijk. Oh, that is great news. Oh, now you'll hear about things, Catherine. Oh, and Anthony, we are engaged. Wonderful. A great day. Congratulations. Rubens is right behind me. Here he is. Hello, helpers. Oh, Rubens, welcome home. Good to see you. Would you look at little Catherine van Nort, big enough to be kissed in earnest, by Joe? Would you be big enough to be married, you mean? No. Yes. Really? Yes. Wonderful. Yes. You're a lucky dog, Jacob, but I'll not wait to kiss the bride. Congratulations. And Rubens, what of Italy? Italy. Italy, that's the place. You'll love it, Jacob, and you too, van Dijk. But I must say I'm glad to get back, though. I want to work in Belgium again. Oh, come on, tell us about it. Well, I saw everything. Ah, Venice is heaven. I studied Paolo Varanese, Titian, Tintoretto. Oh, it makes your blood gallop through your veins. I suppose I am out of it. My work probably looks arcade. Well, let's see what you're doing. Out of it. Oh, dear boy, don't be absurd. There's something in this that the Venetians themselves haven't got. Don't you worry for a minute. And now you're getting married. I suppose you wouldn't object to making some money. Oh, of course not. Why? Well, I have a job for you. Well, hurry and tell us. You see, Marie, they made it. She is building a splendid palace in Paris with magnificent gardens. It's on the left bank. She has been good enough to order a big series of allegorical paintings for it. The story of her marriage to Henry IV and all that, you know, lots of pageantry. So I'm going to do it for her. And if you want to help me, you're very welcome. Oh, thank you. Thank you. Great names, immortal painters, deathless canvases covered with the richness and exuberance of life, to be viewed and revered by untold generations of men. Though Belgium's history is long, eventful, and repreet with dramatic incidents, it was not until the Revolution of 1830 freed her from Holland the last of her masters that she emerged for the first time as a distinct kingdom with her own king, Leopold I. Her bizarre destiny has so placed her on the high road of York that her flat plains had been for centuries the meeting place of rival armies. The powers of Europe realized this and it was in the hope of creating a buffer state between Germany, England, France and Holland that in 1839 the great European powers negotiated the Treaty of London that was designed to ensure forever the neutrality of Belgium. April 18th, 1839. Gentlemen, this treaty which will assure the perpetual neutrality of Belgium is one of the most important documents existing in the diplomatic history of Europe. By its terms, England, France, Russia, Austria and Russia bind themselves to respect this perpetual neutrality. By ensuring her neutrality, Belgium no longer becomes a threat for war. She is bound to resist any violation of her neutrality by every possible means and to prevent troops and supplies of any belligerent country from passing through her territory. We can, I'm sure, gentlemen, rely upon Belgium to carry out these obligations to the very limit. With the great powers of Europe, I can assure her that we, on our part, will also carry out both the spirit and the letter of this treaty. Brussels, Sunday, August 2nd, 1914. You must be a new boy if you don't know where the German minister lives. He's been getting plenty of telegrams lately. Second floor to your right. Telegram, Monsieur. Donker. Now we'll see some action. They're at talk. Yeah, at last. Well, I'm off to the Belgian Foreign Office at once with the ultimatum. Auf Wiedersehen. Auf Wiedersehen, Excellency. Monsieur de Vignogne, I have the honor to deliver to you as Foreign Minister for Belgium this note from the Imperial German government. My government demand free and unobstructed passes through Belgium for the German armies. If your government grant this, the independence of Belgium at the conclusion of the war will be guaranteed by Germany. Otherwise, of course, I may add that my government insists upon an answer within 12 hours. Good day, sir. Permit me to refrain from accepting your hand. Good day. Gentlemen, here's the ultimatum at last. Notify the king, telephone all members of the cabin to meet at the palace at once. Start summoning all members of the Albert deputies by wire. Germany delivers ultimatum to Belgium. Belgium defies Germany. Belgium defends the country. Thus, on that fateful night of August 2nd, 1914, Albert III King of the Belgians met his ministers in the Royal Palace at Brussels. The ultimatum from the Imperial German government left no illusion as to the terrible gravity of the situation. Tiny Belgium found herself threatened by the greatest war machine the world had yet known. She now saw her independence her very life hanging by the slenderest thread. King Albert could prevent that thread from snapping by accepting the bargain proposed in the German note to allow the German armies to traverse his country without opposition. Or he could abide by his country's pledge and risk annihilation. On his decision rested the fate of Belgium, of France, and of the civilization of Europe. It is hardly necessary to point out to your gentlemen that Belgium is facing the gravest peril in her history. And I think we can have no doubts the firm intention to invade our country. But what can the Germans be thinking of? The whole world knows of the Treaty of London? The Treaty of London. Do you know how the German Chancellor von Wettmann-Hollweg has referred to it? In his opinion, the Treaty of London which guarantees the neutrality of Belgium and to which Germany is a party is nothing more than a scrap of paper. Gentlemen, the night is advancing. Germany has demanded an answer to her ultimatum within 12 hours. It was delivered at 7 o'clock this evening. We have only a few hours left. Short as the time is, however, I think it is amply sufficient for us to frame our reply. The Treaty of London may be a scrap of paper to Germany, but Belgium's signature is upon it and to Belgium that is a sacred obligation. The world must know once and for all that a treaty is a sacred thing. It binds men of honour to its terms, though carrying it out may mean their destruction. The Belgian are not prepared to resist the force of Germany. We as yet have no absolute assurance that the other parties to the treaty will come to our aid. Be that as it may, gentlemen, there is but one course open to Belgium. We will not buy our security from Germany by allowing her armies free passage through our country. We will abide by our given word. If the Belgians are once more to undergo martyrdom, it will be in the sacred cause of civilization. If we perish, it will be with honour that the name of Belgium will live forever in the hearts of the world's civilized people. Does the Belgian cabinet agree? Very well, gentlemen, such will be our decision. Baron de Gaffier, will you prepare the text and deliver it to Heavon Biloselowski? Of course, Your Majesty. And the Belgian government feels that to accept the proposal of the Imperial German government would be to sacrifice the honour of Belgium and to betray her duty to Europe. The Belgian government must refuse to believe that the independence of Belgium can be preserved only through the violation of its neutrality. The Belgian government is firmly resolved to repel by every means within its power every attack upon its rights. Is that all you have to say, Baron de Gaffier? That is all. Very well. Goodbye, dear Elizabeth. Oh, Albert, must you go. Couldn't you leave the command to your generals? Your life is too precious to the country. No, Elizabeth. The place for the king of the Belgians is at the front of her people. I know you will give them all the example of courage and fortitude that they deserve. I shall do my best, Albert. Goodbye. And God protect you. Goodbye, my queen. Your Majesty, we have but a handful of men. The Germans are pouring in like the ocean. I know. We must hold out as soon as possible. Our troops are badly equipped. They lack rivals. I know, but we must hold out. The German artillery has blown the fort in the aged pieces. They must fall back as slowly as possible. The British must have time to land their troops. Now more has fallen. Then we must retreat, fighting every step. The French must have time to get into action. Brussels has fallen. Antwerp is being evacuated. They will fall back to the easel towards the sea. They must keep the channel ports open for the British. We are now holding the last corner of Blanders. What can we do to save it? Blow up the dykes. Let in the sea. Blow up the dykes. My country. My beloved country. Your Majesty, the German advance has been stopped at the mon. The resistance of Belgium retarded for too long for them to reach their objective. Thank God. Belgium has done her duty. Belgium lay broken and bleeding. Her fields laid waste. Her cities destroyed. But her heroic defense in the face of superhuman odds had given the Allies the precious time needed to put themselves solidly in the field. And her magnificent heroism served as an inspiration on all fronts during the four ghastly years of the Great War. Through it all warped the tall figure of the king. Then when 1918 brought an end to Belgium's martyrdom, Albert set about the task of resurrecting his country from the desolate, ruined waste the war had left. He saw the villages rebuilt, new trees planted. He saw the deserted keys of antwerp and Brussels come to life anew. And the steady force of Belgian courage again set the wheels of industry turning. Through the rain-drenched streets of Paris, he followed the bodies of two of his old comrades in arms, Joffre and Foch, to their last rest. As he passed on foot, the solemnity of the moment reached its height. And many an eye filled with tears at the sight of the chivalrous king, bowed under the memory of those thousands of white crosses which dot the fields of Flanders. Those ever glorious reminders of the heroes who preferred death to dishonor. King Albert of Belgium falls to his death in the mountains. Albert is dead, but the world will cherish his memory. He died among the mountains which he loved so well and which of all things earthly best symbolizes heroic soul. And now, before we regain our ship, let us pause a moment in the ancient Belgian city of Bruges, once the greatest commercial city in Europe. Along the keys of its port, the exiled Dante Walk, meditating the immortal lines of his divine comedy. As evening falls, white swans glide noiselessly over the black waters. From the lofty belfry of her magnificent old town hall comes a shower of silvery notes. The Carillon of Bruges celebrated the world over. Here in this ancient, peaceful spot, let us breathe a fervent wish that at last Belgium's sufferings have reached their and that a new era of happiness and prosperity lies before her. A dear Belgium, the world will ever be your debtor. We invite you to join us again next week in this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.