I Will Maintain

CHAPTER VII
THE POLICY OF M. DE WITT

Mynheer Gaspard Fagel was roused by persistent knocking on his door.

He sat up in his bed and cursed roundly. He was working almost to the limit of his strength and contenting himself with about four hours’ rest, and his one feeling was rage at being disturbed. He pulled back the curtains and shouted angrily—

“Come in—in God’s name!”

His servant entered, in hastily snatched-up garments.

“What is the matter?” demanded Gaspard Fagel sharply, his vexation giving place to alarm.

“Mynheer, the Grand Pensionary is below,” cried the servant. “Oh, Mynheer, is it the French, and shall we all be murdered in our beds?”

“Be quiet, you fool!” M. Fagel sprang on to the floor. “Get me my dressing-gown.… M. de Witt below?” By the aid of the light that the man held he glanced at his watch on the table by his bed; it was four o’clock.

“Yes, Mynheer—he must see you at once he says.”

“Is he agitated?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces, snatching up his slippers.

“He is the same as ever, Mynheer—but something dreadful must have happened to bring him here at this hour.”

Gaspard Fagel was of the same opinion, nothing but an affair of great moment could have brought M. de Witt to see him—and at this hour.

“It is the French,” repeated the servant, who seemed utterly confounded.

“Put that candle down or you will set the house on fire with your trembling,” said M. Fagel, struggling into his clothes. “And don’t talk so much of the French—the Prince of Orange is between us and them.”

“M. de Witt must have heard from His Highness, Mynheer.”

“Hold your tongue——”

M. Fagel snatched up the candle.

“And get back to your bed,” he said angrily, “and see to it you rouse no one else.”

With that he left the room, and, half dressed, clad in a blue, flowered dressing-gown, descended to the parlour where M. de Witt awaited him.

A candle, hastily lit, stood on the table; it but feebly illumined the small, handsomely appointed room.

Standing by the mantelshelf, wrapped in a black velvet mantle, was the Grand Pensionary.

He held his hat and his gloves in his hand. He was pallid, his lips tightly drawn, his eyes narrowed with an intent expression.

“Good morning,” said M. Fagel, a little flushed and breathless.

“Ah, Mynheer Fagel.”

John de Witt appeared perfectly composed; he spoke quietly.

“Ill news?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces.

He was something embarrassed by the sudden presence under his roof of the man who was both his adversary and his rival.

“Will you not be seated?” added M. Fagel.

The Grand Pensionary took the chair nearest to him.

“I have come directly here from the Binnenhof,” he said.

M. Fagel lit the other candles on the table and looked at M. de Witt over the flames.

“You have had bad news?” he hazarded, puckering his brows.

“Yes, M. Fagel, I have.”

The Secretary caught at the tassels of the blue dressing-gown.

“From de Ruyter?”

“No—I have heard nothing from him.”

“From the Prince?” M. Fagel’s voice came somewhat hoarsely.

“No—my news is from Maestricht—from the Rhyngrave.”

De Witt raised his head sharply as he spoke and regarded the other man.

Across the wavering lights and shadows their eyes met.

“Well?” demanded M. Fagel.

John de Witt raised his hand to his breast.

“This—the French have crossed the Rhine——”

Gaspard Fagel stepped back.

“Crossed the Rhine?”

“—on the 9th—they are marching on the Yssel … one hundred thousand strong.”

“God!” cried Gaspard Fagel. He sank into the chair beside him, his dressing-gown flowing open over his shirt. “Oh! … my God!”

There was no change in John de Witt’s pale, proud face.

“Their leader is Condé … our outposts were undefended … the French hardly lost a man … every fort guarding the Rhine has fallen.”

M. Fagel put his hand to his brow, it seemed as if he would tear his hair.

“We are defended by cowards, it seems!” he exclaimed. “Has every garrison surrendered?”

“Every one.”

“And Maestricht … Bois le Duc … Nymwegen?”

“They can scarce escape.”

“And Condé?”

“He marches on Utrecht.”

“Utrecht!”

“Wesel hath fallen—and half the Republic is lost with that.”

“And the campaign hath been opened nine days.…”

“In nine more Condé may be at the Hague.”

“But the Prince?”

“He falls back on Utrecht.”

“Without an engagement?”

“He dare not risk one it would seem—he has not written to me.”

“Had he no soldiers on the Rhine?” cried M. Fagel, incredulous.

“M. de Montbas, with two regiments of cavalry——”

“And he?”

“Was cut to pieces or—fled.”

“Ah, you do not know?”

“Not yet.”

“This is a creditable beginning!”

M. de Witt put his hand over his eyes.

“M. de Luxembourg is burning and slaying … like Alva … they are already drunk with victory.”

“What is to be done?”

“What hope have we if Utrecht falls!”

“The Prince will defend it——”

“The Prince is defending the Yssel.”

“We must send more levies.”

“Ah, M. Fagel, have I not strained every nerve already to send more levies?”

“What is to be done?”

“God hath been pleased to put us in bitter straits.”

“What do you propose, Mynheer? What shall we do?”

It was a long time since Gaspard Fagel had deigned to ask the Grand Pensionary’s advice, but in the hour of terror and alarm the weaker nature threw aside pride and recognised the stronger.

M. de Witt uncovered his eyes and raised his head.

“I have come here to you, now, Mynheer, with my suggestion.”

“To me?”

John de Witt gave him a steady, mournful glance.

“You are no longer my friend, I know, M. Fagel.”

“Mynheer——!” protested the Secretary in a fluster of agitation.

“That is understood between us—I come to you as to the chief of the Orange party in the absence of His Highness.”

These two had been friends once, and allies, before Gaspard Fagel had been led by ambition to envy the position of the Grand Pensionary and serve the Prince.

At John de Witt’s calm, sad recognition of their estrangement and its motive the Secretary was silent.

“You represent the party that has always been for war, M. Fagel, as I that for peace—you have, perhaps, more influence in the Assembly than I——”

“M. de Witt——”

The Grand Pensionary silenced him.

“It is true.”

M. Fagel wiped his lips.

“What do you want of me?”

“Your help in the Assembly.”

“For what end?”

For the first time John de Witt showed some agitation.

“That we may possibly, under God’s help, avert the disaster that threatens us.”

“In what manner?”

“By endeavouring to obtain peace from the King of France.”

“Never!” cried Gaspard Fagel. “Never!”

John de Witt answered with suppressed passion—

“Orsoy, Rhynberg, Burick, and Wesel have fallen.”

The Secretary made no answer.

“I see no means of saving the United Provinces, M. Fagel.”

Now the Secretary looked at him defiantly and rose, resting one hand on the table between them.

“Well, Mynheer, the Republic hath before this been reduced to even greater extremities, and by God’s help been saved—if He saved us from the tyranny of Philip, surely He will preserve us from the tyranny of Louis.”

“God gave our ancestors the courage and resource to save themselves, M. Fagel.… I do not see these virtues among us now.”

“Would you despair of the vessel before she is on the rocks?” cried Gaspard Fagel stoutly. But in his heart he was frightened; never before had he known John de Witt speak despondently. “For my part,” he added, “I will do anything in my power to bring her safe to port.”

“Then you will help me?” John de Witt spoke eagerly.

“I do not know—I do not know.… What do you intend doing?”

M. Fagel took a hasty turn about the room, his hands clasped behind him under the blue dressing-gown.

“I intend to propose in the Assembly that envoys be at once sent to the King of France to request his terms, and to offer him everything so that we keep our final liberty.”

“Have you no trust in the Prince?” demanded the Secretary, trying to hearten himself into a confidence he could not feel.

“The Prince cannot do the impossible,” answered John de Witt dryly.

“Ah, you blame him for the passage of the Rhine,” cried M. Fagel on a note of challenge.

“No … he has been but a few days with the Army … he has not proved himself.” The Grand Pensionary spoke sternly. “We need other measures.”

“And you wish to open negotiations with the French?” repeated Gaspard Fagel.

As the head of the party opposing M. de Witt in the Councils of the State, Fagel was bound to vote for war; the Grand Pensionary had not expected to find him tractable, yet by alarming him he hoped to gain him eventually.

“You cannot refuse to help me,” he said now firmly; “these embassies will at least gain us time—and you are not surely so infatuated as to suppose the Prince of Orange can withstand the progress of the French?”

The dismayed Secretary had no answer ready.

John de Witt saw his advantage and pushed it further.

“The alliances with Spain, with Brandenburg, might save us yet—had we time to conclude them——”

M. Fagel interrupted—

“You cannot imagine that Louis would listen to any reasonable treaty—he fights for glory——”

“M. de Louvois is with him—he might deem it prudent not to push us to extremes.”

“It would be a humiliation!”

“Not so bitter a humiliation as to see Condé march through the Hague!” flashed M. de Witt.

“I cannot believe it could come to that.”

“Could you have believed a month ago that in nine days every fort on the Rhine would fall?”

“There is de Ruyter,” said the Secretary, clutching at straws.

“He cannot save the land forces.”

Gaspard Fagel was obstinate.

“There is the Prince.”

“M. Fagel, the Prince is opposed to Condé, Turenne, Luxumbourg, and an immense army strong with success——”

As he spoke M. Fagel’s terrified servant entered—

“Mynheer,” he addressed the Grand Pensionary, “a gentleman has just ridden up from the Binnenhof … there are … news, he says, from the Army——”

M. de Witt interrupted—

“May he come up?”

“In God’s name—yes,” cried M. Fagel.

The gentleman proved to be M. Van den Bosch; he explained his visit with the national calm.

A soldier had arrived at the Binnenhof with letters from the Army, among them one from His Highness for M. de Witt, and as he, still working there, knew of his master’s intention to visit M. Fagel he had brought the letter on at once. There was also a note from M. Beverningh. He apologised for his intrusion, bowed and withdrew.

“From the Prince!” cried M. Fagel, mopping his brow.

John de Witt paled as he gazed at the large, familiar handwriting.

A sickly hue of dawn was mingled with the glow of the candles, and in the cross lights the figure of the Grand Pensionary showed tall and sombre in his black velvet mantle, his worn face near as colourless as his crumpled white collar.

Gaspard Fagel went to the handsome oak buffet and, pouring wine into a tall green glass, drank fiercely.

M. de Witt stepped nearer to the candles and broke open the seals of the Prince’s letter. There were only a few lines.

The Grand Pensionary read them and handed them in silence to the Secretary.

M. Fagel laid the letter down in silence; he, too, was pale.

“God help us all!” he muttered.

The Grand Pensionary tore open M. Beverningh’s letter; he read it at once aloud—

John de Witt raised his prominent brown eyes, and fixed them with a steady and penetrating gaze on M. Fagel.

“What do you say now?”

The Secretary bit his pale lip.

“What can I say?”

He had nothing to oppose to the Grand Pensionary’s firm resolution; he was alarmed and unnerved.

John de Witt, absolutely master of himself, spoke again.

“If we are to have a country, Mynheer, the progress of the French must be stopped.”

M. Fagel tried to rally.

“Well, cannot we send more levies to His Highness?”

“Not, I fear, in time … from Beverningh’s letter I think they will abandon the line of the Yssel.”

M. Fagel poured himself out another glass of Chablis, and invited M. de Witt to join him. The Grand Pensionary took the glass mechanically and set it down untasted.

“Cannot we consult the Prince?” asked M. Fagel, who was afraid of offending William and wished to shift the responsibility.

John de Witt saw his motive.

“This is not a matter for the Captain General but for the States,” he answered with a stern dignity. “His Highness hath enough to do.”

Save by betraying himself as a servile and unpatriotic courtier of the Prince, M. Fagel could resist no more.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Since affairs have come to this extremity, I cannot refuse to help you, Mynheer.”

“You will see that His Highness’ party offer no opposition in the Assembly?”

“Yes, yes.” M. Fagel was still thinking of what the Prince would say.

“Whom do you propose to send?” he asked abruptly.

John de Witt was prepared at all points.

“M. de Groot and M. Van Ghent,” he answered at once.

“They are both obnoxious to His Highness,” protested M. Fagel.

“They are acceptable to the King of France—and M. de Groot, having been so long in Paris, hath a greater knowledge of French affairs than any man I know.”

The Secretary was in some agitation.

“Mynheer,” he said, “the Prince hath always disliked M. de Groot——”

John de Witt interrupted—

“For no more worthy reason than that he is a friend of mine and a staunch republican.”

M. Fagel answered with some dignity—

“I do not know His Highness’ reasons, but he has no love for M. de Groot, and as for M. Van Ghent——”

“M. Van Ghent had the misfortune to be His Highness’ tutor; he is, however, a man whom I entirely trust.”

M. Fagel was silenced, but by no means reassured. William would certainly never forgive peace proposals being sent to Louis without his wish, and carried, moreover, by the two men whom he most distrusted and disliked.

M. de Witt saw the Secretary’s hesitation, and, fearing to lose his support, made a concession.

“I will send with these M. Van Odyk and M. Van Eyck—they are both, I think, in His Highness’ favour.”

M. Fagel caught at this solution of the difficulty.

“On that understanding, Mynheer, I will second you with all my power in the Assembly—you are going there at once?”

“In a while—I have to write to the Prince and Beverningh.”

He picked up his hat and turned to take his leave.

Gaspard Fagel could not fail to admire the patient energy, the proud calm, the unshaken patriotism of the man who was working in the face of such odds; in the face of an invasion of overwhelming strength, domestic dissension, calumny, abuse and dislike from the people he was labouring for with all his noble faculties.

Something generous in the Secretary’s commonplace mind was touched.

“You are an example to all of us,” he said, and held out his hand.

John de Witt responded instantly—

“Mynheer Fagel, I do my duty, and there are many, thank God, who do the same.”

They clasped hands warmly.

“I shall see you in the Assembly?”

“Yes,” answered M. Fagel; “and I will make sure, Mynheer, that you are not opposed.”

John de Witt took up his letters. He had obtained what he came for; his force and sincerity, aided by the letters from the camp, had turned an opponent into an ally.

M. Fagel accompanied him to the door, then returning to the dining-room opened the shutters on the grey and stormy dawn.

The Assembly met at seven.

He glanced at the clock, and walked up and down with hasty steps, biting his forefinger. He knew that nothing would reconcile William to the offers of peace, and he knew that he would be blamed for ever consenting to aid John de Witt even passively.

He himself would have liked to throw defiance at the French, but the Grand Pensionary had overruled him.…

The French over the Rhine.…

He trembled for his country.…

All the same he must justify himself to the Prince, whose party he represented. He must write to the camp.

He paused thoughtfully by the table and stared absently at John de Witt’s untouched glass. He was recalling M. Bentinck’s secretary, Van Mander, ardent in the Orange cause, now spending his time in idleness in the deserted Palace; it occurred to him that here was the young man to send to the camp with a letter and explanations.

He blew out the candles and went upstairs to finish dressing.

“The French over the Rhine!” he kept saying to himself. “And what of de Ruyter?”

CHAPTER VIII
SOLEBAY

The night was fine but cold; the stars had a hard brilliance and flashed like facets of steel in the cloudless sky.

A man was thoughtfully pacing the deck of a great ship.

Now and again he looked shrewdly up at these stars. A strong but moderate wind was filling the sails and the ship was steering rapidly through the darkness towards the east coast of England.

There was a pleasant whistling in the cordage, and a pleasant, steady swish of the water to right and left as the bows cut through the darkened sea.

When the man turned his back to them he could see great lights dotted irregularly over the black surface of the ocean.

These were the lanterns hanging at the masts of the fleet, silently and closely following its leader.

When he turned again and came under the sparse rays of one of his own lamps, that was fastened a man’s height on the mast, he was shown to be a stout, short gentleman with a ruddy face and thick brown hair, very splendidly dressed in scarlet velvet trimmed with gold braid, and wearing a heavy sword in his fringed baldric and a handsome pistol in his belt.

His wide boots were turned over with crimson leather flaps, and on his right shoulder was a bunch of black ribbons.

He carried his red plumed hat under his arm and walked with a slightly swaggering gait.

Pausing for a moment under the lantern he drew out his watch.

Two o’clock.

As he was passing on again a sailor came noiselessly across the deck.

“Mynheer the Admiral, Mynheer Cornelius de Witt would like to speak to you.”

“Very well,” said de Ruyter, with a little nod, “very well.”

The man disappeared into the darkness of the ship.

Michael de Ruyter looked again at the stars, at the lights of his ships, and then went below humming a song in a hoarse, guttural voice.

He found Cornelius de Witt alone in his cabin, seated before a table scattered with papers.

A silver oil-lamp hung by a chain from the ceiling and showed the plain furnishings, which served as a background to the splendid figure of the Ruard.

His strong and handsome features were stern and frowning; the full under-lip and prominent chin, that gave his face its great likeness to his brother’s more delicate countenance, were set grimly in his effort to control the pain of the rheumatism that tortured him. Dressed with the magnificence that befitted the dignity of the States, whose sole representative he was with the Fleet, he wore a grey velvet suit embroidered in silver, and a cravat of Mechlin lace tied with a flame-coloured ribbon.

On the wall beside him hung his sword, that swung with the swaying of the ship; on a chest beneath were a couple of richly mounted pistols and a few books and maps.

Admiral de Ruyter paused inside the door, standing with his feet far apart after the fashion of a man accustomed to pitching seas.

“Ah!” said the Ruard, looking up. “Is the wind still favourable?”

“It is,” answered Michael de Ruyter. “And unless it falls we shall make the coast of England before morning.”

“You do not think they will escape this time?”

“By God’s help, no.”

The Admiral seated himself on the chest inside the door and looked down at the great crimson rosettes on his boots.

The lamp threw his shadow behind him, bringing into relief his deep-coloured, seamed, and blunt-featured face, that was rendered attractive by the composed, lofty expression and the bright, intelligent black eyes.

“I think we shall meet them at last,” he added, with an air of satisfaction.

A week ago Cornelius de Witt had obtained the consent of the States General to his earnest desire for an engagement, and since then the Dutch Fleet had been cruising in search of the combined fleets of France and England, whose junction at Portsmouth they had been unable to prevent.

A bold fishing-boat had brought them news that the enemy was at anchor on the east coast between Harwich and Yarmouth, and silently through the June night the ships of the United Provinces, crowding all canvas, bore forward to battle.

Cornelius de Witt put up his letters, one to his brother and one to his wife.

“I hope to add good news to them—to-morrow,” he said, smiling at de Ruyter.

The Admiral pulled at his moustache.

“I have to ask your permission before I attack, you know, Mynheer,” he said affectionately. “You have the authority—and the responsibility.”

“You know my opinion,” was the answer; “nothing but an engagement can save us—I would we were at work on it now—John agrees with me.”

“I would like to know how things go on land,” said de Ruyter.

A shade passed over the face of Cornelius de Witt.

“Almost I fear to know—with everything trusted to that boy.”

Michael de Ruyter nodded sombrely.

“At twenty-one!”

“His years are the least I have against him.”

“You do not trust him?”

“No.”

“Nor I.”

A stern silence fell.

The Ruard was the first to speak—

“We have our own affairs to think of … very much lies with us.”

The swinging sword made a soft sound against the smooth wall and the lamp swayed on its chain as the great vessel pitched.

“I mean to try a surprise,” said Michael de Ruyter.

“That is what I wanted to see you about—you think we can?”

“If the wind does not forsake us.”

“They will be unprepared.”

“’Tis likely.”

“Ay—they can scarce be expecting an attack.”

The Ruard’s brown eyes flashed.

“To-morrow is King Charles’ birthday,” answered the Admiral; “the English at least will be engaged in celebrating it … we have every chance.”

Cornelius de Witt clasped his hands on the table before him.

“If one life could secure the victory——”

Michael de Ruyter looked up.

“I should be very glad to die to-morrow could I see the English sails scatter as I saw them once scatter before us—at Chatham … and I think I shall … God have mercy on me if I boast.”

“We must have victory,” said Cornelius de Witt passionately; “there is no ‘if,’ de Ruyter, we must have victory to-morrow.”

“It is quite certain,” said de Ruyter simply, “that if we do not make a descent on England they will make a descent on the coast of Zeeland.”

He put his hands squarely on his knees and fixed his bright eyes on the representative of the States.

“How many sail do you make them?” asked the Ruard.

Michael de Ruyter checked them off on his stout fingers.

“The English, sixty-five ships of war, sixteen fire-ships, three or four thousand guns, and twenty-two or so thousand men … the French not more than sixty-seven sail, all included, not more than ten thousand men … that is the uttermost they can be if their entire force has combined.”

Cornelius de Witt was silent. The Fleet of the United Provinces was a hundred and thirty-three sail, including the galiots; they did not carry quite five thousand guns; the men, including five thousand marines, did not exceed twenty-five thousand.

The Ruard cast up these odds. The Admiral seemed to detect some anxiety in his thoughtful face.

“We are in God’s hands, Mynheer de Witt, and I cannot think it is His will to forsake us utterly.”

Cornelius de Witt made a movement as if to get on his feet. But he could not rise for his crippled limbs, and the momentary effort brought the drops of anguish to his forehead.

“You battle with a sharper foe than the English,” said Admiral de Ruyter, with a little frown of sympathy. “Madame de Witt would say you should be in bed.”

The Ruard leant forward, supporting himself on the table.

“I am not so ill,” he answered, forcing a smile to his pale lips, “that I cannot go on deck to-morrow——”

“Nay, you cannot walk.”

“Well, I can be carried——”

“A deputy can take your orders——”

“The Representative of the States General cannot remain in his cabin when the Fleet is in action,” replied Cornelius de Witt proudly. “I will go on deck at daybreak.”

Michael de Ruyter said no more. Each in silence, and after his own fashion, had dedicated his life to his country.

The light of the swinging lamp shone in the bravery of velvets, gold buttons and braid, the trappings of swords and pistols, and on the calm, resolute faces of the two men who were being borne swiftly on to battle.

De Ruyter rose and opened the porthole.

The expanse of water, almost on a level with his eye, was beginning to glimmer with a greyish tinge.

As the ship dipped to her side the heavy spray splashed in on to the cabin floor.

De Ruyter shut it out.

“The dawn,” he said.

He shook hands with Cornelius. They looked into each other’s eyes, and without a word from either de Ruyter went up on the deck.

The sea was changing to a silver colour beneath the clear sky of a June dawn, the stars were faintly sparkling through a veil of fast rising mist, the colour of lilac flowers, that lay over the horizon.

Before the flagship lay the stretch of rippling waters and the indefinite, distant line of land; behind her, and to right and left, was the Fleet of the United Provinces, crowding all sail under a pressure of wind and blocking the sky with the straining canvas, the dark masts, and the flags bearing the lions of the Republic.

At many of the bulkheads the lamps still burnt with a pale and useless glare; but as the day strengthened these were extinguished silently like the last stars in the brightening heavens.

The Seven Provinces continued to lead. At four o’clock she sighted the enemy, lying at anchor off the coast of England.

By the maps it appeared that they were nearing Solebay, midway between Yarmouth and Harwich.

De Ruyter sent off boats to summon the principal officers of the Fleet on board his ship, and went himself to tell Cornelius de Witt that the enemy was in view.

Thereupon the Ruard was carried on deck in a chair bearing the arms of the Republic, and placed by the mast in the position of honour and danger.

Out of the hundred men appointed by the States General to attend him, twelve halberdiers were selected now to form a guard.

Armed on back and breast, they took their places about his chair, and the early sun glittered in their steel appointments.

The Ruard was bareheaded; his bandaged legs rested on a velvet footstool; his sword lay across his knee, and his pistols were in his belt.

In his right hand he held a Bible with gold clasps.

The strong, fresh wind blew his hair across his brow and fluttered the scarlet ribbon that fastened his cravat.

Shielding his eyes with his hand from the glare of sun and water, he fixed his narrowed gaze on the barely visible line of the enemy.

De Ruyter was pacing to and fro with his straddling gait, his hands clasped behind him, and his keen eyes following the movements of the bare-footed sailors who were clearing the decks.

At five o’clock, when the water, under the slackening wind, had subsided to faint ripples that the sun, freed from the obscuring mist, gilded with dazzling light, the captains and principal officers of the Fleet came aboard The Seven Provinces.

Among them were many noble volunteers of the finest families of the kingdom, who had placed their services and their fortunes at the disposal of the country.

Michael de Ruyter, the son of the Zeeland brewer’s man, received them with simple courtesy.

They shook hands with him, and then with the Ruard, near whose chair he stood.

Every detail of the beautiful ship, and of the magnificently dressed men who stood gathered about her mast, shining gold and silver, velvets, satin, sword-hilts and pistols, eager faces, and bare yellow or brown heads (for they were all uncovered out of respect to Mynheer Cornelius de Witt), was sparkling visibly in the gay sunshine.

Admiral de Ruyter set his feet far apart, and again clasped his gauntleted hands behind him.

“Gentlemen of my fleet,” he said, and his quick eyes roved along the line of faces, “we are in the presence of the enemy. It is my intention to give battle. I feel that your courage and your devotion are equal to the difficulty and importance of your task.

“We have to face greater numbers, but on our side is justice, and with God’s help we shall not fail.

“The safety of the Country, the liberty of the United Provinces, the fortunes and the lives of their inhabitants depend upon this battle, and only your valour can secure the Republic against the unjust violence of the two kings who attack her.”

His pointed moustache seemed to bristle, and there was a fierce, steel-like gleam in his narrowed eyes.

“Well,” he added, with a little nod, “get to your work … and ask the Lord God, in His mercy, to help us … if such be His will.”

Cornelius de Witt lifted his noble face.

“What can I add?—your own good courage will direct you—God have you in His keeping, gentlemen.”

They bent their heads.

Captain Engel de Ruyter spoke—

“If the enemy were twice as strong, we should have faith, Mynheer, in the justice of our cause, since we fight for liberty and they for glory.”

The Ruard and the Admiral shook hands with them all a second time, and they returned to their ships; silent and seemingly unmoved, as was the habit of their nation.

With all speed possible the Fleet of the United Provinces was beating to windwards, but the strong breeze had dropped, and de Ruyter no longer hoped for a surprise.

The enemy had already seen them, and were hastily arranging themselves for battle. So utterly unprepared were they that in the confusion many of the English ships had to cut their cables to place themselves in line.

De Ruyter, on the forecastle, saw this, and his lips stiffened. The superiority of the enemy sent a thrill of pleasurable excitement through his veins.

He was a just and honourable man, well fitted to serve under John de Witt, and all his indomitable energies were roused by the wanton aggression of the King of England. Had he not commenced attack like a pirate by attempting to capture the India fleet before war was declared, and, in violation of the treaty between England and the United Provinces, by seizing all the Dutch merchant-ships in English ports?

John de Witt had disdained to revenge himself for this perfidy, as he had disdained to answer Charles’ frivolous pretexts for war, and every English vessel had gone free according to the agreement the United Provinces were too proud to break.

It was an example of the different spirit animating the two Governments. The Dutch were upheld by every noble feeling patriotism may call forth; they fought for the finest of motives, for the most glorious of ends: the English, ashamed of their leaders, hating the alliance with the French, whose cats’-paws they suspected themselves to be, sullen at the unworthy part they felt themselves to be filling, had no motive to acquit themselves well save mere desire for reprisals on a country that had already once beaten them off the sea.

Michael de Ruyter was alive to this difference of spirit in the two forces about to meet.

Calling his men on to the quarter-deck, he pressed their advantage, warmly exhorting every one to do his best in a noble cause, and assuring them, out of the depth of his own strong, simple faith, of God’s help in their utmost endeavours.

The men, devoted to their Admiral and the finest seamen in the world, responded with a cheerful enthusiasm that was the outward expression of undaunted purpose and courage.

Each went to his place; the swivel guns on the top of the forecastle and quarter-deck bulwarks were swung to front the enemy; the eager, half-nude gunners knelt before the long guns on the main and quarter-decks and below the smooth muzzles pointed from the portholes.

The standard of the Republic floated stiffly out from the mainmast of The Seven Provinces, vivid in the sunshine.

Cornelius de Witt raised his eyes to it and murmured a prayer.

The hammocks were lashed to the nettings, and behind them the marines, with their muskets in their hands, took up their position.

By now the wanton English breeze had changed again and a high sea was running. De Ruyter gave the order to reef in topsails.

They were almost within range of the Allied Fleet, who had now drawn themselves up into line of battle, divided into three squadrons: two English, the first of the Red, commanded by the Lord High Admiral of England, James of York, the King’s brother; the second, called the Blue, by Vice-Admiral the Earl of Sandwich.

The third squadron, the White, comprised the French ships under the Count D’Estrées, Vice-Admiral of France; his second in command, Lieutenant Admiral Duquesne.

De Ruyter also arranged his forces into three; Lieutenant Admiral Banckert advanced towards the French ships on the left, and Lieutenant Admiral Van Ghent was opposed to the Earl of Sandwich on the right wing.

De Ruyter, seconded by Lieutenant Admiral Van Nes, took the central position facing the Duke of York’s division, commanded by James himself on his flagship The Royal Prince.

The Dutch Fleet shortened sail; the useless canvas was furled. De Ruyter gave the signal for battle, and the colours of the United Provinces ran up on every yardarm. From the Duke’s flagship floated the royal red standard of England, and from the great vessel that had D’Estrées on board the Bourbon blue with the yet unconquered lilies semé on the azure ground.

Michael de Ruyter walked up to his pilot Zegen.

It was then nearly eight o’clock of a beautiful June day; not a cloud visible, and the deep green water curling into foam about the bows of the advancing vessels.

Above the cordage flew circling sea-birds, the sunlight on their wings and breasts.

De Ruyter pointed out The Royal Prince to the pilot.

“Zegen,” he said in his quiet voice, “that is our man.”

The pilot lifted his cap.

“Admiral,” he said calmly, “you shall have him.”

And he steered The Seven Provinces straight for the Duke of York’s flagship.

There was a moment’s pause, of heightened calm it seemed, during which was no sound save the harsh scream of a seagull and the splash of the waves curling over one another.

Then the guns leapt into a roar.

A furious broadside came from the 18-pounders of The Seven Provinces; the shots tore the water into foam and buried themselves in the side of The Royal Prince, who returned an instant cannonade.

A thick smoke, a heavy dun in colour, at once wrapped both vessels; to the right rang a second roar as Van Ghent engaged Lord Sandwich, and to the left the answering boom of the French cannon.

The two flagships were now close-hauled, and the Dutch opened a hot fire of musketry from behind their hammocks. Theirs being the higher vessel, they were able to inflict on the English a galling volley of small shot that raked their exposed decks.

Aware of this disadvantage, The Royal Prince tried to get out of her opponent’s reach, but the light wind would not serve her, and de Ruyter brought about a collision, driving the port bow of The Seven Provinces into the enemy’s starboard side.

The English marines on the poop commenced a steady fire of musketry, but the Dutch 36-pounders tore a hole in their enemy’s close-pressed side and the deck guns crippled her masts.

The smoke was already so thick that the sky was entirely obscured; the stifling vapour was rent across by the flashes of fire from the guns and the fresh spurts of white smoke that followed each shot.

The roar of the great cannon below was incessant; splinters flew from each ship, and the planks of the Dutch vessel became so heated with her own cannonade that seamen had to stand ready with buckets of water to extinguish the flames.

As the enemy was so close in their embrace the Dutch from the nettings kept up a continuous fire that picked off numbers of the English crew, while the swivel guns on the forecastle heavily raked the enemy’s masts and rigging.

Michael de Ruyter, walking up and down the upper deck giving his orders, stopped beside the chair of Cornelius de Witt.

The air was foul with the smell of powder, and they could hardly hear each other for the thunder of the guns.

“How long will she hold out, Admiral?” asked the Ruard.

“I think she will be badly beaten in a very little while,” answered de Ruyter, with his thumbs in his embroidered sash.

The musketry fire was playing round Cornelius de Witt, but he did not even seem to notice it. A ball had buried itself in the deck a few inches from the stool where his bandaged feet rested; two of his guards had already fallen, been carried to the rails by the silent survivors and flung overboard.

Blood began to appear everywhere; on the smooth planks, on the gay clothes of the officers, on the naked, glistening bodies of the gunners.

Several of the marines lay heavily over useless muskets in the nettings, their bodies jerking helplessly with the swaying of the ship. On the lower deck others remained where they had fallen, mostly on their faces, with the red stain spreading underneath them.

A gentle breeze rose and drove off The Royal Prince after nearly an hour of furious firing.

The English ship had suffered severely; her spars had gone; her sides were driven in, her foremast and fore-topmast had been shot away, and many of her guns were dismounted.

De Ruyter had lost only his mizzen-topmast and one of the lower yards, and of his crew comparatively few; but the dead could be seen piled high on the English ship.

Encouraged by the sight of the enemy, the Dutch turned on her another fierce cannonade that swept off her mizzen-mast and battered her hulls.

This time the English guns did not answer, and a low murmur of triumph went up from The Seven Provinces.

Her cannon impeded by her own falling spars, half the gunners down—dead and dying entangled in the rigging that lay along the deck, The Royal Prince was utterly unmanageable; her pilot could do nothing with her, she lay helpless, a tattered shape looming through the heavy smoke.

Her mainmast still stood, and there the red standard of England, riddled with shot, floated above the battle.

It was now nine o’clock. De Ruyter gave orders for another broadside.

It was replied to by a feeble volley from the English ship, now pitching uselessly; the mainmast swayed, then crashed down, dragging the cordage and remaining canvas with it. Smoke began to belch through her portholes, and to complete her distress one of the 12-pounders blew up, killing several of the crew and firing the side.

“She is finished,” said de Ruyter, standing behind his pilot; and as the Royal Standard fell the hoarse shouts of victory rose from the decks of The Seven Provinces.

The Royal Prince tried now to withdraw, but was prevented by the other vessels of de Ruyter’s squadron; they closed round her and sent out fire-ships to complete her destruction.

The sea was scattered with wreckage, and stained with trails of blood and flecks of foam; the curtain of smoke concealed the rest of the battle, but the continuous sound of the guns and the splashes of flame in the darkness testified to its fierceness.

Michael de Ruyter, on the forecastle, saw a boat put out from The Royal Prince and struggle through the dipping bullets that lashed the water into spray; it lay-to at one of the portholes, and a man in a blue coat stepped out and took his place in the stern sheet.

He carried the standard that had just been disentangled from the bloody deck.

“It is the Duke of York,” said Admiral de Ruyter, narrowing his keen eyes. “Steer away from The Royal Prince, Zegen, for they have abandoned the flagship!”

The little Dutch galiots ran out, crowding all canvas, and trying to reach the cock-boat in which the Lord High Admiral of England was conveying his flag across the firing line.

They could see the English sailors straining at the oars, and the Prince himself ducking under the bullets, one of which flattened itself against the bows of his boat.

The utter calm delayed the fire-ships; the English boat escaped into the smoke, and about half-past nine, with a blare of trumpets, the English flag was rehoisted aboard The Saint Michael.

The Royal Prince, on fire in three places, an abandoned and drifting wreck, collided with one of her own galiots, and instant flames involved them both in a common doom. Such as remained of her crew threw themselves into the sea, clinging desperately to broken spars and planks, while the pale fire leapt, hissing, to the height of her fallen mast, and stained the sombre smoke with sparks and flying fragments as gun after gun, and cask after cask of gunpowder, exploded at the touch of the flames.

The Seven Provinces steered off from the floating mischief, and silencing with a sweep of her guns the circle of English fire-ships that surrounded her, went for The Saint Michael.

An officer came on board from Captain Engel de Ruyter’s ship to say that the captain was disabled by a dangerous wound, and the vessel sinking with six holes in her side; being beset with the enemy’s fire-ships.

“Keep the flag flying,” said de Ruyter, and turned his course to his son’s assistance.

Van Nes having, after a fierce fight, lost one of his ships, and being forced to retreat with his hull cut to pieces and nothing standing but the mainmast and the shattered remains of the bowsprit, had patched his vessel together, and returning to the fight seconded de Ruyter in an attack on The Royal Catherine, a ship of eighty guns that was menacing Engel de Ruyter. A Dutch fire-ship was dispatched and a broadside fired full into the hulls of The Royal Catherine, whose jib-boom and wheel were at the same time shot away by a discharge from The Seven Provinces.

Her deck guns were now abandoned, a fierce fusillade from the starboard guns was directed into the bows of the English vessel, and the two ships crashed together, starboard to starboard.

The Dutch attempted to board, and a desperate hand-to-hand fight between the two decks ensued; Van Nes leading his men with cutlass and pistol, and Captain John Chicheley, of The Royal Catherine, fiercely urging his crew forward.

The Seven Provinces, holding off a little, sent a volley into the English ship that blew the bottom out of her and ended the struggle.

Engel de Ruyter’s rescued ship withdrew from the firing line for repairs, and The Royal Catherine, fast sinking, surrendered to Van Nes, who received her crew as prisoners and took possession.

De Ruyter again turned his attention to The Saint Michael, she the while keeping up a murderous cannonade on the frigates opposed by the Dutch.

The sharp, short rattle of musketry was heard above the steady roar of the great guns, and little threads of flame and puffs of white smoke sprang out and vanished against the curtain of yellow fog as the marines on board The Seven Provinces, under cover of the nets, picked off the sailors in the rigging of The Saint Michael.

Two other high Dutch vessels, looming up out of the noise and darkness of battle, silenced the starboard guns of the English flagship with a close-range volley; her poop was swept bare with a cannonade from de Ruyter, and her disabled rigging and rent canvas swayed through the smoke that belched on her from all sides.

For the second time the English standard fell.

De Ruyter strove to press his advantage, and sent out two frigates to sink or burn The Saint Michael; but her pilot and captain brilliantly managed the wounded vessel, and, wreck as she was, steered her out of the line of battle.

Again the Duke of York was forced to abandon his ship; again he was rowed through the wreckage, the seething, stained sea, and the ragged flag was hoisted on The London.

De Ruyter, having vanquished those ships immediately in duel with him, turned his attention to the other parts of the battle.

The French Fleet, beaten in a first engagement, and wishing to leave the brunt of the battle to their allies, had withdrawn towards the south, hotly pursued by Van Banckert, whose distant guns could be heard in the lulls of the nearer firing.

Van Ghent had begun the fight on the left wing with a fury that had brought the Squadron of the Blue to retreat in confusion and terror; but as de Ruyter was fighting his way through a circle of fire-ships to second him, a young lieutenant came up in a little galiot and announced to Cornelius de Witt that Admiral Van Ghent was dead. In the midst of his victorious onset he had been killed by a cannon-ball.

A captain of marines was with the lieutenant; he had his arm in a sling and a mark of blood across his face.

“Conceal Van Ghent’s death,” said the Ruard. “Keep his flag flying and return to the fight—the day goes well for us.”

A ball had carried away one arm of his chair; three more of his guards had fallen, and the deck was smeared with blood and burnt with powder to his very feet; behind him, leaning against the mast, a dying boy sat staring at a fingerless hand he held across his up-drawn knees.

The sea was rising and the ship began to toss, pitching the dead to and fro on the slippery decks. De Ruyter stood beside the Ruard’s chair, his feet far apart, and gave directions in a firm voice.

The captain, advancing for instructions, had his arm shattered by a shot that splintered the mast; he went below to the dark cabin where the surgeon was at work, and returned to take his orders with an empty sleeve pinned across his breast.

The London opened an obstinate fire, and de Ruyter answered, leaving the left wing to manage the Squadron of the Blue.

They, not receiving the expected signal from Van Ghent’s ship, had given the English time to recover from the first shock of the onslaught; the Earl of Sandwich, on board The Royal James, his flagship, rallied his force and advanced in order of battle.

It was now past midday, and though the advantage had been so far with the Dutch the English gave no signs of yielding.

De Ruyter signalled to Vice-Admiral Sweers to take over the command of the left division, and make a decisive attack on the Blue.

But there was one Dutchman who waited for no signal; Captain Van Brakel of The City of Groningen, the hero of the victory of Chatham. Ardently desirous further to distinguish himself, he conceived the boldly audacious scheme of capturing or destroying The Royal James himself.

Defying all discipline, he left, without orders, de Ruyter’s squadron, to which he belonged, and advanced to The Royal James across the black pool of waters the battle enclosed. The exploit was daring to recklessness, for the English ship carried 102 guns and 900 men, while his little vessel was only armed with 70 guns and 300 men.

An angry broadside from the great ship met her rash foe; Captain Van Brakel approached without replying.

The Royal James, alarmed at this manœuvre, spread her topsails and tried to sheer off; but Van Brakel was too quick. He hauled his wind, drew up alongside the English, threw out his grappling irons and seized her, while his quarter-deck guns blew away her cordage and rigging.

Despite The Royal James’ desperate efforts the two ships remained locked together. There was a rush of Dutch to the sides, an answering charge on the part of the English, and the crews mingled in a fierce hand-to-hand fight with muskets, pistols, swords, and even sticks and fragments of iron.

Van Brakel, regardless of a broken collar-bone and a cut on his forehead that blinded him, led his men himself.

The sheer Anglo-Saxon genius for fighting rose in the English; let their cause be good or bad they could not have fought more fiercely.

The Earl of Sandwich, with a broken sword in his hand, and panting a little by reason of his stoutness, ran up with his officers.

“Don’t let the damned Dutchmen board!” he shouted, and a yell of fury rose to answer him.

The Netherlanders, silent but equally in earnest, pressed over the bodies of their comrades and closed with the English on the deck of their own ship, clinging to the rails, the grappling irons, even to the guns, some of which many succeeded in ramming under the very eyes of the gunners.

Meanwhile their own cannon kept up a steady fire; the Dutch gunners remaining at their places in face of a cruel discharge from the deck guns of The Royal James.

Man after man fell as he was putting the match to the powder and lay silently gasping his life out; but there was never lack of another to take his place. The dwindling crew moved forward as the gaps occurred, and The City of Groningen’s guns were never silent.

The Royal James was suffering severely; her masts were tottering, her sails hanging in ribbons. All Lord Sandwich’s efforts were directed to a frantic attempt to disengage her; but still the little Dutch vessel clung to her side, still the guns poured their fire into her with unabated vigour.

At half-past one, after the duel had lasted an hour and a half, the English masts went overboard on the disengaged side, dragging the Admiral’s flag into the sea. The guns on the forecastle and quarter-deck were put out of action by the fallen canvas, the mizzen-topsail going over the portholes and becoming involved with the Dutch grappling irons.

The City of Groningen had done enough; battered, half her crew dead, and all her officers wounded, she changed her tactics and withdrew, cutting her chains, and signalled up her fire-ships.

The Royal James was in no condition to resist another onslaught; not a mast standing, her jib-boom and wheel shot away, her decks piled with dead and wreckage, many of her guns silenced, she lay a huge, useless hulk.

But the Earl of Sandwich was still aboard her and from her bows still floated the English flag.

Vice-Admiral Sweers hastened up to the aid of the heroic Van Brakel, under the cover of whose guns the fire-ships were advancing.

But Lord Sandwich opened a last desperate cannonade; one fire-ship was sunk, the other driven back on The City of Groningen. Van Brakel, wounded three times, but with his rash valour utterly unquenched, again brought his disabled ship forward, urging on the fire-ship, which was commanded by Van Ryn, the captain who had burnt The Rochester at Chatham.

Lord Sandwich could no longer save himself. Protected by the Dutch guns, Van Ryn advanced right under the bows of The Royal James, and succeeded in firing the canvas that hung over her portholes, retreating uninjured.

The flames seemed to crouch and hesitate for a moment, then leapt fiercely on to the piled-up wreckage of rigging and cordage.

The City of Groningen steered off her dangerous foe, and the gallant little fire-ship hastened from the reach of the ruin she had caused.

There was no hope for The Royal James.

Cries of angry despair rose from the English as they saw themselves abandoned in flaming isolation, and they might be seen rushing to the boats and endeavouring, under the captain’s orders, to flood the powder magazine. The flames twisted over the quarter-deck, feeding greedily on the broken masts, the tattered canvas, and the oaken planks.

“Lord Sandwich’s flagship is burning!”

As the news spread the very battle seemed hushed to watch the death agony of the great vessel.

Van Brakel, lying wounded on his deck, gave orders for the firing to cease, and bade his crew save such of the English as they could. But their boats had been shot to splinters; they could do nothing.

Vice-Admiral Sweers sent a pinnace to the rescue, but it made slow progress through the clogged and swelling sea.

Meanwhile the fire was encroaching over every portion of The Royal James. The soldiers and sailors began to hurl themselves into the sea. It was but a choice of deaths; most were instantly drowned in the waves their flaming ship stained with a crimson reflection.

One after another the red-hot guns exploded with a blaze of white flame, and from every porthole issued dark, slow smoke from the wet powder.

The Dutch threw out ropes and broken spars to the few desperate survivors who swam towards them. The captain, bitterly wounded, and a young lieutenant, were hauled on board The City of Groningen; the first fainted as he reached the enemy’s deck, and the other, flinging back his wet hair, gazed at his burning ship.

“Where is my lord?” he asked. “Where is the Admiral?”

A crowded boat put out from The Royal James, and the Dutch pinnace tried to reach it; but numbers of drowning wretches striving frantically to cling to its sides, it became waterlogged and sank under the rescuers’ gaze.

Then those who watched with straining eyes saw the Vice-Admiral of England, in his courtier’s dress, advance out of the smoke and mount up to the untouched portion of the ship where the flag still floated; Lord Montague, his son, was with him. The English knew him by his gold coat and scarlet sash; he had his useless sword in his hand, and set his back against the flagstaff, facing the advancing flames.

A heavy swell troubled the sea; The Royal James swung about as if she writhed, and the flames swept windward, blowing over the battle like an enormous banner of a vivid, transparent whiteness, edged with leaping tongues of crimson that licked into the smoky background.

The crew of The City of Groningen could see the Earl of Sandwich calmly placed beside his flag; could see his son drop his sword and put his hand over his eyes.

The fire darted on with a sinister roar; it was the last seen of my Lord Sandwich.… The ship was burning to the water’s edge; the hull dipped as if the tortured vessel strove to quench her agony in the bloodstained waves; the English flag fluttered a moment, then disappeared in fire.