The powder being wet there was no explosion; she burnt slowly, pitilessly, to ashes, till at length the flames rose sheer from the sea and sank reluctantly to nothingness above their annihilated prey.
At the end of an hour the waves had closed over the fragments of The Royal James, and the fire hissed sullenly along floating planks and overturned boats.
“I would I could have saved my lord Admiral,” said Captain Van Brakel.
“He did not choose to be saved,” answered the lieutenant fiercely.
It was now seven o’clock, and all heart had left the English; the terrific end of the Earl of Sandwich had utterly daunted the Squadron of the Blue.
The Duke of York alone still kept up an obstinate fight, and, aided by a veering wind, strove to drive his fire-ships against The Seven Provinces.
De Ruyter, abandoned by the daring Van Brakel, and separated from his second in command, Van Nes, having no vessels with him but a yacht and a frigate, was for a while hard pressed by the obstinate fire kept up by The London and the advance of the English fire-ships. His own boats having been sunk he had nothing with which to ward off their approach.
Michael de Ruyter saw himself in an ugly situation. For a moment it seemed as if he was doomed to the same fate as Admiral the Earl of Sandwich, and Cornelius de Witt was about to order the pumps to be turned on the powder magazine when the little frigate, under the command of the intrepid Captain Philip D’Almonde, resolved to sacrifice herself to save the flagship.
Followed closely by the yacht, she advanced on the fire-ships. The first ran into her bows and fired her; but the heroic efforts of Captain D’Almonde extinguished the flames, and a sharp volley from his guns set light to the powder the enemy carried, and she was borne off helpless before the wind and pitched against The London, that had to retreat before her.
The other fire-ship, seeing the fate of its companion, lost heart and turned aside, held at bay by the yacht, whose crew raked it with a fire of musketry.
The Seven Provinces was saved. In the time gained by the action of the frigate, Van Nes had forced his way through the squadrons of the Red; and the ships surrounding de Ruyter, placed between two fires, beat a hasty retreat.
Van Nes, having rescued the flagship, went to the aid of his brother, Rear-Admiral John Van Nes, who was engaged with the remaining ships of the Blue division.
The Duke of York, loath to give in, hastened to the assistance of the English, and courageously continued to fight from his third battered flagship.
But the English were dispirited and weary, and after three broadsides from the advancing Dutch they dispersed in sullen confusion; falling back, with tattered canvas and disabled rigging, on to their own coast.
Banckert, returning from his pursuit of the French, came up with his fleet as evening fell, and his appearance changed the retreat of the English into a flight; nightfall alone saved them from utter destruction.
After twelve hours of fierce and desperate fighting the States General had achieved a glorious victory.
They had destroyed five of the enemy’s finest vessels, including the two flagships, disabled many others, and were themselves the worse only by two frigates and some fire-ships.
The English had lost three thousand men, and a large number had been taken prisoner.
“It is God’s will,” was all Michael de Ruyter said.
He stood beside the heroic Ruard’s chair; his hands clasped behind him, his lips compressed under his pointed moustache.
Cornelius de Witt was very pale; he leant against the back of his chair, and now and then wiped his lips and his brow. But though fatigue and pain drove the colour from his face, nothing could subdue the fire of his eye or the undaunted carriage of his head.
He had seen six of his guard fall beside him, and been all day exposed to the hottest fire of the enemy. The Admiral’s ship had been always in the fiercest part of the battle.
For twelve hours Cornelius de Witt had listened to the thunder of the cannon and watched the smoke and flame arising from the struggle.
Now, in the hour of victory, he simply thanked God, and slipped his sword into its scabbard.
The sailors were carrying the wounded below, throwing the dead overboard, and washing the decks.
The stars came out, pale gold and luminous, and a gentle wind played with the drooping canvas.
On a hundred ships the lanterns gleamed at mast and prow, and from a hundred decks arose a service of thanksgiving.
“The Lord be praised!” said Cornelius de Witt.
The lieutenant who had escaped from The Royal James, and who had been brought on board the flagship as a prisoner, was amazed at all that he saw: at the discipline among the large, silent sailors, at the dexterous fashion in which they cleaned the ship that had started that morning fresh as a lady’s chamber, at their care of the wounded and their respect to M. de Witt and de Ruyter, and, most of all, at their gathering on the quarter-deck, where every man, even to the pilot behind his shining brass rails, joined in a strong and lusty singing of psalms that Michael de Ruyter selected from his leathern Prayer-book.
“They are an extraordinary people,” the Englishman wrote home. “M. de Ruyter is everything in one—admiral, captain, pilot, sailor, soldier, and preacher, too, it seems.…”
Now that the last shot had been fired, and the song of thanksgiving sent up by all, no matter to which of the seven sects he belonged, and the blue-eyed sailors were mending the sails and tarring the holes in the boats, Cornelius de Witt was carried below, and before touching food or drink added to the letter to his brother the news of the victory.
He wrote briefly and modestly, and concluded with these words, written with a hand shaking with sickness and fatigue—
“I am of opinion that we should begin again as soon as possible; I hope God will grant us the strength necessary for continuing to the death to do service to my dear country.”
CHAPTER IX
THE EMBASSY OF M. DE GROOT
“From M. Fagel,” said Florent in a tired voice, showing his passport.
The officer summoned by the sentry nodded.
“You had best see M. Beverningh,” he said. “His Highness has gone to inspect the fortifications of Amersfoort.”
Florent followed him through the encampment silently.
The Prince, who had been forced to abandon the Yssel, had gathered his troops on to the high district of Rutten before Amersfoort and Utrecht, so as to defend the entry to the States of Holland.
Florent looked to right and left of him, and wondered at the quiet and order. The wild and vague reports of the war, its sieges, disasters, retreats, current at the Hague, had not prepared him for this monotonous expanse of tents and wooden shelters, through which little groups of men and horses moved without noise.
It was hazy afternoon; the sunshine was thick and yellow like honey over the canvas, the trampled ground, and the distant belt of dark trees, beyond which, on a slight incline, rose a windmill with sluggish sails and a thatch stained golden.
The warm air seemed to wrap the sound of things close by with a sense of distance: the fierce, sweet song of a lark that hovered a few feet up, the jangle of the harness as the horses tossed their heads, the crackling of twigs as one man lit a fire at his tent door, came faintly through the veil of the languid summer haze.
Florent and his companion traversed the encampment and made their way across a strip of meadow to a red-tiled farm with green cowsheds adjoining, neat white curtains at the windows.
“The Deputies are staying here,” explained the officer.
“My message was to the Prince.”
“Well, you can see M. Beverningh,” answered the other, as if it were much the same thing.
In the beautifully kept garden, filled with stocks, pinks, and gillyflowers, a maid in a blue gown was scouring brass pans; seeing them approach she stood up hastily and wiped her bare arms, wind and sun-coloured to a deep rose.
“Tell M. Beverningh there is a gentleman here from the Hague.”
She gave a great courtesy and hastened into the house, her gold head ornaments tinkling.
Florent Van Mander stole a furtive glance at the officer, who stood contemplating, with unmoved face, a precise bed of striped stocks and southernwood.
Florent wondered what his thoughts were. He longed to ask him concerning the advance of the French, and what his feelings were about the loss of the fortresses on the Rhine and the Yssel, but both his own reserve and the officer’s demeanour came in his way.
So he too gazed at the flowers, and the brass pans shining in the sun, and a fat white cat asleep on the window-sill.
The girl, reappearing, announced in a hushed, respectful voice that M. Beverningh had come down into the parlour and would see them there.
They entered a passage flagged with black and white, and turned into a room at the back of the house.
Florent was aware of a gentleman standing before the fireplace with his head bent on one side.
“Mynheer,” said the officer, “this is Mynheer Van Mander, sent by Mynheer Fagel to His Highness—as His Highness has not yet returned from Amersfoort I brought him to you.”
“Very good,” said Jerome Beverningh. “Will you please sit down, Mynheer?”
The officer saluted and withdrew.
Florent Van Mander took the chair within the door, and turned his gaze critically upon the delegate of the States of Holland.
He saw a slight man with a hooked nose, a thin mouth, and a stooping figure, dressed richly but carelessly in prune-coloured velvet. He held his hands behind him, and regarded his visitor with large, intelligent brown eyes.
“You are from M. Fagel?”
“Yes, Mynheer.”
Florent felt weary and unreasonably depressed. The incongruity with his feelings of the neat farmhouse parlour, furnished with curtains and hangings of blue-and-white checked stuff, its bright pictures and highly polished furniture, its white glazed hearth and tiled floor, gave him unreasonable annoyance.
He had been greatly elated at the Secretary’s choice of him for a messenger; but he wished to see the Prince, not the representative of the States of Holland.
And the news of growing, almost hopeless, disaster that had met him on his way filled him, against himself, with disgust.
“Well,” asked Jerome Beverningh, “what has M. Fagel to say?”
The young man hesitated.
“I know,” continued the other, remarking it, “that you have come to His Highness, but I think that you may safely speak to me.”
“My errand is no secret,” said Florent, but still half reluctantly.
The representative of Holland smiled.
“And I am in the Prince’s confidence.”
He crossed slowly to a beeswaxed table by the window that held his handsome writing-case and silver ink-horn, and seated himself in a rush-bottomed chair.
“It comes to this.” Van Mander spoke with sudden bluntness. “M. de Witt heard of the passage of the Rhine. ‘Half the Republic is lost!’ he cried when they told him Wesel had fallen—this, for all his self-control … and the next day in council he induced Their High Mightinesses to send an embassy to the King of France.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Jerome Beverningh, stroking his chin.
In some subtle way Florent was encouraged to speak openly; the touch of sullenness left his manner.
“M. Fagel was won over—M. de Witt carried everything before him—no one dare resist him in face of the advance of the French. M. Van Ghent, M. de Groot, and M. Van Odyk are being sent to King Louis——”
“And M. Fagel sent you on an attempt to justify himself to the Prince?” remarked Jerome Beverningh shrewdly.
“Yes, Mynheer.”
“Certainly this news will not please His Highness.”
“M. Fagel feared so.”
Jerome Beverningh twisted his thin mouth.
“He risks His Highness’ favour. Was he—frightened?”
“M. de Witt, I think, over-persuaded him.”
“And M. de Witt is the head of the Government,” was the dry answer.
“Though every day more unpopular, Mynheer.”
“But he had the Assembly with him in this?”
“He carried all before him, Mynheer; there was scarcely a protest.”
“When His Highness is out of it M. de Witt is the strongest man in the Hague,” remarked Jerome Beverningh. “He can do what he pleases, methinks, despite his unpopularity. Is he not sending some one to acquaint us with this news?”
“The envoys themselves, Mynheer, are to explain their mission; I believe they will soon be at the camp. It was M. Fagel’s wish that I should anticipate them with His Highness——”
M. Beverningh interrupted pleasantly—
“And soften the news? M. Fagel is wise.”
“He seemed agitated, Mynheer, that he had been forced to support M. de Witt, and anxious not to slip in His Highness’ good graces—I have a letter from him.”
The elder man swung round on his chair, he looked little and stooping but his eyes were calm and clever.
“You have heard news of the war?” he demanded briskly.
“What every one has heard, yes,” answered Florent.
“Mostly disasters?”
“Mostly disasters, Mynheer.”
“And you, like M. de Witt, have been discouraged?”
Florent shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not say so.”
“But you think that peace would be desirable, eh?”
“I think we must have peace or conquest, Mynheer.”
“Well,” said Jerome Beverningh thoughtfully, “M. de Witt is a clever man, but he will never conclude a peace while the Prince has any influence in the United Provinces.”
Florent was interested.
“His Highness is so against it?”
“Were His Highness in power there would be no embassy sent to King Louis.”
M. Beverningh spoke in a pleasant, quiet manner; as if he touched on matters of general interest that did not personally concern either himself or his listener. He made a great semblance of frankness, yet most effectually concealed his own feelings and views.
Florent liked him; he felt emboldened to speak much more freely than was his wont.
“The peace proposals are not popular at the Hague either, Mynheer. The people choose to take it as an attempt to sell them to the French, and M. de Witt is daily attacked in the pamphlets.”
“Ah, we are a nation of pamphleteers and medallists—we have all been assailed in turn. M. de Witt hath more serious things to trouble him than libels.” M. Beverningh changed his tone. “You marvel to hear the representative of the Government speak so openly, Mynheer Van Mander—but I am His Highness’ friend.”
Florent was surprised; he stared at the calm, wrinkled face of Jerome Beverningh, without comment.
“If any one can save the country it will be the Prince,” Beverningh continued.
“He has a hard task,” said Florent.
“For most men an impossible one, but His Highness is not of the common make, he has great gifts—above all the gift of command.”
“Is he popular in the army?” asked Florent.
“He alone keeps the army together; the men are under-paid, under-fed, yet the cavalry do the work of the infantry, the officers will dig trenches and make gun-carriages—and there is no complaint, because of the Prince.”
“The news of the battle of Solebay heartened them?” suggested Florent, mentioning the one success that had attended the Dutch flag since the beginning of this disastrous war.
“A little—but the issue lies on land—His Highness was not enthusiastic.”
“Ah, M. de Witt was with the Fleet!”
“Exactly. It was a victory for the Republic not for the Orange flag, and His Highness does not love M. de Ruyter, both because he is a friend to the MM. de Witt and because he is of common birth.”
“Why—does that trouble him?”
Jerome Beverningh rose.
“Be not deceived by simple manners,” he said. “His Highness is the very proudest man I have ever met, and if he does not flaunt it in the Tamerlane fashion of his Christian Majesty, it strikes root the deeper for that.”
As he spoke he put his papers into his writing-case and locked it.
“We will see if His Highness has not returned from Amersfoort … it were better if you could give him M. Fagel’s letter before M. de Witt’s envoys arrive.”
M. Beverningh picked up his black beaver with the purple feather, and preceded Florent out of the farm into the sweet-smelling garden of stocks and pinks.
As they crossed the quiet camp, respectfully saluted by such soldiers as they passed, M. Beverningh spoke, in his easy, judicial way, of the deficiencies of the army, the lack of gun-carriages, the forced levies of peasants who had nothing but their goodwill to recommend them, and the number of foreigners, Scotch, Irish, and Swedes, in the army, and how these were by no means to be trusted; indeed, it was to the presence of these hired soldiers that the fall of the Rhine fortresses was attributed.
“Netherlanders,” said M. Beverningh, “do not open their gates to the enemy without a blow.”
He added that the Prince, though struggling with ill-health and disappointment, was beyond all praise in the way in which he kept his army disciplined, faithful, and, despite his constant reverses, encouraged. The captains who had surrendered Wesel to the French had joined the camp, and the Prince had instantly dismissed them his service—“for so strangely forgetting their duty.”
“M. de Montbas’ division comes up with us to-day,” concluded M. Beverningh. “We shall see what welcome His Highness gives him; he allowed the French to cross the Rhine—without a blow.”
Florent raised his brows.
“Would His Highness dare—with his restricted authority—to reprimand M. de Montbas?”
“We shall see,” repeated Jerome Beverningh dryly.
As they reached the tents the Deputy of Holland pointed out the one belonging to the Prince, and at the moment a blonde gentleman in grey advanced from it to meet them.
At sight of M. Beverningh’s companion he gave a surprised smile.
“M. Van Mander!”
It was Matthew Bromley.
Florent flushed.
“I am from the Hague——”
M. Beverningh cut him short—
“Has His Highness returned?”
“No—I was coming to find you or one of the other Deputies——”
“Why?”
Matthew Bromley half laughed.
“Why, there are two of His Highness’ mortal enemies waiting for him—M. de Groot and M. Van Ghent—accompanied by M. Van Odyk and a posse of secretaries.”
“Where are they?”
“Count Struym brought them to the Prince’s tent.”
M. Beverningh looked at Florent.
“Why, then, you are too late,” he said, and walked ahead with rapid steps.
The Prince’s tent was large, and divided by a dark curtain. The outer half was furnished with a few chairs, a table, and a chest, beside which lay some armour and a black cloak.
The grass before it was not yet worn away, and one flap being lifted a flood of heavy sunshine poured in through the open square.
Here M. Beverningh found M. Van Ghent, pale, and in mourning, M. de Groot, elegant, calm, but anxious, in converse with M. Ripperda de Buryse, the Deputy for Guelders, and M. Crommon, the representative of Zeeland.
Standing apart was M. Van Odyk, very handsomely attired.
Since M. Van Eyck had been objected to by the State of Groningen, he alone represented the Prince’s party in the embassy.
M. Beverningh greeted them all impartially.
Matthew Bromley and Florent entered behind him, the Englishman dragging news of the Hague from his slow companion.
The steady sound of low, earnest voices filled the tent.
Only William Van Odyk stood silent, staring at the ground.
It was very quiet without; so quiet that the sudden jingle of harness and sound of a horse’s hoofs made them abruptly hold their converse.
The second flap was lifted; M. Beverningh stepped forward.
The Prince entered quickly, followed by William Bentinck.
The bar of sunshine making a dazzle before his eyes, and, the other men being withdrawn into the shadows, he did not instantly perceive any one but Mr. Bromley and the Deputy for Holland.
“M. Beverningh?” he said breathlessly, “M. Beverningh, ah, what is this that they tell me, that M. de Witt——”
He stepped forward and at the same time checked his words, for he saw the little group behind the table.
A complete silence fell, and though it endured but a moment it was long enough to take effect.
William stood suddenly motionless; he cast his large eyes over the men facing him as if he found himself in some trap.
“M. de Groot,” he said at length, “you have a message for me from M. de Witt.”
His manner and his voice were cold, but it was not the coldness of indifference. His entry had brought into the tent a spirit of passion and hostility; it seemed to Florent that two parties had instantly formed—the Prince’s friends and his enemies.
“These are the commissioners from the States General, Your Highness——” began Jerome Beverningh suavely.
William cut him short—
“So Count Struym told me.”
The embassy came forward. To Van Odyk and de Groot his greeting was curt; to M. Van Ghent he said: “I am sorry about your brother, Mynheer, but it was a fortunate way to die.”
M. Van Ghent bowed in silence. The Prince leant against the little table and looked from him to M. de Groot.
He had never made any pretence of concealing his dislike to either of them, and it was plain that he regarded them both as his enemies, and their coming on this errand as an insult.
Peter de Groot, always courtly, began by prefacing his errand with courtesies, but William checked them.
“Will you be good enough to say at once what you have come to say?” he said in a chilling tone. “I have a press of business.”
They were all standing; the representatives of the States General facing the Prince, who had M. Bentinck behind him.
He rested one hand on the table, the other in his sword strap. He wore a black cuirass over a leather coat, and a black silk sash and scarf trimmed with gold; round his neck hung a star on a crimson ribbon; there was a great deal of Malines lace about his wrists, and in his brown beaver a long black feather fastened with a sapphire brooch.
Florent thought he looked very ill, yet, in comparison with the weighty men surrounding him, very young.
M. de Groot accepted his rebuke with courtly good temper. He was a man of wide experience, not easily embarrassed.
“M. de Witt and Their High Mightinesses consider the state of the country justifies extraordinary means of preservation.”
He spoke formally, as much to M. Beverningh as to the Prince; the representative of the States was as important in his eyes as the Captain General, his mission was to both.
“M. de Witt, hearing of the passage of the Rhine by the French troops, and of the fall of the forts on the frontier, has decided to send an embassy to the King of France, to know what terms he will take. Having obtained the consent of Their High Mightinesses, myself, M. Van Ghent, and M. Odyk are appointed to convey to His Majesty the letter of the States General—we are now on our way to the castle of Keppel, where the King of France is to be found with M. de Louvois, and, following our instructions, have stopped here to acquaint you, M. Beverningh, and His Highness.”
During this speech William had not taken his eyes from M. de Groot; when the speaker finished with a little bow, the Prince glanced quickly and keenly round the company.
“Was there no opposition to M. de Witt?” he asked, and Florent knew that he thought of Gaspard Fagel.
“None, Your Highness.”
“The States are easily frightened,” said the Prince scornfully and bitterly.
“Your Highness does not approve?” asked M. de Groot, with his easy air of elegance.
He was a handsome man, very finely dressed, with placid lips and tired eyes. He knew perfectly well that he was hateful in the eyes of William of Orange, but it did not in the least disturb his composure.
The silence of the onlookers grew tense to painfulness, so obvious and without disguise was the cold aversion of the two men facing each other.
“You are a bold man to undertake this commission,” said the Prince, evading a direct answer. “It will require careful treading, M. de Groot.”
“I am aware of the danger that I incur, Highness.”
“Perhaps not quite,” replied William in an intense, quiet tone. “This embassy, Mynheer, is utterly and entirely against my wishes.”
A little stir went through the spectators. Peter de Groot was not taken aback.
“I act on the orders of M. de Witt, Highness.”
“And you may please M. de Witt by your compliance with his wishes, but you will not please me.” William’s dark eyes held his opponent’s with a bold expression of angry disdain.
“Must I remind Your Highness that you have no share in the civil government?”
William drew a deep breath.
“Had I, there would be no talk of peace, Mynheer.”
Peter de Groot eyed him straightly.
“It seems as if you threaten me, Highness.”
“I warn you and your companions not to go on this embassy.”
M. de Groot bowed.
“I thank Your Highness, but I am bound to carry out the instructions given me by Their High Mightinesses.”
“You are very rash,” said William.
Peter de Groot answered proudly—
“Perhaps I am, Highness—I undertake a difficult and thankless task—but there is some hope for the Republic while she can find those who will sacrifice themselves for her.”
“Do you think that you serve your country by this humiliating errand?” demanded the Prince angrily.
“I think,” replied M. de Groot, with calm dignity, “that I undertake a dangerous embassy in difficult times—I think, Highness, that I carry with me the destinies of my country.”
“What terms are you to offer France?” William’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed.
“I have full powers to conclude a peace——”
“On any terms?”
“On the best terms M. de Louvois will give.”
“My God!” cried William, with irrepressible passion. “And what do you think Louis will ask?”
“We hope that M. de Louvois will be reasonable and His Majesty generous.”
“Generous!” repeated the Prince, very pale. “Have we come to sue the generosity of the French!”
He took a step towards M. de Groot, his hand on his sword-hilt, and those who saw his face perceived that he could hate—that he could prove implacable.
“I have some authority here, at least.… You will leave the camp.”
“Your Highness——” began M. Van Odyk.
William turned on the three of them.
“You can go,” he said, “and sell your country for the highest price you can get … but you will not find it easy to put the purchaser in possession.”
Now Peter de Groot flushed hotly.
“It is better to save a portion than to lose all,” he said, “and I do not think my diplomacy can be less successful than Your Highness’ arms.”
The Prince cast a flashing glance on him, and the colour sprang slightly into his hollow cheeks.
“You are even bolder than I thought, M. de Groot … but, as you say, I have nothing to do with the civil government … there will be a reckoning.… Go to the King of France and take his terms, and see the lands ploughed up and sown with salt, that no one may benefit by them even to the third generation.”
He sat down in the humble chair by the little table and rested his brow in his gloved hand.
To those who watched it was painful, knowing his usual composure, to see how moved he was.
He deigned no further word to the commissioners, who left the tent accompanied by the Deputies of the State.
M. Bentinck questioned Mr. Bromley aside as to Van Mander’s presence.
Florent came forward with some awe on him, he did not dare address the Prince.
“I am come with a letter from M. Fagel,” he ventured to William Bentinck.
The Prince looked up at the name.
“What is that you say?” he asked.
Florent approached, gave some stumbling explanation that William did not seem to hear, and delivered the Secretary’s letter.
The Prince put it down unopened.
“It seems that there is no one at the Hague can resist M. de Witt,” he said; then he roused himself to speak to Matthew Bromley—
“Take M. Fagel’s messenger to your quarters—it may be that I shall want to see him presently.”
When the two had gone William Bentinck came softly forward; the sunlight, that was taking on a richer, deeper hue, fell through the tent opening, and lit up the golden inlay and garnishing of his armour and the bright rings of his fair hair.
The Prince took off his hat and pushed the locks back off his forehead.
“Ah, William,” he said in a tone of anguish, “can it be possible?”
“These republicans are very stubborn——”
William clenched his hand on the table.
“M. de Witt!” he cried passionately. “Will he never cease to thwart me, to humiliate and insult me?… He must go … he must break if he will not bend … by Heaven! he must.… How dare he——”
His words were checked by a cough; he shook as if in bodily pain, and pressed his hand to his shining corselet over his heart.
“What I have endured—what I have taken—never worse than this—to send those two——”
“It was very insolently done,” said M. Bentinck hotly.
“It was done in contempt, to show me the cipher that I am——”
He got to his feet in the restlessness of passion; his face was quite colourless, and in his eyes was an agony of bitter emotion.
“They have gone to cringe to Louis! Think of it, William—to cringe to the French while we have a man left who can grasp a gun.” Again his cough took him, and he had to hold his side. “Van Odyk, too——”
“He goes to represent Your Highness, I do think.”
“He goes because he is afraid of M. de Witt,” flashed the Prince. “If he had loved me he had not gone.”
M. Bentinck looked at his master in affectionate distress, he knew not what to do or say; his own blood beat high at the thought of suing to Louis for peace.
“Oh, heart, heart, what I have taken!” cried William through his teeth. “Ah, to be so powerless, so hedged about, so humbled—hampered always by the inadequacy of others! Had they sent me more men I had not been retreating now—but M. de Witt keeps me starved in my supplies, sets me to build with sand. We do not need these smooth lawyers to feed the arrogance of Louis with their whinings for peace, but more men to send the French back across the Rhine.”
He pulled his gloves off and crushed them in his beautiful right hand.
“If I had had the garrisoning of those Rhine forts,” he said, with a gasping breath, “they had never fallen.… M. de Witt’s paid adventurers came dear, after all his economy.”
The Prince pressed his forehead with a little sound of desperation, then, as was his habit when he had been moved to speak freely, even to M. Bentinck, he fell into a deeper reserve, as if he regretted what he had said.
“Will you take some rest now?” asked M. Bentinck anxiously.
“I will write to M. Fagel—and some other people. I think to fall back on Utrecht to-morrow,” returned the Prince briefly. “Amersfoort is well fortified, and should hold out.”
“Will you see M. Sylvius if he arrives?”
“Yes—and any other messenger from England.”
“There is to be a council meeting to-night——”
“And a review afterwards—we must hearten the men.”
“You do too much, Highness.”
“That is impossible; I should do more—I wish I had your strength,” he added suddenly.
This was a matter he seldom spoke of, and M. Bentinck was abashed.
“A gift I share with every common soldier,” he answered.
“They are to be envied,” said William, rather grimly.
He had regained his composure of manner and his control, but he looked tired and sick to swooning point. M. Bentinck could not bear to hear him cough.
“Will you see if you can get better lamps for to-night,” he said. “The fumes of these choke me.”
He pressed M. Bentinck’s hand affectionately, took up M. Fagel’s letter and, lifting the curtain, entered the inner part of the tent.
CHAPTER X
THE VICOMTE DE MONTBAS
Two hours later William Bentinck returned to the Prince’s tent.
The sun had set in a splendour of tawny vapour, and a warm yet damp wind blew over the low and melancholy looking land, and a misty heaviness was abroad.
The outer portion of the tent was empty; behind the green curtain Bentinck found the Prince alone writing at a small camp-table.
One of the oil-lamps William had complained of gave a bright but flickering light.
In the corner stood a bed with a red coverlet, and near it an iron and leather dispatch-box, the key in the lock; at the foot of the bed was a large trunk that seemed to have been ransacked for something in a hurry, for it stood open, and linen shirts and cravats were tossed up, and trailed on to the grassy floor that was a shade of unhealthy yellow in the artificial light.
The Prince’s armour, that he evaded when he could (finding the weight unsupportable), lay heaped up by the trunk, and on a chair rested a violet leather case showing a number of articles in carved gold.
William nodded at Bentinck, and hastily added his name to the letter he was writing.
“It is M. Gabriel Sylvius,” said M. Bentinck, “who is arrived—having pressed on, without stopping, from the Hague.”
“Ah!” said the Prince quickly; then, “I expected him sooner.”
“He was delayed.”
“Delayed?”
The Prince frowned a little.
“On the sea, he says.”
William still looked stern.
“They were fifteen hours in Calais Roads.”
“Why,” the Prince admitted, “that was a misfortune beyond the help of Gabriel Sylvius.”
M. Bentinck seated himself.
“He was monstrous sick, is now something haggard.”
“One may not wonder after fifteen hours in Calais Roads,” answered the Prince, with grim sympathy; he had nearly died of his own crossing last year.
“Well,” he added, “where is M. Sylvius?”
“In the camp, but——”
M. Bentinck hesitated.
“I will see him.”
“Highness, on my soul you take too much fatigue upon yourself—wait until the morning.”
“Nay, I will see him now,” answered William; had it been any other than Bentinck he would have spoken angrily.
“It is not long before the council, if you would rest——”
“If you would fetch Sir Gabriel Sylvius, my child,” said the Prince, folding up his letter.
M. Bentinck gave in, but protesting. When he returned with William’s confidential agent, he found the Prince in the same place, writing again.
He stopped immediately on their entrance.
“It gives me great pleasure to see you, M. Sylvius—William, bring another chair.” He looked round the tent, “We are not very luxurious here nor very neat——”
He seemed for the first time to realise the disorder about him.
“I told Bromley to see to this, but he spends too much time playing cards.”
M. Sylvius went on one knee and kissed his master’s hand.
“So you had a bad crossing?” William pushed back his chair and smiled.
“Hideous, Your Highness; I thought that never should we gain the land.”
The secret agent, M. Gabriel Sylvius, was a tall, lean man, with a shrewd and lined countenance, hair of a harsh reddish colour, and a freckled skin.
He looked keenly at the Prince. He had been in his father’s service and greatly loved the House of Orange.
“I am sorry to see Your Highness look so ill,” he said bluntly.
“No matter for that,” answered William impatiently. “What of England?”
The envoy answered with a touch of satisfaction—
“I think that I can claim some amount of success.”
“In what way?”
The Prince’s tranquil mien could hardly disguise his eagerness.
Sir Gabriel began as concise an account of his sojourn in London as he could manage.
“Sit down,” said William when he came to a pause.
M. Bentinck was also listening with rapt attention, his comely face absorbed and keen.
“I saw King Charles,” continued M. Sylvius; “he was more than friendly——”
“To me or to the States?” asked the Prince quietly.
“To Your Highness. He declared that he had largely undertaken this war on Your Highness’ account, to put you in possession of your ancient rights, and that your advantages were bargained for in the treaty between himself and His Christian Majesty.”
William repeated softly—
“My advantages!”
“So he termed it, Highness.”
The Prince looked quickly at Bentinck, as if to discover what his friend thought of this.
“Well, go on, Mynheer.”
“King Charles railed against the States and M. de Witt—he declared he had always your advancement at heart and would never forget your father’s goodness to him when he was in exile at the Hague.… Much more, very pleasant, but without definite point.”
“Did you see any beside the King?”
“Some few I managed to sound, Highness. But since the Ambassador of the States had been asked to leave, and the French were very jealous, I had to be private—all but the Court party are against the war.”
“And the Parliament?”
“They would bring great pressure on the King to make peace.”
“Have they not that power, with the grants?”
“The King is subsidised by France—and by many of the courtiers.”
William narrowed his eyes.
“And the people?”
“Are fiercely in favour of peace—they hate the French and look on the war as a scandal.”
“There seems some hope in England,” said William slowly.
“Certainly,” answered M. Sylvius, “it is in a state of unrest. The King hath shut up the Exchequer, thereby ruining many of the merchants, and yet vast sums are spent at Court and on that foreign woman, Louise de la Querouaille, who came over with the late Duchess d’Orleans and is no better than a spy of France. The Duke of York is unpopular, like his mother before him; and rumours are abroad that the King, to please the King of France, is a concealed Papist—which is the truth—and that the great lords are all in the pay of France.”
“Which is also the truth, it seems,” remarked the Prince.
“Yet the King has an easy way of agreeableness that keeps him where he is, and he is very prodigal of promises, and hath managed to smooth many an ill-seeming situation by his fair manners. I doubt his sincerity, certainly, in what he said to me—yet I hope the English may force him——”
“Into breaking with France?”
“I may hope so, Highness.”
The Prince looked at him keenly.
“But at the moment—what will my uncle do now?”
“Sir, in this I have been a trifle successful. His Majesty was so far moved by your appeals that he has appointed certain envoys who will come over and look after your interests during the war. They are accredited to you, to the States, and to King Louis, and their errand is to conclude a peace satisfactory to all.”
Again William glanced at Bentinck.
“And when will they arrive?” he asked.
“Highness, three crossed with me, and my lord Arlington was so ill he cursed God that he should have been born in an island.”
“My lord Arlington,” repeated William, moving the lamp a little farther away from him; “so he is one—who are the others?”
“My lord the Viscount Halifax, my lord Buckingham, and the young Prince James of Monmouth——”
“Why,” said William, “I think all these are in the pay of France.”
“My lord Halifax is now in Flanders—Bruges I think; he bears compliments to King Louis on the birth of the Duc D’Anjou; of the others two are now at the Hague—whence they will follow here, or go at once to the French camp at Doesburg.”
The Prince spoke to Bentinck—
“William, what hope have we from these men?”
“Highness, I mislike their reputations.”
“I think I met them all in England,” said the Prince slowly. “Give me their names severally, M. Sylvius, that I may judge of their qualities.”
“Firstly, the Duke of Monmouth—he is already with the King of France—commanding the English companies.”
“Pass him, he can serve no serious purpose,” interrupted William. “The Earl of Arlington—I do mistrust him now; it is believed he drew up the treaty of Dover and was well paid for it, is it not?”
“I am sure of it, Highness … he leans avowedly to the French; then there is my lord the Viscount——”
“I do remember him,” answered William thoughtfully. “I should think he is honest—for an Englishman, though slow and lazy and unstable.”
“Finally his Grace of Buckingham, Highness, who stands high in favour with the King.”
The Prince was silent at the name, and his eyes hardened.
He had ugly memories of Buckingham.
The Court of Charles, that had flashed its brightest for his bewilderment, had filled him only with disgust and aversion. The King, at first inclined to confide the treaty of Dover to William, had found him impervious to flattery, and informed Louis that his nephew was “too Dutch and too Protestant for anything to be hoped for from him.”
But Buckingham, repelled in the advances he deemed irresistible, fell back on his wit, and with the readiness of a shallow nature ridiculed what he could not understand.
The Prince led a strict life and showed reserved manners—here were the subjects of numerous pasquinades on his Grace’s part; William’s regular church-goings and firm adherence to the theology of Geneva furnished matter for many profane jests that were not long in coming to the young man’s ears. And once his Grace, edged on by the King, and backed by many of the ribald lords, had tried to humiliate the austere youth of nineteen by intoxicating him with strong waters disguised as a cordial for his cough.
The Prince had discovered the trick soon enough to baulk them of their amusement, but not before the mixture had made him miserably ill.
Coldness had blunted the point of the jest, and for once made Buckingham feel foolish; but the Prince, under his passive exterior, was bitterly outraged on his most sensitive points—his religion and his ill-health.
Therefore he was silent at the name of Buckingham, and a faint colour tinged his pallor.
“The envoys bring with them Henry St. Jermyn and Sir Edward Seymour,” continued Sir Gabriel Sylvius.
“I did not know M. St. Jermyn was a politician,” said William sarcastically.
“Sir, he, like my lord Buckingham, has found a new amusement—that is all.”
The Prince made a little movement as if he roused himself.
“I think my uncle has sent me a pretty parcel of knaves,” he remarked calmly. “But it would be difficult to discover an honest man at Whitehall.”
“Their instructions may be better than their characters,” suggested M. Bentinck.
“We will hope so.”
William reflected a moment, then addressed his secret agent—
“I think, M. Sylvius, it would be well if you join these English again, and accompany them to the King of France.”
He would not mention the name of the enemy’s camp, for Doesburg, where the King lay, was one of his own lordships, and it was exceedingly bitter to him that the French had taken it.
He coughed, impatiently turned down the lamp, that with the slightest movement smoked, and added—
“You can at least report directly and truthfully to me on what takes place; these commissioners will colour matters to suit themselves. And for your further convenience you had better take some Dutch secretary——”
He paused, then continued slowly—
“There is one Van Mander in Bromley’s quarters, newly come from the Hague, who will do very well.”
Sir Gabriel Sylvius rose.
“I am greatly obliged to you,” said William, “for I think you have acquitted yourself creditably.”
Sir Gabriel kissed his hand.
“Mr. Bromley has some monies of mine, and he will give you what you need,” added the Prince evenly. “And I will now tell you, myself, what you will hear presently bruited abroad, that M. de Witt hath despatched an embassy for peace to the King of France—which is something I cannot talk of.”
“Surely, Highness,” answered Sir Gabriel, “that will fall in with this deputation from England.”
“I would have the alliance of England, not peace with France,” said the Prince sternly.
Sylvius glanced at William Bentinck, and was about to withdraw.
“The officer without will take you to Bromley’s tent—Florent Van Mander is the name of the young man I mentioned—you shall shortly hear from me.”
Sir Gabriel bowed himself in silence out of the now dimly-lit tent.
The Prince sat with his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand.
“This is hopeful news, surely,” said M. Bentinck cheerfully.
William smiled at him affectionately and tolerantly—
“Possibly—just possibly I might detach England from France.…”
M. Bentinck laughed.
“You are become a statesman as well as a soldier, Sir, and meditate great designs.”
“Do you imagine that these English come with serious purpose to listen to reasonable terms?” asked the Prince quickly.
“I imagine King Charles will contrive your advantage——”
“Mine!—what of the States?”
“The States!” M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders. “The States are your enemies, Sir!”
“M. de Witt is my enemy,” answered William; “which is, perhaps, another matter.”
He took the twisted, silver taper-holder, melted the wax at the lamp and sealed his letter.
“I must get this to M. Fagel—at once—or he will fall again under M. de Witt’s thumb.”
M. Bentinck rose.
“Meanwhile you had best have some dinner, Sir; it will have been ready some time and the others waiting——”
The Prince took up the lamp and followed his friend without demur into the other half of the tent.
He went to the entrance and called to the officer on duty.
“You will find some messenger to convey this at once to the Hague.”
“Yes, Highness.”
William gave him the letter for M. Fagel, and was turning away when the soldier spoke—
“Highness, M. de Montbas has returned.”
“M. de Montbas!” The Prince was alert again instantly.
“With his company cut to pieces, Highness.”
“I will see him,” said William.
M. Bentinck protested.
“After dinner, Sir——”
“This cannot wait.”
“What can M. de Montbas have to say that is of importance?”
“It is not he, it is I who have something to say,” returned the Prince. “Send to him,” he added to the officer. “I wish to see him at once.”
M. Bentinck seated himself with an air of resignation.
“Get to your dinner,” smiled the Prince, “I will come immediately.”
“Nay, Sir, not without you.”
Now William spoke with authority—
“Bentinck, I will see this man alone … in a while I will join you.”
Grimacing a little, and with a clatter of his armour, M. Bentinck left the tent.
The Prince turned up the lamp, set it carefully on the table, and walked up and down, keeping his gaze upon the ground.
When the flap was lifted and a man entered, hesitating, William stopped where he was by the table and raised his eyes.
M. de Montbas was magnificently dressed. Over his blue and silver coat he wore, falling off one shoulder and fastened across his breast with a gilt chain, a green velvet cloak.
There were jewels in his cravat and holding the blue feather in his beaver. He wore a very handsome sword, and kept his light-gloved hand on it.
He was a fine man, if somewhat haggard; but now a white look on his face, and his black eyes startled, joined to his air of hesitation, took from him his dignity.
He uncovered and bowed.
William made no answering salute, but stood rigid, looking slight and sombre in his dark attire.
“Have you anything to say?” he asked.
M. de Montbas straightened himself—
“I have my report to make, Your Highness,” he said in a strained voice; “but Your Highness wished to see me——”
“How many men have you with you?”
M. de Montbas bit his lower lip—
“I have lost fifteen hundred, Sir.”
“That is half your force.”
“We were pursued by a detachment of cavalry under M. de Rochfort.”
“And——?”
“The rearguard—and the baggage were cut off——”
The unfortunate general spoke awkwardly; it seemed, by his demeanour, more as if he stood before a tribunal of judges than speaking alone to a youth over twenty years his junior, and whom he had patronised as a child.
“You did not offer fight?” demanded the Prince.
“Your Highness, we were hopelessly outnumbered by the enemy … some of the guns sank in a polder——”
The Prince cut short these excuses.
“M. de Montbas,” he said in a tone of exquisite anger, “I perceive you are a very bad soldier.”
The Vicomte took a step to one side in a baited way.
“What does Your Highness mean?” he asked in an agitated fashion.
William did not take his eyes off him.
“Your sister’s husband, M. de Groot, hath gone on an embassy to make terms with the King of France, and I think you have a mind to follow his example—you also wish to stand well with Louis, do you not?”
A dark colour tinged the Frenchman’s pallid face.
“Your Highness cannot mean what it would seem you intend.”
For the first time William moved; he came a step nearer the other.
“I mean that you very basely abandoned the post I gave you on the Rhine,” he spoke evenly, but with a bitter dislike, “thereby allowing easy passage to the French, which was an irreparable disaster and a thing that could have been prevented.”
M. de Montbas took his hand from his sword and pressed it to the breast of his shining cuirass.
“Your Highness is unjust … what could I do with three thousand men?”
“If ye had had but three hundred, M. de Montbas,” answered William fiercely, “ye could have done your duty; and if ye had had but three ye could have done it … and died.”
The Vicomte fumbled at the chain on his chest.
“I had no orders——”
“You had my orders to defend your position.”
M. de Montbas broke out desperately—
“Before God I was misled! I asked for orders and none came. I wrote to the Deputies, they said this and that——”
“I never said but the one thing.”
M. de Montbas answered wretchedly—
“Your Highness must be merciful … I had no one to consult … and after the fall of Wesel——”
“M. le Vicomte,” interrupted the Prince sternly, “the captains who delivered Wesel to the French have been dismissed the Army and their swords broken over their heads.”
“Your Highness—I did what I could.”
M. de Montbas protested vehemently but impotently.
“I did what I could——”
“Oh, we waste the time,” said William. He went towards the entrance.
“What will Your Highness do?” cried the Vicomte desperately, swinging round to face him.
The Prince turned also, so that they stood but a foot or so apart.
“What I did with the garrison of Wesel.”
“Your Highness!”
“Do you think I am a child to accept your excuses?” asked William scornfully.
“This is because I am the friend of M. de Witt.”
“No, Monsieur, it is because you are a traitor——”
“Prince!” exclaimed M. de Montbas in anguish.
“—or a coward,” added William, unmoved. “One is as dangerous as the other, but I would rather think you in the pay of France, for it is unthinkable that you are the other.”
The Frenchman fell into a shivering agitation.
“Before Heaven I am innocent! I have served the States faithfully——”
“In times of peace—Monsieur.”
“You insult me——”
“I will court-martial you—give me your sword.”
M. de Montbas clapped his hand to his weapon.
“You have not the right, Sir—the States are my masters.”
“I am the head of the Army, with at least enough power to punish soldiers who disgrace my flag.”
“I shall appeal to M. de Witt!”
“Very well.… M. de Witt hath himself to look after—his credit will not be improved by your action, Monsieur.”
This hint that the Grand Pensionary had not the power to protect him completely unnerved M. de Montbas. He had feared the Prince as much as he had always disliked him, and the sense of William’s hatred had of late weighed heavily with him.
It had not occurred to him that William, as the Captain General, would dare go as far as this, or he would never have returned to the Dutch headquarters. Like the culmination of all that he had ever dreaded was this sudden disgrace. He found himself in the power of an implacable enemy, and the loss of his honour, his property, and his life seemed already accomplished, for his hope in M. de Witt suddenly fell away.
He stood quite still, with a tortured expression and his hand clutched on his breast.
William gave him an utterly contemptuous glance and was about to lift the tent flap.
M. de Montbas flung out his hand—
“I entreat—Your Highness—this is ruin—disgrace—death!”
His voice was hoarse, and the blood had flushed up into his eyes.
In the ill light of the lamp and its confusing shadows the Prince’s face was not clearly to be seen.
But M. de Montbas had little hope that he was moved.
“Sir,” he urged desperately, “consider what you are about before you ruin me.”
Receiving no answer to this but a cold look of scorn, he broke out again—
“You always hated me—from the first you meant to undo me.”
“M. de Montbas,” replied William, “I opposed your appointment—I opposed the giving to you of that post upon the Rhine, had you been wise you would have taken neither the one nor the other——”
“You mean to drive me to despair,” interjected the Vicomte.
“I mean to maintain discipline in my army,” said the Prince, and put his hand on the tent flap.
M. de Montbas’ body heaved, and his gay appointments, gold cords and jewels, glimmered in the dusky light.
“Before God I am innocent!” he declared passionately. “I am of the Reformed Faith—what have I to do with France?”
The Prince regarded him keenly.
“I am no traitor,” he repeated vehemently. “I swear it!”
“If that be not perjury I am sorry for you,” answered William; “for Louis is your King, and it were better for you to serve him through treachery than fail us through cowardice.”
The Vicomte made an effort to control himself.
“I am unfortunate,” he said in a half sobbing bitterness “to have ever displeased Your Highness, for I see you are unmerciful.”
William lifted the flap, blew a little whistle he drew from his pocket, and said something rapidly to the soldier the summons brought.
“I shall appeal to the Grand Pensionary!” cried M. de Montbas.
“If you be innocent you may prove it without his help,” answered William, turning back into the tent; “and if you be guilty John de Witt will not dare to save you.”