He stopped at the table and looked narrowly at the other man.
“It is true I never liked you,” he said, “but if you had been one whom I loved, and had let the French across the Rhine and lost fifteen hundred men, I should now act the same.”
M. de Montbas winced, and put his gloved hand to his lips with a gesture of terror.
“Your Highness,” he said huskily, “spare me this and I will resign.”
“I will spare you nothing—give me your sword.”
The wretched officer made a convulsive movement and dragged his pistol from his belt, as if to turn it on the Prince or on himself.
“Put that down,” said William scornfully, and as he spoke a detachment of men entered the tent.
M. de Montbas flung down his pistol and stepped back.
The Prince spoke to the captain who had entered; he was a young Frieslander of the musketeers.
“Arrest M. de Montbas and keep him under strict guard. Monsieur,” he addressed the Vicomte, “will you give your sword to me or to this gentleman?”
The Frenchman drew his weapon and presented it to the Prince.
“The States will see justice done,” he said in a shaking voice.
“Monsieur, I will see justice done,” answered William.
He put the sword across the chair beside him and turned his back.
“By your leave, Mynheer,” said the young Frieslander.
M. de Montbas submitted in silence. The soldiers saluted the Prince and withdrew, their prisoner in their midst. William looked over his shoulder at them, and, when they had gone, leant against the table in an exhausted fashion gazing at the ground.
He had not stood so above a minute when William Bentinck entered hotly, with a colour in his face.
The Prince gave him a rather languid glance.
“Highness, it is the French; a boor has come running up to say they are advancing to surprise us——”
“I thought so,” replied William. “It is M. de Rochfort on the heels of M. de Montbas.”
CHAPTER XI
IN TIME OF WAR
The now hastily summoned Council of War was distracted with private fears and disagreements. The Deputies, whose opinion had to be consulted, and with whom rested the power of final decision, were powerfully affected by the embassy M. de Witt had just sent upon its way to Doesburg.
It showed, they thought, both that the Grand Pensionary despaired of saving the country by force of arms, and also that he considered an advantageous treaty might yet be made with Louis.
They were, therefore, for avoiding a decisive engagement, and suggested that the army should retreat.
The deputy for Zeeland and M. Beverningh, influenced by the Prince, opposed this, and a high argument followed.
M. de Zuylestein and most of the officers of the Prince’s Staff were for fortifying the present camp and awaiting the attack of the enemy.
William himself was for falling back on Utrecht, at present undefended, and securing that against the advance of the French.
Under the orders of the States, and much against the wish of the Captain General, the forces had been imprudently divided. Major-General Wurtz had two thousand seven hundred men with which to defend Gorcum in the south; Prince John Maurice, with ten thousand men at Muyden, covered Amsterdam; the Marquis de Louvignies with the Spanish cavalry to the number of fifteen hundred occupied Schoonhoven; and Count Homes with the same number was stationed at Gouda.
These four positions were skilfully chosen, but inclusive of the men sent to strengthen the garrisons of Nymwegen and Arnheim they left the Prince, who had ardently wished to defend the Yssel to the last, a force of only three thousand six hundred under his personal control. With these he could hope to do nothing save defend as he might the entrance to Holland.
He told the Deputies so, and they, with the indecision that had so hampered his movements, shrugged and argued and would not say what they would or would not do.
At length the Prince, who had been largely silent, threatened to throw up his commission if he was not allowed a free hand. His position, he declared, was intolerable, and he would be no man’s puppet. M. de Witt’s policy of controlling the theatre of war from a Cabinet in the Binnenhof had been disastrous enough already. He, the Captain General, was constantly overruled and disregarded; they tied his hands, then tried to make him responsible for actions he had never sanctioned.
He was supported by M. de Zuylestein and M. Beverningh, and finally the others dare stand out no more. Two hours after the news of the approach of the enemy had been received orders were given to strike camp and fall back on Utrecht.
The news of the advance of M. de Rochfort was at best vague. Scouts reported that a large force had taken Emerloo and Rutten, and was approaching from that direction. The flying peasants declared the country from Heerde to Vaasen had been devastated, and that William’s lordship of “het Loo” was in the hands of the victorious French.
The Prince, seeing that only the insufficiently defended fortress of Nijkerk was between the enemy and Amersfoort and Utrecht, made a détour and threw his men along the banks of the Eem before Amersfoort, to whose defences he had just seen.
But the army were no sooner in position than the survivors of the little town of Wijk, a fortress on the Rhine, arrived with the news that a large division of the French were advancing on Utrecht by that route.
An instant message was sent to de Louvignies at Schoonhoven to defend the passage of the river Leek, and a small body of cavalry was sent on to Utrecht to encourage the city with an assurance of the Prince’s speedy arrival and to urge them to see to their defences.
It was now about one in the morning, and further arrivals from Elst, Schalkwyk, and Houten confirmed the news of the near vicinity of the enemy.
It was said that Louis had made a public boast that he would take Utrecht and treat with the commissioners of the States in their own town.
M. de Rochfort, with a large detachment of cavalry, was acting as his advance guard in clearing the country from Doesburg to Amersfoort.
The Captain General’s entire efforts now became directed to saving Utrecht. The city was one of the largest and finest in the Netherlands; it directly protected the entrance to Holland, and if it fell there was every reason to suppose that its loss would prove as fatal to that province as the capture of Wesel had to Guelders and Overyssel, both of which were now almost entirely in the hands of the enemy.
By a rapid countermarch, which was much impeded by a moonless, misty night, the army of the States recrossed the Eem at Amersfoort (which town was encouraged in its intention to resist the enemy by the addition of a company of infantry to its scanty garrison), and found themselves at daybreak in the rich and wooded meadows between Soest and Zeyst, the heart of the fertile and prosperous lands that comprised the district of Rutten.
They were perilously placed between two rivers, one of which, the Eem, had only Amersfoort to defend it; the other, the Rhine, being utterly unprotected until reinforcements should arrive from Gouda or Schoonhoven.
And as the French were circling round from the direction of Nijkerk, and on the other side from the banks of the Rhine, they indeed seemed, with their hopelessly inferior numbers, to be in a peril from which they could do nothing to extricate themselves.
Several of the Deputies were reduced to despair, and were for putting pressure on the Prince to abandon Utrecht and retreat into Holland towards Amsterdam.
But William, who owed his present position to their cautious policy, refused to listen to them, and, energetically encouraging his officers, pressed on towards the town of Utrecht.
They had not, however, come in sight of the walls before they heard the guns of the enemy and saw pale fires in the early sky, and at half-past six of a misty, warm morning they saw through their perspective glasses the glittering lines of the cavalry of France completely blocking their progress.
By reason of the flat country they could see a great way, and Count Struym, who knew the district well, pointed out the burning fortress of Zeyst, which had either blown up or been fired by the French.
The army halted, and officers and Deputies held a hasty consultation on horseback. The enemy now lay between them and Utrecht, and it was impossible to gain that town without a battle.
The Deputies again advised a retreat towards Amsterdam. In face of the overwhelming number of the enemy, M. de Rochfort’s force advancing from Nijkerk to conjoin, the unfortifiable nature of the ground, it would be not a battle but a massacre, and they were not authorised by the States to sacrifice the last defenders of the country; a defeat, they argued, would have a very ill effect on the projected negotiations of M. de Groot.
On the other hand, Count Struym contended that a retreat in face of the enemy would result only in a pursuit and an utter rout, in which they all would equally perish, but in this way with ignominy and disgrace.
The young Captain General sat silent on his grey horse and looked at the distant line of the French.
He was so well used to argument and opposition that he withheld his opinion till asked.
He had a great contempt for words, and the eloquence of the Deputies seemed to him mere mouthing. He was thinking of Utrecht, and wondering what there was to be got out of his men.
He had only been head of the army a few weeks, but he had made a new thing of the forces under his command. Throughout a campaign that had been a series of disasters and retreats his men had never lost heart. He had a way of maintaining discipline, and a personal popularity that the veterans did not possess; a gift of command that was worth everything to an army pitted against tremendous odds.
He turned his eyes on his men as they defiled across the meadows, to where the vanguard halted by a belt of trees and an old farm and windmill, and thoughtfully stroked his horse’s neck.
William Bentinck rode up to him.
“Sir,” he cried impatiently, “if these lawyers have their way we shall be cut to pieces as we stand——”
“They are for a retreat?” said the Prince.
“Yes——”
“It is neither wise nor honourable to retreat in sight of the enemy,” remarked the Captain General coldly. He turned his horse and rode up to M. Beverningh, and touched him on the arm.
“Mynheer,” he said curtly and decidedly, “there has been enough talking.”
They all looked at him.
“What is your wish?” asked Count Struym eagerly. “It seems to me, Highness, we have no course open but to fight.”
“There is Utrecht,” answered the Prince. “I mean to save Utrecht.”
The Deputies were silent. They wished, above all things, to avoid responsibility. William eyed them; he saw perfectly well that they would neither sanction nor veto his plans, and that whatever course he took they would blame him if it proved disastrous, and take the credit if it ended in success. Divided authority placed both sides in a difficult position, but if the Deputies hesitated the Captain General’s decision was prompt and unshakable.
His scheme was to remain and face the French with three regiments of cavalry, thereby distracting them from Utrecht, which town Count Struym, with the rest of the army of the States, was to reach in a détour by way of Maartensdyk and Maarsen.
It was hoped that before midday reinforcements would arrive from Schoonhoven and Gouda; these, attacking the rear of the enemy, would enable the Prince to withdraw the rest of his army along the road to Utrecht, which Count Struym must keep open, and throw himself into that town before the French bombarded the fortifications.
If these tactics savoured of desperation, the situation was such as called for desperate expedients, and no one dared withstand them. Some encouragement was afforded by the fact that the rising ground would disguise from the enemy that the stand the Dutch offered covered the retreat of the greater portion of their forces, and it was reasonably hoped that the French would not suspect that any attempt was being made to save Utrecht.
At half-past seven Count Struym drew off with the bulk of the army and the larger number of the Deputies.
M. Beverningh, however, remained with the Prince, who, relieved from supervision and control, was energetically disposing his little force to the best advantage.
Since they had broken camp they had been swelled by the survivors of the garrisons of the Rhine fortresses, large numbers of peasants, and M. de Montbas’ company of cavalry, which had been put under the command of M. Bentinck. In all they numbered about two thousand men, of which fourteen hundred were cavalry.
They had been marching and counter-marching all night, and some were mere fugitives without as much as a musket. They were weary, and had every excuse for discouragement; since neither the number of the enemy nor the peace proposals of M. de Witt (which all took for an indication of despair on that statesman’s part) could be disguised from them. To add to their discomfort the baggage waggons had not been able to keep pace with the rapid movements of the army, and there was not so much as a loaf of bread among them.
The mill and adjacent farms were found to be deserted, all the surrounding country-folk having retreated into Utrecht, and the hopes of food from these were dispelled.
The men were mostly unmoved. Their officers and the Prince himself were as badly off as themselves; they would sooner fight than retreat; they had a way of doing both quietly.
William rode among the companies, and his quick observation detected no discontent. Many of the men sang psalms as they brought up the guns, and there were weighty arguments on points of doctrine between Arminians and Calvinists, Latter Day Saints and Knipperdollings,—for these people, the most obstinate and unconvincible in the world, found one of their keenest pleasures in logic and argument.
William’s appearance woke their deep and sincere enthusiasm.
He spoke to them with more animation than M. Bentinck had ever known him show, promised the cavalry (who were doing the work of foot soldiers) double pay, and the peasants, who were digging trenches and erecting palisades, a florin a day while they stuck to their work.
He heartened them with a promise of rest and food in Utrecht before night, and entreated them to stand firm in defence of their religion and their liberty.
His resolution and his energy did not fail of its effect. They forgot fatigue, the number and prestige of the enemy, their own former disasters, and set themselves cheerfully in readiness.
But if the men were encouraged by the Prince’s inspection, he himself was not. Everything was lacking—ammunition, guns, even shoes and coats.
A considerable number of the cavalry were on foot for want of horses, and two culverins had had to be abandoned for lack of gun-carriages.
William thought bitterly of M. de Witt. The Grand Pensionary had answered his appeal in eager and affectionate terms, but neither levies nor supplies had arrived; de Witt seemed more desirous to send M. de Groot on a mission of peace than to strengthen the army, and the new Captain General was left with miserably inadequate means.
“M. Beverningh,” said William, “this is my first experience of war, and I do not think any one ever fell into a harder apprenticeship.”
And the coming encounter was his first experience of actual battle. He had been a fortnight with the army but had heard no more than the distant sound of the French guns; he had witnessed no engagement.
Yet perhaps M. Beverningh was the only man to whom it occurred as an anomaly that a youth of twenty-one who only knew war from books, and had never seen bloodshed, should be commanding an army in such desperate straits against a foe led by the most famous soldiers in the world.
Every one else seemed as unconscious as was the Prince himself. If he lacked experience he had certainly rare qualities; but M. Beverningh was curious as to his behaviour in the actual shock of battle, in the actual moment of leading his men to the encounter.
The infantry was placed behind the hastily constructed earthworks, and in the mill and farm buildings which were taken as the nucleus of the defence.
The French were an unaccountable time in advancing; seemed, if anything, to be hanging back.
The truth was their commander had no wish for an encounter with the Prince of Orange, against whom his master had no quarrel and whose interests Louis had agreed to respect. His intention was to take Utrecht, and he thought that, given a little time, William would have the tact to withdraw and leave the road open to him as M. de Montbas had done at the Rhine.
But about ten o’clock, perceiving (as he thought) the entire Dutch forces still immovable before their protection of trees and rising ground, he advanced to the attack, after expressing to his officers his regret that His Majesty’s cousin had given them the unnecessary trouble of beating him.
He had under his command seven or eight thousand men, well fed, well drilled; a fine corps of artillery, and two of the most renowned cavalry regiments of France. He was further strengthened by the knowledge of M. de Rochfort’s advance from Nijkerk and near approach of the King himself, who was reported to have already left Doesburg with the Household brigade, a conquered country behind his banners.
Through the thick, sweet, hazy air came at last the sound of the French drums and trumpets, and as it was quite windless their colours and banners were all displayed above them as they marched.
They had left their baggage waggons and some of their artillery under the guard of the infantry in the rear, for they did not regard the coming engagement as one likely long to impede their progress, and at an easy pace their magnificent cavalry advanced across the flat meadows to the little wood of elm and beech where the birds were singing among the warm leaves and the Dutch waited.
The sun bathed them in an even glow; red and blue coats, gold and silver trappings gleamed as the men and horses moved. From the distance even they had an extraordinarily easy demeanour, as if they laughed amongst themselves.
Soon it became possible to distinguish the soft tramp of the horses, the jingle of the harness, and the rumbling of the guns shaking on their carriages.
The Dutch trumpets made answer now, and as the French came within range their guns opened fire, tearing the summer peace into fury.
And as the smoke curled away the cavalry of the States galloped out of the wood in little companies, colours flying and slack reins.
The Prince of Orange, Count Königsmarck, and William of Aylva were together on a little incline, watching the enemy.
“Who are they?” asked the Prince of the German, who had travelled much in France.
“Regiments of the line, Highness, dragoons,—and in the centre one of the Household brigades.” He raised his perspective glass. “Yes, the company under the Prince de Soubise. I can see the colours.”
William said nothing, he turned and galloped to the centre of the line of guns, just beneath the mill.
The French, assuming the Netherlanders would have remained under cover if their numbers were weak, took the daring charge of the cavalry as a sign that their entire force was concealed by the rising ground.
This was the impression the Prince had hoped to create.
Instantly the French, wishing to draw their enemy into the open and to put themselves beyond the range of the guns, retreated with a skilful backward movement, steady and swift as the reflux of a wave.
Then the foremost company of cavalry, regardless of the empty saddles already made, divided, wheeled to left and right, met again and charged. This was the French mode; reckless, showy, expensive, but irresistible, at once the glory and the ruin of their arms. It exposed the very flower of their youth, gallantry, and nobility to the whole brunt of the battle, while the infantry remained comparatively immune.
Again and again the French were to buy dashing and profitless victories at the price of their best blood; again and again the aristocrats and gentlemen were to be sacrificed in cruel slaughter, until all the finest lives in France were hurled away in pursuance of the reckless policy of the cavalry charge of the Household troops.
So now they came on, reins hanging loose, the horses with lengthened necks, flattened ears, and staring eyes; ribbons, feathers, laces, and curls blowing back over the shoulders of the men.
The Dutch formed close and received the shock of the onset without flinching.
There was a short struggle, then the French withdrew at the gallop, wheeled and charged.
The Dutch backed before them, and as they swept to the foot of the wood a volley from the guns their cavalry had galloped aside to make way for sent back half the horses riderless.
The French were too well trained to show confusion; this was a fiercer defence, however, than they had expected.
M. de Soubise hurled forward two more companies and himself advanced with his own light horse.
This fresh and hot onslaught almost overpowered the Dutch horse; they were driven back almost to the mouths of their own guns.
The Prince sent out the Spanish cavalry to the rescue, and placed a regiment of foot behind the gunners where they could pick off the French cavalry from the cover of the trees.
M. de Soubise, unable to make much use of his artillery, had thrown out his left wing, composed of brigadiers and guns, in a half circle to attempt to storm the wood where the ground was flat and a small cottage the only vantage spot.
William, perceiving this, sent M. Bentinck to the assistance of the officer occupying the cottage, and himself rode up to M. D’Aylva, who was commanding the troops held in reserve.
“The French are magnificent,” he said, “but our men fight very well.”
He was flushed and excited, his eyes dark and wide open.
All the restraint had gone from his voice, and there was a new eagerness in his expression; the older man, at this irrelevant moment, found himself remembering that his General was a boy who had never seen battle before.
Himself a famous soldier, who had been named “a second Mars,” he looked critically at the Prince.
“M. de Soubise has every advantage,” he said.
“But we can keep him at bay till nightfall,” replied William, “when we can gain Utrecht.”
“Do you think so, Highness?”
The Prince turned on him the candid look of youth.
“Yes,” he said simply.
The air about them hung dun and heavy with smoke between the trees. The whizz and thud of bullets striking the trunks, the hoarse, deafening boom of the cannon, the nearer sound of striking tinder, transformed the sweet stillness of the morning into the lurid tumult of war.
“Your Highness is in some danger here,” said M. D’Aylva. “If you would withdraw nearer the mill——”
William smiled, and rode out of the trees on to the little clearing beside the guns.
The battle beat fiercely to and fro in the green meadows. M. de Soubise had turned his attention to the position held by M. Bentinck’s untaught valour, and at the foot of the wood the Dutch and French struggled desperately together.
The Prince’s keen glance swept over the field.
A cannon-ball fell beside him and exploded, frightening his horse into rearing frantically. He kept his seat and quieted the animal, wiping the foam from its face with his lace handkerchief.
Just beneath him a Dutch company had been repulsed by the enemy; nearly all the officers had fallen, and the men, left leaderless, were retreating in a confusion.
The Prince galloped down the incline, and to the head of the disheartened company. They were men of his own province, part of a Holland regiment.
“Gentlemen,” he said, drawing his sword, “will you have me for your leader?”
He was still smiling.
“It is the Prince!” they cried.
He lifted his sword and led them straight against the French dragoons.
They fought now with a mad passion that was not to be withstood.…
The French gave way, inch by inch, and eventually retreated to the main body.
Without a moment’s pause the Prince, shouting to the Spanish cavalry to join him, dashed round to the aid of M. Bentinck, who was being overpowered by sheer numbers.
Time after time his little band was driven back, time after time he led them again to the charge. The French themselves were amazed at this undaunted persistence; more than once their ranks were broken, and when Count Königsmarck came with a Guelderland regiment to the support of his master they abandoned their attack on the cottage after a fight lasting two hours.
The sun was now high overhead, and the strong rays drove even through the choking smoke and glared on the armour of the combatants; the air was hot, dry, and close with the smell of blood and powder. The leaves, but a few hours ago so fresh, hung withered and burnt along the lower branches, and some of the neat painted out-buildings of the farm were burning steadily with pale flames and black smoke.
Rank after rank, line after line, the French cavalry rode up, and the right wing of the Dutch began to give way.
The Prince extricated himself from the confusion round the rescued outpost, and rode with M. Bentinck to his retreating men.
They had lost all their officers save one young ensign, a Friesland giant with bright gold hair, who seemed dazed, not knowing what to do. He fought like one in a dream, aimlessly, the red blood drying on his cuirass.
William dismounted, throwing his reins to M. Bentinck.
“That is not the way!” he cried. “You must put more fire in it, gentlemen.”
He placed himself at their head and led them against the musketeers.
The young officer stared at him, bewildered.
“Mynheer!” cried the Prince, “second me now and I will give you this company!”
The Frieslander roused himself and shouted a word of command.
The Dutch stood firm, then hurled themselves against the enemy.
Twice they were repulsed by the superior force, twice the Prince led them back; till the trampled grass grew so choked with dead that the living were divided by the slain.
William of Aylva surveyed the battle from the top of the incline.
“Does the Prince want to meet his death?” he muttered; then, “What is this but madness?” And he looked at the army of France that rolled almost as far as the horizon, and, though he was a brave man, his counsels were for a flight, saving such lives as they could.
He saw the Prince, remounted on the grey horse, emerge from the smoky tumult, and he rode down to meet him.
“Highness,”—he caught the young man’s bridle,—“this is madness——”
William answered—
“No, it is my duty—where are these men if I do not hearten them?”
“If you are slain where are our hopes?”
The Prince laughed.
“I shall not be slain to-day.”
As he spoke a bullet glanced along his cuirass, carrying away the knot of his black scarf.
“We cannot do it,” said M. D’Aylva. “Will not Your Highness order a retreat?”
“Not yet, not yet!” answered the Prince passionately. He looked round at the broken battalions only his unconquerable energy had kept together so long.
“They need encouragement,” he exclaimed. “They dare not stand up to such veteran troops—yet it could be done——”
“If every man had your spirit,” muttered William D’Aylva, again looking at him curiously, “I believe it could.”
The Prince gathered together the last of the cavalry and rode back into the hottest part of the battle.
William D’Aylva, though with no hope, led the reserve regiment of Guelderlanders into action. Nearly all the Dutch artillery was useless; some of the guns were spiked, others had lost their gunners, and there was little powder left.
The right wing of the Holland regiments was utterly cut to pieces; M. Bentinck, coming too late to the rescue, could bring off no more than the colours and one tattered detachment. Still the centre and the left fought on. The Captain General found himself separated from his men; he galloped to the Spanish cavalry, where he had stationed it to defend the entrance to the wood.
Close to the rescued cottage he met a band of men who were doing nothing.
He drew up his horse and turned in the saddle.
“Why do you not charge?” he asked in French, thinking they were the Spanish who used that language.
The leader answered civilly that they had no powder, and even as he spoke William saw that they were French.
He was entirely in their power. His pride did not permit him to fly; he backed his horse.
“Good,” he said; “I will send you some powder.”
Utterly unconscious, they let him go, taking him for a French officer.
Not in the least impressed by what his temerity had exposed him to, William gazed round fiercely for the Spanish, who had apparently forsaken their post.
Suddenly he saw a detachment of them riding through the underwood—but riding away from the battle.
Pale with rage, he spurred up to them.
“What is this?” he asked them. “I think you should have your faces to the enemy!”
They had a look about them such as is seldom seen in men; sometimes in a horse before it shies.
“It is a massacre out there … carnage,” answered one through his teeth. “The day is lost … lost.”
“I’ll shoot the man who says so!” exclaimed the Prince, putting his hand to his holster. “Get back to your places, you cowards, and never care whether the day be lost or no as long as you stay where you are bidden.”
They cowered before him, and he, in his wrath, turned the officer’s horse himself, and when the man still hesitated he took his whip from his boot and lashed them back into the battle.…
It was now nearly dusk, and as the sun struck level rays across the battlefield, before it sunk below the flat horizon, the sound of the Marquis de Rochfort’s guns was heard in the distance.
No human endeavour could do any more. The Prince had kept up a fight of eight hours against overwhelming odds, holding at bay, with his raw, tired troops, the splendid forces of France.
More than half his army was slain; his guns were dismounted, his powder spent. Reluctantly he drew off his exhausted men, first firing the mill and the farmhouses to impede the enemy in the pursuit, which they were, however, by no means inclined to make.
M. de Soubise was quite satisfied with his victory, and it was no part of the training of his school of warfare to follow up a success.
He still imagined the Dutch to have been at least twice their number, and consequently magnified his own glory.
His men were tired, and with the dark great clouds blew up and warm rain fell. The French camp was pitched on the field of battle, and glowing dispatches written to His Majesty and M. de Louvois.
The Prince and his officers on the Utrecht road were not ill content either, for they had done what they intended, and at no higher a price than they had been prepared to pay.
Utrecht was saved; M. de Zuylestein installed within its walls.
Riding through the soft raining dark, William repeated that to himself—
“Utrecht is saved.”
But when they were within a few miles of the city a little band of men, bearing lanterns, came to meet them.
M. de Zuylestein’s men, with this news—
“The Catholics and French in Utrecht have seized the town and closed the gates to the forces of the United Provinces. They intend to open to King Louis, and refuse even to provision Your Highness’ men.”
CHAPTER XII
AFTER THE DEFEAT
In a little farm, abandoned by its owner, the Prince and his Staff found shelter.
There was nothing to be done until dawn at least—since Utrecht had closed her gates.
The bitterness of this disappointment was well-nigh unbearable; the long day’s struggle had had solely this end in view—to save Utrecht.
The men were worn out, hungry, wet, disheartened; only the firmest discipline prevented a mutiny or a panic.
Two of the baggage waggons had come up with them; in one there was nothing but Jerome Beverningh’s camp furniture. Anger and derision were roused, the Deputy had brought with him such things as velvet chairs and crystal candlesticks, the last broken in the rough transit.
The second waggon contained food; this was dealt out to the wounded. M. de Zuylestein’s men, who had spent the day outside the walls of Utrecht while their leader argued desperately with the magistrates, were fresher, and had ravaged some provisions from the neighbouring farms; but the bulk of the men had been without food twelve hours or more.
They attempted to set up such tents as they had with them, but a strong wind rising when the rain ceased hurled poles and canvas to the ground, and scattered the camp-fires in handfuls of sparks.
No news reached them of either de Louvignies or Count Hornes, but a messenger got through the enemy’s lines with a desperate appeal from Prince John Maurice at Muyden, where the starved troops were in a state of mutiny and threatening to desert to the French.
“—do not be surprised,” his letter to the Captain General concluded, “if your next news is that we have all been cut to pieces.”
And Muyden was the key to Amsterdam.
The Prince said nothing to this; he said nothing when he heard that traitors had possession of Utrecht, though he had fought desperately for a day to save the city.
His containment now was as marked as had been his fervour and ardour in the battle.
Count Königsmarck came to tell him that a young Frieslander of a republican family claimed the command of one of the surviving companies, and that it was against all precedent.
“I promised it,” said William.
The ensign got his troop, but he was no longer a republican.
For the night the officers were disposed in such shelter as they could find in the farms and sheds. The Prince, William Bentinck, M. de Zuylestein, M. Beverningh, and Matthew Bromley shared the kitchen of a humble dwelling; a pleasant place hung with the bright-coloured pictures, the patterned prints, the gay china no such Dutch home lacked.
In the chimney corner stood a spinning-wheel, and on a high-backed chair lay a child’s doll, for the family had fled with the swiftness of fear into the town. Two fat tallow candles burnt on the mantelpiece, and on the glazed white hearth a fire of sticks had been kindled, over which M. Bentinck was boiling some sour wine he had discovered, trying to render it more palatable by toasting slices of sour bread.
M. Beverningh and M. Zuylestein sat at the polished, round table, their wet cloaks over their chairs, between them a couple of pistols and another candle in a brass stick.
In the deep window-seat, half shaded by the curtain, sat the Prince, his face averted from the room.
An inner door was open on a small bedroom, ill-lit by a hanging lamp; on the black-and-white tiled floor stood a linen chest, flung open on fine tumbled sheets, and in the wall-place was a bed, the blue curtains drawn.
There lay Matthew Bromley, hidden in shadow save for his feet, over which the lamp-light fell making his silver buckles glimmer.
He was dying.
A heat that seemed to have substance, so oppressive it was, filled the two rooms. The window was wide open, but no relief came from the hot and heavy wind that blew in.
Suddenly the Prince rose and came to the table.
He wore no hat, and his long hair was tied back with a black ribbon taken from the ruffles in his sleeve.
His face was absolutely without colour, his lids drooping. He had been twenty-four hours in the saddle and without food; he held himself with an air of unutterable weariness.
His cuirass was stained with blood and rusted with the rain, his cravat undone, his scarf and sash shot and slashed to rags.
His right arm was cut, and he had rent away part of his full sleeve to tie it up with, the tattered laces and ribbons hung down over his hand; his boots and spurs were caked with mud; he held his heavy sword from the floor, and, as he reached the table, unstrapped it, and laid sword and baldric across a chair.
He looked at M. Beverningh, at his uncle Zuylestein. Neither said anything.
Slowly he went over to M. Bentinck.
“How is Bromley?” he asked in a low voice.
“The same—it cannot last long.”
“Is there no surgeon to be found?”
M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders.
“We had but two.”
“And they?”
“Dead or captured.”
“And the clergymen?”
“There are three going about among the wounded, but Matthew Bromley is not a Calvinist.”
“I had forgotten.”
M. Bentinck rose from his knees; his splendid dress was soiled and tarnished, his bright good looks marred by fatigue.
“I am thinking of Your Highness.”
“I am very well, but I am sorry for Matthew Bromley.”
“He is not the only one.”
“The cause was not his,” answered the Prince wearily. “And he is a man who loves his life.”
With that he took one of the candles and went softly into the inner room where his gentleman lay.
The bed was set in the wall, and could be concealed by drawing a sliding panel; it was fragrantly clean, but dark and close.
The Englishman’s head was propped up on two pillows, the upper part of him concealed in shadow.
His coat had been removed and his wound dressed by William Bentinck’s unskilled care; the blood had soaked through the linen swathings and stained the neat, flowered coverlet.
William approached, shading the candle with his hand.
“How does it go with you?” he asked.
Matthew Bromley moved his head restlessly.
“How hot it is!” he murmured; then, “I would they did not build their beds in their walls here——”
“We could do no better,” answered the Prince gently.
“Who is it?” came faintly.
“I, William of Nassau.”
Mr. Bromley made a little sound of pleasure.
“Ah, Your Highness——”
The Prince set the candle on the chair behind him.
“I am sorry to see you like this, Bromley,” he said.
The Englishman’s voice came faintly from the pillow—
“No matter for me—but it has been a disastrous day.”
The Prince held back the curtain.
“It was no quarrel of yours, my poor fellow,” he answered.
Matthew Bromley smiled; his careless face had changed into a look of bewildered grieving.
“You had better have gone home,” said William gently.
“It was against … the French.”
He closed his eyes and made an effort with his strength—
“I am sorry we were beaten.”
“That may be mended.”
“But nothing can mend me—ah!”
He spoke in an absent and regretful voice.
They could hear the warm wind without and the groanings of the wounded who lay in the outhouses.
“Tell me what I can do,” asked the Prince.
“Nothing.”
The blue eyes opened vacantly.
“Your family——?”
“Yes, ah, yes.”
“I will write to them——”
“In England … Kent.”
“Is there anything I should say?”
“I cannot understand.…”
William bent lower.
“Is there any message?”
The dying man answered in English—
“That balsam my mother sent.…”
“What is it you say?”
“She never told me—how to use it.”
He smiled aimlessly.
William was silent.
“How they fought——” There was only one tongue for him now.
William spoke in his careful English—
“I shall miss you, Bromley.”
“Ah, I understand you … now.”
The Prince smoothed his pillow.
“Don’t trouble—” The Englishman moved his head restlessly. “—It isn’t worth while——”
“I would give a deal to save you.”
“Why … how hot it is.…”
“Are you in pain?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shall I lift you up?”
“The address … M. Heenvliet knows——”
“Yes, yes——”
“Bromley Place … Kent.”
“I will write——”
“We have a fish-pond.… I liked it.”
He seemed to be wandering.
“In the summer time it was pleasant there.… Harry is at Oxford now.”
The Prince turned away and picked up the candle.
“William,” he called softly.
M. Bentinck came to the door.
“Have we nothing?” asked the Prince.
“M. Beverningh has discovered a bottle of beer in the cupboard and I am burning it.… M. de Zuylestein finds the wine drinkable, he says.”
“But for Bromley, I mean.”
M. Bentinck fetched a glass of the boiled wine and handed it to the Prince.
“We have nothing else.”
William made no reply.
“You had best take some, sir; and the bread, too, is not so unpalatable.”
The Prince gave the stuff a sick look.
“Get me some water,” he said, putting it down.
“Well,” answered M. Bentinck, with a grim smile, “M. de Zuylestein and M. Beverningh are making a meal.”
The Prince returned to the bed, and in a while M. Bentinck brought the water in a dull green glass.
Matthew Bromley stared up at them.
“Am I dying?” he asked abruptly.
He took the water, drank with avidity, then murmured—
“I must write home.”
M. Bentinck left the room. The heat seemed to increase. Some one was reciting a psalm outside in a gabbling voice, another groaned bitterly.
The swinging lamp was going out with a harsh stench of oil.
The Prince crossed the room to quench it, as he moved Mr. Bromley called out rapidly—
“I was shot through the lungs in my first engagement; I died in a cottage outside Utrecht; I was shot through the lungs; I am writing to Harry.” He suddenly laughed. “I am glad I saw those French players before I left the Hague.… I shall never get another chance.”
William had turned out the lamp, they were left with only the light of the tallow candle on the mantelpiece.
The Prince came back to his gentleman, who lay in a half stupor, pulling at his coverlet with clumsy fingers.
“Bromley,” his young master bent over him, “you are dying.… I must tell you.… We have no clergyman, but you could pray——”
“No Calvinist,” muttered Mr. Bromley.
“God,” said the Prince vehemently, “knows no creed.”
Mr. Bromley gave a little sigh, as if his mind had suddenly cleared.
“Is not Your Highness in despair?” he asked weakly.
“Why?”
“Because the French beat us … and there seems no hope for you.”
“How can I despair?” answered the young General. “God has me by the hand.”
The dying man glanced at him sharply and curiously—
“Does Your Highness—believe—like that?”
William smiled.
“Could I live if I did not believe?”
Matthew Bromley’s blue eyes were still fixed on him intently.
“I never thought of it—much—but I detain Your Highness——”
“No, no, there is nothing I can do till the dawn.”
“In my coat——”
His voice failed.
“Yes?”
“There is a book—a Prayer-book.”
“I will get it.”
“If Your Highness could read it—in English.”
William pressed his hand.
The wind struggled in the great barns outside, and the coarse yellow flame shuddered in the hot air from the high window.
In the kitchen could be seen M. Zuylestein asleep on the settle and M. Beverningh at the table sipping his boiled wine.
“There are some papers too,” whispered Mr. Bromley. “Love-letters—and bills; burn them, they are so foolish.”
The Prince turned over the stained and bloody coat and found the Anglican Prayer-book.
“I wonder why I brought it,” said the Englishman vaguely.
William seated himself beside the bed and began turning over the unfamiliar leaves.
“The prayer for the departing,” murmured Matthew Bromley.
The Prince put his hand to his forehead; his head was so heavy that he could hardly hold it up, and the scanty light scarcely permitted him to read the foreign print.
Matthew Bromley closed his eyes.
William had never looked on death before to-day, but he did not fail to mark that it was very near.
“What shall I read?” he asked.
“For the … sick.”
Mr. Bromley moaned a little.
The Prince found the place, his tired but fervent voice came through the distraction of other sounds.
“‘Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons; we humbly commend the soul of this Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands——’”
“Into Thy hands,” whispered Mr. Bromley.
“‘—as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour; most humbly beseeching Thee, that it may be precious in Thy sight——’”
The wind and the restless complainings without were unceasing. Mr. Bromley clasped his hands on his breast; the Prince read on carefully—
“‘—and teach us who survive, in this and like daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail and uncertain our own condition is; and so to number our days, that we may seriously apply our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom, whilst we live here.…’
“I read so ill, my poor English,” murmured the Prince.
“No—I understand.”
“‘—which may in the end bring us to life everlasting, through the merits of Jesus Christ our Lord——’”
“Amen.”
Matthew Bromley’s life was sinking fast; like a sea receding was the blue light in his eyes, each second farther away.
William went on his knees by the aperture of the bed.
“In Thee, Lord, have I put my trust; let me never be put to confusion, but rid me and deliver me in Thy righteousness; incline Thine ear unto me and save me——”
Mr. Bromley stretched out his cold, pale hand.
“I thank Your Highness.”
“Do not think of me but of God.”
The two young men, both so white, so haggard, so dishevelled, that the one drawing his last breath was hardly to be told from him who comforted, clasped hands in the hot shadows of the peasant’s bed.
Mr. Bromley made a movement as if to draw the Prince towards him.
“I would I had lived to see Your Highness fortunate,” he breathed. Then, “God … God … He is very pitiful.…”
With that he sighed, three times—and died with the gentlest stilling of his breath.
The Prince drew back a little; then lifted Mr. Bromley’s hands and crossed them on his breast.
Death had come so softly the pillow and coverlet were not disturbed by unavailing struggles nor was Matthew Bromley. He looked at rest.
The Prince pulled the curtain, and went to the stained velvet coat hanging over the high-backed chair.
In the pockets were letters, charms, and a snuff-box full of gold pieces.
William burnt the papers without reading them, and left the money and the Prayer-book on the chair.
Then he re-entered the kitchen. M. Bentinck was smoking a short clay.
“Matthew Bromley is dead,” said the Prince.
“Poor soul!” answered William Bentinck. M. Beverningh was silent, and M. de Zuylestein asleep.
The Prince went to the window, coughing; M. Bentinck guiltily knocked out his pipe.
“What will you do to-morrow?” he asked.
“Get into Utrecht,” said the Captain General briefly.
M. Beverningh looked up.
“If they will not defend the place they shall at least provision us,” added the Prince.
Now Beverningh spoke.
“They will refuse us admission, Highness.”
“It is my will and purpose to enter Utrecht to-morrow,” answered William.
“Meanwhile——” M. Bentinck began, when the door was flung open and a young officer entered.
“Your Highness——”
He was agitated, breathing hard, and carried a pistol.
William came forward out of the shadows.
“What is it?”
“The Friesland regiments, Sir … they mutiny. I know not what to do.”
M. Bentinck rose and softly latched the swinging door.
“Why do they mutiny?” asked the Prince.
“Sir, they say they are starving, and that it is but waiting here to be cut to pieces, and that the country is lost, and that they will submit to the King of France and go back to their homes——”
“You speak as if not over confident yourself, Mynheer,” said William, holding up his head.
“Truly, Your Highness, affairs are desperate.”
“If we despair they are desperate indeed,” replied the Captain General sternly. “It is our duty, Mynheer, not to despair.”
“But these men?” asked M. Beverningh.
“I will go and speak to them,” said the Prince quietly.
“Your Highness has done enough,” protested William Bentinck.
“I do what it would seem there is no one else to do,” was the answer.
He picked up his cloak from the window-seat and flung it over his tattered uniform.
“Have you no lantern?” he asked the officer.
“Sir, the moon is up.”
M. Bentinck, with an impatient look at M. Zuylestein, who was still very contentedly asleep, made ready to accompany the Prince, and the three started out through the encampment.
The wind had dropped, sweeping away the clouds with it, and a full moon was high in the dark sky.
Tents had now been rigged up here and there; several men were moving about with lanterns, many sleeping on the ground; under a little grove of alders a row of horses were tied, beyond them could be distinguished the gaunt shapes of waggons and guns.
Unnoticed the three made their way to the other end of the meadows where the Frieslanders were encamped.
There were perhaps three hundred of them, and they sat about sullenly among their dead.
They had refused to see after their horses, to bury the corpses, even to tend the wounded; their one answer was to demand food of their officers, and to repeat they would not be cut to bits by the French.
The defection of Utrecht had set an ill example. If that great city was afraid of Louis what could others do but make their peace with him?…
An officer on horseback rode out when he saw the little company advancing.
“Here are the Prince and M. Bentinck,” said his messenger.
The other dismounted.
“Ah, Your Highness—I was loath to send to you—but the men are beyond all management, and I fear if the disaffection spreads to the others——”
“You did very well, Mynheer——”
The Prince coughed, and resumed, “I will speak to them.”
“Will Your Highness take my horse?”
William mounted and rode in amongst the men, M. Bentinck and the two officers at his stirrup.
Not knowing him they let him pass without a salute; they believed that it was one of their own captains.
William suddenly halted and bent from the saddle towards a little group who stood whispering together.
“Do you not know me?” he asked.
They fell apart and looked up.
His face was quite clear in the moonlight; for he wore no hat, and his hair was tied back in his neck.
“I think that you know me,” he said. “Go fetch the others, for I would speak to you.”
They moved back, half reluctantly.
“All these men have arms, Highness,” warned the officer.
“They will not turn them on me,” answered the Prince.
But M. Bentinck felt uneasy; for William had drawn rein on a slope of the ground, he was an unprotected object for any carbine that might be levelled out of the shadows of the camp.
The news seemed to spread with silent swiftness.
The men gathered in groups of fours and fives, forming up without noise until there was a thick semicircle of them round the Prince.
It seemed they would listen to what he had to say, at least.
William looked keenly over his mute, half-seen audience, and began to speak in his low, deliberate voice—
“I hear that you have fallen into mutinies and disobedience, which is an ill thing for soldiers, and that you do complain of hardships, thereby giving yourselves an evil distinction, for you are the only companies of mine who have so complained.
“I do entreat you remember yourselves, for as surely as those that stand by me will come to ultimate glory, so surely will I have the lives of those who rebel.”
He paused a moment, and there was the slightest movement among the soldiers.
“You bore yourselves very well to-day against great odds, and for the discomforts you endure I am sorry, but I do tell you this, you shall have food soon, for if the city of Utrecht is false we will get provisions from Amsterdam, for I have sent there to raise money on my private credit, and as long as I have a guilder you shall not starve. Now for another matter. I hear some of you talk of deserting to King Louis; now any man who does that is a coward and a traitor and a fool, for the French are unjust and cruel masters, and would make slaves of you—a thing which is hateful to you.
“For love of liberty is a strong thing in this country, and ye were born free.…
“My great-grandfather made this State, rescuing it from the most bloody tyranny of Rome, and the Princes of his race have always followed his example, to the great good of this people, and while I lead you, I tell you, you shall never be slaves nor subjected to France.
“And I pray you to be of good hope and of a cheerful spirit, for certainly I will deliver you from foreign dominion.
“Alva, Don Juan, Farnese failed, and shall Turenne and Condé succeed?… Philip was a great king, but we bitterly repulsed him, with God’s grace and some valour.
“Think of these things, for they will hearten you and make you see how impossible it is that you should forsake your liberty and your religion, which are such holy things that to die for them would be a noble death, and no one but a very paltry man fears to die well.…
“Now, I ask you to ponder what I have said, and obey your officers and do your duty; and such of you as do not I will certainly hang, for he who is not repentant now is no better than a traitor.
“And as for what I have said about the provisions, you have my word on it, and therefore may rest tranquil, for I am Nassau.”
As he finished there was a murmur and a sound of many men drawing their breath.
“Ye who are obedient, lay down your arms,” said the Prince.
Instantly carbines, bayonets, and pistols clattered on the ground.
“Take them up and hold them ready to use again as you used them to-day,” flashed William. “For God and the United Provinces!”
A long, sobbing shout rose from the Frieslanders:—
“God, the United Provinces, and William of Nassau!”
The Prince waved his hand to them and rode away as three hundred voices broke into St. Aldegonde’s hymn of liberty, “William of Nassau.”
At the edge of the encampment the Prince dismounted; after his long speech he was very silent.
“Your Highness has utterly quelled all discontent,” murmured the officer. “God keep Your Highness—they were greatly moved——”
“Good-night,” said William; “they will obey now, Mynheer.”
He took M. Bentinck’s arm and turned across the camp.
Neither spoke a word until they reached the cottage, then William uttered some incoherent sentence as M. Bentinck unlatched the door.
“Your Highness is ill!”
The Prince took a step forward and fell into his friend’s arms, completely unconscious.
“My God!” whispered Bentinck.
He pushed open the door and called M. Beverningh, who came showing a frightened face.
M. Bentinck lifted the Prince easily enough and carried him into the kitchen.
M. de Zuylestein was awake now and poring over a map on the polished table.
He got to his feet with a little exclamation under his breath.
As they had no manner of bed or couch they laid the Prince on some cloaks along the floor.
In a bewildered way they looked at each other.
“You should never have let him go,” said M. Beverningh. “A strong man could not have stood what he has put upon himself——”
“You made no protest,” retorted William Bentinck.
“What influence have I?”
“No—nor any man.” M. Bentinck frowned. “Well, if he falls sick there is an end to all of it—for he alone holds us together.”
Catching up the candle he flickered it across the Prince’s unconscious face.
M. de Zuylestein was unbuckling his nephew’s rusty armour.
“He is not wounded,” he said; “ye should never have let him go out again——”