inclined to listen to the overtures made her by the States-General,
but she finally refused. Desirous, however, of exercising some
influence in the country, she sent over her prime favourite, the Earl
of Leicester (with his gallant nephew, Sir Philip Sidney), at the head
of a large contingent of British troops. He had stringent rules laid
down for his conduct, most of which he infringed. Not long after his
arrival he was inaugurated in the post of Governor-General of the
United Provinces, with supreme military command by land and sea, and
authority in matters civil and political. In these capacities the
States proffered him an oath of fidelity, a step in which Maurice
himself was reluctantly compelled to join. Leicester’s whole conduct
in the Netherlands was actuated by overweening ambition and the basest
covetousness; while in accepting such high-sounding titles he incurred
the Queen’s anger,—‘acting in direct opposition,’ says Motley, ‘to the
commands of the most imperious woman in the world.’
A courtier at home, no way friendly to the arrogant favourite, told
Elizabeth how Leicester’s head was turned by the honours heaped on
him, and how he had sent over to England to bid his Countess join him,
with a suite, and all appliances, in order to form a Court equal in
splendour to her own. ‘Indeed!’ was the angry reply; ‘we will teach
the upstarts that there is but one Queen, and her name is Elizabeth;
and they shall have no other Court but hers!’
To return to Maurice: John Barneveldt (who had constituted himself the
youth’s political guardian), although opposed to the idea of his
elevation to a throne, stoutly advocated his nomination to the post of
Stadtholder, a measure that was carried after a severe struggle. It
was by the side of this trusty friend that the young Prince first went
into action; but his first military achievement was planned and
carried into execution jointly with Sir Philip Sidney, namely, the
taking of Axel, an important stronghold, which they carried without
the loss of a single man in the combined forces of the English and
Dutch troops.
A close friendship existed between Maurice of Nassau and our gallant
countryman, in spite of the latter’s near relationship to the
obnoxious Leicester, who had warned his nephew to be prudent in his
dealings with Maurice. ‘I find no treachery in the young man,’ was the
reply, ‘only a bold and intelligent love of adventure.’ The two brave
soldiers maintained their brotherhood in arms, until the fatal day
when Sir Philip received his death-wound at the battle of Zutphen. His
undaunted courage and proverbial humanity gained him the love and
admiration of his allies and countrymen, and the respect of his
enemies.
In 1587 Leicester was recalled by the Queen, and compelled to return
to England. He was detested by the majority of the Dutch nation, who
had by this time discovered his plots and treacherous schemes, and his
departure cleared the way for the further display of Maurice’s
political and military talents. He was nominated Governor
Commander-in-chief of five out of the seven United Provinces which
formed the Confederacy: and no one could surely have been better
fitted for such responsible posts. In the early days of his government
he was inclined to leave the reins in the hands of Barneveldt, while
he devoted himself theoretically, as well as practically, to the study
of war. His leisure hours were passed in forming combinations and
executing manœuvres with pewter soldiers; in building up and battering
down, in storming and carrying wooden blocks of mimic citadels; in
fact, in arranging systems of attack, pursuit, retreat, and defence on
his table, all of which he afterwards most effectually carried out on
the field of actual warfare; while for hours together he would pore
over the works of classical authors in the art of strategy.
Maurice introduced the strictest discipline into the army, but he was
the friend and comrade of his soldiers, sharing their privations, and
exacting for them, from the hands of the Government, the pay which had
of late been but too irregularly disbursed. His clemency to his
prisoners formed a brilliant contrast to the cruelties practised by
most of the Generals of his time, barring one or two occasions, when
driven to take reprisals. This he did, indeed, as a warning to the
Spaniards not to deal hardly with the Dutch who had fallen into their
hands. He was most severe on his own soldiers for disobedience of
orders; and with his own hand he shot one of his men, who had been
convicted of plundering a peasant.
The campaigns of 1590-92 against the Spanish troops were for the most
part as successful as they were brilliant, and in 1596 an alliance,
offensive and defensive, was concluded with France and England.
Maurice’s victories on the Rhine were so important as to induce the
Spanish king to offer him most flattering terms, which were refused,
and the war continued. We have neither space nor inclination to enter
on the history of Maurice’s campaigns. How could we do so in our
limited space, or attempt the military memoirs of a general who was
said to have won three pitched battles, to have taken thirty-eight
strong towns and forty-five castles, and to cause the enemy to raise
twelve sieges—the great general of the age, ‘the chief captain of
Christendom,’ as Queen Elizabeth called him—the rival in arms of the
formidable Spinola?
Yet we cannot resist the temptation of alluding to one or two passages
in his military life which have a picturesque or characteristic side
to the occurrence.
The taking of Zutphen was one of those ingenious _ruses de guerre_ in
which Maurice delighted. One bright morning five or six peasants, with
their wives, made their appearance under the walls of the town, laden
with baskets of provisions,—no uncommon, yet a tempting sight. They
sat down on the grass, and had not long to wait before several
soldiers of the garrison came out, and began bartering for the
contents of the said baskets. Suddenly a woman drew a pistol from
under her petticoat, and shot the man dead who was haggling over the
price of her eggs.
In a moment, the peasants, transformed into soldiers, sprang on the
guard, overpowered, bound them, and took possession of the gate; while
a large body of men, who had been lying in ambush, rushed to their
assistance, and, following up the advantage, carried the place without
the loss of a single man on their side.
Maurice of Orange, unlike the first Napoleon, was a great economiser
of life, although so unchary of his own, that he was reprimanded in
his youth by the States for rashly exposing himself to danger.
The Spaniards thought to depreciate his strategical talents by saying,
‘Qu’il ne sçavoit, que le méstier des taupes, de se tapir en terre;’
but he was as successful in open warfare as he was ingenious in
stratagem. The taking of Nieuport, which for some time seemed a
forlorn hope, was one of his most memorable victories. It resulted in
the precipitate flight of the Archduke Albert (the governor of that
portion of the Netherlands still under Spanish rule), and the entire
rout of his army; and this at the very moment that the Infanta
Isabella (Albert’s wife), reckoning without her host, was expecting to
see the Prince of Orange brought into her presence—a prisoner. More
than once during the battle the fortunes of the patriots seemed to
tremble in the balance; but Maurice’s calmness never forsook him, and
his devoted soldiery emulated their General in courage and
determination. When assured that the day was gained, the hero, who had
been unmoved in danger, was overcome by emotion. He leaped from his
saddle, and, kneeling in the sand, raised his streaming eyes to
heaven, exclaiming, ‘O God, what are we human creatures, to whom Thou
hast brought such honour, and vouchsafed such a victory?’
So total was the discomfiture of the Spaniards, so hasty their
retreat, that they left a precious booty for the Dutch, in the shape
of ammunition, treasure, and baggage. Amongst other personal property
of the Archduke, his favourite charger fell to the share of an officer
in the Stadtholder’s army, who had often heard the Prince express
great admiration for the horse in question. He therefore lost no time
in presenting his prize to the General. Now, in the possession of Lord
Powerscourt, there is an exquisitely finished cabinet portrait of the
great captain, in gorgeous armour, mounted on a milk-white barb, with
a wondrous luxuriance of mane and tail, which nearly sweep the ground.
We often hear of a horse who seems to take pride in carrying his
master; but here the case is obviously reversed. The rider is proud of
his horse. The Prince evinces an undoubted pride in the milk-white
steed he mounts, and he called upon his favourite painter, Miereveldt,
to immortalise his treasure. With such strong circumstantial evidence,
we may surely take it for granted that Lord Powerscourt’s gem
illustrates our anecdote of the victory of Nieuport.
One more example of our hero’s strategical powers, and we have done.
The taking of Breda was so ingeniously conceived, so bravely executed,
that we cannot pass it over in silence. The grand and strongly
fortified castle which dominated the town of Breda had once been the
residence of the Nassau family, and was indeed, by law, the property
of Prince Maurice. It was in the hands of the enemy, garrisoned by a
large band of Italian soldiers, under the command of the Duke of
Parma, who was however absent at the time of which we are speaking,
the Duke having left a young compatriot in command, Lanza Vecchia by
name. One night, when quartered at the Castle of Voorn, in Zeeland,
Maurice received a mysterious nocturnal visit from a certain boatman
called Adrian, who had once been a servant in the Nassau family, and
was now employed in carrying turf for fuel into the Castle of Breda.
Adrian offered his boat and his services to the Prince, assuring him
that the little vessel could enter the water-gate without suspicion.
The notion was after Maurice’s own heart. He took counsel with
Barneveldt, and it was arranged that the boatman should be at a
certain ferry the next night at twelve o’clock. The carrying out of
this daring scheme was, by Barneveldt’s advice, intrusted to one
Heraugière, a man of undoubted valour, who having fallen into
temporary disgrace, would be most willing (urged his advocate) to
redeem his character with the General. Sixty-eight men were selected
from different regiments, with three officers as his comrades in the
hazardous enterprise, who all proceeded to the rendezvous at the
appointed hour. Adrian himself did not appear. His heart failed him,
and he sent two nephews in his stead, whom he designated as
‘dare-devils.’ It was certainly no undertaking for faint hearts to
embark in. The devoted little band went on board the boat, and stowed
themselves away as best they might under the piles of turf with which
the bark was ostensibly laden. Everything seemed leagued against them:
fog, sleet, large blocks of ice, impeded their progress, while the
weather proved most tempestuous, and the wind contrary.
From Monday night till Thursday morning seventy men lay huddled
together almost suffocated, enduring hunger, thirst, and intense cold
without a murmur, without regret at having undertaken so perilous a
duty. At one time they were compelled to creep out and steal to a
neighbouring castle, in order to procure some refreshment, and it was
not till Saturday morning that they entered the last sluice, and all
possibility of retreat was at an end,—that handful of men, half frozen
with cold, half crippled by confinement to so small a space, to cope
with a whole garrison of vigorous and well-fed soldiers! An officer
came on board to inspect the fuel, of which he said they stood sorely
in need, and went into the little cabin, where the hidden men could
see him plainly, and hear every word he uttered. No sooner had he gone
on shore than the keel struck against some obstruction. The vessel
sprang a leak, and began to fill.
All was surely now lost, and the men who came to unload the boat made
her safe, close under the guard-house, and proceeded with their work.
To add to the soldiers’ danger, the damp and cold had brought on fits
of sneezing and coughing, which it was most difficult to resist. One
of these gallant men, who well deserved his name of ‘Held,’[2] feeling
his cough impossible to control, drew his dagger and besought the
soldier next him to stab him to the heart, lest he should cause the
failure of the enterprise and the destruction of his comrades. But
thanks to the ingenuity of the skipper, this noble fellow lived to
glory in the success of the undertaking, and his name still lives in
the hearts and memory of his countrymen. The dare-devil came to the
rescue; he set the pumps going, which deadened every other sound, and
there he stood, worthy of the sobriquet his uncle had given him,
exchanging jokes with the labourers and the purchasers, and at length
dismissing them all with a few stivers for ‘drink-geld,’ saying it was
much too late to unload any more turf that night.
Footnote 2:
Hero.
So they all departed, excepting the servant of the captain of the
guard, who was most difficult to get rid of, chattering and gossiping,
and complaining of delay.
‘Be content,’ said the skipper, one of those men who must have his
joke, even in moments when life and death are at stake; ‘the best part
of the cargo is at the bottom, and it is reserved for your master. He
is sure to get enough of it to-morrow.’
The dare-devil’s words were verified to the letter; a little before
midnight the Dutch entered the town, killed every man in the
guard-room, and took possession of the arsenal. The garrison fled in
all directions, and the burghers followed their example, young Lanza
Vecchia, although himself wounded, striving in vain to rally his men.
Count Hohenloe, brother-in-law to Maurice, was the first to enter the
town at the head of large reinforcements, shortly followed by the
Prince himself. The despatch sent to Barneveldt was as follows: ‘The
castle and town of Breda are ours. We have not lost a single man. The
garrison made no resistance, but fled distracted out of the town.’
How reluctantly we turn the page whereon Maurice’s golden deeds are
inscribed, and come to a new episode in his life, on which a dark
shadow rests! Little by little the differences of opinion which had
long existed between the Stadtholder and the Advocate Barneveldt
ripened into open enmity. The latter was at the head of the peace
party, while Maurice declared for continuous warfare, in spite of
which a general truce of several years was concluded, beneath which
the Prince’s restless spirit chafed and fretted.
There could also be little doubt that Maurice aimed at a crown, while
Barneveldt was a staunch republican. A more deadly cause of enmity was
now springing up, for the torch of religious discord was aflame in
Holland, between two opposing sects, the Gomarites and the Arminians.
The former accused the latter of being more lax than the Papists,
while the Arminians loudly declared the Gomarites to be cruel and
intolerant, and the God they worshipped unjust and merciless.
For the most part, the clergy, with many of the upper classes, headed
by Maurice and his family, favoured the Gomarites; while Barneveldt,
with the municipal body, upheld the Arminian doctrines. Political and
religious differences waxed fiercer each day that passed, and Maurice
forgot all he owed to the guardian of his youth.
Barneveldt’s star was setting; slander and calumny of all kinds were
busy with the name of this single-minded, large-hearted old man, whom
the Stadtholder did not disdain in his anger to accuse of secret
negotiations with Spain. In a letter to the Prince, Barneveldt bewails
their estrangement, for which he had ‘given no cause, having always
been your faithful servant, and with God’s blessing, so will I
remain.’
He went on to say he had done good service to the State for upwards of
forty years, and as far as religious opinions went, he had never
changed. But neither his public nor private appeals stood him in good
stead: he was denounced as a traitor and a sceptic; libellous
pamphlets, shameful and absurd accusations, were disseminated against
him. One great bone of contention between the two sects was the
convening of a Synod, on which the Stadtholder and the States had
determined. To dissuade the Prince from this step, the Advocate asked
an interview, which was granted. Here is the picture, drawn by a
master hand: The Advocate, an imposing magisterial figure, wrapped in
a long black velvet cloak, leaning on his staff, tall, but bent with
age and anxiety, haggard and pale, with long grey beard, and stern
blue eyes. What a contrast to the florid, plethoric Prince!—in big
russet boots, shabby felt hat encircled by a string of diamonds, his
hand clutching his sword-hilt, and his eyes full of angry menace,—the
very type of the high-born, imperious soldier. Thus they stood and
surveyed each other for a time, those two men, once fast friends,
between whom a gulf was now fixed. Expostulations, recriminations,
passed, Barneveldt strongly deprecating the idea of the Synod, which
he was well assured would only lead to more ill feeling rather than to
any adjustment of differences; in answer to which Maurice curtly
announced that the measure was decided on, and then opposed a stubborn
silence (as was his wont when thwarted) to all the arguments and
eloquence of the Advocate. That meeting was their last on earth.
Not long after this interview, as Barneveldt was one day sitting in
his garden, he was visited by two friends, of authority in the State,
who had come to warn him of the plan that had been formed for his
arrest. He received the intelligence calmly, remarking he knew well
‘there were wicked men about;’ then, lifting his hat courteously, he
added, ‘I thank you, gentlemen, for your warning.’ He continued his
steady course as heretofore, and was accordingly shortly afterwards
arrested on his way to the Session, and lodged in prison; his intimate
friend, the learned Grotius, and several other leading members of the
Arminian community, were imprisoned at the same time. The treatment
which Barneveldt was subjected to in his captivity was most
inconsiderate and severe; indeed, the only mercy vouchsafed to him was
the attendance of his faithful body-servant; he was not allowed
communication with the outer world, although, on more than one
occasion, he contrived to elude the vigilance of his keepers by means
of a few words concealed in a quill or the centre of a fruit. His
books and papers were taken from him; he was denied the assistance of
a lawyer or a secretary to prepare his defence, or even pen and ink
for his own use; and when he asked for a list of the charges which
were to be brought against him, he was refused.
In spite of all these hindrances, when summoned before a ‘packed’
tribunal, his defence was noble, eloquent, and manly, although his
enemies insultingly called it a confession. He was accused of
troubling the Church of God, sowing dissension in the Provinces, and
calumniating his Excellency, and—crowning injustice—was declared a
traitor to his native country. John Olden de Barneveldt!—was there any
one in that Assembly whose love was so profound for his God, his
country, and his Prince? He was not present when the final sentence
was passed, namely, that he should suffer death by the sword, and that
all his goods should be confiscate; but when the news was brought, the
prisoner received it with the calm dignity which always characterised
him.
From ‘my chamber of sorrow’ he wrote a touching farewell (pen and ink
being grudgingly accorded him) to his family, which he signed ‘from
your loving husband, father, grandfather, and father-in-law.’ In all
these relations of life Barneveldt had been dearly loved, and his home
had been the scene of ‘domestic bliss;’ the only paradise that has
survived the fall.
He intrusted the clergyman who ministered to him with a message to the
Prince of Orange, assuring him that he had always loved and served him
as far as it was consistent with his duty to the State, and his
principles. He craved forgiveness if he had ever failed towards him in
any point, and concluded by earnestly recommending his children to the
care of his Excellency.
Maurice received the messenger with tears in his eyes, on his part
declaring that he had always had a sincere affection for Barneveldt,
though there were one or two things he found it hard to forgive, such
as the accusation, which the Advocate brought against him, of aspiring
to the sovereignty; but he did forgive all, and as regarded the
children, he would befriend them as long as they continued to deserve
it. With these poor crumbs of comfort the clergyman went back to the
prison.
It must not be supposed that no efforts were made to save De
Barneveldt: the French Ambassador used all his persuasions and all his
eloquence, the widowed Princess of Orange wrote to her stepson to
entreat him to save his father’s friend, and the friend of his boyhood
and early life; but for the first time Maurice was deaf to the appeal
of Louisa de Coligny, and excused himself from seeing her on frivolous
pretences. Some surprise was expressed that the wife and family of De
Barneveldt did not petition the Stadtholder, and it was even whispered
that if either the wife or daughter-in-law (both women distinguished
by noble birth and noble hearts) had sought an interview with Prince
Maurice, it might have been granted; but they relied on a promise,
perhaps, that no harm should come to the prisoner, even as our
Strafford did, a few years later. The venerable captive prepared for
death, declining an interview with his relations, lest the sight of
those dear ones should unnerve him, and destroy the composure which it
was so essential to maintain, while it was carefully withheld from him
how earnestly his family had desired to see him once more.
The night previous to the execution his good servant took up his post
at the head of his master’s bed to receive his last instructions, but
was warned off by one of the sentinels.
However, no sooner did the surly fellow fall asleep than this faithful
friend, by dint of bribes and persuasions, prevailed on his comrade to
let him return to the bedside. Barneveldt evinced great anxiety
respecting his beloved friend Grotius,[3] fearing he might share the
same fate. He sent tender messages to his family, recommending the
bearer to their protection, and expressed his regret, if, stung by
indignation at the loathsome slanders published against him, he had at
any time spoken too fiercely and vehemently.
Footnote 3:
Grotius was imprisoned for two years, and finally escaped in a case
of books, through the medium of his wife.
The next morning he rose quietly. ‘Come and help me, good John,’ said
he; ‘it is the last time that I shall require your services.’ When the
clergyman entered and asked if he had slept, he said he had not, but
was much soothed and strengthened by the beautiful passages he had
been reading in a French version of the Psalms. Why linger over these
sad details?
In the great hall where the judges were assembled, the prisoner
listened wearily to the long rambling sentence, and demurred several
times at its flagrant injustice. When the clerk had concluded, he
said, ‘I thought, my Lords, the States-General would have had enough
of my life, and blood, without depriving my wife and children of their
property. Is this my recompense for forty-three years of service to
the Provinces?’
The President rose with this cruel reply on his lips: ‘You have heard
the sentence—away, away! that is enough.’
The old man obeyed, leaning on his staff, and, followed by his
faithful John and the guard, he passed on to death on the scaffold,
and, looking down, addressed the mob: ‘Men,’ he said, ‘do not believe
that I am a traitor; I have lived as a patriot, and as a patriot I
will die.’
He himself drew the cap over his eyes, ejaculating, ‘Christ shall be
my guide; O Lord, my Heavenly Father, receive my spirit.’ Then
kneeling down, as he desired, with his face directed towards his home,
he begged the executioner to use all despatch; the heavy sword was
swung, the noble head was struck off at a blow, and the soul of John
Olden de Barneveldt took flight for a land where ingratitude and
injustice are alike unknown.
We are told that the Stadtholder sat in his cabinet with closed doors,
and forbade any one wearing his livery to go abroad, or be seen in the
streets during the execution of the Advocate; nay, it is further
recorded that he evinced some emotion on hearing that all was over.
But sadly did he neglect an opportunity that presented itself, not
very long afterwards, of showing some spark of that generosity which
once characterised him.