THE POLICY OF M. DE WITT
Mynheer Gaspard Fagel was roused by persistent knocking on his door.
He sat up in his bed and cursed roundly. He was working almost to the
limit of his strength and contenting himself with about four hours’
rest, and his one feeling was rage at being disturbed. He pulled back
the curtains and shouted angrily--
“Come in--in God’s name!”
His servant entered, in hastily snatched-up garments.
“What is the matter?” demanded Gaspard Fagel sharply, his vexation
giving place to alarm.
“Mynheer, the Grand Pensionary is below,” cried the servant. “Oh,
Mynheer, is it the French, and shall we all be murdered in our beds?”
“Be quiet, you fool!” M. Fagel sprang on to the floor. “Get me my
dressing-gown.… M. de Witt below?” By the aid of the light that the
man held he glanced at his watch on the table by his bed; it was four
o’clock.
“Yes, Mynheer--he must see you at once he says.”
“Is he agitated?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces,
snatching up his slippers.
“He is the same as ever, Mynheer--but something dreadful must have
happened to bring him here at this hour.”
Gaspard Fagel was of the same opinion, nothing but an affair of great
moment could have brought M. de Witt to see him--and at this hour.
“It is the French,” repeated the servant, who seemed utterly confounded.
“Put that candle down or you will set the house on fire with your
trembling,” said M. Fagel, struggling into his clothes. “And don’t talk
so much of the French--the Prince of Orange is between us and them.”
“M. de Witt must have heard from His Highness, Mynheer.”
“Hold your tongue----”
M. Fagel snatched up the candle.
“And get back to your bed,” he said angrily, “and see to it you rouse
no one else.”
With that he left the room, and, half dressed, clad in a blue, flowered
dressing-gown, descended to the parlour where M. de Witt awaited him.
A candle, hastily lit, stood on the table; it but feebly illumined the
small, handsomely appointed room.
Standing by the mantelshelf, wrapped in a black velvet mantle, was the
Grand Pensionary.
He held his hat and his gloves in his hand. He was pallid, his lips
tightly drawn, his eyes narrowed with an intent expression.
“Good morning,” said M. Fagel, a little flushed and breathless.
“Ah, Mynheer Fagel.”
John de Witt appeared perfectly composed; he spoke quietly.
“Ill news?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces.
He was something embarrassed by the sudden presence under his roof of
the man who was both his adversary and his rival.
“Will you not be seated?” added M. Fagel.
The Grand Pensionary took the chair nearest to him.
“I have come directly here from the Binnenhof,” he said.
M. Fagel lit the other candles on the table and looked at M. de Witt
over the flames.
“You have had bad news?” he hazarded, puckering his brows.
“Yes, M. Fagel, I have.”
The Secretary caught at the tassels of the blue dressing-gown.
“From de Ruyter?”
“No--I have heard nothing from him.”
“From the Prince?” M. Fagel’s voice came somewhat hoarsely.
“No--my news is from Maestricht--from the Rhyngrave.”
De Witt raised his head sharply as he spoke and regarded the other man.
Across the wavering lights and shadows their eyes met.
“Well?” demanded M. Fagel.
John de Witt raised his hand to his breast.
“This--the French have crossed the Rhine----”
Gaspard Fagel stepped back.
“Crossed the Rhine?”
“--on the 9th--they are marching on the Yssel … one hundred thousand
strong.”
“God!” cried Gaspard Fagel. He sank into the chair beside him, his
dressing-gown flowing open over his shirt. “Oh! … my God!”
There was no change in John de Witt’s pale, proud face.
“Their leader is Condé … our outposts were undefended … the French
hardly lost a man … every fort guarding the Rhine has fallen.”
M. Fagel put his hand to his brow, it seemed as if he would tear his
hair.
“We are defended by cowards, it seems!” he exclaimed. “Has _every_
garrison surrendered?”
“Every one.”
“And Maestricht … Bois le Duc … Nymwegen?”
“They can scarce escape.”
“And Condé?”
“He marches on Utrecht.”
“Utrecht!”
“Wesel hath fallen--and half the Republic is lost with that.”
“And the campaign hath been opened nine days.…”
“In nine more Condé may be at the Hague.”
“But the Prince?”
“He falls back on Utrecht.”
“Without an engagement?”
“He dare not risk one it would seem--he has not written to me.”
“Had he no soldiers on the Rhine?” cried M. Fagel, incredulous.
“M. de Montbas, with two regiments of cavalry----”
“And he?”
“Was cut to pieces or--fled.”
“Ah, you do not know?”
“Not yet.”
“This is a creditable beginning!”
M. de Witt put his hand over his eyes.
“M. de Luxembourg is burning and slaying … like Alva … they are already
drunk with victory.”
“What is to be done?”
“What hope have we if Utrecht falls!”
“The Prince will defend it----”
“The Prince is defending the Yssel.”
“We must send more levies.”
“Ah, M. Fagel, have I not strained every nerve already to send more
levies?”
“What is to be done?”
“God hath been pleased to put us in bitter straits.”
“What do you propose, Mynheer? What shall we do?”
It was a long time since Gaspard Fagel had deigned to ask the Grand
Pensionary’s advice, but in the hour of terror and alarm the weaker
nature threw aside pride and recognised the stronger.
M. de Witt uncovered his eyes and raised his head.
“I have come here to you, now, Mynheer, with my suggestion.”
“To me?”
John de Witt gave him a steady, mournful glance.
“You are no longer my friend, I know, M. Fagel.”
“Mynheer----!” protested the Secretary in a fluster of agitation.
“That is understood between us--I come to you as to the chief of the
Orange party in the absence of His Highness.”
These two had been friends once, and allies, before Gaspard Fagel had
been led by ambition to envy the position of the Grand Pensionary and
serve the Prince.
At John de Witt’s calm, sad recognition of their estrangement and its
motive the Secretary was silent.
“You represent the party that has always been for war, M. Fagel, as I
that for peace--you have, perhaps, more influence in the Assembly than
I----”
“M. de Witt----”
The Grand Pensionary silenced him.
“It is true.”
M. Fagel wiped his lips.
“What do you want of me?”
“Your help in the Assembly.”
“For what end?”
For the first time John de Witt showed some agitation.
“That we may possibly, under God’s help, avert the disaster that
threatens us.”
“In what manner?”
“By endeavouring to obtain peace from the King of France.”
“Never!” cried Gaspard Fagel. “Never!”
John de Witt answered with suppressed passion--
“Orsoy, Rhynberg, Burick, and Wesel have fallen.”
The Secretary made no answer.
“I see no means of saving the United Provinces, M. Fagel.”
Now the Secretary looked at him defiantly and rose, resting one hand on
the table between them.
“Well, Mynheer, the Republic hath before this been reduced to even
greater extremities, and by God’s help been saved--if He saved us from
the tyranny of Philip, surely He will preserve us from the tyranny of
Louis.”
“God gave our ancestors the courage and resource to save themselves, M.
Fagel.… I do not see these virtues among us now.”
“Would you despair of the vessel before she is on the rocks?” cried
Gaspard Fagel stoutly. But in his heart he was frightened; never before
had he known John de Witt speak despondently. “For my part,” he added,
“I will do anything in my power to bring her safe to port.”
“Then you will help me?” John de Witt spoke eagerly.
“I do not know--I do not know.… What do you intend doing?”
M. Fagel took a hasty turn about the room, his hands clasped behind him
under the blue dressing-gown.
“I intend to propose in the Assembly that envoys be at once sent to the
King of France to request his terms, and to offer him everything so
that we keep our final liberty.”
“Have you no trust in the Prince?” demanded the Secretary, trying to
hearten himself into a confidence he could not feel.
“The Prince cannot do the impossible,” answered John de Witt dryly.
“Ah, you blame him for the passage of the Rhine,” cried M. Fagel on a
note of challenge.
“No … he has been but a few days with the Army … he has not proved
himself.” The Grand Pensionary spoke sternly. “We need other measures.”
“And you wish to open negotiations with the French?” repeated Gaspard
Fagel.
As the head of the party opposing M. de Witt in the Councils of the
State, Fagel was bound to vote for war; the Grand Pensionary had not
expected to find him tractable, yet by alarming him he hoped to gain
him eventually.
“You cannot refuse to help me,” he said now firmly; “these embassies
will at least gain us time--and you are not surely so infatuated as to
suppose the Prince of Orange can withstand the progress of the French?”
The dismayed Secretary had no answer ready.
John de Witt saw his advantage and pushed it further.
“The alliances with Spain, with Brandenburg, might save us yet--had we
time to conclude them----”
M. Fagel interrupted--
“You cannot imagine that Louis would listen to any reasonable
treaty--he fights for glory----”
“M. de Louvois is with him--_he_ might deem it prudent not to push us
to extremes.”
“It would be a humiliation!”
“Not so bitter a humiliation as to see Condé march through the Hague!”
flashed M. de Witt.
“I cannot believe it could come to that.”
“Could you have believed a month ago that in nine days every fort on
the Rhine would fall?”
“There is de Ruyter,” said the Secretary, clutching at straws.
“He cannot save the land forces.”
Gaspard Fagel was obstinate.
“There is the Prince.”
“M. Fagel, the Prince is opposed to Condé, Turenne, Luxumbourg, and an
immense army strong with success----”
As he spoke M. Fagel’s terrified servant entered--
“Mynheer,” he addressed the Grand Pensionary, “a gentleman has just
ridden up from the Binnenhof … there are … news, he says, from the
Army----”
M. de Witt interrupted--
“May he come up?”
“In God’s name--yes,” cried M. Fagel.
The gentleman proved to be M. Van den Bosch; he explained his visit
with the national calm.
A soldier had arrived at the Binnenhof with letters from the Army,
among them one from His Highness for M. de Witt, and as he, still
working there, knew of his master’s intention to visit M. Fagel he
had brought the letter on at once. There was also a note from M.
Beverningh. He apologised for his intrusion, bowed and withdrew.
“From the Prince!” cried M. Fagel, mopping his brow.
John de Witt paled as he gazed at the large, familiar handwriting.
A sickly hue of dawn was mingled with the glow of the candles, and in
the cross lights the figure of the Grand Pensionary showed tall and
sombre in his black velvet mantle, his worn face near as colourless as
his crumpled white collar.
Gaspard Fagel went to the handsome oak buffet and, pouring wine into a
tall green glass, drank fiercely.
M. de Witt stepped nearer to the candles and broke open the seals of
the Prince’s letter. There were only a few lines.
The Grand Pensionary read them and handed them in silence to the
Secretary.
“Given at my camp on the Yssel
_June 12, 1672_
“SIR,--I am in great distress, learning the approach of the
enemy and having only insufficient forces to oppose to him.
“My authority is restricted and my movements hampered by the
delegates, who forbid me to risk a battle.
“The militia and the peasants are in a state of terror at the
advance of the French; the division available for the defence
of the Yssel is only 22,000 men, so I must beg you to order
without an hour’s delay that as many soldiers as possible be
sent from Maestricht, Bois-le-duc, Breda, Bergen-op-Zoom, and
the other strong places in Flanders.
“I think also that the few horse and foot which are still in
Holland should be sent here.
“Otherwise I see no prospect of preventing the enemy crossing
the Yssel.
“I entreat you to hold out a helping hand to one who is and
ever will be, your affectionate friend,
“WILLIAM HENRY, Prince of Orange.”
M. Fagel laid the letter down in silence; he, too, was pale.
“God help us all!” he muttered.
The Grand Pensionary tore open M. Beverningh’s letter; he read it at
once aloud--
“You will have heard of the disastrous passage of the
Rhine--here the situation is desperate.
“I hope we have enough gunpowder--but the artillery is
dismounted and almost useless; in a fortnight’s time we shall
have barely seven gun-carriages.
“The Prince has displayed unheard-of activity in fortifying
the river and disposing his men to the best advantage; the
fatigue, the hardships of the camp, and his anxieties have had
an ill effect on his health.
“I even fear for his life, though he says no word of
discouragement. If reinforcements are not quickly sent he must
be driven to some extremity, even to the abandonment of the
Yssel.
“No general could have done more than His Highness, whom I
regard every day with more affection, but you must see that
with such an inadequate force there is nothing for us but a
retreat, since to await the enemy here would be to deliver
the Republic to her enemies by exposing her sole defenders to
certain destruction.
“His Highness vehemently opposed the abandonment of the
Yssel, but being unsupported by any save Count Hornes in his
desire for an attack on the French, and hearing of the almost
incredible fall of the Rhine fortresses, he has been brought to
see that it would be wiser to fall back on Utrecht.
“We lost 1600 men in outposts on the Rhine--100,000 at least
would be necessary to hold the Yssel, and we have 20,000, and
those disposed in ‘echelons’ which cannot easily communicate
with each other.
“I try to keep up the spirits of those about me. I pray you
send me what good news you can that we may not be reduced to
despair.”
John de Witt raised his prominent brown eyes, and fixed them with a
steady and penetrating gaze on M. Fagel.
“What do you say now?”
The Secretary bit his pale lip.
“What can I say?”
He had nothing to oppose to the Grand Pensionary’s firm resolution; he
was alarmed and unnerved.
John de Witt, absolutely master of himself, spoke again.
“If we are to have a country, Mynheer, the progress of the French must
be stopped.”
M. Fagel tried to rally.
“Well, cannot we send more levies to His Highness?”
“Not, I fear, in time … from Beverningh’s letter I think they will
abandon the line of the Yssel.”
M. Fagel poured himself out another glass of Chablis, and invited M.
de Witt to join him. The Grand Pensionary took the glass mechanically
and set it down untasted.
“Cannot we consult the Prince?” asked M. Fagel, who was afraid of
offending William and wished to shift the responsibility.
John de Witt saw his motive.
“This is not a matter for the Captain General but for the States,” he
answered with a stern dignity. “His Highness hath enough to do.”
Save by betraying himself as a servile and unpatriotic courtier of the
Prince, M. Fagel could resist no more.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Since affairs have come to this extremity, I cannot refuse to help
you, Mynheer.”
“You will see that His Highness’ party offer no opposition in the
Assembly?”
“Yes, yes.” M. Fagel was still thinking of what the Prince would say.
“Whom do you propose to send?” he asked abruptly.
John de Witt was prepared at all points.
“M. de Groot and M. Van Ghent,” he answered at once.
“They are both obnoxious to His Highness,” protested M. Fagel.
“They are acceptable to the King of France--and M. de Groot, having
been so long in Paris, hath a greater knowledge of French affairs than
any man I know.”
The Secretary was in some agitation.
“Mynheer,” he said, “the Prince hath always disliked M. de Groot----”
John de Witt interrupted--
“For no more worthy reason than that he is a friend of mine and a
staunch republican.”
M. Fagel answered with some dignity--
“I do not know His Highness’ reasons, but he has no love for M. de
Groot, and as for M. Van Ghent----”
“M. Van Ghent had the misfortune to be His Highness’ tutor; he is,
however, a man whom I entirely trust.”
M. Fagel was silenced, but by no means reassured. William would
certainly never forgive peace proposals being sent to Louis without his
wish, and carried, moreover, by the two men whom he most distrusted and
disliked.
M. de Witt saw the Secretary’s hesitation, and, fearing to lose his
support, made a concession.
“I will send with these M. Van Odyk and M. Van Eyck--they are both, I
think, in His Highness’ favour.”
M. Fagel caught at this solution of the difficulty.
“On that understanding, Mynheer, I will second you with all my power in
the Assembly--you are going there at once?”
“In a while--I have to write to the Prince and Beverningh.”
He picked up his hat and turned to take his leave.
Gaspard Fagel could not fail to admire the patient energy, the proud
calm, the unshaken patriotism of the man who was working in the face
of such odds; in the face of an invasion of overwhelming strength,
domestic dissension, calumny, abuse and dislike from the people he was
labouring for with all his noble faculties.
Something generous in the Secretary’s commonplace mind was touched.
“You are an example to all of us,” he said, and held out his hand.
John de Witt responded instantly--
“Mynheer Fagel, I do my duty, and there are many, thank God, who do the
same.”
They clasped hands warmly.
“I shall see you in the Assembly?”
“Yes,” answered M. Fagel; “and I will make sure, Mynheer, that you are
not opposed.”
John de Witt took up his letters. He had obtained what he came for; his
force and sincerity, aided by the letters from the camp, had turned an
opponent into an ally.
M. Fagel accompanied him to the door, then returning to the dining-room
opened the shutters on the grey and stormy dawn.
The Assembly met at seven.
He glanced at the clock, and walked up and down with hasty steps,
biting his forefinger. He knew that nothing would reconcile William
to the offers of peace, and he knew that he would be blamed for ever
consenting to aid John de Witt even passively.
He himself would have liked to throw defiance at the French, but the
Grand Pensionary had overruled him.…
The French over the Rhine.…
He trembled for his country.…
All the same he must justify himself to the Prince, whose party he
represented. He must write to the camp.
He paused thoughtfully by the table and stared absently at John de
Witt’s untouched glass. He was recalling M. Bentinck’s secretary, Van
Mander, ardent in the Orange cause, now spending his time in idleness
in the deserted Palace; it occurred to him that here was the young man
to send to the camp with a letter and explanations.
He blew out the candles and went upstairs to finish dressing.
“The French over the Rhine!” he kept saying to himself. “And what of de
Ruyter?”