Chapter XIII: The Fanatics

M. Van Ouvenaller snuffed the candle, took off his glasses, wiped them, and set them again on his nose and took up his long quill pen.

It was about eleven at night and very hot; the window was set open on the June dark, on the expanse of the Vyverberg and the trees of the Kneuterdyk Avenue beyond the water.

The Binnenhof was empty save for this room where John de Witt and his clerk sat completing the day’s task.

It was a little chamber, simply furnished, its sole adornment several handsome pictures of flowers and still life.

The candlesticks, taper-holders, and ink-stands were of glittering brass, and the only bright objects in the severe, sombre surroundings of John de Witt.

He wore black velvet, and leant back a little in his stiff, carved chair. His full brown eyes were fixed on his clerk, who was finishing the notes on the day’s affairs which were to be used in the Grand Pensionary’s speech to the Assembly to-morrow.

“Read over to me what you have there,” said John de Witt.

Both men looked exhausted. The work put upon the Grand Pensionary was more than he could do; he had sent for his cousin Vivien to help him in duties that began to accumulate beyond his strength, but until the arrival of the Pensionary of Dordt he had to put through his labours unaided.

Reinier Van Ouvenaller moved the candles so that they escaped the draught from the open window, for a slight breeze was rising.

“The Prince of Orange,” he read from his notes, “entered Utrecht yesterday, the people having overawed the magistrates. His Highness, who was sick of an aguish fever, had a scene with the town council, and, on their refusing to burn the suburbs or to make any defence, he abandoned them and fell back on Bodegraven, saying he would not risk his men in the defence of such selfish, unpatriotic people--he forced them to provision his forces, however. M. Beverningh writes in a despairing strain.”

John de Witt rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and his cheek in his palm; his gaze was turned on the peaceful darkness beyond the window.

M. Van Ouvenaller gave a little dry cough and resumed--

“_Nota_, that the Prince William lost many men in a desperate brush with the contingent of M. de Rochfort, and that Prince John Maurice protests that he cannot hold out much longer in Maestricht--more men if possible to be sent.

“_Nota_, that the several States demand their own troops for their particular protection, the great inconvenience of this to be put to Their Noble Mightinesses. Jealousy of other provinces that they pay men to defend Holland--but this must be; _nota_, that the Hague and Amsterdam are the chief towns and must be defended at any cost.”

John de Witt looked across the candles at his secretary.

“Add that the other States be reminded Holland bears the chief cost.”

The pen scratched a moment, then M. Van Ouvenaller resumed--

“The Dutch envoys received violently by His Highness the Prince William, and coldly by His Christian Majesty; M. de Groot’s report not hopeful. M. de Louvois appears unreasonable; M. Van Odyk, fearful of displeasing the Prince and the State of Zeeland, withdraws from the embassy; M. de Groot returns to the Hague to obtain full powers, King Louis refusing to treat on any other terms; _nota_, that Their Noble Mightinesses be urged to grant these full powers; _nota_, that M. de Groot is a very able and honest man.”

The Grand Pensionary was again looking out at the night.

“Go on,” he said in a quiet voice.

“State of alarm in the country, shops closed, business suspended; _nota_, a more resolute front to our advantage; rumours that the Jews of Amsterdam have offered M. de Condé two million if he will spare their quarter, and that the goldsmiths are making a gold basin in which to present the key of their city to the King of France; _nota_, speak to the Deputies of Amsterdam to contradict these rumours.”

The secretary snuffed the candle again, turned over a leaf, and continued--

“Riots becoming serious, the magistrates to be exhorted to firmness; M. Cornelius de Witt hath permission, on account of his sickness, to leave the Fleet; _nota_, that he hath waived the salute he was entitled to and presented the powder to Dordt, where it is very scarce; _nota_, that the States thanked him for his noble conduct at the battle off Southwold town, and that I reply for him, he being abed in Dordt; _nota_, that there are riots in Dordt, and the portrait of M. Cornelius de Witt hath been cut from its frame in the town hall; protests to be made with regard to the weakness of authority.”

“Underline that,” interrupted John de Witt, “for it is of all things serious.”

Van Ouvenaller obeyed.

“_Nota_, that the English envoys are dissolute and frivolous men, and come not for any honest desire for peace but to see their master has a share of the spoil; _nota_, that Viscount Halifax is the most moderate and the least trusted by his Government, that the Earl of Arlington was in the treaty of Dover, and that the Duke of Buckingham is jealous of the Prince James of Monmouth who has the command he desires; _nota_, most hopes from him; _nota_, fear they have secret offers to make to the Prince William of Orange, to his advantage, but not to that of the States; _nota_, that there is a popular idea that if the stadtholdership were reinstated King Charles would make peace; _nota_, this false, he makes war not for his nephew’s sake, but because of the treaty with France.

“_Nota_, that the alliances with Spain and Brandenburg go well.

“_Nota_, that the Prince William of Orange is popular in England; _nota_, not to trust him, M. Fagel has changed front and is utterly against peace; _nota_, he has received instructions from the Prince.

“Fresh levies to be sent to Groningen; _nota_, that the French, especially M. de Luxembourg, behave with great cruelty, thereby filling the people with terror.

“_Nota_, confidence to be restored to the States by resolute speaking, despair a worse enemy than the French.

“_Nota_, that the clamour for the Prince of Orange grows, and that the people seem to put more trust in him than in God.

“_Nota_, that two days of fasting be appointed till God be pleased to guide us out of these troubles.

“_Nota_, that the Princess Amalia petitions the State for leave to ask the King of France’s protection for her property at the Hague; _nota_, not to be granted, as it would show despair of our success.

“_Nota_, that one Mynheer Sylvius arrived from England on a secret mission to the Prince; _nota_, that this looks ill.

“These notes made Tuesday, June 21, 1672, at the Binnenhof.”

John de Witt drew out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“How hot it is, Van Ouvenaller,” he remarked.

The clerk folded up the memoranda.

“Have we finished now, Mynheer?” he asked wearily.

“No, I have another letter to write.”

M. Van Ouvenaller pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.

“A moment,” said the Grand Pensionary. “I must collect myself.”

He rose and went to the window.

The summer night had soothed or silenced the sorrows and passions that had raged all day; gone were the threatening men, the weeping women, the clatter of the burgher companies, the passing to and fro of the town guard, the people who had pressed to the Binnenhof for news, the crowds who had swept through the distracted streets clamouring for the Prince of Orange. Binnenhof and Buitenhof were both dark save for this one light in John de Witt’s window.

The stars shone through a fine vapour; the glow of the lamps round the Vyverberg was half obscured by the thick leaves of the wych elms and the limes, which sent up a luscious fragrance to the open window.

John de Witt stood quite still. The black velvet and falling lace collar threw into relief his romantic good looks; the candid and melancholy features that were strangely unlined and simple in expression for one whose years had been so laboriously full.

He looked less than his years, partly by reason of the heavy brown hair that still fell so thickly on to his shoulders, and the full but shapely mouth whose lips lay together with a fresh and youthful set of gentleness.

“Who is it you will write to, Mynheer?” asked Van Ouvenaller.

“To M. Beverningh.”

“And to His Highness?”

“No,” answered John de Witt.

The hot stillness had a lulling quality; lassitude was in the perfume of the silent darkness.

For once John de Witt seemed reluctant to turn to his work. He stood with one hand resting on the mullions and his eyes were dreamy.

M. Van Ouvenaller yawned.

“I remember,” remarked the Grand Pensionary, “how it was said to me--twenty years ago--when I took up this office--‘Thou must not care henceforth, whether thou be laid in thy coffin whole or in pieces.’”

The clerk lifted a startled face.

“Latterly I have thought of it,” continued his master. “How the people hate me.… I never thought that I should be so hated.”

“Mynheer!--they are but fanatics----”

“Fanatics,” echoed John de Witt, with a sad smile. “They think I sell them to M. de Louvois.”

He pressed his hand to his heart as if he was wounded there.

“When they took this office from my predecessor Cats, he thanked God on his knees for removing such a heavy burden from him.… Well, he was never hated as I am.”

“Mynheer, it is but the vulgar who rail against you.”

John de Witt turned his full eyes on the secretary.

“It is the People,” he said mournfully. “The People of this Republic … if they trusted me I could save them yet … if they trusted me----”

He returned to the table and took up the pen.

“I must make some answer to that pamphlet, _Advice to every Faithful Hollander_, there are accusations there must not be overlooked. Their High Mightinesses will do me that justice, to silence some of these lying tongues--remind me, Van Ouvenaller … many thousand copies have been sold, here alone----”

He spoke proudly and frowned a little. His clerk knew that the malice, detraction, and bitterness surrounding him harassed his noble spirit sorely. He walked like an unarmed man among gathered spears that might any moment be turned against his heart.

“And is this all we have to do to-night, Mynheer?” asked the clerk.

“Yes.”

Van Ouvenaller began to put up the papers in the dispatch bag; when he rose he walked stiffly, by reason of his long sitting.

John de Witt’s pen travelled rapidly over the smooth paper. Once he began his eager spirit did not lack for means of expression, his unwearied soul held his tired body to the task.

His letter to Jerome Beverningh ended thus--

“We must consider Amsterdam as the heart of the State, by which succour may be carried to all its members; so that, under God’s guidance, we may fight against the enemy for our country to the last man, and with Dutch constancy.”

He folded and sealed his letter, then rose again.

It was now nearly midnight and the heat increasing; the faint breeze had completely dropped.

“You will go home now?” asked Van Ouvenaller anxiously. “It is so late, and you, Mynheer, have laboured exceedingly to-day.”

“It is not the labour that irks but the payment,” answered John de Witt. “I learn with sorrow the truth of the ancient saying they applied to the Roman Republic--‘Prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur.’ Ah, Van Ouvenaller, they say from the very pulpits that I would sooner let the country go to the French than see the Prince of Orange governor of it.”

“The Calvinists are all ardent in his favour,” replied the secretary; “naturally, for he is very zealous for their creed.”

John de Witt took his hat and cloak from a chair.

“I hope my sister hath not sat up for me.”

“She always does,” answered Van Ouvenaller, drawing the string of the dispatch-bag.

“To-night I am so late.”

He waited while the clerk locked up the desk, then extinguished all the candles but one, which he took up and carried into the outer room.

There, by the dim light of a lamp, sat his servant asleep.

“Van den Wissel,” said John de Witt.

The man woke with a start and a confused excuse.

“No matter,” answered his master. “I am going home now.”

He gave the servant the candle, and the three traversed the silent corridors of the Binnenhof.

In the courtyard was a little delay while Van den Wissel lit a torch with which to guide them home.

As the chimes of the Groote Kerk struck twelve, they set out across the Buitenhof, the servant ahead bearing the torch, and Van Ouvenaller following with the dispatch-bag.

The outer air and the movement refreshed the Grand Pensionary. He found the dark night and the darker outlines of the fine buildings grateful to his tired eyes, the silence pleasant after the scratching of the quills and the weary voice of the little clerk.

His anxious thoughts took a more peaceful turn; his pious fancy imagined the serene stars promised protection from the God they concealed.

But as he neared the Gevangenpoort he must needs think of John Van Olden Barnenveldt and gloomy auguries.

They turned under the prison, through the low gate on which it was built; the spreading light of the torch showed the heavy walls closely confining them, and John de Witt shivered in his velvet.

He was glad when they reached the trees surrounding the Vyver.

It was solitary, as always at this time of night, but he thought he heard an unaccountable sound.

“Van Ouvenaller,” he spoke over his shoulder, “do you hear anything?”

“Nothing, Mynheer,” was the sleepy answer.

“I thought I heard some one draw a sword,” replied John de Witt, peering into the shadows of the trees.

Even as he spoke there was a great cry from his servant; the torch was swung up into the air, where it scattered sparks across the blackness, then dashed to the earth; some dark shapes leapt forward.…

“Ah!” cried John de Witt, with a quick intake of his breath.

“We have been waiting for you,” answered a youthful voice, “watching your light yonder … traitor!”

“M. de Witt!” yelled the clerk dismally; then he was silent suddenly, and the Grand Pensionary heard him fall.

It was quite dark. He stepped back against the railings and called his servant; a man quickly closed with him.

“I am unarmed,” he said. “Are you an assassin?”

His opponent flung himself on him and thrust his sword viciously at him, wounding him in the throat.

Taken by surprise as he was, John de Witt turned, seized his assailant, and hurled him off.

“Van den Wissel!” he called again; but the only answer came from two others of the ambuscade, who rushed to the assistance of the one the Grand Pensionary had thrown. He had now three against him; he set his back against the railings and fought them off with his bare hands, proudly saying nothing, though every moment he received a fresh wound.

It could not last long. As he turned to face one, another stabbed him in the back and he fell silently, striking his head violently against the railings of the Vyver.

Hoarse, broken whispers came from the murderers--

“Is he dead?”

“He fell.…”

“Yes--he is dead.”

“Who struck him?”

“I--Jacob Van der Graef.”

“Hush!--I cannot see any one.”

“No--it is too dark.”

“What of the servant?”

“Is that you, Bruyn?”

“Yes----”

“The lot fell to you----”

“Well, I struck him----”

“I killed him----”

“So die all friends of King Louis!”

“Hush!”

“Ah!--I am treading on him----”

“My God! I feel giddy----”

“Come away----”

“Have you the dispatch-bag?”

“Yes----”

“And the clerk?”

“Here.”

“Dead?”

“I do not know.”

“He did not see us?”

“I think not----”

“Then leave him----”

“I have lost my sword----”

“Well, come away----”

“I cannot leave it here.”

“I am wounded----”

“Where is Borrebagh?”

“Here.”

“Where shall we go?”

“To Van Dyck’s house.”

“Make haste.”

So four hoarse voices passed to and fro as the assassins stumbled among their victims; then they made off across the Plaats with all the haste terror, exultation, and their wounds would permit them.

Once more it was utterly silent on the Plaats.

The great chimes of the Groote Kerk struck through a warm stillness.

John de Witt sat up and fumbled in the dark.

Emptiness and perfect blackness seemed about him; he put his hand to his head and felt it warm and wet.

“Van Ouvenaller,” he called faintly.

There was no answer.

By the aid of the railings he got to his feet.

His right shoulder gave him exquisite pain; his strength seemed to have been utterly robbed from him.

He clutched at his collar that was all sticky with blood, and gave a soft exclamation.

“God be with me if this is death,” he said dazedly.

Then across the night he saw the light they always left for him in his room--at home.

A sudden waft of perfume from the limes came to his nostrils.

“I will not die in the streets, like a gallant in a tavern brawl,” he thought, and forced his failing strength to drag him on. Clutching the railings, the tree-trunks, staggering, falling once or twice to his knees, John de Witt gained his house at the corner of the Kneuterdyk Avenue.

As he leant, exhausted, against the door-post it occurred to him that his appearance would frighten his sister and daughter, who might still be up.

He tried to fling his velvet mantle over himself, but could not.

A great giddiness came over him; he opened the door and stumbled into the quiet hall.

At the bottom of the stairs stood Anna de Witt in a white gown, her fair hair shining in the glimmer of the lamp she held.

“Oh!” she cried brokenly. “O--oh!” and ran forward.

John de Witt was blood from head to foot; his collar soaked from the wound in his throat, his hands red and torn, his shirt stained, his forehead bruised, and the hair clotted with the slow drippings from the gash in his head.

He tried to reassure his daughter.

“Dearest … I have escaped … why, this is nothing at all--get me a surgeon, Anna----”

The girl did not lose her presence of mind; she made no lamentations.

“Aunt Johanna!” she called strongly. “Aunt Johanna!”

Madame Van Beveren appeared in the door of the dining-room where she had been preparing her brother’s supper.

“Father is wounded,” said Anna de Witt.

Johanna stepped into the hall, and her eyes fell on the Grand Pensionary who supported himself against the wall.

“God have mercy on us!” she exclaimed.

She had a blue china bowl of peaches in her hands; in a mechanical way she set it down on the table where Anna had placed the lamp.

“John,”--she caught her brother by the arm,--“come upstairs.”

“I was attacked on the Vyverberg,” said the Grand Pensionary thickly. “How they hate me----”

“Anna, rouse your grandfather--the servants--send one for the physicians of the States--and M. Wilde----John, can you get upstairs?”

Anna dashed into the dining-room and rang the bell; sped upstairs and beat on Jacob de Witt’s door.

When she returned to the hall she found John de Witt senseless in the chair outside the dining-room door and his sister bending over him, her spotless gown stained with blood as she strove to stanch the wound in his throat.

In a moment the whole house was in a commotion. M. de Witt had only two men-servants, one of whom had been with him at the Binnenhof; but the coachman and the other private clerk, M. Bacherus, carried him up to his room; then hurried out with torches to fetch a doctor and search for the other victims.

Jacob de Witt lost his usual resignation; he wrung his hands and cried out for Cornelius, for he was very old.

Anna led him gently away.

“God does not will that my father should die,” she said. “We must not complain, but rather rejoice that through a miracle he hath been saved.”

“God’s will be done,” said the old man, but the tears rolled down his pale cheeks.

Anna sat beside him, holding his hand, in the dining-room, where the untouched supper showed pleasant in the candlelight, while the doctors went upstairs.

Presently M. Wilde entered.

“The wounds are not mortal,” he said. “M. de Witt will live.”