Chapter IV: The Will of the People

In the frantic state of angry despair to which the United Provinces were reduced, Holland, the proudest, wealthiest State, was the first to take fire at the injuries inflicted on her, and to turn fiercely on the Government that she conceived had betrayed her into ruin.

The mission of M. de Groot had been vastly unpopular. The submission shown in this embassy was looked upon as a sign of degrading, nay, criminal weakness, and the people violently accused their Ministers of selling them to the French.

They reminded each other that Rhynsberg had not had enough powder to defend the counterscarps; that all the saltpetre belonging to the East India Company had been allowed to be sold to the French, even when war appeared inevitable; that the land forces had been greatly reduced of late, that such soldiers as they had were ill-trained and ill-paid; that tedious difficulties had been put in the way of the election of the Prince of Orange to the Captain Generalship, and even now his power was so restricted as to be almost useless.

They flattered themselves that the King of France would not have had such easy success but for complicity on the part of the governors of the country, and all overtures of peace were regarded as a final attempt to deliver them to the enemy.

The idea of peace became one with slavery and disgrace, and the Government was regarded as vile and infamous in even listening to Louis’ terms; and on John de Witt, the head of the Government and the apostle of peace, all rage and hate were poured. All the disasters of the war were imputed to his charge; he was accused of every crime frenzy could find a name for, and blamed bitterly for having so long kept the Prince out of power and for having clipped such authority as he had been obliged to give him.

On the other hand, the idea of war and resistance was associated with the image of the young Captain General, austere, composed, religious, of the old House, the only man who had dared to show firmness in the face of the overwhelming public misfortunes. He became the idol of the people, who ran frantic in his name.

At Dordt they had broken into open revolt. On hearing of the terms offered by France, and that the States were considering them, and a rumour being abroad that their representatives had advocated peace, a company of burghers marched to the town hall and demanded of the councillors if they were prepared to defend the town, or if they already negotiated its delivery into the hands of the enemy?

The magistrates replied that they would resist to the utmost, but did not succeed in pacifying the citizens, who, suspecting their republican sympathies, demanded permission to inspect the arsenals.

The keeper was absent, the keys with him. This gave the signal for a cry of treason that was echoed throughout the town, and the subsequent opening of the magazines did not suffice to restore order.

Angry cries were started against John de Witt and his followers; the Orange flag was paraded through the streets with shouts for the Prince of Orange, the white flag flying contemptuously beneath William’s colour.

The magistrates assembled in agitation, but no concession would quiet the people. The burgomaster, not daring to act without authority from the Government, endeavoured to escape from the town, but was stopped in a side street by a workman armed with a hatchet, who offered to brain him if he resisted the wishes of the populace.

In this fashion conducted back to the town hall, the burgomaster was forced to again summon the councillors to consult on the situation.

It was an ugly one for them. They had sworn to maintain the Perpetual Edict, and would have to answer to the States General if they violated their oath. On the other hand, they were in immediate danger from the violence of the people.

They discovered, as they thought, an expedient to shift the responsibility, and announced, with sound of trumpets, that they would at once send a deputation to the Prince, begging him to come immediately to Dordt.

The town secretary, Orent Muys, two members of the council, two burgomasters, two burgher captains, and two citizens were chosen, and escorted to the gates by the people, shouting--

“Long live His Highness!”

“Death to the bad magistrates!”

“Down with John de Witt!”

“To hell with the friends of France!”

All night long the town seethed. The magistrates trembled when they considered what the outburst of fury would be should the deputation return, the Prince not with them.

As soon as it was light the people were out on the quays, gazing down the flat, grey waters of the Maas and the Merwede, which stretched almost to the horizon where Rotterdam lay, and spread to right and left encircling the town in a belt of water.

The burgher companies were up and armed, patrolling the streets, clattering their blunderbusses under the windows of Cornelius de Witt’s house, where the Ruard lay sick, and shouting in insulting tones for the Prince, so that he could hear them in his bed.

Others amused themselves with breaking into the town hall, destroying the remaining portraits of John and Cornelius de Witt, and savagely tearing out of its frame Baan’s picture of the Victory at Chatham, which was dedicated to the glory of the Ruard.

About ten o’clock the feeling rose to frenzy; it became known that the deputation had returned in company with the young Prince.

The magistrates hastened to receive William, who was landing at the Groothoofd Poort, one of the finest gates of the wealthy city, situate on the junction of the Merwede and the Maas.

The inhabitants formed themselves into a guard of honour, and the Prince was greeted by a shout of pure wild joy.

The councillors, including among them Jacob de Beveren, the brother-in-law of the Grand Pensionary, greeted him humbly, even kissing his hand.

One offered him a coach.

William declined, and to the great satisfaction of the people walked among them on foot to the town hall.

He was plainly dressed, without armour, wore only a light sword and carried a cane.

He kept his hat on, and took no notice in his solemn entry of the people or of the councillors who accompanied him.

The distance was not great between the Groothoofd Poort and the Stadhuis, but William, as he walked slowly down the Wynstraat, had time to observe both that he could do what he pleased with the people and that the magistrates intended to thrust on him all responsibility.

They followed him with heads uncovered, but they made no suggestion.

The enormous crowd gathered as they advanced through the Groenmarkt, and considerably impeded their progress to the fine Gothic Stadhuis. The canals were choked with boats laden with armed citizens, and people came crowding up from the ship-building yards, from the barges and timber-yards, till the streets could hold no more.

On the Stadhuis steps William paused.

“Mynheer Hallingh,” he said to the burgomaster, “I acknowledge my reception--but what object do I serve by entering your town hall?”

The burgomaster bowed very low, for the eyes of thousands were on him.

“We hope Your Highness may do us the extreme favour of taking a seat in our council.”

“To what end, Mynheer?” asked William steadily.

M. Beveren answered, with his eye on the expectant crowd--

“Has Your Highness any proposal to make us?”

The Prince saw clearly by this that they hoped to delude the people by an outward show of deference, managing that the Prince should return without any further concession to their revolutionary wishes.

On William’s part it was not his desire to put himself at the head of a mob, and neither his nature nor his policy to encourage sedition. He was as prudent as the councillors, and as resolute not to commit himself to their intention that if there must be a revolution it should be laid to him.

At the same time he was angry that they should send for him merely to fool the people of Dordt.

He answered with composure--

“Mynheer, I must remind you that I came here at your request--your urgent request--to hear what you had to say to me.”

The councillors refused to be drawn; with many protestations of respect they invited him to inspect the arsenals and fortifications of the town.

William looked at them, at M. Bentinck, at the crowd, and he smiled.

He could not help being amused at the cunning with which these republican magistrates were endeavouring to keep the law and please the people.

“Very well, Mynheer,” he answered gravely. “I shall be pleased to see your fortifications.”

Followed by the eager crowds, the Prince set out for the ramparts and the powder magazines.

M. Beveren, the husband of John de Witt’s sister, galled by the position in which he found himself, ventured to put on his hat.

It was instantly knocked off, with threats that it would be his head next time if he did not treat the Prince with proper respect.

William affected neither to see nor hear. He conversed with M. Bentinck, and occasionally with the burgomaster, his manner showing the same calm as if no mob clamoured at their heels. He passed interested comments on the beautiful architecture of the wealthy town that he had never seen before.

Outside the Latin Grammar School, where John de Witt had studied the history of his country with a joyous and ambitious heart, and not far from the house of Jacob de Witt, where the Grand Pensionary, in the days when he wore a sword and love-locks, had written French verses to Wendela Van Bicker, the people closed round the Prince and his escort and demanded that he should not leave the town until the magistrates had proclaimed him.

M. Van Beveren murmured something about the Perpetual Edict, upon which one, Henry Dibbets, a Calvinist minister, levelled a gun at his head and shouted to the Prince that he would soon have his father’s offices restored to him.

The Prince himself put the musket aside.

“My friends, I am content,” he said gravely.

The burgomaster, thrust up against the wall of the school, shouted lustily--

“Long live the Prince!”

But the magistrates, still resolved not to yield, hastily invited William to a repast at the Peacock Inn.

“In truth,” said the Prince, regarding them with smiling eyes, “I am a little fatigued.”

The angry crowd demanded if he had been proclaimed Stadtholder.

“Thou old, fat villain!” cried Henry Dibbets to the burgomaster. “Thou art deceiving us! Hast thou brought the Prince here to walk him up and down the town?”

He was seconded by furious cries of--

“Knipperdolling!”

“Traitor!”

“Down with the MM. de Witt!”

They swarmed after the Prince to the Peacock Inn, where the frightened landlord, overwhelmed at the honour, prostrated himself before His Highness.

In the fine dining-room on the ground floor a meal was hastily but sumptuously prepared.

William, still wearing his hat, took the head of the table.

The magistrates, white and flustered, seated themselves, giving anxious glances towards the door and the long windows that overlooked the street.

“Your citizens,” said William to the burgomaster, “seem to be of a noisy disposition.”

It was his first allusion to the nature of his reception.

“They are very fond of Your Highness,” answered Van Hallingh fatuously.

“Ah?” The Prince spoke dryly. “It seems as if they might be dangerous, Mynheer, to any they were _not_ fond of.”

And he gave the councillors a sarcastic look.

The magistrates winced; they became every moment more uncomfortable. They had only inflamed the popular feeling by sending for the Prince, who they now perceived was too wise to commit himself by any illegal act; nor were they at all reassured by the shouts and tumults without and the excited faces at door and window.

In truth the landlord had had orders to lay the repast at the back, but that personage could not bear to serve His Highness in the worst parlour, which was not, he declared, large enough nor fine enough for so distinguished a company. In defiance of his orders he had arranged the dinner in the great oak chamber, with its shelves of brass and pottery, its fine pictures, its handsome clock, Indian carpet, and tortoiseshell mirrors that were the pride of his heart.

It was a fine dinner, including such delicacies as spinach tart, stuffed heron, jellied venison, the famous sweet cakes from Deventer, ale thickened with honey, and a variety of gorgeous puddings; but the councillors at least did not enjoy it, even the splendid wines could not raise their spirits.

The Prince, who saw fairly clearly the end of the comedy, and could not but enjoy the discomfiture of his enemies, was composed and gracious.

He commended the fare and praised the wealthy appearance of the prosperous town, but his words could hardly be heard for the clamour in the streets.

“Our friends without make converse difficult,” he remarked.

M. Bentinck laughed. The prospect of the present triumph had driven his disappointment at the Prince’s cold dismissal of the English envoys into the background of his thoughts. He was young enough to carry himself haughtily, and kept one hand on his sword-hilt and another on his yellow moustaches, with a fine martial swagger.

Towards the end of the repast the crowd drove back the burgher captains stationed on guard at the door.

M. Van Beveren could contain himself no longer. He sprang to his feet.

“For God’s sake, Your Highness----!”

The Prince glanced at him sideways.

“What is the matter, Mynheer?”

The burgomaster rose also.

“Sir,” he cried in agitation.

“Well?” asked William calmly, setting down his glittering tankard.

“Your Highness--these people----”

“They show an inclination to enter, do they not, Mynheer?”

“Cannot Your Highness speak to them?” implored M. Beveren.

William smiled coldly.

“I have no authority, Mynheer, the burgomaster----”

“They will listen to no one but you, Your Highness.”

“Not even to their own magistrates, Mynheer?” inquired William maliciously.

Meanwhile the people were pressing into the hall of the inn, uttering shouts and threats.

“You do not seem very popular,” said the Prince dryly, surveying the unhappy councillors.

“Death to the friends of France!”

“Down with de Witt!”

“Down with the Ruard of Putten!”

The magistrates all rose to their feet.

“Do not spoil your dinners, Mynheeren,” said William.

“Your Highness----”

“For Heaven’s sake----”

The crowd broke into the room.

They were armed with muskets, swords, pistols, and hatchets, and headed by the resolute Henry Dibbets.

William pushed back his chair and looked at them steadily under the brim of his beaver.

“What do you want, my friends?” he asked calmly.

“Tell them to disperse, Your Highness,” urged the burgomaster.

A mass of people blocked the entrance into the room. They turned threateningly to the councillors.

“We are here to see justice done to His Highness,” they declared fiercely.

“You seem very well disposed to my House,” said the Prince, laying down his napkin.

The pastor pushed forward, flushed and triumphant.

“If there is anything His Highness wants,” he cried, addressing the Prince, “let him ask for it--and we will see that he gets it.”

William’s eyes flashed under his lowered lids.

The bearing of the crowd confirmed the pastor’s promise, proved that they were not mere words.

“Tell them to go home, Your Highness,” pleaded the burgomaster; “this is against the laws----”

“This may alter the laws, Mynheer,” answered the Prince proudly.

“Your Highness sides with this revolt!” cried M. Van Beveren.

William turned his powerful glance on the brother-in-law of M. de Witt.

“I do nothing, Mynheer,” he answered coldly. “I wait for you--who sent for me--you who have the authority--to act----”

Henry Dibbets broke in--

“If they are at a loss, Your Highness, we will soon teach them what to do.”

The magistrates stood nonplussed, overwhelmed; for the people were plainly in earnest, plainly dangerous.

The town secretary, Orent Muys, whispered to the burgomaster that they had best yield.

The crowd, by now filling the room, caught up the words; with much violence they swore to massacre the councillors did they not at once proclaim the Prince as Stadtholder.

William sat immovable. It was obvious that he would neither pacify the crowd (if indeed he could) nor so declare himself or his wishes as to shift the responsibility to his from the shoulders of the magistrates; they, seeing that they could never leave the inn alive without submitting to the outcry of the people, and, indeed, in their hearts yielding to the general enthusiasm, consulted together.… How should they combine dignity with concession?

The Prince, without any attempt to influence them, remained silent at the head of the table.

The people did not give them long.

Urged forward by the pastor, two of them seized the burgomaster and presented a pistol to his forehead.

“You have played the fool long enough,” they declared angrily, “it is time to come to a decision.”

Finding himself in this pass, Van Hallingh called out lustily to Orent Muys, “Let him draw up a paper declaring the Prince elected as Stadtholder.”

“What of the Perpetual Edict?” asked William. “You have, I think, sworn to it.”

“We will absolve them of that oath!” shouted the citizens.

They commanded the landlord to bring pens, paper, and a standish, which he hastened to set down on the table among the plates and tankards.

With fingers a little trembling, Orent Muys wrote out an article by which the Council of Dordt elected His Highness as Stadtholder and commander of the land and sea forces for life.

He was continually urged on by the crowd, who considered that he dallied in his task.

It was finished at last, amid yells of joy, and one after another the magistrates hastened to sign.

No one dared hesitate with a loaded blunderbuss at his head.

The only protest came from the Prince himself.

He rose.

The crowd instantly hushed.

He addressed equally the burgomaster, the councillors, and the citizens pressing round the table.

“Mynheeren,” he said, “I am very sensible of the honour that you do me, but I have taken an oath--as Captain General--never to attempt the Stadtholdership.”

The magistrates paused, astonished; but the people were not in the least confounded.

“Your Highness took no oath to refuse the office if offered to you?”

“I took an oath,” replied William, “nor can I lightly break it.”

He spoke with no emotion, with the cold precision of a statesman, a manner that sat curiously on his youthful appearance; it did not chill his supporters.

The magistrates themselves were driven to plead with him.

“For the good of the State we must ask Your Highness to yield.”

“Ah,” said the Prince, “_you_ urge me?”

“In the name of the people----”

“Whose will is above the law,” added Henry Dibbets.

“I swore before God,” replied William.

“Then God shall absolve Your Highness,” returned the pastor. “The usurper forced you to take an oath against justice … and I solemnly absolve Your Highness from it.”

With one accord councillors, pastors, and citizens set William free of his vow to the Republic.

He yielded coldly, and the first act of the revolution was complete.

There is an emotion that bears the name of no one feeling because it is composed of all--it is the passion that shakes a crowd when it is witness of any great event; this seized the people of Dordt.

They shouted, laughed, wrung each other’s hands, rushed in a mass to float the Orange flag from the belfry of their great church, drank the Prince’s health and confusion to the French, and swarmed and pushed round the door of the Peacock Inn, where the councillors were still imprisoned.

The resolution, signed by the seventeen councillors present, the seals of the town affixed, was snatched up by the pastor Dibbets and displayed to the townsmen. Loud cries rang out--

“Long live the Stadtholder!”

“Long live His Highness!”

William looked at the magistrates--so they had been forced to return him the power they had taken from his father William II.

Many of them, indeed, were one and the same with the men who had defied him.

“Dordt is fortunate for Calvinists, Mynheeren,” he said, smiling. “They were successful in 1618; they win a victory to-day in me.”

It was his sole revenge on them for twenty years lost from his birthright; they received it in silence.

“If it be possible,” he added, “I should prefer now to return to Newerbrugge;” for he hated all display and commotion, and though this was a proud moment for him, he sighed for the quiet of the camp.

But it was not permitted.

He must hold a reception in the inn and receive the homage of the whole town of Dordt. Every one wanted to kiss his hand, to swear loyalty, to see the popular hero for himself.

At a moment when the unbridled enthusiasm was at its height a burgher captain chanced to notice that one name was missing. Seventeen councillors had signed for William.

There should have been one more.

One man in the whole of Dordt had not subscribed to the will of the people--

“Cornelius de Witt.”

In a moment the crowd was on fire with this new idea--the eighteenth councillor must also sign. Here was a splendid opportunity for humiliating one of the hated family of the Grand Pensionary.

M. Beveren ventured to protest--

“The Ruard is ill--unable to leave his bed.”

He was answered with derision.

“Not too ill to hold a pen--shall the worst traitor escape!”

M. Beveren appealed to the Prince.

“Highness, these men are miscalling M. de Witt.”

But William answered coldly--

“Mynheer, the faction of M. de Witt have miscalled me for a good many years.”

“But they will murder the Ruard.”

“Let him sign,” said William.

The crowd took up the cry.

“Let him sign!” they yelled.

The councillors hesitated. The Ruard would not subscribe, to force him to refuse would be to deliver him over to the fury of the mob.

But William decided for them.

“I think I have some weight in this town now,” he said, with his immovable air of authority. He took the paper from the hand of the pastor and gave it to the town secretary. “Take this to M. de Witt, his signature is lacking.… You also,” he pointed his cane at the captain of the burghers, “accompany him with some of your men. I am sorry M. de Witt is too sick to be present. I shall be pleased to see his name to this resolution.”