“It is quite certain,” said de Ruyter simply, “that if we do not make a descent on England they will make a descent on the coast of Zeeland.”
He put his hands squarely on his knees and fixed his bright eyes on the representative of the States.
“How many sail do you make them?” asked the Ruard.
Michael de Ruyter checked them off on his stout fingers.
“The English, sixty-five ships of war, sixteen fire-ships, three or four thousand guns, and twenty-two or so thousand men … the French not more than sixty-seven sail, all included, not more than ten thousand men … that is the uttermost they can be if their entire force has combined.”
Cornelius de Witt was silent. The Fleet of the United Provinces was a hundred and thirty-three sail, including the galiots; they did not carry quite five thousand guns; the men, including five thousand marines, did not exceed twenty-five thousand.
The Ruard cast up these odds. The Admiral seemed to detect some anxiety in his thoughtful face.
“We are in God’s hands, Mynheer de Witt, and I cannot think it is His will to forsake us utterly.”
Cornelius de Witt made a movement as if to get on his feet. But he could not rise for his crippled limbs, and the momentary effort brought the drops of anguish to his forehead.
“You battle with a sharper foe than the English,” said Admiral de Ruyter, with a little frown of sympathy. “Madame de Witt would say you should be in bed.”