The bitterness of this disappointment was well-nigh unbearable; the long day’s struggle had had solely this end in view—to save Utrecht.
The men were worn out, hungry, wet, disheartened; only the firmest discipline prevented a mutiny or a panic.
Two of the baggage waggons had come up with them; in one there was nothing but Jerome Beverningh’s camp furniture. Anger and derision were roused, the Deputy had brought with him such things as velvet chairs and crystal candlesticks, the last broken in the rough transit.
The second waggon contained food; this was dealt out to the wounded. M. de Zuylestein’s men, who had spent the day outside the walls of Utrecht while their leader argued desperately with the magistrates, were fresher, and had ravaged some provisions from the neighbouring farms; but the bulk of the men had been without food twelve hours or more.
They attempted to set up such tents as they had with them, but a strong wind rising when the rain ceased hurled poles and canvas to the ground, and scattered the camp-fires in handfuls of sparks.
No news reached them of either de Louvignies or Count Hornes, but a messenger got through the enemy’s lines with a desperate appeal from Prince John Maurice at Muyden, where the starved troops were in a state of mutiny and threatening to desert to the French.
“—do not be surprised,” his letter to the Captain General concluded, “if your next news is that we have all been cut to pieces.”
And Muyden was the key to Amsterdam.
The Prince said nothing to this; he said nothing when he heard that traitors had possession of Utrecht, though he had fought desperately for a day to save the city.
His containment now was as marked as had been his fervour and ardour in the battle.