So total was the discomfiture of the Spaniards, so hasty their retreat, that they left a precious booty for the Dutch, in the shape of ammunition, treasure, and baggage. Amongst other personal property of the Archduke, his favourite charger fell to the share of an officer in the Stadtholder’s army, who had often heard the Prince express great admiration for the horse in question. He therefore lost no time in presenting his prize to the General. Now, in the possession of Lord Powerscourt, there is an exquisitely finished cabinet portrait of the great captain, in gorgeous armour, mounted on a milk-white barb, with a wondrous luxuriance of mane and tail, which nearly sweep the ground. We often hear of a horse who seems to take pride in carrying his master; but here the case is obviously reversed. The rider is proud of his horse. The Prince evinces an undoubted pride in the milk-white steed he mounts, and he called upon his favourite painter, Miereveldt, to immortalise his treasure. With such strong circumstantial evidence, we may surely take it for granted that Lord Powerscourt’s gem illustrates our anecdote of the victory of Nieuport.
One more example of our hero’s strategical powers, and we have done. The taking of Breda was so ingeniously conceived, so bravely executed, that we cannot pass it over in silence. The grand and strongly fortified castle which dominated the town of Breda had once been the residence of the Nassau family, and was indeed, by law, the property of Prince Maurice. It was in the hands of the enemy, garrisoned by a large band of Italian soldiers, under the command of the Duke of Parma, who was however absent at the time of which we are speaking, the Duke having left a young compatriot in command, Lanza Vecchia by name. One night, when quartered at the Castle of Voorn, in Zeeland, Maurice received a mysterious nocturnal visit from a certain boatman called Adrian, who had once been a servant in the Nassau family, and was now employed in carrying turf for fuel into the Castle of Breda. Adrian offered his boat and his services to the Prince, assuring him that the little vessel could enter the water-gate without suspicion. The notion was after Maurice’s own heart. He took counsel with Barneveldt, and it was arranged that the boatman should be at a certain ferry the next night at twelve o’clock. The carrying out of this daring scheme was, by Barneveldt’s advice, intrusted to one Heraugière, a man of undoubted valour, who having fallen into temporary disgrace, would be most willing (urged his advocate) to redeem his character with the General. Sixty-eight men were selected from different regiments, with three officers as his comrades in the hazardous enterprise, who all proceeded to the rendezvous at the appointed hour. Adrian himself did not appear. His heart failed him, and he sent two nephews in his stead, whom he designated as ‘dare-devils.’ It was certainly no undertaking for faint hearts to embark in. The devoted little band went on board the boat, and stowed themselves away as best they might under the piles of turf with which the bark was ostensibly laden. Everything seemed leagued against them: fog, sleet, large blocks of ice, impeded their progress, while the weather proved most tempestuous, and the wind contrary.
From Monday night till Thursday morning seventy men lay huddled together almost suffocated, enduring hunger, thirst, and intense cold without a murmur, without regret at having undertaken so perilous a duty. At one time they were compelled to creep out and steal to a neighbouring castle, in order to procure some refreshment, and it was not till Saturday morning that they entered the last sluice, and all possibility of retreat was at an end,—that handful of men, half frozen with cold, half crippled by confinement to so small a space, to cope with a whole garrison of vigorous and well-fed soldiers! An officer came on board to inspect the fuel, of which he said they stood sorely in need, and went into the little cabin, where the hidden men could see him plainly, and hear every word he uttered. No sooner had he gone on shore than the keel struck against some obstruction. The vessel sprang a leak, and began to fill.
All was surely now lost, and the men who came to unload the boat made her safe, close under the guard-house, and proceeded with their work. To add to the soldiers’ danger, the damp and cold had brought on fits of sneezing and coughing, which it was most difficult to resist. One of these gallant men, who well deserved his name of ‘Held,’[[2]] feeling his cough impossible to control, drew his dagger and besought the soldier next him to stab him to the heart, lest he should cause the failure of the enterprise and the destruction of his comrades. But thanks to the ingenuity of the skipper, this noble fellow lived to glory in the success of the undertaking, and his name still lives in the hearts and memory of his countrymen. The dare-devil came to the rescue; he set the pumps going, which deadened every other sound, and there he stood, worthy of the sobriquet his uncle had given him, exchanging jokes with the labourers and the purchasers, and at length dismissing them all with a few stivers for ‘drink-geld,’ saying it was much too late to unload any more turf that night.
[2]. Hero.
So they all departed, excepting the servant of the captain of the guard, who was most difficult to get rid of, chattering and gossiping, and complaining of delay.
‘Be content,’ said the skipper, one of those men who must have his joke, even in moments when life and death are at stake; ‘the best part of the cargo is at the bottom, and it is reserved for your master. He is sure to get enough of it to-morrow.’
The dare-devil’s words were verified to the letter; a little before midnight the Dutch entered the town, killed every man in the guard-room, and took possession of the arsenal. The garrison fled in all directions, and the burghers followed their example, young Lanza Vecchia, although himself wounded, striving in vain to rally his men.
Count Hohenloe, brother-in-law to Maurice, was the first to enter the town at the head of large reinforcements, shortly followed by the Prince himself. The despatch sent to Barneveldt was as follows: ‘The castle and town of Breda are ours. We have not lost a single man. The garrison made no resistance, but fled distracted out of the town.’
How reluctantly we turn the page whereon Maurice’s golden deeds are inscribed, and come to a new episode in his life, on which a dark shadow rests! Little by little the differences of opinion which had long existed between the Stadtholder and the Advocate Barneveldt ripened into open enmity. The latter was at the head of the peace party, while Maurice declared for continuous warfare, in spite of which a general truce of several years was concluded, beneath which the Prince’s restless spirit chafed and fretted.