HE was the third son of Lewis de Nassau, Lord of Leek, Odyke, Auverquerque, and Beverwaart, by Elizabeth, daughter of the Count de Horn. He formed part of William of Orange’s suite when that Prince came over to England in 1670, and on the occasion of a visit to Oxford, De Nassau had the degree of D.C.L. conferred upon him. In the campaigns which ensued in Flanders, he was brother-in-arms to his cousin and Royal master, and gained general approbation for his courage and patriotism. When William III. ascended the throne of England, Auverquerque was appointed Master of the Horse, and allowed to retain his post of Captain of the Dutch Guards who had come over to this country. He was also naturalised by Act of Parliament. Macaulay speaks of this ‘gallant soldier as uniting the blood of Nassau with that of Horn. He wore with just pride a costly sword, presented to him by the States-General, for having, on the bloody day of St. Denis, saved the life of William of Orange by interposing himself between his Highness and a French soldier, whom he killed on the spot.’ Auverquerque likewise received a brace of pistols, richly mounted in gold, and a pair of horse-buckles of the same precious metal.
In 1690 he was with the army that embarked for Ireland, headed by the King in person; fought with his Royal master at the battle of the Boyne, and was afterwards sent to Dublin (hastily evacuated by James II. and his adherents) to take possession of the city and keep the peace. He was also with William at the unsuccessful siege of Limerick, and subsequently served with great distinction in the campaigns in Flanders against the French.
But it was at the battle of Steinkirk, in 1692, that Auverquerque immortalised himself by his gallantry. The French army, commanded by the brave and eccentric Duke of Luxembourg, was encamped at Steinkirk, six miles from the King of England’s headquarters. Luxembourg was one of the most extraordinary compounds of physical and moral incongruities. Macaulay describes him as a valetudinarian and a voluptuary, whose camp was of the most luxurious, who usually selected his quarters with a view to his culinary department, and whose thoughts were almost as much taken up with his batterie de cuisine as with his batteries in the field,—a little ugly hump-backed gnome, who was accredited with powers of witchcraft, and had the spirit of a lion. On his camp William made a night surprise, but Luxembourg was one of those spirits who, in the literal meaning of the word, cannot be surprised. He was the king of emergencies; ‘his mind’—we again borrow the language of Macaulay—‘nay, even his sickly and distorted body, seemed to derive health and vigour from disaster and dismay.’
In his army were the flower of the French chivalry. The noble historian, whom we are never tired of quoting, describes the appearance of the young Princes of the blood-royal of France,—‘brave not only in valour, but in the splendour of their brilliant uniforms, hastily donned and half fastened.’ They had orders to charge the English: ‘No firing was the word; sword in hand, do it with cold steel.’
In the order of battle, the division which was to lead the van was that of General Mackay (the brave soldier who had done such good service in Scotland, Ireland, and elsewhere). They first encountered the Swiss, and drove them back with fearful slaughter, after so close a fight that the muzzles of the muskets crossed.
But the English were borne down, after a noble resistance, by the French troopers. They never ceased to repeat that, if Count Solmes, who commanded them, had done his duty, they would have been successful; but he forbade his infantry to stir; he would not send them, he said, to be slaughtered. The Duke of Ormonde wished to advance to the assistance of his countrymen, but was not permitted to do so.
Mackay sent to say if he were not reinforced, his men were doomed to destruction. It was of no avail; ‘God’s will be done,’ said the brave veteran with his latest breath, and ‘he died as he had lived, a good Christian.’ Five regiments were entirely cut to pieces. It was at this juncture that Auverquerque came to the rescue with two fresh battalions, and the splendid manner in which he brought off the remains of Mackay’s division was long remembered and gratefully acknowledged by the English. In the debates which ensued in the House of Commons, when the events of the war by land and sea were discussed, there was much difference of opinion, and the question of the disadvantages of English troops being commanded by aliens was mooted. The conduct of Solmes was almost universally reprehended. Four or five of the colonels, who had been present at Steinkirk, took part in the debate, and, amid many warring opinions, full justice was done to the valour and conduct of Auverquerque.
On the other hand, the exultation of the French over this dashing victory was unspeakable; and it was commemorated by the votaries of fashion in all sorts of ‘modes à la Steinkirk,’ the most captivating of which, we are told, was the loosely arranged and scarcely knotted cravats of white lace, worn round the fair necks of Parisian beauties, in imitation of the hasty toilettes of the young princes and nobles of the King’s household troops.
In Macaulay’s pathetic account of the last days of William III., he tells us ‘there were in the crowd surrounding the Monarch’s dying bed those who felt as no Englishman could feel, friends of his youth, who had been true to him, and to whom he had been true, through all vicissitudes of fortune, who had served him with unalterable fidelity (when his Secretaries of State, of his Treasury, and his Admiralty had betrayed him), who had never on any field of battle, or in an atmosphere tainted with loathsome and deadly disease, shrunk from placing their own lives in jeopardy to save his, and whose truth he had, at the cost of his own popularity, rewarded with bounteous munificence.’
Amid the group of his countrymen, the nearest to him was Auverquerque, to whom he stretched out a feeble hand, thanking him for the affectionate and loyal service of thirty years.