15

THE PRINCE OF ORANGE

In a predatory world, Holland’s wealth and power were neither gained nor maintained without a struggle. The republic had been born in the sixteenth-century struggle of the Protestant provinces of the northern Netherlands to break the grip of their Spanish master, Philip II. In 1559, they finally achieved independence. With skill and determination, the Dutchmen developed the sea power that defeated the Spanish admirals, inherited Spain’s worldwide ocean trade routes and laid the foundation for Holland’s overseas empire. But as the republic waxed in prosperity, it aroused the envy and greed of its two most powerful neighbors, England and France. Coveting the Dutch near-monopoly on European trade, the English under both Oliver Cromwell and Charles II assaulted Holland, and three Anglo-Dutch naval wars resulted. It was in the second of these wars that an English fleet commanded by the King’s brother, the Duke of York (later to become King James II), seized the harbor of New Amsterdam and named the village at the tip of Manhattan Island “New York” after himself. Later, the Dutch retaliated with a daring naval raid up the Thames estuary, thrusting into the main British naval base at Chatham, burning four ships-of-the-line at anchor and sailing away with the Royal Charles, the pride of the Royal Navy, in tow. In these wars at sea between two seafaring peoples, the Dutch more than held their own. Led by two superb admirals, Tromp and de Ruyter, the Dutch sailed their smaller, round-nosed warships against the larger, heavier English ships with such bravery and seamanship that Holland became the only nation ever consistently to defeat the British navy.

Holland’s wars against England were fought at sea and in the colonies. A far deadlier threat to the United Provinces was to come by land from Holland’s mighty neighbor, the France of Louis XIV. To the men gathered around Louis at Versailles, the success of the tiny Protestant republic was an affront to France’s greatness, a sin against her religion and, most important, a barrier and competitor to her commerce. The King, his finance minister Colbert and his war minister Louvois were united in their desire to crush the remarkable, upstart Dutchmen. In 1672, with the largest and finest army in the history of Western Europe and the Sun King in personal command, France swept across the Rhine to within sight of the steeples of Amsterdam. Holland was finished … or would have been if not for the emergence into history of one of the seventeenth century’s most extraordinary figures, William of Orange.

William, Prince of Orange, simultaneously Stadholder of Holland and the United Netherlands and King William III of England, was perhaps the most interesting political figure Peter was to meet in his lifetime. Two dramatic, almost miraculous events had set the direction of William’s life. At twenty-one, at a moment when an apparently invincible French army had swallowed half the Dutch republic, William was handed supreme military and political power and asked to repel the aggressors. He succeeded. Fifteen years later, at thirty-six, without relinquishing his Dutch offices and titles, he conducted the only successful invasion of England since the days of William the Conqueror.

Physically, William of Orange was not blessed. Slender and unusually short, with a slight deformity of the spine which crooked his back, he had a thin, dark face, black eyes, a long, aquiline nose, full lips and black hair hanging in heavy curls which gave him an appearance more Spanish or Italian than Dutch. In fact, William possessed very little Dutch blood. He was born into a curious European family, a princely house whose history is integral to the struggle for independence of the Netherlands, and yet whose hereditary principality of Orange lies hundreds of miles to the south, in the Rhône Valley of France, a few miles north of Avignon. Since the days of William the Silent, who led the Dutch to freedom against Spain in the sixteenth century, the House of Orange had furnished the republic with elected leaders—stadholders—in times of danger. The family’s blood was good enough for marriage into other royal families, and half of William’s ancestors were Stuarts. His grandfather was King Charles I of England, his mother was an English princess, her brothers—his uncles—two Kings of England: Charles II and James II.

William became the head of the House of Orange at the moment of birth; his father had died of smallpox a week before. Brought up by his grandmother, he suffered severely from asthma, and through his childhood he was lonely, delicate and unhappy. In those years, the office of stadholder was vacant and Holland was ruled by an oligarchy led by two brothers, John and Cornelius De Witt, who believed that by careful conciliation they could placate Louis XIV. Then, in 1672, the year of Peter’s birth, came the first crisis of William’s life. In that spring, Louvois presented Louis with a magnificent new French army of 110,000 men massed at Charleroix on the northern frontier. Louis, arriving to assume personal command of the blow which was to destroy the Protestant republic, expected no difficulty. “I now possess an escort which will allow me to take a quiet little journey into Holland,” he said contentedly.

Although the Sun King was in nominal command, the experienced Marshal Turenne and the Prince de Condé gave the actual orders. Louis’ army easily forced the Rhine on new copper pontoon bridges, and Dutch cities and fortresses fell like ninepins. Seeing the French implacably advancing, the people of Holland panicked. There were riots against the De Witts, who were held personally responsible for the country’s plight. In The Hague, a frenzied mob burst in upon the brothers and lynched them.

It was at this moment of crisis that the Dutch suddenly turned like terrified children to the House of Orange, which had provided salvation a century before. William was only twenty-one, but on July 8 he was appointed Stadholder of Holland and Captain General of the Army for life. His program was straightforward and bleak: “We can die in the last ditch.” Immediately, he began to demonstrate the qualities for which he was to become famous. He took the field wearing the commander’s garb which was to be his attire for many years: the azure uniform of the Dutch Blue Guards, light armor covering his back and chest, a full cravat of Brussels lace, an orange sash and scarf, high boots, fringed braided gloves and belt, a broad-brimmed hat with feathers. Remaining on horseback from dawn until nightfall, indifferent to fatigue, the slight young prince threw down the gauntlet before Louis and his veteran marshals.

Within a week of taking command, William was forced to make an appalling decision. Despite his efforts, his army could not hold the French, who thrust swiftly forward into the heart of the United Netherlands. Arnhem fell and Utrecht, only twenty-two miles from Amsterdam. Then, when the French were only a day’s march away from the great Dutch port, the Dutch obeyed William’s command and cut the dikes. The sea rolled in, flooding crops and meadows, engulfing rich country houses and gardens, drowning cattle and pigs, and undoing the labor of many generations. As soldiers opened the sluices and cut the dikes, desperate farmers, unwilling to see their farms disappear beneath the onrushing waters, fought to prevent them. Amsterdam, hitherto almost defenseless, now became an island. The French, lacking boats, could only stare at the great city from a distance.

To Louis’ chagrin, although the Dutch army was beaten and half of Holland inundated, William refused to yield. The Dutch battalions, unable to defeat the more numerous French, nevertheless remained in the field, waiting. Condé settled into winter quarters in Utrecht, hoping that when winter came he could attack Amsterdam across the ice. But the winter was mild, and Louis, who never liked to have French armies operating far from France, became nervous. Meanwhile, William had been active diplomatically. To the Hapsburg Emperor, to Brandenburg, Hanover, Denmark and Spain, he pointed out that Louis’ power and ambition were a threat not just to Holland but to other states as well. All were impressed by the argument, and even more by the continuing Dutch resistance. In the spring, the war widened. William’s small army began to attack the French lines of communication, and Louis became more nervous. At last, systematically destroying the towns they had occupied, the French withdrew. This partial victory—the survival of Holland—was almost solely the achievement of a twenty-one-year-old soldier and statesman who in those few months became the second most important national leader in Europe.

Peace finally came in 1678, but the suspicions raised in William by Louis’ ambitions were never assuaged. Opposition to the great French King became William’s obsession. He understood that the power of France could never be matched by any other single power; therefore, his life work became the tireless weaving of coalitions of European states strong enough to repulse the Sun King’s ambition, which was, as William saw it, to establish in Europe “a universal monarchy and a universal religion.”

The young hero grew quickly into an experienced statesman and warrior. Physically courageous and energetic, a ruthless disciplinarian of himself and his men, William was nevertheless not a great soldier. Although he commanded Dutch and English armies for almost three decades, he never rose above the second rank as a military commander; he certainly was not to be compared with the lieutenant who succeeded him as generalissimo of the anti-French coalition, John Churchill, first Duke of Marlborough. William’s talent lay not in winning battles—he was frequently beaten—but in surviving defeat, in remaining in the field, in pulling back, enduring, and preparing for the next campaign. His genius lay in diplomacy. Stern, unlovable, impatient, self-willed, passionate, his true nature was to tolerate no obstruction, smashing through everything to his objective. But because Holland had not the power to indulge this side of his character, he was forced to suppress these feelings, to compromise with his allies, to make concessions, to soothe and to wait.

William was a Calvinist, but he tolerated all religions: The Pope was his ally, so was the Catholic Emperor; there were Catholic officers in his army. Every other prejudice and antagonism was set aside; his sole vendetta was with Louis. At bottom, however, his life was guided by a steely Calvinist belief in predestination. He was convinced that he, like others in his family before him, was acting as an instrument of God. The Deity, he believed, had chosen his family and now himself to save the Netherlands and the Protestant cause in Europe. He even saw his mission as personal: himself and Louis locked in single combat for the future of Europe. Given this granite foundation to his faith, it did not dismay William when his armies failed in battle: Everything was preordained by God, and defeat was only a challenge to his worthiness, a test of his ability to continue as God’s champion. Although William sometimes doubted and even despaired, he never gave up, believing that somehow, through miracles if necessary, God would save his cause. Thus, although his power was much less than Louis’, William, unlike Louis, was prepared to run great risks. It was a risk of this magnitude, a second miracle almost, which in 1688 suddenly catapulted William onto the throne of England.

For years, William’s primary diplomatic objective, after the safeguarding of Holland, had been to pull his cynical uncle, Charles II of England, away from France, and to attach England to Holland in alliance against France. He never entirely succeeded, but after 1672 England remained neutral in the uneasy peace that followed. In 1677, to further his policy, twenty-six-year-old William married his first cousin, Charles II’s niece, the fifteen-year-old Princess Mary of England. It was not a love match, as women in general meant little to William, and the marriage was childless. The Princess, however, was a devoted wife who gave up England and dedicated herself to becoming a Princess of Holland, not even visiting her own country for ten years after her marriage. She became much beloved by the Dutch people, and she returned their affection. She had no expectation of ever mounting the English throne: Before her stood first the incumbent king, her uncle Charles II, then any legitimate male heirs whom he might sire, then her father, the Duke of York, followed by his legitimate male heirs.

In 1685, however, after twenty-five years on the English throne, Charles II died, leaving no legitimate child, and the throne passed to his younger brother, England’s finest admiral, James, Duke of York. This change of monarchs greatly altered England’s position. James was honest, blunt, proud, single-minded and devoid of subtlety. Born a Protestant, he had converted to Catholicism at the age of thirty-five, displaying thereafter all the special fanaticism of the convert, a trait in which he was enthusiastically encouraged by his Catholic second wife, Mary of Modena. On the decks of his ships or in a special little wooden chapel mounted on wheels and trundled along in the midst of his army, James heard mass twice a day.

Once on the throne, James moved quickly to change the balance of political forces in England. His first objective was simply to remove the restrictions placed on English Catholics by the strongly anti-Catholic Protestant majority. Increasingly, however, Catholics were promoted into key positions. Catholic governors were installed in the Channel ports and a Catholic admiral was given command of the Channel fleet. Although Protestant anxiety and opposition mounted swiftly, one important fact stifled overt action: James had no son, and his two daughters, Mary and Anne, were both Protestants. English Protestants, thus, were prepared to await James’ death and Mary’s succession. And Mary’s husband, who would succeed with her to the throne, was William of Orange. William’s title to rule came only partially from his status as Mary’s husband; in his own right he was also, as the only nephew of both King Charles II and King James II, the next heir after Mary and Anne.

William did not dislike his uncle, but he deeply feared the presence of a Catholic monarch on the English throne, with its implications of an alignment of Catholic France and Catholic England against Protestant Holland. Nevertheless, he, too, was prepared to wait for James to die and his own wife, Mary, to come to the throne. But on June 20, 1688, James’ Queen, Mary of Modena, produced a son. The Catholic King had a Catholic heir. This challenge flung down before the Protestants of England turned them immediately to William. Although what happened next was seen by James’ supporters (who came to be called Jacobites) as a stroke of monstrous ambition by a ruthless nephew and son-in-law usurping the throne of England, the motive for William’s action had almost nothing to do with England and everything to do with France and Europe. It was not that William wanted to be King of England or cared about preserving the liberties of Englishmen or the rights of Parliament; what he wanted was to keep England in the Protestant camp.

The invitation to William to replace his uncle on the English throne was sent to William by seven of the most respected Protestant leaders in England, including both Whigs and Tories. Obtaining the support and permission of the States General of Holland, William embarked a Dutch army of 12,000 men on 200 merchant vessels escorted by 49 warships, almost the entire Dutch fleet. Slipping past the watching English and French fleets, he landed at Torbay on the Devonshire coast. He came ashore behind a banner carrying the ancient creed of the House of Orange, “Je maintiendrai” (“I shall maintain”), to which William had added the words: “the liberties of England and the Protestant religion.”

James sent his most skilled military commander and his intimate personal friend, John Churchill, then Earl of Marlborough, to confront William’s army, but Marlborough, himself a Protestant, promptly defected to the invaders. So did James’ other daughter, Princess Anne, along with her husband, Prince George of Denmark. This broke the King’s spirit. Crying, “God help me! Even my own children have deserted me!” he fled unshaven from London, throwing the Great Seal into the river as he crossed the Thames and embarked for France. There, in the château of St. Germain-en-Laye, where he now lies buried, the proud and obstinate monarch lived for thirteen years as a pensioner of Louis. He kept a shadow court and a handful of Irish Guards, all dependent for their daily bread on Louis, whose vanity was gratified by the presence at his feet of a suppliant exiled monarch.

Mary’s position in the quarrel between her father and her husband was painful, but, as a Protestant and a wife, she supported William. When she arrived in England, she quickly rejected proposals that she become the sole monarch to the exclusion of her husband. William and Mary were proclaimed joint sovereigns by a Parliament which, in turn, extracted from them a Bill of Rights and other privileges which are today the centerpieces of the British constitution.

Ironically, although the events of 1688 marked an overwhelming change in the political and constitutional history of England, and are referred to as the Glorious Revolution, William did not much care about them. He acquiesced in whatever Parliament asked, in order to keep its support for the struggle in Europe. He left domestic policy in the hands of others while striving to control England’s foreign policy himself, coordinating it with Dutch policy and even merging the Dutch and English diplomatic services to act as one. His foreign policy was, simply, war with France, and in taking William, England also took his war. In essence, a trade had been made: Parliament accepted William’s war in order to protect the Protestant religion and assert its supremacy; William accepted Parliament’s supremacy in order to keep England’s support in fighting Louis.

William did not feel at home among the islanders. He hated the English weather, which aggravated his asthma, and he disliked the English people: “I am sure that this people has not been made for me, nor I for it.” He longed for Holland. In 1692, when The Hague was holding its annual fair, he sighed, “I wish I were a bird and could fly over.” On another occasion, he spoke of Holland, “for which I am longing as a fish for water.”

And the English heartily returned William’s dislike. They commented on his unsociability, his silence and his surliness toward his English subjects, as well as on his distaste for their habits, their traditions, their parties and politics, and for London. But although he took the witty Elizabeth Villiers as his mistress, Queen Mary remained devoted to him, ruling England in his behalf whenever he was absent from the realm and retiring from politics completely whenever he returned. When she died of smallpox at the age of thirty-two, William mourned her bitterly. He continued on as sole monarch, a childless, lonely man whose heir was Mary’s sister, Princess Anne. The French, ever ready to believe the worst of the strange little man who so desperately opposed them, spread rumors that he was in love with the Earl of Albemarle.

What William most disliked about the English was what he regarded as their naïve disregard of their own long-term interests and their selfish lack of concern about what happened to Europe; in other words, their wavering commitment to his great cause. As King of England, he bound English interests to the Dutch, but he did not subordinate the one to the other. Instead, as leader of the coalition of Europe, he took an overall view of his role. He began to speak of Europe as an entity, and in his correspondence the objective became “the general interest of Europe.”

Predictably, within two years of William’s coronation, England was at war with France. The war lasted nine years, the result was inconclusive and the Treaty of Ryswick, being drawn up at The Hague in 1697 at the moment of Peter’s visit to Holland, altered no boundaries, although by its terms Louis finally recognized William as King of England. Thereafter, in a brief interlude of peace, Louis and William even worked together to head off the international crisis which would inevitably be precipitated when the feeble King of Spain, Carlos II, died without an heir. The agreed solution was partition, but Carlos upset their plans by leaving his kingdom and empire to Louis’ grandson, and the Sun King tore up his treaty with William. William, naturally, refused to accept this merger of the territory and power of France and Spain, and tirelessly began once again to assemble an anti-French coalition.

The great war which followed, called the War of the Spanish Succession, lasted eleven years and marked the dividing line between seventeenth-century and eighteenth-century Europe. In immediate terms, the war was won and William’s goal achieved: France was held within its boundaries, Holland preserved its freedom and the Protestant religion was maintained in Europe. But William did not live to see it. In the spring of 1702, on the eve of his declaration of war, the King went for a ride on Sorrel, his favorite horse, in the park at Hampton Court. The horse stumbled, pitching William out of the saddle, breaking his collarbone. At first, the accident did not seem serious, but William, at fifty, was exhausted. His eyes were deeply sunken, his asthmatic cough never stopped. His emaciated body lacked the strength to resist, and on March 19, 1702, he died.

It was Peter’s good fortune that William happened to be in Holland when the Great Embassy arrived. Ever since the Tsar’s adolescence, William had been his foremost hero among Western leaders. Through the long evenings in the German Suburb, talking with Hollanders, Germans and other foreigners, most of them adherents to William’s Protestant, anti-French cause, Peter had listened to innumerable tales about the dauntless, skillful and persistent Dutchman. In 1691, at Pereslavl, he had ordered the cannon of his ships on the lake fired in salute when he heard of the English and Dutch victory over the French fleet at La Hogue. Predisposed to value all things Dutch, wanting to learn the secrets of Dutch shipwrights, hoping to enlist Dutch help in his war against the Turks, Peter was eager to meet the King and Stadholder whom he so admired.

Their first encounter took place at Utrecht, Peter being escorted there by Witsen and Lefort. The meeting was completely private and informal, as both monarchs always preferred. They were an unlikely pair: the small, coldly disciplined Dutchman with his bent back and asthmatic wheeze, and the towering, youthful, impulsive Russian. Peter’s proposal that William join him in a Christian alliance against the Turks drew no response. William, although negotiating peace with France, wanted no major war in the East which could distract and divert his Austrian ally and tempt Louis XIV to renew his adventures in the West. In any case, Peter’s appeal was to be officially delivered not by himself to William, but by the Russian ambassadors to the formal rulers of Holland, Their High Mightinesses the States General, who sat in the national capital, The Hague. It was to them that the Great Embassy would present its credentials and state its business, and Peter took this event extremely seriously. As Russia had no permanent ambassadors or embassies abroad, the arrival of this large delegation headed by three leading men of the Russian state (even apart from the unacknowledged presence of the sovereign) and the manner of its reception were matters of great importance to Peter. He was eager that the Embassy’s debut be auspicious, and for this purpose Ryswick provided an excellent stage. The most celebrated statesmen and diplomats of all the major European powers were present to conduct or oversee the crucial peace negotiations; anything that happened in Ryswick would be carefully noted and reported back to every capital and monarch in Europe.

The Russian ambassadors fussed for days in Amsterdam preparing themselves for their audience. They ordered three magnificent state carriages, new wardrobes for themselves and new liveries for their servants. Meanwhile, in The Hague, two hotels were readied for them and stocked with large quantities of wine and food. As the Embassy prepared, Peter told Witsen that he wanted to accompany his ambassadors incognito to observe how they were received. This request was difficult for Witsen to comply with, but even harder to refuse. Peter went along in one of the lesser carriages, insisting that his favorite dwarf accompany him even though the coach was crowded. “Very well,” he said, “then I’ll put him on my knees.” All along the road from Amsterdam to The Hague, Peter kept seeing new things. Passing a mill, Peter asked, “What is this for?” Told it was a mill to cut stones, he declared, “I want to see it.” The carriage stopped, but the mill was locked. Even at night, crossing a bridge, Peter wanted to study its construction and take measurements. The carriage stopped again, lanterns were brought and the Tsar measured the bridge’s length and width. He was measuring the depth of its pontoons when the wind blew out the lights.

At The Hague, Peter was taken to the Hotel Amsterdam, where he was shown a beautiful room with a luxurious bed. He rejected both, choosing instead a small room at the top of the hotel with a simple camp bed. A few minutes later, however, he decided that he wanted to be with his ambassadors. It was after midnight, but he insisted that the horses be put back in the carriage and driven to the Hotel des Doelens. Here, again, he was shown a handsome apartment which did not please him and he went in search of his own accommodations. Spotting one of the Embassy servants fast asleep on a bearskin, Peter pushed him with his feet, saying, “Come on, come on, get up!” The servant rolled over, growling. Peter kicked him a second time, crying, “Quickly, quickly, I want to sleep there.” This time, the servant understood and leaped to his feet. Peter threw himself on the warm bearskin and went to sleep.

On the day the ambassadors were received by the States General, Peter was dressed in European style as a gentleman of the court. He wore a blue suit with gold ornaments, a blond wig and a hat with white plumes. Witsen ushered him into a chamber next to the hall in which the reception would take place; through a window, Peter was able to observe and hear everything. There he stood and waited for the ambassadors to appear. “They are late,” he complained. His impatience grew as he saw everyone turning constantly to look at him and heard the growing buzz of excitement as whispers passed that the Tsar was in the next room. He wanted to escape, but could not without crossing the crowded audience hall. Distraught, he asked Witsen to command the members of the States General to turn their heads away in order not to see him as he crossed. Witsen told him that he could not command these gentlemen who were the sovereigns in Holland, but that he would ask them. They replied that they would be willing to rise in the presence of the Tsar but would not consent to turn their backs. On hearing this, Peter covered his face with his wig and walked rapidly across the hall into the vestibule and down the stairs.

A few minutes later, the ambassadors arrived in the hall and the audience took place. Lefort made a speech in Russian which was translated into French, and presented Their High Mightinesses with a large collection of sables. Lefort, who wore European clothes in Moscow, was dressed for the occasion in Muscovite robes of cloth of gold, bordered with furs. His hat and sword sparkled with diamonds. Golovin and Voznitsyn were dressed in black satin sewn with gold, pearls and diamonds; on their breasts they wore medallions enclosing a portrait of the Tsar, and their shoulders were covered with a gold embroidery of the double eagle. The ambassadors made a good impression, the Russian costumes were much admired and everyone talked about the Tsar.

While in The Hague, Peter maintained his official incognito, meeting privately with Dutch statesmen but refusing any public recognition. He attended a banquet for the diplomatic corps, sitting next to Witsen. He continued to meet privately with William, although no record of their conversations has remained. Finally, satisfied with the reception of his ambassadors and leaving them to conduct the actual negotiations with the States General, he returned to his work in the shipyard at Amsterdam. The Embassy had limited success. The Dutch were not interested in a crusade against the Turks, and because of the debts piled up from their war against France and the need to rebuild their own navy, they rejected the Russian request for help in building and arming seventy warships and more than one hundred galleys for use on the Black Sea.

During the autumn, often escorted by Witsen, Peter made frequent excursions by carriage across the flat Dutch countryside. Rolling along through regions once at the bottom of a shallow sea, he looked out at a landscape dotted with windmills and brick church spires, meadows filled with grazing cows, and little brick towns with brick streets. The rivers and canals packed with boats and barges were a delight for Peter. Often, when the water was hidden by the flatness of the landscape, it seemed as if the brown sails and masts were moving independently across the wide fields.

Aboard a state yacht, Witsen took Peter to the island of Texel on the North Sea coast to watch the return of the Greenland whaling fleet. The place was remote, with long, rolling dunes and scrub trees growing at the edge of the white sand. In the harbor, Peter boarded one of the sturdy, three-masted vessels, examined everything and asked many questions about whales. To demonstrate, the whaler lowered a whaleboat and the crew demonstrated attacking a whale with a harpoon. Peter marveled at their precision and coordination. Then, although the ship reeked of whale blubber, the Tsar descended belowdecks to see the rooms where the whales were butchered and the blubber was boiled for its precious oil.

Several times, Peter returned quietly to Zaandam to visit his comrades who were still working there. Menshikov was learning to make masts, Naryshkin was learning navigation, Golovkin and Kurakin were working on hull construction. Usually, he traveled there by water, or went sailing during his visit. Once, when he was sailing during a storm against advice, his boat capsized. Peter clambered out and patiently sat on the upturned bottom, waiting to be rescued.

Although his privacy was protected as long as he worked on the docks, it was impossible to isolate him when he sailed on the Ij. Small boats filled with curious people regularly tried to accost him. This always made Peter angry. Once, at the urging of several lady passengers, the captain of a mail boat tried to draw alongside Peter’s craft. In a fury, Peter threw two empty bottles at the captain’s head. He missed, but the mail boat reversed course and left him alone.

Early in his visit, Peter met the leading Dutch admiral of the day, Gilles Schey, a pupil of de Ruyter’s. It was Schey who offered him the most striking and agreeable spectacle of his visit: a great sham naval battle on the Ij. The boat owners in northern Holland were invited to attend, and cannon were placed on all the craft able to carry them. Companies of volunteer soldiers were distributed among the decks and riggings of the larger boats, charged to simulate the fire of musketeers during the battle. On a Sunday morning, under a cloudless sky with a fresh wind, hundreds of boats assembled along the edge of a dike lined with thousands of spectators. Peter and members of his Embassy boarded the grand yacht of the East India Company and sailed toward the two fleets already ranged in opposing lines of battle. After a salute to the guest, the battle began. First, the two lines of ships fired salvos at each other; then a number of individual ship-to-ship engagements commenced. The battle, with its advance and retreat, its grappling and boarding, its smoke and noise, pleased the Tsar so much that he made his own ship steer for the place of hottest action. With the cannon thundering continually so that no one could hear, “the Tsar was in a state of rapture difficult to describe.” In the afternoon, a number of collisions forced the Admiral to signal both sides to break off the action.

Peter dined often with Schey and tried to persuade the Admiral to come to Russia to supervise construction of the Russian fleet and to take command when it put to sea. He offered Schey all the titles he might want, a pension of 24,000 florins, more for his wife and children in case they preferred to remain behind in Holland, and promised to make the arrangements himself with William. Schey declined, which did not in any way diminish Peter’s respect for him, and proposed another admiral to Peter as a man capable of supervising and commanding a navy. This was Cornelius Cruys, born in Norway of Dutch parents. With the rank of rear admiral, he was Chief Inspector of Naval Stores and Equipment of the Dutch Admiralty at Amsterdam, and in this capacity had already been advising the Russians in their purchases of naval equipment. He was exactly the kind of man Peter wanted, but, like Schey, Cruys showed little enthusiasm for Peter’s offer. Only the united efforts of Schey, Witsen and other prominent persons who understood that Cruys in Russia would have a powerful influence on Russian trade persuaded the reluctant Admiral to accept.

Except for the time needed for his visit to The Hague and his trips to see various places and people in other parts of Holland, Peter worked steadily in the shipyard for four months. On November 16, nine weeks after the laying of his frigate’s keel, the hull was ready for launching, and at the ceremony Witsen, in the name of the city of Amsterdam, presented the vessel to Peter as a gift. The Tsar, deeply moved, embraced the Burgomaster and immediately named the frigate Amsterdam. Later, loaded with many of the objects and machines Peter had purchased, she was dispatched to Archangel. Pleased as he was with the ship, Peter was even prouder of the piece of paper he received from Gerrit Pool, the master shipwright, certifying that Peter Mikhailov had worked four months in his dockyard, was an able and competent shipwright and had thoroughly mastered the science of naval architecture.

Nevertheless, Peter was disturbed by his instruction in Holland. What he had learned had been little more than ship’s carpentry—it was better than the ship’s carpentry he had learned in Russia, but it was not what he was seeking. Peter wanted to grasp the basic secrets of ship design; in effect, naval architecture. He wanted blueprints, made scientifically, controlled by mathematics, not simply a greater handiness with axe and hammer. But the Dutch were empirical in shipbuilding as in everything else. Each Dutch shipyard had its own individual rule-of-thumb design, each Dutch shipwright built what had worked for him before and there were no basic principles which Peter could carry back to Russia. In order to build a fleet a thousand miles away on the Don with a force of largely unskilled laborers, he needed something which could be easily explained, understood and copied by men who had never seen a ship before.

Peter’s growing dissatisfaction with Dutch methodology in shipbuilding expressed itself in several ways. First, he sent word back to Voronezh that Dutch shipwrights working there were no longer to be allowed to build as they pleased, but were to be placed under the supervision of Englishmen, Venetians or Danes. Second, now that his frigate was finished, he resolved to go to England to study English shipbuilding techniques. In November, in one of his interviews with William, Peter mentioned his desire to visit England. When the king returned to London, Peter sent Major Adam Weide after him with a formal request that the Tsar be allowed to come to England incognito. William’s response elated Peter. The King replied that he was making a present to the Tsar of a superb new royal yacht, still unfinished, which, when completed, would be the most gracefully proportioned and fastest yacht in England. In addition, King William announced that he was sending two warships, Yorke and Romney, with three smaller ships, commanded by Vice Admiral Sir David Mitchell, to escort the Tsar to England. It was Peter’s decision that he should come alone, except for Menshikov and several of the “volunteers,” leaving Lefort and the majority of the Embassy in Holland to continue negotiating with the Dutch.

On January 7, 1698, after almost five months in Holland, Peter and his companions boarded the Yorke, Admiral Mitchell’s flagship, and early the next morning set sail across the narrow strip of gray sea that separates the continent from England.