Chapter 835: Holland Collapses
Before the seventy or eighty people gathered in the center of the hall could even process what was happening, Luke gave a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand. The soldiers immediately surged forward, binding them securely and leading them away in small groups.
Amidst a chaotic cacophony of desperate protests and indignant demands for explanation, the most influential and high-ranking figures of Middelburg were swept up in a single, efficient dragnet.
Luke skillfully organized his subordinates to begin the process of screening and categorizing the captives—a procedure he had refined through repetition in numerous other cities over the past few weeks.
High-ranking officials and those wealthy merchants deemed "uncooperative" were earmarked for immediate transport to the prisons of Antwerp, the capital of the Flemish Republic.
Mid-to-low-level officials who were judged "capable of collaborating with the new government" were retained, offered the chance to keep their heads, and assigned to new administrative roles.
The more accommodating merchants and bankers were granted a form of parole, allowed to return to their business interests only after paying substantial "bail fees" to the new authorities.
In a few days, officials formally appointed by the Flemish Parliament would arrive to take over the day-to-day administration of Middelburg.
At that point, the city would undergo a truly comprehensive purge. Anyone found to be harboring loyalty to the Dutch government, whether they were a common laborer or a high-born aristocrat, would be shipped to the western coast to serve as forced labor, chained to the oars of the galleys.
Through such ruthless and thorough cleansing, the Flemish Parliament aimed to consolidate its control over the three southern provinces of the Netherlands with the greatest possible speed.
Scheyck leafed through the pages with a casual air before nodding in approval. "Divide it according to the established rules."
"Do not worry, it has already been arranged," Luke assured him.
The "established rules" were simple but lucrative: the wealth extracted during these purges was split into four equal shares. One share went to the Flemish Parliament, one to the Flemish military, one was reserved for Scheyck personally, and the final share was delivered to their French advisors.
As for those bank shares, they would be acquired in their entirety by an anonymous French bank. The acquisition price would be settled at a "bone-breaking" discount, followed by a few more metaphorical hammer blows to ensure the value was driven as low as possible.
Scheyck was exerting himself so much because he was acutely aware of his own limitations. He knew he lacked any real talent or intellect; to maintain his standing within the Flemish government, he had to cling desperately to the coattails of the French.
The French Intelligence Bureau had already promised that before the Flemish general elections began, they would assist him in establishing a political party to ensure his continued influence.
Once his nephew had departed, Scheyck summoned his staff officers to issue his next set of instructions. "Let the soldiers rest and refit in the city for two days. On the day after tomorrow, we will cross the Var River and begin our advance toward Utrecht."
"Yes, General!"
Meanwhile, in the Netherlands.
Amsterdam.
Kemperen and a assembly of high-ranking government and military officials sat around a long mahogany table, their expressions so grim they seemed to darken the very air in the room.
They were still basking in the short-lived relief of having signed the peace treaty with France when the news of the Flemish declaration of war struck them like a physical blow, leaving the entire administration reeling.
The Flemish forces were moving with terrifying speed. In just one week, they had swept through the three southern provinces of the Netherlands and were now positioned to strike at Amsterdam at any moment.
Most devastatingly, the Dutch Parliament possessed no military force capable of mounting a serious resistance.
Bronckhorst, the Dutch Minister of War, was the first to break the heavy silence. "The three thousand newly recruited soldiers will be ready to deploy to the front by next week. When combined with the garrison from Breda, we will have a defensive force of six thousand men..."
While the Dutch Parliament had the authority to conscript tens of thousands of men—and indeed, many Dutch citizens were eager to take up arms to defend their homes—they lacked the instructors necessary to train them.
Sending raw recruits onto a modern battlefield was worse than a death sentence; they would break formation at the first sign of trouble, causing chaos among their own ranks and dragging the few remaining veterans down to their deaths.
In recent years, the Netherlands had first intervened in the Brabant rebellion, only to have their main force systematically annihilated by the Franco-Austrian coalition.
Later, they had committed their newly formed units to the Anti-French Coalition, where they were either crushed or captured by Joseph, leaving almost no survivors to return to Dutch soil.
The handful of officers who remained in the country had mostly been imprisoned or exiled for war crimes, leaving the Netherlands with a total void of military leadership.
If not for a few officers within the aristocratic faction who had been marginalized and ignored by the Patriot Party, they wouldn't have had a single soul capable of training the new recruits.
Kemperen turned a piercing gaze on the Minister of War. "How confident are you that we can hold the line at the Var River?"
Bronckhorst merely gripped the head of his cane with white-knuckled intensity. "I will personally travel to the Var River to command the defense."
"I need a direct answer," Kemperen pressed. "How much of a chance do we have?"
Bronckhorst could only meet his gaze in stony silence.
There were almost no mid-level officers left in the entire country, and the ranks were filled with boys who had never held a musket a month ago. Barring a literal miracle from God, no commander on earth could win this war.
Daendels, who had military experience of his own, quickly grasped the desperate reality of their situation. He looked toward Bronckhorst. "If we were to release those officers currently held in the prisons, do you think..."
Before he could finish the thought, the sharp, cold glares of everyone else at the table cut his words short.
The men in those prisons were the very war criminals the French had insisted be tried; they were the fundamental condition upon which the peace treaty rested.
If they were released, the French would likely tear up the agreement instantly and storm Amsterdam themselves before the Flemish could even reach the gates.
Furthermore, Kemperen and his colleagues knew full well that those officers had been thrown into prison by this very Parliament. Even if they were set free now, there was no guarantee they would fight for a government that had betrayed them with any measure of sincerity.
Kemperen turned his attention to the Foreign Minister. "Has there been any response from Britain or Prussia?"
The Foreign Minister lowered his head, his voice a strained whisper. "They have refused to even grant an audience to our envoys."
The Netherlands had just announced the formal abolition of the Anglo-Dutch alliance. The British were being remarkably restrained by not declaring war themselves; they were certainly not about to send troops to help a turncoat ally.
Even if the British had the inclination to help, they were stretched thin and had no spare regiments to deploy.
The Dutch leadership debated the situation for an entire day, but they remained completely at their wits' end.
Bronckhorst finally stood up and gave a stiff, formal bow to Kemperen. "Prime Minister, I must depart for Zaltbommel tonight."
Zaltbommel was a critical ferry town that guarded a vital crossing on the southern bank of the Var River.
"May God be with you," Kemperen said solemnly.
"May God have mercy on the Netherlands," Bronckhorst replied.
Unfortunately, God seemed to have very little affection for either Bronckhorst or the Netherlands.
Four days later, Scheyck ordered Lieutenant Colonel Vermeer to commence the river crossing. The Dutch defenders, desperate and terrified, fought back with everything they had.
Although the combat effectiveness of the Flemish National Army was mediocre by international standards, they numbered over thirteen thousand men and were built upon a solid foundation of former Austrian regulars.
The Dutch recruits, lacking experienced officers to hold them together, collapsed at the first blow. Vermeer led three thousand vanguard troops and successfully captured Zaltbommel in less than half a day.
By the time Scheyck's main force crossed the river to consolidate the position, even the city of Tiel on the opposite bank was on the verge of falling.
When news of the crushing defeat reached Amsterdam, the entire nation was shaken to its core.
Between Zaltbommel and the capital of Amsterdam, only the fortress of Utrecht remained as a potential line of defense.
At this point, the Dutch Parliament had no more soldiers left to deploy.
To make a dire situation worse, General Bronckhorst—the last man in the Netherlands with the experience to command a legion—had been struck by a spray of shell fragments during the fighting. He was currently clinging to life by a thread.
Inside the Parliament building in Amsterdam, the assembled Dutch dignitaries sat in stunned, heavy silence for twenty minutes. Finally, Kemperen stood up, his face ashen as he tapped the Foreign Minister on the shoulder. "Mr. Brantsen, it is time. You must go and negotiate with the Flemish."
Less than three weeks after their desperate peace talks with France, the Dutch Parliament was forced to walk the path of negotiation once again.
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