In June of 1667, the Dutch navy made landfall in England, inflicting on the Royal Navy the worst defeat in their storied history—in their own home waters. After capturing the town of Sheerness, the Dutch sailed up the Thames estuary and into the River Medway with 62 warships, 12 fire boats, and 15 sloops-of-war, burning naval bases, torching seaside towns, and setting nearly the entire English naval fleet ablaze before sailing off with the king’s flagship, HMS Royal Charles, in tow. The humiliating defeat—and the symbolism of losing his own flagship—forced King Charles to bring his war with the Dutch to a swift end with the Peace of Breda. Over two centuries later, Rudyard Kipling commemorated the event in a poem titled “The Dutch in the Medway”:
No King will heed our warnings,
No Court will pay our claims—
Our King and Court for their disport
Do sell the very Thames!
For, now De Ruyter’s topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet—
And this the Dutchmen know!
The tactician who brought about this extraordinary victory was Admiral Michael de Ruyter, one of the greatest heroes of the Dutch Republic and widely recognized as one of the most skilled naval commanders of all time. The founder of the Netherlands Marine Corps—the first use of such troops in the modern era—de Ruyter was a folk hero to the Dutch, ‘Bestevaêr’ (grandfather) to his men, and ‘Liberator’ to the Hungarians, who celebrate him to this day for his freeing of Hungarian Calvinist pastors imprisoned on Spanish galleons for their faith. A monument bearing his name still stands in the Hungarian city of Debrecen, which is known as ‘the Calvinist Rome.’
Thus, it is perhaps not surprising that progressives have begun to scrabble at the base of his pedestal, insisting that de Ruyter be charged with the sins of the slave trade despite the fact that he had no association with the trade, never had slaves on board his ships, and frequently freed slaves at his own expense. The Vlissingen Maritime Museum does an admirable job of firmly dismissing these slanderous claims, but on a visit to de Ruyter’s crypt in the Nieuwe Kerk (New Church) in Amsterdam, I noticed that his detractors had actually managed to get a plaque put in front of his grave that adds this scurrilous footnote to a list of his accomplishments: “Nowadays his name is increasingly linked to the debate on the Republic’s slave trade.”
This is incredibly shameful—to smear a great man’s memory by association at his grave. De Ruyter’s name has never been linked to the slave trade—except by the very liars who managed to get this line added to the plaque where he lies at rest. In a twist of irony, I noted that as a plaque attempting to associate de Ruyter with slavery marks his crypt, there was a large wreath resting on his casket—placed there by a Hungarian delegation who, centuries later, still remember de Ruyter as the ‘Liberator’ and faithfully pay honor to his legacy. Not only is it deceitful to claim that de Ruyter was involved in the slave trade—it is the precise opposite of the truth.
In fact, when one of the worthless activist groups attempting to make a name for themselves by attacking—and there by attaching themselves to—de Ruyter’s legacy were asked why they were targeting him when he owned no slaves and freed at least 2,500, they responded that he only “bought the freedom of enslaved Christians”; that it “is important to note that these were white people”; and that they “will not honour this man who bought the freedom of white Christian slaves but actively protected the trade in enslaved black people.” How did he do that? By fighting on behalf of his country, which the activists refer to as “the thieving North Sea state.” In short, they are attacking de Ruyter as a way of attacking the legitimacy of the Netherlands itself. His very Dutchness makes him an ‘accessory’ to the crimes of the slave trade.
These slanders against one of the greatest historic heroes of the Dutch nation are disgraceful. Michael de Ruyter’s memory matters, and a corrective is in order.
The Dutch town of Vlissingen, Zeeland, is a village of seafaring people that hugs the coast of the North Sea. Fog was billowing in from the water as I walked along the rows of shops and terraces that are packed with tourists come summertime, and it was difficult to make out the landmarks where the point juts into the sea. There was a statue of a severe-looking woman wearing a bonnet, a long dress, and an expression of resignation gazing out over the grey water, a representative of all those wives and mothers who watched their men vanish into fog just like this and slip away forever. There were Napoleonic-era cannons, mouths gaping silently seaward. And then, finally, the man I had been looking for: Michael de Ruyter.
De Ruyter was born the fourth of eleven children on March 24, 1607, and he felt the sea “quickening in his blood” even as a boy. His father, the beer porter Adriaan Michielszoon, despaired at his son’s refusal to commit to his schooling and decided to send him to work as an apprentice ropemaker with shipowner Cornelius Lampsins at the age of eleven. (Part of the building that now hosts the Vlissingen Maritime Museum today is the old Lampsinhuise, where de Ruyter once worked.) The Lampsins were a hugely wealthy Dutch merchant family, and one room features beautiful oil paintings of the various Lampsins scions. Cornelius cuts an impressive figure, a paunchy, solemn, middle-aged man with shoulder-length black hair, a black mustache, and a cross hanging around his neck.
De Ruyter was soon sent to sea as a cabin boy; by age fifteen, he was a petty officer. As a teen, he briefly fought as a deck gunner against the Spanish in the Eighty Years’ War under the brilliant Maurice of Nassau, son of William of Orange. His whaling ship was conscripted to assist in breaking the 1622 Spanish siege of Bergen-op-Zoom; within weeks, the ship had been captured by Spanish privateers. His face slashed by flying shrapnel, de Ruyter was taken prisoner. In an extraordinary feat, he escaped by swimming to shore, crossing Spain, hiking the Pyrenees, walking through France, and arriving back in the Netherlands. Lampsins promptly promoted him and sent him back to sea.
Although Dutch sources reveal little about de Ruyter’s life between his time fighting the Spanish and his marriage on March 16, 1631, to the farmer’s daughter Maayke Velders, some English sources place him in Dublin from 1623 on, acting as an agent for Lampsins’ merchant house. He could speak Irish Gaelic fluently, regularly sailed through the Mediterranean and up the Barbary Coast, and purportedly acted as an occasional privateer on the Lampsins ship Den Graeuwen Heynst. His wife died giving birth to a daughter in December of 1631; the little girl followed her into the grave three weeks later. The devastated 24-year-old de Ruyter returned to sea, this time serving as the navigating officer of a whaler called the Green Lion, running expeditions to the Norwegian Arctic in 1633 and 1635.
In 1636, the young seaman married Neeltje Engels, the daughter of a well-to-do burgher who bore him five children (four of whom survived): Adriaen in 1637, Neeltje in 1639, Aelken in 1642, and Engel in 1649. From 1637 to 1640, de Ruyter achieved the position of captain, hunting the Dunkirk pirates threatening Dutch shipping. In one incident that testified to his tactical cunning, de Ruyter greased the deck of his ship with rotten butter that had spoiled in the hold, had his men take their shoes off so they could maintain grip, and laid an ambush. When the pirates poured over the side, they promptly began to slide, scrabbling wildly at the deck as de Ruyter’s men rushed out of hiding and pushed the buccaneers overboard or clapped them in irons. By then, a renowned sailor, de Ruyter accepted an offer from the Zeeland Admiralty to captain the man-of-war Haze under Admiral Gijsels to fight the Spanish.
As third-in-command, de Ruyter forced a fleet of Spaniards and Dunkirkers to retreat in a sea battle off the coast of Cape St. Vincent on November 4, 1641. Following his victory, he returned to life as a merchant sailor, purchasing his own ship, the Salamander, and traveling throughout Morocco and the West Indies. His reputation as a pious man much beloved by his men grew, and he became renowned as a godly sailor who regularly used his personal wealth to free Christian slaves by purchasing or ransoming them. In 1650, personal tragedy struck again when Neeltje died, leaving the 43-year-old a widower for the second time. Two years later, he married the widow Anna van Gelder, purchased a house in Vlissingen, and decided to retire from the sea.
His retirement lasted only seven months. When the First Anglo-Dutch War exploded, de Ruyter was offered a position on a fleet of warships under the command of Maarten Tromp. The Dutch had grown furious over English attacks on their merchant ships, and after an initial refusal, de Ruyter agreed. His brilliance as a sea commander soon manifested in a string of sea victories culminating in the Battle of Scheveningen, which ended the war but cost Tromp his life. De Ruyter was offered command of the fleet, and after another initial refusal, he agreed to become the Vice-Admiral of the city of Amsterdam on March 2, 1654. The following year, he moved his family there and, for a time, enjoyed a period of relative peace. During this time, De Ruyter created the ‘Sea Soldiers’—the first marines—trained to attack from the water—the first time this military tactic was employed in the modern era.
In 1655, Charles II began sending privateers to destroy Dutch shipping and captured the colony of New Amsterdam (promptly renamed ‘New York’), triggering the Second Anglo-Dutch War. De Ruyter led a fleet of thirteen ships into Carlisle Bay near Barbados, hammered the English batteries with cannon fire, and wrecked many of the ships harbored there before retreating to repair the damage to his own. Sailing north, he not only captured several English ships but briefly captured St. John’s, Newfoundland, before returning to the Netherlands, where Johan de Witt, one of the most powerful leaders of the Dutch Republic, appointed him commander of the entire Dutch fleet on August 11. Following his victory in the Four Days’ Battle in 1666, de Ruyter humiliated the English with the Raid on Medway and his successful stealing of the king’s flagship the following year, leading swiftly to the Peace of Breda.
De Ruyter’s stock soared so high at home that Johan de Witt forbade his commander to go to sea, fearing that he might be killed—although ironically, in 1666, a supporter of Cornelis Tromp, the son of Maarten whom de Ruyter had fired for military failures, attempted to incompetently murder him in the foyer of his own home with a bread knife. De Witt’s fears would soon be realized. The Third Anglo-Dutch War, in which he faced off against the English and the allied French, would be De Ruyter’s last. In initial battles, he again achieved victory against all odds against much larger fleets, and the brilliance and courage of his naval tactics stunned his enemies, who began to accord him unprecedented respect.
As the French admiral Abraham Duquesne told King Louis XIV, “The Dutch fleet under De Ruyter can enter a moonless night in heavy wind and fog and emerge the next day in a perfect line ahead.”
In 1676, de Ruyter engaged the French fleet in the Mediterranean. During the battle, a cannonball tore off his leg. When the French commander heard that de Ruyter had been wounded, he immediately called off the assault. Such was his respect for the Dutchman that he sent his two best ships to escort De Ruyter’s vessel back to the Netherlands, and King Louis XIV ordered every French battleship to fire a salute as De Ruyter made the final journey home. He died of gangrene along the way. On the top floor of the Vlissingen Museum, De Ruyter’s death mask rests in a glass case. His mouth is slightly open, and his eyes appear to be as well. Although he is at peace, his face still appears slightly worried, as if the burden of his nation still rests on his shoulders. Indeed, many historians give him credit for being the figure most responsible for ensuring the continued survival of the Netherlands as an independent republic.
The Vlissingen Maritime Museum does an excellent job of bearing witness to the life of this great man, with glass display cases filled with the flotsam and jetsam of the pious seaman’s life. There is his seal, alongside a red cloth pouch with the name De Ruyter stitched across it that once held the letters he regularly wrote to his wife. There is a 1660 portrait of his wife, Anna Velders, wearing a black bonnet and pearl earrings, her eyes soulful beneath dark black eyebrows. There are portraits of him, too, some of them painted during his lifetime: Wearing civilian clothes and a serious expression; wearing armor and a determined expression, in full naval regalia, his face tight with determination. There are even a few things excavated from his ship, as well as the white nightgown he was wearing when he died.
But perhaps the most moving exhibit in the museum is a painting of De Ruyter, his long hair turning white, standing on the deck of his ship. Shirtless, emaciated men with unkempt beards are kneeling before him, clutching at his hands, their faces stricken with gratitude. These are the surviving Hungarian pastors who had been imprisoned on the Spanish galleons as rowing slaves for their faith—by the time De Ruyter arrived to free them from the ships in Naples in 1676, their number had dwindled from 350 to 26, the others having perished at the oars. This is De Ruyter the Liberator; this is the man whom the iconoclasts would like to smear on his own grave.
De Ruyter’s detractors remind me of something Hilaire Belloc once wrote about such people:
He will consume what civilization has slowly produced after generations of selection and effort, but he will not be at pains to replace such goods, nor indeed has he a comprehension of the virtue that has brought them into being. Discipline seems to him irrational, on which account he is ever marvelling that civilization should have offended him with priests and soldiers … In a word, the Barbarian is discoverable everywhere in this, that he cannot make: that he can befog and destroy but that he cannot sustain; and of every Barbarian in the decline or peril of every civilization exactly that has been true. We sit by and watch the barbarian. We tolerate him in the long stretches of peace, we are not afraid. We are tickled by his irreverence; his comic inversion of our old certitudes and our fixed creed refreshes us; we laugh. But as we laugh we are watched by large and awful faces from beyond, and on these faces there are no smiles.
I’ve often wondered, watching these pipsqueaks rail against history’s titans and generations of better men and women: Why do they never ask themselves what their ancestors might have thought of them?
Perhaps they do. In What’s Wrong with the World, G.K. Chesterton wrote of the crippling fear that afflicts modern man.
There have been so many flaming faiths that we cannot hold; so many harsh heroisms that we cannot imitate; so many great efforts of monumental building or of military glory which seem to us at once sublime and pathetic. The future is a refuge from the fierce competition of our forefathers. The older generation, not the younger, is knocking at our door … I can make the future as narrow as myself; the past is obliged to be as broad and turbulent as humanity. And the upshot of this modern attitude: that men invent new ideals because they dare not attempt old ideals. They look forward with enthusiasm because they are afraid to look back.
De Ruyter’s critics have done nothing of note, and they will be forgotten. The best they can hope for is that some historian, ages hence, will stumble across their names as he reads of the great exploits of a great man, and wonder at the ingratitude and stupidity that afflicted so many of those who enjoyed the fruits of his labors.
