BOOK IV.

SPANISH EMPIRE AT WAR WITH THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE

CHAPTER XXXX.

THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE.

1559-1563.

There are two methods of writing history;—one by following down the stream of time, and exhibiting events in their chronological order; the other by disposing of these events according to their subjects. The former is the most obvious; and where the action is simple and continuous, as in biography, for the most part, or in the narrative of some grand historical event, which concentrates the interest, it is probably the best. But when the story is more complicated, covering a wide field, and embracing great variety of incident, the chronological system, however easy for the writer, becomes tedious and unprofitable to the reader. He is hurried along from one scene to another without fully apprehending any; and as the thread of the narrative is perpetually broken by sudden transition, he carries off only such scraps in his memory as it is hardly possible to weave into a connected and consistent whole. Yet this method, as the most simple and natural, is one most affected by the early writers,—by the old Castilian chroniclers more particularly, who form the principal authorities in the present work. Their wearisome pages, mindful of no order but that of time, are spread over as miscellaneous a range of incidents, and having as little relation to one another, as the columns of a newspaper.

To avoid this inconvenience, historians of a later period have preferred to conduct their story on more philosophical principles, having regard rather to the nature of the events described, than to the precise time of their occurrence. And thus the reader, possessed of one action, its causes and its consequences, before passing on to another, is enabled to treasure up in his memory distinct impressions of the whole.

In conformity to this plan, I have detained the reader in the Netherlands until he had seen the close of Margaret's administration, and the policy which marked the commencement of her successor's. During this period, Spain was at peace with her European neighbors, most of whom were too much occupied with their domestic dissensions to have leisure for foreign war. France, in particular, was convulsed by religious feuds, in which Philip, as the champion of the Faith, took not only the deepest interest, but an active part. To this I shall return hereafter.

But while at peace with her Christian brethren, Spain was engaged in perpetual hostilities with the Moslems, both of Africa and Asia. The relations of Europe with the East were altogether different in the sixteenth century from what they are in our day. The Turkish power lay like a dark cloud on the Eastern horizon, to which every eye was turned with apprehension; and the same people for whose protection European nations are now willing to make common cause, were viewed by them, in the sixteenth century, in the light of a common enemy.

It was fortunate for Islamism that, as the standard of the Prophet was falling from the feeble grasp of the Arabs, it was caught up by a nation like the Turks, whose fiery zeal urged them to bear it still onward in the march of victory. The Turks were to the Arabs what the Romans were to the Greeks. Bold, warlike, and ambitious, they had little of that love of art which had been the dominant passion of their predecessors, and still less of that refinement which, with the Arabs, had degenerated into effeminacy and sloth. Their form of government was admirably suited to their character. It was an unmixed despotism. The sovereign, if not precisely invested with the theocratic character of the caliphs, was hedged round with so much sanctity, that resistance to his authority was an offence against religion as well as law. He was placed at an immeasurable distance above his subjects. No hereditary aristocracy was allowed to soften the descent, and interpose a protecting barrier for the people. All power was derived from the sovereign, and, on the death of its proprietor, returned to him. In the eye of the sultan, his vassals were all equal, and all equally his slaves.

The theory of an absolute government would seem to imply perfection in the head of it. But, as perfection is not the lot of humanity, it was prudently provided by the Turkish constitution that the sultan should have the benefit of a council to advise him. It consisted of three or four great officers, appointed by himself, with the grand-vizier at their head. This functionary was possessed of an authority far exceeding that of the prime-minister of any European prince. All the business of state may be said to have passed through his hands. The persons chosen for this high office were usually men of capacity and experience; and in a weak reign they served by their large authority to screen the incapacity of the sovereign from the eyes of his subjects, while they preserved the state from detriment. It might be thought that powers so vast as those bestowed on the vizier might have rendered him formidable, if not dangerous, to his master. But his master was placed as far above him as above the meanest of his subjects. He had unlimited power of life and death; and how little he was troubled with scruples in the exercise of this power is abundantly shown in history. The bowstring was too often the only warrant for the deposition of a minister.

But the most remarkable of the Turkish institutions, the one which may be said to have formed the keystone of the system, was that relating to the Christian population of the empire. Once in five years a general conscription was made, by means of which all the children of Christian parents who had reached the age of seven, and gave promise of excellence in mind or body, were taken from their homes and brought to the capital. They were then removed to different quarters, and placed in seminaries where they might receive such instruction as would fit them for the duties of life. Those giving greatest promise of strength and endurance were sent to places prepared for them in Asia Minor. Here they were subjected to a severe training, to abstinence, to privations of every kind, and to the strict discipline which should fit them for the profession of a soldier. From this body was formed the famous corps of the janizaries.

Another portion were placed in schools in the capital, or the neighboring cities, where, under the eye of the sultan, as it were, they were taught various manly accomplishments, with such a smattering of science as Turkish, or rather Arabian, scholarship could supply. When their education was finished, some went into the sultan's body-guard, where a splendid provision was made for their maintenance. Others, intended for civil life, entered on a career which might lead to the highest offices in the state.

As all these classes of Christian youths were taken from their parents at that tender age when the doctrines of their own faith could hardly have taken root in their minds, they were, without difficulty, won over to the faith of the Koran; which was further commended to their choice as the religion of the state, the only one which opened to them the path of preferment. Thus set apart from the rest of the community, and cherished by royal favor, the new converts, as they rallied round the throne of their sovereign, became more stanch in their devotion to his interests, as well as to the interests of the religion they had adopted, than even the Turks themselves.

This singular institution bore hard on the Christian population, who paid this heavy tax of their own offspring. But it worked well for the monarchy, which, acquiring fresh vigor from the constant infusion of new blood into its veins, was slow in exhibiting any signs of decrepitude or decay.

The most important of these various classes was that of the janizaries, whose discipline was far from terminating with the school. Indeed, their whole life may be said to have been passed in war, or in preparation for it. Forbidden to marry, they had no families to engage their affections, which, as with the monks and friars in Christian countries, were concentrated on their own order, whose prosperity was inseparably connected with that of the state. Proud of the privileges which distinguished them from the rest of the army, they seemed desirous to prove their title to them by their thorough discipline, and by their promptness to execute the most dangerous and difficult services. Their post was always the post of danger. It was their proud vaunt, that they had never fled before an enemy. Clad in their flowing robes, so little suited to the warrior, armed with the arquebuse and the scymitar,—in their hands more than a match for the pike or sword of the European,—with the heron's plume waving above their heads, their dense array might ever be seen bearing down in the thickest of the fight; and more than once, when the fate of the empire trembled in the balance, it was this invincible corps that turned the scale, and by their intrepid conduct decided the fortune of the day. Gathering fresh reputation with age, so long as their discipline remained unimpaired, they were a match for the best soldiers of Europe. But in time this admirable organization experienced a change. One sultan allowed them to marry; another, to bring their sons into the corps; a third opened the ranks to Turks as well as Christians; until, forfeiting their peculiar character, the janizaries became confounded with the militia of the empire. These changes occurred in the time of Philip the Second; but their consequences were not fully unfolded till the following century.

It was fortunate for the Turks, considering the unlimited power lodged in the hands of their rulers, that these should have so often been possessed of the courage and capacity for using it for the advancement of the nation. From Othman the First, the founder of the dynasty, to Soliman the Magnificent, the contemporary of Philip, the Turkish throne was filled by a succession of able princes, who, bred to war, were every year enlarging the boundaries of the empire, and adding to its resources. By the middle of the sixteenth century, besides their vast possessions in Asia, they held the eastern portions of Africa. In Europe, together with the countries at this day acknowledging their sceptre, they were masters of Greece; and Soliman, overrunning Transylvania and Hungary, had twice carried his victorious banners up to the walls of Vienna. The battle-ground of the Cross and the Crescent was transferred from the west to the east of Europe; and Germany in the sixteenth century became what Spain and the Pyrenees had been in the eighth, the bulwark of Christendom.

Nor was the power of Turkey on the sea less formidable than on the land. Her fleet rode undisputed mistress of the Levant; for Venice, warned by the memorable defeat at Prevesa, in 1538, and by the loss of Cyprus and other territories, hardly ventured to renew the contest. That wily republic found that it was safer to trust to diplomacy than to arms, in her dealings with the Ottomans.

The Turkish navy, sweeping over the Mediterranean, combined with the corsairs of the Barbary coast,—who, to some extent, owed allegiance to the Porte,—and made frequent descents on the coasts of Italy and Spain, committing worse ravages than those of the hurricane. From these ravages France only was exempt; for her princes, with an unscrupulous policy which caused general scandal in Christendom, by an alliance with the Turks, protected her territories somewhat at the expense of her honor.

The northern coast of Africa, at this time, was occupied by various races, who, however they may have differed in other respects, all united in obedience to the Koran. Among them was a large infusion of Moors descended from the Arab tribes who had once occupied the south of Spain, and who, on its reconquest by the Christians, had fled that country rather than renounce the religion of their fathers. Many even of the Moors then living were among the victims of this religious persecution; and they looked with longing eyes on the beautiful land of their inheritance, and with feelings of unquenchable hatred on the Spaniards who had deprived them of it.

The African shore was studded with towns,—some of them, like Algiers, Tunis, Tripoli, having a large extent of territory adjacent,—which owned the sway of some Moslem chief, who ruled them in sovereign state, or, it might be, acknowledging, for the sake of protection, a qualified allegiance to the sultan. These rude chiefs, profiting by their maritime position, followed the dreadful trade of the corsair. Issuing from their strongholds, they fell on the unprotected merchantmen, or, descending on the opposite coasts of Andalusia and Valencia, sacked the villages, and swept off the wretched inhabitants into slavery.

The Castilian government did what it could for the protection of its subjects. Fortified posts were established along the shores. Watch-towers were raised on the heights, to give notice of the approach of an enemy. A fleet of galleys, kept constantly on duty, rode off the coasts to intercept the corsairs. The war was occasionally carried into the enemy's country. Expeditions were fitted out, to sweep the Barbary shores, or to batter down the strongholds of the pirates. Other states, whose territories bordered on the Mediterranean, joined in these expeditions; among them Tuscany, Rome, Naples, Sicily,—the two last the dependencies of Spain,—and above all Genoa, whose hardy seamen did good service in these maritime wars. To these should be added the Knights of St. John, whose little island of Malta, with its iron defences, boldly bidding defiance to the enemy, was thrown into the very jaws, as it were, of the African coast. Pledged by their vows to perpetual war with the infidel, these brave knights, thus stationed on the outposts of Christendom, were the first to sound the alarm of invasion, as they were the foremost to repel it.

The Mediterranean, in that day, presented a very different spectacle from what it shows at present,—swarming, as it does, with the commerce of many a distant land, and its shores glittering with towns and villages, that echo to the sounds of peaceful and protected industry. Long tracts of deserted territory might then be seen on its borders, with the blackened ruins of many a hamlet, proclaiming too plainly the recent presence of the corsair. The condition of the peasantry of the south of Spain, in that day, was not unlike that of our New England ancestors, whose rural labors might, at any time, be broken by the warwhoop of the savage, as he burst on the peaceful settlement, sweeping off its wretched inmates—those whom he did not massacre—to captivity in the wilderness. The trader, instead of pushing out to sea, crept timidly along the shore, under the protecting wings of its fortresses, fearful lest the fierce enemy might dart on him unawares, and bear him off to the dungeons of Africa. Or, if he ventured out into the open deep, it was under a convoy of well-armed galleys, or, armed to the teeth himself, prepared for war.

Scarcely a day passed without some conflict between Christian and Moslem on the Mediterranean waters. Not unfrequently, instead of a Moor, the command was intrusted to some Christian renegade, who, having renounced his country and his religion for the roving life of a corsair, felt, like most apostates, a keener hatred than even its natural enemies for the land he had abjured. In these encounters, there were often displayed, on both sides, such deeds of heroism as, had they been performed on a wider theatre of action, would have covered the actors with immortal glory. By this perpetual warfare a race of hardy and experienced seamen was formed, in the countries bordering on the Mediterranean; and more than one name rose to eminence for nautical science as well as valor, with which it would not be easy to find a parallel in other quarters of Christendom. Such were the Dorias of Genoa,—a family to whom the ocean seemed their native element; and whose brilliant achievements on its waters, through successive generations, shed an undying luster on the arms of the republic.

The corsair's life was full of maritime adventure. Many a tale of tragic interest was told of his exploits, and many a sad recital of the sufferings of the Christian captive, tugging at the oar, or pining in the dungeons of Tripoli and Algiers. Such tales formed the burden of the popular minstrelsy of the period, as well as of more elegant literature,—the drama, and romantic fiction. But fact was stranger than fiction. It would have been difficult to exaggerate the number of the Christian captives, or the amount of their sufferings. On the conquest of Tunis by Charles the Fifth, in 1535, ten thousand of these unhappy persons, as we are assured, walked forth from its dungeons, and knelt, with tears of gratitude and joy, at the feet of their liberator. Charitable associations were formed in Spain, for the sole purpose of raising funds to ransom the Barbary prisoners. But the ransom demanded was frequently exorbitant, and the efforts of these benevolent fraternities made but a feeble impression on the whole number of captives.

Thus the war between the Cross and the Crescent was still carried on along the shores of the Mediterranean, when the day of the Crusades was past in most of the other quarters of Christendom. The existence of the Spaniard—as I have often had occasion to remark—was one long crusade; and in the sixteenth century he was still doing battle with the infidel, as stoutly as in the heroic days of the Cid. The furious contests with the petty pirates of Barbary engendered in his bosom feelings of even keener hostility than that which grew up in his contests with the Arabs, where there was no skulking, predatory foe, but army was openly arrayed against army, and they fought for the sovereignty of the Peninsula. The feeling of religious hatred rekindled by the Moors of Africa extended in some degree to the Morisco population, who still occupied those territories on the southern borders of the monarchy which had belonged to their ancestors, the Spanish Arabs. This feeling was increased by the suspicion, not altogether without foundation, of a secret correspondence between the Moriscos and their brethren on the Barbary coast. These mingled sentiments of hatred and suspicion sharpened the sword of persecution, and led to most disastrous consequences, which before long will be unfolded to the reader.

Among the African corsairs was one by the name of Dragut, distinguished for his daring spirit, and the pestilent activity with which he pursued the commerce of the Spaniards. In early life he had been made prisoner by Andrew Doria; and the four years during which he was chained to the oar in the galleys of Genoa did not serve to mitigate the feelings of hatred which he had always borne to the Christians. On the recovery of his freedom, he resumed his desperate trade of a corsair with renewed activity. Having made himself master of Tripoli, he issued out, with his galleys, from that stronghold, fell on the defenseless merchantman, ravaged the coasts, engaged boldly in fight with the Christian squadrons, and made his name as terrible, throughout the Mediterranean, as that of Barbarossa had been in the time of Charles the Fifth.

The people of the southern provinces, smarting under their sufferings, had more than once besought Philip to send an expedition against Tripoli, and, if possible, break up this den of thieves, and rid the Mediterranean of the formidable corsair. But Philip, who was in the midst of his victorious campaigns against the French, had neither the leisure nor the resources, at that time, for such an enterprise. In the spring of 1559, however, he gave orders to the duke of Medina Celi, viceroy of Sicily, to fit out an armament for the purpose, to obtain the cooperation of the Italian states, and to take command of the expedition.

A worse choice for the command could not have been made; and this not so much from the duke's inexperience; for an apprenticeship to the sea was not deemed necessary to form a naval commander, in an age when men passed indifferently from the land-service to the sea-service. But, with the exception of personal courage, the duke of Medina Celi seems to have possessed none of the qualities requisite in a commander, whether by land or sea.

The different Italian powers—Tuscany, Rome, Naples, Sicily, Genoa—all furnished their respective quotas. John Andrew Doria, nephew of the great Andrew, and worthy of the name he bore, had command of the galleys of the republic. To these was added the reinforcement of the grand-master of Malta. The whole fleet amounted to more than a hundred sail, fifty-four of which were galleys; by much the larger part being furnished by Spain and her Italian provinces. Fourteen thousand troops embarked on board the squadron. So much time was consumed in preparation, that the armament was not got ready for sea till late in October, 1559,—too late for acting with advantage on the stormy African coast.

This did not deter the viceroy, who, at the head of the combined fleet, sailed out of the port of Syracuse in November. But the elements conspired against this ill-starred expedition. Scarcely had the squadron left the port, when it was assailed by a tempest, which scattered the vessels, disabled some, and did serious damage to others. To add to the calamity, an epidemic broke out among the men, caused by the bad quality of the provisions furnished by the Genoese contractors. In his distress, the duke of Medina Celi put in at the island of Malta. He met with a hospitable reception from the grand-master; for hospitality was one of the obligations of the order. Fall two mouths elapsed before the duke was in a condition to reembark, with his force reduced nearly one third by disease and death.

Meanwhile Dragut, having ascertained the object of the expedition, had made every effort to put Tripoli in a posture of defence. At the same time he sent to Constantinople, to solicit the aid of Soliman. The Spanish admiral, in the crippled condition of his armament, determined to postpone the attack on Tripoli to another time, and to direct his operations for the present against the island of Jerbah, or, as it was called by the Spaniards, Gelves. This place, situated scarcely a league from the African shore, in the neighborhood of Tripoli, had long been known as a nest of pirates, who did great mischief in the Mediterranean. It was a place of ill-omen to the Spaniards, whose arms had met there with a memorable reverse in the reign of Ferdinand the Catholic. The duke, however, landing with his whole force, experienced little resistance from the Moors, and soon made himself master of the place. It was defended by a fortress fallen much out of repair; and, as the Spanish commander proposed to leave a garrison there, he set about restoring the fortifications, or rather constructing new ones. In this work the whole army actively engaged; but nearly two months were consumed before it was finished. The fortress was then mounted with artillery, and provided with ammunition, and whatever was necessary for its defense. Finally, a garrison was introduced into it, and the command intrusted to a gallant officer, Don Alonzo de Sandé.

Scarcely had these arrangements been completed, and the troops prepared to reembark, when advices reached the duke that a large Turkish fleet was on its way from Constantinople to the assistance of Dragut. The Spanish admiral called a council of war on board of his ship. Opinions were divided. Some, among whom was Doria, considering the crippled condition of their squadron, were for making the best of their way back to Sicily. Others, regarding this as a course unworthy of Spaniards, were for standing out to sea, and giving battle to the enemy. The duke, perplexed by the opposite opinions, did not come to a decision. He was soon spared the necessity of it by the sight of the Ottoman fleet, under full sail, bearing rapidly down on him. It consisted of eighty-six galleys, each carrying a hundred janizaries; and it was commanded by the Turkish admiral, Piali, a name long dreaded in the Mediterranean.

At the sight of this formidable armament, the Christians were seized with a panic. They scarcely offered any resistance to the enemy; who, dashing into the midst of them, sent his broadsides to the right and left, sinking some of the ships, disabling others, while those out of reach of his guns shamefully sought safety in flight. Seventeen of the combined squadron were sunk; four-and-twenty, more or less injured, struck their colors; a few succeeded in regaining the island, and took shelter under the guns of the fortress. Medina Celi and Doria were among those who thus made their way to the shore; and under cover of the darkness, on the following night, they effected their escape in a frigate, passing, as by a miracle, without notice, through the enemy’s fleet, and thus securing their retreat to Sicily. Never was there a victory more humiliating to the vanquished, or one which reflected less glory on the victors.

Before embarking, the duke ordered Sandé to defend the place to the last extremity, promising him speedy assistance. The garrison, thus left to carry on the contest with the whole Turkish army, amounted to about five thousand men; its original strength being considerably augmented by the fugitives from the fleet.

On the following morning, Piali landed with his whole force, and instantly proceeded to open trenches before the citadel. When he had established his batteries of cannon, he sent a summons to the garrison to surrender. Sandé returned for answer, that, “if the place were won, it would not be, like Piali’s late victory, without bloodshed”. The Turkish commander waited no longer, but opened a lively cannonade on the ramparts, which he continued for some days, till a practicable breach was made. He then ordered a general assault. The janizaries rushed forward with their usual impetuosity, under a murderous discharge of artillery and small arms from the fortress as well as from the shipping, which was so situated as to support the fire of the besieged. Nothing daunted, the brave Moslems pushed forward over the bodies of their fallen comrades; and, scrambling across the ditch, the leading files succeeded in throwing themselves into the breach. But here they met with a spirit as determined as their own, from the iron array of warriors, armed with pike and arquebuse, who, with Sandé at their head, formed a wall as impenetrable as the ramparts of the fortress. The contest was now carried on man against man, and in a space too narrow to allow the enemy to profit by his superior numbers. The besieged, meanwhile, from the battlements, hurled down missiles of every description on the heads of the assailants. The struggle lasted for some hours. But Spanish valor triumphed in the end, and the enemy was driven back in disorder across the moat, while his rear files were sorely galled, in his retreat, by the incessant fire of the fortress.

Incensed by the failure of his attack and the slaughter of his brave followers, Piali thought it prudent to wait till he should be reinforced by the arrival of Dragut with a fresh supply of men and of battering ordnance. The besieged profited by the interval to repair their works, and when Dragut appeared they were nearly as well prepared for the contest as before.

On the corsair's arrival, Piali, provided with a heavier battering train, opened a more effective fire on the citadel. The works soon gave way, and the Turkish commander promptly returned to the assault. It was conducted with the same spirit, was met with the same desperate courage, and ended, like the former, in the total discomfiture of the assailants, who withdrew, leaving the fosse choked up with the bodies of their slaughtered comrades. Again and again the attack was renewed, by an enemy whose numbers allowed the storming parties to relieve one another, while the breaches made by an unintermitting cannonade gave incessant occupation to the besieged in repairing them. Fortunately, the number of the latter enabled them to perform this difficult service; and though many were disabled, and there were few who were not wounded, they still continued to stand to their posts, with the same spirit as on the first day of the siege.

But the amount of the garrison, so serviceable in this point of view, was fatal in another. The fortress had been provisioned with reference to a much smaller force. The increased number of mouths was thus doing the work of the enemy. Notwithstanding the strictest economy, there was already a scarcity of provisions; and, at the end of six weeks, the garrison was left entirely without food. The water too had failed. A soldier had communicated to the Spanish commander an ingenious process for distilling fresh water from salt. This afforded a most important supply, though in a very limited quantity. But the wood which furnished the fuel necessary for the process was at length exhausted, and to hunger was added the intolerable misery of thirst.

Thus reduced to extremity, the brave Sandé was not reduced to despair. Calling his men together, he told them that liberty was of more value than life. Anything was better than to surrender to such an enemy. And he proposed to them to sally from the fortress that very night, and cut their way, if possible, through the Turkish army, or fall in the attempt. The Spaniards heartily responded to the call of their heroic leader. They felt, like him, that the doom of slavery was more terrible than death.

That night, or rather two hours before dawn on the twenty-ninth of June, Don Alvaro sallied out of the fortress, at the head of all those who were capable of bearing arms. But they amounted to scarcely more than a thousand men, so greatly had the garrison been diminished by death, or disabled by famine and disease. Under cover of the darkness, they succeeded in passing through the triple row of intrenchments, without alarming the slumbering enemy. At length, roused by the cries of their sentinels, the Turks sprang to their arms, and, gathering in dark masses round the Christians, presented an impenetrable barrier to their advance. The contest now became furious; but it was short. The heroic little band were too much enfeebled by their long fatigues, and by the total want of food for the last two days, to make head against the overwhelming number of their assailants. Many fell under the Turkish scymitars, and the rest, after a fierce struggle, were forced back on the path by which they had come, and took refuge in the fort. Their dauntless leader, refusing to yield, succeeded in cutting his way through the enemy, and threw himself into one of the vessels in the port. Here he was speedily followed by such a throng as threatened to sink the bark, and made resistance hopeless. Yielding up his sword, therefore, he was taken prisoner, and led off in triumph to the tent of the Turkish commander.

On the same day the remainder of the garrison, unable to endure another assault, surrendered at discretion. Piali had now accomplished the object of the expedition; and, having reestablished the Moorish authorities in possession of the place, he embarked, with his whole army, for Constantinople. The tidings of his victory had preceded him; and, as he proudly sailed up the Bosphorus, he was greeted with thunders of artillery from the seraglio and the heights surrounding the capital. First came the Turkish galleys, in beautiful order, with the banners taken from the Christians ignominiously trailing behind them through the water. Then followed their prizes,—the seventeen vessels taken in the action,—the battered condition of which formed a striking contrast to that of their conquerors. But the prize greater than all was the prisoners, amounting to nearly four thousand, who, manacled like so many malefactors, were speedily landed, and driven through the streets, amidst the shouts and hootings of the populace, to the slave-market of Constantinople. A few only, of the higher order, were reserved for ransom. Among them were Don Alvaro de Sandé and a son of Medina Celi. The young nobleman did not long survive his captivity. Don Alvaro recovered his freedom, and lived to take ample vengeance for all he had suffered on his conquerors.

Such was the end of the disastrous expedition against Tripoli, which left a stain on the Spanish arms that even the brave conduct of the garrison at Gelves could not wholly wipe away. The Moors were greatly elated by the discomfiture of their enemies; and the Spaniards were filled with a proportionate degree of despondency, as they reflected to what extent their coasts and their commerce would be exposed to the predatory incursions of the corsairs. Philip was especially anxious in regard to the safety of his possessions on the African coast. The two principal of these were Oran and Mazarquivir, situated not far to the west of Algiers. They were the conquests of Cardinal Ximenes. The former place was won by an expedition fitted out at his own expense. The enterprises of this remarkable man were conducted on a gigantic scale, which might seem better suited to the revenues of princes. Of the two places Oran was the more considerable; yet hardly more important than Mazarquivir, which possessed an excellent harbor,—a thing of rare occurrence on the Barbary shore. Both had been cherished with care by the Castilian government, and by no monarch more than by Philip the Second, who perfectly understood the importance of these possessions, both for the advantages of a commodious harbor, and for the means they gave him of bridling the audacity of the African cruisers.

In 1562, the king ordered a squadron of four and twenty galleys, under the command of Don Juan de Mendoza, to be got ready in the port of Malaga, to carry supplies to the African colonies. But in crossing the Mediterranean, the ships were assailed by a furious tempest, which compelled them to take refuge in the little port of Herradura. The fury of the storm, however, continued to increase; and the vessels, while riding at anchor, dashed against one another with such violence, that many of them foundered, and others, parting their cables, drifted on shore, which was covered far and wide with the dismal wrecks. Two or three only, standing out to sea, and braving the hurricane on the deep, were so fortunate as to escape. By this frightful shipwreck, four thousand men, including their commander, were swallowed up by the waves. The southern provinces were filled with consternation at this new calamity, coming so soon after the defeat at Gelves. It seemed as if the hand of Providence was lifted against them in their wars with the Mussulmans.

The Barbary Moors, encouraged by the losses of the Spanish navy, thought this a favorable time for recovering their ancient possessions on the coast. Hassem, the dey of Algiers, in particular, a warlike prince, who had been engaged in more than one successful encounter with the Christians, set on foot an expedition against the territories of Oran and Mazarquivir. The government of these places was intrusted, at that time, to Don Alonzo de Cordova, count of Alcaudete. In this post he had succeeded his father, a gallant soldier, who, five years before, had been slain in battle by this very Hassem, the lord of Algiers. Eight thousand Spaniards had fallen with him on the field, or had been made prisoners of war. Such were the sad auspices under which the reign of Philip the Second began, in his wars with the Moslems.

Oran, at this time, was garrisoned by seventeen hundred men; and twenty-seven pieces of artillery were mounted on its walls. Its fortifications were in good repair; but it was in no condition to stand a siege by so formidable a force as that which Hassem was mustering in Algiers. The count of Alcaudete, the governor, a soldier worthy of the illustrious stock from which he sprang, lost no time in placing both Oran and Mazarquivir in the best state of defense which his means allowed, and in acquainting Philip with the peril in which he stood.

Meanwhile, the Algerine chief was going briskly forward with his preparations. Besides his own vassals, he summoned to his aid the petty princes of the neighboring country; and in a short time he had assembled a host in which Moors, Arabs, and Turks were promiscuously mingled, and which, in the various estimates of the Spaniards, rose from fifty to a hundred thousand men.

Little reliance can be placed on the numerical estimates of the Spaniards in their wars with the infidel. The gross exaggeration of the numbers brought by the enemy into the field, and the numbers he was sure to leave there, with the corresponding diminution of their own in both particulars, would seem to infer that, in these religious wars, they thought some miracle was necessary to show that Heaven was on their side, and the greater the miracle the greater the glory. This hyperbolical tone, characteristic of the old Spaniards, and said to have been imported from the East, is particularly visible in the accounts of their struggles with the Spanish Arabs, where large masses were brought into the field on both sides, and where the reports of a battle took indeed the coloring of an Arabian tale. The same taint of exaggeration, though somewhat mitigated, continued to a much later period, and may be observed in the reports of the contests with the Moslems, whether Turks or Moors, in the sixteenth century.

On the fifteenth of March, 1563, Hassem left Algiers, at the head of his somewhat miscellaneous array, sending his battering train of artillery round by water, to meet him at the port of Mazarquivir. He proposed to begin by the siege of this place, which, while it would afford a convenient harbor for his navy, would, by its commanding position, facilitate the conquest of Oran. Leaving a strong body of men, therefore, for the investment of the latter, he continued his march on Mazarquivir, situated at only two leagues' distance. The defence of this place was entrusted by Alcaudete to his brother, Don Martin de Cordova. Its fortifications were in good condition, and garnished with near thirty pieces of artillery. It was garrisoned by five hundred men, was well provided with ammunition, and was victualled for a two months' siege. It was also protected by a detached fort, called St. Michael, built by the count of Alcaudete, and, from its commanding position, now destined to be the first object of attack. The fort was occupied by a few hundred Spaniards, who, as it was of great moment to gain time for the arrival of succors from Spain, were ordered to maintain it to the last extremity.

Hassem was not long in opening trenches. Impatient, however, of the delay of his fleet, which was detained by the weather, he determined not to wait for the artillery, but to attempt to carry the fort by escalade. In this attempt, though conducted with spirit, he met with so decided a repulse, that he abandoned the project of further operations till the arrival of his ships. No sooner did this take place, than, landing his heavy guns, he got them into position as speedily as possible, and opened a lively cannonade on the walls of the fortress. The walls were of no great strength. A breach was speedily made; and Hassem gave orders for the assault.

No sooner was the signal given, than Moor, Turk, Arab,—the various races in whose veins glowed the hot blood of the south,—sprang impetuously forward. In vain the leading files, as they came on, were swept away by the artillery of the fortress, while the guns of Mazarquivir did equal execution on their flank. The tide rushed on, with an enthusiasm that overleaped every obstacle. Each man seemed emulous of his comrade, as if desirous to show the superiority of his own tribe or race. The ditch, choked up with the débris of the rampart and the fascines that had been thrown into it, was speedily crossed; and while some sprang fearlessly into the breach, others endeavored to scale the walls. But everywhere they were met by men as fresh for action as themselves, and possessed of a spirit as intrepid. The battle raged along the parapet, and in the breach, where the struggle was deadliest. It was the old battle, so often fought, of the Crescent and the Cross, the fiery African and the cool, indomitable European. Arquebuse and pike, saber and scymitar, clashed fearfully against each other; while high above the din rose the war-cries of “Allah!” and “St. Jago!” showing the creeds and countries of the combatants.

At one time it seemed as if the enthusiasm of the Moslems would prevail; and twice the standard of the Crescent was planted on the walls. But it was speedily torn down by the garrison, and the bold adventurers who had planted it thrown headlong into the moat.

Meanwhile an incessant fire of musketry was kept up from the ramparts; and hand-grenades, mingled with barrels of burning pitch, were hurled down on the heads of the assailants, whose confusion was increased, as their sight was blinded by the clouds of smoke which rose from the fascines that had taken fire in the ditch. But although their efforts began to slacken, they were soon encouraged by fresh detachments sent to their support by Hassem, and the fight was renewed with redoubled fury. These efforts, however, proved equally ineffectual. The Moors were driven back on all points; and, giving way before the invincible courage of the Spaniards, they withdrew in such disorder across the fosse, now bridged over with the bodies of the slain, that, if the garrison had been strong enough in numbers, they might have followed the foe to his trenches, and inflicted such a blow as would at once have terminated the siege. As it was, the loss of the enemy was fearful; while that of the Spaniards, screened by their defenses, was comparatively light. Yet a hundred lives of the former, so overwhelming were their numbers, were of less account than a single life among the latter. The heads of fifty Turks, who had fallen in the breach or in the ditch, were cut off, as we are told, by the garrison, and sent, as the grisly trophies of their victory, to Oran; showing the feelings of bitter hatred—perhaps of fear—with which this people was regarded by the Christians.

The Moorish chief, chafing under this loss, reopened his fire on the fortress with greater fury than ever. He then renewed the assault, but with no better success. A third and a fourth time he returned to the attack, but in vain. In vain too Hassem madly tore off his turban, and, brandishing his scymitar, with imprecations on his men, drove them forward to the fight. There was no lack of spirit in his followers, who poured out their blood like water. But it could not shake the constancy of the Spaniards, which seemed even to grow stronger as their situation became more desperate; and as their defenses were swept away, they threw themselves on their knees, and from behind the ruins still poured down their volleys of musketry on the assailants.

Yet they could not have maintained their ground so long, but for a seasonable reinforcement received from Mazarquivir. But, however high the spirit, there is a limit to the powers of endurance; and the strength of the garrison was rapidly giving way under incessant vigils and want of food. Their fortifications, moreover, pierced through and through by the enemy's shot, were no longer tenable; and a mine, which Hassem was now prepared to run under the ramparts, would complete the work of destruction. They had obeyed their orders, and stood to their defense gallantly to the last; and they now obtained leave to abandon the fort. On the seventh of May, after having sustained eight assaults and a siege of three weeks, from a host so superior to them in numbers, the garrison marched out of the fortress of St. Michael. Under cover of the guns of Mazarquivir, they succeeded in rejoining their comrades there with but little loss, and were gladly welcomed by their commander, Don Martin de Cordova, who rendered them the honor due to their heroic conduct. That same day Hassem took possession of the fortress. He found only a heap of ruins.

The Moorish prince, stung with mortification at the price he had paid for his victory, and anxious, moreover, to anticipate the arrival of succors from Spain, now eagerly pressed forward the siege of Mazarquivir. With the assistance of his squadron, the place was closely invested by sea and land. Batteries of heavy guns were raised on opposite sides of the castle; and for ten days they thundered, without interruption, on its devoted walls. When these had been so far shaken as to afford an opening to the besiegers, Hassem, willing to spare the further sacrifice of his men, sent a summons to Don Martin to surrender, intimating, at the same time, that the works were in too ruinous a condition to be defended. To this the Spaniard coolly replied, that, “if they were in such a condition, Hassem might come and take them”.

On the signal from their chief, the Moors moved rapidly forward to the attack, and were soon brought face to face with their enemy. A bloody conflict followed, in the breach and on the ramparts. It continued more than five hours. The assailants found they had men of the same mettle to deal with as before, and with defenses yet stronger than those they had encountered in the fortress of St. Michael. Here again the ardor of the African proved no match for the cool and steady courage of the European; and Hassem's forces, repulsed on every quarter, withdrew in so mangled a condition to their trenches, that he was in no state for several days to renew the assault.

It would be tedious to rehearse the operations of a siege so closely resembling in its details that of the fortress of St. Michael. The most conspicuous figure in the bloody drama was the commander of the garrison, Don Martin de Cordova. Freely exposing himself to hardship and danger with the meanest of his followers, he succeeded in infusing his own unconquerable spirit into their bosoms. On the eve of an assault he might be seen passing through the ranks with a crucifix in his hand, exhorting his men, by the blessed sign of their redemption, to do their duty, and assuring them of the protection of Heaven. Every soldier, kindling with the enthusiasm of his leader, looked on himself as a soldier of the Cross, and felt assured that the shield of the Almighty must be stretched over those who were thus fighting the battles of the Faith. The women caught somewhat of the same generous ardor, and, instead of confining themselves to the feminine occupations of nursing the sick and the wounded, took an active part in the duties of the soldiers, and helped to lighten their labors.

Still the condition of the garrison became daily more precarious, as their strength diminished, and their defenses crumbled around them under the incessant fire of the besiegers. The count of Alcaudete in vain endeavored to come to their relief, or at least to effect a diversion in their favor. Sallying out of Oran, he had more than one sharp encounter with the enemy. But the odds against him were too great; and though he spread carnage among the Moslem ranks, he could ill afford the sacrifice of life that it cost him. In the mean time, the two garrisons were assailed by an enemy from within, more inexorable than the enemy at their gates. Famine had begun to show itself in some of its hideous forms. They were already reduced to the necessity of devouring the flesh of their horses and asses; and even that was doled out so scantily, as too plainly intimated that this sustenance, wretched as it was, was soon to fail them. Under these circumstances, their spirits would have sunk, had they not been sustained by the expectation of succor from Spain; and they cast many a wistful glance on the Mediterranean, straining their eyes to the farthest verge of the horizon, to see if they could not descry some friendly sail upon the waters.

But Philip was not unmindful of them. Independently of the importance of the posts, he felt his honor to be deeply concerned in the protection of the brave men, who were battling there, for the cause not merely of Castile, but of Christendom. No sooner had he been advised by Alcaudete of the peril in which he stood, than he gave orders that a fleet should be equipped to go to his relief. But such orders, in the disabled condition of the navy, were more easily given than executed. Still, efforts were made to assemble an armament, and get it ready in the shortest possible time. Even the vessels employed to convoy the India galleons were pressed into the service. The young cavaliers of the southern provinces eagerly embarked as volunteers in an expedition which afforded them an opportunity for avenging the insults offered to the Spanish arms. The other states bordering on the Mediterranean, which had, in fact, almost as deep an interest in the cause as Spain herself, promptly furnished their contingents. To these were to be added, as usual, the galleys of the Knights of Malta, always foremost to unfurl the banner in a war with the infidel. In less than two months an armament consisting of forty-two large galleys, besides smaller vessels, well manned and abundantly supplied with provisions and military stores, was assembled in the port of Malaga. It was placed under the command of Don Antonio de Mendoza; who, on the sixth of June, weighed anchor, and steered directly for the Barbary coast.

On the morning of the eighth, at early dawn, the sentinels on the ramparts of Mazarquivir descried the fleet like a dark speck on the distant waters. As it drew nearer, and the rising sun, glancing on the flag of Castile, showed that the long-promised succor was at hand, the exhausted garrison, almost on the brink of despair, gave themselves up to a delirium of joy. They embraced one another, like men rescued from a terrible fate, and, with swelling hearts, offered up thanksgivings to the Almighty for their deliverance. Soon the cannon of Mazarquivir proclaimed the glad tidings to the garrison of Oran, who replied, from their battlements, in thunders which carried dismay into the hearts of the besiegers. If Hassem had any doubt of the cause of these rejoicings, it was soon dispelled by several Moorish vessels, which, scudding before the enemy, like the smaller birds before the eagle, brought report that a Spanish fleet under full sail was standing for Mazarquivir.

No time was to be lost. He commanded his ships lying in the harbor to slip their cables and make the best of their way to Algiers. Orders were given at once to raise the siege. Everything was abandoned. Whatever could be of service to the enemy was destroyed. Hassem caused his guns to be overcharged, and blew them to pieces. He disencumbered himself of whatever might retard his movements, and, without further delay, began his retreat.

No sooner did Alcaudete descry the army of the besiegers on its march across the hills, than he sallied out, at the head of his cavalry, to annoy them on their retreat. He was soon joined by his brother from Mazarquivir, with such of the garrison as were in condition for service. But the enemy had greatly the start of them. When the Spaniards came up with his rear-guard, they found it entirely composed of janizaries; and this valiant corps, maintaining its usual discipline, faced about and opposed so determined a front to the assailants, that Alcaudete, not caring to risk the advantages he had already gained, drew off his men, and left a free passage to the enemy. The soldiers of the two garrisons now mingled together, and congratulated one another on their happy deliverance, recounting their exploits, and the perils and privations they had endured; while Alcaudete, embracing his heroic brother, could hardly restrain his tears, as he gazed on his wan, emaciated countenance, and read there the story of his sufferings.

The tidings of the repulse of the Moslems were received with unbounded joy throughout Spain. The deepest sympathy had been felt for the brave men who, planted on the outposts of the empire, seemed to have been abandoned to their fate. The king shared in the public sentiment, and showed his sense of the gallant conduct of Alcaudete and his soldiers, by the honors and emoluments he bestowed on them. That nobleman, besides the grant of a large annual revenue, was made viceroy of Navarre. His brother, Don Martin de Cordova, received the encomienda of Hornachos, with the sum of six thousand ducats. Officers of inferior rank obtained the recompense due to their merits. Even the common soldiers were not forgotten; and the government, with politic liberality, settled pensions on the wives and children of those who had perished in the siege.

Philip now determined to follow up his success; and, instead of confining himself to the defensive, he prepared to carry the war into the enemy's country. His first care, however, was to restore the fortifications of Mazarquivir, which soon rose from their ruins in greater strength and solidity than before. He then projected an expedition against Peñon de Velez de la Gomera, a place situated to the west of his own possessions on the Barbary coast. It was a rocky island fortress, which, from the great strength of its defences, as well as from its natural position, was deemed impregnable. It was held by a fierce corsair, whose name had long been terrible in these seas. In the summer of 1564, the king, with the aid of his allies, got together a powerful armament, and sent it at once against Peñon de Velez. This fortress did not make the resistance to have been expected; and, after a siege of scarcely a week's duration, the garrison submitted to the superior valor—or numbers—of the Christians.

This conquest was followed up, the ensuing year, by an expedition under Don Alvaro Bazan, the first marquis of Santa Cruz,—a name memorable in the naval annals of Castile. The object of the expedition was to block up the entrance to the river Tetuan, in the neighborhood of the late conquest. The banks of this river had long been the refuge of a horde of pestilent marauders, who, swarming out of its mouth, spread over the Mediterranean, and fell heavily on the commerce of the Christians. Don Alvaro accomplished his object in the face of a desperate enemy, and, after some hard fighting, succeeded in sinking nine brigantines laden with stones in the mouth of the river, and thus effectually obstructed its navigation.

These brilliant successes caused universal rejoicing through Spain and the neighboring countries. They were especially important for the influence they exerted on the spirits of the Christians, depressed as these had been by a long series of maritime reverses. The Spaniards resumed their ancient confidence, as they saw that victory had once more returned to their banner; and their ships, which had glided like specters under the shadow of the coast, now, losing their apprehensions of the corsair, pushed boldly out upon the deep. The Moslems, on the other hand, as they beheld their navies discomfited, and one strong place after another wrested from their grasp, lost heart, and for a time, at least, were in no condition for active enterprise.

But while the arms of Spain were thus successful in chastising the Barbary corsairs, rumors reached the country of hostile preparations going forward in the East, of a more formidable character than any on the shores of Africa. The object of these preparations was not Spain itself, but Malta. Yet this little island, the bulwark of Christendom, was so intimately connected with the fortunes of Spain, that an account of its memorable siege can hardly be deemed an episode in the history of Philip the Second.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE KNIGHTS HOSPITALLERS OF ST. JOHN.

1565.

The order of the Knights of Malta traces its origin to a remote period—to the time of the first crusade, in the eleventh century. A religious association was then formed in Palestine, under the title of Hospitallers of St. John the Baptist, the object of which, as the name imports, was to minister to the wants of the sick. There was a good harvest of these among the poor pilgrims who wandered from all parts of Europe to the Holy Land. It was not long before the society assumed other duties, of a military nature, designed for the defense of the pilgrim no less than his relief; and the new society, under the name of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John, besides the usual monastic vows, pledged themselves to defend the Holy Sepulchre, and to maintain perpetual war against the infidel.

In its new form, so consonant with the spirit of the age, the institution found favor with the bold crusaders, and the accession of members from different parts of Christendom greatly enlarged its power and political consequence. It soon rivalled the fraternity of the Templars, and, like that body, became one of the principal pillars of the throne of Jerusalem. After the fall of that kingdom, and the expulsion of the Christians from Palestine, the Knights of St. John remained a short while in Cyprus, when they succeeded in conquering Rhodes from the Turks, and thus secured to themselves a permanent residence.

Placed in the undisputed sovereignty of this little island, the Knights of Rhodes, as they were now usually called, found themselves on a new and independent theatre of action, where they could display all the resources of their institutions, and accomplish their glorious destinies. Thrown into the midst of the Mussulmans, on the borders of the Ottoman Empire, their sword was never in the scabbard. Their galleys spread over the Levant, and, whether alone or with the Venetians,—the rivals of the Turks in those seas,—they faithfully fulfilled their vow of incessant war with the infidel. Every week saw their victorious galleys returning to port with the rich prizes taken from the enemy; and every year the fraternity received fresh accessions of princes and nobles from every part of Christendom, eager to obtain admission into so illustrious an order. Many of these were possessed of large estates, which, on their admission, were absorbed in those of the community. Their manors, scattered over Europe, far exceeded in number those of their rivals, the Templars, in their most palmy state. And on the suppression of that order, such of its vast possessions as were not seized by the rapacious princes in whose territories they were lodged, were suffered to pass into the hands of the Knights of St. John. The commanderies of the latter—those conventual establishments which faithfully reflected the parent institution in their discipline—were so prudently administered, that a large surplus from their revenues was annually remitted to enrich the treasury of the order.

The government of this chivalrous fraternity, as provided by the statutes which formed its written constitution, was in its nature aristocratical. At the head was the grand-master, elected by the knights from their own body, and, like the doge of Venice, holding his office for life, with an authority scarcely larger than that of this dignitary. The legislative and judicial functions were vested in councils, in which the grand-master enjoyed no higher privilege than that of a double vote. But his patronage was extensive, for he had the nomination to the most important offices, both at home and abroad. The variety and high-sounding titles of these offices may provoke a smile in the reader, who might fancy himself occupied with the concerns of a great empire, rather than those of a little brotherhood of monks. The grand-master, indeed, in his manner of living, affected the state of a sovereign prince. He sent his ambassadors to the principal European courts; and a rank was conceded to him next to that of crowned heads,—above that of any ducal potentate.

He was enabled to maintain this position by the wealth which, from the sources already enumerated, flowed into the exchequer. Great sums were spent in placing the island in the best state of defense, in constructing public works, palaces for the grand-master, and ample accommodations for the various languages,—a technical term, denoting the classification of the members according to their respective nations; finally, in the embellishment of the capital, which vied in the splendor of its architecture with the finest cities of Christendom.

Yet, with this show of pomp and magnificence, the Knights of Rhodes did not sink into the enervating luxury which was charged on the Templars, nor did they engage in those worldly, ambitious schemes which provoked the jealousy of princes, and brought ruin on that proud order. In prosperity as in poverty, they were still true to the principles of their institution. Their galleys still spread over the Levant, and came back victorious from their caravans, as their cruises against the Moslems were termed. In every enterprise set on foot by the Christian powers against the enemies of the Faith, the red banner of St. John, with his eight-pointed cross of white, was still to be seen glittering in the front of battle. There is no example of a military institution having religion for its object which, under every change of condition, and for so many centuries, maintained so inflexibly the purity of its principles, and so conscientiously devoted itself to the great object for which it was created.

It was not to be expected that a mighty power, like that of the Turks, would patiently endure the existence of a petty enemy on its borders, which, if not formidable from extent of population and empire, like Venice, was even more annoying by its incessant hostilities, and its depredations on the Turkish commerce. More than one sultan, accordingly, hoping to rid themselves of the annoyance, fitted out expeditions against the island, with the design of crushing the hornets in their nest. But in every attempt they were foiled by the valor of this little band of Christian chivalry. At length, in 1522, Soliman the Second led an expedition in person against Rhodes. For six months the brave knights, with their own good swords, unaided by a single European power, withstood the whole array of the Ottoman empire; and when at length, compelled to surrender, they obtained such honorable terms from Soliman as showed he knew how to respect valor, though in a Christian foe.

Once more without a home, the Knights of St. John were abroad on the world. The European princes, affecting to consider the order as now extinct, prepared to confiscate whatever possessions it had in their several dominions. From this ruin it was saved by the exertions of L'Isle Adam, the grand-master, who showed, at this crisis, as much skill in diplomacy as he had before shown prowess in the field. He visited the principal courts in person, and by his insinuating address, as well as arguments, not only turned the sovereigns from their purpose, but secured effectual aid for his unfortunate brethren. The pope offered them a temporary asylum in the papal territory; and Charles the Fifth was induced to cede to the order the island of Malta, and its dependencies, with entire jurisdiction over them, for their permanent residence.

Malta, which had been annexed by Charles's predecessors to Sicily, had descended to that monarch as part of the dominions of the crown of Aragon. In thus ceding it to the Knights of St. John, the politic prince consulted his own interests quite as much as those of the order. He drew no revenue from the rocky isle, but, on the contrary, was charged with its defense against the Moorish corsairs, who made frequent descents on the spot, wasting the country, and dragging off the miserable people into slavery. By this transfer of the island to the military order of St. John, he not only relieved himself of all further expense on its account, but secured a permanent bulwark for the protection of his own dominions.

It was wise in the emperor to consent that the gift should be burdened with no other condition than the annual payment of a falcon in token of his feudal supremacy. It was also stipulated, that the order should at no time bear arms against Sicily; a stipulation hardly necessary with men who, by their vows, were pledged to fight in defense of Christendom, and not against it.

In October, 1530, L'Isle Adam and his brave associates took possession of their new domain. Their hearts sunk within them, as their eyes wandered over the rocky expanse, forming a sad contrast to the beautiful "land of roses" which had so long been their abode. But it was not very long before the wilderness before them was to blossom like the rose under their diligent culture. Earth was brought in large quantities, and at great cost, from Sicily. Terraces to receive it were hewn in the steep sides of the rock; and the soil, quickened by the ardent sun of Malta, was soon clothed with the glowing vegetation of the south. Still, it did not raise the grain necessary for the consumption of the island. This was regularly imported from Sicily, and stored in large pits or caverns, excavated in the rock, which, hermetically closed, preserved their contents unimpaired for years. In a short time, too, the island bristled with fortifications, which, combined with its natural defenses, enabled its garrison to defy the attacks of the corsair. To these works was added the construction of suitable dwellings for the accommodation of the order. But it was long after, and not until the land had been desolated by the siege on which we are now to enter, that it was crowned with the stately edifices which eclipsed those of Rhodes itself, and made Malta the pride of the Mediterranean.

In their new position the knights were not very differently situated from what they had been in the Levant. They were still encamped amongst the infidel, with the watch-fires of the enemy blazing around them. Again their galleys sailed forth to battle with the corsairs, and returned laden with the spoils of victory. Still the white cross of St. John was to be seen in the post of danger. In all the expeditions of Charles the Fifth and Philip the Second against the Barbary Moors, from the siege of Tunis to the capture of Peñon de Velez, they bore a prominent part. With the bravery of the soldier, they combined the skill of the mariner; and on that disastrous day when the Christian navy was scattered before Algiers, the Maltese galleys were among the few that rode out the tempest. It was not long before the name of the Knights of Malta became as formidable on the southern shores of the Mediterranean, as that of the Knights of Rhodes had been in the East.

Occasionally their galleys, sweeping by the mouth of the Adriatic, passed into the Levant, and boldly encountered their old enemy on his own seas, even with odds greatly against them. The Moors of the Barbary coast, smarting under the losses inflicted on them by their indefatigable foe, more than once besought the sultan to come to their aid, and avenge the insults offered to his religion on the heads of the offenders. At this juncture occurred the capture of a Turkish galleon in the Levant. It was a huge vessel, richly laden, and defended by twenty guns and two hundred janizaries. After a desperate action, she was taken by the Maltese galleys, and borne off, a welcome prize, to the island. She belonged to the chief eunuch of the imperial harem, some of the fair inmates of which were said to have had an interest in the precious freight. These persons now joined with the Moors in the demand for vengeance. Soliman shared in the general indignation at the insult offered to him under the walls, as it were, of his own capital; and he resolved to signalize the close of his reign by driving the knights from Malta, as he had the commencement of it by driving them from Rhodes.

As it was not improbable that the Christian princes would rally in support of an order which had fought so many battles for Christendom, Soliman made his preparations on a formidable scale. Rumors of these spread far and wide; and, as their object was unknown, the great powers on the Mediterranean, each fancying that its own dominions might be the point of attack, lost no time in placing their coasts in a state of defence. The king of Spain sent orders to his viceroy in Sicily to equip such a fleet as would secure the safety of that island.

Meanwhile, the grand-master of Malta, by means of spies whom he secretly employed in Constantinople, received intelligence of the real purpose of the expedition. The post of grand-master, at this time, was held by Jean Parisot de la Valette, a man whose extraordinary character, no less than the circumstances in which he was placed, has secured him an imperishable name on the page of history. He was of an ancient family from the south of France, being of the language of Provence. He was now in the sixty-eighth year of his age. In his youth he had witnessed the memorable siege of Rhodes, and had passed successively through every post in the order, from the humblest to the highest, which he now occupied. With large experience he combined a singular discretion, and an inflexible spirit, founded on entire devotion to the great cause in which he was engaged. It was the conviction of this self-devotion which, in part, at least, may have given La Valette that ascendancy over the minds of his brethren, which was so important at a crisis like the present. It may have been the anticipation of such a crisis that led to his election as grand-master in 1557, when the darkness coming over the waters showed the necessity of an experienced pilot to weather the storm.

No sooner had the grand-master learned the true destination of the Turkish armament, than he sent his emissaries to the different Christian powers, soliciting aid for the order in its extremity. He summoned the knights absent in foreign lands to return to Malta, and take part with their brethren in the coming struggle. He imported large supplies of provisions and military stores from Sicily and Spain. He drilled the militia of the island, and formed an effective body of more than three thousand men; to which was added a still greater number of Spanish and Italian troops, raised for him by the knights who were abroad. This force was augmented by the extraordinary addition of five hundred galley-slaves, whom La Valette withdrew from the oar, promising to give them their freedom if they served him faithfully. Lastly, the fortifications were put in repair, strengthened with outworks, and placed in the best condition for resisting the enemy. All classes of the inhabitants joined in this work. The knights themselves took their part in the toilsome drudgery; and the grand-master did not disdain to labor with the humblest of his followers. He not only directed, but, as hands were wanted, he set the example of carrying his own orders into execution. Wherever his presence was needed, he was to be found,—ministering to the sick, cheering the desponding, stimulating the indifferent, chiding the dilatory, watching over the interests of the little community entrusted to his care with parental solicitude.

While thus employed, La Valette received a visit from the Sicilian viceroy, Don Garcia de Toledo, the conqueror of Peñon de Velez. He came, by Philip's orders, to concert with the grand-master the best means of defense. He assured the latter that, so soon as he had assembled a fleet, he would come to his relief; and he left his natural son with him, to learn the art of war under so experienced a commander. La Valette was comforted by the viceroy's promises of succor. But he well knew that it was not to the promises of others he was to trust, in his present exigency, but to his own efforts and those of his brave companions.

The knights, in obedience to his call, had for the most part now arrived, each bringing with him a number of servants and other followers. Some few of the more aged and infirm remained behind; but this not so much from infirmity and age, as from the importance of having some of its members to watch over the interests of the community at foreign courts. La Valette was touched by the alacrity with which his brethren repaired to their posts, to stand by their order in the dark hour of its fortunes. He tenderly embraced them; and soon afterwards, calling them together, he discoursed with them on the perilous position in which they stood, with the whole strength of the Moorish and Turkish empires mustering against them. “It was the great battle of the Cross and the Koran”, he said, “that was now to be fought. They were the chosen soldiers of the Cross; and, if Heaven required the sacrifice of their lives, there could be no better time than this glorious occasion”. The grand-master then led the way to the chapel of the convent, where he and his brethren, after devoutly confessing, partook of the sacrament, and, at the foot of the altar, solemnly renewed their vows to defend the Church against the infidel. With minds exalted by these spiritual exercises, all worldly interests seemed, from that moment, says their historian, to lose their hold on their affections. They stood like a company of martyrs,—the forlorn hope of Christendom, prepared, as their chief had said, to offer up their lives a sacrifice to the great cause in which they were engaged. Such were the feelings with which La Valette and his companions, having completed their preparations, now calmly awaited the coming of the enemy.

CHAPTER XXXII.

SIEGE OF MALTA.

1565.

Before entering on the particulars of this memorable siege, it will be necessary to make the reader somewhat acquainted with the country which was the scene of operations. The island of Malta is about seventeen miles long and nine broad. At the time of the siege it contained some twelve thousand inhabitants, exclusive of the members of the order. They were gathered, for the most part, into wretched towns and villages, the principal one of which was defended by a wall of some strength, and was dignified with the title of Civita Notable—“Illustrious City”. As it was situated in the interior, near the center of the island, the knights did not take up their residence there, but preferred the north-eastern part of Malta, looking towards Sicily, and affording a commodious harbor for their galleys.

The formation of the land in this quarter is very remarkable. A narrow, rocky promontory stretches out into the Mediterranean, dividing its waters into two small gulfs,—that on the west being called Marza Musiette, or Port Musiette, and that towards the east, which now bears the name of Valetta Harbor, being then known as the Great Port. The extreme point of the promontory was crowned by the Castle of St. Elmo, built by the order, soon after its arrival in the island, on the spot which commanded the entrance into both harbors. It was a fortress of considerable strength, for which it was chiefly indebted to its position. Planted on the solid rock, and washed, for the greater part of its circuit, by the waters of the Mediterranean, it needed no other defense on that quarter. But towards the land it was more open to an enemy; and, though protected by a dry ditch and a counterscarp, it was thought necessary to secure it still further, by means of a ravelin on the south-west, which La Valette had scarcely completed before the arrival of the Turks.

Port Musiette, on the west, is that in which vessels now perform quarantine. The Great Port was the most important; for round that was gathered the little community of knights. Its entrance, which is not more than a quarter of a mile in width, is commanded by two headlands, one of them crested, as above mentioned, by the fort of St. Elmo. The length of the harbor may be nearly two miles; and the water is of sufficient depth for ships of the greatest burden to ride there in security, sheltered within the encircling arms of the coast from the storms of the Mediterranean.

From the eastern side of this basin shoot out two projecting headlands, forming smaller harbors within the Great Port. The most northerly of these strips of land was defended by the Castle of St. Angelo, round which clustered a little town, called by way of eminence Il Borgo, “The Burgh”,—now more proudly styled “The Victorious City”. It was here that the order took up its residence,—the grand-masters establishing themselves in the castle; and great pains were taken to put the latter in a good state of defense, while the town was protected by a wall. On the parallel strip of land, known as the island of La Sangle, from a grand-master of that name, stood a fort, called the fort of St. Michael, with a straggling population gathered around it, now busily employed in strengthening the defenses. Between the two headlands lay the Port of Galleys, serving, as its name imports, as a haven for the little navy of the order. This port was made more secure by an iron chain drawn across its entrance, from the extreme point of one headland to the other.

Such were the works constructed by the knights in the brief period during which they had occupied the island. They were so far imperfect, that many a commanding eminence, which the security of the country required to be strongly fortified, still remained as naked and exposed as at the time of their arrival. This imperfect state of its defenses presented a strong contrast to the present condition of Malta, bristling all over with fortifications, which seem to form part of the living rock out of which they spring, and which, in the hands of a power that holds possession of the sea, might bid defiance to the world.

The whole force which La Valette could muster in defense of the island amounted to about nine thousand men. This included seven hundred knights, of whom about six hundred had already arrived. The remainder were on their way, and joined him at a later period of the siege. Between three and four thousand were Maltese, irregularly trained, but who had already gained some experience of war in their contests with the Barbary corsairs. The rest of the army, with the exception of five hundred galley slaves, already noticed, and the personal followers of the knights, was made up of levies from Spain and Italy, who had come over to aid in the defense. The useless part of the population—the infirm and the aged—had for the most part been shipped off to Sicily. There still remained, however, numbers of women and children; and the former, displaying the heroic constancy which, in times of trouble, so often distinguishes the sex, did good service during the siege, by tending the sick and by cheering the flagging spirits of the soldier.

This little army La Valette distributed on the several stations, assigning each to some one of the languages, or nations, that the spirit of emulation might work its effects on the chivalry of the order. The castle of St. Elmo was the point of first importance. It covered so contracted a piece of ground, that it scarcely afforded accommodation for a thousand men; and not more than eight hundred were shut up within its walls at the commencement of the siege. Its dimensions did not admit of its being provided with magazines capable of holding any large quantity of provisions, or military stores, for which it was unfortunately obliged to rely on its communication with Il Borgo, the town across the harbor. The masonry of the fort was not in the best repute: though the works were lined with at least thirty pieces of artillery, looking chiefly towards the land. Its garrison, which usually amounted to sixty soldiers, was under the command of an aged knight, named De Broglio. The grand-master reinforced this body with sixty knights under the bailiff of Negropont, a veteran in whose well-tried valor La Valette placed entire confidence. He was strengthened by two companies of foreign levies, under the command of a Spanish cavalier named La Cerda.

Various other points were held by small detachments, with some one of the order at the head of each. But the strength of the force, including nearly all the remainder of the knights, was posted in the castle of St. Angelo and in the town at its base. Here La Valette took his own station, as the spot which, by its central position, would enable him to watch over the interests of the whole. All was bustle in this quarter, as the people were busily employed in strengthening the defenses of the town, and in razing buildings in the suburbs, which the grand-master feared might afford a lodgment to the enemy. In this work their labors were aided by a thousand slaves, taken from the prison, and chained together in couples.

On the morning of the eighteenth of May, 1565, the Turkish fleet was descried by the sentinels of St. Elmo and St. Angelo, about thirty miles to the eastward, standing directly for Malta. A gun, the signal agreed on, was fired from each of the forts, to warn the inhabitants of the country to withdraw into their villages. The fleet amounted to one hundred and thirty royal galleys with fifty of lesser size, besides a number of transports with the cannon, ammunition, and other military stores. The breaching artillery consisted of sixty-three guns, the smallest of which threw a ball of fifty-six pounds, and some few, termed basilicas, carried marble bullets of a hundred and twelve pounds' weight. The Turks were celebrated for the enormous caliber of their guns, from a very early period; and they continued to employ those pieces long after they had given way, in the rest of Europe, to cannon of more moderate and manageable dimensions.

The number of soldiers on board, independently of the mariners, and including six thousand janizaries, was about thirty thousand,—the flower of the Ottoman army. Their appointments were on the most perfect scale, and everything was provided requisite for the prosecution of the siege. Never, probably, had there been so magnificent an armament in the waters of the Mediterranean. It was evident that Soliman was bent on the extermination of the order which he had once driven into exile, but which had now renewed its strength, and become the most formidable enemy of the Crescent.

The command of the expedition was entrusted to two officers. One of these, Piali, was the same admiral who defeated the Spaniards at Gelves. He had the direction of the naval operations. The land forces were given to Mustapha, a veteran nearly seventy years of age, whose great experience, combined with military talents of a high order, had raised him to the head of his profession. Unfortunately, his merits as an officer were tarnished by his cruelty. Besides the command of the army, he had a general authority over the whole expedition, which excited the jealousy of Piali, who thought himself injured by the preference given to his rival. Thus feelings of mutual distrust arose in the bosoms of the two chiefs, which to some extent paralyzed the operations of each.

The Turkish armada steered for the south-eastern quarter of the island, and cast anchor in the port of St. Thomas. The troops speedily disembarked, and spread themselves in detached bodies over the land, devastating the country, and falling on all stragglers whom they met in the fields. Mustapha, with the main body of the army, marching a short distance into the interior, occupied a rising ground, only a few miles from Il Borgo. It was with difficulty that the inhabitants could be prevented from issuing from the gates, in order to gaze on the show presented by the invaders, whose magnificent array stretched far beyond the hills, with their bright arms and banners glittering in the sun, and their warlike music breathing forth notes of defiance to the Christians. La Valette, in his turn, caused the standard of St. John to be unfurled from the ramparts of the castle, and his trumpets to answer in a similar strain of defiance to that of the enemy.

Meanwhile the grand marshal, Coppier, had sallied from the town at the head of a small troop, and fallen upon some of the detachments which were scouring the country. The success of his arms was shown by the gory heads of the slaughtered Turks, which he sent back to Il Borgo as the trophies of victory. La Valette’s design, in permitting these encounters, was to familiarize his men with the novel aspect and peculiar weapons of their enemies, as well as with the fierce war-cries which the Turks raised in battle. But the advantages gained in these skirmishes did not compensate the losses, however light, on the part of the Christians; and after two knights and a number of the common file had been slain, the grand-master ordered his followers to remain quietly within the walls of the town.

It was decided, in the Turkish council of war, to begin operations with the siege of the castle of St. Elmo; as the possession of this place was necessary to secure a safe harbor for the Turkish fleet. On the twenty-fourth of May, the trenches were opened, if that can be said where, from the rocky, impenetrable nature of the ground, no trenches could be dug, and the besiegers were obliged to shelter themselves behind a breastwork formed of planks, having the space between them filled with earth brought from a distance, and held together by straw and rushes. At certain intervals Mustapha indicated the points for batteries. The principal of these was a battery where ten guns were mounted, some of them of the largest caliber; and although artillery practice was very different from what it is in our times, with so much greater experience and more manageable engines, yet masonry stronger than that of St. Elmo might well have crumbled under the masses of stone and iron that were now hurled against it.

As the works began to give way, it seemed evident that the garrison must rely more on their own strength than on that of their defenses. It was resolved, therefore, to send to the grand-master and request reinforcements. The Chevalier de la Cerda was entrusted with the mission. Crossing over to Il Borgo, he presented himself before La Valette, and insisted on the necessity of further support if the fort was to be maintained against the infidel. The grand-master listened, with a displeasure which he could not conceal, to this application for aid so early in the siege; especially as it was made in the presence of many of the knights, who might well be disheartened by it. He coldly asked La Cerda what loss the garrison had suffered. The knight, evading the question, replied, that St. Elmo was in the condition of a sick man who requires the aid of the physician. “I will be the physician”, said La Valette, “and will bring such aid that, if I cannot cure your fears, I may at least hope to save the place from falling into the hands of the enemy”. So impressed was he with the importance of maintaining this post to the last extremity, if it were only to gain time for the Sicilian succors, that he was prepared, as he said, to throw himself into the fortress, and, if need were, to bury himself in its ruins.

From this desperate resolution he was dissuaded by the unanimous voice of the knights, who represented to him that it was not the duty of the commander-in-chief to expose himself like a common soldier, and take his place in the forlorn hope. The grand-master saw the justice of these remonstrances; and, as the knights contended with one another for the honor of assuming the post of danger, he allowed fifty of the order, together with two companies of soldiers, to return with La Cerda to the fort. The reinforcement was placed under command of the Chevalier de Medran, a gallant soldier, on whose constancy and courage La Valette knew he could rely. Before its departure, the strength of the force was increased by the arrival of several knights from Sicily, who obtained the grand-master's leave to share the fortunes of their brethren in St. Elmo. The troops were sent across the harbor, together with supplies of food and ammunition, in open boats, under cover of a heavy fire from the guns of St. Angelo. A shot happened to fall on a stone near the trenches, in which Piali, the Turkish admiral, was standing; and, a splinter striking him on the head, he was severely, though not mortally wounded. La Valette took advantage of the confusion created by this incident to dispatch a galley to Sicily, to quicken the operations of the viceroy, and obtain from him the promised succors. To this Don Garcia de Toledo replied by an assurance that he should come to his relief by the middle of June.

It was now the beginning of that month. Scarcely had De Medran entered St. Elmo, when he headed a sally against the Turks, slew many in the trenches, and put the remainder to flight. But they soon returned in such overwhelming force as compelled the Christians to retreat and take refuge within their works. Unfortunately, the smoke of the musketry, borne along by a southerly breeze, drifted in the direction of the castle; and under cover of it, the Turks succeeded in getting possession of the counterscarp. As the smoke cleared away, the garrison were greatly dismayed at seeing the Moslem standard planted on their own defenses. It was in vain they made every effort to recover them. The assailants, speedily intrenching themselves behind a parapet formed of gabions, fascines, and wool-sacks, established a permanent lodgment on the counterscarp.

From this point, they kept up a lively discharge of musketry on the ravelin, killing such of its defenders as ventured to show themselves. An untoward event soon put them in possession of the ravelin itself. A Turkish engineer, reconnoitering that outwork from the counterscarp, is said to have perceived a sentinel asleep on his post. He gave notice to his countrymen; and a party of janizaries succeeded, by means of their ladders, in scaling the walls of the ravelin. The guard, though few in number and taken by surprise, still endeavored to maintain the place. A sharp skirmish ensued. But the Turks, speedily reinforced by their comrades, who flocked to their support, overpowered the Christians, and forced them to give way. Some few succeeded in effecting their retreat into the castle. The janizaries followed close on the fugitives. For a moment it seemed as if Moslem and Christian would both be hurried along by the tide of battle into the fort itself. But fortunately the bailiff of Negropont, De Medran, and some other cavaliers, heading their followers, threw themselves on the enemy, and checked the pursuit. A desperate struggle ensued, in which science was of no avail, and victory waited on the strongest. In the end the janizaries were forced to retreat in their turn. Every inch of ground was contested; until the Turks, pressed hard by their adversaries, fell back into the ravelin, where, with the aid of their comrades, they made a resolute stand against the Christians. Two cannon of the fortress were now brought to bear on the outwork. But, though their volleys told with murderous effect, the Turks threw themselves into the midst of the fire, and fearlessly toiled, until, by means of gabions, sand-bags, and other materials, they had built up a parapet which secured them from annoyance. All further contest was rendered useless; and the knights, abandoning this important outwork to the assailants, sullenly withdrew into the fortress.

While this was going on, a fresh body of Turks, bursting into the ditch, through a breach in the counterscarp, endeavored to carry the fortress by escalade. Fortunately, their ladders were too short; and the garrison, plying them with volleys of musketry, poured down, at the same time, such a torrent of missiles on their heads as soon strewed the ditch with mangled limbs and carcasses. At this moment a party, sallying from the fort, fell on the enemy with great slaughter, and drove them—such as were in condition to fly—back into their trenches.

The engagement, brought on, as we have seen, by accident, lasted several hours. The loss of the Turks greatly exceeded that of the garrison, which amounted to less than a hundred men, twenty of whom were members of the order. But the greatest loss of the besieged was that of the counterscarp and ravelin. Thus shorn of its outworks, the castle of St. Elmo stood like some bare and solitary trunk exposed to all the fury of the tempest.

The loss of the ravelin gave the deepest concern to La Valette, which was not mitigated by the consideration that it was to be charged, in part at least, on the negligence of its defenders. It made him the more solicitous to provide for the security of the castle; and he sent his boats over to remove the wounded, and replace them by an equal number of able-bodied knights and soldiers. It was his intention that the garrison should not be encumbered with any who were unable to assist in the defense. Among the new recruits was the Chevalier de Miranda,—one of the most illustrious members of the order, who had lately arrived from Sicily,—a soldier whose personal authority, combined with great military knowledge, proved eminently useful to the garrison.

The loss which the besiegers had sustained in the late encounter was more than counterbalanced by the arrival, at this time, of Dragut, the famous pasha of Tripoli, with thirteen Moorish galleys. He was welcomed by salvos of artillery and the general rejoicing of the army; and this not so much on account of the reinforcement which he brought—the want of which was not then felt—as of his reputation; for he was no less celebrated as an engineer than as a naval commander. The sultan, who had the highest opinion of his merits, had ordered his generals to show him the greatest deference; and they, at once, advised with him as to the best means of prosecuting the siege. The effect of his counsel was soon seen in the more judicious and efficient measures that were adopted. A battery of four culverins was established on the western headland commanding the entrance of Port Musiette. It was designed to operate on the western flank of the fortress; and the point of land on which it stood is still known by the name of the redoubtable corsair.

Another battery, much more formidable from the number and size of the pieces, was raised on an eminence to the south of St. Elmo, and played both upon that fort and upon the castle of St. Angelo. The counterscarp of the former fortress was shaved away, so as to allow a free range to the artillery of the besiegers; and two cannon were planted on the ravelin, which directed a searching fire on the interior of the fortress, compelling the garrison to shelter themselves behind retrenchments constructed under the direction of Miranda.

The artillery of the Turks now opened with dreadful effect, as they concentrated their fire on the naked walls of St. Elmo. No masonry could long withstand the tempest of iron and ponderous marble shot which was hurled from the gigantic engines of the besiegers. Fragments of the wall fell off as if it had been made of plaster; and St. Elmo trembled to its foundations under the thunders of the terrible ordnance. The heart of the stoutest warrior might well have faltered as he saw the rents each day growing wider and wider, as if gaping to give entrance to the fierce multitude that was swarming at the gates.

In this extremity, with the garrison wasted by the constant firing of the enemy, worn down by excessive toil, many of the knights wounded, all of them harassed by long-protracted vigils, it was natural that the greater part should feel that they had done all that duty required of them, and that, without loss of honor, they might retire from a post that was no longer tenable. They accordingly resolved to apply to the grand-master to send his boats at once to transport them and the rest of the garrison to Il Borgo. The person whom they chose for the mission was the Chevalier de Medran, who, as La Valette would know, was not likely to exaggerate the difficulties of their situation.

De Medran accordingly crossed the harbor, and, in an interview with the grand-master, explained the purpose of his visit. He spoke of the dilapidated state of the fortifications, and dwelt on the forlorn condition of the garrison, which was only to be sustained by constant reinforcements from Il Borgo. But this was merely another mode of consuming the strength of the order. It would be better, therefore, instead of prolonging a desperate defense, which must end in the ruin of the defenders, to remove them at once to the town, where they could make common cause with their brethren against the enemy.

La Valette listened attentively to De Medran’s arguments, which were well deserving of consideration. But, as the affair was of the last importance to the interests of his little community, he chose to lay it before the council of Grand Crosses,—men who filled the highest stations in the order. They were unanimously of the same opinion as De Medran. Not so was La Valette. He felt that with the maintenance of St. Elmo was connected the very existence of the order. The viceroy of Sicily, he told his brethren, had declared that, if this strong post were in the hands of the enemy, he would not hazard his master’s fleet there to save the island. And, next to their own good swords, it was on the Sicilian succors that they must rely. The knights must maintain the post at all hazards. The viceroy could not abandon them in their need. He himself would not desert, them. He would keep them well supplied with whatever was required for their defense; and, if necessary, would go over and take the command in person, and make good the place against the infidel, or die in the breach.

The elder knights, on learning the grand-master’s decision, declared their resolution to abide by it. They knew how lightly he held his life in comparison with the cause to which it was consecrated; and they avowed their determination to shed the last drop of their blood in defense of the post entrusted to them. The younger brethren were not so easily reconciled to the decision of their superiors. To remain there longer was a wanton sacrifice of life, they said. They were penned up in the fort, like sheep, tamely waiting to be devoured by the fierce wolves that were thirsting for their blood. This they could not endure; and, if the grand-master did not send to take them off at once, they would sally out against the enemy, and find an honorable death on the field of battle. A letter signed by fifty of the knights, expressing their determination, was accordingly dispatched by one of their number to Il Borgo.

La Valette received the communication with feelings in which sorrow was mingled with indignation. It was not enough, he said, for them to die the honorable death which they so much coveted. They must die in the manner he prescribed. They were bound to obey his commands. He reminded them of the vows taken at the time of their profession, and the obligation of every loyal knight to sacrifice his life, if necessary, for the good of the order. Nor would they gain anything, he added, by abandoning their post and returning to the town. The Turkish army would soon be at its gates, and the viceroy of Sicily would leave them to their fate.

That he might not appear, however, to pass too lightly by their remonstrances, La Valette determined to send three commissioners to inspect St. Elmo, and report on its condition. This would at least have the advantage of gaining time, when every hour gained was of importance. He also sent to Sicily to remonstrate on the tardiness of the viceroy's movements, and to urge the necessity of immediate succors if he would save the castle.

The commissioners were received with joy by the refractory knights, whom they found so intent on their departure that they were already beginning to throw the shot into the wells, to prevent its falling into the hands of the Turks. They eagerly showed the commissioners every part of the works, the ruinous condition of which, indeed, spoke more forcibly than the murmurs of the garrison. Two of the body adopted the views of the disaffected party, and pronounced the fort no longer tenable. But the third, an Italian cavalier, named Castriot, was of a different way of thinking. The fortifications, he admitted, were in a bad state; but it was far from a desperate one. With fresh troops and the materials that could be furnished from the town, they might soon be put in condition to hold out for some time longer. Such an opinion, so boldly avowed, in opposition to the complaints of the knights, touched their honor. A hot dispute arose between the parties; and evil consequences might have ensued, had not the commander, De Broglio, and the bailiff of Negropont, to stop the tumult, caused the alarm-bell to be rung, which sent every knight to his post.

Castriot, on his return, made a similar report to the grand-master, and boldly offered to make good his words. If La Valette would allow him to muster a force, he would pass over to St. Elmo, and put it in condition still to hold out against the Ottoman arms.

La Valette readily assented to a proposal which he may perhaps have originally suggested. No compulsion was to be used in a service of so much danger. But volunteers speedily came forward, knights, soldiers, and inhabitants of both town and country. The only difficulty was in making the selection. All eagerly contended for the glory of being enrolled in this little band of heroes.

La Valette was cheered by the exhibition of this generous spirit in his followers. It gave assurance of success stronger than was to be derived from any foreign aid. He wrote at once to the discontented knights in St. Elmo, and informed them of what had been done. Their petition was now granted. They should be relieved that very evening. They had only to resign their posts to their successors. “Return, my brethren”, he concluded, “to the convent. There you will be safe for the present; and I shall have less apprehension for the fate of the fortress, on which the preservation of the island so much depends”.

The knights, who had received some intimation of the course the affair was taking in Il Borgo, were greatly disconcerted by it. To surrender to others the post committed to their own keeping, would be a dishonor they could not endure. When the letter of the grand-master arrived, their mortification was extreme; and it was not diminished by the cool and cutting contempt but thinly veiled under a show of solicitude for their personal safety. They implored the bailiff of Negropont to write in their name to La Valette, and beseech him not to subject them to such a disgrace. They avowed their penitence for the course they had taken, and only asked that they might now be allowed to give such proofs of devotion to the cause as should atone for their errors.

The letter was dispatched by a swimmer across the harbor. But the grand-master coldly answered, that veterans without subordination were in his eyes of less worth than raw recruits who submitted to discipline. The wretchedness of the knights at this repulse was unspeakable; for in their eyes dishonor was far worse than death. In their extremity they addressed themselves again to La Valette, renewing their protestations of sorrow for the past, and in humble terms requesting his forgiveness. The chief felt that he had pushed the matter far enough. It was perhaps the point to which he had intended to bring it. It would not be well to drive his followers to despair. He felt now they might be trusted. He accordingly dismissed the levies, retaining only a part of these brave men to reinforce the garrison; and with them he sent supplies of ammunition, and materials for repairing the battered works.

During this time, the Turkish commander was pressing the siege with vigor. Day and night, the batteries thundered on the ramparts of the devoted fortress. The ditch was strewed with fragments torn from the walls by the iron tempest; and a yawning chasm, which had been gradually opening on the south-western side of the castle, showed that a practicable breach was at length effected. The uncommon vivacity with which the guns played through the whole of the fifteenth of June, and the false alarms with which the garrison was harassed on the following night, led to the belief that a general assault was immediately intended. The supposition was correct. On the sixteenth, at dawn, the whole force of the besiegers was under arms. The appointed signal was given by the discharge of a cannon; when a numerous body of janizaries, formed into column, moved swiftly forward to storm the great breach of the castle.

Meanwhile the Ottoman fleet, having left its anchorage on the eastern side of the island, had moved round, and now lay off the mouth of the Great Port, where its heavy guns were soon brought to bear on the seaward side of St. Elmo. The battery on Point Dragut opened on the western flank of the fortress; and four thousand musketeers in the trenches swept the breach with showers of bullets, and picked off those of the garrison who showed their heads above the parapet.

The guns of the besieged, during this time, were not idle. They boldly answered the cannonade of the vessels; and on the land side the play of artillery and musketry was incessant. The besieged now concentrated their aim on the formidable body of janizaries, who, as already noticed, were hurrying forward to the assault. Their leading files were mowed down, and their flank cruelly torn, by the cannon of St. Angelo, at less than half a mile's distance. But though staggered by this double fire on front and flank, the janizaries were not stayed in their career, nor even thrown into disarray. Heedless of those who fell, the dark column came steadily on, like a thundercloud; while the groans of the dying were drowned in the loud battle-cries with which their comrades rushed to the assault. The fosse, choked up with the ruins of the ramparts, afforded a bridge to the assailants, who had no need of the fascines with which their pioneers were prepared to fill up the chasm. The approach of the breach, however, was somewhat steep; and the breach itself was defended by a body of knights and soldiers, who poured volleys of musketry thick as hail on the assailants. Still they pushed forward through the storm, and, after a fierce struggle, the front rank found itself at the summit, face to face with its enemies. But the strength of the Turks was nearly exhausted by their efforts. They were hewn down by the Christians, who came fresh into action. Yet others succeeded those who fell; till, thus out-numbered, the knights began to lose ground, and the forces were more equally matched. Then came the struggle of man against man, where each party was spurred on by the fury of religious hate, and Christian and Moslem looked to paradise as the reward of him who fell in battle against the infidel. No mercy was asked; none was shown; and long and hard was the conflict between the flower of the Moslem soldiery and the best knights of Christendom. In the heat of the fight an audacious Turk planted his standard on the rampart. But it was speedily wenched away by the Chevalier de Medran, who cut down the Mussulman, and at the same moment received a mortal wound from an arquebuse. As the contest lasted far into the day, the heat became intense, and added sorely to the distress of the combatants. Still neither party slackened their efforts. Though several times repulsed, the Turks returned to the assault with the same spirit as before; and when saber and scymitar were broken, the combatants closed with their daggers, and rolled down the declivity of the breach, struggling in mortal conflict with each other.

While the work of death was going on in this quarter, a vigorous attempt was made in another to carry the fortress by escalade. A body of Turks, penetrating into the fosse, raised their ladders against the walls, and, pushed forward by their comrades in the rear, endeavored to force an ascent, under a plunging fire of musketry from the garrison. Fragments of rook, logs of wood, ponderous iron shot, were rolled over the parapet, mingled with combustibles and hand-grenades, which, exploding as they descended, shattered the ladders, and hurled the mangled bodies of the assailants on the rocky bottom of the ditch. In this contest one invention proved of singular use to the besieged. It was furnished them by La Valette, and consisted of an iron hoop, wound round with cloth steeped in nitre and bituminous substances, which, when ignited, burned with inextinguishable fury. These hoops, thrown on the assailants, enclosed them in their fiery circles. Sometimes two were thus imprisoned in the same hoop; and, as the flowing dress of the Turks favored the conflagration, they were speedily wrapped in a blaze which scorched them severely, if it did not burn them to death. This invention, so simple,—and rude, as in our day it might be thought,—was so disastrous in its effects, that it was held in more dread by the Turks than any other of the fireworks employed by the besieged.

A similar attempt to scale the walls was made on the other side of the castle, but was defeated by a well-directed fire from the guns of St. Angelo across the harbor,—which threw their shot with such precision as to destroy most of the storming party, and compel the rest to abandon their design. Indeed, during the whole of the assault, the artillery of St. Angelo, St. Michael, and Il Borgo kept up so irritating a fire on the exposed flank and rear of the enemy as greatly embarrassed his movements, and did good service to the besieged.

Thus the battle raged along the water and on the land. The whole circuit of the Great Port was studded with fire. A din of hideous noises rose in the air; the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the hissing of fiery missiles, the crash of falling masonry, the shrieks of the dying, and, high above all, the fierce cries of those who struggled for mastery! To add to the tumult, in the heat of the fight, a spark falling into the magazine of combustibles in the fortress, it blew up with a tremendous explosion, drowning every other noise, and for a moment stilling the combat. A cloud of smoke and vapor, rising into the air, settled heavily, like a dark canopy, above St. Elmo. It seemed as if a volcano had suddenly burst from the peaceful waters of the Mediterranean, belching out volumes of fire and smoke, and shaking the island to its center!

The fight had lasted for some hours; and still the little band of Christian warriors made good their stand against the overwhelming odds of numbers. The sun had now risen high in the heavens, and as its rays beat fiercely on the heads of the assailants, their impetuosity began to slacken. At length, faint with heat and excessive toil, and many staggering under wounds, it was with difficulty that the janizaries could be brought back to the attack; and Mustapha saw with chagrin that St. Elmo was not to be won that day. Soon after noon, he gave the signal to retreat; and the Moslem host, drawing off under a galling fire from the garrison, fell back in sullen silence into their trenches, as the tiger, baffled in his expected prey, takes refuge from the spear of the hunter in his jungle.

As the Turks withdrew, the garrison of St. Elmo raised a shout of victory that reached across the waters, and was cheerily answered from both St. Angelo and the town, whose inhabitants had watched with intense interest the current of the fight, on the result of which their own fate so much depended.

The number of Moslems who perished in the assault can only be conjectured. But it must have been very large. That of the garrison is stated as high as three hundred men. Of these, seventeen were knights of the order. But the common soldier, it was observed, did his duty as manfully throughout the day as the best knight by whose side he fought. Few, if any, of the survivors escaped without wounds. Suck as were badly injured were transferred at once to the town, and an equal number of able-bodied troops sent to replace them, together with supplies of ammunition, and materials for repairing, as far as possible, the damage to the works. Among those who suffered most from their wounds was the bailiff of Negropont. He obstinately refused to be removed to the town; and when urged by La Valette to allow a substitute to be sent to relieve him, the veteran answered, that he was ready to yield up his command to anyone who should be appointed in his place; but he trusted he should be allowed still to remain in St. Elmo, and shed the last drop of his blood in defense of the Faith.

A similar heroic spirit was shown in the competition of the knights, and even of the Maltese soldiers, to take the place of those who had fallen in the fortress. It was now not merely the post of danger, but, as might be truly said, the post of death. Yet these brave men eagerly contended for it, as for the palm of glory; and La Valette was obliged to refuse the application of twelve knights of the language of Italy, on the ground that the complement of the garrison was full.

The only spark of hope now left was that of receiving the succors from Sicily. But the viceroy, far from quickening his movements, seemed willing to play the part of the matador in one of his national bull-fights,—allowing the contending parties in the arena to exhaust themselves in the struggle, and reserving his own appearance till a single thrust from his sword should decide the combat.

Still, some chance of prolonging its existence remained to St. Elmo while the communication could be maintained with St. Angelo and the town, by means of which the sinking strength of the garrison was continually renewed with the fresh life-blood that was poured into its veins. The Turkish commander at length became aware that, if he would end the siege, this communication must be cut off. It would have been well for him had he come to this conclusion sooner.

By the advice of Dragut, the investment of the castle was to be completed by continuing the lines of intrenchment to the Great Port, where a battery mounted with heavy guns would command the point of debarkation. While conducting this work, the Moorish captain was wounded on the head, by the splinter from a rock struck by a cannon-shot, which laid him senseless in the trenches. Mustapha, commanding a cloak to be thrown over the fallen chief, had him removed to his tent. The wound proved mortal; and though Dragut survived to learn the fate of St. Elmo, he seems to have been in no condition to aid the siege by his counsels. The loss of this able captain was the severest blow that could have been inflicted on the besiegers.

While the intrenchments were in progress, the enemy kept up an unintermitting fire on the tottering ramparts of the fortress. This was accompanied by false alarms, and by night attacks, in which the flaming missiles, as they shot through the air, cast a momentary glare over the waters, that showed the dark outlines of St. Elmo towering in ruined majesty above the scene of desolation. The artillery-men of St. Angelo, in the obscurity of the night, were guided in their aim by the light of the enemy's fireworks. These attacks were made by the Turks, not so much in the expectation of carrying the fort, though they were often attended with a considerable loss of life, as for the purpose of wearing out the strength of the garrison. And dreary indeed was the condition of the latter: fighting by day, toiling through the livelong night to repair the ravages in the works, they had no power to take either the rest or the nourishment necessary to recruit their exhausted strength. To all this was now to be added a feeling of deeper despondency, as they saw the iron band closing around them which was to sever them for ever from their friends.

On the eighteenth of the month, the work of investment was completed, and the extremity of the lines was garnished with a redoubt mounting two large guns, which, with the musketry from the trenches, would sweep the landing-place, and effectually cut off any further supplies from the other side of the harbor. Thus left to their own resources, the days of the garrison were numbered.

La Valette, who had anxiously witnessed these operations of the enemy, had done all he could to retard them, by firing incessantly on the laborers in the hope of driving them from the trenches. When the work was completed, his soul was filled with anguish; and his noble features, which usually wore a tinge of melancholy, were clouded with deeper sadness, as he felt he must now abandon his brave comrades to their fate.

On the twentieth of the month was the festival of Corpus Christi, which, in happier days, had been always celebrated with great pomp by the Hospitallers. They did not fail to observe it, even at this time. A procession was formed, with the grand-master at its head; and the knights walked clad in the dark robes of the order, embroidered with the white cross of Malta. They were accompanied by the whole population of the place, men, women, and children. They made the circuit of the town, taking the direction least exposed to the enemy's fire. On reaching the church, they prostrated themselves on the ground, and, with feelings rendered yet more solemn by their own situation, and above all by that of their brave comrades in St. Elmo, they implored the Lord of Hosts to take pity on their distress, and not to allow his enemies to triumph over the true soldiers of the Cross.

During the whole of the twenty-first, the fire of the besiegers was kept up with more than usual severity, until in some places the crumbling wall was shot away, down to the bare rock on which it stood. Their pioneers, who had collected loads of brushwood for the purpose, filled up the ditch with their fascines; which, as they were covered with wet earth, defied the efforts of the garrison to set them on fire. Throughout the following night a succession of false alarms kept the soldiers constantly under arms. All this prognosticated a general assault. It came the next day.

With the earliest streak of light, the Turkish troops were in motion. Soon they came pouring in over the fosse, which, choked up as it was, offered no impediment. Some threw themselves on the breach. The knights and their followers were there to receive them. Others endeavored to scale the ramparts, but were driven back by showers of missiles. The musketry was feeble, for ammunition had begun to fail. But everywhere the assailants were met with the same unconquerable spirit as before. It seemed as if the defenders of St. Elmo, exhausted as they had been by their extraordinary sufferings, had renewed their strength as by a miracle. Thrice the enemy returned to the assault; and thrice he was repulsed. The carnage was terrible; Christian and Mussulman grappling fiercely together, until the ruins on which they fought were heaped with the bodies of the slain.

The combat had lasted several hours. Amazed at the resistance which he met with from this handful of warriors, Mustapha felt that, if he would stop the waste of life in his followers, he must defer the possession of the place for one day longer. Stunned as his enemies must be by the blow he had now dealt, it would be beyond the powers of nature for them to stand another assault. He accordingly again gave the signal for retreat; and the victors again raised the shout—a feeble shout—of triumph; while the banner of the order, floating from the ramparts, proclaimed that St. Elmo was still in the hands of the Christians! It was the last triumph of the garrison.

They were indeed reduced to extremity; with their ammunition nearly exhausted; their weapons battered and broken; their fortifications yawning with breaches, like some tempest-tossed vessel with its seams opening in every direction, and ready to founder; the few survivors covered with wounds; and many of them so far crippled as to be scarcely able to drag their enfeebled body along the ramparts. One more attack, and the scene would be closed.

In this deplorable state, they determined to make an effort to communicate with their friends on the other side of the harbor, and report to them their condition. The distance was not great; and among the Maltese were many excellent swimmers, who, trained from childhood to the sea, took to it as to their native element. One of these offered to bear a message to the grand-master. Diving and swimming long under water, he was fortunate enough to escape the enemy’s bullets, and landed safe on the opposite shore.

La Valette was deeply affected by this story, though not surprised by it. With the rest of the knights he had watched with straining eyes the course of the fight; and though marveling that, in spite of odds so great, victory should have remained with the Christians, he knew how dearly they must have bought it. Though with little confidence in his success, he resolved to answer their appeal by making one effort to aid them. Five large barges were instantly launched, and furnished with a reinforcement of troops and supplies for the garrison. The knights thronged to the quay, each eagerly contending for the perilous right to embark in them. They thought only of their comrades in St. Elmo.

It turned out as La Valette had foreseen. The landing-place was commanded by a battery of heavy guns, and by hundreds of musketeers, menacing instant death to whoever should approach the shore. But the knights were not allowed to approach it; for the Turkish admiral, lying off the entrance of the Great Port, and aware of the preparations that were making, sent a flotilla of his lighter vessels into the harbor, to intercept the convoy. And so prompt were their movements, that unless the Christians had put back again with all speed, they would have been at once surrounded and captured by the enemy.

The defenders of St. Elmo, who had watched from the ramparts the boats coming to their assistance, saw the failure of the attempt; and the last ray of hope faded away in their bosoms. Their doom was sealed. Little more was left but calmly to await the stroke of the executioner. Yet they did not abandon themselves to an unmanly despair; but, with heroic constancy, they prepared to die like martyrs for the good cause to which they had consecrated their lives.

That night was passed, not in vain efforts to repair the defenses, with the hope of protracting existence some few hours longer, but in the solemn preparation of men who felt themselves standing on the brink of eternity. They prayed, confessed, received the sacrament, and, exhorting one another to do their duty, again renewed their vows, which bound them to lay down their lives, if necessary, in defense of the Faith. Some, among whom Miranda and the bailiff of Negropont were especially noticed, went about encouraging and consoling their brethren, and, though covered with wounds themselves, administering such comfort as they could to the sick and the dying;—and the dying lay thick around, mingled with the dead, on the ruins which were soon to become their common sepulcher.

Thus passed away the dreary night; when, tenderly embracing one another, like friends who part for ever, each good knight repaired to his post, prepared to sell his life as dearly as he could. Some of the more aged and infirm, and those crippled by their wounds, were borne in the arms of their comrades to the spot, where, seated on the ruins, and wielding their ineffectual swords, they prepared, like true and loyal knights, to die upon the breach.

They did not wait long. The Turks, so often balked of their prey, called loudly to be led to the assault. Their advance was not checked by the feeble volleys thrown at random against them from the fortress; and they were soon climbing the ascent of the breach, still slippery with the carnage of the preceding day. But with all their numbers, it was long before they could break the little line of Maltese chivalry which was there to receive them. Incredible as it may seem, the struggle lasted for some hours longer, while the fate of St. Elmo hung suspended in the balance. At length, after a short respite, the Turkish host rallied for a last assault; and the tide of battle, pouring through the ample breach with irresistible fury, bore down cavalier and soldier, leaving no living thing upon the ramparts. A small party of knights, escaping in the tumult, threw themselves into the chapel; but, finding that no quarter was given to those who surrendered, they rushed out, and perished on the swords of the enemy. A body of nine cavaliers, posted near the end of the fosse, not far from the ground occupied by Dragut’s men, surrendered themselves as prisoners of war to the corsairs; and the latter, who, in their piratical trade, had learned to regard men as a kind of merchandise, happily refused to deliver up the Christians to the Turks, holding them for ransom. These were the only members of the order who survived the massacre. A few Maltese soldiers, however, experienced swimmers, succeeded, amidst the tumult, in reaching the opposite side of the harbor, where they spread the sad tidings of the loss of St. Elmo. This was speedily confirmed by the volleys of the Turkish ordnance; and the standard of the Crescent, planted on the spot so lately occupied by the banner of St. John, showed too plainly that this strong post, the key of the island, had passed from the Christians into the hands of the infidel.

The Ottoman fleet, soon afterward doubling the point, entered Port Musiette, on the west, with music playing, and gay with pennons and streamers; while the rocks rang with the shouts of the Turkish soldiery, and the batteries on shore replied in thunders to the artillery of the shipping.

The day on which this occurred, the twenty-third of June, was that of the festival of St. John the Baptist, the patron of the order. It had been always celebrated by the knights with greater splendor than any other anniversary. Now, alas! it was to them a day of humiliation and mourning, while they had the additional mortification to see it observed as a day of triumphant jubilee by the enemies of the Faith.

To add to their distress, Mustapha sullied his victory by some brutal acts, which seem to have been in keeping with his character. The heads of four of the principal knights, among them those of Miranda and the bailiff of Negropont, were set high on poles looking towards the town. A spectacle yet more shocking was presented to the eyes of the besieged. The Turkish general caused the bodies of several cavaliers—some of them, it is said, while life was yet palpitating within, them—to be scored on the bosoms with gashes in the form of a cross. Thus defaced, they were lashed to planks, and thrown into the water. Several of them drifted to the opposite shore, where they were easily recognized by their brethren; and La Valette, as he gazed on the dishonored remains of his dear companions, was melted to tears. But grief soon yielded to feelings of a sterner nature. He commanded the heads of his Turkish prisoners to be struck off, and shot from the large guns into the enemy’s lines,—by way of teaching the Moslems, as the chronicler tells us, a lesson of humanity!

The number of Christians who fell in this siege amounted to about fifteen hundred. Of these one hundred and twenty-three were members of the order, and among them several of its most illustrious warriors. The Turkish loss is estimated at eight thousand, at the head of whom stood Dragut, of more account than a legion of the common file. He was still living, though speechless, when the fort was stormed. He was roused from his lethargy by the shouts of victory, and when, upon turning with inquiring looks to those around, he was told the cause, he raised his eyes to Heaven, as if in gratitude for the event, and expired.

The Turkish commander, dismantling St. Elmo,—which, indeed, was little better than a heap of ruins,—sent some thirty cannon that had lined the works, as the trophies of victory, to Constantinople.

Thus ended the memorable siege of St. Elmo, in which a handful of warriors withstood, for the space of a month, the whole strength of the Turkish army. Such a result, while it proves the unconquerable valor of the garrison, intimates that the Turks, however efficient they may have been in field operations, had little skill as engineers, and no acquaintance with the true principles of conducting a siege. It must have been obvious, from the first, that, to bring the siege to a speedy issue, it was necessary to destroy the communications of St. Elmo with the town. Yet this was not attempted till the arrival of Dragut, who early recommended the construction of a battery for this purpose on some high land on the opposite side of the Great Port. In this he was overruled by the Turkish commander. It was not till some time later that the line of investment, at the corsair’s suggestion, was continued to the water’s edge,—and the fate of the fortress was decided.

St. Elmo fell. But precious time had been lost,—an irreparable loss, as it proved, to the besiegers; while the place had maintained so long and gallant a resistance as greatly to encourage the Christians, and in some degree to diminish the confidence of the Moslems. “What will not the parent cost”, exclaimed Mustapha,—alluding to St. Angelo,—“when the child has cost us so dear!”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

SIEGE OF MALTA.

1565.

The strength of the order was now concentrated on the two narrow slips of land which run out from the eastern side of the Great Port. Although some account of these places has been given to the reader, it will not be amiss to refresh his recollection of what is henceforth to be the scene of operations.

The northern peninsula, occupied by the town of Il Borgo, and at the extreme point by the castle of St. Angelo, was defended by works stronger and in better condition than the fortifications of St. Elmo. The care of them was divided among the different languages, each of which gave its own name to the bastion it defended. Thus the Spanish knights were entrusted with the bastion of Castile, on the eastern corner of the peninsula,—destined to make an important figure in the ensuing siege.

The parallel slip of land was crowned by the fort of St. Michael,—a work of narrower dimensions than the castle of St. Angelo,—at the base of which might be seen a small gathering of houses, hardly deserving the name of a town. This peninsula was surrounded by fortifications scarcely yet completed, on which the grand-master, La Sangle, who gave his name to the place, had generously expended his private fortune. The works were terminated, on the extreme point, by a low bastion, or rather demi-bastion, called the Spur.

The precious interval gained by the long detention of the Turks before St. Elmo had been diligently employed by La Valette in putting the defenses of both La Sangle and Il Borgo in the best condition possible under the circumstances. In this good work all united,—men, women, and children. All were animated by the same patriotic feeling, and by a common hatred of the infidel. La Valette ordered the heavy guns to be taken from the galleys which were lying at anchor, and placed on the walls of the fortresses. He directed that such provisions as were in the hands of individuals should be delivered up for a fair compensation, and transferred to the public magazines. Five companies of soldiers, stationed in the Notable City, in the interior of the island, he now ordered to Il Borgo, where their services would be more needed. Finally, as there were no accommodations for prisoners, who, indeed, could not be maintained without encroaching on the supplies necessary for the garrison, La Valette commanded that no prisoners should be made, but that all who fell into the hands of the victors should be put to the sword. It was to be on both sides a war of extermination.

At this juncture, La Valette had the satisfaction of receiving a reinforcement from Sicily, which, though not large, was of great importance in the present state of affairs. The viceroy had, at length, so far yielded to the importunities of the Knights of St. John who were then at his court, impatiently waiting for the means of joining their brethren, as to fit out a squadron of four galleys,—two of his own, and two belonging to the order. They had forty knights on board, and seven hundred soldiers, excellent troops, drawn chiefly from the Spanish garrisons in Italy. The vessels were placed under command of Don Juan de Cardona, who was instructed to return without attempting to land, should he find St. Elmo in the hands of the enemy. Cardona, who seems to have had a good share of the timid, vacillating policy of his superior, fearful of the Ottoman fleet, stood off and on for some days, without approaching the island. During this time St. Elmo was taken. Cardona, ignorant of the fact, steered towards the south, and finally anchored off Pietra Negra, on the opposite side of the island. Here one of the knights was permitted to go on shore to collect information. He there learned the fate of St. Elmo; but, as he carefully concealed the tidings, the rest of the forces were speedily landed, and Cardona, with his galleys, was soon on the way to Sicily.

The detachment was under the command of the Chevalier de Robles, a brave soldier, and one of the most illustrious men of the order. Under cover of night, he passed within gunshot of the Turkish lines without being discovered, and was so fortunate as to bring his men in safety to the side of the English harbor opposite to Il Borgo, which it washes on the north. There he found boats awaiting his arrival. They had been provided by the grand-master, who was advised of his movements. A thick fog lay upon the waters; and under its friendly mantle Robles and his troops crossed over in safety to the town, where they were welcomed by the knights, who joyfully greeted the brave companions that had come to share with them the perils of the siege.

While this was going on, Mustapha, the Turkish commander, had been revolving in his mind, whether it were not possible to gain his ends by negotiation instead of war, and thus be spared the waste of life which the capture of St. Elmo had cost him. He flattered himself that La Valette, taking warning by the fate of that fortress, might be brought to capitulate on fair and honorable terms. He accordingly sent a messenger with a summons to the grand-master to deliver up the island, on the assurance of a free passage for himself and his followers, with all their effects, to Sicily.

The envoy chosen was a Greek slave,—an old man, who had lived from boyhood in captivity. Under protection of a flag of truce, the slave gained admission into St. Angelo, and was conducted blindfold to the presence of the grand-master. He there delivered his message. La Valette calmly listened, but without deigning to reply; and when the speaker had ended, the stern chief ordered him to be taken from his presence, and instantly hanged. The wretched man threw himself at the feet of the grand-master, beseeching him to spare his life, and protesting that he was but a poor slave, and had come, against his will, in obedience to the commands of the Turkish general. La Valette, who had probably no intention from the first to have his order carried into execution, affected to relent, declaring, however, that, should any other messenger venture hereafter to insult him with the like proposals, he should not escape so easily. The terrified old man was then dismissed. As he left the presence, he was led through long files of the soldiery drawn up in imposing array, and was shown the strong works of the castle of St. Angelo. “Look”, said one of the officers, pointing to the deep ditch which surrounded the fortress, “there is all the room we can afford your master; but it is deep enough to bury him and his followers!”. The slave, though a Christian, could not be persuaded to remain and take his chance with the besieged. They must be beaten in the end, he said, and, when retaken by the Turks, his case would be worse than ever.

There was now no alternative for Mustapha but to fight; and he had not lost a moment since the fall of St. Elmo in pushing forward his preparations. Trenches had been opened on the heights at the foot of Mount Coradin, at the southern extremity of the Great Port, and continued on a line that stretched to Mount St. Salvador. Where the soil was too hard to be readily turned up, the defenses were continued by a wall of stone. Along the heights, on different points of the line, batteries were established, and mounted with guns of the heaviest caliber. Batteries were also raised on the high ground which, under the name of Mount Sceberras, divides Port Musiette from the Great Port, terminating in the point of land crowned by St. Elmo. A few cannon were even planted by the Turks on the ruins of this castle.

Thus the Christian fortresses were menaced on every point; and while the lines of the besiegers cut off all communication on the land side, a detachment of the fleet, blocking up the entrance to the Great Port, effectually cut off intercourse by sea. The investment by land and by sea was complete.

Early in July the wide circle of batteries, mounting between sixty and seventy pieces of artillery, opened their converging fire on the fortresses, the towns, and the shipping, which lay at anchor in the Port of Galleys. The cannonade was returned with spirit by the guns of St. Angelo and St. Michael, well served by men acquainted with their duty. So soon as the breaches were practicable, Mustapha proposed to begin by storming St. Michael, the weaker of the two fortresses; and he determined to make the assault by sea as well as by land. It would not be possible, however, to bring round his vessels lying in Port Musiette into the Great Port, without exposing them to the guns of St. Angelo. He resorted, therefore, to an expedient startling enough, but not new in the annals of warfare. He caused a large number of boats to be dragged across the high land which divides the two harbors. This toilsome work was performed by his Christian slaves; and the garrison beheld with astonishment the Turkish flotilla descending the rugged slopes of the opposite eminence, and finally launched on the waters of the inland basin. No less than eighty boats, some of them of the largest size, were thus transported across the heights.

Having completed this great work, Mustapha made his preparations for the assault. At this time, he was joined by a considerable reinforcement under Hassem, the Algerine corsair, who commanded at the memorable sieges of Oran and Mazarquivir. Struck with the small size of the castle of St. Elmo, Hassem intimated his surprise that it should have held out so long against the Turkish arms; and he besought Mustapha to entrust him with the conduct of the assault that was to be made on Fort St. Michael. The Turkish general, not unwilling that the presumptuous young chief should himself prove the temper of the Maltese swords, readily gave him the command, and the day was fixed for the attack.

Fortunately, at this time, a deserter, a man of some consequence in the Turkish army, crossed over to Il Borgo, and acquainted the grand-master with the designs of the enemy. La Sangle was defended on the north, as already noticed, by a strong iron chain, which, stretching across the Port of Galleys at its mouth, would prevent the approach of boats in that direction. La Valette now caused a row of palisades to be sunk in the mud, at the bottom of the harbor, in a line extending from the extreme point of La Sangle to the foot of Mount Coradin. These were bound together by heavy chains, so well secured as to oppose an effectual barrier to the passage of the Turkish flotilla. The length of this barricade was not great. But it was a work of much difficulty,—not the less so that it was necessary to perform it in the night, in order to secure the workmen from the enemy's guns. In little more than a week, it was accomplished. Mustapha sent a small body of men, excellent swimmers, armed with axes, to force an opening in the barrier. They had done some mischief to the work, when a party of Maltese, swimming out, with their swords between their teeth, fell on the Turks, beat them off, and succeeded in restoring the palisades.

Early in the morning, on the fifteenth of July, two cannon in the Ottoman lines, from opposite sides of the Great Port, gave the signal for the assault. Hassem prepared to lead it, in person, on the land side. The attack by water he entrusted to an Algerine corsair, his lieutenant. Before the report of the cannon had died away, a great number of boats were seen by the garrison of St. Michael putting off from the shore. They were filled with troops, and among these, to judge from their dress, were many persons of condition. The account is given by the old soldier so often quoted, who, stationed on the bastion of the Spur, had a full view of the enemy. It was a gay spectacle, these Moslem chiefs, in their rich Oriental costumes, with their gaudy-colored turbans, and their loose, flowing mantles of crimson, or of cloth of gold and silver; the beams of the rising sun glancing on their polished weapons,—their bows of delicate workmanship, their scymitars from the forges of Alexandria and Damascus, their muskets of Fez. “It was a beautiful sight to see”, adds the chronicler with some naïveté, “if one could have looked on it without danger to himself”.

In advance of the squadron came two or three boats, bearing persons whose venerable aspect and dark-colored robes proclaimed them to be the religious men of the Moslems. They seemed to be reciting from a volume before them, and muttering what might be prayers to Allah,—possibly invoking his vengeance on the infidel. But these soon dropped astern, leaving the way open for the rest of the flotilla, which steered for the palisades, with the intention evidently of forcing a passage. But the barrier proved too strong for their efforts; and, chafed by the musketry which now opened on them from the bastion, the Algerine commander threw himself into the water, which was somewhat above his girdle, and, followed by his men, advanced boldly towards the shore.

Two mortars were mounted on the rampart. But, through some mismanagement, they were not worked; and the assailants were allowed to reach the foot of the bastion, which they prepared to carry by escalade. Applying their ladders, they speedily began to mount; when they were assailed by showers of stones, hand-grenades, and combustibles of various kinds; while huge fragments of rock were rolled over the parapet, crushing men and ladders, and scattering them in ruin below. The ramparts were covered with knights and soldiers, among whom the stately form of Antonio de Zanoguerra, the commander of the post, was conspicuous, towering above his comrades, and cheering them on to the fight. Meantime the assailants, mustering like a swarm of hornets to the attack, were soon seen replacing the broken ladders, and again clambering up the walls. The leading files were pushed upward by those below; yet scarcely had the bold adventurers risen above the parapet, when they were pierced by the pikes of the soldiers, or struck down by the swords and battle-axes of the knights. At this crisis, a spark unfortunately falling into the magazine of combustibles, it took fire, and blew up with a terrific explosion, killing or maiming numbers of the garrison, and rolling volumes of blinding smoke along the bastion. The besiegers profited by the confusion to gain a footing on the ramparts; and when the clouds of vapor began to dissipate, the garrison were astonished to find their enemies at their side, and a number of small banners, such as the Turks usually bore into the fight, planted on the walls. The contest now raged fiercer than ever, as the parties fought on more equal terms;—the Mussulmans smarting under their wounds, and the Christians fired with the recollection of St. Elmo, and the desire of avenging their slaughtered brethren. The struggle continued long after the sun, rising high in the heavens, poured down a flood of heat on the combatants; and the garrison, pressed by superior numbers, weary and faint with wounds, were hardly able to keep their footing on the slippery ground, saturated with their own blood and that of their enemies. Still the cheering battle-cry of St. John rose in the air; and their brave leader, Zanoguerra, at the head of his knights, was to be seen in the thickest of the fight. There too was Brother Robert, an ecclesiastic of the order, with a sword in one hand and a crucifix in the other, though wounded himself, rushing among the ranks, and exhorting the men “to fight for the faith of Jesus Christ, and to die in its defense”.

At this crisis the commander, Zanoguerra, though clad in armor of proof, was hit by a random musket-shot, which stretched him lifeless on the rampart. At his fall the besiegers set up a shout of triumph, and redoubled their efforts. It would now have gone hard with the garrison, had it not been for a timely reinforcement which arrived from Il Borgo. It was sent by La Valette, who had learned the perilous state of the bastion. He had, not long before this, caused a floating bridge to be laid across the Port of Galleys,—thus connecting the two peninsulas with each other, and affording a much readier means of communication than before existed.

While this was going on, a powerful reinforcement was on its way to the support of the assailants. Ten boats of the largest size, having a thousand janizaries on board, were seen advancing across the Great Harbor from the opposite shore. Taking warning by the fate of their countrymen, they avoided the palisades, and, pursuing a more northerly course, stood for the extreme point of the Spur. By so doing, they exposed themselves to the fire of a battery in St. Angelo, sunk down almost to the water's level. It was this depressed condition of the work that secured it from the notice of the Turks. The battery, mounted with five guns, was commanded, by the Chevalier de Guiral, who coolly waited until the enemy had come within range of his shot, when he gave the word to fire. The pieces were loaded with heavy balls, and with bags filled with chain and bits of iron. The effect of the discharge was terrible. Nine of the barges were shattered to pieces, and immediately sunk. The water was covered with the splinters of the vessels, with mutilated trunks, dissevered limbs, fragments of clothes, and quantities of provisions; for the enemy came prepared to take up their quarters permanently in the fortress. Amidst the dismal wreck a few wretches were to be seen, struggling with the waves, and calling on their comrades for help. But those in the surviving boat, when they had recovered from the shock of the explosion, had no mind to remain longer in so perilous a position, but made the best of their way back to the shore, leaving their companions to their fate. Day after day the waves threw upon the strand the corpses of the drowned men; and the Maltese divers long continued to drag up from the bottom rich articles of wearing apparel, ornaments, and even purses of money, which had been upon the persons of the janizaries. Eight hundred are said to have perished by this disaster, which may, not improbably, have decided the fate of the fortress; for the strength of the reinforcement would have been more than a match for that sent by La Valette to the support of the garrison.

Meanwhile the succors detached by the grand-master had no sooner entered the bastion, than, seeing their brethren so hard beset, and the Moslem flags planted along the parapet, they cried their war-cry, and fell furiously on the enemy. In this they were well supported by the garrison, who gathered strength at the sight of the reinforcement. The Turks, now pressed on all sides, gave way. Some succeeded in making their escape by the ladders, as they had entered. Others were hurled down on the rocks below. Most, turning on their assailants, fell fighting on the rampart which they had so nearly won. Those who escaped hurried to the shore, hoping to gain the boats, which lay off at some distance; when a detachment, sallying from the bastion, intercepted their flight. Thus at bay, they had no alternative but to fight. But their spirit was gone; and they were easily hewed down by their pursuers. Some, throwing themselves on their knees, piteously begged for mercy. “Such mercy”, shouted the victors, “as you showed at St. Elmo!” and buried their daggers in their bodies.

While this bloody work was going on below, the knights and soldiers, gathered on the exposed points of the bastion above, presented an obvious mark to the Turkish guns across the water, which had not been worked during the assault, for fear of injuring the assailants. Now that the Turks had vanished from the ramparts, some heavy shot were thrown among the Christians, with fatal effect. Among others who were slain was Frederic de Toledo, a son of the viceroy of Sicily. He was a young knight of great promise, and was under the especial care of the grand-master, who kept him constantly near his person. But when the generous youth learned the extremity to which his brethren in La Sangle were reduced, he secretly joined the reinforcement which was going to their relief, and did his duty like a good knight in the combat which followed. While on the rampart, he was struck down by a cannon-shot; and a splinter from his cuirass mortally wounded a comrade to whom he was speaking at the time.

While the fight was thus going on at the Spur, Hassem was storming the breach of Fort St. Michael, on the opposite quarter. The storming-party, consisting of both Moors and Turks, rushed to the assault with their usual intrepidity. But they found a very different enemy from the spectral forms which, wasted by toil and suffering, had opposed so ineffectual a resistance in the last days of St. Elmo. In vain did the rushing tide of assailants endeavor to force an opening through the stern array of warriors, which, like a wall of iron, now filled up the breach. Recoiling in confusion, the leading files fell back upon the rear, and all was disorder. But Hassem soon re-formed his ranks, and again led them to the charge. Again they were repulsed with loss; but as fresh troops came to their aid, the little garrison must have been borne down by numbers, had not their comrades, flushed with their recent victory at the bastion, hurried to their support, and, sweeping like a whirlwind through the breach, driven the enemy with dreadful carnage along the slope, and compelled him to take refuge in his trenches.

Thus ended the first assault of the besiegers since the fall of St. Elmo. The success of the Christians was complete. Between three and four thousand Mussulmans, including those who were drowned,—according to the Maltese statements,—fell in the two attacks on the fortress and the bastion. But the arithmetic of an enemy is not apt to be exact. The loss of the Christians did not exceed two hundred. Even this was a heavy loss to the besieged, and included some of their best knights, to say nothing of others disabled by their wounds. Still it was a signal victory; and its influence was felt in raising the spirits of the besieged, and in inspiring them with confidence. La Valette was careful to cherish these feelings. The knights, followed by the whole population of Il Borgo, went in solemn procession to the great church of St. Lawrence, where Te Deum was chanted, while the colors taken from the infidel were suspended from the walls as glorious trophies of the victory.

Mustapha now found that the spirit of the besieged, far from being broken by their late reverses, was higher than ever, as their resources were greater, and their fortifications stronger, than those of St. Elmo. He saw the necessity of proceeding with greater caution. He resolved to level the defenses of the Christians with the ground, and then, combining the whole strength of his forces, make simultaneous assaults on Il Borgo and St. Michael. His first step was to continue his line of intrenchments below St. Salvador to the water's edge, and thus cut off the enemy's communication with the opposite side of the English Port, by means of which the late reinforcement from Sicily had reached him. He further strengthened the battery on St. Salvador, arming it with sixteen guns,—two of them of such enormous caliber, as to throw stone bullets of three hundred pounds' weight.

From this ponderous battery he now opened a crushing fire on the neighboring bastion of Castile, and on the quarter of Il Borgo lying nearest to it. The storm of marble and metal that fell upon the houses, though these were built of stone, soon laid many of than in ruins; and the shot, sweeping the streets, killed numbers of the inhabitants, including women and children. La Valette caused barriers of solid masonry to be raised across the streets for the protection of the citizens. As this was a work of great danger, he put his slaves upon it, trusting, too, that the enemy might be induced to mitigate his fire from tenderness for the lives of his Moslem brethren. But in such an expectation he greatly erred. More than five hundred slaves fell under the incessant volleys of the besiegers; and it was only by the most severe, indeed cruel treatment, that these unfortunate beings could be made to resume their labors.

La Valette, at this time, in order to protect the town against assault on the side of the English Port, caused a number of vessels laden with heavy stones to be sunk not far from shore. They were further secured by anchors bound to one another with chains, forming altogether an impenetrable barrier against any approach by water.

The inhabitants of Il Borgo, as well as the soldiers, were now active in preparations for defense. Some untwisted large ropes and cables to get materials for making bags to serve as gabions. Some were busy with manufacturing different sorts of fireworks, much relied on as a means of defense by the besieged. Others were employed in breaking up the large stones from the ruined buildings into smaller ones, which proved efficient missiles when hurled on the heads of the assailants below. But the greatest and most incessant labor was that of repairing the breaches, or of constructing retrenchments to defend them. The sound of the hammer and the saw was everywhere to be heard. The fires of the forges were never suffered to go out. The hum of labor was as unintermitting throughout the city as in the season of peace;—but with a very different end.

Over all these labors the grand-master exercised a careful superintendence. He was always on the spot where his presence was needed. His eye seemed never to slumber. He performed many of the duties of a soldier, as well as of a commander. He made the rounds constantly in the night, to see that all was well, and that the sentinels were at their posts. On these occasions he freely exposed himself to danger, showing a carelessness of his own safety that called forth more than once the remonstrances of his brethren. He was indeed watchful over all, says the old chronicler who witnessed it; showing no sign of apprehension in his valiant countenance, but by his noble presence giving heart and animation to his followers.

Yet the stoutest heart which witnessed the scene might well have thrilled with apprehension. Far as the eye could reach, the lines of the Moslem army stretched over hill and valley; while a deafening roar of artillery from fourteen batteries shook the solid earth, and, borne across the waters for more than a hundred miles, sounded to the inhabitants of Syracuse and Catania live the mutterings of distant thunder. In the midst of this turmoil, and encompassed by the glittering lines of the besiegers, the two Christian fortresses might be dimly discerned amidst volumes of fire and smoke, which, rolling darkly round their summits, almost hid from view the banner of St. John, proudly waving in the breeze, as in defiance of the enemy.

But the situation of the garrison, as the works crumbled under the stroke of the bullet, became every day more critical. La Valette contrived to send information of it to the viceroy of Sicily, urging him to delay his coming no longer, if he would save the island. But, strange to say, such was the timid policy that had crept into the viceroy’s councils, that it was seriously discussed whether it was expedient to send aid at all to the Knights of Malta! Some insisted that there was no obligation on Spain to take any part in the quarrel, and that the knights should be left to fight out the battle with the Turks in Malta, as they had before done in Rhodes. Others remonstrated against this, declaring it would be an eternal blot on the scutcheon of Castile, if she should desert in their need the brave chivalry who for so many years had been fighting the battles of Christendom. The king of Spain, in particular, as the feudatory sovereign of the order, was bound to protect the island from the Turks, who, moreover, once in possession of it, would prove the most terrible scourge that ever fell on the commerce of the Mediterranean. The more generous, happily the more politic, counsel prevailed; and the viceroy contrived to convey an assurance to the grand-master, that, if he could hold out till the end of the following month, he would come with sixteen thousand men to his relief.

But this was a long period for men in extremity to wait. La Valette saw with grief how much deceived he had been in thus leaning on the viceroy. He determined to disappoint his brethren no longer by holding out delusive promises of succor. “The only succor to be relied on”, he said, “was that of Almighty God. He who has hitherto preserved his children from danger will not now abandon them”. La Valette reminded his followers, that they were the soldiers of Heaven, fighting for the Faith, for liberty and life. “Should the enemy prevail”, he added, with a politic suggestion, “the Christians could expect no better fate than that of their comrades in St. Elmo”. The grand-master's admonition was not lost upon the soldiers. “Every man of us”, says Balbi, “resolved to die rather than surrender, and to sell his life as dearly as possible. From that hour no man talked of succors”.

One of those spiritual weapons from the papal armory, which have sometimes proved of singular efficacy in times of need, came now most seasonably to the aid of La Valette. A bull of Pius the Fourth granted plenary indulgence for all sins which had been committed by those engaged in this holy war against the Moslems. “There were few”, says the chronicler, “either women or men, old enough to appreciate it, who did not strive to merit this grace by most earnest devotion to the cause, and who did not have entire faith that all who died in the good work would be at once received into glory”.

More than two weeks had elapsed since the attempt, so disastrous to the Turks, on the fortress of St. Michael. During this time they had kept up an unintermitting fire on the Christian fortifications; and the effect was visible in more than one fearful gap, which invited the assault of the enemy. The second of August was accordingly fixed on as the day for a general attack, to be made on both Port St. Michael, and on the bastion of Castile, which, situated at the head of the English Port, eastward of Il Borgo, flanked the line of defense on that quarter. Mustapha was to conduct in person the operations against the fort; the assault on the bastion he entrusted to Piali;—a division of the command by which the ambition of the rival chiefs would be roused to the utmost.

Fortunately, La Valette obtained notice, through some deserters, of the plans of the Turkish commanders, and made his preparations accordingly. On the morning of the second, Piali’s men, at the appointed signal, moved briskly forward to the assault. They soon crossed the ditch, but partially filled with the ruins of the rampart, scaled the ascent in face of a sharp fire of musketry, and stood at length, with ranks somewhat shattered, on the summit of the breach. But here they were opposed by retrenchments within, thrown up by the besieged, from behind which they now poured such heavy volleys among the assailants as staggered the front of the column, and compelled it to fall back some paces in the rear. Here it was encountered by those pushing forward from below; and some confusion ensued. This was increased by the vigor with which the garrison now plied their musketry from the ramparts, hurling down at the same time heavy logs, hand-grenades, and torrents of scalding pitch on the heads of the assailing column, which, blinded and staggering under the shock, reeled to and fro like a drunken man. To add to their distress, the feet of the soldiers were torn and entangled among the spikes which had been thickly set in the ruins of the breach by the besieged. Woe to him who fell! His writhing body was soon trampled under the press. In vain the Moslem chiefs endeavored to restore order. Their voices were lost in the wild uproar that raged around. At this crisis the knights, charging at the head of their followers, cleared the breach, and drove the enemy with loss into his trenches.

There the broken column soon re-formed, and, strengthened by fresh troops, was again brought to the attack. But this gave a respite to the garrison, which La Valette improved by causing refreshments to be served to the soldiers. By his provident care, skins containing wine and water, with rations of bread, were placed near the points of attack, to be distributed among the men. The garrison, thus strengthened, were enabled to meet the additional forces brought against them by the enemy; and the refreshments on the one side were made, in some sort, to counterbalance the reinforcements on the other. Vessels filled with salt and water were also at hand, to bathe the wounds of such as were injured by the fireworks. “Without these various precautions”, says the chronicler, “it would have been impossible for so few men as we were to keep our ground against such a host as now assailed us on every quarter”.

Again and again the discomfited Turks gathered strength for a new assault, and as often they were repulsed with the same loss as before; till Piali drew off his dispirited legions, and abandoned all further attempts for that day.

It fared no better on the other quarter, where the besiegers, under the eye of the commander-in-chief, were storming the fortress of St. Michael. On every point the stout-hearted chivalry of St. John were victorious. But victory was bought at a heavy price.

The Turks returned to the attack on the day following, and on each succeeding day. It was evidently their purpose to profit by their superior numbers to harass the besieged, and reduce them to a state of exhaustion. One of these assaults was near being attended with fatal consequences.

A mine which ran under the bastion of Castile was sprung, and brought down a wide extent of the rampart. The enemy, prepared for the event, mounting the smoking ruins, poured through the undefended breach,—or defended only by a handful of the garrison, who were taken unawares. The next minute, the great standard of the Ottomans was planted on the walls. The alarm was raised. In a few moments the enemy would have been in the heart of the town. An ecclesiastic of the order, Brother William by name, terrified at the sight, made all haste to the grand-master, then at his usual station in the public square. Rushing into his presence, the priest called on him to take refuge, while he could, in the castle of St. Angelo, as the enemy had broken into the town. But the dauntless chief, snatching up his pike, with no other protection than his helmet, and calling out to those around him, “Now is the time! let us die together!” hurried to the scene of action, where, rallying his followers, he fell furiously on the enemy. A sharp struggle ensued. More than one knight was struck down by La Valette’s side. He himself was wounded in the leg by the splinter of a hand-grenade. The alarm-bell of the city rang violently. The cry was raised that the grand-master was in danger. Knights, soldiers, and townsmen came rushing to the spot. Even the sick sprang from their beds, and made such haste as they could to the rescue. The Moslems, pressed on all sides, and shaken by the resolute charge, fell back slowly on the breach.

The cavaliers would now fain have persuaded the grand-master, who was still standing among a heap of the slain, to retire to some place of safety, and leave the issue of the battle to his companions. But, fixing his eye on the Ottoman standard, still floating above the walls, he mournfully shook his head, in token of his resolution to remain. The garrison, spurred on by shame and indignation, again charged the Moslems, with greater fury than before. The colors, wrenched from the ramparts, were torn to shreds in the struggle. The Christians prevailed; and the Turks, quailing before their invincible spirit, were compelled, after a long and bloody contest, to abandon the works they had so nearly won.

Still the grand-master, far from retiring, took up his quarters for the night in the neighborhood of the breach. He had no doubt that the enemy would return under cover of the darkness, and renew the assault before the garrison had time to throw up retrenchments. It was in vain his companions besought him to withdraw, to leave the fight to them, and not to risk a life so precious to the community. “And how can an old man like me”, he said, “end his life more gloriously, than when surrounded by his brethren and fighting the battles of the Cross?”

La Valette was right in his conjecture. No sooner had the darkness fallen, than the Turkish host, again under arms, came surging on across the ruins of the rampart towards the breach. But it was not under cover of the darkness; for the whole bay was illumined by the incessant flash of artillery, by the blaze of combustibles, and the fiery track of the missiles darting through the air. Thus the combat was carried on as by the light of day. The garrison, prepared for the attack, renewed the scenes of the morning, and again beat off the assailants, who, broken and dispirited, could not be roused, even by the blows of their officers, to return to the assault.

On the following morning, La Valette caused Te Deum to be sung in the church of St. Lawrence, and thanks to be offered at the throne of grace for their deliverance. And if the ceremonies were not conducted with the accustomed pomp of the order of St. John, they were at least accompanied, says the chronicler, who bore his part in them, by the sacrifice of contrite hearts,—as was shown by the tears of many a man, as well as woman, in the procession.

There was indeed almost as much cause for sorrow as for joy. However successful the Christians had been in maintaining their defence, and however severe the loss they had inflicted on the enemy, they had to mourn the loss of some of their most illustrious knights, while others lay disabled in their beds. Among the latter was De Monti, admiral of the order, now lying seriously ill of wounds received in the defence of St. Michael, of which he was commander. Among the deaths was one which came home to the bosom of La Valette. A young cavalier, his nephew, had engaged in a perilous enterprise with a comrade of his own age. The handsome person and gilded armor of the younger La Valette made him a fatal mark for the enemy; and he fell, together with his friend, in the ditch before the bastion, under a shower of Turkish bullets. An obstinate struggle succeeded between Christians and Turks for the bodies of the slain. The Christians were victorious; and La Valette had the melancholy satisfaction of rendering the last offices to the remains of his gallant kinsman. The brethren would have condoled with him on his loss. But his generous nature shrank from the indulgence of a selfish sorrow. “All are alike dear to me”, he said; “all of you I look on as my children. I mourn for Polastra” (the friend of the young La Valette) “as I do for my own nephew. And after all, it matters little. They have gone before us but for a short time”.

It was indeed no season for the indulgence of private sorrows, when those of a public nature pressed so heavily on the heart. Each day the condition of the besieged was becoming more critical. The tottering defenses both of Il Borgo and La Sangle were wasting away under the remorseless batteries of the besiegers. Great numbers, not merely of the knights and the soldiers, but of the inhabitants, had been slain. The women of the place had shown, throughout the whole siege, the same heroic spirit as the men. They not only discharged the usual feminine duties of tending and relieving the sick, but they were often present in the battle, supplying the garrison with refreshments, or carrying the ammunition, or removing the wounded to the hospital. Thus sharing in the danger of their husbands and fathers, they shared too in their fate. Many perished by the enemy’s fire; and the dead bodies of women lay mingled among those of the men, on the ramparts and in the streets. The hospitals were filled with the sick and wounded, though fortunately no epidemic had as yet broken out to swell the bills of mortality. Those of the garrison who were still in a condition to do their duty were worn by long vigils and excessive toil. To fight by day, to raise intrenchments or to repair the crumbling works by night, was the hard duty of the soldier. Brief was the respite allowed him for repose,—a repose to be broken at any moment by the sound of the alarm-bell, and to be obtained only amidst so wild an uproar, that it seemed, in the homely language of the veteran so often quoted, “as if the world were coming to an end”.

Happily, through the provident care of the grand-master, there was still a store of provisions in the magazines. But the ammunition was already getting low. Yet the resolution of the besieged did not fail them. Their resolution had doubtless been strengthened by the cruel conduct of the Turks at St. Elmo, which had shown that from such a foe there was no mercy to be expected. The conviction of this had armed the Christians with the courage of despair. On foreign succor they no longer relied. Their only reliance was where their chief had taught them to place it,—on the protection of Heaven; and La Valette, we are assured, went every day during the siege to the church of St. Lawrence, and there solemnly invoked that protection for the brave men who, alone and unaided, were thus fighting the battles of the Faith.

The forlorn condition of the defenses led, at length, the Council of Grand Crosses, after much deliberation, to recommend to La Valette to abandon Il Borgo, and to withdraw with the troops and the inhabitants into the castle of St. Angelo. The grand-master saw at once the disastrous consequences of such a step, and he rejected it without a moment's hesitation. To withdraw into the castle, he said, would be to give up all communication with St. Michael, and to abandon its brave garrison to their fate. The inhabitants of the town would fare no better. The cistern which supplied St. Angelo with water would be wholly inadequate to the demands of such a multitude; and they would soon be reduced to extremity. “No, my brethren”, he concluded; “here we must make our stand; and here we must die, if we cannot maintain ourselves against the infidel”.

He would not even consent to have the sacred relics, or the archives of the order, removed thither, as to a place of greater security. It would serve to discourage the soldiers, by leading them to suppose that he distrusted their power of maintaining the town against the enemy. On the contrary, he caused a bridge communicating with the castle to be broken down, after calling off the greater part of the garrison to assist in the defense of Il Borgo. By these measures, he proclaimed his unalterable determination to maintain the town to the last, and if need were, to die in its defense.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

SIEGE OF MALTA.

1565.

While the affairs of the besieged wore the gloomy aspect depicted in the last chapter, those of the besiegers were not much better. More than half their original force had perished. To the bloody roll of those who had fallen in the numerous assaults were now to be added the daily victims of pestilence. In consequence of the great heat, exposure, and bad food, a dysentery had broken out in the Moslem army, and was now sweeping off its hundreds in a day. Both ammunition and provisions were running low. Ships bringing supplies were constantly intercepted by the Sicilian cruisers. Many of the heavy guns were so much damaged by the fire of the besieged, as to require to be withdrawn and sent on board the fleet,—an operation performed with a silence that contrasted strongly with the noisy shouts with which the batteries had been raised. But these movements could not be conducted so silently as to escape the notice of the garrison, whose spirits were much revived by the reports daily brought in by deserters of the condition of the enemy.

Mustapha chafed not a little under the long-protracted resistance of the besieged. He looked with apprehension to the consequences of a failure in an expedition for which preparations had been made on so magnificent a scale by his master, and with so confident hopes of success. He did not fail to employ every expedient for effecting his object that the military science of that day—at least Turkish science could devise. He ordered movable wooden towers to be built, such as were used under the ancient system of besieging fortified places, from which, when brought near to the works, his musketeers might send their volleys into the town. But the besieged, sallying forth, set fire to his towers, and burnt them to the ground. He caused a huge engine to be made, of the capacity of a hogshead; filled with combustibles, and then swung, by means of machinery, on the rampart of the bastion. But the garrison succeeded in throwing it back on the heads of the inventors, where it exploded with terrible effect. Mustapha ran his mines under the Christian defenses, until the ground was perforated like a honeycomb, and the garrison seemed to be treading on the crust of a volcano. La Valette countermined in his turn. The Christians, breaking into the galleries of the Turks, engaged them boldly underground; and sometimes the mine, exploding, buried both Turk and Christian under a heap of ruins.

Baffled on every point, with their ranks hourly thinned by disease, the Moslem troops grew sullen and dispirited; and now that the bastion of Castile, with its dilapidated works, stood like some warrior stripped of his armor, his defenseless condition inviting attack, they were in no heart to make it. As their fire slackened, and their assaults became fewer and more feeble, the confidence of the Christians was renewed; until they even cherished the hope of beating off the enemy without the long-promised succors from Sicily. Fortunately for the honor of Spain, the chivalry of St. John were not driven to this perilous attempt.

Yielding, at length, to the solicitations of the knights and the enthusiasm of the army, the viceroy, Don Garcia de Toledo, assembled his fleet in the port of Syracuse, and on the 25th of August weighed anchor. The fleet consisted of twenty-eight galleys, and carried eleven thousand troops, chiefly Spanish veterans, besides two hundred knights of the order, who had arrived from other lands, in time to witness the closing scene of the drama. There was also a good number of adventurers from Spain, France, and Italy, many of them persons of rank, and some of high military renown, who had come to offer their services to the knights of Malta, and share in their glorious defense.

Unfortunately, in its short passage, the fleet encountered a violent gale, which did so much damage, that the viceroy was compelled to return to Sicily, and repair his galleys. He then put to sea again, with better fortune. He succeeded in avoiding the notice of the enemy, part of whose armament lay off the mouth of the Great Port, to prevent the arrival of succors to the besieged,—and on the 6th of September, under cover of the evening, entered the Bay of Melecca, on the western side of the island.

The next morning, having landed his forces, with their baggage and military stores, the viceroy sailed again for Sicily, to bring over an additional reinforcement of four thousand troops, then waiting in Messina. He passed near enough to the beleaguered fortresses to be descried by the garrisons, whom he saluted with three salvos of artillery, that sent joy into their hearts. It had a very different effect on the besiegers. They listened with nervous credulity to the exaggerated reports that soon reached them, of the strength of the reinforcement landed in the island, by which they expected to be speedily assaulted in their trenches. Without delay, Mustapha made preparations for his departure. His heavy guns and camp equipage were got on board the galleys and smaller vessels, lying off the entrance of the Great Port,—and all as silently and expeditiously as possible. La Valette had hoped that some part of the Spanish reinforcement would be detached during the night to the aid of the garrison, when he proposed to sally on the enemy, and, if nothing better came of it, to get possession of their cannon, so much needed for his own fortifications. But no such aid arrived; and, through the long night, he impatiently listened to the creaking of the wheels that bore off the artillery to the ships.

With the first light of morning the whole Ottoman force was embarked on board the vessels, which, weighing anchor, moved round to Port Musiette, on the other side of St. Elmo, where the Turkish fleet, the greater part of which lay there, was now busily preparing for its departure. No sooner had the enemy withdrawn, than the besieged poured out into the deserted trenches. One or two of those huge pieces of ordnance, which, from their unwieldy size, it was found impossible to remove, had been abandoned by the Turks, and remained a memorable trophy of the siege. The Christians were not long in levelling the Moslem entrenchments; and very soon the flag of St. John was seen cheerily waving in the breeze, above the ruins of St. Elmo. The grand-master now called his brethren together to offer up their devotions in the same church of St. Lawrence where he had so often invoked the protection of Heaven during the siege. “Never did music sound sweeter to human ears”, exclaims Balbi, “than when those bells summoned us to mass, at the same hour at which, for three months past, they had sounded the alarm against the enemy”. A procession was formed of all the members of the order, the soldiers, and the citizens. The services were performed with greater solemnity, as well as pomp, than could be observed in the hurry and tumult of the siege; and, with overflowing hearts, the multitude joined in the Te Deum, and offered up thanks to the Almighty and the Blessed Virgin for their deliverance from their enemies. It was the eighth of September, the day of the Nativity of the Virgin,—a memorable day in the annals of Malta, and still observed by the inhabitants as their most glorious anniversary.

Hardly had the Turkish galleys, with Mustapha on board, joined the great body of the fleet in Port Musiette, than that commander received such intelligence as convinced him that the report of the Spanish numbers had been greatly exaggerated. He felt that he had acted precipitately, thus, without a blow, to abandon the field to an enemy his inferior in strength. His head may well have trembled on his shoulders, as he thought of returning thus dishonored to the presence of his indignant master. Piali, it is said, was not displeased at the mortification of his rival. The want of concert between them had, in more than one instance, interfered with the success of their operations. It was now, however, agreed that Mustapha should disembark, with such of the troops as were in fighting order, and give battle to the Spaniards. Piali, meanwhile, would quit the port, which lay exposed to St. Elmo,—now in his enemy's hands,—and anchor farther west, in the roads of St. Paul.

The troops from Sicily, during this time, had advanced into the interior, in the neighborhood of Citta Notable,—or, as it is now called, Citta Vecchia. They were commanded by Ascanio de la Coruña, an officer who had gained a name in the Italian wars. Alvaro de Sandé was second in command, the same captain who made so heroic a defense in the isle of Gelves against the Turks. The chivalrous daring of the latter officer was well controlled by the circumspection of the former.

La Valette, who kept a vigilant eye on the movements of the Turks, was careful to advise Don Ascanio that they had again disembarked, and were on their march against him. The Spanish general took up a strong position on an eminence, the approach, to which was rugged and difficult in the extreme. Thus secured, the prudent chief proposed to await the assault of the Moslems. But the Knights of St. John, who had accompanied the Sicilian succors, eager for vengeance on the hated enemies of their order, called loudly to be led against the infidel. In this they were joined by the fiery De Sandé and the greater part of the troops. When the Moslem banners, therefore, came in sight, and the dense columns of the enemy were seen advancing across the country, the impatience of the Christians was not to be restrained. The voices of the officers were unheeded. Don Ascanio saw it was not wise to balk this temper of the troops. They were hastily formed in order of battle, and then, like a mountain torrent, descended swiftly against the foe.

On their left was a hill, crowned by a small tower that commanded the plain. The Turks had succeeded in getting possession of this work. A detachment of Spaniards scaled the eminence, attacked the Turks, and, after a short struggle, carried the fort. Meanwhile the Maltese chivalry, with Sandé and the great body of the army, fell with fury on the front and flanks of the enemy. The Turkish soldiers, disgusted by the long and disastrous siege, had embarked with great alacrity; and they had not repressed their murmurs of discontent, when they were again made to land and renew the conflict. Sullen and disheartened, they were in no condition to receive the shock of the Spaniards. Many were borne down by it at once, their ranks were broken, and their whole body; was thrown into disarray. Some few endeavored to make head against their assailants. Most thought only of securing safety by-flight. The knights followed close on the fugitives. Now was the hour of vengeance. No quarter was given. Their swords were reddened with the blood of the infidel.

Mustapha, careless of his own life, made the most intrepid efforts to save his men. He was ever in the hottest of the action. Twice he was unhorsed, and had nearly fallen into the hands of his enemies. At length, rallying a body of musketeers, he threw himself into the rear, to cover the retreat of the army. Facing about, he sent such a well-directed volley among his pursuers, who were coming on in disorder, that they were compelled to halt. Don Alvaro's horse was slain under him. Several knights were wounded or brought to the ground. But as those in the rear came up, Mustapha was obliged to give way, and was soon swept along with the tide of battle in the direction of the port of St. Paul, where the fleet was at anchor. Boats were in readiness to receive the troops; and a line of shallops, filled with arquebusiers, was drawn up alongside of them, to cover the embarkation. But the Spaniards, hurried forward by the heat of the pursuit, waded up to their girdles into the sea, and maintained an incessant fire on the fugitives, many of whom fell under it, while others, vainly endeavoring to swim to the ships, perished in the waves; and their bodies, tossed upon the sands, continued for many a day to poison the atmosphere. —This was the last effort of Mustapha; and the Turkish admiral, gathering together the wreck of his forces, again weighed anchor, and spreading his sails to the breeze, steered his course for the Levant.

The principal officers of the Spanish array, together with the knights, then crossed over to Il Borgo. They met there with a cordial welcome; but the knights, as they embraced their comrades, were greatly shocked by their appearance,—their wan and care-worn countenances, their emaciated figures, their long and matted hair, and their squalid attire. Many were disfigured by honorable scars; some were miserably maimed; others wore bandages over wounds not yet healed. It was a piteous sight, too plainly intimating the extremity of suffering to which they had been reduced; and as the knights gazed on their brethren, and called to mind the friends they had lost, their hearts were filled with unspeakable anguish.

On the fourteenth of September, the viceroy reappeared with the fleet, bearing the remainder of the reinforcement from Sicily. The admiral’s pennant displayed a cross, intimating that it was a holy war in which they were engaged. As the squadron came proudly up the Great Port, with pennons and streamers gayly flying from its masts, it was welcomed by salvos of artillery from the fortresses and bastions around; and the rocky shores, which had so long reverberated only with the din of war, now echoed to the sounds of jubilee.

The grand-master came down to the landing-place below St. Angelo, to receive the viceroy, with the nobles and cavaliers who followed in his train. They had come too late to share the dangers of the besieged, but not too late to partake of their triumph. They were courteously conducted by La Valette, across the scene of desolation, to his own palace, which, though in an exposed quarter of the town, had so far escaped as to be still habitable. As the strangers gazed on the remains of the fortifications, nearly levelled to the ground, they marveled that the shadowy forms which they saw gliding among the ruins could have so long held out against the Moslem armies. Well had they earned for their city the title of Vittoriosa, “The Victorious”, which, supplanting that of Il Borgo, still commemorates its defense against the infidel.

La Valette had provided an entertainment for his illustrious guests, as good as his limited resources would allow; but it is said that the banquet was reinforced by a contribution from the viceroy's own stores. On the departure of the Spaniards, he showed his gratitude, while he indulged his munificent spirit, by bestowing handsome presents on the captains and a liberal largess of money on the soldiers.

On his way, the viceroy had discovered the Ottoman fleet formed in compact order, and standing under press of sail towards the east. He was too far inferior in strength to care to intercept its course; and the squadron reached in safety the port of Constantinople. Soliman had already received dispatches preparing him for the return of the fleet, and the failure of the expedition. It threw him into one of those paroxysms of ungovernable passion to which the old sultan seems to have been somewhat addicted in the latter years of his life. With impotent fury, he stamped on the letters, it is said, and, protesting that there were none of his officers whom he could trust, he swore to lead an expedition against Malta the coming year, and put every man in the island to the sword. He had the magnanimity, however, not to wreak his vengeance on the unfortunate commanders. The less to attract public notice, he caused the fleet bearing the shattered remains of the army to come into port in the night-time; thus affording a contrast sufficiently striking to the spectacle presented by the brilliant armament which a few months before had sailed from the Golden Horn amidst the joyous acclamations of the multitude.

The arms of Soliman the Second, during his long and glorious reign, met with no reverse so humiliating as his failure in the siege of Malta. To say nothing of the cost of the maritime preparations, the waste of life was prodigious, amounting to more than thirty thousand men, Moors included, and comprehending the very best troops in the empire. This was a loss of nearly three fourths of the original force of the besieging army,—an almost incredible amount, showing that pestilence had been as actively at work as the sword of the enemy.

Yet the loss in this siege fell most grievously on the Christians. Full two hundred knights, twenty-five hundred soldiers, and more than seven thousand inhabitants,—men, women, and children, are said to have perished. The defenses of the island were razed to the ground. The towns were in ruins; the villages burnt; the green harvests cut down before they had time to ripen. The fiery track of war was over every part of Malta. Well might the simple inhabitants rue the hour when the Knights of St. John first set foot upon their shores. The military stores were exhausted, the granaries empty; the treasury was at the lowest ebb. The members of the order had now to begin the work of constructing their fortunes over again. But still they enjoyed the glory of victory. They had the proud consciousness of having baffled, with their own good swords, the whole strength of the Ottoman empire. The same invincible spirit still glowed in their bosoms, and they looked forward with unshaken confidence to the future.

Such were the results of this memorable siege,—one of the most memorable sieges, considering the scale of the preparations, the amount of the forces, and the spirit of the defense, which are recorded on the pages of history. It would not be easy, even for a military man, after the lapse of three centuries, to criticize with any degree of confidence the course pursued by the combatants, so as to determine to what causes may be referred the failure of the besiegers. One obvious fault, and of the greatest moment, was that already noticed, of not immediately cutting off the communications with St. Elmo, by which supplies were constantly thrown into that fortress from the opposite side of the harbor. Another, similar in its nature, was, that, with so powerful a navy as the Turks had at their command, they should have allowed communications to be maintained by the besieged with Sicily, and reinforcements thus introduced into the island. We find Mustapha and Piali throwing the blame of this mutually on each other, especially in the case of Cardona, whose most seasonable succors might easily have been intercepted, either by land or sea, with proper vigilance on the part of the Turkish commanders. A serious impediment in the way of the besiegers was the impossibility of forcing a subsistence for the troops from a barren spot like Malta, and the extreme difficulty of obtaining supplies from other quarters, when so easily intercepted by the enemy's cruisers. Yet the Turkish galleys lying idle in the western port might have furnished a ready convoy, one might suppose, for transports bringing provisions from the Barbary coast. But we find no such thing attempted. To all these causes of failure must be added the epidemic, which, generated under the tropical heats of a Maltese summer, spread like a murrain through the camp of the besiegers, sweeping them off by thousands.

It operated well for the besieged, that the great advance made in the science of fortification was such, in the latter half of the sixteenth century, as in a great degree to counterbalance the advantages secured to the besiegers by the use of artillery,—especially such clumsy artillery, and so awkwardly served, as that of the Turks. But these advantages would have proved of little worth, had it not been for the character of the men who were to profit by them. It was the character of the defenders that constituted the real strength of the defense. This was the true bulwark that resisted every effort of the Ottoman arms, when all outward defenses were swept away. Every knight was animated by a sentiment of devotion to his order, and that hatred to the infidel in which he had been nursed from his cradle, and which had become a part of his existence. These sentiments he had happily succeeded in communicating to his followers, and even to the people of the island. Thus impelled by an unswerving principle of conduct, the whole body exhibited that unity and promptness of action which belongs to an individual. From the first hour of the siege to the last, all idea of listening to terms from the enemy was rejected. Every man was prepared to die rather than surrender. One exception only occurred,—that of a private soldier in La Sangle, who, denying the possibility of holding out against the Turks, insisted on the necessity of accepting the terms offered to the garrison. The example of his cowardice might have proved contagious; and the wretched man expiated his offence on the gallows.

Above all, the strength of the besieged lay in the character of their chief. La Valette was one of those rare men whom Providence seems to raise up for special occasions, so wonderfully are their peculiar qualities suited to the emergency. To that attachment to his order which he had in common with his brethren, he united a strong religious sentiment, sincere and self-sacrificing, which shone through every act of his life. This gave him an absolute ascendancy over his followers, which he had the capacity to turn to full account. He possessed many of the requisites for success in action; great experience, a quick eye, a cool judgment. To these was united a fixedness of purpose not to be shaken by menace or entreaty; and which was only to be redeemed from the imputation of obstinacy by the extraordinary character of the circumstances in which he was placed. The reader will recall a memorable example, when La Valette insisted on defending St. Elmo to the last, in defiance not only of the remonstrance, but the resistance, of its garrison. Another equally pertinent is his refusal, though in opposition to his council, to abandon the town and retire to St. Angelo. One can hardly doubt that on his decision, in both these cases, rested the fate of Malta.

La Valette was of a serious turn, and, as it would seem, with a tendency to sadness in his temperament. In the portraits that remain of him, his noble features are touched with a shade of melancholy, which, taken in connection with his history, greatly heightens the interest of their expression. His was not the buoyant temper, the flow of animal spirits, which carries a man over every obstacle in his way. Yet he could comfort the sick, and cheer the desponding; not by making light of danger, but by encouraging them like brave men fearlessly to face it. He did not delude his followers by the promises after he had himself found them to be delusive of foreign succor. He taught them, instead, to rely on the succor of the Almighty, who would never desert those who were fighting in his cause. He infused into them the spirit of martyrs, that brave spirit which, arming the soul with contempt of death, makes the weak man stronger than the strongest.

There is one mysterious circumstance in the history of this siege which has never been satisfactorily explained, the conduct of the viceroy of Sicily. Most writers account for it by supposing that he only acted in obedience to the secret instructions of his master, unwilling to hazard the safety of his fleet by interfering in behalf of the knights, unless such interference became absolutely necessary. But even on such a supposition the viceroy does not stand excused; for it was little less than a miracle that the knights were not exterminated before he came to their relief; and we can hardly suppose that an astute, far-sighted prince, like Philip, who had been so eager to make conquests from the Moslems in Africa, would have consented that the stronghold of the Mediterranean should pass into the hands of the Turks. It seems more probable that Don Garcia, aware of the greater strength of the Turkish armament, and oppressed by the responsibility of his situation as viceroy of Sicily, should have shrunk from the danger to which that island would be exposed by the destruction of his fleet. On any view of the case, it is difficult to explain a course so irreconcilable with the plan of operations concerted with the grand-master, and the promises of support given to him by Don Garcia at the beginning of the siege.

La Valette, we are told, subsequently complained of the viceroy’s conduct to Pius the Fifth; and that pontiff represented the affair to the king of Spain. Don Garcia had, soon after, the royal permission to retire from the government of Sicily. He withdrew to the kingdom of Naples, where he passed the remainder of his days, without public employment of any kind, and died in obscurity. —Such a fate may not be thought, after all, conclusive evidence that he had not acted in obedience to the private instructions of his sovereign.

The reader, who has followed La Valette through the siege of Malta, may perhaps feel some curiosity to learn the fate of this remarkable man. The discomfiture of the Turks caused a great sensation throughout Europe. In Rome the tidings were announced by the discharge of cannon, illuminations, and bonfires. The places of public business were closed. The shops were shut. The only places opened were the churches; and thither persons of every rank—the pope, the cardinals, and the people thronged in procession, and joined in public thanksgiving for the auspicious event. The rejoicing was great all along the shores of the Mediterranean, where the inhabitants had so severely suffered from the ravages of the Turks. The name of La Valette was on every tongue, as that of the true champion of the cross. Crowned heads vied with one another in the honors and compliments which they paid him. The king of Spain sent him a present of a sword and poniard, the handles of which were of gold superbly mounted with diamonds. The envoy, who delivered these in presence of the assembled knights, accompanied the gift with a pompous eulogy on La Valette himself, whom he pronounced the greatest captain of the age, beseeching him to continue to employ his sword in defense of Christendom. Pius the Fifth sent him—what, considering the grand-master's position, may be thought a singular compliment—a cardinal hat. La Valette, however, declined it, on the ground that his duties as a cardinal would interfere with those which devolved on him as head of the order. Some referred his refusal to modesty; others, with probably quite as much reason, to his unwillingness to compromise his present dignity by accepting a subordinate station.

But La Valette had no time to dally with idle compliments and honors. His little domain lay in ruins around him; and his chief thought now was how to restore its fortunes. The first year after the siege, the knights had good reason to fear a new invasion of the Moslems; and Philip quartered a garrison of near fifteen thousand troops in the island for its protection. But Soliman fortunately turned his arms against a nearer enemy, and died in the course of the same year, while carrying on the war against Hungary. Selim, his successor, found another direction for his ambition. Thus relieved of his enemies, the grand-master was enabled to devote all his energies to the great work of rebuilding his fallen capital, and placing the island in a more perfect state of defense than it had ever been. He determined on transferring the residence of the order to the high land of Mount Sceberras, which divides the two harbors, and which would give him the command of both. His quick eye readily discerned those advantages of the position, which time has since fully proved. Here he resolved to build his capital, to surround it with fortifications, and, at the same time, to enlarge and strengthen those of St. Elmo.

But his treasury was low. He prepared a plan of his improvements, which he sent to the different European princes, requesting their cooperation, and urging the importance to them all of maintaining Malta as the best bulwark against the infidel. His plan met with general approbation. Most of the sovereigns responded to his appeal by liberal contributions,—and among them the French king; notwithstanding his friendly relations with the sultan. To these funds the members of the order freely added whatever each could raise by his own credit. This amount was still further swelled by the proceeds of prizes brought into port by the Maltese cruisers,—an inexhaustible source of revenue.

Funds being thus provided, the work went forward apace. On the twenty-eighth of March, 1566, the grand-master, clad in his robes of ceremony, and in the presence of a vast concourse of knights and inhabitants, laid the first stone of the new capital. It was carved with his own arms; and a Latin inscription recorded the name of “Valetta”, which the city was to bear in honor of its founder. More than eight thousand men were employed on the work; and a bull of Pius the Fifth enjoined that their labors should not be suspended on fête-days. It seemed to be regarded as a Christian duty to provide for the restoration of Malta. La Valette superintended the operations in person. He was ever to be seen on the spot, among the workmen. There he took his meals, discussed affairs of state with his council, and even gave audience to envoys from abroad.

In the midst of these quiet occupations, there were some occurrences which distracted the attention, and greatly disturbed the tranquility, of La Valette. One of these was the disorderly conduct of some of the younger knights. Another was a dispute in which he was involved with the pope, who, in the usual encroaching spirit of the Vatican, had appropriated to himself the nomination to certain benefices belonging to the order.

These unpleasant affairs weighed heavily on the grand-master’s mind; and he often sought to relieve his spirits by the diversion of hawking, of which he was extremely fond. While engaged in this sport, on a hot day in July, he received a stroke of the sun. He was immediately taken to Il Borgo. A fever set in; and it soon became apparent that his frame, enfeebled by his unparalleled fatigues and hardships, was rapidly sinking under it. Before dying, he called around his bed some of the brethren to whom the management of affairs was chiefly committed, and gave them his counsel in respect to the best method of carrying out his plans. He especially enjoined on them to maintain a spirit of unity among themselves, if they would restore the order to its ancient prosperity and grandeur. By his testament, he liberated his slaves, some fifty in number; and he obtained the consent of his brethren to bequeath a sum sufficient to endow a chapel he had built in Valetta, to commemorate his victory over the infidels. It was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin; and in this chapel he desired that his body might be laid. Having completed these arrangements, he expired on the twenty-first of August, 1568.

La Valette’s dying commands were punctually executed by his brethren. The coffin inclosing his remains was placed on board of the admiral's galley, which, with four others that escorted it, was shrouded in black. They bore the household of the deceased, and the members of the order. The banners taken by him in battle with the Moslems were suspended from the sterns of the vessels, and trailed through the water. The procession, on landing, took its way through the streets of the embryo capital, where the sounds of labor were now hushed, to the chapel of Our Lady of Victory. The funeral obsequies were there performed with all solemnity; and the remains of the hero were consigned to the tomb, amidst the tears of the multitude, who had gathered from all parts of the island, to pay this sad tribute of respect to his memory.

The traveller who visits Malta at the present day finds no object more interesting than the stately cathedral of Valetta, still rich in historical memorials and in monuments of art, of which even French rapacity could not despoil it. As he descends into its crypts, and wanders through its subterranean recesses, he sees the niche where still repose the remains of La Valette, surrounded by the brave chivalry who fought, side by side with him, the battles of the Faith. And surely no more fitting place could be found for his repose, than the heart of the noble capital which may be said to have been created by his genius.

The Knights of St. John continued, in the main, faithful to the maxims of La Valette and to the principles of their institution. For more than two centuries after his death, their sword was ever raised against the infidel. Their galleys still returned to port freighted with the spoils of the barbarian. They steadily continued to advance in power and opulence; and while empires rose and crumbled around them, this little brotherhood of warlike monks, after a lapse of more than seven centuries from its foundation, still maintained a separate and independent existence.

In the long perspective of their annals, there was no event which they continued to hold in so much honor as the defense of Malta by La Valette. The eighth of September the day of the nativity of the Virgin continued to the last to be celebrated as their proudest anniversary. On that day the whole body of the knights, and the people of the capital, walked in solemn procession, with the grand-master at their head, to the church of St. John. A knight, wearing the helmet and mailed armor of the ancient time, bore on high the victorious standard of the order. A page by his side carried the superb sword and poniard presented by Philip the Second. As the procession passed into the church, and the standard was laid at the foot of the altar, it was announced by flourishes of trumpets and by peals of artillery from the fortresses. The services were performed by the prior of St. John’s; and, while the Gospel was read, the grand-master held the naked sword aloft, in token that the knights were ever ready to do battle for the Cross. When the ceremony was concluded, a fine portrait of La Valette was exhibited to the people; and the brethren gazed, with feelings of reverence, on his majestic lineaments, as on those of the savior of their order.

But all this is changed. The Christians, instead of being banded against the Turk, now rally in his defense. There are no longer crusades against the infidel. The age of chivalry has passed. The objects for which the Knights Hospitallers were instituted have long since ceased to exist; and it was fitting that the institution, no longer needed, should die with them. The knights who survived the ruin of their order became wanderers in foreign lands. Their island has passed into the hands of the stranger; and the flag of England now waves from the ramparts on which once floated the banner of St. John.

CHAPTER XXXV.

DON CARLOS.

1567-1568.

We must now, after a long absence, return to the shores of Spain, where events were taking place of the highest importance to the future fortunes of the monarchy. At the time when the tragic incidents described in the preceding Book were passing in the Netherlands, others, not less tragic, if we may trust to popular rumor, were occurring in the very palace of the monarch. I allude to the death of Don Carlos, prince of Asturias, and that of Isabella of Valois, Philip's young and beautiful queen. The relations in which the two parties stood to each other, their untimely fate, and the mystery in which it was enveloped, have conspired with the somber, unscrupulous character of Philip to suggest the most horrible suspicions of the cause of their death. The mystery which hung over them in their own time has not been dissipated by the researches of later chroniclers. For that very reason, it has proved an inexhaustible theme for fiction, until it might be thought to have passed from the domain of history into that of romance. It has been found especially suited to the purposes of the drama; and the dramatic literature of Europe contains more than one masterpiece from the hand of genius, which displays in somber coloring the loves and the misfortunes of Carlos and Isabella.

The time for discussing so dark and intricate a subject had not arrived while the Spanish archives were jealously locked up even from native scholars. But now that happily a more liberal system has prevailed, and access has been given to the dread repositories of the secrets of the Spanish sovereigns, the time seems to have come for investigating this mysterious story. And if I cannot boast that I have been able to dispel the doubts that have so long gathered around the subject, I may at least flatter myself that, with the materials at my command, I have the means of placing the reader in a better point of view than has yet been enjoyed, for surveying the whole ground, and forming his own conclusions.

Don Carlos was born on the eighth of July, 1545. His mother, Mary of Portugal, then only eighteen years of age, died a few days after giving birth to her ill-fated child. Thus deprived from the cradle of a mother's watchful care, he experienced almost as little of his father’s; for, until Carlos was fourteen years old, Philip was absent most of the time, either in the Low Countries or in England. The care of the child was entrusted, during the greater part of this period, to Philip's sister, the Regent Joanna,—an excellent woman, but who, induced probably by the feeble constitution of Carlos, is said to have shown too much indulgence to the boy, being more solicitous to secure his bodily health than to form his character. In our easy faith in the miracles claimed for education, it sometimes happens that we charge on the parent, or the preceptor, the defects that may be more reasonably referred to the vicious constitution of the child.

As Carlos grew older, Philip committed the care of his instruction to Honorato Juan, a member of the emperor's household. He was a well-trained scholar, and a man of piety as well as learning; and soon after assuming the task of the prince’s preceptor, he embraced the religious profession. The correspondence of Honorato Juan with Philip, then in Flanders, affords a view of the proficiency of Carlos when eleven or twelve years old. The contentment which the king evinces in the earlier letters diminishes as we advance; and anxious doubts are expressed, as he gathers the unwelcome information from his tutor of his pupil’s indifference to his studies.

In the year 1556, Charles the Fifth stopped some time at Valladolid, on his way to his cloistered retreat at Yuste. He there saw his grandson, and took careful note of the boy, the heir to the vast dominions which he had himself so recently relinquished. He told over his campaigns to Carlos, and how he had fled at Innsbruck, where he barely escaped falling into the hands of the enemy. Carlos, who listened eagerly, interrupted his grandfather, exclaiming, “I never would have fled!”. Charles endeavored to explain the necessity of the case; but the boy sturdily maintained, that he never would have fled,—amusing and indeed delighting the emperor, who saw in this the mettle of his own earlier days. Yet Charles was not blind to the defects of his grandson,—to the wayward, overbearing temper, which inferred too much indulgence on the part of his daughter the regent. He reprehended Carlos for his want of deference to his aunt; and he plainly told the latter, that, if she would administer more wholesome correction to the boy, the nation would have reason to thank her for it.

After the emperor had withdrawn to his retreat, his mind, which kept its hold, as we have seen, on all matters of public interest beyond the walls of the monastery, still reverted to his grandson, the heir of his name and of his scepter. At Simancas the correspondence is still preserved which he carried on with Don Garcia de Toledo, a brother of the duke of Alva, who held the post of ayo, or governor of the prince. In one of that functionary's letters, written in 1557, when Carlos was twelve years old, we have a brief chronicle of the distribution of the prince's time, somewhat curious, as showing the outlines of a royal education in that day.

Before seven in the morning Carlos rose, and by half-past eight had breakfasted, and attended mass. He then went to his studies, where he continued till the hour of dinner. What his studies were we are not told. One writer of the time says, among other things, he read Cicero’s Offices, in order the better to learn to control his passions. At eleven he dined. He then amused himself with his companions, by playing at quoits, or at trucos, a kind of billiards, or in fencing, and occasionally riding. At half-past three came a light repast, the merienda; after which he listened to reading, or, if the weather was fine, strolled in the fields. In the evening he supped; and at half-past nine, having gone through the prayers of his rosary, he went to bed, where, as his ayo says, he usually made but one nap of it till the morning. It was certainly a primitive way of life, in which more regard seems to have been had to the cravings of the body than of the mind, and as regular in its routine as the monastic life of his grandfather at Yuste. Yet Don Garcia does not fail to intimate his discontent with the want of interest shown by his pupil, not merely in his studies, but in fencing, cane-playing, and other manly exercises, so essential to the education of a cavalier of that day. He notices, at the same time, the first symptoms of those bilious attacks which already menaced the prince's constitution, and so effectually undermined it in later years.

In another epistle, Don Garcia suggests that it might be well for the emperor to allow Carlos to visit him at Yuste, trusting that his grandfather's authority would accomplish what his own had failed to do. But this suggestion found no favor, apparently, with the royal recluse, who probably was not disposed to do penance himself by receiving so troublesome an inmate in his family. The emperor's own death, which occurred shortly after this, spared him the misery of witnessing the disastrous career of his grandson.

The reports of the Venetian ministers—those precious documents that contain so much instruction in respect to matters both of public and domestic interest—make occasional allusions to the prince, at this period. Their notices are by no means flattering. They describe Carlos as of a reckless, impatient temper, fierce, and even cruel, in his disposition, and so arrogant as to be unwilling to stand with his head uncovered, for any long time, in the presence of the emperor or his father. Yet this harsh picture is somewhat redeemed by other traits; for he was generous, though to a degree of prodigality, giving away his trinkets and jewels, even his clothes, in default of money. He had a fearless heart, with a strong passion for a military life. He was far from frivolous in his tastes, despising buffoons, and saying himself so many good things that his tutor carefully made a collection of them. This portrait of a youth scarcely fourteen years old seems as highly overcharged, whether for good or for evil, as portraits of princes usually are.

Yet the state of the prince’s health may be fairly mentioned in extenuation of his defects,—at least of his infirmity of temper. For his bilious temperament already began to show itself in the form of intermittent fever, with which he continued to be afflicted for the remainder of his life. Under this depressing disorder, his spirits sank, his body wasted away, and his strength failed to such a degree, that it was feared he might not reach the age of manhood.

In the beginning of 1560, Isabella of France came to Castile, and on the second of February was united to Philip. By the preliminaries of the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis, her hand had been assigned to Don Carlos; but Mary Tudor having died before the ratification of the treaty, the name of the father was substituted for that of the son, and the royal maiden was affianced to Philip.

The marriage ceremony was performed with great splendor, at Toledo. Carlos was present; and, as he gazed on the beautiful bride, it is not improbable that some feelings of resentment may have mingled with regret, when he thought of the unceremonious manner in which her hand had been transferred from him to his father. But we should be slow to believe that Isabella could have felt anything like the tender sentiment that romantic historians have attributed to her, for a boy of fourteen, who had so few personal attractions to recommend him.

On the twenty-second of the same month, Carlos was formally recognized by the cortes of Castile as heir to the crown. On this occasion, the different members of the royal family were present, together with the great nobles and the representatives of the commons. The prince rode in the procession on a white horse, superbly caparisoned while his dress, resplendent with jewels, formed a sad contrast to the sallow and sickly countenance of its wearer. He performed his part of the ceremony with dignity and feeling. When Joanna, his aunt, and his uncle, Don John of Austria, after taking the oath, would have knelt, according to custom, to kiss his hand, he would not allow it, but affectionately raised and embraced them. But when the duke of Alva inadvertently omitted the latter act of obeisance, the prince received him so coldly, that the haughty nobleman, rebuked by his manner, perceived his error, and humbly acknowledged it.

In the autumn of the following year, with the hope of mending his health by change of air, Carlos removed to Alcalá de Henares, famous for its university founded by the great Ximenes. He had for his companions two youths, both destined to a conspicuous part in the history of the times. One was Philip’s illegitimate brother, Don John of Austria, the hero of Lepanto; the other was the prince's cousin, Alexander Farnese, son of Margaret of Parma, who was now in the course of training which was one day to make him the greatest captain of his time. The three boys were nearly of the same age; but in their accomplishments and personal appearance the uncle and the cousin afforded as strong a contrast to their royal kinsman, as in the brilliant fortunes that awaited them.

Carlos had not been at Alcalá many months, before he met with an accident, which was attended with most disastrous consequences. One evening in April, 1562, as he was descending a flight of stairs, he made a misstep, and fell headlong down five or six stairs against a door at the bottom of the passage. He was taken up senseless, and removed to his chamber, where his physicians were instantly summoned, and the necessary remedies applied. At first it seemed only a simple contusion on the head, and the applications of the doctors had the desired effect. But soon the symptoms became more alarming. Fever set in. He was attacked by erysipelas; his head swelled to an enormous size; he became totally blind; and this was followed by delirium. It now appeared that the skull was fractured. The royal physicians were called in; and after a stormy consultation, in which the doctors differed, as usual, as to the remedies to be applied, it was determined to trepan the patient. The operation was carefully performed; a part of the bone of the skull was removed; but relief was not obtained.

Meanwhile the greatest alarm spread through the country, at the prospect of losing the heir apparent. Processions were everywhere made to the churches, prayers were put up, pilgrimages were vowed, and the discipline was unsparingly administered by the fanatical multitude, who hoped by self-inflicted penance to avert the wrath of Heaven from the land. Yet all did not avail.

We have a report of the case from the pen of Dr. Olivares, the prince’s own physician. Some of the remedies were of a kind that would look strangely enough if reported by a medical journal of our own day. After all efforts of professional skill had failed, and the unguent of a Moorish doctor, famous among the people, had been rubbed on the body without success, it was resolved to make a direct appeal to Heaven. In the monastery of Jesus Maria lay the bones of a holy Franciscan, Fray Diego, who had died a hundred years before, in the reign of Henry the Fourth, in the odor of sanctity. King Philip and his court went in solemn procession to the church; and in their presence, the moldering remains of the good father, still sweet to the nostrils, as we are told, were taken from their iron coffin, and transported to the prince’s apartment. They were there laid on his bed; and the cloth that wrapped the skull of the dead man was placed on the forehead of Carlos. Fortunately the delirious state of the patient prevented the shock that might otherwise have been given to his senses. That very night the friar appeared to Carlos in his sleep. He was muffled in his Franciscan robe, with a green girdle about his waist, and a cross of reeds in his hand; and he mildly bade him “be of good cheer, for that he would certainly recover”. From this time, as the physician who reports the case admits, the patient began speedily to mend. The fever subsided, his head returned to its natural dimensions, his eyes were restored to sight. At the end of something less than two months from the date of the accident, Carlos, who had shown a marvelous docility throughout his illness, was enabled to walk into the adjoining apartment, and embrace his father, who, during the critical period of his son's illness, had established his residence at Alcalá, showing the solicitude natural to a parent in such an extremity.

The merit of the cure was of course referred to Fray Diego. An account of the miracle, duly authenticated, was transmitted to Rome; and the holy man, on the application of Philip, received the honors of canonization from the pontiff. The claims of the new saint to the credit of achieving the cure were confidently asserted by the Castilian chroniclers of that and succeeding ages; nor have I met with any one hardy enough to contest them, unless it be Dr. Olivares himself, who, naturally jealous of his professional honor, intimated his conviction,—this was before the canonization,—that with some allowance for the good wrought by Fray Diego's intercession and the prayers of the righteous, the recovery of the prince was mainly to be referred to the skill of his physicians.

But the recovery of Carlos does not seem to have been so complete as was at first thought. There is good reason to suppose that the blow on his head did some permanent injury to the brain. At least this may be inferred from the absurd eccentricities of his subsequent conduct, and the reckless manner in which he abandoned himself to the gratification of his passions. In 1565, on his recovery from one of those attacks of quartan-fever which still beset him, Philip remarked, with a sigh, to the French minister, St. Sulpice, “that he hoped his repeated warnings might restrain the prince, for the future, from making such fatal inroads on his health”. But the unfortunate young man profited as little by such warnings as by his own experience. Persons about the court at this period have left us many stories of his mad humors, which formed the current scandal at Madrid. Brantôme, who was there in 1564, says that Carlos would patrol the streets with a number of young nobles, of the same lawless habits with himself, assaulting the passengers with drawn swords, kissing the women, and insulting even ladies of the highest rank with the most opprobrious epithets.

It was the fashion for the young gallants of the court to wear very large boots. Carlos had his made even larger than usual, to accommodate a pair of small pistols. Philip, in order to prevent the mischievous practice, ordered his son's boots to be made of smaller dimensions. But when the bootmaker brought them to the palace, Carlos, in a rage, gave him a beating; and then, ordering the leather to be cut in pieces and stewed, he forced the unlucky mechanic to swallow this unsavory fricassee—as much as he could get down of it—on the spot.

On one occasion, he made a violent assault on his governor, Don Garcia de Toledo, for some slight cause of offence. On another, he would have thrown his chamberlain, Don Alonzo de Cordova, out of the window. These noblemen complained to Philip, and besought him to release them from a service where they were exposed to affronts which they could not resent. The king consented, transferring them to his own service, and appointed Ruy Gomez de Silva, prince of Eboli, his favorite minister, the governor of Carlos.

But the prince was no respecter of persons. Cardinal Espinosa, president of the Council of Castile, and afterwards grand-inquisitor, banished a player named Cisneros from the palace, where he was to have performed that night for the prince’s diversion. It was probably by Philip's orders. But however that may be, Carlos, meeting the cardinal, seized him roughly by the collar, and, laying his hand on his poniard, exclaimed, “You scurvy priest, do you dare to prevent Cisneros from playing before me? By the life of my father, I will kill you!” The trembling prelate, throwing himself on his knees, was too happy to escape with his life from the hands of the infuriated prince. Whether the latter had his way in the end, in regard to the comedian, is not stated. But the stuff of which a grand-inquisitor is made is not apt to be of the yielding sort.

A more whimsical anecdote is told us by Nobili, the Tuscan ambassador, then resident at the court. Carlos, having need of money, requested a merchant, named Grimaldo, to advance him the sum of fifteen hundred ducats. The money-lender readily consented, thanking the prince for the favor done him, and adding, in the usual grandiloquent vein of the Castilian, that “all he had was at his disposal”. Carlos took him at his word, and forthwith demanded a hundred thousand ducats. In vain poor Grimaldo, astounded by the request, protested that “it would ruin his credit; that what he had said was only words of compliment”. Carlos replied, “he had no right to bandy compliments with princes; and if he did not in four and twenty hours pay the money to the last real, he and his family would have cause to rue it”. It was not till after much negotiation that Ruy Gomez succeeded in prevailing on the prince to be content with the more modest sum of sixty thousand ducats, which was accordingly furnished by the unfortunate merchant. The money thus gained, according to Nobili, was squandered as suddenly as it was got.

There are happily some touches of light to relieve the shadows with which the portrait is charged. Tiepolo, who was ambassador from Venice at the court of Madrid in 1567, when Carlos was twenty-two years old, gives us some account of the prince. He admits his arrogant and fiery temper, but commends his love of truth, and, what we should hardly have expected, the earnestness with which he engaged in his devotions. He was exceedingly charitable, asking, “Who would give, if princes did not?”. He was splendid in his way of living, making the most liberal recompense, not only to his own servants, but to the king’s, who were greatly attached to him. He was ambitious of taking part in the conduct of public affairs, and was sorely discontented when excluded from them—as seems to have been usually the case—by his father.

It was certainly to the prince's credit, that he was able to inspire those who approached him most nearly with strong feelings of personal attachment. Among these were his aunt Joanna, the regent, and the queen, Isabella, who, regarding him with an interest justified by the connection, was desirous of seeing him married to her own sister. His aunt Mary and her husband, the Emperor Maximilian, also held Carlos, whom they had known in early days, in the kindest remembrance, and wished to secure his hand for their eldest daughter. A still more honorable testimony is borne by the relations in which he stood to his preceptor, Honorato Juan, who, at the prince's solicitation, had been raised to the bishopric of Osma. Carlos would willingly have kept this good man near his own person. But he was detained in his diocese; and the letters from time to time addressed to him by his former pupil, whatever may be thought of them as pieces of composition, do honor to the prince’s heart. “My best friend in this life”, he affectionately writes at the close of them, “I will do all that you desire”. Unfortunately, this good friend and counsellor died in 1566. By his will, he requested Carlos to select for himself any article among his effects that he preferred. He even gave him authority to change the terms of the instrument, and make any other disposition of his property that he thought right! It was a singular proof of confidence in the testator, unless we are to receive it merely as a Spanish compliment,—somewhat perilous, as the case of Grimaldo proves, with a person who interpreted compliments as literally as Carlos.

From all this, there would seem to have been the germs of generous qualities in the prince's nature, which, under a happier culture, might have been turned to some account. But he was placed in that lofty station which exposed him to the influence of parasites, who flattered his pride, and corrupted his heart, by ministering to his pleasures. From the eminence which he occupied, even the smallest errors and eccentricities became visible to the world, and the objects of unsparing criticism. Somewhat resembling his father in person, he was different from him both in his good qualities and his defects, so that a complete barrier was raised between them. Neither party could comprehend the other; and the father was thus destitute of the means which he might else have had of exerting an influence over the son. The prince’s dissipated way of life, his perpetual lapses from decorum, or, to speak more properly, his reckless defiance of decency, outraged his father, so punctilious in his own observance of the outward decencies of life. He may well have dwelt on such excesses of Carlos with pain; but it may be doubted if the prince's more honorable desire to mingle in public affairs was to the taste of Philip, who was too tenacious of power willingly to delegate it, beyond what was absolutely necessary, to his own ministers. The conduct of his son, unhappily, furnished him with a plausible ground for distrusting his capacity for business.

Thus distrusted, if not held in positive aversion, by his father; excluded from any share in the business of the state, as well as from a military life, which would seem to have been well suited to his disposition; surrounded by Philip’s ministers, whom Carlos, with too much reason, regarded as spies on his actions,—the unhappy young man gave himself up to a reckless course of life, equally ruinous to his constitution and to his character; until the people, who had hailed with delight the prospect of a native-born prince, now felt a reasonable apprehension as to his capacity for government.

But while thus an object of distrust at home, abroad more than one sovereign coveted an alliance with the heir of the Spanish monarchy. Catharine de Medicis would gladly have secured his hand for a younger sister of Isabella, in which project she was entirely favored by the queen. This was in 1565; but Philip, in his usual procrastinating spirit, only replied, “They must reflect upon it”. He looked with a more favorable eye on the proposals warmly pressed by the emperor and empress of Germany, who, as we have seen, still cherished a kindly remembrance of Carlos, and wished his union with their daughter Anne. That princess, who was a year younger than her cousin, claimed Spain as her native land, having been born there during the regency of Maximilian. But although the parties were of suitable age, and Philip acquiesced in the proposals for their marriage, his want of confidence in his son, if we may credit the historians, still moved him to defer the celebration of it. Anne did indeed live to mount the throne of Castile, but as the wife, not of Carlos, but of Philip, after the death of Isabella. Thus, by a singular fatality, the two princesses who had been destined for the son were each of them married to the father.

The revolutionary movement in the Netherlands was at this time the great subject that engaged the attention of the Spaniards; and Carlos is reported to have taken a lively interest in it. According to Antonio Perez, the Flemings then at the court made positive overtures to the prince to head the revolt. Strada speaks of Bergen and Montigny, then at Madrid, as the channel of communication through which Carlos engaged to settle the affairs of that distracted country. That a person of his ardent temper should have felt sympathy with a people thus bravely struggling for its liberties, is not improbable; nor would one with whom “to think and to speak was the same thing”, be at all unlikely to express himself on the subject with much more freedom than discretion. And it may have been in allusion to this that his almoner, Suarez, in a letter without date, implores the prince “to abandon his dangerous designs, the illusion of the Evil One, which cannot fail to bring mischief to himself and disquiet to the monarchy!”. The letter concludes with a homily, in which the good doctor impresses on the prince the necessity of filial obedience, by numerous examples, from sacred and profane story, of the sad end of those who had impiously rejected the counsels of their parents.

But although it is true that this hypothesis would explain much that is enigmatical in the subsequent history of Carlos, I must confess I have met with no confirmation of it in the correspondence of those who had the direction of affairs in the Low Countries, nor in the charges alleged against Montigny himself,—where an attempt to suborn the heir-apparent, one might suppose, would have been paraded as the most heinous offence. Still, that Carlos regarded himself as the proper person to be entrusted with the mission to the Netherlands is evident from his treatment of Alva, when that nobleman was appointed to the command of the army.

On that occasion, as the duke came to pay his respects to him previous to his departure, the prince fiercely said, "You are not to go to Flanders; I will go there myself." Alva endeavored to pacify him, saying that it was too dangerous a mission for the heir to the throne; that he was going to quiet the troubles of the country, and prepare it for the coming of the king, when the prince could accompany his father, if his presence could be spared in Castile. But this explanation served only to irritate Carlos the more; and, drawing his dagger, he turned suddenly on the duke, exclaiming, “You shall not go; if you do, I will kill you”. A struggle ensued,—an awkward one for Alva, as to have injured the heir-apparent might have been construed into treason. Fortunately, being much the stronger of the two, he grappled with Carlos, and held him tight, while the latter exhausted his strength in ineffectual struggles to escape. But no sooner was the prince released, than he turned again, with the fury of a madman, on the duke, who again closed with him, when the noise of the fray brought in one of the chamberlains from an adjoining room; and Carlos, extricating himself from the iron grasp of his adversary, withdrew to his own apartment.

Such an outrage on the person of his minister was regarded by Philip as an indignity to himself. It widened the breach, already too wide, between father and son; and so great was this estrangement, that, when living in the same palace, they seem to have had no communication with each other. Much of Philip’s time, however, at this period, was passed at the Escorial, where he was watching over the progress of the magnificent pile which was to commemorate the victory of St. Quentin. But, while in his retreat, the ministers placed about his son furnished the king with faithful reports of his proceedings.

Such was the deplorable state of things, when Carlos came to the fatal determination to escape from the annoyances of his present position by flying to some foreign land. To what country is not certainly known; some say to the Netherlands, others to Germany. The latter, on the whole, seems the most probable; as in the court of Vienna he would meet with his promised bride, and friends who would be sure to welcome him.

As he was destitute of funds for such a journey, he proposed to raise them through a confidential agent, one of his own household, by obtaining loans from different cities. Such a reckless mode of proceeding, which seemed at once to proclaim his purpose, intimated too plainly the heedlessness of his character, and his utter ignorance of affairs.

But while these negotiations were in progress, a circumstance occurred, exhibiting the conduct of Carlos in such a light that it may claim the shelter of insanity. The story is told by one of the prince’s household, an ayuda de camara, or gentleman of the chamber, who was present at the scene, which he describes with much simplicity.

For some days his master, he tells us, had no rest, frequently repeating, that "he desired to kill a man with whom he had a quarrel!" The same thing he said—without, however, intimating who the man was—to his uncle, Don John of Austria, in whom he seems to have placed unbounded confidence. This was near Christmas, in 1567. It was customary on the twenty-eighth of December, the day of the Innocents, for the members of the royal family to appear together, and take the sacrament in public. Carlos, in order to prepare for this, on the preceding evening went to the church of St. Jerome, to confess and receive absolution. But the confessor, when he heard the strange avowal of his murderous appetite, refused to grant absolution. Carlos applied to another ecclesiastic, but with as little success. In vain he endeavored to argue the case. They recommended him to send for more learned divines, and take their opinion. He did so forthwith; and no less than fourteen monks from the convent of Our Lady of Atocha, and two from another quarter, were brought together to settle this strange point of casuistry. Greatly shocked, they were unanimous in their opinion, that, under the circumstances, absolution could not be granted. Carlos next inquired whether he might not be allowed to receive an unconsecrated wafer, which would obviate the scandal that his omitting to take the sacrament would infallibly occasion in the court. The reverend body were thrown into fresh consternation by this proposal. The prior of Atocha, who was among the number, wishing to draw from Carlos the name of his enemy, told him that this intelligence might possibly have some influence on the judgment of the divines. The prince replied, that "his father was the person, and that he wished to have his life!" The prior calmly inquired, if any one was to aid him in the designs against his father. But Carlos only repeated his former declaration; and two hours after midnight the conclave broke up in unspeakable dismay. A messenger was despatched to the Escorial, where the king then was, to acquaint him with the whole affair.

Such is the report of the ayuda de camara, who says he was in attendance on the prince that night. The authority is better for some parts of the story than for others. There is nothing very improbable in the supposition that Carlos—whose thoughts, as we have seen, lay very near the surface—should have talked, in the wild way reported of him, to his attendants. But that he should have repeated to others what had been drawn from him so cunningly by the prior, or that this appalling secret should have been whispered within earshot of the attendants, is difficult to believe. It matters little, however, since, whichever way we take the story, it savors so much of downright madness in the prince as in a manner to relieve him from moral responsibility.

By the middle of January, 1568, the prince’s agent had returned, bringing with him a hundred and fifty thousand ducats. It was not more than a fourth of the amount he had demanded. But it answered for the present, and the remainder he proposed to have sent after him in bills of exchange. Having completed his preparations, he communicated his intentions to his uncle, Don John, and besought him to accompany him in his flight. But the latter, after fruitlessly expostulating with his kinsman on the folly of his proceeding, left Madrid for the Escorial, where he doubtless reported the affair to the king, his brother.

On the seventeenth, Carlos sent an order to Don Ramon de Tassis, the director-general of the posts, to have eight horses in readiness for him, that evening. Tassis, suspecting all was not right, returned an answer that the horses were out. On the prince repeating his orders in a more peremptory manner, the postmaster sent all the horses out, and proceeded himself in all haste to the Escorial.

The king was not long in taking his measures. Some days previous, “this very religious prince”, says the papal nuncio, “according to his wont, had caused prayers to be put up, in the different monasteries, for the guidance of Heaven in an affair of great moment”. Such prayers might have served as a warning to Carlos. But it was too late for warnings. Philip now proceeded, without loss of time, to Madrid, where those who beheld him in the audience-chamber, on the morning of the eighteenth, saw no sign of the coming storm in the serenity of his countenance. That morning, he attended mass in public, with the members of the royal family. After the services, Don John visited Carlos in his apartment, when the prince, shutting the doors, demanded of his uncle the subject of his conversation with the king at the Escorial. Don John evaded the questions as well as he could, till Carlos, heated by his suspicions, drew his sword, and attacked his uncle, who, retreating, with his back to the door, called loudly on the prince to desist, and threw himself into a posture of defense. The noise made by the skirmish fortunately drew the notice of the attendants, who, rushing in, enabled Don John to retreat, and Carlos withdrew in sullen silence to his chamber.

The prince, it seems, had for some time felt himself insecure in his father’s palace. He slept with as many precautions as a highwayman, with his sword and dagger by his side, and a loaded musket within reach, ready at any moment for action. For further security, he had caused an ingenious artisan to construct a bolt, in such a way that by means of pulleys he could fasten or unfasten the door of his chamber while in bed. With such precautions, it would be a perilous thing to invade the slumbers of a desperate man like Carlos. But Philip was aware of the difficulties; and he ordered the mechanic to derange the machinery so that it should not work: and thus the door was left without the usual means for securing it. The rest is told by the ayuda de camara above mentioned, who was on duty that night, and supped in the palace.

It was about eleven o'clock, on the evening of the eighteenth, when he observed the king coming down stairs, wearing armor over his clothes, and his head protected by a helmet. He was accompanied by the duke of Feria, captain of the guard, with four or five other lords, and twelve privates of the guard. The king ordered the valet to shut the door, and allow no one to enter. The nobles and the guard then passed into the prince’s chamber; and the duke of Feria, stealing softly to the head of the bed, secured a sword and dagger which lay there, as well as a musket loaded with two balls. Carlos, roused by the noise, started up, and demanded who was there. The duke, having got possession of the weapons, replied, “It is the council of state”. Carlos, on hearing this, leaped from his bed, and, uttering loud cries and menaces, endeavored to seize his arms. At this moment, Philip, who had prudently deferred his entrance till the weapons were mastered, came forward, and bade his son return to bed and remain quiet. The prince exclaimed, “What does your majesty want of me?”. “You will soon learn”, said his father, and at the same time ordered the windows and doors to be strongly secured, and the keys of the latter to be delivered to him. All the furniture of the room, with which Carlos could commit any violence, even the andirons, were removed. The king, then turning to Feria, told him that “he committed the prince to his especial charge, and that he must guard him well”. Addressing next the other nobles, he directed them “to serve the prince with all proper respect, but to execute none of his orders without first reporting them to himself; finally, to guard him faithfully, under penalty of being held as traitors”.

At these words Carlos exclaimed, “Your majesty had better kill me than keep me a prisoner. It will be a great scandal to the kingdom. If you do not kill me, I will make away with myself”. “You will do no such thing”, said the king; “for that would be the act of a madman”. “Your majesty”, replied Carlos, “treats me so ill that you force me to this extremity. I am not mad, but you drive me to despair!”. Other words passed between the monarch and his son, whose voice was so broken with sobs as to be scarcely audible.

Having completed his arrangements, Philip, after securing a coffer which contained the prince's papers, withdrew from the apartment. That night, the duke of Feria, the count of Lerma, and Don Rodrigo de Mendoza, eldest son of Ruy Gomez, remained in the prince’s chamber. Two lords, out of six named for the purpose, performed the same duty in rotation each succeeding night. From respect to the prince, none of them were allowed to wear their swords in his presence. His meat was cut up before it was brought into his chamber, as he was allowed no knife at his meals. The prince's attendants were all dismissed, and most of them afterwards provided for in the service of the king. A guard of twelve halberdiers were stationed in the passages leading to the tower in which the apartment of Carlos was situated. Thus all communication from without was cut off; and, as he was unable to look from his strongly barricaded windows, the unhappy prisoner from that time remained as dead to the world as if he had been buried in the deepest dungeon of Simancas.

The following day, the king called the members of his different councils together, and informed them of the arrest of his son, declaring that nothing but his duty to God, and the welfare of the monarchy, could have moved him to such an act. The tears, according to one present, filled his eyes, as he made this avowal.

He then summoned his council of state, and commenced a process against the prisoner. His affliction did not prevent him from being present all the while, and listening to the testimony, which, when reduced to writing, formed a heap of paper half a foot in thickness.—Such is the account given of this extraordinary proceeding by the ayuda de camara.  

CHAPTER XXXVI.

DEATH OF DON CARLOS.

1568.

The arrest of Don Carlos caused a great sensation throughout the country, much increased by the mysterious circumstances which had attended it. The wildest rumors were afloat as to the cause. Some said the prince had meditated a design against his father's life; others, that he had conspired against that of Ruy Gomez. Some said that he was plotting rebellion, and had taken part with the Flemings; others suspected him of heresy. Many took still a different view of the matter, censuring the father rather than the son. “His dagger followed close upon his smile”, says the historian of Philip; “hence some called him wise, others severe”. Carlos, they said, never a favorite, might have been rash in his thoughts and words; but he had done no act which should have led a father to deal with his son so harshly. But princes are too apt to be jealous of their successors. They distrusted the bold and generous spirit of their offspring, whom it would be wiser to win over by admitting them to some reasonable share in the government.—“But others there were”, concludes the wise chronicler of the times, “who, more prudent than their neighbors, laid their finger on their lips, and were silent”.

For some days, Philip would allow no post to leave Madrid, that he might be the first to send intelligence of this event to foreign courts. On the twenty-fourth, he dispatched circular letters to the great ecclesiastics, the grandees, and the municipalities of the chief cities of the kingdom. They were vague in their import, stating the fact of the arrest, and assigning much the same general grounds with those he had stated to the councils. On the same day he sent dispatches to the principal courts of Europe. These, though singularly vague and mysterious in their language, were more pregnant with suggestions, at least, than the letters to his subjects. The most curious, on the whole, and the one that gives the best insight into his motives, is the letter he addressed to his aunt, the queen of Portugal. She was sister to the emperor, his father,—an estimable lady, whom Philip had always held in great respect.

“Although”, he writes, “it has long been obvious that it was necessary to take some order in regard to the prince, yet the feelings of a father have led me to resort to all other means before proceeding to extremity. But affairs have at length come to such a pass, that, to fulfil the duty which, as a Christian prince, I owe both to God and to my realm, I have been compelled to place my son in strict confinement. Thus have I been willing to sacrifice to God my own flesh and blood, preferring his service and the welfare of my people to all human considerations. I will only add, that this determination has not been brought about by any misconduct on the part of my son, or by any want of respect to me; nor is this treatment of him intended by way of chastisement,—for that, however just the grounds of it, would have its time and its limit. Neither have I resorted to it as an expedient for reforming his disorderly life. The proceeding rests altogether on another foundation; and the remedy I propose is not one either of time or expedients, but is of the greatest moment, as I have already remarked, to satisfy my obligations to God and my people”.

In the same obscure strain, Philip addressed Zuñiga, his ambassador at the papal court,—saying, that, “although the disobedience which Carlos had shown through life was sufficient to justify any demonstration of severity, yet it was not this, but the stern pressure of necessity, that could alone have driven him to deal in this way with his first-born, his only son”.

This ambiguous language—implying that the imprisonment of Carlos was not occasioned by his own misconduct, and yet that both the interests of religion and the safety of the state demanded his perpetual imprisonment—may be thought to intimate that the cause referred to could be no other than insanity. This was plainly stated by the prince of Eboli, in a communication which, by the king's order, he made to the French minister, Fourquevaulx. The king, Gomez said, had for three years past perceived that the prince's head was the weakest part of him, and that he was, at no time, in complete possession of his understanding. He had been silent on the matter, trusting that time would bring some amendment. But it had only made things worse; and he saw, with sorrow, that to commit the scepter to his son's hands would be to bring inevitable misery on his subjects and ruin on the state. With unspeakable anguish, he had therefore resolved, after long deliberation, to place his son under constraint.

This at least is intelligible, and very different from Philip’s own dispatches,—where it strikes us as strange, if insanity were the true ground of the arrest, that it should be covered up under such vague and equivocal language, with the declaration, moreover, usually made in his letters, that, “at some future time, he would explain the matter more fully to the parties”. One might have thought that the simple plea of insanity would have been directly given, as furnishing the best apology for the son, and at the same time vindicating the father for imposing a wholesome restraint upon his person. But, in point of fact, the excessive rigor of the confinement, as we shall have occasion to see, savored much more of the punishment dealt out to some high offender, than of the treatment of an unfortunate lunatic. Neither is it probable that a criminal process would have been instituted against one who, by his very infirmity, was absolved from all moral responsibility.

There are two documents, either of which, should it ever be brought to light, would probably unfold the true reasons of the arrest of Carlos. The Spanish ambassador, Zuñiga, informed Philip that the pope, dissatisfied with the account which he had given of the transaction, desired a further explanation of it from his majesty. This, from such a source, was nearly equivalent to a command. For Philip had a peculiar reverence for Pius the Fifth, the pope of the Inquisition, who was a pontiff after his own heart. The king is said never to have passed by the portrait of his holiness, which hung on the walls of the palace, without taking off his hat. He at once wrote a letter to the pope containing a full account of the transaction. It was written in cipher, with the recommendation that it should be submitted to Granvelle, then in Rome, if his holiness could not interpret it. This letter is doubtless in the Vatican.

The other document is the process. The king, immediately after the arrest of his son, appointed a special commission to try him. It consisted of Cardinal Espinosa, the prince of Eboli, and a royal councilor, Bribiesca de Muñatones, who was appointed to prepare the indictment. The writings containing the memorable process instituted by Philip’s ancestor, John the Second of Aragon, against his amiable and unfortunate son, who also bore the name of Carlos, had been obtained from the Archives of Barcelona. They were translated from the Catalan into Castilian, and served for the ominous model for the present proceedings, which took the form of a trial for high treason. In conducting this singular prosecution, it does not appear that any counsel or evidence appeared on behalf of the prisoner, although a formidable amount of testimony, it would seem, was collected on the other side. But, in truth, we know little of the proceedings. There is no proof that any but the monarch, and the secret tribunal that presided over the trial,—if so it can be called,—ever saw the papers. In 1592, according to the historian Cabrera, they were deposited, by Philip’s orders, in a green box, strongly secured, in the Archives of Simancas, —where, as we have no later information, they may still remain, to reward the labors of some future antiquary.

In default of these documents, we must resort to conjecture for the solution of this difficult problem; and there are several circumstances which may assist us in arriving at a conclusion. Among the foreign ministers at that time at the court of Madrid, none took more pains to come at the truth of this affair,—as his letters abundantly prove,—than the papal nuncio, Castaneo, archbishop of Rossano. He was a shrewd, sagacious prelate, whose position and credit at the court gave him the best opportunities for information. By Philip’s command, Cardinal Espinosa gave the nuncio the usual explanation of the grounds on which Carlos had been arrested. “It is a strange story”, said the nuncio, “that which we everywhere hear, of the prince’s plot against his father's life”. “It would be of little moment”, replied the cardinal, “if the danger to the king were all; as it would be easy to protect his person. But the present case is worse,—if worse can be; and the king, who has seen the bad course which his son has taken for these two years past, has vainly tried to remedy it; till, finding himself unable to exercise any control over the hair-brained young man, he has been forced to this expedient”.

Now, in the judgment of a grand-inquisitor, it would probably be thought that heresy, or any leaning to heresy, was a crime of even a deeper dye than parricide. The cardinal’s discourse made this impression on the nuncio, who straightway began to cast about for proofs of apostasy in Don Carlos. The Tuscan minister also notices, in his letters, the suspicions that Carlos was not a good Catholic. A confirmation of this view of the matter may be gathered from the remarks of Pius the Fifth on Philip’s letter in cipher, above noticed. “His holiness”, writes the Spanish ambassador, “greatly lauds the course taken by your majesty; for he feels that the preservation of Christianity depends on your living many years, and on your having a successor who will tread in your footsteps”.

But though all this seems to intimate pretty clearly that the religious defection of Carlos was a predominant motive for his imprisonment, it is not easy to believe that a person of his wayward and volatile mind could have formed any settled opinions in matters of faith, or that his position would have allowed the Reformers such access to his person as to have greatly exposed him to the influence of their doctrines. Yet it is quite possible that he may have taken an interest in those political movements abroad, which, in the end, were directed against the Church. I allude to the troubles in the Low Countries, which he is said to have looked upon with no unfriendly eye. It is true, there is no proof of this, so far as I am aware, in the correspondence of the Flemish leaders. Nor is there any reason to suppose that Carlos entered directly into a correspondence with them himself, or indeed committed himself by any overt act in support of the cause. But this was not necessary for his condemnation; it would have been quite enough, that he had felt a sympathy for the distresses of the people. From the residence of Egmont, Bergen, and Montigny at the court, he had obvious means of communication with those nobles, who may naturally have sought to interest him in behalf of their countrymen. The sympathy readily kindled in the ardent bosom of the young prince would be as readily expressed. That he did feel such a sympathy may perhaps be inferred by his strange conduct to Alva, on the eve of his departure for the Netherlands. But the people of that country were regarded at Madrid as in actual rebellion against the crown. The reformed doctrines which they avowed gave to the movement the character of a religious revolution. For a Spaniard to countenance it in any way was at once to prove himself false both to his sovereign and his faith. In such a light, we may be quite sure, it would be viewed both by Philip and his minister, the grand-inquisitor. Nor would it be thought any palliation of the crime, that the offender was heir to the monarchy.

As to a design on his father's life, Philip, both in his foreign dispatches and in the communications made by his order to the resident ministers at Madrid, wholly acquitted Carlos of so horrible a charge. If it had any foundation in truth, one might suppose that Philip, instead of denying, would have paraded it, as furnishing an obvious apology for subjecting him to so rigorous a confinement. It is certain, if Carlos had really entertained so monstrous a design, he might easily have found an opportunity to execute it. That Philip would have been silent in respect to his son's sympathy with the Netherlands may well be believed. The great champion of Catholicism would naturally shrink from publishing to the world that the taint of heresy infected his own blood.

But, whatever may have been the motives which determined the conduct of Philip, one cannot but suspect that a deep-rooted aversion to his son lay at the bottom of them. The dissimilarity of their natures placed the two parties, from the first, in false relations to each other. The heedless excesses of youth were regarded with a pitiless eye by the parent, who, in his own indulgences, at least did not throw aside the veil of decorum. The fiery temper of Carlos, irritated by a long-continued system of distrust, exclusion, and espionnage, at length broke out into such senseless extravagances as belong to the debatable ground of insanity. And this ground afforded, as already intimated, a plausible footing to the father for proceeding to extremities against the son.

Whatever were the offences of Carlos, those who had the best opportunities for observation soon became satisfied that it was intended never to allow him to regain his liberty, or to ascend the throne of his ancestors. On the second of March, a code of regulations was prepared by Philip relative to the treatment of the prince, which may give some idea of the rigor of his confinement. He was given in especial charge to Ruy Gomez, who was placed at the head of the establishment; and it was from him that every person employed about Carlos was to receive his commission. Six other nobles were appointed both to guard the prince and render him service. Two of the number were to remain in his apartment every night,—the one watching, while the other slept; reminding us of an ingenious punishment among the Chinese, where a criminal is obliged to be everywhere followed by an attendant, whose business it is to keep an unceasing watch upon the offender, that, wherever he turns, he may still find the same eye riveted upon him!

During the day, it was the duty of these nobles to remain with Carlos and lighten by their conversation the gloom of his captivity. But they were not to talk on matters relating to the government, above all to the prince's imprisonment, on which topic, if he addressed them, they were to remain obdurately silent. They were to bring no messages to him, and bear none from him to the world without; and they were to maintain inviolable secrecy in regard to all that passed within the walls of the palace, unless when otherwise permitted by the king. Carlos was provided with a breviary and some other books of devotion; and no works except those of a devotional character were to be allowed him. —This last regulation seems to intimate the existence of certain heretical tendencies in Carlos, which it was necessary to counteract by books of an opposite character,—unless it might be considered as an ominous preparation for his approaching end. Besides the six nobles, no one was allowed to enter the apartment but the prince’s physician, his barbero, or gentleman of the chamber, and his valet. The last was taken from the monteros, or body-guard of the king. There were seven others of this faithful corps who were attached to the establishment, and whose duty it was to bring the dishes for his table to an outer hall, whence they were taken by the montero in waiting to the prince’s chamber. A guard of twelve halberdiers was also stationed in the passages leading to the apartment, to intercept all communication from without. Every person employed in the service, from the highest noble to the meanest official, made solemn oath, before the prince of Eboli, to conform to the regulations. On this nobleman rested the whole responsibility of enforcing obedience to the rules, and of providing for the security of Carlos. The better to effect this, he was commanded to remove to the palace, where apartments were assigned to him and the princess his wife, adjoining those of his prisoner. The arrangement may have been commended by other considerations to Philip, whose intimacy with the princess I shall have occasion to notice hereafter.

The regulations, severe as they were, were executed to the letter. Philip’s aunt, the queen of Portugal, wrote in earnest terms to the king, kindly offering herself to remain with her grandson in his confinement, and take charge of him like a mother in his affliction. “But they were very willing”, writes the French minister, “to spare her the trouble”. The emperor and empress wrote to express the hope that the confinement of Carlos would work an amendment in his conduct, and that he would soon be liberated. Several letters passed between the courts, until Philip closed the correspondence by declaring that his son’s marriage with the princess Anne could never take place, and that he would never be liberated.

Philip’s queen, Isabella, and his sister Joanna, who seem to have been deeply afflicted by the course taken with the prince, made ineffectual attempts to be allowed to visit him in his confinement; and when Don John of Austria came to the palace dressed in a mourning suit, to testify his grief on the occasion, Philip coldly rebuked his brother, and ordered him to change his mourning for his ordinary dress.

Several of the great towns were prepared to send their delegates to condole with the monarch under his affliction. But Philip gave them to understand, that he had only acted for the good of the nation, and that their condolence on the occasion would be superfluous. When the deputies of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia were on their way to court, with instructions to inquire into the cause of the prince’s imprisonment, and to urge his speedy liberation, they received, on the way, so decided an intimation of the royal displeasure, that they thought it prudent to turn back, without venturing to enter the capital.

In short, it soon came to be understood, that the affair of Don Carlos was a subject not to be talked about. By degrees, it seemed to pass out of men's minds, like a thing of ordinary occurrence. “There is as little said now on the subject of the prince”, writes the French ambassador, Fourquevaulx, “as if he had been dead these ten years”. His name, indeed, still kept its place, among those of the royal family, in the prayers said in the churches. But the king prohibited the clergy from alluding to Carlos in their discourses. Nor did any one venture, says the same authority, to criticize the conduct of the king. “So complete is the ascendancy which Philip’s wisdom has given him over his subjects, that, willing or unwilling, all promptly obey him: and if they do not love him, they at least appear to do so”.

Among the articles removed from the prince's chamber was a coffer, as the reader may remember, containing his private papers. Among these were a number of letters intended for distribution after his departure from the country. One was addressed to his father, in which Carlos avowed that the cause of his flight was the harsh treatment he had received from the king. Other letters, addressed to different nobles, and to some of the great towns, made a similar statement; and, after reminding them of the oath they had taken to him as successor to the crown, he promised to grant them various immunities when the scepter should come into his hands. With these papers was also found one of most singular import. It contained a list of all those persons whom he deemed friendly, or inimical to himself. At the head of the former class stood the names of his step-mother, Isabella, and of his uncle Don John of Austria,—both of them noticed in terms of the warmest affection. On the catalogue of his enemies, “to be pursued to the death”, were the names of the king, his father, the prince and princess of Eboli, Cardinal Espinosa, the duke of Alva, and others. —Such is the strange account of the contents of the coffer given to his court by the papal nuncio. These papers, we are told, were submitted to the judges who conducted the process, and formed, doubtless, an important part of the testimony against the prince. It may have been from one of the parties concerned that the nuncio gathered his information. Yet no member of that tribunal would have ventured to disclose its secrets without authority from Philip; who may possibly have consented to the publication of facts that would serve to vindicate his course. If these facts are faithfully reported, they must be allowed to furnish some evidence of a disordered mind in Carlos.

The king, meanwhile, was scarcely less a prisoner than his son; for, from the time of the prince's arrest, he had never left the palace, even to visit his favorite residences of Aranjuez and the Prado; nor had he passed a single day in the occupation, in which he took such delight, of watching the rising glories of the Escorial. He seemed to be constantly haunted by the apprehension of some outbreak among the people, or at least among the partisans of Carlos, to effect his escape; and when he heard any unusual noise in the palace, says his historian, he would go to the window, to see if the tumult were not occasioned by an attempt to release the prisoner. There was little cause for apprehension in regard to a people so well disciplined to obedience as the Castilians under Philip the Second. But it is an ominous circumstance for a prisoner, that he should become the occasion of such apprehension.

Philip, however, was not induced by his fears to mitigate in any degree the rigor of his son's confinement, which produced the effect to have been expected on one of his fiery, ungovernable temper. At first he was thrown into a state bordering on frenzy, and, it is said, more than once tried to make away with himself. As he found that thus to beat against the bars of his prison-house was only to add to his distresses, he resigned himself in sullen silence to his fate, the sullenness of despair. In his indifference to all around him, he ceased to take an interest in his own spiritual concerns. Far from using the religious books in his possession, he would attend to no act of devotion, refusing even to confess, or to admit his confessor into his presence. These signs of fatal indifference, if not of positive defection from the Faith, gave great alarm to Philip, who would not willingly see the soul thus perish with the body. In this emergency he employed Suarez, the prince's almoner, who once had some influence over his master, to address him a letter of expostulation. The letter has been preserved, and is too remarkable to be passed by in silence.

Suarez begins with reminding Carlos that his rash conduct had left him without partisans or friends. The effect of his present course, instead of mending his condition, could only serve to make it worse. “What will the world say”, continues the ecclesiastic, “when it shall learn that you now refuse to confess; when, too, it shall discover other dreadful things of which you have been guilty, some of which are of such a nature, that, did they concern any other than your highness, the Holy Office would be led to inquire whether the author of them were in truth a Christian? It is in the bitterness and anguish of my heart that I must declare to your highness, that you are not only in danger of forfeiting your worldly estate, but, what is worse, your own soul”. And he concludes by imploring Carlos, as the only remedy, to return to his obedience to God, and to the king, who is his representative on earth.

But the admonitions of the honest almoner had as little effect on the unhappy youth as the prayers of his attendants. The mental excitement under which he labored, combined with the want of air and exercise, produced its natural effect on his health. Every day he became more and more emaciated; while the fever which had so long preyed on his constitution now burned in his veins with greater fury than ever. To allay the intolerable heat, he resorted to such desperate expedients as seemed to intimate, says the papal nuncio, that, if debarred from laying violent hands on himself, he would accomplish the same end in a slower way, but not less sure. He deluged the floor with water, not a little to the inconvenience of the companions of his prison, and walked about for hours, half naked, with bare feet, on the cold pavement. He caused a warming-pan filled with ice and snow to be introduced several times in a night into his bed, and let it remain there for hours together. As if this were not enough, he would gulp down such draughts of snow-water as distance any achievement on record in the annals of hydropathy. He pursued the same mad course in respect to what he ate. He would abstain from food an incredible number of days, and then, indulging in proportion to his former abstinence, would devour a pastry of four partridges, with all the paste, at a sitting, washing it down with three gallons or more of iced water!

No constitution could long withstand such violent assaults as these. The constitution of Carlos gradually sank under them. His stomach, debilitated by long inaction, refused to perform the extraordinary tasks that were imposed on it. He was attacked by incessant vomiting; dysentery set in; and his strength rapidly failed. The physician, Olivares, who alone saw the patient, consulted with his brethren in the apartments of Ruy Gomez. Their remedies failed to restore the exhausted energies of nature; and it was soon evident that the days of Charles were numbered.

To no one could such an announcement have given less concern than to Carlos; for he had impatiently looked to death as to his release. From this hour he seemed to discard all earthly troubles from his mind, as he fixed his thoughts steadfastly on the future. At his own request his confessor, Chavres and Suarez, his almoner, were summoned, and assisted him with their spiritual consolations. The closing scenes are recorded by the pen of the nuncio.

“Suddenly a wonderful change seemed to be wrought by divine grace in the heart of the prince. Instead of vain and empty talk, his language became that of a sensible man. He sent for his confessor, devoutly confessed, and, as his illness was such that he could not receive the host, he humbly adored it; showing throughout great contrition, and, though not refusing the proffered remedies, manifesting such contempt for the things of this world, and such a longing for heaven, that one would have said, God had reserved for this hour the sum of all his grace”

He seemed to feel an assurance that he was to survive till the vigil of St. James, the patron saint of his country. When told that this would be four days later, he said, “So long will my misery endure”. He would willingly have seen his father once more before his death. But his confessor, it is said, dissuaded the monarch, on the ground that Carlos was now in so happy a frame of mind, that it were better not to disturb it by drawing off his attention to worldly objects. Philip, however, took the occasion, when Carlos lay asleep or insensible, to enter the chamber; and, stealing softly behind the prince of Eboli and the grand-prior, Antonio de Toledo, he stretched out his hand towards the bed, and, making the sign of the cross, gave the parting benediction to his dying son.

Nor was Carlos allowed the society of his amiable step-mother, the queen, nor of his aunt Joanna, to sweeten by their kind attentions the bitterness of death. It was his sad fate to die, as he had lived throughout his confinement, under the cold gaze of his enemies. Yet he died at peace with all; and some of the last words that he uttered were to forgive his father for his imprisonment, and the ministers—naming Ruy Gomez and Espinosa in particular—who advised him to it.

Carlos now grew rapidly more feeble, having scarce strength enough left to listen to the exhortations of his confessor, and with low, indistinct murmurings to adore the crucifix which he held constantly in his hand. On the twenty-fourth of July, soon after midnight, he was told it was the Vigil of St. James. Then suddenly rousing, with a gleam of joy on his countenance, he intimated his desire for his confessor to place the holy taper in his hand: and feebly beating his breast, as if to invoke the mercy of Heaven on his transgressions, he fell back, and expired without a groan. —“No Catholic”, says Nobili, “ever made a more Catholic end”.

Such is the account given us of the last hours of this most unfortunate prince, by the papal nuncio and the Tuscan minister, and repeated with slight discrepancies by most of the Castilian writers of that and the following age. It is a singular circumstance, that, although we have such full reports, both of what preceded and what followed the death of Carlos, from the French ambassador, the portion of his correspondence, which embraces his death has been withdrawn, whether by accident or design, from the archives. But probably no one without the walls of the palace had access to better sources of information than the two ministers first mentioned, especially the papal nuncio. Their intelligence may well have been derived from some who had been about the person of Carlos. If so, it could not have been communicated without the approbation of Philip, who may have been willing that the world should understand that his son had died true to the Faith.

A very different account of the end of Carlos is given by Llorente. And as this writer, the secretary of the Inquisition, had access to very important materials; and as his account, though somewhat prolix, is altogether remarkable, I cannot pass it by in silence.

According to Llorente, the process already noticed as having been instituted against Carlos was brought to a close only a short time before his death. No notice of it, during all this time, had been given to the prisoner, and no counsel was employed in his behalf. By the ninth of July the affair was sufficiently advanced for a “summary judgment”. It resulted from the evidence, that the accused was guilty of treason in both the first and second degree,—as having endeavored to compass the death of the king, his father, and as having conspired to usurp the sovereignty of Flanders. The counsellor Muñatones, in his report, which he laid before the king, while he stated that the penalty imposed by the law on every other subject for these crimes was death, added, that his majesty, by his sovereign authority, might decide that the heir apparent was placed by his rank above the reach of ordinary laws. And it was further in his power to mitigate or dispense with any penalty whatever, when he considered it for the good of his subjects.—In this judgment both the ministers, Ruy Gomez and Espinosa, declared their concurrence.

To this the king replied, that, though his feelings moved him to follow the suggestions of his ministers, his conscience would not permit it. He could not think that he should consult the good of his people by placing over them a monarch so vicious in his disposition, and so fierce and sanguinary in his temper, as Carlos. However agonizing it might be to his feelings as a father, he must allow the law to take its course. Yet, after all, he said, it might not be necessary to proceed to this extremity. The prince’s health was in so critical a state, that it was only necessary to relax the precautions in regard to his diet, and his excesses would soon conduct him to the tomb! One point only was essential, that he should be so well advised of his situation that he should be willing to confess, and make his peace with Heaven before he died. This was the greatest proof of love which he could give to his son and to the Spanish nation.

Ruy Gomez and Espinosa both of them inferred from this singular ebullition of parental tenderness, that they could not further the real intentions of the king better than by expediting as much as possible the death of Carlos. Ruy Gomez accordingly communicated his views to Olivares, the prince’s physician. This he did in such ambiguous and mysterious phrase as, while it intimated his meaning, might serve to veil the enormity of the crime from the eyes of the party who was to perpetrate it. No man was more competent to this delicate task than the prince of Eboli, bred from his youth in courts, and trained to a life of dissimulation. Olivares readily comprehended the drift of his discourse,—that the thing required of him was to dispose of the prisoner, in such a way that his death should appear natural, and that the honor of the king should not be compromised. He raised no scruples, but readily signified his willingness faithfully to execute the will of his sovereign. Under these circumstances, on the twentieth of July, a purgative dose was administered to the unsuspecting patient, who, as may be imagined, rapidly grew worse. It was a consolation to his father, that, when advised of his danger, Carlos consented to receive his confessor. Thus, though the body perished, the soul was saved.

Such is the extraordinary account given us by Llorente, which, if true, would at once settle the question in regard to the death of Carlos. But Llorente, with a disingenuousness altogether unworthy of an historian in a matter of so grave import, has given us no knowledge of the sources whence his information was derived. He simply says, that they are “certain secret memoirs of the time, full of curious anecdote, which, though not possessing precisely the character of authenticity, are nevertheless entitled to credit, as coming from persons employed in the palace of the king!”. Had the writer condescended to acquaint us with the names, or some particulars of the characters, of his authors, we might have been able to form some estimate of the value of their testimony. His omission to do this may lead us to infer, that he had not perfect confidence in it himself. At all events it compels us to trust the matter entirely to his own discretion, a virtue which those familiar with his inaccuracies in other matters will not be disposed to concede to him in a very eminent degree.

His narrative, moreover, is in direct contradiction to the authorities I have already noticed, especially to the two foreign ministers so often quoted, who, with the advantages—not a few—that they possessed for obtaining correct information, were indefatigable in collecting it. “I say nothing”, writes the Tuscan envoy, alluding, to the idle rumors of the town, “of gossip unworthy to be listened to. It is a hard thing to satisfy the populace. It is best to stick to the truth, without caring for the opinion of those who talk wildly of improbable matters, which have their origin in ignorance and malice”.

Still, it cannot be denied, that suspicions of foul play to Carlos were not only current abroad, but were entertained by persons of higher rank than the populace at home,—where it could not be safe to utter them. Among others, the celebrated Antonio Perez, one of the household of the prince of Eboli, informs us, that, “as the king had found Carlos guilty, he was condemned to death by casuists and inquisitors. But in order that the execution of this sentence might not be brought too palpably before the public, they mixed for four months together a slow poison in his food”.

This statement agrees, to a certain extent, with that of a noble Venetian, Pietro Giustiniani, then in Castile, who assured the historian De Thou, that “Philip having determined on the death of his son, obtained a sentence to that effect from a lawful judge. But in order to save the honor of the sovereign, the sentence was executed in secret, and Carlos was made to swallow some poisoned broth, of which he died some hours afterwards”.

Some of the particulars mentioned by Antonio Perez may be thought to receive confirmation from an account given by the French minister, Fourquevaulx, in a letter dated about a month after the prince’s arrest. “The prince”, he says, “becomes visibly thinner and more dried up; and his eyes are sunk in his head. They give him sometimes strong soups and capon broths, in which amber and other nourishing things are dissolved, that he may not wholly lose his strength and fall into decrepitude. These soups are prepared privately in the chamber of Ruy Gomez, through which one passes into that of the prince”.

It was not to be expected that a Castilian writer should have the temerity to assert that the death of Carlos was brought about by violence. Yet Cabrera, the best informed historian of the period, who, in his boyhood, had frequent access to the house of Ruy Gomez, and even to the royal palace, while he describes the excesses of Carlos as the cause of his untimely end, makes some mysterious intimations, which, without any forced construction, seem to point to the agency of others in bringing about that event.

Strada, the best informed, on the whole, of the foreign writers of the period, and who, as a foreigner, had not the same motives for silence as a Spaniard, qualifies his account of the prince's death as having taken place in the natural-way, by saying, “if indeed he did not perish by violence”. —The prince of Orange, in his bold denunciation of Philip, does not hesitate to proclaim him the murderer of his son. And that inquisitive gossip-monger, Brantôme, amidst the bitter jests and epigrams which, he tells us, his countrymen levelled at Philip for his part in this transaction, quotes the authority of a Spaniard of rank for the assertion that, after Carlos had been condemned by his father,—in opposition to the voice of his council,—the prince was found dead in his chamber, smothered with a towel! Indeed, the various modes of death assigned to him are sufficient evidence of the uncertainty as to any one of them. A writer of more recent date does not scruple to assert, that the only liberty granted to Carlos was that of selecting the manner of his death out of several kinds that were proposed to him; —an incident which has since found a more suitable place in one of the many dramas that have sprang from his mysterious story.

In all this the historian must admit there is but little evidence of positive value. The authors—with the exception of Antonio Perez, who had his account, he tells us, from the prince of Eboli—are by no means likely to have had access to sure sources of information; while their statements are contradictory to one another, and stand in direct opposition to those of the Tuscan minister and of the nuncio, the latter of whom had, probably, better knowledge of what was passing in the councils of the monarch, than any other of the diplomatic body. Even the declaration of Antonio Perez, so important on many accounts, is to a considerable degree neutralized by the fact, that he was the mortal enemy of Philip, writing in exile, with a price set upon his head by the man whose character he was assailing. It is the hard fate of a person so situated, that even truth from his lips fails to carry with it conviction.

If we reject his explanation of the matter, we shall find ourselves again thrown on the sea of conjecture, and may be led to account for the rumors of violence on the part of Philip by the mystery in which the whole of the proceedings was involved, and the popular notion of the character of the monarch who directed them. The same suspicious circumstances must have their influence on the historian of the present day, as with insufficient, though more ample light than was enjoyed by contemporaries, he painfully endeavors to grope his way through this obscure passage in the life of Philip. Many reflections of ominous import naturally press upon his mind. From the first hour of the prince’s confinement it was determined, as we have seen, that he was never to be released from it. Yet the preparations for keeping him a prisoner were on so extraordinary a scale, and imposed such a burden on men of the highest rank in the kingdom, as seemed to argue that his confinement was not to be long. It is a common saying,—as old as Machiavelli,—that to a deposed prince the distance is not great from the throne to the grave. Carlos, indeed, had never worn a crown. But there seemed to be the same reasons as if he had, for abridging the term of his imprisonment. All around the prince regarded him with distrust. The king, his father, appeared to live, as we have seen, in greater apprehension of him after his confinement, than before. “The ministers, whom Carlos hated”, says the nuncio, “knew well that it would be their ruin, should he ever ascend the throne”. Thus, while the fears and the interests of all seemed to tend to his removal, we find nothing in the character of Philip to counteract the tendency. For when was he ever known to relax his grasp on the victim once within his power, or to betray any feeling of compunction as to sweeping away an obstacle from his path? One has only to call to mind the long confinement, ending with the midnight execution, of Montigny, the open assassination of the prince of Orange, the secret assassination of the secretary Escovedo, the unrelenting persecution of Perez, his agent in that murder, and his repeated attempts to dispatch him also by the hand of the bravo. These are passages in the history of Philip which yet remain to be presented to the reader, and the knowledge of which is necessary before we can penetrate into the depths of his dark and unscrupulous character.

If it be thought that there is a wide difference between these deeds of violence and the murder of a son, we must remember that, in affairs of religion, Philip acted avowedly on the principle, that the end justifies the means; that one of the crimes charged upon Carlos was defection from the Faith; and that Philip had once replied to the piteous appeal of a heretic whom they were dragging to the stake, “Were my son such a wretch as thou art, I would myself carry the fagots to burn him!”

But in whatever light we are to regard the death of Carlos,—whether as caused by violence, or by those insane excesses in which he was allowed to plunge during his confinement,—in either event the responsibility, to a great extent, must be allowed to rest on Philip, who, if he did not directly employ the hand of the assassin to take the life of his son, yet by his rigorous treatment drove that son to a state of desperation that brought about the same fatal result.

While the prince lay in the agonies of death, scarcely an hour before he breathed his last, a scene of a very different nature was passing in an adjoining gallery of the palace. A quarrel arose there between two courtiers,—one of them a young cavalier, Don Antonio de Leyva, the other Don Diego de Mendoza, a nobleman who had formerly filled, with great distinction, the post of ambassador at Rome. The dispute arose respecting some coplas, of which Mendoza claimed to be the author. Though at this time near sixty years old, the fiery temperament of youth had not been cooled by age. Enraged at what he conceived an insult on the part of his companion, he drew his dagger. The other as promptly unsheathed his sword. Thrusts were exchanged between the parties; and the noise of the fracas at length reached the ears of Philip himself. Indignant at the outrage thus perpetrated within the walls of the palace, and at such an hour, he ordered his guards instantly to arrest the offenders. But the combatants, brought to their senses, had succeeded in making their escape, and taken refuge in a neighboring church. Philip was too much incensed to respect this asylum; and an alcalde, by his command, entered the church at midnight, and dragged the offenders from the sanctuary. Leyva was put in irons, and lodged in the fortress of Madrid; while his rival was sent to the tower of Simancas. “It is thought they will pay for this outrage with their lives”, writes the Tuscan minister, Nobili. “The king”, he adds, “has even a mind to cashier his guard for allowing them to escape”. Philip, however, confined the punishment of the nobles to banishment from court; and the old courtier, Mendoza, profited by his exile to give to the world those remarkable compositions, both in history and romance, that form an epoch in the national literature.

A few days before his death, Carlos is said to have made a will, in which, after imploring his father's pardon and blessing, he commended his servants to his care, gave away a few jewels to two or three friends, and disposed of the rest of his property in behalf of sundry churches and monasteries. Agreeably to his wish, his body was wrapped in a Franciscan robe, and was soon afterward laid in a coffin covered with black velvet and rich brocade. At seven o'clock, that same evening, the remains of Carlos were borne from the chamber where he died, to their place of interment.

The coffin was supported on the shoulders of the prince of Eboli, the dukes of Infantado and Bio Seco, and other principal grandees. In the court-yard of the palace was a large gathering of the members of the religious fraternities, dignitaries of the church, foreign ambassadors, nobles and cavaliers about the court, and officers of the royal household. There were there also the late attendants of Carlos,—to some of whom he had borne little love,—who, after watching him through his captivity, were now come to conduct him to his final resting-place. Before moving, some wrangling took place among the parties on the question of precedence. Such a spirit might well have been rebuked by the solemn character of the business they were engaged in, which might have reminded them, that in the grave, at least, there are no distinctions. But the perilous question was happily settled by Philip himself, who, from an open window of the palace, looked down on the scene, and, with his usual composure, gave directions for forming the procession.

The king did not accompany it. Slowly it defiled through the crowded streets, where the people gave audible utterance to their grief, as they gazed on the funeral pomp, and their eyes fell on the bier of the prince, who, they had fondly hoped, would one day sway the scepter of Castile; and whose errors, great as they were, were all forgotten in his unparalleled misfortunes.

The procession moved forward to the convent of San Domingo Real, where Carlos had desired that his ashes might be laid. The burial service was there performed, with great solemnity, in presence of the vast multitude. But whether it was that Philip distrusted the prudence of the preachers, or feared some audacious criticism on his conduct, no discourse was allowed to be delivered from the pulpit. For nine days religious services were performed in honor of the deceased; and the office for the dead continued to be read, morning and evening, before an audience among whom were the great nobles and the officers of state, clad in full mourning. The queen and the princess Joanna might be seen, on these occasions, mingling their tears with the few who cherished the memory of Carlos. A niche was excavated in the wall of the church, within the choir, in which the prince’s remains were deposited. But they did not rest there long. In 1573, they were removed, by Philip's orders, to the Escorial; and in its gloomy chambers they were left to mingle with the kindred dust of the royal line of Austria.

Philip wrote to Zuñiga, his ambassador in Rome, to intimate his wish that no funeral honors should be paid there to the memory of Carlos, that no mourning should be worn, and that his holiness would not feel under the necessity of sending him letters of condolence. Zuñiga did his best. But he could not prevent the obsequies from being celebrated with the lugubrious pomp suited to the rank of the departed. A catafalque was raised in the church of Saint James; the services were performed in presence of the ambassador and his attendants, who were dressed in the deepest black; and twenty-one cardinals, one of whom was Granvelle, assisted at the solemn ceremonies. But no funeral panegyric was pronounced, and no monumental inscription recorded the imaginary virtues of the deceased.

Soon after the prince’s death, Philip retired to the monastery of St. Jerome, in whose cloistered recesses he remained some time longer secreted from the eyes of his subjects. “He feels his loss like a father”, writes the papal nuncio, “but he bears it with the patience of a Christian”.  He caused dispatches to be sent to foreign courts, to acquaint them with his late bereavement. In his letter to the duke of Alva, he indulges in a fuller expression of his personal feelings. “You may conceive”, he says, “in what pain and heaviness I find myself, now that it has pleased God to take my dear son, the prince, to himself. He died in a Christian manner, after having, three days before, received the sacrament, and exhibited repentance and contrition,—all which serves to console me under this affliction. For I hope that God has called him to himself, that he may be with him evermore; and that he will grant me his grace, that I may endure this calamity with a Christian heart and patience”.

Thus, in the morning of life, at little more than twenty-three years of age, perished Carlos, prince of Asturias. No one of his time came into the world under so brilliant auspices; for he was heir to the noblest empire in Christendom; and the Spaniards, as they discerned in his childhood some of the germs of future greatness in his character, looked confidently forward to the day when he should rival the glory of his grandfather, Charles the Fifth. But he was born under an evil star, which counteracted all the gifts of fortune, and turned them into a curse. His naturally wild and headstrong temper was exasperated by disease; and, when encountered by the distrust and alienation of him who had the control of his destiny, was exalted into a state of frenzy, that furnishes the best apology for his extravagances, and vindicates the necessity of some measures, on the part of his father, to restrain them. Yet can those who reject the imputation of murder acquit that father of inexorable rigor towards his child in the measures which he employed, or of the dreadful responsibility which attaches to the consequences of them?

CHAPTER XXXVII.

DEATH OF ISABELLA.

1568.

Three months had not elapsed after the young and beautiful queen of Philip the Second had wept over the fate of her unfortunate step-son, when she was herself called upon to follow him to the tomb. The occurrence of these sad events so near together, and the relations of the parties, who had once been designed for each other, suggested the idea that a criminal passion subsisted between them, and that, after her lover's death, Isabella was herself sacrificed to the jealousy of a vindictive husband.

One will in vain look for this tale of horror in the native historians of Castile. Nor does any historian of that day, native or foreign, whom I have consulted, in noticing the rumors of the time, cast a reproach on the fair fame of Isabella; though more than one must be allowed to intimate the existence of the prince's passion for his step-mother. Brantôme tells us that, when Carlos first saw the queen, “he was so captivated by her charms, that he conceived from that time, a mortal spite against his father, whom he often reproached for the great wrong he had done him, in ravishing from him this fair prize”. “And this”, adds the writer, “was said in part to have been the cause of the prince’s death; for he could not help loving the queen at the bottom of his soul, as well as honoring and reverencing one who was so truly amiable and deserving of love”. He afterwards gives us to understand that many rumors were afloat in regard to the manner of the queen's death; and tells a story, not very probable, of a Jesuit, who was banished to the farthest Indies, for denouncing, in his pulpit, the wickedness of those who could destroy so innocent a creature.

A graver authority, the prince of Orange, in his public vindication of his own conduct, openly charges Philip with the murder of both his son and his wife. It is to be noticed, however, that he nowhere intimates that either of the parties was in love with the other; and he refers the queen’s death to Philip’s desire to open the way to a marriage with the Princess Anne of Austria. Yet these two authorities are the only ones of that day, so far as I am aware, who have given countenance to these startling rumors. Both were foreigners, far removed from the scene of action; one of them a light, garrulous Frenchman, whose amusing pages, teeming with the idle gossip of the court, are often little better than a Chronique Scandaleuse; the other, the mortal enemy of Philip, whose character—as the best means of defending his own—he was assailing with the darkest imputations.

No authority, however, beyond that of vulgar rumor, was required by the unscrupulous writers of a later time, who discerned the capabilities of a story like that of Carlos and Isabella, in the situations of romantic interest which it would open to the reader. Improving on this hint, they have filled in the outlines of the picture with the touches of their own fancy; until the interest thus given to this tale of love and woe has made it as widely known as any of the classic myths of early Grecian history.

Fortunately, we have the power, in this case, of establishing the truth from unsuspicious evidence,—that of Isabella’s own countrymen, whose residence at the court of Madrid furnished them with ample means of personal observation. Isabella’s mother, the famous Catherine de Medicis, associated with so much that is terrible in our imaginations, had at least the merit of watching over her daughter's interests with the most affectionate solicitude. This did not diminish when, at the age of fifteen, Elizabeth of France left her own land and ascended the throne of Spain. Catherine kept up a constant correspondence with her daughter, sometimes sending her instructions as to her conduct, at other times, medical prescriptions in regard to her health. She was careful also to obtain information respecting Isabella's mode of life from the French ambassadors at the court of Castile; and we may be quite sure that these loyal subjects would have been quick to report any injurious treatment of the queen by her husband.

A candid perusal of their dispatches dispels all mystery,—or rather, proves there never was any cause for mystery. The sallow, sickly boy of fourteen—for Carlos was no older at the time of Isabella’s marriage—was possessed of too few personal attractions to make it probable that he could have touched the heart of his beautiful step-mother, had she been lightly disposed. But her intercourse with him from the first seems to have been such as naturally arose from the relations of the parties, and from the kindness of her disposition, which led her to feel a sympathy for the personal infirmities and misfortunes of Carlos. Far from attempting to disguise her feelings in this matter, she displayed them openly in her correspondence with her mother, and before her husband and the world.

Soon after Isabella’s arrival at Madrid, we find a letter from the bishop of Limoges to Charles the Ninth, her brother, informing him that “his sister, on entering the palace of Madrid, gave the prince so gracious and affectionate a reception, that it afforded singular contentment to the king, and yet more to Carlos, as appeared by his frequent visits to the queen,—as frequent as the etiquette of a court, much stiffer than that of Paris, would permit”. Again, writing in the following month, the bishop speaks of the queen as endeavoring to amuse Carlos, when he came to see her in the evening, with such innocent games and pastimes as might cheer the spirits of the young prince, who seemed to be wasting away under his malady.

The next year we have a letter to Catherine de Medicis from one of Isabella’s train, who had accompanied her from France. After speaking of her mistress as sometimes supping in the she says they were often joined there by “the prince, who loves the queen singularly well, and, as I suspect, would have no objection to be more nearly related to her”. —There is nothing improbable in the supposition that Carlos, grateful for kindness to which he had not been too much accustomed, should, as he grew older, have yielded to the influence of a princess whose sweet disposition and engaging manners seem to have won the hearts of all who approached her; or that feelings of resentment should have mingled with his regret, as he thought of the hard fate which had placed a barrier between them. It is impossible, too, when we consider the prince’s impetuous temper, that the French historian, De Thou, may have had good authority for asserting that Carlos, “after long conversation in the queen’s apartment, was often heard, as he came out, to complain loudly of his father's having robbed him of her”. But it could have been no vulgar passion that he felt for Isabella, and certainly it received no encouragement from her, if, as Brantôme tells us, “insolent and audacious as he was in his intercourse with all other women, he never came into the presence of his step-mother without such a feeling of reverence as seemed to change his very nature”.

Nor is there the least evidence that the admiration excited by the queen, whether in Carlos or in the courtiers, gave any uneasiness to Philip, who seems to have reposed entire confidence in her discretion. And while we find Isabella speaking of Philip to her mother as “so good a husband, and rendering her so happy by his attentions, that it made the dullest spot in the world agreeable to her”, we meet with a letter from the French minister, Guibert, saying that “the king goes on loving the queen more and more, and that her influence has increased threefold within the last few months”. A few years later, in 1565, St. Sulpice, then ambassador in Madrid, writes to the queen-mother in emphatic terms of the affectionate intercourse that subsisted between Philip and his consort. “I can assure you, madam”, he says, “that the queen, your daughter, lives in the greatest content in the world, by reason of the perfect friendship which ever draws her more closely to her husband. He shows her the most unreserved confidence, and is so cordial in his treatment of her as to leave nothing to be desired”. The writer quotes a declaration made to him by Philip, that “the loss of his consort would be a heavier misfortune than had ever yet befallen him”.

Nor was this an empty profession in the king, as he evinced by his indulgence of Isabella’s tastes,—even those national tastes which were not always in accordance with the more rigid rules of Castilian etiquette. To show the freedom with which she lived, I may perhaps be excused for touching on a few particulars, already noticed in a previous chapter. On her coming into the country, she was greeted with balls and other festivities, to which she had been accustomed in the gay capital of France. Her domestic establishment was on a scale of magnificence suited to her station; and the old courtier, Brantôme, dwells with delight on the splendid profusion of her wardrobe, and the costly jewels with which it was adorned. When she went abroad, she dispensed with her veil, after the fashion of her own country, though so much at variance with the habits of the Spanish ladies. Yet it made her a greater favorite with the people, who crowded around her wherever she appeared, eager to catch a glimpse of her beautiful features. She brought into the country a troop of French ladies and waiting-women, some of whom remained, and married in Castile. Such as returned home, she provided with liberal dowries. To persons of her own nation she was ever accessible,—receiving the humblest as well as the highest, says her biographer, with her wonted benignity. With them she conversed in her native tongue. But, in the course of three months, her ready wit had so far mastered the Castilian, that she could make herself understood in that language, and in a short time spoke it with elegance, though with a slight foreign accent, not unpleasing. Born and bred among a people so different from that with whom her lot was now cast, Isabella seemed to unite in her own person the good qualities of each. The easy vivacity of the French character was so happily tempered by the gravity of the Spanish, as to give an inexpressible charm to her manners. Thus richly endowed with the best gifts of nature and of fortune, it is no wonder that Elizabeth of France should have been the delight of the courtly circle over which she presided, and of which she was the greatest ornament.

Her gentle nature must have been much disturbed, by witnessing the wild, capricious temper of Carlos, and the daily increasing estrangement of his father. Yet she did not despair of reclaiming him. At least, we may infer so from the eagerness with which she seconded her mother in pressing the union of her sister, Catherine de Medicis' younger daughter, with the prince. “My sister is of so excellent a disposition”, the queen said to Ruy Gomez, “that no princess in Christendom would be more apt to moderate and accommodate herself to my step-son’s humors, or be better suited to the father, as well as the son, in their relations with each other”. But although the minister readily adopted the queen’s views in the matter, they met with little encouragement from Philip, who, at that time, seemed more inclined to a connection with the house of Austria.

In the preceding chapter, we have seen the pain occasioned to Isabella by the arrest of Carlos. Although so far a gainer by it as it opened to her own posterity the way to the succession, she wept, as the ambassador Fourquevaulx tells us, for two days, over the misfortune of her step-son, until forbidden by Philip to weep any longer. During his confinement, as we have seen, she was not permitted to visit him,—not even to soften the bitterness of his dying hour. And how much her presence would have soothed him, at such a time, may be inferred from the simple memorandum found among his papers, in which he assigns her the first place among his friends, as having been ever the most loving to him. The same affection, however we may define it, which he had borne her from the first, he retained to the last hour of his life. All that was now granted to Isabella was the sad consolation of joining with the Princess Joanna, and the few friends who still cherished the memory of Carlos, in celebrating his funeral obsequies.

Not long after that event, it was announced that the queen was pregnant; and the nation fondly hoped that it would find a compensation for the loss of its rightful prince, in the birth of a new heir to the throne. But this hope was destined soon to be destroyed. Owing to some mismanagement on the part of the physicians, who, at an early period, misunderstood the queen's situation, the medicines they gave her had an injurious effect on her constitution. It is certain that Isabella placed little confidence in the Spanish doctors, or in their prescriptions. There may have been good ground for her distrust; for their vigorous applications savor not a little of the Sangrado school of practice, directed quite as much against the constitution of the patient as against his disease. About the middle of September a fever set in, which, though not violent, was so obstinate as to defy all the efforts of the physicians to reduce it. More alarming symptoms soon followed. The queen frequently swooned. Her extremities became torpid. Medicines were of no avail, for her stomach refused to retain them. Processions were everywhere made to the churches, and young and old joined in prayers for her recovery. But these prayers were not heard. The strength of Isabella continued rapidly to decline, and by the last of September her life was despaired of. The physicians declared that science could go no further, and that the queen's only hope must be in Heaven. —In Heaven she had always trusted; nor was she so wedded to the pomps and glories of the world, that she could not now willingly resign them.

As her ladies, many of them her countrywomen, stood weeping around her bed, she endeavored to console them under their affliction, kindly expressing the interest she took in their future welfare, and her regret that she had not made them a bitter mistress;—“as if”, says a contemporary, who has left a minute record of her last moments, “she had not been always more of a mother than a mistress to them all!”

On the evening of the second of October, as Isabella felt herself drawing near her end, she made her will. She then confessed, partook of the sacrament, and, at her desire, extreme unction was administered to her. Cardinal Espinosa and the king's confessor, the bishop of Cuenca, who were present, while they offered her spiritual counsel and consolation, were greatly edified by her deportment; and, giving her their parting benediction, they went away deeply affected by the spirit of Christian resignation which she displayed.

Before daybreak, on the following morning, she had her last interview with Philip. We have the account of it from Fourquevaulx. “The queen spoke to her husband very naturally”, says the ambassador, “and like a Christian. She took leave of him for ever, and never did princess show more goodness and piety. She commended to him her two daughters, and her principal attendants, beseeching him to live in amity with the king of France, her brother, and to maintain peace,—with other discourse, which could not fail to touch the heart of a good husband, which the king was to her. He showed, in his replies, the same composure as she did, and promised to obey all her requests, but added, he did not think her end so near. He then withdrew,—as I was told,—in great anguish, to his own chamber”. Philip sent a fragment of the true cross, to comfort his wife in her last moments. It was the most precious of his relics, and was richly studded with pearls and diamonds. Isabella fervently kissed the sacred relic, and held it, with the crucifix, in her hand, while she yet lived.

Not long after the interview with her husband, the ambassador was summoned to her bedside. He was the representative of her native land, and of the dear friends there she was never more to see. “She knew me”, writes Fourquevaulx, “and said, You see me in the act of quitting this vain world, to pass to a more pleasant kingdom; there, as I hope, to be for ever with my God. Tell my mother, the queen, and the king, my brother, to bear my death with patience, and to comfort themselves with the reflection, that no happiness on earth has ever made me so content, as the prospect now does of approaching my Creator. I shall soon be in a better situation to do them service, and to implore God to take them and my brothers under his holy protection. Beseech them, in my name, to watch over their kingdom, that an end may be put to the heresies which have spread there. And I will pray Heaven, in its mercy, to grant that they may take my death with patience, and hold me for happy”

The ambassador said a few words of comfort, endeavoring to give her, if possible, some hopes of life. But she answered, “You will soon know how near I am to my end. God has given me grace to despise the world and its grandeur, and to fix all my hopes on him and Jesus Christ. Never did a thought occasion me less anxiety than that of death”.

“She then listened to the exhortations of her confessor, remaining in full possession of her consciousness, till a few minutes before her death. A slight restlessness seemed to come over her, which soon subsided, and she expired so tranquilly that it was impossible to fix the moment when she gave up the ghost. Yet she opened her eyes once, bright and glancing, and it seemed as if she would address me some further commands,—at least, her looks were fixed on me”.

Not long before Isabella's death, she was delivered of a daughter. Its birth was premature, and it lived only to be baptized. The infant was laid in the same coffin with its mother; and, that very evening, their remains were borne in solemn procession to the royal chapel. The tolling of the bells in the churches and monasteries throughout the city announced the sad tidings to the people, who filled the air with their cries, making everywhere the most passionate demonstrations of grief; for the queen, says Brantôme, “was regarded by them not merely with feelings of reverence, but of idolatry”.

In the chapel were gathered together whatever was illustrious in the capital,—the high ecclesiastics, and the different religious bodies, the grandees and cavaliers of the court, and the queen's ladies of honor. At the head of these stood the duchess of Alva, the mistress of the robes, with the duchess of Feria—an English lady, married to the Spanish ambassador at the court of Mary Tudor—and the princess of Eboli, a name noted in history. The coffin of the deceased queen, covered with its gorgeous pall of brocade, was placed on a scaffold shrouded in black, and surrounded with numerous silver sconces bearing wax tapers, that shed a gloomy luster over the scene. The services were performed amidst the deepest stillness of the audience, unless when broken by the wailings of the women, which mingled in sad harmony with the chant of the priests and the sweet and solemn music that accompanied the office for the dead.

Early on the following morning the coffin was opened in presence of the duchess of Alva and the weeping ladies of her train, who gazed for the last time on features still beautiful in death. The duchess then filled the coffin with flowers and sweet-scented herbs; and the remains of mother and child were transported by the same sorrowing company to the convent of the barefooted Carmelites. Here they reposed till the year 1573, when they were borne, with the remains of Carlos, to the stately mausoleum of the Escorial; and the populace, as they gazed on the funeral train, invoked the name of Isabella as that of a saint.

In the course of the winter, Cardinal Guise arrived from France with letters of condolence from Charles the Ninth to his royal brother-in-law. The instructions to the cardinal do not infer any distrust, on the part of the French monarch, as to the manner of his sister’s death. The more suspicious temper of the queen-mother, Catherine de Medicis, is seen in her directions to Fourquevaulx to find out what was said on the subject of her daughter’s death, and to report it to her. —It does not seem that the ambassador gathered any information of consequence, to add to his former details.

Philip himself may have had in his mind the possible existence of such suspicions, when he told the cardinal that “his best consolation for his loss was derived from his reflection on the simple and excellent life of the queen. All her attendants, her ladies and maids, knew how well he had treated her, as was sufficiently proved by the extraordinary sorrow which he felt at her death. Hereupon”, continues the cardinal, “he broke forth into a panegyric on her virtues, and said, were he to choose again, he could wish nothing better than to find just such another”. —It was not long before Philip made the attempt. In eighteen months from the date of his conversation with the cardinal, the thrice-widowed husband led to the altar his fourth and last wife, Anne of Austria,—like her predecessor, as we have seen, the destined bride of his son. The facility with which her imperial parents trusted the young princess to the protection of Philip maybe thought to intimate pretty clearly that they, at least, had no misgivings as to the king’s treatment of his former wife.

Isabella, at her decease, was but twenty-three years of age, eight of which she had been seated on the throne of Spain. She left two children, both daughters;—Catherine, afterwards married to the duke of Savoy; and Clara Eugenia, who became with her husband, the Archduke Albert, joint ruler of the Netherlands, and who seems to have enjoyed a greater share of both the love and the confidence of Philip, than he ever vouchsafed to any other being.

Such is the story of Queen Isabella, stripped of the coloring of romance, for which, in truth, it has been quite as much indebted to the pen of the historian as to that of the poet. From the whole account, it appears, that, if Carlos, at any time, indulged a criminal passion for his step-mother, such a passion was never requited or encouraged by Isabella, who seems to have felt for him only the sentiments that were justified by their connection, and by the appeal which his misfortunes made to her sympathy. Notwithstanding some feelings of resentment, not unnatural, when, in the words of Brantôme, “he had been defrauded of so fair a prize”, there is yet little evidence that the prince’s passion for her rose higher than the sentiments of love and gratitude which her kindness might well have awakened in an affectionate nature. And that such, with all his errors, was the nature Carlos, is shown, among other examples, by his steady attachment to Don John of Austria, his uncle, and by his devotion to his early preceptor, the bishop of Osma.

There is no proof that Philip was, at any time, displeased with the conduct of his queen, or that he regarded his son in the light of a rival. Least of all is there anything in the history of the time to show that he sacrificed his wife to his jealousy. The contrary is well established by those of her own countrymen who had free access to her during her lifetime,—some of them in the hour of her death,—whose correspondence with her family would not have failed to intimate their suspicions, had there been anything to suspect.

Well would it be for the memory of Philip the Second, could the historian find no heavier sin to lay to his charge than his treatment of Isabella. From first to last, he seems to have regarded her with the indulgence of an affectionate husband. Whether she ever obtained such an ascendancy over his close and cautious nature as to be allowed to share in his confidence and his counsels, may well be doubted. Her temper would seem to have been too gentle, too devoid of worldly ambition, to prompt her to meddle with affairs for which she was fitted neither by nature nor education. Yet Brantôme assures us, that she exercised a most salutary influence over her lord in his relations with France, and that the value of this influence was appreciated in later times, when the growing misunderstandings between the two courts were left to rankle, without any friendly hand to heal them. “Her death”, he continues, “was as bitter to her own nation as it was to the Spaniards; and if the latter called her the ‘Queen of Peace and Goodness’, the former with no less reason styled her the Olive-branch”. “But she has passed away”, he exclaims, “in the sweet and pleasant April of her age,—when her beauty was such that it seemed as if it might almost defy the assaults of time”.

The queen occupies an important place in that rich gallery of portraits in which Brantôme has endeavored to perpetuate the features of his contemporaries. In no one of them has he traced the lineaments with a more tender and delicate hand. Even the breath of scandal has had no power to dim the purity of their expression. Of all that illustrious company which the artist has brought in review before the eyes of posterity, there is no one to whom he has so truly rendered the homage of the heart, as to Elizabeth of France.

But from these scenes of domestic sorrow, it is time that we should turn to others of a more stirring and adventurous character.

BOOK V. THE WARS WITH THE MOORS