Castro’s disgrace; but on the contrary the King simply announced
the continuance of his banishment from palace parties, while he
distinguished his former services by such honorary rewards as in those
days of high-pitched honour, were more dearly prized and more eagerly
sought, than are the _substantial recompensings_ of modern times.
Donna Gonsalva, soon after, blazing in jewels, and attended by a
splendid retinue of pages and ladies, received the compliments of the
nobility in the palace of Xabregas.--Everywhere announced as their
future queen, her favour was courted, her influence implored: it was no
longer Sebastian, but she who ruled in Portugal.
Don Emanuel de Castro shocked at this ascendancy, which it was in vain
for him to attempt opposing, retired to the house of a relation in a
remote province, where he passed his hours in study and benevolent
acts: his name ceased to be spoken of at court, and even his
remembrance shortly wore out of the minds of the courtiers.
Blended with the idea of happiness and Gonsalva, the enterprize
against Africa, had commenced. Sebastian’s roused spirit once
more breathed war and religious enthusiasm: he directed levies to
be made, youth trained, foreign powers solicited, and a crusade
preached throughout his dominions; he passed himself from province to
province, ascertaining its strength and proportioning its supplies
to its ability: he stimulated the exertions of his officers, by new
distinctions, and solicitously sought to obtain the aid of his uncle
Philip II. who then ruled in Spain. This was liberally promised him;
shamefully withholden!
The prior of Crato, enflamed with the same ardour, and sanctioned by
the title of a religious war, accompanied his royal cousin in these
progresses, liberally offering his revenues and retainers to aid and
support the cause:--he was to make one in the formidable expedition;
a circumstance highly agreeable to the King, who loved his enlivening
talents, and was accustomed to talk with him of Gonsalva.
But the glory of their little army consisted in one gallant stranger,
Sir Thomas Stukeley of England.--This brave adventurer had left his
native country from the restlessness of a disordered but fine mind, and
hearing of Sebastian’s intended attack upon the Moors, came to offer
his services at the head of a band of noble Italians.
The chivalric romance of Stukeley captivated our youthful hero; he
found in him that ardour of enterprize, and those unquenchable hopes,
which he had hitherto believed his own peculiar property. While
they conversed together, both burned with the same fire; prudential
calculations were equally despised by each; danger only, possessed
charms for them, and success, unless torn from the arms of destruction,
was to them destitute of honour.
Stukeley’s reason had once been rudely assaulted by a domestic
calamity; and though it still remained uninjured in the eyes of
most men, deeper observers beheld a lamentable chasm in his once
perfect mind:--an exuberance of imagination had usurped the place of
the reasoning faculty; while his heart, true to its nature and to
its habits, fed this imagination with visions of exalted but often
hazardous virtue.
The wild inspiration of his countenance, breathing goodness and
greatness, never suggested to Sebastian the idea of an unsettled
intellect: what might have appeared feverish ravings in another, were
sublimed by the magnificent eloquence of Stukeley into theories of
god-like excellence, and heroic exploit.--The young monarch listened
to these effusions till their magic transformed impossibilities into
certainties: hitherto his character impelled others; now, it was
impelled in its turn, and borne with resistless force before the mighty
character of Stukeley.
With such a coadjutor, the King of Portugal was enabled to give an
additional impulse to the martial spirit of his kingdom, Stukeley was
a zealous catholic like himself, and the destruction of the infidels
was equally the object of his wishes.
An opportunity of prosperously invading Africa, now presented itself.
One of the Moorish princes who had been dethroned by his uncle Muley
Moloch, King of Fez, Morocco, and Tarradunt, after vainly soliciting
the aid of Mahometan courts, came as a suppliant to Portugal: he
pleaded his rights and his distress; offering the monarch in lieu of
assistance, several valuable territories along the sea-coast.
Sebastian’s zeal for the extension of Christianity would not suffer
him to be contented with a mere accession of territory: he dictated
new terms; stipulating for the half of whatever was re-conquered,
and for the enlargement of every Christian found enslaved amongst
the Moors. But the leading article in their treaty was an agreement
that no Christian hereafter should be forced into the profession of
Mahometanism, and that the Emperor of Morocco should make a law for
this purpose, under the penalty of death to any of his subjects who
should disobey.
By this arrangement Sebastian insured to himself a substantial hold
on Africa; and though aware of the small probability there was that
Muley Hamet should fulfil the latter part of their treaty, he was now
conscious of possessing in this article, (if infringed) a justifiable
plea for turning his arms against so faithless an ally.
On completing this compact with the Moor, and receiving some
mercenaries from Germany and Flanders, the King called a general
assembly of his nobles and ministers.--After eloquently detailing his
motives for taking arms, and the advantages likely to result from it to
all Christendom, he proceeded to say, that he convened his council, not
to ask their advice, but to instruct them in his aim, and to receive
their concurrence. He called God to witness, that his first and dearest
aim was the preservation of unnumbered souls who now groaned under the
sinful yoke of a detestable religion, and perhaps wanted only to live
under a Christian government, and be taught by Christian teachers, to
awake from their delusion: he pathetically painted the miseries of
his captive countrymen to whom the Portuguese arms were about to give
freedom: he then commented on the political advantage of acquiring a
maritime frontier in Africa for the protection of their trade with
the gold coast; and lastly, he avowed a strong desire for honorable
distinction. His impetuous youth here dwelt delighted, and laid claim
to some indulgence for this last infirmity of noble minds: he finished
an animated confession of that infirmity, by these words from Cicero.
“Should we in the pursuits of virtue have any of its rewards in view,
the noblest of all, is glory: this alone compensates the shortness of
life, by the immortality of fame; by this we are still present when
absent from the world, and survive even after death. By the steps of
glory, in short, mortals mount to heaven.”
This speech produced very different effects upon his hearers: the
younger were already converts to his opinion; but the old and
experienced, who had lived long enough in the world to foresee the
probable termination of this military romance, received their King’s
determination sorrowfully. Each, in private, endeavoured to persuade
him of the impracticability of subduing Africa with a handful of men,
unsupported by foreign succours, and depending for their safety in a
great measure on the good faith of an infidel ally: they expatiated
upon the exhaustless numbers of the Moors, and their knowledge of their
own country, where he, would fight upon ground he knew little of,
where in the event of a defeat he might be so bewildered as not to get
back to his transports, and must consequently resign his troops either
to starvation or captivity.
Similar arguments were pressed on him by the ambassadors of foreign
courts; but they served only to inflame the courage of Sebastian, and
to exasperate him against their masters, those cautious monarchs who
proved themselves nominal sons of the church, since they would not
contribute one detachment towards his enterprize. His uncle too, the
Cardinal Henry, opposed the expedition, and aided by the foreboding
lamentations of the Queen dowager, frequently agitated their rash
kinsman by unavailing remonstrances.
Sebastian listened respectfully to each; but, seduced into the belief
of being born for the destruction of Mahometanism, persevered in his
resolution.
To the enchantments of Donna Gonsalva he continually turned from these
vexations: her wit enlivened him, her syren voice soothed the most
turbulent emotions of his soul, and his unsated eyes found ceaseless
delight in following the graceful varieties of her face and figure: yet
Sebastian had a void in his heart; a something unfilled, unsatisfied,
which he placed to the account of the imperfection of human felicity.
Donna Gonsalva was exquisite in person and mind; she certainly loved
him, but her love did not meet either the delicacy or the intensity of
his: her feelings were obtuse in those trifles to which sensibility is
tremblingly alive: she would often pursue her own sprightly pleasures
with such eager forgetfulness of him, as to mortify and displease
him. Two or three times he had entered her apartments at Xabregas
in the bitterness of a spirit traversed and exhausted by political
disappointments, and she had not observed it: his watchful passion was
never one moment insensible to the slightest variation of its object;
not even the mist of an unpleasant thought could shade that heaven of
beauty, without disturbing his repose--and she--yes she, often saw him
agitated or depressed, without observation.
It was at these periods that Sebastian acknowledged the torments and
the omnipotence of love: he saw a defect in his idol, yet he worshipped
her still.
But what could he desire more than to be loved with all the powers of
her soul? if that soul wanted some of the energy of his, was it not
her misfortune rather than her fault? his reason assented to this,
though his heart frequently burst out into fond complaints which
Gonsalva silenced by the warmest assurance of preference. Under the
immediate impression of his grief, she would lose no opportunity
of evincing her tenderness, and then Sebastian’s transports would
return: but attentions which do not flow spontaneously from a natural
softness, seldom are lasting; Donna Gonsalva would soon forget her
lover’s character, because her own was of a lighter stamp, and gay
thoughtlessness uniformly succeeded a short solicitude.
This perpetual inconsideration deeply wounded the King; for a lover
like him, expected to throb in every pulse of her heart. Racked with
repeated mortifications, that perhaps owed their existence to an
impassioned fastidiousness “which I beseech ye, call a godly sin”--he
looked anxiously towards the hour of his departure from Portugal,
secretly hoping to endear himself by danger, or at least to rouse some
of those sensibilities which were as wholly concealed now by ceaseless
gaiety, as when no anxieties existed to call them forth.
Don Antonio was ever Gonsalva’s advocate; sometimes rallying, and
sometimes more seriously reproving his royal cousin for pampering a
sickly sensitiveness, which thus poisoned life’s chief blessing.
Sir Thomas Stukely, ignorant of his illustrious friend’s discontent,
unconsciously increased it; for one night in a walk among the gardens
of Ribera, under the boundless and starry heavens, he poured into
the attentive ear of Sebastian, the story of his early life: that
story, though it might be comprised in a single incident, was deeply
interesting to the young King, whose heart, penetrated with one
affection, delighted to sympathize with every other; yet he listened
sadly, for he thought the more of Gonsalva’s temperate feelings.
The untimely death of a brother, long and justly beloved, had driven
Stukely a wanderer from his country: that brother’s character, made up
of every estimable and endearing quality; his fraternal love “exceeding
the love of women,” were depicted in the heart-wringing language of a
regret increasing with time.
“We lived in our native Devonshire,” continued Stukely, “far from the
excitements and the temptations of a court; ignorant of any mortal
happiness beyond each others deserved encomiums. One fatal day, hunting
among the woods round Illfracombe--my erring spear--I cannot describe
it!--this brother, dearer to me than existence, this soul of my
wretched life, fell through a disastrous accident by my hand!--But he
died with forgiveness on his lips--he died kissing the hand that smote
him!”--
Stukely’s voice assumed a fearful hollowness as he spoke the last
words, his eyes rolled back upon themselves, and his pale countenance
expressed the extremity of despair; but the next moment rapture
illumined him, and he wildly resumed--
“Oft in the dead of night his voice I hear,
Like harp angelic, bidding me rejoice,
Not weep his fate; for now he dwells in bliss,
High, full, seraphic, far transcending all
That heart of man can image, and with eye
Cleared from its mortal dross, beholds the end
Of human suff’ring; weeps no more the woes
Of fellow dust, but sees unnumbered crowds,
Multitudes vast--of ev’ry race and tint--
Dreaming of pain awhile, but to awake
In beatific and eternal Heaven!”
Accustomed to hear his friend converse by snatches in a strain
resembling poetry, Sebastian made no remark on this momentary rhapsody:
Stukeley paused awhile, and then continued:
“After the loss of my brother, I know not what strange calamity fell on
me. I sometimes think I could not have been in my right mind. Memory
retains a confused notion of my having once formed a visionary project
of colonizing Florida, then but newly discovered, erecting over it the
sovereignty of an order still purer and more self-denying than the
orders of Jerusalem and Malta: I can recollect displeasing the young
queen Elizabeth with my romantic ambition. At length, when my intellect
recovered its cruel shock, I found myself in a court, filled with the
professors of a new religion; it was impossible for me to stay, even to
hear their doctrines. I passed from England to Ireland, from Ireland to
Italy, sorrowing and self-condemned for my involuntary crime; there,
my arms have been constantly employed against the enemies of our holy
church. This wandering warfare; this renunciation of home, country, and
kindred, is the penance to which I have condemned myself: may it tend
to expiate my guilt!--My grief it cannot cure.” Again Stukeley mused
awhile, and again he abruptly added, “’Tis a distinguished privilege
to die in defence of the sacred cross! I swear never to abandon it! We
will plant the blessed banner on every mosque in Morocco, or perish in
the attempt.”
Gladly seizing the last subject suggested by Stukeley, Sebastian
forbore to comment on the melancholy commencement of their discourse,
leading him to talk of the meditated war, of which religion formed the
only basis.
Public affairs now hastened to a crisis: the armament was complete,
and the fleet equipped; the Pope had transmitted his blessing, with a
present exceeding in value that of the consecrated rose: it was an
arrow which had pierced the side of St. Sebastian!
In their armour and field accoutrements, the nobility displayed
infinite splendour; and as desolated Portugal could not furnish many
private soldiers, the troops composed chiefly of gentlemen volunteers,
seemed but a gallant shew of accomplished knights.
The royal-standard (embroidered by Donna Gonsalva) was carried in
procession through the streets of Lisbon, to receive the benediction
of the archbishop; it was then delivered into the hand of the Marquis
Villa-real, and the army marshalled around it.
After this august ceremony, the troops prepared to embark, while his
officers and men were exchanging adieus with wives, sisters, and
parents, Sebastian hurried to take leave of Donna Gonsalva: she had for
some days yielded to an excess of grief, and had shut herself up from
all society. At sight of her royal lover clad in the shining livery of
war, she flung herself into his arms with tears and cries; distracted
at the possibility of eventually losing him either by death or changed
sentiments, she wildly expressed a wish to become his by a secret, but
binding tie.
Sebastian pressed her to his breast in a tumult of tender delight,
“dearest treasure of my life!” he exclaimed, covering her fair brow
with kisses, “at this moment your Sebastian is blest to the utmost
extent of his fantastic desires.--Ah, Gonsalva! why have I ever
believed you indifferent, or incapable of exquisite love? be assured
I go now, confident of possessing your heart; I go to conquer for
your sake, to return worthy of you, covered with the spiritual dew
of heaven, its blessing and the blessings of millions:--but ask me
not to forfeit my right to this dear hand, by evading the conditions
upon which it has been awarded to me; I have promised our holy father
to engage in an expedition against the infidels--successful or
unsuccessful, I will return to Portugal, and either share my glory
with you, or--perish the possibility of mischance!” Donna Gonsalva now
redoubled her tears and her endearments; and tying round his neck a
picture of herself, conjured him to remember that her existence was
interwoven with his own.
As the enamoured King repeated his belief of her sincerity, he added
tenderly, “These tears, these sighs, my Gonsalva, can never be absent
from my thoughts: be assured that whenever you think of your Sebastian,
whether at the dead of night, or in the hurry of day, he is at that
moment thinking of you.”
His eyes overflowed as he spoke; he strained her to his bosom, held her
there an instant, then broke away. While moving towards the door, a
favourite dog that had always been his companion, leaped up, and licked
his forehead. “Farewel, Barémel!” said the softened king, “I cannot
take thee,--Stay with my Gonsalva, and be cherished for thy master’s
sake.” On pronouncing these words, he gently pushed the faithful animal
aside, and hastened out of the apartment.
The royal equerries waited with their sovereign’s Arabian, at the gates
of Xabregas; Sebastian vaulted into his seat, and with a soul raised to
rapture by the undisguised fondness of Donna Gonsalva, rode towards the
place at which the troops were ordered to assemble.
There, the King and the soldier took their turn: he rode along the
lines formed by his army, proudly exulting in their strength and
appearance. His animation diffused cheerfulness through the soldiery;
and a short address, exhorting them to patience, perseverence, and
fidelity, was answered by loyal acclamations: the word was then given,
and the army began its march.
The figure of the young King, (clad in a suit of green armour) full
of youth, spirit, and hope, was picturesquely contrasted by the wild
sadness of Stukeley, the light and shade of whose countenance at one
time flashed the fire of a warrior, at others was lost in a gloom of
unavailing regret. Don Antonio of Crato, formed a contrast of another
sort; his gold armour was gayly adorned with bosses and chasings, which
the priest’s vestment did not entirely conceal; his florid aspect
seemed equally free from thought and care: but there was one knight
among the troops whose face expressed many thoughts and many feelings:
It was Don Emanuel de Castro.
Without attempting to see or to address Sebastian, he had signified
to the master of the horse his intention of furnishing five hundred
harquebusiers for the expedition: through that nobleman’s interference
this offer was not only accepted, but he was permitted to head them
himself; and thus allowed an opportunity of retrieving his sovereign’s
lost favour. De Castro now rode among the noble volunteers, with a
serious brow.
His steady judgment, neither hurried away by the romantic sanguineness
of the inexperienced Sebastian, nor actuated by that indifference
to life which left Stukeley without a wish to estimate danger, nor
constitutionally careless of every thing beyond present enjoyment,
like the prior of Crato, foresaw much to apprehend from the inadequacy
of their armament. A thousand gallant vessels, with their bravery
of tackling and of sails, made a noble shew in the bay; and twenty
thousand troops, in all the gloss of unstained arms, and unbroken
spirits, presented an imposing spectacle to the gaze of enthusiasts.
But what were these in reality, when contrasted with perhaps more than
a hundred thousand enemies upon their own ground? De Castro’s prophetic
heart ached in the midst of general exultation.
The various regiments were now embarking: as they marched along the
shore the sun flamed upon their banners and coats of mail; the
inspiring trumpet resounded from all the neighbouring echoes; pealing
bells rung joyously from the city; and at intervals the discharge of
ordnance from adjacent forts, was seen to shake the ships and the hills.
Impatient to be the first embarked, Sebastian rode eagerly through
his people, amid their shouts and blessings, as if returning in
triumph; his youth, his personal graces, and the imposing dignity of
his cause, made every heart follow him. As he leaped into the boat
which was to bear him to the royal galley, he uncovered his head, and
waving aloft his flowing helmet, seemed to be commending Portugal to
the protection of Heaven. By his side stood his favourite page, and
the Duke of Barcelos, two young sons of the Duchess of Braganza, his
near kinswoman, and next heir to the crown: their tender childhood and
gallant mien, their sweet faces, yet wet with a mother’s tears, caused
a momentary pang in the multitude, but the sunny look of the King
brightened regret into exultation, and loud acclamations pursued the
track of his departing boat.
In a few hours more, the whole army was embarked, and then the fleet
weighing anchor, sailed out of the Tagus. Prosperous winds swelled
their sails to Cadiz, where they waited awhile for the promised
succours from Philip II. the Duke of Medina Sidonia feasted the King
and the knights there, with a munificence little inferior to royalty.
After a week’s delay the expected supplies arrived; they consisted but
of two thousand foot soldiers: the enraged Sebastian would have sent
them back to his dissembling uncle, had not the Duke of Medina found
some plausible excuse for his master’s conduct, and faithfully promised
further aid in his name.
Quickly irritated, and as easily appeased, the ingenuous monarch
believed this hollow apology, and returning the courteous
entertainment of his host by conferring on him an order of knighthood,
re-embarked with his army for the shores of Africa.
The Portuguese fleet crossed the mouth of the streights, and passing
within sight of Cape Spartel, coasted along as far as Tangier, where
Sebastian, with his English friend Stukeley, were landed, and the
remaining troops under Diego de Souza, and Antonio of Crato, proceeded
to the fortress of Arzile.
The Moorish princes Muley Hamet and his brother-in-law, Cid Albequerin,
were at Tangier, with a few armed followers, to receive the king of
Portugal: they delivered into his hands hostages for their fidelity,
conjuring their Christian ally not to listen to the deceptive
representations of the Xeriff Muley Moloch, whose ambassador was now
arrived at the fortress. Sebastian re-assured them, though he could not
refuse the Moorish envoy, an audience.