letter from his master, wherein moderation and spirit were admirably
blended. This letter declared the Xeriff prepared in all points for
war, and ready to meet it; but while he made such a declaration, he
besought Don Sebastian to weigh well the value of men’s lives ere he
rashly threw away his own and those of his subjects: he described
with terrible simplicity the immensity of his resources, and the
number of his armies, proving the improbability of success, though the
Portuguese King were at the head of 20,000 heroes. Having exhorted him
to spare to his people those virtues of his, that were yet only in
the bud of blooming youth, he entered into a full discussion of his
own pretensions and those of Hamet; by this discussion he laboured to
shew that his right to the crowns of Fez and Morocco, was superior
to that of his nephew; and that even were it otherwise, the latter
had forfeited his claim by acts of cruelty and oppression. To secure
peace, and the friendship of the christians, he offered Don Sebastian
undisturbed possession of every fortress in Africa that ever had
belonged or did now belong to Portugal, and he promised to add to each
of them, a moderate tract of arable land.
After pressing this proposal upon the young monarch, he once more
conjured him to weigh well the real interest of his subjects;
concluding with a sentiment memorable in a despotic prince.
“You know, great prince, (or ought to know) that the regal power
allotted us, makes us common servants of our creator; then of those
people whom we govern; so that observing the duties we owe to God, we
deliver blessings to mankind: in providing for the public good of our
states we magnify the honour of God; like the celestial bodies, which,
though they have much veneration, yet serve only to the benefit of
the world. It is the excellency of our office to be the instruments
whereby happiness is delivered to nations.”
Negociation upon a proposal of this kind, so inadequate to the grand
object of Sebastian, was not likely to meet with his concurrence:
he bade the embassador bear his refusal to Muley Moloch, with an
expression of regret that such noble sentiments were not the production
of a lawful and a christian ruler. He then dismissed the ambassador,
and went with Sir Thomas Stukeley to examine the state of the fortress.
Stukeley was now become as dear, as he had ever appeared admirable,
to this warm-hearted sovereign: in the close intimacy and domestic
habits of a sea-voyage, the amiable parts of the Englishman’s character
gradually disclosed themselves; and their tastes and principles proving
consonant, the partiality of Sebastian increased so much, as to lead
him into a disclosure, which had more of friendship than of justice in
it. This respected the disposal of Barbary.
Every one presumed that in the event of a conquest, Sebastian would
yield the empire of Morocco to Muley Hamet, and be himself crowned
king of Fez: but he had long resolved to prove the disinterestedness
of his motives, by awarding the throne of Fez to him who should most
distinguish himself in the expedition. To rescue the Moors from
ignorance and infidelity, by giving them a christian monarch and
christian teachers, was the chief aim of his enterprise: unsullied
honour was the only wreath he sought to preserve for his own brow.
By entrusting the secret to Stukeley, Sebastian unconsciously meant to
give additional energy to his friend’s arms, and to secure for him the
new monarchy: our gallant countryman received this information with
grateful enthusiasm; but unwilling to take an unfair advantage of his
competitors, besought the king to communicate it to all his nobles,
when they should join the grand army.
Such generous conduct increased Sebastian’s esteem; he freely granted
the request, adding--“They will all have my good wishes for their
success, but you, Stukeley, will have my prayers.”
Orders were now issued for the Moorish forces under Muley Hamet, and
the Portuguese who had disembarked at Tangier with their king, to be
ready for marching to Arzile: there, the whole strength of their little
army was concentrated.
A tedious march along a hot and arid coast, produced sickness among the
soldiery; when they reached the main body, under Don Diego de Souza,
they found it somewhat enfeebled through the same cause: but a spirit
of enterprize still animated every breast; and as the immediate siege
of Larache was determined upon, a military council was called for the
purpose of ascertaining whether it were most advisable to proceed
directly by land, through an enemy’s country, to the destined siege, or
to re-embark and proceed thither by sea.
At this suggestion of prudence, the rash monarch took fire: he had not
yet learned to separate true valour from that vain contempt of danger
which makes a man put his life to the hazard for an inadequate object,
or for the attainment of a good, attainable by less perilous means: he
vehemently protested against the latter measure, and his experienced
commanders were silenced without being convinced.
During the king’s stay at Tangier, his officers at Arzile had had time
to learn the exact strength of the enemy, and what dependence was to
be placed on the succours so largely promised by Hamet. Don Emanuel
de Castro now ventured in council to address his sovereign, informing
him that their Moorish ally had grossly exaggerated his ability and
the inclinations of the Africans, as they appeared mostly unanimous
in defence of the present Xeriff’s authority. That intrepid old man,
he said, was now sick of a fever, but was yet rapidly approaching at
the head of a hundred thousand men; fresh armies were forming in the
rear and flank of the christians; and should these succeed in turning
their other wing, (which they might easily do, if the Portuguese were
marched inland towards Larache,) so surrounded and cut off from their
fleet, destruction must follow. He therefore suggested the propriety of
extreme caution. At this remark the king frowned, and issued decisive
orders for proceeding to the river Lucos, (upon which stood the
fortress) and fording it, though in the mouth of the enemy’s cannon.
“If we begin to think of defeat, or of providing for our own security,”
he said sternly, to De Castro, “we are lost!--we have nothing to oppose
to this ocean of Moors that you talk of, but the belief that we are
invincible.--Give us only the _enthusiasm_ of our ancestors, and the
glorious field of Ourique will no longer stand unrivalled in the
imperishable page of history.”
De Castro granted the justice of this reliance upon the omnipotence
of opinion; yet a lurking suspicion of the Moorish Prince Hamet, made
him foresee ultimate disappointment: he pointed out several traits in
the infidel’s conduct, which indicated jealousy of the Christians, and
Sebastian admitting their force, promised to observe him narrowly.
The army now began its march towards Larache, and halted between Arzile
and Alcazar-quiver.--To proceed without a decisive engagement, was
become impossible; for the Xeriff’s force, consisting of sixty thousand
horse and forty thousand foot, had advanced by forced marches from
Morocco into Fez, secured the passage of the Lucos, and suddenly shewn
themselves, encamped in the plains of Alcazar.--Don Sebastian was for
immediately advancing to give them battle; but against this step Muley
Hamet opposed many plausible arguments: he proposed that the Portuguese
should draw nearer to the coast, where, in case of extremity, they
might be received into their ships; by throwing up entrenchments, they
could there bid defiance to any assault, and would be secured from
every species of want, by supplies of ammunition and provisions from
the fleet.
“And for what is this delay proposed, now?”--cried the astonished
Sebastian, “are we to abandon our enterprize even on the threshold? are
we to shrink from the very difficulties we have courted, and fly before
an enemy with whom we have not exchanged a single blow? do you think we
came only to _look_ at your countrymen?--In the name of God, prince,
what coward’s counsel is this?”
Dissembling his rage at the indiscreet anger of the young King, Hamet
coolly replied, that Muley Moloch was now master of all the fords and
passages of the Lucos, from the ocean to the mountains of Benzeroel,
that consequently an attempt to force these would be the attempt of
madmen, since their troops were already fainting with a long sultry
march, and nearly destitute of provisions: by avoiding an engagement
for at least some days, they would give time for the arrival of King
Philip’s promised succours, and might be further re-inforced by
deserters from the usurper Moloch.
Perceiving his aim at last, and transported out of all patience, the
unreflecting Sebastian forgot every thing but indignation: he started
from his seat with a look of fierce defiance, crying out, “away with
such dissembling! Moor, I can read your heart:--you would do without
the aid of the Christians. In a few days, perhaps hours, you expect
death to rid you of your uncle, and give you these kingdoms by some
political trick--then would our treaty, aye and our safety, be left
to your honour!--but thank heaven, my brave Portuguese are not to
be thus trifled with!--we shall march forward; if without you, for
ourselves,--for the release of christian captives--for the sake of
the blessed cross; if with you, for your advantage as well as for our
own,--and with a conscientious resolution to preserve _our_ share in
the compact inviolate.
“Prince! we are in sight of the enemy--behold me draw this sword, which
I swear by the virgin mother of Jesus, never to sheathe till it has cut
my way through yonder host!”
A sublime sterness sat on the brow of the young warrior while he spoke:
in one moment the clashing of swords and the murmur of vows were heard
throughout the assembly; as if electrified with the same fire, all the
knights followed his chivalric example.
Hamet was silent: at length he bowed before the royal seat, saying in
a subdued voice, “light of thy people, thou hast not interpreted my
zealous caution with the usual charity of a Christian: let my actions
speak for me!--I will follow thee unto death.”
“Prove that I have wronged thee, Hamet!” returned Sebastian, with a
relenting smile, “and thou shalt find me more prompt to repair, than I
have been to commit, this injury.”
Muley Hamet bowed submissively again; the clouds of passion and
suspicion then fled from the face of the King, and demanding his
officer’s attention, he proceeded to hear their separate opinions upon
the subject under discussion.
Experienced and inexperienced, now decided on Sebastian’s side; even
De Castro voted for giving battle to the Xeriff. Conduct that would
have been prudent at Arzile, became cowardice at Alcazar: to begin
retreating towards the coast, seemed at this period more hazardous
than to risk an engagement; for in the former case, an enormous army
hanging upon their rear, might harrass their retreat, and at last make
an easy prey of the famished and fatigued soldiers: by the former plan
the Portuguese would preserve a chance of victory, or at least secure
to themselves honourable graves.
Gratified with his council, and pleasingly surprised to find Don
Emanuel urgent for action, Sebastian graciously acknowledged that
pleasure, and paying a just tribute to his rival’s warlike talents,
resolved thenceforth only to remember his services.--He now gave him
his hand with a look so effulgently expressive, that De Castro’s
tranquil countenance became agitated with unexpected pleasure; he bent
his knee to the ground, and ventured to put his lips respectfully to
the hand that had been given him;--Sebastian suffered it to remain
awhile in his grasp--then calling his knights to their posts, hastened
out to reconnoitre and to marshal his troops.
All was now animation in the Portuguese camp; dauntless hearts, hot
with religious zeal, made them eager for engagement: the King went
at night from tent to tent, encouraging his men, and rousing their
emulation by proclaiming his intention of instituting a new order upon
that day, should Heaven bless his arms: to the highest distinction in
this novel institution, even the humblest soldier might aspire, and be
enrolled in the same proud list with his commander. From the private’s
quarters he returned to his own tent, where assembling his officers, he
imparted the magnificent prize destined for _their_ reward:--the crown
of Fez!
How does the outward lustre of a crown dazzle all eyes, and blind them
to its thorny lining! ambition, more potent even than love, sees no
defect in its object, but grasps at it with the avidity of a soul
certain of seizing beautitude!--The nobles round King Sebastian looked
at each other for awhile without speaking; then actuated by the same
spirit, cast themselves at his feet in a transport of gratitude; their
tumultuous and lavish protestations infused confidence into their
sovereign, whose breast beat with the certainty of success: dismissing
them soon after, he threw himself upon his palliass, for a few hours
repose.
To sleep was impossible: Sebastian counted the night watches with
impatience, and just as morning broke, had the mortification to hear
rain falling heavily upon the roof of his tent: he leaped up, and
hurried into the air.--The dawn was now beginning to glimmer over
the extensive camp of the enemy, but the sky was moist and dark: to
commence an attack under such circumstances would be fruitless; the
showers blew directly in the face of his army, and would render their
cannon and harquebusses, almost useless;--he was therefore forced to
command a suspension of his orders.
After two hours of incessant rain, the clouds dispersed, and the sun
shone out with intense heat:--the King then hastily roused his page
(Diego of Braganza,) whose childish hands trembled while they clasped
the rivets of his master’s vantbrace.
“What! you tremble my little cousin?”--said he, stroaking his fair
hair, and smiling more tenderly than sportively.
“With impatience, Sire, not fear.”--replied the blushing
boy.--Sebastian gave him a hasty embrace; “thou hast the soul of a
soldier!” he cried, “if I fall to-day, may thy race sit on the throne
of Portugal.”
“I would rather see a son of your majesty’s seated there:” answered
the intrepid child--“it is not my ambition to be a King; but I wish to
make myself greater than an ordinary King:---- I would willingly _live
worthily, and die nobly_!”
“Thou wilt do both, then, my brave cousin!” exclaimed Sebastian, “brief
or lengthened, thy career will be glorious, for that sentiment contains
a life of magnanimity.”
They were now issuing from the tent: Don Diego ventured to remark his
King’s imprudence in wearing armour of a colour, which being held
almost sacred by the Mahometans, would sharpen their resentment, and
enable them to take a surer note of his person. “I chose it for that
very purpose;” replied the monarch, “not to insult them, indeed, but to
be easier distinguished by friend and foe.--besides, Diego, green is
the colour of hope.”
Sebastian now left his tent, and put his troops in motion. If the
genius of Portugal could be supposed to have beheld them from the
heights of Benzeroel, tears such as immortals shed, might have flowed
from her eyes: the flower of her nobles and of her peasantry, were now
gaily marching to certain death.
For the first time since the foundation of their monarchy, the private
soldiers were stimulated by the prospect of chivalric honour, and their
leaders by the chance of a crown:--following their royal general both
as their King and their benefactor, the glow of virtuous emulation was
on every cheek, and in every heart.
The army, drawn up in three lines, now halted on the plain of Alcazar:
De Castro and Stukeley had the glory of leading the vanguard, which
consisted wholly of volunteers; the Portuguese infantry were in the
center, and the rear under Don Diego De Souza; on the right wing were
the Moorish horse of Muley Hamet, and the squadrons of count Vimiosa;
on the left were the royal standard, the banner of the cross, and the
flower of the Portuguese cavalry; round these, were seen the young
dukes of Barcelos, Contiuho, and D’Aveyro, the counts Villa-real,
Ridondo, and Norogno, the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, and lastly, the
prior of Crato.
Attended by his favorite page, the King was seen with his beaver up,
mounted on a white Arabian, riding along the lines, and animating his
men to the charge. His emerald-green armour, (on which the sun now
sparkled) and the white plume of his helmet, (now lifted by rising
winds) rendered him fatally conspicuous.
Meanwhile the Moors were steadily advancing, with all the pomp of gaudy
banners and magnificent attire: in the midst of a chosen band was seen
the litter of their sick, but intrepid Xeriff.
A hundred thousand armed men, approaching in the form of a crescent,
gradually extending their wings to outstretch and inclose a handful
of Christians, made a formidable appearance: momentarily checking
his horse, Sebastian looked at them with some portion of that awe
which a vast and powerful object excites, but without one throb of
apprehension, he believed himself under the immediate protection of an
approving Providence!
Suddenly the Moorish music began to play, and their troops advanced
with a quicker step: the king of Portugal rode to the left of his
little band, and placing himself before the royal-standard, bade his
lords remember that they fought for a crown. “I, for a heavenly one,
and for Gonsalva!” he whispered to himself, hastily darting his eye
athwart the mingled banners of the cross, and of Portugal.
The two armies were now so near each other, that the Portuguese could
distinctly see the Xeriff assisted from his litter to a horse; age
and sickness had enfeebled his body, but his energetic soul was yet
unimpaired. In the act of haranguing his men, he appeared slowly riding
through the lines, with flowing robes, and a long white beard, which
gave him a majestic air: Sebastian pitied his infirmities, and beheld
his grey locks with reverence; he commanded his followers to spare, and
to respect Muley Moloch, should he fall into their hands, and then he
gave the signal for battle.
A general discharge of artillery began the action: the Portuguese horse
charged with impetuosity, their young King, like a destroying angel,
leading them on: his terrible looks, and still more terrible arm,
scattered the infidels on every side. Stukeley and De Castro’s track
resembled the path of lightning; for by the blue gloom of their steely
armour they were distinguished afar off, flaming through the dark ranks
of the enemy.
The Moors assaulted with all the fury of religious hate, and all the
fire of chivalry, gave way in every direction; their nobles fell
in heaps under the arrows, the swords, and the artillery, of the
christians: frantic with despair, Muley Moloch exerted the remaining
spark of life in an attempt to rally them; he spurred his horse, and
brandishing a massy scymitar, aimed a blow at Don Antonio of Crato:
that effort was his last; he fell dead upon the field.
His body-guard with difficulty rescued their master’s corpse from
the Portuguese, and conveyed it to the litter, where his death was
concealed from the army; but the hoisting of a particular pendent over
the litter, by one of his ministers, who had secretly corresponded with
the Xeriff Hamet, gave the signal so long waited for by that perfidious
wretch. He had hitherto hung back in the action; now, he ordered his
troops to turn their arms upon their allies.
At this command, the left wing of the Moorish horse wheeled round,
and took the Christians in flank; a dreadful carnage ensued: the
brave Portuguese amazed, bewildered, not knowing who were or were not
their enemies, fought in darkness; even their German and Castillian
auxiliaries shared the fate of the treacherous infidels, for they now
dealt the strokes of death without discrimination: the presence of
their king all hacked and bleeding, only increased their consternation.
At this critical juncture, Stukeley appeared; waving his fiery sword as
a call for them to rally, and aim at conquest still, he broke through
the squadrons of Muley Hamet, like some tremendous comet that traverses
the wilds of æther, scattering terror and dismay over nations. He
rushed towards the traitor: Hamet read destruction in the deadly eyes
of the Englishman, and took to flight; Stukeley followed; his indignant
threats sounded through the field: gaining upon the Xeriff, he was
aiming a mortal blow at him, when the affrighted wretch threw himself
into a rivulet which crossed their path, and borne down by the weight
of his robes and armour, perished ingloriously. Stukeley looked at him
for a moment with scornful disappointment, then turned towards the
fight.
But he was now surrounded by a host of assailants: their merciless
weapons fell on his head, his shoulders, his limbs; he turned from side
to side, alternately parrying and receiving wounds. Fighting his way
to a ruined watch tower, he placed his back against it, and defended
himself with determined intrepidity; till at length, bleeding at every
pore, and exhausted with exertion, his resistance became fainter and
fainter. He staggered and sunk down. The dying hero cast his eyes
around as if in search of his friend, the next moment they closed
for ever. Thus fell the gallant Sir Thomas Stukeley, in the bloom of
manhood, in a foreign land!
Meanwhile, Don Sebastian was attempting to regain the advantage of the
day: a short contest convinced him that it was no longer for victory,
but for safety, they must fight; of all his troops, there remained only
a remnant, but he bravely resolved rather to die than to desert them.
Antonio, and the dukes of Barcelos and Aveyro, were taken prisoners;
De Castro was sinking under many wounds: the King himself was disabled
in one shoulder by a musquet shot, and was besides smarting with
sword-cuts: two horses had already been killed under him, and after
fighting some time on foot, one of his officers had now mounted him
upon a third.
Again, he charged the enemy with a few gallant troops; again his
powerful arm scattered the Moors like dust before a mighty wind.
Streaming with blood, De Castro followed his glorious path. That
faithful Noble (who had appeared throughout the whole of the battle,
to think only of his sovereign’s honour, his sovereign’s safety) now
interposed his body between him and destruction: the battle-axe of
an infidel was raised to fall on the unarmed head of Sebastian, when
Don Emanuel rushed forward, and sprung on the Moor; dashing down
his lifted weapon, he grasped his body and grappled with him till
they both fell: Sebastian threw himself off his horse, and valiantly
defended him; but the Moors pouring in at every side, like so many
torrents, forcibly swept the brave friends asunder, and De Castro was
taken.
The fight now turned into a slaughter: the Germans and Castillians were
all cut in pieces, the knights and nobles lay in heaps over the plain,
and among the vast army of Moors, but a solitary Portuguese was here
and there to be seen vainly combatting for life.
Retreating towards the river, (allured by a distant figure like Sir
Thomas Stukeley’s) Sebastian met his standard-bearer with the colours
wrapped round his body; animated with the remembrance of Donna
Gonsalva, the King exclaimed, “Brave Brito! let us die upon these.”
Scarcely had he spoken, when a body of infidels rushed tumultuously
towards them; Sebastian fought with the desperation of love; De
Brito and the colours were taken and re-taken repeatedly; but alas!
the strength of the former, was exhausted, and his single arm could
no longer encircle a faithful servant with protection. De Brito more
solicitous to save his king than to obey him, contested at last but
faintly, and suffered himself to be surrounded.
The Moors, clamourous in disputing the honour of having gained the
royal-standard, hurried off their prisoner, regardless of a solitary
individual covered with dust and blood, evidently on the point of
sinking amongst the slain.