It was the last morning of the assault. The sun had risen heavily across
the eastern highlands, flinging his slant beams upon the embattled
armies of the cross, and disclosing, as the mists rolled upwards from
the valley, mangonel, and tower, and battering-ram, and serried troops
of warriors, drawn up in array before Jerusalem,—and now as the shout
“to the Holy City,” swelled out upon the air, and the priests, in
sacerdotal robes, lifted up their chaunt again, the whole vast mass, as
if by a simultaneous impulse, moved forward from their stations, and
with lance, and shield, and banner, and shouts of triumph, and clashing
of arms, marched on to the assault. All Europe was up. Prince and
subject; noble and serf; layman and monk; the rich and the poor; the
proud and the humble; old, young, and middle aged; stalwart men and
feeble women; the knight in his armor, and the boor in his capote,—the
bishop with his crozier, and the friar in his cowl; the halt, the deaf,
the blind; all ranks and conditions of life swelled the gigantic host,
which, gathering new accessions to its numbers in every land it
traversed, had rolled on with threatening aspect over Palestine,
carrying terror and desolation to the Saracens, until at length the
mighty army was now arrayed before Jerusalem, burning to achieve the
redemption of the sepulchre. Yes! Europe was there in arms, moved as one
man, by one spirit. From hill and dale; from city and hamlet; from the
castle of the noble and the cottage of the boor; from cloister, and
forge, and plough, the sons of the church had gathered at her summons,
fired with a lofty determination to avenge an insulted faith, and
scourge back to the fastnesses from whence they came the sacrilegious
followers of the crescent. There was the bluff Englishman, the
fair-haired German, the tall gaunt Scot, the gay cavalier from Provence,
the dark eyed son of Italy, and the wild and uncouth child of that green
“Erin,” of the ocean, lying on the utmost verge of civilization, and
known only by vague rumor as the habitation of man. Ay! all these were
there—there, with spear, and sword, and cross-bow—there, in glittering
casque, and homely jerkin—there, on proudly caparisoned steeds, or
marching with soiled buskin humbly on foot. Soldiers of every garb,
tongue, and nation; men who had been enemies but were now friends;
warriors, who had hitherto lived only for rapine, joined in that wild
shout, and with an enthusiasm they had never felt before, swept on the
second time to the assault—and ever as they marched, in solid phalanx
or open column, Frank, or Saxon, or Italian, they swelled out the cry,
“Ho! soldiers of the cross—on to the Holy City!”
And now the battle was joined. Foremost of all, in his lofty tower,
stood Godfrey of Bouillon, cheering on the attack, and directing his
unerring shafts against every one who appeared upon the walls;—while
beneath and around him, plying mangonel and battering-ram, or showering
arrows on the foe, pressed on the humbler soldiers of the cross—ay!
pressed on, although the missiles of the Saracens poured down like rain,
and melted lead, and scalding water, and fire itself, fell thick and
fast upon the hosts of the assailants. And still on they pressed, and
though the ground was strewed with the dying, and every moment some new
assailant fell, the gallant line of the Crusaders never swerved, but as
fast as one went down another filled his place; and as the long hours of
the morning passed away, and the Saracens maintained their walls,
fighting with the desperation of men who were contending for their
homes, the fearless assailers kept pressing on to the attack, determined
to succeed in the assault or leave their bones to bleach before the
walls. One universal enthusiasm pervaded the whole host. Old and young;
peaceful monks and timid women; the sick, the halt, the dumb, came forth
from the camp, bringing weapons for those who had spent their missiles,
carrying water for the parched combatants, or cheering the dying in
their last moments of mortal agony. And higher and higher mounted the
sun, and sultry and more sultry grew the air, yet still the Saracens
made good their walls, and when the exhausted soldiers were almost
fainting from the fatigues of the day, the beseiged made one more
desperate rally, and, collecting all their strength for a last effort,
they bore down upon the soldiers of the cross, and drove them, with
terrific slaughter, from the walls. Back—back—back they fled, in wild
dismay. In vain their leaders attempted to rally the worn-out soldiers;
they themselves could scarcely support their frames, exhausted by their
heavy armor and the stifling heat of noonday. Further effort was
hopeless. The despair was general. A wild shout of exultation rung out
from the walls, as the Saracens seized the image of a cross, spat upon
it, and cast it, with insulting gestures, into the ditch. The taunt
stung the assailants to the heart. At that instant a shining horseman,
clad in armor brighter than the day, and waving on high a sword that
shone with the brilliancy of the sun seven times brightened, was seen
upon the Mount of Olives, beckoning to the discomposed assailants, and
pointing onwards to the Holy Sepulchre; and as one after another of the
wearied crusaders beheld the blessed vision, sighs, groans, and tears
burst from the assembled thousands, and clashing their arms deliriously
aloft, and waving their banners wildly to and fro upon the air, they
cried out, “Ho! soldiers of the cross—on to the Holy City!”
And on they swept. Horse and foot; archer and man-at-arms; wounded and
unhurt; noble and retainer; Frank, Gaul, and German; the Saxon, and
Tuscan; the old, the young, the middle aged; leader and follower; proud
and humble; free and bond;—on—on—on they pressed, as if a whirlwind
had sent them reeling upon the foe, bearing every thing down before
them, plying cross-bow and mangonel, hurling huge stones that crushed
the foe like glass, and heaving battering-rams that shook the walls as
if an earthquake was rolling by. Ay! on they pressed, for did not the
archangel wave them to the onset? The foe shrank back amazed. Outwork,
and door-post, and palisade could offer no resistance to the enthusiasm
of the Christians. Vain were the wildest efforts of the infidels to stay
the progress of the assailing hosts; vain were their adjurations to the
prophet, their impious prayers for help, their insulting prostrations
before high heaven. The hurricane that levels cities was not more
desolating than the onslaught of the Christians. They dashed across the
plain, they drove in the outposts, they crossed the ditch itself; and
now the tower of Godfrey reached the walls—the bridge was let down—a
rush was made, and a knight sprang on the battlements. Another and
another followed—the Saracens stood palsied—Godfrey, Baldwin, Bouillon
rushed in—down went the sacrilegious infidels who opposed them—a wild
conflict, beyond what the battle had yet seen, took place around the
standard of the crescent; and lo! with a shout that men shall remember
till the day of judgment, the impious ensign is hurled from the
battlements, and the cross—the cross of Christ—floats wild and free
above the towers of Jerusalem. Then rose up the acclamations of
thousands—then pealed the triumphal chaunts of priests—then quailed
the Saracen with fear in the remotest dens of that vast city. The day
was won. The cross was avenged. Tancred and Robert of Normandy heard the
triumphal shout, and burst open the furthermost gates with sudden
energy; while Raimond of Toulouse scaled the walls upon the other side
at the outcry, and shook the cross to the wind beyond the Holy
Sepulchre. Down went the Saracens in street and lane, and open field, or
wherever these unholy revilers of the church attempted to make their
stand. From house to house, and street to street, the indignant
conquerors pursued the foe, until the thoroughfares were filled with
blood, and the infidels lay slaughtered in heaps on every hand; and
wherever the Christians followed up the flying wretches, in mansion or
in mosque, they kept in memory the insult to the cross which they had
witnessed but the hour before, and keeping it in memory, their arms
never tired, nor their weapons slackened. It was a day over which for
ages the Saracen women wept. The mosque of Omar floated with gore; the
streets were slippery with blood; not a nook or corner gave safety to
one of that accursed race; and when, at length, the Saracens rushed in
wild despair to the temple of Soliman, even there the avenging
Christians sought them out, and a thousand, ay! ten times a thousand
impious revilers slaked the earth with their gore. And when the work was
done, and that fearful insult was avenged; when the conquering army had
time to think of the mighty deed they had achieved; when they remembered
that within the walls where they now were the Savior had been buried, a
gush of holy tenderness swept over their souls,—old and young, noble
and peasant, men, women, and children,—and with tears in their eyes,
they cast aside their weapons, took off their sandals, and, rushing to
the Holy Sepulchre, kissed the consecrated pavement, and washed the
altar with their tears. And when twilight darkened over the city, the
vespers of holy men went up to heaven, for the first time after the
lapse of centuries, instead of the accursed Mezzuin’s call. Night came
down at length, and silence hung over the walls. The shrieks of the
wounded; the groans of the dying; the crackling of burning habitations,
and the impious revilings of the infidels had ceased: while not a sound
broke the profound hush of midnight, except the faint gurgling of the
brook of Kedron, and the low whispers of the night wind among the
palaces of Jerusalem. And a thousand stars looked brilliantly down from
the calm blue sky, as if the angels, whose thrones they are, were
shouting hallelujahs that the last day of the Saracen had passed.
* * * * *