The Hero of Murten
Before midsummer Charles the Bold had repaired his losses as well as his
means would permit, and levied a new army. His subjects had begun to
murmur and lose faith in his success, but the Duke himself remained
undaunted. He had advanced dangerously near to the Cantons of Berne and
Freiburg, and was now laying siege to Murten, a strongly fortified town
on the lake of that name. He expected it to share the fate of Granson;
but the commander, Adrian von Bubenberg, was a very different sort of
man from the leader of that ill-fated garrison. In vain the besiegers
shot arrows into the town wound with slips of paper bearing such
inscriptions as: “You are shut up here like rats in a hole. The Bernese
churls cannot save you, and all the gold in the world would not buy you
escape.”
Threats and promises were alike of no avail. “The perjurers of Granson
will never find credence in Murten,” was the commander’s reply to all
proposals of surrender; nor was he less firm in suppressing all signs of
wavering within the walls. Summoning the citizens and soldiers before
him, he addressed them sternly:
“Hark ye, all! I hereby proclaim that he who dares to whisper of
surrender, be he of the town or of the garrison, is a dastard and a
poltroon, and shall be struck down on the spot. So shall we separate the
wheat from the chaff. And if one word of fear or weakening escape my
lips, let me be made the first example.” This effectually silenced all
murmurs or complaints; and the Confederates at last assembled an army
and advanced to their relief.
Rough, mountainous country and thick forests separated the Swiss from
the Burgundian camp, which had been pitched on the plateau of Grisach
behind rising ground, and was protected by a so-called “hedge,” a
palisade surrounded on the outside by a wide trench, while within the
earth had been thrown up to form a sort of breastwork for the defenders,
and only the narrowest openings were left for outlet in case of need; to
break through it in face of the mounted guns would seem well-nigh
impossible. Moreover, behind this fortification stood the English
archers ready with their deadly shafts to repulse any attempt at
approach. The position was not badly chosen, and was disadvantageous
only in that it afforded the cavalry no proper field for action.
Through these mountains two travellers were making their way. One of
them was evidently laboring under some stress of mind, for he
alternately spurred on and abruptly reined in his fiery steed, which was
covered with foam, while the animal ridden by his more youthful
companion still appeared fresh. He spoke little and kept his eyes fixed
gloomily on the road that led to the camp of the Confederates. Soon they
were challenged by the outposts, and the elder rider asked to be guided
to the forces furnished by the city of Freiburg. A servant conducted
them to that part of the encampment, and Hans Vögeli, the Captain of the
band, stepped forward to learn their errand. Speech forsook him,
however, when his eyes fell upon the older of the two horsemen, who
reached down his hand kindly, saying, “You know me, then, brother Hans?
I have come hither to fight beside you. That I am an exile from my
native city, I well know, but to-morrow I hope to win back with my sword
my right to citizenship.”
A scornful look came over the face of Hans Vögeli. “So!” he said
contemptuously, “now that your master is on the verge of destruction,
you deem it well to work with us for the Fatherland! Now the vagabond
comes back and expects us to believe that he means fairly by us—as
fairly, no doubt, as by his Duke and by the Governor whom he betrayed
for the sake of a few months’ pay.”
Heinrich made no reply to these harsh words. He knew it was useless to
attempt to change his brother’s sentiments toward him, but turning to
his countrymen he reminded them of their boyhood days together;
explained his reasons for entering the service of Burgundy, and besought
permission to join them in the coming struggle, declaring he would prove
himself not unworthy to fight in their ranks. Many were inclined in his
favor, but Hans Vögeli cut matters short by roughly ordering both the
riders to leave the camp at once. Perceiving the fruitlessness of his
efforts, Heinrich turned his horse’s head.
“Come, Walter,” he said simply, and they made their way back through the
camp to the outposts again. Walter Irmy, for he it was, did not venture
to address his moody companion, and they galloped off in silence to the
nearest farmhouse, where they obtained lodgings for the night. Early the
next morning they were again in the saddle and rode back to the camp,
only to find it already broken up and the army advancing to meet the
enemy. From some horseboys Vögeli learned that the Freiburgers were in
the vanguard and were to begin the attack that day. Slowly they followed
after, and soon overtook the Confederates, who had halted where a thick
forest concealed them from the eyes of the enemy, to observe their old
custom of knighting before battle those most deserving of the honor. The
first to receive it was René the dispossessed Duke of Lorraine, who had
joined the Confederates with three hundred faithful followers to fight
against Charles the Bold.
The impatient Switzers loudly protested against this delay, the more so
as a heavy rain had been falling for some time. But the solemn
ceremonies were not to be curtailed, nor was Duke René, the new knight,
sparing in conferring the coveted honor. Many an honest fellow, indeed,
without the necessary means to maintain his dignities, was forced to
submit to the stroke of knighthood. It came to an end at last, however,
and the handsome young prince remounted and rode slowly back to join his
friends, followed by the admiring gaze of the Swiss.
“’Tis a pity,” they declared, “the noble lord is not of German blood: we
cannot understand a word of his French gabble.” The delay that had been
so irksome to the Swiss proved to their advantage in the end, for the
Burgundians, after getting drawn up for battle in the drenching rain six
long hours, with no sign of the enemy’s approach, had been ordered to
return to the camp, where they quickly laid aside arms and armor and
dispersed in search of rest or refreshment. The jaded chargers were also
divested of their trappings and fed; even the Duke himself, usually so
vigilant, retired to his pavilion at some distance from the camp and
seated himself with his officers at the board.
Suddenly the Confederates issued from the forest which had concealed
their approach and, halting once more, after the custom of their
forefathers, knelt to invoke the aid of the God of Battles. An old
gray-beard made the short prayer, all devoutly joining in the “Amen.”
Just at that moment the sun broke through the clouds.
“Heaven has heard our prayer!” shouted the leaders joyfully. “Comrades,
be stanch and bold! Think of your wives, your children, and your
sweethearts! Forward, Confederates!”
They fling themselves furiously against the breastwork, but the enemy’s
guns tear great gaps in their ranks, and arrow after arrow is sped with
deadly aim by the English bowmen. Vainly the assailants strive to
surmount or demolish the sharp palisades. The bannerman of Freiburg is
struck down. Suddenly the sound of galloping hoofs approaches, and the
powerful voice of Heinrich Vögeli is heard shouting encouragement to his
wavering countrymen. Hailing his appearance with shouts of joy, they
rally, and like a torrent the Swiss vanguard sweeps through a gap in the
“hedge,” Vögeli at their head. Hans is forgotten; all eyes are fixed on
the gallant soldier fighting so bravely in the foremost rank, as gun
after gun is captured and turned against the enemy’s camp. On clatter
the squadrons of Lombard cuirassiers, but the deadly fire of their own
guns, and a furious assault from the Swiss foot soldiers, led by Vögeli,
soon put them to rout.
Still the Confederates pour through the intrenchment. Charles retreats,
hoping to obtain a better position, but close upon him press the
Freiburgers, Vögeli bearing their banner aloft in his left hand while
with the right he wields his victorious sword. The English archers rally
once more; but their ranks are thinning fast, and when their leader, the
Duke of Somerset, is slain they break and give way. Only one band still
holds its ground, the Swiss pikemen, who will not yield. Vögeli, loath
to continue this unnatural warfare, promises them pardon, but they
reject his offer and fight on more fiercely than before. Suddenly one of
them, whom both he and Walter Irmy—who has never left his side—recognize
as Heini Süssbacher, springs at Vögeli.
“Traitor!” he shouts, and with one blow brings Heinrich’s horse to the
ground. Others now have recognized the Captain, and he and Walter are
instantly surrounded and cut off from their comrades. Heini’s hand is
already outstretched to seize the banner when Vögeli’s sword cleaves his
helm and down he falls. Like a wounded boar, the Freiburger struggles to
defend his standard, and Walter keeps stoutly at his side, while the
Swiss strive to come to their rescue. Hacking and hewing madly, they cut
their way through the throng that presses about the two heroes, and
reach them just as Heinrich, mortally wounded, sinks beside his horse,
still clutching firmly the banner of his native city, while the enemy
turn and flee.
Hans Vögeli kneels beside his dying brother and, taking the hand that
holds the banner, implores forgiveness for all the wrongs he has done
him. Tightly clasping the other, young Irmy, speechless with grief,
awaits the death of the man who for two years has been the best and
kindest of friends to him.
“Hans,” says Heinrich faintly, “will you acknowledge now my right to
citizenship?”
“Aye, truly, Heinrich,” his brother assures him, sobbing, and in hushed
tones the Freiburgers standing by confirm the promise. With a sigh of
content the dying man sinks back and soon expires, his pallid features
lit with a smile of blissful peace.
Meanwhile the victorious Confederates had reached the shore of Lake
Murten, where a singular spectacle met their eyes. The Burgundians,
finding their retreat by the south shore cut off, were endeavoring by
wading and swimming to reach the other side and join the Count de
Romont’s force, which had been lying before the city of Murten, but was
now skirting the shore of the lake in rapid retreat. It was a mad
attempt. Already hundreds of the heavily armed soldiers were sticking
fast in the oozy bed of the lake, while those who succeeded in reaching
deep water soon sank or were slain by the arrows despatched at every
head that showed above the surface. Even the trees afforded no safety.
Many of the despairing Lombards had sought concealment among the dense
foliage, but they were soon discovered.
“Ho, look at the crows,” shouted the pursuers, jocularly, “and yonder
are some squirrels!” and the unfortunate fugitives were remorselessly
shot down, despite their prayers for mercy.
That night the conquerors camped upon the field of battle, rejoicing
over their easy and decisive victory, but much disappointed at the lack
of plunder. The following morning the Freiburgers and all who had loved
Captain Vögeli assembled about his bier. Supported by a band of his
faithful followers, the body was borne in solemn procession to Freiburg,
whither news of the event had already preceded them. Beside the bier
rode Hans Vögeli and Walter Irmy. Tolling of bells greeted their
approach to the city, at the gates of which the Mayor and Council
awaited the return of the wanderer; and when some days later all that
was mortal of Heinrich Vögeli was laid to rest in the family vault, the
banner of Freiburg was draped about his coffin, while at the dead man’s
head lay a certificate of citizenship placed there by order of the
Council. Thus was Vögeli’s dearest wish accomplished, and in his beloved
Fatherland he rested forever from the storms of life.