THE STORM OF CARTAGENA.
On the seventh day from the start of the march Scipio arrived before the
city and encamped, the fleet arriving simultaneously in the harbour,
thus cutting off communication on all sides. This harbour formed a
circular bottle, its mouth almost corked by an island, while Cartagena
itself was like a candle stuck in the bottom of the bottle, the city
standing on a narrow rocky spit of land protruding from the mainland.
This small peninsula bore a distinct resemblance to Gibraltar, and the
isthmus joining it to the mainland was only some four hundred yards
across. The city was guarded on two sides by the sea, and on the west by
a lagoon. Here was a hard nut to crack, seemingly impregnable to any
action save a blockade, and this, time prevented.
Scipio’s first step was to ensure his tactical security by defending the
outer side of his camp with a palisade and double trench stretching from
sea to sea. On the inner side, facing the isthmus, he erected no
defences, partly because the nature of the ground gave protection, and
partly in order not to hinder the free movement of his assaulting
troops. The Carthaginian commander, Mago, to oppose him armed two
thousand of the sturdiest citizens, and posted them by the landward gate
for a sortie. The rest he distributed to defend the walls to the best of
their power, while of his own regulars he disposed five hundred in the
citadel on the top of the peninsula, and five hundred on the eastern
hill.
Next day Scipio encircled the city with ships, throwing a constant
stream of missiles, and about the third hour[2] sent forward along the
isthmus two thousand picked men with the ladder-bearers, for its
narrowness prevented a stronger force being deployed. Appreciating the
handicap of their cramped position if counter-attacked by the yet
unshaken defenders, he astutely designed to turn this handicap to his
own advantage. The expected sortie came as soon as Scipio sounded the
bugle for assault, and a close-matched struggle ensued. “But as the
assistance sent to either side was not equal, the Carthaginians arriving
through a single gate and from a longer distance, the Romans from close
by and from several points, the battle for this reason was an unequal
one. For Scipio had purposely posted his men close to the camp itself in
order to entice the enemy as far out as possible” (Livy says the Roman
advanced troops retired according to orders on the reserves), “well
knowing that if he destroyed those who were, so to speak, the steel edge
of the population he would cause universal dejection, and none of those
inside would venture out of the gate again” (Polybius). This last point
was essential for the freedom of his decisive move.
By the skilful infusion of successive reserves into the combat, the
Carthaginian onset was first stemmed and then driven back in disorder,
the pursuit being pressed so promptly that the Romans nearly succeeded
in forcing an entrance on the heels of the fugitives. Even as it was,
the scaling ladders were able to be put up in full security, but the
great height of the walls hampered the escaladers, and the assault was
beaten off. Polybius gives a picture of the Roman commander during this
phase which reveals how he combined personal influence and control with
the duty of avoiding rash exposure: “Scipio took part in the battle, but
studied his safety as far as possible, for he had with him three men
carrying large shields, who, holding these close, covered the surface
exposed to the wall, and so afforded him protection.” “... Thus he could
both see what was going on, and being seen by all his men he inspired
the combatants with great spirit. The consequence was that nothing was
omitted which was necessary in the engagement, but the moment that
circumstances suggested any step to him, he set to work at once to do
what was necessary.”
In modern war no feature has told more heavily against decisive results
than the absence of the commander’s personal observation and control.
Scipio’s method, viewed in the light of modern science, may suggest a
way to revive this influence. Peradventure the commander of the future
will go aloft in an aeroplane, protected by a patrol of fighters, and in
communication by wireless telephony with his staff.
Scipio had achieved his first object of wearing down the defenders, and
checking the likelihood of further interference with his plans from
Carthaginian sorties. The way was thus paved for his next decisive move.
To develop this he was only waiting for the ebb of the tide, and this
design had been conceived by him long since at Tarraco, where, from
inquiries among fishermen who knew Cartagena, he had learnt that at low
water the lagoon was fordable.
For this project he assembled five hundred men with ladders on the shore
of the lagoon, and meanwhile reinforced his forces in the isthmus with
both men and ladders, enough to ensure that in the next direct assault
“the whole extent of the walls should be covered with escaladers”—an
early example of the modern tactical axiom that a “fixing” attack should
be on the broadest possible front in order to occupy the enemy’s
attention and prevent him turning to meet the decisive blow elsewhere.
He launched this assault simultaneously with a landing attack by the
fleet, and when it was at its height “the tide began to ebb and the
water gradually receded from the edge of the lagoon, a strong and deep
current setting in through the channel to the neighbourhood, so that to
those who were not prepared for the sight the thing appeared incredible.
But Scipio had his guides ready, and bade all the men told off for this
service enter the water and have no fear. He, indeed, possessed a
particular talent for inspiring confidence and sympathy in his troops
when he called upon them. Now when they obeyed and raced through the
shallow water, it struck the whole army that it was the work of some god
... and their courage was redoubled” (Polybius). Of this episode Livy
says: “Scipio, crediting this discovery, due to his own diligence and
penetration, to the gods and to miracle, which had turned the course of
the sea, withdrawn it from the lake, and opened ways never before
trodden by human feet to afford a passage to the Romans, ordered them to
follow Neptune as their guide.” But it is interesting to see that, while
exploiting the moral effect of this idea, he made practical use of less
divine guides. The five hundred passed without difficulty through the
lagoon, reached the wall, and mounted it without opposition, because all
the defenders “were engaged in bringing succour to that quarter in which
the danger appeared.” “The Romans having once taken the wall, at first
marched along it, sweeping the enemy off it.” They were clearly imbued
with the principle that a penetration must be promptly widened before it
is deepened—a principle which in the war of 1914-1918 was only learnt
after hard lessons, at Loos and elsewhere. Next they converged on the
landward gate, already assailed in front, and taking the defenders in
rear and by surprise, overpowered the resistance and opened the way for
the main body of the attackers. The walls thus captured, Scipio at once
exploited his success. For while the mass of those who had by now scaled
the walls set about the customary massacre of the townsmen, Scipio
himself took care to keep in regular formation those who entered by the
gate, and led them against the citadel. Here Mago, once he “saw that the
city had undoubtedly been captured,” surrendered.
If the massacre of the townspeople is revolting to modern ideas, it was
the normal custom then and for many centuries thereafter, and with the
Romans was a deliberate policy aimed at the moral factor rather than
mere insensate slaughter. The direct blow at the civil population, who
are the seat of the hostile will, may indeed be revived by the
potentialities of aircraft, which can jump, halmawise, over the armed
“men” who form the shield of the enemy nation. Such a course, if
militarily practicable, is the logical one, and ruthless logic usually
overcomes the humaner sentiments in a life and death struggle.
Proof of the discipline of Scipio’s troops is that the massacre ceased
on a signal after the citadel surrendered, and only then did the troops
begin pillaging. The massacre, however difficult for modern minds to
excuse, was a military measure, and the conduct of the action was not
impeded by the individual’s desire to obtain loot or “souvenirs”—an
undisciplined impulse which has affected even recent battles.
The massacre, moreover, was partly offset by Scipio’s generous, if
diplomatic, conduct to the vanquished, once the initial ruthlessness had
achieved its purpose of quenching the citizens’ will to resist. Of the
ten thousand male prisoners, he set free all who were citizens of New
Carthage, and restored their property. The artisans, to the number of
two thousand, he declared the property of Rome, but promised them their
freedom when the war was over if they “showed goodwill and industry in
their several crafts.” The pick of the remainder were taken for sea
service, thus enabling him to man the captured vessels and so increase
the size of his fleet; these also were promised their freedom after the
final defeat of Carthage. Even to Mago and the other Carthaginian
leaders he acted as became a chivalrous victor, ordering Lælius to pay
them due attention, until subsequently they were sent to Rome in the
latter’s charge, as a tangible evidence of victory which would revive
the Romans’ spirits, and lead them to redouble their efforts to support
him. Finally, he won new allies for himself by his kindness to the
Spanish hostages, for instead of retaining them in his custody as
unwilling guarantees, he sent them home to their own States.
Two incidents, related by both Livy and Polybius, throw Scipio’s
character into relief, and enhance his reputation as one of the most
humane and far-sighted of the great conquerors. “When one of the captive
women, the wife of Mandonius, who was brother to Andobales, King of the
Ilergetes, fell at his feet and entreated him with tears to treat them
with more proper consideration than the Carthaginians had done, he was
touched, and asked her what they stood in need of.... Upon her making no
reply, he sent for the officials appointed to attend on the women. When
they presented themselves, and assured him that they kept the women
generously supplied with all they required, she repeated her entreaty,
upon which Scipio was still more puzzled, and conceiving the idea that
the officials were neglecting their duty and had now made a false
statement, he bade the woman be of good cheer, saying that he would
himself appoint other attendants, who would see to it that they were in
want of nothing. The old lady, after some hesitation, said, ‘General,
you do not take me rightly if you think that our present petition is
about our food.’ Scipio then understood what she meant, and noticing the
youth and beauty of the daughters of Andobales and the other princes, he
was forced to tears, recognising in how few words she had pointed out to
him the danger to which they were exposed. So now he made it clear to
her that he understood, and grasping her hand bade her and the rest be
of good cheer, for he would look after them as if they were his own
sisters and children, and would appoint trustworthy men to attend on
them” (Polybius).
The second incident, as told by Polybius, was: “Some young Romans came
across a girl of surpassing bloom and beauty, and being aware that
Scipio was fond of women brought her to him ... saying that they wished
to make a present of the damsel to him. He was overcome and astonished
by her beauty, and he told them that had he been in a private position
no present would have been more welcome, but as he was the general it
would be the least welcome of any.... So he expressed his gratitude to
the young men, but called the girl’s father, and handing her over to
him, at once bade him give her in marriage to whomever of the citizens
he preferred. The self-restraint and moderation Scipio showed on this
occasion secured him the warm approbation of his troops.” Livy’s account
enlarges the picture, saying that she was previously betrothed to a
young chief of the Celtiberians, named Allucius, who was desperately
enamoured of her; that Scipio, hearing this, sent for Allucius and
presented her to him; and that when his parents pressed thank-offerings
upon him, he gave these to Allucius as a dowry from himself. This kindly
and tactful act not only spread his praises through the Spanish tribes,
but earned a more tangible reinforcement, for Allucius reappeared a few
days later with fourteen hundred horsemen to join Scipio.
With his own troops also his blend of generosity and wisdom was no less
noticeable. The booty was scrupulously divided according to the Roman
custom, which ensured that all was pooled; and as he had so cleverly
used every art to inspire them beforehand, so now he appreciated the
moral value of praise and distinctive reward for feats achieved. Better
still was his haste to make the victory secure against any unforeseen
slip or enemy counter-stroke. He had led back the legions to their
entrenched camp on the same day as the city’s capture, leaving Lælius
with the marines to guard the city. Then, after one day’s rest, he began
a course of military exercises to keep the troops up to concert-pitch.
On the first day the soldiers had to double three and a half miles in
their armour, and the legions carried out various drill movements; the
second day they had to polish up, repair, and examine their arms; the
third day they rested; and the fourth day they carried out weapon
training, “some of them sword-fighting with wooden swords covered with
leather and with a button on the point, while others practised javelin
throwing, the javelins also having a button on the point”; on the fifth
day they began the course again, and continued during their stay at
Cartagena. “The rowers and marines, pushing out to sea when the weather
was calm, made trial of the manœuvring of their ships in mock
sea-fights.” “The general went round to all the works with equal
attention. At one time he was employed in the dockyard with his fleet,
at another he exercised with the legions; sometimes he would devote
himself to the inspection of the works, which every day were carried out
with the greatest eagerness by a multitude of artificers, both in the
workshops and in the armoury and docks” (Livy).
Then, when the walls had been repaired, he left adequate detachments to
hold the city, and set out for Tarraco with the army and the fleet.
In summing up this first brilliant exploit in command, the first tribute
is due to the strategic vision and judgment shown in the choice of
Cartagena as his objective. Those who exalt the main armed forces of the
enemy as the primary objective are apt to lose sight of the fact that
the destruction of these is only a means to the end, which is the
subjugation of the hostile will. In many cases this means is
essential—the only safe one, in fact; but in other cases the opportunity
for a direct and secure blow at the enemy’s base may offer itself, and
of its possibility and value this master-stroke of Scipio’s is an
example, which deserves the reflection of modern students of war.
In the sphere of tactics there is a lesson in his consummate blending of
the principles of surprise and security, first in the way he secured
every offensive move from possible interference or mischance, second in
the way he “fixed” the enemy before, and during, his decisive manœuvre.
To strike at an enemy who preserves his freedom of action is to risk
hitting the air and being caught off one’s balance. It is to gamble on
chances, and the least mischance is liable to upset the whole plan. Yet
how often in war, and even in peace-time manœuvres, have commanders
initiated some superficially brilliant manœuvre only to find that the
enemy have slipped away from the would-be knock-out, because the
assailant forgot the need of “fixing.” And the tactical formula of
_fixing plus decisive manœuvre_ is, after all, but the domestic proverb,
“First catch your hare, then cook it.” Precept, however, is simpler than
practice, and not least of Scipio’s merits is his superb calculation of
the time factor in his execution of the formula.
Footnote 2:
The Roman day began at sunrise.