THE FALL OF ST. QUENTIN
A vast amount of spoil fell into the hands of the victors: among it were
eighty standards and all the artillery save two pieces.
The prisoners numbered six thousand men, of whom six hundred were
gentlemen of position.
Of De Montmorency's fine army of twenty-two thousand men all were slain
or captured, save five thousand. Among the slain were some of the
noblest of the sons of France, notably Jean de Bourbon, Count d'Enghien,
a prince of the blood.
On the side of the Spaniards less than a thousand fell, among them being
Count Brederode (who perished in the morass, smothered in his armour)
and Counts Spiegelbourg and Waldeck.
On the next day King Philip himself rode into the camp; he had left
Brussels and was at Cambrai when the battle took place. He was received
with all the honours of war—with unbounded enthusiasm!
The unhappy prisoners were paraded before him in long procession, and
the captured standards were placed at his feet—the camp was delirious
with joy.
A council of war was forthwith held to decide on future operations.
With fiery zeal Egmont and Gonzaga urged that an immediate march on
Paris should be made.
"Send me on with the cavalry, sire, and I promise you that in four days
you shall sup in Paris!" cried Egmont.
But Philip was as cautious as his renowned father, Charles the Fifth,
was adventurous.
When the news of the battle reached the abdicated Emperor, his first
inquiry was "whether Philip was in Paris."
There were many difficulties to be surmounted ere that glorious
consummation could be reached, and Philip laid them before the council.
"St. Quentin must first be taken! Between them and Paris there existed
many a strong fortress, and wide rivers which must be crossed. Moreover,
Paris would not surrender lightly—its citizens could man the walls with
forty thousand men at least.
"Again, Condé and Nevers, with the relics of the broken army, must be
reckoned with. Ere long Guise would come to their support."
So the King argued, and the council reluctantly agreed that all their
efforts should now be concentrated on the capture of St. Quentin.
Before the council broke up King Philip called Egmont to him, and taking
the collar of the Golden Fleece from his own person, placed it upon the
neck of the Count as the real hero of the day!
All Spain ratified the King's deed; "Egmont and St. Quentin" became the
rallying cry of the nation, and the fame of the brave Hollander reached
the farthest limits of the mighty empire over which Philip ruled.
With royal generosity Philip bestowed rich rewards on the chieftains
assembled in council that day. To Savoy princely rank and high office
near his person, and to all others guerdons according to their rank.
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There was a great meeting in Egmont's tent that night. Thither came the
English lords—Pembroke, Gray, and Clinton—and at the banquet-table sat
Spanish and Flemish nobles of high degree, many of them bearing the
traces of battle upon them, yet all were jubilant and triumphant.
Behind the great chiefs stood their aides-de-camp, according to Spanish
custom, and among these young warriors were Geoffrey, Ralph, and
William.
Ere the revelry had grown to its height and had become uproarious,
Egmont's eye fell upon the three English youths and, with the generosity
of his noble nature, he called them before him, inquired their name, and
shook each by the hand.
"You rode well to-day, my gallant young soldiers, and I saw you deal
many a lusty blow for the honour of Spain and the Netherlands," he said.
"I marked how you stood by the fallen Constable, and though two
Spaniards, as I hear, claim the honour of his capture, you certainly
rescued his body. You will not forget the day of St. Quentin: I will
give you something whereby to remember it."
Then he called his major-domo to him, and taking a huge gold goblet into
his hand, he cried—
"Fill this goblet with golden ducats."
It was soon done, for King Philip had given him five thousand that day.
"Take it, boys, and divide the money among you and toss for the cup!
Well do you deserve it. England may be proud of her sons if they are all
such as you!"
What wonder that Almoral, Count Egmont, was the hero, the darling,
almost the demi-god of those who served under his banner.
This was the bright and glittering side of war. Alas! how little men
recked of the desolation, death, despair and destruction it caused! How
little thought they in Egmont's tent that night of the unburied dead
whose cold bodies lay on the blood-stained battlefield of St. Quentin!
How little of the broken hearts, the shattered hopes, the desolate homes
in the fair regions of sunny France when the news of that fatal day
should be borne to the humiliated but proud nation!
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The next day the Spanish camp resounded with the preparations for the
renewed siege of St. Quentin. Fresh batteries were thrown up on all
sides on which the artillery, captured from the French, was planted,
and, ere many hours had passed, a furious cannonade burst forth upon the
crumbling fortifications of the doomed city. Mines were planted, and
galleries excavated almost to the very centre of St. Quentin.
Yet no thought of surrender occupied the valiant heart of Admiral
Coligni!
It was at this point that his heroism and devotion to duty reached its
height. He knew that the hopes of France depended upon the city being
held till succour came, till the conquering army under Guise could
arrive!
The able-bodied men of his garrison numbered but eight hundred, and
these were half-starved and well-nigh worn out by incessant exertion.
By night, by day, sleepless yet indefatigable, the gallant Admiral
shared the dangers and the labours of his men; cheering, exhorting,
praising every desperate deed of valour and immediately rewarding it,
the Admiral was the very life and soul of the defence!
Help came to him unexpectedly.
De Nevers, with the relics of the shattered army, still lingered in the
neighbourhood, and he managed to throw one hundred and fifty
arquebusiers into the town, though thrice that number perished in the
attempt.
Coligni formed countermines, and in subterranean regions fierce combats
took place between the besieged and the besiegers,—men fought like
demons!
Yet he knew that the last provisions were being consumed, that huge
breaches were being made in the crumbling walls which St. Remy, the
renowned French engineer, strove to repair, under cover of night, with
desperate energy. Huge timbers were dragged to the top of the tottering
ramparts, and under their shelter the arquebusiers kept up a perpetual
fire on the Spaniards.
Thus the siege went on till August 27. In vain did Coligni scan the
horizon from the top of the cathedral tower—Guise came not!
A most furious cannonade from the Spanish batteries on the night of the
twenty-sixth had resulted in the making of eleven great breaches in the
ramparts, and the Duke of Savoy saw that the time had come for a general
assault upon the city.
Early in the morning he put his whole force under arms, assigning to the
English contingent the honour of leading the assault.
Coligni saw that the decisive hour was at hand. He filled the breaches
with his troops, taking charge of the most dangerous one himself, while
his brother Daudelot took another almost equally critical.
The spirit of the defenders was magnificent, each man felt that the end
was near, and they were prepared to die under the ruins of the city;
none thought of surrender, no white flag was unfurled!
Savoy preluded the general assault by a furious cannonade, and it was
not till the afternoon that the signal was given by the shrill voices of
the trumpets for the great onslaught.
Then the English rushed forward, closely followed by Spaniards, Germans,
and Flemish in generous rivalry. King Philip beheld the wondrous scene
from a neighbouring hill, and his troops, knowing that they were
fighting under the eye of their Sovereign, were inspired with heroic
zeal.
It was a titanic struggle!
For a whole hour the gaunt and famished Frenchmen held their foes in
check, and at length the Spaniards were driven off—not a single breach
had been carried.
Savoy gave his men a brief breathing time, then the clarions pealed
forth their wild notes again, and the fierce strife burst forth anew.
The Duc's keen eye had noted a weak point in the defence.
A strong tower on the ramparts had been left with few defenders, in
reliance upon its apparent invulnerability. On this point Savoy hurled
the English contingent, and in one great rush it was carried and the
invaders poured into the city.
In vain had Coligni rushed to its defence, fighting desperately, hand-
to-hand, with the assailants. He was overpowered and, with his heroic
brother Daudelot, was taken prisoner.
Immediately he was led through one of the excavated passages by his
captor, Francisco Diaz, to the exterior of the city and into the
presence of King Philip, who gave Diaz ten thousand ducats.
Then a fierce onslaught by the whole army swept all resistance before
it, and in half-an-hour the city was captured!
Philip entered the city in complete armour, a page carrying his helmet;
and a roar of savage triumph went up from his troops as they beheld
their King. He had never been present at the storming of a city before,
and the sights that met his eye moved even his stony heart to pity.
The wild schwartzreiters spared neither age nor sex. As the Frenchmen
retreated to the market-place, where their final slaughter took place,
the troops entered the well-built houses of the citizens, slaying every
living soul within them and loading themselves with rich plunder, some
obtaining two or three thousand ducats apiece. In pure recklessness they
set the houses on fire, and soon the whole city was ablaze.
Philip gave immediate orders that the fires should be quenched, and that
all who surrendered should be admitted to pardon.
Crowds of women and children threw themselves at his feet with loud
cries for mercy, and he ordered them to be escorted out of the city.
But the cruel storm of savage lust and thirst for blood had passed
beyond human control.
As the flames spread to the cathedral and the churches, the women who
had taken refuge within the sacred walls came pouring forth, panic-
stricken with fear. Many of them were richly dressed, some even wore
jewels, perhaps thinking them safer in their possession than if they had
been left in the doomed town.
Upon these helpless women the wild Germans rushed with savage cries,
their ornaments and even their rich garments were torn from them, and
the mad reiters slashed their faces with their daggers and knives.
An infernal din filled the air, screams of anguish, cries for mercy,
mingled with the demoniac shouts and curses of the conquerors.
Under the walls of the venerable cathedral stood a company of English
soldiers; they had been sent by Philip to perform a curious duty.
In that building, dedicated to his honour, were stored up the relics of
St. Quentin, and Philip had ordered that the venerated bones of the
Saint should be conveyed to the camp with all honour, and that a mass
should be sung before them.
And this while the blazing streets were full of the dead and dying,
while helpless children and hapless maidens were being dismembered,
while blood ran in torrents on every side.
Alas, that the royal pity should thus be extended to the dead and denied
to the living!
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Among the English group stood Lord Clinton's three aides-de-camp, gazing
on the scene with sullen anger. Many a helpless babe and terror-stricken
mother had they rescued in obedience to Philip's own command.
Suddenly a young Frenchwoman, richly dressed, rushed towards them
followed by a mounted reiter. Ere she could reach the place of safety
the trooper overtook her, and with one cruel sweep of his sword lopped
off her right arm. She fell to her feet and the soldier lifted his sword
again, with the evident intent of depriving her of both her arms. But
ere he could accomplish his fell purpose Ralph sprang forward with a
shout.
"Devil, fiend and assassin!" he cried, as he ran his sharp rapier
through the reiter's sword-arm.
The German's weapon dropped from his right hand, and with his left he
strove to draw a pistol from his holster, as he turned fiercely upon his
assailant. But pain and anguish overcame him, and he reeled from his
saddle.
The deed had been seen by his comrades, and, in an instant, a troop of
them faced the English, who had leapt to Ralph's side, with wild cries
of vengeance. They had dragged their wounded comrade into their midst,
now they drew their huge pistols from their holsters and, advancing on
the English, their leader cried, as he pointed to Ralph—
"Deliver that man up to us or we will slay you all!"
It was at this critical moment that the great door of the cathedral was
thrown open and a white-robed procession of priests issued from it; they
were bearing forth the relics of St. Quentin in obedience to the King's
command. And on the southern side of the place the King, in his flashing
Milanese armour, and mounted on his war-horse, advanced to meet them,
greeting the sacred relics with bowed head.
His royal presence quelled the tumult; all weapons were lowered till the
King should have passed on his way. But the King's keen eye had noted
that something unusual had happened—that the English and the Germans
were confronting each other in deadly hostility.
He beckoned Count Mansfeld to his side, the reiter chieftain had been
riding behind him. Pointing to the two groups of soldiers, he said—
"Something has gone amiss. Your brave reiters, Count, are getting out of
hand. Stay here with fifty of my guards, inquire into the case and
report it to me this night."
Mansfeld bowed low in acquiescence, and the King rode slowly off in the
rear of the priestly procession. The instant the King was gone the Count
turned sternly on the offenders as the fifty guards drew up behind him.
The old Count was the sternest disciplinarian in the Spanish army, and
all men knew it. None but he could bring an enraged, riotous reiter to
order.
"Come hither, Friedrich," he said in cold tones of command to the leader
of the German troop. "Tell me briefly, what means this?"
"Yon Englishman," said Friedrich, "ran his poniard through Gustav's arm,
and we were about to avenge him."
"And wherefore did he that?" said Mansfeld.
The reiter captain hesitated, and the Count's face grew sternly fierce.
"Was that the cause?" he said, pointing to where the body of the woman
lay.
She had gone into a swoon, and beside her lay her severed arm.
"I see," said the Count, with increased severity; "and the Englishman
avenged her; was not that so?"
The reiter captain still remained silent.
"Yet you knew of the King's command that mercy should be shown to all
women and children."
Then he turned to his escort.
"Take that wounded man," he said, pointing to the schwartzreiter, now
craven with fear and crying for mercy, "hang him from yon turret
forthwith in token that the King's order must be obeyed!"
The order was instantly obeyed.
The night was coming down upon the unhappy city and no deed of justice,
no royal order could quell the thirst for blood, for rapine and pillage
which possessed the mad soldiery who held St. Quentin in their power
that night. The powers of evil took full possession of the fallen town—
it was given over to sack and pillage.
The chieftains had retired to the camp to celebrate their victory with
banquets, the King was holding high service over the relics of St.
Quentin, the army was left in possession of the city. It was burning in
every part, and houses were falling with thunderous sound.
Yet the soldiers dashed through flame and smoke like demons, in eager
search for booty. The cellars were plundered, the garrets were searched,
nothing escaped the greed and brutality of the plunderers.
The streets were strewn with the bodies and dismembered limbs of the
vanquished, and famished dogs were ravenously gnawing human flesh.
Such women as had escaped had been again driven by Philip's order into
the cathedral, and there were left to perish by famine!
Yet, while sin and crime lifted their heads high and unabashed, there
were three delinquents who met condign punishment, and their case was a
singular one.
Three Germans made their way into the vestry of the cathedral, and they
emerged thence clothed in gorgeous copes and chasubles. Mounting their
horses outside the cathedral, they rode gaily about the burning town,
their strange attire attracting laughter and derision from their
comrades.
By some strange fatality this escapade came to the ears of Philip,
perhaps the royal chaplain informed him of it.
The offenders were instantly sought for and arrested. Philip ordered all
of the three to be hanged! His sensitive soul could not endure this
outrage upon religion, though for three days and three dreadful nights
he had allowed the pillage of the city to continue.
On the morning of the fourth day all soldiers were ordered into camp.
The desolated city was left in peace—it was the peace of the dead!
So fell St. Quentin!
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