In tracing the history of the science of fortification and in outlining
the practice of our own time it has been necessary to dwell chiefly on
the material means of defence and attack. The human element has had to
be almost ignored. But here comes in the paradox, that the material
means are after all the least important element of defence. Certainly it
is inconceivable that the designer of a fortress should not try to make
it as strong as is consistent with the object in view and the means at
his disposal. And yet while engineers in all ages have sought eagerly
for strength and refinements of strength, the fact remains that the best
defences recorded in history owed little to the builder's art. The
splendid defence in 1667 of Candia, whose enceinte, of early Italian
design, was already obsolete but whose capture cost the Turks 100,000
men; the three years defence of Ostend in 1601; the holding of Arcot by
Clive, are instances that present themselves to the memory at once. The
very weight of the odds against them sometimes calls out the best
qualities of the defenders; and the _man_ when at his best is worth many
times more than the _rampart_ behind which he fights. But it would be a
poor dependence deliberately to make a place weak in order to evoke
these qualities. One cannot be sure that the garrison will rise to the
occasion, and the weakness of the place has very often been found an
excuse for giving it up with little or no resistance.
Very much depends on the governor. Hence the French saying, "tant vaut
l'homme, tant vaut la place." Among modern men we think of Todleben (not
governor, but the soul of the defence) at Sevastopol, Fenwick Williams
at Kars, Denfert-Rochereau at Belfort, and Osman Pasha at Plevna. The
sieges of the 16th and 17th centuries offer many instances in which the
event turned absolutely on the personal qualities of the governor; in
some cases distinguished by courage, skill and foresight, in others by
incapacity, cowardice or treachery. The reader is referred to Carnot's
_Defense des places fortes_ for a most interesting summary of such
cases, one or two of which are quoted below.
The spirit of the defence.
Naarden was besieged by the prince of Orange in September 1673 and
defended by Philippe de Proce, sieur Dupas. The duke of Luxemburg
visited the place some hours before it was invested, and arranged with
Dupas to relieve him as soon as he had collected his cavalry. But the
governor lost his head when he saw the enemy encamped round the place,
and surrendered it before he had even lost the covered way. He was
subsequently tried by a council of war and sentenced to be degraded
before the troops and imprisoned for life. The reason the court gave for
not condemning him to death was that they could find no regulation which
condemned a man to loss of life for being a coward. (At that period the
decapitation of a governor who was considered to have failed in his duty
was not uncommon.) This man, however, was not wanting in physical
courage. He was in prison at Grave when it was besieged a year later,
obtained leave to serve as a volunteer in the defence, fought well and
was killed.
A similar case occurred in the English Civil War. In 1645 the young
governor of the royal post at Bletchingdon House was entertaining a
party of ladies from Oxford, when Cromwell appeared and summoned him to
surrender. The attacking force had no firearm more powerful than a
carbine, but the governor, overawed by Cromwell's personality, yielded.
Charles I., who was usually merciful to his officers, caused this
governor to be shot.
A defence of another kind was that of Quilleboeuf in 1592. Henry IV. had
occupied it and ordered it to be fortified. Before the works had been
well begun, Mayenne sent 5000 men to retake it. Bellegarde undertook its
defence, with 115 soldiers, 45 gentlemen and a few inhabitants. He had
ammunition but not much provisions. With these forces and a line of
defence a league in length, he sustained a siege, beat off an assault on
the 17th day, and was relieved immediately afterwards. The relieving
forces were astonished to find that he had been defending not a
fortified town but a village, with a ditch which, in the places where it
had been begun, measured no more than 4 ft. wide and deep.
At that period the business aspect of siege warfare already alluded to
had been recognized, but many commanders retained the old spirit of
chivalry in their reluctance to say the "loth word." The gallant Marshal
d'Esse, who feared nothing but the idea of dying in his bed, was lying
ill at his country house when he was sent for by the king. He was
ordered to take command at Therouanne, then threatened by Charles V.,
and made his farewell with these words, which remind us somewhat of
Grenville: "Sire, je m'y en vais donc de bon et loyal coeur; mais j'ai
oui dire que la place est mal envitaillee, non pas seulement pourvue de
palles, de tranches, ni de hottes pour remparer et remuer la terre; mais
lors, quand entendrez que Therouanne est prise, dites hardiment que
d'Esse est gueri de sa jaunisse et mort." And he made good his word, for
he was killed at the breach by a shot from the arquebus of a Spanish
soldier.
Sometimes the ardour of defence inspired the whole body of the
inhabitants. Fine examples of this are the defences of Rochelle (1627)
and Saint-Jean de Lone (1636), but these are too long to quote. We may,
however, mention Livron, which is curious. In 1574 Henry III. sent one
of his favourites, Saint Lary Bellegarde, against the Huguenots in the
Dauphine. Being entrusted with a good army, this gentleman hoped to
achieve some distinction. He began by attacking the little town of
Livron, which had no garrison and was defended only by the inhabitants.
But he was repulsed in three assaults, and the women of the town
conceived such a contempt for him that they came in crowds to empty
their slops at the breach by way of insult. This annoyed him very much,
and he ordered a fresh assault. The women alone sustained this one,
repulsed it lightheartedly, and the siege was raised.
Arcot.
The history of siege warfare has more in it of human interest than any
other branch of military history. It is full of the personal element, of
the nobility of human endurance and of dramatic surprises. And more than
any battles in the open field, it shows the great results of the courage
of men fighting at bay. Think of Clive at Arcot. With 4 officers, 120
Europeans and 200 sepoys, with two 18-pounders and 8 lighter guns, he
held the fort against 150 Europeans and some 10,000 native troops. "The
fort" (says Orme) "seemed little capable of sustaining the impending
siege. Its extent was more than a mile in circumference. The walls were
in many places ruinous; the rampart too narrow to admit the firing of
artillery; the parapet low and slightly built; several of the towers
were decayed, and none of them capable of receiving more than one piece
of cannon; the ditch was in most places fordable, in others dry and in
some choked up," &c. These feeble ramparts were commanded almost
everywhere by the enemy's musketry from the houses of the city outside
the fort, so that the defenders were hardly able to show themselves
without being hit, and much loss was suffered in this way. Yet with his
tiny garrison, which timbered about one man for every 7 yds. of the
enclosure, Clive sustained a siege of 50 days, ending with a really
severe assault on two large open breaches, which was repulsed, and after
which the enemy hastily decamped.
Such feats as this make arguments about _successive lines of defence_
and the _necessity of keeps_ seem very barren. History, as far as the
writer knows, shows no instances where successive lines have been held
with such brilliant results.
Clive's defence of his breaches, which by all the then accepted rules of
war were untenable, brings us to another point which has been already
mentioned, namely, that a garrison might honourably make terms when
there was an open breach in their main line of defence. This is a
question upon which Carnot delivers himself very strongly in
endeavouring to impress upon French officers the necessity of defence to
the last moment. Speaking of Cormontaingne's imaginary _Journal of the
Attack of a Fortress_ (which is carried up to the 35th day, and finishes
by the words "It is now time to surrender"), he says with great scorn:
"Crillon would have cried, 'It is time to begin fighting.' He would have
said as at the siege of Quilleboeuf, 'Crillon is within, the enemy is
without.' Thus when Bayard was defending the shattered walls of
Mezieres, M. de Cormontaingne, if he had been there, would have said,
'It is time to surrender.' Thus when Guise was repairing the breaches
of Metz under the redoubled fire of the enemy, M. de Cormontaingne, if
he had been there, would have said, 'It is time to surrender.'" Carnot
of course allows that Cormontaingne was personally brave. His scorn is
for the accepted principle, not for the man.