During the various religious wars in France, the Reformers had no
more formidable rampart or place of refuge than La Rochelle. Readers
not well acquainted with French history, and accustomed to look upon
France as one kingdom ruled by a despotic king, can form no idea of
the real state of that country quite up to the middle of the reign of
Louis XIV. In all the provinces of France there were strongly fortified
cities, mostly attached to the governments of these provinces. It
was the object of princes of the blood and of the high nobles to
obtain a government; after that, upon receiving offence at court,
or taking umbrage at even an imaginary insult, they would retire to
their fortified city, and set even royalty at defiance. La Rochelle,
Sedan, and some other cities, were the great rallying-points of the
Huguenots, and, in them, the power of the monarchs was merely nominal.
In 1573, they were besieged in La Rochelle by the duke of Anjou,
afterwards the infamous Henry III., the most inveterate enemy they
ever had to encounter. The massacre of St. Bartholomew has fixed an
indelible stain upon the reign of Charles IX.; but more of its horrors
were due to this, his successor, than to him. Henry of Anjou was more
after Catherine de Medici’s own heart than her second son Charles.
This prince could boast of having in his army the flower of the
French nobility. In the course of eight months they gave nine general
assaults, and formed more than twenty useless attacks. An English fleet
endeavoured to throw succours into the city, but it was repulsed, and
forced to renounce the enterprise. The Rochellois, notwithstanding,
continued to signalize their valour by the most intrepid resistance.
The duke of Anjou, returning from visiting a mine, passed by a place
within gun-shot of the city. A soldier, recognising him, took a
deliberate aim at him, and would have ridded the world of a monster,
but for the intervention of his squire, Hubert Devins, who, seeing the
danger of the prince, rushed forward, and received the ball instead
of him. He was cured of his wound, and lived a long time to enjoy the
glory of such an action. Upon the duke being chosen king of Poland,
a general assault was given; but it succeeded no better than its
predecessors. The prince, who had already lost more than twenty-four
thousand men, then resolved to terminate the siege by making peace.
The conduct of the royalists during the siege was the height of
extravagance, injustice, and ferocity: “They sported there with the
lives of men,” says Matthieu the historian; “and I have heard those
say who were near the duke of Anjou, that to pass away the time, when
they were at a loss what to do, they sent soldiers to the breach.” It
is not to be wondered at that an enterprise so conducted should have
had a bad end, and that the Rochellois, pretending to submit, to save
the honour of the court, should have really remained masters of their
city. Near the counterscarp, there was a mill, called Labrande, of
which Captain Normand had obtained the proprietorship, upon condition
that he should have it guarded. He thought at first of fortifying it;
but finding he could not put it in a state of defence, he satisfied
himself with keeping a few soldiers in it in the daytime, who retired
at night, with the exception of one sentinel. Strozzi, one of the
Catholic generals, who fancied he could derive some advantage from
this mill, fixed upon a moonlight night to attack it with a detachment
and two culverins. A soldier from the Isle of Rhé, named Barbot, sole
defender of this bad post, stood his ground, fired, with incredible
celerity, many arquebuse-shots at the assailants, and, by varying the
inflexions of his voice, made them believe that he had a considerable
number of comrades. Captain Normand kept encouraging him from the top
of a cavalier, speaking as if there were an entire company in the
mill, and telling them to hold out bravely, and they should soon have
assistance. Barbot’s artillery being exhausted, he came forward and
demanded quarter for himself and his comrades; and, the defence having
been so respectable, it was granted. He immediately laid down his arms,
and revealed the whole garrison in his own person. Strozzi, enraged at
what he ought to have thought heroic, wanted to have him hung for his
act of gallantry; but Biron, who was more moderate, satisfied himself
with condemning him to the galleys. These men prided themselves upon
fighting in a religious cause, and in civilized times: the pagans of
old Greece or Rome would not have punished such a man at all. The
soldier was fortunate enough to escape by flight a punishment he did
not deserve.[13]