St. John’s day—Arrival of the “little succour”—Assaults on St.
Michael—Death of the grand master’s nephew—Assaults from the 2d
to the 16th of August—Attack on the bastion of Castile—Conduct
of La Valette—His visit to the infirmary—Repulse of the
Turks—Appearance of the succours—Hasty embarkation of the
Turks—Fresh landing, and engagement with the Christian army—They
leave the island—State of Malta after the siege—Building of the
city of Valetta—Death of the grand master—Conclusion.
It was the festival of St. John; there was a pause in the fierce
cannonade which had so long thundered in the ears of the inhabitants
of Malta, and the bright midsummer day shone over the waves, whose
dancing brightness told no tale of the ghastly procession they had
borne on their surface the night before. The morning had been ushered
in with a religious ceremony,—the solemn burying of the martyrs of
St. Elmo, as the people loved to call them; and over the grave La
Valette addressed his followers, and bade them keep true to so bright
and noble an example. “What more can we desire than to die for the
faith of Christ? in His service we are omnipotent.” Then, turning
to the women, he bade them dry their tears, and keep St. John’s day
with their accustomed joy. And so they did, flocking to the churches,
and kindling through the streets those huge bonfires that in every
Christian land, from Norway to Spain, light up the night which
celebrates the Precursor’s birth.
On the 16th of June, the same day on which the first assault-general
had been made on St. Elmo, four galleys had set sail from Messina,
having on board the force designated by the Maltese historians as
the “little succour.” Certainly, after its despatch had been so
long talked of, it might seem _little_ enough, consisting as it
did of only 700 men and forty knights; not enough to replace those
who had fallen in the siege. However, it arrived on the 29th; and
little as it was, it numbered some of the first warriors of the
day, among others Parisot, the grand master’s nephew. They had no
small difficulty in passing the Turkish fleet, and landing at Citta
Vecchia, and were heartily welcomed, though, as La Valette again
wrote to the viceroy, nothing less than 12,000 men would suffice for
the necessities of the siege. Meanwhile a Greek slave was despatched
as envoy to the grand master from the pasha, proposing conditions of
honourable capitulation; but La Valette desired him to be conducted
through the fortifications, and shown the deep ditch that surrounded
the counterscarp. “_This_,” said the knight who escorted him, “is the
place we intend to surrender to your master; but there is room enough
to bury him and his Janizaries.”
Disappointed in his attempts at negotiation, Mustapha prepared
to push the siege with all vigour. Not a moment had been lost in
pursuing the necessary operations; and the blockade was soon complete
both by sea and by land. Early in July the encircling batteries,
mounted with sixty or seventy heavy pieces of cannon, poured their
converging fire on the towns and fortresses and the shipping that lay
at anchor in the Port of the Galleys, and the roar of that artillery
sounded like the mutterings of distant thunder on the coast of
Sicily; but the chief point of attack was the castle of St. Michael,
situated on the promontory, or island, as it is often termed, of
La Sangle. The pasha determined to assault it not only by land but
by sea. To effect this, without exposing his vessels to the guns
of St. Angelo, it was necessary to carry boats overland across the
peninsula on which St. Elmo had stood. The manœuvre was successfully
accomplished; and no less than eighty vessels were thus transported
across the heights in the sight of the astonished Christians, and
launched on the waters of the basin. But La Valette was equally
prompt in adopting measures of defence; and to oppose the passage
of the Turkish flotilla, erected with almost incredible labour,—for
the work could be carried on only by night,—a strong palisade at the
southern extremity of the harbour. This led to bloody combats, half
on land and half on water, nay, often _in_ the water itself, in which
the dexterous Maltese swimmers, stripped naked and armed only with a
short sword, at length completely routed the bands of Turkish axemen
who were sent to destroy the works.
Not to weary our readers with the repetition of the same bloody
details, it is enough to say that St. Michael proved as hard a task
for the besiegers as St. Elmo. Dragut, as has been said, had fallen
in the former conflict; but his place was supplied by the corsair
Hassan, Beyler Bey of Algiers, who had landed at the head of 2500
men. As son of the famous Barbarossa, and son-in-law of Dragut, he
claimed the honour of leading the assault against St. Michael. The
pasha placed 6000 men at his command, and with these, early on the
morning of the 15th of July, he assaulted the fortress from the
land; while the old corsair, Candelissa, a Greek renegade, with the
Algerine squadron, attacked the inner harbour of the galleys. With
the sound of tambours and blasts of trumpets he directed his course
towards the palisades; before him, in a shallop, going the imaums
and the marabouts, clad in their dark-coloured robes, reciting aloud
passages from the Koran, and screaming out prayers to heaven and
curses on the Christians. But these soon dropped aside, and the
flotilla of boats came on, the chiefs conspicuous in the midst, with
their gaily-streaming mantles and glittering arms. The struggle was
long and obstinate: it continued for five hours, during which the
Turks made incessant attempts to scale the parapets, and at one
moment succeeded in planting their standards on the ramparts. But,
fired at the sight, the Christians rushed upon the foe with redoubled
vigour; the Admiral Monté put himself at their head; their long
swords swept the ranks of their assailants; with pikes and poniards
they threw themselves into the thick of the fray;—there also might
be seen Brother Robert, a sword in one hand and a crucifix in the
other, exhorting the Christian combatants to fight for the faith of
Jesus Christ and die in its defence. But even valour desperate as
theirs might have been fruitless against such overwhelming odds,
had not the grand master, whose eye nothing seemed to escape, by
means of a floating bridge which he had thrown across the Port of
Galleys, despatched reinforcements at the very moment of need. Then,
too, was beheld a strange and an inspiring sight: a troop of boys,
200 strong, issued from the town, armed with slings; shouting “A
rescue-rescue, victory!” they let fly a shower of stones on the heads
and in the faces of the foe; at the same instant De Giou, commandant
of the galleys, charging at the head of the new succours, drove
every thing before him, and forced back the infidels with frightful
slaughter. The wildfire glared over their falling masses, and there
was a hurried scramble to the boats, and plunge after plunge into the
water; but even then the batteries played on them without ceasing;
the port was filled with dead and dying, and crimsoned with blood.
In vain they who could not reach the boats begged for mercy on their
knees; the terrible shout rang in their ears, “Remember St. Elmo!” To
all their cries for quarter the only answer was, “_St. Elmo’s pay!_”
Ere this victory was accomplished the pasha had despatched a powerful
reinforcement, which, avoiding the palisades, steered its course more
northernward; but here it became exposed to one of the batteries of
St. Angelo, which, sunk low down, almost beneath the level of the
water, had remained concealed; and now, as the enemy advanced within
range of its shot, suddenly opened a terrific discharge upon them,
which shattered nine out of the ten barges in which the troops were
being transported to the scene of action; and in an instant the
surface of the harbour was covered with splinters of wood, severed
limbs, mutilated bodies, and such few of the survivors as were still
left to struggle in the waves: the remaining boat turned and fled
back to shore. Meanwhile Hassan had fared no better at the breach
than had Candelissa at the bastion. Again and again he strove to
pierce the barrier of mail that defended the chasm in the walls;
his troops threw themselves upon the little host of warriors only
to recoil with thinned and disordered ranks; and when their bastion
was cleared of assailants, and the defenders were at liberty to
succour their comrades at the breach, the infidels were swept as by
a whirlwind from the ruined wall, and the victory of the Christians
was every where complete. Of the six or seven thousand Moslems who
had taken part in the two attacks not more than half that number
returned to camp. The besieged had to lament the loss of 200 fighting
men, among whom were the brave commander Zanoguerra, and Frederic de
Toledo, son of the Viceroy of Sicily. But their confidence rose with
their success; and La Valette, with all his knights, and the entire
population of the borgo, went in procession to the great church of
St. Lawrence, to adore the God of armies, and to suspend above the
altar the banners of the infidels in token of thanksgiving.
Mustapha, now at last understanding the determined valour of the
men with whom he had to deal, resolved to level the defences to
the ground before attempting a renewal of the assault. After still
further extending and strengthening his batteries, he opened a
tremendous fire on the bastion of Castile, as well as on that part
of the borgo which was nearest to it; and such was the crushing
effect of the ponderous balls discharged from the Turkish mortars
that the quarter of the town exposed to that unintermitting storm
of stone and metal was speedily reduced to ruins, and numbers of
the inhabitants were killed. La Valette, however, was as inventive
of resources as was the pasha of engines of attack: his eye and
hand were every where; no man knew when he took repose; by night as
well as by day he might be seen, now superintending the operations
he had ordered, now himself performing many of the most laborious
duties of the common soldier, exhibiting the while the same unchanged
tranquillity in his countenance and mien, which inspired all who
beheld him with like resolution and courage. And yet, amidst his
indefatigable toils, he never failed every day to betake himself to
the church of St. Lawrence, there to implore the blessing of Heaven
on the Christian arms, and its protection of those to whom all human
aid appeared to be denied. Forcing the Moslem slaves to aid in the
work of defence, he caused a barrier of masonry to be thrown across
the streets so broad and solid as to serve for a protection to the
citizens; while on the side of the port he rendered all approach
impossible by sinking barges laden with heavy stones not far from
shore. Nor were the inhabitants less active on their part, but in
all things showed themselves worthy of their beloved commander. Men,
women, and children were continually engaged in constructing gabions,
manufacturing fireworks, preparing stones and other missiles to hurl
upon the besiegers’ heads, and, above all, in repairing the breaches
and fortifying the shattered walls. Nor all this time did they
neglect to avail themselves of the aids which religion offered, but
cultivated in themselves those pious dispositions which should enable
them to gain the plenary indulgence which the Pope had granted to all
who took part in this holy warfare.
Among other warlike devices the pasha at length contrived a sort of
raised bridge by which the troops should be enabled to reach the
battlements safe from the destructive fire of the garrison. Alarmed
at the sight of this structure, the Christians endeavoured to set
fire to it by night; but, after two failures, were obliged to defer
their attempts till day. The enterprise was full of danger, and was
intrusted by the grand master to his nephew Henry de la Valette,
or, as he is elsewhere called, the Commander _Parisot_, from his
lordship of that name. Parisot was accompanied by his dear friend and
brother-in-arms Polastra, and a small number of soldiers. Throwing
cables round the bridge, they endeavoured by main force to pull
it to the ground; but being wholly exposed to the enemy’s view, a
severe fire was soon directed on the spot. The two young knights,
observing their men beginning to falter under the heavy cannonade,
sprang intrepidly forward, and advanced alone to the foot of the
bridge; but scarcely had they reached the spot when a volley of
musketry laid both dead upon the ground. Instantly the Janizaries
rushed forward to secure their bodies, in the hopes of gaining the
reward offered for the heads of the Christian knights; but the
soldiers, guessing their intention and reproaching themselves for
their cowardice in not following the knights, rallied at the sight,
and advanced to dispute the possession of the bodies. After a violent
conflict the Christians succeeded in carrying off the remains of the
two gallant officers, and bearing them to the fort, whence messengers
were sent to La Valette to acquaint him with his nephew’s death.
Parisot was a favourite with the whole order,—the _beau ideal_ of a
young cavalier,—but to none dearer than to the grand master himself.
Nevertheless he received the news with that high and generous spirit
which always distinguished him, and only raised his eyes to heaven
and thanked God for granting his nephew so glorious an end, and
himself a sacrifice to offer which had cost him something. Some of
the brethren would have condoled with him on his loss, but he stopped
them: “Every one of my knights,” he said, “is equally dear to my
heart, for all are my children: the loss of Parisot does not move
me more than that of Polastra. And, after all, what does it matter?
they have but gone a little while before us. So now to your duty, and
let me hear no more about it:” nor was he ever heard to speak of his
loss again to mortal ear. Nevertheless he bade them take him to the
spot where the two young knights had fallen; and, after inspecting
the bridge and its position, he planted a cannon on the wall opposite
to it, which opened so effectual a fire as entirely to destroy the
dangerous erection.
The besieged had now to sustain a double attack; for whilst the
pasha and the Bey of Algiers continued the attempt on the fortress
of St. Michael, Piali, the admiral of the fleet, led the assault on
the bastion of Castile to the eastward of the borgo; and at the same
time eighty of the largest armed galleys kept the sea, to prevent
the landing of the daily-expected succours from Messina. The assault
of the 2d of August was among the most desperate yet attempted: the
pasha animated his soldiers by his presence and his threats, and
with his own hand slew two Janizaries who had retreated before the
swords of the knights. But he fought against men resolved to conquer.
Even women and children presented themselves to defend the breach,
and rendered no contemptible assistance to the garrison. While the
knights and men-at-arms poured withering volleys of musketry on the
assailants as they rushed forward to the breach, the Maltese launched
down heavy stones and pieces of timber, and discharged torrents of
scalding pitch and streams of wildfire on their heads; and when the
storming columns had scaled the ruined walls they found themselves
opposed by an inner barrier of newly-raised intrenchments, behind
which stood a living and still more impenetrable rampart in the
persons of the brethren of St. John. Great was the confusion and
slaughter among the infidels: stunned by the incessant and increasing
violence of the fiery hurricane that beat upon them, and entangled
among the sharp-pointed spikes with which the ruins had every where
been thickly planted, their disordered ranks reeled and broke as
though the earth were quaking beneath their feet, and, in spite of
all their leaders could do, turned and fled precipitately to their
trenches, leaving the breach encumbered with their dead. Again and
again, refreshed and reinforced, the Turks returned to the assault,
and as often recoiled before the terrible prowess of the Christian
chivalry, until at length, as the day wore on, and all his resources
had been tried in vain, the pasha gave the word to retire; and from
both bastion and fortress his baffled hosts withdrew in discomfiture
and dismay.
Assaults again upon the morrow, and on each succeeding day, but with
the same result; and then came the intelligence that 160 vessels
and 15,000 troops were assembled in the ports of Sicily and about
to sail. Mustapha was well-nigh in despair; but knowing that a
failure and abandonment of the siege would entail certain disgrace
at the hands of Solyman, he resolved on an extraordinary effort—an
assault-general, made by relief-parties of his troops, and kept
up without cessation till the physical strength of the exhausted
garrison must perforce be worn out; and this was accordingly fixed to
commence on the 7th of August.
He chose the hour of noon, when, in that burning climate, the knights
would, he judged, be unfit for great exertions. The morning, too,
passing in comparative quiet, was calculated to throw them off their
guard. Suddenly, in the midday stillness, the explosion of a mine,
and the cries from the wall of “Castile! Castile!” drew all eyes to
the spot thus indicated. Floating over the bastion, they beheld a
huge red banner, with its gilded pole and black horse-tail; and the
alarming rumour spread rapidly through the city that the bastion was
in the possession of the enemy. A few moments more and the infidels
would have been in the heart of the town. Brother William, a chaplain
of the order, ran instantly to seek the grand master, whom he found
standing, as was his wont, in the great square unarmed. “My lord,” he
exclaimed, “Castile is lost! and the borgo will soon be in the hands
of the enemy; you will surely retire to St. Angelo.” La Valette,
without a gesture of surprise, took his helmet from his page’s hands,
and a lance from the nearest soldier: “Come, gentlemen,” he said to
the knights surrounding him, “we are wanted at the bastion; let us
die together:” and, regardless of the entreaties of his followers
that he would not needlessly expose his person, he hurried to the
spot. The alarm-bell was rung, a crowd of citizens rallied round
him, and at their head he fell upon the Turks. A terrific struggle
ensued, and the life of the grand master seemed in momentary peril.
Mendoza, who stood by his side amidst a heap of slain, implored him
to retire; he even knelt at his feet, conjuring him not to expose
a life, on the preservation of which hung the only hopes of the
city and the order; but La Valette answered him by a gesture of his
hand: “Do you see those banners,” he said, pointing to the Turkish
standards, “and ask me to retire before they are trampled in the
dust?” Then, heading the attack, with his own hand he tore them from
the ramparts, and planting himself among the pikemen who defended the
breach, remained there till, after a long and bloody contest, the
enemy had retreated. So soon as all immediate danger was over he bade
his attendants prepare him some accommodation in this bastion, which
he intended thenceforth to make his residence. He believed that the
enemy had withdrawn only to return under cover of the night; and in
reply to the knights who opposed his design he only answered, that at
seventy years of age he had nothing better to hope for than to die in
the midst of his children, and in defence of the faith.
The Christians kept strict watch and ward; and, as La Valette
expected, darkness had no sooner fallen than the infidels, knowing
that no time had been given for throwing up new intrenchments, ran
swiftly to the breach, while the whole scene was suddenly lighted
up by incessant discharges of artillery, and by thousands of fiery
missiles that came flaming and darting through the air. They had
hoped to surprise the garrison exhausted by the day’s encounter,
and sunk in profound repose; but they found the walls ready manned
to receive them, and were met by such volleys of well-directed
musketry, and by such a renewal of those deadly showers, the effects
of which they had so well learnt to dread, that neither the threats
nor the blows of their infuriated chiefs could urge them to the
charge; and the broken routed columns rushed back as they had come,
and abandoned the attempt. The Christians, in their joy at the
hard-earned victory, forgot not Him from whom it came: in the morning
a _Te Deum_ was sung in public thanksgiving; and, if it were not
performed with all the solemnity usual in the order of St. John, at
least it was accompanied (says the chronicler) with tears of grateful
devotion and of true contrition from the eyes of many a man as well
as woman in the assembled crowd.
During the bloody assaults of the long days that followed, La
Valette and his pike were ever in the front of the defence; severely
wounded, he concealed his hurt, and by his words and example inspired
soldiers and citizens with the same ardour that animated the knights
themselves. The fight became too close for musketry; it was hand to
hand, with pike and poniard, renewed every day, and scarcely ceasing
even during night: for the design of the pasha was to do by the whole
city as he had done by St. Elmo, and make himself master of the place
simply by the annihilation of all its defenders. Proclamations went
through the Turkish camp that the city was to be sacked, and every
living soul destroyed, with the exception of the grand master, who
was to be carried in chains to Constantinople. La Valette heard of
this boastful threat: “Yet,” he said to his knights, “it will hardly
be as the pasha thinks; sooner than suffer a grand master of the
order of St. John to appear before the sultan in chains, I will take
the dress of one of my own pikemen, and die among the battalions of
the infidels at their next rush upon the breach.”
Meanwhile the condition of the besieged grew every day more
desperate; their numbers reduced by half, and the survivors wounded,
and well-nigh dying of fatigue; powder failing, and the ramparts all
ruined and shattered by the cannon; breaches every where, and some
so large that thirty men abreast could ride through them, dismount
and mount again with ease; whilst in many places there rose over the
walls enormous mounds, erected by the Turks, and furnished with
cannon, which entirely commanded the quarters of the city against
which they were directed. Every invention of military skill known
to Turkish science was tried in turn by the pasha, and failed: his
mines were countermined; his movable towers were burnt and destroyed;
a huge machine which he caused to be constructed, capacious as a
hogshead and filled with all manner of combustibles, and which was
launched by engines on to the rampart of the bastion, was thrown back
upon its constructors, and, bursting in its fall, dealt terrific
havoc around.
At length, on the 20th of August, a letter was thrown into the borgo,
and brought to the grand master, who opened it in the presence of
his council, and found but one word, “_Thursday_;” which he rightly
interpreted to be a warning from some friendly hand to prepare for a
new assault on the 23d. In fact, it was the last effort of Mustapha,
who found that, whatever might be his own resolution, the spirits of
his troops were fast giving way under their repeated failures; and
it was only when the emirs and chief officers of the army offered to
make the assault alone, that the Janizaries and inferior troops could
be induced to move. La Valette, who foresaw that a great struggle
was at hand, and felt that he had no means of meeting a general
attack with his reduced numbers, proceeded to the infirmary, and
addressed the wounded knights. “I am likewise wounded,” he said, “yet
I continue on duty; so also do others who have never left the walls.
It remains to be seen whether you whom I see around me are content
to be massacred in your beds, rather than to die like men upon the
parapets; for to that crisis are we come.” Such an address had the
effect he intended. “Death on the breach!” burst from the lips of
all. La Valette answered their shout with a pleased and approving
smile; and distributing them among the various quarters where their
presence was most needed, he felt well assured that the sense of
wounded honour would wring from them a resistance so long as life
remained.
The walls during those three days were strangely manned: wounded men,
with arms and heads bound up in bloody cloths; women, with casque
and cuirass, assumed to deceive the enemy with the appearance of
a garrison, the skeleton of which alone was left; guns worked by
feeble children,—sometimes the strongest and best fit to fight of
all the forces that were there. The assault one day lasted _twelve
hours_,—the bloodiest and fiercest that had yet been made; the
enormous platform, or “cavalier,” as it was called, which rose above
the parapet afforded such a position for the Turkish musketeers,
that no one appeared on the walls but he fell instantly under their
deadly aim. Nothing silenced their fire; and night alone brought a
brief respite, which was employed by the grand master in assembling
a council of his knights to determine what steps should be taken in
the deplorable condition to which they were now reduced. The majority
of the grand crosses and dignitaries of the order were for abandoning
the outworks, and retiring with what strength they had left to the
castle of St. Angelo, where they might hope to hold out till the
arrival of the succour; but to this plan La Valette would not for a
moment consent. He rejected it with as much horror as though he had
been required to surrender the city to the infidels; for, good and
Christian veteran as he was, he well knew that St. Angelo, though
capable of receiving the troops and fighting men, could offer no
protection to the women and defenceless citizens, who, in case of
such a resolution being taken, must be given up to the fury of the
enemy: St. Michael and its brave defenders must also be abandoned to
their fate. “No, brethren,” he said, addressing the assembly, “we
will all die together, and on our walls, as becomes our profession,
if first, by God’s blessing, we do not drive these Turkish dogs from
thence.”
So the day dawned on a fresh scene of battle; the Turks, maddened
to frenzy, seemed callous to musketry and stones and boiling oil,
and gaining rampart after rampart, stood at length with nothing to
separate them from the Christians who held the city but a stockade
of wood, behind which the garrison was drawn up; but beyond that
they could not pass. As to the bastion of Castile, La Valette had
declared his resolution of remaining in it to the last; and calling
in almost all the forces which garrisoned St. Angelo, he caused the
wooden bridge which connected it with the borgo to be sawn asunder,
thus cutting off the possibility of retreat. On the last day of
August, the pasha made an attempt on Citta Vecchia, leaving Piali
to continue the assault on the borgo and St. Michael. Mesquita, a
brave Portuguese, commanded there; and on the news of the enemy’s
approach, dressed up his walls with banners and pikes, women again
assuming their casques and muskets, and crowding to the ramparts; for
indeed the place was almost wholly without defenders, yet a warlike
aspect was so well sustained, that no real assault was attempted.
In fact the siege was drawing to its close: ammunition was failing;
twenty-five days’ provision was all that remained in the Turkish
camp; a dysentery, the result of the great heat, bad food, and
constant exposure, was carrying off large numbers every day; the
troops were disheartened, and the garrison, as it seemed to them,
invincible; and when, on the 4th of September, the sails of the
Sicilian galleys were seen on the broad horizon, nothing more was
needed to complete the discomfiture of the infidels.
The succour so long promised consisted of about 11,000 men, 200
being knights of the order, with whom were associated a number of
volunteer adventurers of the best blood of Spain, Italy, and France,
eager to join in a defence whose fame had now spread through Europe,
and bade fair to surpass in glory even that of Rhodes. At the first
news of their approach a kind of consternation seized the two pashas,
and they resolved on a hasty embarkment of their troops. Without
waiting to ascertain the strength of the force opposed to them,
they made every preparation for retiring; the garrison which had
been posted at St. Elmo was called in, the artillery was abandoned,
and a precipitate retreat commenced. As morning broke on the 8th of
September, the festival of Our Lady’s Nativity, the weary watchers
once more dragged themselves to the walls. Taught by bitter and
repeated disappointments, they had put no trust in the reported sight
of those distant sails, and treated the talk of the Sicilian succours
as a delusive dream; no news had yet reached them of the landing of
the troops, which had, indeed, taken place on the preceding evening,
in a distant part of the island, the forces being then in full march
upon the town. Nothing, therefore, was looked for by the garrison,
now reduced to six hundred feeble men, but a renewal of the long
struggle which had lasted without interruption for so many weeks.
Yet, though exhausted in body, their confidence and courage were
unshaken; leaning from the ramparts, they even defied their enemies
to the assault, shouting to them to come on, and do their worst,
without waiting for the sunrise. There was no answer, only a clang
of arms that seemed dying away in the distance. “Heard you that?”
suddenly exclaimed one of the men; “surely those were the Janizary
trumpets sounding from the shore. And down there yonder, beneath the
walls, what can be the meaning of those marshalled troops defiling
from the trenches towards the camp? Either my eyes are blinded by
long watching, or the infidels are in retreat.”
The strange news spread quickly from mouth to mouth, and La Valette,
as soon as he was convinced of its truth, ordered a sortie to be made
from the walls and the intrenchments of the enemy to be destroyed,
as a precaution in case of their return; for indeed the whole thing
seemed inexplicable, and, as he suspected, might be nothing but a
feint to conceal some deep design. Women and children worked with
right good will at the task of destruction; and before nightfall the
complicated works of the Turkish engineers presented a spectacle
of utter confusion. A party was also despatched to take possession
of the abandoned fortress of St. Elmo; and the infidels, from the
decks of their vessels, had the chagrin of seeing the banner of St.
John floating once more over those hardly-contested walls. They
could hear, too, the sonorous peal of the church-bells, silent
for three months, except to give out martial signals or notes of
alarm; but which now burst merrily forth from every tower and
steeple, to celebrate at once the birthday of the Mother of God and
the unhoped-for deliverance of her clients. Never sounded sweeter
music to human ears than that which once more summoned the faithful
to Mass; and doubtless the Rhodians who might be found among the
population were not slow in attributing their happy fortune to
the intercession of Our Lady of Philermos.[46] La Valette headed
the people in a procession to the great church of St. John, where
with hearts flowing over with joy, they gave thanks to God and His
blessed Mother for the mercy so signally vouchsafed. Nor was it long
before the certainty of the good news was ascertained, and its cause
explained by intelligence of the arrival of the Sicilian troops.
Meanwhile the pasha had scarcely entered his vessel when he was
overwhelmed with shame at the thought of having abandoned the city
at the first rumour of relief. The whole Christian forces scarcely
numbered half his own; and it seemed as though by an able movement
he might easily crush the new-comers, and regain his position before
the town, which he well knew was at its last extremity. To land
again, after having but just completed so hurried an embarkment, had
certainly a foolish look about it; but the council of war agreed it
was the only measure that could retrieve the honour of their arms;
and so, despite the unwillingness of the troops, they were once
more put on shore, and marched in the direction of the Christian
forces. The two armies came up to one another in the neighbourhood
of Citta Notabile, and an engagement immediately took place. The
Sicilians were commanded by Ascanio de la Corña; while the knights
who accompanied them were led by Alvarez de Sandé, who led the attack
with characteristic ardour. The Turkish soldiers, dispirited and
fatigued, scarcely made a show of resistance; but at the first charge
turned and fled to the Port of St. Paul, where the Bey of Algiers,
with 1500 men, was waiting to cover their retreat to the boats. The
unfortunate pasha, endeavouring in vain to rally the fugitives, was
hurried along with his cowardly troops, and twice narrowly escaped
falling into the hands of the Christians. The Sicilians followed the
pursuit as though it had been a stag-hunt; and in their thoughtless
impetuosity threw off their cuirasses, and broke their ranks, to
enable them the more speedily to overtake the flying enemy,—an
imprudence which was near costing them dear: for on arriving at
the place of embarkation, they were met by the Bey of Algiers, who
charged them with great fury, and would have carried off a number
of prisoners but for the timely arrival of De Sandé. Then the Turks
no longer preserved even the form of a retreat; there was a general
rush to the boats, the Christians pursuing the infidels even into
the sea, where great numbers of the enemy were slain, or perished in
the waters. This victory put the last stroke to the discomfiture of
the pasha, and before sunset the sails of the Moslem fleet were seen
sinking on the eastern horizon.
Such was the end of this memorable siege, which had lasted four
months; the last of which may be said to have been little else than
one continuous battle.[47] It is said that when the news of the
result was brought to Solyman, he tore the letter to fragments and
trampled it under his feet, repeating the exclamation of Mahomet
after the failure of his Rhodian expedition,—“My arms are invincible
only in my own hands,”—and swearing to return in person the
ensuing year, and put every Christian in the island to the sword.
Nevertheless he thought it prudent to adopt a different policy to
that usually practised by Ottoman sovereigns towards their officers,
with whom failure was the certain forerunner of a disgraceful death.
Following the precedent he had set himself after the retreat from
Vienna, he proclaimed through Constantinople that Mustapha had met
with a brilliant success, that he was bringing captive all the
knights who had survived the slaughter; but that, as the Maltese
rocks were unfit to maintain a garrison, the Ottoman clemency had
been content with the destruction of the fortifications; so that
should the Christian corsairs have the audacity to return, they
would be at the mercy of his fleets, and would not fail to be again
speedily “exterminated.”
Whatever may be thought of the truthfulness of the sultan’s
proclamation of victory, there can be but little question that
Malta, after the raising of the siege, resembled nothing less than
a fortified city, and rather bore the resemblance of one which had
been dismantled and destroyed. Full 200 knights, and more than 9000
soldiers and citizens, had perished during the three months of
conflict; and at the moment when the enemy retired not 600 men of all
ranks or classes were to be found within the city-walls. On the other
hand the loss of the Turks was computed at 30,000 men amounting to
nearly three-fourths of the original besieging army.
There was a joyful meeting between the Christian forces; for the
chief and officers of the newly-arrived troops lost no time in
proceeding to the borgo, where they were received by La Valette
and his companions as their deliverers. Yet a proud and honest
satisfaction was felt by the gallant defenders of the city, as they
thought that they had won the victory for themselves; for the enemy’s
fire had slackened, and his assaults had grown feebler every day, and
he had fled from the walls ere certain intelligence had reached him
of the landing of the succours. It was an affecting scene which was
then witnessed in the ruined streets of the borgo. “The knights,”
says Vertot, “embraced one another with a loving tenderness: but
when they called to mind the loss of so many brave and illustrious
men; when they looked around them and beheld the shattered state
of the city, the walls and ramparts all shaken and destroyed, guns
dismounted and houses overthrown, and saw, moreover, the pale and
emaciated countenances of the inhabitants, the knights, and the
grand master himself, with matted hair and beards, their dress dirty
and disordered,—for many had never laid aside their clothes for
months,—and the greater part of them covered with wounds, and with
arms and heads bound up and bandaged, and the traces of suffering
and privation on the faces of all,—none could restrain their tears
at the touching spectacle; and while some wept in remembering their
misfortunes, others shed tears of joy to think that Malta had at any
rate been saved at last.”
The borgo received the new name of _Vittoriosa_; and a plan already
occupied the mind of La Valette for securing the island against any
fresh attacks, by laying the foundations of a new city whose defences
should be impregnable. As to the joy which the news of the Christian
success spread through Europe, it was of a nature impossible to
describe. “At Rome,” says Vertot, “the day on which the news was
announced was kept as a high festival; all public business was
suspended; the courts of justice and the shops were closed; only the
churches were open, and the people ran in crowds to thank God for
the happy event.” As Innocent VIII. to D’Aubusson, so Pius IV. to La
Valette made offer of the cardinalate; but the grand master in his
humility declined the dignity, begging it might rather be bestowed
on his brother, the Bishop of Vabres, for that he had himself grown
old in the profession of arms. But, indeed, honours poured in upon La
Valette on every side; and money too, to help forward the erection of
the new capital. There was need of expedition, for rumours thickened
fast of another armament in preparation at Constantinople for the
last trial at “extermination;” and a singular dispensation for
continuing work on all Sundays and festivals was granted by Pope Pius
V. for the rapid completion of a city which was to be the bulwark of
the Christian world. The first stone was laid on the 28th of March
1566, by the grand master in person, and bore the impress of a golden
lion on a bloody field, which was his family device. “But,” says a
modern writer, “it was Europe rather than the order, which gave to
the young city the name of _La Valetta_.”[48]
Every year, on the 8th of September, the memory of the great
deliverance was renewed by a solemn religious ceremony within the
church of St. John: the victorious standard of the order was borne
to the altar by a knight in the helmet and armour of the ages of
Crusade,—for to Jerusalem was the lingering look of the Hospitallers
still directed with a fond and sorrowful regret,—and by his side were
carried the sword and poniard of La Valette, whose portrait was on
that day publicly exhibited to the people. As the procession passed
into the church, and the standard was laid at the foot of the altar,
the action was proclaimed by flourishes of trumpets and salvoes of
artillery from the forts. Mass was said by the prior of the order;
and while the gospel was being read the grand master held aloft the
hero’s sword unsheathed, as though to notify to all Christendom, and
to all the enemies of the faith, that the Knights of St. John were
ever ready to do battle for the Cross.
The grand master did not long survive his triumph, or live to see the
completion of his city; he received a stroke of the sun on a hot day
in July, while engaged in his favourite diversion of hawking, and
expired on the 21st of August 1568, retaining his consciousness to
the last. “O my God!” he was heard frequently to exclaim, “send me
one of Thy blessed angels to help me in this last hour.” A cloud of
darkness gathered for a while over his soul, and he seemed wrestling
for the first time in his life with the emotion of fear: he, who
had met so many dangers with such serene intrepidity, and who slept
with a pet lioness in his bed-chamber, trembled for a moment before
the approach of death; but very soon the trouble passed, and a sweet
tranquillity again appeared upon his countenance, as, devoutly
pronouncing the names of Jesus and Mary, he departed without a
struggle. He was buried in the chapel of Our Lady of Philermos within
the church of St. Lawrence; but his body was afterwards removed to
the new church of Our Lady of Victories, whose foundations he had
himself begun as an offering of thanksgiving to the holy Mother of
God.
* * * * *
With the siege of Malta our sketch of the order of Hospitallers, or
rather of its struggles with the power of the Moslems in defence
of Europe and of Christendom, must conclude. Its galleys continued
to maintain their supremacy over the infidels on all the coasts of
the Mediterranean, and bore a distinguished part in the victory of
Lepanto, a notice of which will be given in another page. After an
existence of six centuries the order of St. John still preserved its
sovereign character, up to that period when, in common with almost
every other of the ancient institutions of Europe, it was swept away
before the conquering arm of Buonaparte. Even now it may be styled
dethroned rather than extinct;[49] and its restoration at some future
day is at least no more visionary a dream than that which looks
forward to the recall of other exiled and abeyant dynasties.
As a religious order it has one great claim upon our respect, namely,
in having preserved to the last hour of its existence the spirit of
its original institute unchanged and unabated. In 1606 we find the
Knights on the shores of Tunis still faithful to their old instinct
of hospitality. A terrible tempest was destroying their galleys, and
as they beat upon the rocks the Moors were on the watch to massacre
those who escaped from the waves. Then did the Provençal, Vaucluse
de Villeneuf, uphold the glory of his ancient name; and that of his
order: “for,” says Goussancourt, “though he might have escaped in the
galleys among the first, yet he chose to remain with the sick and
wounded, carrying them on his shoulders, which was the cause of his
being taken.” And down to a very late date we find the record of many
whose noble confession of the Christian faith whilst in captivity won
them the crown of martyrdom under most cruel tortures. The religious
spirit was never wanting; and perhaps no more beautiful account of
a Christian death-bed could be found than that given in a letter
from the Père de la Croix, rector of the Jesuit College at Malta, in
which he describes the last moments of two knights who died of their
wounds received in a sea-fight on Saragossa in the year 1635. One of
these, whom he calls “my good penitent the Chevalier Serviens,” was
reckoned the most accomplished gentleman of his day. Such a term had
unhappily in the seventeenth century a far different signification
to that which would have attached to the words in earlier times; and
yet the old meaning had not been forgotten among the Hospitallers of
the Cross. Before departing on the enterprise in which he met with
his death, Serviens had prepared himself by a general confession;
“and his death,” says the good father, “was one which the most
austere religious might well have cause to envy.” The other knight,
who was wounded in the same fight, and died in the same room with
his comrade, was La Roche Pichelle. “He was truly a saint,” writes
the rector; “and to my knowledge had studied the interior life of
perfection for four years, and that to such good purpose that he had
outstripped many a Capuchin and Jesuit father in the progress he had
made. These two friends lay side by side, assisting and consoling one
another: they agreed together that whichever survived the longest
should offer all his pains for the relief of his companion’s soul;
and that the one who died first should in like manner offer all his
prayers that the other might make a happy death. A little before his
departure, Serviens called to his comrade, and asked him if he were
ready to go, saying several times, ‘Let us go, let us go together;’
then he repeated the _Salve Regina_, and saluted his good angel;
and at last took the crucifix in his hand, and repeated the prayer
_Respice_ as it is wont to be said in Holy Week. When he had ended,
he grasped my hand,” continues the rector, “saying, ‘Farewell, my
father;’ I told him he should try to expire with the holy names upon
his lips; whereupon he kissed his scapular, and ejaculating the names
of Jesus and Mary gave up his soul to his Creator.”
Nor could the religious spirit of the order have been as yet decayed,
when we find the edifying spectacle it presented in 1637, bringing
back to the bosom of the Church a descendant of St. Elizabeth of
Hungary, in the person of Prince Frederic of Hesse. In the course of
his travels through Italy he arrived at Malta, where he took such
delight in the sight of so many young knights of all nations gathered
together and living in perfect harmony and religious discipline one
with another, that, returning to Rome, he implored the holy Pontiff,
Urban VIII., to receive him into the true fold; after which he
solicited and received the habit of St. John.
Again, in 1783, we find the Knights of Malta exhibiting their
unalterable constancy to that sublime vocation which made
Goussancourt declare, that “this order containeth within itself the
perfection of all kinds of charity.” During the horrors of the great
earthquake which destroyed the city of Messina, their generous and
extraordinary exertions on behalf of the sufferers earned them a
higher title to fame than was ever won on battle-field or on breach.
In the regret, therefore, with which we view the extinction of an
institution whose name has been illustrious for so many ages, there
mingles nothing of the contempt sometimes called forth by the fall
of a dynasty which has derogated from its ancient fame. It was
high-minded and chivalrous even amid the anarchy and confusion of the
reign of terror. La Brilhane, the last ambassador of Malta at the
court of France, was warned that his life was in danger. “I am under
no apprehensions,” he loftily replied; “the moment is come at last,
when a man of honour who faithfully performs his duty may die as
gloriously on the gallows as he could ever have done on the field of
battle.” And we can find no fitter words in which to give the epitaph
of his order.
THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO.
Religious state of Europe—Fall of Cyprus—Bragadino—Calepius—The
Christian league and armament—Rendezvous at Messina—Don John
of Austria, his character and conduct—Meeting of the hostile
fleets—Disposition of the ships—The battle—The Knights of
Malta—Cervantes—Utter defeat of the infidels—Magnanimity of Don
John—Results of the victory—Revelation made to St. Pius—The joy
of Christendom, and commemorations of the Church.
The sixteenth century was drawing to its close,—a century marked by
the ravages of religious revolution, and destined to be for ever
honoured or deplored according as men may think of it as the age of
reformation or of decay. Among the many social changes which arose
out of the new order of things, we can scarcely fail to notice the
growth of that exclusive nationality which has lasted until our own
time. The great tie of religious unity was broken which had given
the nations of Europe a common interest even in the midst of the
continual warfare in which they were engaged, and which had inspired
them with so many generous enterprises in defence of the faith. But
when that bond of brotherhood was lost, there was no longer a common
cause to fight for: a profound selfishness may thenceforward be
discovered in the whole history of Europe, and the chance alliances
of one power with another had no nobler basis than the political
interests of the hour.
This change began to be felt immediately after the separation of the
northern nations from the unity of the Church, and the circumstance
was not unobserved by the great infidel power of the East. The
enormous progress of that power was almost coeval with the period
of the Reformation; and the distractions and divisions among the
Christians that followed that event were so many gains to the Turks,
who pushed their victorious arms further and further, till the
dreaded Crescent,—which the long struggle of the crusades and of the
heroic ages of Christendom had kept at bay,—was displayed under the
very walls of Marseilles and the port of Rome by the corsair-fleets
which roved at large over the waters of the Mediterranean, and
scarcely found an enemy to oppose them in their course. The republic
of Venice, indeed, was still master of many of the island-fortresses
of the Levant and the Archipelago; but as the power of that state
was now gradually declining, the eyes of her foe were fastened with
a bolder ambition upon the dominions which she seemed helpless
to defend. The rich and beautiful island of Cyprus in particular
excited the cupidity of Selim II.,[50] who had succeeded his father,
Solyman the Magnificent, in the empire of the East; and the report
of a sudden disaster which befell the republic in the explosion and
destruction of her arsenal, encouraged him to seize the occasion of
breaking, in the face of solemn treaties, a peace which had remained
undisturbed between the two states for nearly thirty years.
When the hostile intentions of the Turkish sultan became known, the
republic was little prepared to recommence the desperate struggle.
Her utmost efforts were spent in the equipment of a fleet which, when
assembled, was found wholly inadequate to meet the enemy; and in her
distress, crippled as she was by the loss of her vast magazines, and
drained of all resources, she implored the assistance of the Roman
Pontiff, and, through him, of the other powers of Christendom. Pius
V. then filled the chair of St. Peter; and his sagacious eye had
long foreseen the danger; nor had he spared any efforts to provide
the necessary defences. But the times were against him. A famine
was ravaging the fair fields of Italy; the government of France was
too busy with the Huguenots to have time or strength to bestow on
a quarrel with the Turks; and as to England—to use the expression
of a writer of the time—its ruler was Elizabeth, “a greater enemy
to Rome than the Turks themselves.” Nevertheless, in spite of all
discouragements, the zeal of the Roman Pontiff was manifested by an
extraordinary activity. Every court of Europe was visited by his
ambassadors, who vainly tried to rouse the spirit of the Christian
princes against a foe whose conquests were as rapid as they were
blood-stained. One after another they excused themselves on the plea
of domestic troubles and exhausted treasuries and in the month of
May 1570, when Pius had fondly hoped to have seen his noble appeals
as nobly responded to by the universal voice of Christendom, he
found himself supported by the king of Spain alone out of all the
potentates of Europe.
Meanwhile the fall of Cyprus, attended by barbarities which rivalled
in cruelty and atrocity the torments inflicted on the early Christian
martyrs, signalised the opening of the war, and gave to the Turkish
arms the prestige of the first success. A slight notice of that
terrible event may give our readers some idea of the sort of
adversary by whom Christendom was at this time threatened.
Already the sultan had ordered the seizure of all merchant vessels
that chanced to be at anchor within the ports of the Turkish empire,
and the closing of all the avenues by which relief could be afforded
to the doomed island; and yet in Venice itself counsels were still
divided: the doge was just dead, and the senate was occupied with
the nomination of his successor. To the last no vigorous measures
were taken by the republic to throw a sufficient force into Cyprus,
and the commanders of the allied Venetian and Spanish fleets strove
in vain to convey the necessary succours. Sickness and famine made
fearful ravages among the troops, and many thousands perished. The
ships which had on board Count Jerome Martinengo and 3000 men were
overtaken by a tremendous storm; an epidemic broke out which carried
off more than a third of the number, and among them their renowned
commander himself; and they who, from the shores of the island had
long watched for the reinforcements, of which they stood in such
desperate need, saw at length but a few shattered vessels come into
harbour, bearing with them the dead body of the man on whose bravery
and skill they had rested all their hopes of deliverance. To add
to the general consternation, Nicholas Dandolo, who had but just
taken on himself the office of governor, was one in whose capacity
and judgment neither soldiers nor people felt they could place any
reliance. Lala Mustapha, a renegade already infamous for his foul
and treacherous practices, was the commander of the Ottoman forces,
numbering, as some historians have computed, 80,000 men; to oppose
which vast armament the Christians could not muster more than 500 or
600 horse, a small body of local militia, and 2000 foot-soldiers fit
for active service.
The city of Nicosia, the first object of attack, was taken by storm,
on the 9th of September 1570, after an heroic resistance of seven
weeks, during which the inhabitants had again and again repulsed the
assaults of the Turks with a valour which struck such terror into the
besiegers, that more than once they all but abandoned their attempts
on the town. The ammunition had failed, the fortifications were
demolished, most of the distinguished leaders had been slain; the
devoted bishop, who had given up all he possessed for the support
of the soldiery and people, had himself fallen in a _mêlée_; the
Count de Rochas, who ranked next in command to the governor, was
killed in defending one of the ruined bastions, and the Turks, after
grossly outraging his body, thrust it into a mortar and launched
it into the town. Dandolo retreated into his palace as soon as the
enemy penetrated into the town, and the wretched inhabitants were
given up as a prey to their infuriated assailants. In vain they
threw themselves on their knees before their vanquishers; they
were massacred without pity: for seven hours the horrible carnage
proceeded. The palace still held out. The pasha offered the garrison
their lives on condition of their laying down their arms: they did
so, and every soul was put to the sword. The Bishop of Baffo, who,
in the estimation of his countrymen, was as capable of commanding an
army as of governing a diocese, was butchered among the rest. The
unhappy Dandolo, after suffering frightful tortures at the hands of
the infidels, was decapitated, and his head sent to the governor of
Cerino, the third principal town of the island, as a token of what
he might himself expect if he did not instantly surrender the place.
The atrocities committed by the Turks defy description. Mustapha, it
is related, ordered the children and old men, and all whom it was not
worth the victor’s while to preserve, to be piled one upon another in
the great square of the town and burnt alive; at the same time, to
show his hatred of the Christian name, he directed numerous carcases
of swine,—for which the followers of Mahomet entertain a religious
abhorrence,—to be heaped upon his victims, and consumed together with
them. For three days the town was given up to pillage, and every
barbarity which an infernal malice could suggest was perpetrated upon
its despairing population. Women threw themselves from the house-tops
to escape from their pursuers; mothers slew their daughters with
their own hands rather than that they should fall into the power of
the brutal foe. More than 20,000 human beings were slaughtered on the
day of the assault: in the first paroxysm of their rage the infidels
spared neither sex nor age; 2000 alone were reserved for a slavery
more terrible than death. One fearful act of vengeance marked the
close of this memorable siege. The Turks had collected in a single
galleon the most beautiful youths and maidens of the place, together
with the most precious portion of the booty, with the intention
of conveying them as presents to the sultan, his eldest son, and
the grand vizier. One of the captives, a lady of noble family,
knowing but too well the wretched fate that awaited herself and her
companions, set fire to the powder-magazine, and blew the vessel high
into the air. Two others loaded with the spoils of the town were
involved in its destruction; great numbers of the enemy perished,
and among them many Christians of distinction, and the flower of the
youth of either sex.
Mustapha now led his troops, flushed with victory and outnumbering by
thousands their Christian opponents, under the walls of Famagosta.
For eleven months the brave Bragadino, with a scanty garrison and a
few thousands of armed citizens, withstood the Moslem hosts.[51] In
vain had they sought relief from Spain and their own republic. The
Spanish admiral weakly held aloof; the Venetians succeeded only in
throwing a handful of men into the place. The besieged fought with
all the strength of despair: women not only laboured in supplying
arms and ammunition to the soldiers, but combated by their side upon
the walls, throwing down stones and boiling-water on the assailants,
or precipitating themselves with deadly effect into the masses of the
foe, and causing many a Moslem warrior to bite the dust. The bishop
of the place, a Dominican by profession, contributed not a little
in re-animating the spirits of the garrison, whose ranks were being
every day rapidly thinned by famine and the sword: his exhortations,
say the chroniclers, elicited prodigies of valour. In the very
heat of the assault he might be seen for hours upon the ramparts,
surrounded by his clergy, holding aloft the crucifix, and calling on
the people to resist unto death fighting for the faith.[52] All in
vain: on the 1st of August 1571, the walls were nearly levelled to
the ground; the defences consisted only of bags of earth and bales
of cotton; the Italian and Greek auxiliaries, whose prowess had done
such execution on the Turks, were all annihilated; there were left
but seven barrels of powder, and of food there was none remaining;
the combatants, emaciated by want and incessant toil, could scarcely
hold their weapons in their hands. Further resistance was impossible,
and Bragadino, yielding at length to the piteous entreaties of the
townspeople, consented to sue for terms. But as the intrepid governor
bade the white flag be unfurled, he exclaimed, “Officers and men,
I call Heaven to witness that it is not I who surrender this town
to the infidels, but the senate of Venice, who, by abandoning us to
our fate, have given us up into the hands of these barbarians.” A
capitulation was concluded, by which the inhabitants were to remain
in possession of their goods, and to have the free exercise of their
religion; all who chose might quit the town, and sell or carry off
their effects; the garrison were to march out with their arms and
with all the honours of war, and to be transported in Turkish vessels
to Crete.
The terms were ratified; and on the morning of the 15th August,
the Feast of the Assumption, Bragadino, according to agreement,
proceeded with two of his officers and a small escort to the tent
of the Turkish general to deliver up into his own hands the keys of
the town. But no sooner had he entered the pavilion than he and his
attendants were treacherously seized on some frivolous pretence;
new conditions were imposed; and on the governor’s remonstrating
against the injustice of such proceedings, Mustapha ordered his
companions to be beheaded on the spot before his eyes. Bragadino
himself he condemned to a like fate: three times he compelled the
noble Venetian to bow his head to receive the murderer’s stroke, and
as often,—as though he would make his victim drink the bitter cup of
torment drop by drop,—arrested by a sign the executioner’s arm. The
tyrant had another and a more terrible death in store for one who had
so long defied his most furious efforts; and he contented himself
for the present with ordering his captive’s nose and ears to be cut
off in his presence; which done, he had him loaded with chains, and
cast, bleeding as he was, into a dungeon, tauntingly bidding him
call now upon his Christ, for it was time that He should help him.
Three hundred Christians who were in the camp were butchered in cold
blood; the rest of the garrison and the unhappy townspeople, who were
already on board the Turkish transports, were reduced to slavery;
while the hostages sent into the Turkish quarters before the treaty
was formally signed, among whom was Henry Martinengo, nephew of the
count, were subjected to barbarous mutilation. The fortifications
were now ordered to be rebuilt; and the Turk compelled his noble
prisoner to carry loads of earth upon his shoulders for the repair of
the walls, and to kiss his feet each time he passed before him; and
not yet satisfied with the indignities he heaped upon him, he had him
hoisted up aloft on the yard-arm of a vessel in the harbour, where he
kept him exposed for hours to the gaze and scoff of the infidels, and
then suddenly plunged him into the sea. At last, after trampling him
under foot, he doomed him to be flayed alive in the public square.
The indomitable commander, who united in himself the resolute courage
of a chivalrous soldier with the supernatural patience of a Christian
martyr, amidst his untold agonies betrayed not a sign of pain,
uttered not a murmur or a complaint against his torturers, but, as
they stripped the skin from his quivering flesh, calmly prayed and
recited aloud from time to time verses from the _Miserere_ and other
Psalms. When the Christians in the crowd heard him breathe the words,
_Domine, in manus tuas commendo spiritum meum_,[53] they thought
he was rendering up his life to God; but there followed in tender
accents,—as if to show Whose sufferings in that hour of agony were
most present to his thoughts, and Whose meek and loving spirit then
filled his inflexible and dauntless soul,—_Pater, dimitte illis; non
enim sciunt quid faciunt_;[54] and with this prayer for mercy on his
tormentors the brave soldier of Christ passed to receive the martyr’s
palm. But Turkish malice was not even yet exhausted. Mustapha caused
the brave man’s body to be cut into four quarters, and each to be
attached to the muzzle of the largest guns. His skin was stuffed with
straw, and, together with a representation of our Divine Lord in
His adorable Passion, paraded through the camp and through the town
fastened on the back of a cow. Finally, he despatched both figures
as trophies to the Sultan his master, with the head of Bragadino and
those of the two murdered commanders. At Constantinople the skin
of the heroic martyr was hung up as a spectacle for the Christian
galley-slaves.[55]
After the fall of Famagosta further resistance was impossible; indeed
(to their everlasting shame be it written) the Greek population
of the island sided actively with the invaders, and, in their
obstinate blindness, not knowing what they did, delivered themselves
up to the degrading domination of the Turks. Every where the most
frightful scenes were enacted: the Mussulman soldiery broke into
the wine-cellars, and, maddened with drink, indulged in orgies too
revolting for description. By the command of the renegade Mustapha
the tombs of the dead were opened, and their contents scattered to
the winds; the images and pictures of the saints were demolished;
the churches defiled with abominations so loathsome that the pen of
the historian refuses to record them. Friday the 17th of August, the
day on which the noble Bragadino suffered, was set apart for the
deliberate perpetration of horrors which rivalled in foulness and
atrocity the infamous mysteries of Venus, and the bloody rites at
which pagans offered sacrifices of human victims to the devils whom
they worshipped. A few days after, Lala Mustapha made his triumphal
entry into Constantinople with the spoils of a conquest which had
cost him 50,000 men.
During the dreadful scenes which accompanied the fall of Cyprus,
there were not wanting many who displayed a spirit worthy of the best
days of Christendom. F. Angelo Calepius, a member of the Dominican
order, has left an interesting and valuable narrative of the taking
of Nicosia, of which place he was a native. He himself played a
distinguished part in its defence; for during the seven weeks of
siege which preceded the entrance of the Turks, he was unwearied
in his efforts to rouse the inhabitants to an heroic resistance in
the cause of liberty and faith. In spite of the continual fire of
the enemy, Calepius was to be seen every where, attending to the
wounded and dying, and encouraging the harassed and disheartened
combatants. When at length the place surrendered, and was abandoned
for three days to pillage and slaughter, the zeal and devotion of
this excellent man displayed itself under the very swords of the
infidels. The streets were flowing with blood; yet wherever the
danger was greatest and the heaps of dead and dying lay the thickest,
Father Angelo might be seen, regardless of the ferocious soldiery who
surrounded him, administering the consolations of religion to their
victims, and endeavouring to comfort them in that dreadful hour by
the power of his words and of his very presence.
Among those whose murder in cold blood he was forced to witness,
was his own mother Lucretia Calepia and almost all his relatives,
with numbers of the clergy and his fellow religious; yet the thought
of flight or concealment never seemed to suggest itself to him amid
scenes which, with all their horrors, offered him a field for his
labours in defence of the faith and in aid of his brethren. “He was,”
says Echard, “a constant champion and defender of the Christian
faith.” But at length his own turn came: he was seized, stripped
of his religious habit, and placed, loaded with chains, among the
other captives. After passing through many hands, he was finally
purchased by Osma, the captain of a Turkish galley, and carried
by him to Constantinople. Before long, however, Angelo so far won
the good graces of his master, that he was no longer treated as a
slave: he was even suffered to sit at the same table, and permitted
to go through the city wherever he desired without restraint, the
only condition exacted from him being, that he should not leave the
walls. He had no temptation to do so; for the sole use he made of his
liberty was to visit his fellow-captives, to console them in their
sufferings, and strengthen them in the faith. There are some men who
find their apostolate every where, and such was Calepius. True to the
great instinct of his order, he was ready, like his great patriarch,
“to save souls any where, and as many as he could.” In those days
the chains and scourges of the Moslems were a less terrible danger
to their captives than the temptations to apostasy, with which they
were careful to surround them. Men needed a living and a lively faith
to be able constantly to persevere in the most appalling sufferings,
when a few words would purchase for them ease, liberty, and often
the highest rank in the sultan’s service,—for many of the most
distinguished commanders were Christian renegades; and Calepius,
who knew this, felt that no more fitting field of missionary labour
could have been granted to him than he now found in the dungeons
and bagnios of Constantinople, confirming his weak brethren, and
sometimes winning back those who had strayed, to the profession of
their faith.
Meanwhile his order had not forgotten him; his name had long been
known in Rome, and Seraphin Cavalli, the general of the Dominicans,
who had his liberation greatly at heart, succeeded at length in
despatching four hundred gold crowns to Constantinople as the price
of his ransom. Calepius was therefore free. He might have returned to
Cyprus, or made his way to Rome, where he was sure of an honourable
reception; but ease and honour were the last things of which he
thought. He had chosen the damp vaults of the slave-prisons for
the scene of his ministry, and without hesitation he determined on
remaining at Constantinople, and sacrificing liberty, advancement,
nay, life itself if need were, for the salvation of his brethren.
So there he stayed, a beggar at the doors of the ambassadors and
Christian merchants, carrying the alms he collected to the miserable
objects of his charity, some of whom he was even enabled to set at
liberty, rejoicing as he did so rather at the deliverance of their
souls than the emancipation of their bodies. Many renegades were by
his means recalled to the faith, and a far greater number preserved
from falling. At length, however, his unwearied labours drew on him
the jealousy of the Turks: he was forbidden to visit the slaves; but
continuing to do so by stealth, he was at length formally accused of
being a spy and an enemy to the Prophet. The charge was a capital
one; and on the 3d of February 1572, he was again seized and thrown
into a wretched dungeon. Calepius had never looked for any other
result; and joyfully hailing what he trusted was the approach of
martyrdom, he prepared for death with his usual calmness. It was not
so ordered, however; he had many friends, both among the ambassadors
and even among the infidels themselves, and his release was at
length procured, on the condition, not a little flattering to his
influence and character, that he would instantly quit the Turkish
dominions. It was useless to resist; and since he could no longer
assist his captive brethren by his presence, he determined not the
less to devote himself to their deliverance in another way. He
passed over to Italy, and became there what he had already been in
Constantinople—a beggar for the Christian slaves. Naples, Bologna,
Florence, Milan, and Venice, and every other city whither the Cyprian
refugees had retired, was visited by him in turns. He pleaded the
cause of their poor countrymen with all the skill of an advocate and
all the tenderness of a father, and represented their sufferings with
so touching an eloquence, that he effectually roused every one to
give according to his means. Another Dominican, by name Stephen de
Lusignan, of the royal house of Cyprus, joined him in his work; and
together these two men were enabled to ransom great numbers of the
captives, devoting their entire energies to this undertaking for many
years.
It is at the end of De Lusignan’s _Universal History_ that the two
narratives of Calepius on the taking of Nicosia and Famagosta are
inserted; and it is said that the publication of these memoirs
became the means of exciting many to liberal alms on behalf of the
sufferers. Some years afterwards Angelo was nominated by Gregory
XIII. to the bishopric of Santarini, as a reward for his zeal and
perseverance.
* * * * *
So was lost the fair isle of Cyprus to Venice and to Christian
Europe: it passed under the dominion of the Mahometan, and to this
day it remains subject to the same evil sway;[56] a monument alike
of the treacherous cruelty of the Turk and of the disastrous
dissensions and faithless jealousies of Christian states and princes.
The horror inspired by this catastrophe determined the Catholic
League to prepare for more vigorous measures than had yet been
attempted; and it is from this period that we shall endeavour to
take up the narrative, and lay before our readers the details of a
struggle whose result has been found worthy of commemoration not only
in the pages of history, but in the office of the Church.
And first, let us see what was the relative strength of the parties
about to enter into the combat. A fleet of about 160 vessels, thinly
manned, was furnished by the Venetian states, under the command of
Sebastian Veniero, who had as his lieutenant Agostino Barbarigo,
a man of distinguished merit and courage. The Pope had no naval
force at his disposal, but undertook to furnish and equip twelve
of the Venetian galleys; Mark Anthony Colonna, Duke of Paliano,
was appointed to the command; and, besides the regular forces in
the papal service, a considerable number of the Roman nobility
volunteered to join the enterprise. Every thing had been done to give
a character of religious solemnity to the enrolment and departure of
these troops. The venerable Basilica of the Apostles had witnessed a
function of singular character and magnificence in the June of the
previous year, when after High Mass, sung by the Cardinal Colonna,
the Pope solemnly implored the Divine benediction on the Christian
arms, and blessed the crimson standard, emblazoned with the crucifix
and with the figures of the two apostles of Rome, which was committed
to the Duke of Paliano; whilst the words embroidered as a legend on
the damask folds were given to him as his watchword and assurance of
success,—“_In hoc signo vinces_.” Nor was another kind of assurance
wanting to encourage him and his followers. When, attended by all
his officers and by the crowd of noble volunteers who had joined his
company, he presented himself to receive the parting benediction of
his Holiness, it was given to them accompanied by words which from
the mouth of such a speaker had something in them of a prophetic
character: “Go, my children,” he said, “and fight in God’s name
against the Turks; it is in His name and on His part that I promise
you the victory.” Similar to this had been the message sent by him to
the Spanish leaders by the hands of his nuncio Odescalchi, as well
as to the other princes who had joined in the enterprise; and to the
Count de Carillo, as he knelt at his feet, the holy Pontiff again
repeated, “It is in the name of the Most High that I promise you a
certain victory.”
Yet this assurance could scarcely be thought to arise from the extent
of the martial preparations. So far as the co-operation of the
European governments was concerned, the embassies and negotiations
of his ambassadors had almost utterly failed. Nevertheless we must
remember that the influence of the Roman Pontiff over the heart
of Christendom rests on something deeper and more powerful than
the success of a political negotiation. And so, notwithstanding
the coldness and backwardness of the Christian princes, the appeal
of the Pope had been royally and warmly received by many in every
nation whither his nuncios had been despatched. Besides the regular
armaments of Spain and Venice, and the forces contributed by Genoa
and the Duke of Savoy, by the Knights of Malta, and several of the
lesser Italian states, the volunteers who joined the troops of the
allies, to the number of more than two thousand, were of all nations,
and included some of the most distinguished soldiers of the day.
But, more than this, it cannot be doubted that the confidence which
filled the heart of St. Pius had another and a surer foundation. He
could not command the arms of Europe, but the prayers of Christendom
at least were at his disposal. Up from every church in every country
that owned his obedience there had been arising for months a swell
of fervent and united supplication. The religious order to which he
himself belonged had been foremost in the use of this great weapon
of intercession; and every Confraternity of the Rosary throughout
Europe attached to the Dominican body had been unwearied in their
processions and devotions for the success of the Christian arms. How
strong a feeling had been excited by the efforts of the Pope may be
judged by one fact: it was the period of so-called reformation, when
throughout a vast portion of Europe the devout practices of former
ages were sinking into contempt; and yet we are told Loretto had
never seen such a year of pilgrimage. Every road to the Holy House
was crowded by devotees of all nations; and all crowded thither
with but one object—to place the cause of the Christians under the
patronage of Mary.
The Spanish fleet had been hitherto commanded by John Andrew
Doria,[57] and some symptoms of jealousy had arisen in the first
movements of the allies between him and the Roman leader, Colonna.
These were, however, happily placed at rest by the appointment to
the chief command of one whose rank as well as his reputation raised
him far above all the subordinate generals of the league. This was
Don John of Austria, the natural son of the emperor Charles V., and
the captain-general of the navy of Spain. Colonna was, with the
consent of all parties, declared his lieutenant; and his arrival was
anxiously expected at Messina, where the various squadrons of the
allied powers had assembled towards the close of the month of August.
It was the 25th of the same month when he arrived at the place of
rendezvous; and his entrance into the city seemed rather the triumph
given to a conqueror than the reception of one whose victory was yet
to be hardly earned. All the showy magnificence of the times was
displayed in the preparations made for welcoming him. The city was
filled with arches and triumphal columns, and the shores covered with
the gaily-emblazoned banners of the various chiefs, whose martial
appearance recalled to the eye the costume at least, if it did not
represent something also of that chivalrous spirit which was fast
expiring before the progress of modern civilisation and the eager
pursuit of material interests. And indeed there was much in this,
almost the last of the Christian leagues against the infidel, which
was worthy of the best days of chivalry. A great principle, even when
it has received its death-blow, is long in dying; and the embers
of that generous fire blazed up in many a bright and flickering
flame before they were wholly quenched in darkness. We can scarcely
fail, for instance, to admire the generosity evinced by the Spanish
government; for, apart from the religious considerations of the war,
its main object was undoubtedly the relief and protection of the
Venetian states,—those very states which but a short time previously
had refused to assist the Spaniards against the Turks, and by their
refusal had been in great part the cause of the fall of Rhodes. Yet
Philip II.,[58]—a monarch whose traditional unpopularity in England,
as the husband of Mary the Catholic, has obscured the memory of his
many great qualities,—never seems to have given a moment’s place to
the petty yet not unnatural feeling of resentment which might have
led him to seize so favourable an opportunity for retaliating on a
humbled rival. No sooner did the appeal of the Pope reach him than
he gave orders to Doria to render every assistance to the Venetian
fleet, without the exaction of any condition, or a symptom of any
sentiment but that of hearty and devoted adherence to what he deemed
the cause of God. There was, moreover, a deeply religious feeling
among those now gathered on the shores of Messina. Many of the most
distinguished leaders in their ranks had earned their laurels in the
defence of the Catholic faith; not a few of the most renowned of the
French volunteers; such as the Count de Ligny, and others, like the
two Sforzas, had gained their military reputation in the Huguenot
wars; whilst that of Don John himself had been in great part acquired
in long and successful struggles with the Moors of Africa. But above
all, a distinct religious character was given to the enterprise by
the presence of Odescalchi, the papal nuncio, whose mission in the
Christian camp was not merely to bestow the apostolic benediction on
the soldiers, and to animate them to the combat by the assurance of
the favour of Heaven, but, as we are told, to drive away all bandits,
assassins, thieves, and other public sinners, who might have enlisted
from the hope of booty, and who, unworthy of fighting in a holy
cause, might rather draw down the anger of God by new crimes.
The chief appointed to lead the Christian forces, whose arrival was
being welcomed with such enthusiastic manifestations of joy, was
one every way worthy of a great command. His German biographer thus
describes him: “He was of sanguine temperament and lordly presence;
in stature somewhat above the middle height; of a frank and generous
nature, possessing a strong sense of justice, and gifted with a ready
wit and a retentive memory. He was remarkably vigorous and strong;
so much so, that he could swim in his armour as if he had nothing
on him. He was agreeable and courteous in manner, a great respecter
of letters and arms, and an excellent horseman. He had a noble,
clear, and spacious forehead; his blue eyes were large and bright,
with a grave and kindly expression; his countenance was handsome; he
had little beard, and was of a light and graceful figure.” By the
terms of the league the squadron was to consist of 300 vessels and
galleys, and 50,000 men. The actual combatants, however, were not
more than 29,000, although there were more than 80,000 altogether
in the fleet that was now assembled under the eye of its commander.
The council of war having determined on seeking battle with the
Turks without loss of time, only a few days were given to the
marshalling of the armament, which then sailed out of the port of
Messina, presenting a spectacle of naval magnificence which in those
days had rarely been equalled. One by one each vessel passed in its
allotted order out of the harbour, and fell into its appointed place,
whilst the nuncio Odescalchi stood on the pier-head, blessing each
in turn. The vessel which bore the Spanish prince was conspicuous
for its beauty and decorations; it was the royal galley of Spain,
ornamented after the fanciful taste of the day with “delicate carving
and ingenious allegories.” The order of battle, which was to be
inviolably preserved during the whole time of the expedition, was as
follows: Doria led the right wing, having fifty-four galleys under
his command, with orders to keep about six miles in advance of the
main body, so as to give the ships plenty of sea-room. The left
wing was under Agostino Barbarigo, and consisted of an equal number
of galleys. The main body of sixty vessels was under the personal
command of Don John himself; whilst the reserve of thirty more was
intrusted to Don Alvaro di Bazzano, Marquis of Santa Cruz. Don John
of Cardona was despatched with some Sicilian galleys a few miles in
advance, with orders to reconnoitre the enemy, and fall into his
place at the extremity of Doria’s wing, so soon as he should have
discovered him. The hoisting of the consecrated standard was to be
the signal for the whole fleet falling into line and presenting a
single front; whilst a number of galleys were selected to form a
circle around the leading vessels of the three chief divisions of
the armament to act as a support. Besides the advanced galleys of
Cardona, Andrada, a Spanish knight, had previously been sent by Don
John, in a light and swift vessel, to make secret observations on
the position and preparations of the Turks; whilst the Christian
squadrons meanwhile proceeded to the harbour of Gomenizza, where the
whole fleet was reviewed by the commander in person, not without
symptoms of jealousy and opposition on the part of the Venetians.
But there was little time for the settlement of mutual disputes;
and the intelligence brought by the Spanish spies soon induced all
parties to lay aside their rivalries, and prepare for the combat. The
tidings of the fall of Famagosta were now fully confirmed; Cyprus
was lost past recall; and the Turkish fleet, under the command of
Ali Pasha, was drawn up in the bay of Lepanto, with orders from the
sultan to seek and fight the Christians wherever they might be. Some,
indeed, were found who, even at this juncture, advised defensive
measures; but their votes were overpowered by the ardour of the
Colonna and of Don John himself, who, we are assured, had such faith
in the sanctity of Pius, and in the assurance of victory which he had
received from his mouth, that he relied more on his words than even
on the number and valour of his soldiers. But it seemed as though
his purpose of giving battle must perforce be deferred. A sudden
obstacle presented itself; an adverse wind arose, which rendered
the advance of the armada all but impossible. For two days it had
kept steadily blowing from the same quarter, and there seemed no
indication of a change; nevertheless (to use the words of the Spanish
historian, Rosell) “on the morning of the 7th of October, a little
before daybreak, Don John, defying the opposition of the elements,
and as though impelled by an irresistible power, to the astonishment
of all gave the signal to weigh anchor.” It was obeyed; and labouring
against the contrary wind, the vessels began to make their slow and
difficult way, tossed and beaten by the waves, as the morning light
was breaking over the horizon. Just as the sun rose over the glorious
coast of that island-group, anciently known as the Echinades, the
watchman on board the prince’s galley made signal of a sail. It was
quickly repeated by the lookers-out in Doria’s squadron, and many who
eagerly ascended the rigging plainly discerned not one sail alone,
but, like so many dark specks on the flashing surface of the western
sea, the distant array of the whole Turkish fleet. A battle was
therefore felt to be close at hand; and whilst the crimson folds of
the consecrated banner, to which a blessed rosary was affixed, were
displayed aloft on the royal vessel, and the signal-gun gave notice
for all to fall into position, loud acclamations burst from every
part of the Christian host in token of their enthusiastic joy. The
Turkish fleet consisted of upwards of 400 vessels of all sizes,[59]
manned by not fewer than 120,000 men; in strength, therefore, the
Moslems far surpassed the Christians, and they had the prestige
of their late conquests in their favour. As the fleets were still
distant, the interval was spent by the leaders of both parties in
encouraging their followers and preparing for hostilities. Some of
the Spanish generals, who still doubted the prudence of provoking
the contest, appeared on board the royal galley to learn the final
decision of the prince. They received it in a few words: “Gentlemen,”
he replied, “you mistake; this is not the time for council, but for
combat;” and turning from them, he continued issuing his orders.
Then, taking a small and swift galley, he went the rounds of the
fleet, animating their crews with a few of those brief and heroic
phrases which fall with such powerful effect from the lips of a
great commander. He had an appropriate word for all. The Venetians
he reminded of their injuries, and of the slaughter of Famagosta.
Sebastian Veniero, whose irritable and stubborn temper had, at the
first departure from Messina, betrayed him into excesses which
banished him from the prince’s council, still bore himself morose and
sullen under his disgrace; but the judicious and courteous kindness
of Don John so won upon him, that he laid aside his angry feelings
and distinguished himself in the subsequent battle among the most
valiant and devoted of the combatants. His address to the Spaniards
has been preserved: “My children,” he said, “we have come here to
die—to conquer, if Heaven so disposes. Give not occasion to the enemy
to say with impious arrogance, ‘Where is now your God?’ Fight, then,
in His holy name; fallen, a victorious immortality will be yours!”
And now might be seen other galleys passing from vessel to vessel on
a different mission. These conveyed the religious appointed to attend
the armada by the Pope, who went through every squadron publishing
the indulgence granted by his Holiness, hearing the confessions
of the soldiers, and preparing all for death. Their labours were
crowned with abundant fruit. So soon as the prince had returned to
his vessel the signal throughout the squadrons was given for prayer;
all the soldiers, fully armed for the combat, fell upon their knees,
the crucifix was upraised on the deck of every vessel, and for some
minutes, as the two hosts drew rapidly nearer to each other, every
man on board the Christian fleet was engaged in humbly imploring the
Divine blessing on its arms.
Gradually the whole battle-front of the enemy displayed itself to
view; and the sun, now risen high above the horizon, shone over a
spectacle as terrible as it was magnificent. Three hundred and thirty
large Turkish vessels were to be seen, disposed in the form of a vast
crescent, and far outflanking their opponents’ line; but the courage
of the Christian leaders remained unmoved by the terrific sight.
Although it became evident that the reports of the Spanish spies
had greatly underrated the numbers and strength of their opponents,
yet, as Rosell relates, the heart of Don John was unappalled; and
placing his hopes in God, and fixing his eyes upon the crucifix
he ever carried with him, he gave thanks aloud for his victory as
already won. No sooner were the words uttered than a token seemed
to be given him to assure him that his trust was not ill-founded. We
have said that hitherto the wind had been all in favour of the Turks,
whose enormous crescent was bearing rapidly down on the Christian
host, like some fierce bird of prey with outstretched wings, when
suddenly the breeze fell, and the sails flapped idly on the masts;
there was a dead and profound calm. The sea, but a moment before
crested with foam, became motionless and smooth as a sheet of glass:
it seemed as though they were going to fight on land rather than
on water, so still and quiet lay the ships but just now tossed and
beaten by the angry waves. Presently a soft rising breeze was heard
sighing among the cordage; by and by it gathered strength; but this
time it filled the Christian sails, blowing right against the prows
of the Turkish ships, and the whole state of things was changed. The
Turkish line, which but a minute previously had seemed to extend its
wide arms as if to enfold its helpless foe in a deadly embrace, was
thrown into some confusion by this sudden and extraordinary veering
of the wind; while the Christian vessels, carried forward by a brisk
and favourable breeze, bore down with impetuous gallantry on the foe,
and thus gained all the advantage of attack. The Turks, however,
fired the first shot, which was quickly answered by the Spaniards;
then, placing himself in full armour on the prow of his galley, Don
John ordered the trumpets to sound the charge; whilst in every vessel
the crews and soldiers knelt to receive the last general absolution,
and this being given, every thought was turned to the approaching
struggle.
It was noon before the fight began; the brilliant sun rode aloft
in the clear azure of the Grecian sky, and flashed brightly on the
casques and armour of the warriors. The Moslems received their
assailants with loud and horrible cries, which were met on the part
of the Christians by a profound silence. The flag-ship of Ali Pasha
commenced the cannonade; but the fire of the Venetians opened on the
Turks so suddenly, and with such overwhelming violence, that at the
first discharge their advancing vessels recoiled as though from the
shock of a tremendous blow, and at the second broadside two of their
galleys were sunk. In addition to the discouragement produced by
this first incident in the fight, the adverse wind carried all the
smoke of the Christian artillery right upon the decks of the Turks,
who were thus blinded and embarrassed; whilst their enemies were
able to direct every movement with facility, and fought in the clear
light of day. After this first encounter the battle became general;
Don John eagerly made his way towards the pasha’s galley, and Ali,
on his part, did not decline the challenge. To form any thing like
a correct idea of a sea-fight in those days, we must remember the
nature of the vessels then in use, propelled as they were by rowers
seated on several tiers of benches, and defended less by artillery
than by the armed combatants, who strove to grapple hand to hand with
their opponents. The galleys of war were armed with long beaks, or
pointed prows, with which they dashed against the enemy’s vessels,
and often sunk them at the first shock. Terrible was the meeting of
the leaders of the two armaments; the long beak of Ali Pasha’s galley
was forced far among the benches of the Christian rowers: his own
rowers, be it said, were Christians also,—slaves chained to their
posts, and working under the threat of death if they shrank from
their task, and the promise of liberty if the Turks should gain the
day. Then there rose the clash of arms; the combatants met face to
face, and their swords rang on the armour of their opponents, whilst
the waters were lashed into fury by the strokes of a thousand oars.
Wider and wider the conflict spread: the Bey of Alexandria, at the
head of his galleys, made a furious attack on the Venetian squadron;
but he was met by Barbarigo and his men with the most eager and
determined courage; for the memory of the cruelties practised on
their countrymen at Famagosta was fresh in their minds, and animated
them to vengeance. A shower of darts rained around them, but they
seemed regardless of all danger. One of these deadly weapons struck
Barbarigo himself in the eye whilst in the very front of the battle;
he was carried to his cabin, where, after lingering three days, he
expired of his wound. The slaughter on both sides was terrible,
though the Venetians were finally successful in repulsing their
enemies; the galley of Contarini, the nephew of Barbarigo, narrowly
escaped being taken, from the fact of almost every man on board of it
being slain, Contarini himself among the number.
Whilst matters proceeded thus in the left wing, the right was engaged
in an equally desperate struggle. To the Spanish commander, Doria,
was opposed, on the side of the Turks, the famous renegade corsair
Ouloudj Ali, who, from the rank of a poor Neapolitan fisherman, had
risen, through his apostasy from the faith and his extraordinary and
ferocious valour, to the sovereignty of Algiers, and had become one
of the most distinguished admirals of the day. In the course of the
preceding year he had surprised a large squadron of galleys belonging
to the Knights of Malta, three of which he succeeded in capturing,
whilst others, including the admiral’s vessel, were severely injured
and run aground off the coast of Sicily. This circumstance had for
the time so crippled the squadron of the order, that it was able to
contribute no more than three[60] galleys to the Christian fleet.
They were commanded by Peter Giustiniani, grand prior of Messina,
one of that illustrious race which was ever foremost when the cause
was that of the Church, and the enemy was the Mussulman, and whose
boast it was, to reckon the names of fifty saints among its lineage.
Giustiniani’s own vessel, the _Capitana di Malta_, was posted in the
very centre of the line of battle, the place of honour being granted
without opposition to the banner of St. John; but the other galleys
were attached to Doria’s division, and received the first attack of
Ouloudj Ali. In spite of their heroic defence, they were overpowered
by numbers; the _St. Stephen_ was assailed by three Turkish
vessels at once, and was in the utmost danger of being taken, when
Giustiniani, perceiving the danger of his knights, hastened to their
assistance, and forced two of the enemy’s vessels to strike. The
third was on the point of doing the same, when Ouloudj Ali brought
up four other galleys, and then ensued one of the most desperate and
bloody combats that was witnessed throughout the day. Every man on
board the prior’s vessel was slain, with the exception of himself
and two knights, who were all, however, severely wounded. One of
the knights fought till he could no longer stand, and fell, as was
supposed, dead; yet he afterwards recovered, and lived for several
years, with the loss of an arm, a leg, and an eye, and was looked
on in the order as one of their trophies of Lepanto. Giustiniani
himself was wounded in fourteen places; and his galley, now without
defenders, fell into the hands of the Turks, who immediately brought
up their seven shattered vessels, and towed her off in triumph.
It was with inexpressible grief that the Christian fleet beheld the
fall of the Maltese standard and the capture of its chief galley;
but the success of the infidels was of short duration. The knights
inspired with fresh courage by the spectacle of their admiral’s
misfortune, attacked the vessel of the corsair-chief with redoubled
fury. He defended himself with extraordinary obstinacy; but at
length, after the loss of all his bravest men, the banner of the
Hospitallers was once more seen to float over the _Capitana di
Malta_, and Giustiniani and his two wounded comrades were rescued
from the enemy’s hands.[61] No less than seventy-three knights fell
in this struggle. Among those who most distinguished themselves
was the Gascon hero, Maturin de Lescat, better known as “the brave
Romegas.” In his own day he enjoyed a kind of romantic celebrity;
for it was said that in all his combats with the Moslems they had
never been known to gain a single advantage over him. In the course
of five years he is said to have destroyed more than fifty Turkish
vessels, and to have delivered one thousand Christians from slavery.
Many of his most daring exploits had been performed on the coasts
of Sicily, where he was so great a favourite, that, as Goussancourt
informs us, whenever he entered any city of that island, the people
would flock out of their houses only to behold him; not knowing
which to admire most, so much courage adorned with such rare graces
of person, or those graces sustained by so undaunted a valour. Much
of the old chivalrous spirit was to be found in his character,
defaced, indeed, by an ambition which afterwards obscured his fame;
but at Lepanto that fame had as yet lost nothing of its brilliancy,
and Romegas was never higher in estimation than when he led on the
galleys of his order to the rescue of the admiral. Before the battle
began he made a solemn vow that the first Turkish captain who might
fall into his hands should be offered to God: it chanced that his
first prisoner was a most ferocious Turk, who had lost the use of his
right arm, as was said, in consequence of the violence he had used in
inflicting the torture on his Christian slaves. This man was given
by Romegas, in fulfilment of his vow, to the church of St. John at
Malta, and had good reason to thank the brave Gascon for his happy
fortune; for his heart changed in his captivity, and he learnt to
weep over the actions wherein he had formerly placed his glory; so
that, embracing Christianity, he solicited baptism from his masters,
and died happily in the true faith. The gallantry displayed by the
Hospitallers in the engagement forced the Venetian Contarini to
acknowledge that, in spite of their insignificant numbers, their part
in the victory almost surpassed that of Venice herself; and in fact,
when we remember that Don John of Austria was himself a member of the
order,[62] we are bound to admit that their share in the honour of
the day has not been sufficiently acknowledged by historians.
Among the combatants in Doria’s division, whose courage equalled any
of those engaged in the battle, was one whose celebrity, great as
ever in our own day, rests, strange to say, rather on the wit, whose
ridicule gave the last blow to the chivalry of the middle ages, than
on the valour which made its owner himself worthy of the highest
chivalrous renown: it was Miguel Cervantes, “brave as the bravest.”
He lay sick of fever in the cabin of his ship when the tumult of the
battle began; but he could no longer endure to remain inactive. In
spite of the entreaties of his friends, he arose, and rushed into
the hottest of the fight. Being covered with wounds, his companions
again urged him to retire; but he replied, “Better for the soldier
to remain dead in battle than to seek safety in flight. Wounds on
the face and breast are like stars to guide others to the heaven of
honour.” Besides other less important wounds, Cervantes lost in this
battle his left arm;[63] his right hand was destined to gain him
another kind of immortality.
The combat soon became too general for the different divisions of the
two armaments to preserve their respective positions. Every portion
of the hostile fleets was engaged; but the most desperate fight
was that between the galleys of the rival generals, Ali Pasha and
Don John of Austria. Both commanders fought in the thickest of the
fray, regardless of their rank, and with the bold temerity of simple
men-at-arms. By the side of the prince’s galley were those of Colonna
and Sebastian Veniero; and in them, and in the other vessels that
surrounded them, were assembled the very flower of the Christian
host. Here for the most part were the noble French and Roman
volunteers; hardly a great house of Italy but had its representative
among the combatants: two of the Colonnas; Paul Orsini, the chief of
his name, with his brothers, Horace and Virginius; Antonio Carrafa,
Michel Bonelli, and Paul Ghislieri, nephews of the Pope; and Farnese,
prince of Parma, who played a very hero’s part in the flag-ship of
the Genoese republic. The battle in the centre, led on by such men,
and met with equal valour and determination on the part of their
adversaries, lasted more than two hours. Already had the Christians
made two gallant attempts to board the vessel of the pasha, and each
time they were driven back with loss so soon as they reached his
decks. The burning midday-sun added to the heat of the engagement,
and the thirst of the soldiers was almost intolerable. The decks were
heaped with dead, and those still living were covered with wounds,
and well-nigh exhausted from loss of blood, and still they maintained
the conflict with unabated courage. At length the signal was given
for a third charge. It was obeyed with an impetuosity nothing could
resist; and whilst Ali Pasha vainly strove, as before, to drive
back his desperate assailants, a shot from an arquebuse struck him
in the forehead. Staggering from his wound, he fell, and his head
was instantly cut off by a blow from one of the galley-slaves,
and thrown into the sea. The event of the battle after this was
no longer doubtful; Don John with his own hands pulled down the
Turkish flag, and shouted, “Victory!” whilst Santa Cruz, profiting
by the confusion, pushed forward with the reserve, and completed the
discomfiture of the foe. At this critical moment the corsair Ouloudj
Ali, seeing that the whole Turkish centre was broken, and the day
irretrievably lost, hoisted all sail, and with forty galleys, the
only vessels that escaped out of that bloody battle, passed safely
through the midst of the Christian fleet.
The Turks struggled long and desperately before they finally gave
way. It was four in the afternoon ere the fight was over; and the
lowering sky betokened the gathering of a tempest. The remains of
the Turkish fleet fled in all directions, pursued, though with
difficulty, by the allies, whose wearied rowers could scarcely hold
the oars; whilst their numbers were so thinned by the slaughter, that
it was as much as the commanders could do to find crews for their
vessels. Crippled as the Christians were, however, the infidels were
seized with panic, and ran their vessels madly against the shore
of Lepanto. In their terrified efforts to land, many were drowned;
whilst the galleys were broken by the waves, or fell an easy prey
to the conquerors. The whole sea for miles presented most terrible
tokens of the battle; those clear waters, on which the morning sun
had shone so brightly, were now dark and discoloured by human blood.
Headless corpses and the fragments of many a wreck floated about
in strange confusion; while the storm, which every moment raged in
wilder fury, added to the horror of the scene, lit up as the night
advanced by the flames from the burning galleys, many of which were
found too much disabled to be of any use to their captors. Twelve[64]
of those belonging to the allies were destroyed; but the extent
of their victory may be estimated by the fact that eighty vessels
belonging to the Turks were sunk, whilst 130 remained in the hands
of the Christians. The pasha’s galley, which was among those taken,
was a vessel of surpassing beauty. The deck, says Knolles, was of
walnut-wood, dark as ebony, “checkered and wrought marvellously
fine with divers lively colours and variety of histories;” and her
cabin glittered with ornaments of gold, rich hangings, and precious
gems.[65] The enemy’s slain amounted to 30,000 men; and 15,000 of
the Christian slaves who had been compelled to work the Ottoman
galleys were liberated. Yet the victory, complete as it was, was
dearly bought; the loss of the allies was reckoned at about 8000 men;
and their ships, riddled with balls, and many of them dismasted,
presented a striking contrast to the gay and gallant trim in which
but a few days previously they had left the harbour of Messina.
The conduct of Don John of Austria after the battle justifies us in
ranking him among the true heroes of chivalry. He had been foremost
in the day’s conflict, where he had been seen, sword in hand,
wherever the danger was greatest and the blows hardest. He was now
equally conspicuous for his care of the wounded, his generosity
towards his prisoners, and his frank and noble recognition of the
services of a rival. Sebastian Veniero, the disgraced leader of the
Venetian forces, had distinguished himself in the fight by a valour
that had made his gray hairs the centre round which the most gallant
of the young volunteers of France and Italy had rallied during that
eventful day. The prince sent for him as soon as the confusion of the
victory had subsided, and (adds Rosell in his history of the battle),
“to show him that he harboured no resentment for past offences, he
advanced to meet him as far as the ladder of his galley, embraced
him affectionately, and, calling him _his father_, extolled, as was
just, his great valour, and could not finish what he would have said
for the sobs and tears that choked his utterance. The poor old man,
who did not expect such a reception, wept also, and so did all who
witnessed the scene.” Whilst this interview was taking place, the two
sons of Ali Pasha were brought prisoners into the prince’s presence.
“It was a piteous sight,” says the same historian, “to see the tears
they shed on finding themselves at once prisoners and orphans.”
But they met with a friend and comforter in their generous captor;
he embraced them, and expressed the tenderest sympathy for their
misfortunes. The delicacy of his kindness showed itself in more
than words; he treated them rather as his guests than as captives,
lodging them in one of his own cabins, and even ordering Turkish
clothes to be provided for them at his expense, that they might not
be pained by being obliged to adopt the European costume. Neither was
he less forward in returning thanks to God for the victory granted
to his arms than he had been in commending to Him the event of the
day’s conflict. Thus the night closed: the vessels cast anchor amid
the wreck of battle, and the wearied combatants took a short and
necessary repose. So soon as day again broke, the sails were hoisted,
and, securing their prizes, they proceeded to the port of Petala, to
repair their damages and provide for the necessities of the wounded.
Such was the celebrated battle of Lepanto, whose results were in one
way insignificant, owing to the losses incurred by the Christian
allies, and the limitation put on the power of Don John by the
cautious policy of the Spanish king. Yet we should be wrong to
estimate the worth of any victory by the amount of its territorial
conquests, or its lists of killed and wounded. The moral effects
of the day of Lepanto are beyond calculation: it was the turning
point in the history of the Ottoman Turks; from it may be dated the
decline of their dominion; for though indeed, during the following
century, the terror of Europe was still constantly excited by their
attacks on the frontier of the empire, yet their naval power was
never again formidable, and the long prestige of continual success
was broken.[66] Moreover, whilst it is impossible to deny that the
advantages of the victory were never followed up, and that, in
consequence of the desertion of the Venetians, the league itself was
soon dissolved; yet it is also certain that the further progress of
the Ottomans westward was checked from the hour of their defeat;
whereas every campaign during preceding years had witnessed their
gradual advance.
It only remains for us to speak of the manner in which the news of
the success of the Christian arms was received by those who were so
anxiously awaiting the result of the expedition at the courts of Rome
and Madrid. Pius V., who may be considered as the originator of the
whole enterprise, had, from the first departure of the fleet, ordered
continual fasts and prayers for its success. On the memorable 7th
of October on which the battle took place, and which fell that year
on a Sunday, all the confraternities of the Rosary had assembled
in the Dominican church of the Minerva to offer their devotions
for victory under the intercession of Mary. All Rome was in prayer
that day, and her prayer was the _Ave Maria_. The Pope himself had
attended the procession; and on returning to the Vatican after the
conclusion of the ceremony, he was walking to and fro through the
long suites of rooms in the pontifical palace, in conversation with
some of the cardinals and Baffotti, the treasurer, on various matters
of business. Suddenly he stopped as if listening to a distant sound,
then, leaving his companions, he approached one of the windows, and
threw it open; whilst those who watched his movements observed that
his eyes were raised to heaven with the expression of one in ecstasy.
They themselves also listened, but were unable to catch the faintest
sound that could account for his singular behaviour; and whilst they
gazed at one another in astonishment, unable to comprehend the scene,
Pius (says his biographer Maffei), “whose eyes had been fixed upwards
for a good space, shutting the window again, and seemingly full of
great things, turned graciously to the treasurer, and said, ‘This is
no time for business; let us go and give God thanks, for our fleet
has fought with the Turks, and in this very hour has conquered.’ He
knelt down as he spoke, and gave thanks to God with great fervour;
then taking a pen, he wrote down the day and the hour: it was the
decisive moment at which the battle had turned in favour of the
Christians.”
The actual intelligence of the victory did not reach Rome until the
21st of October, owing to contrary winds which delayed the couriers
of Colonna; so that the first news was brought by a messenger from
the republic of Venice. It was night when he arrived; but when word
was brought to the holy father of the happy realisation of his hopes
and of the Divine assurance he had received, he sprang from his
bed, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, “There was a man sent from
God, whose name was John;” then, hurrying to his private chapel,
he summoned all his attendants and officers to meet him there,
to offer their thanksgivings for the great event. A more solemn
function was performed on the following morning in the Basilica of
the Apostles, and none of those who had joined in the previous and
reiterated prayers by which the patronage of Mary had been invoked
on the Christian arms, failed to ascribe the success which had been
granted, to the power of her intercession, especially as invoked in
the holy devotion of the Rosary, under whose banner, as it were, the
battle had been fought and won. The emotion displayed by St. Pius was
in accordance with the simplicity and tenderness of his character.
Not less characteristic, nor less religious, though possibly less
calculated to engage the sympathy of our readers, was the calmness
with which the same intelligence was received by Philip of Spain. He
was at Vespers when the news was brought him, and heard it without
the smallest manifestation of joy or surprise. When the office was
concluded, he desired the _Te Deum_ to be sung; and on the following
day proceeded to Madrid, to be present at a solemn Mass offered in
thanksgiving for the victory. An entire and rigid self-command was at
once the virtue and the cause of the unpopularity of this singular
man. As a virtue, it was the effect of natural impulse subdued and
annihilated; but along with this there doubtless mingled much of
constitutional reserve and coldness. As to the Venetian republic,
the charge of insensibility could not certainly be brought against
either its senate or its people. The religious emotion of St. Pius,
and the austere self-restraint of King Philip, were there exchanged
for the tumultuous expressions of popular rejoicing. The great Piazza
of St. Mark was like a fair, where doge and senator, nobles and
citizens, all met to congratulate one another; whilst the shouts and
_vivas_ of the crowd rang far over the waters of the Adriatic; and
by an edict of the senate the prisons were thrown open, and none of
those whose relations had fallen in the battle were allowed to wear
mourning, or show any outward demonstrations of grief; for their loss
was rather counted to them as glory.
We shall not dwell on the tokens of gratitude showered on the
victorious chiefs,—on those revivals of the classic triumphs which
filled the streets of Rome on the entry of Colonna,—nor on all the
laurel-wreaths and orations, the poems and painted galleries, and
other similar memorials of the great event, which the gratitude and
the genius of the day presented to the conquerors of Lepanto. There
was another kind of gratitude owing, and to a different victor; and
the Church well knew how to pay her debt. The voice of Catholic
Christendom agreed in attributing the victory to the intercession
of Mary; and the invocation, “Help of Christians,” was introduced
into the Litany of Loretto in memory of the fact. But St. Pius was
scarcely content with so slender an acknowledgment as this. “In the
revelation granted to him of the victory,” says Maffei, “it had been
also made known to him that the prayers of the brethren of the Holy
Rosary had greatly contributed to the same. Being therefore desirous
of perpetuating the memory of this, he instituted a feast, appointed
for the 7th of October, in honour of ‘Our Lady of Victories.’” But
Gregory XIII., admiring the modesty of his predecessor, who, being
a religious of the Order of Friars Preachers, had not chosen to
make mention of the Rosary, for fear he should be thought rather
to have sought the honour of his order than that of truth, desired
that in future the feast of our Lady of Victories should be kept on
the first Sunday in October in all Dominican churches, and wherever
the Confraternity of the Rosary existed, under the new title of the
“Festival of the Holy Rosary,” which was thenceforward no longer to
be celebrated on the 25th of March, as in time past it had been. This
was finally extended to the whole of the Church by Clement XII., who
changed the wording of the Roman Martyrology to its present form:
“The Commemoration of our Lady of Victories, which Pope Pius V.
ordained to be observed every year, in memory of a famous victory
gained at sea this day by the Christians over the Turks, through the
help of the Mother of God; and Gregory XIII. likewise ordained the
annual solemnity of the Rosary of the same most Blessed Virgin to be
kept on the first Sunday of the month for the same cause.”
Baronius, in his notes on the Martyrology, has commented on these
words, saying they are but the confirmation from the hand of Clement
of that which had been already declared by Gregory XIII., namely,
that by the common consent of the Catholic world the victory of
Lepanto was due to the intercession of Mary, invoked and obtained
by the prayers of the brethren of the Rosary, and of the Dominican
Order; not only the prayers offered up before the battle, but those
especially which were rising to Heaven at the very moment when the
tide of victory turned in favour of the Christian league.
On one of the northern hills of Rome may be seen another monument
of the Church’s gratitude to her mother and protector: it is the
Church of our Lady of Victories. There, upon walls dazzling with the
rich colours of their jaspers and marbles, hang the tattered and
discoloured banners of the infidels. The church was raised to receive
them, and to be a witness to all ages of the omnipotence of prayer.
Nor, considering how slight were the immediate and apparent results
of the victory of Lepanto,—so slight, indeed, that historians have
spoken of them as null,—will the pious mind fail to note and admire
how, with prophetic eye reading futurity, the Church saw in that
event the crisis in the fortunes, and the incipient decay, of that
monstrous anti-Christian power, whose advances, so far from being
arrested, seemed only to be accelerated by any check it might chance
to encounter. The commemorations of the Church are not only preludes
of victory, but triumphs already accomplished and secured.
THE RELIEF OF VIENNA.
CHAPTER I.
THE SIEGE.
State of the city—Situation of the Empire—Rapid advance
of the Turks—The massacre of Perchtoldsdorf—The Turkish
camp—Kollonitsch—View without the walls—Ditto within—Progress
of the siege—The camp of Crems—Desperate condition of the
citizens—The signal-rockets.
On the evening of the 7th of July 1683 the city of Vienna presented
a strange and melancholy spectacle. The road leading out of the
Rothenthurm Gate was crowded by a dense mass of carriages and other
vehicles, as well as by a vast multitude of foot-passengers, who,
by their anxious and terrified looks, seemed to be flying from a
pressing danger. Hour after hour you might have watched the stream
of fugitives, and still it flowed on without intermission, till you
would have thought the city emptied of its inhabitants, or at least
of all those of the noble and wealthier classes. And had you sought
the reason of so strange a spectacle, the red glare of the distant
horizon, lit up by the flames of burning villages, and nearer still,
those that enveloped the Carmelite Convent on the heights of the
Kahlenberg, would have furnished you with the answer. Those fires
were the tokens that Vienna was surrounded by the dreaded forces of
the Turks. Every post, for weeks past, had brought the intelligence
of some fresh disaster. Hungary was in open revolt; and 400,000
Turks, under the command of the Vizier Kara Mustapha, had poured
into the territories of the empire, invited by the treachery of the
insurgents. Then came the news that Emerick Tekeli had accepted the
investiture of the Hungarian kingdom at the hands of the infidels,
and basely acknowledged himself and his countrymen vassals to the
Porte. And at last, on that very morning, the city had been thrown
into a very panic of alarm by the hasty entrance of fugitives of
the imperial cavalry; and the rumour quickly spread that the forces
of the Duke of Lorraine had been surprised and totally defeated at
Petrouel by the Tartar horse, and that the remains of the imperial
army were falling back in disordered flight upon the capital. This,
as it afterwards proved, was a false report; as Lorraine, although
surprised by the enemy, had succeeded in repulsing them, and was
effecting his retreat in good order. But the Emperor Leopold did not
wait for the confirmation or contradiction of the intelligence; and
at seven o’clock on the same evening the imperial carriages were
seen hastily passing over the Tabor Bridge on their way to Lintz,
thus giving an example of flight which was quickly followed by the
greater portion of the wealthier citizens. It is calculated that
upwards of 60,000 persons left the city during that memorable night,
the confused masses being lighted on their way by the flames of the
burning convent. A great number of these having no conveyances fell
into the hands of the very enemy from whom they sought to escape;
and the roads leading to Styria were covered with unhappy fugitives,
whom the Turks are even said to have hunted down with bloodhounds:
some perished of hunger in the woods; others met a cruel death from
their barbarous pursuers; the rest succeeded in reaching the Bavarian
dominions, where Leopold had already found refuge, after narrowly
escaping the Tartar cavalry, who occupied the very line of route
which had been originally proposed for him to take.