THE DEFENCE OF CAMBRAY
I
Of that terrible day in Cambray, that fourth of April, 1581, nothing
has survived but a memory--a glowing memory of fervour and
enthusiasm, of reckless disregard of danger and magnificent deeds of
valour; a heartrending memory of sorrow and misery and death.
Five times in as many hours did the armies of the Duke of Parma rush
to the assault of the city. Five times did a living rampart of
intrepid bodies interpose itself between the mighty hordes and the
crumbling walls of Cambray--those intrepid bodies more steadfast than
the walls. At one hour after noon the redoubt of Cantimpré is a
black mass of charred débris, the Château de Seille is in flames. On
the right bank of the Scheldt the walls have a breach through which
twenty men can pass, the moats and the river are filled with dead.
But the living rampart still stands. The walls of Cambray are
crumbling, but her citizens are steadfast. Halbertmen and pikemen,
archers and gunners, they all have a moment's weakness to retrieve,
and do it with deeds of indomitable valour. And as they fall, and
their numbers become thinned, as that breathing, palpitating wall
sustains shock after shock of the most powerful engines of warfare
the world has ever known, its gaps are made good by other breasts and
other hearts, and with all the spirit which will not rest until it
has conquered.
Outside and in, at this hour, all is confusion. A medley of sights
and sounds which the senses cannot wholly grasp, dull roar of cannon,
sharp retort of musketry, clash of pike and lance and halbert, the
terrified shrieks of women and the groans of the wounded and the
dying. Round about the walls, in the narrow streets and up on the
battlements, a litter of broken steel and staves, of scrap-iron and
fragments of masonry and glass, torn jerkins cast aside; for the
April sun is hot and the smell of powder goes to the head like wine.
II
And from the tall steeples of Cambray's many churches the tocsin
sends its ominous call above the din.
Cambray is fighting for her liberty, for her existence. Her sons and
daughters are giving their lives for her. And not only for her, but
for the Netherlands--the brave and stricken country which has fought
against such terrible odds while the very centuries have rolled by.
A last stand, this; for no mercy is to be expected from the Spaniard
if he enters the city in his numbers. Cambray hath withstood the
might of Philip II, hath rebelled against his authority, hath dared
to think that men are free to think, to work and to worship, that
children are not slaves or women chattels. Cambray hath unfurled the
flag of liberty. If she fall, she becomes a prey to rapine and
brutality, to incendiaries and libertines.
So Cambray to-day must conquer or die.
Traitors have plotted against her, laid her open, unsuspecting, to a
surprise attack by an army which is past-master in the art. Caught
unawares in a holiday mood, she has flinched. Worked upon by
treachery, her sons have wavered at first, panic seized hold of
them--they all but fell, shamed and destined to never-ending disgrace
and remorse.
But the cowardice had been momentary, fostered by past months of
privations and misery, fomented by the insidious voice of traitors.
One man's voice hath rallied the sinking spirits, one man's valour
revived the dormant courage. All they wanted was a leader--a man to
tell them to hope, a man to cheer and comfort them, to kindle in
their hearts the dying flame of indomitable will. So, in the wake of
that man they have followed in their hundreds and their thousands;
the soldiers have regained discipline; the men, courage; the women,
resignation. The masked stranger whom they had been taught to hate,
they have already learned to worship.
Heroic, splendid, indomitable, he is the bulwark which strengthens
every faltering heart, the prop which supports every wavering spirit.
From end to end of the ramparts his sonorous voice vibrates and
echoes, commanding, helping, cheering. If courage fails, he is there
to stiffen; if an arm tires, his is there to take its place. Sword
or lance, or pike or halbert, culverine or musket or bow; every
weapon is familiar to his hand. At the breach with a pistol, on the
ramparts with falconet, on the bastion with the heavy cannon; he is
here, there and everywhere where danger is most threatening, where
Spanish arrows darken the sky like a storm-cloud that is wind-driven,
and deal death when they find their goal. His jerkin is torn, the
sleeve of his doublet hangs tattered from his shoulder, his arm is
bare, his face black with powder and grime. Around him the Provosts
and Sheriffs and Captains of the Guard vainly beg him not to expose
himself to unnecessary peril.
'The soldiers look to your Highness alone,' they cry in desperation.
'If you fall, what should we do?'
They still believe him to be the Duc d'Anjou, brother of the King of
France, and marvel that so degenerate a race could breed such a
magnificent soldier. He has said nothing to disillusion them. The
mire of battle masks him better than a scrap of satin or velvet, and
whilst fighting to save Cambray, he is also redeeming the honour of
France.
'If you fall, what should we do?' implores d'Inchy on one occasion,
during a lull in the attack.
Gilles laughs, loudly and long. 'Do?' he exclaims gaily. 'Hold
Cambray to the last man and turn the Spaniard from her walls!'
Unflinching and resolute, a pack of Flemish bourgeois hold their
ground against the might and main of the Duke of Parma's magnificent
army--clerks, some of them, others shopkeepers or labourers, against
the most powerful military organization of the epoch! But it is not
only Cambray that is threatened now; it is the freedom of their
province and the honour of their women. And so they make a wall of
their bodies whilst the flower of the Duke of Parma's hordes is
hurled time after time against them.
Musketeers and crossbowmen, lancers and halberdiers--up they come to
the charge like an irresistible tidal wave against a mighty cliff.
Like a torrent they rush over the moat and on to the breach, or the
bastions, or the ramparts; attacking from every side, using every
engine of warfare which the mightiest kingdom of the age has devised
for the subjugation of rebellious cities. The sound of metal-headed
arrows against the masonry is like a shower of hailstones upon glass;
the battlements gleam with flashing steel, with sparks from
brandished swords and flame-spitting falconets.
Of a truth, the mind cannot grasp it all, eyes cannot see nor ears
perceive all the horrors, the misery and the devotion. Men fighting
and women working to soothe, to comfort or to heal. Burghers' wives,
humble maids, great ladies, are all fighting with the men, fighting
with their hearts and their skilled hands, with clean bandages and
soothing potions, with words of comfort for the dying and prayers for
the dead.
In the streets behind the ramparts, rough ambulances have been set
up, mattresses dragged under sheds or outhouses, fresh straw laid, on
which the wounded might find momentary solace. The women, too, are
doing their part. Jacqueline de Broyart, one of the many, the most
untiring where all give of their best, the most selfless where all
are ready for sacrifice. From time to time during the lull between
terrific assaults, she sees Gilles hurrying past--her knight, the
defender of her beloved city. She bade him go and save Cambray and
sees him now, begrimed, in rags, unheedful even of her, but cheerful
and undaunted, certain of victory.
'You will be proud, my dear,' says d'Inchy to her, during one of
those nerve-racking lulls, 'to place your hand in that so valiant a
soldier, to plight your troth to Monsieur Duc d'Anjou.'
'I shall be proud,' she retorts simply, 'if, indeed, I might plight
my troth to the defender of Cambray.'
'The defender of Cambray, my dear,' rejoins d'Inchy lustily. 'The
saviour of Cambray, you mean! 'Tis on our knees we shall have to
thank him and offer him all that we have of the best!'
A strange, elusive smile flits for a moment round Jacqueline's mouth,
and a look of infinite longing softens the light of her blue eyes.
'If only it could be!' she sighs, and returns to her task.
III
Later in the afternoon, the picture becomes more clear. We see the
crumbling walls, the girdle around Cambray falling away bit by bit;
we see the breach at Cantimpré wider by many feet now and a handful
of men making a last stand there, with muskets, crossbows,
sticks--anything that is ready to hand. We see the bastions a mass
of smouldering ruins and the ramparts around on the point of giving
way.
And all about the city a mighty hecatomb--Spaniards and Flemings,
soldiers, burghers or churls, lie scattered on the low-lying ground,
in the moat, the ramparts or the streets. Might and glory have
claimed their victims as well as valour and worship of liberty.
Cambray's walls are falling. The breach becomes wider and wider
every hour, like a huge gaping wound through which the life-blood of
the stricken city is oozing out drop by drop.
But, guarding that breach, not yet yielding one foot of the city
which shelters his Jacqueline, Gilles de Crohin, with that handful of
men, still holds the ground. His anxious eyes scan the low horizon
far away where the April sun is slowly sinking to rest. That way
lies La Fère and de Balagny's few picked men, whom Jehan has gone to
fetch, and who could even in this desperate hour turn Spanish
discomfiture into a rout.
'My God! why does Jehan tarry?' he calls out with smouldering
impatience.
Up on the battlements the guard stand firm; but the Spaniards have
succeeded in throwing several bridges of pikes across the moat and
one mine after another is laid against the walls. Captains and
officers run to Gilles for instructions or orders.
'There are no orders,' he says, 'save to hold out until France comes
to your aid.'
And out in the open country, outside those city walls which hold
together so much heroism and such indomitable courage, the Duke of
Parma, angered, fierce, terrible, has rallied the cream of his armies
around him. The sixth assault has just been repulsed, the breach
cleared by a terrific fusillade from that handful of men, whilst a
murderous shower from above, of granite and scrap-iron and heavy
stones, has scattered the attacking party. A fragment of stone has
hit the Duke on the forehead; blood is streaming down his face. He
sets spurs to his horse and gallops to where a company of archers is
scrambling helter-skelter out of the moat.
'Cowards!' he cries savagely. 'Will you flee before such rabble?'
He strikes at the soldiers with his sword, sets spurs to his horse
until the poor beast snorts with pain, rears and paws the air with
its hoofs, only to bring them down the next moment, trampling and
kicking half a dozen soldiers to death in its mad and terrified
struggle.
'You know the guard has fled,' Alexander Farnese cries to his
officers. ''Tis only an undisciplined mob who is in there now.'
His nephew, Don Miguel de Salvado, a brave and experienced captain,
shrugs his shoulders and retorts:
'A mob led by a man who has the whole art of warfare at his
finger-tips. Look at him now!'
All eyes are turned in the direction to which Don Miguel is pointing.
There, in the midst of smouldering ruins of charred débris and
crumbling masonry, stands the defender of Cambray; behind him the
graceful steeples of St. Géry and of St. Waast, the towers of Notre
Dame and of the Town Hall, are lit up by the honey-coloured rays of
the sinking sun. Superb in his tattered clothes, with chest and arms
bare, and ragged hose, he stands immovable, scanning the western sky.
De Landas laughs aloud.
'He is still on the look-out for that promised help from France,' he
says, with a shrug of his shoulder.
The traitor has made good his escape out of the city which he has
betrayed. What assistance he could render to the Duke in the way of
information, he has done. The measure of his infamy is full to the
brim, and yet his hatred for the enemy who has shamed him is in no
way assuaged.
He, too, looks up and sees Gilles de Crohin, the man whose invincible
courage has caused the Spanish armies so many valuable lives this day
and such unforgettable humiliation.
'A hundred doubloons,' he cries aloud, 'to the first man who lays
that scoundrel low!'
The word is passed from mouth to mouth. The archers and musketeers
set up a cheer. Parma adds, with an oath: 'And a captain's rank to
boot!'
An hundred doubloons and a captain's rank! 'Tis a fortune for any
man. It means retirement, a cottage in sunny Spain, a home, a wife.
The men take heart and look to their arrows and their muskets! Every
archer feels that he has that fortune in his quiver now and every
musketeer has it in his powder horn. And with a loud cry of 'Long
live King Philip of Spain!' the infantry once more rush for the
breach.
IV
Don Miguel de Salvado leads the attack this time. The breach now
looks like a gate which leads straight into the heart of the city,
where pillage and looting are to be the reward of the conquerors; and
the booty will be rich with the precious belongings of a pack of
overfed bourgeois.
That open gate for the moment seems undefended. It is encumbered
with fallen masonry, and beyond this appear piles of rubbish,
overturned wagons, furniture, débris of all sorts, evidently
abandoned by the wretched inhabitants when they fled from their
homes. Of Gilles de Crohin and his burghers there is for the moment
no sign.
Don Miguel has with him half a company of musketeers, the finest
known in Europe, and a company of lancers who have been known to
clear an entire city of rebels by their irresistible onrush.
'No falling back, remember!' he commands. 'The first who gives
ground is a dead man!'
Up the lancers run on the slippery ground, clinging to the wet earth
with naked feet, to the coarse grass and loose stones with their
knees. The musketeers remain on the hither side of the moat, three
deep in a long battle array; the front lying flat upon the ground,
the second kneeling, the third standing, with their muskets levelled
against the first enemy who dares to show his face. The pikemen have
reached the breach. There is silence on the other side. The officer
laughs lustily.
'I told you 'twas but a rabble playing with firearms!'
The words are hardly out of his mouth when a terrific volley of
musketry shakes the fast crumbling wall to its foundation. It comes
from somewhere behind all those débris--and not only from there, but
from some other unknown point, with death-like precision and cold
deliberation. The Spanish officer is hit in the face; twelve pikemen
throw up their arms and come rolling down on the wet ground.
'What is this hell let loose?' cries the officer savagely, ere he
too, blinded with the flow of blood down his face, beats a hasty
retreat.
Quick! a messenger to His Highness the Duke of Parma! The breach is
so wide now that twenty men could walk easily through it. The enemy
is not in sight--and yet, from somewhere unseen, death-dealing
musketry frustrates every assault.
'Return to the charge!' is the Duke of Parma's curt command, and
sends one of his ablest officers to lead a fresh charge. He himself
organizes a diversion, crosses the small rivulet, which flows into
the Schelde at the foot of Cantimpré, and trains his artillery upon a
vulnerable piece of wall, between the bastion and the river bank. He
has the finest culverines known in Europe at this time, made on a new
pattern lately invented in England; his cannon balls are the most
powerful ever used in warfare, and some of his musketeers know how to
discharge ten shots in a quarter of an hour--an accomplishment never
excelled even by the French.
So, while one of his ablest officers is in charge of the attacking
party on the breach, His Highness himself directs a new set of
operations. Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry rend the
air with their portentous sound. The Duke of Parma's picked men
attack the last bastion of Cantimpré, whilst from the roads of Arras,
of Sailly and Bapaume, the whole of the Spanish infantry rush like a
mighty wave to the charge.
Pikemen and halberdiers, archers and lancers, once more to the
assault! Are ye indeed cowards, that a pack of Flemish rabble can
hold you at bay till you sink back exhausted and beaten? Up,
Bracamonte and Ribeiras! Messar, with your musketeers! Salvado,
with your bow-men! Up, ye mighty Spanish armies, who have seen the
world at your feet! With Farnese himself to lead you, the hero of an
hundred sieges, the queller of an hundred rebellions; are ye dolts
and fools that you cannot crush a handful of undisciplined rabble?
And in close masses, shoulder to shoulder, they come!--exhausted, but
still obstinate, and with the hope of all the rich booty to lure them
on. Down the declivity of the moat--no longer deep, now that it is
filled with dead! And up again to below the walls! The setting sun
is behind them and gleams on their breastplates and their bonnets,
and gilds the edges of the battlements with lines of flame.
And, up on the crumbling battlements, the defenders of Cambray--the
clerks and shopkeepers and churls--hear the tramp of many feet, feel
the earth quivering beneath this thunder of a last mighty assault.
Sturdy, undaunted hands grip lance and pike tighter still, and
intrepid hearts wait for this final charge, as they have waited for
others to-day, and will go on waiting till the last of them has
stilled its beating.
And Gilles de Crohin in their midst, invincible and cool, scours the
battlements and the breach, the bastions and the ramparts--always
there where he is needed most, where spirits want reviving or courage
needs the impetus of praise. He knows as well as they do that
gunpowder is running short, that arrows are few and thousands of
weapons broken with usage: he knows, better than they do, that if de
Balagny's troop tarries much longer all this heroic resistance will
have been in vain.
So he keeps his own indomitable little army on the leash, husbanding
precious lives and no less precious ammunition; keeping them back,
well away from the parapets, lest the sight of the enemy down below
lead them on to squander both. Thus, of all that goes on beneath the
walls, of the nature of the attack or the chances of a surprise, the
stout defenders can see nothing. Only Gilles, whilst scouring the
lines, can see; for he has crawled on his hands and knees to the
outermost edge of the crumbling parapet and has gazed down upon the
Duke of Parma's hordes.
V
Now the Spanish halbertmen have reached the hither side of the moat.
The breach is before them, tantalizingly open. The lancers are
following over the improvised bridges, and behind them the musketeers
are sending a volley of shot over their heads into the breach. It is
all done with much noise and clash of steel and thundering artillery
and cries of 'Long live King Philip!'--all to cover the disposing of
scaling ladders against the walls.
The pikemen are executing this surprise attack, one in which they are
adepts. The noisy onslaught, the roar of artillery, the throwing of
dust in the eyes of wearied defenders; then the silent scaling of the
walls, the rush upon the battlements, wholesale panic and slaughter.
Alexander Farnese hath oft employed these devices and hath never
known them to fail. So the men throw down their pikes, carry pistols
in their right hand and a short dagger-like sword between their
teeth. They fix their ladders--five of them--and begin quite
noiselessly to mount. Ten on each ladder, which makes fifty all
told, and they the flower of the Duke of Parma's troops. Up they
swarm like human ants striving to reach a hillock. Now the gunners
have to cease firing, lest they hit those ladders with their human
freight.
And while at the breach the men of Cambray make their last desperate
stand, the first of the Spanish pikemen has reached the topmost rung
of his ladder. The human ants have come to the top of their hillock.
Already the foremost amongst them has begun to hoist himself up, with
his hands clinging to the uneven masonry. The next second or two
would have seen him with his leg over the parapet, and already a cry
of triumph has risen to his lips, when suddenly, before his
horror-stricken gaze, a man surges up, as if out of the ground,
stands there before him for one second, which is as tense as it is
terrifying. Then, with a mighty blow from some heavy weapon which he
holds, he fells the pikeman down. The man loses his footing, gives a
loud cry of horror and falls headlong some forty feet. In his fall
he drags two or three of his comrades with him. But the ladder still
stands, and on it the human ants, reinforced at once by others,
resume their climb. Only for a minute--no more! The next, a pair of
hands with titanic strength and a grip of iron seizes the ladder by
the shafts, holds it for one brief, agonizing moment, and then hurls
it down with the whole of its human freight into the depth below.
An awful cry rends the air, but is quickly drowned by the roar of
cannon and musketry. It has been a mere incident. The Duke has not
done more than mutter an oath in his beard. He is watching the four
other ladders on which his human ants are climbing. But the oath
dies on his lips--even he becomes silent in face of the appalling
catastrophe which he sees. That man up there whom already he has
learned to fear, that man in the tattered doublet and the ragged
hose--he it is who has turned the tables on Farnese's best _ruse de
guerre_. With lightning rapidity and wellnigh superhuman strength,
he repeats his feat once more. Once more a scaling ladder bearing
its precious human freight is hurled down into the depth. The man
now appears like a Titan. Ye gods! or ye devils! which of you gave
him that strength? Now he has reached the third ladder. Just
perhaps one second too late, for the leading pikeman has already
gained a foothold upon the battlements, stands there on guard to
shield the ladder; for he has scented the danger which threatens him
and his comrades. His pistol is raised even as Gilles approaches.
The Duke of Parma feels as if his heart had stilled its beating.
Another second, and that daring rebel would be laid low.
But Gilles too has seen the danger--the danger to himself and to the
city which he is defending. No longer has he the time to seize the
ladder as he has done before, no longer the chance of exerting that
titanic strength which God hath lent him so that he might save
Cambray. One second--it is the most precious one this threatened
city hath yet known, for in it Fate is holding the balance, and the
life of her defender is at stake. One second!
The Spanish pikemen are swarming up dangerously near now to the
battlements. The next instant Gilles has picked up a huge piece of
masonry from the ground, holds it for one moment with both hands
above his head, then hurls it with all his might against the ladder.
The foremost man is the first to fall. His pistol goes off in his
hand with a loud report. Immediately below him the weight of the
falling stone has made matchwood of the ladder and the men are hurled
to their death, almost without uttering a groan. The Flemish
halbertmen in the meanwhile have rushed up to the battlements; seeing
Gilles' manoeuvre, they are eager to emulate it. There are two more
ladders propped against the falling walls and their leader's strength
must in truth be spent. And there are still more Spaniards to come,
more of those numberless hordes, before whom a handful of untrained
burghers are making their last and desperate stand.
Just then Gilles has paused in order to gaze once more into the
far-away west. Already the gold of the sun has turned to rose and
crimson, already the low-lying horizon appears aflame with the
setting glow. But now upon the distant horizon line something
appears to move, something more swift and sudden and vivid than the
swaying willows by the river bank or the tall poplars nodding to the
evening breeze. Flames of fire dart and flash, a myriad specks of
dust gleam like lurid smoke and the earth shakes with the tramp of
many horses' hoofs. Far away on the Bapaume road the forerunners of
de Balagny's troops are seen silhouetted against the glowing sky.
Gilles has seen them. Aid has come at last. One more stupendous
effort, one more superhuman exertion of will, and the day is won. He
calls aloud to the depleted garrison, to that handful of men who,
brave and undaunted, stand around him still.
'At them, burghers of Cambray! France comes to your aid! See her
mighty army thundering down the road! Down with the Spaniard! This
is the hour of your victory!'
As many times before, his resonant voice puts heart into them once
again. Once again they grip halberds and lances with the
determination born of hope. They rush to the battlements and with
mighty hands hurl the Spanish scaling ladders from their walls, pick
up bits of stone, fragments of granite and of iron, use these as
missiles upon the heads of the attacking party below. The archers on
one knee shoot with deadly precision. They have been given half a
dozen arrows each--the last--and every one of them finds its mark.
Surprised and confounded by this recrudescence of energy, the
Spaniards pause. An hundred of them lie dead or dying at the foot of
the wall. Their ranks are broken; don Miguel tries to rally them.
But he is hit by an arrow in the throat, ere he succeeds. De Landas
is close by, runs to the rescue, tries to re-form the ranks, and sees
Gilles de Crohin standing firm upon the battlements and hears his
triumphant, encouraging cry:
'Citizens of Cambray, France has come to your aid!'
Confusion begins to wave her death-dealing wand. The halbertmen at
the breach stand for full five minutes almost motionless under a hail
of arrows and missiles, waiting for the word of command.
And on the Bapaume road, de Balagny and his troops are quickly
drawing nigh. Already the white banner with the gold Fleur-de-Lys
stands out clearly against the sky.
Parma has seen it, and cursed with savage fury. He is a great and
mighty warrior and knows that the end has come. The day has brought
failure and disgrace; duty now lies in saving a shred of honour and
the remnants of a scattered army. He cannot understand how it has
all happened, whence this French troop has come and by whose orders.
He is superstitious and mystical and fears to see in this the
vengeful finger of God. So he crosses himself and mutters a quick
prayer, even as a volley of musketry fired insolently into the air,
reverberates down the Bapaume road.
France is here with her great armies, her unconquered generals:
Condé, Turenne, have come to the rescue. Parma's wearied troops
cannot possibly stand the strain of fighting in the rear whilst still
pushing home the attack in front. How numerous is the French
advancing troop it is impossible to guess. They come with mighty
clatter and many useless volleys of musketry, with jingling of
harness and breastplates and clatter of hoofs upon the road. They
come with a mighty shout of 'Valois! and Fleur-de-Lys!' They wave
their banners and strike their lances and pikes together. They come!
They come!
And the half-exhausted Spanish army hears and sees them too. The
halbertmen pause and listen, the archers halt halfway across the
moat, whilst all around the whisper goes from mouth to mouth:
"The French are on us! Sauve qui peut!"
Panic seizes the men. They turn and scurry back over the declivity
of the moat. The stampede has commenced: first the cavalry, then the
infantrymen, for the French are in the rear and legions of unseen
spirits have come to the aid of Cambray.
The Duke of Parma now looks like a broken wreck of his former
arrogant self. His fine accoutrements are torn, the trappings of his
charger are in tatters, his beard has been singed with gunpowder, he
has no hat, no cloak. Raging fury is in his husky voice as he shouts
orders and counter-orders to men who no longer hear. He calls to his
officers, alternately adjures and insults them. But the French
troops draw nearer and nearer, and nothing but Death will stop those
running Spanish soldiers now.
To right and left of the Bapaume road they run, leaving that road
free for the passage of de Balagny's small troop. Out in the western
sky, the sun is setting in a mantle of vivid crimson, which is like
the colour of human blood. The last glow illumines the final
disgrace of Parma's hitherto unconquered hordes. The cavalry is
galloping back to the distant camp, with broken reins and stirrups
hanging loose, steel bonnets awry, swords, lances, broken or wilfully
thrown aside. Behind them, the infantry, the archers, the pikemen,
the halberdiers--all running and dragging their officers away with
them in their flight.
Parma's unconquered army has ceased to be.
VI
Then it is that Gilles de Crohin stands once again on the very edge
of the broken parapet and fronts the valiant men of Cambray, who have
known how to conquer and how to die. The setting sun draws lines of
glowing crimson round his massive figure. His clothes are now mere
tattered rags; he is bleeding from several wounds; his face is almost
unrecognizable, coal-black with grime and powder; but his eyes still
sparkle with pride of victory.
'Citizens of Cambray, you are free!' he cries. 'Long live France!
Long live the Flower o' the Lily!'
And down in the plain below, where the remnants of a disintegrated
army are being slowly swallowed up by the gathering dusk, the Duke of
Parma has paused for one moment before starting on his own headlong
flight. He sees the man who has beaten his mighty armies, the man
whose valour and indomitable will has inflicted untarnishable
humiliation upon the glory of Spain. With a loud curse, he cries:
'Will no one rid me of that insolent rebel?'
De Landas is near him just then. He too had paused to look once
again on the city which had been his home and which he had so basely
betrayed, and once again on the man whom he hated with an intensity
of passion which this day of glory and infamy had for ever rendered
futile.
'If I do,' he retorts exultantly, 'what will your Highness give me?'
'Cambray and all it contains,' replies the Duke fiercely.
De Landas gives a cry of prescient triumph. A lancer is galloping
by. The young man, with a swift, powerful gesture, seizes the horse
by the bridle, forces it back on its haunches till it rears and
throws its rider down into the mud. De Landas swings himself into
the saddle, rides back to within a hundred paces of the city walls.
Here confusion is still holding sway; belated runaways are darting
aimlessly hither and thither like helpless sheep; the wounded and the
maimed are making pitiable efforts to find a corner wherein to hide.
The ground is littered with the dead and the dying, with abandoned
cannon and spent arrows, with pikes and halberts and broken swords
and lances.
De Landas halts, jumps down from his horse, looks about him for a
crossbow and a quiver, and finds what he wants. Then he selects his
position carefully, well under cover and just near enough to get a
straight hit at the man whom he hates more than anything else in the
world. Opportunity seems to favour him. Gilles is standing well
forward on the broken parapet, his throat and chest are bare, his
broad figure stands out clear-cut against the distant sky. He is
gazing out towards the west, straight in the direction where de
Landas is cowering--a small, unperceived unit in the inextricable
confusion which reigns around.
He has found the place which best suits his purpose, has placed his
stock in position and adjusted his arrow. Being a Spanish gentleman,
he is well versed in the use of every weapon necessary for war. He
takes careful aim, for he is in no hurry and is determined not to
miss.
'Cambray and all it contains!' the Duke of Parma has promised him if
he succeeds in his purpose.
One second, and the deed is done. The arrow has whizzed through the
air. The next instant, Gilles de Crohin has thrown up his arms.
'Citizens of Cambray, wait for France!' he cries, and before any of
his friends can get to him, he has given one turn and then fallen
backwards into the depth below.
De Landas has already thrown down his crossbow, recaptured his horse
and galloped back at break-neck speed in the wake of the flying army.
And even then the joy-bells of Cambray begin to ring their merry
peal. Balagny's troops have entered the city through the open breach
in her walls, whilst down there in the moat, on a pile of dying and
dead, her defender and saviour lies with a murderous arrow in his
breast.
VII
De Landas rides like one possessed away from the scene of his
dastardly deed; nor does he draw rein till he has come up once more
with the Duke of Parma.
'At any rate, we are rid of him,' he says curtly. 'And next time we
attack, it will only be with an undisciplined mob that we shall have
to deal.'
All around him the mighty army of Parma is melting like snow under
the first kiss of a warm sun. Every man who hath limbs left
wherewith to run, flies panic-stricken down the roads, across fields
and rivulets and morasses, throwing down arms, overturning everything
that comes in his way, not heeding the cries of the helpless and
trampling on the dead.
Less than an hour has gone by since France's battle-cry first
resounded on the Bapaume road, and now there is not one Spanish
soldier left around the walls of Cambray, save the wounded and the
slain. These lie about scattered everywhere, like pawns upon an
abandoned chess-board. The moat below the breach is full of them.
Maître Jehan le Bègue has not far to seek for the master and comrade
whom he loves so dearly. He has seen him fall from the parapet,
struck by the cowardly hand of an assassin in the very hour of
victory. So, whilst de Balagny's chief captains enter Cambray in
triumph, Jehan seeks in the moat for the friend whom he has lost.
He finds him lying there with de Landas' arrow still sticking in the
wound in his breast. Maître Jehan lifts him as tenderly as a mother
would lift her sick child, hoists him across his broad shoulders, and
then slowly wends his way along the road back to La Fère.