I. HOW VON FRUNDSBERG ONCE MORE ENTERED ITALY WITH HIS LANZ-KNECHTS.
|Deeply mortified, Bourbon quitted Madrid immediately after the
liberation of François I., and returned to Lombardy.
In order to conciliate him, Charles V. had appointed him to the supreme
command of the army of Italy, and he had now no rival to thwart him,
Pescara having died during his absence.
Francesco Sforza having joined the Italian league, as previously stated,
and openly declared against the Emperor, had shut himself up in the
citadel of Milan, where he was besieged by the Imperial generals. Their
forces were quartered in the city, and the miserable inhabitants, having
been disarmed, were completely at the mercy of the rapacious soldiers,
who took what they pleased, forcing their victims by torments to give
their property. The shops and magazines were gutted of their stores, and
the owners not merely robbed, but ill treated.
To prevent egress from the city, the gates were strictly guarded, and
many persons committed suicide by hurling themselves from the walls, in
order to escape from the horrible tyranny to which they were subjected.
It was while the inhabitants were in this miserable condition that
Bourbon arrived at Milan to assume the command of the Imperial army.
As soon as he had taken up his quarters in the ducal palace, he was
waited upon by the podesta and the magistrates, who represented to him
in the most moving terms the lamentable state of the city, and implored
him to encamp the army without the walls. Bourbon appeared touched by
what he heard, but he professed his inability to relieve the city from
oppression, unless the means of doing so were afforded him.
“I feel your distress, and the distress of your fellow-citizens, most
acutely,” he said. “But I can only see one remedy for it. All the
disorders on the part of the soldiery of which you complain, and which
I deeply deplore, are caused by want of pay. The generals have had no
money to give them, and have therefore been compelled to tolerate this
dreadful licence. I am in the same predicament. Furnish me with thirty
thousand ducats, so that I can offer these refractory troops a month's
pay, and I will compel them to encamp without the walls of the city, and
so liberate you from further persecution.”
“Alas! my lord, we are in such a strait that we cannot comply with your
suggestion,” said the podesta. “_We_ have been plundered of our all.”
“Make a final effort, my good friends,” said Bourbon. “You must have
some secret hoards kept for an extremity like the present. Do not
hesitate. Without money I cannot help you.”
“We despair of raising the large sum named by your highness,” rejoined
the podesta, dolefully. “But should we succeed, may we rely upon your
promise? Pardon the doubt. We have been so often deceived.”
“I, too, have been deluded by false promises, and by a monarch whose
word should be sacred,” rejoined Bourbon. “Bring the money without fear.
If I deceive you, may I perish by the first shot fired by the enemy at
the first battle in which I shall be engaged.”.
“Your oath is recorded in heaven, my lord!” said the podesta, solemnly.
And he quitted the palace with his brother magistrates.
Two days afterwards, the money was brought and distributed by Bourbon
among the soldiery, but he was unable to make good his word. The
insatiable Spaniards refused to quit their quarters, and the wretched
citizens, betrayed in their last hope, had no other refuge but death.
After holding out for a few weeks, at the end of which time the garrison
was reduced to the last extremities, Sforza capitulated, and was allowed
to retire to Como, from which city he subsequently fled to join the army
of the Italian League.
Had the Emperor possessed the sinews of war, he might easily have
subjugated the whole of Italy at this juncture; but as he was unable to
pay his army, and allowed it to subsist by plundering the country, he
could neither extend his conquests nor retain what he had won. All the
cities of Lombardy were ready to throw off the yoke imposed upon them,
and to rise against their oppressors. The Italian States, as we have
previously mentioned, had leagued together for the defence of the
country, and a powerful army had been raised by the Duke of Urbino,
assisted by the renowned Giovanni de' Medici and other leaders, to hold
Bourbon in check.
And there was good reason for apprehension. A storm was brewing,
which threatened to lay waste the whole of the fair land of Italy. The
restless ambition of Bourbon led him to seek for fresh conquests, and he
now turned his thoughts towards the south, designing to plunder Rome and
make himself King of Naples.
But the army, though devoted to him, was not sufficiently strong for the
execution of his plan. While he was considering how he could
increase his troops, he learnt, to his great joy, that his late
companion-in-arms, Von Frundsberg, had again collected together a large
force in Germany, and he immediately despatched Pomperant to acquaint
that leader with his project, and to exhort him to enter Italy with all
possible despatch, promising him a far larger booty in the new campaign
than he had gained at the battle of Pavia.
Incited by this promise, Von Frundsberg entered Italy at the head of
fourteen thousand lanz-knechts, and five hundred reiters contributed by
the Archduke Ferdinand, under the command of Captain Zucker.
Debouching by the Val de Sabbia, devastating the country as he marched
along, plundering the churches and destroying the images, Von Frundsberg
at last reached Borgoforte on the Po, whither he was followed by the
Duke of Urbino and Giovanni de' Medici.
A sharp engagement took place, but it was quickly decided in favour
of the Germans. During a charge made at the head of his light horse by
Medici, that valiant leader was struck by a shot from a falconet, and
his leg being grievously shattered, he was carried off the field.
This unlucky event turned the fortune of the day. Discouraged by the
fate of their leader, Medici's cavalry were dispersed by Zucker, while
the Venetian infantry retired before Von Frundsberg.
The successful issue of this conflict, the first in which they had
been engaged since their irruption into Italy, greatly encouraged the
marauding army. Continuing their march without further interruption from
the Duke of Urbino, they skirted the right bank of the Po, ravaging the
whole territory of Modena, Reggio, and Parma, preying like a cloud of
locusts on that rich and fertile district, sacking and burning villages,
plundering the churches, and finally halted near Piacenza, where Von
Frundsberg pitched his camp to await a junction with Bourbon.
Meanwhile, the army of the Italian League had lost its best leader--the
only one, indeed, capable of successfully checking the invasion. From
the field of Borgoforte the gallant Giovanni de' Medici was transported
to Mantua, when it was found that his leg was so grievously injured that
it was necessary to amputate the limb. The hardy young warrior held
a light for the surgeons, and watched them during their task, without
shrinking or even changing countenance. But his life could not be saved
by the operation.
Thus died Italy's best champion, and on whom she might have relied at
her hour of need.
II. HOW BOURBON COMMENCED HIS MARCH TO HOME.
|Long before Von Frundsberg and his barbarous hordes had reached
Piacenza, Bourbon would have joined them, but he found it impossible to
remove the Imperial army from Milan without giving them a modicum of
the arrears of pay due to them. Already he had distributed his money and
jewels among them, and had nothing more to give. In vain he endeavoured
to extort fresh supplies from the miserable citizens; their resources
were utterly exhausted, and the worst torments proved ineffectual.
In this dilemma, a plan of raising money occurred to him, and was at
once put in execution.
Girolamo Moroni, Sforza's chancellor and private secretary, had been
imprisoned in the Castle of Pavia by Pescara, and still remained a
captive. Knowing that Moroni possessed great wealth, and hoping to
extort a large sum from him by working on his fears, Bourbon visited him
in the castle. The prisoner, who regarded Bourbon as a friend, was well
pleased to see him.
“You are come to deliver me?” he said.
“I am come to deliver you from bondage, but not in the way you expect,”
rejoined Bourbon, sternly. “Prepare for death. You will be beheaded
to-morrow morning.”
“For what crime?” demanded Moroni, trembling. “What have I done?”
“You have conspired against the Emperor, and have induced Francesco
Sforza to join the Italian League,” rejoined Bourbon.
“But in putting me to death you will deprive yourself of a most useful
agent,” said the wily chancellor. “I can aid you effectually against the
League.”
“I care not for the League,” rejoined Bourbon. “But I will save you on
one condition. I know you have a large sum of money concealed------”
“I swear to your highness that you are mistaken,” interrupted Moroni. “I
have been despoiled of all my treasures by Pescara.”
“I know better,” said Bourbon. “You have a secret hoard. Pay me thirty
thousand ducats, and you shall be set free. Otherwise, your head will
fall on the block.”
“Thirty thousand ducats! Impossible, highness! Where am I to get that
sum?”
“That is best known to yourself. I will give you two days to find the
money. On the morning of the third day, if it be not forthcoming, you
will die.”
“I pray your highness to consider that compliance with the demand is
impossible.”
“I make no demand,” said Bourbon. “I offer your life on very easy
terms.”
And he quitted the cell.
As Moroni remained obstinate, in order to intimidate him still further,
Bourbon caused a large scaffold to be reared in the court of the castle,
in sight of the windows of his prison-chamber.
These dismal preparations were not without effect. Believing that
Bourbon would really execute his threat, Moroni sent for him, and
delivered him the money.
“Ha! I felt certain you could procure it,” cried Bourbon, as he took the
bags of gold. “This money will enable me to march to Rome.”
On his return to Milan, Bourbon assembled his army, and after
distributing the money among them, he thus harangued them:
“Valiant captains and brave soldiers!--The time has now arrived when I
must acquaint you with my secret intentions. Ere long, I hope to enrich
you all by the sack of Rome--to deliver to you its nobles, its senators,
its prelates, with all their wealth. You shall have the whole consistory
of cardinals to deal with as you list--nay, Pope Clement himself who has
excommunicated us all, and who so unworthily fills the chair of Saint
Peter.”
This address was received with enthusiastic acclamations. The captains
drew their swords, and the men brandished their halberds, or shook
their arquebusses above their heads, and a universal shout arose of “To
Rome!--to Rome!”
“I will not deceive you, my brave companions,” pursued Bourbon, as soon
as the clamour ceased. “I have nothing more to give you. I am a poor
knight--poor as yourselves. But as I have told you, we shall all become
rich at Rome. Let us march thither at once. The Baron von Frundsberg
and his lanz-knechts are waiting for us near Piacenza. Let us join them
without delay, or they may go on and reach Rome before us.”
“We are ready to march at once,” cried a thousand voices. “To Rome!--to
Rome! Vive Bourbon!” Bourbon did not allow their enthusiasm to cool, but
put them in order of march at once, using so much expedition, that late
in the following day he had effected a junction with Von Frundsberg.
When the two armies were combined, Bourbon found himself at the head of
twenty-two thousand men--namely, fourteen thousand lanz-knechts brought
by Frundsberg, five hundred reiters under Captain tucker, five thousand
Spaniards, two thousand Italians, and a thousand light horse.
“With such an army as this,” he said to Von Frundsberg, as they rode
together along the lines, “I can conquer all Italy.”
III. HOW BOURBON REACHED THE APENNINES.
|In the fierce bands of which Bourbon was now the leader, Italy found a
scourge such as it had not endured since it was overrun by Alaric. The
Spaniards were cruel and rapacious, worse than brigands, and scarcely
amenable to discipline. The Germans were equally savage, and even more
undisciplined, and, being all Lutherans and inflamed with intense hatred
against the Pope and the creed of Rome, believed they were serving
the cause of the Reformed religion by plundering and slaughtering its
opponents. The Italians, who were commanded by Fabrizio Maramaldo,
Sciarra Colonna, and Ludovico Gonzaga, had all the worst qualities of
their Spanish and German associates, being bloodthirsty and licentious,
and capable of any deed of violence or rapacity. Among the Spanish
leaders who still remained with the army was the Marquis del Vasto, but
since the death of his redoubted relative, Pescara, and the increased
popularity of Bourbon, he exercised little authority over the troops.
Over the whole of this wild host, composed of such heterogeneous
materials--Lutherans, Romanists, scoffers at all creeds--no one
exercised supreme control but Bourbon. The lanz-knechts were devoted to
Von Frunds-berg, and the reiters to Zucker, but neither Spaniards nor
Italians would have served under such leaders. By a mixture of firmness
and indulgence, which he knew so well how to practise, by his frankness
and easiness of manner, Bourbon kept the wildest and most ferocious
under a certain restraint and discipline, and though he was often
compelled to make a severe example of some mutinous ruffian, the army
ever recognised the justice of the sentence, and upheld his authority.
That Bourbon should be content to link his fortunes with soldiers whose
professed objects were plunder and violence, may appear surprising, but
it must be borne in mind that his nobler impulses had been checked, if
not destroyed, by the life he had lately led. Ambition still reigned
within his breast, the desire of conquest still animated him strongly as
ever--even more strongly, perhaps--but he no longer cared by what means,
or by what instruments, he attained his end. If he could gain a crown,
no matter how it was won.
Meanwhile, he had succeeded in convincing the soldiers that he had
become an adventurer like themselves. As we have said, he had stripped
himself of all his money and jewels, and retained only his sword
and lance, his accoutrements and his steed. Yet never had he been so
powerful as now. None dared to disobey him. While idolising him, the men
stood in awe of him, and the captains and generals feared him. He had
become the master-spirit of the whole host, by whom all its plans and
movements were directed. He was now without territory and without money,
his home was the camp, his family the army. Of all his followers, the
only one who accompanied him on his march to Rome was Pomperant. Like
himself, Pomperant was still proscribed.
Proceeding slowly so as not to fatigue his troops, Bourbon marched by
San Donino, Parma, Reggio, and Modena towards Bologna.
He did not stop to attack any of these cities, but contented himself
with ravaging the surrounding country, emptying the granaries, and
stripping the monasteries and churches of their plate and ornaments. The
zealous Lutherans completed the work of destruction by demolishing the
shrines and images. Abundance of provisions being brought in each day
by the foraging parties, who scoured the country round, the army fared
sumptuously, and Von Frundsberg caroused nightly in his tent with Zucker
and the German captains.
When within a day's march of Bologna, Bourbon had a conference with
Alfonso d'Este, Duke of Ferrara, who, having been excluded from the
Italian League by the Pope, was favourable to the invasion.
Bourbon endeavoured to prevail upon the duke to furnish him with
artillery, of which he stood greatly in need. D'Este declined to supply
the cannon, but made Bourbon a large subsidy, which enabled him to give
two crowns to each of the lanz-knechts, being the first pay they had
received since they had started on the expedition.
Having no artillery to attack Bologna, Bourbon continued his march. His
position was one of some danger. In his rear was the Duke of Urbino and
the Venetian army, while in front were the Pontifical troops, commanded
by the Marquis of Saluzzo. The latter, however, retired as the invaders
advanced, and the Duke of Urbino, not wishing to risk an engagement,
contented himself with harassing their rear.
As he pursued his march, Bourbon's army was daily augmented by hundreds
of lawless adventurers, by deserters from the army of the League, and
from the Pontifical army, who flocked round his standard, drawn towards
it by the hope of plunder. Bourbon welcomed them all, brigands as they
were, the bulk of his host being composed of similar material.
He was now approaching the Apennines, and had reached a wild and
picturesque spot on the spur of the mountains, where the army, sheltered
by some high rocks, had encamped for the night. The soldiers were
collected in groups around their fires, carousing, gambling, jesting,
quarrelling, or making merry, as was their wont. Some of the Spanish
soldiers were chanting a song, composed in their leader's honour, which
commenced thus:=
```Calla, calla, Julio Cesar, Hannibal, Scipion,
````Viva la fama de Bourbon!=
While Bourbon was making his rounds, he heard the sentinels challenge a
horseman who was riding up the hill towards the camp, and sent Pomperant
to question him.
IV. THE PRINCE OF ORANGE.
|The person stopped by the sentinels was a young man of about
five-and-twenty, of martial bearing and aspect. He was tall, well
proportioned, and possessed handsome features, characterised by a proud,
fierce expression, and Pomperant's first impression on beholding him
was, that he was a Venetian officer charged with a message from the Duke
of Urbino; but as he drew near, and the stranger's countenance could be
more clearly distinguished, Pomperant uttered an exclamation of surprise
and pleasure, for he recognised in him one of the bitterest enemies of
Franee, and one of the most devoted friends of the Duke de Bourbon, the
Prince of Orange.
Young as he was, Philibert de Chalons, Prince of Orange, was one of the
most distinguished captains of the day. He came of an ancient Burgundian
house, and inherited all the warlike qualities of his ancestry. Of
a remarkably fierce and vindictive temperament, he never forgave an
injury. His animosity towards François I. originated in a slight offered
him by that monarch. At the ceremonial of the baptism of the Dauphin,
the Prince of Orange was one of the invited guests, and appeared at
the Louvre with a retinue befitting his rank, but he was very coldly
received by the king, and the apartments designed for him in the palace
were given to another. Highly incensed by this treatment, he immediately
returned to his castle of Nozerol, and subsequently offered his services
to the Emperor, who received him with open arms, and compensated him by
other lands for the territories of which he was deprived by the King of
France.
Philibert's conduct justified the Emperor's sagacity. The young prince
greatly distinguished himself at the siege of Fontarabia.
When Bourbon invaded Provence, Philibert sailed from Barcelona to join
him, but being taken prisoner, as may be remembered, by Andrea Doria,
he was carried to France, and imprisoned in the castle of Lusignan in
Poitou, where he was detained in close captivity until after the battle
of Pavia.
Imprisonment did not tame his spirit, but rather envenomed his hatred of
François I. Regardless of all consequences, he perpetually launched into
fierce invectives against that monarch, and covered the walls of his
prison with satirical remarks upon him.
In compliance with the treaty of Madrid, the Prince of Orange was set
free, but as the convention was only executed in part, his confiscated
domains were not restored to him.
Without a single follower, and almost without money, Philibert set
forth to join Bourbon, and after many adventures and hindrances on his
journey, which it is not necessary to recount, reached him at the foot
of the Apennines, as described.
“I have come to join your highness,” said the young prince, when
brought before Bourbon by Pomperant. “I have nothing to offer you but my
sword, but that I devote to your service.”
“By Sainte Barbe! you are as welcome, prince, as if you had a thousand
lances at your back,” rejoined Bourbon. “You offer me your sword. I
accept it with gratitude. At any time, the offer would enchant me--now,
it is doubly welcome. Your distinguished name will be of infinite
service, and will help to confound my enemies. Before you ask aught from
me, noble prince, I will evince my satisfaction by appointing you second
in command to myself of the whole army.”
“I have done nothing to merit such consideration at your highness's
hands,” rejoined Philibert.
“But you will do much hereafter, prince,” said Bourbon. “I know that
in you I have a staunch partisan--a friend on whom I can rely. We
have wrongs in common, and are both mortal enemies of the false and
perfidious François de Valois.”
“His very name rouses my choler,” cried Philibert, fiercely. “May all
the curses I have daily invoked upon the faithless tyrant during my
captivity at Lusignan alight on his devoted head! Had I been in the
Emperor's place, I would never have set him free till all the conditions
of the treaty had been fulfilled. François de Valois is not to be
trusted. He has broken his word with us all, and his name ought to be
covered with infamy. But I beg pardon of your highness for my warmth,”
he added, checking himself. “I thank you for the trust you repose in me.
You shall find me a firm friend. And I hope the hour may come when we
shall both be fully avenged on our common enemy.”
“Be sure the hour will come,” said Bourbon, sternly. “But the work
of vengeance must be begun at Rome. Look around, prince. What do you
behold?”
“An army of brave men--somewhat savage, perhaps, and not like the
well-equipped legions of France, but able to conquer a kingdom.”
“Of this robber-host François has made me leader,” said Bourbon; “and he
has compelled you to join it.”
“No matter. I serve Bourbon,” rejoined Philibert; “and I would rather
serve him than any monarch in Europe. I care not of what the army is
composed, so that the men can fight.”
“They can fight well, prince, and pillage as well as fight, as you will
find, when you know them better,” said Bourbon, laughing.
“If they serve without pay, as I suppose they do, they must plunder,”
said Philibert. “Despite their looks and equipments, they seem good
soldiers.”
“The Pope will think so if they once get within the walls of Rome,”
remarked Bourbon. “They are all impatience to be there, and I do not
mean to balk them.”
“Then you do not design to attack Florence?” inquired the Prince of
Orange.
“I have no artillery,” replied Bourbon, “and I do not wish to waste time
in a siege. Florence will be defended by the army of the League and the
Pontifical troops. Rome is more important.”
While they were thus conversing, Von Frundsberg and Zucker came up, and
their new leader was presented to them by Bourbon.
Philibert possessed some of the qualities of Bourbon himself, and could
put on, when he pleased, the rough frankness of a soldier. His manner
pleased Von Frunds-berg, and that hardy veteran was delighted with him
when they became better acquainted, and had passed half the night in a
carouse.
V. HOW LANNOY VAINLY ATTEMPTED TO ARREST BOURBON'S MARCH.
|Next day, from the heights of the Apennines, Bourbon and his bands
looked down upon the lovely city of Florence, and on the incomparable
valley of the Amo. When the soldiers beheld Florence in all its
ravishing beauty lying before them--when from the heights on which they
stood they could count all its palaces and churches, their cupidity was
so strongly excited that they demanded with frenzied eagerness to be led
to the assault.
“Let us sack Florence, noble general!” they shouted.
“No, my brave companions, I cannot grant your request,” rejoined
Bourbon. “Florence is too well defended. Mark the cannon on the walls
and bastions? Mark the army encamped outside the walls, placed there to
cover the city? Florence cannot be taken without artillery, and we have
none, We must march on to Rome, which ean be easily taken, and where ten
times the wealth of Florence is collected.”
Convinced by these arguments, the men ceased their solicitations, and
Bourbon descending to the valley, and avoiding Florence, crossed the
Upper Arno, and continued his march without molestation to Viterbo, in
the neighbourhood of which city he halted.
It was during this halt that he was informed by his scouts of the
approach of Lannoy with a small escort. An hour later the Viceroy of
Naples arrived, and was received by Bourbon in his tent. The Prince of
Orange, Del Vasto, Von Frundsberg, Zueker, and the other leaders were
present at the interview.
“I have come to forbid your highness's further advance,” said Lannoy to
Bourbon. “I have just concluded, on the part of the Emperor, a truce
with the Pope, and have undertaken that the army shall retire.”
“Your highness has undertaken more than you can perform,” said Bourbon.
“I need scarcely inform you that the troops are unpaid.”
“Let not that concern you,” rejoined Lannoy. “His Holiness has supplied
me with sufficient money to pay them. The army must retire, I say. I am
the representative of his Imperial Majesty in Italy, and I issue that
order.”
“By the beard of my father! I shall not respect it,” cried Von
Frundsberg. “I do not serve the Emperor!”
“Neither do we,” added Zueker, Maramaldo, and the Italian leaders. “We
have received no pay from him. We serve the brave Bourbon.”
“But the Duke de Bourbon only derives his authority from the Emperor,”
said Lannoy; “and I offer you payment for your troops.”
“That will not suffice,” cried Von Frundsberg, fiercely. “We have not
crossed the Po, and marched thus far through Italy, to retire because
the Emperor at the last moment has thought fit to conclude a truce with
the Pope. The truce is not binding upon us. We have nothing to do with
it. As to the paltry payment offered by your highness, we scout it.
No sum could induce us to turn back, We are the sworn enemies of
Antichrist. We will destroy the idolatrous city. We will plunder the
Vatican and Saint Peter's of their treasures.”
“Is it possible your highness can tolerate this horrible impiety?” said
Lannoy to Bourbon.
“At least, the Spanish soldiers will obey me. I shall take them with me
to Rome for the defence of the city against this meditated attack. Bid
them come with me in the Emperor's name,” he added to Del Vasto.
“I fear the attempt will be vain,” returned the marquis.
“Try them,” said Bourbon. “If they choose to depart, I shall not hinder
them.”
On this, Del Vasto quitted the tent, but he had not been gone many
minutes when a great disturbance was heard outside, and he returned with
looks of alarm.
“You have met with ill success, I fear, my lord?” said Lannoy.
“I could scarce have met with worse,” rejoined the marquis. “The
soldiers utterly refuse to obey me. They will not respect the truce.
They will not protect the Pope. They are determined to sack Rome. They
say they know no other leader than Bourbon, Your highness must fly.
The soldiers are so infuriated against you that I fear they will do you
injury.”
“How should I fly?” cried Lannoy, trembling. I put myself under your
highness's protection,” he added to Bourbon.
“Fear nothing,” said Bourbon. “I will be answerable for your safety.”
As he spoke, a number of Spanish soldiers burst into the tent, shouting
out, “Death to Lannoy! Death to the Pope's general!”
“How dare you force your way thus into my presence?” cried Bourbon,
confronting them fiercely, and speaking in a stern authoritative tone.
“Hence, mutinous rascals, or you shall be punished.”
“Deliver up the Viceroy to us, and we will go at once,” said the
foremost of the band.
“Ha! dare you parley with me?” cried Bourbon.
“Away, I say, at once, or----”
On this the soldiers retired, but they cast menacing glances at Lannoy
as they went, and the tumult outside the tent continued.
“It would have been well if your highness had ascertained the
disposition of the army before venturing among them,” remarked Von
Frundsberg. “They will not be balked of their plunder.”
“Your highness has promised me your protection,” said Lannoy, appealing
to Bourbon.
“Fear nothing,” replied the other. “I will see you safely out of the
camp. Come with me!”
Bourbon then went forth, closely followed by Lannoy and Del Vasto.
As the party appeared, the soldiers assailed the Viceroy with renewed
threats, but, overawed by Bourbon's determined manner, they fell back,
and allowed the escort to approach. As soon as Lannoy had mounted his
steed, and was surrounded by his little band, his courage in some degree
returned, and he said to the soldiers, “Before I go, let me make a last
appeal to you to return to your duty, and obey your liege lord, the
Emperor.”
“We have no other leader now but Bourbon,” rejoined the men. “Vive
Bourbon!”
“Have I no longer any authority over you?” said Del Vasto.
“None,” returned the soldiers. “You do not belong to us. You are
banished the army.”
“Banished!” exclaimed Del Vasto. “Who dares to pronounce my banishment?”
“We do,” replied the men. “You would betray our interests. You would
sell us to the Pope. Therefore we depose you. You are no longer our
general. Go to your new master.”
“Have a little patience, my good friends, and listen to reason,” said
Lannoy. “I speak for your own good. I would save you from a great
crime.”
“No more! We will hear no more!” cried the soldiers, furiously. “Begone!
If you return again, we will massacre you.”
“Your highness had better depart at once,” said Bourbon. “If you
inflame the men further, I may not be able to restrain them. You must go
likewise, my lord,” he added to Del Vasto. “It will not be safe for you
to remain.”
The counsel was followed. To prevent mishap, Bourbon conducted them to
the outskirts of the camp.
VI. VON FRUNDSBERG'S LAST CAROUSE.
|From Viterbo, Bourbon pressed on towards Rome, hoping to take the
city by surprise. By this time his army, increased, as we have said,
by deserters from the troops of the League and the Pontifical forces,
amounted to upwards of forty thousand men.
As the first glimpse of the fated city, destined so soon to fall into
their hands, was caught from the hills near Bracciano, the excitement of
the whole host, captains and generals included, was prodigious. On that
night Von Frundsberg had a grand carouse in his tent. Zucker and all the
other German captains were with him, and they continued their revelry
till past midnight, when Bourbon, accompanied by the Prince of Orange
and Pomperant, entered the tent, hoping by his presence to put a stop to
the orgie. Above the surrounding Bacchanals towered the gigantic figure
of Von Frundsberg, his visage looking more inflamed than ever.
As Bourbon and the others entered the tent, he was addressing his
companions, telling them that in two days more Rome would be taken, and
the sack begin.
“Then you will be amply rewarded,” he said; “then you may strip all
those temples of their ornaments and slay their priests. I give you each
a cardinal, but I reserve to myself the Sovereign Pontiff. You know what
I mean to do with him,” added the sacrilegious wretch, producing his
golden chain, and laughing loudly.
“Before you hang him, you must make him deliver up all his
treasures--the tons of gold he has hidden in the Vatican and elsewhere,”
said Zucker.
“Fear not that,” rejoined Von Frundsberg, with a tremendous roar of
laughter. “I know well how to deal with him. But I must fulfil my
mission. Have I not been told by Doctor Martin Luther himself that I
am destined by Heaven to cast down Antichrist and to wash out the
enormities of the polluted and idolatrous city of Rome in blood? For
this purpose I have come hither.”
At this moment his eye alighted upon Bourbon, and he called out,
“Welcome, noble general! thrice welcome! We are making merry, as you
see, in anticipation of our victory. Our next carouse shall be in Rome,
and it shall be a rare one--ho! ho!”
“You have sat late enough, and drank enough, baron,” said Bourbon,
glancing around at the inebriated crew. “We shall march betimes
to-morrow, and you will need clear heads.”
“One more cup of wine, and we have done,” said Von Frundsberg. “Nay,
you must join us, general,” he added to Bourbon, who shook his head.
“We have got some famous Montepulciano, of the Pope's own vintage,
and destined to the Pope's own cellar--ho! ho! Taste it, I pray your
highness. You will find it delicious,” smacking his lips. “Fill for me!
fill!” he called to a soldier who served him, holding out an immense
gilt chalice stolen from an altar at San Lorenzo-alle-Grotte--“fill to
the brim! All must do me reason. It may be the last cup we shall drink
together. Who knows?”
“You do not mean to empty that chalice, baron?” said Bourbon, looking in
astonishment at the vessel, which held nearly a gallon of wine.
“By my faith! but I do, your highness,” rejoined Von Frundsberg, with a
tremendous roar of laughter. “I drink to the speedy downfall of Rome.”
And, as he spoke, he raised the brimming chalice to his lips, and did
not remove it till it was completely drained.
After accomplishing this feat, he gazed at Bourbon, but his triumph was
of short duration. With a convulsive attempt at utterance, which shook
his whole frame, he fell heavily backwards.
Immediate assistance was rendered him, but it was of no avail.
Suffocated by the draught he had swallowed, in a few seconds the
infuriated drunkard had ceased to exist.
Bourbon shuddered as he gazed at the inanimate mass, and all the fierce
soldiers around were impressed by the catastrophe. Von Frundsberg died
with the chain of gold tightly clasped, in his left hand.
Had Von Frundsberg's death occurred earlier, it might have produced some
effect upon the lanz-knechts. But he had brought them within sight of
Rome, and though they grieved for him, they did not for a moment falter
in their purpose, but accepted the Prince of Orange, whom Bourbon
appointed as their general. Von Frundsberg found a rude grave at
Bracciano, and the chain of gold was buried with him.
VIII. HOW BOURBON AND HIS BANDS ARRIVED BEFORE ROME.
|Next morning, as soon as it was light, Bourbon, who had not taken off
his armour, and had only snatched a couple of hours of sleep, rode to
the summit of a hill, whence he could command a good view of the city he
was about to deliver to destruction.
There lay the ancient capital of the world--and now the chief city of
Christendom--the burial-place of the holy apostles and martyrs--there it
lay, with its seven hills, its heathen temples and Christian fanes,
its ruins, its monuments, its palaces hallowed by a thousand historical
recollections. There was the mighty Coliseum, there the Forum, there
the Palatine, crowned with the palace of the Caesars. There was Mount
Aventine--there the Esquiline, with the Baths of Titus--there the
Pincian Hill, with its cypresses. Over all, and dominating the ancient
temples, rose the Basilica of Saint Peter--then, however, wanting its
incomparable dome. Near to this stately fane were the Vatican and the
frowning Castle of Saint Angelo, with the yellow Tiber flowing past its
walls. Could he gaze on that time-hallowed city, unmoved--knowing he
was about to doom it to destruction? Some feelings of compunction did,
indeed, cross him, but he quickly crushed them.
At a later hour in the same day--it was the 5th of May, 1527--the
sentinels on the walls and gates of Rome, and on the battlements of the
Castle of Saint Angelo, descried the mighty host advancing along the
wide and desolate Campagna. Presently came numerous messengers, wild
with terror, describing the number and savage character of the troops.
But the Pope did not appear to be alarmed by the tidings brought him.
Though usually timid and irresolute, he did not exhibit any uneasiness
now, but declared that ample preparations had been made for the defence
of the city. He would not allow the bridges to be cut connecting
the Borgo with the city, and prohibited the terrified merchants from
removing their goods by the Tiber.
The reason of this apparent confidence was, that he fully believed he
should be able to treat with Bourbon, and save the city from assault
by payment of a large subsidy--never reflecting that it was not in
Bourbon's power to treat with him, and that nothing less than the sack
of the city would content the rapacious soldiery.
The defence of the city had been committed by the Pontiff' to Renzo da
Ceri, who persuaded himself that he could resist Bourbon as successfully
at Rome as he had done at Marseilles. Besides the garrison of the Castle
of Saint Angelo, and the Pope's Swiss guard, there were in Rome at the
time about two thousand arquebussiers, and a small troop of cavalry. The
walls and fortifications were for the most part in good order, and well
supplied with ordnance, and as it was known that Bourbon was entirely
without artillery, and almost without munitions, it was not deemed
likely he could take the city by assault. Renzo's confidence was,
therefore, excusable. But he was wrong. Bourbon had now an army with him
whom no walls could keep out.
On arriving before Rome, Bourbon placed his army between the Janiculum
Hill and the Vatican, and he had no sooner taken up this position than
he sent Pomperant with a trumpet to summon the Pope to surrender the
city.
Presenting himself at the ancient Porta Flaminia, which was succeeded,
some half a century later, by the Porta del Popolo, Pomperant caused the
trumpeter to sound his clarion thrice, and in the name of the Constable
de Bourbon summoned the Sovereign Pontiff' to surrender the city.
Response was immediately made in haughty terms by Renzo da Ceri, who
ordered Pomperant to retire or he would fire upon him, and the latter
accordingly withdrew.
Bourbon expected no other answer, but on receiving it he gave immediate
orders that the city should be assaulted on the following morning at
daybreak.
At eventide, Bourbon, attended by the Prince of Orange and Pomperant,
surveyed the city from the Monte Mario. After a careful examination of
the walls, which then formed a circuit of more than five leagues, he
decided on making the assault at different points of the Aurelian Wall
between the Janiculum Hill and the Vatican. This being settled, he rode
back towards the camp.
As yet not a single gun had been fired on either side, for the Pope had
ordered his general not to precipitate matters by opening fire from the
Castle of Saint Angelo upon the enemy. But the cannon were all shotted,
and the sentinels with their arquebusses on the shoulder, were pacing to
and fro on the ramparts.
When Bourbon returned to the camp, he called together the men, and thus
addressed them:
“Captains and brave soldiers! fortune has at last brought us to the city
we have so ardently desired to reach. Rome is before you. On the other
side of those old walls countless treasures await you. But you must
fight hard to win the treasures. The walls must be scaled, since we have
no cannon to breach them.”
“We will do it, noble general,” cried the men. “We need no breach.”
“I myself will lead the assault,” continued Bourbon, “and will show you
how to take the city.”
“We will follow, fear not! Vive Bourbon!” shouted the soldiers.
“Listen to me, my friends,” he pursued. “The famous astrologer,
Cornelius Agrippa, of whom you must have heard, foretold that I should
die before the walls of a great city. It may be here--before Rome--that
I am destined to perish. If it be so, I care not. The death will be
glorious--worthy of a soldier. I shall lead the assault without fear,
certain that you, my brave companions, will capture the city, and avenge
me.”
“'Tis a false prediction!” cried a hundred voices. “We will all guard
you. You will not die thus. You are destined to be King of Rome.”
“Be my fate what it may,” said Bourbon--“whether I share your triumph,
or die beforehand, I know that Rome, with all its treasures, with its
Pope, its cardinals, its nobles, and its fair women, will be yours. And
now return to your tents, and take your rest. You will have enough to
do to-morrow. An hour before dawn, make ready for the assault. Your
captains have their full directions. You may rest without fear. I will
take care that strict watch is kept.”
The soldiers then dispersed, singing, “Calla, calla! Viva la fama de
Bourbon!”
“You have no faith in that idle prediction?” remarked the Prince of
Orange to Bourbon, as he accompanied him to his tent.
“I have scarcely thought of it before to-day, but it came upon me
forcibly as I gazed on Rome this evening from the Monte Mario,” rejoined
Bourbon. “If I should fall, you must take the command of the army.”
“No such necessity, I trust, may arise,” said Philibert. “But the army
shall not want a leader.”
“It will have a good one in you,” rejoined Bourbon. “And now leave me.
Come to me an hour before daybreak.”
With this the Prince of Orange departed, and Bourbon was left alone, and
passed several hours in deep self-communion.
About midnight he roused himself, and, issuing from his tent, looked
around. It was a glorious night, and the old walls that rose before him
were bathed in the moonbeams. The camp was hushed, and all was so still
at the moment, that the tread of the sentinels could be heard on the
ramparts. Having looked around for a short time, he re-entered his tent,
trimmed his lamp, and sat down to look at a plan of Rome, which was laid
on the table before him. From this occupation he was roused by the noise
of some one entering the tent, and, looking up, he perceived Pomperant,
accompanied by a nun.
Surprised at the sight, he inquired why he was thus disturbed.
“The holy sister herself will explain her errand,” replied Pomperant.
“She has ventured forth from the city to see your highness, and I could
not refuse to bring her to you.”
“You have done wrong,” said Bourbon, sternly. “I have no time to waste
on women now. Depart, good sister.”
“Dismiss me not, I pray your highness, till you have heard what I
have to say,” rejoined the nun. “Am I so much changed? Does this
garb disguise me so greatly, that you fail to recognise Marcelline
d'Herment?”
“Marcelline d'Herment!” exclaimed Bourbon, in surprise.
“I am vowed to Heaven, as you see,” she rejoined. “I have entered a
convent in Rome, and hoped to pass the rest of my days in peace. But I
have been sorely troubled since I learnt that your highness was marching
to lay waste the city, and determined, at whatever risk, to make an
effort to save it. With that view I came forth to-night. I ventured
to approach the sentinels, and I desired to be brought before your
highness. The men refused, but while they were talking with me the
Seigneur Pomperant came up, and at once consented to bring me before
you.”
“If I have done wrong, I trust your highness will forgive me,” said
Pomperant, “but I could not refuse the request.”
“Nay, there is no harm done,” said Bourbon. “But how comes it that you
have abandoned the world?” he added to Marcelline. “I thought you had
given your heart to Pomperant. Why have you placed this insurmountable
bar between yourself and him?”
“Ah! why, indeed?” cried Pomperant, reproachfully.
“I could not do otherwise,” she rejoined. “But I have not come hither to
tell my own sad story. I have come to entreat your highness, even at the
eleventh hour, to abandon your impious purpose. Oh! prince, listen to
me, I implore you. Treason and rebellion are great crimes, but they are
as naught compared with the act you are about to commit. If you
deliver over Rome to pillage and slaughter, your name will be for ever
execrated. Turn back, I implore of you!”
“I cannot turn back. Be that my answer,” said Bourbon, impatiently.
“But it is in your power to save the city!” cried Marcelline. “You can
come to terms with his Holiness, who will enable you to satisfy your
men.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Bourbon. “Nothing will satisfy them but the plunder of
the city.”
“Will no consideration move you?” she cried. “Have you no pity for the
innocent and the aged? Will you allow the temples of your religion to be
destroyed and polluted?”
“My heart is steeled to pity,” rejoined Bourbon, sternly. “All your
solicitations are in vain.”
“Then since you are deaf to all entreaties, tremble!” she cried.
“Tremble! for Heaven's vengeance will alight upon you. Grace has been
offered you, but you have cast it aside. But you will not enjoy your
triumph. You will not enter the city.”
“Who shall prevent me?” demanded Bourbon.
“Heaven,” she rejoined. “Heaven will prevent you.”
“Were you a messenger from Heaven itself, you should not prevent me from
being first to scale the walls,” said Bourbon. “This interview can lead
to nothing, and must not be prolonged,” he added to Pomperant, “Conduct
the Sister Marcelline through the camp, and place her where she may
safely enter the city.”
“It shall be dene,” replied Pomperant,
He then withdrew with Marcelline. On reaching the outskirts of the camp,
she said to him, “Are you determined to follow Bourbon?”
“To the last,” he rejoined. “If he is shot down, I will take his place.”
Marcelline made no reply, but darted from him, and ran towards the
Aurelian Wall.
Plunging into the dry fosse which skirted the wall, she hurried along
the bottom of the trench for some distance in the direction of the
Vatican. All at once she stopped, and clapped her hands. At the signal,
a ladder was let down, and, mounting it, she gained the ramparts.
Marcelline fancied her movements were unobserved, but she was mistaken.
Curious to ascertain how she could gain access to the city, Pomperant
had followed her. On approaching the spot where she had disappeared,
he perceived that the old wall, which was built of brick, and of great
solidity, was in this part considerably dilapidated--so much so, as
almost to form a breach.
After carefully examining the spot, he hastened back to Bourbon's tent
to acquaint him with the important discovery he had made. Bourbon had
thrown himself on a couch, but without divesting himself of his armour,
and he was wrapped in the last slumber he was destined to enjoy, when
Pomperant entered his tent, and aroused him.
“I am sure your highness will forgive me for disturbing you,” he said,
“when I tell you that I have discovered a breach in the walls.”
“Ha! that is indeed good news!” cried Bourbon. “But how did you make the
discovery?”
“I made it while following Marcelline to see how she entered the city,”
replied Pomperant.
“Take me to the spot,” said Bourbon. “I must be satisfied with my own
eyes that you have not been deceived. It is strange that you roused me
from a dream of the assault. I thought an angel with a flaming brand
stood on the battlements to drive me back, but I went on. Listen to me,
Pomperant. When dealing with the miserable Milanese, as you know, I took
Heaven to witness that I meant them fairly, wishing I might perish by
the first shot at the first battle if I played them false. This is the
first battle, and not a shot has yet been fired.”
“The first shot will not harm you, my lord,” rejoined Pomperant. “You
did not wilfully deceive the Milanese. The Spanish soldiers refused to
obey your orders.”
“True,” replied Bourbon; “but I feel that I violated my promise, and
if Heaven punishes me, I cannot complain. But come. Let us examine the
wall.”
They then quitted the tent, and, enveloped in long russet-coloured
cloaks, which completely covered their armour, passed out of the camp,
and cautiously approached the Aurelian Wall.
VIII. BENVENUTO CELLINI.
No sooner had Marcelline gained the ramparts, than the ladder she had
ascended was drawn up by the sentinels. Before she could move off, a
martial personage, accoutred in a steel cap and corslet, and armed with
an arquebuss, came up and detained her.
“Ha! where have you been, sister?” he demanded, sternly. “Speak!--give
an account of yourself.”
“I have been in the enemy's camp,” she replied, “and have spoken with
the general himself.”
“With Bourbon!” exclaimed the soldier. “You are trifling with me.”
“On my life I am not,” she rejoined, “I have seen him as I see you, but
I have failed in my object, which was to dissuade him from the attack.”
“I am not surprised at it,” said the soldier, contemptuously. “You have
gone on a mad errand. Did you for a moment suppose that Bourbon would
turn back at your entreaties?”
“Bourbon has a noble heart, and I thought to move him,” she rejoined.
“Tut! Rome is not likely to be saved from sack by a woman's prayers and
entreaties,” said the soldier. “We must keep Bourbon and his bands out
of the city, if we can. If they once get in, woe betide us! But how is
this?” he cried, noticing the dilapidated state of the ramparts. “This
wall ought to have been repaired.”
“It will be repaired in the morning, good Messer Benvenuto Cellini,”
replied the sentinel.
“To-morrow may be too late,” remarked Cellini. “I will see our general
about it without delay.”
“You need not go far to seek him, brave Benvenuto,” said Renzo da Ceri,
marching towards them. “What have you to say to me?”
“I would pray your lordship to look at the condition of these ramparts,”
said Cellini. “There is a breach as if made by cannon.”
“By Heaven! the wall is very ruinous here!” cried Renzo. “I cannot think
how the gap escaped my notice.”
“Since it has escaped your lordship's quick eyes, it may escape those
of the enemy,” said Cellini. “But it may be well to have it speedily
repaired.”
“It shall be repaired to-morrow morning,” said Renzo.
“Provided Bourbon does not enter by it in the mean time,” said Cellini.
“Oh! he will not attempt the assault for a month,” rejoined Renzo,
contemptuously. “He has no artillery. To-morrow, or next day at the
latest, we shall have Count Guido Rangone, with five thousand fantassins
and a corps of artillery. He is now at Ponte Salario. We shall also be
speedily reinforced by detachments from the armies of the Duke of Urbino
and the Marquis of Saluzzo. Rome, therefore, is secure.”
“Your lordship must pardon me, but I cannot think Rome secure while
Bourbon is encamped before it,” remarked Cellini.
“Well, you have abandoned your trade of goldsmith, and have taken up
arms for its defence,” said Renzo, laughing. “If you win as much renown
as a soldier as you have done as a sculptor, Rome may be proud of you.”
“I will try,” said Cellini.
“Is this the famous Benvenuto Cellini?” inquired Marcelline, approaching
them. “I knew him not.”
“Yes, this is he, who may vie with the greatest of the ancient
sculptors,” said Renzo da Ceri.
“For the moment, I am a mere Roman soldier,” said Cellini. “I shall
resume my profession as an artist when we have got rid of Bourbon. But
who is she who inquires my name?”
“One you may be proud to know,” said Renzo. “This holy sister
is Marcelline d'Herment, one of the Amazons who helped to defend
Marseilles.”
“I have heard of her,” said Cellini. “I hope our Roman dames will follow
her example. But hush!” he exclaimed, stepping towards the battlements,
“I see two tall figures approaching the walls. They come nearer. Do you
not distinguish them?”
“Perfectly,” replied Marcelline.
“Be silent, and we can hear what they say,” whispered Cellini. And after
listening intently for a few moments, he added, “They have discovered
the breach. It is here the assault will be made to-morrow morning.”
“How know you that?” demanded Renzo da Ceri. “I could hear nothing.”
“My ears never deceive me,” said Cellini. “Who are they, think you?”
“The tallest of the two is Bourbon,” replied Marcelline, in a whisper,
“I recognise his voice and figure.”
“Bourbon!” exclaimed Cellini. “Then his hour is come.”
And kneeling down, he placed his arquebuss on the battlements and took
deliberate aim at the duke. But just as he was about to fire, Marcelline
caught hold of his hand and stopped him, and ere he could take fresh aim
the two personages were gone.
“Maledizione! why did you interfere, sister?” cried Benvenuto, turning
angrily upon her. “I should have killed him, and delivered Rome. I never
miss my aim.”
“I would not have him die now,” she rejoined.
“Well, he shall not escape me,” said Cellini. “I heard him say he would
be first to scale the walls.”
“And if he said so he will keep his word,” rejoined Marcelline.
“I will be ready for him. What says your excellency now?” he added to
Renzo.
“I have little doubt that the assault will be made to-morrow morning,
and at this point,” replied Renzo. “Since the breach cannot be repaired,
I will send a sufficient force to defend it.”
“Be mine the privilege to fire the first shot,” said
Benvenuto.
“Agreed,” replied Renzo. “Not an arquebuss shall be discharged till you
have fired.”
IX. THE FIRST SHOT FROM THE WALLS.
|Dawn was at hand--the dawn of the direst day that ever Rome beheld.
Already the entire host of Bourbon was under arms, and impatient for the
assault. The captains were forming their men in masses before the long
dark line of walls which they were about to scale.
Grim and menacing did those walls and bastions look now, as they were
thronged with armed men, and bristled with cannon. But they inspired no
terror on the bands gathered before them. Sullen and stern in the grey
light of morning loomed the Castle of Saint Angelo, but the fierce host
Had no dread of its guns.
As the shades of night disappeared, and daylight revealed to them the
fierce bands gathered before the Aurelian Wall, and forming a long line,
extending from the Janiculum Hill to the rear of the Basilica of Saint
Peter's and the Vatican, those stationed on the ramparts and bastions,
though valiant men, were seized with dread, the aspect of the host being
truly formidable.
Scarcely had it become light when word was passed along the whole
line that the assault was about to be made, and the manifestations of
impatience, heretofore exhibited, were increased in a tenfold degree,
the men becoming so fiercely excited that they could be scarcely
restrained by their captains.
While they were all eagerly awaiting the signal, a movement was made
in the centre of the line, and Bourbon appeared, fully accoutred, and
wearing his emblazoned surcoat over his armour. He was attended by
his standard-bearer, carrying his banner, which was of yellow taffety,
embroidered with flaming swords, and bearing the motto, “Espérance,
Espérance.”
Close behind came Pomperant, while in front ran several Spanish soldiers
with a long scaling-ladder, which they reared against the wall at the
appointed spot.
All this was accomplished with the utmost rapidity. A charge was then
sounded loudly by the trumpeters, and Bourbon, sword in hand, mounted
the ladder, shouting in a loud voice, “Follow me, my brave fellows! On!
on!”
But he had not ascended many steps when the barrel of an arquebuss
was protruded over the ramparts, and the next moment the discharge was
heard.
The shot struck the duke below the gorget and traversed his right side.
Feeling himself mortally wounded, he made an effort to descend, but,
unable to retain his hold of the ladder, he fell to the ground.
As he dropped, Benvenuto Cellini, with his face lighted up by a fierce
exulting smile, was seen looking down from above.
“Saints be praised! the first shot has told,” cried the sculptor. “I
have killed him.”
As the words were uttered, a hundred bullets from the infuriated
soldiers whistled about his ears, but not one hit its mark.
Pomperant, who was close behind, and had just set foot on the ladder
when Bourbon fell, now rushed to his wounded leader's assistance.
“Are you much hurt, my lord?” he inquired, anxiously.
“Mortally,” gasped Bourbon. “I have not many minutes of life left. But
do not tarry with me, Pomperant. Supply my place. On! on!”
“I cannot leave you thus, my dear lord,” said Pomperant, “Perhaps you
are not dangerously hurt.”
“I tell you I am sped,” groaned Bourbon. “My eyes are growing dim. What
are the men doing? Are they mounting the ladder?”
“A hundred ladders are placed against the walls, and the men are
swanting up them,” rejoined Pomperant.
“I cannot see them, but I hear their shouts, mingled with the rattle of
arquebusses and the roar of cannon, “cried Bourbon. “Have any gained the
ramparts?”
“None as yet, my lord,” rejoined Pomperant. “The foremost have all been
struck down, but others are pressing on.”
“Where is the Prince of Orange?” asked Bourbon, anxiously.
“The smoke is so thick that I cannot discern him,” replied Pomperant.
“The besieged make a desperate resistance. Our men are hurled from the
battlements by scores.”
“But they do not give way? Others mount--ha?”
“They do, my lord. Ha! the smoke clears off. I see the Prince of Orange
now. He is upon the ramparts.”
“Bravely done, by Sainte Barbe! Would I were with him!” ejaculated
Bourbon. “Do the men know I have fallen?”
“Some few may know the sad truth, my lord,” replied Pomperant. “But
the mass believe you are on the ramparts. They are shouting your name.
Hark!”
As he spoke, loud shouts of “Bourbon!--Bourbon!” could be distinctly
heard above the terrible din of the conflict.
“The walls are gained, my lord,” said Pomperant, after a brief pause.
“Your standard is placed on the battlements. Listen to those shouts of
victory, with which your own name is mingled.
“I hear them,” cried Bourbon. “On! on! brave Philibert. On! on! to Saint
Peter's--to the Vatican! I am with you!” he ejaculated, making a vain
effort to rise.
“My lord--my dear lord! turn your thoughts towards Heaven!” cried
Pomperant.
“I cannot pray amid this din of battle,” said Bourbon. “Oh! that I could
have crossed those walls! Oh! that I could have reached Saint Peter's!
But it was decreed that I should never enter Rome. Agrippa's prediction
has come to pass, and the malediction I invoked has fallen upon me. I am
justly punished for my sins.”
“Then implore Heaven's forgiveness while there is yet time, my dear
lord,” cried Pomperant.
“Have mercy on me, Jesu! have mercy!” ejaculated Bourbon, fervently. “I
have no hope save in thee.”
So marked a change then took place in his noble features, that Pomperant
thought all was over. A slight pressure of the hand, however, showed him
that the duke was still conscious.
All at once, Bourbon roused himself by a supreme effort, and said,
“Farewell, my friend! To the battle!--away! Cover me--leave me!”
With these words, he expired.
Pomperant gazed for a moment with blinded eyes at the inanimate form of
the hero he had loved so well, and served so long and faithfully, and
exclaimed, in mournful accents, “Farewell, valiant Bourbon! Farewell,
noble prince and gallant knight! Thou hast not left thy peer behind
thee! Farewell for ever!”
He then cast a cloak over the body, and, snatching up the duke's sword,
which had fallen near him, pushed aside the throng of soldiers who
were struggling to mount the ladder, and shouting, “Bourbon!--Bourbon!”
gained the ramparts without difficulty.
X. IN SAINT PETER'S.
|The broad parapet was ankle-deep in blood, and was covered with dying
and dead--Romans, Spaniards, Germans. But the defenders of the
breach were all gone. Bourbon's broad banner was floating above the
battlements, but his standard-bearer was lying stark beside it.
Taking down the banner, and giving it to one of the Spanish soldiers who
had followed him, Pomperant, amid a shower of bullets directed
against him from the Pontifical soldiers, who were still masters of a
neighbouring bastion, hurried along the ramparts in search of some means
of descending to the city.
Strange was it he should escape uninjured, for several of the soldiers
with him were struck down, but, after stumbling over heaps of dead
bodies, and plashing through pools of blood, he reached a tower, where
a few gallant men were gathered to dispute his progress. But these
brave fellows could not withstand the furious attack made upon them, and
Pomperant and his men, having forcibly entered the tower, dashed down a
winding staircase, and issued forth into a street in the Borgo.
Here a terrible conflict still was going on, but though the Romans still
disputed the advance of the assailants, they were evidently giving way
before them. The ear was deafened with the clash of arms, the shouts
of the combatants, the groans of the wounded, the bray of trumpets,
the roar of ordnance, and the sharp rattle of musketry. The terrified
inhabitants were running in all directions, uttering piercing cries.
Pomperant's object was to reach Saint Peter's, and, after engaging in
several conflicts, he made his way in the direction of the Basilica. As
he went on, many a frightful scene of massacre met his gaze, which he
would have prevented if he had had the power.
The Spanish soldiers, having now learnt that Bourbon had fallen, gave no
quarter, but slew all they encountered without pity--priests, old men,
women, and children--shouting, “Carne! came!--sangre! sierra! Bourbon!
Bourbon!”
Fearfully was Bourbon avenged, and if his spirit hovered over Rome at
that dread hour, it must have bewailed these frightful excesses.
The noble colonnades, which now form so grand an approach to Saint
Peter's, were then unbuilt, but there was a large piazza in front of
the sacred edifice, and here the last stand was made by the Pontifical
troops. But they were charged by the Prince of Orange, and being
dispersed and unable to rally, were all cut down.
As Pomperant entered the piazza the Papal troops were flying in all
directions, but none of them were allowed to escape. Leaving the Prince
of Orange to pursue his victory, Pomperant hurried towards the glorious
Basilica, and mounted its wide steps, which were covered with dead and
defiled with gore.
While the conflict was going on in the piazza, the Pope had been hearing
high mass at the altar, but warned by the shouts of the fugitives,
who rushed into the sacred edifice in the vain hope of finding it a
sanctuary, he escaped, with several of the cardinals who were with him
at the time, by a secret passage to the Vatican, and thence by a covered
way to the Castle of Saint Angelo, where, for the time at least, he was
secure. He was just hurrying from the altar as Pomperant entered the
church, and had he not been protected by his Swiss guard, he must have
been captured.
Frightful was the scene that ensued. The brave Swiss were quickly
overcome and massacred by the bands of unlicensed soldiers who had burst
into the church, and numbers of prelates and priests shared their fate.
The work of pillage then commenced, and the altars were quickly stripped
of all their ornaments by the rapacious soldiery.
Great silver crucifixes, the Pope's splendid cross, magnificent censers,
golden and silver images, superb altar coverings, and rich priestly
vestments, great chalices, cups and plate, were all piled together in an
immense heap, to be divided anon among the soldiery.
But while the work of pillage was going on, numbers of the Lutheran
soldiers were engaged in demolishing all they regarded as idolatrous
ana superstitious, and no statue or picture escaped destruction or
mutilation by these ferocious zealots. The whole interior of the
glorious building presented an indescribable scene of horror and
confusion. Instead of resounding with the solemn notes of the organ, and
the exquisite voices of the choir, the roof now echoed with the shouts
and imprecations of the infuriated soldiery, and with the shrieks
of their victims. The pavement was slippery with blood. Hell and its
legions seemed let loose in the holy of holies.
Horror-stricken by the scene, Pomperant was hurrying away, when his
ear was assailed by the cries of a female in distress. So piercing were
these cries that they were distinctly heard above the dreadful hubbub
that prevailed. But heartrending as they were, they seemed to excite no
attention. All were too busily occupied to heed them.,
Looking in the direction whence these cries proceeded, Pomperant
perceived a nun struggling with three or four Spanish soldiers, one of
whom had seized her in his arms and was carrying her off, despite
her cries and resistance. What was Pomperant's horror and distress on
discovering that this unfortunate nun was Marcelline. He instantly flew
to her assistance, and fiercely commanded the soldier to release her,
but as the ruffian refused to relinquish his prize, he unhesitatingly
cut him down, and bore her off, hoping to find some safe asylum for her.
But there was no place of refuge to be found in Saint Peter's on that
terrible day. While he was gazing around in fearful anxiety, trying to
soothe her, the Spanish soldier, whom he had wounded, approached them
unawares, and plunged his poniard in her breast, exclaiming as he struck
the vengeful blow, “If she cannot be mine, she shall not be yours.”
Having consummated this atrocious act, the wretch fell on the pavement.
Half maddened, and scarcely knowing what he did, covered with the blood
of her for whom he would have shed his own heart's blood, Pomperant
hurried with her to a side-chapel, which, having been pillaged and
stripped, was now deserted. He saw that the wound she had received was
mortal, and that she had not many minutes to live, and sitting down on a
marble bench, held her in his arms.
“Marcelline!” he exclaimed, in tones of deepest anguish. “Speak to
me--one word!”
She opened her eyes, and gazed tenderly at him.
“Farewell, dear Pomperant,” she said. “At this moment I may confess that
I have ever loved you; but as we must have been separated on earth, my
death need not afflict you.”
“Our parting will be brief,” said Pomperant. “I shall soon join you in
heaven. I shall know no more earthly happiness.”
“If we are to meet again in regions of bliss, Pomperant,” she said, “you
must win Heaven's forgiveness for your share in this dreadful day by
years of penitence. Think of my words, Pomperant--neglect them not!”
As he pressed her distractedly to his breast, a tremor passed through
her frame, and she was gone.
So acute was his anguish, that he could scarcely refrain from plunging
his sword into his own breast, and dying beside her.
We must drop a veil over the horrors of the sack of Rome, which endured
without interruption for two months. Never in the history of the
world was a city abandoned to such frightful licence--never were such
atrocities committed.
Bourbon found a place of sepulture in the chapel of the Castle of Gaeta,
where a magnificent monument was reared over him by his soldiers.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Constable De Bourbon, by William Ainsworth