CHARLES IV AND BONAPARTE.
When, at the age of forty, in 1789, Charles IV ascended the throne
of Spain, he for a while retained in power his father’s great prime
minister, Floridablanca; but soon, it seems, his wisdom failed him.
After dallying awhile with this faithful servant, who was succeeded by
Count Cabarrus, then by the patriot Jovellanos, Charles gave up all
attempts to rule wisely, and abandoned himself utterly to the guidance
of his wife, who was as capricious and depraved as any of her sex who
had ever before ruled over a Spanish king. In 1792 the queen managed
to install her own favourite, Manuel Godoy, a young man of low birth,
in the seat of the statesman Aranda, and had him raised to the rank
of a Spanish grandee, as Duke of Alcudia. Henceforth, for many years,
poor Spain was to witness the humiliating spectacle of a good–natured
but weak sovereign, ruled by his vicious wife and her creature, and
to become familiar with family scandals which were a disgrace to the
nation.
Perhaps Charles would have made mistakes enough if he had been left to
himself, for early in his reign the world was amazed at the horrible
cruelties of the French Revolution, and he, as a Bourbon allied to
the family of Louis XVI, was placed in a most embarrassing position
when the excesses of the revolutionists culminated in the execution
of the king. All Spain rose in protest against this barbarous act,
and urged King Charles to declare for vengeance; but he sat supinely
in his palace, and did nothing more than to send a feeble protest and
a feebler army against the regicides. The new–born republic did not
wait, however, for him to declare war, but sent a force into Spain,
which quickly invaded the frontier and soon defeated the allied Spanish
and Portuguese in several battles. The triumphant republicans were
only checked when they held the peninsula at their mercy, for, as
history has told us, they were at the outset invincible. They snatched
victories from defeats, turned defeats into victories: these desperate
outlaws, battling against the rights of kings and the oppressions of a
decadent nobility. They were equally victorious over the allied armies
in the Netherlands also, and soon we have the edifying spectacle of
this Bourbon King of Spain entering into treaty with the red–handed
murderers of his royal kinsman. This was in 1795, at the Treaty of
Basel, arranged by the vainglorious Godoy, who won thereby great
rewards in lands and honours, and also the title of the “Prince of
Peace.” Further, by the Treaty of Ildefonso, in 1796, distracted Spain
turned completely around and entered into an offensive and defensive
alliance with France against England. Retribution was swift and sure,
for the next year her fleet was shattered at the naval fight of Cape
St. Vincent, Cadiz was attacked by the English, and she lost the island
of Trinidad in the West Indies, besides having her merchant marine
ruined and her colonial trade all but destroyed.
At the instigation of Napoleon, who was now foremost in the affairs
of France, Spain declared war against her sister kingdom, Portugal,
though sorely against her will, as—if for no other reason—the queen’s
favourite daughter, Carlota, was the wife of the Prince Regent of
Portugal. But in 1801 that kingdom was overrun by an army composed of
seventy–five thousand men, fifteen thousand of which were French and
sixty thousand Spanish, and the “Prince of Peace” won new honours
for himself by his active participation. Spain, in common with other
European countries, secured a brief breathing space by the Treaty
of Amiens, in 1802, but by this treaty England was confirmed in her
captures and came out triumphant.
Napoleon’s act in disposing of Louisiana to the United States for
the paltry sum of fifteen million dollars, was a vast benefit to
America, but a violation of good faith, inasmuch as Spain had ceded
that territory to France, only three years before, with the expressed
condition that no other country should ever obtain it. Still, she
meekly bore this bitter humiliation, for she was under the domination
of the conqueror of Europe, who soon imposed yet heavier conditions
upon her. He found a pretext for violating the peace with England, and
Spain also, who had purchased her neutrality by a monthly payment, in
1804 declared war against the Britons for seizing her homeward–sailing
galleons with their wealth of treasure from the American colonies.
England had done this as a measure of self–defence, foreseeing that,
with the sinews of war which this colonial treasure would purchase,
Spain would not hesitate to cast her lot with Napoleon and France.
The conflict that ensued put an end forever (so far as human ken can
forecast) to Spain’s ascendancy at sea. Her supremacy, indeed, had
long since departed; not since the times of the “invincible armada”
had she been a powerful factor to reckon with upon the ocean. But it
was during the war that followed that the combined French and Spanish
fleets, under Villeneuve and Gravina, were sought out and attacked by
Lord Nelson. Off Trafalgar, October 25, 1805, occurred that memorable
naval battle by which the fleets were shattered, and England obtained,
coincidently with the death of Nelson, the title which she has since so
proudly borne, of “mistress of the seas.” She was thenceforth supreme
upon the ocean, and the colonies of France and Spain were at her mercy.
The Spanish–French alliance had changed since the time of the “family
compact,” for what then was a natural union between sovereigns allied
by blood and interests, was now a most unnatural connection between
two totally dissimilar organizations. Especially since Napoleon had so
cruelly put to death the young Duke d’Enghien, a scion of the Bourbon
house in 1804, Spain regarded France with averted eyes. The repugnance
of the king could not be overcome, and even the skill at dissimulation
possessed by the artful Godoy could not suffice to hide from Napoleon
the fact that his great adversary, England, was higher in favour than
himself. He took a characteristic revenge, and by compelling Spain
to become a party to the dismemberment of Portugal, by the Treaty
of Fontainebleau, placed her in a position from which she could not
retreat. This was in 1806, and the same year a French army under Junot
invaded Portugal and drove the royal family into exile. The next year,
however, it became evident that not Portugal alone, but Spain as well,
was the object of the great Napoleon’s ambition. The wonder is that she
had escaped so long, when already Germany, Italy, Austria, Prussia,
the Netherlands, and even the vast empire of Russia, had been invaded
by him and made subject to his will. But Spain’s hour had come; the
giant now felt the moment propitious for her conquest. Under pretext of
marching his troops through Spain to Portugal—as by the treaty he was
permitted to do—Napoleon massed his soldiers at all the passes of the
Pyrenees, and, before the king and court were well aware of his plans,
had obtained full possession of the frontier, and was sending forward
Murat and his battalions to the capital, Madrid. Terror–stricken, the
royal family resolved at once to flee to Mexico. But when the people
learned this, realizing that all this misery had been brought upon them
by the corrupt and faithless Godoy, they rose _en masse_ and sacked the
palace, seeking everywhere for the prime minister, whose life would
have been forfeited if he had not escaped by hiding in a closet. This
ebullition showed Charles IV the futility of longer clinging to the
shadow of what he had formerly possessed, and he formally abdicated, on
March 17, 1808, in favour of his son Ferdinand, the Prince of Asturias.
France had experienced her Reign of Terror; she now had her master,
Napoleon, who looked upon his small empire as too restricted for his
towering ambitions, and cast around for some other thrones to occupy.
He saw, with that clearness of perception for which he was noted,
that the throne of Spain was divided against itself: the king against
the queen, Godoy the Prince of Peace against them both, and the son
of the king at enmity with the other three. In truth, it was charged
by Godoy that he had conspired to kill, or at least to dethrone, his
father, and he was thrown into prison until he pretended to relent
and ask forgiveness. Ferdinand, hated by his mother, despised by the
prime minister, and accustomed to regard his father as an obstacle
in the path of his ambition, was an altogether unlovely character,
dark, sinister, with the making of another Philip II in him, had but
the times been propitious. He was, however, the popular idol, and the
misguided people hailed with joy this new accession to the line of
royalty, under the title of Ferdinand VII.
It was not long that he was permitted to enjoy the royal prerogatives,
nor the malicious satisfaction of retaliating upon his enemies.
Confiding in the supposed friendship of Napoleon, he sent back
to Portugal the Spanish troops which his father had recalled in
anticipation of a French invasion, and unsuspiciously placed himself
in the emperor’s hands. With consummate duplicity, Bonaparte allured
first Ferdinand, then his father, the queen mother and Godoy, over
the frontier to Bayonne, where he indeed had them at his mercy, and
then revealed his true intentions. In a word, he frightened Ferdinand
into an abdication, his father into renouncing forever his claim to
the throne, in return for a pension and paltry honours, and Godoy he
dropped as unworthy of attention.
Ferdinand was promised an income of one million francs, a palace,
and—captivity. Meanwhile, Napoleon called an assembly of the
notables—such as would come at his call—forced upon them a new
Constitution, and made them swear allegiance to the new king, who, of
course, was one of his own family—his brother Joseph, until then King
of Naples. Joseph himself, by nature unfitted for kingship, amiable,
humane, was yet unable to resist his imperious brother. Against his own
inclinations he was forced to take the throne; but not all the ability
and resources of Napoleon could keep him seated there. For though
Napoleon, after he had finished this work to his mind—had dethroned two
kings and seated another—returned to Paris and other victories, yet the
people over whom he had placed his brother Joseph absolutely refused to
accept him. An outbreak at Madrid was only quelled after many French
soldiers and Spanish citizens had been massacred, and affairs wore
such a threatening aspect that re–enforcements now poured through the
Pyrenean passes to the number of one hundred thousand men. Marat did
the best he could, other French generals co–operated; but within a week
or so after he had entered the Spanish capital, Joseph was compelled to
retreat to the frontier.
* * * * *
These, in brief, were the beginnings of the famed Peninsular War, which
lasted from 1807 to 1814, and inflicted incalculable misery upon the
Spanish and Portuguese people. The Spanish fought desperately, but
without common purpose or direction. At the first siege of Saragossa,
made memorable by the valiant defence of its inhabitants, Palafox and
the romantic “Maid of Saragossa,” the French were repulsed; but at the
second they took the city, with terrible slaughter. Joseph was a second
time compelled to abandon Madrid, and a second time to return; for his
brother was furious over the acts of the Spanish rebels, and determined
to subdue the country. Perhaps he would have accomplished this in
the end, though the whole nation was now aroused; but the Spaniards
bethought themselves to appeal to England for assistance. The British
ministry saw its way clear to fight the universal conqueror in Spain
and Portugal in a manner not possible on the soil of France; so they
sent out Moore and Wellington, and other tried generals, with armies
behind them and fleets to support them, and they began operations in
Portugal. At first they were successful in compelling Marshal Ney to
evacuate Portugal; but in Spain Sir John Moore was driven back upon the
port of Coruña, and met his death—the same General Moore whose defeat
and burial are immortalized in heroic verse. Napoleon himself hastened
to Spain and organized victories with two hundred thousand men, so
that for a time “brother Joseph” was secure on the throne upon which
his imperial master had so unceremoniously seated him. But with his
departure reverses came again; for, though driven away at first, the
British returned.
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