The Siege of Granada
Ferdinand, to whom war was a pastime, had taken the field with all the
pomp and circumstance of a tournament.
But the heroic defence of the Moors had given a much more serious aspect
to their conquest than he had anticipated.
Nature, too, was on their side. Save towards the sea, at the eastern
extremity of Spain, the whole kingdom of Granada is fenced in by almost
inaccessible mountains, rugged and barren, broken by dolomite cliffs and
dangerous precipices, descending sheer into rocky gorges and dimly
lighted valleys--the sentinels of the impenetrable fastnesses which shut
in the Moor.
Few were the tracks upon the mountains, and difficult to find. Narrow
the gaps which cleave these tremendous ranges towards the plain. So
narrow indeed, and walled in by such natural defences, that any army
could be shut out by a small force, and as the Moors were accomplished
warriors, and fought with a courage never surpassed, each inlet into the
land was defended at the sword’s point.
Great had been the vicissitudes of the war of extermination on one side,
and of enthusiastic defence of nation, faith, and existence on the
other. Years have passed, but the vermilion tower of the Alhambra stands
firm, and the Moors come and go in their city with the liberty of free
men.
Spite of the fall of Malaga, that great city by the sea, where summer
ever reigns, where the _Reyes Catolicos_ were very nearly assassinated
by a Moor--Loya, Antequerra, and last of all, Baza, besides many castles
and fortresses--each with romantic traditions of bloodshed and
warfare--Ferdinand is still encamped on the Vega. For thirty days it has
been overrun by his forces, and a region once so exquisite in beauty,
and fruitful in corn, olives, orchards, and gardens, has become a scene
of desolation and ruin.
Now he has just passed the bridge of Peñas, only two leagues from
Granada, after a fierce contest--a famous deed in this bloody war.
By this route the Christians have hitherto made raids into Granada, the
bridge being capable of strong resistance on either side, from the long,
narrow passage raised high on slender arches, and the ruggedness of the
surrounding banks.
* * * * *
Now Ferdinand has called a council of war within his sumptuous tent,
literally blazing with purple and gold. A plain man in himself, accused
even of a parsimony unfitting in a king, he lives in an age of warlike
splendour, and politic in all things and wary of the opinion of those
around him, he loves the display of magnificence in the battle-field, to
strike awe into the enemy, and raise his own authority among his troops.
With a gravity which suits him well, he is seated at the head of a table
scattered with maps and papers. Nor is he in countenance or bearing
inferior to the famous chiefs and captains around him. His long hair,
falling in locks upon his shoulders, is still auburn, though thin, and
streaked with grey, his blue eyes are inscrutable, his features set and
stern; altogether a countenance which offers an unsolved problem to
posterity, as did his character, varying so greatly at different periods
of his life.
He is plainly dressed in a cloth mantle, clasped around his neck by a
single jewel; on his breast shines a silver cross, as for one engaged in
a crusade against the infidels, and his body is encased in steel.
The Infante Juan is at his side. Isabel has borne him several children,
but this is the only son, a delicate-complexioned boy, with thin,
aquiline features like his mother’s, altogether too frail for the rough
campaigns in which he accompanies his father, and singularly out of
place among the hidalgos, who are ranged according to their military
rank around the table.
At the king’s right hand is Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, a great
southern noble, almost as powerful as himself; on the left is the Duque
de Medina Sidonia, equal almost in townships, castles, and fortresses to
a sovereign, hailing from the south also. Both have performed prodigies
of valour in the war. The reckless giant called Hernado de Pulgar sits
lower--he who rode into the city of Granada at dead of night, and fixed
on the door of the great mosque a tablet with the letters, _Ave Maria_,
then departed as he had come before the Moors had time to seize him; the
famous Gonsalvo de Cordoba, to become El Gran Capitan, and Viceroy of
Naples, in this war flashing his maiden sword, already marked by nature
in features and bearing as a master of men; the Conde de Tendilla, hero
of Alcala; El Rey and Cabra, and many others as illustrious as the
chiefs of Troy, but with no Homer to celebrate their deeds.
Now the king speaks, first rising and uncovering to salute the Council,
then reseating himself, and replacing his velvet bonnet upon his head,
in all of which formalities the Council follow him in profound silence.
“My lords,” are his words, “we are met here to decide as to the course
of the campaign. Spite of individual acts of courage, Granada is
unconquered. The walls are strong, and Boabdil’s general, Mousa, a
leader of prudence and renown, vaunts that he will drive us out by
avoiding fixed battles, and harassing our armies by perpetual skirmishes
in the mountains, and ambushes on the plain. Noble captains and
companions, this cannot thus continue; it is a blot on our arms.”
Loud sounds of assent come from all round the table. Several of the
great soldiers rise to reply, but, seeing that Ferdinand is prepared to
continue, sit down and listen with reverential attention.
“The important post of the bridge of Peñas is ours, gallantly gained”
(again voices rise in subdued acclamation, and again die away), “and by
the complete desolation of the Vega, we may in time starve the city.
But, alas! my lords, this is a work of years. Too long already for our
fame have we lingered here. The obscure city of Granada is not the only
place where the flag of Spain should be unfurled. But,” and as he
proceeds, his brows knit, and the subtle look of an unscrupulous
intriguer comes into his clear blue eyes, “there are other means beside
the sword by which the prudent general conquers. As the lion in the
fable disdains not the assistance of the fox, so do I, for my use, keep
myself informed of all that passes in the Alhambra. Treason, my lords,
will open the gates of Granada to us better than combat.”
The king’s voice drops. He waits to mark the impression of his words
among these heroic leaders who, new to the usages of modern warfare,
disdain all means but that of the sword. Murmurs of dissent are indeed
heard from the Knights of Pulgar and Aguilar, but subdued as towards
their commander.
Ponce de Leon rises. “Don Ferdinand, the King,” he says, “I have no
more doubt that under your guidance we shall stand within the courts of
the fortress rising so defiantly before us, than that the sun will rise
to-morrow, and autumn succeed summer on the plain. Stratagem is good in
warfare, though some among us think otherwise. But beware of deception,
your Highness; the Moor is like the Jew in cunning and deceit. Why not
call the queen again into the field? Her gracious presence is ever the
signal of success, and animates the soldiers. Let the saintly Isabel
exorcise the infidels by the power of her faith. At the siege of Baza it
was so. Why not now?”
“Bravely spoken, Ponce de Leon,” cries De Pulgar, swaying his huge body
to and fro with excitement.
“Let the queen appear on the Vega,” cries the Conde de Cabra and Lord
Rivers, who became so loud in his acclaim, he had to be silenced by
those who sat near.
“God is my witness,” cries Ferdinand, moved to some show of emotion by
this enthusiasm, “that I would willingly ever be accompanied by my
beloved consort; but this is a matter which neither her Highness nor any
one else can influence. I promise you, my lords, the queen shall join
us, and that shortly; but I repeat that her presence touches not the
matter in hand.”
But the warlike councillors had become so possessed with the idea of the
queen’s arrival, that for some minutes nothing could be heard.
“It is not for us to judge of your Highness’s actions,” said, speaking
last of all, the young Gonsalvo de Cordoba, whose after career showed
that he acted on the same system as his master; “your wisdom is our best
safeguard. All means are good to conquer the enemy: to plot while we
fight, to undermine while we destroy.”
“You speak well, Gonsalvo,” answered Ferdinand, smiling, as conscious of
the sympathy of a kindred spirit who can appreciate his rare qualities
of intrigue.
“I will disclose so much to my assembled chiefs as to say that I am
possessed of the sure knowledge that the powerful tribe of the
Abencerrages are about to leave the city, in secret, to join our
standard.”
At these words the whole council rose as one man, loudly to acclaim the
king; all save Gonsalvo, who, indeed, stood up like the rest, but had
already been informed by Ferdinand of this event.
“The Moorish king,” continued Ferdinand, “listening to the suggestions
of the treacherous Zigris (always art variance with the rival tribes),
believed that his queen was found in dalliance with an Abencerrage in
the garden of the Generalife, called the entire tribe together in the
Court of Lions, and barbarously butchered thirty-six of their number.
Indeed, but for a boy, a _niño_, who gave the alarm, all would have
perished. So exasperated are they, that one and all have determined to
join our camp. Already after night falls, they will steal across the
Vega; the sentries are warned, and Mousa and his master, Boabdil will be
deprived of their bravest fighters. What say you to this, my valiant
captains?”
“Sir King, we say that we are led not only by the bravest general who
ever drew sword” (it was the Duque de Medina Sidonia who spoke, and his
armed fist fell heavily on the table), “but by the wisest monarch who
has reigned since Solomon. Our confidence in your Highness is complete.
Lead on, my Lord, and we follow, even to the gates of hell.”
“God willing, I will not go there myself,” answered Ferdinand, smiling
at his impetuosity, which, indeed, was reflected in all around,
“therefore you are safe from such a danger. _Hell_, indeed! Into
_heaven_, rather, that we hope to gain in this crusade against the
infidels!” and Ferdinand crossed himself devoutly, for, sagacious as he
was, and cunning, he was capable of the utmost depths of superstition.
“But,” he continued, “spite of this important adherence, we must still
fight. To-morrow I command a strong detachment to lay waste to the Vega,
even to the city walls. Let all come to me who will join it. My lords,
the council is ended.”
Upon this the knights rose and withdrew with all that grave and stately
ceremonial which Ferdinand exacted from his followers. Only the young
prince remained.
“Juan,” said Ferdinand, casting on him a look of inexpressible
affection (deep down in his heart he was a tender man, and this only son
was an object to him of almost adoration), “early and late the Infantes
of Spain should learn the lesson of policy. It is a new science come in
with modern times. Formerly, kings and princes could only fight. Now
they use stratagem, which means the knowledge of the balance of
power--state against state, noble against noble, Church against State,
all of which would have been formerly despised, but in future will rule
the world. You see, my son, these notables of Spain? They are the
brightest jewels of my crown, but it is for me, their king, that they
should unite their brilliancy. The queen, your honoured mother, and I,
have by our entire union formed a mighty monarchy which will descend to
you, Infante. But it must be maintained, not by brute force, but by
knowledge. Santiago! by knowledge!” and as he spoke he seized Don Juan’s
delicate fingers and pressed them in his own hard palm. “You look
annoyed. Am I too fierce in my words? But by the blessed Virgin! I love
you well, Juan. See, I will conquer Granada for you. But not a lizard
runs on the painted walls of the Alhambra, but I know it. So in Spain.
All is unfolded to me within our joint kingdom. I balance the great
nobles as the player does his dice. I am called wise, my son, this is my
wisdom.” Here he again crossed himself devoutly. “Ave Maria,” he said,
“the blessed Virgin knows the hearts of men.”
Juan listened with a weary attention to his wise father, little
consonant with the statecraft to which these lessons tended. He was a
soldier who loved to march with the army and cared not for tortuous
policy.
“But I love my mother’s ways best,” said the gentle prince, suppressing
a yawn, as he sank back into his chair, “with her Grace all is truthful
and open.”
“May Heaven bless her!” cried Ferdinand. “She is a noble wife. But it is
our _union_ which makes the strength of Spain.”
* * * * *
In the early summer Queen Isabel sets out from Cordoba to join the army,
accompanied by her eldest daughter, Isabel, to become Queen of Portugal,
attended by prelates, cardinals, and friars. Her younger children, Juana
and Catalina, remain behind.
With her, also, are Beatrix de Bobadilla, now Marquesa de Moya, her
loving friend, her secretary, Peter Martyr, the Boswell of her life, her
Almoner, the Bishop of Talavera, who, when offered the See of Salamanca,
replies he will accept nothing but the See of Granada!!! Garcilaso de la
Vega, and her court of dueñas and ladies.
The lovely Infanta has now become a stately matron, exceedingly fair,
and somewhat inclined to stoutness, spite of the constant activity of
her life. All feel the majesty of her presence, and the sway of the
enlightened mind that dictates all her actions. Mistress she remains of
herself and of her kingdom, spite of Ferdinand’s continual interference.
But her love for him is unchanged, although he is far from being the
faithful husband she deserves, and she is much tormented by jealousy.
As Queen of Castile she has assisted him in the war to the utmost of her
power. The united Cortes of Castile and Aragon have been invoked by
their own sovereigns, and each has made independent provision for the
Moorish war “_to be pursued to the end_,” as necessary to the well-being
of the nation.
It is a lovely valley she traverses on her way from Cordoba to Granada,
now followed by the rail. Here is Montilla, famous for its white wines;
old towers and castles succeed each other on the hills, and the sunny
slopes are lined by vineyards and pomegranate woods. Olive-trees, big as
ancestral oaks, make avenues as far as the eye can reach, and the damp
wind sounds like music among the reeds at the Puerte del Xenil. At the
town of Bobadilla, now a station, the huge mountains of Granada shut in
all the plain, impregnable barriers between the Christian and the Moor.
* * * * *
The queen travels mounted on a mule, seated on a golden saddle--a rich
kirtle of velvet with hanging sleeves forms her robe, cut square on the
neck, and a long mantle and a black hat complete her attire.
As she advances through the defile, the Rock of the Lovers (_Pina de los
Enamorados_) opens to the sight, so called because a Christian knight,
who loved a Moorish maid, flung himself from the summit to die with her
in his arms.
Higher up in the mountains the queen is met by a splendid train of
knights, headed by the elegant Ponce de Leon, courtly as he is
brave--indeed, from his actions in this war he has been named the second
Cid--and Lord Rivers, the English volunteer, mounted _a la guisa_
(meaning with long stirrups), wearing over his armour a velvet cloak and
a French hat and feather, attended by pages in silk, and foot soldiers.
The earl, as eccentric as he is brave, bare-headed makes a reverence to
the queen, which she returns, at the same time graciously condescending
to compliment him on his valour in the siege of Loja, further condoling
with him on the loss of his two front teeth, knocked out by the hilt of
a Moorish scimitar.
“But Earl Rivers might,” continues Isabel, in her soft voice, bending on
him the calm lustre of her blue eyes, recorded as such a beauty in her
faultless face, “have lost the teeth by natural decay, whereas now their
lack will be esteemed a glory rather than a shame.”
To which the earl, bowing to his saddle-bow, replies that he returns
thanks to God for the honour her Highness has done him in allowing him
to meet her; that he is contented, nay, even _happy_
[Illustration: THE HARBOUR OF CADIZ.]
in the loss of his teeth seeing that it was for the service of God and
of her Highness; for God having given him all the teeth he possesses, in
depriving him of _two_ has but opened a window in the house of his body,
the more readily to observe the soul within.
As the royal cavalcade approaches the great gonfalon of Spain, the queen
makes a low reverence and passes to the right hand, awaiting Ferdinand,
who appears in state, armed _cap-à-pie_ in mail so wrought with gold it
seems all of that metal--a snowy plume waving over a diadem on his neck,
a massive chain, the links inwrought with gems of the rough workmanship
of Gothic times when everything was ponderous, mounted on a chestnut
charger, and attended by the Christian knights. But as they approach
each other, these royal spouses, in the presence of the army and in a
hostile land, it is not in the guise of mutual lovers, but as allied
sovereigns that they meet. Three formal reverences are their salutation,
the queen taking off her hat as Ferdinand approaches and formally kisses
her on the cheek. He also kisses his daughter and blesses her, and so
they pass into the camp to the lofty tent prepared for Isabel. In the
centre of the camp, not, indeed, a tent, but a pavilion in the Oriental
taste, formed of sheets of cloth of gold, divided into compartments of
painted linen lined with silk, each compartment separated from the other
by costly arras. Lances make its columns, brocade and velvet its walls,
and it covers such an extent of ground as might have been occupied by a
real palace.
* * * * *
All lay in profound repose, the gorgeous pageant was over, the shades of
evening deepened, the stars came out serene in that large firmament, and
lighted up the streets of tents, gay with banners and devices, where the
camp-fires burned.
Alone, the queen had not retired to rest, and was offering up her
fervent prayers for the success of the war and the safety of Ferdinand.
In an instant a vivid and startling blaze burst forth beside her. The
tent was in flames. The light materials fed the fire. She had barely
time to escape from the burning embers falling about her, and to rush to
her husband’s tent. Into his arms she cast herself--the valiant queen
for a moment all the woman--in her alarm.
“The Moors have done this!” cried Ferdinand, as he listened to her
confused account. “They will be on us. Let the trumpets sound to
charge,” and hastily wrapping himself in his _manto_ he made his way
through the blazing camp to command his forces.
But no Moors were there. The towers of Granada rose white and placid in
the night. The only light, the beacon fire in the high outpost of the
Vega. No sound came from the city. For a moment the thought of magic
floated through Ferdinand’s mind. He was superstitious, and the Moors
dealt much in necromancy, but it was evident that in its course the
fire was associated with the queen (whether by purpose or accident), and
he was resolved to take advantage of this to rouse his indignant army to
action.
“Heaven,” said he, as his knights came rushing round him, “has saved the
queen. Let this danger to her life break up the camp and lead us to the
solid walls of Granada. Let us lodge her safely within the walls of the
Alhambra. Woe to the Moslem and his wiles!”
At these words lances rattled and swords leaped from the scabbard.
“Woe to the Moslem!” echoed from every side.
With the morning light a vigorous assault was made, and a fierce battle
fought among the charred wrecks of the smouldering camp. But Ferdinand’s
cold and sober policy was principally bent on restraining the fiery
spirits he commanded. Mostly he contented himself with skirmishes and
closing all the issues through which provisions could reach Granada.
* * * * *
It was the accident of the fire which led to the building of Santa Fé
(the city of Sacred Faith) in the Vega, as a permanent refuge, to
convince the Moors that nothing would turn the Christians from the
conquest.
The ruins of Santa Fé still remain on the slope of a line of low hills
opposite Granada, close by the castle of Rum or Roma, granted by
Ferdinand VII. to the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsular War.
At Santa Fé Isabel appeared in complete armour at the head of the
Castilians. She inspected every tent, reviewed her troops, consoled,
exhorted, encouraged, a very Christian Bellona, who carried victory in
her hand.
At Santa Fé she met Columbus, and after refusing him what he needed for
his enterprise, sent after him, when he had crossed the bridge of Peñas
on his return, and consented to find funds for his departure to the New
World.
* * * * *
Now nothing in the siege was so fatal to the Moors as the building of
Santa Fé.
While their enemies were revelling in the plenty of the land the
supplies of the city were cut off. Autumn brought them no crops, the
Christians spoiled them; all their sheep and cattle were lifted, and
famine began to be felt.
Then Boabdil, who had succeeded his father, Muley Hassan, called
together the heads of the city--the alcaides, dervishes, alfaquis, and
imams of the faith, within the great Hall of the Ambassadors, where his
father had sat. By his side his mother, Ayxa la Horra, just middle-aged,
of commanding stature, in long, ample robes, worked with jewels, her
dark hair shaded by a turban diademed with gold--and asked them, “What
is to be done?” At the momentous question every face grew white, and
they who had fought so many years so manfully, hung their heads and
wept.
For a time no voice answered until an aged alcaide rose and with a
faltering voice uttered the word “_Surrender!_”
As with one voice all joined in: “_Surrender!_” echoes up to the domed
roof, glittering with crystal damasked in deep-coloured wood--the
arabesques and the fantastic devices echo it, the fairy-like arcades
bordered with orange and lemon-trees carry it on to the women’s quarter
beyond the Court of the Alberca, where wails and shrieks repeat it.
“_Surrender!_” sounds from the towers upon the cliff down to the deep
valley of the Darro where the bubbling waters foam.
“_Surrender!_” is carried by the winds into the narrow streets of
Granada, where want and famine stalk, tangible to the eye in sunken
faces of famished men.
“_Surrender!_ Yes!” cries the aged alcaide, taking up the word. “Alas!
we have no food. None can reach us since the armed walls of Santa Fé
command the place. We are 200,000 young and old. We are all starving. Of
what avail are the Alhambra walls? The Christians are at home, well
defended. Allah has willed it. Kismet! It is done. We must surrender.”
They know it, these hard-visaged Moslems sitting round on ancient seats,
hiding their eyes under their vast turbans, swarthy warriors grizzled
with toil, and silken, effeminate courtiers, and the imperious queen
standing erect, her arms folded on her breast, yet resolute to the last.
Meanwhile, Boabdil, calm but ashen, eagerly scans each face, but speaks
not. Then the fierce Mousa, the most valiant of all the Moorish knights
and they are many, starts to his feet.
“_Surrender!_” he shouts, in a voice like a clarion. “Who dares say that
word is a traitor. _Surrender_ to whom? To Ferdinand, the Christian
king? to Isabel, his slave? They are liars, invaders, giaours! Death is
the least evil we have to fear from them. _Surrender_ means plunder,
sacking, the profanation of our mosques, the violation of our women,
whips, chains, dungeons, the fagot, and the stake. This is _surrender_!
Let him that has a man’s heart follow me to the Christian camp. There
let us die!”
But the words of Mousa brought no response. Boabdil el Chico yielded to
the general voice, and the venerable dervish, Aval-Cazem, was sent out
to Santa Fé to treat for terms with the Catholic sovereigns.
* * * * *
Alas! Then came a night of mourning and of wailing, as the sun went down
over the Alhambra in clouds of blood.
Within the walls where they had been born and lived, there they would
linger! Among those enchanting courts, beside gushing fountains, the
song of birds, the scent of flowers. The soft shadows of pale groves,
and those painted halls, the very picture books of history and of song.
Now, all is to be abandoned. The royal treasure packed, the inlaid walls
stripped of their hangings, the gold vessels set with pearls, the carved
platters for perfumed water, the turbaned crown and royal robes and
garments woven in Persian looms, the accumulated treasures of centuries,
unknown to the outer world, unspeakable, garnered in the lace-walled
recesses of the harem.
At break of day all must depart into a cold and arid world--the stately
Sultana, La Horra, and Boabdil’s large-eyed queen, in robes of death and
mourning, bearing ashes on their heads, followed by all the pomp of an
Eastern court. Guards, slaves, mutes, and eunuchs, passed out of the
gate of the Siete Suelos, the conquered city sleeping at their feet,
while on the opposite side, by the Gate of Justice with the mystic hand,
rode in a dazzling company of Christian knights, lighted up by the
rising sun--Aragonese and Castilian horsemen with round casques, knights
in chain-armour rattling their spears, gold-tabarded trumpeters,
men-at-arms and arquebusiers with hedges of lances and bucklers, led by
the primate of Spain, bearing in his hand the silver cross to be planted
on the signal tower of the Vega.