Kitabı oku: «The Constable De Bourbon», sayfa 27
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.
