Charles The Bold And The Swiss
On the 6th of February, 1476, Duke Charles of Burgundy marched from
Besancon to take the field against the Swiss, between whom and Burgundy
hostilities had broken out. There were three parties to this war, Louis
XI. being the third. That politic monarch had covertly stirred up the
Swiss to their hostile attitude, promised them aid in money, if not in
men, and now had his secret agents in both camps, and kept himself in
readiness to take advantage of every circumstance that might be turned
to his own benefit. Leaving Tours, he went to Lyons, that he might be
within easy distance of the seat of war. And not long had he been there
before news of the most gratifying character came to his ears, Duke
Charles had met the foe, and--but we anticipate.
The army of Burgundy was a powerful one, having not less than thirty or
forty thousand men and a strong train of artillery. It was followed, as
was Charles's fashion in making war, with an immense baggage-train.
Personally his habits were simple and careless, but he loved to display
his riches and magnificence, and made his marches and encampments
as much scenes of festival as of war. What this showy duke wanted from
their poor cities and barren country the Swiss could not very well see.
"The spurs and the horses' bits in his army are worth more money than
the whole of us could pay in ransom if we were all taken," they said.
Without regard to this, Charles marched on, and on February 19 reached
Granson, a little town in the district of Vaud. Here fighting had taken
place, and hither soon came the Swiss battalions. Powerful fellows they
were, bold and sturdy, and animated with the highest spirit of freedom.
On they marched, timing their long strides to the lowings of the "bull
of Uri" and the "cow of Unterwalden," two great trumpets of buffalo horn
which, as was claimed, Charlemagne had given to their ancestors.
Against these compact battalions, armed with spears eighteen feet long,
the squadrons of Burgundy rode in vain. Their lines were impregnable.
Their enemies fell in numbers. In the end the whole Burgundian army,
seized with panic, broke and fled, "like smoke before the northern
blast."
So sudden and complete was the defeat that Charles himself had to take
to flight with only five horsemen for escort, and with such haste that
everything was left in the hands of the foe,--camp, artillery, treasure,
the duke's personal jewels, even his very cap with its garniture of
precious stones and his collar of the Golden Fleece.
The Swiss were as ignorant of the value of their booty as they were
astonished at the completeness of their victory. Jewels, gold, silver,
rich hangings, precious tapestry, had little value in their eyes. They
sold the silver plate for a few pence, taking it for pewter. The silks
and velvets found in the baggage-wagons of the duke, the rich cloth of
gold and damask, the precious Flanders lace and Arras carpets, were cut
in pieces and distributed among the peasant soldiers as if they had been
so much common canvas. Most notable of all was the fate of the great
diamond of the duke, which had once glittered in the crown of the Great
Mogul, and was of inestimable value. This prize was found on the road,
inside a little box set with fine pearls. The man who picked it up
thought the box pretty and worth keeping, but saw no use for that bit of
shining glass inside. He threw this contemptuously away. Afterwards he
thought it might be worth something, to be so carefully kept, and went
back to look for it. He found it under a wagon, and sold it to a
clergyman in the neighborhood for a crown. This precious stone, one of
the few great diamonds in the world, is now in the possession of the
Emperor of Austria, its value enhanced to him, it may be, by its strange
history.
There was only one thing in this event that did not please Louis
XI.,--that Charles had left the field alive. He sent him advice, indeed,
to let those poor folks but hard fighters of the Alps alone, well
convinced that the fiery duke would not take his counsel. In truth,
Charles, mad with rage, ordered that all the soldiers who had fled from
the field should be put to death, and that the new recruits to be raised
should be dealt with in the same manner if they did not march to his
camp with all haste. It cannot be said that this insane command was
obeyed, but so intense was his energy, and so fierce his rage against
the Swiss, that in no great time he had a fresh army, of from
twenty-five to thirty thousand men, composed of Burgundians, Flemings,
Italians, and English.
Late in May he was again on the march,--with much less parade and
display than before,--and on the 10th of June pitched his camp before
the little town of Morat, six leagues from Berne.
Everywhere as he went he left word that it was war to the death on which
he was bent. His pride had been bitterly wounded. He vowed to heal it in
the blood of his foes.
The Swiss were preparing with all haste, and advancing to Berne. The
governor of Morat sent them word to be at ease concerning him. "I will
defend Morat," he said, and to garrison and people he swore that he
would hang the first who spoke of surrender. For ten days he had held
out against Charles's whole army, while his countrymen were gathering.
The men of Zurich were the last to reach Berne. On the 21st of June, in
the evening, the Swiss encamped near their foes.
"Have those hounds lost heart, pray?" the duke had just said; "I was
told that we were about to get at them."
His wish was to be gratified in a way he had not meant; they were about
to get at him. The next day, June 22, opened with a pelting rain.
Later, the sun burst through the clouds. With its first beams the Swiss
were in motion, marching on the camp of their foes.
A man-at-arms hurried to the duke's tent, and told him that the Swiss
were coming, and that they had attacked the lines. He declared the story
was a lie, and drove the messenger with an insulting reproof from his
tent. What, these base peasants? To attack his army? The thing was
incredible! For all that, he left the tent and hurried to the point
indicated. It was true, they had attacked, and were already driving back
his men.
Charles rallied them as he best could. The battle was desperate. All the
remainder of the day it continued. But before nightfall the Swiss were
everywhere victorious, the Burgundians everywhere beaten. Charles had
still three thousand horsemen, but they, too, broke before the fierce
charges of the Swiss, and in the end he escaped with difficulty, having
but a dozen men at his back, and leaving eight or ten thousand of his
soldiers dead on the field, the greater part of them killed after the
fight by the relentlessly furious Swiss.
Charles, obstinate, furious, wild with rage, sought to collect another
army, but failed. No men could be found willing to bear arms against
those terrible Swiss. He shut himself up for weeks in one of his
castles, dismayed, inconsolable, heated with passion, ready to crush the
world if his hand could have grasped it, a sorry spectacle of
disappointed ambition and overthrown pride.
Other enemies rose against him. Rene II., duke of Lorraine, whom he had
robbed of his dominions and driven from Nancy, now saw an opportunity to
recover his heritage. He had been wandering like a fugitive from court
to court. Before Morat he had joined the Swiss, and helped them to their
victory. Now, gathering a force, he re-entered his duchy, besieged
Nancy, then feebly garrisoned, and pressed it hard. The governor sent
messengers to Duke Charles, asking for aid. He received none. The duke
did not even reply to him. He seemed utterly dispirited. In this
emergency the governor surrendered, and Rene had his own again.
Yet at that very moment, Charles the Bold, throwing off his apathy, was
marching upon Lorraine, with a small army which he had hastily
collected. On the 22d of October, 1476, he reached Nancy, which was once
more besieged. At his approach, Duke Rene left the town, but left it
well garrisoned. He went in search of reinforcements. These he found in
Switzerland, the agents of Louis XI. promising them good pay, while
their hatred of Charles made them fully ready for the service.
On January 4, 1477, Rene, having led his new army to Lorraine, found
himself face to face with the army of Charles the Bold, who was still
besieging Nancy. Charles held council with his captains.
"Well," he said, "since these drunken scoundrels are upon us, and are
coming here to look for meat and drink, what ought we to do?"
"Fall back," was the general opinion. "They outnumber us. We should
recruit our army. Duke Rene is poor. He will not long be able to bear
the expense of the war, and his allies will leave him as soon as his
money is gone. Wait but a little, and success is certain."
The duke burst into one of his usual fits of passion.
"My father and I," he cried, "knew how to thrash these Lorrainers, and
we will make them remember it. By St. George, I will not fly before a
boy, before Rene of Vaudemont, who is coming at the head of this scum!
He has not so many men with him as people think; the Germans have no
idea of leaving their stoves in winter. This evening we will deliver the
assault against the town, and to-morrow we will give battle."
He did give battle on the morrow,--his last, as it proved. The fray did
not last long, nor was the loss of life in the field great. But the
Burgundians broke and fled, and the pursuit was terrible, the Lorrainers
and their Swiss and German allies pursuing hotly, and killing all they
found. Rene entered Nancy in triumph, and relieved the citizens from the
famine from which they had long suffered. To show him what they had
endured in his cause, there were piled up before his door "the heads of
the horses, dogs, mules, cats, and other unclean animals which had for
several weeks past been the only food of the besieged."
The battle over, the question arose, what had become of the Duke of
Burgundy? None could answer. Some said a servant had carried him
wounded from the field; others, that a German lord held him prisoner.
But a page soon appeared who said he had seen him fall and could lead to
the spot. He did so, conducting a party to a pond near the town, where,
half buried in the mud, lay several dead bodies lately stripped. Among
the searchers was a poor washerwoman, who, seeing the glitter of a ring
on the finger of one of the corpses, turned it over, and cried, "Ah! my
prince!"
All rushed to the spot. The body was examined with care. There was no
doubt, it was that of Charles of Burgundy. His rash and violent
disposition had at length borne the fruit that might have been
anticipated, and brought him to an end which gave the highest
satisfaction to many of his foes, and to none more than to Louis XI. of
France. He was buried with great pomp, by the order of Duke Rene. In
1550 the emperor Charles V., his great grandson, had his body taken to
Bruges, and placed on the tomb the following inscription:
"Here lieth the most high, mighty, and magnanimous prince, Charles, Duke
of Burgundy, ... the which, being mightily endowed with strength,
firmness, and magnanimity, prospered awhile in high enterprises,
battles, and victories, as well at Montlhery, in Normandy, in Artois,
and in Liege, as elsewhere, until fortune, turning her back on him, thus
crushed him before Nancy."
To-day it might be written on his tomb, "His was a fitting end to a
violent, lawless, and blood-thirsty career."