The Siege Of Calais
Terrible and long-enduring had been the siege of Calais. For a whole
year it had continued, and still the sturdy citizens held the town.
Outside was Edward III., with his English host, raging at the obstinacy
of the French and at his own losses during the siege. Inside was John de
Vienne, the unyielding governor, and his brave garrison. Outside was
plenty; inside was famine; between were impregnable walls, which all the
engines of Edward failed to reduce or surmount. No resource was left the
English king but time and famine; none was left the garrison but the
hope of wearying their foes or of relief by their king. The chief foe
they fought against was starvation, an enemy against whom warlike arms
were of no avail, whom only stout hearts and inflexible endurance could
meet; and bravely they faced this frightful foe, those stout citizens of
Calais.
An excellent harbor had Calais. It had long been the sheltering-place
for the pirates that preyed on English commerce. But now no ship could
leave or enter. The English fleet closed the passage by sea; the English
army blocked all approach by land; the French king, whose great army had
just been mercilessly slaughtered at Crecy, held aloof, nothing seemed
to remain for Calais but death or surrender, and yet the valiant
governor held out against his foes.
As the days went on and no relief came he made a census of the town,
selected seventeen hundred poor and unsoldierly folks, "useless mouths,"
as he called them, and drove them outside the walls. Happily for them,
King Edward was just then in a good humor. He gave the starving outcasts
a good dinner and twopence in money each, and passed them through his
ranks to make their way whither they would.
More days passed; food grew scarcer; there were more "useless mouths" in
the town; John de Vienne decided to try this experiment again. Five
hundred more were thrust from the gates. This time King Edward was not
in a good humor. He bade his soldiers drive them back at sword's-point.
The governor refused to admit them into the town. The whole miserable
multitude died of starvation in sight of both camps. Such were the
amenities of war in the Middle Ages, and in fact, of war in almost all
ages, for mercy counts for little when opposed by military exigencies.
A letter was now sent to the French king, Philip de Valois, imploring
succor. They had eaten, said the governor, their horses, their dogs,
even the rats and mice; nothing remained but to eat one another.
Unluckily, the English, not the French, king received this letter, and
the English host grew more watchful than ever. But Philip de Valois
needed not letters to tell him of the extremity of the garrison; he
knew it well, and knew as well that haste alone could save him one of
his fairest towns.
But he had suffered a frightful defeat at Crecy only five days before
the siege of Calais began. Twelve hundred of his knights and thirty
thousand of his foot-soldiers--a number equal to the whole English
force--had been slain on the field; thousands of others had been taken
prisoner; a new army was not easily to be raised. Months passed before
Philip was able to come to the relief of the beleaguered stronghold. The
Oriflamme, the sacred banner of the realm, never displayed but in times
of dire extremity, was at length unfurled to the winds, and from every
side the great vassels of the kingdom hastened to its support. France,
ever prolific of men, poured forth her sons until she had another large
army in the field. In July of 1347, eleven months after the siege began,
the garrison, weary with long waiting, saw afar from their lookout
towers the floating banners of France, and beneath them the faintly-seen
forms of a mighty host.
The glad news spread through the town. The king was coming with a great
army at his back! Their sufferings had not been in vain; they would soon
be relieved, and those obstinate English be driven into the sea! Had a
fleet of bread-ships broken through the blockade, and sailed with waving
pennons into the harbor, the souls of the garrison could not have been
more uplifted with joy.
Alas! it was a short-lived joy. Not many days elapsed before that great
host faded before their eyes like a mist under the sun-rays, its banners
lifting and falling as they slowly vanished into the distance, the gleam
of its many steel-headed weapons dying out until not a point of light
remained. Their gladness turned into redoubled misery as they saw
themselves thus left to their fate; their king, who had marched up with
such a gallant show of banners and arms, marching away without striking
a blow. It was hard to believe it; but there they went, and there the
English lay.
The soil of France had never seen anything quite so ludicrous--but for
its tragic side--as this march of Philip the king. Two roads led to the
town, but these King Edward, who was well advised of what was coming,
had taken care to intrench and guard so strongly that it would prove no
light nor safe matter to force a way through. Philip sent out his spies,
learned what was before him, and, full of the memory of Crecy, decided
that it would be too costly an experiment to attack those works. But
were not those the days of chivalry? was not Edward famed for his
chivalrous spirit? Surely he, as a noble and puissant knight, would not
take an unfair advantage of his adversary. As a knight of renown he
could not refuse to march into the open field, and trust to God and St.
George of England for his defence, as against God and St. Denys of
France.
Philip, thereupon, sent four of his principal lords to the English
king, saying that he was there to do battle, as knight against knight,
but could find no way to come to him. He requested, therefore, that a
council should meet to fix upon a place of battle, where the difference
between him and his cousin of England might be fairly decided.
Surely such a request had never before been made to an opposing general.
Doubtless King Edward laughed in his beard at the naive proposal, even
if courtesy kept him from laughing in the envoys' faces. As regards his
answer, we cannot quote its words, but its nature may be gathered from
the fact that Philip soon after broke camp, and marched back over the
road by which he had come, saying to himself, no doubt, that the English
king lacked knightly honor, or he would not take so unfair an advantage
of a foe. And thus ended this strange episode in war, Philip marching
away with all the bravery of his host, Edward grimly turning again to
the town which he held in his iron grasp.
The story of the siege of Calais concludes in a highly dramatic fashion.
It was a play presented upon a great stage, but with true dramatic
accessories of scenery and incident. These have been picturesquely
preserved by the old chroniclers, and are well worthy of being again
presented. Froissart has told the tale in his own inimitable fashion. We
follow others in telling it in more modern phrase.
When the people of Calais saw that they were deserted by their king,
hope suddenly fled from their hearts. Longer defence meant but deeper
misery. Nothing remained but surrender. Stout-hearted John de Vienne,
their commander, seeing that all was at an end, mounted the walls with a
flag of truce, and made signs that he wished to speak with some person
of the besieging host. Word of this was brought to the English king, and
he at once sent Sir Walter de Manny and Sir Basset as his envoys to
confer with the bearer of the flag. The governor looked down upon them
from the walls with sadness in his eyes and the lines of starvation on
his face.
"Sirs," he said, "valiant knights you are, as I well know. As for me, I
have obeyed the command of the king, my master, by doing all that lay in
my power to hold for him this town. Now succor has failed us, and food
we have none. We must all die of famine unless your noble and gentle
king will have mercy on us, and let us go free, in exchange for the town
and all the goods it contains, of which there is great abundance."
"We know something of the intention of our master," answered Sir Walter.
"He will certainly not let you go free, but will require you to
surrender without conditions, some of you to be held to ransom, others
to be put to death. Your people have put him to such despite by their
bitter obstinacy, and caused him such loss of treasure and men, that he
is sorely grieved against them."
"You make it too hard for us," answered the governor. "We are here a
small company of knights and squires, who have served our king to our
own pain and misery, as you would serve yours in like case; but rather
than let the least lad in the town suffer more than the greatest of us,
we will endure the last extremity of pain. We beg of you to plead for us
with your king for pity, and trust that, by God's grace, his purpose
will change, and his gentleness yield us pardon."
The envoys, much moved by the wasted face and earnest appeal of the
governor, returned with his message to the king, whom they found in an
unrelenting mood. He answered them that he would make no other terms.
The garrison must yield themselves to his pleasure. Sir Walter answered
with words as wise as they were bold,--
"I beg you to consider this more fully," he said, "for you may be in the
wrong, and make a dangerous example from which some of us may yet
suffer. We shall certainly not very gladly go into any fortress of yours
for defence, if you should put any of the people of this town to death
after they yield; for in like case the French will certainly deal with
us in the same fashion."
Others of the lords present sustained Sir Walter in this opinion, and
presented the case so strongly that the king yielded.
"I will not be alone against you all," he said, after an interval of
reflection. "This much will I yield. Go, Sir Walter, and say to the
governor that all the grace I can give him is this. Let him send me six
of the chief burgesses of the town, who shall come out bareheaded,
barefooted, and barelegged, clad only in their shirts, and with halters
around their necks, with the keys of the tower and castle in their
hands. These must yield themselves fully to my will. The others I will
take to mercy."
Sir Walter returned with this message, saying that no hope of better
terms could be had of the king.
"Then I beg you to wait here," said Sir John, "till I can take your
message to the townsmen, who sent me here, and bring you their reply."
Into the town went the governor, where he sought the market-place, and
soon the town-bell was ringing its mustering peal. Quickly the people
gathered, eager, says Jehan le Bel, "to hear their good news, for they
were all mad with hunger." Sir John told them his message, saying,--
"No other terms are to be had, and you must decide quickly, for our foes
ask a speedy answer."
His words were followed by weeping and much lamentation among the
people. Some of them must die. Who should it be? Sir John himself shed
tears for their extremity. It was not in his heart to name the victims
to the wrath of the English king.
At length the richest burgess of the town, Eustace de St. Pierre,
stepped forward and said, in tones of devoted resolution,--
"My friends and fellows, it would be great grief to let you all die by
famine or otherwise, when there is a means given to save you. Great
grace would he win from our Lord who could keep this people from dying.
For myself, I have trust in God that if I save this people by my death I
shall have pardon for my faults. Therefore, I offer myself as the first
of the six, and am willing to put myself at the mercy of King Edward."
He was followed by another rich burgess, Jehan D'Aire by name, who said,
"I will keep company with my gossip Eustace."
Jacques de Wisant and his brother, Peter de Wisant, both rich citizens,
next offered themselves, and two others quickly made up the tale. Word
was taken to Sir Walter of what had been done, and the victims
apparelled themselves as the king had commanded.
It was a sad procession that made its way to the gate of the town. Sir
John led the way, the devoted six followed, while the remainder of the
towns-people made their progress woful with tears and cries of grief.
Months of suffering had not caused them deeper sorrow than to see these
their brave hostages marching to death.
The gate opened. Sir John and the six burgesses passed through. It
closed behind them. Sir Walter stood waiting.
"I deliver to you, as captain of Calais," said Sir John, "and by the
consent of all the people of the town, these six burgesses, who I swear
to you are the richest and most honorable burgesses of Calais.
Therefore, gentle knight, I beg you pray the king to have mercy on them,
and grant them their lives."
"What the king will do I cannot say," answered Sir Walter, "but I shall
do for them the best I can."
The coming of the hostages roused great feeling in the English host.
Their pale and wasted faces, their miserable state, the fate which
threatened them, roused pity and sympathy in the minds of many, and not
the least in that of the queen, who was with Edward in the camp, and
came with him and his train of nobles as they approached the place to
which the hostages had been led.
When they were brought before the king the burgesses kneeled and
piteously begged his grace, Eustace saying,--
"Gentle king, here be we six, who were burgesses of Calais, and great
merchants. We bring you the keys of the town and the castle, and submit
ourselves fully to your will, to save the remainder of our people, who
have already suffered great pain. We beseech you to have mercy and pity
on us through your high nobleness."
His words brought tears from many persons there present, for naught so
piteous had ever come before them. But the king looked on them with
vindictive eyes, and for some moments stood in lowering silence. Then he
gave the harsh command to take these men and strike off their heads.
At this cruel sentence the lords of his council crowded round the king,
begging for compassion, but he turned a deaf ear to their pleadings.
Sir Walter de Manny then said, his eyes fixed in sorrow on the pale and
trembling victims,--
"Noble sire, for God's sake restrain your wrath. You have the renown of
all gentleness and nobility; I pray you do not a thing that can lay a
blemish on your fair fame, or give men cause to speak of you
despitefully. Every man will say it is a great cruelty to put to death
such honest persons, who of their own will have put themselves into your
hands to save the remainder of their people."
These words seemed rather to heighten than to soften the king's wrath.
He turned away fiercely, saying,--
"Hold your peace, Master Walter; it shall be as I have said.--Call the
headsman. They of Calais have made so many of my men to die, that they
must die themselves."
The queen had listened sadly to these words, while tears flowed freely
from her gentle eyes. On hearing the harsh decision of her lord and
king, she could restrain herself no longer. With streaming eyes she cast
herself on her knees at his feet, and turned up to him her sweet,
imploring face.
"Gentle sir," she said, "since that day in which I passed over sea in
great peril, as you know, I have asked no favor from you. Now I pray and
beseech you with folded hands, in honor of the Son of the Virgin Mary,
and for the love which you bear me, that you will have mercy on these
poor men."
The king looked down upon her face, wet with tears, and stood silent for
a few minutes. At length he spoke.
"Ah, dame, I would you had been in some other place this day. You pray
so tenderly that I cannot refuse you. Though it is much against my will,
nevertheless take them, I give them to you to use as you will."
The queen, filled with joy at these words of grace and mercy, returned
glad thanks to the king, and bade those near her to take the halters
from the necks of the burgesses and clothe them. Then she saw that a
good dinner was set before them, and gave each of them six nobles,
afterwards directing that they should be taken in safety through the
English army and set at liberty.
Thus ended that memorable siege of Calais, with one of the most dramatic
incidents which history has to tell. For more than two centuries the
captured city remained in English hands, being theirs long after they
had lost all other possessions on the soil of France. At length, in
1558, in the reign of Queen Mary, it was taken by the French, greatly to
the chagrin of the queen, who is reported to have said, "When I die, you
will find the word Calais written on my heart."