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."



More

;