Treatment of Prisoners of War—Croesus—Roman Triumphs—Sapor and Valerian—Imprisonment of Bajazet—His treatment of the Marshal Boucicaut and his Companions—Changes produced by the advance of Civilization—Effect of Feudal Institutions—Anecdote from Froissart—Conduct of the Black Prince towards the Constable Du Guesclin and the King of France.
The wealth of Croesus is proverbial, and the vicissitudes of his fortune have been a favourite subject for moralists in all ages. In Mitford’s History of Greece, as well as in that published in the Library of Useful Knowledge, all notice of them is confined to the simple statement, that he was conquered by Cyrus. The circumstances of his treatment, however, as they are related by Herodotus, are curious; and we propose, therefore, to translate them literally from that author, leaving it to the reader’s discretion to reject whatever is evidently fabulous.
It is well known that he was induced to make war upon Cyrus by an ambiguous response of the Delphic oracle, which predicted to him, “that if he made war upon the Persians, he would destroy a great empire.” The oracle was a very safe one. Croesus understood it, that the Persian empire would be destroyed; but the credit of the god was equally supported by the event which really took place, the defeat of Croesus and the destruction of his kingdom. Upon his defeat he took refuge in Sardis, which was besieged and ultimately stormed. “So the Persians captured Sardis and took Croesus alive, after he had reigned fourteen years; and led him before Cyrus, who caused a mighty funeral pile to be built, upon which he set Croesus in fetters, and with him fourteen Lydian youths; whether it were in his mind to offer them to some deity as the first–fruits of his conquest, or with intention to perform some vow, or because he had heard of Croesus’s piety and therefore set him upon the pile, that he might know whether any god would deliver him from being burnt alive. Howbeit, he did so: but while Croesus stood upon the pile, it struck him, even in this extremity of evil, that Solon was inspired when he said that no man ought to be called happy while he was yet alive.[95] And when this thought occurred to him, after being long silent, he thrice repeated with groans the name of Solon. Cyrus heard him, and bade the interpreters ask who this Solon, whom he invoked, might be; and they drew near, and did so. But Croesus spoke not for some time, and replied at length, when he was compelled, ‘One whom I would rather than much wealth, were introduced to the conversation of all monarchs.’ But as he spoke unintelligibly to them, they again asked what he meant; and when they became urgent and troublesome, he related at length how Solon, an Athenian, came to him, and having beheld all his treasures, set them at nought, having spoken to such purpose, that all things had happened according to his words, which yet bore no especial reference to himself more than to the rest of mankind, particularly to those who trusted in their own good fortune. So by the time Croesus had given this account, the pile being lighted, the outside of it was in flames. And when Cyrus heard from the interpreters what Croesus said, he repented, and reflected that he, being but a man himself, was casting another alive into the flames who formerly had been no whit inferior to himself in prosperity: and being also in dread of divine vengeance, and considering that nothing human is unchangeable, he ordered the fire to be forthwith extinguished, and Croesus, with his companions, to be taken down; but his officers, with all their endeavours, were unable to master it. Then Croesus, as the Lydians say, discovering that Cyrus had changed his purpose, when he saw that all were endeavouring, and yet were unable to quench the fire, called loudly upon Apollo, entreating the god, if that he ever had offered any acceptable gifts, now to stand by, and deliver him from the present evil. And as he called upon the god in tears, suddenly clouds collected in the serene sky, and the storm broke down, and a torrent of rain fell, and extinguished the fire. Cyrus, therefore, being by these means instructed that Croesus was a good man, and beloved by the gods, inquired of him, when he was come down from the pile, ‘Croesus, who persuaded you to invade my kingdom, and thus become an enemy instead of a friend?’ And he said, ‘O king, I have done thus to further your good, and my own evil fate: but the god of the Grecians, who puffed me up to war, has been the author of these events. For no man is so witless as to choose war instead of peace, when, in the one, fathers bury their sons, and in the other, sons their fathers. But it was the pleasure of the gods that these things should turn out thus.’
“Thus spoke Croesus, and Cyrus released him, and kept him near his person, and thenceforth treated him with much respect.”[96]
The evident intermixture of fable with this tale is calculated to throw doubt upon the whole of it, and indeed it seems at variance with the character of Cyrus. That Xenophon omits all mention of the circumstances related would be a strong argument in disproof of them, if they were calculated to advance his hero’s reputation; but in the present case his silence is of little weight. The close resemblance, however, between the preservation of Croesus, and the miraculous deliverance of the Jewish youths condemned by Nebuchadnezzar to the furnace, might warrant us in suspecting that some account of so impressive a display of Divine power had reached the western coast of Asia, and that the careless or unfaithful annalists of those early times transferred the scene from Babylon to Lydia, and substituted the names best known in their own history for the barbarian appellations of the Assyrian monarch and his prisoners. This idea may be supported by the expression of Herodotus, that Cyrus condemned Croesus to be burnt “because of his piety, that he might know whether any god would deliver him from being burnt alive.” Cyrus was neither cruel nor a scoffer, so that we cannot suppose it to have been an impious jest, and can as little imagine that it was a serious experiment on the part of the Persian to try the power of the Grecian deities. It is not very likely, therefore, that such a reason was invented to account for the action; but the recorded preservation of the Jews, and the decree of Nebuchadnezzar “that there is no other god that can deliver after this sort,” may well enough have led to the inference that the monarch’s object was to prove the power which in the end he was obliged to confess.
No extraordinary quantity either of humanity or reflection was necessary to have impressed on Cyrus’s mind, in the first instance, the truths contained in Solon’s warning to his rival. But humanity towards prisoners was no virtue of antiquity; and in this respect the practice of European nations of modern times offers a striking contrast to that of heathenism in all ages and regions. Our Scandinavian ancestors and the North American Indians put prisoners to death for revenge, or for the mere pleasure of inflicting pain: the rude Druids and the comparatively polished priests of Mexico alike esteemed an enemy’s blood the most grateful offering to their savage deities. The histories of Greece and Rome abound also with acts of atrocious cruelty; while the East is notorious alike for the frequent changes of her dynasties, and for the unsparing policy which has prompted successive conquerors to establish their own thrones by the extermination of all possible claimants.
It is not fair, however, to select none but unfavourable examples; and of favourable ones, few or none are more celebrated than the generosity of Alexander and the virtue of Scipio. After Alexander had gained the important battle of Issus (b.c. 333), in the Persian war, Darius’s family fell into the victor’s hands.[97] They were treated with the respect due to their rank and their misfortunes. “Not long after, one of his queen’s eunuchs escaped to Darius, who, when he saw him, first asked whether his children and his wife and mother were alive. And hearing that they were so, that they were addressed as queens, and enjoyed all the respect and attention which they had possessed at his own court, he inquired in addition, whether his wife had preserved her faith; and being satisfied on this point also, he again inquired whether any insult or violence had been offered to her. The eunuch affirmed with an oath, ‘O king, your wife remains even as you left her, and Alexander is the best and most temperate of men.’ Upon which Darius lifted up his hands towards heaven, and prayed, ‘O sovereign Jupiter, in whose hands are placed the fortunes of kings upon earth, above all things do thou maintain the kingdom of the Medes and Persians, which thou hast given to me! But if thou wilt that I be king of Asia no longer, then intrust my power to none but Alexander.’”[98]
Closely akin to this in all its circumstances is the celebrated story of the continence of Scipio, who has obtained immortal praise by surrendering untouched to her lover a beautiful Spanish lady who had been selected from the other prisoners and presented to him; and from the admiration testified by all antiquity for the virtue displayed alike by the Grecian and the Roman hero, we may form an opinion of the treatment which captives generally endured. We have no wish to detract from the praise which is justly due to them, or to undervalue the merit of those who precede their age in humanity and refinement; but it is worthy of observation that in modern times, far from such conduct being regarded as an effort of virtue almost super–human, infamy or death would be the portion of a general who acted otherwise. These exceptions therefore do really serve to confirm the rule; and the extravagant commendation which has been bestowed upon such self–denial bears incontrovertible evidence to the general want of generosity in conquerors, and to the unhappy condition of the conquered.
Few foreigners of regal dignity or exalted fortune fell into the power of the Grecian commonwealths: of their treatment of each other’s citizens we shall have occasion to speak hereafter. But the gigantic grasp of Roman ambition comprehended the most powerful of the earth, and made them drink deep of degradation. The usual lot of prisoners of war was slavery; a practice bad enough, but common to the rest of antiquity with Rome: the institution of triumphs is her peculiar glory and distinction. Something may be said in palliation of a victor, who, having possession of his enemy, obviates the danger of further resistance or revolt by committing him to that narrow prison from which alone there is no chance of escape. But when a Roman general’s arms were crowned with success, the prisoners of highest estimation were carefully reserved; and when all danger from their life was at an end, and their degradation, as far as external circumstances can degrade, was complete, after they had been led in chains before their conqueror’s car, to swell his vanity and satiate the pride of Rome, they were sent to perish unheeded and unlamented by the hands of the executioner, and the thanksgiving due to the gods and the triumphal banquet were delayed until the savage ritual was duly performed. “Those even who triumph, and therefore grant longer life to the hostile chiefs, that from their presence in the procession the Roman people may derive its fairest spectacle and fruit of victory, yet bid them to be led to prison when they begin to turn their chariots from the Forum to the Capitol; and the same day puts an end to the conqueror’s command and to the life of the conquered.”[99] They led the prisoners to execution at the moment when the triumphal chariot began to ascend the Capitoline hill, in order, they said, that their moment of highest exultation might be that of their enemies’ extremest agony. There is a needless barbarity and insolence in the whole proceeding which is peculiarly disgusting; and which was aggravated by the solemn hypocrisy of placing in the triumphal chariot a slave to whisper in the victor’s ear, “Remember that thou art a man,” when in the same instant they displayed so signal a disregard for the reverses to which humanity is exposed, and such contempt for the lessons which that warning ought to have taught.
We may take as an example the treatment of Jugurtha, king of Numidia; for whom, indeed, so far as his own merits are concerned, no treatment could have been too severe. “Marius, bringing home his army againe out of Lybia into Italy, took possession of his consulship the first day of January, and therewithall made his triumph into the city of Rome, shewing that to the Romans which they thought never to have seen; and that was, king Jugurth prisoner, who was so subtill a man, and could so well frame himself unto his fortune, and with his craft and subtilty was of so great courage besides, that none of his enemies ever hoped to have had him alive. But it is said that after he was led in this triumph, he fell mad straight upon it; and the pompe of triumph being ended, he was carried unto prison, where the serjeants, for hast to have the spoil of him, tore his apparel by force from off his back: and because they would take away his rich gold earrings, that hung on his eares, they pulled away with them the tippe of his eare, and then cast him naked to the bottome of a deep dungeon, his wits being altogether troubled, Yet when they did throw him downe, laughing he said, ‘O Hercules, how cold are your baths!’ He lived there yet six days, fighting with hunger, and desiring alwaies to prolong his miserable life to the last hour: the which was a just deserved punishment for his wicked life.”[100]
Marius, however, with all his military talents was but a rude and blood–thirsty soldier. From CÆsar, on the contrary, who throughout the civil wars displayed signal generosity and mildness of temper, we might have expected a fairer estimate of the treatment due to a noble enemy. But in his treatment of Vercingetorix those noble qualities are exchanged for the haughty and selfish cruelty which the foreign policy of Rome was most admirably calculated to produce. That prince, after a most gallant and almost successful stand in defence of the liberties of Gaul, being shut up in Alesia, and reduced to extremity by CÆsar, surrendered himself to the victor’s mercy in hope of obtaining better terms for his comrades. The scene is thus described by Dion Cassius:—
“Vercingetorix being still at liberty, and unwounded, might have escaped; but hoping, for the sake of their previous friendship, to obtain forgiveness from CÆsar, he went out to him without notice of his coming. And while the Roman general was seated on the tribunal, he appeared suddenly, so as to alarm some persons, for he was tall of stature, and made a gallant appearance in his armour. All around being hushed, he said nothing, but fell on his knee, stretching out his hand in gesture of supplication. All others were struck with compassion, both by the recollection of his former high state, and by the exceeding piteousness of the spectacle before them. But CÆsar made that from which he chiefly expected to derive safety, the heaviest charge against him; for, dwelling on the return for his friendship, he made the injury appear the heavier. And therefore he pitied him not in that conjuncture, but for the present cast him into bonds, reserving him until his triumph, after which he slew him.”[101]
But Rome, which had so often insulted the majesty of fallen royalty, endured in the person of one of her emperors a greater degradation than any which she had inflicted. When the emperor Valerian was taken prisoner by Sapor, king of Persia, his life was spared, but spared that his age might waste in the most humiliating slavery; and when the haughty monarch mounted his horse, he used the prostrate body of his royal captive for a footstool. That, said the haughty Sapor, was a real triumph; not painting imaginary processions upon walls, as the Romans did. To gratify the victor’s pride still more, he was compelled to wear the imperial purple and decorations, and in this attire, laden with chains, he followed in the train of Sapor, and exhibited to the whole Persian empire a striking picture of the fallen pride of Rome. This system of insult extended even beyond the grave: his skin is related to have been dyed scarlet, and stuffed, and then placed in a temple as an enduring monument of the shame of Rome. The Christian writers, who alone relate all the particulars of Valerian’s humiliation,[102] see in it the just vengeance of God for his persecution of our faith: the reason, probably, that Gibbon seems inclined to consider the story as a pious fiction. If so, however, it soon obtained currency, for the Emperor Constantine, who flourished not much more than half a century after the event, alludes to it in a letter to the king of Persia: “All these emperors (the persecutors of Christianity) have been destroyed by such a dreadful and avenging end, that since their times all mankind doth usually wish their calamities may fall as a curse and punishment upon those who shall study to imitate them. One of which persons I judge him to have been (him, I mean, whom divine vengeance like a thunderbolt drove out of our regions, and conveyed unto your country) who by his own disgrace and ignominy erected that trophy so much boasted of among you.”[103]
Somewhat similar to the indignities offered to Valerian was the treatment which the Sultan Bajazet is said to have experienced from Tamerlane after his defeat and capture.
Closed in a cage, like some destructive beast,
I’ll have thee borne about in public view;
A great example of the righteous vengeance
That waits on cruelty and pride like thine.[104]
Voltaire and other modern writers have discredited this story, chiefly on the authority of D’Herbelot. It has been shown, however, by Sir W. Jones, that the premises of that distinguished orientalist are false, and his authority therefore falls to the ground. On the other hand, Leunclavius, in his History of the Turks, professes to have heard from an old man, who was in Bajazet’s service at the time of his defeat, “that an iron cage was made by Timour’s command, composed on every side of iron gratings, through which he could be seen in any direction. He travelled in this den slung between two horses. Whenever Timour and his retinue, on moving his camp, made ready for a journey, he was usually carried before; and after the march, when they dismounted, he was placed upon the ground in his cage, before Timour’s tent.” Poggio also, himself a contemporary, mentions this strange imprisonment as an undoubted fact.[105]
The English reader will find some countenance for the story in Edward the First’s inhuman treatment of the Countess of Buchan. That lady having dared, it is said, in virtue of hereditary privileges, to place the crown of Scotland on the Bruce’s head, and afterwards falling into the English monarch’s hands, was confined in a cage built upon one of the towers of Berwick Castle, exposed, as it should seem, to the rigour of the elements and the gaze of passers by. One of Bruce’s sisters was similarly dealt with. So much for the devoted respect paid to women in the age of chivalry, and that by a prince who, when young, was inferior to none in knightly renown. But the demoralizing effects of absolute power found a fitting subject to work upon in Edward’s stern and unforgiving temper. The original order for the Countess’s confinement is to this effect:—
“Ordered and commanded, by letters under the privy seal, to the Chamberlain of Scotland, or his deputy at Berwick–upon–Tweed, that in one of the turrets, upon the castle of that place, in such place as he shall chuse, and shall be most convenient, he do make a cage of strong lattice–work and bars, and well strengthened with iron–work, in the which he shall place the Countess of Buchan.
“And that he shall so well and surely guard her in the same cage, that in no manner shall she pass out from it.
“And that he do appoint one or two English women of the said town of Berwick who shall be in no wise suspected, who understand to serve the said Countess with meat and drink, and all things pertaining to her.
“And that he do so well and strictly guard her in the cage, that she speak to none, and that no man or woman of the Scotch nation, nor any other appear before her, but only the woman or women who shall be assigned her, and those who shall have guard of her.
“And that the cage be so made, that the Countess may have there the convenience of a fair chamber, but that it be so well and surely ordered, that no danger may betide in respect of the custody of the said Countess.
“And that he who has care of her be charged to answer for her, body for body, and that he be allowed her expenses.
“In like manner it is ordered that Mary, sister of Robert Bruce, sometime Earl of Carrick, be sent to Roxburgh, to be kept there in the castle, in a cage.”[106]
The reader will not sympathise much with the harshness of Bajazet’s durance, if he knows the character of that redoubtable conqueror. The following passage will convey a fair idea of it, and presents a good specimen of the style of the 15th century:—
“In the year 1396, Sigismond, King of Hungry, sent sweet and amyable letters to the French king by a notable ambassador, a bysshop and two knights of Hungry. In the same letters was contayned a greate parte of the state and doyng of the greate Turke (Bajazet), and how that he had sent worde to the King of Hungry, that he would come and fight with him in the middes of his realme, and would go fro thens to the cytie of Rome, and would make his horse to eate otes upon the high altar of Saynt Peter, and there to hold his see imperiale. Thus the King of Hungry in his letters prayed the French king to ayde and succour him.”[107] In consequence of this application, a strong body of French and other knights marched into Hungary, under command of John of Burgundy, Earl of Nevers. They crossed the Danube, and after a successful campaign were besieging Nicopolis in union with the Hungarian forces, when Bajazet marched to the relief of that city. The loss of the battle which ensued is attributed by Froissart to the precipitance of the French knights, who led the van, and rushed madly into combat, against the order of the King of Hungary, and without waiting for his support. The biographer of the Marshal Boucicaut, on the other hand, throws the whole blame upon the cowardly desertion of the Hungarians. However this may be, the French charged in a body not exceeding 700 men,[108] routed the first body of Bajazet’s cavalry, and penetrated through a line of stakes, behind which the infantry were formed. “Then the noble Frenchmen, like men already enraged at the loss which they had endured, ran upon them with such valour and hardihood that they frightened all. I may not say how they laid upon them. For never did foaming boar, or angry wolf, shew a fiercer recklessness of life. There the valiant Marshal of France, Boucicaut, among other brave men, thrust himself into the thickest press, and well proved whether he were grieved or no. For there without fail did he so many acts of arms, that all marvelled, and there bore himself so knightly, that whoso saw him still avers there never was any man, knight or other, seen to do in one day more brave and valiant acts than he did then.”[109] The Earl of Nevers, the Lord of Coucy, and the other French nobility well approved their valour; but Boucicaut, if we may trust his biographer, was the hero of the day. Mounted on a powerful war–horse, he spurred forwards, and struck so fiercely to the right and to the left that he overthrew everything before him. “And ever doing thus, he advanced so far, which is a marvellous thing to relate, and yet true, as all who saw it can bear witness, that he cut through the whole Saracen array, and then returned back through them to his comrades. Heaven, what a knight! God protect his valour! Pity will it be when life shall fail him! But it will not be so yet, for God will protect him. Thus fought our countrymen as long as their strength lasted. Ah, what pity for so noble a company, approved so gentle, so chivalrous, so excellent in arms, which could have succour from no quarter, so ran they in to their enemies’ throats, so as is the iron on the anvil![110] For they were surrounded and oppressed so fatally on all sides that they could no longer resist. And what wonder? for there were more than twenty Saracens against one Christian! And yet our people killed more than 20,000 of them, but at last they could exert themselves no more. Ah, what a misfortune, what pity! Ought not those disloyal Christians to have been hanged who thus falsely abandoned them? Shame fall upon them, for had they helped the valiant French and their comrades with good will, not Bajazet nor one of his Turks would have escaped death or captivity, which would have been a mighty good to all Christendom.
“Great pity was there again the morrow of this dolorous battle. For Bajazet, sitting within a tent in the midst of the field, caused to be led before him the Earl of Nevers and those of his lineage, with all the French barons, knights, and esquires who remained after the slaughter of that field. Sad was it to see these noble youths, in the prime of life, of blood so lofty as that of the royal line of France, fast bound with ropes, disarmed, in their under doublets, conducted by these ugly, frightful dogs of Saracens before the tyrant enemy of the faith who sat there. He knew for certain, through good interpreters, that the Earl of Nevers was grandson and cousin–german to a king of France, and that his father was a duke of great power and wealth, and that others were of the same blood and nearly related to the king. So he bethought himself, that for preserving them he might have great treasure: therefore he did not put them to death, nor any other of the greatest barons, but made them sit there on the ground before him. Alas! immediately after began the cruel sacrifice. For then were led before him the noble Christian barons, knights, and esquires, naked; and then, as they paint on the walls King Herod sitting on a chair, and the Innocents cut in pieces before him, there were our faithful Christians cut in pieces by these Saracen curs before the Earl of Nevers and under his very eyes. So you may understand, you who hear this, what grief went to his heart, good and kind lord as he is, and what pain it gave him to see thus martyred his good and loyal companions, and his people that had been so faithful to him, and who were so distinguished for gallantry. Certes I think he was so grieved at heart, that fain would he have been of their company in that slaughter. And so the Turks led them one after another to martyrdom, as men led in old times the blessed martyrs, and struck their heads and chests and shoulders fearfully with great knives, and felled them without mercy. Well may one know with what woful countenances they went in that sad procession. For even as the butcher drags a lamb to the slaughter, so were our good Christians, without a word being spoken, led to die before the tyrant. But notwithstanding that their death was hard and their case pitiful, every good Christian should esteem them thrice fortunate, and born in a happy hour, to receive such a death. For they must sometime have died, and God gave them grace to die in the advancement of the Christian religion, the holiest and worthiest death (as we in our faith hold) that a Christian can die; and also he made them to be the companions of the blessed martyrs, the happiest of all the orders of Saints in Paradise. For there is no doubt but that they are Saints in Paradise, if they met their fate with good will. In this piteous procession was Boucicaut, the Marshal of France, naked, except his small clothes (petits draps). But God, who willed not to lose his servant, for the sake of the good service which he was to do thereafter, as well in avenging the death of that glorious company upon the Saracens, as in the other great benefits which were to follow from his talents and by his means, caused the Earl of Nevers to look at the Marshal and the Marshal at him right sorrowfully, at the very moment that some one was about to strike him. Then was the foresaid Earl wonderfully vexed at heart for the death of such a man, and he called to mind the great good, the prowess, loyalty, and valour that were in him. So, on a sudden, God put it in his mind to clasp his hands together as he looked at Bajazet, and he made sign that the Marshal was to him as a brother, and that he should respite him: which sign Bajazet soon understood, and released him. When this stern execution was complete, and the whole field was strewed with the bodies of these blessed martyrs, as many French as others of divers countries, that cursed Bajazet arose, and ordered the Marshal, who had been so respited, to be committed to prison in a large handsome town of Turkey, called Bursa. So his bidding was done, and he was kept there till the arrival of the said Bajazet.”[111]
Innumerable instances of the like ferocity might be produced from Eastern history. Rowe’s polished and pious Tamerlane put to death 100,000 persons in the streets of Delhi. Few men have so well and fairly estimated their own character, and the class to which they belong, as did Nadir Shah, when to the remonstrance, “If thou art a king, cherish and protect thy people,—if a prophet, shew us the way of salvation,—if a God, be merciful to thy creatures,” he replied, “I am neither a king to protect my subjects, nor a prophet to teach the way of salvation, nor a God to exercise the attribute of mercy; but I am he whom the Almighty has sent in his wrath to chastise a world of sinners.” The following anecdote, striking in itself, is the more interesting as an exception to a general rule: “In the year 1068 Alp Arslan, the second sultan of Persia, of the Seljukian dynasty, defeated and took prisoner Romanus Diogenes, husband of Eudocia, the reigning empress of Constantinople. He treated his prisoner with extreme kindness and distinction; he uttered no reproaches that could wound a humbled monarch, but gave vent to the honest indignation of a warrior at the base and cowardly conduct of those who had deserted and abandoned so brave a leader. We are told that he asked his captive at their first conference, what he would have done if fortune had reversed their lot. ‘I would have given thee many a stripe,’ was the imprudent and virulent answer. This expression of haughty and unsubdued spirit excited no anger in the brave and generous conqueror. He only smiled, and asked Romanus what he expected would be done to him? ‘If thou art cruel,’ said the emperor, ‘put me to death. If vain–glorious, load me with chains, and drag me to thy capital. If generous, grant me my liberty!’ Alp Arslan was neither cruel nor vain–glorious: he released his prisoner, gave all his officers who were captives dresses of honour, and distinguished them by every mark of friendship and regard.”[112]
Far from wishing to cast an undue reproach upon the past by these melancholy details of cruelty and suffering, we should have been glad to relieve the narrative by more numerous instances of generosity and mercy. But that these virtues are not the attributes of a savage race, will readily be granted by all: that they are not necessarily the fruit of refinement and civilization (if that term be applicable to an advanced stage of art and knowledge, without a corresponding improvement in moral wisdom) is shown by the universal experience of the past, and nowhere more forcibly than in the history of Greece and Rome. The progress of society seems only to have taught one lesson; that it is better to make the conquered subservient to the profit or amusement of the conqueror, than to put him to death, like any other formidable or offensive animal. In man’s earliest and rudest condition, as a hunter, slaves are worse than useless; for sustenance is of more value than labour, and the precarious supply of the chase is insufficient to provide permanently and plentifully for his own wants. The avenging or preventing encroachments upon each other’s hunting–ground is therefore a most frequent cause of warfare among neighbouring tribes, and the massacre of the conquered is prompted equally by revenge and policy. We find accordingly that in North America a prisoner’s only chance of escape lay in being adopted into the hostile tribe in the place of some one who had fallen in battle. The still more savage practice of feasting upon prisoners is sufficiently proved to have existed at a very recent period in New Zealand. In other heathen countries they have been reserved from indiscriminate slaughter, only to perish on the altars of false gods. But labour becomes valuable, and the command of labour an advantage, in proportion as men emerge from barbarism, and apply themselves to agriculture, or a pastoral life; and when it is found out that a prisoner’s services may be made worth more than his maintenance, the policy of the victor changes, and he preserves an enemy whom formerly he was almost compelled to destroy. Slavery, therefore, is, in the infancy of nations, an index of increasing civilization, and an amelioration of human misery, since the bulk of mankind have ever hailed with joy a respite from death, even though existence be attended with degradation and suffering. A generous spirit, indeed, would be little gratified at receiving life upon terms of hopeless servitude; yet even to such the introduction of slave labour lightened the evils of defeat. When men were detained merely for the value of their services, it was natural to release them if an equivalent for that value were paid, and hence arose the custom of admitting prisoners to ransom, which exercised a two–fold influence in favour of slaves: first by enabling them to acquire freedom at the sacrifice of wealth; secondly, by removing the utter hopelessness and degradation of their state, and introducing a possibility that the slave and master might some day be replaced in their original relation to each other. This practice was familiar in the Homeric age, though revenge or the heat of battle often caused mercy and interest to be alike disregarded. Melancholy indeed was the fate of a captured city. The adult males were usually slaughtered, the females and children reserved for slavery; those even of the highest rank were employed as menial servants in the victor’s household. “What evils,” says Priam, “does Jupiter reserve me to behold on the threshold of age! My sons slain, my daughters dragged into slavery, my chambers plundered, the very infants dashed against the ground in mournful warfare, and my sons’ wives dragged by the destructive hands of the Greeks. The dogs which I fed in my palace, at my own table, to protect it, will tear me, even me, stretched dead at the outer door, as they lie ravening in the vestibule lapping my blood. To a young man it is becoming to lie slain in warfare, pierced by the sharp sword; to such nothing that can happen in death is unseemly. But that dogs should defile the grey head and the grey beard of a slaughtered elder, this is the mournfulest thing that happens to wretched mortals.”[113]
For the lot of those who were reserved, we may quote Hector’s parting speech to Andromache.
I know the day draws nigh when Troy shall fall,
When Priam and his nation perish all:
Yet less forebodings of the fate of Troy,
Her king, and Hecuba, my peace destroy;
Less that my brethren, all th’ heroic band,
Should with their blood imbrue their native land;
Than thoughts of thee in tears, to Greece a prey,
Dragged by the grasp of war in chains away,
Of thee in tears, beneath an Argive roof
Labouring reluctant the allotted woof,
Or doomed to draw, from Hypereia’s cave,
Or from Messeis’ fount, the measured wave.
A voice will then be heard which thou must bear,
‘See’st thou yon captive, pouring tear on tear?
Lo! Hector’s wife, the hero bravest far
When Troy and Greece round Ilion clashed in war.’[114]
As time advanced the Greeks became more humane, and the treatment of their prisoners improved; insomuch that about the year 500 b.c. it seems to have been usual among the Peloponnesian states to admit each other’s citizens to ransom at a fixed sum of two minÆ, something less than eight pounds of our money;[115] and the Athenians released certain Boeotians for the same sum.[116] The meridian splendour of Greece, as we shall have future occasion to notice, is more especially dimmed by the cold–blooded cruelty of her civil wars. It is observable, however, that in the 10th year of the Peloponnesian war, the mutual restoration of prisoners formed a condition in a treaty of peace; and this, we believe, is the first instance on record at all resembling the humane usage of the present day.
In the youth of Rome, as she gradually extended her dominion, cities were depopulated to be refilled by her citizens, and their inhabitants sold like cattle, by public auction.[117] In her days of greatness, when whole kingdoms fell before her, the rights of conquest were necessarily more leniently exercised; for nations cannot be dispossessed and enslaved in mass. But the number of Greek and of Syrian slaves in Rome shows that the independence of those nations was not overturned without a corresponding loss of private freedom; and those uncivilised countries, which could contribute little else of wealth to satiate a Roman general’s extortion, saw droves of their inhabitants sold into captivity to supply the labourers and gladiators of an idle and dissolute empire.[118] The exemption of modern Europe, from these horrors is chiefly referable to the influence of Christianity, which, however ineffectual to purify the minds and lives of a vast majority of those who have outwardly embraced it, has given unquestionable proof of its intrinsic excellence by refining and enlarging men’s views of morality and benevolence, wherever its doctrines have not been altogether obscured and corrupted.[119] It is true that in the reign of Justinian, Constantinople witnessed for the first and only time the insolent splendour of a Roman triumph, granted to Belisarius after the reduction of the Vandal kingdom; on which, as on former occasions, the noblest of the conquered nation, headed by Gelimer, their king, swelled the vainglorious procession. But the changed spirit of the times is shown in the subsequent treatment of them. To the king and his family a safe retirement and an ample estate in Galatia were allotted; and the flower of the Vandal youth were enlisted, and served with distinction in the Persian wars. Among other claims to our gratitude, the clergy of the dark ages have the merit of steadily resisting the practice of enslaving Christians. The working of the feudal system was also beneficial in this respect. The aristocracy of the land were also its soldiery; to make prisoners, therefore, was a greater object than to kill, for the ransom of prisoners was a never–failing source of revenue to the brave and powerful. And as the inferior classes might not be reduced to domestic servitude, and besides passed naturally with the land, whether as serfs, in absolute and acknowledged bondage, or as vassals, free in name, but bound to the soil by all the ties of property, the victor had no interest in the detention of prisoners, except such as were able to purchase freedom. The singular institutions of chivalry also exercised a strong influence in humanizing warfare. Knighthood formed a bond of union throughout Europe. Men fought for gain, for honour, for revenge; but victory, which ensured all but the last, was seldom tarnished by cruelty, except in instances of deadly feud. We are by no means inclined to overrate the savage virtues of those times, or to deny that they abound in examples of most flagrant cruelty and oppression; but we contend, that compared with earlier ages, place even barbarism against refinement, the half–savage Teuton against the polished Greek or Roman, we see the tokens of a vast improvement in this respect. And we may further observe that of the cruelties recorded a large proportion are foreign to the question, being perpetrated in prosecution of the cherished spirit of revenge, or to extract wealth from Jews, or others of inferior rank, and not on prisoners of war. We do not plead this in extenuation of those enormities; the evil passions of the heart sprung up unchecked into a plentiful harvest of evil actions: but of cruelty to their prisoners of war, the Europeans and the middle ages were comparatively guiltless. Among them, for the first time in history, the victor and the defeated mixed in social intercourse upon terms of equality, without degradation being felt by the one, or an undue and ungenerous superiority assumed by the other; each aware that on the morrow the turn of fortune might reverse their situations, and that disgrace attached to misfortune only when occasioned by misconduct.[120] And the lofty, though fantastic notions of honour which prevailed, tended still further to lighten captivity, when the word of a knight was considered as sufficient surety for his ransom, and prisoners were enabled to obtain their release upon parole. Nowhere is this courteous and humane spirit more strongly marked than in the wars of England and Scotland during the 14th century. Yet we might expect to find the warfare of that century distinguished by more than usual inhumanity. The perfidious aggression, the inveterate hostility of Edward I., were calculated to raise in the Scotch a most implacable resentment; while the obstinate resistance and successful reprisals in which our northern counties were repeatedly devastated, were equally well fitted to inspire the English with no friendly feelings towards their northern brethren. A hundred years had elapsed since the first quarrel, during which the sword had scarcely been sheathed, the fire of burning villages scarcely quenched. We might reasonably then expect to find these wars carried on “À outrance;” to find no mercy in their battles, no gentleness or generosity in their intercourse. But the account of Froissart is very different.
“Englysshmen on the one partye, and scottes on the other partye, are goode men of warre, for when they mete there is a hard fight, without sparynge; there is no troo bytwene them as long as speares, swordes, axes, or dagers wyll endure, but lay on eche upon other; and whan they be well beaten, and that the one parte hath optaygned the victory, they then glorifye so in their dedes of armes, and are so ioyfull, that such as be taken, they shall be raunsomed or they go out of the felde, so that shortely eche of them is so content with other, that at their departynge curtoysly they will saye, Gode thank you, but in fyghtynge one with another there is no playe, nor sparynge; and this is trewe, and that shall well apere by this sayde rencounter (of Otterbourn), for it was as valyauntly foughten as coulde be devysed.... This batayle was fierse and cruell, tyll it came to the end of the discomfiture; but whan the scottes saw the englysshmen recule, and yelde themselves, than the scottes were curtes, and sette them to their raunsom, and every manne sayde to his prisoner, Sirs, go and unarm you and take your ease, I am your mayster; and so made their prisoners as goode chere as though they had been brethern, without doyng them any damage.”[121]
Another anecdote of the same battle, from the same graphic and delightful historian, will serve to illustrate more than one of the points to which the reader’s attention has been drawn. Sir Matthew Reedman, the governor of Berwick, fought under Percy at Otterbourn and endeavoured to escape when fortune declared against the English.
“Now I shall shewe you of sir Mathue Reedman, who was on horsback to save himselfe, for he alone coulde not remedy the mater: at his departing sir James Lynsay was nere to hym, and sawe how sir Mathue departed, and this sir James, to wyn honour, folowed in chase sir Mathue Reedman, and came so nere hym, that he myght have stryken hym with his speare if he had lyst; than he sayd, Ah sir knyght, tourne, it is a shame thus to flye: I am James of Lynsay: if ye will not tourne I shall stryke ye on the back with my spere. Sir Mathue spake no worde, but strake his horse with the spurs sorer than he dyde before. In this maner he chased hym more than thre myles, and at last sir Mathue Reedman’s horse foundred and fell under hym: than he stepte forthe on the erthe, and drewe oute his sworde, and took corage to defende hymselfe: and the scotte thought to have stryken him on the brest, but sir Mathue Reedman swarved from the stroke, and the speare poynt entred into the erthe: then sir Mathue strake asonder the spere with his sworde; and whan sir James Lynsay sawe howe he had loste his speare, he caste awaye the tronchon, and lyghted afote, and toke a lytell batayle–axe that he caryed at his backe, and handeled it with his one hande, quickely and delyverly, in the whiche feate scottes be well experte, and than he set at sir Mathue and he defended hymselfe properly. Thus they tourneyed toguyder, one with an axe, and the other with a swerde, a long season, and no man to lette them: fynally, sir James Lynsay gave the knyght suche strokes, and helde hym so shorte, that he was putte out of brethe in such wyse that he yelded hymselfe and sayde, Sir James Lynsay, I yelde me to you. Well, quod he, and I receyve you, rescue or no rescue. I am content, quod Reedman, so you deale with me lyke a good companyon. I shall nat fayle that, quod Lynsay, and so putte up his swerde. Well, sir, quod Reedman, what wyll you nowe that I shall do? I am your prisoner, ye have conquered me; I wolde gladly go agayne to Newcastell, and within fyftene dayes I shall come to you into Scotlande, whereas ye shall assigne me. I am content, quod Lynsay: ye shall promyse by your faythe to present yourself within this thre wekes at Edenborowe, and wheresoever ye go, to reporte yourselfe my prisoner. All this sir Mathue sware, and promysed to fulfyll. Than eche of them toke their horses, and toke leave, eche of other. Sir James returned, and his entent was to go to his owne company the same way as he came, and sir Mathue Reedman to Newcastell. Sir James Lynsay could nat keep the ryght waye as he came: it was darke, and a myst, and he hadde nat rydden halfe a myle, but he met face to face with the bysshoppe of Durham and mo than v hundred Englysshmen with hym: he myght wel have escaped, if he had wolde, but he supposed it had been his owne company that had pursued the Englisshmen: whan he was among them, one demaunded of hym what he was. I am, quod he, sir James Lynsay. The bysshoppe herde those words, and stepte to hym, and sayde, Lynsay, ye are taken; yelde ye to me. Who be you? quod Lynsay. I am, quod he, the bysshop of Durham. And fro whens come ye, sir? quod Lynsay. I come fro the batayle, quod the bysshoppe, but I strake never a stroke there; I go back to Newcastell for this night, and ye shall go with me. I may nat chuse, quod Lynsay, sithe you will have it so: I have taken, and I am taken; such is the adventures of armes. Whom have ye taken? quod the bysshop. Sir, quod he, I toke in the chase sir Mathue Reedman. And where is he? quod the bysshop. By my faythe, sir, he is retourned to Newcastell: he desyred me to trust hym on his fayth for thre wekes, and so have I done. Well, quod the bysshop, lette us go to Newcastell, and there ye shall spake with hym. Thus they rode to Newcastell toguyder, and sir James Lynsay was prisoner to the bisshop of Durham.”
“After that sir Mathue Reedman was retourned to Newcastell, and hadde shewed to dyvers howe he had been taken prisoner by sir James Lynsay; than it was shewed him howe the bisshoppe of Durham had taken the sayd sir James Lynsay, and how that he was thene in the towne as his prisoner: as sone as the bysshoppe was departed, sir Mathue Reedman wente to the bysshoppes lodgyng to see his mayster, and there he founde hym in a studye, lyeng in a wyndowe, and sayd, What, sir James Lynsay, what make you here? Than sir James came forth of the studye to hym, and gave hym good morowe, and sayd, By my fayth, sir Mathue, fortune hath brought me hyder; for as sone as I was departed fro you, I mette by chaunce the bysshoppe of Durham, to whome I am prisoner, as ye be to me. I beleve ye shall nat nede to come to Edenborowe to me to make your fynaunce: I think rather we shall make an exchaunge one for another, if the bysshoppe be so contente. Well, sir, quod Reedman, we shall accorde ryght well toguyder: ye shall dyne this daye with me; the bysshop and our men be gone forthe to fyght with your men. I can not tell what shall fall; we shall know at their retourne. I am content to dyne with you, quod Lynsay. Thus these two knyghtes dyned toguyder in, Newcastell.”[122]
Some danger unquestionably there was, that where the marketable value of prisoners was so clearly recognised, humanity would be forgotten in avarice; a lapse of memory which our acquaintance with Algiers and other piratical states proves not altogether impossible. One of the causes which prevented this, the union and equality produced by knighthood, has been alluded to; and we may find another in the high–spirited notions of personal honour which prevailed.[123] To refuse a prisoner his liberty upon payment of ransom, either directly or covertly, by demanding a sum disproportionate to his rank and means, was held dishonourable; for a knight would have esteemed himself disgraced if it could be suspected that he retained an enemy in prison through fear of meeting him in the open field. “After that the Prince of Wales was returned from Spain into Acquitayne, and his brother, the Duke of Lancastre, into Englande, and every lorde into his owne, sir Bertram du Guesclin was styll prisoner with the prince, and with sir Johan Chandos, and coulde nat come to his raunsome, nor fynaunce, the whiche was sore displeasaunt to kyng Henry,[124] if he might have mended it: and it so fortuned after, as I was enformed, that on a day the prince called to hym sir Bertram du Guesclin, and demaunded of hym how he dyde; he answered and sayd, Sir, it was never better with me; it is reason that it shulde be so, for I am in prison with the most renowned knyght of the worlde. With whome is that? sayd the prince. Sir, quoth he, that is with Sir Johan Chandos; and, sir, it is sayd in the realme of Fraunce, and in other places, that ye feare me so moche, that ye dare nat let me out of prison, the whiche to me is full great honour. The prince, who understode well the wordes of sir Bertram du Guesclin, and parceyved well how his own counsayle wolde in no wyse that he shuld delyver hym, unto the tyme that king Don Peter had payed him all suche sommes as he was bound to do. Than he sayd to sir Bertram, Sir, then ye thinke that we kepe you for feare of your chivalry; nay, thynke it nat, for I swere by saint George, it is nat so; therfore pay for your raunsome an hundred thousand fraunkes, and ye shall be delyvered. Sir Bertram, who desyred gretly to be delyvered, and herde on what poynt he might depart, toke the prince with that worde, and sayd, Sir, in the name of God so be it, I wyll pay no lasse. And whan the prince herde hym say so, he wolde than gladly have repented hymselfe; and also some of his counsayle came to hym, and sayd, Sir, ye have nat done well so lightly to put him to his raunsome. And so they wolde gladly have caused the prince to have revoked that covenant; but the prince, who was a true and noble knight, sayd, Sithe that we agreed therto, we wyll nat breke our promise; it shulde be to us a grete rebuke, shame and reproche, if we shulde nat put him to raunsome, seyng he is content to pay such a grete somme as an hundred thousand fraunkes.”[125]
The following story of William Rufus, which is told by William of Malmsbury, illustrates the character of the man, rather than the spirit of the age. Helias de Flechia laid claim to the city of Mans, part of that monarch’s continental possessions. He was taken and brought before William, who said insultingly, “I have you, sir.” “You have taken me by chance,” said the baron; “could I escape, I should find something new to do.” The hot–headed king, shaking his fist, replied, “You rascal, what would you do? Troop, shog off, make yourself scarce—you may do what you can; and by the face of St. Luke, if you get the better of me, I will ask you nothing for this favour.”[126]
In conclusion we give a celebrated passage from English history, which is strongly and pleasantly contrasted with the early part of the chapter. It is well known that the king of France was taken prisoner by the Black Prince at the battle of Poictiers. “The day of the batayle at night, the prince made a supper in his lodginge to the frenche kyng, and to the moost parte of the great lordes that were prisoners: the prince made the kynge, and his son, the lorde James of Bourbon, the lorde John D’Artois, the erle of Tancarville, the erle D’Estampes, the erle Dampmertyne, the erle of Gravyll, and the lorde of Pertenay, to syt all at one borde, and other lordes, knyghtes, and squiers at other tables; and alwayes the prince served before the kyng as humbly as he coude, and wolde nat syt at the kynges borde, for any desyre that the kynge could make: but sayd he was nat sufficient to syt at the table with so great a prince as the kyng was; but than he sayd to the kyng, Sir, for goddes sake make none yvell, nor heavy chere, though god this day dyd not consent to folowe your wyll: for syr, surely the kyng my father shall bere you as moche honour and amyte as he may do, and shall acorde with you so reasonably that ye shall ever be frendes toguyder after; and sir, methinke ye ought to reioyse, though the journey[127] be nat as ye wolde have had it, for this day ye have wonne the hygh renome of prowes, and have past this day in valyantnesse all other of your partie: sir, I say natte this to mocke you, for alle that be on our partie that saw every mannes dedes are playnly acorded by true sentence to gyve you the price and chapelette. Therewith the frenchemen began to murmure, and sayd among themselves how the prince had spoken nobly; and that by all estimation he shulde prove a noble man, if Gode send him lyfe, to perceyver in such good fortune. Whan supper was done, every man went to his lodgyng with their prisoners: the same night they put many to raunsome, and beleyved them upon their faythes and trouthes, and raunsomed them but easily, for they sayde, they wolde sette no knyghts raunsom so hygh, but that he might pay at his ease and mayntaygne still his degree.
“The same wynter the prince of Wales, and such of Englande as were with him at Bardeaux, ordayned for shippes, to convey the frenche king and his son and all other prisoners into Englande. Then he took the see, and certayne lordes of Gascoyne with hym: the frenche kyng was in a vessell by hymselfe, to be the more at hys ease, accompanyed with two hundred men at arms, and two thousand archers: for it was showed the prince that the thre estates, by whom the realme of France was governed, had layed in Normandy and Crotoy two great armyes to the entent to mete with hym, and to gette the frenche kyng out of his handes if they might: but there were no such that apered, and yet thei were on the see xi dayes, and on the xii day they aryved at Sandwych; then they yssued out of their shyppe, and lay there all that nyghte, and taryed there two dayes to refresh them; and on the therde day they rode to Canterbury. When the kynge of Englande knew of their commynge, he commaunded them of London to prepare theym, and their cyte, to receyve suche a man as the frenche kyng was: then they of London arrayed themselfe, by companyes, and the chief maisters clothing different fro the other; at saynt Thomas of Canterbury the frenche kyng and the prince made their offerynges, and there taryed a day, and than rode to Rochester, and taryed there that day, and the next day to Dartforde, and the fourth day to London, wher they were honourably receyved, and so they were in every good towne as they passed: the frenche kynge rode through London on a whyte courser, well aparelled, and the prince on a lyttell black hobbey by hym: thus he was conveyed along the cyte till he came to the Savoy, the which house pertayned to the heritage of the duke of Lancaster; there the frenche kynge kept hys house a long season, and thyder came to se hym the kyng and the quene ofttimes, and made him great feest and chere.”[128]
It has been said that the Prince’s conduct was too ostentatiously humble; that in refusing to sit at table with the King of France, and in making him the principal object of attention in their entry into London, he exceeded the modesty of a conqueror, and exposed himself to the charge of hypocrisy. The censure is, we think, erroneous, and arises from ignorance of the feelings of the times. The humility of the Black Prince was that of a vassal in presence of his feudal lord, due, not because he owed allegiance to the King of France, but because that monarch was the peer of the King of England, and in courtesy entitled, especially as a visitor, though a forced one, to an equal measure of respect from his subjects. The victor merely overlooked the fortune of war, and paid to his royal prisoner the homage which he would have shown to his father, and which the King of France would have received from the heir to his own crown.
