SEBASTIAN’S mind was a tempest of angry feelings. It was now evident, that unless the presence and arguments of the Count Vimiosa should prevail over De Castro’s obstinacy, he must be forced to use compulsion: such measures were so abhorrent to his nature that he felt increased aversion for the man who thus rendered them necessary.
Don Emanuel was forbid to appear at court; yet his still generous, though indignant sovereign, neither abridged his honours nor his liberty: he testified his displeasure merely by banishing him from his presence. The prior of Crato observed this moderation and blamed it: Sebastian answered him by saying, “De Castro has to thank me for much more forbearance: were I to follow the dictates of my proud spirit, I would crush him with benefits, and render this perseverance odious to the whole world. But I disdain to take so unfair an advantage.” Antonio was not reconciled to such a refinement of honour, yet he attempted not to ridicule it. The arrival of the Count Vimiosa revived the spirits of the King; from him he expected implicit submission, and he found it. The Count had early learned the court lesson of obedience; and was besides intoxicated with the height to which his daughter’s elevation would raise himself: he professed his willingness to repair in person to Rome for the dispensation; inveighing bitterly against the rash and selfish man who thus ventured to contend with his prince.
Sebastian could not conceal from his own thoughts that he despised this pliant father, who boasted acquiescence as the fruit of reverence to royal authority, not as springing from the conviction of woman’s right to dispose of her affection and her hand: Sebastian was accustomed to estimate the value of men’s actions by their motives; and scorning those of Vimiosa, scarcely brooked his presence even in the society of his daughter. However, for her sake he gave him the palace of Xabregas, to which she was shortly after removed with her discreet aunt from the vicinity of Crato.
Though debarred from personally appearing before the King, Don Emanuel addressed a letter to him full of duteous affection, in which he offered to forego all claim upon Donna Gonsalva, provided she continued to wish it at the expiration of six months: but for that period he stipulated that she must either retire into a convent, or accept the protection of his aunt Donna Garcia di Nugnez, a lady of unblemished reputation, under her roof she might receive his visits, and those of the King also.
This proposal De Castro pressed with such earnestness (offering to pledge himself under forfeiture of his estates and life, to use no authority over the will of Donna Gonsalva,) that Sebastian was induced to consider it—there was such an air of sincerity in the whole of that young nobleman’s conduct, and his character had hitherto been so irreproachable, that it was impossible even for the passion-blinded King to refuse believing him innocent of wanton insolence. Whatever romantic notions of right and honour might tempt him into the present opposition, it was evident that he rather sought to give his prince time to recollect himself, than finally to thwart his wishes.
Stimulated to convince Don Emanuel that his choice arose not from a temporary gust of passion, Sebastian half-resolved to accept these offered terms, and consent to six months probation. With this view he hastened from the palace of Ribera to that of Xabregas, to communicate the letter to Donna Gonsalva: he found her in the midst of her little court, like the Queen of beauty surrounded by graces and loves. On his entrance the nobles retired, leaving only the prior of Crato, and Donna Sancha Vimiosa.
While the fair Portuguese read De Castro’s letter, the blood suddenly forsook her lips and cheeks; she fixed her amazed eyes on Don Antonio, as if unconscious of what they looked on, repeating aloud “for six months!”—at that moment Sebastian forgot his rational resolution; “but we are not to be debarred the society of each other all that time, my Gonsalva!” said he, tenderly kissing her hand.
Gonsalva gazed at him with a mixture of astonishment and apprehension—“already so indifferent!” she exclaimed—“artful De Castro, thou knowest but too well, I fear, how those six months would end!”
“Donna Gonsalva!” cried the prior, with no very respectful roughness, “are you in your senses?—observe the king.”
Instantaneously recalled, the beautiful Gonsalva recovered from her extraordinary agitation, and turning to her lover, beheld on his countenance such an expression of grateful surprize and fond regret, then she half sunk into his arms, repeating with the voice of a syren “you will not banish me from happiness for six long months? you will not kill your Gonsalva with fears which your authority may end for ever!”
Sebastian pressed her to him in a transport of love—“what is it you fear!” he exclaimed, “what is it alarms my Gonsalva!”
His charming mistress cast down her eyes abashed, “I fear, without cause perhaps,” she said, “yet, you have yourself often remarked, that true tenderness trembles at every delay of what it sighs for.—These six months passed with a relation of the man who calls himself my husband—these six months in which you may be wrought on to abandon me—are so frightful—so sad—alas! how shall I live through them!”
Antonio, who was reading the important letter, now broke in upon Sebastian’s soothings: he spoke with peculiar warmth on the weakness of allowing himself to be thus trifled with by an inferior. He could not understand, he observed, any of those romantic notions which his royal master urged in defence of Don Emanuel; but frankly gave it as his opinion that De Castro, so far from being sincere in his promise of resigning the lady in half a year, was more likely to take a base advantage of a husband’s authority, and whenever Donna Gonsalva should be removed from her own family, render it impossible for her to return to her lover.
“I am not a deep reasoner, my honoured cousin,” added the prior, with his usual good-humoured levity—“but depend on it I see actions as they are; and never am out in men’s motives,—shall I tell you what I would do in your majesty’s place?—I would flatly refuse this insidious offer, and send the proposer of it back to the Indies: give him the viceroyalty by way of consolation.”
“Not to get him quietly out of the way:” replied the King, “do not injure yourself so in my thoughts Antonio, by urging such unworthy conduct!—no, he shall be heard at the tribunal to which I appeal. I am not going to rob him.”
“Your majesty’s apprehension is so quick, and so erring sometimes!” cried the smiling prior, “I simply meant him to be complimented with the government of India, after the cause had gone against him.”
“No, nor that either,” answered Sebastian, “I will not purchase the silence of an enemy at the expense of my people. If I am to believe De Castro insincere and unworthy, he is not to be trusted with the destinies of thousands.”
“Well, you must pardon my zeal, sire!—I would perform a ten year’s penance for your sake, (and your majesty knows how ill long fasts and sleepless nights suit my taste,) and it chafes me into uncharitableness, perhaps, to find a fellow cheating your generous nature with mere breath.”
“I know your affectionate heart!” said the King, with one of his benign smiles: then turning to Gonsalva, who had been all this time resting her fair cheek on his shoulder, and moistening it with tears, he besought her to pronounce her will, and it should be obeyed.
“Renew your solicitations at Rome!” she exclaimed, pleasure sparkling in her eyes—“suffer me still to remain at Xabregas with my kind aunt here—and from this hour till the blessed one which makes me yours, refuse to see or hear from Don Emanuel.—Never, never again let me be tortured with his presence.”
The King kissed her hand in token of assent; and De Castro’s proposal was rejected.
A second embassy was now dispatched under the Count Vimiosa into Italy; while Don Emanuel, wearied with fruitless efforts to see the King again, and secretly supported by many of the nobility, who envied the elevation of the Vimiosas, went himself to Rome to ask for justice at the feet of the pope. His cause was strengthened by the French court, exasperated at the refusal of their alliance with Portugal; and strenuously promoted by the influence of a high Italian family with whom he was connected by blood.—But Sebastian felt secure of success, and intoxicated by the delight of love, could not conceive the possibility of disappointment.
His beautiful idol was now the idol of the people and the nobles; wherever she moved, crowds hung upon her charms; the graces of her air, and the bewitching playfulness of her manner, attracted hearts as well as eyes, and among the young lords who approached the fascination of her accomplishments, scarcely any one preserved himself from the torment of fruitless desires.—This admiration from others, increased the passion, because it flattered the pride of the King; and assured of being exclusively beloved, he no longer blushed to display the excess and tenderness of his feelings.
At length the pope’s decision arrived;—Count Vimiosa returned triumphant; De Castro foiled.
Transported with joy, Sebastian flew to impart the tidings to Donna Gonsalva: how was she struck on finding that her father had obtained her lover’s suit, only by promising his holiness the performance of an imprudent vow once made by the King to Don Antonio!—that vow would leave her still without perfect security; it would take him into Africa, amidst danger and death!
The most violent bursts of tears, shrieks, and fits, followed this unhappy disclosure; Sebastian had never before seen her so moved: ravished with such convincing proofs of his empire over her heart, he renewed his protestations of eternal fidelity, accompanying them with many a fond endearment. By degrees his arguments and caresses produced soothing effects, and the weeping beauty was pacified.—Nature indeed had blessed her with a disposition so averse from thought and care, that grief dwelt with her but an instant: she made her lover repeat all his vows of love and truth, and the assurance of denying De Castro’s return to court, and then she revived to smiling happiness.
The arrival of Vimiosa had been expected to prove the signal of De Castro’s disgrace; but on the contrary the King simply announced the continuance of his banishment from palace parties, while he distinguished his former services by such honorary rewards as in those days of high-pitched honour, were more dearly prized and more eagerly sought, than are the substantial recompensings of modern times.
Donna Gonsalva, soon after, blazing in jewels, and attended by a splendid retinue of pages and ladies, received the compliments of the nobility in the palace of Xabregas.—Everywhere announced as their future queen, her favour was courted, her influence implored: it was no longer Sebastian, but she who ruled in Portugal.
Don Emanuel de Castro shocked at this ascendancy, which it was in vain for him to attempt opposing, retired to the house of a relation in a remote province, where he passed his hours in study and benevolent acts: his name ceased to be spoken of at court, and even his remembrance shortly wore out of the minds of the courtiers.
Blended with the idea of happiness and Gonsalva, the enterprize against Africa, had commenced. Sebastian’s roused spirit once more breathed war and religious enthusiasm: he directed levies to be made, youth trained, foreign powers solicited, and a crusade preached throughout his dominions; he passed himself from province to province, ascertaining its strength and proportioning its supplies to its ability: he stimulated the exertions of his officers, by new distinctions, and solicitously sought to obtain the aid of his uncle Philip II. who then ruled in Spain. This was liberally promised him; shamefully withholden!
The prior of Crato, enflamed with the same ardour, and sanctioned by the title of a religious war, accompanied his royal cousin in these progresses, liberally offering his revenues and retainers to aid and support the cause:—he was to make one in the formidable expedition; a circumstance highly agreeable to the King, who loved his enlivening talents, and was accustomed to talk with him of Gonsalva.
But the glory of their little army consisted in one gallant stranger, Sir Thomas Stukeley of England.—This brave adventurer had left his native country from the restlessness of a disordered but fine mind, and hearing of Sebastian’s intended attack upon the Moors, came to offer his services at the head of a band of noble Italians.
The chivalric romance of Stukeley captivated our youthful hero; he found in him that ardour of enterprize, and those unquenchable hopes, which he had hitherto believed his own peculiar property. While they conversed together, both burned with the same fire; prudential calculations were equally despised by each; danger only, possessed charms for them, and success, unless torn from the arms of destruction, was to them destitute of honour.
Stukeley’s reason had once been rudely assaulted by a domestic calamity; and though it still remained uninjured in the eyes of most men, deeper observers beheld a lamentable chasm in his once perfect mind:—an exuberance of imagination had usurped the place of the reasoning faculty; while his heart, true to its nature and to its habits, fed this imagination with visions of exalted but often hazardous virtue.
The wild inspiration of his countenance, breathing goodness and greatness, never suggested to Sebastian the idea of an unsettled intellect: what might have appeared feverish ravings in another, were sublimed by the magnificent eloquence of Stukeley into theories of god-like excellence, and heroic exploit.—The young monarch listened to these effusions till their magic transformed impossibilities into certainties: hitherto his character impelled others; now, it was impelled in its turn, and borne with resistless force before the mighty character of Stukeley.
With such a coadjutor, the King of Portugal was enabled to give an additional impulse to the martial spirit of his kingdom, Stukeley was a zealous catholic like himself, and the destruction of the infidels was equally the object of his wishes.
An opportunity of prosperously invading Africa, now presented itself. One of the Moorish princes who had been dethroned by his uncle Muley Moloch, King of Fez, Morocco, and Tarradunt, after vainly soliciting the aid of Mahometan courts, came as a suppliant to Portugal: he pleaded his rights and his distress; offering the monarch in lieu of assistance, several valuable territories along the sea-coast.
Sebastian’s zeal for the extension of Christianity would not suffer him to be contented with a mere accession of territory: he dictated new terms; stipulating for the half of whatever was re-conquered, and for the enlargement of every Christian found enslaved amongst the Moors. But the leading article in their treaty was an agreement that no Christian hereafter should be forced into the profession of Mahometanism, and that the Emperor of Morocco should make a law for this purpose, under the penalty of death to any of his subjects who should disobey.
By this arrangement Sebastian insured to himself a substantial hold on Africa; and though aware of the small probability there was that Muley Hamet should fulfil the latter part of their treaty, he was now conscious of possessing in this article, (if infringed) a justifiable plea for turning his arms against so faithless an ally.
On completing this compact with the Moor, and receiving some mercenaries from Germany and Flanders, the King called a general assembly of his nobles and ministers.—After eloquently detailing his motives for taking arms, and the advantages likely to result from it to all Christendom, he proceeded to say, that he convened his council, not to ask their advice, but to instruct them in his aim, and to receive their concurrence. He called God to witness, that his first and dearest aim was the preservation of unnumbered souls who now groaned under the sinful yoke of a detestable religion, and perhaps wanted only to live under a Christian government, and be taught by Christian teachers, to awake from their delusion: he pathetically painted the miseries of his captive countrymen to whom the Portuguese arms were about to give freedom: he then commented on the political advantage of acquiring a maritime frontier in Africa for the protection of their trade with the gold coast; and lastly, he avowed a strong desire for honorable distinction. His impetuous youth here dwelt delighted, and laid claim to some indulgence for this last infirmity of noble minds: he finished an animated confession of that infirmity, by these words from Cicero.
“Should we in the pursuits of virtue have any of its rewards in view, the noblest of all, is glory: this alone compensates the shortness of life, by the immortality of fame; by this we are still present when absent from the world, and survive even after death. By the steps of glory, in short, mortals mount to heaven.”
This speech produced very different effects upon his hearers: the younger were already converts to his opinion; but the old and experienced, who had lived long enough in the world to foresee the probable termination of this military romance, received their King’s determination sorrowfully. Each, in private, endeavoured to persuade him of the impracticability of subduing Africa with a handful of men, unsupported by foreign succours, and depending for their safety in a great measure on the good faith of an infidel ally: they expatiated upon the exhaustless numbers of the Moors, and their knowledge of their own country, where he, would fight upon ground he knew little of, where in the event of a defeat he might be so bewildered as not to get back to his transports, and must consequently resign his troops either to starvation or captivity.
Similar arguments were pressed on him by the ambassadors of foreign courts; but they served only to inflame the courage of Sebastian, and to exasperate him against their masters, those cautious monarchs who proved themselves nominal sons of the church, since they would not contribute one detachment towards his enterprize. His uncle too, the Cardinal Henry, opposed the expedition, and aided by the foreboding lamentations of the Queen dowager, frequently agitated their rash kinsman by unavailing remonstrances.
Sebastian listened respectfully to each; but, seduced into the belief of being born for the destruction of Mahometanism, persevered in his resolution.
To the enchantments of Donna Gonsalva he continually turned from these vexations: her wit enlivened him, her syren voice soothed the most turbulent emotions of his soul, and his unsated eyes found ceaseless delight in following the graceful varieties of her face and figure: yet Sebastian had a void in his heart; a something unfilled, unsatisfied, which he placed to the account of the imperfection of human felicity. Donna Gonsalva was exquisite in person and mind; she certainly loved him, but her love did not meet either the delicacy or the intensity of his: her feelings were obtuse in those trifles to which sensibility is tremblingly alive: she would often pursue her own sprightly pleasures with such eager forgetfulness of him, as to mortify and displease him. Two or three times he had entered her apartments at Xabregas in the bitterness of a spirit traversed and exhausted by political disappointments, and she had not observed it: his watchful passion was never one moment insensible to the slightest variation of its object; not even the mist of an unpleasant thought could shade that heaven of beauty, without disturbing his repose—and she—yes she, often saw him agitated or depressed, without observation.
It was at these periods that Sebastian acknowledged the torments and the omnipotence of love: he saw a defect in his idol, yet he worshipped her still.
But what could he desire more than to be loved with all the powers of her soul? if that soul wanted some of the energy of his, was it not her misfortune rather than her fault? his reason assented to this, though his heart frequently burst out into fond complaints which Gonsalva silenced by the warmest assurance of preference. Under the immediate impression of his grief, she would lose no opportunity of evincing her tenderness, and then Sebastian’s transports would return: but attentions which do not flow spontaneously from a natural softness, seldom are lasting; Donna Gonsalva would soon forget her lover’s character, because her own was of a lighter stamp, and gay thoughtlessness uniformly succeeded a short solicitude.
This perpetual inconsideration deeply wounded the King; for a lover like him, expected to throb in every pulse of her heart. Racked with repeated mortifications, that perhaps owed their existence to an impassioned fastidiousness “which I beseech ye, call a godly sin”—he looked anxiously towards the hour of his departure from Portugal, secretly hoping to endear himself by danger, or at least to rouse some of those sensibilities which were as wholly concealed now by ceaseless gaiety, as when no anxieties existed to call them forth.
Don Antonio was ever Gonsalva’s advocate; sometimes rallying, and sometimes more seriously reproving his royal cousin for pampering a sickly sensitiveness, which thus poisoned life’s chief blessing.
Sir Thomas Stukely, ignorant of his illustrious friend’s discontent, unconsciously increased it; for one night in a walk among the gardens of Ribera, under the boundless and starry heavens, he poured into the attentive ear of Sebastian, the story of his early life: that story, though it might be comprised in a single incident, was deeply interesting to the young King, whose heart, penetrated with one affection, delighted to sympathize with every other; yet he listened sadly, for he thought the more of Gonsalva’s temperate feelings.
The untimely death of a brother, long and justly beloved, had driven Stukely a wanderer from his country: that brother’s character, made up of every estimable and endearing quality; his fraternal love “exceeding the love of women,” were depicted in the heart-wringing language of a regret increasing with time.
“We lived in our native Devonshire,” continued Stukely, “far from the excitements and the temptations of a court; ignorant of any mortal happiness beyond each others deserved encomiums. One fatal day, hunting among the woods round Illfracombe—my erring spear—I cannot describe it!—this brother, dearer to me than existence, this soul of my wretched life, fell through a disastrous accident by my hand!—But he died with forgiveness on his lips—he died kissing the hand that smote him!”—
Stukely’s voice assumed a fearful hollowness as he spoke the last words, his eyes rolled back upon themselves, and his pale countenance expressed the extremity of despair; but the next moment rapture illumined him, and he wildly resumed—
“Oft in the dead of night his voice I hear,
Like harp angelic, bidding me rejoice,
Not weep his fate; for now he dwells in bliss,
High, full, seraphic, far transcending all
That heart of man can image, and with eye
Cleared from its mortal dross, beholds the end
Of human suff’ring; weeps no more the woes
Of fellow dust, but sees unnumbered crowds,
Multitudes vast—of ev’ry race and tint—
Dreaming of pain awhile, but to awake
In beatific and eternal Heaven!”
Accustomed to hear his friend converse by snatches in a strain resembling poetry, Sebastian made no remark on this momentary rhapsody: Stukeley paused awhile, and then continued:
“After the loss of my brother, I know not what strange calamity fell on me. I sometimes think I could not have been in my right mind. Memory retains a confused notion of my having once formed a visionary project of colonizing Florida, then but newly discovered, erecting over it the sovereignty of an order still purer and more self-denying than the orders of Jerusalem and Malta: I can recollect displeasing the young queen Elizabeth with my romantic ambition. At length, when my intellect recovered its cruel shock, I found myself in a court, filled with the professors of a new religion; it was impossible for me to stay, even to hear their doctrines. I passed from England to Ireland, from Ireland to Italy, sorrowing and self-condemned for my involuntary crime; there, my arms have been constantly employed against the enemies of our holy church. This wandering warfare; this renunciation of home, country, and kindred, is the penance to which I have condemned myself: may it tend to expiate my guilt!—My grief it cannot cure.” Again Stukeley mused awhile, and again he abruptly added, “’Tis a distinguished privilege to die in defence of the sacred cross! I swear never to abandon it! We will plant the blessed banner on every mosque in Morocco, or perish in the attempt.”
Gladly seizing the last subject suggested by Stukeley, Sebastian forbore to comment on the melancholy commencement of their discourse, leading him to talk of the meditated war, of which religion formed the only basis.
Public affairs now hastened to a crisis: the armament was complete, and the fleet equipped; the Pope had transmitted his blessing, with a present exceeding in value that of the consecrated rose: it was an arrow which had pierced the side of St. Sebastian!
In their armour and field accoutrements, the nobility displayed infinite splendour; and as desolated Portugal could not furnish many private soldiers, the troops composed chiefly of gentlemen volunteers, seemed but a gallant shew of accomplished knights.
The royal-standard (embroidered by Donna Gonsalva) was carried in procession through the streets of Lisbon, to receive the benediction of the archbishop; it was then delivered into the hand of the Marquis Villa-real, and the army marshalled around it.
After this august ceremony, the troops prepared to embark, while his officers and men were exchanging adieus with wives, sisters, and parents, Sebastian hurried to take leave of Donna Gonsalva: she had for some days yielded to an excess of grief, and had shut herself up from all society. At sight of her royal lover clad in the shining livery of war, she flung herself into his arms with tears and cries; distracted at the possibility of eventually losing him either by death or changed sentiments, she wildly expressed a wish to become his by a secret, but binding tie.
Sebastian pressed her to his breast in a tumult of tender delight, “dearest treasure of my life!” he exclaimed, covering her fair brow with kisses, “at this moment your Sebastian is blest to the utmost extent of his fantastic desires.—Ah, Gonsalva! why have I ever believed you indifferent, or incapable of exquisite love? be assured I go now, confident of possessing your heart; I go to conquer for your sake, to return worthy of you, covered with the spiritual dew of heaven, its blessing and the blessings of millions:—but ask me not to forfeit my right to this dear hand, by evading the conditions upon which it has been awarded to me; I have promised our holy father to engage in an expedition against the infidels—successful or unsuccessful, I will return to Portugal, and either share my glory with you, or—perish the possibility of mischance!” Donna Gonsalva now redoubled her tears and her endearments; and tying round his neck a picture of herself, conjured him to remember that her existence was interwoven with his own.
As the enamoured King repeated his belief of her sincerity, he added tenderly, “These tears, these sighs, my Gonsalva, can never be absent from my thoughts: be assured that whenever you think of your Sebastian, whether at the dead of night, or in the hurry of day, he is at that moment thinking of you.”
His eyes overflowed as he spoke; he strained her to his bosom, held her there an instant, then broke away. While moving towards the door, a favourite dog that had always been his companion, leaped up, and licked his forehead. “Farewel, Barémel!” said the softened king, “I cannot take thee,—Stay with my Gonsalva, and be cherished for thy master’s sake.” On pronouncing these words, he gently pushed the faithful animal aside, and hastened out of the apartment.
The royal equerries waited with their sovereign’s Arabian, at the gates of Xabregas; Sebastian vaulted into his seat, and with a soul raised to rapture by the undisguised fondness of Donna Gonsalva, rode towards the place at which the troops were ordered to assemble.
There, the King and the soldier took their turn: he rode along the lines formed by his army, proudly exulting in their strength and appearance. His animation diffused cheerfulness through the soldiery; and a short address, exhorting them to patience, perseverence, and fidelity, was answered by loyal acclamations: the word was then given, and the army began its march.
The figure of the young King, (clad in a suit of green armour) full of youth, spirit, and hope, was picturesquely contrasted by the wild sadness of Stukeley, the light and shade of whose countenance at one time flashed the fire of a warrior, at others was lost in a gloom of unavailing regret. Don Antonio of Crato, formed a contrast of another sort; his gold armour was gayly adorned with bosses and chasings, which the priest’s vestment did not entirely conceal; his florid aspect seemed equally free from thought and care: but there was one knight among the troops whose face expressed many thoughts and many feelings: It was Don Emanuel de Castro.
Without attempting to see or to address Sebastian, he had signified to the master of the horse his intention of furnishing five hundred harquebusiers for the expedition: through that nobleman’s interference this offer was not only accepted, but he was permitted to head them himself; and thus allowed an opportunity of retrieving his sovereign’s lost favour. De Castro now rode among the noble volunteers, with a serious brow.
His steady judgment, neither hurried away by the romantic sanguineness of the inexperienced Sebastian, nor actuated by that indifference to life which left Stukeley without a wish to estimate danger, nor constitutionally careless of every thing beyond present enjoyment, like the prior of Crato, foresaw much to apprehend from the inadequacy of their armament. A thousand gallant vessels, with their bravery of tackling and of sails, made a noble shew in the bay; and twenty thousand troops, in all the gloss of unstained arms, and unbroken spirits, presented an imposing spectacle to the gaze of enthusiasts. But what were these in reality, when contrasted with perhaps more than a hundred thousand enemies upon their own ground? De Castro’s prophetic heart ached in the midst of general exultation.
The various regiments were now embarking: as they marched along the shore the sun flamed upon their banners and coats of mail; the inspiring trumpet resounded from all the neighbouring echoes; pealing bells rung joyously from the city; and at intervals the discharge of ordnance from adjacent forts, was seen to shake the ships and the hills.
Impatient to be the first embarked, Sebastian rode eagerly through his people, amid their shouts and blessings, as if returning in triumph; his youth, his personal graces, and the imposing dignity of his cause, made every heart follow him. As he leaped into the boat which was to bear him to the royal galley, he uncovered his head, and waving aloft his flowing helmet, seemed to be commending Portugal to the protection of Heaven. By his side stood his favourite page, and the Duke of Barcelos, two young sons of the Duchess of Braganza, his near kinswoman, and next heir to the crown: their tender childhood and gallant mien, their sweet faces, yet wet with a mother’s tears, caused a momentary pang in the multitude, but the sunny look of the King brightened regret into exultation, and loud acclamations pursued the track of his departing boat.
In a few hours more, the whole army was embarked, and then the fleet weighing anchor, sailed out of the Tagus. Prosperous winds swelled their sails to Cadiz, where they waited awhile for the promised succours from Philip II. the Duke of Medina Sidonia feasted the King and the knights there, with a munificence little inferior to royalty. After a week’s delay the expected supplies arrived; they consisted but of two thousand foot soldiers: the enraged Sebastian would have sent them back to his dissembling uncle, had not the Duke of Medina found some plausible excuse for his master’s conduct, and faithfully promised further aid in his name.
Quickly irritated, and as easily appeased, the ingenuous monarch believed this hollow apology, and returning the courteous entertainment of his host by conferring on him an order of knighthood, re-embarked with his army for the shores of Africa.
The Portuguese fleet crossed the mouth of the streights, and passing within sight of Cape Spartel, coasted along as far as Tangier, where Sebastian, with his English friend Stukeley, were landed, and the remaining troops under Diego de Souza, and Antonio of Crato, proceeded to the fortress of Arzile.
The Moorish princes Muley Hamet and his brother-in-law, Cid Albequerin, were at Tangier, with a few armed followers, to receive the king of Portugal: they delivered into his hands hostages for their fidelity, conjuring their Christian ally not to listen to the deceptive representations of the Xeriff Muley Moloch, whose ambassador was now arrived at the fortress. Sebastian re-assured them, though he could not refuse the Moorish envoy, an audience.
On being admitted to the royal presence, the African delivered a letter from his master, wherein moderation and spirit were admirably blended. This letter declared the Xeriff prepared in all points for war, and ready to meet it; but while he made such a declaration, he besought Don Sebastian to weigh well the value of men’s lives ere he rashly threw away his own and those of his subjects: he described with terrible simplicity the immensity of his resources, and the number of his armies, proving the improbability of success, though the Portuguese King were at the head of 20,000 heroes. Having exhorted him to spare to his people those virtues of his, that were yet only in the bud of blooming youth, he entered into a full discussion of his own pretensions and those of Hamet; by this discussion he laboured to shew that his right to the crowns of Fez and Morocco, was superior to that of his nephew; and that even were it otherwise, the latter had forfeited his claim by acts of cruelty and oppression. To secure peace, and the friendship of the christians, he offered Don Sebastian undisturbed possession of every fortress in Africa that ever had belonged or did now belong to Portugal, and he promised to add to each of them, a moderate tract of arable land.
After pressing this proposal upon the young monarch, he once more conjured him to weigh well the real interest of his subjects; concluding with a sentiment memorable in a despotic prince.
“You know, great prince, (or ought to know) that the regal power allotted us, makes us common servants of our creator; then of those people whom we govern; so that observing the duties we owe to God, we deliver blessings to mankind: in providing for the public good of our states we magnify the honour of God; like the celestial bodies, which, though they have much veneration, yet serve only to the benefit of the world. It is the excellency of our office to be the instruments whereby happiness is delivered to nations.”
Negociation upon a proposal of this kind, so inadequate to the grand object of Sebastian, was not likely to meet with his concurrence: he bade the embassador bear his refusal to Muley Moloch, with an expression of regret that such noble sentiments were not the production of a lawful and a christian ruler. He then dismissed the ambassador, and went with Sir Thomas Stukeley to examine the state of the fortress.
Stukeley was now become as dear, as he had ever appeared admirable, to this warm-hearted sovereign: in the close intimacy and domestic habits of a sea-voyage, the amiable parts of the Englishman’s character gradually disclosed themselves; and their tastes and principles proving consonant, the partiality of Sebastian increased so much, as to lead him into a disclosure, which had more of friendship than of justice in it. This respected the disposal of Barbary.
Every one presumed that in the event of a conquest, Sebastian would yield the empire of Morocco to Muley Hamet, and be himself crowned king of Fez: but he had long resolved to prove the disinterestedness of his motives, by awarding the throne of Fez to him who should most distinguish himself in the expedition. To rescue the Moors from ignorance and infidelity, by giving them a christian monarch and christian teachers, was the chief aim of his enterprise: unsullied honour was the only wreath he sought to preserve for his own brow.
By entrusting the secret to Stukeley, Sebastian unconsciously meant to give additional energy to his friend’s arms, and to secure for him the new monarchy: our gallant countryman received this information with grateful enthusiasm; but unwilling to take an unfair advantage of his competitors, besought the king to communicate it to all his nobles, when they should join the grand army.
Such generous conduct increased Sebastian’s esteem; he freely granted the request, adding—“They will all have my good wishes for their success, but you, Stukeley, will have my prayers.”
Orders were now issued for the Moorish forces under Muley Hamet, and the Portuguese who had disembarked at Tangier with their king, to be ready for marching to Arzile: there, the whole strength of their little army was concentrated.
A tedious march along a hot and arid coast, produced sickness among the soldiery; when they reached the main body, under Don Diego de Souza, they found it somewhat enfeebled through the same cause: but a spirit of enterprize still animated every breast; and as the immediate siege of Larache was determined upon, a military council was called for the purpose of ascertaining whether it were most advisable to proceed directly by land, through an enemy’s country, to the destined siege, or to re-embark and proceed thither by sea.
At this suggestion of prudence, the rash monarch took fire: he had not yet learned to separate true valour from that vain contempt of danger which makes a man put his life to the hazard for an inadequate object, or for the attainment of a good, attainable by less perilous means: he vehemently protested against the latter measure, and his experienced commanders were silenced without being convinced.
During the king’s stay at Tangier, his officers at Arzile had had time to learn the exact strength of the enemy, and what dependence was to be placed on the succours so largely promised by Hamet. Don Emanuel de Castro now ventured in council to address his sovereign, informing him that their Moorish ally had grossly exaggerated his ability and the inclinations of the Africans, as they appeared mostly unanimous in defence of the present Xeriff’s authority. That intrepid old man, he said, was now sick of a fever, but was yet rapidly approaching at the head of a hundred thousand men; fresh armies were forming in the rear and flank of the christians; and should these succeed in turning their other wing, (which they might easily do, if the Portuguese were marched inland towards Larache,) so surrounded and cut off from their fleet, destruction must follow. He therefore suggested the propriety of extreme caution. At this remark the king frowned, and issued decisive orders for proceeding to the river Lucos, (upon which stood the fortress) and fording it, though in the mouth of the enemy’s cannon.
“If we begin to think of defeat, or of providing for our own security,” he said sternly, to De Castro, “we are lost!—we have nothing to oppose to this ocean of Moors that you talk of, but the belief that we are invincible.—Give us only the enthusiasm of our ancestors, and the glorious field of Ourique will no longer stand unrivalled in the imperishable page of history.”
De Castro granted the justice of this reliance upon the omnipotence of opinion; yet a lurking suspicion of the Moorish Prince Hamet, made him foresee ultimate disappointment: he pointed out several traits in the infidel’s conduct, which indicated jealousy of the Christians, and Sebastian admitting their force, promised to observe him narrowly.
The army now began its march towards Larache, and halted between Arzile and Alcazar-quiver.—To proceed without a decisive engagement, was become impossible; for the Xeriff’s force, consisting of sixty thousand horse and forty thousand foot, had advanced by forced marches from Morocco into Fez, secured the passage of the Lucos, and suddenly shewn themselves, encamped in the plains of Alcazar.—Don Sebastian was for immediately advancing to give them battle; but against this step Muley Hamet opposed many plausible arguments: he proposed that the Portuguese should draw nearer to the coast, where, in case of extremity, they might be received into their ships; by throwing up entrenchments, they could there bid defiance to any assault, and would be secured from every species of want, by supplies of ammunition and provisions from the fleet.
“And for what is this delay proposed, now?”—cried the astonished Sebastian, “are we to abandon our enterprize even on the threshold? are we to shrink from the very difficulties we have courted, and fly before an enemy with whom we have not exchanged a single blow? do you think we came only to look at your countrymen?—In the name of God, prince, what coward’s counsel is this?”
Dissembling his rage at the indiscreet anger of the young King, Hamet coolly replied, that Muley Moloch was now master of all the fords and passages of the Lucos, from the ocean to the mountains of Benzeroel, that consequently an attempt to force these would be the attempt of madmen, since their troops were already fainting with a long sultry march, and nearly destitute of provisions: by avoiding an engagement for at least some days, they would give time for the arrival of King Philip’s promised succours, and might be further re-inforced by deserters from the usurper Moloch.
Perceiving his aim at last, and transported out of all patience, the unreflecting Sebastian forgot every thing but indignation: he started from his seat with a look of fierce defiance, crying out, “away with such dissembling! Moor, I can read your heart:—you would do without the aid of the Christians. In a few days, perhaps hours, you expect death to rid you of your uncle, and give you these kingdoms by some political trick—then would our treaty, aye and our safety, be left to your honour!—but thank heaven, my brave Portuguese are not to be thus trifled with!—we shall march forward; if without you, for ourselves,—for the release of christian captives—for the sake of the blessed cross; if with you, for your advantage as well as for our own,—and with a conscientious resolution to preserve our share in the compact inviolate.
“Prince! we are in sight of the enemy—behold me draw this sword, which I swear by the virgin mother of Jesus, never to sheathe till it has cut my way through yonder host!”
A sublime sterness sat on the brow of the young warrior while he spoke: in one moment the clashing of swords and the murmur of vows were heard throughout the assembly; as if electrified with the same fire, all the knights followed his chivalric example.
Hamet was silent: at length he bowed before the royal seat, saying in a subdued voice, “light of thy people, thou hast not interpreted my zealous caution with the usual charity of a Christian: let my actions speak for me!—I will follow thee unto death.”
“Prove that I have wronged thee, Hamet!” returned Sebastian, with a relenting smile, “and thou shalt find me more prompt to repair, than I have been to commit, this injury.”
Muley Hamet bowed submissively again; the clouds of passion and suspicion then fled from the face of the King, and demanding his officer’s attention, he proceeded to hear their separate opinions upon the subject under discussion.
Experienced and inexperienced, now decided on Sebastian’s side; even De Castro voted for giving battle to the Xeriff. Conduct that would have been prudent at Arzile, became cowardice at Alcazar: to begin retreating towards the coast, seemed at this period more hazardous than to risk an engagement; for in the former case, an enormous army hanging upon their rear, might harrass their retreat, and at last make an easy prey of the famished and fatigued soldiers: by the former plan the Portuguese would preserve a chance of victory, or at least secure to themselves honourable graves.
Gratified with his council, and pleasingly surprised to find Don Emanuel urgent for action, Sebastian graciously acknowledged that pleasure, and paying a just tribute to his rival’s warlike talents, resolved thenceforth only to remember his services.—He now gave him his hand with a look so effulgently expressive, that De Castro’s tranquil countenance became agitated with unexpected pleasure; he bent his knee to the ground, and ventured to put his lips respectfully to the hand that had been given him;—Sebastian suffered it to remain awhile in his grasp—then calling his knights to their posts, hastened out to reconnoitre and to marshal his troops.
All was now animation in the Portuguese camp; dauntless hearts, hot with religious zeal, made them eager for engagement: the King went at night from tent to tent, encouraging his men, and rousing their emulation by proclaiming his intention of instituting a new order upon that day, should Heaven bless his arms: to the highest distinction in this novel institution, even the humblest soldier might aspire, and be enrolled in the same proud list with his commander. From the private’s quarters he returned to his own tent, where assembling his officers, he imparted the magnificent prize destined for their reward:—the crown of Fez!
How does the outward lustre of a crown dazzle all eyes, and blind them to its thorny lining! ambition, more potent even than love, sees no defect in its object, but grasps at it with the avidity of a soul certain of seizing beautitude!—The nobles round King Sebastian looked at each other for awhile without speaking; then actuated by the same spirit, cast themselves at his feet in a transport of gratitude; their tumultuous and lavish protestations infused confidence into their sovereign, whose breast beat with the certainty of success: dismissing them soon after, he threw himself upon his palliass, for a few hours repose.
To sleep was impossible: Sebastian counted the night watches with impatience, and just as morning broke, had the mortification to hear rain falling heavily upon the roof of his tent: he leaped up, and hurried into the air.—The dawn was now beginning to glimmer over the extensive camp of the enemy, but the sky was moist and dark: to commence an attack under such circumstances would be fruitless; the showers blew directly in the face of his army, and would render their cannon and harquebusses, almost useless;—he was therefore forced to command a suspension of his orders.
After two hours of incessant rain, the clouds dispersed, and the sun shone out with intense heat:—the King then hastily roused his page (Diego of Braganza,) whose childish hands trembled while they clasped the rivets of his master’s vantbrace.
“What! you tremble my little cousin?”—said he, stroaking his fair hair, and smiling more tenderly than sportively.
“With impatience, Sire, not fear.”—replied the blushing boy.—Sebastian gave him a hasty embrace; “thou hast the soul of a soldier!” he cried, “if I fall to-day, may thy race sit on the throne of Portugal.”
“I would rather see a son of your majesty’s seated there:” answered the intrepid child—“it is not my ambition to be a King; but I wish to make myself greater than an ordinary King:——I would willingly live worthily, and die nobly!”
“Thou wilt do both, then, my brave cousin!” exclaimed Sebastian, “brief or lengthened, thy career will be glorious, for that sentiment contains a life of magnanimity.”
They were now issuing from the tent: Don Diego ventured to remark his King’s imprudence in wearing armour of a colour, which being held almost sacred by the Mahometans, would sharpen their resentment, and enable them to take a surer note of his person. “I chose it for that very purpose;” replied the monarch, “not to insult them, indeed, but to be easier distinguished by friend and foe.—besides, Diego, green is the colour of hope.”
Sebastian now left his tent, and put his troops in motion. If the genius of Portugal could be supposed to have beheld them from the heights of Benzeroel, tears such as immortals shed, might have flowed from her eyes: the flower of her nobles and of her peasantry, were now gaily marching to certain death.
For the first time since the foundation of their monarchy, the private soldiers were stimulated by the prospect of chivalric honour, and their leaders by the chance of a crown:—following their royal general both as their King and their benefactor, the glow of virtuous emulation was on every cheek, and in every heart.
The army, drawn up in three lines, now halted on the plain of Alcazar: De Castro and Stukeley had the glory of leading the vanguard, which consisted wholly of volunteers; the Portuguese infantry were in the center, and the rear under Don Diego De Souza; on the right wing were the Moorish horse of Muley Hamet, and the squadrons of count Vimiosa; on the left were the royal standard, the banner of the cross, and the flower of the Portuguese cavalry; round these, were seen the young dukes of Barcelos, Contiuho, and D’Aveyro, the counts Villa-real, Ridondo, and Norogno, the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, and lastly, the prior of Crato.
Attended by his favorite page, the King was seen with his beaver up, mounted on a white Arabian, riding along the lines, and animating his men to the charge. His emerald-green armour, (on which the sun now sparkled) and the white plume of his helmet, (now lifted by rising winds) rendered him fatally conspicuous.
Meanwhile the Moors were steadily advancing, with all the pomp of gaudy banners and magnificent attire: in the midst of a chosen band was seen the litter of their sick, but intrepid Xeriff.
A hundred thousand armed men, approaching in the form of a crescent, gradually extending their wings to outstretch and inclose a handful of Christians, made a formidable appearance: momentarily checking his horse, Sebastian looked at them with some portion of that awe which a vast and powerful object excites, but without one throb of apprehension, he believed himself under the immediate protection of an approving Providence!
Suddenly the Moorish music began to play, and their troops advanced with a quicker step: the king of Portugal rode to the left of his little band, and placing himself before the royal-standard, bade his lords remember that they fought for a crown. “I, for a heavenly one, and for Gonsalva!” he whispered to himself, hastily darting his eye athwart the mingled banners of the cross, and of Portugal.
The two armies were now so near each other, that the Portuguese could distinctly see the Xeriff assisted from his litter to a horse; age and sickness had enfeebled his body, but his energetic soul was yet unimpaired. In the act of haranguing his men, he appeared slowly riding through the lines, with flowing robes, and a long white beard, which gave him a majestic air: Sebastian pitied his infirmities, and beheld his grey locks with reverence; he commanded his followers to spare, and to respect Muley Moloch, should he fall into their hands, and then he gave the signal for battle.
A general discharge of artillery began the action: the Portuguese horse charged with impetuosity, their young King, like a destroying angel, leading them on: his terrible looks, and still more terrible arm, scattered the infidels on every side. Stukeley and De Castro’s track resembled the path of lightning; for by the blue gloom of their steely armour they were distinguished afar off, flaming through the dark ranks of the enemy.
The Moors assaulted with all the fury of religious hate, and all the fire of chivalry, gave way in every direction; their nobles fell in heaps under the arrows, the swords, and the artillery, of the christians: frantic with despair, Muley Moloch exerted the remaining spark of life in an attempt to rally them; he spurred his horse, and brandishing a massy scymitar, aimed a blow at Don Antonio of Crato: that effort was his last; he fell dead upon the field.
His body-guard with difficulty rescued their master’s corpse from the Portuguese, and conveyed it to the litter, where his death was concealed from the army; but the hoisting of a particular pendent over the litter, by one of his ministers, who had secretly corresponded with the Xeriff Hamet, gave the signal so long waited for by that perfidious wretch. He had hitherto hung back in the action; now, he ordered his troops to turn their arms upon their allies.
At this command, the left wing of the Moorish horse wheeled round, and took the Christians in flank; a dreadful carnage ensued: the brave Portuguese amazed, bewildered, not knowing who were or were not their enemies, fought in darkness; even their German and Castillian auxiliaries shared the fate of the treacherous infidels, for they now dealt the strokes of death without discrimination: the presence of their king all hacked and bleeding, only increased their consternation.
At this critical juncture, Stukeley appeared; waving his fiery sword as a call for them to rally, and aim at conquest still, he broke through the squadrons of Muley Hamet, like some tremendous comet that traverses the wilds of æther, scattering terror and dismay over nations. He rushed towards the traitor: Hamet read destruction in the deadly eyes of the Englishman, and took to flight; Stukeley followed; his indignant threats sounded through the field: gaining upon the Xeriff, he was aiming a mortal blow at him, when the affrighted wretch threw himself into a rivulet which crossed their path, and borne down by the weight of his robes and armour, perished ingloriously. Stukeley looked at him for a moment with scornful disappointment, then turned towards the fight.
But he was now surrounded by a host of assailants: their merciless weapons fell on his head, his shoulders, his limbs; he turned from side to side, alternately parrying and receiving wounds. Fighting his way to a ruined watch tower, he placed his back against it, and defended himself with determined intrepidity; till at length, bleeding at every pore, and exhausted with exertion, his resistance became fainter and fainter. He staggered and sunk down. The dying hero cast his eyes around as if in search of his friend, the next moment they closed for ever. Thus fell the gallant Sir Thomas Stukeley, in the bloom of manhood, in a foreign land!
Meanwhile, Don Sebastian was attempting to regain the advantage of the day: a short contest convinced him that it was no longer for victory, but for safety, they must fight; of all his troops, there remained only a remnant, but he bravely resolved rather to die than to desert them.
Antonio, and the dukes of Barcelos and Aveyro, were taken prisoners; De Castro was sinking under many wounds: the King himself was disabled in one shoulder by a musquet shot, and was besides smarting with sword-cuts: two horses had already been killed under him, and after fighting some time on foot, one of his officers had now mounted him upon a third.
Again, he charged the enemy with a few gallant troops; again his powerful arm scattered the Moors like dust before a mighty wind. Streaming with blood, De Castro followed his glorious path. That faithful Noble (who had appeared throughout the whole of the battle, to think only of his sovereign’s honour, his sovereign’s safety) now interposed his body between him and destruction: the battle-axe of an infidel was raised to fall on the unarmed head of Sebastian, when Don Emanuel rushed forward, and sprung on the Moor; dashing down his lifted weapon, he grasped his body and grappled with him till they both fell: Sebastian threw himself off his horse, and valiantly defended him; but the Moors pouring in at every side, like so many torrents, forcibly swept the brave friends asunder, and De Castro was taken.
The fight now turned into a slaughter: the Germans and Castillians were all cut in pieces, the knights and nobles lay in heaps over the plain, and among the vast army of Moors, but a solitary Portuguese was here and there to be seen vainly combatting for life.
Retreating towards the river, (allured by a distant figure like Sir Thomas Stukeley’s) Sebastian met his standard-bearer with the colours wrapped round his body; animated with the remembrance of Donna Gonsalva, the King exclaimed, “Brave Brito! let us die upon these.”
Scarcely had he spoken, when a body of infidels rushed tumultuously towards them; Sebastian fought with the desperation of love; De Brito and the colours were taken and re-taken repeatedly; but alas! the strength of the former, was exhausted, and his single arm could no longer encircle a faithful servant with protection. De Brito more solicitous to save his king than to obey him, contested at last but faintly, and suffered himself to be surrounded.
The Moors, clamourous in disputing the honour of having gained the royal-standard, hurried off their prisoner, regardless of a solitary individual covered with dust and blood, evidently on the point of sinking amongst the slain.
Fortunately for Sebastian, these accidental circumstances, together with the loss of his coronetted helmet and his horse, concealed him from suspicion: he remained standing where they had left him, supporting himself with difficulty upon the fragment of his sword. His strength now ebbed apace: the blood pouring from a large cut on his head, and oozing through the scarf with which his arm was bound, sickened and enfeebled him; his very thoughts partook of the mortal languor creeping over all his senses: a confusion of images, of Gonsalva, of Stukeley, of his page Diego, swam through his brain; he staggered a few paces, fell, and breathed no more!