Books: The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1568
J >>
John Lothrop Motley >> The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1568
In the mean, time, the body of light troops which had received the fire
from the musical pieces of Groningen was seen to waver. The artillery
was then brought beyond the cover of the wood, and pointed more fully
upon the two main squares of the enemy. A few shots told. Soon
afterward the 'enfans perdus' retreated helter-skelter, entirely
deserting their position.
This apparent advantage, which was only a preconcerted stratagem, was too
much for the fiery Spaniards. They rushed. merrily forward to attack the
stationary squares, their general being no longer able, to restrain their
impetuosity. In a moment the whole van-guard had plunged into the
morass. In a few minutes more they were all helplessly and hopelessly
struggling in the pools, while the musketeers of the enemy poured in a
deadly fire upon them, without wetting the soles of their own feet. The
pikemen, too, who composed the main body of the larger square, now
charged upon all who were extricating themselves from their entanglement,
and drove them back again to a muddy death. Simultaneously, the lesser
patriot squadron, which had so long been sheltered, emerged from the
cover of the hill, made a detour around its base, enveloped the rear-
guard of the Spaniards before they could advance to the succor of their
perishing comrades, and broke them to pieces almost instantly. Gonzalo
de Braccamonte, the very Spanish colonel who had been foremost in
denunciation of Aremberg, for his disposition to delay the contest, was
now the first to fly. To his bad conduct was ascribed the loss of the
day. The anger of Alva was so high, when he was informed of the
incident, that he would have condemned the officer to death but for the
intercession of his friends and countrymen. The rout was sudden and
absolute. The foolhardiness of the Spaniards had precipitated them into
the pit which their enemies had dug. The day, was lost. Nothing was
left for Aremberg but to perish with honor. Placing himself at the head
of his handful of cavalry, he dashed into the melee. The shock was
sustained by young Adolphus of Nassau, at the head of an equal number of
riders. Each leader singled out the other. They met as "captains of
might" should do, in the very midst of the affray. Aremberg, receiving
and disregarding a pistol shot from his adversary, laid Adolphus dead at
his feet, with a bullet through his body and a sabre cut on his head.
Two troopers in immediate attendance upon the young Count shared the same
fate from the same hand. Shortly afterward, the horse of Aremberg,
wounded by a musket ball, fell to the ground. A few devoted followers
lifted the charger to his legs and the bleeding rider to his saddle.
They endeavored to bear their wounded general from the scene of action.
The horse staggered a few paces and fell dead. Aremberg disengaged
himself from his body, and walked a few paces to the edge of a meadow
near the road. Here, wounded in the action, crippled by the disease
which had so long tormented him, and scarcely able to sustain longer the
burthen of his armor, he calmly awaited his fate. A troop of the enemy
advanced soon afterwards, and Aremberg fell, covered with wounds,
fighting like a hero of Homer, single-handed, against a battalion, with a
courage worthy a better cause and a better fate. The sword by which he
received his final death-blow was that of the Seigneur do Haultain. That
officer having just seen his brother slain before his eyes, forgot the
respect due to unsuccessful chivalry.
The battle was scarcely finished when an advancing trumpet was heard.
The sound caused the victors to pause in their pursuit, and enabled a
remnant of the conquered Spaniards to escape. Meghem's force was thought
to be advancing. That general had indeed arrived, but he was alone. He
had reached Zuidlaren, a village some four leagues from the scene of
action, on the noon of that day. Here he had found a letter from
Aremberg, requesting him to hasten. He had done so. His troops,
however, having come from Coevorden that morning, were unable to
accomplish so long a march in addition. The Count, accompanied by a few
attendants, reached the neighborhood of Heiliger Lee only in time to meet
with some of the camp sutlers and other fugitives, from whom he learned
the disastrous news of the defeat. Finding that all was lost, he very
properly returned to Zuidlaren, from which place he made the best of his
way to Groningen. That important city, the key of Friesland, he was thus
enabled to secure. The troops which he brought, in addition to the four
German vanderas of Schaumburg, already quartered there, were sufficient
to protect it against the ill-equipped army of Louis Nassau.
The patriot leader had accomplished, after all, but a barren victory.
He had, to be sure, destroyed a number of Spaniards, amounting, according
to the different estimates, from five hundred to sixteen hundred men.
He had also broken up a small but veteran army. More than all, he had
taught the Netherlanders, by this triumphant termination to a stricken
field, that the choice troops of Spain were not invincible. But the
moral effect of the victory was the only permanent one. The Count's
badly paid troops could with difficulty be kept together. He had no
sufficient artillery to reduce the city whose possession would have
proved so important to the cause. Moreover, in common with the Prince of
Orange and all his brethren, he had been called to mourn for the young
and chivalrous Adolphus, whose life-blood had stained the laurels of this
first patriot victory. Having remained, and thus wasted the normal three
days upon the battle-field, Louis now sat down before Groningen,
fortifying and entrenching himself in a camp within cannonshot of the
city.
On the 23rd we have seen that Aremberg had written, full of confidence,
to the Governor-general, promising soon to send him good news of the
beggars. On the 26th, Count Meghem wrote that, having spoken with a man
who had helped to place Aremberg in his coffin, he could hardly entertain
any farther doubt as to his fate.
The wrath of the Duke was even greater than his surprise. Like Augustus,
he called in vain on the dead commander for his legions, but prepared
himself to inflict a more rapid and more terrible vengeance than the
Roman's. Recognizing the gravity of his situation, he determined to take
the field in person, and to annihilate this insolent chieftain who had
dared not only to cope with, but to conquer his veteran regiments. But
before he could turn his back upon Brussels, many deeds were to be done.
His measures now followed each other in breathless succession,
fulminating and blasting at every stroke. On the 28th May, he issued an
edict, banishing, on pain of death, the Prince of Orange, Louis Nassau,
Hoogstraaten, Van den Berg, and others, with confiscation of all their
property. At the same time he razed the Culemburg Palace to the ground,
and erected a pillar upon its ruins, commemorating the accursed
conspiracy which had been engendered within its walls. On the 1st June,
eighteen prisoners of distinction, including the two barons Batenburg,
Maximilian Kock, Blois de Treslong and others, were executed upon the
Horse Market, in Brussels. In the vigorous language of Hoogstraaten,
this horrible tragedy was enacted directly before the windows of that
"cruel animal, Noircarmes," who, in company of his friend, Berlaymont,
and the rest of the Blood-Council, looked out upon the shocking
spectacle. The heads of the victims were exposed upon stakes, to which
also their bodies were fastened. Eleven of these victims were afterward
deposited, uncoffined, in unconsecrated ground; the other seven were left
unburied to moulder on the gibbet. On the 2d June, Villars, the leader
in the Daalem rising, suffered on the scaffold, with three others. On
the 3d, Counts Egmont and Horn were brought in a carriage from Ghent to
Brussels, guarded by ten companies of infantry and one of cavalry. They
were then lodged in the "Brood-huis" opposite the Town Hall, on the great
square of Brussels. On the 4th, Alva having, as he solemnly declared
before God and the world, examined thoroughly the mass of documents
appertaining to those two great prosecutions which had only been closed
three days before, pronounced sentence against the illustrious
prisoners. These documents of iniquity signed and sealed by the Duke,
were sent to the Blood-Council, where they were read by Secretary Praets.
The signature of Philip was not wanting, for the sentences had been drawn
upon blanks signed by the monarch, of which the Viceroy had brought a
whole trunk full from Spain. The sentence against Egmont declared very
briefly that the Duke of Alva, having read all the papers and evidence in
the case, had found the Count guilty of high treason. It was proved that
Egmont had united with the confederates; that he had been a party to the
accursed conspiracy of the Prince of Orange; that he had taken the rebel
nobles under his protection, and that he had betrayed the Government and
the Holy Catholic Church by his conduct in Flanders. Therefore the Duke
condemned him to be executed by the sword on the following day, and
decreed that his head should be placed on high in a public place, there
to remain until the Duke should otherwise direct. The sentence against
Count Horn was similar in language and purport.
That afternoon the Duke sent for the Bishop of Ypres, The prelate arrived
at dusk. As soon as he presented himself, Alva informed him of the
sentence which had just been pronounced, and ordered him to convey the
intelligence to the prisoners. He further charged him with the duty of
shriving the victims, and preparing their souls for death. The bishop
fell on his knees, aghast at the terrible decree. He implored the
Governor-General to have mercy upon the two unfortunate nobles. If their
lives could not be spared, he prayed him at any rate to grant delay.
With tears and earnest supplications the prelate endeavored to avert or
to postpone the doom which had been pronounced. It was in vain. The
sentence, inflexible as destiny, had been long before ordained. Its
execution had been but hastened by the temporary triumph of rebellion in
Friesland. Alva told the Bishop roughly that he had not been summoned to
give advice. Delay or pardon was alike impossible. He was to act as
confessor to the criminals, not as councillor to the Viceroy. The
Bishop, thus rebuked, withdrew to accomplish his melancholy mission.
Meanwhile, on the same evening, the miserable Countess of Egmont had been
appalled by rumors, too vague for belief, too terrible to be slighted.
She was in the chamber of Countess Aremberg, with whom she had come to
condole for the death of the Count, when the order for the immediate
execution of her own husband was announced to her. She hastened to the
presence of the Governor-General. The Princess Palatine, whose ancestors
had been emperors, remembered only that she was a wife and a mother. She
fell at the feet of the man who controlled the fate of her husband, and
implored his mercy in humble and submissive terms. The Duke, with calm
and almost incredible irony, reassured the Countess by the information
that, on the morrow, her husband was certainly to be released. With this
ambiguous phrase, worthy the paltering oracles of antiquity, the wretched
woman was obliged to withdraw. Too soon afterward the horrible truth of
the words was revealed to her--words of doom, which she had mistaken for
consolation.
An hour before midnight the Bishop of Ypres reached Egmont's prison.
The Count was confined in a chamber on the second story of the Brood-huis,
the mansion of the crossbowmen's guild, in that corner of the building
which rests on a narrow street running back from the great square.
He was aroused from his sleep by the approach of his visitor. Unable to
speak, but indicating by the expression of his features the occurrence of
a great misfortune, the Bishop, soon after his entrance, placed the paper
given to him by Alva in Egmont's hands. The unfortunate noble thus
suddenly received the information that his death-sentence had been
pronounced, and that its execution was fixed for the next morning.
He read the paper through without flinching, and expressed astonishment
rather than dismay at its tidings. Exceedingly sanguine by nature, he
had never believed, even after his nine months' imprisonment, in a fatal
termination to the difficulties in which he was involved. He was now
startled both at the sudden condemnation which had followed his lingering
trial, and at the speed with which his death was to fulfil the sentence.
He asked the Bishop, with many expressions of amazement, whether pardon
was impossible; whether delay at least might not be obtained? The
prelate answered by a faithful narrative of the conversation which had
just occurred between Alva and himself. Egmont, thus convinced of his
inevitable doom, then observed to his companion, with exquisite courtesy,
that, since he was to die, he rendered thanks both to God and to the Duke
that his last moments were to be consoled by so excellent a father
confessor.
Afterwards, with a natural burst of indignation, he exclaimed that it was
indeed a cruel and unjust sentence. He protested that he had never in
his whole life wronged his Majesty; certainly never so deeply as to
deserve such a punishment. All that he had done had been with loyal
intentions. The King's true interest had been his constant aim.
Nevertheless, if he had fallen into error, he prayed to God that his
death might wipe away his misdeeds, and that his name might not be
dishonored, nor his children brought to shame. His beloved wife and
innocent children were to endure misery enough by his death and the
confiscation of his estates. It was at least due to his long services
that they should be spared further suffering. He then asked his father
confessor what advice he had to give touching his present conduct. The
Bishop replied by an exhortation, that he should turn himself to God;
that he should withdraw his thoughts entirely from all earthly interests,
and prepare himself for the world beyond the grave. He accepted the
advice, and kneeling before the Bishop, confessed himself. He then asked
to receive the sacrament, which the Bishop administered, after the
customary mass. Egmont asked what prayer would be most appropriate at
the hour of execution. His confessor replied that there was none more
befitting than the one which Jesus had taught his disciples--Our Father,
which art in heaven.
Some conversation ensued, in which the Count again expressed his
gratitude that his parting soul had been soothed by these pious and
friendly offices. By a revulsion of feeling, he then bewailed again the
sad fate of his wife and of his young children. The Bishop entreated him
anew to withdraw his mind from such harrowing reflections, and to give
himself entirely to God. Overwhelmed with grief, Egmont exclaimed with
natural and simple pathos--"Alas! how miserable and frail is our nature,
that, when we should think of God only, we are unable to shut out the
images of wife and children."
Recovering from his emotion, and having yet much time, he sat down and
wrote with perfect self-possession two letters, one to Philip and one to
Alva. The celebrated letter to the King was as follows:
"SIRE,--I have learned, this evening, the sentence which your
Majesty has been pleased to pronounce upon me. Although I have
never had a thought, and believe myself never to have done a deed,
which could tend to the prejudice of your Majesty's person or
service, or to the detriment of our true ancient and Catholic
religion, nevertheless I take patience to bear that which it has
pleased the good God to send. If, during these troubles in the
Netherlands, I have done or permitted aught which had a different
appearance, it has been with the true and good intent to serve God
and your Majesty, and the necessity of the times. Therefore, I pray
your Majesty to forgive me, and to have compassion on my poor wife,
my children, and my servants; having regard to my past services.
In which hope I now commend myself to the mercy of God.
"From Brussels,
"Ready to die, this 5th June, 1568,
"Your Majesty's very humble and loyal vassal and servant,
"LAMORAL D'EGMONT."
Having thus kissed the murderous hand which smote him, he handed the
letter, stamped rather with superfluous loyalty than with Christian
forgiveness, to the Bishop, with a request that he would forward it to
its destination, accompanied by a letter from his own hand. This duty
the Bishop solemnly promised to fulfil.
Facing all the details of his execution with the fortitude which belonged
to his character, he now took counsel with his confessor as to the
language proper for him to hold from the scaffold to the assembled
people. The Bishop, however, strongly dissuaded him from addressing the
multitude at all.
The persons farthest removed, urged the priest, would not hear the words,
while the Spanish troops in the immediate vicinity would not understand
them. It seemed, therefore, the part of wisdom and of dignity for him to
be silent, communing only with his God. The Count assented to this
reasoning, and abandoned his intention of saying a few farewell words to
the people, by many of whom he believed himself tenderly beloved. He now
made many preparations for the morrow, in order that his thoughts, in the
last moments, might not be distracted by mechanical details, cutting the
collar from his doublet and from his shirt with his own hands, in order
that those of the hangman might have no excuse for contaminating his
person. The rest of the night was passed in prayer and meditation.
Fewer circumstances concerning the last night of Count Horn's life have
been preserved. It is, however, well ascertained that the Admiral
received the sudden news of his condemnation with absolute composure. He
was assisted at his devotional exercises in prison by the curate of La
Chapelle.
During the night, the necessary preparations for the morning tragedy had
been made in the great square of Brussels. It was the intention of
government to strike terror to the heart of the people by the exhibition
of an impressive and appalling spectacle. The absolute and irresponsible
destiny which ruled them was to be made manifest by the immolation of
these two men, so elevated by rank, powerful connexion, and distinguished
service.
The effect would be heightened by the character of the, locality where
the gloomy show was to be presented. The great square of Brussels had
always a striking and theatrical aspect. Its architectural effects,
suggesting in some degree the meretricious union between Oriental and a
corrupt Grecian art, accomplished in the medieval midnight, have amazed
the eyes of many generations. The splendid Hotel de Ville, with its
daring spire and elaborate front, ornamented one side of the place;
directly opposite was the graceful but incoherent facade of the Brood-
huis, now the last earthly resting-place of the two distinguished
victims, while grouped around these principal buildings rose the
fantastic palaces of the Archers, Mariners, and of other guilds, with
their festooned walls and toppling gables bedizened profusely with
emblems, statues, and quaint decorations. The place had been alike the
scene of many a brilliant tournament and of many a bloody execution.
Gallant knights had contended within its precincts, while bright eyes
rained influence from all those picturesque balconies and decorated
windows. Martyrs to religious and to political liberty had, upon the
same spot, endured agonies which might have roused every stone of its
pavement to mutiny or softened them to pity. Here Egmont himself, in
happier days, had often borne away the prize of skill or of valor, the
cynosure of every eye; and hence, almost in the noon of a life
illustrated by many brilliant actions, he was to be sent, by the
hand of tyranny, to his great account.
On the morning of the 5th of June, three thousand Spanish troops were
drawn up in battle array around a scaffold which had been erected in the
centre of the square. Upon this scaffold, which was covered with black
cloth, were placed two velvet cushions, two iron spikes, and a small
table. Upon the table was a silver crucifix. The provost-marshal,
Spelle, sat on horseback below, with his red wand in his hand, little
dreaming that for him a darker doom was reserved than that of which he
was now the minister. The executioner was concealed beneath the
draperies of the scaffold.
At eleven o'clock, a company of Spanish soldiers, led by Julian Romero
and Captain Salinas, arrived at Egmont's chamber. The Count was ready
for them. They were about to bind his hands, but he warmly protested
against the indignity, and, opening the folds of his robe, showed them
that he had himself shorn off his collars, and made preparations for his
death. His request was granted. Egmont, with the Bishop at his side,
then walked with a steady step the short distance which separated him
from the place of execution. Julian Romero and the guard followed him.
On his way, he read aloud the fifty-first Psalm: "Hear my cry, O God, and
give ear unto my prayer!" He seemed to have selected these scriptural
passages as a proof that, notwithstanding the machinations of his
enemies, and the cruel punishment to which they had led him, loyalty to
his sovereign was as deeply rooted and as religious a sentiment in his
bosom as devotion to his God. "Thou wilt prolong the King's life; and
his years as many generations. He shall abide before God for ever!
O prepare mercy and truth which may preserve him." Such was the
remarkable prayer of the condemned traitor on his way to the block.
Having ascended the scaffold, he walked across it twice or thrice. He
was dressed in a tabard or robe of red damask, over which was thrown a
short black mantle, embroidered in gold. He had a black silk hat, with
black and white plumes, on his head, and held a handkerchief in his hand.
As he strode to and fro, he expressed a bitter regret that he had not
been permitted to die, sword in hand, fighting for his country and his
king. Sanguine to the last, he passionately asked Romero, whether the
sentence was really irrevocable, whether a pardon was not even then to be
granted. The marshal shrugged his shoulders, murmuring a negative reply.
Upon this, Egmont gnashed his teeth together, rather in rage than
despair. Shortly afterward commanding himself again, he threw aside his
robe and mantle, and took the badge of the Golden Fleece from his neck.
Kneeling, then, upon one of the cushions, he said the Lord's Prayer
aloud, and requested the Bishop, who knelt at his side, to repeat it
thrice. After this, the prelate gave him the silver crucifix to kiss,
and then pronounced his blessing upon him. This done, the Count rose
again to his feet, laid aside his hat and handkerchief, knelt again upon
the cushion, drew a little cap over his eyes, and, folding his hands
together, cried with a loud voice, "Lord, into Thy hands I commit my
spirit." The executioner then suddenly appeared, and severed his head
from his shoulders at a single blow.
A moment of shuddering silence succeeded the stroke. The whole vast
assembly seemed to have felt it in their own hearts. Tears fell from the
eyes even of the Spanish soldiery, for they knew and honored Egmont as a
valiant general. The French embassador, Mondoucet, looking upon the
scene from a secret place, whispered that he had now seen the head fall
before which France had twice trembled. Tears were even seen upon the
iron cheek of Alva, as, from a window in a house directly opposite the
scaffold, he looked out upon the scene.
A dark cloth was now quickly thrown over the body and the blood, and,
within a few minutes, the Admiral was seen advancing through the crowd.
His bald head was uncovered, his hands were unbound. He calmly saluted
such of his acquaintances as he chanced to recognize upon his path. Under
a black cloak, which he threw off when he had ascended the scaffold, he
wore a plain, dark doublet, and he did not, like Egmont, wear the
insignia of the Fleece. Casting his eyes upon the corpse, which lay
covered with the dark cloth, he asked if it were the body of Egmont.
Being answered in the affirmative, he muttered a few words in Spanish,
which were not distinctly audible. His attention was next caught by the
sight of his own coat of arms reversed, and he expressed anger at this
indignity to his escutcheon, protesting that he had not deserved the
insult. He then spoke a few words to the crowd below, wishing them
happiness, and begging them to pray for his soul. He did not kiss the
crucifix, but he knelt upon the scaffold to pray, and was assisted in his
devotions by the Bishop of Ypres. When they were concluded, he rose
again to his feet. Then drawing a Milan cap completely over his face,
and uttering, in Latin, the same invocation which Egmont had used, he
submitted his neck to the stroke.