The Knights of St. John

by Augusta Theodosia Drane

It was on the morning of the 10th that the Turks, perceiving at length the importance of the Kahlenberg position, made a hasty movement of their troops to occupy it. But it was too late to repair their error. A few Saxon squadrons were forced forwards into line, and three guns brought to the summit. The Turks instantly retired; and the roar of those three pieces of artillery proclaimed to the ears of the distant citizens that their deliverance was at hand. The echo of that sound drew them to the walls; and the sight that met their eye on that distant ridge revived all their hopes. The morning sun sparkled on a bristling forest of lances and the pennons of the Polish hussars. Every moment the armed battalions might be seen gathering in greater numbers, as they climbed the last ascent, and formed in array of battle. There was a stir, too, in the camp of the Ottomans; and the vast masses of the Turkish troops swayed to and fro, then broke into three divisions. One seemed to prepare for conflict with the Polish force, and faced towards the mountains; another, composed of the camp-followers and other irregular combatants, might be seen securing their baggage, and moving off, with camels and horses, in the direction of the Hungarian frontier; whilst the third advanced to renew the assault on the city. It was a day of agonising suspense. The final struggle had not, indeed, as yet begun, but it was evidently close at hand; and whilst Kollonitsch called the women and the infirm to the churches, Stahremberg once more led the remains of his dauntless forces to the breach and the ramparts. By eleven o’clock on the morning of the 11th the main body of the army was formed into line on the ridge of the Kahlenberg, occupying the old castle and the little chapel before mentioned. Below them lay the vast plain of Austria, where stretched the enormous crescent of the Ottoman camp, sparkling with its gilded tents, and intrenched with lines of fortifications; whilst, close at the foot of the hill, and under cover of the forest and ravines, was drawn up a considerable portion of the hostile army. No movement was, however, made by either side; and both parties spent the remaining hours of the day in councils of war, and arrangements for the morrow. And so, whilst the rocket-signals of distress continued to rise from the city-walls, and were answered by blazing fires from the mountain, the eve of the great day closed in. Sobieski spent it in the saddle, and before night had ridden along and inspected the entire position of his forces.

The dawn of the autumn morning was breaking in the horizon. A thin mist rested on the crest of the Kahlenberg, and gathered in dense masses on the plain and river below. The eye of the Polish sentinels could catch the spire of St Stephen’s rising above that silvery cloud, whilst the darker masses of the city-walls were still veiled within its folds; and still unceasingly from that tapering tower there rose those fiery signals, which seemed to repeat, hour after hour, the words of Stahremberg’s last despatch: “No time to be lost.” It was a Sunday morning, as on the day of Lepanto,—an association not forgotten by the Christian host; and as the sun rose higher, and raised the curtain of mist that hung over the scene, life seemed to wake in the Turkish camp, and again the roar of their artillery was heard pouring its destructive fire upon the city, whilst their cavalry and the squadrons of the Tartars faced towards the mountain. The vizier was thus preparing for battle on either side of his encampment. But before we endeavour to follow the course of the conflict, let us pause on the heights of the Kahlenberg, and watch the scene that meets our eye among the forces of the Christian allies. Falling sweetly and gently through the morning air, there comes the echo of a bell from the chapel of the Margrave: its little steeple rises above the masses of forest-foliage, rich with autumn tints; and as the sound reaches the lines of the Polish troops, the clang of their arms, and the long reveille of their trumpets, are hushed in silence. Before the chapel-door is planted the Christian standard,—a red flag bearing a white cross; and as the symbol of their faith, and of the holy cause for which they are in arms, is displayed, a shout of enthusiasm bursts from the ranks, and is caught up again and again from every quarter of the mountain. But silence is restored, and all eyes turn in the direction of the old castle; and as its gates are suddenly flung open, you may see a procession of the princes of the empire, and of many a gallant and noble soldier from every nation of Christendom, moving forward to commend the cause of their arms to the God of battles. At the head of that column walks neither king nor prince, but the form of one with the brown habit, shaven crown, and sandalled feet, of a Capuchin friar. The soldiers cross themselves as he passes, and kneel to receive the blessing which he gives with outstretched hands. It is Marco Aviano, the confessor to the emperor, and one on whom there rests the character of a saint, and the reputation of prophetic gifts. He has been with the army in all its hours of difficulty and distress; he is with them now, to bless their arms, and to remind them of the cause for which they are about to fight. And close following him in the gorgeous procession, are three figures, that rivet you as you gaze. The first is one whose look instantly commands respect. He is past the prime of life, and there is something too much of portliness in his manly form; and yet the majesty of his bearing tells you at a glance that he is a hero and a king: that broad and noble forehead, that quick yet gentle eye, and the open look that mingles such simplicity with its command,—all bespeak no common man: it is the conqueror of Choczim and Podacksi. On his left is the young prince James, the father afterwards of the princess Clementina, whose marriage with the Chevalier of St. George mingled the blood of Sobieski with that of our own exiled Stuarts. His after-career was sad and inglorious; but now he marches by his father’s side, a gallant youth of sixteen, armed with helmet and breastplate, the pride and darling of the hero’s heart. On the right of the king is the form of Charles of Lorraine, plain and negligent in his attire; and yet, in spite of negligence, and even a slouching and unmilitary gait, you may tell, to use Sobieski’s words, “that he is no shopkeeper, but a man of note and distinction.” Then follow the sovereign princes of Germany. We will not weary our reader with a list of names. As our eye wanders over the royal and noble ranks, glittering with the insignia of their rank and military command, it rests on a slender youth of middle stature, whose eye has in it the promise of a future career of glory. Yes, you have guessed aright: the prince, his eldest brother, has already fallen in the cause; but Eugene of Savoy has escaped to draw his maiden sword in the defence of the faith, and to learn under Sobieski his first lessons of that science in which he was hereafter to share the battle-fields and renown of our own Marlborough. They enter the chapel: Aviano celebrates the Mass, which is served by Sobieski himself; and during the pauses in which he is not engaged at the altar, he is kneeling on the steps, his head bowed down, his arms extended in the form of a cross, and his whole soul absorbed in prayer. It is a spectacle which revives to your imagination the days of Dominic and de Montfort, and the consecration of the crusaders’ swords before the fight of Muret, as you see every individual in that princely and martial assembly kneeling in turn to receive the Bread of Life, whilst the thunder of the Turkish guns is even now sounding in their ears: they will soon be in the field, and, ere the sun is down, some of them will be lying there cold and dead. But they have fitted themselves for death; and at this moment, as you gaze on them, they seem full of that antique spirit of the elder chivalry, which has stamped its likeness on those tombs and sculptured effigies, making you doubt whether they who lie beneath were men of war or prayer.

The Mass is over. Aviano, in his priestly vestments, is standing at the chapel-door, with the crucifix in his hand. Raising it on high, he gives his solemn benediction to the troops, saying these words: “Soldiers, I announce to you, on the part of the Holy See, that if you have confidence in God, the victory is yours;” and then the last act of the religious ceremony is completed by a touching and beautiful incident. Prince James is led to the feet of his heroic father to receive the still honourable and sacred dignity of Christian knighthood. When this was done, the ardour of Sobieski became impatient of further delay. He sprang into his saddle, and riding forward to the front of the line, spoke to his followers in their own language: “Warriors and friends,” he said, “our enemies are yonder in the plain, in greater numbers than at Choczim, when we trampled them under our feet. We fight them on a foreign soil, but we fight for our country; and under the walls of Vienna we are defending those of Cracow and Warsaw. We have to save this day, not a single city, but Christendom itself: the war is therefore holy. There is a blessing on our arms, and a crown of glory for him who falls. You are not fighting for any earthly sovereign, but for the King of kings. It is He who has led you up these heights, and placed the victory in your hands. I have but one command to give: Follow me. The time is come for the young to win their spurs.” A tremendous shout from the ranks was the answer to this harangue; replied to from the distant enemy by cries of “Allah! Allah!” Then, pressing his horse to the mountain edge, Sobieski pointed to the plain below, to the rocks and precipices of the descent, and the moving masses of the enemy. “March on in confidence,” he cried: “God and His Blessed Mother are with us!” And as he spoke, five cannon-shots gave the signal for the advance. The ranks immediately commenced the descent; and Aviano turned back into the chapel to pray.

It was the original plan of the king to content himself this day with the descent of the Kahlenberg, and the secure establishment of the troops in position for battle on the morrow. Even his quick and ardent genius had proposed no such gigantic undertaking as the routing of the whole Turkish host, and the deliverance of the city, in the course of a few hours. The event of the day was scarcely so much the result of his own calculations as of the unforeseen circumstances by which the left wing of the army, under Lorraine, became engaged in a premature and desperate struggle with the right of the Turkish force, and thus brought on the necessity for a general action. The imperial troops descended the wooded ravines, driving their opponents before them, slowly but surely; for though the Turks obstinately defended every foot of ground, they were no match for their adversaries. The Christian army was arranged in order of battle in five distinct columns, which came down the mountain-side “like so many irresistible torrents, yet in admirable order,” stopping every hundred paces to enable those behind to come up to them, and preserve their ranks. Each ravine was found guarded and fortified, and was the scene of a separate conflict. The rocks, and groups of trees, and the thick tangle of the vineyards,—all formed so many covers for defence to the retreating Ottomans; but still, spite of all resistance on their parts, nothing could check the downward progress of those five mountain-torrents, which rolled on steadily and victoriously, sweeping all before them. The descent had commenced at eight o’clock, and by ten the left wing of the army was in the plain. Lorraine halted, by command of Sobieski, to enable the Polish troops to come up; and as each squadron issued from the mountain-defiles, it took up its position in the order of battle prescribed by the king, and planted its standard in the field. By this time, the hope of pushing the struggle to a decisive issue that day had suggested itself to the imperial commanders; and Field-Marshal Geltz, perceiving the progress of the Bavarians and Poles on the right and centre, observed to the Duke, that it would be his own fault if he did not that night sleep in Vienna. It was eleven o’clock: the burning sun had scattered all the mist of the morning, and the whole scene glittered in the noonday blaze. The heat was oppressive; and there was a pause in the movements of the imperial troops. Suddenly a cry ran along the line, caught up from regiment to regiment, “Live Sobieski!” Out from the wooded defiles of the Wienerberg flashed the gilded cuirasses of the Polish cavalry; and the bay horse and sky-blue doublet of the rider at their head announced the presence of the king. Before him went an attendant, bearing a shield emblazoned with his arms. Another rode near him, bearing the plumed lance of Poland: this, as it streamed above the heads of the combatants, always showed Sobieski’s place in the battle; and round it the fight always gathered the thickest; while his soldiers were accustomed to look to that white and waving signal as to the star of victory.

The rocks and broken ground in which they stood formed a vast and beautiful amphitheatre, carpeted with turf and dotted with noble trees. Under one of these Sobieski alighted; and, ordering his men to do the same, they took a hasty repast. It occupied but a few minutes; and then, the semicircular battle-line of the Christian columns forming in admirable order, the king rode round the whole body, speaking to each in their own language; for there were few European tongues of which he was not perfect master. The order was given for the whole line to advance. The Turks, profiting by the halt of their enemies, had brought up large reinforcements, commanded by the vizier in person. They were met by a furious charge from the Polish lancers, who at first drove all before them; but, led on by their impetuosity, and surrounded by the masses of the infidels, they were for a moment nearly overwhelmed. Their officers fell thick and fast. Waldech and his Bavarians came up to their rescue; but the struggle was still doubtful, when the second line and the imperial dragoons, with Sobieski at their head, came down on the squadrons of the Turks with a tremendous shock. Every thing gave way before them: on they went, through ravines and villages, and still, as they dashed on, they swept their foes from one outpost to another, nor drew their reins till they touched the glacis of the camp, and the gilded peaks of the Ottoman tents rose close before their eyes. Here the whole Turkish force was drawn up to receive them. The front of their line bristled with artillery; the flanks were strongly protected by fortifications hastily but skilfully raised.

It was five o’clock. “Sobieski,” says Salvandy, “had reckoned on sleeping on the field of battle, and deferring until next day the completion of the drama; for that which remained to be done scarcely seemed possible to be completed in a few hours, and with tired troops. Nevertheless the allies, in spite of the oppressiveness of the weather, were reanimated rather than exhausted by their march; whereas it was evident that consternation reigned in the Ottoman ranks. Far away were to be seen the long lines of the camels, hastily pressing forward on the road to Hungary: they might be tracked by the cloud of dust which darkened the horizon for miles.” The vizier alone showed confidence, as dangerous and unreasonable as was the panic of his followers. He counted on an easy triumph; and having, as a first step, ordered the slaughter of all his captives, including women and children, to the number of 30,000 souls, he appeared on the field mounted on a charger, whose accoutrements, glittering with gold, rendered the animal equally unserviceable for battle or for flight. But flight was the last idea that suggested itself to the mind of Kara Mustapha. Dismounted from his overloaded horse, he might have been seen seated in a damask tent, luxuriously drinking coffee with his two sons, as if he had but to look on at his ease, and watch the dispersion of his enemies. The sight stirred the choler of Sobieski. So rapid had been his advance, that he had no heavy artillery with him, save two or three light pieces, which Kouski had dragged on by the strong arm of his artillerymen. These the king ordered to be pointed at the brilliant tent, from which the vizier was now giving his orders; but the ammunition soon failed, and a French officer ingeniously rammed home the last cartridge with his wig, gloves, and a bundle of newspapers. We are not told the effect of this original discharge; but at that moment the infantry came up under Maligni, the king’s brother-in-law, and were instantly despatched to a height which commanded the position of the vizier. A vigorous attack soon carried them beyond the outposts, and planted them on the redoubts. Then a wavering hesitation was observed in the crowded ranks of the Mussulmans, which caught the quick eye of Sobieski, and decided the fate of the day. “They are lost men,” he cried; “let the whole line advance.” And as he led them in person right for the vizier’s tent, his terrible presence was recognised by the infidels. “By Allah, the king is with them!” exclaimed the Khan of the Crimea; and every eye was turned in terror towards the spot where the dancing feathers of that snow-white plume carried victory wherever they appeared. Sobieski had sent word to Lorraine to attack the centre, and leave him to finish the disordered masses in his front. Then, surrounded by his hussars, and preceded by his emblazoned shield and the plume-bearing lance which distinguished his place in the battle, he brandished his sword in the foremost rank, calling aloud, in the words of the royal prophet, “Not unto us, not unto us, O Lord God of hosts, but to Thy name give the glory!” The enthusiasm of his presence excited his troops to prodigies of valour; his name rang through the plain; and, as the infidels quailed and gave way before the charges of his cavalry, led on by their glorious chief, a bloody token appeared in the evening sky, which struck a supernatural dread into their hearts. It was an eclipse of the moon, and the heavens themselves seemed fighting against the host of the Ottomans. “God defend Poland!” the national cry, now sounded from the advancing columns of a fresh body of troopers. They came on at full gallop, the other squadrons joining in their desperate charge. Palatines, senators, and nobles, they fell with headlong impetuosity on the masses of their foes; and such was the fury of their attack, that as man and horse went down before their lances, the huge body of the Ottomans was cleft in twain, and a road, as it were, cut in their centre, formed by the passage of the Christian troops. The shock was so terrible, that nearly every lance of the Polish squadrons was snapped asunder; those lances of which one of their nobles once said, that should the heavens fall, they would bear them up upon their points.

The Turks could offer no further resistance, and there was but one thought among their ranks, and that was flight: their very numbers, instead of strengthening, only embarrassed them. The vizier, but an hour before so proud and confident, was borne along in the panic-stricken crowd, weeping and cursing by turns. In the mêlée he came across the Khan of the Crimea, himself among the foremost of the fugitives. “You, too,” he said bitterly, “can you do nothing to help me?” “The King of Poland is behind,” was his reply; “there is but one thing left for us. Look at the sky, too, and see if God be not against us;” and he pointed to the bloody moon, which, close to the horizon, presented a ghastly spectacle to the eyes of the terror-stricken infidel. And so the tide of flight and of pursuit swept on: conquered, terrified, and not daring to raise their eyes from the earth, the Mussulman army no longer existed. The cause of Europe, of Christendom, and of civilisation, had triumphed; the floods of the Ottoman power were checked, and rolled backwards, never to rise again.

An hour only had passed since the fight began; and when it closed, Sobieski was standing within the vizier’s tent. The charger, with its golden caparisons, was led to him by a slave, who held its bridle, before the door of the pavilion. Taking one of its golden stirrups, the king gave it in charge to a courier to bear to the queen, as a token of the defeat and flight of its owner.[70] Then his standards were planted in the camp, and a wild and stormy night closed over the field of battle.

Meanwhile there had been an action as desperate, and as successful in its result to the Christian arms, on the breach of Vienna. The storming party was repulsed by the determined valour of Stahremberg and his shattered yet heroic followers. And when the Turks gave way, and Louis of Baden pushed on towards the Scottish Gate, the garrison, sallying from the walls, and mingling with his dragoons, fell on the main body of the Janizaries occupying the trenches of the enemy, and cut them all to pieces.

The king passed the night under a tree; and after fourteen hours spent in the saddle, his sleep was sound and heavy. The sunrise broke over a scene of strange and melancholy confusion. The Ottoman camp, so lately glittering in all its oriental splendour, was now deserted by its occupants, and bore in every direction the traces of their ferocious cruelty. As the Poles marched through it, they trod over the bodies of the Christian captives murdered in cold blood. Every woman attached to the camp had suffered a similar fate. Nor was this all; for camels and horses were found slaughtered in great numbers, lest they should fall alive into the hands of the victors; nay, it is said, the vizier had beheaded an ostrich with his own scimitar, that it might never own a Christian for its master. The camp, with its silken pavilion, and all its riches, was one vast charnel-house. The horrors of the scene were heightened by the signs of luxury that every where met the eye. The baths and fountains, the tissues and gay carpetings, the jewelled arms and ornaments, with which the ground was strewn, contrasted strangely with the heaps of ghastly corpses that lay piled around.