But a bitter vengeance was taken. Robert of Normandy, snatching his white banner, drove through the densest ranks of the foe with the watchword of “Deus vult!” followed by Tancred, who was made doubly valiant by having seen his brother William fall, pierced with arrows. The captives were rescued, but the crusaders were exhausted, and retired in despair behind the stockade of their camp. At noon, however, the air was rent with new trumpet-calls. The hilltop shone with the armor of the knights under Godfrey. The charge of this redoubtable warrior and fifty chosen comrades broke upon the Turks like a thunderbolt. The opportune arrival of Raymond gave the crusaders fifty thousand fresh horsemen, who pursued the now panic-stricken enemy over the mountain. Three thousand Turkish officers and a measureless multitude of men were slain. The camp of Kilidge-Arslan was taken, and the crusaders pursued their way, laden with provision and treasures. Mounted on the horses of their foes, they pursued the flying remnant. To complete the enthusiasm of victory, it was alleged that St. George and St. Demetrius had been seen fighting in the Christian ranks. For many generations the peasants of that neighborhood believed that once a year St. George, on horseback, with lance in hand, could be seen by the worshippers in the little church which was erected on the spot to commemorate his timely apparition.
The crusaders marched from the field of Dorylæum to new terrors, against which it was not the province of sword or lance to contend. The scattered Turks devastated the country along the line of march. Neither field nor bin was left to be plundered. The roots of wild plants were at times the only food of the pursuers. The July sun, always terrific in what the ancients called “burning Phrygia,” beat upon them with unusual balefulness. Falcons, which the knights had brought along to relieve the tedium of the journey, fell dead from their masters’ arms. Many women gave untimely birth to offspring, which perished in their first efforts to inhale the hot atmosphere. Five hundred of the hapless multitude died between a sunrise and sunset. One day some dogs, which had wandered off, returned with moist sand upon their paw’s and coats; they had found water. Following the trail of the brutes, the soldiers discovered a mountain stream. The men plunged into it and drank so abundantly that the multitude became water drunk; thus three hundred perished with the fever flush of new-found life.
Passing through Cilicia, the advance under Tancred captured Tarsus, the birthplace of St. Paul. But Baldwin, brother of Godfrey, contested with Tancred the honor of its possession and a share of its spoil. Tancred refused to allow either his own men or those of Baldwin to loot the place, saying that he had not taken arms to pillage Christians. His flag was torn from the ramparts and flung into the ditch. By a display of moral courage equal to his physical prowess, Tancred restrained his resentment, that the Christian host might not be divided. Baldwin, left in possession of a part of the town, refused admission to a company of crusaders, who, thus left exposed without the walls, were massacred by the Turks. Popular indignation ran high against Baldwin, which he ultimately assuaged by taking a horrible vengeance upon the Turks remaining in Tarsus, not one of whom he left alive.
The crusaders at Tarsus received reinforcements by the arrival of a fleet of Flemish and Dutch pirates, who, by the bribe of expected spoil, were induced to sew the cross upon their garments.
Leaving a garrison in this city, Baldwin followed eastward in the track of Tancred, whom he overtook at Malmistra. The rage of the soldiers of Tancred against him could not be checked by the mild counsel of their leader, whom they taunted with weakness. For once the self-restraint of Tancred gave way. He led his men against Baldwin. A pitched battle ensued, followed on the morrow by the embrace of the leaders in the presence of their troops, and vows to expiate their mutual offences in fresh blood of the common enemy.
The popularity of Tancred ill suited the ambition of his rival. Baldwin, seemingly stung by the withdrawal of the confidence of his brethren, nursed the project of leaving the crusading army and setting up a kingdom for himself. He offered his aid to Thoros, the Armenian Prince of Edessa, in Mesopotamia, who was at that time warring on his own account against the Turks beyond the Euphrates. None of the crusading chiefs seconded Baldwin’s project. With eighty knights and one thousand foot-soldiers, he traversed the deserts. Upon his arrival at Edessa, in the strange custom of the country the aged Thoros and his wife pressed the count to their naked breasts, thus acknowledging him as son by adoption. The fable of him who had warmed a serpent in his bosom only to feel its sting was repeated in this case. With Baldwin’s knowledge, if not with his connivance, an insurrection was stirred against Thoros, which resulted in his being flung from the wall of his own castle.
Baldwin, thus installed in chief authority, confirmed his hold upon the people by marrying an Armenian princess. All Mesopotamia acknowledged him, and a Frankish knight was seen reigning on the Euphrates over the richest part of ancient Assyria.
The defection of Baldwin was not ultimately detrimental to the crusades, since his kingdom made a barrier on the north and east against the Turkish and Saracenic hordes, and prevented their interfering more readily with the Christians’ march upon Jerusalem, of which Baldwin himself was one day to be king.
CHAPTER XIV.
BEFORE ANTIOCH.
The crusading hosts passed, with incredible toil and suffering, through the remainder of Asia Minor. The perils of the Taurus chain of mountains nearly brought them to despair. Borne down with their heavy arms, encumbered with thousands of women and children, they passed along paths which the practised feet of mountaineers were alone fitted to tread. In the defiles were left many who could not climb the precipitous rocks, which thus became the walls of their tomb. At the base of the palisades were heaps of armor, which their wearers were too spiritless to recover. But in spite of the despair of many, the leaders evidently did not leave the spoil of war to rust or decay in the cañons of the Taurus. Stephen of Blois wrote to his wife a few weeks later than the events we are describing: “You may know for certain, my beloved, that of gold, silver, and many other kinds of riches I now have twice as much as your love had assigned to me when I left you.”