Jerusalem, the City of Herod and Saladin

by Walter Besant; Edward Henry Palmer

Vir homicida, reus, nomine sanguineus.”

[64]. The chroniclers wrote his name Sanguin.

King Baldwin won his spurs while yet a boy, first by a short and successful expedition beyond the Jordan, and next by his Quixotic attempt on the town of Bozrah, in the Hauran. It was an attempt undertaken in haste and without reflection, and doomed from the outset to failure. A certain Armenian, governor of the town, influenced probably by some private motives of revenge, came to Jerusalem and offered to put the town in the hands of the Christians, if they wished to have it. There was still lingering, in spite of the fall of Edessa, some remains of the old spirit of conquest, and, regardless of the dangers which hovered round the kingdom, and of the pressing necessity for consolidating all their strength for purposes of defence, the Christians tumultuously demanded to be led to the attack, and an army was called together. Baldwin went with them. The troops assembled in the north and started full of vainglorious confidence. On the second day they found themselves surrounded with clouds of enemies, who assailed them with showers of darts. The country was a desert; as the only means of getting water the people had formed artificial cisterns, in which the winter rains were stored. But they were filled with dead bodies of locusts, and the water was too bad even for men parched with thirst. The Christians struggled on. They arrived at Edrei. Here, at least, they would get water. But at Edrei as well the water was all stored in large cisterns. They let down buckets by ropes: men hidden below cut the ropes. For four days they pressed on, however, while the enemy was reinforced hourly, and by day and night a continuous hail-storm of arrows and projectiles was showered into the camp, so that neither man nor beast among the Christians escaped without some wound. On the fourth day, they were cheered by the sight of the town of Bozrah, and by the discovery of certain small rills of water, which they fought for, and won at the cost of many lives. But in the dead of night a messenger of very evil tidings came into the camp. The wife of the Armenian had refused to be a partner in her husband’s treachery: the enemy occupied the city in force, and all hope was to be given over of taking it by storm. Then the Christians despaired. Some of them advised the king to mount the fleetest horse—that of John Gomain—in the camp, and make his way back alone, so that at least his life might have a chance of being saved. But Baldwin, brave boy that he was, refused. He had not had the stories of valiant knights read to him for nothing. He would remain with his army and share their fate. At break of day the camp was broken up and the retreat commenced. Orders were given to lay the dead and the wounded, as they fell, on the beasts of burden, so that the enemy might not know the havoc they were making, and then, for Nûr-ed-dín was already on the alert, they started on their disastrous and melancholy retreat. The heat was oppressive; there was no water; clouds of dust hung over the little army; clouds of Saracens rode round them firing arrows into their midst. And yet the Christians moved on in good order. More wonderful still, there was not a single dead body behind them. Were they, then, protected by some unknown power? The Saracens hesitated. Thinking that their arrows had no effect, and ignorant of the ghastly load under which the camels were groaning, they tried another method. The whole country was covered with dry bushes and grass. They set fire to it, and the wind blew the flames and smoke directly upon the Christians. And then the people turned to Archbishop Robert of Nazareth, who bore the Holy Cross, “Pray for us, father, pray for us in the name of the wood of the Cross that you hear in your hands, for we can no longer bear our sufferings.” It was high time that Robert should pray: the faces and hands of the army were blackened with smoke and dust; “they were like blacksmiths working at the forge:” their throats were dry with heat and thirst.

The archbishop prayed, and at his prayer the wind shifted, and the flames were blown towards the enemy. The Christians resolved to send a messenger to the Saracens. They chose a knight who had been suspected of treachery, but they had no other choice, because he alone spoke the language of the enemy. They asked him if he would faithfully perform his mission. “I am suspected,” he said, “unjustly. I will go where you wish me. If I am guilty of the crime you impute to me, may I never return—may I perish by the enemy’s weapons!” He went, but before he had gone far the poor wretch fell dead, pierced by a hundred arrows.

Then the Christians pressed on. Arrived near Damascus, the Emir of that city sent a messenger to them. If they would halt, he would feed and entertain them all. Worn, thirsty, and wearied as they were, they suspected his loyalty, and hurried on. In after times it was related that a knight, whom none had seen before, appeared every morning at the head of the army, guided them during the day by roads unknown to the enemy, and disappeared at night. Doubtless, St. George. We have said before that the time for saints’ help ended with Godfrey. A saint appears again, it is true, but with how great a change! the last time Saint George fought for the Christians, he led them on to victory after victory. Now he shows them a way by which, broken down and utterly beaten, they can escape with their lives.

There was great rejoicing in Jerusalem when the remnant of the army, with the young king, came back. Those who had been wont to sing psalms for the defeat of the enemy, sang them now for the safe return of the defeated king. “This our son,” they chanted, “was dead, and is alive again: he was lost, and is found.”

After the death of Zanghi, who had repeopled the city of Edessa, the ill-advised Jocelyn instigated the people to revolt against their new masters. All the Turks in the place were put to death, and Jocelyn, once more reinstated in the city of his father, sent messengers in all directions, asking for help. No help came, for it was impossible that any one should send help. Nûr-ed-dín came to the town with ten thousand men before Jocelyn had held it for a week. He vowed to exterminate the Christians, and these were too few in number to make any resistance. They threw open the gates, and all sallied forth together, with the resolution to fight their way through the beleaguering army. Jocelyn got through, and, with a few knights, reached Samosata in safety. The rest of the people were all massacred.

Some years after this, Jocelyn himself was taken prisoner, and spent the rest of his life, nine years, in captivity, far enough removed from any chance of indulging in those vices which had ruined him, and perilled the realm. It was a fitting end to a career which might have been glorious, if glory is a thing to desire; which might have assured the safety of the Christian kingdom, if, which is a thing to be questioned, the Christian kingdom was worth saving.

And now hostilities on both sides seem to have been for a time suspended, for the news reached the East how another Crusade had been preached in the West, and gigantic armies were already moving eastwards to protect the realm, and reconquer the places which had been lost. Signs, too, were not wanting which, though they might be interpreted to signify disaster, could yet be read the other way. A comet, for instance; this might portend evil for the Saracens—Heaven grant it was intended to strike terror into their hearts. But what could be said of the lightning which struck, of all places in the world, the very church of the Holy Sepulchre itself? Nothing but the anger of God could be inferred from a manifestation so clear, and the hearts of all were filled with terror and forebodings.

The details of the second Crusade, as it is called, unhappily resemble those of the first. It is not necessary that we should do more than follow the leading incidents which preceded the arrival of the soldiers—all who were left—in Palestine.