There were several courses open to the Crusaders. They might retake Edessa, and so establish again that formidable outpost as a bulwark to the kingdom. They might strengthen the hands of Raymond, and so make up for the loss of Edessa. They might take Ascalon, always a thorn in the side of the realm; or they might strike out a new line altogether, and win glory for themselves by an entirely new conquest, an exploit of danger and honour. Most unfortunately, they resolved upon the last, and determined on taking the city of Damascus. Such a feat of arms commended itself naturally to the rough fighting men. They despised Jocelyn; they resented the treatment of Raymond; and therefore they could not be got to see that to strengthen the hands of either of these was to strengthen the power of the Christians, while to conquer new lands was to increase their weakness and multiply the hatred and thirst of revenge of their enemies. And with that want of foresight which always distinguished the Crusaders, they followed up their resolution by immediate action, and started on their new enterprise with the eagerness of children, in spite of a burning July sun. The King of Jerusalem marched first, because his men knew the roads. Next came King Louis, with his French, and lastly, the Germans, under Conrad. On the west side of Damascus lay its famous gardens, and it was determined first to attack the city from this side. The paths were narrow, and behind the bushes were men armed with spears, which they poked through at the invaders as they passed. The brick walls which hedged in the gardens were perforated, with a similar object. There was thus a considerable amount of fighting to be done in dislodging these hidden enemies before the Christians managed to make themselves masters of the position.[position.] It was done at last, all the leaders having performed the usual prodigies of strength and valour—Conrad himself cut a gigantic Saracen right through the body, so that his head, neck, shoulder, and left arm fell off together, a clean sweep indeed—and the Damascenes gave themselves up for lost. And then happened a very singular and inexplicable circumstance. The Christians deliberately abandoned a position which had cost them so much to win, and resolved to cross over the river to the other side, where they were persuaded that the attack would be much easier. They went across. They found themselves without water, without provisions, and in a far worse position for the siege than before. The Damascenes received reinforcements, closed up the approaches to the gardens, and quietly waited the course of events. There was nothing left but to retreat; and the Christians, breaking up their camp in the middle of the night, retreated, or rather fled, in disgrace and confusion. This was the end of the second Crusade.
Why did they leave the gardens? Many answers, all pointing to treachery, were given to the question. Some said that Thierry of Flanders wanted the city, and because the chiefs would not promise it to him, preferred seeing it remain in the hands of the enemy, and so became a traitor. Others told how the Templars arranged the whole matter for three great casks full of gold byzants, which, when they were examined, turned out to be all copper. Raymond of Antioch, according to a third story, managed the false counsels out of revenge to the king. And so on. Talk everywhere, treachery somewhere, that was clear, because treachery was in the Syrian air, and because knights, and barons, and priests were all alike selfish and interested, rogues and cheats—all but King Baldwin. “Whoever were the traitors,” says the historian, “let them learn that sooner or later they shall be rewarded according to their merits, unless the Lord deign to extend them his mercy.” He evidently inclines to the hope that mercy will not be extended to them.
Disgusted with a people who would not be served, and wearied of broken promises and faithless oaths, the chiefs of the Crusade made haste to shake off the dust of their feet, and to leave the doomed kingdom to its fate. Some of their men remained behind, a reinforcement which enabled Baldwin to keep up his courage and show a bold front to the enemy so long as his life lasted.
Nûr-ed-dín, directly they were gone, invaded Antioch, and Raymond was killed in one of the small skirmishes which took place. At this time, too, Jocelyn of Edessa fell into the hands of the Turks, and was put into prison. It was almost impossible for Baldwin to defend Antioch alone. Nevertheless, he held it manfully, and it was not till after his time that it was ceded to the Greeks, who in their turn surrendered it to the Turks. Tripoli, the count of which town was himself assassinated, remained the only bulwark of the kingdom. The eyes of Palestine were turned again upon Europe. But from Europe little help could now be expected. Louis, returning defeated and inglorious, had been hailed as a conqueror. Medals were struck in his honour, with the lying legend—
Regi invicto ab Oriente reduci
Frementes lætitiâ cives.
And, though he promised to lead another Crusade, his conscience was appeased by his pilgrimage, and his love of praise was satisfied by the honours he received. Therefore he went no more. Moreover, two new methods of crusading were discovered, nearer home, and far more profitable. In the north of Germany lay a large and fertile country, inhabited wholly by pagans. Why not conquer that, and reduce so fair a land to Christianity? And in Spain, so close at hand for pious Frenchmen, were vast provinces, rich beyond measure, all in the hands of those very Saracens whom they were asked to go all the way to Palestine in order to fight. And then there died both Bernard and Suger, the sagacious Suger, who saw the disgrace which had fallen on the Christian arms, and wished to repair it by sending out another army in place of that which Louis had madly thrown away.
The boundaries of poor young Baldwin’s kingdom were greatly contracted. Nothing now remained but what we may call Palestine proper, with a dubious and tottering hold on a few outlying towns. Fifty years had been sufficient to turn the sons of the rough and straight-forward soldiers of Godfrey, whose chief fault seems to have been their ungovernable fits of rage, into crafty and double-faced Syrians, slothful and sensual, careless of aught but their own interests, and brave only when glory, to which they still clung, could be got out of it. Nor was the kingdom itself free from discord and variance. Queen Milicent retained her authority, nor could she be persuaded to give it up. It was the most monstrous thing—it shows, however, how the feudal ideas had become corrupted—that she should insist on holding part of the realm in her own name. She did so, however, giving Baldwin Tyre as his principal place, and retaining Jerusalem as her own. She had a following of barons, who preferred, for many reasons, to be under the rule of a woman. The reins of government were confided to her own cousin, one Manasseh, and Baldwin had the mortification of finding himself in times of peace, few enough, it is true, only the second man in a country of which he was the nominal king. He claimed his rights; these were refused. He besieged Manasseh in his castle; he even besieged his mother in hers. The patriarch acted as mediator, and, after long negotiations, a compromise was effected, by which Milicent, more fortunate than her equally ambitious sister, Alice of Antioch, received the city of Nablous to hold as her own for the rest of her life.
It was during these negotiations, or at their close, that the king held a great council at Tripoli on the state of the kingdom. And it was while the council was sitting that Count Raymond was assassinated—no one knew at whose instigation, because the murderers were instantly cut to pieces.
The Turks made an attempt upon the kingdom of Jerusalem itself, and while the knights were gone to defend Nablous, they encamped on the Mount of Olives. Then the people of Jerusalem went out, as full of courage as Gideon’s three hundred, and drove them off with great slaughter. Their success—success was now so rare—raised the spirits of all the Christians, and the king resolved to follow it up by laying siege to that old enemy of Christendom, Ascalon, which was to Jerusalem even as the mound which Diabolus raised up against the city of Mansoul in Bunyan’s allegory. It was in 1153 that this strong place, which ought to have been in the hands of the Christians fifty years before, had it not been for the jealousy of Count Raymond, fell at last. Baldwin marched against it with all the forces he could command. A fleet watched the port from the sea, while the siege was hurried on by land. Every ship that brought pilgrims was ordered to proceed southwards, and the pilgrims were pressed into the service. Nevertheless, the work went on slowly, and after more than four months, reinforcements were received from Egypt, and the besieged were as confident as ever. Accident gave the Christians the town. They had a moveable tower, higher than the walls, with which they were able to annoy the enemy almost with impunity. One day, when it was laid alongside the wall, the besieged threw a vast quantity of wood, on which they poured oil and sulphur, between the ramparts and the town. This they set fire to; but, unfortunately for themselves, without first considering which way the wind was blowing. It was a strong east wind, and the flames were blown towards the walls. They blazed all day and all night, and when they ceased, at length, the stones were calcined, and that portion of the wall about the fire fell down with a crash. The Christians wanted nothing more. At daybreak the soldiers were awakened by hearing the noise, and rushed towards the spot. They were too late. The Templars were already crowding in at the breach, and, in order to get all the plunder for themselves, these chivalrous knights had stationed men to prevent the army from following them.