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Rh alluded to had been recognized, but many commanders retained the old spirit of chivalry in their reluctance to say the “loth word.” The gallant Marshal d’Essé, who feared nothing but the idea of dying in his bed, was lying ill at his country house when he was sent for by the king. He was ordered to take command at Thérouanne, then threatened by Charles V., and made his farewell with these words, which remind us somewhat of Grenville: “Sire, je m’y en vais donc de bon et loyal cœur; mais j’ai ouï dire que la place est mal envitaillée, non pas seulement pourvue de palles, de tranches, ni de hottes pour remparer et remuer la terre; mais lors, quand entendrez que Thérouanne est prise, dites hardiment que d’Essé est guéri de sa jaunisse et mort.” And he made good his word, for he was killed at the breach by a shot from the arquebus of a Spanish soldier.

Sometimes the ardour of defence inspired the whole body of the inhabitants. Fine examples of this are the defences of Rochelle (1627) and Saint-Jean de Lône (1636), but these are too long to quote. We may, however, mention Livron, which is curious. In 1574 Henry III. sent one of his favourites, Saint Lary Bellegarde, against the Huguenots in the Dauphiné. Being entrusted with a good army, this gentleman hoped to achieve some distinction. He began by attacking the little town of Livron, which had no garrison and was defended only by the inhabitants. But he was repulsed in three assaults, and the women of the town conceived such a contempt for him that they came in crowds to empty their slops at the breach by way of insult. This annoyed him very much, and he ordered a fresh assault. The women alone sustained this one, repulsed it lightheartedly, and the siege was raised.

The history of siege warfare has more in it of human interest than any other branch of military history. It is full of the personal element, of the nobility of human endurance and of dramatic surprises. And more than any battles in the open field, it shows the great results of the courage of men

fighting at bay. Think of Clive at Arcot. With 4 officers, 120 Europeans and 200 sepoys, with two 18-pounders and 8 lighter guns, he held the fort against 150 Europeans and some 10,000 native troops. “The fort” (says Orme) “seemed little capable of sustaining the impending siege. Its extent was more than a mile in circumference. The walls were in many places ruinous; the rampart too narrow to admit the firing of artillery; the parapet low and slightly built; several of the towers were decayed, and none of them capable of receiving more than one piece of cannon; the ditch was in most places fordable, in others dry and in some choked up,” &c. These feeble ramparts were commanded almost everywhere by the enemy’s musketry from the houses of the city outside the fort, so that the defenders were hardly able to show themselves without being hit, and much loss was suffered in this way. Yet with his tiny garrison, which timbered about one man for every 7 yds. of the enclosure, Clive sustained a siege of 50 days, ending with a really severe assault on two large open breaches, which was repulsed, and after which the enemy hastily decamped.

Such feats as this make arguments about successive lines of defence and the necessity of keeps seem very barren. History, as far as the writer knows, shows no instances where successive lines have been held with such brilliant results.

Clive’s defence of his breaches, which by all the then accepted rules of war were untenable, brings us to another point which has been already mentioned, namely, that a garrison might honourably make terms when there was an open breach in their main line of defence. This is a question upon which Carnot delivers himself very strongly in endeavouring to impress upon French officers the necessity of defence to the last moment. Speaking of Cormontaingne’s imaginary Journal of the Attack of a Fortress (which is carried up to the 35th day, and finishes by the words “It is now time to surrender”), he says with great scorn: “Crillon would have cried, ‘It is time to begin fighting.’ He would have said as at the siege of Quillebœuf, ‘Crillon is within, the enemy is without.’ Thus when Bayard was defending the shattered walls of Mézières, M. de Cormontaingne, if he had been there, would have said, ‘It is time to surrender.’ Thus when Guise was repairing the breaches of Metz under the redoubled fire of the enemy, M. de Cormontaingne, if he had been there, would have said, ‘It is time to surrender.’” Carnot of course allows that Cormontaingne was personally brave. His scorn is for the accepted principle, not for the man.

It is interesting to contrast with this passage some remarks by Sir John Jones, made in answer to Carnot’s book. He says in the notes to the second volume of the Journals of the Sieges in Spain: “When the breach shall be pushed properly forward, if the governor insists upon

the ceremony of his last retrenchment being stormed, as by so doing he spills the blood of many brave men without a justifiable object, his life and the lives of the garrison should be made the forfeit. A system enforced by terror must be counteracted by still greater terror. Humanity towards an enemy in such a case is cruelty to one’s own troops.... The principle to be combated is not the obligation to resist behind the breach—for where there is a good retrenchment the bastion should be disputed equally with the counter-guard or the ravelin and can as safely be so—but the doctrine that surrender shall not take place when successful resistance becomes hopeless.”

Carnot’s word is “fight to the last.” Sir John Jones says the commander has no right to provoke further carnage when resistance is hopeless. The question of course is, When is resistance hopeless? Sir John Jones’s reputation leaves little doubt that if he had been commanding a fortress on British soil he would not have thought resistance hopeless as long as there was anything whatever left to defend. The reason why these two men of similar temper are found in opposition is quite simple. When Carnot wrote, the French army occupied most of the important fortresses of Europe, and it was to the interest of the emperor that if attacked they should be held to the last moment, in order to cause the enemy as much delay and loss as possible. Jones, on the other hand, was one of the engineers who were engaged in besieging those fortresses, and his arguments were prompted by sympathy for his own countrymen whose lives were sacrificed by the prolongation of such resistance.

A century has passed since Carnot and Jones wrote, and the ideas in which they had been educated were those of the pre-Napoleonic era. In the 18th century fortresses were many, good roads few, and campaigns for the most part leisurely. To the European nations of that time, inheritors of a perennial state of war, the idea of concentrating the national resources on a short and decisive campaign had not occurred. The “knock-out blow” had not been invented. All these conditions are now so changed that new standards must be and indeed have been set up, both for the defence of places and the general employment of fortification.

As regards the conduct of the defence, the massacre of a garrison as a penalty for holding out too long would meet with no sympathy in the present day. On the other hand, the issue of modern wars is worked out so rapidly that if a fortress is well defended, with the advantage of the present weapons, there is always a chance of holding out till the close of the war. If the place is worth holding, it should as a rule be held to the bitter end on the chance of a favourable turn in affairs; moreover, the maintenance of an important siege under modern conditions imposes a severe strain on the enemy and immobilizes a large number of his troops.

In concluding this article some elementary considerations in connexion with the use of permanent defences may be noticed, though the general question of strategic fortification is outside its scope. The objects of fortification differ, as has been shown, from age to age. In former times

a peaceful people exposed to the raids of piratical Norsemen might find their refuge tower essential; later, a robber-baron might look on his castle as so much capital invested; a wealthy medieval town might prove the value of its walls more than once in a generation; a country without a standing army might gain time for preparation by means of fortresses barring the roads across the frontier. But how does the question stand to-day among European countries which can mobilize