Calvin Synod Herald, 1976 (76. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1976-09-01 / 9-10. szám
REFORMÁTUSOK LAPJA 3 REFORMED GALLEY SLAVES By M. Eugene Osterhaven* A generation wearied by tales of terror and torture may not welcome reminiscene of the horrors of the Counter-Reformation. However, respect for the latter’s martyrs may allow us to relate one of those incidents that occurred three hundred years ago February 11 that ought not to be forgotten, not even in an age like ours, which, disillusioned and cynical, debunks heroes and heroism. The decade 1671-1681 is known as the “dark decade” of Hungarian Protestantism. For many years the Counter-Reformation had been gathering strength and now Jesuit and Hapsburg, backed by the imperial army, seemed to bend every effort to destroy the evangelical faith. Claiming almost the entire nation at the end of the previous century, the “evangelicals” were soon to be reduced to thirteen percent of the population. The Hungarian king, Leopold, had been trained by Jesuits and intended by his father, Emperor Ferdinand III, to replace Leopold’s uncle as bishop of Passau. Ascending the throne at the age of seventeen, the young king soon organized the prelates of the realm to deal Protestantism a death blow. Acting as prosecutors, witnesses, and judges, these men, under the leadership of the cruel Archbishop of Gran, summoned hundreds of Protestant ministers and other leaders to appear before them. On one such occasion, April 4, 1674, between three and four hundred ministers were condemned and the following day school teachers, whose number is also uncertain, received the same sentence: beheading, confiscation of property, and infamy. The sentence, however, was not carried out — but a worse fate awaited the prisoners. They were tortured, starved, and otherwise weakened during repeated attempts at reconversion. Many, broken in body and spirit, signed a statement renouncing their faith; some died; others remained firm. Of these last, forty-one were chained together two by two, left foot to right foot, and forced to walk by a circuitous route to Naples, Italy. Beginning the journey on March 18, several died along the way, three escaped, and the surviving thirty were sold as slaves and chained to their benches in Spanish galleys on May 7, 1675. The plight of the men, their bodies wracked with suffering and some with teeth dropping out, was known to a physician in Naples, Nicolas Zaffius, and others. Zaffius wrote impassioned appeals to statesmen and universities in Switzerland, Holland, England and Germany. Consciences were aroused; even the King of England and the Elector of Saxony *Dr. M. Eugene Osterhaven is Professor of Systematic Theology at Western Theological Seminary in Holland, Michigan. wrote letters. It was the Netherlands, however, where hundreds of Hungarian ministers had been trained in the same Reformed faith when Protestant education became impossible in their own country, that took the most decisive action. The Dutch Reformed Synod meeting at Utrecht declared “that we are closely bound together by the blood of Christ with those sad hearts.” The Dutch fleet, engaged in war with France, was contacted in the Mediterranean and on December 12 Vice Admiral John de Staen sailed into the harbor of Naples to make inquiry about the captives. His chaplain visited them as they lay in their galleys, addressing to each a series of formal questions as preparations were made for their release. Just then, however, because of the war, the fleet had to leave and the prisoners remained in their chains. As they were later to testify, their petitions to God were heard and before the vice admiral got to Sicily he met the full Dutch fleet. It was under the most famous sea captain of all time, Admiral Michael A. De Ruyter who had been ordered by the States General of the Netherlands to effect the captives’ release. The war and diplomacy required several more weeks before this could be accomplished. Then, when the prisoners, who had themselves also petitioned De Ruyter, had almost given up hope, the Dutch fleet entered the harbor with full sail, formed a semicircle with guns facing the galleys and city, demanded that the captives be set free. On February 11, 1676, the chaplain of the Dutch fleet, accompanied by a company of superior officers, boarded the Spanish ships, and the men were loosed from their chains. Twenty-three pastors and three teachers were still alive; four had died at the oars. Singing Psalms 46, 114 and 125, they were transferred in their rags to the ship of the vice admiral. Covered with sores, they were bathed, clothed, and fed — but only after they knelt on the deck of the ship for prayer and, amidst tears, Psalm 116 was sung. The next moring they were brought on deck the flagship, De Zeven Provincien, before De Ruyter. The sixty-nine-year-old hero, at sea since he was eleven, refused to accept their thanks, saying, “We are only the instruments; give all the glory to God. . . . Of all my victories not one has caused me so much joy as the deliverance of Christ’s innocent ministers from this intolerable yoke.” It was to be one of De Ruyter’s last actions, an immortal one; ten weeks later he was dead. Memorials to this dramatic moment appear in Sárospatak and Debrecen, Hungary. There, beneath the bronze relief of the men chained to their oars, are the Latin words: Dixit Jehovah:
