XIV. SAXONY HUMILIATED
A half an hour later the ambassadors of France, Austria, Holland, Russia, and Sweden, were assembled in the queen’s reception-room. The queen was there, pale, and trembling with anger. With the proud pathos of misfortune, and humiliated royalty, she apprised them of the repeated insults she had endured, and commanded them to write at once to their different courts, imploring their rulers to send aid to her sorely threatened kingdom.
“And if these princes,” said she, impetuously, “help us to battle against this usurper, in defending us they will be defending their own rights and honor. For my cause is now the cause of all kings; for if my crown falls, the foundation of their thrones will also give way. For this little Margrave of Brandenburg, who calls himself King of Prussia, will annihilate us all it we do not ruin him in advance. I, for my part, swear him a perpetual resistance, a perpetual enmity! I will perish willingly in this fight if only my insults are revenged and my honor remains untarnished. Hasten, therefore, to acquaint your courts with all that has occurred here.”
“I will be the first to obey your majesty,” said the French ambassador, Count Broglio, approaching the queen. “I will repeat your words to my exalted master; I will portray to your majesty’s lovely daughter, the Dauphine of France, the sufferings her royal mother has endured, and I know she will strain every nerve to send you aid. With your gracious permission, I will now take my leave, for to-day I start for Paris.”
“To Paris!” cried the queen; “would you leave my court in the hour of misfortune?”
“I would be the last to do this, unless forced by necessity,” said the count; “but the King of Prussia has just dismissed me, and sent me my passport!”
“Your passport! dismissed you!” repeated the queen. “Have I heard aright? Do you speak of the King of Prussia? Has he then made himself King of Saxony?”
Before anyone had time to answer the queen’s painful questions, the door was opened, and the king’s ministers entered; beside them was to be seen the pale, terrified countenance of Count Leuke, the king’s chamberlain.
Slowly and silently these gentlemen passed through the room and approached the queen.
“We have come,” said Count Hoymb, bowing lowly, “to take leave of your majesty.”
The queen fell slightly back, and gazed in terror at the four ministers standing before her with bowed heads.
“Has the king, my husband, sent for you? Are you come to take leave of me before starting to Konigstein?”
“No, your majesty; we come because we have been dismissed from our offices by the King of Prussia.”
The queen did not answer, but gazed wildly at the sad countenances about her; and now she fixed a searching glance upon the royal chamberlain.
“Well, and you?” said she. “Have you a message for me from my husband? Are you from Konigstein?”
“Yes, your majesty, I come from Konigstein. But I am not a bearer of pleasant news. I am sent to Dresden by the King of Poland to request of the King of Prussia passports for himself and Count Bruhl. The king wishes to visit Warsaw, and is therefore desirous of obtaining these passports.”
“Ah!” said the queen, sighing, “to think that my husband requires permission to travel in his own kingdom, and that he must receive it from our enemy! Well, have you obeyed the king’s command, Count Leuke? Have you been to the King of Prussia and received the passports?”
“I was with the King of Prussia,” said the count, in a faltering voice.
“Well, what more?”
“He refused me! He does not give his consent to this visit.”
“Listen, listen!” said the queen, wildly; “hear the fresh insult thrown at our crown! Can God hear this and not send His lightning to destroy this heretical tyrant? Ah, I will raise my voice; it shall be a cry of woe and lamentation, and shall resound throughout all Europe; it shall reach every throne, and every one shall hear my voice calling out: ‘Woe! woe! woe to us all; our thrones are tottering, they will surely fall if we do not ruin this evil-doer who threatens us all!’”
With a fearful groan, the queen fell fainting into the arms of Countess Ogliva. But the sorrows and humiliations of this day were not the only ones experienced by Maria Josephine from her victorious enemy.
It is true her cry for help resounded throughout Europe. Preparations for war were made in many places, but her allies were not able to prevent the fearful blow that was to be the ruin of Saxony. Though the Dauphine of France, daughter of the wretched Maria Josephine, and the mother of the unfortunate King of France, Louis XVI., threw herself at the feet of Louis XV., imploring for help for her mother’s tottering kingdom, the French troops came too late to prevent this disaster. Even though Maria Theresa, Empress of Austria, and niece to the Queen of Saxony, as her army were in want of horses, gave up all her own to carry the cannon. The Austrian cannon was of as little help to Saxony as the French troops.
Starvation was a more powerful ally to Prussia than Austria, France, Russia, and Sweden were to Saxony, for in the Saxon camp also a cry of woe resounded.
It was hunger that compelled the brave Saxon General Rutrosky to capitulate. It was the same cause that forced the King of Saxony to bind himself to the fearful stipulations which the victorious King of Prussia, after having tried in vain for many years to gain an ally in Saxony, made.
In the valley of Lilienstein the first of that great drama, whose scenes are engraved in blood in the book of history, was performed, and for whose further developments many sad, long years were necessary.
In the valley of Lilienstein the Saxon army, compelled to it by actual starvation, gave up their arms; and as these true, brave soldiers, weeping over their humiliation, with one hand laid down their weapons, the other was extended toward their enemies for bread.
Lamentation and despair reigned in the camp at Lilienstein, and there, at a window of the castle of Konigstein, stood the Prince-Elector of Saxony, with his favorite Count Bruhl, witnesses to their misery.
After these fearful humiliations, by which Frederick punished the Saxons for their many intrigues, by which he revenged himself for their obstinate, enmity, their proud superiority--after these humiliations, after their complete defeat, the King of Prussia was no longer opposed to the King of Saxony’s journey. He sent him the desired passports, he even extended their number, and not only sent one to the king and to Count Bruhl, but also to the Countess Bruhl, with the express command to accompany her husband. He also sent a pass to Countess Ogliva, compelling this bigoted woman to leave her mistress.
And when the queen again raised her cry of woe, to call her allies to her aid, the King of Prussia answered her with the victorious thunder of the battle of Losovitz, the first battle fought in this war, and in which the Prussians, led by their king, performed wonders of bravery, and defeated for the third time the tremendous Austrian army, under the command of General Brown.
“Never,” says Frederick, “since I have had the honor to command the Prussian troops, have they performed such deeds of daring as to-day.”
The Austrians, in viewing these deeds, cried out:
“We have found again the old Prussians!”
And still they fought so bravely, that the Prussians remarked in amazement: “These cannot be the same Austrians!”
This was the first act of that great drama enacted by the European nations, and of which King Frederick II. was the hero.
I. THE MAIDEN OF BRUNEN
The sun was just setting, throwing its crimson glow upon the waters of the Rhine, which appeared to flow like a river of blood between the green meadows on either side of it.
From the little village of Brunen, whose red chimneys were visible above a group of oak and beech trees, the sound of the evening bell was heard, reminding the pious peasants, engaged in cutting and garnering their golden corn, of the hour for devotion.
With the sweet sounds of the bell mingled the joyous mountain yodel of the cowherd, who had just descended the little hill yonder, with his herd straying here and there, in picturesque confusion. Upon the green meadow in the foreground, the flocks of the village were pasturing, strictly guarded by a large white dog, whose stern, martial glance not the slightest movement among his army contrary to discipline, escaped. As soon as one of the sheep committed to his care left the fold and approached the field where the reapers were mowing the corn, which was bound at once in sheaves by busy maidens, the stern Phylax barking, growling, and snarling, rushed after the audacious wanderer who sought to appease the anger of his inexorable overseer by a speedy return.
The old shepherd, sitting not far off upon a little wooden stool, with his long, silver hair falling about him, was engaged in weaving a graceful basket of some meadow roots; at every bark of his Phylax he looked up and smiled his approval at his faithful steward; occasionally he gazed across the meadow at the reapers and busy maidens, then there came upon his venerable old countenance an expression of great interest. And well he might be pleased with what he saw there; for that tall, sturdy youth, standing in the wagon, waiting with outstretched arms to catch the sheaves which are skilfully thrown him; that youth with the bright rosy face, the sparkling eye, the full red lip, upon which there is always a merry smile, the ivory white teeth--that youth is his beloved son, Charles Henry. And yonder maiden, not far from the wagon, binding up the corn, in whose tall, proud form, in spite of her plain peasant-gown, there is something imposing; that maiden with the youthful, blooming, lovely face, is his son’s betrothed, whom all in the village called the beautiful Anna Sophia, and for whose love Charles Henry was envied by all the village boys. It is true she was a penniless orphan, but in her busy, industrious hands there was a better and surer treasure than in a purse of gold, and her ability and goodness would be a much better dowry to her husband; for Anna Sophia Detzloff could do almost every thing, and the villagers knew not whether to respect her more for her great knowledge, or love her more for her kind, good heart. Anna could read and write like a school-teacher. She wrote every letter which the women of the village sent to their sons and husbands, now far away with the King of Prussia’s army, and read to them the answers; and in so beautiful and winning a manner did she read them, that to the happy women it almost seemed as if they were hearing the voices of their loved ones. But, notwithstanding her learning, she was well versed in every sort of work that beseemed a woman. None in the village could prepare more delightful dishes than she; no one could equal her beautiful, rapid sewing and knitting. Anna Sophia learned all these things from her mother, who had lived and worked for many long years in Brunen. Her father had been the village school-teacher, and it was owing to his diligence and activity that the women could now receive letters from their sons and husbands. He had taught the boys to read and write; and though the girls did not learn, the example of his daughter showed that it was not owing to inability, but for a want of time and desire. From her mother, Anna had learned all her womanly duties. She had taught her to be amiable, ready with help for all, kind and sympathetic, and to strive by her good deeds to gain the love of her fellow-creatures.
A joyous family had lived in the little village school-house; though they had poverty and want to fight against, these three happy human beings did not consider this a misfortune, but a necessary evil of life. They loved each other, and when the parents looked upon the lovely, rosy countenance of their only child, they did not perceive that their bread was hard and heavy, they did not miss the butter and cheese without which the rich villagers seldom took a meal. And when, on Sundays, Anna went with her parents to church, in the faded red skirt, neat white body, and black bodice, which had been her mother’s wedding-dress, she heard the boys whisper amongst themselves about her beauty and sweetness, and casting her eyes down with timid blushes she did not perceive the jeering smiles of the other girls who, though not as pretty, were proud that they were richer and better dressed than the school-teacher’s daughter.
But Death, in his inexorable manner, had disturbed this modest happiness. In a year he took the schoolmaster Detzloff and his wife from the little house which, to any one else, would have appeared a pitiful hut, but which, to them, seemed a paradise. In one year Anna became an orphan; she was entirely alone in the world, and, after she had given to her dear departed ones the tribute of her sorrows and tears, she had to arouse herself and create a new future. After death only, the villagers became aware of the great worth of the departed, they now admitted to the full the school-teacher’s merits, and were anxious to pay to the daughter the debt owing to the father. As he had died partly from starvation, sorrow, and work, they wished to prove themselves generous to his daughter, and preserve her from the want and misery which had caused the death of her parents.
But Anna Sophia would be dependent on no one. To those who came in the name of the villagers to notify her that she would receive from them a monthly allowance, she showed her able hands, her brown, muscular arms, and, raising her sparkling eyes proudly to the new school-teacher, she said, “From these alone will I receive help; they shall give me food and clothing; on them alone will I be dependent.”
She then went to seek work. The rich burgher of the village would gladly have taken so smart and industrious a girl into his house and paid her handsomely for her services. But Anna Sophia declared proudly that, though she was willing to work, she would be no slave; that she would sell her hands, but not her freedom.
Another house had been built and furnished for the school-teacher, because there was danger of the old one, in which the Detzloff family had lived, falling to pieces.
Anna Sophia, by the sale of some of the furniture, had bought the old, dilapidated hut for herself. And there, in her hours of leisure, she lived over the happy past. There she felt that she was still with her parents, and not alone and orphaned. In the morning, before leaving her home to go at her daily work, she entered the little garden at the back of the hut, where in the arbor, laden with dark-red blossoms, were the three chairs her father had woven in his idle moments, and the roughly-hewn deal table made by his axe. She took her seat for a moment upon the chair standing in the centre, and laid one hand upon the one to either side of her Thus she had sat in the past, with her hands clasped in those of her parents. The Rhine flowed on as melodiously as before in the dim distance, the trees were as green, the flowers and blossoms as sweet, the sky as blue. There was no change; all around her was as in former days, except these empty chairs. But Anna had only to close her eyes to see the beloved forms of her departed parents, to feel the pressure of their hands, and to hear them addressing her, in tones which love alone could have uttered, love alone understood. Then saying aloud, “Good-morning, mother! Good-morning, father!” she rose, with closed eyes, from her seat, and hastened from the arbor with the pleasant thought that she was followed by the loving gaze of her parents. She did not turn once, for then she would have seen that the arbor was empty, and she wished to preserve the sweet delusion to be the brighter and happier at her day’s work. When, during the day, she saw the burgher’s wife surrounded by her blooming daughters, she would say to herself, “I also have a father and mother at home, and they await me!” Then, when her day’s work was finished, she hastened with a flying step to her home, whose solemn stillness resounded for her with the dear-loved voices of the past. Opening the bedroom of her parents, she cried, “Good-night, mother! Good-night, father!” Then she climbed up to her little attic, which had been her father’s favorite room, and which, when she was with him, he had called a little spot of Eden. There stood his writing-table, and above it the bookcase, which held her most precious treasures, her father’s library. From the window the Rhine could be seen meandering along the smooth green meadows, finally loosing itself between the distant hills.
Her father had left her this blessed little spot, and hither she fled when her heavy day’s work was over. There of an evening she stood, gazing thoughtfully out into the darkening twilight, and there daily she greeted the rising sun, repeating aloud her morning prayer. Then with eager hands she took from the book-case one of the large folios. From these books Anna Sophia drew all her knowledge. And when, during the long winter evenings, the village girls were busy spinning, she would tell them the stories she had read, no hand was idle, no eye drooping. She was looked upon as the guardian angel of the village; she knew some remedy, some alleviation for every illness, every pain. In a sick-room, she was all that a nurse should be, kind, loving, patient, and gentle. She was beloved by all, and all the village boys sought to gain her hand. For a long time she would listen to none of them, and flew in terror from those who broached the subject.
How the youngest son of the old shepherd Buschman had finally won her heart, she did not herself know. It is true, he was the handsomest, best-made boy in the village, but it was not for this that she loved him; for she had known him long ago, and had been perfectly indifferent to him, until within the last few weeks. Why was it? Because he loved her so dearly, and had told her he would die if she did not listen to him. Many others had done and said the same thing, but it had never moved her sensibilities, nor had their threats terrified her. What, then, had won her cold, proud heart?
The old shepherd had been the occasion of their frequently meeting each other. For some weeks she had been in the habit, when her day’s work was over, of reading to him the daily paper, which the good-hearted burgher always sent to the old man, who had six sons in the king’s army; he had given his country six soldiers.
Keeling by his side upon the meadow, Anna Sophia would first read to him, and then talk over the events of the war, and prophesy many a glorious victory. And then, Charles Henry, who worked on the same farm with Anna, joined them, speaking enthusiastically of the great, heroic king. In their inspired love for their great sovereign, their hearts had first met, he seemed to her a hero, because he had six brothers in Frederick’s army, she saw laurels upon his brow, won by his brothers upon the battle-field. She loved him for his brothers’ sake, and she was proud of being the bride of him of whom it was said, when he passed, “It is the old man’s dearest child--God preserve him to his father, whose only prop he is!” The old shepherd was thinking of all this, as he sat in the midst of his flock upon the green meadow, gazing toward the corn-field in which Anna Sophia and his son were at work.
“God be praised!” murmured the old man. “That is the last sheaf, Anna will soon be with me.”
At last, the happy moment had come. The old shepherd folded his hands, and a silent prayer arose from his heart for his absent sons. He then rose from his lowly seat, and whistled to his faithful Phylax to follow. The flock arrived at the village, and were driven by the dog into the sheep-pen, from which was heard the tremulous bleating of the lambs, who were rejoicing over their dams’ arrival. Father Buschman waited impatiently until the last sheep had entered, and then hastened toward the large farm house to the left of the pen.
Anna Sophia was just leaving the house, paper in hand, and advanced, with a cheerful smile, to meet him.
“Father,” said she, “I have the paper, and we are the first to read it. The good burgher and his wife are in the country, and the overseer allowed me to take it. But, hear, father, he says he glanced over it hastily, and saw something about a Prussian victory.”
The old shepherd’s face sparkled with joy, and he sought to draw Anna away with him. “Come, come, my child,” said he, “to my house, where it is still and quiet, there we will read of our king’s victories.”
But Anna shook her beautiful head.
“No, father,” said she, “it would not be right to read the paper alone today. The king’s victories belong to his people, to each one of his subjects, and every heart will beat more proudly when it hears of them, and thank God that He has blessed the weapons of their king. It is not for us to keep this joy from our men and women. Charles Henry, with the overseer’s permission, had already assembled the villagers upon the open space under the beech-trees. See! all are hastening with their work. Come, father, we must read to our neighbors and friends our king’s victories. A victory belongs to the whole village, but should there ever be news of a lost battle, then, father, we will read it to ourselves.”
“God forbid that this should come to pass!” said the old man, following Anna to the place of general meeting.
II. NEWS OF BATTLE
The inhabitants of the village had already assembled on the square, under the great linden, and as old Buschman now approached, supported by Anna Sophia’s arm, they were joyfully greeted.
Anna waved the paper like a white flag in the air, and, hastening the old man forward impatiently, she exclaimed,
“Our king has won a battle!”
Shouts of triumph were the result.
“Did he whip the French, or the Austrians?” asked one of the peasants, as he drew close to Anna, and tried to seize the paper.
Anna drew it back hastily.
“The steward sent it to me, to read to the community, and I shall do so.”
“Tell us, Anna,” said another, “has he beaten the Russians or the cunning Saxons? I wish he could trample them all under foot.”
“He will, if he has not yet done so,” cried old Buschman.
“Children, our king will conquer all his enemies; he is a hero, and has only brave fellows to fight for him. Just think of the thirty noble boys that our village alone gave him!”
“Read, Anna, read!” cried the curious crowd. And Anna, ready to please them, walked under the linden, and stepped upon the wooden beach that surrounded the tree.
Father Buschman placed himself at her feet, and several old men and women followed his example. The young people gathered around in groups, and gazed respectfully at the youthful girl, whose bright, beautiful face glowed as if lighted by the evening sun. The little boys, who had followed their parents from curiosity, were amusing themselves in turning somersets.
Anna now raised her voice and began to read in a bright tone. It was a brilliant and inspiring account of the battle of Losovitz, and Anna read it in breathless haste and burning cheeks. As she read how the Prussians were at first defeated by the powerful army of the Austrians under General Brown, whose terrific artillery sent death and ruin into the Prussian ranks, the women sobbed softly, and the men could hardly suppress their sighs. They breathed more freely when they heard that the king, adopting a new expedient, advanced a part of his cavalry into the centre of his weakened infantry, and thus turned the tide of battle. Their courage failed on hearing that this advantage was soon lost, the enemy still advanced in unbroken columns, and almost forced the Prussians to retreat. The left wing of infantry, commanded by the Duke of Severn, which had fired unceasingly, had exhausted their ammunition, while the Austrian General Wied, who defended the post of Losovitz, kept up a brisk cannonading. The Prussian warriors pleaded loudly for powder and shot.
Anna stopped reading, her heart beat loudly, she leaned her head against the tree and closed her eyes in terror. The old people sitting at her feet prayed and wept aloud, and from the crowd there arose sounds of grief and despair. In their terror they had forgotten that it was of a victory and not a defeat they were to hear, and that the battle must at last have ended to their advantage.
“Read on, Anna,” said the old shepherd, after a long pause. “Are we such cowards as not to be able even to hear an account of this murderous battle in which our sons were brave enough to fight?”
“Read on, read on!” was heard here and there.
Anna unclosed her eyes and raised the paper. Breathless stillness reigned anew. Anna read,
“In this fearful moment the Duke of Bevern felt that a decisive step must be taken, and springing in front of his troops with drawn sword, he cried, ‘Boys, you have no more ammunition! Do not be discouraged! Fight with your bayonets!’ These words, spoken by a brave and beloved leader, gave heart to all. They closed their ranks, and inspired by the example of their officer, attacked the enemy boldly. In vain Baron Stahremberg hastened forward with his six battalions--uselessly Baron Wied tried to defend the house of Losovitz in which his grenadiers had taken refuge. Nothing could withstand the Prussians. Like a raging hurricane they fell upon the enemy, who were forced to give way to them. A part of the Austrian force sprang into the Elbe, and tried to save their lives by swimming. Losovitz was tired, and all its defenders fled. The Prussians had gained a complete victory.” [Footnote: “Characteristics of the Seven Years’ War,” vol. i., p. 63]
Anna Sophia could read no further. The delight of all was intense--wives embraced their husbands with tears of joy--old men thanked God aloud--and the boys, who had ceased their play and been listening attentively, made bolder and higher somersets and shouted more lustily. Anna Sophia alone said nothing. Her tall, slender, but full form was leaning against the tree--an inspired smile was on her lip, and her eyes, raised to heaven, beamed with holy fire. She stood as if in a dream, and at first did not hear old Buschman ask her to read on. When he repeated his request, she was startled, and turned her glance slowly down from heaven upon the joyful crowd that surrounded her.
“What do you wish, father?” she asked.
The old shepherd arose, and, taking his cap from his gray head, said solemnly, “You have read us of the victory, Anna Sophia; now read us of those who gave their lives for it. Tell us of the dead.”
“Yes, read us a list of the dead!” cried the others, uncovering their heads respectfully.
Anna sought for the list, and read slowly the names of the fallen. Their faces brightened more and more, none belonging to them were dead. Suddenly Anna paused, and uttered a low cry, then looked at Father Buschman with a terrified expression. Perhaps the old man understood her, for he trembled a little, and his head fell upon his breast, but he raised it proudly again. Looking almost commandingly at Anna, he said,
“Read on, my daughter.”
But Anna could not read. The paper trembled in her hand, and her face was pale as death.
“Read on,” repeated the old man--“read on, I, your father, command you to read!”
Anna sighed deeply. “I will obey,” she said, and casting a glance of inexpressible sorrow at the old man, two new names fell from her lips and tears to consecrate them. “Anton Buschman, Frederick Buschman,” and then taking advantage of the breathless stillness, she added, “The two brothers were the first to attack the enemy--they died the death of heroes!” She ceased. The paper dropped from her trembling hands and fell at the old man’s feet.
The weeping eyes of the crowd were turned upon old Buschman. As if crushed by the storm, he had staggered to the bench; he bowed his head upon his breast that no one might see the expression of his face; his trembling hands clasped on his knees, made a touching picture of silent sorrow.
His son Henry, who had been standing with the others, stepped softly to him, and kneeling down, put his arms around the old man’s neck and spoke to him tenderly.
The old man started up with terror--his glance turned from his son to the crowd, and met everywhere sympathizing and troubled faces. “Well,” he asked, in a hard, rough voice, “why do you weep? Did you not hear that my sons died the death of heroes? Have they not fallen for their country and their king? It would become us to weep if they were cowards and fled in battle. But Anna Sophia told us they died the death of heroes. Therefore, let us think of them with love and pride. ‘Blessed are the dead, for they see God!’”
He sank upon his knees and murmured low prayers for the repose of the dead, and now he wept for the first time. At his side knelt his son and Anna Sophia; and the crowd, overcome by emotion and sympathy, followed their example, and with bended knees murmured the pious prayers of the Church for the dead.
The solemn stillness was broken by the beating of drums and the tramping of horses. A company of infantry, headed by the drummer and fifer, marched up the street and approached the villagers, who, rising from their knees, gazed anxiously at the troops.
“They are Prussians,” said the mayor, who was amongst the crowd.
“They are Prussians,” repeated the crowd, with brightening faces.
Headed by the mayor, they went forward to meet and conduct them to the middle of the square, where they halted. The mayor then approached the officer and asked him what he desired.
The officer, after making the drummer a sign, who beat the roll powerfully, drew out a roll of paper and unfolded it. The villagers pushed forward and waited with breathless attention. Close to the officer stood the old shepherd, next to him his son and Anna Sophia, who was staring, pale and trembling, at the officer, who now began to read.
This paper commanded the unmarried men of the village to place themselves under the king’s flag, and to take their places in the ranks of those who fought for their country. Harvest was at an end, and the king could now demand the fighting men of villages and cities to join him and share with him his dangers and his victories. The officer then commanded the mayor to give him early the next morning a list of the unmarried men in the village, that he might call them out and conduct them to Cleve for further orders.
A hollow murmur ran through the crowd when the officer had finished. The joyful and inspired emotion they had just felt gave way to discontent and gloom. All had been ready to celebrate the victory, but found it far from desirable to enter the ranks.
The old shepherd looked angrily at the despairing crowd, and an expression of pious peace spread over his venerable countenance. Turning to the officer, he said, in a loud voice,
“I had six sons in the army; two fell in the battle of Losovitz, and my poor old heart still weeps for the dead, but it is also content that the king calls for another sacrifice. I have one other son; he is unmarried, has no one to take care of, neither wife nor child nor his old father, for, thank God, I still have strength to support myself. Go, then, my son Charles Henry, the king calls you; and if it must be so, lie down like your brothers in a heroic grave.”
He ceased and laid his hand, as if with a blessing, upon his son’s head; but Henry did not partake of his father’s enthusiasm. His face was pale as death, and his powerful frame trembled as if with fever.
Anna Sophia saw it; her beaming face paled, and her eye sank down with shame.
The officer, who had noticed the dejection of the people, wished to give them time to recover.
“Leave every thing alone until tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow, sir mayor, you will hand me the list, and I am sure that the unmarried boys will obey their king’s call with joy. Now, sir mayor, I beg you to conduct me to the courthouse, where I will pass the night, and see that my soldiers find good quarters there, and in the village.”
He nodded kindly to the people, and accompanied by the mayor, moved onward. The crowd followed them silently, and the gay village boys danced gleefully around the fine procession.
III. THE CERTIFICATE OF ENLISTMENT
Anna Sophia returned to her solitary home in deep meditation, and not even in the stillness of her room could she regain her accustomed serenity and cheerfulness. Her thoughts were far away; for the first time her room appeared to her gloomy and deserted. The memories of the past did not now speak to her, and when she threw herself upon her bed, it was without having bid her parents goodnight.
But even then she could find no rest. Strange visions were wafted before her waking eyes, wonderful dreams took hold of her senses. She saw her victorious king standing before her, his sparkling eyes beckoning her to follow him. Then she saw herself in the front of an army, the fluttering banner in her hand, the glittering shield on her breast, followed by many brave warriors, who were all gazing proudly upon her. And again she saw herself. But now she was all alone--alone by the side of an open grave, with a gaping wound in her breast, raising her weary eyes upward and murmuring with pale lips, “How sweet to die for one’s country!” Then the brothers of her betrothed raised themselves slowly from among the dead, and signed to her to follow them. She seemed to hear them saying, “Revenge our death, our brother is faint-hearted!”
At this thought, she raised herself upon her couch.
“He is a coward,” murmured she. “I saw him turn pale and tremble, and I felt as if a sword had entered my heart and destroyed all my love for him. Yes, he is a coward, and instead of rejoicing at the thought of a battle, he trembles.”
She covered her face with her hands, as if to hide from the night the burning blush of shame that mounted to her brow. Thus she sat for hours motionless, as if listening to the voices whispering to her from within, until the first gleam of morning, the first ray of sun entered the open window to arouse her from her waking dreams.
She sprang from her bed, and dressed herself with trembling eagerness. The sun had arisen, and Charles Henry was no doubt already in the woods, at the place she had appointed to meet him yesterday morning. When bidding him good-by, she had whispered to him to meet her there in the morning at sunrise; she did not then know why she had appointed this meeting. She well knew it was not the longing to pass an undisturbed hour with her lover that had actuated her. Anna had no such wish; her heart was too pure, her love too cold. She had only felt that she would have something to say to him; she knew not what herself.
But now she well knew what she had to say; it was all clear, and therefore she was happy and cheerful. It seemed to her as if her soul had taken flight, and as if there was a lark within her singing songs of joy, and with these feelings she hastened down the road into the woods.
At the appointed place stood Charles Henry, and as his betrothed approached him, so proud, so smiling, sparkling with beauty and youth, it appeared to him that he had never seen her so exquisitely beautiful; to her, as he advanced smilingly to meet her, he had never seemed so small, so devoid of attractions.
When they met, they looked at each other in amazement--there was a change in both.
“Anna Sophia,” said Charles Henry at last, sadly, “you have something against me.”
“Yes,” said she, “I have something against you, otherwise I would not have appointed this meeting here, where we can be heard by no one. Were this that I have to tell you something good, something pleasant, all the world might stand by and hear it, but as it is something painful, it must be heard by you alone.”
She seated herself silently upon the ground, signing to Charles Henry to follow her example.
“It was here,” said Anna, hastily, “that you first told me of your love.”
“Yes, it was here, Anna,” repeated he, “and you then told me that my love was returned, and that you would be my wife when we had saved enough to commence housekeeping. But still I have always felt that you were not kind to me, not as the other girls in the village are to their lovers. You have never permitted me to come under your window at night; I have never been allowed to take you in my arms and kiss you tenderly, as the others boys do their sweethearts; and never, no never, have you given me a kiss unasked; and, after all my entreaties, you kissed me only in the presence of my old father and his dog.”
“It is not in my nature to be very tender,” said Anna, shrugging her shoulders. “I read in one of my books lately a fairy tale, in which there was a young girl, of whom it was said that a bad fairy had bound her heart in iron, to prevent its full play; the girl was constantly bewailing this fatality, saying, ‘I can only like, but never love.’ Perhaps it is thus with me, but I do not weep over it, like the foolish girl in the book.”
“And was this what you had to tell me?” asked Charles Henry, mockingly.
She gave him a look that sent the jeering smile from his lip.
“No, Charles Henry,” said she, “this is not what I have to tell you.”
“Well, what is it then, Anna, for this wounds me?” said he impatiently.
“Perhaps the other will do so also,” said she, sadly. “But it must come out, I cannot suppress it. Hear, Charles Henry, what I have to say, and if it is not true, forgive me. I fear you do not go willingly into the army, and that your heart does not beat with joy at the thought of becoming a soldier.”
“You are right,” said Charles Henry, laughing, “I do not go willingly; and how should it be otherwise? it is a wild, disorderly life, and it strikes me it cannot be right for men who, our pastor says, should love each other like brothers, to vie in cutting off each other’s limbs, and to fire upon each other without mercy or pity, as if one were the butcher, the other the poor ox, who only resists because he does not wish to give up his life; and in this case all would be the butchers, and none the oxen, therefore each one gives his stroke bravely to preserve his own life.”
“It would be sad if it were as you say,” said Anna, shaking her head, “but it is not so. The true soldier does not think of his life; he thinks of his country, for which he will gladly shed his blood--of his king, to whom he has sworn to be true--and of the glory which he will gain for himself!”
Charles Henry looked in amazement upon Anna Sophia’s agitated countenance.
“How do you know all this?” said he. “Who has told you that these are soldiers’ thoughts?”
“I have read of it in my books, Charles Henry; in one of them there is the history of a man whose name was Leonidas. He defended, with three hundred of his soldiers, against many thousands of his enemy, a narrow passway. He well knew that he could not conquer; his soldiers also knew it, but they preferred death rather than the humiliation of laying down their weapons and praying for mercy. And every man of them died joyfully, giving up his life for his country.”
“Well, I must say they were fools!” cried Charles Henry, excitedly; “if I had been there, I would not have done so--I would have sued for pardon.”
“Yes,” said Anna Sophia thoughtfully--“yes, I think you would have done as you say; and I have been wondering all through the past night whether you would willingly and joyfully go to battle?”
“I? God forefend; I will not go joyfully--I will not go at all! This morning I intend going to our pastor to receive from him a certificate, showing that I cannot join the army, as I have a decrepit old father to support, who would die without me.”
“Charles Henry, your father is not decrepit, nor very old, nor would he starve if you were not here, for he can support himself.”
“But he may, at any moment, become unable to help himself, and then he would need me; I would have no rest day or night when far away, but would be thinking if my poor old father, lying sick and helpless in his hut, with no one near to give him a piece of bread or a cup of water.”
“Let not this trouble you, Charles Henry,” said Anna, solemnly. “I swear to you that I will love him and care for him as a daughter. He shall want for nothing; and when he can work no longer, I am strong and healthy enough to work for both of us. Go with a peaceful mind, I will be here in your place.”
“No, no!” cried Charles Henry, turning pale; “I will not join the army. I cannot, I will not be separated from you, Anna. You have sworn to be my wife, and I will beseech the pastor to join us to-day; then they cannot take me away from here, for I will have a father and a wife to take care of.”
“Not for me, Charles Henry, for I will not marry yet. Have we saved enough to commence housekeeping? Is this a time to marry and build a nest, when war, misery, and ruin are raging throughout the country? No, no! Charles Henry, we cannot marry now.”
“Because you do not wish it, Anna. But it shall be, for I have your promise, and you must keep it. Ah, Anna Sophia, you do not know what a longing I have to call you my wife!”
“But I have no such longing,” said she, drily; “no desire whatever to marry; and I will tell you, that though you wish to marry to-day, it is not out of love for me, but to save yourself.”
His eyes sunk before the large, searching ones fixed upon him.
“To save myself, and from what, Anna Sophia?”
“From being a soldier, Charles Henry! For last evening, I read upon your countenance that you were devoid of courage.”
“You read that?”
“Yes, Charles Henry, fear was stamped upon your brow.”
“Well, then,” said he, after a pause, “you have read aright. I have no courage, I fear for myself. I am not accustomed to stand still, while some one is pointing his gun at me, and to cry, ‘Long live the king!’ when the cannon-balls are flying around me; to attack men who have done me no harm, and to whom I wish to do none. When I think upon the possibility of my being compelled to do this. I tremble, and my heart ceases to beat. Do not require it of me, Anna, for if I have to go, I will fly at the first fight, and come back here. They may then shoot me as a deserter, if they choose; I prefer to die rather than to kill any one else.”
Anna Sophia sprang from her seat with a cry of horror.
“I thought so,” said she, in a low voice; and, crossing her arms upon her breast, she walked to and fro, thoughtfully.
Charles Henry looked at her in amazement, but had not the courage to speak to her; for she was so completely changed, that he was almost afraid of her. There was something so cold and proud about her to-day, something aristocratic in her beauty. He thought to himself, “It is thus that a queen would look when dressed as a peasant.” Anna Sophia stood still before him at last, and gave him a tender, almost pitiful glance.
“Charles Henry,” said she, “you shall not join the army; I will not suffer it.”
He sprang from his seat with a cry of joy.
“You will then marry me, Anna Sophia?” said he, exultingly. “You will become my wife, so as to keep me here? You love me too much to let me go!” He tried to embrace her, but she waved him off.
“No,” said she, “I will not marry you, but, still, you must not join the army; for if you became a deserter, it would break your father’s heart, and it would be a disgrace, not only for me, but for the whole village. Think well over what you have said. Perhaps you are mistaken in yourself, and only dislike joining the army on your poor father’s account. Question your conscience and your heart, and remember, Charles Henry, that God will hear your answer. Do you truly believe that you are wanting in courage--that you would fly from the battle-field?”
“As truly as there is a God above us, I believe it, Anna Sophia. It is not belief, it is certainty. It is not in my nature to be brave; I was not brought up to it, and am therefore without it. I am an apt farmer, but would be a bad soldier.”
Anna Sophia sighed deeply, and covered her face with her hands. Thus she stood for some time in front of her betrothed, and he saw the large tears, stealing through her fingers, fall upon the grass, to be transformed there by the sun into sparkling jewels.
“Why do you weep, Anna Sophia?” asked he, gently. “What has so suddenly made you sad?”
Her hands fell slowly and wearily from her face. “I am not weeping now,” said she, “it is past--I have shed my last tear. Now we must settle upon what is to be done, for you cannot be a soldier.”
“But they will force me,” said he, “for I am tall, strong, and healthy--just the build for a soldier.”
Anna Sophia raised herself proudly and stood beside him. “I am as tall as you,” said she.
“It is true,” replied Charles Henry, laughing, “we are of the same height. We can scarcely fail to have tall, good-looking children some of these days!”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and looked at him in a strange manner. “I am as strong and as healthy as you,” said she, “my sight is as sharp, my hand as sure. Were I Charles Henry Buschman, I would be a good soldier, for I have courage--I would lot tremble at the cannon-balls.”
“But, fortunately, you are not a man,” said Charles Henry, laughing. “You are the beautiful Anna Sophia, who is this day to become my wife to save me from being a soldier.”
“No, Charles Henry; the war must be at an end, and Charles Henry Buschman must have returned a brave soldier, before I can marry him.”
“You mean,” said he, with trembling lips--“you mean I must be a soldier?”
“As you have said, they will not let you off. You are a strong, healthy youth--you are unmarried, and have no one to support, for your father can take care of himself. Why, then, as the king is in need of soldiers, should they pass you by?”
“It is too true.” murmured Charles Henry, despondently. After a slight pause, he said: “But I will not be a soldier--I cannot! For it is true I am a coward--I have not a particle of courage! That is born with one, it cannot be acquired; I have it not, and cannot therefore be a soldier.”
“Nor shall you become one,” said Anna, with determination.
“What can you do?”
“I will join the army in your stead!”
Charles Henry stared at her. He was on the point of laughing, but the sight of her inspired, earnest countenance, in which a world of determination was expressed, sobered him completely.
“I will do as I said, for I have great courage, and when I think of a battle my heart beats loudly, not with fear but with rapturous joy. To me, nothing would be more glorious than to die, banner in hand, surrounded by the thunder of cannon, and to cry out exultingly, as the blood flows from my wounds, ‘Vive le roi! vive la patrie!’” Her form was raised majestically, her countenance beamed with inspiration, a daring fire sparkled in her eyes--she was so changed in form and expression, that Charles Henry drew back from her in terror.
“I am afraid of you, Anna Sophia,” said he, shuddering. “You are changed--you are not like yourself.”
“No,” said she; “nor am I the same. Yesterday I was Anna Sophia Detzloff--from to-day I am Charles Henry Buschman. Do not interrupt me--it must be! You shall not break your father’s heart--you shall not bring disgrace upon the village. The king has called you--you must obey the call. But I will go in your place; you shall remain quietly at home, thrashing your corn, cutting your hay, and taking care of your kind old father, while I shall be upon the battle-field, fighting in your place.”
“Do you then love me well enough to give your life for me?” cried Charles Henry, with streaming eyes.
She shook her head slowly, thoughtfully. “I do not know if it be love,” said she. “I only feel that it must be done--there is no other outlet but this to help us all. Let us speak no more about it--only tell me that you accept it.”
“It is impossible, Anna Sophia.”
“Only accept it, and all will be right.”
“I cannot. It would be an everlasting shame to me.”
She pressed her teeth tightly together--her eyes gleamed with anger. “Hear me out,” said she. “Go, or stay--whichever you do--I do not remain here! I must away and seek my fortune. I have never been happy, as yet--upon the battle-field I may be. I have nothing to lose, and can therefore win all. Well, say! Am I to be a soldier in your stead?”
“If you really wish it, I must yield,” said he, sadly. “You say you have nothing to lose, but I, I have you, and I cannot, will not lose you. And as you would be angry with and leave me if I said ‘No,’ I prefer saying ‘Yes.’”
Anna Sophia gave a cry of delight, and, for the first time, gave Charles Henry a willing kiss. “Many, many thanks, Charles Henry,” said she. “Now we will all be happy.”
Charles Henry sighed. He could not bring himself to trust in Anna’s prophecy.
“And now,” said she, eagerly, “how shall we go about it?”
IV. FAREWELL TO THE VILLAGE
In the course of the day, Charles Henry accompanied the other boys to the village, where an officer was to call out the names of those who were drafted. As his name was called out, he did not change countenance--he remained as gay and cheerful as before, while the other boys were gazing sadly, thoughtfully before them. Then the officer handed each of them a ticket upon which their names were printed, and ordered them to go immediately to the nearest city, Cleve, and receive their uniforms. Charles Henry requested a day’s leave, as he had various preparations to make for his father, to whom he wished to will the little property he had inherited from his mother. The officer granted him one day. Charles Henry left the house gayly, but instead of turning his steps toward the little hut inhabited by his father, he took the path leading to the old school-house, where his bride lived.
She stood at her door waiting for him. “Well,” said she, hastily, “is all right?”
“Yes,” said he, sadly, “I am drafted.”
She grasped the printed ticket from his hand and hid it in her bosom. “Now,” said she, “you have but to bring me a decent suit of clothes.”
“My Sunday suit, Anna,” said he, smiling. “It is new; I intended to be married in it.”
“I shall not hurt it,” said she. “There is a merchant at Cleve, whom I know to be good and honest--I will leave the clothes with him, and next Sunday you can walk to the city for them.”
“You will not even keep them to remember me by?”
“It is impossible for me ever to forget you, Charles Henry, for I shall bear your name.”
“From now on, throughout your whole life, you shall bear it, Anna. For when you return, you will remember your promise, and marry me. You will not forget me when far away?”
“How do I know I shall return?” said she. “A soldier’s life is in constant danger. There can be no talk of marriage until this war is over. But it is now time we were asleep, Charles Henry. You and I have many things to do to-morrow; we must arrange our household affairs--you for the sake of appearances, and I in good earnest. Good-night, then, Charles Henry.”
“Will you not kiss me on this our last night, Anna Sophia?” said he, sadly.
“A soldier kisses no man,” said she, with a weary smile. “He might embrace a friend, as his life ebbed out upon the battle-field, but none other, Charles Henry. Good-night.”
She entered and bolted the door after her, then lighting a candle she hastened to her attic-room. Seating herself at her father’s table, she spread a large sheet of foolscap before her and commenced writing. She was making her will with a firm, unshaken hand. She began by taking leave of the villagers, and implored them to forgive her for causing them sorrow; but that life in the old hut, without her parents, had become burdensome to her, and as her betrothed was now going away, she could endure it no longer. She then divided her few possessions, leaving to every friend some slight remembrance, such as ribbons, a prayer-book, or a handkerchief. Her clothes she divided among the village wives. But her house, with all its contents, she left to Father Buschman, with the request that he would live in it, at least in summer.
When she had finished, she threw herself upon her bed to rest from the many fatigues and heart-aches of the day. In her dreams her parents appeared to her--they beckoned, kissed, and blessed her. Strengthened by this dream, she sprang joyfully at daybreak from her couch. She felt now assured that what she was about to do was right, for otherwise her parents would not have appeared to her. She now continued the preparations for her journey cheerfully. She packed all her linen clothes into a small bundle, and then scoured and dusted her little house carefully. Dressing herself with more than her usual care, and putting her testament in her pocket, she left the house.
Anna took the road leading to the parsonage; she wished to go to confession to her old pastor for the last time. He had known her during the whole of her short life; had baptized her, and with him she had taken her first communion. She had confessed to him her most secret thoughts, and with loving smile, he absolved what she deemed her sins. He would not break the seal of confession, and she therefore opened her heart to him without fear.
The old pastor was deeply moved, and laying his hand upon her head he wept. When she had bid him a long and loving adieu, and had wiped the tears from her eyes, she left the parsonage and hastened to the woods, where Father Buschman was tending his sheep. As soon as the old shepherd saw her, he beckoned to her his welcome.
“I did not see you throughout the whole of yesterday, Anna Sophia,” said he, “and my heart was heavy within me; there was something wanting to my happiness.”
“I will remain with you to-day to make up for yesterday’s absence,” said she, seating herself beside him and kissing him tenderly. “I could not work to-day, for my heart aches; I will rest myself with you.”
“Your heart aches because Charles Henry must leave us,” said the old shepherd. “You would prefer his remaining at home, and not being a soldier?”
“No, I would not prefer this, father,” said she, earnestly; “would you?”
The old man looked thoughtful for some time, then said:
“It will be a great sorrow to me, Anna Sophia, for he is the last remaining light of my youth, and when he goes all will be dark and gloomy for me. It does me good to see his bright, handsome face; to hear his gay morning and evening song; and when you two are sitting beside me hand in hand upon the old bench at the front of our little hut, my youth comes back to me. I see myself sitting on the same bench with my dear old woman--it was our favorite seat when we were young. When Charles Henry leaves me, I not only lose him, but my whole past life seems to vanish away.”
“You would, therefore, prefer he should remain at home?” said Anna, anxiously.
“If it were possible,” said he, “but it is not. His king has called him, he must obey.”
“But he may, perhaps, be allowed to stay, father, if you will declare that you are too old, too weak to support yourself, and wish the only prop of your old age to remain with you, the authorities at Cleve may, perhaps, grant your request.”
The old shepherd shook his head slowly and thoughtfully, and said:
“No, we will not make the attempt; it would be deception, and could bring us no honor. I am not too weak to earn my own living, and it would be a disgrace to Charles Henry if I bought him off from his duty. The world might then think he was a coward, and had not courage enough to fight.”
“Do you think it a disgrace for a man to be wanting in courage?” said Anna Sophia, gazing at him as if her life depended upon his answer.
“I think so,” said he, calmly; “it is as bad for a man to be without courage as for a woman to be without virtue.”
Anna Sophia raised her dark, glowing eyes to heaven with an expression of deep thankfulness. Then giving way to her emotion, she threw her arms around the old shepherd, and, leaning her head upon his shoulder, she wept bitterly. He did not disturb her, but pressed her tenderly to his heart, and whispered occasionally a few loving, consoling words. He believed he understood her sorrow; he thought he knew the source of these tears. She was weeping because all hope of preventing her betrothed from being a soldier was now gone.
“Weep no more, my child,” said he, at last; “your eyes will be red; it will sadden Charles Henry, and make it harder for him to say good-by. See, there he comes to join us--do not weep, my child.”
Anna raised her head and dried her eyes hastily. “I am not weeping, father,” said she. “I entreat you do not tell Charles Henry that I have been crying--do not, if you love me. I will promise not to be sad again.”
“I will be silent, but you must keep your word and be cheerful, so as not to sadden the poor boy.”
“I will.”
Anna Sophia kept her word. She gave Charles Henry a bright, cheery welcome. While she was joking and laughing with the old man, evening came upon them, and as it cast its shadows about, Charles Henry became more and more silent and sad.
It was now time to drive home the fold, the sun had set, and Phylax had collected his little army. The old shepherd arose. “And now, my children,” said he, “take leave of one another. It is the last sunset you will see together for many a long day. Swear to each other here, in the presence of God and of his beautiful world, that you will be true to each other, that your love shall never change.”
Charles Henry looked timidly, beseechingly at Anna Sophia, but she would not encounter his gaze.
“We have said all that we had to say,” said she, quietly, “we will therefore not make our parting harder by repeating it.”
“It will make parting much easier to me,” cried Charles Henry, “if you will swear to be true, and always to love me. Though many years may pass, Anna Sophia, before we meet again, I will never cease to love you, never cease to think of you.”
“This will I also do, Charles Henry,” said Anna, solemnly. “My thoughts will be with you daily, hourly; your name will be constantly upon my lips!”
Charles Henry turned pale. He understood the ambiguous meaning of this oath, and it cut him to the heart.
“And now, good-night, Anna Sophia,” said the old shepherd; “to-morrow evening, when your work is done, I will await you here. We will have to love and console each other. Good-night once more!”
“Good-night, dear father,” whispered she, in a voice choked with tears, as she pressed a burning kiss on his brow.
The old man took her in his arms and embraced her tenderly, then whispered:
“To-morrow we will weep together, Anna Sophia.”
Anna tore herself from his arms.
“Good-night, father!”--and then turning to Charles Henry, she said: “When do you leave for Cleve?”
“To-night, at ten,” said he; “I prefer going at night; it is much hotter in the day, and I must be at Cleve at eight in the morning. I will be at your door to night, to take a last look at you.”
“It is all right,” said she, dryly, turning from him and hastening home.
Night had come; the village night-watch had announced the tenth hour; no light gleamed through the windows--the busy noise and bustle of day had given place to deep quiet. The whole village was at rest, every eye was closed. No one saw Charles Henry as he passed, with a bundle under his arm, and took the path leading to the old school-house--no one but the moon, that was gleaming brightly above, and was illuminating the solitary wanderer’s path.
For the first time he found Anna Sophia’s door open--he had no need to knock. He entered undisturbed with his bundle, which contained the suit of clothes Anna had desired.
Half an hour later the door was opened, and two tall, slenderly built young men left the house. The moon saw it all; she saw that the man with the hat on, and with the bundle on his back, was none other than Anna Sophia Detzloff, daughter of the old school-teacher. She saw that the one who was following her, whose countenance was so ghastly pale--not because the moon was shining upon it, but because he was so sad, so truly wretched--that this other was Charles Henry Buschman, who was coward enough to let his bride go to battle in his stead! The moon saw them shake hands for the last time and bid each other farewell.
“Let me go a little bit of the way with you, Anna Sophia,” said Charles Henry; “it is so dark, so still, and soon you will go through the woods. It is best I should be with you, for it is so fearfully gloomy. Let me accompany you, Anna Sophia.”
“I have no fear of the woods,” said she, gently: “the stars above will watch over and guard me, the moon will shed her light upon my path, it will not be dark. I must go my way through life alone--I must have no fear of any thing, not even of death. Leave me now, and be careful that you are seen by no one during the whole of tomorrow in my house. No one will go there tomorrow, for I have left word in the village that I am going on a visit to my aunt at Cleve. I have prepared your meals for you; the table is set, and above, in my room, you will find books to read. You can stand it for one day, tomorrow evening you will be released. Farewell, Charles Henry!”
“Do not go, Anna Sophia,” said he, weeping and trembling; “I will go. I will force my heart to be courageous! You must stay here.”
“It is too late,” said Anna: “nor could you do it, Charles Henry. You are afraid of the dark woods, and what comes beyond is much more fearful. We have taken leave of each other, the worst is past. Kiss your father for me, and when at times you are sitting upon the old bench, remind him of Anna Sophia.”
“I will obey you,” whispered he.
But Anna was not listening to him; she had turned from him, and was hastening down the road.
The moon saw it all! She saw the tears steal slowly from Anna Sophia’s eyes, and fall unknown to herself upon her cheek, as she turned her back upon her old home and hastened forward to a life of danger, privation, and want. She saw Charles Henry leaning upon the door of the old school-house, staring after Anna with a trembling heart until the last glimpse of her was lost in the distant woods. He then entered the school-house and fastened the door behind him. His heart was heavy and sorrowful, he was ashamed of himself; he was sorry for what he had done, but had not the strength to change it; and as he went over Anna Sophia’s departure, he was inwardly rejoiced that he himself was to remain at home.
On the morning of the second day after Anna’s departure, there was a great stir in the village, there were two astounding reports to excite the community. Charles Henry Buschman had returned from Cleve; they had told him he could be spared for a while. The second report was that Anna Sophia had not returned from her visit. They waited for several days, and as she did not come, Charles Henry went to the distant village where her aunt lived. But he returned with sad news. Anna Sophia was not there, her aunt had not seen her.
What had become of her? Where was she? No one could clear up the mystery. Many spoke of suicide; she had drowned herself in the large lake to the left of the village they said, because her betrothed had to leave her. The old pastor would not listen to this; but when the aunt came to take possession of her niece’s worldly goods, he had to bring forward the will Anna had given him, in which she had willed her all to Father Buschman. And now no one doubted that Anna had laid hands upon herself. The mystery remained unsolved. Every one pitied and sympathized with Charles Henry, who had lost all his former cheerfulness since the death of his bride!
V. THE PRISONER
Two years had passed since Frederick von Trenck entered the fortress of Magdeburg. Two years! What is that to those who live, work, strive, and fight the battle of life? A short space of time, dashing on with flying feet, and leaving nothing for remembrance but a few important moments.
Two years! What is that to the prisoner? A gray, impenetrable eternity, in which the bitter waters of the past fall drop by drop upon all the functions of life, and hollow out a grave for the being without existence, who no longer has the courage to call himself a man. Two years of anxious waiting, of vain hopes, of ever-renewing self-deception, of labor without result.
This was Trenck’s existence, since the day the doors of the citadel of Magdeburg closed upon him as a prisoner. He had had many bitter disappointments, much secret suffering; he had learned to know human nature in all its wickedness and insignificance, its love of money and corruption, but also in its greatness and exaltation, and its constancy and kindness.
Amongst the commandants and officers of the fortress whose duty it was to guard Trenck, there were many hard and cruel hearts, which exulted in his tortures, and who, knowing the king’s personal enmity to him, thought to recommend themselves by practising the most refined cruelties upon the defenceless prisoner. But he had also found warm human souls, who pitied his misfortunes, and who sought, by every possible means, to ameliorate his sad fate. And, after all, never had the night of his imprisonment been utterly dark and impenetrable. The star of hope, of love, of constancy, had glimmered from afar. This star, which had thrown its silver veil over his most beautiful and sacred remembrances, over his young life of liberty and love, this star was Amelia. She had never ceased to think of him, to care for him, to labor for his release; she had always found means to supply him with help, with gold, with active friends. But, alas! all this had only served to add to his misfortunes, to narrow the boundaries of his prison, and increase the weight of his chains.
Treachery and seeming accident had, up to this time, made vain every attempt at escape, and destroyed in one moment the sad and exhausting labors of many long months. The first and seemingly most promising attempt at flight had miscarried, through the treason of the faithless Baron Weingarten, who had offered to communicate between Trenck and the princess.
For six long months Trenck had worked with ceaseless and incomparable energy at a subterranean path which would lead him to freedom; all was prepared, all complete. The faithful grenadier, Gefhart, who had been won over by the princess, had given him the necessary instruments, and through the bars of his prison had conveyed to him such food as would strengthen him for his giant task.
Nothing was now wanting but gold, to enable Trenck, when he had escaped, to hire a little boat, which would place him on the other side of the Elbe--gold, to enable him to make a rapid flight.
Gefhart had undertaken to deliver Trenck’s letter to the princess, asking for this money. This letter, written with his own blood upon a piece of linen, had been forwarded through Gefhart’s mistress, the Jewess Rebecca, to Weingarten. He delivered it to the princess, and received, through Pollnitz, two thousand thalers, which he did not hand over to Rebecca, but retained for himself, and betrayed to the king Trenck’s intended flight.
This was but a short time before Weingarten’s own flight; and while he was enjoying the fruit of this base fraud in security and freedom, poor Trenck was forced to descend still lower in the citadel, and take possession of that frightful prison which, by special command of the king, had been built and prepared for him, in the lowest casemates of the fortress.
The king was greatly exasperated at these never-ending attempts of Trenck to escape; his courage and endurance made him an interesting and admired martyr to the whole garrison at Magdeburg.
Frederick wished to give to this garrison, and to all his soldiers, a terrible example of the relentless severity with which insubordination should be punished, to prove to them that mortal daring and mortal energy were vain to escape the avenging hand of royal justice.
Trenck, who, in the beginning, had only been condemned to arrest in Glatz for six months, had, by his constant attempts at escape, and the mad and eloquent expression of his rage, brought upon himself the sentence of eternal imprisonment, in a subterranean cell, which, by express command of the king, was so prepared, that neither guards nor soldiers were necessary to his detention. A jailer only was needed, to lock the four doors of the corridor which led to Trenck’s cell. It was as little dangerous to guard this poor prisoner as to approach the lion bound by chains and hemmed in by iron bars.
Trenck was indeed manacled like a wild beast. A chain clanked upon his feet, an iron girdle was around his waist, to which hung a heavy chain, fastened to a thick iron bar built in the wall; manacles were made fast to each end of an iron bar, to which his hands were bound. The most cruel wild beast would not have been so tortured; some one would have had pity on him, and mercifully ended his life. But this creature, thus tortured, groaning and clanking his heavy chains--this creature was a man, therefore there was no pity. It would have been considered a crime to put an end to his life; but slowly, day by day, to murder him, was only justice.
The king had made it the personal duty of the commandant, Bruckhausen, to guard Trenck. He declared that if he allowed Trenck to escape, he should not only lose his place and rank, but take Trenck’s place in his fearful cell. This was a frightful menace to the ambitious and harsh commandant, Bruckhausen, and, of course, led him to take the severest precautions. It was he, therefore, who had bound Trenck, and, whenever he visited the poor prisoner in his cell, he rejoiced in the artistic construction of his chains, and looked proudly upon his work. He saw with delight that Trenck was scarcely able to drag his heavy chains two feet to the right or left, or to raise the tin cup to his parched lips, with his hands thus fastened to an iron bar; and as often as he left the cell, he exclaimed, with an expression of malicious joy:
“I have tamed him forever! he will not escape me!”
But Trenck was not tamed, his courage was not broken. In this crushed and wasted form dwelt a strong soul, a bounding heart; he had been bound in chains thought to be indissoluble. Trenck alone did not believe this; he trusted still in the magic power of his will, in his good star, which had not yet been quenched in darkness.
In the wall to which the chain was fastened, his name was built, in red tiles; a gravestone marked the spot upon which his feet moved, upon which a death’s head and the name of Trenck was engraved. Under this stone there was a vault, and when one looked at the moist walls, from which the water constantly trickled, and at the dark cell, which for six months had not been cheered by one ray of light, they might well suppose that the gravestone would soon be lifted, and the vault opened to receive the poor prisoner, upon whose grave no other tears would flow. These dark walls were, as it appeared, softer and more pitiful than the hearts of men.
Trenck was not subdued; the death’s head and his name upon the gravestone did not terrify him! It was nothing more to him than a constant reminder to collect his courage and his strength, and to oppose to his daily menace of death a strong conviction of life and liberty.
If his prison were dark, and warmed by no ray of sunshine, he leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and his vivid imagination and glowing fancy was the slave of his will, and painted his past life in magic pictures.
The prisoner, clad as a convict, with his hands and feet chained, became at once the child of fortune and love; the exalted favorite of princes, the admired cavalier, the envied courtier, and the darling of lovely women.
When hunger drove him to eat the coarse bread which was his only nourishment, and to satisfy his thirst with the muddy water in the tin pitcher at his side, he thought of the meals, worthy of Lucullus, of which he had partaken, at the Russian court, by the side of the all-powerful Russian minister Bestuchef; he remembered the fabulous pomp which surrounded him, and the profound reverence which was shown him, as the acknowledged favorite of the prime minister of the empress.
When no one whispered one word of consolation or of sympathy, for all trembled at the ceaseless watchfulness of the commandant--when the rude silent jailer came daily and placed his bread and water before him and left him without word or greeting--then Trenck recalled the sacred, consecrated hours in which love had whispered sweet names and tender words. This love still lived--it watched over and shone down upon him--it was a star of hope. Why should Trenck despair, when love lived and lived only for him? No, he would not die--he would never be buried under this gravestone. Beyond these thick, damp walls lay the world--the living, active, blooming world. It was only necessary to break these chains, to open the five heavy doors which confined him to his dark prison, and life, liberty, the world, honor, love, belonged to him!
“Is not my will stronger than chains and bolts?” he said. “Has not the spirit wings by which she can take flight, mocking at prisons and at torture?”
His spirit was free, for he believed in freedom: when his chains clanked around him, it seemed to him as if they whispered of speedy liberty--as if they exhorted him in soft, harmonious tones, to cast them off and become a free and happy man.
At last there came a day when he could no longer resist these alluring voices. If he could break these chains the first step was taken, and only the doors remained to be opened. By close observation, he had discovered that the inner door of his prison was of wood. The faithful Gefhart had managed to inform him that the other doors were also of wood. He had also conveyed to him a small, sharp knife, the most precious of all earthly treasures, for with this he hoped to obtain his freedom.
“But the chains!” First must the chains be broken--first must his right hand be free! And it was free. Although the blood was bursting from the nails Trenck forced his hand through the manacle. Freedom greeted him with her first rapturous smile. Alas, the handcuff upon the left hand was too narrow to be removed in this way. With a piece of his chain he broke off a fragment of stone which he used as a file, and in this way he liberated his left hand. The iron ring around his waist was fastened only by a hook to the chain attached to the wall. Trenck placed his feet against the wall, and bending forward with all his strength, succeeded in straightening the hook so far as to remove it from the ring. And now there only remained the heavy wooden chain fastened to his feet, and also made fast to the wall. By a powerful effort he broke two of the links of this chain.
He was free--free--at least to stand erect and walk around his miserable prison. With a feeling of inexpressible joy he raised himself to his full height--it enraptured him to move his arms, so long and painfully confined--he extended them widely and powerfully, as if he wished to clasp the whole outside world to his heart.
Could the commandant Bruckhausen have cast one glance into this horrible, noiseless cell, he would have trembled with rage and apprehension. The unchained giant stood with glad smiles, and flaming eyes, and outstretched arms, as if adjuring the spirits of the under-world to come to his assistance. But the commandant lay in careless security upon his soft, white couch; his eyes were closed; they could not pierce the dark cell where a fellow-man, with loudly-beating heart, but silent lips, called rapturously to the fair goddess Liberty, and hastened to clasp her in his arms.
Stepping forward, he sought the door of his prison, and kneeling before it, he took out his knife. He tried to cut out a small piece and to ascertain the thickness of the wall; this was short work--the door opened inside, and it was easy to cut around and remove the lock. It was made of simple oak boards. Once convinced of this, Trenck prudently sought his mattress in order to obtain rest and strength. It was impossible to commence his labor then. The night was far spent, and every morning at eight o’clock the jailer came to inspect him and bring his bread and water. His visit must be over before he could begin his work--he must possess his soul in patience. What were a few hours’ waiting to him who had waited long, dreary years?--a fleeting moment, scarcely sufficient to accustom him to his new happiness, to enable him to collect his thoughts and bear quietly the rapturous conviction of approaching freedom.
“Yes, I will be free; this is the last night of my imprisonment.” But while waiting in this dreary prison he could enjoy one pleasure long denied him--he could stretch his limbs upon his bed without being martyred and crushed by his bonds--without hearing the clank of chains. With what gladness he now stretched himself upon his poor couch!--how grateful he was to God for this great happiness!--how sweet his sleep!--how glorious his dreams!
Trenck awaked in the early morning, revived and strengthened. It was time to prepare for the daily visitation--to replace his chains, and take possession of his gravestone. His eyes accustomed to the darkness soon discovered the broken link of the chain, which he hid in his mattress. With a piece of his hair-band he fastened the chain to his feet, hung the second chain to the ring upon his waist, and now it only remained to place his hands in the manacles fastened to the iron bar. He had filed the handcuff from his left hand and that was easy to resume, but it was impossible to force his right hand through the ring; he had succeeded in removing it by a mighty effort the evening before, but it was consequently greatly swollen. He took again his little piece of stone and tried to file it apart, but every effort was in vain. Nearer and nearer came the hour of visitation, and if his right hand were free when the jailer came, all would be discovered. It seemed to him as if he heard already the bolt of the first door. With a last, frightful effort, he forced his hand in the manacle; his fingers cracked as if the bones were broken; it was scarcely possible for him to suppress a shriek of anguish. But the danger was even at the door, and the blessing of freedom was not too dearly bought even by this anguish; he bore it with heroic fortitude, and though his whole figure trembled with pain, he conquered himself. He leaned back breathlessly and almost unconsciously against the wall; and now the bolt really moved, and the jailer, followed by two officers, entered.
The visitation began. In this small cell, which held nothing but a mattress, a seat built in the wall, and a small table, there was but little to examine. A fleeting glance at Trenck’s chains, which were rattling around him, and the search was over, and the jailer and officers left the prison. Trenck listened in breathless silence till he heard the bolt of the fifth door rattling, and now life and movement were in his form and features. It was time to work. But alas! it was impossible. The swollen, blood-red, throbbing hand could not possibly be withdrawn from the handcuff. He must control himself--must wait and be patient. He resolved to do this with a brave heart, in the full conviction that he would attain his liberty.
At last, after three days, the swelling disappeared, and he found he could withdraw his hand without difficulty. The visit was no sooner over, than his chains fell off. For the last time! God grant that for the last time he had heard them clank!
A herculean work was before him, but Freedom was without and awaiting him, and he panted to embrace her. Seizing his little pocket-knife, he stepped to the door and commenced his labor. The first door was not difficult, it opened from within. In half an hour the work was done, and Trenck advanced and extended his hands before him till they encountered another obstacle. This was the second door. But here was indeed a weary task. The door opened on the outside and a heavy cross-bar besides the lock secured it. It was necessary to cut entirely through the door above the bar, and spring over it. Trenck did not despair--bravely, unwearily, he went to work--the perspiration fell from his brow and mingled with the blood which trickled from his lacerated hands. Trenck did not regard it; he felt no pain, no exhaustion. Freedom stood before the frowning citadel, and awaited his coming. At last it was achieved; with trembling hands he lifted the upper part of the door from the hinges and sprang into the outer room.
Here light and sunshine greeted him. Weary months had gone by since he had seen the sun--the soft light of heaven on the fresh green of earth--and now all this was his once more. There was a small window in this corridor, and not too high for him to look abroad. He turned his eyes, filled with tears of the purest joy, upon the cloudless heavens; he followed with longing eyes the flight of the doves, who moved like a black cloud across the sky and disappeared on the horizon. He inhaled with long-drawn breath the fresh, glad air, which appeared to him laden with the fragrance of all the flowers of the world. He gave himself up for a few moments to this first rapturous enjoyment, then conquered himself and examined his surroundings with a thoughtful, searching eye.
He saw that his prison was built against the first wall of the fortress, and was exactly opposite an entrance, before which stood a high palisade; this he must climb before he could reach the outer wall. But the night was long, and he saw that the guard patrolling upon the wall disappeared from time to time for more than five minutes; he must therefore have some distance to walk before he returned to the same spot. While his back was turned, must Trenck climb the palisade and wall.
Trenck sprang back upon the floor with a glad and happy heart. What he had seen of the free, outer world had given him new life. With cheerful resolution he stepped to the third door. This was constructed like the first, and gave him but little trouble--it was soon opened, and Trenck passed on the other side.
The sun went down, and the twilight obscured his view, as this was completed. And now his strength was exhausted, and his swollen and bleeding hands, from which the flesh hung in shreds, refused their service. With inexpressible despair he looked at the fourth door, which opened from the outside, and it was again necessary to cut through the whole breadth of the door in order to advance.
Worn out and trembling, he seated himself near the door and leaned his aching head against the cool wood. He sat thus a long time, till he felt that his blood was flowing more calmly, and the wild, quick beating of his pulse had subsided--till the pain in his hands and limbs was quieted, and he had won new strength. He then rose from the floor, took his knife, and recommenced his work. He moved more slowly than before, but his work progressed. It could scarcely be midnight, and half the door was cut through. The moon shed her peerless rays through the little window and lighted his work, and showed him what remained to be done. In two hours he would finish, and then remained only the fifth door which opened on the wall, and which Gefhart assured him was not difficult. In three hours the work would be done--in three hours he might stand without, in the fresh, free air of heaven, himself a free and happy man.
With renewed courage and renewed strength, after a short rest, he went again to work. He thrust his knife into the opening and pressed powerfully against the wood. Suddenly his hand seemed paralyzed--on the other side of the door he heard a light clang, and with a hollow cry of woe, Trenck sank upon the floor. The blade of the knife was broken and had fallen on the other side. Now he was lost! There was no longer hope of escape! He rushed to the window; would it not be possible to escape in that way? No, no! It was not possible to pass through this small opening.
Trenck sank upon his knees before the window and stared into the heavens. His pallid lips murmured low words. Were they prayers?--were they curses?--or was it the death-rattle of dead hopes and dying liberty? At last he rose from his knees; his face, which had been that of a corpse, now assumed an expression of firm resolve. Staggering and creeping along by the wall, he returned to his prison, which he had left so short a time before full of happy hopes. He reached his bed and laid down upon it, holding the broken knife in his hand. Not to sleep, not to rest, but to die! He could think of no other hope--no other way than this. “Yes, I will die!” His life’s courage, his life’s energy, was exhausted. He had closed his account with the world. Slowly he raised his hand aloft with the broken knife, and collecting all his strength for one last, decisive blow, he bowed and cut the vein of his left foot, then raised his head with a smile of triumph, and stretching out his left arm he forced the stump of his knife deep into the large vein of his elbow. The deed was done! He felt the warm blood flowing from his veins--he felt that with it also was sweeping by the miserable remnant of his buried existence. His thoughts wandered, and a happy insensibility overpowered him, and now his blessed spirit floated chainless and free beyond this drear prison. The necessities of this poor life and its tortures were overcome.
But what was that? Who called his name lightly from without, and made the air of this living grave tremble with unwonted tones?
When this call was repeated the second time, Trenck felt a light trembling in his whole frame. The whisper of his name had called back his fleeting spirit. The godlike dream of release was at an end; Trenck lived again, a suffering, defenceless man. For the third time he heard his name called--for the third time a voice, as if from heaven, rang, “Trenck! Trenck!”
Trenck gathered all his little strength, and replied:
“Who calls me?”
“It is I,” said the faithful Gefhart; “have I not sworn to bring you help? I have crept over the wall only to say to you that I think of you--that you must not despair--that help is nigh, even at the door. An unknown friend has sent you a greeting by me; he has given me a roll of gold to be useful in your flight. Come near, I will throw it to you through the window.”
“It is too late, Gefhart, all is too late! I lie bathed in my blood; to-morrow they will find me dead!”
“But why die?” cried the fresh, strong voice of Gefhart; “why wish for death, now when escape is possible? Here there are no guards, and I will soon find a way to furnish you with tools. Try only to break your prison--for the rest I will remain responsible.”
“Alas, I tried to-night and I failed!” said Trenck. A few tears stole from his eyes and rolled slowly over his hollow cheeks.
“You will succeed better another time, Baron Trenck; whenever I am on guard here I will seek an opportunity to speak with you, and we will arrange all. Do not despair. I must go, the sun is rising, and I may be seen. Do not despair! God will help you--trust fully in me.” [Footnote: “Frederick von Trenck’ Important Memoire.”]
The voice had long since died away, but Trenck listened still for those tones, which seemed like the greeting of one of God’s angels; they illuminated his prison and gave strength to his soul. No, no, now he would not die! He felt his courage revive. He would defy fate, and oppose its stern decrees by the mighty power of his will.
VI. THE PRISON BARRICADE
No, he would not die! With trembling hands he tore his coarse shirt into strips, and bound with it his bleeding veins. When he had thus closed the portals upon death, he seated himself to meditate upon the means of avoiding still severer punishment. He soon arose from his bed, much strengthened by the short rest he had had. With an iron bar that he had forced from his bed he hammered into the wall until the stones, around which the mortar had become loosened owing to the dampness of the cell, fell at his feet. He piled them together in the centre of his ceil, and then hastened to barricade the second door he had attempted to force. The lower part of it was still held on by the lock; over the opening at the top he passed the chains several times that he had forced from his limbs, forming a sort of trellis-work, which rendered entrance from without impossible.
When all his preparations were made, when he was ready for the contest, he seated himself upon his strange barricade, and there, wearied out by suffering and anxiety, he fell into a sweet sleep. He was awakened by the sound of many loud voices. Through the iron lattice of the second door he saw the wondering, terrified countenances of the city guard, who were endeavoring to unloose the chains. With one bound Trenck was beside his door, balancing in his right hand a large stone, and in the left his broken knife. He cried out, in a furious voice:
“Back! back!--let no one dare to enter here. My stones shall have good aim; I will kill any one who ventures to enter this room. Major, tell his excellency, the commandant, that I will remain no longer in chains. I wish him to have me shot down at once! I will thank him for my death, but I will curse him if he forces me to become a murderer. For I swear, before God, I will stone any one who seeks to overpower me. I will die--yes, die!”
It was a fearful sight--this man, thin, wan, naked, and bleeding, who seemed to have risen from the grave to revenge the sufferings of his life. His countenance was ghastly pale, his hair lying in matted locks on his neck; and the long beard, covering the lower part of his face, and falling almost to his waist, gave him a wild, insane look, which was heightened by the fearful brightness of his eyes.
With terror and pity they gazed at the poor unfortunate one whom despair had driven to this extremity; who remained deaf to all their representations, all their entreaties, still swearing that he would kill any one who approached him. It was in vain that the officers besought him in the most tender manner to submit--that the prison chaplain came and implored him, in the name of God, to give up this useless resistance. God’s name had no effect whatever upon him. What was God to him--to him on whom no one had pity, neither God nor man; he whom they treated like a wild beast, and fastened in a cage? It was in vain that the commandant ordered the guard to storm the fortified door. Trenck received them with stones, and sent the two foremost ones reeling to the floor, causing the others to fall back in dismay.
Trenck raised his hand with a shout of exultation, armed with another stone, and fixing his wild, triumphant glance upon the commandant, he cried:
“You see it is useless to endeavor to take me while living. Order the guards to fire! Let me die!”
The commandant lacked the power to do as Trenck requested, however willing he may have been to grant his request. Instead of continuing his threats, he withdrew into another chamber, signing to the major to follow him.
Trench still stood with uplifted arm when the major returned. And now, as the stern, much-feared commandant had left, no one withheld the tender sympathy that was almost breaking the hearts of the lookers-on. Trenck saw it written upon every countenance, and he to whom a look and word of pity had been so long unknown, felt deeply touched. His expression became milder, and as the major, whom he had known in the other prison, commenced to speak to him in gentle, loving tones, and implored him not to cause his ruin, for all the punishment would fall upon his head, as, through his negligence, Trenck had been allowed to retain his knife--as he finished, Trenck’s arm fell to his side, and tears streamed from his eyes.
“No one,” said he, gently--“no one shall become unhappy through me, for misery is a fearful thing. I will make no further resistance, if you will swear to me that no heavy chains shall be put upon me--that I shall suffer no unworthy punishment.”
The major promised him, in the commandant’s name, that if he ceased to resist, no further notice would be taken of the affair.
“Then,” whispered Trenck, with a bitter smile, “I must suffer anew--suffer forever.”
He approached the door and drew off the chains. “Now, guards,” said he, “the door can be opened. The wild beast has become tame.”
Then, with a low moan, he sank fainting upon the floor. He was lifted up and laid upon his bed. Tears were in every eye, but Trenck did not see them; he did not hear their low, whispered words of sympathy and friendship. Death, from whom Trenck had once more been torn, had sent her twin sister, insensibility, to cause him to forget his sufferings for a while.
VII. THE BATTLE OF COLLIN
Lost!--the battle was lost! This was the cry of woe throughout the Prussian camp--this was the fearful cry that palsied the hands of those who could not endure defeat.
The Prussians who had defeated the enemy at Losovitz and Prague, were condemned to yield the palm of victory at Collin to their enemy’s commander, Marshal Daun. They had fought bravely, desperately for this victory; and when all was over, death would have been preferable to defeat.
The Prussians were beaten, though their king, Ziethen, and Moritz von Dessau--all of them heroes--were in the field. At the first thought of the possibility of losing the battle, there was a fearful panic throughout the army.
“We are lost! lost!”--and this cry caused them to throw down their arms and fly, as if followed by a thousand furies; as victory--was impossible, they wished at least to save their lives.
It was in vain that the officers implored them to rally again and fall upon the enemy. They did not heed. In vain that the king himself rode among them, pointing with his sword to the enemy, and crying:
“Forward’ forward, boys! Would you live forever? Death comes to all!”
They looked at him stubbornly; they feared not now his piercing, eagle glance, his royal countenance. They looked and said:
“We have worked hard enough to-day for eightpence,” and then continued their flight.
But the king could not yet be brought to believe the truth. He still trusted in the possibility of victory. He clung with desperation to this hope; he let his voice be heard--that voice that generally had such power over his soldiers; he called them to him, and pointed out to them the enemy’s battery; he ordered the band to play a martial air to inspire the men. This call brought a few faithful soldiers around him--only forty warriors were ready to follow their king.
“Forward! we will take the battery!” cried he, as he pressed on, regardless of the shower of the enemy’s balls.
What was this to him? what had he to do with death--he whose only thought was for the honor and glory of his army? If he succeeded in taking this battery, it would encourage his desponding soldiers. They would once more believe in the star of their king, and assemble bravely around him. This it was that gave hope to the king.
Without once looking back, he pressed onward to the battery--when suddenly, amid the clatter of trumpets and the roar of cannon, this fearful question reached him:
“Sire, would you take the battery alone?”
The king reined in his horse and looked behind him. Yes, he was alone; no one was with him but his adjutant, Major von Grant, who had asked this question.
A deep groan escaped the king; his head fell upon his breast, and he gave himself up to the bitterness of despair.
A cannon-ball fell beside him--he did not heed it; he was too utterly wretched. Another ball struck his horse, causing it to prance with pain and terror.
Major Grant grasped the king’s bridle.
“Sire,” said he, “are you determined to be shot? If so, let me know it, and with your majesty’s permission I will withdraw.” The king raised his head, and looked at the daring adjutant with a bitter smile.
“We will both withdraw,” said he, gently, advancing toward the generals who had been seeking him throughout the battle-field. He greeted them with a silent bow, and passed without a word. Whither he was now going, none of the generals knew, but they followed him in silence.
The king rode up the slight eminence from which, on that morning, his army had fallen like a glittering avalanche upon the enemy. This avalanche was now transformed into a stream of blood, and corpse upon corpse covered the ground. He reined in his horse and gazed at the Austrian army, who were now withdrawing to their camp, midst shoutings and rejoicings, to rest after their glorious victory. Then, turning his horse, he looked at the remains of his little army flying hither and thither in the disorder of defeat. A deep sigh escaped him. Throwing his head back proudly, he called Prince Moritz von Dessau and the Duke of Bevern to his side.
“Sirs,” said he, firmly; “the fate of to-day is decided. All that now remains for us to do, is to deprive the enemy of the advantages of this victory. Collect our scattered regiments, and lead the army through the defile of Plainan, back to Nimburg. There we will decide what is best to do. I go on before you, and wish no one to accompany me.”
He turned his horse, rode slowly down the hill, then took the road leading to Nimburg. Lost in deep thought, he continued his way. He was followed by his faithful body-guard, who, at a sign from Prince von Dessau, had hastened after him. A few flying officers and sergeants joined him. These were the followers of Prussia’s hero-king; but they were suddenly scattered. A soldier galloped up to them, and stated that he had just encountered a regiment of the enemy’s hussars, who were pursuing them. There was a cry of terror throughout the guards, and then, as if with one accord, putting spurs to their horses, they fled in wild disorder.
The king continued his way, slowly and quietly--slowly and quietly a few of his guard followed him. In funereal silence they passed through the defile of Plainan, and reached at last Nimburg, the king’s appointed place of meeting.
The king now reined in his horse, and, looking back, he became aware of his followers. Beckoning to his adjutant, he ordered him to get quarters for the soldiers, and then to inform the generals that he awaited them.
“Where?” asked the astonished adjutant.
“Here!” said the king, pointing to a fallen pump, a few steps from where he stood. He dismounted, and, when the adjutant had disappeared, he threw himself upon the old pump, and rested his head upon his cane. Thus he remained a long while, thinking painfully of the occurrences of the past day. He remembered that he had appointed the site of to-day’s battle, without listening to the warnings of his experienced generals, and that Moritz von Dessau had implored him to put his army in another position, before attacking the enemy. He remembered the prince saying to him--“It would be impossible for an attack from this point to succeed,” and his entreating him to draw back and change his position. He remembered, also, his riding up to the prince, with his naked sword, and inquiring, in a threatening tone, “whether he meant to obey or not?” And Prince Moritz von Dessau had obeyed; his prophecy had been fulfilled--the battle was lost.
“Ah,” whispered the king, “how poor, how weak is man! The happiness of an hour intoxicates him, and he defies his coming fate; he should know that happiness is a fleeting guest, but that misfortune is the constant companion of man. I have allowed myself to be deceived by fortune, and she has turned against me. Fortune is a woman, and I am not gallant. The fickle goddess watches carefully, and makes good use of my faults. It was a great fault to dare, with twenty-three battalions of infantry, to attack an army of sixty thousand men, half of whom are cavalry. Ah! my great ancestor, Frederick William, what have you to say of your poor nephew, who, with his little host, is fighting against Russia, Austria, a large part of Germany, and a hundred thousand French troops? Will you assist me? Will you be my guardian angel, praying for me above? Yes, yes! you will assist me if I assist myself, and do not give way to my faults. Had I been killed in to-day’s battle, I would now be in a safe haven, beyond the reach of storms. But now I must swim still farther into the stormy sea, until at last I find in the grave that rest and peace which I shall never attain in this world. This is a consoling thought; it shall rouse me again to life. I am glad I did not die to-day. I can still repair my fault. All the responsibility will be thrown on me; it will be said, the battle would have been won, but for Frederick’s obstinacy. But let this be! It is a necessary consequence that a warrior should suffer for the faults of his followers. Through me this battle was lost, and in history it will go down thus to future generations. But many a victory shall still be recorded, and as the defeat was owing to me, so shall the victory also come through me alone. I alone will bear upon my shoulders Prussia’s honor, Prussia’s glory. It lies now, with me, bleeding on the ground. It shall be lifted and sustained by me alone!” And raising his burning eyes heavenward, he seemed to see these future victories branded upon the skies. Gradually the inspiration left his countenance, giving place to deep thought. He had delivered his funeral oration to the lost battle, and now gave his thought to his future victories. He drew lines and figures upon the sand with his cane. It may have been a drawing of the last or a sketch of the next battle.
The king was so absorbed in this occupation, that he did not perceive his generals, who, having reached Nimburg with the wreck of the army, hastened to the place of appointment, and were now assembled at a respectful distance from him.
Frederick continued to sketch. The generals gazed at him in silence, anxiously awaiting the moment when he would arouse himself. He suddenly looked up, and did not seem surprised to see them; lifting his hat slightly, he greeted them, and rose from his lowly seat.
“It is well, sirs, that you are here,” said he. “We must now make our preparations for the future; for our enemies, having beaten us once, will think us no longer capable of resisting them, and will fall upon us with renewed courage. We will convince them, gentlemen, that though we are stricken to the ground for a moment, we are not crushed, not dead. We will convince them that we still live to tear from them the laurels they have taken from us this day. Prince von Dessau, hasten immediately to our army at Prague. I command the Prince of Prussia to raise the siege there at once. He shall call all his generals together, and hold council with them as to the most suitable mode of retreat. He shall determine with them how the siege can best be raised; to avoid, as far as possible, the appearance of flying from their enemy. With gay music they should leave their posts; they should not all leave together, but in groups, so as to mislead the enemy. In small companies should also the retreat through Bohemia to Lausitz be made, for it would be difficult for a large army to pass this mountainous district; but they should remain as near together as possible, choosing the widest, most convenient roads. These are the orders you are to deliver my brother, the Prince of Prussia, and his generals. I give to the prince the command of this portion of my army, and require of him to hasten to Lausitz. I will join him in Bautzen. And then, gentlemen, we will seek an occasion to repay our enemies for their civilities of to-day.”
The generals had listened to him with breathless attention; and as he now dismissed them, with a glorious smile upon his lips, they repeated unanimously his last words, “We will repay our enemies for their civilities.”
As if inspired by this shout, the soldiers, lying about the market place, at a slight distance from the king, broke into a loud hurrah, and shouted, “Long live our king!”
The king turned slowly toward them, but when he saw all that remained of his noble army, he became pale, and pressed his lips tightly together, as if to suppress a cry of horror. Then advancing, followed by his generals, to where his weary, wounded soldiers were lying, he said:
“Children, is this all that is left of you?”
“Yes, father, we are the last,” said an old gray-headed officer, standing before the king. “There were many thousands of us, now there are two hundred and fifty.”
“Two hundred and fifty!” repeated the king, with a bitter smile.
“And it was not our fault,” continued the old officer, “that we did not fall with the rest. We fought as bravely as they; but Death did not want us. Perhaps he thought it best to leave a few of us, to guard our king. We all think so! Some were left to repay those abominable Saxons for their to-day’s work.”
“And why alone the Saxons?” asked the king.
“Because it was those infamous Saxon troops that hewed down our regiment. They fell upon us like devils, and striking their cursed swords into us, cried out, ‘This is for Striegau!’”
“Ah! you see,” cried the king, “that while beating you, they could but think of the many times you had conquered them.”
“They shall think of this again, father,” said another soldier, raising himself with great pain from the ground. “Wait until our wounds have healed, and we will repay them with interest.”
“You are wounded, Henry?” said the king.
“Yes, your majesty, in the arm.”
“And old Klaus?”
“Is dead!”
“And Fritz Verder?”
“Dead! He lies with the others upon the battle-field. There are seven hundred and fifty of us in heaven, and only two hundred and fifty on earth. But those above, as well as below, still cry--‘Long live our king!’”
“Long live our king,” cried they all, rising.
The king made no reply; his eye passed from one to the other pale, exhausted countenance, and an inexpressible sorrow overcame him.
“Dead!” murmured he, “my faithful guards dead! seven hundred and fifty of my choice men have fallen.” And overpowered by his emotion, the king did not force back the tears welling to his eyes. They stole softly down his cheek, and Frederick was not ashamed. He did not blush, because his warriors had seen him weep.
“Children,” cried the old officer, after a pause, and wiping the tears from his weary eyes, “from now on it will be glorious to die, for when we are dead, our king weeps for us.”
VIII. THE INIMICAL BROTHERS
“The king comes! The king is entering Bautzen!”
This announcement brought pale terror to the hearts of the Prince of Prussia and his generals. They who had heretofore sprang joyfully to meet the call of their king, now trembled at his glance. They must now present to him the sad and despoiled remnant of that great army which, under the command of the Prince Augustus William of Prussia, had made the retreat from Lausitz.
It had, indeed, been the most fearful retreat ever attempted by the Prussian troops. It had cost them more than the bloodiest battle, and they had suffered more from hardships during the last few days than ever before during a whole campaign. They had marched over narrow, stony, rugged mountain-paths, between hills and horrible abysses, sometimes climbing upward, sometimes descending. Thousands died from exhaustion; thousands pressed backward, crushed by those in the front; thousands, forced onward by those in the rear, had stumbled and fallen into fathomless caverns, which lay at the foot of these mountain passes, yawning like open graves. If a wheel broke, the wagon was burned; there was no time for repairs, and if left in the path, it interrupted the passage of the flying army. At last, in order to facilitate the flight, the provision-wagons were burned, and the bread divided amongst the soldiers; the equipages and pontoon-wagons were also burned. Exhausted by their unusual exertions, beside themselves from pain and unheard-of suffering the whole army was seized with a death-panic.
The soldiers had lost not only all faith in their good fortune, but all faith in their leaders. Thousands deserted; thousands fled to escape death, which seemed to mock at and beckon to them from every pointed rock and every dark cavern. [Footnote: Warner’s “Campaigns of Frederick the Great”.]
While one part of the army deserted or died of hunger or exhaustion, another part fought with an intrenched enemy, for three long days, in the narrow pass of Gabel, under the command of General von Puttkammer. They fought like heroes, but were at last obliged to surrender, with two thousand men and seven cannon. Utterly broken by these losses, dead and dying from starvation and weariness, the army drew off toward Zittau.
There was but one thought which sustained the wearied, and lent strength to the starving. In Zittau were immense magazines of grain. In Zittau, the rich Saxon city, which throughout all Saxony was called the gold-mine, they dared hope for rest and opportunity to recover.
Before this unhappy army reached Zittau, Duke Charles of Lothringen was in advance of them. With wanton cruelty he reduced the industrious, open city to ashes, destroyed the Prussian magazines, and, with his army, trampled upon the ruins and the corpses of this unfortified town. The Prussians had now lost their last hope. They encamped by Lodau, and after a short rest, advanced to Bautzen, which city the king had appointed for the reunion of the two army corps. And now, one day after the arrival of this miserable remnant of an army, the king entered the camp of Bautzen.
The unhappy moment was at hand; they must now meet the stern eye of the king. These were bold, heroic generals--the Prince of Prussia, Von Bevern, Von Wurtemberg, Von Dessau, Winterfeldt, Goltz, Ziethen, Krokow, and Schmettau. Bravely, triumphantly had they fought in all previous battles, but now, amidst defeat and disaster, they must meet the eye of the king. This was more dangerous to them than the most deadly battle, and they shrank appalled before this fearful encounter.
Silently, and frowning darkly, the generals mounted their horses, and rode down the highway--the Prince of Prussia in advance, and by his side the Duke of Wurtemberg. And now, in front of them, in an open space, they saw the king. He was on his horse, and looked sternly toward them. The Prince of Prussia trembled, and, involuntarily checking his horse, he stooped with a weary smile toward the duke.
“I have a feeling,” said he, in low tones, “as if my fate was advancing threateningly, in the form of my brother. It glowers upon me with a glance which announces that I am condemned to death. Look, duke! my sentence is written in the raging eye of the king.”
“The king’s wrath will not fall upon you alone,” whispered the duke, “but upon us all. This is a wild tempest, which threatens us all in the same moment with destruction.”
“A tempest? yes! the thunder rolls over all, but the stroke of lightning falls only upon me; and I--I am the one,” said the prince, solemnly; “I am the sacrificial offering chosen by the king, with which he will seek to propitiate the frowning gods of destiny.”
“God forbid!” said the duke, sadly. “The king will be just! He will see that these frightful misfortunes were unavoidable; that we are innocent. He will listen to our explanations; he--”
“I tell you,” said Augustus William, “he will demand a subject for his scorn. I shall be this sacrifice! Well, so let it be; I am willing to be offered up for my fatherland! Let us go onward, duke.” He drew his bridle and they rode forward.
The king remained immovable in the same spot, his proud head erect, and his icy glance fixed steadily upon them.
As they drew nearer, and could no longer doubt that he recognized them, the king moved slowly round, and turned his back upon them. They were greatly embarrassed--undecided what to do; they looked to the prince, in the hope that he would advance and announce himself to the king, and compel him to notice them. Prince Augustus William did not advance; he stood firm and immovable, as if moulded in brass. No muscle of his face moved, but his pale and tightly-compressed lips slightly trembled. The generals followed his example. Silently, immovably they stood behind him, their eyes fixed upon the king, who remained still with his back turned to them.
There was a long and painful pause; not a word was spoken. Those who were arranging the tents for the king’s troops were moving actively about, and now they drew near with their measuring-line, exactly to the spot upon which the king stood. He was forced to take another position; he turned his horse, and stood exactly in front of his generals. His countenance was not calm and cold, it flashed with rage. The Prince of Prussia had the courage to brave his anger, and, drawing near, he bowed profoundly.
The king did not answer his greeting, and, indeed, appeared not to see him. A black cloud was on his brow, and it became still blacker as the other generals dared to approach and salute him. Suddenly, in that tone of voice he was accustomed to use only upon the field of battle the king called out:
“Goltz, come here!”
The general advanced from the circle, with a firm military bearing, and approached the king.
“Goltz,” said he, loudly, and looking as if he wished to crush the unhappy general--“Goltz, tell my brother and the other generals that if I did justice, I would take off their heads--Winterfeldt only excepted.” [Footnote: The king’s own words--“Characteristics of the Seven Years’ War.”]
A murmur of discontent was heard amongst the generals, and every eye was fixed angrily upon Winterfeldt. He turned deadly pale, and looked down, as if ashamed of the exception the king had made, and dared not gaze upon those whose guilt he shared, and whose punishment he escaped.
The king fixed his eye so piercingly upon the murmurers, that they felt his glance upon them, without daring to meet it. Only the Prince of Prussia drew still nearer to the king.
“Sire,” said he, in a calm voice, “my duty demands that I should give your majesty a list of the army. Will you be graciously pleased to accept it from me?” He took the paper from his pocket, and handed it to the king, who snatched it from him hastily, and turned his back again upon them.
“Withdraw, messieurs,” said he, “your presence oppresses me; you remind me of the disgraceful defeat my army has suffered, through the guilt of its leaders.”
“Sire,” said the Duke of Severn, “will your majesty listen to our justification?”
“Justification!” cried the king, with flashing eyes--“if this unparalleled disgrace which you have all brought upon my army could be justified, I might pity; but I must curse you. Go, sir duke, I will not look upon you.” And springing with youthful activity from his horse, he entered his tent.
The generals were alone. They looked upon each other’s death-like faces with suppressed scorn upon their trembling lips, and tears of rage in their eyes.
“Shall we bear this shame silently?” said one.
“Shall we allow ourselves to be scolded like schoolboys?” said another. “Shall we suffer foul accusations to be brought against us, and no opportunity granted for justification?”
As the murmur of the generals became louder, the Prince of Prussia, who had been standing aside in deep thought, came forward. An expression of calm resolve was written upon his noble features.
“No, gentlemen, you shall not suffer this. I undertake to justify you to the king.”
“Do not attempt it, prince,” said the Duke of Wurteinberg; “at least, not in this hour. The king will crush you in his rage!”
Prince Augustus William cast his eyes to heaven, saying, “I am in the hands of God. I would rather die by the king’s rage than to endure his contempt. The king made me commander-in-chief of this army corps, and accuses me of failure in duty! He shall hear my defence. As a Hohenzollern, as a general, as his brother, I demand the right to make my report.” He advanced hastily toward the king’s tent, but the Duke of Severn held him back.
“Will your royal highness allow me to accompany you?” said he. “The king’s scorn fell upon me personally, and I also demand a hearing.”
“No one shall accompany me,” said the prince, solemnly. “None but God shall be witness to what we have to say. Wait for me, therefore, gentlemen. I shall soon return.” He bowed and entered the king’s tent.
“Announce me to his majesty,” he said to the guard, who returned immediately and opened the inner door of the tent.
The prince entered with a firm step and head erect--the door closed behind him--the two brothers were alone.
The king sat upon a camp-stool by a little table covered with papers. He held in his hand the paper which the prince had given him, and appeared to be reading it eagerly. The prince stood for some time silently at the door; at last, weary of waiting, he entered the tent and stepped directly before the king.
King Frederick arose and fixed his great eyes scornfully upon his brother. “I gave you an army corps of thirty-six thousand men, and you bring me back sixteen thousand! Where have you left my soldiers?”
“They lie in the narrow pass of Gabel--in the chasms of the Erz mountains--they have died of hunger and thirst, and they have deserted,” said Prince Augustus, solemnly.
“And you dare to tell me this?” said the king.
“I dare to tell you what fate has brought upon us.”
“Fate?” cried the king, shrugging his shoulders. “Fate is ever the excuse for the crimes, and follies of man. Your obstinacy and your disobedience are what you call fate. Prince Augustus William of Prussia, how did you dare to act contrary to my instructions, and to conduct this retreat through the mountains, and not by the highways?”
“Your majesty gave me no instructions,” said the prince, eagerly. “Your majesty commanded me to take counsel of my generals in every movement, and I did so. I should not have retreated through the mountains had they not advised it in consideration of the real approach of the enemy. But I do not say this to excuse myself, or to accuse them, but to prove to my brother the king that it was unjust to place me under the guardianship and direction of his generals--unjust to place a mentor by my side who is my enemy--who hates me and seeks my destruction!”
“Do you dare to reproach me?” said the king, in a thundering voice.
“In this hour I dare all,” said the prince, steadily. “This is a decisive hour between you and me, my brother. It is a strife of intellect, of spirit; and although I know I am too weak to conquer, I will at least fall with honor--with my sword in my hand! I shall fall, but you shall not consider me a cowardly mute who does not dare to defend himself. I know that I have been slandered to you; I know that those whom you honor with your friendship are spies upon my every word and look, and report to your majesty what they hear and what they do not hear--what is true and what is not true. I know I have been robbed of my brother’s love, but I will not consent to the loss of his respect and consideration. Sire, Winterfeldt wrote to you; I know that he did so. If he wrote that I was obstinate and self-willed, and alone answerable for the disasters of the army, [Footnote: Warner’s “Campaigns of Frederick the Great.”] I call God to witness that he slandered me. Your majesty speaks of instructions. I received none. I would remind you that I entreated you in vain to give me partial instructions--that I wrote down your majesty’s verbally expressed opinions, and implored you to add to them your approval, or written remarks and explanations. [Footnote: “Recueil des Lettres du Roi de Prusse et du Prince de Prusse.”] Your majesty returned the paper without signature or remark. I alone should bear the responsibility, and if this sad retreat should end disastrously, the whole world might say, ‘This was the work of the Prince of Prussia!’ Look you, my brother, I know, I feel this. The lost battle of Collin demanded an offering, and I was predestined for the sacrifice.”
The king uttered a cry of rage, and advanced against the prince without outstretched arm, but suddenly recovered his self-control, folded his arms, and stared coldly at the prince.
“I have listened quietly to you, hoping always I might possibly find in your words a glimmer of excuse for your blasphemous deeds. I find none. Have you finished, or have you still something to say?”
“I have this to say, sire: I demand that my conduct be investigated.”
“Woe to you if I do this--woe to you if I listen to your bold, insane demand!” Stepping before the prince, and fixing his eye upon him, he said: “You have acted not like a Prussian, not like a general of Prussian troops, but like an enemy--like an ally of Austria and of France, who sought only for means to destroy the Prussian army and put an end to this war. I know that it never had your approval, because directed against your beloved France.”
“Ah, my brother, you distrust me!” cried the prince, fiercely.
“Yes, I distrust you,” said the king, eagerly--“I distrust you, and you merit it! You have just said that this was an important hour between us. Well, then, it shall be so. I accept this strife of words which you have the audacity to offer me. This was not cautiously, not wisely done, on your part. You yourself have armed me--my weapons are sharp. I have suffered much during my whole life because of you, my brother. This began even in the days of our childhood, and will, as it appears, follow me to the grave. You were the favorite of my father, and I remember well that he one day proposed to me to relinquish the throne in your favor. I withstood him. I did not pay for this opposition with my life, but with my life’s happiness. I will not account this against you; perhaps you were innocent; but it appears to me you have not forgotten our father’s wish--that you look upon me as a usurper, who has robbed you of your throne. You act as if you had the right to measure and criticise all my undertakings, and to make yourself a judge over me. I undertook this war with the conviction of my right and my royal duty. You dared to protest against it. You dared, in the presence of my generals, to speak of your claims and the claims of your children! Oh, sir, you were already thinking of the time when you would lay my head in the vault and walk over my dead body to a throne! In that hour you stood no longer by my side as my subject, as my brother, as my friend, but as an ambitious prince royal, who hates his king who keeps him from his crown, and who is hated of the king because he reminds him of his death! And during no moment since then could you have denied this hatred.”
“Oh, my brother!” said the prince, painfully, “your own hatred has blinded you and made you unjust. I have always loved and admired you, even when I did not approve of your undertakings.”
“And yet it was you, you alone,” said the king, hastily, “who dared, after the fatal disaster of Collin, to utter loud cries of grief and despair. When my courier brought to you and the generals and the army the mournful news of the lost battle of Collin, in place of strengthening and encouraging my warriors--consoling and inspiring them with confidence in their royal leader--you dared, in the presence of all my generals, to cry and whimper, not over destiny, not over the inconstancy of fortune, but over the conduct of your brother and your king. In place of justifying me to my silent and cast-down generals, you accused me boldly, and made my misfortune my crime.” [Footnote: Betzow’s “Characteristics of Frederick.”]
“It is true,” murmured the prince, “distress and grief overcame me and robbed me of my reason.”
“Even because you were so wise and bold a warrior,” said the king, with a cold smile, “I wished to give you an opportunity to prove your genius to my whole people, whose sovereign you will one day be. Because you wept and clamored before say generals over my faults as a leader, I wished you to prove to them that you were capable of commanding and bringing good out of evil. I trusted you with my third army corps--I expected it to retreat safely and surely under your command, after I had almost led it to destruction in a bloody, disastrous battle. I gave you the opportunity to make yourself a god in the eyes of my soldiers, a glorious model to my generals. What use have you made of these advantages? You bring me crippled, hungry, desperate soldiers! You bring me generals covered with shame, and blushing over their guilt. If I should deal with them as they deserved, I would give them over to a courtmartial and they would be condemned.”
“And still I am not conscious of any fault,” said the prince. “I dare to say fate was against me, and that I am wholly innocent.”
“And I repeat to you your conduct has been that of an ally of France, who wished destruction to the Prussians, and to close this hated war!”
“If that were so, I would be a traitor!” said the prince.
“And who will dare say that you are not?” cried the king. “Who will say that he who, while I was engaged in war with France, exchanged the most tender letters with the former French ambassador Valori, and complained to this Frenchman of the obstinacy of his brother, who is also his king? Who will say that this man is not a traitor? Was it not known to you, my brother, when you wrote to Valori, that the French had already invaded my Westphalian provinces? It was known to you--and yet you dared to write to a Frenchman that you were convinced of the decline of my kingdom. And yet you dared to bring charges against me, and to say: ‘Ce seront mes enfants qui seront les victimes des fautes passees.’ Did you not know that it was the Marquise de Pompadour who gave occasion for this war? You knew it, and yet you commissioned Valori to entreat the marquise to have her portrait painted for you! Now, sir, I ask you, in all candor, if these are not the acts of a traitor?”
The prince made a passionate exclamation, and laid his hand upon his sword.
“You dare to dishonor me, sire!”
“I dare it! I dare to tell you the truth,” said the king, solemnly.
“Take your hand from your sword--the truth is an enemy that you cannot contend against with weapons, but with deeds, and your conduct testifies against you.”
The prince breathed heavily, and turned deadly pale.
“The contest is over. Your majesty fights against me with weapons which I do not possess, and would not dare use, and against which I cannot defend myself. You open my private letters, and from the harmless confidences of friendship you make a traitor of me. To call me a traitor, is to degrade me. I am dishonored; and with a dishonored culprit your majesty cannot contend. I will therefore withdraw. No one will see the wounds you have inflicted--which have pierced my heart; but, I tell you, my brother, I will die of these wounds.”
“And in heaven, I suppose, you will accuse me as your murderer?” said the king, ironically.
“No! in heaven I will pray for my fatherland,” said Prince Augustus William, mildly. He bowed respectfully, turned, and left the room.
Without stood the generals, maintaining a solemn silence. When they saw the prince appear at the door of the king’s tent, so pale, so suffering, a prophetic warning filled every breast. It seemed to them that a dying man approached them, and with inexpressible sorrow held out his hand for a last farewell.
“It is passed! The battle is ended!”
At this moment the adjutant of the king left the tent, and approached the generals, who stood near the prince.
“His majesty commands you to see that the soldiers of the third army corps are kept, as far as it is possible, entirely separated from the rest of the army. You will immediately convey the order to the king’s army, that all intercourse between them and the third army corps is forbidden, as this corps seems to have lost all courage and all honorable feeling.”
[Footnote: Kustrin, “Characteristics from the Life of Frederick the Great”]
“The king’s commands shall be obeyed,” said the generals, coldly.
The prince was completely overcome by this last blow, and leaned for a moment upon the arm of the Duke of Wurtemberg; he soon recovered himself, and turning to General Schultz, he said:
“Go and bring me, from the king, the watchword of the third army corps.”
General Schultz withdrew, but returned quickly from the king’s tent, with a dark frown upon his face.
“Well,” said the prince, “have you the watchword?”
“No, your royal highness! The king says, that for cowards and fugitives he has no watchword, and he commanded me to go to the devil.”
A murmur of rage was heard amongst the generals. The prince let his glance wander from one to the other of these dark faces.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “the tempest will soon be over, and the sun will shine again for you; I am the only cloud now round about you, and I will withdraw.”
“What! will you desert us?” said the generals, sadly.
“Do I not belong to the third army corps?” said the prince, with a painful smile. “It may be that the king will command his soldiers to have no intercourse with the commander of the third army corps, and you can understand that I prefer to anticipate him.”
“Will your highness allow me to accompany you?” said the Duke of Bevern. “I also will not allow myself to be despised and railed at without any opportunity accorded me of explanation.”
The prince shook his head.
“You must remain, general; the army cannot spare its brave leaders. I, however--I must go. I will be the peace-offering for you all. I am sure this will content my brother the king.”
“Allow me, at least, to accompany your royal highness,” said General Schmettau. “The king commanded me, through his adjutant, to withdraw, and never dare to present myself before his eyes again. I also must leave the army.”
The prince gave him his hand.
“You are, then, a welcome companion. Let us ride on to Bautzen, where we can refresh ourselves, and then go on to Dresden.”
“Will you really leave us?” said the Duke of Wurtemberg, sadly.
“Would you have me wait for still further degradation?” said the prince. “No, it is enough--more than I can bear.--My horse! General, let us mount.”
The two horses were brought forward. The generals placed themselves in front, to take leave of their former commander-in-chief, with all military honor.
Prince Augustus rode slowly on. Everywhere he met sad faces and eyes filled with tears. Tears indeed were in his own eyes, but he would not weep--not now; there was time enough for tears. He could weep during the sad remainder of his life. He forced his voice to be firm, and, waving his sword to the generals, as a last greeting, he said:
“I hope no one of you will hold me for a coward. I am forced by the king to leave the army.” He turned his horse, and, followed by Schmettau, with head erect, he moved slowly off.
“Now, by Heaven,” cried Ziethen, “he shall not leave the camp in this contemptible way! I will give him a suitable guard. Let the king rage; I can stand it!” He nodded to an officer. “Listen, Von Wendt, take half a company for a guard, and follow immediately behind the prince, to Bautzen.”
A few moments later, an officer sprang along the highway to Bautzen, accompanied by his hussars; they soon overtook the prince, who greeted them kindly.
“Schmettau,” said he, “Death avoided me so long as I was on the battle-field, now I bear him along with me; and thus must it be, till the pale king of terrors carries me to another world.” He turned his eyes away from the Prussian camp, and rode slowly to Bautzen.
IX. THE LETTERS
A few hours later a courier rode into the camp. He came from Bautzen, and had a letter from the Prince of Prussia to his royal brother. The king was still in his tent, busily engaged in looking over the army list. He took his brother’s letter, and, opening it with evident anger, read:
“Your majesty’s commands, and the incidents of our last meeting, have taught me that I have lost my honor and my reputation. As I have nothing to reproach myself with, this causes me much sorrow, but no humiliation. I am convinced that I was not actuated by obstinacy, and that I did not follow the advice of incompetent men. All the generals in the third army corps commanded by me, will testify to this. I consider it necessary to request your majesty to have my conduct investigated. Your majesty would thereby do me a kindness. I have, therefore, no right to count upon it. My health is much impaired since the war. I have withdrawn to Bautzen for its restoration, and have requested the Duke of Bevern to give you all the information relative to the army. In spite of my unhappiness, my daily prayer is, and shall be, that every undertaking of your majesty shall be crowned with glory.”
“Your unhappy brother, AUGUSTUS WILLIAM.”
The king read this letter several times; then taking up his pen, he wrote hastily: “MY DEAR BROTHER: Your improper conduct has greatly disturbed my equanimity. Not my enemies, but your want of principle, has caused all these disasters. My generals are not to be excused. They have either given you bad advice, or have agreed too readily to your foolish plans. The one is as bad as the other. Your ears are accustomed to flattery, my brother. Daun did not flatter you, and you now see the consequences. But little hope remains. I shall commence the attack--if we do not conquer, we shall die together. I do not bewail the loss of your heart, but rather your utter incapacity and want of judgment. I tell you this plainly, for with one who has perhaps but a few days to live, there is no use of deception. I wish you more happiness than has fallen to my lot, and hope that your misfortunes and disappointments may teach you to act with more wisdom and judgment where matters of importance are concerned. Many of the painful events I now look forward to, I ascribe to you. You and your children will suffer from their results much more than myself. Be assured that I have always loved you, and will continue to do so until my death. Your brother, FREDERICK.”
When the king had finished his letter, he read it over. “I cannot take back one word I have said,” murmured he, softly. “Were he not my brother, he should be court-martialled. But history shall not have to relate more than one such occurrence of a Hohenzollern. Enough family dramas and tragedies have occurred in my reign to furnish scandalous material for future generations; I will not add to them. My brother can withdraw quietly from these scenes--he can pray while we fight--he can cultivate the peaceful arts while we are upon the battle-field, offering up bloody sacrifices to Mars. Perhaps we will succeed in gaining an honorable peace for Prussia, and then Augustus William may be a better king than I have been. Prussia still clings to me--she needs me.”
He sealed the letter, then calling his valet, ordered him to send it off immediately. As he disappeared, the king’s countenance became once more clouded and disturbed. “Life makes a man very poor,” said he, softly; “the longer he lives, the more solitary he becomes. How rich I was when I began life--how rich when I mounted the throne! Possessing many friends, sisters, brothers, and many charming illusions. The world belonged to me then, with all its joy, all its glory. And now? Where are these friends? Lost to me, either by death or inconstancy! Where are my brothers, sisters? Their hearts have turned from me--their love has grown cold! Where are my joyous illusions? Scattered to the winds! Alas, I am now undeceived, and if the whole world seemed at one time to belong to me, that little spot of earth, paid for with blood and anguish, is no longer mine. Every illusion but one has been torn from my heart--the thirst for glory still remains. I have bid adieu to love, to happiness, but I still believe in fame, and must at least have one laurel-wreath upon my coffin. May death then strike me at his will--the sooner the better, before my heart has become perfectly hardened! And I feel that time is not far distant.”
The curtain of his tent was at this moment drawn back, and his secretary, Le Catt, whose acquaintance he had made during his visit to Amsterdam, entered with several letters in his hand. The king advanced eagerly to meet him.
“Well, Le Catt,” said he, “has the courier come from Berlin?”
“Yes, sire, he has come,” said Le Catt, sighing, “but I fear he brings no good news.”
“No good news? Has the enemy forced his way so far?”
“An enemy has, sire; but not the one your majesty is thinking of!”
“How know you what enemy I mean?” said the king, impatiently. “Is it the Russians, or the French?”
“None of your mortal enemies, sire; and the mourning which now reigns in Berlin and will soon reign throughout Prussia, is caused by no enemy of your majesty but by Providence.”
The king looked at him earnestly for a moment. “I understand,” said he. “Some one of my family has died; is it not so?”
“Yes, sire; your--”
“Be still!” said the king, sternly. “I do not yet wish to know--I have not the strength to bear it--wait a while.”
Folding his hands upon his breast, he paced up and down his tent several times, laboring hard for breath. He stood still, and leaning against the window, said: “Now, Le Catt, I can endure any thing; speak--who is it?”
“Sire, it is her majesty.”
“My wife?” interrupted the king.
“No, sire; her majesty--”
“My mother!” cried the king, in a heart-broken voice. “My mother!”
He stood thus for a while, with his hands before his face, his form bowed down and trembling like an oak swayed by a storm. Tears escaped through his hands and fell slowly to the ground--groans of agony were wrung from him.
Le Catt could stand it no longer; he approached the king and ventured to say a few consoling words.
“Do not seek to comfort me,” said the king; “you do not know what inexpressible pain this loss has caused me.”
“Yes, sire, I well know,” said Le Catt, “for the queen-mother was the noblest, most gracious princess that ever lived. I can therefore understand your sorrow.”
“No, you cannot,” said the king, raising his pale, tearful countenance. “You carry your sorrow upon your lips--I upon my heart. The queen was the best of women, and my whole land may well mourn for her. It will not be forced grief, for every one who had the happiness to approach loved and admired her for her many virtues--for her great kindness. And I feel, I know, that sorrow for the ruin of Prussia has caused her death. She was too noble a princess, too tender a mother, to outlive Prussia’s destruction and her son’s misfortune.”
“But your majesty knows that the queen was suffering from an incurable disease.”
“It is true I know it,” said the king, sinking slowly upon his camp-stool. “I feared that I might never see her again, and still this news comes totally unexpected.”
“Your majesty will overcome this great grief as a philosopher, a hero.”
“Ah, my friend,” said the king, sadly, “philosophy is a solace in past and future sufferings, but is utterly powerless for present grief; I feel my heart and strength fail. For the last two years I have resembled a tottering wall. Family misfortune, secret pain, public sorrow, continual disappointment, these have been my nourishment. What is there wanting to make of me another Job? If I wish to survive these distressing circumstances, I must become a stoic. For I cannot bring the philosophy of Epicurus to bear upon my great sorrows. And still,” added the king, the dejected look disappearing from his countenance, and giving place to one of energy and determination, “still, I will not be overcome. Were all the elements to combine against me, I will not fall beneath them.”
“Ah!” cried Le Catt, “once more is my king the hero, who will not only overcome his grief, but also his enemies.”
“God grant that you are a true prophet!” cried the king, earnestly. “This is a great era; the next few months will be decisive for Prussia: I will restore her or die beneath her ruins!”
“You will restore!” cried Le Catt, with enthusiasm.
“And when I have made Prussia great,” said the king, relapsing into his former gloom, “my mother will not be here to rejoice with me. Each one of my home--returning soldiers will have some one--a mother, a sweetheart--to meet them with tears of joy, to greet them tenderly. I shall be alone.”
“Your people will advance, gladly, to meet you; they will greet you with tears of joy.”
“Ah, yes,” cried the king, with a bitter smile, “they will advance to meet me joyfully; but, were I to die the same day, they would cry: ‘Le roi est mort--vive le roi!’ and would greet my successor with equal delight. There is nothing personal in the love of a people to its sovereign; they love not in me the man, but the king. But my mother loved not the king the warrior; she loved her son with her whole heart, and God knows he had but that one heart to trust in. Leave me, Le Catt. Seek not to console me. Soon the king will gain the mastery. Now I am but the son, who wishes to be alone with the mother. Go.” Fearing he had wounded Le Catt, he pressed his hand tenderly.
Le Catt raised it to his lips and covered it with kisses and tears. The king withdrew it gently, and signed to him to leave the room.
Now he was alone--alone with his pain, with his grief--alone with his mother. And, truly, during this hour he was but the loving son; his every thought was of his mother; he conversed with her, he wept over her; but, as his sorrow became more subdued, he took his flute from the table, the one constant companion of his life. As the soft, sweet tones were wafted through the tent, he seemed to hear his mother whispering words of love to him, to feel her hallowed kiss upon his brow. And now he was king once more. As he heard without the sound of trumpets, the beating of drums, the loud shouts and hurrahs of his soldiers, a new fire burned in his eyes, he laid his flute aside, and listened for a time to the joyous shouts; then raising his right hand, he said: “Farewell, mother; you died out of despair for my defeat at Collin, but I swear to you I will revenge your death and my defeat tenfold upon my enemies when I stand before them again in battle array. Hear me, spirit of my mother, and give to your son your blessing!”
X. IN THE CASTLE AT DRESDEN
The Queen Maria Josephine of Poland, Princess elect of Saxony, paced her room violently; and with deep emotion and painful anxiety she listened to every noise which interrupted the stillness that surrounded her.
“If he should be discovered,” she murmured softly, “should this letter be found, all is betrayed, and I am lost.”
She shuddered, and even the paint could not conceal her sudden pallor. She soon raised herself proudly erect, and her eyes resumed their usual calm expression.
“Bah! lost,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “who will dare to seize a queen and condemn her for fighting for her honor and her country? Only the insolent and arrogant Margrave of Brandenburg could have the temerity to insult a queen and a woman in my person, and he, thank God, is crushed and will never be able to rally. But where is Schonberg,” she said, uneasily; “if he does not come to-day, all is lost--all!”
Loud voices in the antechamber interrupted her; she listened in breathless expectation. “It is he,” she murmured, “it is Schonberg; the officer on guard forbids his entrance. What insults I endure! I am treated as a prisoner in my own castle; I am even denied the right of seeing my own servants.”
She ceased, and listened again; the voices became louder and more violent. “He is, apparently, speaking so loudly to attract my attention,” she said; “I will go to his relief.” She crossed the chamber hastily, and opened the door leading into the anteroom. “What means this noise?” she said, angrily; “how dare you be guilty of such unseemly conduct?”
Silence followed this question. The two gentlemen, who had just exchanged such angry words, were dumb, approached the queen, and bowed profoundly.
“I beg your majesty’s forgiveness,” said the Prussian officer, “my commander ordered me this morning to admit no one until he had seen your highness himself.”
“I wished to announce to your majesty,” said Schonberg, “that I had returned from my estate, and desired the favor of being again received into your service; this gentleman refused to allow me to enter.”
The queen turned upon the officer with an expression of contempt. “Am I a prisoner, sir, allowed to see no one but my jailer?”
“Your majesty favors me with a question I am unable to answer,” said the officer; “I am a soldier; and must obey the command of those above me. I know not whether your majesty is a prisoner.”
The queen reddened; she felt that, in the excitement of passion, she had forgotten her rank and dignity.
“It is true,” she said, “it is not for you to answer this question. I must demand a reply from your king. You are but a machine, moved by foreign power. I think you will not dare to keep my servants from me;” and, without allowing the confused officer time to answer, she turned to the chamberlain, Baron von Schonberg. “I am delighted to receive you again; you shall resume your service immediately, as you desire it; follow me to my room, I have an important letter to dictate to you.”
She stepped over the sill of the door, and gave the chamberlain a sign to follow her; as he approached the door, however, the officer stepped before him.
“Forgive me,” he said, in a pleading tone; “I have strict orders to admit only those who usually surround the queen; do you understand, sir, to admit no one to her majesty this morning? I can make no exceptions.”
“I belong to those who usually surround her majesty,” said the chamberlain; “I have had an eight days’ leave of absence; that cannot make an exception against me.”
“Baron von Schonberg, did I not order you to resume your service, and to follow me?” said the queen; “why do you not enter?”
“Your majesty sees that I am prevented.”
“Mercy, your highness, mercy,” pleaded the officer, “I know I am seemingly wanting in reverence toward the holy person of the queen, but I cannot act otherwise.” Maria Josephine looked proud and commanding; her eyes flashed angrily, and, with a loud voice, she exclaimed:
“I command you to allow my servant to enter! do you hear? command it as a sovereign!”
The officer stepped back.
“Go in, sir, I have not the courage to withstand this command.”
For a moment the queen’s pale face crimsoned with joy, but she suppressed her emotion immediately and motioned the chamberlain, with proud dignity, to follow.
Schonberg passed the officer, and entered the room.
“At last,” sighed Maria Josephine, as the door closed behind him--“at last this torture is at an end, and I breathe again. Speak, baron--your news!” Exhausted, she fell upon the sofa, and gazed breathlessly at the chamberlain.
“Before speaking, with your majesty’s permission, I will see if we are entirely alone--if no one is listening.”
He stepped softly around the room, and searched behind the curtains and furniture; then went to the door, and looked through the key-hole, to see if any one was without. He saw the officer sitting motionless, at the other end of the anteroom. Satisfied with this, he was about to open the other door, but the queen called him back.
“That is unnecessary; no one can be concealed there. Now let me hear quickly what you have to say.”
“I have many things to tell you,” said the chamberlain, triumphantly. “All our undertakings have been most successful. We may hope they will be crowned with the most desirable results.”
“Praise to God and the holy saints!” murmured the queen. “Speak, speak! tell me all!”
“After I left your majesty, eight days ago, I went first to my estate, which, as your highness knows, lies near Bautzen, and in the immediate neighborhood of the King of Prussia’s camp. Disguised as a peasant, with my little flock of sheep, I entered the Prussian camp unchallenged. I wish your majesty could have had the satisfaction of seeing what I saw. Your royal heart would have been gladdened at the sight of those starved, exhausted, and desperate troops which Prince Augustus William led back from Zittau to his august brother, the great Frederick. You would have acknowledged with delight that such discouraged, demoralized troops could no longer withstand the splendid and victorious army of the confederates. The battle of Collin dug their graves, and the pass of Gabol made their coffins.”
“And the Saxon dragoons decided the battle of Collin?” said the queen, with sparkling eyes. “Go on! tell me more. Did you speak with the king’s chamberlain, Anderson?”
“Yes, your majesty, and I found him faithful. I gave him the diamond ring which your majesty was so gracious as to send him. He was delighted with this costly present, and swore he would let no opportunity pass of serving you. I told him how he might safely write to me. He will inform us of all that takes place in the Prussian camp, and of all the important movements of the king.”
“You are convinced of his integrity?” said the queen. “Entirely convinced; he loves money, and serves us for his own interests. He will be ready for any act, if we balance it with gold.” The eyes of the queen sparkled, and her countenance had a threatening and passionate expression; her Spanish blood was moved, and rushed in fever streams to her heart. “Is he ready for any act?” she repeated. “Perhaps we could make a decisive trial of his willingness; but of that, later--continue.”
“I learned from Anderson, that King Frederick intends to force the confederates to another battle. When I left the camp, the king had distributed rations to his army, and was to leave the next morning, to encounter Daun and Radasdy.” The queen laughed mockingly. “He then thirsts for a second Collin. As his grave is open and his coffin made, he wishes to get the Austrian grave-diggers to bury him. Well, we will not deny him this last service of love.”
“After leaving the Prussian camp,” continued the chamberlain, “I threw off my disguise, and hastened with post-horses to where Daun and Radasdy were quartered.”
“And you saw them?”
“I saw them; I was fortunate enough to be able to deliver your majesty’s letters to General Radasdy, and I can now give your highness the general’s answer, and some other important papers.” He drew a small etui from his bosom, out of which he took a penknife; then taking his hat, ripped off the gold galloon, cut the rim, and drew a paper from between the fur and the inner lining, which he handed to the queen, with a profound bow. While the queen was occupied breaking the seal and reading the letter, the chamberlain was busily engaged in restoring his hat to its former proportions. The queen’s pale face brightened more and more as she read; with joy and triumph she glanced from the paper at the chamberlain, and said, with a brilliant smile: “You are really a messenger of peace; a time will come when I can better reward your faithful services than by words. I beg you to open that door, and call Father Guarini.” The chamberlain obeyed her command, and Father Guarini entered. He greeted Schonberg with a gracious nod, then fixed his dark and piercing eyes upon the queen, who arose humbly to receive him. “I hope, venerable father, that you have heard the news, brought by our faithful baron?” said the queen, in a soft voice. “I have heard!” replied the Jesuit father, solemnly; “I have heard that God has delivered these heretics into our hands. We are the chosen people to free the world of these blasphemous adversaries of the Church.”
“What is your meaning?” asked the queen, with apparent surprise. Father Guarini looked at her significantly; a cruel smile played upon his thin, colorless lips. “My daughter, we understand each other fully,” said he, in a soft, low voice; “soul speaks to soul in such a crisis as this. When the baron handed you this letter, when he told you that the chamberlain of the King of Prussia was faithful to our holy cause, ready for any act you might approve, a door separated us; I could not look upon your countenance, and yet, my daughter, I read the secret thoughts of your heart. I saw your eyes sparkle, your lips smile, and understood your holy purpose.” The queen trembled, and stepped shudderingly back. “Holy father,” she murmured, “have compassion with a sinful thought, which I suppressed quickly, and which I will never listen to again.”
“Why do you call it a sinful thought?” said the priest, with a diabolical smile. “All weapons are blessed and made holy by God, when employed against heretics. The poison of the hemlock and the opium-plant is part of God’s holy creation. He made them as weapons for the just against the unjust, and, when used for pious purposes, they are sanctified means of grace. Be not ashamed of your great thought, my daughter; if Anderson is faithful, as the chamberlain asserts, with God’s help we will soon be able to bring this war to a close, and crush this unbelieving horde.”
“Still, I pray you still, my father,” murmured the queen; “my whole soul shudders at this frightful suggestion; let us not speak of this again, let us forget it.”
“Let us not speak of it, but let us not forget it,” murmured the priest, with a malicious smile. The queen said hastily: “Father, such fearful weapons are not necessary for the destruction of our enemies. Frederick of Prussia can never rally--he stands alone, has not a single ally in Germany. This is the important news brought me by the baron, which I now communicate to you. We have succeeded in a great enterprise; a mighty work has been completed by us and our allies in the cloister of Zeven. This has been achieved by our ambassador, the pious Duke of Lynar, and we will triumph in a glittering and bloodless victory. Every German prince who has heretofore stood by the traitor and heretic, Frederick of Prussia, has, at the command and menace of the emperor, fallen off from him, and dare no longer lend him help or influence. The men of Hesse, of Brunswick, of Gotha, who were allied to Prussia, and who were just from fighting with the Hanoverians against Soubise and Richelieu, have laid down their arms and returned home. They have solemnly bound themselves in the convention of the cloister of Zeven never again to bear arms for the heretical and rebellious King of Prussia, who is excommunicated by the German emperor and the holy Pope at Rome. The contest between the Hanoverians and our French ally is ended, and a cessation of hostilities determined upon. Unconditional peace is indeed indefinitely declared. The Hanoverians remain inactive on the Elbe; the Duke of Cumberland, leader of the English troops, has returned to Loudon, [Footnote: When the Duke of Cumberland returned to Loudon, after the convention at the cloister of Zeven, his father, whose favorite he had been up to this time, received him with great coldness, and said before all his ministers: “Here is my son who has ruined me and disgraced himself.” The duke had to resign all his honors, and died a few years later, despised by the whole nation.] and his adversary, the Duke de Richelieu, to Paris. The French troops now in Germany, under the command of the Prince Soubise, have no other enemy to attack than Frederick, the natural enemy of us all. The King of Prussia, who stands alone, has no other ally.”
“No ally but himself,” interrupted a loud, powerful voice. The queen turned and saw General von Fink, the Prussian commander of Dresden. He had opened the door noiselessly, and had heard the queen’s last words. Maria Josephine paled with anger, and stepping forward to meet him, with head erect, she looked as if she would trample him under foot. “Sir,” she said, scarcely able to control her passion, and at the same time trembling with terror, “who gave you permission to enter this room?”
“My sovereign, the King of Prussia,” said the general, placing himself before her with stiff military courtesy. “I come not from idle curiosity, but on important business, and your majesty must pardon me if you find it disagreeable.”
He made a sign toward the door, and immediately an officer and four soldiers appeared at the threshold. The commander pointed to the chamberlain, Von Schonberg, who, pale and trembling, endeavored to conceal himself behind the wide dress of the queen.
“Arrest that man, and take him off!” said the general.
Schonberg uttered a cry of alarm, and disappeared behind the satin robe of the queen.
“What, sir! you dare to force yourself into my room, and to arrest my servant?” cried the queen, angrily.
The general shrugged his shoulders.
“We are living in perilous times, and every man must defend himself from his enemies. ‘Tis true your chamberlain sold some good sheep to our army, but it appears to have been a fraudulent transaction; for this reason, I arrest him, and send him to Berlin for trial. There it will be difficult for him to carry on his correspondence with the traitorous chamberlain of the king.”
The general ceased speaking, and gazing at the pale, disturbed group before him, enjoyed their horror and consternation for a moment.
The queen was greatly embarrassed, and pressed her lips firmly together to suppress a cry of terror. By her side stood Father Guarini, whose face had assumed a livid pallor, and whose dark eyes were fixed in bitter hatred upon the general. Behind the queen the terrified face of the chamberlain was seen, his insignificant figure being entirely concealed by the queen’s robes.
“Baron von Schonberg,” said General Fink, “I order you to come forward and to submit to your arrest. Out of respect to her majesty the queen, you will be quiet. I should be unfortunately forced to act with violence if you do not yield without a struggle.”
The chamberlain advanced with dignity, bowing profoundly to the queen. He said, in a trembling voice:
“I must beg your majesty graciously to dismiss me from your service. I must obey this gentlemen, who, as it appears, is master in the castle.”
The queen was for a moment speechless; her voice was lost, and her eyes were filled with tears. She said, after a long pause:
“Will you rob me of my faithful servant? You dragged Baroness Bruhl and Countess Ogliva to Warsaw, and now you will deprive me of the services of this tried and constant friend.”
“I obey the commands of my king,” said the general, “and I believe your majesty must see the justice of this arrest. Had the baron been captured in camp, he would have been shot at once as a spy. I arrest him here and send him to Berlin, that he may defend himself against the charge of being a traitor.”
The queen breathed heavily, she had regained her composure; turning to the chamberlain she said, in a voice softer and kinder than had ever been heard from her before:
“Go, my friend, and when your loyalty is called treason by out enemies, do not forget that your queen is thinking of you with gratitude, and praying for you to our heavenly Father.”
She offered the chamberlain her small, white hand; he sank upon his knees, and covered it with his tears and kisses.
“Go, my son,” said Father Guarini, laying his hand upon Schonberg’s head--“go; the Lord has chosen you as a blessed martyr for our just and holy cause. The Lord will be with you, and the holy mother Church will pray for you.”
“I go, my father--may it be granted me to die for my queen!”
Turning to the general, he delivered up his sword rather tragically, and declared himself ready to depart.
The commandant signed to the officer.
“Conduct this gentleman to the carriage, and send him with a sufficient guard to Berlin.”
XI. THE TE DEUM
The queen looked sadly after the chamberlain; when he had disappeared, she turned to the general.
“I now hope,” said she, “that you have fulfilled your orders, and that I will be permitted to have my apartments to myself.”
“I beg your majesty’s pardon,” said the general, bowing respectfully, “but as yet I have fulfilled but the smallest portion of my master’s commands.”
“How? is there still some one here whom you wish to arrest?” said the queen.
“No, noble lady, but some one I wish to warn!”
“You are, without doubt, speaking of me, general?” said the priest, quietly.
“Yes, sir, of you. I wish to warn you not to occupy your pious thoughts with that very worldly thing called politics, and to request you to instruct the members of your Church in religion, in Christian love and kindness, and not to lure them to murder and treachery.”
The priest shrugged his shoulders; a contemptuous smile played about his small, thin lips.
“The words ‘religion and Christian love’ sound strangely in the mouth of a Prussian warrior. I decline receiving any advice from you. I have no fear of you or of your superiors! I am subject only to God and the Pope!”
“That may be in your own country, but not in the King of Prussia’s,” answered General Fink, quietly. “There every one is subject to the law; no title, no clerical gown protects the criminal. Two days ago, a spy was discovered in the Prussian camp, who was a priest; he was hung like any other spy, although at the last moment, hoping to save his life, he exclaimed that he was a friend of Father Guarini, the court confessor. His majesty the King of Prussia commissioned me to impart to you the death of your friend.”
“From my heart I thank you for so doing,” said the priest. “I shall have masses read for my friend, of whom you have made a martyr.”
The queen gazed at him with sparkling eyes. “Oh, my father,” said she, “I thank you for your noble example; it shall enable me, in spite of threats and insults, not to deny the holy cause and the friends who have suffered for it. And now, general, I hope your commissions are fulfilled, and that you will take your leave.”
“I hope your majesty will believe that I would not venture to remain, were I not compelled by the commands of my king. I have to request your majesty to listen while I read aloud some letters, some historical documents, which may possibly interest your highness.”
“You can read,” said the queen. “As my ears do not belong to the King of Prussia, it lies with me to listen or not, as I please.” She sank gently upon the divan, signing to the priest to remain beside her.
“I flatter myself that I will have your majesty’s attention,” said the general, withdrawing to the nearest window and opening a package of letters. “The first relates to an extremely amusing occurrence, which my master, knowing that France was your ally, imagined would interest you. Your highness is aware that Prince Soubise is a brave soldier. This is Madame Pompadour’s opinion; it must, therefore, be true. About a week ago this brave prince determined to rest for a while from his heroic deeds, and gave the same privilege to a large portion of his army. The general, accompanied by his staff and eight thousand soldiers, then entered that lovely little spot, called Gotha, to visit the talented and princely duke and duchess. He and his staff were received by them with great honor; magnificent preparations were forthwith made for a splendid dinner to welcome the prince who, happily, was not only fond of laurels, but also of good eating. Dinner was served, the French generals had finished their toilets, Prince Soubise had given the duchess his arm to lead her to her seat, when a loud cry of terror was heard from without, ‘The Prussians are at the gates!’ Prince Soubise dropped the arm of the duchess; through the Paris rouge, so artistically put on, the paleness, which now covered his face, could rot be seen. The doors leading to the dining-saloon were thrown open, making visible the sparkling glass, the smoking dishes, the rare service of gold and silver--, the generals of the prince now hastened forward and confirmed the wild rumor. Yes; and rumor, for once, was true. General Seidlitz was there with fifteen hundred brave cavalrymen. The French are noted for their politeness, and it did not fail them upon this occasion. Without a word, Prince Soubise and his eight thousand men made room for General Seidlitz and his fifteen hundred, and hastened from the ducal palace. Before the rich dishes had time to cool, General Seidlitz and his staff were seated at the table, enjoying the magnificent dinner prepared for the French generals. Many prisoners, many spoils were taken afterward. Not that Prince Soubise had not taken all his soldiers with him, but there was another small army by which the French troops are always accompanied. These, the lackeys, valets, cooks, hair-dressers, ballet-dancers, actresses, priests, etc., etc., were not able to run as fast as the French soldiers. The spoils consisted in the equipages of the prince and his staff, in which were boxes and chests containing precious things, their large chests full of delightful perfumes and hair-oils, trunks full of wigs, dressing-gowns, and parasols. There were several learned parrots who had a leaning to politics, and who exclaimed continually: ‘Vive les Franqais! A bas les Prussiens!’ But the kind-hearted General Seidlitz did not wish to deprive the French army of the necessities of life; he therefore sent them their valets, cooks, hair-dressers, actresses, priests, etc. The perfumes and hair-oils he gave to his own soldiers.”
“I trust you have finished,” said the queen, playing listlessly with her fan.
“Ah, your majesty has then honored me by listening?” said General Fink, smiling.
The queen preserved a dignified silence.
The general continued reading: “After long deliberation, Prince Soubise concluded he had carried his politeness too far in vacating the ducal palace to the Prussians; he determined, therefore, to go after his perfumes, hair-oils, dressing-gowns, wigs, etc., etc., and drive the Prussians from Gotha. Prince von Hildburghausen joined him with his troops. Thus the French advanced to Gotha, secure and confident of success. But to their terror they found before the city not two Prussian regiments, as they had expected, but what seemed to them the entire Prussian army arranged in line of battle, and in such large numbers that for miles around the bills were covered, with them. This was so unexpected to the French generals that they determined to retreat for a while, until they had recovered from their surprise. They withdrew, leaving the field to the Prussians. Had they not withdrawn so hastily, they would soon have seen that the Prussian army consisted only of fifteen hundred, which, thanks to General Seidlitz’s strategy, presented a very imposing view. Thus Seidlitz gained the day without firing a shot--not by the troops who were present, but by those who were supposed to be present.”
“I have had enough of this,” said the queen, rising. “I am weary of listening to your witty stories. The King of Prussia may triumph for a while--he may jest over his lost battles--but the hour of his misfortune is at hand. God, who is just--who thrusts the arrogant and haughty to the ground--will also punish him, and give victory to the just cause. The battle of Collin was for Frederick the Second the first proof of God’s anger, and now with increasing strength His mighty arm will be raised against him.”
“I am aware that these are your majesty’s sentiments,” said the general, smiling; “and my master is as well informed. I think they were stated in almost the same words in letters which your majesty wrote to the Austrian general, Nadasky.”
The queen fell back upon her seat trembling, and a deep red suffused her countenance. Even Father Guarini showed by the quivering of his lip and his sudden paleness, that the conversation was now taking an agitating turn.
“What do you know of my letters to Nadasky?” said the queen, breathlessly. “Who says I have written to him?”
“Your own hand, gracious queen,” answered the general. “While the king, my noble sovereign, was in Bernstadt, he was told that General Nadasky was at Ostriz, and sent General von Werner after him. Nadasky fled, but his baggage was captured, and amongst his letters this one from your majesty was discovered.”
And he held up the letter in question before the queen, to convince her of its authenticity.
Maria Josephine endeavored to tear it from him, but the general was too quick for her.
“By command of my master, this letter is to be returned to you, but upon one condition.”
“Well, what is it?” said the queen, faintly.
“I am to read to your majesty a few sentences from it, selected by the King of Prussia himself.”
“And all my letters shall then be returned to me?”
“All, your majesty.”
“You can read,” said the queen, seating herself.
General Fink approached the window by which he had been standing before, and looked out for a few moments. Some one, perhaps, had passed with whom he was acquainted, for he bowed several times and raised his hand as if he were beckoning. After this intermission, at which the queen and her confessor had looked in amazement, he opened the letter and commenced to read.
It was a demand from Queen Maria Josephine to the Austrian general to do all in his power to ruin their common enemy. “If we are energetic,” continued the general, reading in a loud voice, “it will soon be done. At the battle of Collin, God laid his mark upon Frederick; Prussia will have no more victories; her arrogant ruler has sung his last Te Deum.”
At this moment the bells of the nearest church commenced their solemn chimes, and from the fort behind the castle the thunder of cannon was heard. The queen rose from her seat and rushed to the window.
“What is the meaning of this?” said she, breathlessly. “Why these bells? Why this cannon? What--”
The renewed thunder of cannon drowned her words. She threw open the window, and now all the church bells were joined in one harmonious chant. From beneath the queen’s windows there arose a slow, solemn hymn, and as if borne aloft by invisible spirits, the words “Te Deum laudamus” were heard by the queen. Her eyes sparkled. “For whom is this Te Deum?” said she, breathlessly.
“It is for my master,” said General Fink, solemnly--“for the King of Prussia, who at Rossbach, with twenty thousand men, has gained a victory over sixty thousand French soldiers.”
A cry of rage, and Maria Josephine fell fainting to the floor.
XII. CAMP SCENE
It was a cold winter day, and in the Prussian camp at Newmark every one was occupied making fires.
“Let us get a great deal of wood,” said a sprightly-looking, slender young soldier, to his comrades; “our limbs must not be stiff to-day. I think to-morrow all will go off bravely, and we will prepare a strong soup for the Austrians.”
“And instead of the noodles, we will send them cannon-balls,” said a comrade, standing near him. “But see here, brother, as we are not going to fight this evening, I think we should make use of the time and cook a soup for ourselves. When we have wood enough for a good fire, we will set the kettle over it, and the best of pastimes will be ready. Shall we do it, comrades? Every man a groschen, and Charles Henry Buschman to cook the noodles.”
“Yet, Buschman must cook the noodles; no one understands it so well as he. Charles Henry Buschman! Where hides the fellow? He is generally sticking to Fritz Kober, and they are chatting together as if they were lovers. Buschman! Charles Henry Buschman! Where are you?”
“Here I am!” cried a bright, fresh voice, and a slender youth, belonging to Prince Henry’s regiment, stepped forward and joined them. “Who calls me?--what do you want?”
“We want you to cook noodles for us, Buschman; every man pays a groschen, and eats to his heart’s content. You shall have them for nothing, because you prepare them.”
“I will have nothing that I don’t pay for,” said Charles Henry, proudly; “I can pay as well as the rest of you, and perhaps I have more money than all of you; for while you are drinking, smoking, and playing, I put my groschens aside for a rainy day.”
“Yes, that is true; Buschman is the most orderly, the most industrious of us all,” said Fritz Kober, as he nodded lovingly to his young friend. “He does not drink, or smoke, or play; and, I can tell you, he sews like a woman. He mended a shirt for me to-day. A ball had passed through it at Rossbach, making a hole in the left sleeve. I tell you, the shirt looks as if a clever woman had mended it.”
“Well, it is a pity he isn’t one,” said one of the soldiers, with a merry laugh; “perhaps you have a sister at home, Henry, whom you could give to Kober.”
“No, comrade,” said Charles Henry, sadly; “I have neither father, mother, sister, nor brother. I am alone in the world, and have no other friend but my comrade, Fritz Kober. Will you not give him to me, comrades? Will you tease him because he is the friend of a poor, young fellow, against whom you have nothing to say except that he is just seventeen years old and has no heard and his voice a little thin, not able to make as much noise as yourself? Promise me that you will not laugh at Fritz again because he is kind to, and loves a poor, forsaken boy. If you tease him, he will become desperate and run off from me, and then, when I fall in battle, he will not close my eyes as he has promised to do.”
“I will never run away from you, darling brother,” said Fritz Kober. “We two shall stay together in camp and in battle. You have won me with your soft, black eyes: they remind me of those of my good, faithful Phylax.”
“Well, well, Fritz shall do as he pleases,” said one of the boys; “but enough with our chatting, let us seek the wood for our fire.”
“Wood, wood, let us seek wood,” cried all, gayly, and the happy troop separated on all sides. Only Charles Henry remained to prepare the fire. With busy haste he took the kettle, which the soldiers had dragged near, ran to the neighboring market and bought a groschen worth of lard to make the noodles savory, then hastened back to cut the bacon and mix it with the noodles. Some of the soldiers returned empty-handed--no wood was to be found; the soldiers, who had searched before them, had taken it all.
“It would be horrible not to have noodles this evening,” said Fritz Kober, furiously. “Who knows but they may be the last we shall eat in this world? The balls may take our heads off to-morrow, and we never could eat Charles Henry’s noodles again.”
“What you can do to-day never put off until to-morrow,” cried one of the soldiers. “We must eat noodles to-day, and we must have wood, even if we have to steal it from the devil’s kitchen.” And, as he turned around, his eye fell upon a little hut which stood on the other side of the camp. “Boys.” he cried, gleefully, “do you see that hut?”
“Certainly; that hut is the king’s quarters.”
“I am willing the king should occupy the hut; but it is covered with wood, and he does not need that. Come, boys, we will have wood to cook our noodles.”
With a hurrah they started forward to the old forsaken shepherd’s hut in which the king had taken refuge. They climbed the rook as nimbly as cats, and now the old boards cracked and groaned and flew in every direction, and were received with shouts of joy by the surrounding soldiers. Suddenly a guard officer stepped from the hut, and saw with horror its destruction; he ordered the soldiers to lay the boards as they had found them, and to go off at once. The soldiers mocked at him, and continued at their work quietly.
“We are going to eat noodles,” they said, “common noodles, of meal and lard, that we may have the courage to swallow iron noodles to-morrow. To cook noodles, we need wood. We find it here, and we shall take it.”
“What!” cried the officer, “I forbid it, and you refuse to obey?--Sentinels, forward!”
The four guards, who, until now, had walked quietly to and fro before the hut, placed themselves at the door and shouldered arms.
“Fire at the first one who dares to touch another piece of wood,” commanded the officer. But the wanton soldiers paid no attention to this order; they regarded it as an empty threat.
“Fire,” cried one, laughing, “fire is just what we want--without fire, no noodles; and to make fire we must have wood.”
“Whew! I have a big splinter in my finger,” cried another soldier, who was on the roof, and had just broken off a plank; “I must draw it out and put it back, mustn’t I, lieutenant?”
At this question the gay group broke into a loud laugh; but it was interrupted by the angry words of the officer.
Suddenly a mild voice asked: “What is the matter?” At the first sound of this voice the soldiers seemed dismayed; they stopped their work, and their merry faces became earnest and thoughtful. Stiff and motionless they remained on the roof awaiting their punishment; they knew that voice only too well, they had heard it in the thunder of battle. The king repeated his question. The officer approached him.
“Sire, these dragoons are tearing the roof from your majesty’s quarters, all my threats are useless; therefore I ordered the sentinels forward.”
“What do you want with the sentinels?” asked the king.
“To fire amongst them, if they do not desist.”
“Have you tried kindness?” said the king, sternly; “do you think, on the day before a battle, I have soldiers to spare, and you may shoot them down because of a piece of wood?”
The officer murmured a few confused words; but the king paid no attention to him; he looked up at the soldiers sitting stiff and motionless upon the roof.
“Listen, dragoons,” said the king; “if you take off my roof, the snow will fall in my bed to-night, and you do not wish that, do you?”
“No, we do not wish it, sire,” said Fritz Kober, ashamed, slipping softly from the roof; the others followed his example, and prepared to be off, giving melancholy glances at the wood lying on the ground. The king looked thoughtfully after them, and murmured, softly, “Poor fellows, I have deprived them of a pleasure.--Halloo, dragoons,” he cried aloud, “listen!”
The soldiers looked back, frightened and trembling.
“Tell me,” said the king, “what use were you going to make of the wood?”
“Cook noodles, sire,” said Fritz Kober; “Henry Buschman promised to cook noodles for us, and the bacon is already cut; but we have no wood.”
“Well, if the bacon is cut,” said the king, smiling, “and if Henry Buschman has promised to make the noodles, he must certainly keep his word; take the wood away with you.”
“Hurrah! long life to our king and to our good Fritz Kober,” cried the soldiers, and, collecting the wood, they hastened away.
The king stepped back, silently, into the small, low room of the hut. Alone, there once more the smile disappeared, and his countenance became sad and anxious. He confessed to himself what he had never admitted to friend or confidant, that it was a daring and most dangerous undertaking to meet the Austrian army of seventy thousand with his thirty-three thousand men.
“And should I fail,” said the king, thoughtfully, “and lead these brave troops to their death without benefit to my country--should they die an unknown death--should we be conquered, instead of conquering! Oh, the fortune of battles lies in the hands of Providence; the wisest disposition of troops, the most acute calculations are brought to naught by seeming accident. Should I expose my army to the fearful odds, should I hazard so many lives to gratify my ambition and my pride? My generals say it will be wiser not to attack, but to wait and be attacked. Oh, Winterfeldt, Winterfeldt, were you but here, you would not advise this, not you! Why have you been taken from me, my friend? Why have you left me alone among my enemies? I can find, perhaps, resources against my enemies, but I will never find another Winterfeldt.” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--Retzow, vol. i.. p. 220.] The king leaned his head upon his breast, and tears rolled down his cheeks.
“How solitary, how joyless life is! how rich I was once in friends, how poor I am now! and who knows how much poorer I may be to-morrow at this hour--who knows if I shall have a place to lay my head?--I may be a fugitive, without home or country. Verily, I have the destiny of Mithridates--I want only two sons and a Monima. Well,” continued he, with a soft smile, “it is still something to stand alone--misfortunes only strike home. But do I stand alone? have I not an entire people looking to me and expecting me to do my duty? Have I not brave soldiers, who call me father, looking death courageously in the face and hazarding their lives for me? No, I am not alone--and if Mithridates had two sons, I have thirty-three thousand. I will go and bid them good-evening. I think it will refresh my sad heart to hear their cheerful greetings.”
The king threw on his mantle and left his quarters, to make, as he was often accustomed to do, a tour through the camp. Only the officer on guard followed him, at a short distance.
It was now dark, and fires, which were lighted everywhere, gave a little protection against the biting cold. It was a beautiful sight--the wide plain, with its numberless, blazing, flickering fires, surrounded by groups of cheerful soldiers, their fresh faces glowing with the light of the flames. In the distance the moon rose grand and full, illuminating the scene with its silver rays, and blending its pale shimmer with the ruddy flames.
The king walked briskly through the camp, and, when recognized, the soldiers greeted him with shouts and loving words. As he approached a large fire, over which hung a big kettle, the contents of which filled the air with savory odors, he heard a brisk voice say:
“Now, comrades, come and eat, the noodles are done!”
“Hurrah! here we are,” cried the boys, who were standing not far off, chatting merrily. They sprang forward joyfully, to eat the longed--for noodles.
The king, recognizing the soldiers who had uncovered his roof, drew near to the fire.
“Shall I also come and eat with you?” he said, good-humoredly.
The soldiers looked up from the tin plates, in which the noodles were swimming.
“Yes, sire,” said Fritz Kober, jumping up and approaching the king; “yes, you shall eat with us; here is my spoon and knife, and if you reject it, and are only mocking us, I shall be very angry indeed.”
The king laughed, and turning to the officer who had followed him, said as if to excuse himself:
“I must really eat, or I shall make the man furious.--Give me your spoon; but listen, I can tell you, if the noodles are not good, I shall be angry.” He took the plate and began to eat.
The soldiers all stopped, and looked eagerly at the king. When he had swallowed the first bite, Fritz Kober could no longer restrain his curiosity.
“Well, sire,” he said, triumphantly, “what do you say to it! Can’t Buschman prepare better noodles than your cleverest cook?”
“Verily,” said the king, smiling, “he never cooked such noodles for me, and I must say they are good, but, now I have had enough, and I am much obliged to you.”
He wished to return his plate to Fritz Kober, but Fritz shook his head violently.
“See here, your majesty, no one gets off from us with just a ‘thank you,’ and you, least of all, sire; every one must pay his part.”
“Well,” said the king, “how much is my share?”
“It cost each of us three groschen; the king may pay what he pleases.”
“Will you credit me, dragoon?” said the king, who searched his pockets in vain for money.
“Oh! yes, your majesty, I will credit you, but only until tomorrow morning, early; for, if a cannon-ball took my head off, I could not dun your majesty, and you would be my debtor to all eternity.”
“It would then be better to settle our accounts to-day,” said the king, and nodding to the soldiers, he left them.
XIII. THE WATCH-FIRE
The officer who had accompanied the king, returned in an hour to the watch-fire of the dragoons, and handed five gold pieces to Fritz Kober, which had been sent by the king to pay for his portion of the noodles; then, without giving the surprised soldier time to thank him, he withdrew.
Fritz looked long and thoughtfully at the gold pieces, which, in the light of the flickering fire, shone beautifully in his hand.
“It is very well--very well that the king kept his word, and paid me punctually to-night,” said he to Charles Henry Buschman, who sat near, and with his elbow resting on his knee, watched his friend closely.
“And why so, Fritz?” said Charles.
“I will tell you, Charles Henry. If I fall to-morrow, I will have something in my pocket that you will inherit from me. I declare to you, no one but you alone shall be my heir; all that I have belongs to you. Thunder and lightning! I am rich! it is better I should make my testament; I don’t know what may happen to me to-morrow. I have neither pen nor paper; well, I will make it verbally! I will wake some of my comrades, and they shall witness my last will and testament.” He reached over to the sleeping soldiers, who lay near him on the ground, but Charles held him back.
“Let them sleep, friend,” said he, pleadingly; “it is not necessary you should have witnesses. God, and the moon, and a thousand stars hear what we say to each other; and why speak of your will and your fortune, friend? Do you think I would care for that miserable gold, if you were no longer by my side? Do you think I would use it for any other purpose than to buy your tombstone, and write on it in golden letters?”
“What? a tombstone!” said Fritz Kober, with an astonished look; “and why would you place a tombstone over a poor, simple, unknown fellow like myself, Charles Henry? Many gallant generals and officers fall in battle; the earth drinks their blood, and no one knows where they lie. And with golden letters, did you say, Charles? Well, I am curious to know what you would place upon my tombstone.”
“I will tell you, Fritz. I will write on your tombstone--‘Here lies Fritz Kober; the most faithful friend, the best soul, the most honest heart; good and simple as a child, brave as a hero, constant as a dove, and true as a hound.’”
“But am I all that?” said Fritz, amazed.
“Yes, you are all that!” said Charles, with a trembling voice. “You have been more than this to me, and I will never forget it. I was a poor, shrinking youth when I came to this camp; I knew nothing--could do nothing. My comrades, who soon found me out, mocked and complained of me, and played all manner of jokes upon me. They ridiculed me, because I had no beard; they mimicked me, because my voice was soft and unsteady; they asserted that I would make a miserable soldier, because I grew deadly pale at parade. Who was it took pity on me, and opposed themselves to my rude, unfeeling companions? Who scolded and threatened to strike them, if they did not allow me to go my own way, in peace and quiet? Who was patient with my stupidity, and taught me how to go through with my military duties creditably, and how to manage my horse? You! you, dear Fritz! you alone. You were always at my side, when others threatened. You were patient as a mother when she teaches her dear little boy his letters, and looks kindly upon him, and is good to him, even when he is dull and inattentive.”
“Well,” said Fritz Kober, thoughtfully, “one can do nothing better than to be good to a man who deserves it, and who is himself so kind, and pure, and brave, that a poor fellow like myself feels ashamed, and looks down when the soft eyes are fixed upon him. I tell you what, Charles Henry, there is a power in your eyes, and they have subdued me. I think the angels in heaven have just such eyes as yours, and when you look upon me so softly and kindly, my heart bounds with delight. I have dreamed of your eyes, Charles Henry; I have blushed in my sleep when I thought I had uttered a coarse curse, and you looked upon me sorrowfully. I know you cannot endure cursing, or drink, or even tobacco.”
“My father was a poor schoolmaster,” said Charles Henry; “we lived quietly together, and he could not bear cursing. He used to say, ‘When men cursed, it hurt God like the toothache.’ He said--‘God had not made the corn to grow, that men might make brandy, but bread.’ We were too poor to buy beer and wine, so we drank water, and were content.”
“Your father was right,” said Fritz, thoughtfully. “I believe, myself, corn was not intended to make brandy, and I don’t care for it; I will give it up altogether. If we live through this war, and receive good bounty money, we will buy a few acres, and build us a little house, and live together, and cultivate our land, and plant corn; and, in the evening, when our work is done, we will sit on the bench before the door, and you will relate some of your beautiful little stories; and so we will live on together till we are old and die.”
“But you have forgotten one thing, Fritz.”
“What is that, Charles Henry?”
“You have forgotten that you will take a wife into your little house, and she will soon cast me out.”
“Let her try it!” cried Fritz, enraged, and doubling his flat threateningly. “Let her try only to show the door to Charles Henry, and I will shut her out, and she shall never return--never! But,” said he, softly, “it is not necessary to think of this; I will never take a wife. We will live together; we need no third person to make strife between us.”
Charles said nothing. He looked smilingly into the glowing fire, and then at his comrade, with an amused but tender expression.
If Fritz had seen it, his heart would have bounded again, but he was too much occupied then with his own thoughts to look up.
“Listen, Charles. If nothing comes of our little piece of ground and our house--if my last ball comes to-morrow and carries me off--”
“Stop, stop, Fritz; I will hold my head so that the same ball will carry it off!”
“If you do that, I will be very angry with you,” cried Fritz. “You are too young to die, and I will be glad even in my grave to know that you are walking on the green earth. In order to do well, you must have gold; therefore you must be my heir. If I fall, these beautiful gold pieces belong to you; you shall not put a tombstone over me. Buy yourself a few acres, Charles Henry, and when your corn grows and blossoms, that shall be my monument.”
Charles took his hand, and his eyes were filled with tears. “Speak no more of death,” said he, softly; “it makes my heart heavy, and I shall lose my courage in the battle to-morrow when I think of all you have said. Ugh! how cold it is! My soul feels frosted!”
“I will go and seek a little more wood,” said Fritz, springing up, “and make a good fire, and then you shall be warmed.”
He hurried off, and Charles remained alone by the tire, looking gravely on the glowing coals; he smiled from time to time, and then he breathed heavily, as if oppressed by some weighty secret. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him.
“Ah! I have found the fire again! Good-evening, children.”
“Good-evening, sir king. Comrades, wake up; the king is here!”
“No, no; let your comrades sleep,” said the king, softly. “The fire will do me good. I found the right path to the fire, as I said Your dragoons have uncovered my quarters, and the cold blasts of wind whistle through them and freeze the water in my room. I prefer to sit by the fire and warm myself.” He was about to seat himself on the straw near the fire, when a harsh voice called out:
“March on!--every lazy scamp wants a place by the fire, but not one of them brings a splinter of wood.”
Fritz Kober was behind them with the wood; he had found it with great difficulty, and he was angry when he saw a strange soldier in his place by the side of Charles Henry.
The king turned to him quietly.
“You are right, my son!--come on! I will make room for you.”
“It is the king!” exclaimed Fritz, turning as if to fly. But the king held him.
“Remain where you are, my son; you brought the wood, and you have the best right. I only wish to warm myself a little, and I think there is room for us all.”
He seated himself upon the straw, and nodded to Fritz Kober to take a seat by him. Fritz tremblingly obeyed, and Charles stirred the fire, which flamed up beautifully.
King Frederick gazed at the flickering flames. Charles and Fritz sat on each side of him, and watched him in respectful silence; around the watch-fire lay the sleeping dragoons. After a long pause the king raised his head and looked about him.
“Well, children, to-morrow will be a hot day, and we must strike the Austrians boldly.”
“Yes, as we struck the French at Rossbach, your majesty,” said Fritz. “Mark me! it will go off bravely, and when we are done with the Austrians we will march to Constantinople.”
“What will we do in Constantinople?” said the king.
“Nothing, your majesty, but march there with you, whip the Turks, and take all their gold!”
“Not quite so fast, my son.”
“Why not, sir king? We have chopped up the French army; to-morrow we will do the same for the Austrians; and then, why not whip the Turks?”
The king smiled, and said: “Well, well, but first we must give the Austrians a good drubbing.”
“And, by my soul, we will do that,” said Fritz, eagerly. “Your majesty may believe me--I will march with you to the end of the earth, and so will my friend Charles Buschman. If we have only a little to eat, we will find water everywhere; so lead us where you will!”
The king’s eyes flashed: “By heaven! it is a pleasure to lead such soldiers to battle!” Then turning, with a kindly expression, to Fritz Kober, he said: “Can you write?”
“Not well, your majesty; but Charles Henry Buschman can write much better than I. He is a scholar.”
“Is that true?” said the king, gayly, to Charles.
“He will say ‘No,’ sir king; he cannot bear to be praised. But the truth remains, the truth even when denied--Charles is the bravest and wisest soldier in the army, and if there is justice in the world he will be made an officer.”
“You must get your commission first, Fritz,” said Charles, indifferently; “you earned it long ago, and if the king only knew all that you did at Rossbach, you would have it now.”
“What did he do?” said the king.
“Nothing, your majesty,” said Fritz.
“Yes, your majesty,” said Charles, zealously; “he hewed right and left until the sparks flew in every direction. Our commander had told us the disgusting Frenchmen wanted to take our winter quarters, and even when Fritz Kober’s sword was still whizzing among them, they had the insolence to cry out, ‘Quartier! quartier!’--then was Fritz enraged, and cut them down like corn-stalks, and cried out, ‘Yes, yes! I will give you quarters, but they will be underground!’”
“Only think,” said Fritz, “they were flying before us, and the impudent scamps, when we captured them, would still twit us with the winter quarters they had intended to rob us of. How could I help cutting them to pieces?”
“But he spared those who cried ‘Pardon,’ your majesty,” said Charles Henry, “he only took them prisoners. Nine prisoners did Fritz Kober take at Rossbach.” [Footnote: The Prussians had been told that the Frenchmen intended to take possession of their winter quarters, and this enraged them greatly. When the French cavalry were flying at Rossbach, they used the German word quartier, thinking they would be better understood. The Prussians looked upon this as an insolent jest, and gave no quarter.--Nicolai’s Characteristics and Anecdotes ] “I suppose the five prisoners you took were men of straw, that you say nothing of them,” cried Fritz.
The king looked well pleased from one to the other.
“It appears to me you are both brave soldiers, and the braver be cause you do not boast of your deeds. Are you always such good friends as to seek to do each other kindly service?”
“Your majesty, Charles Henry is my truest friend, and if you wish to do me a service, make him an officer.”
“But he says he will not be made an officer unless you are made one, so there is nothing left for me to do but to promote both! If in the battle to-morrow you fight like heroes, you shall both be made officers. Now, children, be quiet, let me rest a little. I do not want to sleep--cannot you tell me some little story, some pretty little fairy tale to keep my heavy eyes from closing?”
“Charles knows many fairy tales, sir king, and if you command it he must relate one.”
“Oh, yes, your majesty, I know the history of a fairy who knew and loved the brave son of a king, and when the prince went into battle she transformed herself into a sword, that she might be always by the side of him she loved.”
“Tell me this pretty story, my son.”
Charles Henry began to relate. Deep silence reigned about the camp. Here and there a word was spoken in sleep, a loud snore, or the neighing of a horse. The fires were burned down, and the coals glowed like fire-flies upon the dark ground.
The moon stood over the camp and illuminated the strange and parti-colored scene with her soft rays, and called out the most wonderful contrasts of light and shade. Far, far away, in the dim distance, one blood-red point could be seen; it looked like a crimson star in the east. This was the camp-fire of the Austrians. This mighty army was encamped behind Leuthen. The king gazed in that direction with eager expectation, and listened with painful attention to every distant sound.
The silence of death reigned there; no sound or voice was heard. The king, being convinced of this, sank back once more upon the straw, and listened to Charles Henry Buschman.
It was indeed a beautiful fairy tale; so wild and so fantastic that Fritz listened with eyes extended and almost breathless to every word. At last, as the handsome prince was drawing his last breath, the lovely fairy sprang from his sword and brought the dead to life with her warm kisses, Fritz was in an ecstasy of excitement, and interrupted Charles by an outcry of rapture.
“This is a true story, sir king!” cried he, passionately; “every word is true, and he who don’t believe it is a puppy!”
“Well, well,” said the king, “I believe every word, friend.”
Charles Henry went on with his fairy tales; but, notwithstanding the wonders he related, sleep at last overcame his friend! Fritz’s eyes closed, but he murmured in his sleep: “It is all true--all true!”
Charles Henry himself, wearied by the exertions of the last few days, felt his eyelids to be as heavy as lead, his words came slowly, then ceased altogether.
The king looked at his slumbering soldiers, then far away toward the watch-fires of the Austrian camp.
Silence still reigned. The moon showed distant objects in the clearest light, and nothing suspicious or alarming could be seen. “It was false intelligence which was brought to me,” said the king. “It is not true that the Austrians are on the march and intend to surprise me. They sleep!--we will not see them till tomorrow. I will withdraw to my quarters.”
King Frederick stepped slowly through the ranks of the sleepers, and gave a sign to the officer and the four soldiers who had accompanied him, but remained at a distance from the fire, to move lightly and awaken no one.
XIV. THE BATTLE OF LEUTHEN
Early the next morning the king left his tent. The generals were anxiously awaiting him. His countenance glowed with energy and determination, and his brilliant eyes flashed with a sparkling light. Inspired by the appearance of their hero, the clouded brows of the assembled generals became clearer. They felt that his lofty brow was illumined by genius, and that the laurels which crowned it could never fade. They were now confident, courageous, ready for the battle, and, although they had at first disapproved of the king’s plan of attacking the enemy who had twice overcome them, now that he was in their midst they felt secure of success.
Spies reported that the Austrian army had left their camp at sunrise and advanced toward Leuthen; they spoke much and loudly of the strength of the enemy, and of the eagerness of the soldiers to fall upon the weak Prussian army.
At a sign from the king, Seidlitz approached him, and informed him of the latest rumors.
“It is a fearful army we are to attack,” said Seidlitz; “more than twice our number.”
“I am aware of the strength of the enemy,” said the king, quietly, “but nothing is left for me but victory or death. Were they stationed upon the church-tower of Breslau I would attack them.”
Then approaching the other generals, he continued in a loud voice:
“You are aware, gentlemen, that Prince Charles, of Lothringen, succeeded in taking Schweidnitz, defeating the Duke of Bevern, and has made himself master of Breslau, while I was protecting Berlin from the French army. The capital of Silesia, and all the munitions of war stowed there, have been lost. All these circumstances are calculated to distress me deeply, had I not a boundless confidence in your courage, your resolution, and your devoted love to your country. There is, I think, not one among us who has not been distinguished for some great, some noble deed. I feel assured that your courage will not now fail in this hour of direst need. I would feel as if I had accomplished nothing were I to leave Silesia in the possession of the Austrians. Against all acknowledged rules of war, I am determined to attack the army of Charles of Lothringen, though it is three times as strong as my own. Notwithstanding the number of the enemy, or its advantageous position, I feel confident of success. This step must be taken, or all is lost! We must defeat the Austrians, or fall beneath their batteries! This is my opinion, and thus I shall act. Make my determination known to every officer. Acquaint the soldiers with the events that will soon occur--tell them that I require unconditional obedience! Remember that you are Prussians!--do not show yourselves unworthy of the name! But should there be any among you who fear to share these dangers with us, they can leave at once, and shall not be reproached by me.”
The king ceased speaking, and looked inquiringly at his listeners. Upon every countenance he read determination, courage, and inspiration, but here and there were some whose brows became clouded at the king’s last suggestion, and tears were sparkling in old General Rohr’s eyes. The king pressed the general’s hand almost tenderly.
“Ah, my dear friend,” said he, “I did not suspect you. But I again say, that if any amongst you wishes leave of absence, he shall have it.”
Profound quiet followed these words. No one approached the king--no sound disturbed the solemn stillness. At a distance, the loud shouts and hurrahs of the soldiers, preparing for battle, could be heard. The king’s countenance became clear, and he continued with enthusiasm:
“I knew beforehand that none of you would leave me. I counted upon your assistance; with it, I shall be victorious. Should I fall in this battle, you must look to your country for reward; and now, away to the camp, and repeat to your men what I have said to you. Farewell, gentlemen, before long we will either have defeated the enemy, or we will see one another no more.”
And now there arose from the generals and officers loud, joyous shouts.
“We will conquer or die!” cried Seidlitz, whose daring, youthful countenance sparkled with delight. “We will conquer or die!” was repeated by all.
At last the brave words reached the camp, and were re-echoed by thirty thousand lusty throats. There was universal joy. Old gray-headed warriors, who had followed the king into many battles, who had conquered repeatedly with him, shook hands with and encouraged each other, and warned the younger soldiers to be brave and fearless.
Resting upon his horse, the king had been a joyful witness to all this enthusiasm. At this moment, a troop of soldiers, numbering about fifty, approached him. The commanding officer was greeted with a kindly smile.
“You are Lieutenant von Frankenberg?” said the king. And as the lieutenant bowed in answer, he continued: “General Kleist has spoken of you as being a brave and trustworthy officer. I have therefore a strange commission for you. Listen well! do not lose a word of what I say. Come nearer. And now,” said the king, in a low voice, “be attentive. In the approaching battle, I will have to expose myself more than usual; you and your fifty men shall guard me. You must watch over me, and be careful that I fall not into the hands of the enemy. Should I fall, cover my body with your mantle, and carry me to the wagon, which shall be stationed behind the first battalion. Leave me there, and tell no one of what has occurred. The battle must continue--the enemy must be defeated.”
When the king had thus made his testament, he dismissed the lieutenant, and advanced toward his body-guard.
“Good-morning!” cried the king, cheerfully.
“Good-morning, father!” was the universal answer. Then the old graybeards, standing beside the king, said again:
“Good-morning, father! it is very cold to-day.”
“It will be warm enough before the day is over, boys!” said the king. “There is much to be done. Be brave, my children, and I will care for you as a father.”
An old soldier, with silver hair, and the scars of many wounds upon his face, approached the king.
“Your majesty,” said he, in an earnest voice, “if we are crippled what will become of us?”
“You shall be taken care of,” said the king.
“Will your majesty give me your hand upon this promise?”
This question was followed by deep silence. All present were gazing anxiously at the king and the old guard. The king advanced, and laid his hand in that of the old soldier.
“I swear, that any of you who are crippled, shall be taken care of.”
The old warrior turned with tearful eyes to his comrades.
“Well,” said he, “you hear him? he is and will continue to be the King of Prussia and our father. The one who deserts is a rascal.”
“Long live our Fritz!” and throughout the whole camp resounded the cry--“Long live our Fritz! Long live our king!”
“Onward! onward!” was the cry, for at the end of the plain the enemy could be seen approaching.
“Forward!” cried the soldiers, falling one by one into their places, as the king, followed by Lieutenant Frankenberg and his men, galloped past them.
A turn in the road showed the Prussians the enormous size of the enemy’s army. Silence prevailed for a few moments. Suddenly, here and there a voice could be heard singing a battle-hymn, and soon, accompanied by the band, the whole army was breathing out in song an earnest prayer to God.
A guard, approaching the king, said:
“Is it your majesty’s desire that the soldiers should cease singing?”
The king shook his head angrily.
“No!” said he, “let them alone. With such an army, God can but give me victory.”
Nearer and nearer came the enemy, covering the plain with their numbers, and gazing with amazement at the little army that dared to oppose them. By the Austrian generals, smiling so contemptuously upon their weak opponents, one thing had been forgotten. The Austrians, confident of success, were not in the least enthusiastic; the Prussians, aware of their danger, and inspired by love for their king, had nerved themselves to the contest. The armies now stood before each other in battle array. The king was at the front, the generals were flying here and there, delivering their orders. In obedience to these orders, the army suddenly changed its position, and so strange, so unsuspected was the change, that General Daun, turning to the Prince Lothringen, said:
“The Prussians are retreating! we will not attack them.”
Certain of this fact, they were off their guard, and disorder reigned in their camp. This security was suddenly changed to terror. They saw the Prussians rapidly approaching, threatening at once both wings of their army. Messenger upon messenger was sent, imploring help from General Daun and Charles of Lothringen. The Prussians were upon them, felling them to the earth, regardless of danger regardless of the numerous cannon which were playing upon them. Daun, with a part of his command, hurried to the aid of General Luchesi, but he was too late; Luchesi had fallen, and terror and disorder were rapidly spreading in the right wing, while from the left, Nadasky had already dispatched ten messengers, imploring assistance from Charles of Lothringen. In doubt as to which most needed help, he at last determined upon the right wing, whose ranks were thinning rapidly; he sent them aid, and took no notice of Nadasky’s messengers. And now the Prussians fell upon the left wing of the Austrians. This attack was made with fury, and the Austrians retreated in wild disorder. It was in vain that other regiments came to their aid; they had no time to arrange themselves before they were forced back. They stumbled upon one another, the flying overtaking and trampling upon the flying. Again and again the imperial guards endeavored to place themselves in line of battle; they were at once overpowered by the Prussian cavalry, who, intoxicated with victory, threw themselves upon them with demoniac strength. Yes, intoxicated--mad with victory, were these Prussians. With perfect indifference they saw their friends, their comrades, fall beside them; they did not mourn over them, but revenged their death tenfold upon the enemy. Those even who fell were inspired by enthusiasm and courage. Forgetful of their wounds, of their torn and broken limbs, they gazed with joy and pride at their comrades, joining in their shouts and hurrahs, until death sealed their lips.
A Prussian grenadier, whose left leg had been shot off in the early part of the battle, raised himself from the ground: using his gun as a crutch, he dragged himself to a spot which the army had to pass, and cried to the comrades who were looking pityingly upon his bleeding limb: “Fight like brave Prussians, brothers! Conquer or die for your king!”
Another grenadier, who had lost both legs, lay upon the ground weltering in his blood, quietly smoking his pipe. An Austrian general galloping by held in his horse and looked in amazement at the soldier. “How is it possible, comrade,” said he, “that in your fearful condition you can smoke? Death is near to you.”
Taking the pipe from his mouth, the grenadier answered with white, trembling lips: “Well, and what of it? Do I not die for my king?”
Where the danger was the greatest, there was the king encouraging his soldiers. When a column was seen to reel, there was Frederick in their midst inspiring new courage by his presence. The king was the soul of his army, and as his soul was sans peur et sans reproche, the army was victorious. Napoleon, speaking of this battle, says: “Cette bataille de Leuthen est propre a immortaliser le caractere moral de Frederic, et met a jour ses grands talents militaires.” And somewhat later, he says: “Cette bataille etait un chef d’oeuvre de mouvements, de manoeuvres, et de resolution, seul elle suffirait pour immortaliser Frederic, et lui donne un rang parmi les plus grands generaux!”
The victory was gained. The defeated Austrians fled in haste, leaving a hundred cannon, fifty banners, and more than twenty thousand prisoners in the hands of the Prussians; while upon the battle-field six thousand of their dead and wounded were lying, with but two thousand dead and wounded Prussians. The victory belonged to Prussia. They had all distinguished themselves; the king and every common soldier had done his duty. Frederick, accompanied by his staff, to which Lieutenant Frankenberg and his fifty men did not now belong, passed the bloody, smoking battle-field. His countenance was sparkling with joy--his eyes shone like stars. He seemed looking for some one to whom to open his grateful heart.
He who had given most assistance in the battle was Prince Moritz von Dessau, whom at the battle of Collin the king had threatened with his sword, and with whom he had ever since been angry because his prophecy proved true. But there was no anger now in the king’s heart; and as he had, in the presence of all his staff, threatened the prince, he wished also in their presence to thank and reward him. The prince was at a slight distance from him, so busily engaged in giving orders that he did not perceive the king until he was quite close to him.
“I congratulate you upon this victory,” said the king, in a loud voice--“I congratulate you, field-marshal.”
The prince bowed in a silent, absent manner, and continued to give his orders.
The king, raising his voice, said: “Do you not hear, field-marshal? I congratulate you!”
The prince looked hastily at the king. “How? Your majesty,” said he, doubtfully, “has appointed me--”
“My field-marshal,” said the king, interrupting him. “And well have you deserved this promotion; you have assisted me in this battle as I have never before been assisted.” He grasped the prince’s hand and pressed it tenderly, and there were tears of emotion not only in the eyes of the new field-marshal, but also in those of the king.
A fearful day’s work was finished--how fearful, could be seen by the wounded, the dying lying pell-mell upon the battle-field amidst the dead, too exhausted to move. But the day had passed. The cries and shouts of the flying enemy had now ceased--the victory, the battle-field, belonged to the Prussians. What was now most needed by them was an hour’s rest. Above the bloody battle-field, above the dying, the sleeping, the groaning, the sighing, now rose the moon grandly, solemnly, as if to console the dead and to lead the living to raise their grateful prayers to heaven. And grateful praise ascended above that night--thanks for the preservation of their own and their friends’ lives--thanks for their hero’s victory. Side by side, whispering in low tones, lay the soldiers--for the hour seemed to all too solemn to be broken by any loud sound.
No hearts were so full of gratitude and joy as those of Charles Henry Buschman and Fritz Kober. In the pressure of the battle they had been separated and had not again met during the engagement. In vain they had sought and called upon one another, and each one thought of the fearful possibility that the other had fallen. At last they stumbled upon each other. With shouts of joy they rushed into each other’s arms.
“You are not wounded, Fritz Kober?” said Charles Henry, with a beating heart.
“I am unharmed; but you, my friend?”
“Only a little cut in the hand, nothing more. How many prisoners did you take?”
“Seven, Charles Henry.”
“You will be promoted! You will be an officer!”
“Not unless you are also. How many prisoners did you take?”
“I am not sure, Fritz; I think there were nine. But the captain will know.”
“We will both be promoted, the king promised it, and now I am willing to accept it.”
“But what is this to us now, my friend?” said Charles Henry; “we have found one another, and I am indifferent to all else.”
“You are right, Charles Henry; this has been a fearful, a terrible day. My knees tremble beneath me--let us rest a while.”
He laid himself upon the ground. Charles Henry knelt beside him, laying one hand upon his shoulder, and looked at the starry sky; a holy smile glorified his countenance. As he gazed at the moon, tender feelings were at work in his heart. He thought of his distant home--of the graves of his loved parents, upon which the moon was now shining as brightly as upon this bloody battle-field. He thought how kind and merciful God had been to preserve his friend, his only consolation, the one joy of his weary, lonesome life. The solemn stillness by which he was surrounded, the bright moon, light which illuminated the battle-field, the thought of the hard struggle of the past day, all acted strongly upon his feelings. The brave, daring soldier, Charles Henry Buschman, was once more transformed into the gentle, soft-hearted Anna Sophia Detzloff; now, when danger was past, she felt herself a weak, trembling woman. Deep, inexpressible emotion, earnest prayers to God, were busy in Anna Sophia’s heart.
Kneeling upon the ground, resting on her friend, she raised her eyes heavenward, and commenced singing in an earnest, impassioned tone that glorious hymn, “Thanks unto God!” Fritz Kober, actuated by the same feelings, joined in the hymn, and here and there a comrade lent his voice to swell the anthem; it became stronger, louder, until at last, like a mighty stream, it passed over the battle-field, knocking at every heart, and urging it to prayer, finding everywhere an open ear.
The moon stood smiling above the battle-field, upon which eight thousand dead and wounded men were lying. Even the wounded, who a short time before filled the air with groans of pain and agony, raised themselves to join in the song of praise which was now sung, not by a hundred, not by a thousand, but by thirty thousand soldiers, thirty thousand heroes, who, after that bloody day had earned the right to sing “Thanks unto God.”