But his heart was not as brave as his words; despite himself his continued ill-success had induced in him a conviction of the invincibility of Karl whom he admired for possessing all the qualities he would have wished for in his own character, and whose glory, now at its most dazzling height, a little blinded the eyes of Peter. He alone knew the magnitude of the task that he had undertaken, the chaos of his armies, and the factions in his court and among his people.
Not even Mentchikoff could gauge the difficulties on which Peter labored on that long hard road, unenlivened by any success or encouragement, which he had set himself to travel.
CHAPTER III
IF the splendor of Karl’s achievements dazzled even Peter, to the rest of the world it was indeed overwhelming.
This monarch, still in the first flower of his youth, found himself in a position unique in the history of the modern world.
Louis XIV had begun his reign by conquests perhaps as considerable, but his victories had been won by proxy; his cause was not so fine nor his behavior so remarkable, and his vanity had taken a form more ordinary, his pride had assumed the proportions to which men are most accustomed.
But both the achievements and the character of Karl were extraordinary; his victories were owing to his personal genius, the discipline of his army to his own efforts, the austere behavior of his men, so rare in the soldiers of a conquering army, to his own example.
There was no danger or hardship that he had not shared with his meanest soldier, and if they did not cherish that warm devotion for him that men have felt for leaders more human in their weaknesses, at least they accorded him an awed respect that did not permit them to murmur at his most severe regulations.
They had come, too, to believe that while under his leadership they were invincible, the one reverse they had received having taken place while he was absent; they told each other that Mentchikoff would never have beaten the Swedes at Kalisz had they been commanded by Karl; in his heart Peter had thought the same.
The summer was waning, and still Karl remained at Altranstadt; Count Piper, now become a feeble and sickly man through the effect of a sudden illness, watched with a dull, half-cynical eye the glory of his master, and his place was largely taken by Baron Görtz, the grand-marshal of the Bishop of Lubeck, whose daring spirit and military enthusiasms entirely suited the peculiar temperament of the King.
Stanislaus now reigned in Poland with as much security as was possible to one who owed his elevation to a whim of fortune, and who ruled a country so torn and exhausted by war; he had been recognized by the leading courts of Europe, including that of Dresden, and in this direction at least the ambition of Karl was satisfied.
Among those who came to Altranstadt to endeavor to discover the policy or gain the alliance of the redoubtable conqueror who had just humbled the Empire was a man whose fame as a captain had rivaled that of Karl, though in all save military genius he was different from the Swede.
This was the English general, John, Duke of Marlborough, sent by the English Government to sound Karl on the likelihood of his joining the war of the Spanish Succession, either for or against the allies.
This the Duke, as able a diplomat as he was a soldier, hoped to discover by proposing Karl as a mediator between the allies of France, a design that he thought would flatter the King into disclosing his real intentions.
Karl, who had treated with a cold indifference the other ambassadors and plenipotentiaries who had waited on him, showed some eagerness to meet this man who had never fought a battle that he had not won, nor besieged a town he had not taken, and whose brilliant genius had broken the mighty power of France.
The Duke himself had applied to the Baron Görtz for an audience, and by him and the English minister was taken to Karl’s plain and severe quarters at Leipzig, where he then was.
The King received him in a small room without hangings or carpets, and with no furniture save a few chairs and a table of bare wood; he had with him Count Piper, who looked ill and vexed; the minister was prejudiced against the Englishman because he had applied to Görtz instead of to himself for this audience.
The Duke of Marlborough entered with a light step the poorest royal chamber he had ever seen, and saluted Karl with a courtier’s bow; these two remarkable captains faced each other with a flash of curiosity that for a second obscured all other matters.
The Duke was then nearly sixty years of age, but still of an unusual handsomeness and an infinite grace in his person; he was attired in the extreme of the fashion, black velvet brocade, white satin waistcoat flourished in colored silks, a rich Mechlin cravat and ruffles, a black satin cravat and a diamond buckle, a long curling peruke framing his worn, charming, and vivacious face.
He was both perfumed and powdered, and carried an elegant little sword with brilliants in the hilt.
The interest died from Karl’s blue eyes and a look of cold disgust took its place; the Englishman was not the Swede’s idea of a warrior. Nor was Karl in his old jackboots, worn blue great-coat with the rubbed leather buttons, his black taffeta stock and soiled leather gloves, his stiff air and ungracious look, the Englishman’s idea of a King.
Karl wore a light peruke and a three-cornered hat; his face was impassive and cold, and he gave a bare salute in return for the Duke’s greeting.
Marlborough was not in the least disconcerted. He had the perfect ease of manner born of long acquaintance with princes and rulers, and was an adept in dealing with all manner of men.
He was as ready with his opening compliment as if he had met with a gracious reception.
“Sire,” he said in French, “I should be happy if I could learn under your orders what I do not know of the art of war.”
Karl received this in a freezing silence; it was the type of flattery that he most disliked, and he had taken a complete aversion to the elegance of the great Englishman’s appearance and to his courtier-like manners.
Marlborough, in no way discomposed, entered agreeably into further compliments, since it seemed that it was he who must make the conversation.
He spoke in French, and Karl, who knew this language but would never use it, replied in Swedish, of which tongue the Duke was wholly ignorant.
The English minister interpreted, and the conversation on general topics became slow and fatiguing. The English envoy was not in any way thrown out by this.
He wished to discover if Karl was likely to interfere in the war between France and the allies; he was dangerously near and had severely treated the Emperor, the most doubtful member of the league against Louis XII.
This object the Duke believed he could attain by merely watching the King of Sweden.
Karl, who knew his design, and disdained all those whom he thought were wanting his favor or alliance, broached the subject with a cold bluntness.
“I wonder your grace takes the trouble to concern yourself in this affair. I gave my word seven years ago not to meddle in this war.”
Marlborough bowed gravely; he did not believe that anyone would sacrifice power and interest to their word; he was too well used to the ways of princes to be greatly impressed by what Karl said.
Perfectly at his ease and with a charming smile he studied this imperious boy who had put Northern Europe under his foot.
With that graceful composure so natural to him he began to talk of the war with France, naming some of the victories of the allies.
Karl could not listen without interest to any matter connected with military affairs, and he had a natural prejudice against the French, so he remained silent, resting his hands on the hilt of his great plain heavy sword that he held in front of him, and followed with attention what the Duke was saying.
But he was as impervious to the charm of Marlborough as he had been to that of Aurora von Königsmarck.
Marlborough, who was used to swaying men and exercising a strong personal influence, soon perceived this.
“Sire,” he said suddenly, his fine eyes keen, alert, and slightly amused, “why do I speak of these things to one who has accomplished so many greater ones? Your Majesty, who has already dethroned one King, and will another——”
Karl’s eyes suddenly lit.
“Whom do you think I shall dethrone, my lord?” he asked, and signed to M. Robinson, the English minister, to quickly interpret his question.
“So you are human,” thought Marlborough.
“Sire,” he said aloud, “I was meaning the Czar of Muscovy.”
Now there was no mistaking the fire that leapt into the cold eyes of Karl; he would not answer, but Marlborough read him plainly.
There was a little map of Muscovy, in colored paints, lying on a table by the window, and the Duke glanced at it as he spoke again.
“There can be no doubt,” he continued, “that your Majesty’s task will be as glorious as it will be tremendous.”
When this was translated to Karl he turned imperiously to M. Robinson.
“Tell the Duke,” he said, “that my designs are not disclosed even to my intimates.”
This was a little softened in the translation, but Marlborough was fine enough to catch the full meaning of the words.
He was quite indifferent to this rude rebuff; he had discovered all he wished to know and continued to discuss indifferent matters, soon taking his leave, nor did Karl seek to detain him, but most coldly accepted his adieux.
As the two Englishmen went away in Baron Görtz’s carriage, Marlborough whispered to the other:
“We need not trouble at all about that young mad-man—his one design is to dethrone the Czar—God help him!” he added, taking a pinch of snuff.
“Your grace thinks he will not succeed?” asked the English minister, who was secretly impressed by Karl’s immense success and inclined to believe him invincible.
“My dear Robinson,” replied the Duke suavely, “these heroes who feed on military glory are bound to die of hunger some day.”
With which remark Marlborough, who was quite satisfied now that Karl would never trouble Western Europe, dismissed the famous captain from his thoughts.
Meanwhile Count Piper, left alone with the King, for Baron Görtz had retired with the Englishmen, turned to Karl and asked his opinion of the great Duke.
The King seemed to have forgotten his presence, for he had not spoken during the interview, and turned to him with something of a start, as if absorbed in dreams.
“What do I think of my Lord Marlborough?” he repeated; then he dismissed the Englishman with nearly as few words as the Englishman had dismissed him. “I do not think that he has the air of a warrior.”
“He is very pleasant,” remarked Count Piper, in a quiet tone that might have been sarcastic, “and so is Baron Görtz.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the King, with a sharp look. “You do not like him.”
With that Karl paused; he was just enough to know that Piper had no cause to like the younger man who was supplanting him and whose views were so opposed to his own.
“Count,” he added, “I have always honored you and always shall. If I have not always taken your advice I have at least respected you for giving it—but I am one who goes his own way. As for Baron Görtz, he is, and will be, what you are not, and will not be, my tool.”
This was a long speech for Karl to make and he was suddenly silent, as if he already repented having said so much and so exposed his feelings.
Count Piper flushed; he knew that by these words the King had paid him the greatest compliment and the greatest kindness that he was capable of, and that he need look for no further recognition from his master.
He had long ceased to care much what Karl did and entirely to cease to hope to influence him; he could smile now at himself for ever supposing that he could have done anything with this young man, or moved him by means of Viktoria Falkenberg.
He felt himself to be a man whose strength and position were both almost lost, and he was, perhaps, a little indifferent now to what had gone to make his life, but, for the last time, he resolved to sound the mind of the King—on two matters that he, Piper, had much at heart.
“Sire,” he said quietly, “all these princes and potentates come here with one object—to discover your Majesty’s future designs.”
“Yes,” answered Karl, “and you know better than any man that I have disclosed these to no one.”
“I do not seek,” replied the minister, “to endeavor to force your Majesty’s confidence.”
“But you want to know something,” remarked the King, with his sudden, ugly smile.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Count Piper gave the King a straight look.
“I want to know if your Majesty has any thought of returning to Stockholm,” he said, and he could not keep a certain earnestness from his tone.
“That thought is ever uppermost in your mind,” replied Karl, not unpleasantly.
“It is seven years since you left your capital, sire.”
“Well?”
“Sweden needs her ruler.”
“Sweden is well governed.”
“Not by her monarch.”
“I do better things than govern Sweden,” replied the King haughtily.
“Ah, sire—these conquests cannot, will not, benefit Sweden. The scope of the war was attained years ago.”
Karl was silent; he narrowed his cold blue eyes and stared at the grave face and commonplace figure of his minister.
“And now you would risk all in a campaign against Russia.”
“Risk?” exclaimed Karl.
“There is a risk, sire.”
Karl smiled contemptuously.
“And if you lose, it will be disaster for Sweden,” added the Count.
“If I lose?” repeated the King, with rising wrath. “Do you not know that it is impossible for me to lose?”
“Ah, sire!” murmured the minister sadly.
Karl suddenly laughed, throwing back his head and showing his fierce white teeth.
“You think that the Czar of Muscovy can defeat me!” he said.
The minister answered:
“Marlborough thinks that you attempt the impossible, sire.”
The King was really angry now.
“What does Marlborough know of my designs?” he demanded.
“It is the common thought that you march on Russia.”
Karl rose with an impatient movement.
“Let be this matter,” he said sharply. “What I do, I do, and am accountable to no one.”
This was what the Count had expected; he bowed gravely.
He felt a sad certainty that the next subject he had to broach would be received with even more displeasure by the King; he resolved that it should not be on his conscience that he had not made the attempt.
“I would presume to ask one other thing,” he said, with a certain effort.
“Ask what you will,” replied the King, who had now regained his icy composure, “but it is useless, Count, to touch on my future designs.”
“I would only speak on a small subject, sire—that of Patkul.”
The King flashed him an ugly glance.
“What of Patkul?” he asked, in a cruel voice.
“Will not your Majesty think again of your orders to the court-martial—that he is to be tried and executed with the utmost severity?”
Karl was silent.
“That means,” continued the Count, “that he will be broken on the wheel and quartered alive.”
“You speak for a rebel?” demanded the King.
“Other rebels have received a death less cruel—might not your Majesty show the same mercy to Patkul?”
“You know in what he has offended me, Count Piper.”
“Therefore I ask your Majesty to be lenient. The man is brave—he has served his own country—he is not a Swede—he was to have been married this autumn. Let him die without torture.”
The King’s face was ugly to look upon.
“It is such a chance for your Majesty,” urged the minister.
“A chance?”
“To show the world that you disdain a vengeance only worthy of the Czar of Muscovy.”
“You are a sick man and I forgive you,” replied Karl, “but speak no more of this affair if you wish ever to come into my presence again.”
CHAPTER IV
KARL, having sufficiently humiliated the Emperor and Augustus, and having firmly established Stanislaus on the uneasy throne of Poland, had no longer any need to prolong his stay in Saxony, and began that autumn of 1707 to make preparations for his departure.
At this moment everything seemed possible to him; no one knew what project he might have in mind or to what enterprise he might be directing his genius.
He had already threatened the Pope, who had interfered with the Emperor’s signing of the treaty in favor of the Silesians, which Karl had wrung from him, and it was considered possible that he might meditate a descent on Italy by way of Persia and Turkey.
All the nations regarded him with terror and admiration, and most trembled as they noticed his preparations for departure from the country where he had completely triumphed over all his enemies.
His spirits rose as the time came for him to leave Saxony where he had been idle a year; even his own generals did not know what his destination was.
“Give me,” he said to one of these, “the route from Leipzig to——”
Here he paused, not wishing to betray his secret, and added with a laugh—“to all the capitals of Europe.”
This was brought him; at the top of the list was route to Stockholm in large letters.
Karl saw the meaning; he knew that the Swedes were longing to return home.
“I see,” he said, “where you would lead me—but we do not return to Sweden so soon.”
A few days after the army was in marching order, and proceeded through Saxony towards Dresden.
The forces of Karl consisted of 43,000 men, 8,500 cavalry, 19,200 foot, and 16,000 dragoons.
All the regiments were complete, and to many of them were attached supernumeraries. These did not complete the resources of Karl; he had an army of 20,000 men in Poland, under Lewenhaupt, 15,000 men in Finland, and new recruits were on their way from Sweden.
Karl had the satisfaction of hearing that on the first rumor of his approach the Muscovites in Lithuania, where the Czar was endeavoring to regain some of the ground Augustus had abandoned, had fled to Grodno, a hundred leagues from Lublin.
As the army approached the capital of Saxony, Karl, who always rode a few paces in front of his guard, galloped off with a few of his officers, giving no one a hint of his design, and throwing the whole army into consternation by his sudden disappearance.
The whim had taken him to visit Augustus, and within an hour of his leaving the army he had presented himself at the private apartments of the Elector, leaving his officers below.
Augustus was then in his bed-chamber, in poor health and melancholy humor, lounging in a white brocade dressing-gown by the wood fire, while Aurora von Königsmarck, who had recovered something of her ancient splendor, but who was also negligently gowned in pink taffetas, frothed the chocolate over a silver lamp.
Count Fleming, the Elector’s minister, had seen the King enter the town, and had rushed to advise his master; but Karl, who had entered the gates under an assumed name, and passed as a member of the King’s guard, was before him, and had entered the chamber of Augustus before that prince knew that he was in the town.
Augustus vested himself in haste, being utterly bewildered and amazed.
“The King of Sweden in my ante-chamber!” he kept saying.
“He comes to exult over you,” she said. “Before he goes on fresh conquests he wishes to satisfy himself with the sight of the King he has discrowned.”
“It will give me an opportunity to speak for Patkul,” said Augustus. “Surely he will not refuse me that favor.”
“He will,” replied the Countess, “but he is in your power.”
“Bah!” said the Elector, annoyed at this womanish point of view, “I am in his.”
Aurora could hardly restrain her impatient scorn; every time, according to her ideas, that Augustus was called upon to show strength, he showed weakness; she had long ceased to feel either affection or respect for the Elector, and in secret scorned herself for the love of comfort and luxury that induced her to stay with him, and accept the tarnished splendor Augustus had secured by the treaty of Altranstadt.
She had felt keenly the failure of her ruse to secure the release of Patkul; day and night she was haunted by the last glimpse she had had of Hélène D’Einsiedel, as, half-crazed by horror and fear, she had set out on her wild journey to the Russian camp.
“You could keep him,” she persisted. “It was one of his madman’s whims to come.”
“He has an army, an invincible army, at the gates,” replied Augustus.
“Ah, you have not the courage,” replied the Countess, who had become sharp-tongued in adversity. “But why do I speak to you? If you had had courage you never would have signed the peace.”
“God save me from your railing!” replied the harassed Elector. “Between you and the King of Sweden I have had a merry life these last seven years!”
Aurora shrugged the fair shoulders that rose out of her ruffled lace gown, and flung herself into a chair.
“At least endeavor to save Patkul,” she said bitterly.
She suddenly turned and looked at him over her shoulder, her beautiful eyes fierce.
“If Patkul dies—that way,” she flung out, “I shall never forgive you.”
The Elector did not answer; hastily dressed and red in the face he flung open the folding doors that led into the room where the King of Sweden waited.
Strangely out of place in this chamber of gilt and satin, with the rose-wreath cupids painted on panels and ceiling, the ormolu tables and bric-a-brac of china and silver, looked the stern figure of the Swede.
His worn high boots were covered with road dust; his attire, plain as that of the trooper he had represented himself to be at the gates, set off his tall, robust figure; his hands, in the long elbow gloves, were clasped about the handle of his heavy sword; his light peruke was held back by a black ribbon, and his hat hung on the back of the chair.
He arose as Augustus entered, and gave him a brief salutation.
“I did not think that your Majesty would have thus far honored me,” stammered the Elector, flushing deeper.
“I could not leave your Highness’s country without coming to bid you farewell,” returned Karl calmly.
He showed no trace of triumph over, or sympathy with, the man he had discrowned; his manner was that of one casual acquaintance with another.
“I would like to see your fortifications,” he added, and a flicker of his unpleasant smile crossed his calm face.
Augustus had to make an effort to preserve his equanimity; the humiliations forced on him by Karl were too recent and too bitter even for one of his good nature to endure without fierce resentment.
But he knew that Karl, though seemingly in his power, had an army at the gates that could reduce his capital to submission in a few hours.
Also, all that was best in him longed to redeem the shameful delivery of Patkul into the hands of Karl, and he thought this was an opportunity to ask this one favor that the King of Sweden could scarcely refuse.
The conversation became forced and general; the Elector invited Karl to dine with him and the offer was accepted.
Augustus and Count Fleming sat down to table with Karl and his general, and some sort of conversation, embarrassed on the part of the Saxons, and indifferent on the part of the Swedes, took place.
The Conqueror ate bread and drank water, and Augustus drank heavily of every wine that was offered to him, to give himself courage for the coming interview with Karl, in which he would ask the life of Patkul.
The meal being over the Elector conducted the Swedes round the fortifications, and while the King was a little ahead took occasion to ask General Hord, one of the Swedish officers, if he thought his master would grant him a favor.
“I think,” added Augustus, “that he will not refuse a small request to a man from whom he has taken a crown.”
“What is this small request of your Highness?” asked General Hord dryly.
Augustus flushed; his whole position was one of cruel humiliation, and he liked the Swedish officers little better than he liked their master.
“I want the life of General Patkul,” he replied, with an air as easy as he could manage. “I hardly think,” he added, with a forced smile, “that your master will refuse me.”
“You do not know him,” replied the Swede dryly. “He will certainly refuse you.”
“Why?” demanded the unfortunate Elector, with some sharpness.
“First, because it is you want a boon that he will grant no one.”
The Elector could not refrain from a bitter retort to this brusque statement.
“Is then the King of Sweden so cruel?”
“Sir,” said the Swede, “he is just. Patkul is a traitor.”
“Will not an easier death content your master?” asked Augustus.
“You will find that he will alter nothing,” smiled General Hord.
The Elector, however, could not believe that Karl could be so deaf to all promptings of clemency, chivalry, and courtesy.
“He is my guest,” he urged.
“For that very reason he will refuse you more certainly. The fact that he is nominally in your power will make him scornful of any concession to you. He will also disdain to accord any favor to you that he would not give to anyone else.”
But Augustus was not convinced, and if he had been, possessed sufficient nobleness to persist in his endeavor to save Patkul.
When they returned to the palace he opened the subject, nervously, but with a certain dignity.
“I regard myself as doubly fortunate in this visit, as I have something on my mind and conscience to put before your Majesty.”
Karl gave him one darting glance, then seated himself, resting his gloved hands on the plain hilt of his sword.
He had flung off his hat, and his eyes shone cold and clear beneath the straight fair brows and smooth low forehead, shaded by the curls of his light peruke.
Seen thus, in perfect composure and repose, the face was beautiful, marred only by the slight overfullness of the lips and the little ugly twist of them, half a smile, defects not noticeable in his extreme youth, but now becoming permanent. His complexion, despite his outdoor life, looked fair and clear as a woman’s above the black satin stock, and there was no line or shade of thought or emotion to soften or enlighten those cold and noble features.
Augustus, richly though carelessly dressed, his soft handsome features disturbed and harassed in expression, and worn with anxiety and sickness, his laced and brocade clothes hanging loosely on the powerful figure that had lost so much of its strength, was in piteous contrast to the man who had ruined him so completely and steeped him in such utter humiliation.
“I think we have done with matters of business,” Karl reminded him. “I came as one prince taking farewell of another; would it not be as well for us to leave our meeting at this friendly point?”
This was clearly meant as a warning, but Augustus would not take it; he turned pale, and took a rapid step across the room; his heart swelled and his pleasant eyes darkened with the inner emotion he kept in check.
“It is against my conscience to remain silent on this matter,” he said.
“Your conscience, Highness?” repeated Karl, without changing a muscle of his face or altering a tone of his voice, yet conveying, by the very impassivity of his attitude, unspeakable contempt for the man who had been beaten into signing the peace of Altranstadt.
Augustus flung up his head.
“I wish, I must,” he replied, “speak on a delicate matter—one that I shame to mention, one in which I am at the mercy of your Majesty.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Karl, as if he suddenly saw what was coming.
“I mean to speak of General Patkul,” said the Elector, steadily but hoarsely.
“You will speak in vain,” answered the King of Sweden, with the utmost coldness.
“I cannot think so, sire. I appeal to your chivalry, your clemency, to have mercy on this man—and mercy on me,” added the wretched Elector, clutching his hands in his ruffles. “If Patkul dies I am ashamed before the world.”
“Did you not think of that when you signed the peace?” demanded Karl harshly.
“Sire, is there any need to thus humiliate me?”
“Humiliate you?” replied Karl, with the slightest possible stress on the last word.
The blood flamed into the Elector’s thin cheeks. “Sire, we are cousins,” he said passionately.
“Did you remember that our mothers were sisters when you plotted with Patkul to seize my Baltic Provinces?” demanded the King.
He spoke with the utmost calm, and with an air of moderation, but he contrived to emphasize the fact that the relationship to which the Elector had referred was on the female side only.
“I belong to my father’s family,” he added, in a fashion that showed contempt for all women.
Augustus did not know in what way to appeal to this icy character, this stern, harsh demeanor.
“I am at your mercy,” he repeated in desperation, “a fallen and a ruined man. Your vengeance should be satisfied. What would it mean to you to save Patkul? But an added glory. He was to have been married—the lady is of my court, young and delicate and good. To gain some hope for her lover she has fled into the wilderness of Lithuania to appeal to the Czar.”
“I have heard this before,” replied Karl.
“Think how she suffered before she was reduced to this wild journey.”
Karl rose.
“She has appealed to Peter,” he said. “Let Peter answer her.”
“But I,” said Augustus, “appeal to you, sire.”
The two splendid men, each drawn to the full of his great height, stood facing each other in the toy room, amid the frivolous elegances of silk and satin, china and gilt.
“At least,” added the Elector, “accord him a death less cruel.”
He spoke without fear and even with a certain authority, being profoundly moved, and, like many weak, emotional people, being strong enough in the actual face of what inflamed his passions.
Besides, he could not but feel that he was of equal birth with Karl, considerably older, and of wider experience, and that the young conqueror was doing a cruel wrong.
This tone, as of equal to equal, had never been heard by Karl since the day he had forever silenced it in the Queen-Mother, and it inflamed him to complete fury, which he did not betray, but which made his blood tingle and his pulses bound.
“I have nothing to give you but silence,” he said, in a terrible voice. “I will take my leave, Highness.”
Augustus, pallid to the lips with mortification, fell back before this bitter rebuff, and, turning for a second, covered his face with his hands. Karl picked up his hat and would have left without another word, but the folding doors opened and Aurora von Königsmarck entered and stepped straight up to him.
This beautiful woman was in full court dress, white and silver, and adorned with diamonds; she carried a long fan of white feathers which she pointed at Karl with a gesture of supreme disgust.
So full was she of vitality and passion that the King was stayed by her entry and stared at her bright vivid face.
“Patkul may die,” she said, in a loud voice, “but he will be revenged. No man like you can triumph long. In the day of your disaster, sire, remember me—and that there was one person to scorn you and your glory, and know you for the little man you are.”
She flung out this in a breath, then added, panting, “You vain, mad boy!” in a tone of utter contempt.
Karl stared at her, and the color slowly mounted up under his eyes; he gave a harsh, short laugh, turned on his heel, and left the room without a salute.
Augustus caught the Countess by the arm.
“What have you done!” he cried frantically.
She flung him off with a passionate gesture of scorn.
“I have done with you,” she said. “Pray God your son will be a different man.”
PART II
POLTAVA
“Nous n’avons de propre que l’honneur; y renoncer, c’est cesser d’être monarque.”—Peter the Great to Chofiroff.
CHAPTER I
LADEN with the plunder of Poland and Saxony, the spoils of their brilliant feats of arms, the Swedes, amid the January ice, marched on Grodno, the several parties of Muscovites in the neighborhood flying at the mere rumor of their approach.
Peter, surprised in Grodno, fled with 2000 men, while Karl with 600 entered the city.
When Peter learned that the bulk of the Swedish army was still five leagues distant he returned and tried to retake the town.
He was, however, fiercely beaten back, and the Swedes pursued the Russians through Lithuania and Minsk, towards the frontiers of Russia.
Karl, after clearing Lithuania of the forces of the Czar, intended to march towards the North and on Moscow, by way of Pskof.
The difficulties in his way were terrible; huge stretches of virgin forest, of desolate marsh, of barren deserts, lay between him and his objective. The only food that could be found was the winter stores of the peasants in the small tracks of cultivated land, which were buried underground; many of these had already been ravaged by the Muscovites, and in any case were insufficient for the Swedish army.
Karl, who was to be deterred neither by prudence, reason, nor fear of any kind, had provided bread for his men which they carried with them, and on this they had to support the ghastly hardships of the forced marches.
The heavy rains kept back even the indefatigable Swede. A road had to be made through the forest of Minsk, and it was early summer before Karl found himself once more face to face with Peter at Borissov.
The Czar waited with the main body of his forces to defend the river Bérézina; Karl, however, brought his troops across this river and marched on the Russians, who once more retreated, falling back on the Dneiper.
At Halowczin he defeated 20,000 Muscovites by traversing a marsh believed to be impassable, the King himself leading, with the water at times up to his shoulders.
After this decisive victory he pursued the Russians to Mohilew, on the frontiers of Poland; by the autumn he was chasing the Czar from Smolensk, on the Moscow road.
At Smolensk, narrowly escaping death in a hand-to-hand fight with the Kalmucks, Karl inflicted another defeat on the Muscovites, and proceeded another stage on the way to the capital, from which city he was now distant only a hundred leagues.
At this moment Peter sent to Karl suggesting the opening of peace negotiations.
But Karl replied as he had replied to Augustus: “Peace in Moscow.”
And even Count Piper wrote to the Duke of Marlborough, whom he was keeping informed of the progress of the campaign, that the dethronement of the Czar was inevitable.
But Peter, still unshaken after the defeats of eight years, again gathered together his scattered and disheartened armies.
“The King of Sweden thinks to be a second Alexander,” he remarked, when Karl’s haughty answer was brought to him, “but I have no mind to be Darius.”
The second winter of the Russian campaign was now setting in; it promised to be of unusual severity even for these bitter regions.
Even the Spartan endurance of the Swedes began to blench at the thought of the almost unendurable hardships of the long Russian winter, with neither sufficient food, firing, or clothing.
But there was no murmuring, for the King supported all privations equally with the poorest foot soldier.
The scouts brought in news that Peter had torn up the roads, flooded them from the marsh lands, cut down huge trees and flung them across the way, and burnt the villages on the route to Moscow.
There was barely a fortnight’s provisions in the Swedish army and not the least prospect of obtaining any more in the ravaged, frozen wastes.
Karl called a council of war in his rough tent amid the giant pines.
There was no fire, and, as the tent flap swayed on its cords in the icy wind, a few flakes of snow drifted in and melted on the frozen earthen floor.
Karl sat in a folding camp-chair, a mantle of rough blue cloth over his usual uniform, his hands, covered by the long elbow gloves, employed in turning over a few notes and maps on a plain pine table.
The arduous labors and unceasing fatigues of this last campaign had told even on his superb physique.
He was thinner and pale, under the brown of exposure; his blue eyes seemed slightly tired, but had lost nothing of their calm, courageous stare.
Near him sat Count Piper, looking ill and old, wrapped in a heavy cloak of marten skin, lined with scarlet and gold brocade, the spoil of war of some flying Russian Prince.
Only a few of Karl’s generals, such as Rehnsköld, Gyllenburg, and Wurtemberg, were present; it was his habit to confide his designs to as few as possible. Piper, whose forebodings had been silenced by the splendid success of the Swedish advance into Russia, had now begun to feel uneasy and to rediscover all his objections to the campaign. He thought that Karl should have accepted Peter’s offer to treat for peace; the barbarous country and the arctic climate told severely on his spirits; he was in poor health and homesick. Whatever sentiment he may have had left for his master had vanished when the cruel sentence on General Patkul was carried out, and he was broken on the wheel, suffering a death of frightful torture.
Piper had heard that Hélène D’Einsiedel had not lived to hear this news.
She had died in a Russian camp soon after her arrival there, and the messages Patkul had sent to her by the chaplain who attended him on the scaffold had been sent to one beyond the reach of comfort.
Piper never spoke of these things, but he often thought of them now that misfortune seemed at last to be overtaking his master.
He considered now that Karl was in the most dangerous position he had yet found himself in, and he did not hesitate to say so, unpalatable and unacceptable as he knew his advice must be.
“Your Majesty, in common prudence,” he remarked, shivering a little in his furs, “can do nothing but await the arrival of Lewenhaupt.”
This general, who was coming to Karl’s assistance with 15,000 men and a quantity of provisions, was believed to be within a few days’ march of the present Swedish camp.
He had, indeed, been some time expected, and his retarded arrival had been a matter of vexation to the stern King.
“I most strongly beseech your Majesty to consider this advice,” added General Gyllenburg, with an earnest glance at the King.
Karl turned over the maps and papers without looking up.
His full mouth was set in an obstinate curve; to this arrogant conqueror, now face to face with his first check, any council of moderation was displeasing.
“We cannot, sire,” urged Gyllenburg, “advance on Moscow with barely fifteen days’ food.” For he, in common with the entire army, believed this mad project to be the one Karl had really at heart.
“There is nothing we cannot do,” replied Karl, who had indeed often achieved what had seemed to others the impossible.
But Piper was vexed.
“If your Majesty advances on Moscow, you advance on disaster!” he exclaimed.
The King gave him a cold stare.
“Are you not yet convinced that I never take advice?”
His bitter rebuke caused the minister’s worn cheeks to flush.
It was long since he had given Karl any cause to silence him, so utterly had he refrained from counsels that were useless.
Karl took his face in his right gloved hand, with his elbow on the table, and looked up and round his little council.
“I propose,”, he said, in a manner that left no loophole for argument or suggestion, “to neither march on Moscow nor wait for Lewenhaupt.” What third alternative there could be no one knew.
“I intend,” added the King dryly, “to advance into the Ukraine, to pass the winter there, and continue the route to Moscow in the spring.”
The haughtiness with which he made this announcement covered an inner mortification; he had thought to dethrone the Czar in a year; he had never meant to turn back once on the road to Moscow.
But having reviewed his army and taken stock of his provisions, even his daring could not advance to what was certain destruction. To his listeners the present project seemed as mad as an advance on the Russian capital, but they did not venture on any comment.
With the fewest and barest words Karl proceeded to explain that he had made an alliance with Mazeppa, Prince of the Ukraine, the country of the Cossacks, who was in revolt against the Czar, and hoped to profit by the alliance of the Swede to defeat Peter.
This man, who dreamed to do for the Ukraine what Patkul had dreamed to do for Livonia, was a Polish nobleman of considerable parts; cast out of his own country by the vengeance of a compatriot, he had taken refuge amid the Cossacks, grown to be their ruler, and now in his old age essayed to play some important part in this momentous war.
“Is he to be trusted?” asked General Rehnsköld, who did not dislike the project as it was unfolded to him.
“As for that I do not know,” replied the King coldly, “but his interests lie with me, and not with the Czar, for if Peter discovered his secret plans of revolt he would certainly impale him as he has threatened before. Mazeppa knows what to expect from the mercy and justice of the Czar.”
Piper, thinking of Patkul, was silent, but Gyllenburg, thinking of nothing but the present crisis, ventured to remonstrate with the imperious King.
“Whether or no the Cossacks can be relied upon, were it not well to wait Lewenhaupt and his reinforcements—above all, his provisions?”
But Karl was, as always, obstinate; he had, he said, a rendezvous with Mazeppa on the banks of the Desna, whither that prince had promised to come with 30,000 men, treasure, and provisions.
Rehnsköld was prepared to credit that this was better either than pressing on towards Moscow or waiting for Lewenhaupt.
Piper and Gyllenburg were for remaining at Smolensk in expectation of reinforcements; Karl listened coldly to all arguments, and remained fixed in his original plans.
The next day the army, to its intense surprise, received orders to march into the Ukraine. Messengers were sent to Lewenhaupt to tell him to join the main army on the banks of the Desna and the painful progress commenced.
It was yet autumn, but the cold had set in early, and the troops had to suffer the rigors of extreme cold.
Nature seemed bent on throwing obstacles in the way of the Swedes.
The forests, deserts, and marshes were nearly inpenetrable; Lägercrona, in charge of the advance guard, went thirty leagues astray, and only after four days of wandering was able to find the route.
Nearly all his artillery and heavy baggage he had been obliged to abandon in the marshes or among the rocks.
When after unheard-of troubles and privation, Karl reached the banks of the Desna that the Prince of the Cossacks had appointed for a meeting-place, the ground was found to be occupied by a party of Muscovites.
The Swedes, though fatigued by twelve days’ travel, gave battle, vanquished the Russians, and continued to advance into this desolate and unknown country.
Now even Karl himself began to be doubtful of the fidelity of Mazeppa, and uncertain as to his route.
Perhaps feelings of doubt and apprehension were beginning to touch him for the first time in his life, when Mazeppa finally joined the Swedish army.
He had, however, the worst of news to tell; Peter had discovered the plot in progress in the Ukraine, had fallen upon and scattered the Cossacks, capturing all the gold and grain and thirty Cossack nobles whom he had broken on the wheel.
Towns and villages had been burned, treasures carried off, and the old Prince had with difficulty escaped with 6000 men and a small quantity of gold and silver, of little use in a country where there was no one to be bribed with gold and no commodity to buy.
Karl would have found a few wagon-loads of grain more to his liking. However, the Cossacks were useful if only from their knowledge of this wild country, though Karl despised them as soldiers and waited impatiently for the arrival of Lewenhaupt. But when this general finally made his way to the Swedish encampment, he had a tale to tell as disastrous as that of Mazeppa, and far more mortifying to the pride of the King of Sweden.
At Liesna he had been met by the Czar, and, after a fierce battle of three days, severely defeated.
He had continued to effect a magnificent retreat, but he had lost 8000 men, seventeen cannon, and forty-four flags, together with the entire convoy he was bringing to Karl, consisting of 8000 wagons of food, and the silver raised in Lithuania by way of tribute.
He had the satisfaction of knowing that Peter had lost 10,000 men, and that he had held him at bay for three days, but this could not balance the fact that he arrived at Karl’s encampment with his army depleted and without either provisions, ammunition, or treasure.
Karl received this reverse with his usual cold gravity; he neither blamed Lewenhaupt nor took anyone into his confidence.
His situation, so lately that of an all-powerful conqueror, was now indeed dangerous, if not desperate.
He was cut off from Poland, and an attempt on the part of Stanislaus to reach him failed utterly.
No news came through from Sweden, and it seemed as if this army, lately all-powerful, was isolated from the rest of the world; they could neither communicate with, nor receive help nor advice from, any part of the globe.
But the worst of their distresses was the weather; this winter of 1709, long to be remembered, even in Western Europe, as one of the most terrible on record, was almost insupportable in these arctic regions.
Karl, who ignored human needs and human weaknesses, forced his men to march and work as if it had been midsummer and they well fed.
Two thousand of them dropped dead of cold in their tracks.
The rest were soon reduced to a state bordering on misery.
There was no replenishing their clothes, half were without coats, half without boots or shoes; they had to clothe themselves in skins as best they might, and suffer and die as best they might, for the mad King tolerated no murmur, and such was his authority and the awe and respect that his very name inspired that his troops endured what perhaps no other general had induced men to endure before. Such food as kept them alive was provided by Mazeppa, who alone prevented them from perishing miserably.
The old Prince of the Cossacks had remained faithful to Karl despite the offers Peter made to him to induce him to return to his allegiance. The Czar, not wishing to appear inferior to his enemy in spirit or daring, advanced into the Ukraine, regardless of the frozen country and tempests of snow.
He did not, however, attack the King of Sweden, but merely harassed him by small raids on his camp, thinking that hardships and cold would have reduced them to extremity before succor could reach them.
News from Stockholm finally came to the isolated army.
Karl learnt that his sister, the Duchess of Holstein-Gottorp, was dead of the small-pox. This gentlewoman was but a faint memory to the King; it was eight years since this terrible and bloody war had been undertaken to replace her husband on his throne.
Karl had almost forgotten Stockholm; almost forgotten the cause of the war; the young Duke was dead, and had but a small place in the stern King’s mind, compared to the vast designs that had grown out of his quarrel.
Not till the first day of February did the snow permit the Swedes to move, and then it was amid terrible weather that Karl advanced on Poltava, a fort full of supplies that Peter held across the Moscow route.
The taking of this place was a necessity to Karl pending the arrival of his reinforcements, as his army was deprived of everything, and the resources of Mazeppa almost at an end.
The Swedish army was now reduced to 18,000 men, but besides these Karl commanded the Cossacks of Mazeppa, and several thousand Kalmucks and Moldavians, free lances attached to his standard by the love of booty and of glory.
With this force Karl advanced on Poltava; he had the mortification of finding that Mentchikoff had outmaneuvered him, and flung 5000 men into the town.
The King pressed the siege and had taken several of the outworks when he learnt of the approach of the Czar with 70,000 men.
CHAPTER II
KARL, returning to his camp after having beaten one of the advanced detachments of the Czar’s army, was noticed by General Rehnsköld to be colorless as a man of stone, and when he came to dismount at the door of his tent, those who accompanied him observed that his boot was dripping blood, and the side of his horse soaked.
The Prince of Wurtemberg ordered his servant to run for a surgeon, and General Lewenhaupt caught the King’s arm.
“Sire, you are wounded!” he exclaimed.
Karl, in his proud obstinacy and his desire to endure everything in silence, would have denied the fact even now, but the pain was so intense that he could not conceal it any longer, nor could he put his foot to the ground.
“A ball struck my heel,” he said sternly.
“How long ago, sire?” asked General Rehnsköld anxiously.
“Soon after I left the camp,” replied Karl.
The officers glanced at each other; they knew that this meant that the King had been over six hours on horseback since his wound, giving orders as usual, and not in any way betraying his pain.
Leaning on General Lewenhaupt’s arm he entered the tent, his officers crowding in after him. It was still only early summer, but the air was dry and arid, and in the tent hot and close and full of a fine dust.
Karl seated himself on the plain folding-chair he always used, pulled off his gloves, and asked for a glass of water.
“This is an ugly mischance,” he said coldly. “I should have liked to have met the Czar on horseback.”
No groan or sigh passed his pallid lips, but his left hand gripped the side of the chair, and beads of agony stood on his broad forehead.
The surgeon entered, a little man with an eager face, one Neumann, well known for his great skill and learning in his profession; he was closely followed by two others, and the King’s personal domestics.
“Gentlemen,” said the King, lifting his blue eyes now dark with pain, “let us see how far I am unlucky.”
He held out his foot to the servant as if he wished him to draw the boot off, but Neumann was instantly on his knees, and had taken the injured limb delicately between his capable hands.
It was necessary to cut the boot from the leg; when this was done it was found that the heel had been completely shattered, and that gangrene had set in; the instant opinion of the surgeons was that there was nothing but amputation to save the King’s life.
Karl sat silent, his foot covered with towels, and resting on a chair; the pain was beginning to make him giddy, and, for the first time in his life, he was realizing what it might be to be unfortunate.
Hitherto he had deemed himself immune from such a chance as this; he had never conceived of his splendid body as in any way failing him, and now perhaps he was a maimed man for life.
The officers looked dubiously at each other; to them this came as a crowning misfortune; only the spirit, presence, and fame of the King had kept the army together amid all its miseries, and now, at the climax of their disasters, when their very existence depended on the taking of the stores and ammunition of Poltava, the King was struck down.
Count Piper came hurrying to his master’s side; the minister felt that his worst prognostications, that for a time had been silenced by the steady successes of Karl, were now about to be realized, and he felt a deep inner anger at the obstinacy that had landed them in this lost country, cut off from help, without resources of any kind, threatened by an enemy who was in his own country, and three times their number.
Karl perhaps read some of these thoughts; he looked at his minister with his usual coldness.
“Piper,” he said, “they want to take my leg off.”
Neumann looked sharply at the King, who he knew must be suffering torture.
This self-control will cost him something later on, thought the surgeon.
He lifted the towels and looked again at the wound from which the purple blood was welling, and staining the piles of linen laid beneath.
“If one cut, and cut deep enough, the leg could be saved, sire,” he said boldly.
Karl looked at him straightly; it was one brave man facing another; the great King and the great surgeon met on the common ground of fortitude and daring.
“Do your work then at once, M. Neumann,” said Karl. “Cut deeply and fear nothing.”
M. Neumann bowed, and directed his assistant to bring him his case of instruments.
Karl asked for another glass of water, and leaning back, drank it slowly.
Several other officers had now entered the tent including Poniatowski, the commander of King Stanislaus’ Swedish guards, who had followed Karl into the Ukraine out of affection for his person.
Karl showed some pleasure at his arrival, and held out his hand.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Nay, sire, the last scouts sent out have not returned.”
“To-morrow we will attack again,” replied Karl. “We must,” he added, with an unusual earnestness in his tone, “take Poltava.”
“If we do not,” thought Count Piper cynically, “we are dead and damned.”
He left the tent and passed to his own more luxurious quarters; he was much too sick a man to be able to watch the operation to which the heroic King was so calmly submitting, and too full of an increasing agitation and consternation to be able to command his feelings.
“Yet why should I care?” he asked himself, “Patkul was shattered like that sixteen times.”
The news of the King’s wound had now spread through the army, and there was a growing uneasiness among these hitherto invincible veterans, now ill-fed, ill-clothed, and ill-armed.
Returning presently to the King’s tent Count Piper met General Rehnsköld with whom he was on bad terms, but who now stopped to tell him that the incisions had been made in the King’s foot, which was now being dressed.
The minister, pale, restless, and dispirited, passed again into the presence of the King.
Karl, who had held the limb steady with his own hands while the surgeon used the knife, and had displayed not the least emotion, now sat on his bed while Neumann bandaged the leg.
He had just given orders for an assault on the morrow; his voice had not shaken or his hand trembled, but his face was pallid and damp, his lips curved in a slightly distorted smile.
Count Piper advanced, but before he could speak the Prince of Wurtemberg entered the tent with every sign of agitation.
“Sire,” he said briefly, “I have just been informed that the Czar is advancing on us with his entire army.”
Karl, with unshaken calm, looked at Rehnsköld.
“How many will that be, General?”
“We think, sire, about 70,000 men.”
Karl had known this; he had merely spoken to gain time; the intolerable pain was making it difficult for him to think clearly, and he realized that never had he needed to think clearly as he needed now.
Even his haughty spirit was forced to face the fact that he was in a desperate position, and one which most men would have judged as hopeless.
Cut off from all reinforcements or supplies, lacking everything, half his troops starving or sick, many bandits, untrained and unreliable, shut in between two rivers with no shelter or cover in a country so desolate and barren—and now helpless with a hideous wound—it might well seem that he was about to lose the fruits of nine years’ victories, and be deprived, in one sharp moment, of that glory for which he had sacrificed himself and his country.
“Seventy thousand men,” he repeated; he had himself but 32,000, of which only 16,000 were trained troops, but he remembered Narva, where the odds had been greater, and forgot the genius of Peter that in nine years had created a nation.
There was no council of war.
When Count Piper came to see the King that night he found him on his camp-bed, fully clothed, even to the boot on his uninjured foot, with sword and pistols, and a lamp on the table beside him.
The night was hot and breezeless; the sky cloudless, behind Poltava the moon was rising.
Karl lifted his eyes to glance at it as the tent flap was lifted.
“Are you wondering when you will see Stockholm again, Count?” he asked irrelevantly.
“I dream no more of Stockholm,” replied Piper. “I came to see how your Majesty does.”
“Very well,” said Karl.
He moved the lamp so that the rays did not fall fully on his face; he was shivering and burning with fever, and knew it; he did not wish Piper to notice his condition.
“Have you seen Rehnsköld?” he asked.
“Yes, sire.”
“He told you nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Karl put his hand to his head, pushing back his short locks of fair hair that were wet with sweat; his whole body ached with pain, and his wounded foot was a fiery agony.
“Ah, well,” he said, “I will tell you myself. We give battle to-morrow.”
Count Piper lifted his head and looked sharply at his master; so desperate a resolution was what he might have expected from the King, yet it startled him, as a general may be startled by the trumpets sounding the retreat he has himself ordered.
In silence the minister stared at the King, whose noble face was in the shadow beyond the deep glow of the oil lamp.
“At last we are face to face!” cried Karl, with an excitement that he would never have shown but for the fever in his blood. “Peter Alexievitch and I, after nearly ten years! He has always fled from me—ever since Narva.”
Sitting up in his bed, Karl reached out his hand for his sword, then let it drop while he stared at Piper.
“I met a man crying because he could get no news from his wife,” remarked the King, “and another who was sad for fear he should not see Stockholm again; those who follow me must learn to forget family and country—” pausing, he again put his hand to his forehead. “Aurora von Königsmarck once foretold disaster for me,” he added. “Had I been a greater prince if I had spared Patkul?”
Piper thought that the King must be delirious to talk like this; never had he known him to so unbosom himself, or to refer to these personal matters, or to speak in this tone of excitement; it frightened him to see his stern monarch thus reduced to ordinary humanity, and he went up to the bed and caught Karl’s hand, which was burning hot.
The King, however, had again perfect command of himself.
He gazed at Count Piper with the usual serenity in the blue eyes now hot and blood-flushed with pain.
“I am still Karl XII,” he said grimly, “and my men are still Swedes. Go to your prayers, Count, and leave me to my rest.”
With this he lay down, and put his head on the hard pillow.
A faint, half-stifled sigh escaped him, then he lay silent and still, and either was or feigned to be asleep.
Count Piper did not leave the tent, but stood at the open door, looking sometimes at the tall figure of the King stretched on his narrow bed, and sometimes at Poltava, dark against the paling midnight sky up into which the moon was rising.
A sadness was on Count Piper and yet a calm; at that moment his was the clear vision of a man who has a premonition that his work is over, and looks back quietly and steadily on his life.
How differently he had dreamed it all!
What had he not meant to do for Sweden. Karl XI, his beloved master, had left his country greater than she had ever been before, and Count Piper had resolved to continue his work, to carefully add stone to stone till the fair edifice was complete—to do in his way and with his means what Peter was doing for Russia.