The wheel had come full circle round since the day when Christian of Anhalt had planned the great uprising to sweep away the Catholic bishops and the House of Austria. The House of Austria was firmer in its seat than ever. The Catholic bishops were triumphant. But in the midst of their triumph the enemies of the Empire were watching them keenly, and judging that both they and the Emperor were all the weaker for this grand vindication of legality.
In the north Gustavus had an eye not likely to be deceived for the joints of Ferdinand's harness. In the west Richelieu was preparing for the day when he too might aid in the overthrow of the Colossus. It is true that his first thought was of Spain and not of Germany. But he could hardly be brought into collision with one branch of the House of Austria without having sooner or later to deal with the other.
In Italy, the death of the Duke of Mantua and Montferrat without near heirs had given rise to war. The next heir was a very distant relation, the Duke of Nevers, whose family had long been naturalized in France. To Spain the presence of a dependent of France so near her possessions in the Milanese was in the highest degree undesirable, and she called upon Ferdinand to sequester the territory till another way of disposing it could be found. If in Germany before Ferdinand's election the rights of the Emperors had been but a shadow, those which they possessed in the old kingdom of Italy were but the shadow of a shade. But whatever they were, Ferdinand was the man to put them forth, and whilst Richelieu was engaged at Rochelle, Spanish troops had overrun Mantua, and in conjunction with the Duke of Savoy, ready now to seek his own interests by fighting for Spain, as in earlier days to seek his own interests by fighting against her, were besieging the Duke of Nevers in Casale, the only fortress which remained to him.
This intervention of the Spaniards in the Emperor's name caused even greater indignation in Italy than their intervention in the Palatinate had caused in Germany. For in Germany the Emperor's name was in 1621 still connected with the ideas of law and order. In Italy it reminded men of nothing but foreign domination, a memory which was none the less vivid when the Emperor used his authority, whatever it might be, to support the real foreign domination of the immediate present, the Spanish domination in Milan. The Italian princes took alarm. Venice and the pope summoned France to their aid, and in March, 1629, Richelieu, taking Lewis with him across the snowy passes of the Alps, reduced the Duke of Savoy to submission, and forced the Spaniards to raise the siege of Casale.
Casale was the Stralsund of Italy. A power which had ventured to clothe itself in the attributes of a national authority, with even less reason than in Germany, had found its limits. Richelieu had the general feeling on his side.
He did not venture to do more in Italy. The Duke of Rohan, the brother of that Soubise who had begun the war of Rochelle in 1625, had roused the Huguenots of Languedoc and the Cevennes to a fresh attempt at resistance, half Protestant, half aristocratic. As if the Rochellese had not sufficiently suffered for the mistake of calling in foreign aid, Rohan followed their example, and was foolish enough to ask for help from Spain. But the Spanish troops came not to his aid. Richelieu hurried back from Italy, made peace with England, and pitilessly crushed the rebellion in the south. Once more the victory was attended by the confirmation of the religious liberties of the Huguenots. They might worship as they pleased, but political independence they were not to have.
The French monarchy was stronger for external enterprise than ever. By crushing all resistance, it had no longer to fear occupation for its energies at home, and by its tolerance of religion it had rendered itself capable of accepting the service of all its subjects, and it could offer its alliance to Protestant states without fear of suffering a rebuff.
Richelieu was again able to turn his attention to Italy. In the summer of 1629 an imperialist force of 20,000 men descended from the Alps and laid siege to Mantua. Ferdinand, having established peace in Germany, fancied that he could take up again in Italy the work which had been too great for Barbarossa. Spinola came to his aid with an army of equal force, and recommenced the attack upon Casale. In the spring of 1630 Richelieu was once more in Italy. Cardinal as he was, he was placed in command of the army. But instead of marching against the Spaniards, he turned first upon the Duke of Savoy. Seizing Pignerol and Saluces, he gained possession of the Alpine passes. Then, with Piedmont at his feet, he passed on to relieve Casale, and forced the Spanish besiegers to retreat. But Richelieu was prudent as well as daring, and he left Mantua for the present in the hands of Spain and the Emperor.
It was a hard thing to attack the united forces of Spain and the Empire face to face. It might be easier to support their enemies abroad, and to favour dissensions at home. In the Netherlands, the Dutch, encouraged by the diversion of the Italian war, were at last taking the offensive, and entering upon that aggressive warfare which ended by bringing the whole of North Brabant under their authority. In the north, Gustavus had concluded a peace with Poland, and was making preparations for actual intervention in Germany. In all this Richelieu was deeply interested. An ambassador of Lewis was engaged in arranging with Gustavus the terms on which France should assist him in the attack upon the Empire which he already contemplated.
Not that even Richelieu foresaw the possibility of the magnificent results which were to follow from that enterprise. In 1630, as in 1624 and 1625, he would have preferred that a Protestant power should not be too successful. He would rather conquer with Sweden than not at all. But he would rather conquer with the help of the League than with the help of Sweden. Gustavus might be pushed on to do his best. He would effect a diversion, and that would be enough.
The long expected breach between the League and the Emperor's general had come at last. Instead of reducing his forces after the Peace of Lübeck, Wallenstein had increased them. He was now at the head of 100,000 men. From a military point of view no one could say it was too much. He had Mantua to defend, the coasts of the North Sea to watch, perhaps France to guard against, and that too with all the princes and peoples of Germany exasperated against him. Some efforts he made to curb the violence of his soldiers. But to restrain the monster he had created was beyond his power. And if his soldiers bore hard upon burgher and peasant, he himself treated the princes with contemptuous scorn. He asked why the electors and the other princes should not be treated as the Bohemian nobles had been treated. The Estates of the Empire had no more right to independence than the Estates of the kingdom. It was time for the Emperor to make himself master of Germany, as the kings of France and Spain were masters of their own dominions. All this made the electors above measure indignant. "A new domination," they told Ferdinand, "has arisen for the complete overthrow of the old and praiseworthy constitution of the Empire."
A reconstruction of that old rotten edifice would have done no harm. But its overthrow by military violence was another matter. A new form of government, to be exercised by a soldier with the help of soldiers, could never be found in justice,
Schiller's Piccolomini, act i. scene 4.
Even whilst he was defending the universality of oppression on the principle that it was but fair that all estates should contribute to the common defence, he was exhibiting in his own case an extraordinary instance of partiality. Whilst all Germany was subjected to contributions and exactions, not a soldier was allowed to set foot on Wallenstein's own duchy of Mecklenburg.
And if the Catholic electors had good reason to complain of Wallenstein, Wallenstein had also good reason to complain of the electors. The process of carrying out the Edict of Restitution was increasing the number of his enemies. "The Emperor," he said, "needed recruits, not reforms." Ferdinand did not think so. He had persuaded the chapter of Halberstadt to elect a younger son of his own as their bishop. He induced the chapter of Magdeburg to depose their administrator, on the ground that he had taken part in the Danish war. But, in spite of the Edict of Restitution, the chapter of Magdeburg refused to choose a Catholic bishop in his place, and preferred a son of the Elector of Saxony. John George was thereby brought by his family interests into collision with the Edict of Restitution.
The city of Magdeburg had not been on good terms with the chapter. Wallenstein offered to support its resistance with the help of a garrison. But the city refused, and Wallenstein, in the face of the growing opposition, did not venture to force it to accept his offer.
Of the fact of the growing opposition no one could be doubtful. As to its causes there was much difference of opinion. The priests ascribed it to the barbarities of the soldiers. Wallenstein ascribed it to the violence of the priests, and especially to the vigour with which they were attempting to reconvert the inhabitants of the archbishopric of Bremen, which they had recovered in virtue of the Edict of Restitution.
On every side the priests and their schemes were in the way of Wallenstein's dazzling visions of a grand imperialist restoration. The Pope, as an Italian prince, had sympathized with France. "It is a hundred years," said Wallenstein, "since Rome has been plundered, and it is richer now than ever."
On July 3, 1630, Ferdinand assembled round him the princes and electors at Ratisbon, in the hope of inducing them to elect his son, the King of Hungary, as King of the Romans, and therefore as his successor in the Empire. But to this project the electors refused even to listen. All who attended the assembly came with their minds full of the excesses of Wallenstein's soldiery. The commissioners of that very Duke of Pomerania who had served the imperial cause so well in the siege of Stralsund, had a tale of distress to pour out before the princes. His master's subjects, he said, had been driven to feed upon grass and the leaves of trees. Cases had occurred in which starving wretches had maintained life by devouring human flesh. A woman had even been known to feed upon her own child.
Other tales were told, bad enough, if not quite so bad as this, and the misery of the populations gave support to the political grievances of their rulers. Ferdinand was plainly told that the electors did not mean to be subjected to military despotism. He must choose between them and Wallenstein.
Behind the Catholic Electors was Richelieu himself. Together with the recognized French ambassadors, the Capuchin Father Joseph, Richelieu's trusted confidant, had come to Ratisbon, encouraging the opposition to Wallenstein, and urging the electors to demand the neutrality of the Empire, if a war broke out between France and Spain.
Unhappily for Germany, the policy of the electors was purely conservative. There was nothing constructive even in Maximilian, the greatest of them all. The old loose relationship between the princes and the Emperor was to be restored whether it was adequate to the emergency or not. At the very moment when he had every need of conciliating opposition, he and his brother electors were refusing the petition of the deputies of the Duke of Pomerania that their masters might be allowed to keep possession of the bishopric of Camin.
At the moment when the offence was given, it was known at Ratisbon that Gustavus Adolphus had landed on the coast of Pomerania.
Five years before Gustavus had refused to stir against the Emperor without the aid of a powerful coalition. He now ventured to throw himself alone into the midst of Germany. He had no certainty even of French aid. The French ambassador had offered him money, but had accompanied the offer by conditions. Gustavus thrust aside both the money and the conditions. If he went at all, he would go on his own terms.
He knew well enough that the task before him, apparently far harder than in 1625, was in reality far easier. He saw that between the ecclesiastical Electors on the one hand, and Wallenstein on the other, the Protestant princes must cling to him for safety. To one who suggested that even if he were victorious the princes would seek to profit by his victory, he answered, with the assurance of genius, 'If I am victorious, they will be my prey.'
Events were working for him at Ratisbon. Before the persistent demand of the electors for Wallenstein's dismissal Ferdinand was powerless. Even Wallenstein would not have been strong enough to contend against the League, backed by France, with a whole Protestant north bursting into insurrection in his rear. But, in truth, neither Ferdinand nor Wallenstein thought of resistance. The general, strong as his position was, at the head of the most numerous and well-appointed army in Europe, retired into private life without a murmur. He may, perhaps, have calculated that it would not be long before he would be again needed.
That Ferdinand felt the blow keenly it is impossible to doubt. He thought much of the maintenance of the imperial dignity, and the uprising of the electors was in some sort an uprising against himself. But the system which had fallen was the system of Wallenstein rather than his own. He had sanctioned the contributions and exactions, feebly hoping that they were not so bad as they seemed, or that if anything was wrong a little more energy on Wallenstein's part would set things straight. As to Wallenstein's idea of a revolutionary empire founded on the ruins of the princes, Ferdinand would have been the first to regard it with horror. His policy was in the main far more in accordance with that of Maximilian than with that of Wallenstein.
Wallenstein's dismissal was not the only sacrifice to which Ferdinand was obliged to consent. He agreed to invest the Duke of Nevers with the Duchy of Mantua, hoping in return to secure the neutrality of France in his conflict with Sweden.
The result of that conflict depended mainly on the attitude taken by the Protestants of the north, whom Ferdinand, in combination with the Catholic electors, was doing his best to alienate. Tilly was placed in command of the army which had lately been Wallenstein's, as well as of his own. The variety of habits and of feeling in the two armies did not promise well for the future. But, numerically, Tilly was far superior to Gustavus.
Gustavus, on the other hand, commanded a force inferior only in numbers. Thoroughly disciplined, it was instinct with the spirit of its commander. It shared his religious enthusiasm and his devotion to the interests of his country. It had followed him in many a hardly-won fight, and had never known defeat under his orders. It believed with justice that his genius for war was far greater than that of any commander who was likely to be sent against him.
The first attempt of Gustavus to win over a prince of the Empire to his side was made before Stettin, the capital of the Duke of Pomerania. He insisted on a personal interview with the aged Boguslav, the last of the old Wendish line. Boguslav had ever been on good terms with the Emperor. He had helped Wallenstein at Stralsund. But his deputies had pleaded in vain at Ratisbon for his right to retain the bishopric of Camin and for some amelioration of the misery of his subjects. He now pleaded in person with Gustavus to be allowed to remain neutral. Gustavus, like Tilly in 1623, would hear nothing of neutrality. The old man could hold out no longer. "Be it as you wish, in God's name," he said. He begged the king to be a father to him. "Nay," replied Gustavus, "I would rather be your son." The inheritance of the childless man would make an excellent bulwark for the defence of the Baltic.
For some time longer Gustavus was busy in securing a basis of operations along the coast by clearing Pomerania and Mecklenburg of imperialist garrisons. But, as yet, the northern princes were unwilling to support him. In vain Gustavus reasoned with the ambassador of his brother-in-law, the Elector of Brandenburg, who had come to announce his master's neutrality. "It is time," he said, "for his highness to open his eyes, and to rouse himself from his ease, that his highness may no longer be in his own land a lieutenant of the Emperor, nay, rather of the Emperor's servant. He who makes a sheep of himself is eaten by the wolf. His highness must be my friend or enemy, when I come to his frontier. He must be hot or cold. No third course will be allowed, be you sure of that." The words were thrown away for the present. There may have been something of mere cowardice in the Elector's resistance to the overtures made to him. Frederick had failed, and Christian had failed, and why not Gustavus? But there was something, too, of the old German feeling remaining, of unwillingness to join with the foreigner against the Empire. "To do so," said the Brandenburg ambassador, "would be both dishonourable and disloyal."
Gustavus had but to wait till Ferdinand's repeated blunders made loyalty impossible even with the much-enduring George William. Fortunately for Gustavus, he was now in a position in which he was able to wait a little. An attempt had been made in France to overthrow Richelieu, in which the queen mother, Mary of Medici, had taken a leading part. Richelieu, she warned her son, was leading him to slight the interests of the Church. But Lewis was unconvinced, and Mary of Medici found that all political authority was in Richelieu's hands.
The complete success of the princes opposed to Wallenstein had perhaps exceeded Richelieu's expectations. A balance of power between Wallenstein and the League would have served his purpose better. But if Ferdinand was to be strong, it did not matter to France whether the army which gave him strength was commanded by Wallenstein or by Tilly. Richelieu, therefore, made up his mind to grant subsidies to Gustavus without asking for the conditions which had been refused in the preceding spring. On January 23 the Treaty of Bärwalde was signed between France and Sweden. A large payment of money was assured to Gustavus for five years. Gustavus, on his part, engaged to respect the constitutions of the Empire as they were before Ferdinand's victories, and to leave untouched the Catholic religion wherever he found it established. Out of the co-operation of Catholic and Protestant states, a milder way of treating religious differences was already arising, just as the final establishment of toleration in England grew out of the co-operation between the Episcopal Church and the Nonconformists.
Further successes marked the early months of 1631. But till the two Protestant Electors could make up their minds to throw in their lot with Gustavus, nothing serious could be effected. John George felt that something ought to be done. All over North Germany the Protestants were appealing to him to place himself at their head. To say that he was vacillating and irresolute, born to watch events rather than to control them, is only to say that he had not changed his nature. But it must never be forgotten that the decision before him was a very hard one. In no sense could it be regarded otherwise than as a choice between two evils. On the one side lay the preponderance of a hostile religion. On the other side lay the abandonment of all hope of German unity, a unity which was nothing to Gustavus, but which a German Elector could not venture to disregard. It might be, indeed, that a new and better system would arise on the ruins of the old. But if Saxony were victorious with the aid of Sweden, the destruction of the existing order was certain, the establishment of a new one was problematical.
A great Protestant assembly held at Leipzig in March, determined to make one more appeal to the Emperor. If only he would withdraw that fatal Edict of Restitution, the Protestants of the north would willingly take their places as obedient estates of the Empire. No foreign king should win them from their allegiance, or induce them to break asunder the last ties which bound them together to their head. But this time the appeal was accompanied by a step in the direction of active resistance. The Protestant estates represented at Leipzig agreed to levy soldiers, in order to be prepared for whatever might happen.
Time was pressing. The Treaty of Bärwalde had opened the eyes of Maximilian and the League to the danger of procrastination. If they had entertained any hope that France would leave them to contend with Gustavus alone, that hope was now at an end. Tilly was despatched into the north to combat the Swedish king.
Ferdinand had despised the danger from Gustavus. "We have got a new little enemy," he said, laughing, when he heard of the disembarkation of the Swedes. Tilly knew better. He pressed rapidly forward, hoping to thrust himself between Gustavus in Pomerania and his lieutenant, Horn, in Mecklenburg. If he succeeded, the invading army would be cut in two, and liable to be defeated in detail. Success at first attended his effort. On March 29, whilst the princes were debating at Leipzig, he took New Brandenburg, cutting down the whole Swedish garrison of 2,000 men. But Gustavus was too rapid for him. Uniting his forces with those of Horn, he presented a bold front to the enemy. Tilly was driven back upon the Elbe. The remaining fortresses on the Baltic, and the important post of Frankfort on the Oder, garrisoned with eight imperialist regiments, fell into the power of the conqueror.
A greater and more important city than Frankfort was at stake. The citizens of Magdeburg had raised the standard of independence without waiting for leave from John George of Saxony. Gustavus had sent a Swedish officer to conduct their defence. But without the support of the Electors of Saxony and Brandenburg, he durst not bring his army to their assistance.
The imperialists were gathering thickly round Magdeburg. On April 26 a treaty was signed at Cherasco, between France and the Empire, which restored peace in Italy, and set free the Emperor's troops beyond the Alps for service in Germany. If Tilly saw matters still in a gloomy light, his fiery lieutenant, Pappenheim, thought there was no reason to despair. "This summer," he wrote, "we can sweep our enemies before us. God give us grace thereto."
As the siege went on, Gustavus, writing under his enforced inaction, pleaded hard with the two Electors. From the Elector of Brandenburg he demanded the right to occupy the two fortresses of Küstrin and Spandau. Hopes were held out to him of the surrender of Küstrin, but he was assured that Spandau should never be his. Accompanied by a picked body of troops, he marched straight upon Berlin. On May 13, outside the city gates, he held a long conference with his brother-in-law, the Elector. He argued in vain. To one of the Dukes of Mecklenburg, who had accompanied him, he spoke in bitter words. "I am marching," he said, "upon Magdeburg, to deliver the city. If no one will assist me, I will retreat at once. I will offer peace to the Emperor, and go home to Stockholm. I know that the Emperor will agree to my terms. But you Protestants will have to answer at the day of judgment that you would do nothing for the cause of God. In this world, too, you will be punished. Magdeburg will be taken, and, if I retire, you will have to look to yourselves." The next day the conference was resumed. From early morning till nine at night the Elector persisted in his refusal. But the armed men who stood behind Gustavus were the most powerful of arguments. At last the Swedish king had his way. On the 15th the gates of Spandau were thrown open to his troops.
But, if the Elector of Brandenburg had given way, the Elector of Saxony was not to be moved. He had not yet received an answer to his appeal to the Emperor; and till that arrived he would enter into no alliance with a foreigner. Further advance was impossible. Cut to the heart by the refusal, Gustavus withdrew, leaving Magdeburg to its fate.
That fate was not long in coming. The city was hardly in a state to make a desperate resistance. The council had levied men to fight their battle. But amongst the body of the townsmen there were some who counselled submission, and others who preferred taking their ease whilst the hired soldiers were manning the walls. On May 20, Pappenheim stormed the city. In those days the sack of a town taken by storm was claimed as a right by the soldiers, as firmly by those of Gustavus as by those of Tilly and Wallenstein. But a few weeks before, the Protestant population of Frankfort had been exposed to the violence and greed of the Swedish army, simply because they had been unable to prevent the imperialists from defending the place. But the sack of Magdeburg was accompanied by circumstances of peculiar horror. Scarcely had the first rush taken place over the walls when, either intentionally or by accident, some of the houses were set on fire. In the excitement of plunder or of terror no one thought of stopping the progress of the flames. The conquerors, angered by the thought that their booty was being snatched away from before their eyes by an enemy more irresistible than themselves, were inflamed almost to madness. Few could meet that infuriated soldiery and live. Whilst every form of death, and of outrage worse than death, was encountered in the streets, the shrieks of the wretched victims were overpowered by the roaring of the flames. In a few hours the great city, the virgin fortress which had resisted Charles V. and Wallenstein, with the exception of the Cathedral and a few houses around it, was reduced to a blackened ruin, beneath which lay the calcined bones of men, of tender women, and of innocent babes.
For the horrors of that day Tilly was not personally responsible. He would have hindered the storm if he had been able. The tales which carried through all Protestant Germany the evil deeds of the old warrior, and represented him as hounding on his men to the wretched work, were pure inventions. He had nothing to gain by the destruction of Magdeburg. He had everything to gain by saving it as a basis of operations for his army.
But if Tilly was not responsible for the consequences of the siege, he and his masters were responsible for the policy which had made the siege possible. That cathedral standing out from amidst the ruins of Magdeburg was but too apt a symbol of the work which he and the League had set themselves to do. That the rights of the clergy and the church might be maintained, all the homes and dwellings of men in Germany were to be laid waste, all the social and political arrangements to which they had attached themselves were to be dashed into ruin.
Even now Ferdinand was preparing his answer to the last appeal of the faithful Protestant estates. The Edict of Restitution he would maintain to the uttermost. Of the armament of the princes he spoke in terms of contemptuous arrogance. Let John George and his companions in ill-doing dismiss their soldiers, and not presume to dictate terms by force to the head of the Empire. Ferdinand had declared the law as it was, and by the law he meant to abide.
A great fear fell upon the minds of all Protestant men. The cities of the south, Augsburg and Nüremberg, which had begun to protest against the execution of the edict, fell back into silence. In the north, Gustavus, using terror to counteract terror, planted his cannon before the walls of Berlin, and wrung from his reluctant brother-in-law the renunciation of his neutrality. But such friendship could last no longer than the force which imposed it, and John George could not be won so easily. William of Hesse Cassel was the first of the German princes to come voluntarily into the camp of Gustavus. Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar came too, young as he was, full of military experience, and full too of memories of his forefathers, the heroes of that old Saxon line which had forfeited the Saxon Electorate for the sake of the Gospel. But neither William nor Bernhard could bring much more than their own swords. Gustavus dared not take the offensive. Throwing up an entrenched camp at Werben, where the Havel joins the Elbe, he waited for Tilly, and repulsed an attack made upon him. But what was such a victory worth? Hardships and disease were thinning his ranks, and unless aid came, the end would be very near.
The aid which he needed was brought to him by the blindness of Ferdinand. At last the results of the treaty of Cherasco were making themselves felt. The troops from Italy had reached the north, and, in August, Tilly was at the head of 40,000 men. With the reinforcements came orders from the Emperor. The tame deflection of John George from the line of strict obedience was no longer to be borne. Tilly must compel him to lay down his arms, or to join in the war against the foreign invasion.
These orders reached Tilly on August 18. On the 24th he sent a message to the Elector, asking him by what right he was in arms against the laws of the Empire. John George had some difficulty in finding an answer, but he refused to dismiss his troops.
If Tilly had only let the Elector alone, he would probably have had nothing to fear from him for some time to come. But Tilly knew no policy beyond the letter of his instructions. He at once crossed the Saxon frontier. Pappenheim seized Merseburg. Tilly reduced Leipzig to surrender by the threat that he would deal with the city worse than with Magdeburg. The Elector, so long unwilling to draw the sword, was beyond measure angry. He sent speedy couriers to Gustavus, offering his alliance on any terms.
Gustavus did not wait for a second bidding. The wish of his heart was at last accomplished. He put his forces at once in motion, bringing the Elector of Brandenburg with him. The Saxon commander was the Lutheran Arnim, the very man who had led Wallenstein's troops to the siege of Stralsund. The Edict of Restitution had taught him that Wallenstein's idea of a Germany united without respect for differences of religion was not to be realized under Ferdinand. He had thrown up his post, and had sought service with John George. Without being in any way a man of commanding ability, he had much experience in war.
The Saxon soldiers were a splendid sight. New clothed and new armed, they had with them all the pomp and circumstance of glorious war. But they had had no experience of fighting. They were as raw as Wallenstein's troops had been when he first entered the diocese of Halberstadt in 1625.
The Swedes were a rabble rout to look upon, at least in the eyes of the inexperienced Saxons. Their new allies laughed heartily at their uniforms, ragged with long service and soiled with the dust of the camp and the bivouac. But the war-worn men had confidence in their general, and their general had confidence in them.
Such confidence was based on even better grounds than the confidence of the veterans of the League in Tilly. Tilly was simply an excellent commander of the old Spanish school. He had won his battles by his power of waiting till he was superior in numbers. When the battles came they were what are generally called soldiers' battles. The close-packed columns won their way to victory by sheer push of pike. But Gustavus, like all great commanders, was an innovator in the art of war. To the heavy masses of the enemy he opposed lightness and flexibility. His cannon were more easily moved, his muskets more easily handled. In rapidity of fire he was as superior to the enemy as Frederick the Great with his iron ramrods at Mollwitz, or Moltke with his needle-guns at Sadowa. He had, too, a new method of drill. His troops were drawn up three deep, and were capable of manœuvering with a precision which might be looked for in vain from the solid columns of the imperialists.
On the morning of September 17 Swede and Saxon were drawn up opposite Tilly's army, close to the village of Breitenfeld, some five miles distant from Leipzig. Gustavus had need of all his skill. Before long the mocking Saxons were flying in headlong rout. The victors, unlike Rupert at Marston Moor, checked themselves to take the Swedes in the flanks. Then Gustavus coolly drew back two brigades and presented a second front to the enemy. Outnumbered though he was, the result was never for a moment doubtful. Cannon shot and musket ball tore asunder the dense ranks of the imperialist army. Tilly's own guns were wrenched from him and turned upon his infantry. The unwieldy host staggered before the deft blows of a more active antagonist. Leaving six thousand of their number dying or dead upon the field, Tilly's veterans, gathering round their aged leader, retreated slowly from their first defeat, extorting the admiration of their opponents by their steadiness and intrepidity.
The victory of Breitenfeld, or Leipzig—the battle bears both names—was no common victory. It was the grave of the Edict of Restitution, and of an effort to establish a sectarian domination in the guise of national unity. The bow, stretched beyond endurance, had broken at last. Since the battle on the White Hill, the Emperor, the Imperial Council, the Imperial Diet, had declared themselves the only accredited organs of the national life. Then had come a coolness between the Emperor and the leaders of the Diet. A good understanding had been re-established by the dismissal of Wallenstein. But neither Emperor nor Diet had seen fit to take account of the feelings or wants of more than half the nation. They, and they alone, represented legal authority. The falsehood had now been dashed to the ground by Gustavus. Breitenfeld was the Naseby of Germany.
Like Naseby, too, Breitenfeld had in it something of more universal import. Naseby was the victory of disciplined intelligence over disorderly bravery. Breitenfeld was the victory of disciplined intelligence over the stiff routine of the Spanish tactics. Those tactics were, after all, but the military expression of the religious and political system in defence of which they were used. Those solid columns just defeated were the types of what human nature was to become under the Jesuit organization. The individual was swallowed up in the mass. As Tilly had borne down by the sheer weight of his veterans adventurers like Mansfeld and Christian of Brunswick, so the renewed Catholic discipline had borne down the wrangling theologians who had stepped into the places of Luther and Melanchthon. But now an army had arisen to prove that order and obedience were weak unless they were supported by individual intelligence. The success of the principle upon which its operations were based could not be confined to mere fighting. It would make its way in morals and politics, in literature and science.
Great was the joy in Protestant Germany when the news was told. The cities of the south prepared once more to resist their oppressors. All that was noblest in France hailed the tidings with acclamation. English Eliot, writing from his prison in the Tower, could speak of Gustavus as that person whom fortune and virtue had reserved for the wonder of the world! Even Wallenstein, from his Bohemian retreat, uttered a cry of satisfaction. For Wallenstein was already in communication with Gustavus, who, Protestant as he was, was avenging him upon the League which had assailed him and the Emperor who had abandoned him. He had offered to do great things, if he could be trusted with a Swedish force of 12,000 men. He was well pleased to hear of Tilly's defeat. "If such a thing had happened to me," he said to an emissary of Gustavus, "I would kill myself. But it is a good thing for us." If only the King of Sweden would trust him with men, he would soon bring together the officers of his old army. He would divide the goods of the Jesuits and their followers amongst the soldiers. The greatest folly the Bohemians had committed, he said, had been to throw Martinitz and Slawata out of window instead of thrusting a sword through their bodies. If his plan were accepted he would chase the Emperor and the House of Austria over the Alps. But he hoped Gustavus would not allow himself to be entangled too far in the French alliances.
Wallenstein's whole character was expressed in these proposals, whether they were meant seriously or not. Cut off from German ideas by his Bohemian birth, he had no roots in Germany. The reverence which others felt for religious or political institutions had no echo in his mind. As he had been ready to overthrow princes and electors in the Emperor's name, so he was now ready to overthrow the Emperor in the name of the King of Sweden. Yet there was withal a greatness about him which raised him above such mere adventurers as Mansfeld. At the head of soldiers as uprooted as himself from all ties of home or nationality, he alone, amongst the leaders of the war, had embraced the two ideas which, if they had been welcomed by the statesmen of the Empire, would have saved Germany from intolerable evil. He wished for union and strength against foreign invasion, and he wished to found that union upon religious liberty. He would have kept out Gustavus if he could. But if that could not be done, he would join Gustavus in keeping out the French.
Yet between Wallenstein and Gustavus it was impossible that there should be anything really in common. Wallenstein was large-minded because he was far removed from the ordinary prejudices of men. He was no more affected by their habits and thoughts than the course of a balloon is affected by the precipices and rivers below. Gustavus trod firmly upon his mother earth. His Swedish country, his Lutheran religion, his opposition to the House of Austria, were all very real to him. His greatness was the greatness which rules the world, the greatness of a man who, sharing the thoughts and feelings of men, rises above them just far enough to direct them, not too far to carry their sympathies with him.