The King made good his promise. The battle began between one and two o’clock, on the fifth of December, 1757. The enemy’s line of battle stretched a mile, but Frederick was not alarmed. His main attack was directed against the left wing, and at this point the enemy’s line was completely broken. A like fate overtook the right wing, which was simultaneously attacked. The enemy’s centre finally gave way, and before dark the King was master of the field. The sanguinary struggle lasted only three hours, but it was one of the most brilliant of his victories. Twenty thousand prisoners fell into the hands of the Prussians, and beside these they captured one hundred and thirty-four cannon and fifty-nine standards. Frederick rewarded Prince Moritz on the field for his service. Drawing rein, he said to him, “I congratulate you upon the victory, Herr Field-Marshal”—with these words elevating him to that high position. The exhausted troops camped that night on the battlefield. It was a weird spectacle. All around them were the bodies left by the defeated Austrians, and the groans of the wounded made dreary night music. Suddenly an old grenadier loudly and jubilantly sang “Nun danket alle Gott.”[12] This hymn of joy voiced the feelings of the soldiers, and when the bands struck up, the whole army joined in the uplifting song of thanksgiving. The effect was indescribable. The religious sentiment in the camp was unmistakable. Everyone had awaited the day with eager expectation. They had faced death in a thousand shapes, and terrible was the remembrance which it left. The pious soldiers passed a sleepless night, and left the field of victory with the proud consciousness that they had added new laurels to their heroic King’s wreath of fame.
While in pursuit of the enemy, Frederick with a little band of soldiers approached Lissa. Before arriving he learned that it swarmed with Austrians. The King ordered a halt, reined up his horse, and sent one of his aides back with instructions to bring up the Manteuffel and Wedell battalions of grenadiers, which had been left behind at the last moment, and to say to them that he was so well satisfied with their bravery, they should spend the night with him at his headquarters in Lissa, and every man beside should have a thaler. It was a good half-hour before the two battalions came up, and when they did he placed himself at their head and boldly rode into Lissa, where everything was quiet, although lights were seen in the houses on all sides. As the King, who appeared familiar with the place, rode into the spacious plaza near the castle, and about sixty paces from the bridge across the Schweidnitz, he noticed white-coats coming out of several of the houses with straw on their backs. Most of them were caught by the Prussian grenadiers, and some were brought before the King. When asked what they were doing, one of them replied:
“A captain holds the other end of the bridge with one hundred and fifty men. He was ordered to strew the bridge with straw and set it afire as soon as the Prussians approached. So many townspeople have crossed, however, that the straw was trampled down in the mud and mire, and the captain threw it into the water and sent forty men to the stables to fetch fresh straw.”
Some of the white-coats in the meantime had stolen away and notified the captain of the arrival of the Prussians, and while the King was talking with the prisoners he opened a brisk fire, by which some of the grenadiers in the rear of the King were wounded. Great confusion followed. The artillerists cried, “Back! back! we are fired upon!” Those on horseback rode near the houses, so as not to expose themselves to the fire of friend and enemy in the windows. The Prussian artillery opened fire at once, and the grenadiers also joined in. The entire city was in alarm. The Prussians were exposed to a brisk fire from the houses, to which they promptly replied. The tumult was great, and shouts and commands were confusedly mixed. The King, however, remarked with the utmost composure: “Gentlemen, follow me. I am no stranger here.” Thereupon he rode to the left over the drawbridge leading to the castle, followed by a few of his officers. He had hardly arrived at the castle entrance when several Austrian officers and attendants, with lanterns in their hands, ran down the steps and made an effort to get to their horses in the castle yard and escape under cover of the darkness. The King, dismounting, quietly confronted them and said: “Good-evening, gentlemen. Evidently you were not expecting me. Is there no room left for me?”
It would have been easy for them to have overpowered Frederick if they had had the courage, but the suddenness of his appearance and the confident tone of his voice so completely dazed them that they took the lanterns from the hands of their attendants, lit the King up the stairs, and escorted him to one of the finest of the rooms. The most distinguished of the Austrian officers introduced his comrades to the King, by name and rank, and all joined in agreeable conversation. During this time more Prussian officers arrived at the castle, fearing the King might be in danger; but they found him enjoying himself mightily. He finally took leave of the Austrian officers, however, and they sought quarters in other rooms of the spacious castle.
“Good evening, gentlemen, evidently you were not expecting me”
That same night the King’s entire army arrived at Lissa, having been ordered there by mistake. By this time the Prussians had taken a great number of prisoners. Zieten scoured the neighborhood with his hussars, and drove the fugitives even into Bohemia, and pressed the enemy so closely that out of eighty thousand men only about seventeen thousand reached the Bohemian frontier. The King followed, and soon overtook Zieten by a shorter route.
The year 1757, which had been so abundant in Prussian victories, drew to its close. Without remaining longer in Bohemia, the King made a forced march into Silesia,—where several cities and strongholds had again fallen into the enemy’s hands,—not alone to drive the enemy out at that unfavorable season, but for the more important purpose of seeking winter quarters. As the Prussians were continually harassed on the march by the enemy’s skirmishers, the King ordered night marches, so as to ensure the security of the sutlers’ stores and baggage from the marauders. After marching all night, the army would halt at daybreak, the cavalry dismount, and the infantry sleep as much as possible under the circumstances. One morning the King, after dismounting, said: “How nice it would be if we had some schnapps!” Several, who had bread and brandy, rushed up to him and offered him their little store.
The King smiled with genuine satisfaction at the generosity and self-sacrificing spirit of his soldiers, and said: “Children, if I could drink brandy I would take it with pleasure. But I thank you for your love, and will not forget this day which has been such a happy one for us all.” Then he turned to his staff, and said: “There is no happier King in the world than I.” He ordered Lieutenant-Colonel Von Wacknitz to make a list of his guards, and at Breslau a Friedrich d’or[13] was given to each man. Notwithstanding these fatiguing marches, the King found his soldiers so eager for active duty that he decided to take advantage of their enthusiasm and attack the enemy without delay. Breslau, with its strong garrison of sixteen thousand men, surrendered, and this placed the King once more in possession of all Silesia except Schweidnitz. He now permitted his brave troops to go into winter quarters, as they so well deserved, while he spent the Winter in Breslau.
With the first approach of Spring the King was on the alert. When all was in readiness for moving, he mustered his guard on the Schweidnitz meadows. As they were assembling he noticed a seven-year-old lad who was actively engaged in drilling a dozen other boys, who had sticks for horses. The King laughed at the sport, and after watching them a little while, said: “That boy will be a good soldier some day.” The next time he observed him, he saw that the little leader had exerted himself so vigorously in making an attack that he was bleeding profusely from the nose. The boy, however, mounted his stick again and renewed the attack with vigor. The King called to him: “My child, go home and wash off the blood.”
The boy replied with much dignity: “Oh, no! that won’t do, for it will throw everything into disorder. I am not yet killed; I am only wounded.”
The King in surprise asked, “What is your name?”
“Kneuschke,” replied the boy.
“So? And what does your father do?”
“He is a gardener.”
The King made a note of it, and thenceforward paid the gardener five thalers a month, to be applied toward his son’s education.
Satisfactory as everything appeared, Frederick was not unmindful of the dangers to which he was exposed. He would have been willing to make terms of peace if this had been satisfactory, but his haughty enemies did not stop to consider what serious losses their far abler adversary could inflict upon them, even with a smaller force. The more victories he won, the more implacable was their animosity toward him, and the more firmly convinced were they that sooner or later they would crush him; for they were sure that he could not hold out long against their united strength, and that in the end he would have to abandon the struggle from mere exhaustion. The King seems to have divined their schemes. About this time he wrote to a friend:
“What do you say to this alliance against the Margrave of Brandenburg? What would the great Elector have said if he had known that his grandson would have been fighting Russians, Austrians, nearly all Germany, and a hundred thousand Frenchmen? I do not know whether I am strong enough to withstand them and whether it would be a disgrace for me to submit, but I am certain that my enemies will gain no honor from my defeat.”
After a careful survey of the situation, the King decided it would not be incompatible with honor to offer terms of peace to his enemies. They regarded the offer as a sign of weakness, rejected it, and entered upon a fresh campaign of even more active hostility.
Frederick did not hesitate. He rallied all his strength, repaired the losses incurred in previous battles, and confronted the powerful enemy with a splendidly equipped army. Unfortunate Saxony, which was completely in his hands, had to contribute a large sum of money, as well as clothing and recruits. Unexpected help also came from another quarter. The battle of Rossbach had aroused great enthusiasm in Europe, particularly in England, where there was strong sympathy with Prussia. Parliament unanimously voted to assist its brave ally. It sent him twelve thousand men, placed the Hanoverian army, which was in excellent condition, at his disposal, and united it with the forces from Hesse, Brunswick, and Gotha, making an army thirty thousand strong. This fresh body of troops, after such severe losses as he had met, was a welcome gift to the King. Parliament also promised to send four million thalers,[14] with the understanding that an able leader should be selected for the new corps. It could not have sent more acceptable help, for the King needed money as well as men at this time, when the war was about to be resumed with renewed vigor on all sides. Necessity forced him to make from ten to twelve millions of debased coin out of his four million thalers, as he had no other way of meeting his war expenses. He appointed Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, who was universally regarded as a superior soldier, in command of the thirty thousand. Like the King, he, too, understood how to oppose a large army with a smaller one. Indeed, he was an expert in that direction. He drove the French, who had overrun West Germany, across the Rhine, inflicted heavy losses upon them in their retreat, and captured eleven thousand prisoners. Not satisfied with this achievement, he kept control of the river, and fought a battle with the French, June 23, at Crefeld, in which they were routed. Seven thousand more prisoners fell into his hands and hundreds of bodies covered the battlefield. Notwithstanding these disasters, the French a little later made another attempt to invade Germany, which was thwarted in such a masterly manner that at the close of the year they were content to stay on their own side of the German river. The Duke then made his headquarters in Munster and from there held the enemy in check.
While Duke Ferdinand was thus disposing of the French in the west, the King decided to attack the strong fortress at Schweidnitz, the only one remaining in the hands of the Austrians. On the march thither, while riding through a narrow defile, he found the artillery badly tangled up. While rushing about to hasten movements, he ran against a wheel and split one of his boots so badly that he could hardly keep it on. Impatient at the accident, he ordered an aide to find a shoemaker who could stitch up the boot. After considerable search a dragoon was found, who came, bringing his tools with him. The King, dismounting, and seating himself upon a hillock, said: “Can you mend my boot?”
“I will see, Your Majesty. I have mended a good many.”
“Well, hurry up, so that I can go on.”
The dragoon began work, at the same time growling to himself: “Hm! These boots have done service enough to warrant a new pair.”
“What is that you are saying?”
“Nothing.”
“But I want to know.”
“Well, I think your boots have honestly done all the service they can. It is no wonder they rip. They are worn out.”
“So? How long think you boots must last?”[15]
“Must last—that is a different thing; but I can easily tell you how long they can last—three years.”
“Old fool, they are not as old as that yet. But tell me how a shoemaker can be a good dragoon.”
“You might have seen how, at Hohenfriedsberg.”
“Were you there?”
“To be sure I was, and I have soled Austrians so that many of them will remember me for a long time. When I make shoes, I am a shoemaker; and when I ride a horse, I am a dragoon—and Heaven help those who get into my hands!”
“Gently, gently, Mr. Shoemaker, I am in your hands. Be merciful with me.” When the dragoon had finished, the King swiftly rode forward, placed himself at the head of his troops, and the march was resumed.
Frederick’s fortunate victory so discouraged the Austrian troops that the Schweidnitz garrison, although amply provisioned, made but a feeble resistance, and surrendered in a few days at discretion. All Silesia was once more in possession of the King. To make Maria Theresa appreciate his strength he extended the area of his operations into Moravia and laid siege to the city of Olmütz, a suburb, as it were, of Vienna. It was an undertaking, however, as fruitless as it was unfortunate. The siege was long protracted, for the besiegers were not only hampered by lack of sufficient artillery, but of ammunition, which had to be hauled over morasses and through deep defiles. In consequence, the King had plenty of leisure for excursions into the neighboring country. Upon one of these occasions he rode about the country of Glatz in company with General Seydlitz. Passing through a defile, the King noticed, some distance away, a collection of people, whom at first glance he took to be a detachment of Austrians. Seydlitz, who had unusually sharp eyes, was of opinion that Fouquet had fixed his limits there and stationed these people so that the enemy’s troops could not cross them without his knowledge. The King and Seydlitz rode up and found that the people were peasants of the country, whom Fouquet had placed there to watch the line.
“Are you Prussians?” asked Frederick.
“No,” they replied, “we are Fickets.” (Fouquet was called “Ficket” by the common people.)
“You can see now,” said the King to Seydlitz, laughing, “who is master here, and that I don’t count for much.”
Notwithstanding this, the King continued riding about the country, and one day made a discovery which disturbed him not a little. He heard that the Countess Grün, wife of a staff officer of the garrison, had made a vow to the Virgin, at the Jesuit church, that she would present her a beautiful robe when the siege of Olmütz was raised. He immediately ordered a robe made of the richest material for the Madonna, and sent it to the Jesuits with the message that as he had heard of the Countess’s useless vow, and as he was as mindful of the amenities of life as she, he did not wish our dear Lady should be the loser. As events might take another turn, he was simply carrying out what the Countess might not be able to perform. The Jesuits, delighted with his gift, came in procession to thank him, and exhibited the robe to strangers as a proof of the King’s pious sentiments.
The King at this time evidently intended to press the siege with vigor and capture Olmütz. The Austrians by themselves would not have troubled him, but he soon heard the unwelcome news that the Russians had captured Cüstrin and committed frightful excesses. He was, therefore, forced to consider the raising of the siege. His final decision was hastened by the information that a detachment of the enemy had captured a convoy of ammunition and supplies at Domstädt, which had been sent him from Silesia. With extreme reluctance he summoned all his generals and regiment and battalion commanders to headquarters. When they were all there, he advanced into their midst and said:
“Gentlemen, the enemy has found an opportunity to destroy a convoy coming to us from Silesia. Owing to this fatal blow, I must raise the siege of Olmütz, but, gentlemen, you must not conclude that all is lost on that account. No, you may be sure that everything will be made good, and in such a way that the enemy will have something to think about. You must persuade your commands not to grumble about it. I hope you will not be disappointed yourselves, and should I,—though I do not expect it,—find that anyone else is, I shall punish such an one severely. I shall move immediately, and wherever I find the enemy I shall attack, however he may be posted and whether he has one or several batteries; but,” tapping his brow with his stick, “I shall never do anything unreasonable or rash. I am confident that every one of my officers and soldiers will do their duty when the time comes, as they have always done in the past.”
The King’s words had a marked effect upon his generals. Frederick dismissed them with a cordial handshake and that gracious and friendly manner which captivated everyone. He parted from them with their assurance that he could rely upon their help under any circumstances. The siege was raised and the retreat was a masterly exhibition of generalship. It had to be made through Bohemia, as Field-Marshal Daun occupied the road through Silesia. Daun was taken by surprise. The hussars performed excellent service by covering the retreat through defiles and over mountains. The King rode at the head of the cavalry day and night, so as to be on the alert against surprise by the enemy. Swamps and hollows were not looked upon as obstacles. Artillery and cavalry were forced to find some way over them. Once, in the darkness of the night, the King, riding in front of the vanguard, came to a steep descent, some four or five hundred feet to the bottom. The skirmishers, with a Bohemian peasant who served as guide, were some distance in advance. For this reason the King, who was anxious to lose no time and to take advantage of the darkness, called a halt and notified the whole army of the situation. The cavalry had to dismount so as to reach the valley. One under officer who was in the lead hesitated on the edge of the descent, fearing that his horse would slip, and groped about himself for a footing while all the others were ready to go down. The King grew impatient over the waste of time.
“You must have even poorer eyes than I,” he said with some anger, “for you stumble around like a blind man. Come here and hold fast to my coat-tails and I will get you down, and the army will not be delayed any longer.” The officer did as he was bid and safely reached the bottom, like the others, with no greater harm than a few bruises.
Notwithstanding obstacles of the kind related in the last chapter, which were frequent in that region, the progress of the army was not checked and Silesia was reached. The King left the larger part of the army at Landeshut with Field-Marshal Keith,[16] for the protection of Silesia, and pushed on by exhausting marches under the scorching sun to the relief of Count Dohna, who was in great danger from the attacks of the Russians. The latter, leaving devastation in their wake, had invaded Prussia as far as Cüstrin, as already mentioned. This place they had captured after great destruction, and they also forced it to pay a heavy contribution in money. Trampled fields and burning villages marked the route of the northern barbarians. The unfortunate inhabitants of cities and villages, driven from house and home, wandered in bands, seeking shelter and help. Deeply touched by the indescribable wretchedness of his countrymen, Frederick marched all the more rapidly until he came up with the Russians at Zorndorf. A little stream alone separated the two armies.
As so much depended upon securing an accurate idea of the whole situation, the exact position as well as numbers of the enemy, the King, attended by an aide, a servant who carried his spyglass, and a groom, rode to the bank of the stream, dismounted and bade his servant also alight. Resting his glass upon the latter’s shoulder, he began making observations. The moment the Russians saw him, they opened a continuous fire from the nearest battery, the shot striking so near the King as to cover his coat with dirt. He calmly continued his observations without moving his glass or a change in the expression of his face. At last his aide thought it was his duty to remind him of the danger to which he was exposed. He stepped up, gently pulled the skirts of the King’s coat, and said: “Your Majesty is in too great danger here. See how the shots are striking all around you. Your coat and hat are covered with dirt.”
It was some little time before the King replied. At last he turned to the aide, saying with the utmost coolness: “If you are afraid, you can ride back”; and then resumed his observations at once. After he had seen all he wished, he said to his servant: “Now you can pack up.” With these words he mounted his horse and leisurely rode away under a very shower of shot, talking in the meanwhile with his aide on various matters, utterly indifferent to danger.
The ruin caused by the Russians so infuriated the King that he decided upon a battle to the death, and issued orders that none of the barbarous enemy should be spared.
It was in the early morning of August 25, 1758, that the Prussian army, thirty-two thousand strong, confronted, in battle array, an enemy greatly exceeding it in strength, for the Russians numbered fifty-two thousand men. After all preparations for the battle had been made, and as the Prussians were marching out of camp, the King conversed with officers and the rank-and-file upon various matters as they passed by, with as much composure as if it were a parade. He was somewhat surprised at an old corporal in the grenadier battalion of the Berlin garrison, named Beek, whose very bald head was covered with the grenadier’s cap while his wig was hanging from his knapsack. The King rode up to him and noticed that the old man was still very active.
“My friend,” said he, “it is high time somebody looked after you. Have you had an education?”
“No, Your Majesty, I have learned nothing; I can neither read nor write. I had to be a soldier when I was very young, and I am of no use except to be shot at.”
“How long have you been in the service?”
“Forty-four years already, and yet I am perfectly sound. If the war lasts long enough, however, my time to die will come. I don’t care for that, for I have always lived the soldier’s life. There is only one thing that troubles me. If it were not for that, Your Majesty, I shouldn’t care if I were shot to-day. I would die right willingly.”
The King listened attentively and then asked:
“Well, what troubles you?”
“Your Majesty, I have an only boy who is making some progress. His mother has taught him to read quite well, and I would be glad to have him learn whatever is proper for him, and go to some good school, so that he will know more than I do. That will help him when he goes out into the world, I cannot afford to give him anything out of my allowance.”
“Where is your son to be found?”
The father gave him his son’s residence, and told his name, and then the King rode away. A few minutes after this the battle began.
The Russians were formed in a huge quadrilateral. The Prussian artillery played havoc with this dense, unwieldy mass, for Captain Möller that day had one hundred and seventeen cannon and howitzers. Seydlitz was chief in command of all the cavalry. The Russian general, Fermor, opened the battle prematurely by a sudden attack with his cavalry, which dashed upon the Prussians with loud cheers. Seydlitz did not neglect his opportunity. With his characteristic energy he repulsed the cavalry and hurled back the enemy’s infantry. The ensuing confusion, greatly increased by the dust, smoke, and furious battle cries, was so great that the Russian rear guard fired upon their own men. Dreadful slaughter followed, but the Russians stood as if rooted to the earth and fought like lions. At last, by the aid of invincible courage and judicious leadership, the Prussian army weakened the enemy, but as yet without decisive result. An eyewitness describes the further progress of the battle as follows:
“Fiercely blazed the noonday sun upon the exhausted troops, who had been on their feet since four o’clock in the morning. The cavalry was particularly fatigued, for it had been engaged at the most dangerous points. Both men and animals needed refreshment, which could only be procured for a short time back of the village of Zorndorf, where Seydlitz’s squadrons had been stationed. The King was anxious to make the battle decisive, and therefore, in the afternoon, ordered it to be renewed. The Russian army stood ready in battle order. Fifteen thousand infantry, twelve ranks deep, occupied a strong position, and one hundred cannon covered their flanks and poured a deadly fire into the approaching Prussian regiments. Their onset was checked, and they fell back. The fate of Prussia and its heroic King hung in the balance. Seydlitz, who had formed his cavalry in three divisions, recognized the danger and rushed forward. He had his sixty-one squadrons in such shape that they could make repeated assaults upon the obstinate enemy. The first division was composed of eighteen squadrons of cuirassiers, assisted by a fine regiment of carbineers and a corps of gens d’armes. At a hundred yards away were three regiments of dragoons in the second division, which supported the first and filled up gaps. The third division, two hundred and fifty yards distant, consisted of three regiments of hussars, whose duty it was to capture artillery, take charge of prisoners, and destroy broken battalions.
“In order to save the badly weakened men and horses as much as possible, Seydlitz ordered that at first all movements should be made in slow and regular time; but at the final ‘March, march,’ they should not spare the spur, but hurl themselves upon the enemy with all possible force and fury. The powerful body began its slow movement, greatly hindered by the retreating battalions of Dohna’s infantry. With clear, far-reaching voice Seydlitz ordered, ‘Make ready for attack!’ for the Russian shots were already falling among them. Quickly followed the first ‘March, march,’ order, blown by two hundred trumpeters, but the squadrons moved forward at an easy gallop. Nearer and nearer, enveloped in dense clouds of dust, they rushed upon the Russian colossus. Then came the thunder-shock. Grapeshot made frightful havoc in the Prussian ranks. At last the trumpeters sounded the final ‘March, march,’ and with all their force the Prussian centaurs hurled themselves upon the enemy’s bayonets. With incessant and irresistible fury the whole sixty-one squadrons repeatedly charged. The cannon were captured, men were mowed down. Suddenly firing ceased. Death came by cut and thrust. Darkness and the complete exhaustion of men and horses ended the slaughter.”
Frederick was jubilant over his brilliant victory. One hundred and three cannon, twenty-seven standards, and the money chests were the spoils of the day, but ten thousand Prussians were left upon the field of honor. On this day, Seydlitz and his cavalry had rescued the Fatherland and saved Prussia’s military glory. He had performed miracles of bravery, and when the infantry wavered it was his cavalry which put the enemy to flight. The King himself acknowledged this, for when he was congratulated upon the great victory he turned to Seydlitz, and said: “But for this man things would have looked bad for us by this time.”
The King was in more cheerful humor after the brilliant victory at Zorndorf. The carrying out of his battle plans had demanded all his physical and mental ability, but he was not so absorbed in his victory that he forgot his old soldier. Shortly after the battle, he happened to meet Corporal Beek, who had escaped unhurt.
“Well,” said the King to him with great cordiality, “your son is going to be looked after.”
Beek soon learned that this was true. A messenger who carried the news of the victory to Berlin, when he returned, brought him a letter from his wife, telling him that her son had been taken from her by royal command and placed in the Gymnasium, where he was to be clothed, maintained, and educated at public expense. The old corporal wept tears of joy on receiving the news, and blessed the King who had such a fatherly interest in his soldiers.
A few days before the battle of Zorndorf a letter from the Austrian Field-Marshal Daun fell into the hands of the King.[17] It warned the Russian commander of the proposed attack, and added that he ought not to go into battle with such a wily enemy, but should cautiously manœuvre and hold him in check until the Austrians could get possession of Saxony. The letter disclosed the enemy’s plans. After the victory, the King wrote to Daun:
“You did well to warn the Russian general against a wily enemy whom you know better than he. He made a stand and has been defeated.”
A bolt from the clear sky could not have alarmed the Austrian field-marshal more than these words from the much-feared King, and his alarm increased when the rumor spread that he was approaching. The report was true. The energetic hero hurried forward as rapidly as the condition of his army would permit, so as to reach Saxony and bring relief to his brother, Prince Henry, who was hard-pressed by the Austrians. His plan was to drive the Austrians from Neisse, which had been besieged by them for a long time; but Daun, as soon as he was aware of Frederick’s approach, withdrew in alarm and entrenched himself in a strong position. The King had no intention of attacking the enemy in his stronghold. He paid not the slightest attention to him, but as if in utter contempt took a position right before his eyes at Hochkirch, where on October 14, 1758, the battle occurred. The King evidently carried his audacious plan too far. He even allowed his enemy to go on entrenching himself without once disturbing him. The day before the sudden attack made by the Austrians he observed that they were throwing up defenses upon a mountain side, opposite one of the wings of his army, as boldly and openly as if they expected no interference. The Prussian general in command of that wing sent an aide to the King’s headquarters with information of the enemy’s operations. The King said to the aide:
“What good news bring you?”
The aide expressed his misgivings, and asked if his Majesty would order them to open fire on the enemy. The commander of the nearest battery had assured them the enemy was in range.
“No, no,” replied the King, “pay no attention to them. I shall catch them in the morning.”
He took his leave, but just as he was going out the King called him back.
“Listen! Have you any idea what a cannon-shot might cost me?”
The question surprised the aide, but he knew the King would prefer the best answer he could make than no reply at all, so he said:
“One shot might cost Your Majesty a Friedrich d’or.”
“Well,” continued the King, “and how many Friedrich d’ors do you suppose those fellows over there are worth?” At last the King said: “Well, you may fire a few shots, nothing more.”
This was done, but the firing was useless.
Notwithstanding the insecure position of his army, the King had so little fear of attack that his generals felt it their duty to warn him and to try to dissuade him from his purpose. The camp was so poorly protected that Field-Marshal Keith one day said: “If the Austrians do not attack us here, they deserve to be hanged.”
“Oh,” replied the King, “let us hope they are more afraid of us than of the gallows.”
The Austrian general’s plans were so well made that the proud King had to expiate his contempt in defeat. On the 14th of October, before daybreak, Daun surrounded Hochkirch, in the vicinity of which the Prussians were encamped. They were resting in fancied security when they were suddenly roused by the dreadful thunder of cannon. The whole army was thrown into confusion. Soldiers ran over each other and could hardly find their weapons. In a wild scramble they tried to form in line, but no one could find his comrade, for the enemy’s grapeshot was strewing the ground with bodies. The confusion knew no bounds; everyone was rushing about shouting and panic-stricken, the officers were powerless to check the tumult and disorder.
Zieten and Seydlitz, expecting the enemy’s attack, had not allowed their men to leave their horses through the night. They endeavored to do something, but in the darkness they could not distinguish friend from foe, or escape the murderous fire which mowed down the Prussian ranks as if they had been rows of corn. Never did the sun rise upon a more dreadful spectacle. They turned their eyes away from it, and many of the grizzled warriors could not restrain their tears as they looked upon the awful sight. The signal for retreat was sounded, and notwithstanding the terror and confusion of the scene it was executed in such a masterly manner that Daun was astonished. He did not attempt to pursue, but fell back to his camp as if nothing had occurred. The Prussian loss was excessive. More than nine thousand bodies were lying in that narrow camp area. Beside this, they lost one hundred cannon and nearly all their tents and baggage.
The King had to summon up all his courage. At eleven o’clock that morning he had sadly gazed from an eminence at the fragments of his shattered army. He forced himself to assume a cheerful air, for he knew that all eyes were fixed upon him and that his soldiers were looking to him for consolation and fresh assurance. Therefore he appeared unmoved, and when General Von der Goltz joined him he said, in a facetious way: “My dear Goltz, they did not wake us up very politely.”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” replied the General, “we do not usually talk by day about the things which trouble us in sleep.”
“You are right,” said the King, “but some bright day I will return the incivility of these gentlemen who woke us up so rudely.” Though only joking, the King had spoken prophetic words.
We know from the statements of those most intimate with him how deeply Frederick felt this matter. As, after the defeat at Kollin, his troubles were increased by the news of the death of his beloved mother, so now, in the very hour of his defeat at Hochkirch, he heard the sad news of the death of his sister Wilhelmina,[18] the sharer of his youthful troubles. But painful as this news was, when he reflected upon the dangers impending over the Fatherland he controlled his grief and devoted himself to his kingly duties.
Some days after this, October 17, the King summoned all his generals and staff officers and thus addressed them: “You are aware, gentlemen, that the army has suffered from a surprise. The darkness of the night was accountable for it. You must now consider our situation. We are in upper Lusatia. Our property, our wives, our children are far behind us. If we weaken in the least, all will be lost. An immediate battle is inevitable. Rather than submit, I will be buried with the rest of my army. I suppose that every one of you thinks as I do. He who does not, can be spared; he can go home immediately. Is there such a one among you?”
All present hastened to assure the King that they would do their duty as they had always done it. Frederick listened to their declaration with much satisfaction, and replied: “I am delighted, gentlemen, to find the same devotion and self-sacrifice you have always shown. I thank you for it.”
His heavy losses at Hochkirch greatly troubled Frederick, but he consoled himself with the thought of his next great battle. At this time he wrote to a friend:
“The affair of October 14 ought to have decided the campaign, but it was nothing more than a scratch. A great battle must decide our fate. In all likelihood we shall have one very soon and then, with the result in our favor, we can rejoice. It has required many troops and much skill to get us thus far along.”
While Frederick was occupied with his great plans to avenge his defeat, Daun remained quietly in his camp on the lookout, rejoicing over the disaster and confident that the Prussians had had enough of it. On the other hand, the King, who was always prompt in decision, sent speedy couriers to his brother Henry, in Saxony, with instructions for him to march into upper Lusatia with his seven thousand men and join his command. Meanwhile he kept a sharp watch upon the enemy. One Autumn morning, about daybreak, as he was riding out in search of information, attended by some under-officers, the fog grew so dense that they could only see a few paces ahead of them. They rode along a carriage road, the King having the idea that by turning to the right they could avoid the enemy’s outposts. Adjutant von Oppen, however, noticed that they had already gone too far. “Upon my soul, Your Majesty,” said he, “we are already too far to the left and are certainly behind the enemy’s outposts.” Scarcely had he said the last word, when an Austrian hussar appeared at their right to see who was talking. The King, with his usual presence of mind, advanced to the Austrian and coolly asked:
“Hussar, where does this road lead?”
The hussar saw at once they were Prussians, but he was so struck by the tone of voice and looks of the King, as well as by his coolness, that he stood as speechless and motionless as a statue. With the utmost composure, the King remarked: “Gentlemen, proceed. The hussar does not know.” They rode quickly away under cover of the fog, which put an end to further observations. Frederick often related this incident afterward and laughed heartily over it.
Prince Henry soon arrived with his reënforcements. Thus strengthened, the King by skilful manœuvres succeeded in getting round the Austrians without their knowledge, and reaching Silesia, where the enemy was again trying to secure a foothold. Upon Frederick’s appearance, however, the enemy retired. He believed he could drive the Austrians out of Neisse without serious effort and make himself master of Silesia. Daun was not a little surprised at the news. He was greatly astonished at the shrewdness of his adversary, and was much chagrined that the disaster at Hochkirch had not been of the least advantage to him. He longed to perform some great deed, and, as nothing better suggested itself to him, he decided to march into Saxony and wrest Dresden from the hands of the Prussians. But he reckoned without his host. Perhaps he believed that he could accomplish his purpose by merely demanding the surrender of the city. But he made a sad mistake. Schmettau, the commander, was not alarmed, and replied to the demand for surrender: “I will defend myself from street to street and finish up in the ruins of the Elector’s palace.” When Daun received this emphatic reply and was convinced that Schmettau meant what he said, he quickly withdrew, so that he should not be surprised by the King, and went into Winter quarters in Bohemia.
The year 1758 came to its close, and after a survey of his military operations it must be said that Frederick, notwithstanding many disasters, had made great headway against the legions of his enemies. He had again beaten them back and gloriously ended the year’s campaign. His generals had also shown great skill in military operations. Belling, in particular, had bravely held his ground, and driven the Swedes back to Stralsund and the island of Rügen. Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick had been equally successful in his campaign against the French.
At the commencement of this year, war broke out first in Westphalia. The French attempted to overwhelm Duke Ferdinand by superior numbers. They despatched two strong armies against him, one of which went to Frankfurt and the other to Düsseldorf. The Duke decided to attack the army at Frankfurt, and fought a stubborn battle at Bergen. The French were in such strong position that the Prussians could not dislodge them, but were forced to fall back. The enemy pursued on foot and, harassed by superior numbers, they were forced to retreat to Bremen on the Weser. The enemies of Prussia held a jubilee. They were now certain that Westphalia, Hesse, Brunswick, and Hanover would be held by the French for all time, and that a sufficient force of commissioners would be sent over from Paris to establish French dominion over these fine German provinces. The Duke, however, did not entertain any such idea, for suddenly he again took the offensive and attacked the other army while on its way from Düsseldorf.