Ferdinand came upon the French camp at Minden and gave battle on the plains near that city, August 1, 1759. The attack began at the village of Todtenhausen. Count Wilhelm of Bückeburg, commanding the Prussian artillery, had taken a strong position. His fire played such havoc in the close ranks of the French that they were forced to fall back. The artillery was the first to retreat and the cavalry followed its example, which left great gaps in the ranks of the infantry and created much disorder. The Duke lost no time in following up his advantage. He ordered Sackville, the English general, to attack the enemy with his cavalry. There had been bad feeling between the two leaders for some time, so that concerted action between them was well-nigh impossible. As it was, the English general held back long enough to lose the advantage of the critical moment, so that the enemy, who could not have escaped annihilation had the attack been promptly made, had time enough to get into order and effect a retreat.[19] As it was, however, seven thousand prisoners were captured, and twenty-five cannon and several standards fell into the hands of the Prussians. The French were pursued for some distance, and did not find safety until they reached their camp at Frankfurt.

The news of this brilliant victory surprised the King just as he was in the midst of preparations for a terrible struggle with the enemy. He was in a strong position at Landeshut, and to the great astonishment of his enemies he remained there quietly until the middle of the year, apparently waiting to see what the Russians and Austrians were going to do. They had improved the intervening time in strengthening their depleted ranks, and now proposed to move against the Prussians in a body and with largely increased numbers. Frederick, all this time, was not unmindful of their plans, and considerably strengthened his own army; but even then he had only half as many troops as the enemy. The larger part of his choicest soldiers had been left on the field of honor, and it was with much anxiety that he regarded further campaigning. When news came of the Russian advance he was ignorant from what direction the attack would be made, as they were approaching the Brandenburg frontier in several divisions. To strengthen themselves and get in readiness for the great task awaiting them, it was decided that the brave Austrian General Laudon should unite his force of twenty thousand men with their force. Frederick, who was apprised of their plans, attempted to thwart them, and sent Generals Dohna and Wedell against them, but they were driven back, and the Austro-Russian combination was effected. The King had not believed this possible, and he was greatly surprised, therefore, by the news that the combined army, seventy thousand strong, was advancing to the Oder with designs upon the capital,[20] the road to which was open. The King now made his plans to frustrate the movement, and ordered the rapid advance of his army. He felt a fatal presentiment, and before he set out left his will with Prince Henry, and committed the administration of the kingdom to him in case anything happened to himself. He made all his arrangements with the same care that one displays when about to engage in a hazardous task. He provided for every emergency, and cautioned his brother against making a dishonorable peace after his death. With such gloomy thoughts as these the King advanced to meet his enemy.

On the eleventh of August, 1759, Frederick encountered his enemies fifty miles from Berlin. They were strongly entrenched at Kunersdorf[21] and surrounded by batteries of cannon, whose yawning mouths threatened death and destruction to anyone who came near them. Notwithstanding the great superiority of the enemies’ numbers and the exceeding strength of their batteries, the King decided to attack the combined armies August 12. At that very time a courier from Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick arrived with the good news of the victory at Minden. The King now was in such confident mood that he ordered the courier to put off his return a few days, so that he could send back an equally joyful message of victory.

Toward noon the signal was given for attack, and the battle began with good fortune on the Prussian side. Encouraged by their King, the brave troops displayed again that heroic courage which had aroused universal admiration. They paid no attention to the awful fire which was devastating their ranks; with utter contempt for death they charged battery after battery, until the Russian left wing could no longer withstand their assaults. It was driven from its position and seventy cannon fell into their hands. It was a sign that the Goddess of Victory this time favored the Prussians.

By this time the day was nearly spent, and the soldiers, exhausted by their long struggle, aroused the sympathy of their leaders. Some of the oldest and most experienced of them urgently appealed to the King to stop the battle and spare the soldiers, as the enemy was retreating. Frederick, however, remained unmoved. He was not contented with the advantage he had gained. No, he would immediately annihilate the enemy. He ordered Seydlitz to cut his way through them with the cavalry. It was in vain, however, that Seydlitz explained he was holding Laudon in check on the right wing of the Russians. It was in vain that he assured the King the meadows before them were so swampy that horses and riders would be stuck in the bogs if they ventured there. All that he said was of no avail.

“Do your duty and execute the orders of your King,” replied Frederick, firmly.

Seydlitz saluted and obeyed, but the soundness of his suggestions was realized only too soon. The ground shook under the squadrons as they got into motion, and soon they were floundering in the swamp. As if they were anticipating just such an inconsiderate movement, the Russians and Austrians furiously assaulted their immovable enemy, and such bloodshed ensued that the green meadows were crimsoned. Seydlitz himself was carried off the field wounded. The tired-out Prussians were panic-stricken. All fled who could, and the commands even of their highest officers were ineffective to stay the retreat. The Prussian army was not only defeated, it was destroyed. The battle was irretrievably lost, the ruin was complete. Pursued by the enemy, the unfortunates sought protection, and found it only in the darkness of the night.

The King had been conspicuous in his efforts to avert this disastrous defeat. He was in the very thick of the battle and did his utmost to keep the troops in line and encourage them. His attention was called to the danger he was in and he was besought to be more careful, but he emphatically refused, saying: “No! We must all strive for victory together, and I must do my duty like everyone else.”

In the main attack two horses were shot down under him. Mounting a third, a bullet passed through his overcoat and shattered a gold case in his waistcoat pocket. All his efforts, however, were useless. His exhortations had lost their customary inspiring effect. Throwing away weapons and accoutrements, everyone sought safety in flight. He was not only compelled to witness the abandoning of the cannon captured from the Russians, but to mourn the loss of one hundred and sixty-five pieces of Prussian artillery. The situation became more and more desperate, and at last, realizing all was lost, he exclaimed in utter despair: “Is there not a cursed bullet for me to-day?”

When night came on, he was almost the only living soul on the wide battlefield. His army was partly scattered about the surrounding country; the rest of it had been put to flight.

Frederick stood on the bloody field like one dazed, and it was only by chance he was saved from capture by some Russians and Austrians who approached the spot where he was standing. Captain Prittiwitz, his fortunate star, happened to be passing near by, with forty hussars. Lieutenant Belten suddenly exclaimed: “Captain Prittiwitz, yonder stands the King.”

The captain immediately turned his horse and rode forward with his men to the King, who was standing with folded arms upon a sandy hillock and alone, save for a single attendant who held his horse. His sword was sticking in the sand in front of him. The captain had considerable trouble in persuading the King to mount his horse, for at that instant Frederick was on the very verge of despair. To the appeal of the captain, he replied: “Leave me, Prittiwitz; I am lost.”

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” answered Prittiwitz; “you are still King of Prussia and commander of an army of brave soldiers.”

“Well, if you think so, forward.”

The hussars surrounded Frederick and made their way to the Oder, with roving bands of Cossacks continually swarming about them. Prittiwitz kept off the insolent pack and shot their leader off his horse. After the Muhl was safely crossed there was no further trouble, and the King was left uninjured at a ferryman’s hut. He thanked the captain, ordered that gifts be distributed among the hussars, and gave instructions to see that he remained undisturbed until he had time to collect himself, for he was still overmastered by his calamity. He wrote to his minister, Finkenstein, in Berlin:

“Provide for the safety of the Queen and the royal family at Magdeburg, and do all you can for them.”

A few hours later, he sent the following message to him:

“It is a terrible disaster. I shall not survive it. The consequences of the battle will be worse than the battle itself. I have no further resources and, to tell the truth, I consider everything lost. I shall not survive the destruction of the Fatherland. Adieu forever.”

That was the most dreadful day in the life of the great King.

It is not surprising, however, that the King was in such a despondent mood, for on that very evening he could not have assembled five thousand men of his magnificent army. Twenty-six thousand were killed, wounded, or prisoners, and the others were scattered in flight. But the Russian army also suffered dreadfully. “If I should fight one more such battle,” said its commanding general, “I should take the news of it to St. Petersburg myself with a staff in my hand.” It was not long, however, before Frederick regained his composure. It was characteristic of him that he was always the greatest when things were going badly. Messengers flew to Berlin and Cüstrin with orders that artillery should be despatched to him as quickly as possible. He collected his fugitive troops, reënforced them with other detachments, and within a short time an army of eighteen thousand men was at his disposal. The most important thing for him now was to rouse the courage of his officers. To this end he sent for the messenger who had brought the news of the victory in Westphalia, and said to him in their hearing: “You have seen what has been going on here. Hurry back, and if you find the enemy is not in Berlin or Magdeburg, tell the Duke not much has yet been lost.”

In view of Frederick’s plight and the general condition of his affairs, this message must have seemed ridiculous, for he had not a sufficient force in readiness to stay the victorious advance of the Russians or to defend the capital and the country. This was known abroad also, for word was sent from Paris to the Russian general that the King of Prussia must be exterminated, and Berlin and the whole Mark of Brandenburg devastated. The Austrian Field-Marshal Daun also urged the Russians to make a rapid advance. Soltikow, their commander, however, did not move, and when further urged by Daun, almost suppliantly, to hurry forward, he simply wrote to him:

“I have won two battles, and am waiting before I advance again for news of a second one from you. It is not fair that my Emperor’s army should have to do all the work.”

Of course this jealousy among the enemy’s leaders was of the greatest advantage to the King and the Fatherland. The Russians were in position at Frankfurt-on-the-Oder, and it was not until they were stirred up on all sides that they moved at all. When they did, they could not find subsistence, and at the end of October they went back again into Poland, which relieved the Prussians of one imminent danger.

Field-Marshal Daun in the meantime had been held in check in Saxony in a most masterly way by Prince Henry. The Prince was one of the ablest generals of his time, and his brother, the King, fully recognized it. He said of him once, “He is the only general who has not made a mistake during the entire war.” Beside his strategic talent, he had engaging personal qualities which commended him to friend and foe alike. To him was assigned the duty of watching over the Electorate of Saxony. It may well be believed that he was an unwelcome visitor in the enemy’s country, but he was greatly respected by the Saxons, and years after this they told with much emotion how this noble Hohenzollern in 1759, one day in harvest-time, when a sudden storm threatened to ruin their cornfields, allowed the peasants of a Saxon village to use his own horses for getting in their corn. He specially displayed his brilliant qualities in preventing Field-Marshal Daun from effecting a union with the Russians. By swift and skilful marches he kept Daun moving here and there, then suddenly eluded him, and destroyed a number of storehouses with supplies sufficient to have maintained fifty thousand soldiers for six months. This caused such a scarcity of subsistence and fodder that the indignant troops began to complain, and Daun had to fall back to a better position. The Mark of Brandenburg was safe, but other misfortunes were in store for Frederick. Dresden was in the hands of the enemy as one of the immediate results of the battle of Kunersdorf. When hardest pressed, Frederick wrote the commander in the Saxon capital to save if possible the seven millions of treasure in the money chests and evacuate with honor, for he could not send him help. This occurred immediately after the disastrous battle.

When Frederick was himself once more, he changed his mind, but alas! it was too late. Dresden was already lost to the Prussians. Frederick stamped with rage and declared he would retake it. He at once ordered the army to move into Saxony, although the inclement season of the year had begun. Prince Henry begged the King to spare his troops during the Winter and put off any large undertakings he had in view, but it was all in vain. The King would not listen to him. He ordered General Finck to attack the enemy’s rear with fifteen thousand men and force him to retreat. Every tactician foresaw the disastrous consequences. All his generals were of opinion that the attack would end calamitously, and so it turned out. Finck had hardly reached Maxen, November 21, 1759, before the tables were turned. Instead of being the attacking party, he himself was attacked on all sides. Terrible slaughter ensued. The Prussians resisted the attack with their customary bravery, but finally had to succumb. The army was nearly wiped out, as eleven thousand of them were taken prisoners. Never before had a year been so disastrous for Frederick as was 1759. Never before did a year close more gloomily for him.

Chapter X
The Battle of Liegnitz

The deplorable result of these operations weighed heavily upon the King and never before did he inaugurate a campaign in a more despondent mood than that of 1760. It affected all his movements and all his actions and at last it seemed as if his lucky star would never shine again. In Silesia, the Austrian General Laudon, with a force three times greater, attacked General Fouqué, and his eight thousand men. Fouqué defended himself with the courage of a lion, and his soldiers fought none the less bravely, but he had the misfortune to be thrown from his horse in such a way that the animal fell upon him and undoubtedly would have crushed him to death but for the opportune arrival of his faithful groom. Only such troopers as had swift enough horses escaped from the scene of slaughter.

Frederick meanwhile was busy with his plans for retaking Dresden. He closely invested that city, but whatever moves he made were immediately thwarted by the Austrian general, who made a resolute defence of the post entrusted to him. The failure of his plans only made the King still more despondent. His best friends and most experienced generals suffered greatly from his ill humor, for he was often not only severe, but grossly unjust. He called the soldiers of one regiment cowards, and cut off the decorations from their uniforms beside taking away their sidearms and badges of honor. One blow after another struck the King. Hardly had he learned of the destruction of Fouqué’s corps when the unhappy news came that General Laudon had taken the important fortress of Glatz. Everyone now expected another wrathful outbreak from the King, but on the contrary he remarked:

“Be it so! But they will have to give it back when peace is made. We must now go to Silesia lest we lose everything.”

His decision was executed almost as soon as it was announced. While on the way, Daun was near him on one side and the Austrian General Lacy on the other. The three armies were so close together that they might easily have been mistaken for one. The light troops had frequent skirmishes, and hardly a day passed without encounters. Thus they fought their way along to Liegnitz. Further advance of the King was now impossible, for Laudon appeared in front of him. He was completely surrounded by the Austrian armies. The enemy’s leaders were jubilant over the prospect of capturing the King and his entire army.

“The net is made in which we will capture the whole Prussian army,” they said, contemptuously. “We have only to cast it.”

The King was informed of their boast and laughingly replied: “That may be so, but I think I can make a hole in that net which they can’t sew up again.”

These were prophetic words.

The King’s army now was so closely hemmed in by the Austrians that a mouse could not have slipped through, and the transportation of subsistence was impossible. Instead of commissary bread, zwiebach was distributed among the soldiers. The King often diverted himself toward evening by walking or riding among the squadrons of the Garde du Corps and talking with the men in a joking way, so as to keep them in good spirits and arouse hope for better times. Upon one such occasion he happened upon an under-officer who had broken his zwiebach and mixed it with a flask of red wine in the camp kettle, hanging over the fire.

“What kind of red soup is that you have there?” asked the King.

“Your Majesty,” was the reply, “that soup cost me seven thalers in cash.”

“Hoho! hoho!” said the King, “what is it?”

“It is red wine and zwiebach. I spent my last ducat[22] that I might have a little comfort once more.”

“Well, if it has cost that much, I would like to know how it tastes.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty, but I have only a tin spoon.”

“That makes no difference.”

Thereupon the King took a spoonful of the soup and said: “This is really very good, but it is too expensive. But I thank you just the same, and you must come soon and eat with me.”

The King shortly afterward ordered the officer to come to his headquarters, and there he appeased his hunger with such food as Frederick ate. Beside this, the King gave him a handsome sum in gold. In such ways as these he managed to win the love and respect of his soldiers.

To the astonishment of all, Daun decided upon a battle, hoping thus to ensure the destruction of the Prussian army. The decisive blow was to be struck August 15, and to make it all the more decisive he arranged for an attack at daybreak and a repetition of the slaughter at Hochkirch. This time, however, Frederick was fortunate enough to hear of the plan and he made a counterplan at once. The Prussian army left its camp in absolute silence during the night and occupied the neighboring heights; and to make the Austrians believe it was resting quietly in its old position, peasants were employed to keep the campfires burning brightly.

Noiselessly Frederick arranged his army in fighting order. Silently the regiments stood in rank and listened for the signal to attack. There was something weird in the spectacle. The infantry stood with weapons ready for attack, and bright sabres flashed in the stout fists of the troopers ready at any instant to strike. Far down in the east day was dawning, and the silent host in the gray dusk looked like a troop of spectres.

To enjoy a moment’s rest, Generals Seydlitz and Zieten threw themselves down by a campfire and slept; but Frederick, sitting upon a drumhead, considered the plans of the coming battle. At last he too was overcome by fatigue, and lying by the side of his generals was soon asleep. Suddenly a major rushed up and loudly asked, “Where is the King?”

The latter, somewhat startled, arose at once and answered, “What is the matter?”

“The enemy is not four hundred yards away,” was his reply.

Officers and men were at once on the alert. Two minutes sufficed to form the regiments in order. Words of command were heard on all sides. The cavalry made ready for the onset. The thunder of artillery resounded over hill and valley, and in less than ten minutes the battle was raging. Frederick’s invincible spirit worked wonders. General Laudon had not expected such a reception and was utterly astonished to find a powerful force confronting him when he expected to surprise the Prussians in their camp. But in this emergency everything depended upon energy and courage. He made a brave assault, but the Prussians made a braver resistance. They fought like lions, and if it had been lighter the enemy would have been mercilessly slaughtered. When the sun rose it illuminated the field covered with bodies and broken weapons. The four hours’ sanguinary conflict was decided. The Prussians won a complete victory, and the Austrians lost ten thousand men, beside twenty-three standards and eighty-two cannon. Thus ended the battle of Liegnitz, August 15, 1760.

Chapter XI
The Victory of Torgau Surprises Frederick

Cavalry and infantry were so exhausted by the bloody work that the King granted them a three hours’ rest. Frederick went through the camp-lines, where there was great rejoicing over the victory, one of the most important results of which was the reawakening of the old battle spirit. There had not been such a glorious event since the disaster at Kunersdorf. He commended their valor, and assured them they should be rewarded at the proper time. The regiment which had lost its decorations at the close of the battle before Dresden behaved so bravely that the King uncovered his head before its commander and cordially thanked him. One old gray-bearded warrior, hoping that the King, while in this gracious mood, might restore to the regiment its trophies and sidearms, stepped forward and pleaded for them. The King quietly listened and then with much emotion replied:

“Yes, children, you have done handsomely. I thank you. You shall have everything back. All is forgotten and forgiven. But this day I shall never forget.”

Loud cheers filled the air at the regiment’s good fortune. After they were rested they formed on the field, strewn with the debris of battle, took the cannon and prisoners along, and made a three hours’ march on that same day. This one victory placed Silesia, partly captured from the Austrians, in Prussian hands.

The King pursued the Austrians vigorously, and used his utmost endeavors to force them from their position. In one of his movements it became necessary to burn a village in the Silesian hills, to keep the Austrians from occupying a certain height. An officer, whose mother belonged in the village, happened to receive the order to burn it, and performed his duty without a moment’s hesitation. This induced the King to interest himself in the family. He not only reimbursed her generously, but every time he met the officer he remembered the occurrence and inquired about his mother’s health. The unconditional surrender of Silesia made that country very dear to him. He used to call it “The Pearl of his Crown,” and used his utmost efforts to free it from the hated enemy.

Greatly to his disappointment, he was suddenly compelled to abandon further pursuit, for he learned that the Mark was in danger of falling into the enemy’s hands. Forty-eight thousand Austrians and Russians had set out to capture Berlin, and reached the frontier unchecked. They knew that the weak city garrison was in no condition to resist the advance of such a strong army. The Prussian Residence actually fell into the hands of the Russian General Tottleben, October 4, 1760. Reports of cruelties practised by the Russians on the march had preceded their coming, and the people were greatly apprehensive of violence. Their apprehensions, however, were needless, as Tottleben was a very noble and humane man and exerted himself constantly to suppress all acts of violence. In reality, the Russians conducted themselves courteously as compared with the Saxons and Austrians, who committed outrageous acts of violence and vandalism.[23] For eight days they gave free rein to their rapacity and maltreatment, when suddenly the rumor spread and was publicly talked about that the King was approaching. Its effect was electrical. Taking all they could lay hands on, they hurriedly made off, for they feared his wrath. When Frederick heard that the mere rumor of his approach had so alarmed the enemy, he laughed loudly and said in the presence of his men: “And such louts as these would cope with us Prussians!”

He liked to joke with his soldiers, and took it in the best of humor when they joked back with him. On the march from Silesia to the Mark, which was a very quick one, the King often said to them when they were tired: “Straighten up, children, straighten up,” meaning that they should march straighter and in better order.

“Fritz, we can’t do it,” was the reply; and one hussar, whom the King had personally addressed, said to him: “Fritz, I can’t do it; I can’t pull up my boots,” at which the King laughed heartily.

It was on such intimate footing as this that the King stood with his men. He also knew just what demands he could make of them. They willingly made their utmost exertions on the long, hard marches. They would gladly die for him. He naturally shared all their troubles and deprivations. He had good reason therefore to write these words to one of his friends:

“You can have no conception of our dreadful fatigues. This movement is worse than any of its predecessors. Sometimes I do not know which way to turn. But I will not weary you with the recital of my troubles and anxieties. All my happiness is buried with the loved and revered ones to whom my heart clings. The close of my life is full of sorrow and pain.”

As already said, Frederick found no enemy in Charlottenburg and its vicinity. Daun had fallen back to Saxony and taken a strong position at Torgau, so that by skilfully distributing his force he could drive back the Prussians and hold almost the whole country. Frederick found himself in a very bad position. The Russians were on the Oder in his rear, and in front the Austrians occupied an almost impregnable position. Under such circumstances it was difficult to find a safe way out. He hastily decided to move against the Austrians, but was at once deterred from so doing when he found their position was impregnable. It was now really a question of life or death. The King realized only too well that he could hardly have found a more disagreeable situation, but he did not disclose his anxiety. He forced himself to conceal his real feelings under a mask of cheerfulness rather than risk losing everything. It is even asserted indeed that in the last years of the Seven Years’ War, when Frederick saw that the strength of his army was steadily diminishing while his enemies maintained their numbers, he carried opium with him with which to take his life if at last he had to succumb to their united strength. He said to a friend at this time:

“I shall never see the moment that forces me to make a disadvantageous peace. Either I will bury myself under the ruins of the Fatherland, or, should fate forbid me that consolation, I will put an end to my troubles when I no longer can bear them. I have acted according to the inner voice of conscience and honor, which guides and has always guided my steps, and my conduct will always be grounded on those principles. I sacrificed my youth to my father, my riper years to the Fatherland; now I think I have the right to dispose of my old age. I have said to you, and I repeat it, never will I put my hand to a disadvantageous peace. I am determined to finish this campaign and to venture the most desperate things, for I will conquer or honorably die.”

How heavily his anxiety wore upon him at this time is shown in another letter to a friend, in which he says:

“I am slowly wasting away; I am like a living body gradually growing speechless, and losing limb by limb. Heaven help us! We need it. You always talk of me and my dangers. Do you not know it is not necessary for me to live? It is only necessary to do my duty and fight for the Fatherland and save it if possible.”

In such a despondent mood as this was the King in the presence of the enemy at Torgau! What was to be done? If he quietly abandoned the place to the enemy, he must spend the Winter in his own country, already nearly exhausted. If he attacked and was defeated, he would lose all Prussia. He must venture everything, but before acting he decided to summon all his generals for a consultation. This took place on the morning of November 3, 1760. General Zieten, one of his most trusted friends, did not immediately appear, which greatly disturbed the King.

“Gentlemen,” he said to them, “we can do nothing, for one of our number is not here.”

He anxiously looked in the direction whence Zieten should come. At last the old general came riding up. Frederick hastened to meet him, embraced him, and said:

“Come, my dear Zieten, I have been anxiously waiting for you, for to-day will be a memorable one. Either I shall conquer or I shall end my troubles, for my position is very critical.”

“What!” said the pious old Zieten, as he dismounted and stroked his beard, “do you doubt the help of God? He has stood by us often and will do so to-day. Your soldiers are full of courage. They trust their God.”

These words restored the King’s confidence. “Well, my dear Zieten,” he replied, “if you think it all right, we will face the inevitable.”

Taking Zieten’s arm, they withdrew from the others for a time and had a confidential interview, after which he returned in better spirits. It was decided to attack, and the aides were soon flying in all directions, carrying the orders to the generals. The attack began that day.

The Prussian army was in two divisions, one led by the King, and the other by Zieten, who got in the rear of the enemy to attack his entrenchments. The King’s division consisted of ten thousand grenadiers and was posted in some woods in battle order. When Frederick advanced with his vanguard upon Daun’s entrenchments he was greeted by a murderous fire from two hundred cannon, so directed that even before the troops reached the enemy’s lines they were almost unfitted for action, as they were deafened by the terrible crashes of the artillery. Notwithstanding the din and confusion, the King retained his composure, and turning to one of his generals, said: “What a horrible cannonading! Did you ever hear anything like it?”

The effect was frightful. In a short time nearly all the brave grenadiers were shot down. Their places were filled by fresh regiments and the cavalry was ordered to advance, but it was useless. Nothing could withstand that murderous fire. In the meantime Frederick himself was exposed to the greatest danger. Shots ploughed up the earth so near him that his horse was very restive. At last he had to make a show of composure. He rode from the first rank to the second, and came to a dragoon regiment.

“Well, children, how goes it? ” he asked.

Some answered, “Badly, Your Majesty; we are standing here letting them shoot us down, and we cannot defend ourselves.”

“Wait a little,” said the King to them, “the firing will soon cease; then we will attack them.”

While saying these words a cannon-ball came so close to him that his horse jumped to one side, knocked over a drum, and seemed about to run away with him. The King smiled, and said to the drummer:

“You tell the Austrians if they don’t soon march off, I will take their guns away from them.”

A new attack was ordered, but the Austrians resumed their destructive fire. At this crisis the King noticed there was a great gap on the right wing, between the Garde du Corps and the gens d’armes. He rode where the shots were falling thickest, to strengthen the weak spot. When this had been done, he remained there a short time, watching with his glass one of the batteries which was playing havoc with the Garde du Corps. A corporal of the fourth company remarked to a guard: “If we have got to stand here and be shot at, because they won’t let us attack, give me a pinch of snuff.”

The guard took his box from his pouch, and as he was lifting the cover, a cannon-ball shot off his head. In the most cold-blooded way, the corporal turned to his second neighbor and said: “Well, now, you give me a pinch; that one has gone to the d—l.”

While Lieutenant von Byern, who afterward became leader of a cuirassier regiment, was speaking with the man about the accident, another ball killed his horse. The King, who had been watching them closely, rode up to the lieutenant, and then said to the corporal: “You have the proper coolness of a soldier. I shall remember you.”

The corporal was overjoyed because the King had honored him by addressing him, which aroused his hope of promotion.

The Garde du Corps suffered greatly in this battle, for they were exposed to the fire of the battery already mentioned, and every discharge killed some of them. The King greatly deplored it, but he could not relieve them right away. He rode up to them and said in a tone of deep sympathy: “Children, only have patience for a few minutes. Things will quickly change.”

At that instant a shot came close to the King and killed the file leader of the fourth company of the second squadron. His next neighbor said to the King: “Be careful of yourself, Your Majesty, and ride to a safer place. It is more important you should live than we.”

The King turned a grateful look to the speaker and said: “My dear son, I thank you for your honest intentions and good-will. I shall not forget you.”

Hardly had the King gone when a shot killed this honest man on the spot.

The attack was renewed by the Prussians, but their valor was of no avail against the strongly entrenched enemy. Night was approaching, but the Austrians had not been dislodged from their position. Firing was still kept up vigorously on both sides, and the combatants were shot down in rows. Frederick himself did not escape untouched. A bullet stunned him, and with the words, “I am killed,” he fell. Two of his aides instantly ran up to him and searched for the wound, but his thick pelisse had saved him. Opening it, they found that the bullet had passed through his heavy clothing, but had not pierced his body. The King speedily came to himself and coolly said: “It is a matter of no consequence.” The bullet, however, had made a bad contusion on his breast.

As night came on, confusion spread through the ranks, and Frederick was not a little disturbed about the result of the battle. He looked upon it as lost, and the Austrians were rejoicing over the victory they supposed they had gained. Both sides, however, were premature in their conclusions, for almost immediately the situation took on a new aspect.

In carrying out his orders, Zieten had had to contend with almost insuperable obstacles before he could get to the place to which he had been assigned. After almost superhuman exertions he reached, toward evening, the Süptitz heights. His soldiers dragged their cannon by hand and planted them on a hill near the enemy. With drums beating and cannon thundering, Zieten advanced to the attack, and at the very first onset captured a battery, causing great alarm and confusion among the Austrians. Field-Marshal Daun rallied all his forces and tried to drive the Prussians out of his entrenchments, but the effort was fruitless. Zieten, clearly realizing what was at stake, so continuously pressed his assaults that the Austrians could not withstand them. They began to waver, and General Daun was so badly wounded that he had to be carried from the field. This new misfortune increased their panic, and Zieten gave them no chance to get over it. He hurled his entire force upon them, and the victory was won.

The King, meanwhile, knew nothing of Zieten’s successful attack and its important results, as the intervening darkness cut off his view of the field. Fancying the battle was lost, or at least that the victory was doubtful, he rode to the neighboring village of Elsnitz, where he went into a church, as all other places were filled with wounded. It was a very cold night. While tired-out, shivering soldiers sought rest and warmth by the watch-fires, Frederick sat upon the lowest step of the altar and by the dim light of a lamp wrote his orders for attack on the following day, for he was determined to make the battle decisive, whatever the cost. It was hardly daybreak when he mounted his horse and rode out of the village. He had not gone far when he saw a cavalry troop approaching, with Zieten at its head. In the tone of an officer reporting, he said to the King, “The enemy is beaten and has retreated.”

Frederick was much excited by the announcement. With the activity of a boy, he jumped from his horse, Zieten following his example, and embraced his faithful general. Zieten cried like a child. Then the two rode back to the field, by different routes, to acquaint the troops with the joyful news and thank them for the bravery they had shown.

The King rode along the front, from the left to the right wing, and approached the generals who were gathered about the watch-fire. Frederick dismounted and joined the brave officers and men of his division, who were waiting for dawn to renew the attack upon the Austrians if they had not retreated. The King talked much with his soldiers and praised them for their valor. The grenadiers, knowing his amiability and condescension, crowded nearer and nearer about him. One of them, with whom the King had several times conversed and to whom he had often given money, was bold enough to ask him where he had been during the battle. They were accustomed to seeing him at their head, leading them into the thickest of the fight. This time, however, not an eye had seen him, and it was not right for him to forsake them. The King replied most graciously to the grenadier, saying that during most of the battle he had been at the left wing of the army and therefore could not be with his own men. While saying this, he unbuttoned his blue overcoat, as he was getting too warm. As he did so, the grenadier noticed a bullet falling from his clothes and saw the wound on his breast through the rent in his uniform. Excitedly he shouted: “Thou art still the old Fritz! Thou sharest every danger with us. For thee we would die gladly. Long live the King! Three times three!”

There was the greatest enthusiasm as Frederick rode up and down the line, shaking hands with this and that old graybeard and addressing a kindly word to everyone. On this occasion the old grenadiers were smoking wretched tobacco in their stub pipes right under his nose. An officer, who knew his dislike of tobacco, said to them, “Step back a little. His Majesty cannot endure tobacco smoke.”

“No, children, stay where you are,” replied the King, with a kindly smile. “I don’t mind the smell.”

He was thus gracious to his soldiers—for it was well known that he was averse to tobacco all his life—and in this and other ways was constantly manifesting his regard for them.

The loss of life at Torgau was very great on both sides. The Austrians lost twenty thousand men beside fifty-five cannon and twenty-seven standards, and the Prussians suffered almost as severely. Frederick, writing about it to a friend, said:

“We have just defeated the Austrians. They have lost an extraordinary number as well as we. This victory will perhaps allow us a little rest this Winter and that is about all. Next year we must begin anew. I have been hit by a shot, which grazed my breast, but it is only a bruise,—little pain, but no danger,—therefore I shall be as busy as ever.”

Large as was the number killed in this battle, it was compensated for by its important results, for Prussia was saved and Saxony was once more freed from the Austrians. The Russians had retired again into Poland, and the Swedes had sought refuge in the farthest corners of Pomerania. The King decided to make his Winter quarters in Leipsic. On his way there, he reached a Saxon village near Wittenburg and took lodgings with a preacher. Delighted with the honor conferred upon him, he went to the door to meet the King, and said: “Come in, thou blessed of the Lord! Why dost thou stand outside?”

The King regarded the preacher, a venerable old man, with a kindly smile, and said to him: “How many taxpayers are there in this village?”

The preacher was so astonished at the question that he could hardly reply, although he knew the number very well. At last he collected his wits and said: “Twenty-two.”

“And how much do they raise?”

The preacher stated the amount of grain in bushels as nearly as he could.

“Has the village suffered much during the war?”

“In the last eight weeks, Your Majesty, your troops and the Austrians have alternately foraged here. We are about at the end, for we only have our lives and cabins left.”

“Who represented the Austrians here?”

“General Luzinsky.”

“Where did he stop?”

“I had the honor of entertaining him in my house as well as I could.”