A controversy, which has never been cleared up, has long raged as to the
death of Gustavus of Sweden; but the weight of evidence is strongly in
favour of those who affirm that he received his fatal wound, that in
the back, at the hand of Franz Albert of Lauenburg. The circumstantial
evidence is, indeed, almost overwhelming. By birth the duke was the
youngest of four sons of Franz II, Duke of Lauenburg. On his mother's
side he was related to the Swedish royal family, and in his youth lived
for some time at the court of Stockholm.
Owing to some impertinent remarks in reference to Gustavus he fell into
disfavour with the queen, and had to leave Sweden. On attaining manhood
he professed the Catholic faith, entered the Imperial army, obtained
the command of a regiment, attached himself with much devotion to
Wallenstein, and gained the confidence of that general. While the
negotiations between the emperor and Wallenstein were pending Franz
Albert was employed by the latter in endeavouring to bring about a
secret understanding with the court of Dresden.
When Gustavus was blockaded in Nuremberg by Wallenstein Franz Albert
left the camp of the latter and presented himself in that of Gustavus as
a convert to the Reformed Religion and anxious to serve as a volunteer
under him. No quarrel or disagreement had, so far as is known, taken
place between him and Wallenstein, nor has any explanation ever been
given for such an extraordinary change of sides, made, too, at a moment
when it seemed that Gustavus was in a position almost desperate. By his
profession of religious zeal he managed to win the king's heart, but
Oxenstiern, when he saw him, entertained a profound distrust of him, and
even warned the king against putting confidence in this sudden convert.
Gustavus, however, naturally frank and open in disposition, could not
believe that treachery was intended, and continued to treat him with
kindness. After the assault made by Gustavus upon Wallenstein's position
Franz Albert quitted his camp, saying that he was desirous of raising
some troops for his service in his father's territory. He rejoined him,
however, with only his personal followers, on the very day before the
battle of Lutzen, and was received by Gustavus with great cordiality,
although the absence of his retainers increased the general doubts as to
his sincerity.
He was by the king's side when Gustavus received his first wound. He
was riding close behind him when the king received his second and fatal
wound in the back, and the moment the king had fallen he rode away from
the field, and it is asserted that it was he who brought the news of the
king's death to Wallenstein.
Very soon after the battle he exchanged the Swedish service for the
Saxon, and some eighteen months later he re-embraced the Roman Catholic
faith and re-entered the Imperial army.
A stronger case of circumstantial evidence could hardly be put together,
and it would certainly seem as if Lauenburg had entered the Swedish
service with the intention of murdering the king. That he did not carry
out his purpose during the attack on the Altenburg was perhaps due to
the fact that Gustavus may not have been in such a position as to afford
him an opportunity of doing so with safety to himself.
It is certainly curious that after that fight he should have absented
himself, and only rejoined on the eve of the battle of Lutzen. The only
piece of evidence in his favour is that of Truchsess, a chamberlain of
the king, who, affirmed that he saw the fatal shot fired at a distance
of ten paces from the king by an Imperial officer, Lieutenant General
Falkenberg, who at once turned and fled, but was pursued and cut down by
Luckau, master of horse of Franz Albert.
The general opinion of contemporary writers is certainly to the effect
that the King of Sweden was murdered by Franz Albert; but the absolute
facts must ever remain in doubt.
On the morning after the battle Wallenstein, having been joined by
Pappenheim's infantry, sent a division of Croats back to the battlefield
to take possession of it should they find that the Swedes had retired;
but on their report that they still held the ground he retired at once
from Leipzig, and, evacuating Saxony, marched into Bohemia, leaving the
Swedes free to accomplish their junction with the army of the Elector,
thus gaining the object for which they had fought at Lutzen.
After the death of the king, Malcolm Graheme, full of grief and rage at
the loss of the monarch who was loved by all his troops, and had treated
him with special kindness, joined the soldiers of Duke Bernhard, and
took part in the charge which swept back the Imperialists and captured
the cannon on the hill. At the very commencement of the struggle his
horse fell dead under him, and he fought on foot among the Swedish
infantry; but when the arrival of Pappenheim on the field enabled the
Imperialists again to assume the offensive, Malcolm, having picked up
a pike from the hands of a dead soldier, fought shoulder to shoulder in
the ranks as the Swedes, contesting stubbornly every foot of the ground,
were gradually driven back towards the road.
Suddenly a shot struck him; he reeled backwards a few feet, strove to
steady himself and to level his pike, and then all consciousness left
him, and he fell prostrate. Again and again, as the fortune of the
desperate fray wavered one way or the other, did friend and foe pass
over the place where he lay.
So thickly strewn was the field with dead that the combatants in their
desperate struggle had long ceased to pick their way over the fallen,
but trampled ruthlessly upon and over them as, hoarsely shouting their
battle cry, they either pressed forward after the slowly retreating foe
or with obstinate bravery strove to resist the charges of the enemy.
When Malcolm recovered his consciousness all was still, save that
here and there a faint moan was heard from others who like himself lay
wounded on the battlefield. The night was intensely dark, and Malcolm's
first sensation was that of bitter cold.
It was indeed freezing severely, and great numbers of the wounded who
might otherwise have survived were frozen to death before morning; but
a few, and among these were Malcolm, were saved by the frost. Although
unconscious of the fact, he had been wounded in two places. The first
ball had penetrated his breastpiece and had entered his body, and a few
seconds later another ball had struck him in the arm. It was the first
wound which had caused his insensibility; but from the second, which
had severed one of the principal veins in the arm, he would have bled to
death had it not been for the effects of the cold. For a time the life
blood had flowed steadily away; but as the cold increased it froze and
stiffened on his jerkin, and at last the wound was staunched.
It was none too soon, for before it ceased to flow Malcolm had lost a
vast quantity of blood. It was hours before nature recovered from the
drain. Gradually and slowly he awoke from his swoon. It was some time
before he realized where he was and what had happened, then gradually
his recollection of the fight returned to him.
“I remember now,” he murmured to himself, “I was fighting with the
Swedish infantry when a shot struck me in the body, I think, for I
seemed to feel a sudden pain like a red hot iron. Who won the day, I
wonder? How bitterly cold it is! I feel as if I were freezing to death.”
So faint and stiff was he, partly from loss of blood, partly from being
bruised from head to foot by being trampled on again and again as the
ranks of the combatants swept over him, that it was some time before
he was capable of making the slightest movement. His left arm was, he
found, entirely useless; it was indeed firmly frozen to the ground; but
after some difficulty he succeeded in moving his right, and felt for the
flask which had hung from his girdle.
So frozen and stiff were his fingers that he was unable to unbuckle the
strap which fastened it; but, drawing his dagger, he at last cut through
this, and removing the stopper of the flask, took a long draught of
the wine with which it was filled. The relief which it afforded him was
almost instantaneous, and he seemed to feel life again coursing in his
veins.
After a while he was sufficiently restored to be enabled to get from his
havresack some bread and meat which he had placed there after finishing
his breakfast on the previous morning. He ate a few mouthfuls, took
another long draught of wine, and then felt that he could hope to hold
on until morning. He was unable to rise even into a sitting position,
nor would it have availed him had he been able to walk, for he knew not
where the armies were lying, nor could he have proceeded a yard in any
direction without falling over the bodies which so thickly strewed the
ground around him.
Though in fact it wanted but two hours of daylight when he recovered
consciousness, the time appeared interminable; but at last, to his
delight, a faint gleam of light spread across the sky. Stronger and
stronger did it become until the day was fairly broken. It was another
hour before he heard voices approaching. Almost holding his breath he
listened as they approached, and his heart gave a throb of delight as he
heard that they were speaking in Swedish. A victory had been won, then,
for had it not been so, it would have been the Imperialists, not the
Swedes, who would have been searching the field of battle.
“There are but few alive,” one voice said, “the cold has finished the
work which the enemy began.”
Malcolm, unable to rise, lifted his arm and held it erect to call the
attention of the searchers; it was quickly observed.
“There is some one still alive,” the soldier exclaimed, “an officer,
too; by his scarf and feathers he belongs to the Green Brigade.”
“These Scotchmen are as hard as iron,” another voice said; “come, bring
a stretcher along.”
They were soon by the side of Malcolm.
“Drink this, sir,” one said, kneeling beside him and placing a flask of
spirits to his lips; “that will warm your blood, I warrant, and you must
be well nigh frozen.”
Malcolm took a few gulps at the potent liquor, then he had strength to
say:
“There is something the matter with my left arm, I can't move it, and I
think I am hit in the body.”
“You are hit in the body, sure enough,” the man said, “for there is
a bullet hole through your cuirass, and your jerkin below it is all
stained with blood. You have been hit in the left arm too, and the blood
is frozen to the ground; but we will soon free that for you. But before
trying to do that we will cut open the sleeve of your jerkin and bandage
your arm, or the movement may set it off bleeding again, and you have
lost a pool of blood already.”
Very carefully the soldiers did their work, and then placing Malcolm on
the stretcher carried him away to the camp. Here the surgeons were all
hard at work attending to the wounded who were brought in. They had
already been busy all night, as those whose hurts had not actually
disabled them found their way into the camp. As he was a Scotch officer
he was carried to the lines occupied by Colonel Henderson with his
Scotch brigade. He was known to many of the officers personally, and no
time was lost in attending to him. He was nearly unconscious again by
the time that he reached the camp, for the movement had caused the wound
in his body to break out afresh.
His armour was at once unbuckled, and his clothes having been cut the
surgeons proceeded to examine his wounds. They shook their heads as
they did so. Passing a probe into the wound they found that the ball,
breaking one of the ribs in its course, had gone straight on. They
turned him gently over.
“Here it is,” the surgeon said, producing a flattened bullet. The
missile indeed had passed right through the body and had flattened
against the back piece, which its force was too far spent to penetrate.
“Is the case hopeless, doctor?” one of the officers who was looking on
asked.
“It is well nigh hopeless,” the doctor said, “but it is just possible
that it has not touched any vital part. The lad is young, and I judge
that he has not ruined his constitution, as most of you have done, by
hard drinking, so that there is just a chance for him. There is nothing
for me to do but to put a piece of lint over the two holes, bandage it
firmly, and leave it to nature. Now let me look at his arm.
“Ah!” he went on as he examined the wound, “he has had a narrow escape
here. The ball has cut a vein and missed the principal artery by an
eighth of an inch. If that had been cut he would have bled to death in
five minutes. Evidently the lad has luck on his side, and I begin to
think we may save him if we can only keep him quiet.”
At the earnest request of the surgeons tents were brought up and a
hospital established on some rising ground near the field of battle for
the serious cases among the wounded, and when the army marched away
to join the Saxons at Leipzig a brigade was left encamped around the
hospital.
Here for three weeks Malcolm lay between life and death. The quantity of
blood he had lost was greatly in his favour, as it diminished the risk
of inflammation, while his vigorous constitution and the life of fatigue
and activity which he had led greatly strengthened his power. By a
miracle the bullet in its passage had passed through without injuring
any of the vital parts; and though his convalescence was slow it was
steady, and even at the end of the first week the surgeons were able to
pronounce a confident opinion that he would get over it.
But it was not until the end of the month that he was allowed to move
from his recumbent position. A week later and he was able to sit up. On
the following day, to his surprise, the Count of Mansfeld strode into
his tent.
“Ah! my young friend,” he exclaimed, “I am glad indeed to see you so
far recovered. I came to Leipzig with the countess and my daughter;
for Leipzig at present is the centre where all sorts of political
combinations are seething as in a cooking pot. It is enough to make one
sick of humanity and ashamed of one's country when one sees the greed
which is displayed by every one, from the highest of the princes down to
petty nobles who can scarce set twenty men in the field.
“Each and all are struggling to make terms by which he may better
himself, and may add a province or an acre, as the case may be, to his
patrimony at the expense of his neighbours. Truly I wonder that the
noble Oxenstiern, who represents Sweden, does not call together the
generals and troops of that country from all parts and march away
northward, leaving these greedy princes and nobles to fight their own
battles, and make the best terms they may with their Imperial master.
“But there, all that does not interest you at present; but I am so full
of spleen and disgust that I could not help letting it out. We arrived
there a week since, and of course one of our first inquiries was for
you, and we heard to our grief that the Imperialists had shot one of
their bullets through your body and another through your arm. This, of
course, would have been sufficient for any ordinary carcass; but I knew
my Scotchman, and was not surprised when they told me you were mending
fast.
“I had speech yesterday with an officer who had ridden over from this
camp, and he told me that the doctors said you were now convalescent,
but would need repose and quiet for some time before you could again
buckle on armour. The countess, when I told her, said at once, 'Then we
will take him away back with us to Mansfeld.' Thekla clapped her hands
and said, 'That will be capital! we will look after him, and he shall
tell us stories about the wars.'
“So the thing was settled at once. I have brought over with me a horse
litter, and have seen your surgeon, who says that although it will be
some weeks before you can sit on a horse without the risk of your wound
bursting out internally, there is no objection to your progression in a
litter by easy stages; so that is settled, and the doctor will write to
your colonel saying that it will be some months before you are fit for
duty, and that he has therefore ordered you change and quiet.
“You need not be afraid of neglecting your duty or of getting out of the
way of risking your life in harebrained ventures, for there will be no
fighting till the spring. Everyone is negotiating at present, and you
will be back with your regiment before fighting begins again. Well, what
do you say?”
“I thank you, indeed,” Malcolm replied. “It will of all things be the
most pleasant; the doctor has told me that I shall not be fit for duty
until the spring, and I have been wondering how ever I should be able to
pass the time until then.”
“Then we will be off without a minute's delay,” the count said. “I sent
off the litter last night and started myself at daybreak, promising the
countess to be back with you ere nightfall, so we have no time to lose.”
The news soon spread that Malcolm Graheme was about to leave the camp,
and many of the Scottish officers came in to say adieu to him; but time
pressed, and half an hour after the arrival of the count he started
for Leipzig with Malcolm in a litter swung between two horses. As they
travelled at a foot pace Malcolm did not find the journey uneasy, but
the fresh air and motion soon made him drowsy, and he was fast asleep
before he had left the camp an hour, and did not awake until the sound
of the horses' hoofs on stone pavements told him that they were entering
the town of Leipzig.
A few minutes later he was lying on a couch in the comfortable
apartments occupied by the count, while the countess with her own hands
was administering refreshments to him, and Thekla was looking timidly
on, scarce able to believe that this pale and helpless invalid was the
stalwart young Scottish soldier of whose adventures she was never weary
of talking.