A "Correspondence" of a certain Excellency Villiers, English Minister
at Dresden,--Sir Thomas Villiers, Grandfather of the present Earl of
Clarendon,--was very famous in those weeks; and is still worth mention,
as a trait of Friedrich's procedure in this crisis. Friedrich, not
intoxicated with his swift triumph over Prince Karl, but calculating
the perils and the chances still ahead,--miserably off for money
too,--admits to himself that not revenge or triumph, that Peace is the
one thing needful to him. November 29th, Old Leopold is entering Saxony;
and in the same hours, Podewils at Berlin, by order of Friedrich, writes
to Villiers who is in Dresden, about Peace, about mediating for Peace:
"My King ready and desirous, now as at all times, for Peace; the terms
of it known; terms not altered, not alterable, no bargaining or higgling
needed or allowable. CONVENTION OF HANOVER, let his Polish Majesty
accede honestly to that, and all these miseries are ended."
["CORRESPONDANCE DU ROI AVEC SIR THOMAS VILLIERS;" commences, on
Podewils's part, 28th November; on Friedrich's, 4th December; ends,
on Villier's, 18th December; fourteen Pieces in all, four of them
Friedrich's: Given in _OEuvres de Frederic,_ iii. 183-216 (see IB, 158),
and in many other Books.]
Villiers starts instantly on this beneficent business; "goes to Court,
on it, that very night;" Villiers shows himself really diligent,
reasonable, loyal; doing his very best now and afterwards; but has no
success at all. Polish Majesty is obstinate,--I always think, in the way
sheep are, when they feel themselves too much put upon;--and is deaf
to everybody but Bruhl. Bruhl answers: "Let his Prussian Majesty retire
from our Territory;--what is he doing in the Lausitz just now! Retire
from our Territory; THEN we will treat!" Bruhl still refuses to be
desperate of his bad game;--at any rate, Bruhl's rage is yellower
than ever. That, very evening, while talking to Villiers, he has had
preparations going on;--and next morning takes his Master, Polish
Majesty August III., with some comfortable minimum of apparatus
(cigar-boxes not forgotten), off to Prag, where they can be out of
danger till the thing decide itself. Villiers follows to Prag; desists
not from his eloquent Letters, and earnest persuasions at Prag; but
begins to perceive that the means of persuading Bruhl will be a much
heavier kind of artillery.
On the whole, negotiations have yet done little. Britannic George,
though Purseholder, what is his success here? As little is the Russian
Bugbear persuasive on Friedrich himself. The Czarina of the Russias, a
luxurious lady, of far more weight than insight, has just notified to
him, with more emphasis than ever, That he shall not attack Saxony; that
if he do, she with considerable vigor will attack him! That has always
been a formidable puzzle for Friedrich: however, he reflects that the
Russians never could draw sword, or be ready with their Army, in less
than six months, probably not in twelve; and has answered, translating
it into polite official terms: "Fee-faw-fum, your Czarish Majesty!
Question is not now of attacking, but of being myself attacked!"--and so
is now running his risks with the Czarina.
Still worse was the result he got from Louis XV. Lately, "for form's
sake," as he tells us, "and not expecting anything," he had (November
15th) made a new appeal to France: "Ruin menacing your Most Christian
Majesty's Ally, in this huge sudden crisis of invasive Austrian-Saxons;
and for your Majesty's sake, may I not in some measure say?" To which
Louis's Answer is also given. A very sickly, unpleasant Document;
testifying to considerable pique against Friedrich;--Ranke says, it was
a joint production, all the Ministers gradually contributing each his
little pinch of irony to make it spicier, and Louis signing when it was
enough;--very considerable pique against Friedrich; and something of the
stupid sulkiness as of a fat bad boy, almost glad that the house is on
fire, because it will burn his nimble younger brother, whom everybody
calls so clever: "Sorry indeed, Sir my Brother, most sorry:--and so
you have actually signed that HANOVER CONVENTION with our worst Enemy?
France is far from having done so; France has done, and will do, great
things. Our Royal heart grieves much at your situation; but is not
alarmed; no, Your Majesty has such invention, vigor and ability,
superior to any crisis, our clever younger Brother! And herewith we
pray God to have you in his holy keeping." This is the purport of King
Louis's Letter;--which Friedrich folds together again, looking up from
perusal of it, we may fancy with what a glance of those eyes. [Louis's
Original, in _OEuvres de Frederic,_ iii. 173, 174 (with a much
more satirical paraphrase than the above), and Friedrich's Answer
adjoined,--after the events had come.]
He is getting instructed, this young King, as to alliances, grand
combinations, French and other. His third Note to Villiers intimates,
"It being evident that his Polish Majesty will have nothing from us
but fighting, we must try to give it him of the best kind we have."
["Bautzen, 11th December, 1745" (UBI SUPRA).] Yes truly; it is the
ULTIMATE persuasive, that. Here, in condensed form, are the essential
details of the course it went, in this instance:--General Grune, on
the road to Berlin, hearing of the rout at Hennersdorf, halted
instantly,--hastened back to Saxony, to join Rutowski there, and stand
on the defensive. Not now in that Halle-Frontier region (Rutowski has
quitted that, and all the intrenchments and marshy impregnabilities
there); not on that Halle-Frontier, but hovering about in the
interior, Rutowski and Grune are in junction; gravitating towards
Dresden;--expecting Prince Karl's advent; who ought to emerge from the
Saxon Switzerland in few days, were he sharp; and again enable us to
make a formidable figure. Be speedy, Old Dessauer: you must settle the
Grune-Rutowski account before that junction, not after it!
The Old Dessauer has been tolerably successful, and by no means thinks
he has been losing time. November 29th, "at three in the morning," he
stept over into Saxony with its impregnable camps; drove Rutowski's
rear-guard, or remnant, out of the quagmires, canals and intrenchments,
before daylight; drove it, that same evening, or before dawn of the
morrow, out of Leipzig: has seized that Town,--lays heavy contribution
on it, nearly 50,000 pounds (such our strait for finance), "and be sure
you take only substantial men as sureties!" [Orlich, ii. 308.]--and
will, and does after a two days' rest, advance with decent celerity
inwards; though "One must first know exactly whither; one must have
bread, and preparations and precautions; do all things solidly and in
order," thinks the Old Dessauer. Friedrich well knows the whither; and
that Dresden itself is, or may be made, the place for falling in with
Rutowski. Friedrich is now himself ready to join, from the Bautzen
region; the days and hours precious to him; and spurs the Old Dessauer
with the sharpest remonstrances. "All solidly and in order, your
Majesty!" answers the Old Dessauer: solid strong-boned old coach-horse,
who has his own modes of trotting, having done many a heavy mile of it
in his time; and whose skin, one hopes, is of the due thickness against
undue spurring.
Old Dessauer wishes two things: bread to live upon; and a sure Bridge
over the Elbe whereby Friedrich may join him. Old Dessauer makes for
Torgau, far north, where is both an Elbe Bridge and a Magazine; which he
takes; Torgau and pertinents now his. But it is far down the Elbe, far
off from Bautzen and Friedrich: "A nearer Bridge and rendezvous, your
Highness! Meissen [where they make the china, only fifty miles from me,
and twenty from Dresden], let that be the Bridge, now that you have got
victual. And speedy; for Heaven's sake, speedy!" Friedrich pushes out
General Lehwald from Bautzen, with 4,000 men, towards Meissen Bridge;
Lehwald does not himself meddle with the Bridge, only fires shot across
upon the Saxon party, till the Old Dessauer, on the other bank, come
up;--and the Old Dessauer, impatience thinks, will never come. "Three
days in Torgau, yes, Your Majesty: I had bread to bake, and the very
ovens had to be built." A solid old roadster, with his own modes of
trotting; needs thickness of skin. [Friedrich's Letters to Leopold, in
Orlich, ii. 431, 435 (6th-10th December, 1745).]
At long last, on Sunday, 12th December, about two P.M., the Old Dessauer
does appear; or General Gessler, his vanguard, does appear,--Gessler of
the sixty-seven standards,--"always about an hour ahead." Gessler has
summoned Meissen; has not got it, is haggling with it about terms, when,
towards sunset of the short day, Old Dessauer himself arrives. Whereupon
the Saxon Commandant quits the Bridge (not much breaking it); and glides
off in the dark, clear out of Meissen, towards Dresden,--chased, but
successfully defending himself. [See Plan, p. 10.] "Had he but stood out
for two days!" say the Saxons,--"Prince Karl had then been up, and much
might have been different." Well, Friedrich too would have been up,
and it had most likely been the same on a larger scale. But the Saxon
Commandant did not stand out; he glided off, safe; joined Rutowski and
Grune, who are lying about Wilsdruf, six or seven miles on the hither
side of Dresden, and eagerly waiting for Prince Karl. "Bridge and Town
of Meissen are your Majesty's," reports the Old Dessauer that night:
upon which Friedrich instantly rises, hastening thitherward. Lehwald
comes across Meissen Bridge, effects the desired junction; and all
Monday the Old Dessauer defiles through Meissen town and territory;
continually advances towards Dresden, the Saxons harassing the flanks
of him a little,--nay in one defile, being sharp strenuous fellows, they
threw his rear into some confusion; cut off certain carts and prisoners,
and the life of one brave General, Lieutenant-General Roel, who had
charge there. "Spurring one's trot into a gallop! This comes of your
fast marching, of your spurring beyond the rules of war!" thinks Old
Leopold; and Friedrich, who knows otherwise, is very angry for a moment.
But indeed the crisis is pressing. Prince Karl is across the Metal
Mountains, nearing Dresden from the east; Friedrich strikes into march
for the same point by Meissen, so soon as the Bridge is his. Old Leopold
is advancing thither from the westward,--steadily hour by hour; Dresden
City the fateful goal. There,--in these middle days of December, 1745
(Highland Rebellion just whirling back from Derby again, "the London
shops shut for one day"),--it is clear there will be a big and bloody
game played before we are much older. Very sad indeed: but Count Bruhl
is not persuadable otherwise. By slumbering and sluggarding, over their
money-tills and flesh-pots; trying to take evil for good, and to say,
"It will do," when it will not do, respectable Nations come at last
to be governed by Bruhls; cannot help themselves;--and get their backs
broken in consequence. Why not? Would you have a Nation live forever
that is content to be governed by Bruhls? The gods are wiser!--It is now
the 13th; Old Dessauer tramping forward, hour by hour, towards Dresden
and some field of Fate.
On Tuesday, 14th, by break of day, Old Dessauer gets on march again;
in four columns, in battle order; steady all day,--hard winter weather,
ground crisp, and flecked with snow. The Pass at Neustadt, "his cavalry
went into it at full gallop;" but found nobody there. That night
he encamps at a place called Rohrsdorf; which may be eight miles
west-by-north from Dresden, as the crow flies; and ten or more, if you
follow the highway round by Wilsdruf on your right. The real direct
Highway from Meissen to Dresden is on the other side of the Elbe, and
keeps by the River-bank, a fine level road; but on this western side,
where Leopold now is, the road is inland, and goes with a bend. Leopold,
of course, keeps command of this road; his columns are on both sides of
it, River on their left at some miles distance; and incessantly expect
to find Rutowski, drawn out on favorable ground somewhere. The country
is of fertile, but very broken character; intersected by many
brooks, making obliquely towards the Elbe (obliquely, with a leaning
Meissen-wards); country always mounting, till here about Rohrsdorf we
seem to have almost reached the watershed, and the brooks make for the
Elbe, leaning Dresden way. Good posts abound in such broken country,
with its villages and brooks, with its thickets, hedges and patches of
swamp. But Rutowski has not appeared anywhere, during this Tuesday.
Our four columns, therefore, lie all night, under arms, about Rohrsdorf:
and again by morrow's dawn are astir in the old order, crunching far
and wide the frozen ground; and advance, charged to the muzzle with
potential battle. Slightly upwards always, to the actual watershed
of the country; leaving Wilsdruf a little to their right. Wilsdruf is
hardly past, when see, from this broad table-land, top of the country:
"Yonder is Rutowski, at last;--and this new Wednesday will be a day!"
Yonder, sure enough: drawn out three or four miles long; with his
right to the Elbe, his left to that intricate Village of Kesselsdorf;
bristling with cannon; deep gullet and swampy brook in front of him: the
strongest post a man could have chosen in those parts.
The Village of Kesselsdorf itself lies rather in a hollow; in the slight
beginning, or uppermost extremity, of a little Valley or Dell, called
the Tschonengrund,--which, with its quaggy brook of a Tschone, wends
northeastward into the Elbe, a course of four or five miles: a little
Valley very deep for its length, and getting altogether chasmy and
precipitous towards the Elbe-ward or lower end. Kesselsdorf itself,
as we said, is mainly in a kind of hollow: between Old Leopold and
Kesselsdorf the ground rather mounts; and there is perceptibly a flat
knoll or rise at the head of it, where the Village begins. Some trees
there, and abundance of cannon and grenadiers at this moment. It is the
southwestern or left-most point of Rutowski's line; impregnable with
its cannon-batteries and grenadiers. Rightward Rutowski extends in long
lines, with the quaggy-dell of Tschonengrund in front of him, parallel
to him; Dell ever deepening as it goes. Northeastward, at the extreme
right, or Elbe point of it, where Grune and the Austrians stand, it has
grown so chasmy, we judge that Grune can neither advance nor be
MAP/PLAN GOES HERE--book 15 continuation --page 10--
advanced upon:e,--which he did all day,
in a purely meditative posture. Rutowski numbers 35,000, now on this
ground, with immensity of cannon; 32,000 we, with only the usual
field-artillery, and such a Tschonengrund, with its half-frozen
quagmires ahead. A ticklish case for the old man, as he grimly
reconnoitres it, in the winter morning.
Grim Old Dessauer having reconnoitred, and rapidly considered, decides
to try it,--what else?--will range himself on the west side of that
Tschonengrund, horse and foot; two lines, wide as Rutowski opposite him;
but means to direct his main and prime effort against Kesselsdorf, which
is clearly the key of the position, if it can be taken. For which end
the Old Dessauer lengthens himself out to rightward, so as to outflank
Kesselsdorf;--neglecting Grune (refusing Grune, as the soldiers
say):--"our horse of the right wing reached from the Wood called
Lerchenbusoh (LARCH-BUSH) rightward as far as Freyberg road; foot
all between that Lerchenbusch and the big Birch-tree on the road to
Wilsdruf; horse of the left wing, from there to Roitsch." [Stille (p.
181), who was present. See Plan.] It was about two P.M. before the old
man got all his deployments completed; what corps of his, deploying this
way or that, came within wind of Kesselsdorf, were saluted with cannon,
thirty pieces or more, which are in battery, in three batteries, on the
knoll there; but otherwise no fighting as yet. At two, the Old Dessauer
is complete; he reverently doffs his hat, as had always been his wont,
in prayer to God, before going in. A grim fervor of prayer is in his
heart, doubtless; though the words as reported are not very regular or
orthodox: "O HERR GOTT, help me yet this once; let me not be disgraced
in my old days! Or if thou wilt not help me, don't help those HUNDSVOGTE
[damned Scoundrels, so to speak], but leave us to try it ourselves!"
That is the Old Scandinavian of a Dessauer's prayer; a kind of GODUR
he too, Priest as well as Captain: Prayer mythically true as given;
mythically, not otherwise. [Ranke, iii. 334 n.] Which done, he waves his
hat once, "On, in God's name!" and the storm is loose. Prussian right
wing pushing grandly forward, bent in that manner, to take Kesselsdorf
and its fire-throats in flank.
The Prussians tramp on with the usual grim-browed resolution, foot
in front, horse in rear; but they have a terrible problem at that
Kesselsdorf, with its retrenched batteries, and numerous grenadiers
fighting under cover. The very ground is sore against them; uphill, and
the trampled snow wearing into a slide, so that you sprawl and stagger
sadly. Thirty-one big guns, and about 9,000 small, pouring out mere
death on you, from that knoll-head. The Prussians stagger; cannot stand
it; bend to rightwards, and get out of shot-range; cannot manage it
this bout. Rally, reinforce; try it again. Again, with a will; but again
there is not a way. The Prussians are again repulsed; fall back, down
this slippery course, in more disorder than the first time. Had the
Saxons stood still, steadily handling arms, how, on such terms, could
the Prussians ever have managed it?
But at sight of this second repulse, the Saxon grenadiers, and
especially one battalion of Austrians who were there (the only Austrians
who fought this day), gave a shout "Victory!"--and in the height of
their enthusiasm, rushed out, this Austrian battalion first and the
Saxons after them, to charge these Prussians, and sweep the world clear
of them. It was the ruin of their battle; a fatal hollaing before you
are out of the woods. Old Leopold, quick as thought, noticing the thing,
hurls cavalry on these victorious down-plunging grenadiers; slashes them
asunder, into mere recoiling whirlpools of ruin; so that "few of
them got back unwounded;" and the Prussians storming in along with
them,--aided by ever new Prussians, from beyond the Tschonengrund
even,--the place was at length carried; and the Saxon battle became
hopeless.
For, their right being in such hurricane, the Prussians from the
centre, as we hint, storm forward withal; will not be held back by the
Tschonengrund. They find the Tschonengrund quaggy in the extreme, "brook
frozen at the sides, but waist-deep of liquid mud in the centre;" cross
it, nevertheless, towards the upper part of it,--young Moritz of Dessau
leading the way, to help his old Father in extremity. They climb the
opposite side,--quite slippery in places, but "helping one another
up;"--no Saxons there till you get fairly atop, which was an oversight
on the Saxon part. Fairly atop, Moritz is saluted by the Saxons with
diligent musket-volleys; but Moritz also has musket-volleys in him,
bayonet-charges in him; eager to help his old Papa at this hard pinch.
Old Papa has the Saxons in flank; sends more and ever more other cavalry
in on them; and in fact, the right wing altogether storms violently
through Kesselsdorf, and sweeps it clean. Whole regiments of the Saxons
are made prisoners; Roel's Light Horse we see there, taking standards;
cutting violently in to avenge Roel's death, and the affront they had
at Meissen lately. Furious Moritz on their front, from across the
Tschonengrund; furious Roel (GHOST of Roel) and others in their flank,
through Kesselsdorf: no standing for the Saxons longer.
About nightfall,--their horse having made poorish fight, though the foot
had stood to it like men,--they roll universally away. The Prussian left
wing of horse are summoned through the Tschonengrund to chase: had there
remained another hour of daylight, the Saxon Army had been one wide
ruin. Hidden in darkness, the Saxon Army ebbed confusedly towards
Dresden: with the loss of 6,000 prisoners and 3,000 killed and wounded:
a completely beaten Army. It is the last battle the Saxons fought as
a Nation,--or probably will fight. Battle called of Kesselsdorf:
Wednesday, 15th December, 1745.
Prince Karl had arrived at Dresden the night before; heard all this
volleying and cannonading, from the distance; but did not see good to
interfere at all. Too wide apart, some say; quartered at unreasonably
distant villages, by some irrefragable ignorant War-clerk of Bruhl's
appointing,--fatal Bruhl. Others say, his Highness had himself no mind;
and made excuses that his troops were tired, disheartened by the two
beatings lately,--what will become of us in case of a third or fourth!
It is certain, Prince Karl did nothing. Nor has Grime's corps, the
right wing, done anything except meditate:--it stood there unattacked,
unattacking; till deep in the dark night, when Rutowski remembered
it, and sent it order to come home. One Austrian battalion, that of
grenadiers on the knoll at Kesselsdorf, did actually fight;--and did
begin that fatal outbreak, and quitting of the post there; "which lost
the Battle to us!" say the Saxons.
Had those grenadiers stood in their place, there is no Prussian but
admits that it would have been a terrible business to take Kesselsdorf
and its batteries. But they did not stand; they rushed out, shouting
"Victory;" and lost us the battle. And that is the good we have got of
the sublime Austrian Alliance; and that is the pass our grand scheme
of Partitioning Prussia has come to? Fatal little Bruhl of the three
hundred and sixty-five clothes-suits; Valet fatally become divine in
Valet-hood,--are not you costing your Country dear!
Old Dessauer, glorious in the last of his fields, lay on his arms all
night in the posts about; three bullets through his roquelaure, no
scratch of wound upon the old man. Young Moritz too "had a bullet
through his coat-skirt, and three horses shot under him; but no hurt,
the Almighty's grace preserving him." [_Feldzuge,_i. 434.] This Moritz
is the Third of the Brothers, age now thirty-three; and we shall hear
considerably about him in times coming. A lean, tall, austere man; and,
"of all the Brothers, most resembled his Father in his ways." Prince
Dietrich is in Leipzig at present; looking to that contribution of
50,000 pounds; to that, and to other contributions and necessary
matters;--and has done all his fighting (as it chanced), though he
survived his Brothers many years. Old Papa will now get his discharge
before long (quite suddenly, one morning, by paralytic stroke, 7th
April, 1747); and rest honorably with the Sons of Thor. [Young Leopold,
the successor, died 16th December, 1751, age fifty-two; Dietrich (who
had thereupon quitted soldiering, to take charge of his Nephew left
minor, and did not resume it), died 2d December, 1769; Moritz (soldier
to the last), 11th April, 1760. See _Militair-Lexikon,_i. 43, 34,
38,47.]