THE RUSSIAN IS AT THE GATES.
In a few minutes quiet, peaceful, industrious Berlin was transformed
into an open encampment. From all the streets there poured throngs
of armed men toward the town-hall, where the wise magistrates were
consulting on the possibility of resistance, or toward the commander
of Berlin, General Rochow, who had the streets patrolled, and called
upon the citizens, by beat of drum, to assemble with arms, and assist
in the defence of the town.
"The Russian is at the gates!" This cry of terror seemed to cure the
sick and feeble, and give courage and strength to the wavering. The
old national hatred of the German toward the Russian broke out in its
entire vigor; and vehemence made even the faint-hearted fly to arms,
and caused words of imprecation to rise to the lips of those who were
in the habit of uttering prayers and timid complaints.
The council of war was assembled at the commander's office, and,
strange to say, it consisted of only old men and invalids. There were
present the infirm veteran general and commander, Rochow, and the
eighty-year-old Field-Marshal Lehwald, the severely-wounded General
Seidlitz, and General Knoblauch, also wounded. These four composed the
whole council, and fully aware of the danger and of the smallness of
their forces, were debating whether they should yield to the demand of
the Russian troops, and give up the town without any defence, or,
with twelve hundred garrison troops, two rusty cannon, a few thousand
wounded soldiers, and an inefficient body of citizens, give battle to
the twelve thousand irregular troops of General Tottleben, who would
soon he reënforced by the army of General Tschernitscheff, twenty
thousand strong, and fourteen thousand Austrians under Count Lacy,
who, as they well knew, were coming on by forced marches. But so great
was the heroic exasperation and eagerness for the fight of these noble
and war-worn veterans, that not one of them advised submission; but,
on the contrary, they unanimously determined to defend Berlin as long
as a drop of blood flowed in their veins. As these brave generals had
no army to lead into the fight, they would defend the town, not as
commanders of high rank, but as fighting soldiers, and waiving their
military rank and dignity to their noble love of country, like other
soldiers, they would each one defend his intrenchment or redoubt.
But while the military commanders were adopting these heroic
resolutions, the Town Council was engaged in secret session at the
town-hall. The wise fathers were staring at each other with terror
in their countenances, and considering, in pusillanimous
faint-heartedness, whether they would really assume the heavy
responsibility of engaging the peaceful citizens in a fight, which,
after all, would be, in all probability, useless and without result.
"I vote for submission," stammered out the chief burgomaster, Herr von
Kircheisen, with heavy tongue, as he wiped off the big drops of sweat
which stood upon his brow with his silk handkerchief. "I vote for
submission. The honorable citizens of this town are not called on to
spill their blood in useless fighting, nor to irritate the wrath of
the enemy by resistance. And besides, the enemy will doubtless lay a
war tax on us, and this will certainly be lighter if we submit at
once than if we resist. Further, it is the sacred duty of a prudent
magistrate to protect and preserve, to the best of his ability, the
property of the citizens. It is therefore my opinion that, in order
to save the hard-earned possessions of the poor citizens of Berlin,
already sufficiently oppressed, we submit at once to an overwhelming
force."
By the brightening countenances of the worthy councilmen it could be
plainly perceived that the eloquence of the chief burgomaster had
told powerfully upon them, and that the question of money which he
had raised would prove a powerful and decisive argument in favor of
submission at this momentous period.
The assistant burgomaster had already expressed his entire concurrence
in the views of Herr von Kircheisen, and the first alderman was in
the act of opening his mouth to do the same, when the patriotic
deliberations of the worthy gentlemen were interrupted by shouts and
cries from the street below, which drove them in terror from their
seats. They hastened to the windows, and, carefully concealed behind
the curtains, ventured to peep down into the street.
Down there they beheld a much more lively sight--men and youths, old
men and boys streamed toward the town-hall, and, raising their eyes
and arms to the windows, demanded from the city fathers, with genuine
enthusiasm, weapons and ammunition. Perhaps, indeed, it was only fear
which had suddenly made these peaceful citizens of Berlin so bold and
lion-hearted: one thing is certain, that is, that at this moment they
were all animated by one sentiment, one impulse, and that their deadly
hatred against Russian and Austrian tendered peaceable submission
impossible. The tailor threw away his needle and grasped the sword,
the shoemaker exchanged his awl for a dagger, and all these quiet,
humble citizens had been transformed by hatred and fear, anger and
terror, into most belligerent heroes.
"Give us arms!" was the reiterated cry.
An heroic tailor climbed up on the shoulders of a hunchback shoemaker,
and sawing the air violently with his arms, cried out: "The people of
Berlin demand their rights; they will fight for their liberty. Give
the people of Berlin their due. Give them arms--arms!"
"Arms!" roared the crowd. "We will have arms!"
"And what do you want with arms?" cried suddenly a shrill, piercing
voice. All eyes were turned toward the spot whence the voice
proceeded, and there was seen the meagre figure of the linen-weaver,
who had leaped upon a bench, and from his elevated position was
looking down upon the people with the confident air of a conqueror.
But Pfannenstiel observed, to his dismay, that this time his
appearance did not produce the desired effect; on the contrary, angry
looks were cast upon him, and occasionally a threatening fist was
raised against the divinely-inspired prophet.
"What do you want with arms?" cried he once more. "Prayer is the only
weapon becoming peaceful citizens."
A burst of scornful laughter was the answer. "Down with the
linen-weaver! Tear him to pieces!" roared the crowd, becoming
infuriated.
"We mean to fight, and not to pray," cried the valorous tailor.
"We want none of your poltroonery, you blackguard of a linen-weaver!"
"The tailor is right! Pfannenstiel is a false prophet!" cried another
voice.
"Hang him!"
"He wants to make cowards of us!"
The crowd raged still more furiously, and pressed toward the spot
where Pfannenstiel stood. Threatening hands were raised against him,
and the situation of the prophet of peace began to be uncomfortable
enough, when suddenly two new figures rose near him, and, by their
unexpected appearance, restrained for a moment the wrath of the
people.
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