One dark December evening, about a month after the general's departure
from home, the Danish army had encamped in the vicinity of Gadebusk. In
spite of the darkness and the rough weather, there seemed to be an
unusual stir and activity in the camp that evening, which betokened
that something of importance was about to happen.
Shortly before it had become dark, a reconnoitring expedition which had
been sent out returned with the intelligence that General Steenbock,
the commander-in-chief of the Swedish army, had approached until within
three miles of the Danish camp, and that, according to all appearances,
he was preparing to attack the Danes at dawn of day. Messengers were
sent in various directions. A few of these were to summon the general
officers to a council of war, others to take orders to the different
portions of the infantry who lay in cantonments in the nearest
villages.
King Frederick IV. had arrived at the camp two days previously from
Oldeslobe. He had taken up his quarters at the little country town of
Wakenstadt, whither the officers who had been commanded to assist at
the council of war that evening repaired.
There was a striking contrast between the appearance of these
gentlemen, who, on account of the presence of the king, wore their
embroidered and dashing uniforms, and the low, dirty, peasants'
parlour, where the meeting was to be held.
A peat fire was smoking and blazing in the open chimney; its lurid
glare fell on the plastered clay walls, to which time and damp had
imparted a greenish hue. Two small windows, whose panes of glass the
storm raging without caused to shake in their leaden frames, had no
curtains. The floor was of clay, the furniture consisted of a long
bench and three straw chairs, which were arranged around a deal table
that stood in the middle of the room, covered with maps and drawings,
and the apartment was illuminated by two or three tallow candles. The
moment, however, was too critical for any of those present to waste a
thought upon the chattels around them.
The discussions in this council of war were long and stormy.
Immediately after the king had communicated the intelligence brought by
the scouts, there arose a difference of opinion between him and
Reventlow, the commander-in-chief. The count thought that it would be
unwise to accept battle at the place where the army then was, because
the infantry either could not be assembled before the following
morning, or, at any rate, they would be fatigued after their forced
march, which it would be necessary to undertake very early to arrive in
time.
To this was to be added that the Saxon auxiliaries, thirty-two
squadrons of cavalry, happened that evening to be at eighteen miles'
distance from the rest of the army.
The king did not see the force of the argument; he entirely differed
from the count. Full of confidence in the continuance of the good luck
which had placed in his power the most important of the German
provinces of Sweden, he declared the position of the army to be
excellent, covered as it was by hills, woods, and morasses. He hoped
that the forthcoming battle would crown all his previous victories.
The shrewd courtier only adhered to his opinion until he saw that the
king was determined not to give up his own. Thereupon he pretended to
have been reasoned over to his majesty's views. He bowed smilingly, and
exclaimed:
'I also agree that we should remain here. If we conquer, to your
majesty will belong the whole glory of the victory. The whole glory,
but above all the whole responsibility,' he added, in a whisper to his
neighbour, as he took his place again on the wooden bench at the table.
Reventlow's yielding to the king's wishes was a sign to all his party
to act in the same spirit. One alone still contended that it would be
wrong to accept battle under their circumstances--one alone, and he was
Major-General Gregers Daa. He stood in that circle somewhat paler and
more suffering than usual, cold, stiff, and stern as ever. He would not
swerve from his opinion, gave reason after reason, and did not seem to
remark that his coadjutors had by degrees changed their ground and had
become his adversaries.
'But, by the Lord, Major-General Daa!' exclaimed the king, angrily, and
evidently provoked at the general's cold, calm, but determined
opposition, 'you must undoubtedly have stronger reasons for contending
with us all than those you please to name? From the time that you
joined the army last you have been prevented by illness from taking any
part in the earlier actions, and now that you appear to be well again,
you are the only one who maintains that we ought to retreat. ARE YOU
AFRAID OF BEING KILLED?'
A general silence followed this insulting question. All present looked
by turns at the king and at the general. Gregers's face became deadly
pale, his eyes flashed, and his lips trembled as if from cold, while he
rose and replied:
'I shall answer your majesty's question to-morrow. I beg to say that I
now quite agree with all the rest.' With these words he bowed and left
the room.
The king saw the terrible effect his insult had produced, and he called
to Gregers to come back, but the latter seemed not to hear him. He
hastened out, closing the door after him.
When Gregers had gone a little way beyond the village, where the camp
commenced, he stopped for a few moments, as if in earnest thought; he
cast a glance of deep distress up towards the heavens, and pressed his
hand upon his breast. He then walked quickly back to the camp.
Here all was movement and noise. The sutlers had a rich harvest that
evening. Crowds of soldiers lay around the watch-fires, chattering
together, or playing at throwing dice on the top of the drums. They
sang, they drank, or prepared themselves for the coming dangers by
relating the wonderful heroic exploits that had been performed during
those that were past. The report of the enemy's approach had already
reached every one. Gregers continued his walk until he had reached one
of the farthest-off tents. Here he came to a stand, listened for a
moment, and then entered it.
Captain Kruse was sitting at a table, which stood near his camp-bed; he
was supporting his head with both his hands, and was so intently gazing
on an open letter, so absorbed in its contents, that he did not observe
the general's entrance until the latter was standing by the table. He
then quickly concealed the letter, and rose.
'Do I interrupt you?' asked Gregers.
'No,' replied Kruse, evidently much confused.
'You have received a letter?'
'No!'
'It appeared to me, though, that you were reading one when I came in.'
'The letter I was reading is six years old,' said Kruse.
'Indeed! And at such a length of time after its date does it retain
sufficient interest to carry it with you to your tent and read it on
such an evening as _this?_'
'It is the memento of a loss--of a death; and you know, general, that
the heart does not value its memories by their age, but by the
estimation in which we hold those to whom they are traceable.'
'No,' said the general, 'I am not aware of any such feeling, for _I_
have no souvenirs, no cherished remembrances.'
Kruse looked up in amazement at the bitter and almost despairing
meaning which lay in these words. Gregers continued:
'I came to ask you to visit me this evening. There is a subject on
which I wish to have some conversation with you. Have you time to
spare?'
'Yes, general.'
'Very well, come then to me in my tent, near the forest of firs, within
an hour--not later, pray observe.'
'I shall be punctual,' said Kruse.
Gregers took leave, but, before doing so, he cast a glance towards the
table, where Kruse had concealed the letter.
The captain remained behind, musing: he could not fathom the cause of
this visit. Latterly, Gregers seemed to have avoided his society.
During the foregoing conversation, it struck him that there was
something harsh and unfriendly in the expression of his countenance,
which betokened a dark and hostile mood.
An hour later Kruse entered the general's tent. He found him sitting at
a table, on which lay two pistols and a sealed letter. Gregers beckoned
to him to come forward, and, pointing to a straw chair a little way
from the table, requested him to be seated.
'Have you heard the news?' he began abruptly. 'We are to fight
to-morrow.'
'Yes,' replied Kruse. 'So much the better!'
'I also would have thought the same at your age. I would, most likely,
have thought the same now, if I, like you, were single, and had not
bound another to my fate.'
'You allude to the amiable lady yonder, at Hald?'
'Yes; and perhaps you are surprised that I should be thinking of her
just this evening?' asked Gregers sharply.
'No--certainly!' replied Kruse, somewhat astounded at the question.
'What is there to surprise me in your doing so?'
'You are not speaking the truth, captain. Among all living creatures,
you are the only one who could dare to conceive a doubt on this
subject. You,' he continued, in a hollow and moaning tone of voice,
as if the words he were uttering could with difficulty pass his
lips--'you, who love her, and whom--she loves in return.'
Kruse was speechless for a moment, while Gregers was making visible and
violent efforts to regain his composure.
'Now I understand him,' he thought; 'he has found everything out, and
intends to murder me.'
This thought had scarcely entered his mind when it took the shape of a
conviction. In the deep silence now reigning in the tent, he heard the
general's suppressed groans as he drew his breath heavily, and saw the
arm by which he supported himself as he leaned it on the table,
tremble.
'What answer have you to give me?' inquired the general.
Kruse raised his head:
'It is true what you say, general. I do love her.'
The admission did not make the slightest alteration in the expression
of the general's countenance, as Kruse had expected it would have done.
'How long ago did your love for her commence?' he asked.
'I have loved Jeanne Ryse since my childhood. She was the first, the
only one I ever loved--the only one I ever will love. And now, general!
After this confession, I wait to hear what further you have to say to
me. I see that you have prepared for what was to happen,' he added,
glancing towards the pistols which lay on the table. 'I have been long
expecting it, and, when you came into my tent, I anticipated that what
sooner or later must end thus was close at hand.'
Gregers remained silent for a few seconds, and then said:
'You are mistaken, captain! I was not thinking of killing you when I
asked you to come here this evening. If such had been my intention, it
would have been carried out long ago. For three years, Kruse, I have
known that you loved her, but I saw, at the same time, how little guilt
there was in this secret love.' He held out his hand to Kruse. 'Poor
fellow!' he continued, 'how could you help that you loved her? You, who
were young, and whom God had destined for her. The error was, that no
one gave me any idea of this until it was too late. I was a witness to
the grief you both evinced; I heard the last words, the last sighs with
which you parted from each other! I know it all. What you, on the
contrary, do not know is--that I also loved Jeanne.'
'You!' cried Kruse.
'Yes; you are surprised at that, are you not?' continued Gregers, with
a melancholy smile. 'An old man, who had no other right to that girl's
love than what chance and authority bestowed. But I loved her,
nevertheless, with an affection that in strength and devotion quite
equalled your own. She was the only one, the last who bound me to life;
my heart grew young again under the influence of this love, which, in
spite of a husband's claims, preserved a lover's first timidity.'
'You loved her!' cried Kruse, as if he must have the words repeated, in
order that he might take in the possibility of their truth. 'But Jeanne
never suspected this.'
'Nay, do not think that I could betray my feelings when I so soon
perceived that she was not able to return them! From the garden below
have I, like you, often and often gazed up at her windows, until her
shadow and her light disappeared; I have felt myself intoxicated at
inhaling the perfume she scattered around her; in short, I have been
more easily contented than you, for you told her that you loved her,
while I hardly dared to confess so much to myself. Nor will she ever
know it until I have ceased to live.'
Gregers stopped speaking for a few minutes, while he fixed his gaze on
the empty space before him within the tent Kruse could not find words
to answer him, he felt so much moved by what he had just heard. A
little after, Gregers continued:
'To-morrow we go to battle, or rather accept it, since the enemy offers
it to us. It is possible that I shall not outlive the day; it is,
indeed, almost certain.'
'Certain!' exclaimed Kruse.
'Yes, my friend!' replied Gregers quietly. 'As you said lately, one has
one's presentiments in this world, let us suppose that mine will be
fulfilled. In case this should happen, I have written a letter, which I
now give into your keeping; take care of it, for it contains my last
will. My first intention was that you should have remained for a time
ignorant of its contents, but I have thought better of it. When I am
dead, go back to Hald, its doors will open to you, not as heretofore,
to receive your sighs and complaints--no, you will enter Hald as its
master, Jacob Kruse! I give Jeanne to you, and when I have done that I
have given you all, for my property shall belong to you both, since I
am a childless man and the last of my race. Raise your head, my son!
Why do you bend over the table in this manner? She shall be yours, as a
reward for her fidelity and your sufferings! You must love each other.
I bequeath her to you, and it is my wish and my prayer that you will
make up for all the sorrow I have caused her.'
Gregers placed his hand on the young officer's drooping head. Kruse
sank to the ground, and knelt before him! As Gregers raised him, he
flung his arms round his neck and burst into tears. There was something
very strange in this scene between the husband and the lover!
'Oh my God!' cried Kruse, 'I see it all; you will let yourself be
killed.'
'No, certainly not that, my friend!' replied the general. 'But I shall
be killed, that is all. I believe, as I told you, in presentiments, and
I owe you both this reparation--you and her. Go, now! Go and take the
letter with you. I wish to be alone a little time.'
So saying, the general opened the tent, and motioned to Kruse to leave
it.
The next day, about mid-day, the battle near Gadebusk commenced. Twice
during the morning Kruse had gone to Gregers's tent, but the general
had declined receiving him either time, upon the plea of having much
business to attend to. The drums and the trumpets shortly after called
the soldiers to muster in their ranks, and the captain was obliged to
hurry to his duty.
When Gregers Daa rode past Reventlow, to the head of the division he
commanded, he stopped his horse, and turning to the commander-in-chief,
said in a low tone, so as not to be overheard by those near,
'General! I have a request to make to you.'
'To me!' cried Reventlow, much surprised.
'Yes!' continued Gregers; 'and I beseech of you, for the sake of that
friendship of which you have given me so many proofs, to grant it.'
'It is already granted, my dear general, if even only on this account,
that within another hour I may not be in a condition to accede to
anyone's wishes.'
'With the third national regiment, on the left wing of the army, there
is one Captain Kruse in command of a company. I particularly wish that
his life may be saved, if possible. Will you, therefore, kindly place
him accordingly?'
'Colonel Eifeler,' cried Reventlow, beckoning to one of the nearest
officers, 'be so good as to order a portion of the third national
regiment, under Captain Kruse, to serve as cover for the height, on
which his majesty has determined to take the command.'
The colonel touched his cap, put spurs to his horse, and galloped off.
Gregers Daa thanked Reventlow with a long and warm pressure of the
hand, and then went on to join his own men.
The Danish army was drawn up on a hill, behind a morass; its left wing
was protected by a river, its right by a large and thick forest of
firs. Two hours before the commencement of the action the Saxon cavalry
had arrived, and had united with the Danish.
The Swedes commenced the battle with a brisk cannonade, and stormed the
hill under their watchword, '_Mit Gott and Jesu Huelfe!_' Shortly after
all was enveloped in smoke, which the wind drove over against the
enemy. The fire of musketry mingled with the louder booming of the
cannon; the signal trumpets sounded; the drums rolled, and men were
falling in the agonies of death.
An old chronicle says that the battle, 'with great effusion of blood,
lasted until five o'clock. As no one on either side would give any
quarter, there were fewer prisoners made; officers fought each other as
in a duel, and such were the individual combats, that the Danish and
Swedish officers were generally found dead, lying close to each other
on the field of slaughter.'
The same chronicle tells us that the Swedes stormed the hill three
times. The last time they were so fortunate as to be able to take up
their position at the foot of the hill, without the Danes having the
power to hinder them. Two attempts had been made in vain. The Danes
were beaten back, the Saxon cavalry gave way, and fled in disorder;
Steenbock followed up his good fortune, and sent troops to pursue them.
The Danes, too, were beginning to give way, for the enemy's cannon,
loaded with grape, and discharged from a short distance, was making
terrible havoc among them.
At that moment a squadron of Danish horse, led by a tall, thin officer,
came dashing down the hill, and for the third time made an attempt to
drive back the enemy. The spirited horsemen dropped on all sides, but
others, who had escaped unharmed, continued their onset, and fell upon
their foes, their brave leader charging at their head. The cannons were
silent, while musket and pistol shots flew hotly around. Shouts of
triumph--groans from the wounded horses--prayers--the moans of the
dying--and wild cries of encouragement, issued from that confused
multitude, immersed in dust and smoke, amidst which were to be seen
sabres flashing and sinking, and in the hottest of the fight the tall
officer, who seemed invulnerable himself though he dealt destruction
around.
From a height at a little distance King Frederick had witnessed the
whole. He had seen the two unsuccessful attempts to drive the enemy
back, and the dragoons who had galloped down the hill to make the third
effort. Gregers Daa's name was in the mouth of everyone around. It was
he who was speeding on to fulfil his promise.
This furious attack took the Swedes by surprise, and they began at
length to draw back. It was in vain that Steenbock sent them
reinforcements; before these reached the battlefield he beheld his
troops, as if panic-struck, take wildly to flight, and heard the noise
made by the dragoons as they spiked the Swedish cannon.
In the midst of the field, among heaps of the wounded and dying on both
sides of him, lay their commander, the heroic Gregers, struck by a
pistol-ball, while he was trying to wrest the colours from a Swedish
officer.
This episode--the gallant conduct of the dragoons--had given the Danes
time to recover themselves, and the battle was resumed with fury at
another place. Some of the dragoons jumped from their horses, and bore
their wounded general away from the field. Gregers was carried to the
village, and into the very same room in which, the evening before, he
had been so humbled and insulted.
King Frederick soon after entered the chamber, went up to the bed, and
leaning over him, took his hand, while he exclaimed:
'How this disaster goes to my heart, my dear general! I have sent for
my own surgeon; he will be here presently, and he will do all that he
can to preserve to our fatherland a life so invaluable as yours.'
'You are mistaken, my liege,' replied Gregers. 'The surgeon will be of
no use, and I am only fulfilling my destiny. Had your majesty been
unequal, yesterday evening when you put upon me the humiliation of
doubting my courage, I would have killed you; _that_ being impossible,
there was nothing for it but to let myself be killed. The ball is in my
breast. It will realize my wish.'
The king uttered in a low voice some words full of admiration of a
heroism that sought death on account of a hasty and inconsiderate
expression from his lips.
When Gregers had finished speaking to the king, he turned his head away
from him. His eyes met those of Kruse, who was kneeling on the other
side of the bed. A sweet and happy smile stole over the pale
countenance of the dying man, as he held out his hand to the captain.
'You see that my presentiments were correct,' he whispered, in a weak
and failing voice. 'Now she will be happy, and you also; now you may
love each other freely--for ever. And when you are happiest, sometimes
spare a thought to me--an old man, who was ignorant that it was he who
hindered your happiness--who went away when he discovered it. Farewell,
my son. Be kind to her, whom we both love!'
Gregers drew a deep sigh, clasped his feeble hands, and his spirit fled
to other worlds!'
* * *
A month later, two persons were sitting in one of the drawing-rooms at
Hald; the one was Jeanne, the other Captain Kruse, who the same day had
arrived with the general's body from Holstein. Gregers Daa had been
buried in his family vault in the cathedral at Viborg. Jeanne had read
the letter he had addressed to her in his tent the evening before the
battle. Kruse related to her, word for word, what had passed the same
evening between them. Jeanne wept bitterly while he spoke, and when he
had finished there was a long and unbroken silence in the room. A
little after, Jeanne held out her hand to him, and said,
'Leave me, now, my friend. I wish to be alone.'
There was something of decision and earnestness in the tone in which
she spoke that alarmed the captain.' He held her hand in his while he
asked:
'And when may I come back?'
'Never! Never come back!' replied Jeanne, with the utmost composure,
'for I no longer love you!'
Kruse stood petrified. Then he whispered in accents which betrayed the
deepest despair:
'And your vows, and your assurance that if you did not belong to _him_,
no living creature should separate us?'
'I have not forgotten all that,' she replied; 'but I now belong to him
more than ever I did. Go, Jacob Kruse, I beseech of you. It is not the
living which separates us, but the dead!'
Having thus spoken she left the room.
What strange contradictions there are in a woman's heart! Jeanne kept
her word, and remained until her death a lonely and sorrowing widow.
The following year Kruse fell at the siege of Toenning.