The inhabitants of the village had already assembled on the square,
under the great linden, and as old Buschman now approached, supported by
Anna Sophia’s arm, they were joyfully greeted.
Anna waved the paper like a white flag in the air, and, hastening the
old man forward impatiently, she exclaimed,
“Our king has won a battle!”
Shouts of triumph were the result.
“Did he whip the French, or the Austrians?” asked one of the peasants,
as he drew close to Anna, and tried to seize the paper.
Anna drew it back hastily.
“The steward sent it to me, to read to the community, and I shall do
so.”
“Tell us, Anna,” said another, “has he beaten the Russians or the
cunning Saxons? I wish he could trample them all under foot.”
“He will, if he has not yet done so,” cried old Buschman.
“Children, our king will conquer all his enemies; he is a hero, and has
only brave fellows to fight for him. Just think of the thirty noble boys
that our village alone gave him!”
“Read, Anna, read!” cried the curious crowd. And Anna, ready to please
them, walked under the linden, and stepped upon the wooden beach that
surrounded the tree.
Father Buschman placed himself at her feet, and several old men and
women followed his example. The young people gathered around in groups,
and gazed respectfully at the youthful girl, whose bright, beautiful
face glowed as if lighted by the evening sun. The little boys, who
had followed their parents from curiosity, were amusing themselves in
turning somersets.
Anna now raised her voice and began to read in a bright tone. It was a
brilliant and inspiring account of the battle of Losovitz, and Anna read
it in breathless haste and burning cheeks. As she read how the Prussians
were at first defeated by the powerful army of the Austrians under
General Brown, whose terrific artillery sent death and ruin into the
Prussian ranks, the women sobbed softly, and the men could hardly
suppress their sighs. They breathed more freely when they heard that the
king, adopting a new expedient, advanced a part of his cavalry into the
centre of his weakened infantry, and thus turned the tide of battle.
Their courage failed on hearing that this advantage was soon lost,
the enemy still advanced in unbroken columns, and almost forced the
Prussians to retreat. The left wing of infantry, commanded by the Duke
of Severn, which had fired unceasingly, had exhausted their ammunition,
while the Austrian General Wied, who defended the post of Losovitz, kept
up a brisk cannonading. The Prussian warriors pleaded loudly for powder
and shot.
Anna stopped reading, her heart beat loudly, she leaned her head against
the tree and closed her eyes in terror. The old people sitting at her
feet prayed and wept aloud, and from the crowd there arose sounds of
grief and despair. In their terror they had forgotten that it was of a
victory and not a defeat they were to hear, and that the battle must at
last have ended to their advantage.
“Read on, Anna,” said the old shepherd, after a long pause. “Are we
such cowards as not to be able even to hear an account of this murderous
battle in which our sons were brave enough to fight?”
“Read on, read on!” was heard here and there.
Anna unclosed her eyes and raised the paper. Breathless stillness
reigned anew. Anna read,
“In this fearful moment the Duke of Bevern felt that a decisive step
must be taken, and springing in front of his troops with drawn sword, he
cried, ‘Boys, you have no more ammunition! Do not be discouraged! Fight
with your bayonets!’ These words, spoken by a brave and beloved leader,
gave heart to all. They closed their ranks, and inspired by the example
of their officer, attacked the enemy boldly. In vain Baron Stahremberg
hastened forward with his six battalions--uselessly Baron Wied tried to
defend the house of Losovitz in which his grenadiers had taken refuge.
Nothing could withstand the Prussians. Like a raging hurricane they
fell upon the enemy, who were forced to give way to them. A part of the
Austrian force sprang into the Elbe, and tried to save their lives by
swimming. Losovitz was tired, and all its defenders fled. The Prussians
had gained a complete victory.” [Footnote: “Characteristics of the Seven
Years’ War,” vol. i., p. 63]
Anna Sophia could read no further. The delight of all was intense--wives
embraced their husbands with tears of joy--old men thanked God
aloud--and the boys, who had ceased their play and been listening
attentively, made bolder and higher somersets and shouted more lustily.
Anna Sophia alone said nothing. Her tall, slender, but full form was
leaning against the tree--an inspired smile was on her lip, and her
eyes, raised to heaven, beamed with holy fire. She stood as if in a
dream, and at first did not hear old Buschman ask her to read on. When
he repeated his request, she was startled, and turned her glance slowly
down from heaven upon the joyful crowd that surrounded her.
“What do you wish, father?” she asked.
The old shepherd arose, and, taking his cap from his gray head, said
solemnly, “You have read us of the victory, Anna Sophia; now read us of
those who gave their lives for it. Tell us of the dead.”
“Yes, read us a list of the dead!” cried the others, uncovering their
heads respectfully.
Anna sought for the list, and read slowly the names of the fallen.
Their faces brightened more and more, none belonging to them were dead.
Suddenly Anna paused, and uttered a low cry, then looked at Father
Buschman with a terrified expression. Perhaps the old man understood
her, for he trembled a little, and his head fell upon his breast, but he
raised it proudly again. Looking almost commandingly at Anna, he said,
“Read on, my daughter.”
But Anna could not read. The paper trembled in her hand, and her face
was pale as death.
“Read on,” repeated the old man--“read on, I, your father, command you
to read!”
Anna sighed deeply. “I will obey,” she said, and casting a glance of
inexpressible sorrow at the old man, two new names fell from her lips
and tears to consecrate them. “Anton Buschman, Frederick Buschman,” and
then taking advantage of the breathless stillness, she added, “The two
brothers were the first to attack the enemy--they died the death of
heroes!” She ceased. The paper dropped from her trembling hands and fell
at the old man’s feet.
The weeping eyes of the crowd were turned upon old Buschman. As if
crushed by the storm, he had staggered to the bench; he bowed his head
upon his breast that no one might see the expression of his face; his
trembling hands clasped on his knees, made a touching picture of silent
sorrow.
His son Henry, who had been standing with the others, stepped softly to
him, and kneeling down, put his arms around the old man’s neck and spoke
to him tenderly.
The old man started up with terror--his glance turned from his son to
the crowd, and met everywhere sympathizing and troubled faces. “Well,”
he asked, in a hard, rough voice, “why do you weep? Did you not hear
that my sons died the death of heroes? Have they not fallen for their
country and their king? It would become us to weep if they were cowards
and fled in battle. But Anna Sophia told us they died the death of
heroes. Therefore, let us think of them with love and pride. ‘Blessed
are the dead, for they see God!’”
He sank upon his knees and murmured low prayers for the repose of the
dead, and now he wept for the first time. At his side knelt his son and
Anna Sophia; and the crowd, overcome by emotion and sympathy, followed
their example, and with bended knees murmured the pious prayers of the
Church for the dead.
The solemn stillness was broken by the beating of drums and the tramping
of horses. A company of infantry, headed by the drummer and fifer,
marched up the street and approached the villagers, who, rising from
their knees, gazed anxiously at the troops.
“They are Prussians,” said the mayor, who was amongst the crowd.
“They are Prussians,” repeated the crowd, with brightening faces.
Headed by the mayor, they went forward to meet and conduct them to the
middle of the square, where they halted. The mayor then approached the
officer and asked him what he desired.
The officer, after making the drummer a sign, who beat the roll
powerfully, drew out a roll of paper and unfolded it. The villagers
pushed forward and waited with breathless attention. Close to the
officer stood the old shepherd, next to him his son and Anna Sophia, who
was staring, pale and trembling, at the officer, who now began to read.
This paper commanded the unmarried men of the village to place
themselves under the king’s flag, and to take their places in the ranks
of those who fought for their country. Harvest was at an end, and the
king could now demand the fighting men of villages and cities to join
him and share with him his dangers and his victories. The officer then
commanded the mayor to give him early the next morning a list of the
unmarried men in the village, that he might call them out and conduct
them to Cleve for further orders.
A hollow murmur ran through the crowd when the officer had finished. The
joyful and inspired emotion they had just felt gave way to discontent
and gloom. All had been ready to celebrate the victory, but found it far
from desirable to enter the ranks.
The old shepherd looked angrily at the despairing crowd, and an
expression of pious peace spread over his venerable countenance. Turning
to the officer, he said, in a loud voice,
“I had six sons in the army; two fell in the battle of Losovitz, and my
poor old heart still weeps for the dead, but it is also content that the
king calls for another sacrifice. I have one other son; he is unmarried,
has no one to take care of, neither wife nor child nor his old father,
for, thank God, I still have strength to support myself. Go, then, my
son Charles Henry, the king calls you; and if it must be so, lie down
like your brothers in a heroic grave.”
He ceased and laid his hand, as if with a blessing, upon his son’s head;
but Henry did not partake of his father’s enthusiasm. His face was pale
as death, and his powerful frame trembled as if with fever.
Anna Sophia saw it; her beaming face paled, and her eye sank down with
shame.
The officer, who had noticed the dejection of the people, wished to give
them time to recover.
“Leave every thing alone until tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow, sir mayor,
you will hand me the list, and I am sure that the unmarried boys will
obey their king’s call with joy. Now, sir mayor, I beg you to conduct me
to the courthouse, where I will pass the night, and see that my soldiers
find good quarters there, and in the village.”
He nodded kindly to the people, and accompanied by the mayor, moved
onward. The crowd followed them silently, and the gay village boys
danced gleefully around the fine procession.