The officer who had accompanied the king, returned in an hour to the
watch-fire of the dragoons, and handed five gold pieces to Fritz Kober,
which had been sent by the king to pay for his portion of the noodles;
then, without giving the surprised soldier time to thank him, he
withdrew.
Fritz looked long and thoughtfully at the gold pieces, which, in the
light of the flickering fire, shone beautifully in his hand.
“It is very well--very well that the king kept his word, and paid me
punctually to-night,” said he to Charles Henry Buschman, who sat near,
and with his elbow resting on his knee, watched his friend closely.
“And why so, Fritz?” said Charles.
“I will tell you, Charles Henry. If I fall to-morrow, I will have
something in my pocket that you will inherit from me. I declare to you,
no one but you alone shall be my heir; all that I have belongs to
you. Thunder and lightning! I am rich! it is better I should make my
testament; I don’t know what may happen to me to-morrow. I have neither
pen nor paper; well, I will make it verbally! I will wake some of my
comrades, and they shall witness my last will and testament.” He reached
over to the sleeping soldiers, who lay near him on the ground, but
Charles held him back.
“Let them sleep, friend,” said he, pleadingly; “it is not necessary you
should have witnesses. God, and the moon, and a thousand stars hear
what we say to each other; and why speak of your will and your fortune,
friend? Do you think I would care for that miserable gold, if you were
no longer by my side? Do you think I would use it for any other purpose
than to buy your tombstone, and write on it in golden letters?”
“What? a tombstone!” said Fritz Kober, with an astonished look; “and
why would you place a tombstone over a poor, simple, unknown fellow
like myself, Charles Henry? Many gallant generals and officers fall in
battle; the earth drinks their blood, and no one knows where they lie.
And with golden letters, did you say, Charles? Well, I am curious to
know what you would place upon my tombstone.”
“I will tell you, Fritz. I will write on your tombstone--‘Here lies
Fritz Kober; the most faithful friend, the best soul, the most honest
heart; good and simple as a child, brave as a hero, constant as a dove,
and true as a hound.’”
“But am I all that?” said Fritz, amazed.
“Yes, you are all that!” said Charles, with a trembling voice. “You have
been more than this to me, and I will never forget it. I was a poor,
shrinking youth when I came to this camp; I knew nothing--could do
nothing. My comrades, who soon found me out, mocked and complained of
me, and played all manner of jokes upon me. They ridiculed me, because I
had no beard; they mimicked me, because my voice was soft and unsteady;
they asserted that I would make a miserable soldier, because I
grew deadly pale at parade. Who was it took pity on me, and opposed
themselves to my rude, unfeeling companions? Who scolded and threatened
to strike them, if they did not allow me to go my own way, in peace
and quiet? Who was patient with my stupidity, and taught me how to go
through with my military duties creditably, and how to manage my horse?
You! you, dear Fritz! you alone. You were always at my side, when others
threatened. You were patient as a mother when she teaches her dear
little boy his letters, and looks kindly upon him, and is good to him,
even when he is dull and inattentive.”
“Well,” said Fritz Kober, thoughtfully, “one can do nothing better than
to be good to a man who deserves it, and who is himself so kind, and
pure, and brave, that a poor fellow like myself feels ashamed, and looks
down when the soft eyes are fixed upon him. I tell you what, Charles
Henry, there is a power in your eyes, and they have subdued me. I think
the angels in heaven have just such eyes as yours, and when you look
upon me so softly and kindly, my heart bounds with delight. I have
dreamed of your eyes, Charles Henry; I have blushed in my sleep when
I thought I had uttered a coarse curse, and you looked upon me
sorrowfully. I know you cannot endure cursing, or drink, or even
tobacco.”
“My father was a poor schoolmaster,” said Charles Henry; “we lived
quietly together, and he could not bear cursing. He used to say, ‘When
men cursed, it hurt God like the toothache.’ He said--‘God had not made
the corn to grow, that men might make brandy, but bread.’ We were too
poor to buy beer and wine, so we drank water, and were content.”
“Your father was right,” said Fritz, thoughtfully. “I believe, myself,
corn was not intended to make brandy, and I don’t care for it; I will
give it up altogether. If we live through this war, and receive good
bounty money, we will buy a few acres, and build us a little house,
and live together, and cultivate our land, and plant corn; and, in the
evening, when our work is done, we will sit on the bench before the
door, and you will relate some of your beautiful little stories; and so
we will live on together till we are old and die.”
“But you have forgotten one thing, Fritz.”
“What is that, Charles Henry?”
“You have forgotten that you will take a wife into your little house,
and she will soon cast me out.”
“Let her try it!” cried Fritz, enraged, and doubling his flat
threateningly. “Let her try only to show the door to Charles Henry, and
I will shut her out, and she shall never return--never! But,” said he,
softly, “it is not necessary to think of this; I will never take a wife.
We will live together; we need no third person to make strife between
us.”
Charles said nothing. He looked smilingly into the glowing fire, and
then at his comrade, with an amused but tender expression.
If Fritz had seen it, his heart would have bounded again, but he was too
much occupied then with his own thoughts to look up.
“Listen, Charles. If nothing comes of our little piece of ground and our
house--if my last ball comes to-morrow and carries me off--”
“Stop, stop, Fritz; I will hold my head so that the same ball will carry
it off!”
“If you do that, I will be very angry with you,” cried Fritz. “You are
too young to die, and I will be glad even in my grave to know that you
are walking on the green earth. In order to do well, you must have gold;
therefore you must be my heir. If I fall, these beautiful gold pieces
belong to you; you shall not put a tombstone over me. Buy yourself a few
acres, Charles Henry, and when your corn grows and blossoms, that shall
be my monument.”
Charles took his hand, and his eyes were filled with tears. “Speak no
more of death,” said he, softly; “it makes my heart heavy, and I shall
lose my courage in the battle to-morrow when I think of all you have
said. Ugh! how cold it is! My soul feels frosted!”
“I will go and seek a little more wood,” said Fritz, springing up, “and
make a good fire, and then you shall be warmed.”
He hurried off, and Charles remained alone by the tire, looking gravely
on the glowing coals; he smiled from time to time, and then he breathed
heavily, as if oppressed by some weighty secret. Suddenly he heard a
voice behind him.
“Ah! I have found the fire again! Good-evening, children.”
“Good-evening, sir king. Comrades, wake up; the king is here!”
“No, no; let your comrades sleep,” said the king, softly. “The fire will
do me good. I found the right path to the fire, as I said Your dragoons
have uncovered my quarters, and the cold blasts of wind whistle through
them and freeze the water in my room. I prefer to sit by the fire and
warm myself.” He was about to seat himself on the straw near the fire,
when a harsh voice called out:
“March on!--every lazy scamp wants a place by the fire, but not one of
them brings a splinter of wood.”
Fritz Kober was behind them with the wood; he had found it with great
difficulty, and he was angry when he saw a strange soldier in his place
by the side of Charles Henry.
The king turned to him quietly.
“You are right, my son!--come on! I will make room for you.”
“It is the king!” exclaimed Fritz, turning as if to fly. But the king
held him.
“Remain where you are, my son; you brought the wood, and you have the
best right. I only wish to warm myself a little, and I think there is
room for us all.”
He seated himself upon the straw, and nodded to Fritz Kober to take a
seat by him. Fritz tremblingly obeyed, and Charles stirred the fire,
which flamed up beautifully.
King Frederick gazed at the flickering flames. Charles and Fritz sat
on each side of him, and watched him in respectful silence; around the
watch-fire lay the sleeping dragoons. After a long pause the king raised
his head and looked about him.
“Well, children, to-morrow will be a hot day, and we must strike the
Austrians boldly.”
“Yes, as we struck the French at Rossbach, your majesty,” said Fritz.
“Mark me! it will go off bravely, and when we are done with the
Austrians we will march to Constantinople.”
“What will we do in Constantinople?” said the king.
“Nothing, your majesty, but march there with you, whip the Turks, and
take all their gold!”
“Not quite so fast, my son.”
“Why not, sir king? We have chopped up the French army; to-morrow we
will do the same for the Austrians; and then, why not whip the Turks?”
The king smiled, and said: “Well, well, but first we must give the
Austrians a good drubbing.”
“And, by my soul, we will do that,” said Fritz, eagerly. “Your majesty
may believe me--I will march with you to the end of the earth, and so
will my friend Charles Buschman. If we have only a little to eat, we
will find water everywhere; so lead us where you will!”
The king’s eyes flashed: “By heaven! it is a pleasure to lead such
soldiers to battle!” Then turning, with a kindly expression, to Fritz
Kober, he said: “Can you write?”
“Not well, your majesty; but Charles Henry Buschman can write much
better than I. He is a scholar.”
“Is that true?” said the king, gayly, to Charles.
“He will say ‘No,’ sir king; he cannot bear to be praised. But the truth
remains, the truth even when denied--Charles is the bravest and wisest
soldier in the army, and if there is justice in the world he will be
made an officer.”
“You must get your commission first, Fritz,” said Charles,
indifferently; “you earned it long ago, and if the king only knew all
that you did at Rossbach, you would have it now.”
“What did he do?” said the king.
“Nothing, your majesty,” said Fritz.
“Yes, your majesty,” said Charles, zealously; “he hewed right and left
until the sparks flew in every direction. Our commander had told us the
disgusting Frenchmen wanted to take our winter quarters, and even
when Fritz Kober’s sword was still whizzing among them, they had the
insolence to cry out, ‘Quartier! quartier!’--then was Fritz enraged, and
cut them down like corn-stalks, and cried out, ‘Yes, yes! I will give
you quarters, but they will be underground!’”
“Only think,” said Fritz, “they were flying before us, and the impudent
scamps, when we captured them, would still twit us with the winter
quarters they had intended to rob us of. How could I help cutting them
to pieces?”
“But he spared those who cried ‘Pardon,’ your majesty,” said Charles
Henry, “he only took them prisoners. Nine prisoners did Fritz Kober take
at Rossbach.” [Footnote: The Prussians had been told that the Frenchmen
intended to take possession of their winter quarters, and this enraged
them greatly. When the French cavalry were flying at Rossbach, they used
the German word quartier, thinking they would be better understood.
The Prussians looked upon this as an insolent jest, and gave no
quarter.--Nicolai’s Characteristics and Anecdotes ] “I suppose the five
prisoners you took were men of straw, that you say nothing of them,”
cried Fritz.
The king looked well pleased from one to the other.
“It appears to me you are both brave soldiers, and the braver be cause
you do not boast of your deeds. Are you always such good friends as to
seek to do each other kindly service?”
“Your majesty, Charles Henry is my truest friend, and if you wish to do
me a service, make him an officer.”
“But he says he will not be made an officer unless you are made one, so
there is nothing left for me to do but to promote both! If in the battle
to-morrow you fight like heroes, you shall both be made officers. Now,
children, be quiet, let me rest a little. I do not want to sleep--cannot
you tell me some little story, some pretty little fairy tale to keep my
heavy eyes from closing?”
“Charles knows many fairy tales, sir king, and if you command it he must
relate one.”
“Oh, yes, your majesty, I know the history of a fairy who knew and
loved the brave son of a king, and when the prince went into battle she
transformed herself into a sword, that she might be always by the side
of him she loved.”
“Tell me this pretty story, my son.”
Charles Henry began to relate. Deep silence reigned about the camp. Here
and there a word was spoken in sleep, a loud snore, or the neighing of a
horse. The fires were burned down, and the coals glowed like fire-flies
upon the dark ground.
The moon stood over the camp and illuminated the strange and
parti-colored scene with her soft rays, and called out the most
wonderful contrasts of light and shade. Far, far away, in the dim
distance, one blood-red point could be seen; it looked like a crimson
star in the east. This was the camp-fire of the Austrians. This mighty
army was encamped behind Leuthen. The king gazed in that direction with
eager expectation, and listened with painful attention to every distant
sound.
The silence of death reigned there; no sound or voice was heard. The
king, being convinced of this, sank back once more upon the straw, and
listened to Charles Henry Buschman.
It was indeed a beautiful fairy tale; so wild and so fantastic that
Fritz listened with eyes extended and almost breathless to every word.
At last, as the handsome prince was drawing his last breath, the lovely
fairy sprang from his sword and brought the dead to life with her warm
kisses, Fritz was in an ecstasy of excitement, and interrupted Charles
by an outcry of rapture.
“This is a true story, sir king!” cried he, passionately; “every word is
true, and he who don’t believe it is a puppy!”
“Well, well,” said the king, “I believe every word, friend.”
Charles Henry went on with his fairy tales; but, notwithstanding the
wonders he related, sleep at last overcame his friend! Fritz’s eyes
closed, but he murmured in his sleep: “It is all true--all true!”
Charles Henry himself, wearied by the exertions of the last few days,
felt his eyelids to be as heavy as lead, his words came slowly, then
ceased altogether.
The king looked at his slumbering soldiers, then far away toward the
watch-fires of the Austrian camp.
Silence still reigned. The moon showed distant objects in the clearest
light, and nothing suspicious or alarming could be seen. “It was false
intelligence which was brought to me,” said the king. “It is not true
that the Austrians are on the march and intend to surprise me. They
sleep!--we will not see them till tomorrow. I will withdraw to my
quarters.”
King Frederick stepped slowly through the ranks of the sleepers, and
gave a sign to the officer and the four soldiers who had accompanied
him, but remained at a distance from the fire, to move lightly and
awaken no one.