Early the next morning the king left his tent. The generals were
anxiously awaiting him. His countenance glowed with energy and
determination, and his brilliant eyes flashed with a sparkling light.
Inspired by the appearance of their hero, the clouded brows of the
assembled generals became clearer. They felt that his lofty brow was
illumined by genius, and that the laurels which crowned it could never
fade. They were now confident, courageous, ready for the battle, and,
although they had at first disapproved of the king’s plan of attacking
the enemy who had twice overcome them, now that he was in their midst
they felt secure of success.
Spies reported that the Austrian army had left their camp at sunrise and
advanced toward Leuthen; they spoke much and loudly of the strength of
the enemy, and of the eagerness of the soldiers to fall upon the weak
Prussian army.
At a sign from the king, Seidlitz approached him, and informed him of
the latest rumors.
“It is a fearful army we are to attack,” said Seidlitz; “more than twice
our number.”
“I am aware of the strength of the enemy,” said the king, quietly, “but
nothing is left for me but victory or death. Were they stationed upon
the church-tower of Breslau I would attack them.”
Then approaching the other generals, he continued in a loud voice:
“You are aware, gentlemen, that Prince Charles, of Lothringen, succeeded
in taking Schweidnitz, defeating the Duke of Bevern, and has made
himself master of Breslau, while I was protecting Berlin from the French
army. The capital of Silesia, and all the munitions of war stowed there,
have been lost. All these circumstances are calculated to distress
me deeply, had I not a boundless confidence in your courage, your
resolution, and your devoted love to your country. There is, I think,
not one among us who has not been distinguished for some great, some
noble deed. I feel assured that your courage will not now fail in this
hour of direst need. I would feel as if I had accomplished nothing
were I to leave Silesia in the possession of the Austrians. Against all
acknowledged rules of war, I am determined to attack the army of
Charles of Lothringen, though it is three times as strong as my own.
Notwithstanding the number of the enemy, or its advantageous position,
I feel confident of success. This step must be taken, or all is lost! We
must defeat the Austrians, or fall beneath their batteries! This is
my opinion, and thus I shall act. Make my determination known to
every officer. Acquaint the soldiers with the events that will soon
occur--tell them that I require unconditional obedience! Remember that
you are Prussians!--do not show yourselves unworthy of the name! But
should there be any among you who fear to share these dangers with us,
they can leave at once, and shall not be reproached by me.”
The king ceased speaking, and looked inquiringly at his listeners. Upon
every countenance he read determination, courage, and inspiration, but
here and there were some whose brows became clouded at the king’s last
suggestion, and tears were sparkling in old General Rohr’s eyes. The
king pressed the general’s hand almost tenderly.
“Ah, my dear friend,” said he, “I did not suspect you. But I again say,
that if any amongst you wishes leave of absence, he shall have it.”
Profound quiet followed these words. No one approached the king--no
sound disturbed the solemn stillness. At a distance, the loud shouts
and hurrahs of the soldiers, preparing for battle, could be heard. The
king’s countenance became clear, and he continued with enthusiasm:
“I knew beforehand that none of you would leave me. I counted upon
your assistance; with it, I shall be victorious. Should I fall in this
battle, you must look to your country for reward; and now, away to
the camp, and repeat to your men what I have said to you. Farewell,
gentlemen, before long we will either have defeated the enemy, or we
will see one another no more.”
And now there arose from the generals and officers loud, joyous shouts.
“We will conquer or die!” cried Seidlitz, whose daring, youthful
countenance sparkled with delight. “We will conquer or die!” was
repeated by all.
At last the brave words reached the camp, and were re-echoed by thirty
thousand lusty throats. There was universal joy. Old gray-headed
warriors, who had followed the king into many battles, who had conquered
repeatedly with him, shook hands with and encouraged each other, and
warned the younger soldiers to be brave and fearless.
Resting upon his horse, the king had been a joyful witness to all this
enthusiasm. At this moment, a troop of soldiers, numbering about fifty,
approached him. The commanding officer was greeted with a kindly smile.
“You are Lieutenant von Frankenberg?” said the king. And as the
lieutenant bowed in answer, he continued: “General Kleist has spoken of
you as being a brave and trustworthy officer. I have therefore a strange
commission for you. Listen well! do not lose a word of what I say. Come
nearer. And now,” said the king, in a low voice, “be attentive. In the
approaching battle, I will have to expose myself more than usual;
you and your fifty men shall guard me. You must watch over me, and be
careful that I fall not into the hands of the enemy. Should I fall,
cover my body with your mantle, and carry me to the wagon, which shall
be stationed behind the first battalion. Leave me there, and tell no
one of what has occurred. The battle must continue--the enemy must be
defeated.”
When the king had thus made his testament, he dismissed the lieutenant,
and advanced toward his body-guard.
“Good-morning!” cried the king, cheerfully.
“Good-morning, father!” was the universal answer. Then the old
graybeards, standing beside the king, said again:
“Good-morning, father! it is very cold to-day.”
“It will be warm enough before the day is over, boys!” said the king.
“There is much to be done. Be brave, my children, and I will care for
you as a father.”
An old soldier, with silver hair, and the scars of many wounds upon his
face, approached the king.
“Your majesty,” said he, in an earnest voice, “if we are crippled what
will become of us?”
“You shall be taken care of,” said the king.
“Will your majesty give me your hand upon this promise?”
This question was followed by deep silence. All present were gazing
anxiously at the king and the old guard. The king advanced, and laid his
hand in that of the old soldier.
“I swear, that any of you who are crippled, shall be taken care of.”
The old warrior turned with tearful eyes to his comrades.
“Well,” said he, “you hear him? he is and will continue to be the King
of Prussia and our father. The one who deserts is a rascal.”
“Long live our Fritz!” and throughout the whole camp resounded the
cry--“Long live our Fritz! Long live our king!”
“Onward! onward!” was the cry, for at the end of the plain the enemy
could be seen approaching.
“Forward!” cried the soldiers, falling one by one into their places, as
the king, followed by Lieutenant Frankenberg and his men, galloped past
them.
A turn in the road showed the Prussians the enormous size of the enemy’s
army. Silence prevailed for a few moments. Suddenly, here and there a
voice could be heard singing a battle-hymn, and soon, accompanied by the
band, the whole army was breathing out in song an earnest prayer to God.
A guard, approaching the king, said:
“Is it your majesty’s desire that the soldiers should cease singing?”
The king shook his head angrily.
“No!” said he, “let them alone. With such an army, God can but give me
victory.”
Nearer and nearer came the enemy, covering the plain with their numbers,
and gazing with amazement at the little army that dared to oppose them.
By the Austrian generals, smiling so contemptuously upon their weak
opponents, one thing had been forgotten. The Austrians, confident of
success, were not in the least enthusiastic; the Prussians, aware of
their danger, and inspired by love for their king, had nerved themselves
to the contest. The armies now stood before each other in battle array.
The king was at the front, the generals were flying here and there,
delivering their orders. In obedience to these orders, the army suddenly
changed its position, and so strange, so unsuspected was the change,
that General Daun, turning to the Prince Lothringen, said:
“The Prussians are retreating! we will not attack them.”
Certain of this fact, they were off their guard, and disorder reigned in
their camp. This security was suddenly changed to terror. They saw the
Prussians rapidly approaching, threatening at once both wings of their
army. Messenger upon messenger was sent, imploring help from General
Daun and Charles of Lothringen. The Prussians were upon them, felling
them to the earth, regardless of danger regardless of the numerous
cannon which were playing upon them. Daun, with a part of his command,
hurried to the aid of General Luchesi, but he was too late; Luchesi
had fallen, and terror and disorder were rapidly spreading in the
right wing, while from the left, Nadasky had already dispatched ten
messengers, imploring assistance from Charles of Lothringen. In doubt
as to which most needed help, he at last determined upon the right wing,
whose ranks were thinning rapidly; he sent them aid, and took no notice
of Nadasky’s messengers. And now the Prussians fell upon the left wing
of the Austrians. This attack was made with fury, and the Austrians
retreated in wild disorder. It was in vain that other regiments came
to their aid; they had no time to arrange themselves before they were
forced back. They stumbled upon one another, the flying overtaking
and trampling upon the flying. Again and again the imperial guards
endeavored to place themselves in line of battle; they were at once
overpowered by the Prussian cavalry, who, intoxicated with victory,
threw themselves upon them with demoniac strength. Yes, intoxicated--mad
with victory, were these Prussians. With perfect indifference they saw
their friends, their comrades, fall beside them; they did not mourn over
them, but revenged their death tenfold upon the enemy. Those even who
fell were inspired by enthusiasm and courage. Forgetful of their wounds,
of their torn and broken limbs, they gazed with joy and pride at their
comrades, joining in their shouts and hurrahs, until death sealed their
lips.
A Prussian grenadier, whose left leg had been shot off in the early
part of the battle, raised himself from the ground: using his gun as
a crutch, he dragged himself to a spot which the army had to pass, and
cried to the comrades who were looking pityingly upon his bleeding limb:
“Fight like brave Prussians, brothers! Conquer or die for your king!”
Another grenadier, who had lost both legs, lay upon the ground weltering
in his blood, quietly smoking his pipe. An Austrian general galloping
by held in his horse and looked in amazement at the soldier. “How is
it possible, comrade,” said he, “that in your fearful condition you can
smoke? Death is near to you.”
Taking the pipe from his mouth, the grenadier answered with white,
trembling lips: “Well, and what of it? Do I not die for my king?”
Where the danger was the greatest, there was the king encouraging his
soldiers. When a column was seen to reel, there was Frederick in their
midst inspiring new courage by his presence. The king was the soul of
his army, and as his soul was sans peur et sans reproche, the army was
victorious. Napoleon, speaking of this battle, says: “Cette bataille de
Leuthen est propre a immortaliser le caractere moral de Frederic, et
met a jour ses grands talents militaires.” And somewhat later, he says:
“Cette bataille etait un chef d’oeuvre de mouvements, de manoeuvres, et
de resolution, seul elle suffirait pour immortaliser Frederic, et lui
donne un rang parmi les plus grands generaux!”
The victory was gained. The defeated Austrians fled in haste, leaving a
hundred cannon, fifty banners, and more than twenty thousand prisoners
in the hands of the Prussians; while upon the battle-field six thousand
of their dead and wounded were lying, with but two thousand dead
and wounded Prussians. The victory belonged to Prussia. They had all
distinguished themselves; the king and every common soldier had done
his duty. Frederick, accompanied by his staff, to which Lieutenant
Frankenberg and his fifty men did not now belong, passed the bloody,
smoking battle-field. His countenance was sparkling with joy--his eyes
shone like stars. He seemed looking for some one to whom to open his
grateful heart.
He who had given most assistance in the battle was Prince Moritz von
Dessau, whom at the battle of Collin the king had threatened with his
sword, and with whom he had ever since been angry because his prophecy
proved true. But there was no anger now in the king’s heart; and as he
had, in the presence of all his staff, threatened the prince, he wished
also in their presence to thank and reward him. The prince was at a
slight distance from him, so busily engaged in giving orders that he did
not perceive the king until he was quite close to him.
“I congratulate you upon this victory,” said the king, in a loud
voice--“I congratulate you, field-marshal.”
The prince bowed in a silent, absent manner, and continued to give his
orders.
The king, raising his voice, said: “Do you not hear, field-marshal? I
congratulate you!”
The prince looked hastily at the king. “How? Your majesty,” said he,
doubtfully, “has appointed me--”
“My field-marshal,” said the king, interrupting him. “And well have you
deserved this promotion; you have assisted me in this battle as I have
never before been assisted.” He grasped the prince’s hand and pressed
it tenderly, and there were tears of emotion not only in the eyes of the
new field-marshal, but also in those of the king.
A fearful day’s work was finished--how fearful, could be seen by the
wounded, the dying lying pell-mell upon the battle-field amidst the
dead, too exhausted to move. But the day had passed. The cries
and shouts of the flying enemy had now ceased--the victory, the
battle-field, belonged to the Prussians. What was now most needed by
them was an hour’s rest. Above the bloody battle-field, above the dying,
the sleeping, the groaning, the sighing, now rose the moon grandly,
solemnly, as if to console the dead and to lead the living to raise
their grateful prayers to heaven. And grateful praise ascended above
that night--thanks for the preservation of their own and their friends’
lives--thanks for their hero’s victory. Side by side, whispering in low
tones, lay the soldiers--for the hour seemed to all too solemn to be
broken by any loud sound.
No hearts were so full of gratitude and joy as those of Charles Henry
Buschman and Fritz Kober. In the pressure of the battle they had been
separated and had not again met during the engagement. In vain they had
sought and called upon one another, and each one thought of the fearful
possibility that the other had fallen. At last they stumbled upon each
other. With shouts of joy they rushed into each other’s arms.
“You are not wounded, Fritz Kober?” said Charles Henry, with a beating
heart.
“I am unharmed; but you, my friend?”
“Only a little cut in the hand, nothing more. How many prisoners did you
take?”
“Seven, Charles Henry.”
“You will be promoted! You will be an officer!”
“Not unless you are also. How many prisoners did you take?”
“I am not sure, Fritz; I think there were nine. But the captain will
know.”
“We will both be promoted, the king promised it, and now I am willing to
accept it.”
“But what is this to us now, my friend?” said Charles Henry; “we have
found one another, and I am indifferent to all else.”
“You are right, Charles Henry; this has been a fearful, a terrible day.
My knees tremble beneath me--let us rest a while.”
He laid himself upon the ground. Charles Henry knelt beside him, laying
one hand upon his shoulder, and looked at the starry sky; a holy smile
glorified his countenance. As he gazed at the moon, tender feelings were
at work in his heart. He thought of his distant home--of the graves of
his loved parents, upon which the moon was now shining as brightly as
upon this bloody battle-field. He thought how kind and merciful God had
been to preserve his friend, his only consolation, the one joy of his
weary, lonesome life. The solemn stillness by which he was surrounded,
the bright moon, light which illuminated the battle-field, the thought
of the hard struggle of the past day, all acted strongly upon his
feelings. The brave, daring soldier, Charles Henry Buschman, was once
more transformed into the gentle, soft-hearted Anna Sophia Detzloff;
now, when danger was past, she felt herself a weak, trembling woman.
Deep, inexpressible emotion, earnest prayers to God, were busy in Anna
Sophia’s heart.
Kneeling upon the ground, resting on her friend, she raised her eyes
heavenward, and commenced singing in an earnest, impassioned tone that
glorious hymn, “Thanks unto God!” Fritz Kober, actuated by the same
feelings, joined in the hymn, and here and there a comrade lent his
voice to swell the anthem; it became stronger, louder, until at last,
like a mighty stream, it passed over the battle-field, knocking at every
heart, and urging it to prayer, finding everywhere an open ear.
The moon stood smiling above the battle-field, upon which eight thousand
dead and wounded men were lying. Even the wounded, who a short time
before filled the air with groans of pain and agony, raised themselves
to join in the song of praise which was now sung, not by a hundred, not
by a thousand, but by thirty thousand soldiers, thirty thousand heroes,
who, after that bloody day had earned the right to sing “Thanks unto
God.”