Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  We can still hear the thunderous roar of the loyal reply, “We will die for our sovereign, Maria Theresa!”

  Nevertheless, by December the Prussian robber was in Silesia with thirty thousand men, engaged in finding out that he was really made to be a warrior. By May he held every fortified place in the province; by June Maria Theresa was forced to cede it to him — since which time it has always been a loyal part of Prussia. “How glorious is my king, the youngest of the kings and the grandest!” chanted Voltaire in a letter to Frederick, who, one is pleased to know, found the praise rather suffocating.

  The genius of Frederick was next put to a considerable test in the way of matchmaking — a delicate art, particularly when practised for the sake of providing the half-barbarous empire of Russia with mated rulers.

  The Czarina Elizabeth — Great Peter’s daughter — wished the king to find a German bride for her nephew-heir, who was afterwards Peter III. A true Hohenzollern, Frederick felt himself quite equal to this task — as to any other. From a bevy of young princesses he selected the daughter of the poverty-stricken Prince of Anhalt-Herbst, because of the unmistakable cleverness the girl had shown, though not fifteen. She was handsome as well, and Elizabeth renamed her “Catherine,” changed her religion, and the marriage came off in 1745. Frederick had displayed great acumen, but it would puzzle a fiend to contrive a more diabolical union than that of Peter and Catherine!

  Meanwhile, Maria Theresa had been preparing to fight for Silesia again. Without waiting for her, Frederick pounced upon Prague and captured it. After her armies in Silesia and Saxony had been put to flight by her adversary, at Hohenfriedberg and Sorr, and Hennersdorf and Kesselsdorf, the empress yielded. On Christmas Day, 1745, when the treaty was signed that gave Silesia again to Prussia, — it was known as the Peace of Dresden, — Berlin went wild, and for the first time shouts were heard among the revellers, “Vivat Friedrich der Grosse!” The Austrians might call him “that ferocious, false, ambitious king of Prussia,” but as a matter of fact he was not more false and ferocious than the other rulers, only infinitely more able. Frederick had made for himself a great name and raised his little kingdom — of only two and a half millions of people — to a noble standing among nations. The eyes of the world were fixed upon the hero to see what he would do next. What he did was to swear that he “would not fight with a cat again,” and to build himself a charming country home — his palaces, and even Reinsberg, were too large. In May, 1747, he had his housewarming at little Sans Souci, where for the next forty years most of his time was spent. There were twenty boxes of German flutes in the king’s cabinet at Sans Souci, and infinite boxes of Spanish snuff; and there were three arm-chairs for three favourite dogs, with low stools to make an easy step for them. There was another favourite at Sans Souci who was said to look like an ape, although he was mostly called the “skinny Apollo.” How one would like to have seen the king walking the terraces, with “white shoes and stockings and red breeches, with gown and waistcoat of blue linen flowered and lined with yellow! “while men with powdered wigs and highly coloured clothes, and women whose heads bore high towers of hair unpleasantly stuffed and decorated with inconsequent dabs of finery, followed him, all talking epigrams and doing attitudes — polite people had to hold themselves in curves in the eighteenth century.

  These were good years for Prussia: her law courts were reformed; her commerce flourished, and so did agriculture; potatoes were introduced — they were at first considered poisonous; a huge amount of building was done, and the army was drilled constantly under Frederick’s eyes. Each year saw it a better army; its chief must have known that he was preparing for the great struggle of his life, although he took as keen an interest in keeping up the high standard of his new opera-house in Berlin, both as to music and ballet, as he did in the skilfullest manœuvres of his troops.

  Maria Theresa had never for a moment given up Silesia in her heart. She was a woman of austere virtues, but these did not stand in the way of schemes which she would have thought too despicable to be used against any one but the King of Prussia. The Czarina of Russia had been made to hate him by a series of carefully-devised plots, — she looked on him as her arch-enemy, — and within six months after the Peace of Dresden she had signed, with Maria Theresa, a treaty which actually proposed the partitioning of Frederick’s kingdom, which was to be divided between Russia, Austria, and Poland, while he was to become a simple Margrave of Brandenburg!

  To get the signature of Louis XV. involved harder work still for the virtuous empress — but she did it. It was to ask it of the Pompadour — in various affectionate letters, beginning “My dear cousin,” or “Madame, my dearest sister.” The Pompadour was also shown some stinging verses of Frederick’s with herself as subject, and she (representing France) became the firm ally of Maria Theresa.

  Through an Austrian clerk’s treachery Frederick became aware of this stupendous conspiracy against him — but not till 1755 when it was well matured. It seemed incredible that he could think of keeping these great countries from gobbling up his little state. He could not have done it, indeed, if it had not been for a certain Englishman. It was an Englishman who saved Frederick and Prussia — the “Great Commoner,” Pitt, who, having on hand a French war of his own, raised a Hanoverian army to help himself and Frederick, and granted him a welcome subsidy of six hundred and seventy thousand pounds a year.

  His ten years’ drilling had given Frederick a fine army of one hundred and thirty thousand men. The infantry were said to excel all others in quickness of manœuvres and skilled shooting, while the cavalry was unsurpassed.

  Frederick, without waiting for his foes to declare war and mass their mighty forces, began it by a stealthy, sudden move into Saxony in September 1756. October 1, at Lowositz, in Bohemia, he defeated von Browne, and, returning, captured the Saxon force of seventeen thousand, and took them bodily — all but the officers — into his own army.

  England was delighted with this masterly act of her ally. He was known there as “the Protestant hero,” which was not quite true to facts. Certainly Frederick protested against the old religion, but he was far from being on with the new one. His saying, “Every one shall go to heaven in the way he chooses,” had been applauded in England, but they were not familiar with his reply when a squabble as to whether one or another set of hymn-books should be used was referred to him: “Bah! let them sing what tomfoolery they like,” said the “Protestant hero.” Had France and Austria, however, succeeded in obliterating Prussia, it is likely that Protestantism too would have been done for in Germany.

  Frederick having himself begun the Seven Years’ War, the confederated German states, with Russia, France, and Sweden, formally bound themselves to “reduce the House of Brandenburg to its former state of mediocrity,” France — very rich then — paying enormous subsidies all around. England — with Hanover — alone espoused Prussia’s cause. During 1757. four hundred and thirty-seven thousand men were put in the field against Frederick. Only his cat-like swiftness saved him from being overwhelmed again and again. In April he made another rush — like an avalanche — on Bohemia, and won another great victory at Prague, but he was terribly beaten by General Daun in June at Kolin. Still he kept up courage, and played the flute and wrote innumerable French verses of the usual poor quality in odd moments. In November, at Rossbach, he met an army of French and Imperialists over twice as large as his own, and by a swift, unexpected movement broke them, so that they were scattered all over the country. Every German felt proud of this French defeat, whether he were Prussian or not. It was the first time the invincible French had ever been beaten by a wholly German army, with a leader of German blood. The brilliant victory of Leuthen followed Rossbach.

  But although the world was ringing with Frederick’s name, and he was acknowledged to be one of the greatest generals of history, the resources of his powerful enemies were too many for him. At last it seemed that a ruinous cloud of disaster was closing around him and darkeni
ng the memory of his glorious successes.

  The defeat of Kunersdorf in 1759 would have completely wiped out his army if the over-cautious Austrian General Daun had followed up his victory. “Is there no cursed bullet that can reach me!” the Prussian monarch was heard to murmur in a stupor of despair after the battle. He carried poison about him, after this, to use when affairs became too bad. A severe blow followed Kunersdorf, — George II. died in October 1760; George III. put an end to Pitt’s ministry — and this was the end of England’s support.

  The winter of 1761-1762 saw Frederick at his lowest ebb. England’s money had stopped; his own country, plundered, devastated in every direction, afforded no sufficient revenue. Fully half of the Prussian dominions were occupied by the enemy; men, horses, supplies, and transport could hardly be procured. The Prussian army was reduced to sixty thousand men, and its ranks were made up largely of vagabonds and deserters — the old, splendidly disciplined troops having been practically obliterated.

  He played no more on his flute — poor Frederick! At Leipzig an old friend sighed to him, “Ach! how lean your majesty has grown!”

  “Lean, ja wohl,” he replied; “and what wonder, with three women [Pompadour, Maria Theresa, and Czarina Elizabeth] hanging to my throat all this while!”

  The Allies felt that it was only a matter of a short time before they should see their great enemy humbled to the position of Elector of Brandenburg. From this abasement Frederick was suddenly saved in January 1762. Life held another chance for him. The implacable old czarina was dead; her heir, Peter III., was not merely the friend, but the enthusiastic adorer of Frederick of Prussia. Although thirty-four years old and the husband of Catherine (the young lady Frederick had taken such pains to select for him so many years ago), Peter had been kept out of public affairs as if he were a child. Neither he nor Catherine was allowed to leave the palace without permission of the czarina; they were surrounded with spies, and kept in a gaudy and dirty semi-imprisonment — the traditional style for heirs to the Russian throne. Under this system they became masters of deceit. Catherine, in her cleverly unpleasant Memoirs, tells how they managed to escape and visit people without being found out; how she, when ill and in bed, had a joyous company with her, who huddled behind a screen when prying ladies-in-waiting entered. But the most painful part is the account of Peter, who seems to have had more versatility in hateful ways than any one outside of Bedlam. Crazily vivacious over foolish games, brutal when drunk, and silly when sober, one wonders how for so many years Catherine endured him.

  There was a saving grace, though, in him: he worshipped the King of Prussia.

  Frederick adroitly rose to the occasion: releasing all his Russian prisoners, he sent them, well clad and provisioned, back to their country. On February 23 the czar responded by a public declaration of peace with Prussia and a renunciation of all conquests made during the war. His general, Czernichef, was ordered to put himself and his twenty thousand men at the disposal of the Prussian hero, and on May 5 a treaty of alliance between Prussia and Russia was announced — to the horror and disgust of France and Austria. They had relied on Czernichef, but Czernichef himself was a sincere admirer of his new commander-in-chief and delighted in the change. The Russian soldiers all shared this feeling: they called Frederick “Son of the lightning.”

  The French were being held by the Hanoverian army; Sweden had retired from the war; with Russia on his side, Frederick felt that he might hold out against Austria till peace was declared by the powers — peace with no provision made for the partition of his kingdom.

  In planning his next campaign — the last of the war — it was evident to Frederick that nothing could be done without recapturing the fortress of Schweidnitz, recently captured by Loudon, the Austrian general. The Austrians held all Silesia, and they must be put out of it, but with Schweidnitz in their hands this was impossible.

  Fortunately for Frederick, Daun was appointed commander-in-chief of the Austrians, the general who had been execrated throughout the empire for his failure to follow up Frederick after Kunersdorf. In mid-May Daun took command of the forces in Silesia, and with an army of seventy thousand men made haste to place himself in a strong position among rugged hills to guard Schweidnitz. Schweidnitz, with a garrison of twelve thousand picked men and firm defences, it was impossible to attack while Daun was there. Frederick made repeated efforts to force Daun to give up his hold on the fortress, threatening his left wing, as his right wing seemed impregnably situated; but Daun, although forced to change his position from time to time, kept firmly massed about Schweidnitz. Frederick at last, then, resolved to attempt the impossible, and, his forces now augmented by Czernichef’s to eighty-one thousand, determined on storming the Heights of Burkersdorf, where Daun’s right wing was firmly entrenched. The last of Frederick’s notable battles of the war, — a conflict upon which the destinies of Prussia turned, — it was planned and executed by him with a consummate brightness and cleverness that more than justifies the Hohenzollern worship of their great ancestor.

  Burkersdorf Height, near the village of the same name, which was also occupied by Daun, lies parallel to Kunersdorf Heights, where Frederick’s army lay. It is a high hill, very steep, and half covered with rugged underbrush on the side next to Frederick’s position, and Prince de Ligne and General O’Kelly — serving under Daun — had made it bristle with guns. Artillery was Daun’s specialty; his guns were thick wherever the ground was not impractically steep, and palisades—”the pales strong as masts and room only for a musket-barrel between” — protected the soldiery; they were even “furnished with a lath or cross-strap all along for resting the gun-barrel on and taking aim.” In fact, Burkersdorf Height was as good as a fortress. East of it was a small valley where strong entrenchments had been made and batteries placed. Farther east, two other heights had to be captured, — they were also well defended, — Ludwigsdorf and Leuthmannsdorf.

  By the 17th of July Frederick had all his plans matured, and had made his very first move — that is, he had sent Generals Môllendorf and Wied on a march with their men to put the enemy on a false scent — when he received a call from Czernichef at his headquarters. It was paralysing news that Czernichef brought: Peter, the providential friend, had been dethroned by the partisans of his clever wife, Catherine.

  After a reign of six months the young czar had completely disgusted his subjects: he had planned ambitious schemes of reform, and at the same time had made despotic encroachments. After delighting the Church with important concessions, he proposed virtually to take away all its lands and houses. He overdid everything, like the madman he was. He offended his army by dressing up his guards in Prussian uniforms and teaching them the Prussian drill, while he wore constantly the dress of a Prussian colonel, and sang the praises of our hero until his people were sick of the name of “my friend, the King of Prussia.” Russian morals in the eighteenth century were like snakes in Ireland — there were none. In this respect Catherine was not superior to her husband, but in mental gifts she was an extraordinary young woman. Her tact, her poise, her intelligence, would have made a noble character in a decent atmosphere. Peter had recognised her powers and relied on them, and she had endured him all these years, thinking she would one day rule Russia as his empress. But since his accession he had been completely under the dominion of the Countess Woronzow, a vicious creature, who meant to be Catherine’s successor. And Catherine, when Peter threatened her and her son Paul with lifelong imprisonment, had on her side finally begun a plot, which resulted in her appealing to the guards, much as Maria Theresa had appealed to her Diet of Hungary. Every one was tired of Peter, and no voice was raised against his deposition, whereupon Catherine assumed the sovereignty of Russia, to the great relief and satisfaction of all Russians. The brutal assassination of poor Peter by Catherine’s friends — not by her orders — followed in a few days.

  It was the intention of Catherine, on beginning her reign, to restore Elizabeth’s policy in Russian matters
and recommence hostilities against Frederick; but on looking over Peter’s papers she found that Frederick had discouraged his wild schemes, and that he had begged him to rely on his wife and respect her counsels, and this produced a revulsion of feeling. She resolved that she would not fight him; nor, on the other hand, would she be his ally; the secret message that had come to Czernichef, and which he communicated to Frederick, was that Catherine reigned, and that he, her general, was ordered to return immediately to St. Petersburg.

  One can only guess at Frederick’s emotions at this news. Life must have seemed a lurid melodrama, presenting one hideous act after another. “This is not living,” he said; “this is being killed a thousand times a day!” On the eve of the attack on Burkersdorf his ally had been taken away from him; his own forces were now weaker than those of Daun, and he did not see his way to a victory.

  But the genius of Frederick could not allow him to give in to the destinies. His resourcefulness came to his rescue. He simply begged Czernichef to stay with him for three days. Three days must elapse before his official commands came. Frederick, with all the potency of his personal fascination, implored the Russian during that time to keep the matter secret, and, without one hostile act against the enemy, to seem to act with him as though their relations were unchanged. Czernichef consented; it was one of the most devoted acts that was ever done by a man for pure friendship; he well knew, and so did Frederick, that he might lose his head or rot in a dungeon for it, but — his own heroism was great enough to make the sacrifice.