Chapter VII: The Seven Years’ War to the Battle of Leuthen (2)

The morning of the stifling summer’s day was spent in marching along the line of the highroad towards Kolin, and it was after midday that the Prussian left turned upon the enemy. Zieten, the terrible hussar, put to flight the Austrian horse, but an oak-wood gave them shelter behind which to rally, and meanwhile Daun made all haste to move up supports to his right. But though the Austrians fought doggedly and poured in a deadly artillery fire, the matchless Prussian infantry pressed on. They captured point after point of Daun’s position until the moment came at which, although their cavalry had turned tail, they needed only reinforcements to crush his right. It was the duty of Prince Maurice, the son of the Old Dessauer, to bring help from the centre. The moment was critical. The Austrian musketeers, seven times charged by the Prussians, had shot away their last cartridge. “Four fresh battalions,” wrote the King four days after, “and the battle was won.” Daun had already begun to withdraw his heavy guns and to issue orders for retreat. But by a fatal misunderstanding, due, it is hinted, to the impatience of the King in giving orders, Maurice was attacking the enemy more than half a mile further down the line. Still nearer to the Prussian right General Manstein defied orders and dashed at the enemy.

The Prussians were therefore involved in a frontal attack, and their inferiority in numbers at once began to tell against them. Yet still, though Frederick had only the reserves of cavalry in hand and these, even when he put himself at their head, refused to pass through the fire to aid them, the dauntless Prussian left achieved fresh triumphs. When the deadly wrestle reached its fourth hour they still maintained their hold upon the heights. Daun hurled his light Saxon cavalry upon them, but with a heroism worthy of Mollwitz field they formed into groups and drove back the foe. But at this moment the Count de Thiennes, colonel of a regiment of young dragoons from the Netherlands, begged for leave to attack. He won a grudging assent, at first refused, “but,” said Daun, “you won’t do much good with your beardless boys.” “You will see,” answered Thiennes and galloped back to his regiment. “Boys,” he cried, after repeating the field-marshal’s taunt, “show that though you are beardless you can bite.” Uniting with the Saxons, the “boys” swept the enemy’s horse from the field, then flung themselves on the grim square of tattered heroes, broke it, and drove it from the heights. This was the prelude to a general flight of the exhausted remnants of the Prussian infantry. Almost beside himself with rage and disappointment, Frederick collected some forty men and led them against the foe. But even the King could not persuade them to suicide. One by one they slunk away till at last his adjutant put the question, “Will your Majesty take the battery alone?” Frederick once more gazed at the enemy through his glass, then rode to Bevern on the right and ordered retreat.

Of 31,000 Prussians little more than 17,000 were left. As at Prague, it was the infantry whose loss was the greatest. Of 18,000, more than two-thirds were killed or captured. It was true that they had inflicted upon the enemy a loss of more than 8000 men, and that Daun, “like a good Christian who would not suffer the sun to go down on his wrath,” did nothing by way of pursuit. But Frederick saw at a glance that the conquest of Bohemia was now beyond his strength. On June 20, 1757, the very day on which Prince Charles had announced that he would be compelled to surrender, the besiegers quitted Prague.

Frederick’s plan was to retreat slowly through north-eastern Bohemia into Saxony, exhausting the country as he went. “My heart is torn in pieces,” he wrote to Prince Maurice two days after the battle, “but I am not cast down and will try on the first opportunity to wipe out this disgrace.” Perhaps because, in his own phrase, “a certain Hungarian rabble has taken kennel on the highways,” his letter to his sister makes light of Kolin. “I attacked Daun on the 18th. In spite of all our efforts, we found the country so difficult that I believed myself bound to abandon the enterprise in order not to lose my army.” For the information of Berlin, Eichel magnified the gentle slopes which are all that the battle-field can show into “a steep mountain, cut by many ravines and defiles at its base.” But to London the King sent a franker statement.

“After winning eight battles in succession, we have for the
first time been beaten, and that because the enemy had three
posts on a tolerably high hill fortified by strong batteries
one behind another. After taking two of them, the attacking
battalions and their supports had suffered so much that they
were too few to force the third post, and so the battle ended
for lack of combatants.”

The transports of the Queen and the exaggerated caution with which Daun and Prince Charles neglected to follow up their advantage attested the truth of Frederick’s assurance that his situation was by no means desperate.

From day to day however, it altered for the worse. Disaster in the field was followed by affliction in the home. Within a fortnight of Kolin, Frederick suddenly learned that his mother was no more. The crushing news was blurted out by a letter from his wife, whose thoughtless use of a red seal in place of a black one frustrated the kindly machinery which Podewils and Eichel had devised for preparing the mind of the King. He had just written to Wilhelmina a letter full of confidence.

“You have nothing to fear on my account, dear sister, men are
always in the hands of what is called destiny.... Germany is
passing through a terrible crisis. I am obliged to stand alone
in defending her liberties and her faith. If I fall, there will
be an end of them. But I have good hope. However great may be
the number of my enemies, I trust in the goodness of my cause,
in the admirable courage of my troops and in the goodwill which
exists from the marshals down to the humblest soldier.”

Then the blow fell and for two days, even at such a crisis, the flow of political correspondence is checked. His grief finds utterance in an agonised note to his sister Amelia.

“All kinds of misfortune are overwhelming me at once.... I am
more dead than alive.... Perhaps Heaven has taken away our dear
Mother that she may not see the misfortunes of our House.”
“Yesterday and the day before,” writes Eichel on July 3d, “His
Majesty’s grief has been very great and violent, but today
it is somewhat lessened, because his Majesty has taken into
consideration his duty to his state, his army and his faithful
subjects at the present crisis, and the necessary orders have
somewhat relieved his depression, though there is no lack of
gloomy moments and intervals.”

On the same day the King began to pour out his soul to Mitchell, who owns himself “most sensibly affected to see him indulging his grief and giving way to the warmest filial affections.”

Calamity was, however, as impotent as success to teach Frederick good faith towards his allies. Mitchell had reported on June 30, 1757, that “he renewed to me on this occasion his firm resolution to hearken to no terms of peace without His Majesty’s privity and approbation.” On July 9th he describes a further interview in which “His Prussian Majesty said that, as he resolved to continue firmly united with His Majesty, it would be for their mutual interests to think of terms of peace, honourable and safe for both, and to concert together what terms they would adopt, if a favourable opportunity occurred to propose them.” Yet between these assurances of fidelity to England Frederick accepted with enthusiasm an offer made by Wilhelmina to send an envoy to procure peace with France by bribing the Pompadour.

“I will willingly charge myself with his expenses,” he writes
on July 7th. “He may offer the favourite anything up to 500,000
crowns for peace, and he may raise his offers far higher if at
the same time they would promise to procure us some advantages.
You see all the nicety of which I have need in this affair and
how little I must be seen in it. If England should have the
least wind of it all would be lost.”

Job’s tidings continued to pour in upon the King. In the sunshine of Kolin the crop sown by Kaunitz was ripening fast. Before July was half over Frederick learned that the French had seized East Frisia and were striking east, that the Swedes were sending 17,000 men into Pomerania, and that the Russians were likely to destroy Lehwaldt in Ost-Preussen. Thus all his northern frontier was on fire and the army of the Empire was about to join the Austrians in kindling new conflagrations in the south. Bohemia, of course, must soon be abandoned, and how would it be possible to hold Saxony, Silesia, or even Brandenburg against such a host of foes? Men said that in Voltaire the King of Prussia had lost his pen and in Schwerin his sword.

In the latter half of the month the situation altered still further for the worse. While Frederick lay motionless at Leitmeritz on the Elbe, intent on devouring Bohemia till the last moment, but keeping open his retreat into Saxony, his eldest brother, Augustus William, was out-manœuvred by the Austrians further east. Prince Charles, with inferior numbers, seized one of his posts, outpaced him to Zittau, burnt the magazine there, and finally compelled him to flee far into Saxony. Nothing remained but for the indignant King to rescue the heir to the throne, who had thus opened to the enemy the Lusatian door into both Saxony and Silesia. On his way Frederick paused to garrison Pirna, and there, on July 27, 1757, he received what Mitchell terms “a draught of comfort to one who has not had a single drop since the 18th June.”

So serious was the crisis that the King had sent orders to Berlin that at the first news of further disaster in Lusatia the archives and treasure should be removed to Cüstrin. That very day he had written a plain account of the situation to convince his ally of England how desperate was his plight. “If I except Spain, Denmark, Holland, and the King of Sardinia, I have all Europe against me. Even so, I fear not for the places where I can set armies against them, but for those where he who comes will find no one to oppose him.”

Such was the King’s mood when his friend, the ambassador of England, laid before him with delight the contents of as considerate a despatch as was ever penned in Whitehall. Sympathy for Kolin, approval of the new plan of campaign, “entire reliance upon the King of Prussia’s great military abilities,” a cheerful review of the forces still at his disposal—all this might be expected from the ministers of George II. But what followed might well have heaped coals of fire upon Frederick’s head. His ally, little suspecting the overtures to the Pompadour, persisted in treating him as a man of honour.

“The hint his Prussian Majesty threw out to you, of an
inclination to peace, is agreeable to the language that Prince
has held from the very beginning of the present troubles in
Germany.... The King will at all times be glad to contribute
to a general pacification, whenever equitable conditions can
be had for himself, the King of Prussia, and their allies ...
the King being determined to take no steps in an affair of this
consequence without his Prussian Majesty’s concurrence and
approbation.”

Then follow solid offers of co-operation with ships and above all with gold, the latter “only meant as the convenient and proper contingent of England to her allies.”

Frederick, by Mitchell’s account, received the message

“with a flow of gratitude not to be described. After a short
pause, he said, ‘I am deeply sensible of the King’s and your
nation’s generosity, but I do not wish to be a burden to my
allies; I would have you delay answering this letter till
affairs are ended in Lusatia; if I succeed, I will then consult
with you upon the different points suggested in the letter
and give my opinion freely upon them. If I am beat, there
will be no occasion to answer it at all; it will be out of
your power to save me, and I would not willingly abuse the
generosity of my allies by drawing them into unnecessary and
expensive engagements that can answer no valuable purpose.’ I
was pleased, but not surprised,” the report continues, “with
the noble dignity of this answer, for I have seen the King of
Prussia great in prosperity but greater still in adversity.”

There was, however, little of dignity or greatness in the King’s treatment of his unlucky brother and heir, whom he met on the road to Bautzen two days later. It was in the early hours of the morning, according to the narrative of an eye-witness, the son of one of the chief delinquents, that Augustus William saw the King and beside him Winterfeldt and Goltz, two of his own generals, for whom he had waited a full hour in vain. Each of the royal brothers rode at the head of his staff, and in Frederick’s train were Prince Henry and Ferdinand of Brunswick. At a distance of about three hundred paces the King stopped. Augustus William did the like, and he and his party doffed hats. The King’s party bowed to them, but Frederick turned his horse round, dismounted, and lay down upon the ground as though awaiting his vanguard. He made Winterfeldt and Goltz sit by him. All his officers dismounted, as did the Prince and his party. Soon Goltz crossed over to the Prince and said a few words to him, whereupon the Prince called his officers together and requested him to repeat the King’s message in their presence. This he did in the following words:

“His Majesty bids me tell Your Royal Highness that he has
cause to be very dissatisfied with you. You deserve that a
court-martial should be held over you, and then you and all the
generals with you would lose your heads. But His Majesty is not
willing to carry the matter so far, because in the General he
would not forget the Brother.”

Augustus William made answer like a brave man, exculpating his generals, and requesting a strict enquiry into his own conduct. But the King replied only by putting himself at the head of his vanguard, which had now come up, and riding on with his staff past the Prince, always keeping from three to four hundred paces away from him. At Bautzen he encamped, but still kept at a distance from the fugitives, lest, suggests Eichel, their fear should contaminate his own officers. Augustus William, treated like a leper, applied for permission to go to Dresden. “The Prince may go where he will,” said Frederick to the lieutenant who bore the letter. He went to Berlin and died of a broken heart.

If anything could palliate brutality to the merely unfortunate it would have been the situation in which Frederick was placed by his brother’s blunder. Despite all his efforts, the Austrians remained masters of the pass into Lusatia. With French, Swedes, Russians, and Imperialists all pressing on, it became imperative to dispose of the Austrians by a second Hohenfriedberg. But Prince Charles was not to be tempted from the strong position which Daun had chosen with his wonted skill. After three impatient weeks Frederick decided that the peril from the French was too acute to permit of further delay in trying to force the Austrians to give battle. Early in August he received the news of Cumberland’s downfall at Hastenbeck. Hanover lay at the mercy of the French under Richelieu, and when on August 25, 1757, the King turned his face towards the west, Soubise with a second French force and the army of the Empire was already at Erfurt. Frederick was determined to maintain his hold on Saxony. Bevern, he decided, must watch the Austrians, distance and fortune must account for the Russians and Swedes, while he himself undertook a march of two hundred miles to muster 20,000 men and lead them against Soubise.

It seemed at first as though the King did wrong to trust in fortune. On August 30, 1757, the army of Ost-Preussen was vanquished by the Russians at Gross-Jägersdorf. Frederick, however, kept on his way. In the middle of September he reached the scene of action, only to suffer from the caution of Soubise a month of the same torture that Prince Charles had inflicted in Lusatia. Then he was suddenly called upon to hurry a hundred miles towards the north-east to drive the Austrians from his capital. In his absence Prince Charles had moved eastwards into Silesia and his rearguard of light cavalry, 15,000 strong, seized a favourable moment for a foray on Berlin. They exacted a ransom of 200,000 thalers from the town, and then made off by forced marches. Frederick, who feared an invasion in force, was greatly relieved at the news, which reached him on October 18th. Next day, despairing of bringing the French to book, he informed Prince Maurice that it was time to think of chasing the Austrians from Silesia, but on the 23rd he sent him word that Soubise was after all leaving the hills and marching straight for Leipzig.

“Here very much is altered in a day,” he added with his own hand. It was in fact the turning-point of the most marvellous and chequered year of Frederick’s life. Full of hope, he ordered a concentration between his own command and those of Ferdinand, Keith, and Maurice. The sum-total was not great, but the quality and temper of the troops were incomparable. They were face to face with Frenchmen, of old the scorners of the German race, which they were wont to conquer by their arms and to corrupt by their example. Now these invaders were laden with the spoils of Thuringia. Insolent and infatuated, they were too proud to see among themselves defects which were patent to Prussian eyes. It was little wonder that Frederick’s veterans shared the ardour of their King. “The spirit of the soldiers was remarkable,” noted Mitchell when they came to Leipzig. “They did not complain of fatigue, notwithstanding of the long marches, but desired to be led out immediately, and murmured on being ordered to quarters.”

Three days later their desire was gratified. On the last day of October, 1757, Frederick was at Weissenfels on the Saale, checked for the moment because the enemy burned the bridge in his face and held the line of the river against him. His road from Leipzig had led him across the dismal plain where Charles XII. held for a moment the fate of Europe in his hand, past the granite slab which marks the spot where a greater King of Sweden fell at the head of his men. The region is memorable in history, but the deed which would have been most notable of all was averted. At Weissenfels, tradition says, Frederick owed his life to the chivalry of a French officer who forbade an artilleryman to pick him off.

FROM A RELIEF ON HIS STATUE AT WEISSENFELS.]

The French and Imperialists gave up the line of the Saale, joined forces, and took up a strong position in the undulating country to the west. On November 3rd, Frederick crossed the river and expected that next day the intolerable tension would be at an end. When, however, he came to reconnoitre the enemy’s position in force he found that to attack it against odds of two to one would be to invite a second Kolin. To the exultation of the allies, he drew back under a heavy cannonade and encamped with his left wing resting on Rossbach. On November 5th, Eichel, who was lodged at a safe distance, sent word of this fiasco to the Government, which had taken refuge in Magdeburg. “The whole war,” wrote this most submissive of Frederick’s slaves, “is of no avail. May Your Excellency soon make a good peace.” He added a postscript: “At the moment of closing this, about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, we hear a very loud cannon-fire and, as it seems, musketry also.” Frederick was being delivered from his troubles by a game of hide-and-seek.

The King’s object in encamping near Rossbach was to turn the allies’ position, or, failing this, to hang upon their rear when hunger should compel them to retreat. By the enemy, however, the movement was attributed to fear. Hot-headed Frenchmen, full of the martial traditions of their race, urged Soubise to crush a foe whose stroke they had yet to learn lest his little army should escape them. Vengeful Saxon voices joined with theirs, while shivering Imperialists, who for five days had subsisted on what food they could pick up among the peasants, clamoured for the break-up of the camp. Soubise at last gave way and planned a second Soor, to be done this time in broad daylight. Screened by the low hills, the allies were to march round Frederick’s left and to take him in flank and rear. Believing themselves to be four times as strong as the King, they feared only lest he should flee to Merseburg in time.

After a march of some three hours the allies reached a point due south of Rossbach. With a salutary access of caution, the French proposed to encamp there, right on Frederick’s flank. But this proposal was angrily resisted by the Imperialists and Saxons, and at the critical moment the news came that the Prussians were retreating. It was evident that they could delay no longer without permitting Frederick to escape. If, however, they hastened round the eastern end of the long, low ridge which hid his army from view, they might still take it in flank as it fled along the road to Merseburg. With this plan in mind, Soubise and his colleagues cast prudence to the winds. From the first they had omitted to name a place of retreat or a formation to be adopted in case they should be attacked. Now their army hurried along pell-mell, with three generals at the head of the cavalry, the infantry straggling after as best they might, the French reserves pressing between the marching columns and the artillery, and the whole flank exposed on the left, where the low ridge still screened the enemy from their sight.

Behind that ridge Frederick was ranking his men for battle. He, too, had believed his opponents to be in retreat and received with coarse taunts and disbelief the report of a lieutenant that they were trying to outflank him. The sight of their infantry, however, convinced him that they meant even more than a reconnoissance. At a glance he saw his opportunity. “In less than two minutes,” writes an onlooker, “all the tents lay on the ground, as though someone had pulled a string behind the scenes, and the army was in full march.” At first, by great luck, the heads of the Prussian columns pointed north-east towards Merseburg, and thus the allies were deluded into the belief that they were in retreat. Then, hidden by the ridge, they moved east and finally south-east, converging towards the enemy. In the waning November afternoon they formed line and waited unseen, cannon massed on the right, Prince Henry with the infantry in the centre, on the extreme left Seydlitz, the prince of dragoons, smoking his short clay pipe till the King should order the charge.

Little more than an hour after the Prussians struck their tents they were dashing at the open flank of the allies, and ere another hour had passed Frederick’s western frontier was saved. The so-called battle of Rossbach would be better named the drove of Reichartswerben. But for the slaughter inevitable when the best troops in the world swooped down upon a mob, the encounter would have been a pure farce. First Seydlitz by repeated charges drove the cavalry of the allies off the field. Then, to the accompaniment of a heavy cannonade, Prince Henry led the infantry down the slope and poured swift volleys into the medley out of which Soubise was vainly struggling to form a line of battle. Some of the French, Swiss, and West-German troops showed fight, the rest fled. Finally Seydlitz fell upon their rear and the butchery was checked only by darkness. At the cost of about five hundred men Frederick destroyed an army of nearly fifty thousand and made himself the hero of the Teutonic race. He jeered at the vanquished enemy in blasphemous French verses and set to work to reap the fruits of victory.

Everywhere save in Silesia the aspect of affairs was changing in his favour. A report that Elizabeth was dying caused the Russians to withdraw from Ost-Preussen just when their victory had placed it at their mercy. Lehwaldt was therefore set free to undertake the defence of Pomerania against the Swedes. England, inspired by Pitt, was proving herself a worthy ally against France. A new army was formed for the defence of Hanover. The command was offered to Prince Ferdinand, and British soldiers were to serve under him. For the present year at least, the North and West might be accounted safe. But from the Eastern theatre of war the news was bad. Prince Charles had followed Bevern into Silesia and now stood between him and Schweidnitz. Not a moment was to be lost if the King would save this important fortress.

Once more, however, Prussian speed was equal to all demands. Two days after Rossbach Frederick was already on his way. “I will leave you as strong a corps as I can on this side,” he writes to Keith, “and march unceasingly for Silesia. A toilsome year for me!” In good heart after Rossbach, he strongly approved of Bevern’s resolve to attack the Austrians. “For God’s sake have no fear of a weak enemy,” he wrote, “but trust to your own insight and experience.” But the days of Schwerin and the Old Dessauer were over. Except Henry and Ferdinand, Frederick had now no general from whom he could expect victories like his own. While he strode swiftly through Saxony Silesia was lost. On November 18, 1757, at Königsbrück, he learned that Schweidnitz had fallen without a blow. The confused reproaches and threats which he poured out upon Bevern and his generals were futile, for on the 22nd Prince Charles drove the Prussians from Breslau across the Oder, and within the week the capital was Austrian once more.

Before the news of Breslau reached him Frederick had declared to Bevern that he was firmly resolved to attack the enemy, but that it must be with their united forces, “else I am too weak and not much over 12,000 strong.” Next day, November 24th, at Naumburg on the Queiss the report reached him that Bevern had gained a victory. He therefore planned to catch Prince Charles in a net at Neumarkt by marching from Liegnitz to meet Bevern sallying forth from Breslau. He even hinted that Keith might surprise Prague, and wrote to Ferdinand: “With good fortune I flatter myself that I shall finish this business in a fortnight.” “The Almighty shows us one great mercy after another,” wrote Eichel. Next day they learned part of the truth, though rumour multiplied fourfold the Austrian loss of 6000. “Defend Breslau to the last man—on peril of your head,” was the sum of Frederick’s orders to his brother-in-law, accompanied by much military counsel and a promise of speedy aid. But soon the news came that Bevern was a prisoner, that his army had fled to Glogau, worst of all, that Breslau had capitulated without firing a shot. Thousands of the garrison voluntered to serve Maria Theresa. It is said that one battalion quitted the capital in a strength of nine officers and four men. After sixteen years Silesia seemed to be welcoming home its Queen.

For a fortnight Frederick’s army had struggled along bad roads at the astonishing rate of nearly sixteen miles a day. They drew rein at Parchwitz, within two marches of Breslau. There on November 28th the King composed a short testament. “I will be buried at Sans Souci without pomp or ceremony—and by night,” was his decree. “... If the battle be won, my brother must none the less send a messenger to France with full powers to negotiate for peace.” The words show how completely he identified himself with Prussia amid circumstances so gloomy that Eichel forbore, ever after, to mention the document lest he should recall them to the mind of the King. Yet on the same day Frederick wrote one of his most characteristic letters to Wilhelmina, who had expressed her fear that the army vanquished at Rossbach would afflict Germany anew. “This is now our task,” ran his reply:

“to put the Austrians to flight and to recover all that we have
lost; and it is no trifle. However, I am undertaking it at the
risk of what may follow. Neither Soubise nor the Imperialists
will come back this year: as for the future, we must hope for
peace, for indeed it seems as though our enemies had determined
to destroy the human race.... I beg you to await the issue in
these parts with patience; neither our anxiety nor our care
make any difference to it, and nothing will happen except
what pleases His Sacred Majesty Chance.... If I reach winter
quarters, I shall have the honour of sending you a prodigious
quantity of verse of every kind.”

Needless to say, Frederick’s fatalism did not abate his energy, nor against such odds did his courage degenerate into rashness. He gave the command of Bevern’s ruined army to Zieten, who had defeated the enemy’s right in the battle of Breslau, and bade him bring men and guns from Glogau. Then he and his weary 14,000 waited four full days at Parchwitz, with Prince Charles’s victorious army to their front, the garrison of Liegnitz on their flank, and Austrian slowness letting slip the opportunity to attack.

On December 2nd, Zieten arrived at Parchwitz, having rallied some 18,000 men. Frederick had now an army about 32,000 strong, well furnished with cavalry and artillery. His plan had from the first been as clear as the task before him. He was resolved to perish rather than abandon Silesia. The Austrians held the province by means of an army and two strong places, Breslau and Schweidnitz. He must therefore first beat the army and then capture the strong places. The advent of December forbade long manœuvring in the hope of catching Prince Charles at a disadvantage. To save Silesia this year and Prussia next, he must lead his army straight to the enemy. The problem that he expected to find resembled the problem of Prague and of Kolin—to destroy an army not inferior in numbers posted in ground of its own choosing. Prince Charles, he believed, had his back to Breslau and his front protected by a stream of some size. “He is in an advantageous camp,” wrote Eichel on December 1st, “well furnished with artillery; he lives on our magazines, and the possession of Breslau gives him liberty to retire in any case across the Oder, from which God preserve us!” The ejaculation reminds us that if the Austrian force remained in being, Frederick would be foiled.

The King was determined to venture all upon a battle. That he appreciated the odds against him is not entirely clear. Writing to his brother Henry on November 30th, he declares himself hopeful of pitting 36,000 men against the 39,000 at which he estimates the Austrian force. Next day he alters the former number to 39,000, and Eichel states that

“According to many letters from his officers which we have
intercepted, the enemy has lost more than 24,000 men, as well
as 8000 at the siege of Schweidnitz; he has suffered much from
sickness; half of his cavalry is ruined; yet notwithstanding
all this he must be equal if not superior in numbers to
ourselves.”

On the other hand, Prussian tradition represents the King as declaring on December 3rd that, contrary to all the rules of war, he would attack Prince Charles’s army wherever he found it, though it was nearly thrice as strong as his own. But whatever be the truth,—whether or no he would have done what he had declined to do on the day before Rossbach, whether or no he knew or guessed the truth that Prince Charles had 80,000 men,—Frederick spared no effort to fill every soldier with his own spirit. Rest and food and drink, the story of Rossbach to chase away the memory of Breslau, all these were showered upon an army which since adversity had purged it of its foreign elements responded with eager loyalty to the touch of the Prussian King.

Stripping off his cherished French manners, he was for a brief space the Father of his people. The news flew round the army that the King had bandied rough pleasantries with his grenadiers, that veterans had called him “Thou” and “Fritz,” that he had told the Pomeranians that without them he would not dare to give battle. The effect was magical, and the rank and file caught the glow which warmed the breasts of their superiors. For Frederick had done what he had perhaps never yet deigned to do, save when he quitted his capital in 1740 to grasp Silesia. He had called his officers together and appealed in impassioned phrases to their honour, their loyalty, and their patriotism. “Gentlemen,” he cried, “the enemy stand in their entrenchments armed to the teeth. We must attack them there, and conquer, or remain every one of us on the field. If any of you is unwilling, he may have his discharge at once and go home.” Then he paused. The devoted men were silent, many in tears, only one major cried out: “High time for such wretched scoundrels to be off.” Frederick smiled and declared that he was sure of their faithful service and of victory. He then denounced stern threats against the man or regiment who should fail in the hour of battle. “Farewell, gentlemen,” were his concluding words; “soon we beat the enemy or we see one another no more.” More than twenty years later the rough soldiers wept like children as they told the tale, and those who heard it could not keep back their tears.

On Sunday, December 4, 1757, King and army set out for Breslau. From Parchwitz to the walls of the city the distance is some thirty-two miles as the crow flies. The road runs through Neumarkt, about twenty-three miles from Breslau, and Lissa, a little more than nine. That evening Neumarkt was in Prussian hands, and besides the little town 80,000 Austrian rations of bread, welcome in themselves, but far more welcome for the news which they conveyed. “The fox,” cried Frederick, “has crept out of his hole, now I will punish his presumption.”

On December 2nd, the day of Zieten’s junction with the King, the Austrians had indeed determined to attack. The reason for this fatal decision was by no means over-confidence born of success. Prince Charles was very far from despising the adversary who had defeated him on four stricken fields. With almost nervous anxiety, in spite of his 80,000 men, he sought to be informed of every movement in Frederick’s camp at Parchwitz. It is true that Austrian policy would be best served if the Queen were to regain Silesia without the armies of her allies. It is false that she ordered the army of Silesia to give battle at any cost. Before and after the fight Prince Charles stated expressly that his generals were unanimous in favour of marching on Neumarkt. The object was to save Liegnitz from Frederick and to prevent him from making his position too strong.

Both combatants, therefore, made for Neumarkt on the same day, and the forward movement of the Austrians was only quickened when they learned that the Prussians had chased their vanguard from the town. On the night of December 4th the armies lay within a few miles of each other. The Prussians were exulting in the news that Prince Charles had crossed the two streams which rendered his old position so formidable that Frederick had enrolled 800 volunteers for the first attack.

With an army tuned to the highest pitch and a King who knew every rood of the ground on the road to Breslau, the Prussians advanced to give battle. Before five o’clock on the dismal morning of December 5, 1757, they were on the march, Frederick in the van, and only a single battalion left in Neumarkt with the baggage. The exact position of the Austrians was not known to them as they hastened through the broken country east of Neumarkt towards the champaign west of Leuthen. If the enemy had placed this champaign at their back, the attack would still be hampered by the ground.

The Prussians had espied watch-fires on a height to the south of the great road a few miles east of Neumarkt—a height from which in daylight both the towers of Neumarkt and the farms and cottages of Leuthen may be seen. Was this an Austrian wing? To their delight it proved to be only a vanguard. Three regiments of Saxon light horse, heroes of Kolin, had been placed there with two of Imperial hussars to collect the wreck of the Neumarkt garrison and to watch the road to Breslau. They clung too closely to their task and were crushed by the Prussian vanguard. Eleven officers and 540 men were taken prisoner, many fell, and the rest fled wildly to alarm the Austrian right. Frederick could with difficulty check the mad pursuit of his hussars, who drew bridle almost within cannon-shot of the enemy.

The King’s spirits rose yet higher when he learned from the prisoners that Prince Charles had left most of his heavy guns in Breslau. He indulged his advancing columns with the sight of the captured troopers filing past them to Neumarkt and again condescended to repartee. “Why did you forsake me?” he asked a Frenchman who had previously deserted from the Prussian army. “Indeed, your Majesty,” the man replied, “our position is too hopeless.” “Well,” said the King, “let us strike one more blow to-day, and if I am beaten we will both desert to-morrow.”

As the gathering daylight revealed Prince Charles’s army Frederick’s confidence was more than ever justified. The Austrian position, chosen perhaps to cover three routes to Breslau, was far too extensive. Their line, which stretched from Nippern due south across the highroad, then on behind Leuthen village as far as Sagschütz and the pine-clad hill beyond, was not less than five miles long and unprotected for the most part by the ground. Only the right wing, where the Italian Luchesi was in command, was defended in front and flank by hills and woods and marshes. These made it practically impossible for the Prussians to attack at any point between Nippern and the highroad, and if they fell upon the centre Luchesi might advance through the wood and take them in flank.

Prince Charles, who knew something of Frederick’s methods, would have done well to strengthen his left. But on the day of Leuthen, Fortune seemed resolved to favour the side which trusted most to her help. By design or by accident, Frederick’s movements were such as to convince Luchesi that the Prussians were about to hurl all their strength upon him. While the King reconnoitred, the heads of his columns remained pointing in the direction of their line of march and thus seemed to threaten the Austrian right. In each of the great battles of this year, at Prague, at Kolin, and in a sense also at Rossbach, it was the right wing of the allies upon which the Prussians fell. Now when he saw Frederick diligently inspecting his own quarter of the field Luchesi insisted on being reinforced. His clamour prevailed and, at the moment when Frederick began the movement towards Leuthen and Sagschütz, Daun was galloping with cavalry from the centre and left towards Nippern, the point most distant from the danger.

The Prussian army this day surpassed itself in the swift precision of its movements. No sooner was the King’s plan formed than Maurice and Zieten were ranking the eager veterans for their mysterious march due south—parallel with the Austrian line of battle and in part hidden from its view by the undulations of the ground. Frederick rode along the ridge between the armies and exulted as he marked the mistake of Daun. For some two miles he might, for all the Austrians knew, be in retreat. Then as the ground sinks into a plain he drew nearer to the enemy’s left and hurled all his strength upon it.

Frederick and his 32,000 men had only some four hours of daylight in which to overthrow a host nearly 80,000 strong. Despite the tension the Prussian machine worked perfectly. The complicated attack in oblique order was accomplished as never before or after, and an invincible assault began. By steady valour, not by desperate onrush, the infantry cleared the height near Sagschütz and in perhaps fifteen minutes they took the battery which crowned it. The Austrians and Bavarians made furious efforts to regain what the flight of their comrades from Würtemburg had sacrificed. Nothing, however, could now withstand the disciplined onset of the Prussians, who swept before them the shattered regiments and the breathless supports who hurried to their aid. Hindered by ditches, the Prussian cavalry had as yet been able to give little help, but the irresistible advance of the infantry brought them at length to better ground and Zieten completed the ruin of the Austrian left.

FROM A RELIEF ON THE MONUMENT OF VICTORY NEAR KŘEČHOŘ, UNVEILED 1898.]

In numbers, however, Prince Charles was still superior to his assailants. He might fairly ascribe the disaster on his left to the blunder by which the Würtembergers, mere auxiliaries, were entrusted with the key of the position. Out of his unbroken centre and right he formed a new line of battle of which Leuthen village was the key. Leuthen, with a wall of men and a hasty breastwork in front of it, with its courtyards and churchyard packed with men, and behind it men in thick masses with cannon, might surely be held until Luchesi and his cavalry could come to the rescue on the right.

The advanced guard was soon driven off by the terrible fire of the Prussians, whose heavy guns now and throughout the battle tore frightful gaps in the crowded ranks of the enemy. But the village proved a formidable obstacle to their progress. House after house had to be stormed, and the churchyard was most difficult of all. At last the Prussians carried Leuthen. Then, however, they were exposed to the batteries behind and for perhaps an hour a furious conflict raged on something like equal terms. Frederick sent his left wing into action, but still the Austrians stood firm. But again, when already three of the four hours of daylight were spent, Luchesi proved to be the evil genius of his side. Coming up with his cavalry, he took the Prussian infantry in flank, only to be himself outflanked, crushed, and killed by a concealed reserve of Prussian cavalry. The panic produced by this sudden onslaught spread to the infantry, and the Prussians pressed home their advantage with a bayonet charge. At last the Austrians were beaten. They flung away their muskets, forsook their guns, and fled wildly towards Breslau. A regiment which strove to cover their flight was reduced to one officer and eight men.

As at Rossbach, darkness robbed the victors of the full fruit of their success. The Prussian loss of one man in five proved that Leuthen was no easy triumph. But they struck down 10,000 men and captured 12,000, they put to flight an army nearly three times as great as their own, and they won Silesia and undying fame.