"The king!" cried both in joyful surprise, and forgetting their wounds and helplessness, they strove to rise, but sank back with hollow groans, with the blood streaming anew from their wounds.
"Poor children," said Frederick, "you are badly wounded."
"Yes," groaned Lieutenant von Grabow, "badly wounded, but that is of small consequence, if, your majesty, we only knew that we had gained the day. We had taken two redoubts, and were storming the third, when this misfortune befell us. Tell us, your majesty, is it not true? Is not the victory ours?"
A dark shadow passed over the face of the king, but soon disappeared.
"You must now think only of yourselves. You have proved that you are brave--the rest is accident or fate. Do not despond, all will be well.
Have your wounds been dressed? Have you been fed?"
"Ah, sire, no devil will dress our wounds," groaned Lieutenant von Hubenfall.
"How," cried the king, "have they left you here without care and assistance?"
"Yes, sire, there is no earthly hope for us."
The king was about to answer, when several people, bearing hand-barrows, accompanied by a surgeon, entered.
"What do you wish?" said the king, angrily.
"Sire," answered the surgeon, "we will remove the wounded, as your majesty will make your night-quarters here."
The king threw a scornful glance upon them.
"And you suppose that I will allow this? The wounded men remain here. I will seek shelter elsewhere. But, above all things, examine the wounds of these two officers at once, and dress them."
The surgeon advanced, and examined them carefully, then drew near the king.
"Your majesty," said he, shrugging his shoulders, "it would be all in vain. A cannon-ball has torn off the right arm of one of these men, and he must die of gangrene. The other has a cartridge-load of iron in his face and in his body. It is impossible to bind up these wounds."
The king did not answer him. He stepped hastily to the straw-bed, and took both the wounded men by the hand. Then, turning to the surgeon, he said--
"Look, now, these two men are young and powerful--they have no fever.
With such young blood and fresh hearts Nature often does wonders. Dress them, and bind up their wounds, and, above all things, see that they have nourishment--they have need of it."
"Ah, yes, your majesty; we have been hungry and thirsty a long time,"
said Grabow.
The king smiled. "See, now, you think they are lost, and yet they have healthy stomachs; so long as a man is hungry he will not die."
The surgeon opened his case of instruments and commenced to dress the wounds. The king watched him for a long time, then stooped down and said, tenderly, "Children, do not despair; I will learn how it goes with you, and if you are no longer fit for service, I will take care of you.
Believe that I will not forget you." He bowed kindly and left the room.
His adjutants were awaiting him at the door of the tent. [Footnote: The king's own words. The whole scene is historical. These two officers, whom the king saved in this way from death, recovered rapidly. After they were completely restored, they again took part in the contest, and were again severely wounded at Kolberg. They served until peace was declared, and then retired on the invalid list, and, by the express order of the king, were most kindly cared for.--See Nicolai.] The king signed to them to follow him, and stepping rapidly through the village, he passed by the huts from which loud cries of anguish and low murmurs were heard.
"Ah," cried Frederick, "Dante did not know all the horrors of hell, or he forgot to paint those I now suffer." He hastened on--on--on, in the obscure twilight of the summer night, pursued by the sighs and groans of his dying and wounded soldiers; a deep, immeasurable sadness lay upon his brow; his lips were trembling; cold perspiration stood upon his forehead; his eyes wandered over the battle-field, then were raised to heaven with a questioning and reproachful expression. Already the village lay far behind him; but he hurried on, he had no aim, no object; he wished only to escape this hell, this cry of despair and woe from the condemned. An adjutant dared at last to step forward and awake him from his sad mood.
"Sire," said he, "the Cossacks are swarming in every direction, and if your majesty goes on, the most fearful results may be anticipated. The Cossacks shoot at every man who wears a good coat."
The king shook his head sadly. "There is no ball for me," said he in a low tone; "I have in vain called upon death. I have prayed in mercy for a ball; it came, but it only grazed my breast. No, no--there is no ball for me!" He advanced, and the adjutant dared once more to interrupt him.
"Sire," said he, "will not your majesty seek night-quarters?"
Frederick raised his head, and was in the act of answering hastily, then said: "Yes, I need night-quarters." He looked around and saw an empty peasant's house by the wayside, drew near and entered silently.
CHAPTER XII. A HEROIC SOUL.
"I will pass the night here," said he, "the place appears deserted; we will disturb no one."
The king was right. The miserable old hut was empty. No one advanced to meet him as he entered. In one corner of the room there was some dirty straw; in the other a wooden table and stool--this was all.
"It suffices for me," said the king, smiling. "I will pass the night here. Have you my writing materials with you?"
"I sent Adjutant von Goltz for them, sire, as I did not wish to leave you alone."
Goltz now entered with the king's portfolio, and informed him that he had brought two grenadiers to guard the house.
"Have I still grenadiers?" murmured the king, in a trembling voice. His head fell upon his breast, and he stood thus lost in deep thought for a while. "Gentlemen," said he, at length, "inspect the house. See if there is a more comfortable room than this; if not, I suppose we can manage to sleep here. Send one of the guard for some soldiers, by whom I can forward my dispatches."
The adjutants bowed, and left the room. The king was alone. He could at last give way to his despair--his grief.
"All, all is lost!" murmured the king, and a voice within him answered: "When all is lost, there is no escape but death! It is unworthy to continue a life without fame, without glory. The grave alone is a resting-place for the broken-hearted, humiliated man!"
The king listened attentively to this voice. He had borne with patience the sorrows and deprivations of the past years, but he could not survive the ruin of his country. His country was lost. There was no chance of saving it; his army was gone. The victorious enemy had taken all the neighboring provinces. The Russians could now march undisturbed to Berlin. They would find no resistance, for the garrison there consisted of invalids and cripples.
Berlin was lost! Prussia was lost! The king was resolved to die, for he was a king without a crown, a hero without laurels. He wished to die, for he could not survive the destruction of his country. But first he must arrange his affairs, make his will, and bid adieu to his friends.
The king opened the door hastily, and desired that a light should be brought--it was no easy thing to procure in this dismal, deserted village. The adjutant succeeded at last, however, in getting a few small tallow candles, and placing them in old bottles, in the absence of candlesticks of any description, he carried them to the king. Frederick did not observe him; he stood at the open window, gazing earnestly at the starry firmament. The bright light aroused him; he turned, and approached the table.
"My last letters!" murmured he, sinking upon the wooden stool, and opening his portfolio.
How his enemies would have rejoiced, could they have seen him in that wretched hovel! He first wrote to General Fink, to whom he wished to leave the command of his army. He must fulfil the duties of state, before those of friendship. It was not a letter--rather an order to General Fink, and read as follows:
"General Fink will find this a weary and tedious commission. The army I leave is no longer in a condition to defend itself from the Russians.
Haddeck will hasten to Berlin. Loudon also, I presume. If you intercept them, the Russians will be in your rear; if you remain by the Oder, Haddeck will surround you. I nevertheless believe, were Loudon to come to Berlin, you could attack and defeat him. This, were it possible, would give you time to arrange matters, and I can assure you, time is every thing, in such desperate circumstances as ours. Koper, my secretary, will give you the dispatches from Torgau and Dresden. You must acquaint my brother, whom I make general-in-chief of the army, with all that passes. In the mean time, his orders must be obeyed. The army must swear by my nephew. This is the only advice I am able to give. Had I any resources, I would stand fast by you. FREDERICK." [Footnote: The king's own words.]
"Yes, I would have stood by them," murmured the king, as he folded and addressed his letter. "I would have borne still longer this life of oppression and privation; but now, honor demands that I should die."
He took another sheet of paper. It was now no order or command, but a tender, loving, farewell letter to his friend, General Finkenstein.
"This morning, at eleven o'clock, I attacked the enemy; we drove them back to Gudenberg. All my men performed deeds of daring and bravery, but, at the storming of Gudenberg, a terrific number of lives were lost.
My army became separated. I reassembled them three times, but in vain.
At last, they fled in wild disorder. I very nearly became a prisoner, and was obliged to leave the field to the enemy. My uniform was torn by the cannon-balls, two horses were shot underneath me, but death shunned me; I seemed to bear a charmed life; I could not die! From an army of forty-eight thousand men, there now remains three thousand. The consequences of this battle will be more fearful than the battle itself.
It is a terrible misfortune, and I will not survive it. There is no one to whom I can look for help. I cannot survive my country's ruin.
Farewell!"