CHAPTER I.

THE BATTLE OF BREITENFELD.

Through the histories of Germany and Sweden the fame of mighty names has resounded for centuries; at their mention the Swede raises his head aloft, and the free German uncovers his with admiration. These are Leipzig, Breitenfeld, and the 7th of September, 1631.

King Gustaf Adolf, with his army of Swedes and Finns, stood on German soil to protect the holiest and highest things in life--Liberty and Faith.

Tilly, the terrible old corporal, had invaded Saxony, and the king pursued him. Twice had they met; the tiger had challenged the lion to the combat, but the latter would not move. Now for the third time they faced each other; the crushing blow must fall, and the fate of Germany trembled in the balance.

At dawn the Swedes and Saxons crossed the Loder, and placed themselves in battle array at the village of Breitenfeld.

The king rode along the lines, and inspected everything. His eye beamed with delight on these brave men; the left wing was composed of Gustave Horn's cavalry, Teuffel was in the centre, and Torstensson with his leathern cannon in front. The Livonians and Hepburn's Scots were both in the second line.

The king commanded the right wing, composed of several regiments of cavalry and the Finns.

"Stälhandske," said he, checking his large steed at the last Finnish division, "I suppose you understand why you are here. Pappenheim is opposite, and longs to make your acquaintance," he added smiling, "and I expect a vigorous attack from that quarter. I rely upon you Finns to receive him right royally."

The king then raised his voice and said,

"Boys, do not blunt your swords upon those iron-clad fellows, but first tackle the horses, and then you will have light work with the riders."

The Finns were proud of their danger and the honour of their position. The king inspired all with courage and self-reliance. But these short, sturdy fellows on their small horses seemed unequal to the onset of the big Wallachians upon their strong and heavy chargers. Tilly held the same opinion.

"Ride them down," he said, "and horse and man will fall powerless under the heels of your steeds." But Tilly did not know his foes. The outer bearing of the Finns was deceptive. Their iron muscles and calm courage, with the hardihood of their horses, gave them a decided advantage over their enemies.

"Well, Bertila," said Stälhandske, turning to a young man who in the first rank rode a handsome black horse, and was noticeable from his height and bearing, "do you feel inclined to win the knight's spur to-day?"

The one addressed seemed astonished, and coloured up to the brim of his helmet.

"I have never dared to aspire so high," he answered. "I--a peasant's son!" he added with hesitation.

"Thunder and lightning, the boy blushes like a bride at the altar! A peasant's son? What the devil, then, have we all come from in the beginning? Did you not provide four fully equipped horsemen? Has not our Lord placed a heart in your breast, and the king a weapon in your hand? That is in itself a coat of arms; you must attend to the rest."

A multitude of thoughts passed quickly through the young man's mind. He thought of the days of his childhood in far-off Finland. He remembered his old father, whose name was also Bertila, and who during the peasant war was one of Duke Carl's best men. When the latter became King Carl the Ninth, he gave his follower four large farms; each of these had to provide a man and horse for military service. Owing to this, old Bertila became one of the richest peasants in the country. He thought of the time when his father first sent him to Stockholm, in the hope that he would some day attain honour and distinction by the king's side; then of his own ambition which had induced him to neglect study and take private lessons in riding and fencing. At last his father gave him permission to join the king's Finnish cavalry. Now he, a peasant's son, was about to strive to raise himself to the level of the haughty nobility. It was this thought that made him blush, and under its influence he felt he could face any danger.

Moreover, he was about to fight under the king's eye, for his faith and the honour of his country. The whole army was animated by the same high principles, which rendered them invincible, and made them realise the victory before the battle had begun.

Before the young horseman had time to reply to his generous leader, the king's high voice was heard in the distance calling to prayer. The hero took off his helmet and lowered the point of his sword, and all the troops did the same. The king prayed:

"Thou all-merciful God, Who bearest victory and defeat in Thy hand, turn Thy beneficent countenance to us, Thy servants. From distant lands and peaceful homes have we come, to fight for freedom, and Thy Gospel. Give us victory for Thy Holy Name's sake. Amen."

A deep trust at these words filled every heart.

At noon the attacking Swedish army came within range of the Imperial cannon. The Swedish artillery answered, and the conflict began. As the sun shone right in the assailants' eyes, the king made his army wheel to the right, so as to get the wind and sun on the side. Pappenheim tried to prevent this. He rushed forward with the speed of lightning, and took the Swedish right in flank. At once the king threw the Rhine Count's regiment and Baner's cavalry upon him. The shock was terrific; horses and riders fell over each other in utter confusion. Pappenheim drew back, but only to throw himself the next instant on the Finns. But the furious charge of the Wallachians was in vain; they met a wall of steel; their front rank was crushed, and the next turned back. The second attack was no better, and Pappenheim raged; for the third time he rushed to the assault; the Livonians and Courlanders now assisted the Finns. The latter received the enemy with calm courage; nothing could break through that living wall.

The heat of the conflict had gradually excited the Finns, and it was now scarcely possible to hold them in. Stälhandske's mighty voice sounded high above the roar and din of the conflict; and once more the foe was thrown back. Now the Finnish lines broke, but only to enclose the enemy. Then it became a hand-to-hand struggle. Twice more the Wallachians charged and were repulsed. The seventh time Pappenheim was followed only by a few of the most determined of his followers, and when this last desperate effort failed all was over. The remaining Wallachians scattered themselves in the wildest flight toward Breitenfeld.

Covered with blood and dust the Finns took breath. But as soon as the smoke cleared off, they saw other foes in front. These were the Holsteiners, who had supported Pappenheim. The Finns could not be checked. With the East Goths they surrounded the Holsteiners and annihilated them; these brave fellows died in their ranks to a man.

Whilst this happened on the right, the left was in great danger. Furstenberg's Croats had made the Saxons give ground, and Tilly then advanced his powerful centre. Torstensson's cannon played havoc in the ranks; Tilly moved aside and charged the Saxons. The ranks of the latter were immediately broken, and they fled in the greatest disorder. Tilly now turned his victorious troops against the Swedish left wing. The latter were slowly pressed back. The king then hastened up and ordered Callenbach's reserve to the rescue. Almost immediately both Callenbach and Teuffel fell. Then Hepburn's Scots and the Smälanders came up; the Croats fell upon them, but the Scots opened their ranks, and several masked batteries played with terrible effect on the former. Under the fire of the Scots whole ranks were shattered, and amidst the dense smoke and dust the combatants were mingled together in utter confusion.

Victory still hung in the balance.

But now a diversion occurred which decided the battle. The king with his cavalry and the Finns had captured the Imperial artillery on the heights, and now turned it against the latter. In vain Pappenheim tried to recapture the guns; he was repulsed in disorder. Then the king, with his invincible right wing, charged the enemy in flank; the Imperialists were lost. Tilly wept with rage: Pappenheim, who had hewed down fourteen men with his own hand, was mad with fury. No one, however, could rally the Imperial troops, and Tilly, whose horse was shot under him, barely escaped being taken prisoner. The king's victory was decisive.

But a terrible sequel remained. Four regiments of Tilly's veteran infantry had reformed, and now sought to check the pursuit. The king charged them with Tott's cavalry, the Smälanders, and Finns. It was a terrific combat; the Wallachians fought with the fury of despair; no quarter was asked or given. At last darkness saved the remnant of these brave men, who retreated on Leipzig.

The battle was over.

Great results followed this victory; and in the evening the king rode from rank to rank, to thank his brave troops.

"Stälhandske," said he, when he came to the Finns, "you and your men have fought like heroes, as I expected. I thank you, my children! I am proud of you."

The troops responded with a joyous cheer.

"But," continued the king, "there was one among you who sprang from his horse, and first of all scaled the heights to seize the Imperial guns. Where is he?"

A young horseman rode from the ranks.

"Pardon, your Majesty!" he stammered. "I did it without orders, and therefore merit death."

The king smiled. "Your name?"

"Bertila."

"From East Bothnia?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Good. To-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, you may present yourself, to hear your doom."

The king rode on, and the horseman returned to the ranks.

Night broke over the awful field, covered with 9,000 dead. The Finnish cavalry encamped on the heights, where Tilly's guns were captured. The dead were taken away, and fires of broken gun-carriages and musket-stocks spread their light in the September night; through a clear sky the eternal stars looked down upon the battlefield.

The cavalry gave their horses fodder, and watered them at the muddy Loder. Then they bivouacked, each in his division, around the fires, armed and ready to jump at the first call The ground was damp with dew, and slippery with blood, but many were so fatigued that they fell asleep as they sat around the fires. Others kept themselves in good spirits by passing round cups of ale, of which they had a good stock. They drank in jesting fashion to the health of the Imperialists.

"And that they to-night may die of thirst Or drink to their own funeral Eläköön kuningas!"

At this moment a woeful voice was heard quite near, earnestly calling for help. The soldiers, accustomed to such things, knew by the accent that the man was a foreigner, and did not trouble. But the cries continued without ceasing.

"Pekka, go and give the Austrian dog a final thrust," cried some of the men, who were irritated by these wailing sounds.

Pekka, one of Bertila's four dragoons, short, but strong as a lion, went unwillingly to silence the offender's voice. Superstitious, like all these soldiers, he was not at home amidst the dead on a dark night. Bertila, absorbed in thinking of the next morning, did not hear it.

In a few minutes Pekka returned, dragging after him a dark body, which, to everyone's surprise, was found to be a monk, easily recognised by his tonsure. Around his common gown he wore a hempen rope, and to this hung the scabbard of a sword.

"A monk! A Jesuit!" exclaimed the soldiers.

"Yes, but what could I do," said Pekka, "he parried my thrust with a crucifix."

"Kill him! It is one of the devil's allies who prowl around to murder kings and burn faithful Christians at the stake.

"Away with him! When we carried the heights, this same man stood with his crucifix among the Imperialists and fired off a cannon."

"Let's find out if the precious object is of silver," said one of the men, and pulling aside the monk's gown he drew forth, in spite of his struggles, a crucifix of silver, richly gilded.

"Just as I thought, the devil has plenty of gold."

"Let me see it," said an old veteran. "I know something about monks' tricks."

As he pressed a little spring in the image's breast, a keen dagger sprang from it. As if bitten by an adder, he threw the crucifix from him. Rage and horror seized the bystanders.

"Hang the serpent by his own rope," shouted the men.

"There is no tree," said one, "and no one is allowed to leave the lines."

"Drown him!"

"There is no water."

"Stab him!"

No one was willing, from aversion, to touch the monk.

"What shall we do with him?"

"Misericordia! Gnade!" said the prisoner, who now began to recover his speech and strength.

"Give him a kick and let him go," said one. "We are Christians, and fear no devilry."

"At least I will mark you first, so that we may know you if we meet again," cried one of the soldiers named Vitikka, renowned for his strength and brutality. He flourished his sword several times round the monk's head, and then with two dexterous strokes cut off both the prisoner's ears, before he could be prevented by his comrades. It was most skilfully accomplished.

"St. Peter could not have done it better," said Vitikka laughing.

Those who were standing around turned away. Although they were accustomed to the cruelties of war, this was too savage even for them.

Bleeding, the Jesuit crawled away on his hands and feet. But long afterwards his voice was heard from the darkness:

"Accursed Finns! May the eternal fires consume you!"

"Our Father, which art in Heaven," a voice exclaimed from the group of soldiers. And all uttered the prayer with devotion.