CHAPTER VIII.

NÜRNBERG AND LÜTZEN.

The incidents of the campaign followed each other quickly, like wave after wave on a stormy sea, and history compressed into a narrow frame is obliged to pursue the same course. Hence we must hurry over these marvellous occurrences and into a still more extraordinary period, to find the thread of our story, "The King's Ring," which passes through ages and the destinies of great characters.

The terrible Wallenstein had become reconciled to the emperor, and gathering a formidable army, turned like a dark cloud upon the rich city of Nürnberg. Gustaf Adolf cut short his victorious career in Bavaria, and hurried to meet him; and here the two armies remained in entrenched camps facing each other for eleven weeks--the panther and the lion, ready to spring, sharply watched each other's movements. The surrounding country was stripped bare to provide for the wants of the two hosts, and foraging parties were constantly dispatched to more remote places to get supplies. Among the Imperialists those mostly employed in this task were Isolani's Croats; the Swedes generally sent Taupadel's dragoons and Stälhandske's Finnish cavalry.

Famine, heat, and plague, and the plundering German soldiers, spread want and misery everywhere. Gustaf Adolf, having united himself with Oxenstjerna's and Baner's forces, could now muster 50,000 men. On the 24th of August, 1632, he marched against Wallenstein, who stood behind impregnable entrenchments. Long before daylight the thunder of Torstensson's guns was heard against Alte Veste. In the darkness of the night 500 musketeers of the white brigade were climbing up the steep redoubts, and reached the tops under a terrible fire. For a moment victory seemed to reward their strenuous efforts; confusion reigned amongst the half-awakened enemy; the cries of the women, and the fire from the Swedes, added to the disorder, and made the attack easy. But Wallenstein, calm and unmoved, sent away the women, and directed a murderous fire on the assailants. The brave brigade was driven back with heavy losses. The king, however, would not give way; once more the white brigade renewed the attack; but in vain. Gustaf Adolf then called his Finns, for, as Schiller relates, "the courage of the Northmen puts the Germans to shame." It was the East Bothnians in the ranks of the Swedish brigade. Death stared them in the face in the form of hundreds of guns; with unsurpassed courage and determination they climbed up the entrenchments, slippery with rain and blood. But against these strong works and the deadly fire, nothing could prevail; in the midst of death and destruction they tried again to reach the top of the redoubts, but in vain; those who escaped the shot and pikes were hurled back; for the first time one saw Gustaf Adolf's Finns retreat; and the attempts made by the other troops were also in vain. The Imperialists hastened out in pursuit, but were driven back; again they sallied forth with the same result. With heavy losses on both sides the battle continued all day, and many of the bravest commanders were killed. The angel of death again sent a bullet towards the king, but it only touched the sole of his boot.

The Imperial cavalry fought with the Swedish on the left flank. Cronenberg, with his cuirassiers, clad in iron mail from head to feet, who were called "the invincibles," overthrew the Hessians. The Landgrave of Hessen remarked with anger that the king by the sacrifice of the German troops tried to save his own.

"Very well," said Gustaf Adolf, "I will send my Finns, and hope that the change of troops will bring a change of fortune."

Stälhandske, with the Finns, was now sent against Cronenberg and his invincibles. A grand contest, which will never be forgotten, then started between these two powerful forces; on the shore of the River Regnitz, which was covered with bushes, these troops met in conflict, man to man, horse to horse; swords were blunted on helmets, long pistols flashed, and many a brave horseman was driven into the river. The Finns' horses were hardier than the beautiful Hungarian chargers, and thus they shared in the victory. The brave Cronenberg fell, and his invincibles then fled from the Finns. In his place, Fugger appeared with a great force, and drew the Finns in continuous battle slowly towards the enemy in the forest. But here the Imperialists were met with the fire from the Swedish infantry. Fugger fell, and his horsemen were again routed by the exhausted Finns.

At the close of the day more than three thousand killed covered the hills and the fields. "In the battle at Alte Veste, Gustaf Adolf was considered worsted, because the attack failed," says Schiller. The following day he altered his position, and on the 8th of September he marched away to Bavaria. Forty-four thousand men, both friends and foes, had been destroyed by plague and war during these terrible weeks in and around Nürnberg.

* * * * *

The darkness of the autumn increased, and its fogs covered the blood-stained fields of Germany, and still the battles did not cease. Here it was ordained that only one great spirit should find everlasting rest, after many storms, and pass from life's dark night to eternal light. The angel of death came closer over Gustaf Adolf's noble head, and threw over him a gleam of light from a higher world, which is sometimes seen shining around the great souls of the earth in their last moments. The bystanders do not understand it, but the departing ones know what it means. Two days before his death, Gustaf Adolf received the homage of a god from the people of Naumburg, but through his soul fled the shadow of the coming change, and he said to the royal chaplain, Fabricius:

"Perhaps God will soon punish them for their foolishness, and myself also, the object of it; and show that I am only a weak mortal."

The king had marched into Saxony to follow the traces of the destructive Wallenstein. At Arnstadt he bade farewell to Axel Oxenstjerna; in Erfurt he said good-bye to the queen. There, and in Naumburg, one could see by his arrangements that he was prepared for what would come. Wallenstein, who thought he had gone into winter quarters, sent Pappenheim away to Halle with 12,000 men; he himself stood at Lützen with 28,000, and the king was in Naumburg with 20,000 men.

But on the 4th of November, when Gustaf Adolf heard of Pappenheim's departure, he broke up his camp and hurried to surprise his weakened enemy, in which he would have succeeded if he had made his attack on the 5th. But Providence had thrown in the way of his victorious career a small obstacle, the brook Rippach, which with many newly ploughed fields delayed his march. It was late in the evening on the 5th of November when the king approached Lützen; thus Wallenstein had time, and he knew how to make use of it. Along the broad road to Leipzig he deepened the ditches, and made redoubts on both sides, which he filled with his best sharpshooters, and it was decided that with their cross-fire they could destroy the attacking Swedes.

The king's war council advised him not to make the attack; Duke Bernhard was the only one who advised him to the contrary, and the king shared his opinion, "because," he said, "it is necessary to wash one's self perfectly clean once you are in the bath."

The night was dull and dark. The king spent it in an old carriage with Kniephausen and Duke Bernhard. His restless soul had time to think of everything, and then history says, he drew from the forefinger of his right hand a small copper ring, and gave it to Duke Bernhard, and asked him to give it to a young officer in his Finnish cavalry, in case anything should happen to himself.

Early in the morning Gustaf Adolf rode out to inspect the positions of his troops. He was dressed in a buff waistcoat made of elk's skin, and wore a grey great coat over it; when he was told to wear harness on a day like this, he replied:

"God is my armour."

A heavy mist delayed the attack. At dawn the whole army sang a hymn. The fog continued, and the king began another hymn, which he had written himself just before. He then rode along the lines, calling out:

"To-day, boys, we shall put an end to all our trouble;" and his horse stumbled twice as he said this.

The fog did not clear off till eleven o'clock through a strong breeze. The Swedish army at once advanced to the attack; under the king in the right wing was Stälhandske and the Finns, next came the Swedish troops; in the centre were the Swedish yellow and green brigades, commanded by Nils Brahe; on the left wing the German cavalry, under Duke Bernhard. Against the duke was Colloredo, with his strong cavalry, while in the centre was Wallenstein, with four heavy columns of infantry and seven cannon in front; against Stälhandske stood Isolani, with his wild but brave Croats. The war-cries on both sides were the same as at Breitenfeld. When the king ordered the attack he clasped his hands, and cried out:

"Jesus, help me to-day to fight for the glory of Thy Holy Name!"

The Imperialists started firing, and the Swedish army advanced and suffered heavy losses from the beginning. At last the Swedish centre passed the redoubts, took the seven guns, and routed the two first brigades of the enemy. The third was preparing for flight when Wallenstein rallied them. The Swedish left wing was attacked by the cavalry, and the Finns, who had sent the Croats and the Polacks flying, had not yet reached the redoubts. The king then rushed to the front with the troops from Smaländ; but only a few were well-mounted enough to follow him. It is said that an Imperial musketeer fired at him with a silver bullet; it is true that the king's left arm was smashed, and that he tried to conceal his wound; but soon he became so weak from loss of blood, that he asked the Duke of Lauenburg, who was riding by his side, to bring him unseen out of the battle.

In the midst of the conflict Gotz's cuirassiers rushed forward, and at the head of them was Moritz von Falkenberg, who recognised the king and fired point-blank at him, crying out:

"I have long sought for you!"

Soon afterwards Falkenberg himself fell from a bullet. The king was shot underneath the heart, and reeled in his saddle; he told the duke to save his own life; the latter had placed his arm around the king's waist to support him, but the next moment the rush of the enemy had separated them. The duke's hair was singed by the close discharge of a pistol, and the king's horse was wounded in the throat and staggered. The king sunk from the saddle, and was dragged a short distance along the ground; his foot caught in the stirrup. The young page, Leubelfingen, from Nürnberg, offered him his horse, but could not raise him up. Some of the Imperialists now came to the spot, and inquired who the wounded man was, and when Leubelfingen would not reply, one of them ran him through with a sword-thrust, while another shot the king through the head; others then shot at them, and both remained on the field. But Leubelfingen lived for a few days afterwards, to relate for the benefit of future generations the never-to-be-forgotten sad death of the great hero, Gustaf Adolf.

In the meantime the Swedish centre was driven back, the battlefield was covered with thousands of mutilated corpses, and they had not yet gained a foot of ground. Both the armies occupied nearly the same positions as before the battle. The king's wounded horse was then seen galloping between the lines, with an empty saddle, covered with blood.

"The king has fallen!"

As Schiller has so beautifully put it, "Life was not worth anything, when the most holy of all lives had ceased to exist; death no longer had any terror for the lowliest, since it had not spared this royal head."

Duke Bernhard flew from line to line, saying, "Swedes, Finns, and Germans, yours, ours, and Freedom's protector has fallen. Well then, those who love the king will rush forward to avenge his death."

The first to obey this order was Stälhandske, with the Finns; with great difficulty they crossed the ditches and drove the enemy in front of them; before their terrific onslaught all fell or fled. Isolani turned back and attacked the baggage train, but was again routed. The centre of the Swedish army advanced under Brahe, and Duke Bernhard, disregarding his wounded arm, took one of the enemy's batteries. The whole of the Imperial army was broken by this terrible attack; its ammunition wagons exploded; Wallenstein's orders, and brave Piccolomini's efforts, could not stay the rout. Just then a joyful cry arose from the battlefield: "Pappenheim is here!" and this leader, the bravest of the brave, appeared with his horsemen; his first question was, "Where is the King of Sweden?" Someone pointed to the Finns, and Pappenheim rushed to the spot. Here began a terrible battle. The Imperialists, filled with new courage, turned back and attacked on three sides at once. Not a man of the Swedes gave ground. Brahe died with the yellow brigade, who fell nearly to the last man; Winckel with the blue, died in the same order, man for man, as they stood in the ranks. The rest of the Swedish infantry slowly retreated, and victory seemed to smile on the destructive Pappenheim.

But he, the Ajax of his time, the man of a hundred scars, did not live to see success. In the first attack on the Finns, a falconet bullet smashed his hip; and two musket balls pierced his chest; it was also said that Stälhandske wounded him with his own hand. He fell, but still in death rejoiced over Gustaf Adolf's fall, and the news of his loss spread consternation amongst the Imperialists.

"Pappenheim is dead; everything is lost!"

Once more the Swedes advanced; Duke Bernhard, Kniephausen, and Stälhandske, performed prodigies of valour. But Piccolomini, with six wounds, mounted his seventh horse, and fought with more than mortal valour; the Imperialist centre held its ground, and only the darkness stopped the battle. Wallenstein retired, and the exhausted Swedish army encamped on the battlefield. Nine thousand slain covered the field of Lützen.

The result of this battle was disastrous to the Imperialists. They had lost all their artillery; Pappenheim and Wallenstein had lost their invincible names. The latter raged with anger; he executed the cowards with the same facility as he bestowed gold on the brave. Ill and disheartened he retired with the rest of his army to Bohemia, where the stars were his nightly companions, and treacherous plans his only solace; and his death from Buttler's hand was the end of his glorious life.

A thrill of joy passed over the whole Catholic world, because the faith of Luther and the Swedes had lost a great deal more than their enemies.

The arm was paralyzed which had so powerfully wielded the victorious sword of light and freedom; the grief of the Protestants was deep and universal, mixed with fear for the future. It was not for nothing that the Te Deum was sung in the churches of Vienna, Brussels, and Madrid; twelve days' bull-fighting gratified Madrid on account of the dreaded hero's fall. But it is said that the Emperor Ferdinand, who was greater than the men of his time, shed bitter tears at the sight of his slain enemy's bloody buff waistcoat.

Many stories circulated about the great Gustaf Adolf's death. Duke Franz Albert of Lauenburg, Richelieu, and Duke Bernhard, were all said to have had a share in his fall; but none of these surmises have been verified by history. A later German author tells the following popular story:

"Gustaf Adolf, King of Sweden, received in his youth, from a young woman whom he loved, a ring of iron, which he ever afterwards wore. The ring was composed of seven circles, which formed the letters Gustaf Adolf. Seven days before his death he missed the ring."

The reader knows that the threads of this story are tied to the same ring, but we have several reasons for saying that this ring was made of copper.

On the evening after the battle, Duke Bernhard sent his soldiers with torches to find the king's body; and they found it plundered and hardly recognisable under heaps of slain. It was taken to the village of Meuchen, and there embalmed. The soldiers were all allowed to see the dead body of their king and leader. Bitter tears were here shed, but tears full of pride, for even the lowest considered it an honour to have fought by the side of such a hero.

"See," said one of Stälhandske's old Finns, loudly sniffing, "they have stolen his golden chain and his copper ring; I still see the white mark on his forefinger."

"Why should they care about a copper ring?" asked a Scotchman, who had lately joined the army, and had not heard the stories which passed from man to man.

"His ring!" said a Pomeranian. "Be sure that the Jesuits knew what is was good for. The ring was charmed by a Finnish witch, and as long as the king wore it, he could not be hurt by steel or lead."

"But see to-day he has lost it, and therefore--you understand."

"What is that fruit-eating Pomeranian saying?" said the Finn angrily. "The power of the Almighty, and nothing else, has protected our great king, but the ring was given to him long ago by a young Finnish girl, whom he loved in his youth; I know more about this than you do."

Duke Bernhard, who, sad and sorrowful, was watching the king's pale features, turned round at these words; he put his sound hand underneath his open buff waistcoat, and said to the Finn:

"Comrade, do you know one of Stälhandske's officers named Bertel?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Is he alive?"

"No, your grace."

The duke turned to another and gave several orders abstractedly. A few moments later, when he again looked at the king, he seemed to remember something.

"Was he a brave man?" he asked.

"He was one of Stälhandske's horsemen!" said the Finn with great pride.

"When did he fall, and where?"

"In the last struggle with the Pappenheimers."

"Go and search for him."

The duke's order was promptly obeyed by these exhausted soldiers, who had reason to wonder why one of the youngest officers should be searched for this night, when Nils Brahe, Winckel, and many other old leaders were lying uncared for in their blood on the battlefield. It was nearly morning when the searchers returned and reported that Bertel's dead body could not be found anywhere.

"Hum!" said the duke discontentedly; "great men have sometimes funny ideas. What shall I now do with the king's ring?"

The November sun rose blood-red over the field of Lützen. A new time had come; the Master had left, and the disciples had now to carry out his work alone.

II.--THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH.

Silence reigned after the conclusion of the narrative; everyone was thinking of the great hero's fall, and not realising that the tale was ended. The old grandmother sat on the stuffed sofa in her brown woollen shawl, and near her the schoolmaster, Svenonius, with his blue handkerchief and brass spectacles. Captain Svanholm, the postmaster, who had lost a finger in the last war, was on the right; on the left pretty Anne Sophie, eighteen years old, with a high tortoise-shell comb in her long brown hair; and around them, on the floor or on stools, sat six or seven playful children, with mouths now wide open, as if they had heard a ghost story.

The first to disturb the silence was Anne Sophie, who sprang with a cry from her chair, stumbled, and fell into the schoolmaster's arms.

The entranced company, who were still at Lützen, were as much disturbed by this interruption as if Isolani's Croats had suddenly broken into the room. The postmaster, still in the midst of the battle, sprang up and trod heavily upon old grandma's sore foot with his iron heel. The schoolmaster was quite upset, not at all realising the value of the burden in his arms--perhaps the first and also the prettiest in his whole life; the children fled in all directions, and some crept behind the surgeon's high chair. But Andreas, who had just followed the Finnish cavalry in their charge over the trenches, seized the surgeon's silver-headed Spanish cane, and prepared to receive the Croats at the point of the bayonet. Old Bäck was undisturbed; he produced his tobacco box, bit off a piece, and mildly said, "What is the matter with you, Anne Sophie?" The latter freed herself, blushing and embarrassed, from the schoolmaster's arms, and declaring that someone had pricked her with a pin, looked around for the culprit.

Old grandma, always quick to scent out mischief, immediately practised a method, and discovered that Jonathan had inserted a pin at the top of his rattan, and therewith upset his eldest sister, with the results just indicated. The punishment, like that under martial law, was quick and short, and Jonathan had then to retire to the nursery, and learn an extra lesson for the next day.

When the principal power had thus restored order without bloodshed, the company began to talk of the surgeon's story.

"It is too violent a tale, my dear cousin," said the old grandmother, whilst looking at the teller with one of those mild and speaking glances, which captured all hearts with their expression of intelligence and sympathy; "altogether too turbulent. It seems to me that I still hear the noise of the cannon. War is frightful and detestable, when we consider all the blood shed on the battlefield, and all the tears at home. When will the day arrive when men, instead of destroying each other, will share the earth and our Lord's good gifts together in Harmony and Universal Brotherhood?"

Now the postmaster's martial spirit rose in arms.

"Peace? Share? No war? Pshaw! cousin, pshaw! would you make an ant's nest of the world? What a state of things! Scribblers would smother everything with ink; cowards and petty tyrants would sit on honest men; and when one nation domineered over another, people would lowly bow, thank them, and act like sheep. No; the devil take me! men like Gustaf Adolf and Napoleon move nations and things; they tap a little blood which has been spoilt by gross living, and then the world improves. I still remember the 21st of August, at Karstula; Fieandt stood on the left, and I at the right----"

"If I may interrupt the speech of my honoured brother," said the schoolmaster, who had heard this story one hundred and seventy times before, "I would prove that the world would progress much better through spilling ink than blood. _Inter arma silent leges_. In war times we could not sit here by the fire, and drink our toddy in Bäck's room; we should be serving a cannon on the ramparts; linstock in hand, instead of a glass; powder in our pouches, and not even a pinch of snuff. Ink has made you, brother, a postmaster; in ink you live and have your being; ink brings your daily bread, and what would you be with blood alone, and no ink, may I ask?

"What should I be? Devils and heretics ... I?"

"Cousin Svanholm!" said the old grandmother, with a warning glance at the children.

The postmaster stopped at once. The surgeon saw the necessity of re-establishing peace and concord.

"I think," he said, "that nations go through the world like the individuals of which they are composed. In youth they are wild and passionate, fight, rage, and tear each other to pieces. When older and wiser, they invent gunpowder, place host against host, and let them destroy each other in cold blood at long distances. Finally the world comes to reason, and seizes the pen which is very sharp when necessary. And then begins the reign of universal knowledge, which is certainly the best, according to my mind."

"It would be ... seven devils ... all right, cousin, I will be as quiet as a wall," said the postmaster. "I only ask what kind of a man was Gustaf Adolf? What kind of a man was Napoleon? Were they only birthday eaters of sweetmeats? What do you think? Were they fools or savages? I pray you. Do you hear, cousin? I do not swear, cousin; you should have heard Fieandt, how devilishly he swore at Karstula."

The surgeon continued, without paying any attention to the postmaster.

"Therefore, the youthful history of all nations begins with war, and the first soldier in the world's company was called Cain. But as war is as old as the world, it is likely to exist as long as it lasts. I do not believe in the new ideas about a perpetual peace. I believe that as long as human hearts retain selfish desires, the curse of war will prevail. Eternal peace consists in no longer fighting blindly, slavishly, as before, but with glad courage comprehending the reason why, and for a righteous cause; then one can hack away with right goodwill."

"Then we should always fight for an idea," said the schoolmaster thoughtfully.

"That's it, for an idea. It is to the honour of the Finnish soldier that with one exception he has always fought for the defence of his fatherland. Then he has gone out to fight on foreign soil; and our Lord has mercifully chosen that this should be for the greatest and most righteous cause of all, namely, to defend the pure Protestant faith and freedom of conscience for the whole world. The Finn was proud to know this in the Thirty Years' War. He felt within himself that his heart was the same as Gustaf Adolf's, who, I think, was the greatest general who ever lived, whilst he fought and won victories for one of the few causes that are worth bleeding for."

"Tell us more about Gustaf Adolf!" exclaimed Andreas, who could think only of that one name.

"Dear uncle, a little more about Gustaf Adolf," chimed in the rest of the children, who, with the greatest trouble, had been held in check by grandma's admonitions and sister Anne Sophie.

"Thank you. No. The great king is dead, and we will allow him to peacefully slumber in the royal vault of the church at Riddarholm, Stockholm. And if the story in future loses something from this, it will also gain something, namely, that the other characters will become more prominent. Hitherto, we have been compelled to almost exclusively fix our eyes on the heroic king, and grandmother was right in saying that we have been deafened by the thunder of the cannon. Thus, Lady Regina, and the Jesuit, and especially Bertel, who is the real hero, have all been kept in the background."

"And Ketchen," said the grandmother; "for my part, I would like much to know more of the good, charming child. I will leave Regina alone, but this I will maintain that such a black-eyed wild cat, who would tear one's eyes out at any moment, cannot come to any good."

"And the lordly Count of Lichtenstein, whom we have not heard of lately," added Sophie. "I am certain he will become Regina's betrothed."

"Aha! little cousin listens with delight to that part of it," said the postmaster with a sly smile. "But say, brother Bäck, do not busy yourself with sentimentalities; let us hear more about Stälhandske, the stout little Larsson, and the Tavastlander Vitikka. How the d----l did the man get along without ears? I remember to this day, that on the 21st of August, there was a corporal at Karstula----"

"Brother Bäck," interrupted the schoolmaster, "who has _justitia mundi_, the sword of justice in his hand, will not fail to hoist the Jesuit Hieronymus up to the top of the highest pine on the Hartz mountains."

"Take care, brother Svenonius," retorted the post-master maliciously, "the Jesuit was very learned, and knew a heap of Latin."

"I will tell you what I know about the Finns," said the surgeon; "but I assure you beforehand that it is altogether too little. Wait ten or twenty years longer, when some industrious man will take the trouble to glean from the old chronicles our brave countrymen's exploits."

"And what became of the king's ring?"

"Why, that we shall hear to-morrow evening."