THE year was waning, and the early November night had gathered dark and chill over a little party of horsemen who were wending their way along the picturesque valley of the Saale. Hugh Graham rode by his father's side, and the troopers followed them; but Father Francis had been left behind, not at all to his own satisfaction. The perplexities of the Lord of Savelburg were deepening day by day; indeed, there was now but one thing that he saw clearly before him: he ought to rejoin Wallenstein, and to provide in some way for the interests of the troop he had himself raised, else the men who had enlisted on the faith of his promises might be left without food or payment. Moreover, he knew that a great battle was impending, and his soldierly instincts made him long to take a part in it. It was not, he told himself, for the Catholic Faith, or even for the integrity of the empire, that he would fight―but for Wallenstein, who had been a true friend to him, and a most generous benefactor. So he was journeying, as rapidly as he could, towards Weissenfels, where he had been informed that the great general had entrenched himself. He hoped to reach it on the following day.
“Father,” said Hugh, in a very tired, sleepy voice, “Father, I hope we are in the right road.”
“I think we are this time, my boy,” returned his father more cheerfully. “Though we owe small thanks for it to these rascally peasants. Three times since yesterday morning have they sent us out of our way.”
“They would not do that,” said Hugh, “if we were going to join the king. Father, do you think Jeanie has got our letters?”
“I have every hope of it. I took all precautions to insure their safe delivery in Nuremberg, and gave a large bribe to the messenger.”
“When the king beats Wallenstein, I hope we shall all be together again.”
The conversation dropped; for Graham would never make any attempt to weaken his son's innocent faith in his royal hero. But presently Hugh's horse stumbled. “Take care, my boy,” said his father, turning anxiously towards him.
“Oh, it's all right. But the fact is, I was almost asleep, and let Max go on as he liked. Father, cannot we stop somewhere soon?”
“Indeed, my boy, I think we must. You at least are scarce fit to go farther tonight. Stay, I see lights. I hope we are coming near a village. Franz,” he called, turning to the trooper behind him, “take Georg with you; gallop on, and see if we can get quarters for the night. Hugh, give me your reins; I will lead your horse for you.”
“Oh no, father,” said Hugh, roused into indignant wakefulness by a proposal so derogatory to his pride, “I am not sleepy now―not at all. Nor tired.” And to prove it, he began to sing the Swedish version of Luther's famous hymn, which he had learned in the camp―
“Our God is still our hiding-place,
Our strong defense and tower;
He helps us freely by His grace
In every evil hour.”
Very soon Franz and his comrade came spurring back in haste. “We can have accommodation, Herr Baron,” said Franz, “such as it is. They are all in terrible excitement yonder. Tidings reached them a few hours ago that a great battle has been fought—hard by a place called Luiten, on the high road between Leipzig and Weissenfels.”
“Who has won?” asked father and son in a breath.
“They seem not to know as yet. All sorts of rumors are afloat―some of them passing strange.”
“Well, let us hasten on. We shall soon know more.”
When they reached the little hamlet, it seemed to them that all the inhabitants had rushed at once into the street, carrying what lights they could. Some were crying one thing and some another; but the center of attraction to all was a horseman who had just halted before the door of the inn, his steed, which was flecked with foam and splashed with mud, showing that he had ridden fast and far.
Graham could make out nothing from the discordant cries around him; so, pushing through the throng, he rode up straight to the horseman. “Brother soldier, what is it?” he asked.
“The Swedes have triumphed, but the king is slain!”
A bitter cry from Hugh rang out upon the midnight air, drowning for the moment every other sound.
“Hush, my boy, hush! Perhaps it is not true.” Turning to the horseman, “Is this certainty, or rumor?”
“Too certain, sir; to the grief of every true heart in Germany, not to speak of his own land. But it was a glorious victory; the Imperialists have fled in great disorder.”
Little more could be extracted from him, though he was assailed on all sides with eager questions. He could give no detailed account of the battle, though he had been in it; or rather, perhaps, because he had been in it, and had seen only what was visible from his own particular foot of ground, where all day he had to stand and fight for life. The report of the king's death was universal and uncontradicted; therefore it must be true. That was all he knew. He had heard no particulars. He himself, a Hessian in the Swedish service, was bound for some place farther on, of which Graham could not catch the name, and his errand was of life and death, and could brook no delay.
Still one more question Graham must needs put to him. “Where is the Duke of Friedland?”
“How should I know, sir?” was the answer, given with some contempt. “They say his army is ruined, and that he will have to flee into Bohemia.”
“And the Swedes?”
“They have Weissenfels for their headquarters, They have occupied Naumberg also.” Having said this, he drained the cup of wine the innkeeper brought out to him, set spurs to his weary horse, and was gone in a moment.
Graham gave a few necessary directions about the accommodation of his men, then turned slowly and sadly into the inn. Hugh had thrown himself on a bench in the little sanded parlor, and was weeping bitterly. Graham did not disturb him; his own thoughts were mournful enough. How strangely these events had altered everything!
By and by food was brought, of which he urged Hugh to partake; but the boy refused utterly. When, however, his father insisted on his going to rest, he obeyed without a word, and, weary as he was, soon sobbed himself to sleep. Graham sat down by his side, and pondered the situation. There would be little use now in trying to overtake Wallenstein. It was not probable he could be of any service to him in his retreat—for even in his own mind he could not bear to call it a flight. If it were true that the army was ruined, his troopers could shift for themselves; it was more than likely they had done so already. But—how tantalizing to have come up just too late for the great battle!
Then thoughts less selfish had their turn. What a sad fate for the great Gustavus, a gallant knight and true hero, if there was ever such on earth! How bitterly they would mourn him in that mighty host which his enterprise had called into being and his spirit held together!
No sorrow would be more sincere than that of his own brave, honest hearted brother. Poor Charlie! A great longing arose within him to see his face once more. How long was it since they met? Ten years― nay, it was more than twelve, since Hugh, now such a brave, manly lad, was then a babe in arms. Then why should he not go and see him? There really seemed at present nothing better for him to do. There would be no great risk in the enterprise. He could dismiss the few troopers he had with him, and go as a private person, with only Hugh for his companion. Hugh would be very useful, because he could speak Swedish, and knew the customs and formalities of the Swedish army. At the worst, what could happen him but to be made a prisoner? In his present mood, he would not have greatly cared for that. But the chances were that, in consequence of the king's death, there would be much confusion and many coming and going, so that little notice would be taken of him. In this manner―as persons naturally undecided and perplexed by circumstances are often apt to do―he came suddenly to a startling and momentous decision. He would go to the Swedish headquarters.
Just then Hugh started from his sleep. “Oh, what dreadful thing has happened?” he moaned. Then recollecting himself fully― “The king! The king is dead! Wae's me for the Protestant Faith.”
Greatly moved, his father took him in his arms, and soothed him with caresses and tender words, as though he were still a little child. “Trust in God, my boy,” he said. “Can you not believe that He will maintain the right?”
“Yes, oh yes,” said Hugh slowly. “Christ is not dead. He lives forever.” Then with a sudden burst of joy and sorrow mingled, “Father, the king is with Christ now. He loved and served Him.”
“It well may be. It is no light thing for a soldier and a leader of men to be so pure in heart, so true to his word, so merciful to his foes, as your king ever was. And gladly would I have my soul with his today.― My son, what think you of coming with me tomorrow to the Swedish headquarters? I would fain see my brother's face again.”
Hugh brightened perceptibly at the proposal. Indeed, it seemed to him the one right and natural thing to be done under the circumstances. When the head of a household is taken away, the scattered members are wont to return to the desolate home, if only to share and to soothe each other's sorrow. Hugh wanted to go home, and the home of the soldier boy was the army. “Oh yes I do come, dear father,” he pleaded earnestly, enforcing his plea with an embrace. “I want so much to be with them all―now.”
“Very well. In God's name, then, we will try it tomorrow. It is not far from this to Naumberg, and the road is straight and good. I shall dispose of the men we have with us here, as they might only bring us into trouble. But, Hugh”―
“Well, father?”
“If I bring you there, you must not ask to stay behind, and leave me again alone. I do not think I could do without you now.”
“Perhaps you will stay there yourself, father. That would be best of all.”
“I am not likely to change my colors again. Not, at least, while Wallenstein commands the emperor's army. But go to sleep now, and be ready for the morning, that we may start betimes.”