“A song for the death-day of the brave,
A song of pride;
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his Bride.
“He went with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die.”
THE Lord of Savelburg and his son carried out their plan the next day, and about four o'clock in the afternoon entered the gate of Naumberg almost unchallenged. The Swedes occupied the town in full security, for the country around them was friendly, and no adversary was at hand. Hugh was fortunate enough to meet a young soldier who had been his fellow-pupil in the military school, and of him he made inquiries after Colonel Monro's regiment.
“Do you not know that Colonel Monro's regiment exists no longer?” answered the other. “The Scottish regiments had sustained so many losses that about a month ago they were broken up, and the officers placed in various honorable positions about his person by the king.”
“Ah, Sten, it is a sad coming back,” said Hugh. “Everything is changed now.” Then he asked directly after his uncle, Captain Graham.
“Oh, I can tell you about him!” said the youth. “He is here now, lodging with one Widow Koch, in the High Street. He is taking care of a wounded friend.” Hugh thanked his informant; and Graham, delighted at finding the object of his search so soon, slipped a handsome “trinkgeld” into his hand.
They soon reached the house of Widow Koch, and Hugh, running forward, knocked at the door, and asked for Captain Graham.
“He is here, sir,” said the neat serving-maiden who opened the door. “You can see him immediately. But please to tread lightly. The poor young gentleman is asleep.”
She led the way to a room on the ground floor, where Charles Graham, in a military undress, was seated alone before a table with food and wine upon it. From his sudden start as they entered, and the bewildered way in which he looked about him, it seemed as though he had been asleep.
Hugh went forward at once. “Uncle,” he said, “here is my father.”
“Your father! Impossible!” cried Charles Graham, as he sprang to his feet, and gazed in the face of the brother whom for twelve long years he had seen but once―and that once as a foe on the battlefield. His soul was in his eyes, yet he said but one word― “Hugh!”
“Charlie!” Hugh responded, with a look as full of feeling as his own. Then the two men—as men in those days were not ashamed to do―clasped each other heart to heart, and kissed each other lip to lip. Hugh was the first to speak again. “Dear brother!” he said, “how I have longed to see thy face!”
“But the wound, brother―the wound?” stammered Charles. “Have you recovered yet from its effects? Oh, I feared I had killed you I God only knows what I have suffered.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Do you not know it was my hand dealt you that blow in the affair by the Pegnitz, three days after the battle of Altenberg? Need I say that I did not know you? It was only after I struck the blow that I looked in your face. Can you forgive me, brother?”
“I knew naught of it. Forgive you, did you say? Ay, brother; so may God forgive me the blows I have dealt in my blindness against some who may be my brethren in His sight after all. You have hurt me in nothing, as you see. Nay, perhaps good will come out of it in the end. That wound has given me time to think of many things. Only for it, I would not be here today. But I find you in deep sorrow.”
“We are orphans,” said Charles Graham, as he bowed his head mournfully.
Then the brothers sat down together, young Hugh standing by the window and watching them with much interest.
“How chanced this terrible thing?” asked the elder, perhaps as much from sympathy with his brother as from the longing all men feel to know the circumstances of a great tragedy.
“It never chanced at all!” answered Charles.
“Brother, if I thought it was a chance that happened to us I would blow my brains out with you pistol on the table.”
“I used the word thoughtlessly,” Hugh explained. “I believe, as you, that this is the finger of God.”
“We are dumb, we open not our mouths, because He has done it,” said Charles reverently. “To our dim sight it looks as if He had ruined His own cause by that blow on the field of Lutzen.”
“But you have won a great victory.”
“There is no room in our hearts for the thought of victory, while all that is mortal of our great king is lying yonder at Weissenfels.”
Hugh was much surprised by his brother's words and manner. It seemed as though the reckless, random Charlie of other days was not, and a new man, most manly in his restrained, noble sorrow, had taken his place. After a pause, he said, “But you have not told me how he met his death.”
Charles answered him quietly, in the low voice strong men are apt to use when deeply moved. “We had been victorious in every part of the field and thought the day already won. But in the center Wallenstein re-formed his troops, led them himself against us, and after a desperate contest drove us back across the road, and recovered a battery we had taken. But the king came to our aid in person, stopped their progress, and repulsed them. Then, for a moment he stood motionless, in sight of friend and foe, and with uncovered head gave thanks to God for the victory. That was the last time I saw Gustavus Adolphus. Taking with him only a few personal attendants, he galloped forward to ascertain how best his success might be followed up. Presently a cry ran along the ranks, ‘The king is wounded!’ It was said that a musket ball had shattered his arm; but instantly his own voice was heard once more, exclaiming, ‘It is nothing―follow me!’ And he continued to press on. We in the ranks knew no more―until we saw the riderless horse, covered with blood and foam, gallop through the field. All else was forgotten then in a passion of rage and hate. To rescue him if alive, to avenge him if dead, was the one thought of every heart. No man regarded his own life any more than his foe's that day. I have been in desperate fights before, yet never knew I what fighting meant until last Thursday. The battle of the giants raged fiercest about the spot where the king had fallen.”
“But you won the victory. And afterward?”
“By the great stone, pierced with many wounds, we found our king, who died a soldier's death for faith and freedom.”
“Heard you no more?”
“The Duke of Saxe Lauenburg, one of those who followed him at the last, told our chiefs that they had suddenly found themselves surrounded by Imperialists. The king, faint already from the pain of his broken arm, received another shot, and cried out to Saxe Lauenburg to leave him and save himself. Better had it been for that man if he had not lived to tell the tale! The rest of the little escort ―only about half a dozen—were slain, or wounded mortally.”
“No last word or sign, then? Only a soldier's silent, undistinguished death?”
“We know more now. Indeed, we know all that ever can be known, thanks to the courage and devotion of the gallant youth now dying beneath this roof, who was one of his pages.”
Young Hugh sprang forward with a cry. “It is August―I know it is August. He would be sure to stay with him to the last. He loved him so!”
Charles Graham stretched out his arm to the boy and drew him near. “True, my child,” he said. “August von Labeling has given his life for his king. Come and hear how bravely a youth, only a few years older than yourself, has done and suffered.” Turning again to his brother he resumed the narrative. “The king's attendants, searching amongst the heaps of slain that were piled around his body, found the youth still breathing, though pierced with many wounds, and, like his master, plundered of his arms and of most of his clothing. They brought him here, tended him carefully, and after a time he recovered strength enough to tell his story. He had kept near the king in the fatal gallop that carried him into the midst of his enemies. He saw him fall from his horse sorely wounded by that second shot. Then hasting to his side he sprang from his own steed, and entreated him to take it and save himself; ‘for,’ as he said to us simply, ‘it were better that I should die than the king.’ The king was willing to accept the offer, and stretched out his arms to him for help to rise from the ground. But the stripling tried in vain to lift the strong man, and whilst he was still straining every muscle in the effort, a party of Croats, intent on plunder, swept down upon them. The king―doubtless fearing captivity more than death― whispered to August, ‘Tell them not my name.’ But they had seen the lad's eagerness to save him, and questioned him closely with sword and pistol at his breast. He answered, ‘It is an officer,’ and, refusing to say more, received the wounds of which he is dying now. He just retained consciousness enough to see the king shot and stabbed once and again by those ruffians, and to hear his dying words: ‘I am the King of Sweden.’”
“God's peace be with his soul!” said Hugh Graham reverently.
“His soul, indeed, has entered into peace,” returned Charles; “but sorrow and trouble remain with us.”
There was silence, for how long they knew not.
Presently the door opened softly, and a middle-aged woman, in the dress of a widow, with a kind, quiet face, entered the room. Turning at once to young Hugh, she inquired in German, “Young gentleman, is your name Hugh Graham?”
Hugh, too much moved at the moment for speech, nodded silently.
“Then you must come with me at once. Our patient insists upon seeing you.”
“Seeing me?” Hugh repeated.
“Yes― ‘Little Hugh Graham,’ he calls you, sir.”
Then turning to Charles Graham, “When you left him, captain, about an hour ago, he dozed a little, but presently started up, exclaiming in quite a strong voice that little Hugh Graham was in the house, that he had heard him speak. I tried to quiet him at first, for I thought his mind was wandering, but he persisted, saying, ‘I cannot mistake that voice; there's a tone in it I should know were I fathoms deep in my grave. I pray you, let Hugh come to me at once. It must be God who has sent him here.’ So you had better come with me, young sir. But be careful. You must not agitate him.”
Hugh trembled, but controlled himself, and followed his guide with a noiseless step and a beating heart. He was soon—as he felt through every nerve and fiber of his young vigorous frame―in the very presence of death. He had seen death before, for he could not have lived so long in a camp without looking the dread mystery in the face; but this seemed altogether different. The white, drawn face on the pillow, with the strange far-away look, was so like―and yet so terribly unlike―the bright glad face of his merry friend and playfellow of the Lübeling Haus. A great awe came over him; still he drew near, and took the hand August stretched out: “God has sent you,” said the dying youth, with a long and wistful gaze. “Hugh, speak to me—let me hear your voice again.”
Hugh tried to speak to this friend, so strangely changed, so near, yet so far off: It was like speaking to a crowned king. He could only contrive to stammer a few commonplace words, which in no way expressed what he was feeling. He “hoped he did not suffer much,” that he “would be better soon.”
“No, I do not suffer much. There has been little pain—there is none now. But I am dying, Hugh. It is all right―it is well with me. If I had had a hundred years to live, I would have given them all up gladly for such a death. I am dying for my God―and for my king. I am going to my Saviour, the Lord Christ, who has redeemed me with His blood, and will give me a place in His kingdom. Tell Hannchen she must not weep, but be glad for me, because God has given me such honor and such joy. And please, dear Hugh, give her this.” His trembling hands sought her to remember feebly for something which they could not find. Hugh tried to help him. “Under the pillow,” he murmured faintly, for the transient flicker of strength given him by the joy of hearing a voice so like Hannchen's was already fading quickly.
“Is it this?” Hugh whispered, showing a knot of blue ribbon stained with blood.
August made a gesture of assent. “Tell her not to grieve,” he repeated. “That blood was shed for my king. Tell her to remember― the cross-bills. She will understand. We will talk about it together―in the morning. Now good-bye. Kiss me.”
Hugh bent down and kissed him, his hot tears falling on his face. He knew well that good-bye was meant for another.
The watchful nurse, who had stood unseen in the doorway during the interview, now motioned Hugh to leave the room. “He is always like that,” she said, “quiet and patient, not complaining of any pain, only speaking words of peace and thankfulness. But it cannot last much longer now.”
It did not last much longer. The momentary return of strength rather seemed to hasten the end, and after those words to Hugh Graham August scarcely spoke again. All that he wanted to say had been said ere now. He had sent messages of love to his father and sisters, bidding them not to mourn for him, since he died honorably, and had fought for God's Word and honor beside the King of Sweden. “Tell my father,” said he, “that though we shall not see each other again in this life, we shall meet in eternal joy.” He had even asked the clergyman who visited him to have him laid to rest in such a manner as would please his father when he heard of it, and to have a hymn sung over his grave. Then all was done; and August von Lübeling fell asleep in peace, at the breaking of the day.
His short life here― “Eighteen years, seven months, and three-and-twenty days,” as his proudly sorrowing father with affectionate minuteness has left on record for us―was well and nobly ended. And well was it exchanged for the long life, “even forever and ever,” which Christ gives to His redeemed.