1632 (35 page)

    
Ragged, tattered and dirty were our men (from the continual labors of this last year) besides the glittering, gilded and plume-decked imperialists. Our Swedish and Finnish nags looked but puny, next to their great German chargers. Our peasant lads made no brave show upon the field when set against the hawk-nosed and mustachioed veterans of Tilly.

 

    Tilly’s army had followed him for years, and had known nothing but victory. In truth, those “hawk-nosed and mustachioed veterans” included many neophytes. The desertion rate in armies of the time was astronomical. But, because of the chaos which engulfed central Europe, men who deserted would usually join other armies—or, often enough, simply “recycle” through the army they had abandoned. And there were always new men available for recruitment, due to that same chaos. The formalities and rigidities which would characterize armies of a later day were almost entirely absent.

 

    Yet even the rawest recruit, once they joined up, absorbed the mystique and prestige of the past. Whether veteran or not, hawknosed or not, mustachioed or not—they
acted
that way. And so, to those who faced them, there was nothing quite as intimidating as facing “Tilly’s men” across a field of battle. The image may have been skewed, but it was an image carved out of history’s true granite.

 

    The Catholic soldiers began binding white scarves in their hats. As the old general—he was seventy-two, then, not a day less—trotted down the line on his familiar white battle-charger, shouts of “Father Tilly!” passed from tercio to tercio. And, along with it, the triumphant battle cry of the empire:
Jesu-Maria!

 

    Gustav Adolf likewise addressed his troops. The king was a famous orator—the best in Sweden, by all accounts—and his men greeted him with enthusiasm. Gustav Adolf was the boldest figure of his time. Not since Alexander the Great had a ruling monarch shown such personal daring—to the point of recklessness—on the field of battle. By the day of Breitenfeld, he bore the scars of many wounds on his huge body. He wore no armor, because he could not. A Polish bullet which had struck him four years earlier at the battle of Dirschau was still lodged in his neck. Armor chafed that wound, so the king went into battle protected only by his buff coat and the Will of his God.

 

    As they listened, the Swedish troops tied green branches into their own helmets and headgear. When he finished, they roared their own battle cry:
Gott mit uns! Gott mit uns!

 

    
 

 

    At noon, the battle of Breitenfeld began. But for the first two and a half hours, it was simply an exchange of cannon fire. Tilly and Gustavus were still measuring each other.

 

    As time went on, it became obvious that the Swedish artillery overmatched their opponents. The king had more guns, better guns, and better trained gunners. Most of all, he had Torstensson in command. Once they were into their rhythm, the Swedish artillerymen were exchanging three shots for one with their imperial counterparts.

 

    Pappenheim, rash and impetuous as always, broke the impasse and led his Black Cuirassiers in the first charge of the day. Not waiting for Tilly’s command, the commander of the imperial left launched a thundering cavalry charge on the Swedish right.

 

    It was a foolish gesture, and Tilly cursed him for it before Pappenheim had ridden a hundred yards. “They have robbed me of my honor and my glory!” he cried, throwing up his arms in despair.

 

    Pappenheim thought to outflank the Swedes and roll them up from the side. But his Swedish counterpart, Field Marshal Banér, was prepared. His king’s combined arms approach proved itself on the defense as well as the offense. Pappenheim’s cuirassiers were held off by the salvos of the infantrymen, while Banér’s Swedish and Finnish cavalry launched their own sharp sallies.

 

    Seven times Pappenheim drove his men against the Swedish lines, ignoring all of Tilly’s commands to retire. Seven times he was driven back. Then Banér launched a massive counterattack and drove the Black Cuirassiers from the field. In complete disorder, Pappenheim’s heavy cavalry fled toward Halle. Banér made to pursue, but Gustav Adolf recalled him to the line.

 

    The king was cautious. Things were not going well on his left. Seeing Pappenheim tangled up, Tilly sent the imperial cavalry on the opposite flank into battle. Here, Tilly’s forces met with far better results. The Saxons, for all their glitter, did not have the years of Polish and Baltic wars behind them that Gustav and his Swedish veterans enjoyed. The very first charge of the imperial cavalry shattered them.

 

    True to his nature, the elector himself led the rout. Seized with terror, John George and his splendiferous noble bodyguard galloped off the field, leaving their army behind. The army followed soon enough. Within half an hour, the powerful imperial cavalry had driven the entire Saxon army into headlong retreat.

 

    The Swedish left flank was now open, bare, naked. The imperial cavalry began curving in upon it. Disaster loomed, as certain as the tide. The Swedish camp followers, panicked by the Saxons, began their own scrambling dash for the safety of Eilenburg. Tilly, whose veteran’s eye immediately saw the coming glorious victory, gave the order for his entire army to advance on his enemy’s shattered front. The tercios lurched forward, angling to the right in order to bring their full weight to bear on the broken Swedish left. As cumbersome as a glacier, that mass of tercios—and just as unstoppable.

 

    
There. Then. That moment.

 

    That is where the legends pivot and wheel. Decade after decade, century after century; never reaching agreement, but always circling.

 

    The Father of Modern War, Gustavus Adolphus almost certainly was not. But he may very well have been the Father of the Modern World. Because
then,
at
that
place, at the moment when the Saxons broke and the Inquisition bade fair to triumph over all of Europe, the king of Sweden stood his ground.

 

    And proved, once again, that the truth of history is always concrete. Abstractions are the stuff of argument, but the concrete is given. Whatever might have been, was not. Not because of tactics, and formations, and artillery, and methods of recruitment—though all of those things played a part, and a big one—but because of a simple truth. At that instant, history pivoted on the soul of one man. His name was Gustavus Adolphus, and there were those among his followers who thought him the only monarch in Europe worthy of the name. They were right, and the man was about to prove it. For one of the few times in human history, royalty was not a lie.

 

    Two centuries later, long after the concrete set and the truth was obvious to all, a monument would be erected on that field. The passing years, through the bickering and the debates, had settled the meaning of Breitenfeld. The phrase on the monument simply read: freedom of belief for all the world.

 

    
 

 

    Whatever else he was or was not, Gustavus Adolphus will always be Breitenfeld. He stands on that field for eternity, just as he did on that day. September 17, 1631.

 

    
Breitenfeld. Always Breitenfeld.
Chapter 35

    “Those bastards!” snarled Bernard. The younger duke of Saxe-Weimar glared at the Saxons racing toward the safety of Eilenburg. “Wretched cowards!”
    Bernard shifted his gaze to the oncoming tercios, lurching at an oblique angle toward the ruptured left flank of the Swedes. He turned a pale face to Gustav Adolf. “We can hold them off, Your Majesty—long enough, I think, for you to organize a retreat.”
    Gustav’s light blue eyes were alive and dancing.
“Retreat?”
he demanded. “Are you mad?”
    The king pointed a thick finger at his left flank. “Race over there, Bernard—
fast as you can—
and tell Horn to pivot his forces to the left. Tell him to keep his right anchored to the center, but to form a new battle line at right angles to our own. Do you understand?”
    Bernard nodded. An instant later, he had spurred his charger into a gallop. His older brother made to follow, but Gustav restrained him. “You stay with me, Wilhelm.”
    The king smiled. “Your impetuous and hot-headed brother is enough to pester Horn—who won’t need the pestering anyway.”
    Wilhelm nodded obediently. Gustav twisted in his saddle. As usual, his small band of couriers were sitting their horses not many yards behind him. Most of these were young Swedish noblemen, but there were two Scots in the group. The king snatched the broad-brimmed hat from his head and used it to summon them forward. The flamboyant gesture was quite unnecessary, being due simply to Gustav’s high spirits. For all the world, the king seemed like a man facing a ball rather than a disaster.
    He spoke to the Scots first. “Tell Colonel Hepburn to move his brigade over in support of Field Marshal Horn. Understand?”
    The Scots nodded. Hepburn’s brigade, along with that of Vitzthum, formed the second line of the Swedish center. They constituted the bulk of the Swedish reserves. The king, logically enough, was now using them to shore up his threatened left.
    The Scots had barely left when Gustav was issuing the same orders to two other couriers.
Vitzthum the same!
    The king eyed the center of the battle. Tilly’s tercios were rippling slowly down the gentle slope where the veteran Catholic general had positioned them. Even with the advantage of downhill movement, across unimpeded ground, the imperial soldiers were making slow progress.
    Gustav gave them no more than a quick scrutiny. He was quite confident that his infantry in the center, anchored by Torstensson’s guns, could repel any direct charge. The Habsburg tercios would probably not even drive directly forward. The danger was on the left, and he had done what he could to support Horn against the coming hammer blow. The opportunity—
    
On the right!
    Eagerly, Gustav examined his right flank. For a moment, he silently congratulated himself for having kept Banér from pursuing Pappenheim’s broken cavalry. The temptation had been almost as great for the king as for his Field Marshal. But Gustav had distrusted the steadiness of the Saxons. Better to have Banér available if the battle went sour.
    Which it most certainly had! But now—
now!—
Gustav could turn disaster into triumph. Banér and his men were back in line, organized and ready. Most of all, Gustav knew, those cavalrymen would be infused with self-confidence. They had already broken Pappenheim’s famous Black Cuirassiers. Why should they not do the same to the rest?
    “Why not?” demanded the king aloud. He grinned at the four couriers still around him.
“Why not?”
He waved his hat about cheerfully.
    The young noblemen grinned back. One of them lifted his own hat in salute, shouting:
“Gott mit uns!”
    A few feet behind them, Anders Jönsson slid his saber an inch or so out of its scabbard, before easing it back. He did the same with his four saddle-holstered pistols. Those weapons would be needed soon, and he wanted to be certain they were easy to hand. The huge Jönsson was the king’s personal bodyguard.
    The dozen Scotsmen under his command followed suit. They knew Gustav Adolf. The king of Sweden was utterly indifferent to personal danger. There had been few enough battles in which the king was present where he did not lead a charge himself.
    Clearly, this was not going to be one of them. His Scots bodyguards were about to earn their pay.
    One of the Scotsmen tried to be philosophical about the matter. “Ah weel, he’s a braw lad, no’ like yon God-rotton Stuart king o’ England.” He spit on the ground. “Ae fuckin’ papist, tha’ one be.”
    “Aye. Near’s ca’ be,” agreed one of his mates.
    Gustav Adolf spurred his horse into a canter, and then a gallop. Duke Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar rode at his side, with the couriers and bodyguards thundering just behind.
    As they neared the Swedish right flank, Gustav could see Banér trotting out to meet him. But the king gave the Field Marshal nothing but a moment’s glance. His gaze was riveted on a large body of cavalrymen waiting behind Banér, under green standards. Those were Erik Soop’s
Västgöta.
Over a thousand horsemen from West Gothland, organized into eight companies. Gustav thought highly of them.
Just the thing!
    When he reached Banér, Gustav reined in his horse and shouted gaily: “And
now
, Johann? You see?”
    The Field Marshal nodded his bullet head. “You were right, Majesty. As always.”
    “Ha!” cried Gustav. “So modest! Not like you at all!”
    The king was grinning fiercely. His own combative spirit seemed to transfer itself to his horse. The great charger pranced about nervously, as if impatient for battle.
    “I want you to take the Västgöta, Johann.” The king pointed to the left flank of Tilly’s battle line. With Pappenheim’s cuirassiers routed, that flank was unguarded. Unguarded, and getting more ragged by the moment. Tilly’s oblique advance, marching from left rear to right front across the field in order to fall on the Swedish left, was straining the rigidity of his tercios. The Spanish-style squares were not well suited for anything but a forward advance.
    “I intend to do the same to Tilly that he plans for me,” the king explained. “Ha!” he barked happily. “Except I will succeed, and he will fail!”
    For a moment, Banér hesitated. The king was proposing a bold gamble. It would be safer—
    As if reading his thoughts, Gustav shook his head. “Horn will hold, Johann. He will hold. Horn will be the anvil—
we the hammer
.”
    Banér did not argue. He trusted his king’s battle instincts. Gustav II Adolf was young, by the standards of generalship in his day. He was thirty-six years old. But he had more battle experience than most men twice his age. At the age of sixteen, he had organized and led the surprise attack which took the Danish fortress of Borgholm. By the age of twenty-seven, he had taken Livonia and Riga and was already a veteran of the Polish and Russian wars.
    Banér had been with him there. Banér, Horn, Torstensson, Wrangel—the nucleus of that great Swedish officer corps. Along with Axel Oxenstierna and the more recently arrived Scots professionals—Alexander Leslie, Robert Monro, John Hepburn, James Spens—they constituted the finest command staff in the world. Such, at least, was Banér’s opinion.
    The king’s also. “We can do it, Johann!” he cried. “Now be off!”
    Banér turned his horse and shouted orders at his own couriers and dispatch riders. Within seconds, the neatly arrayed Swedish right wing erupted into that peculiar disorder which precedes coordinated action. Company commanders and their subofficers dashed about, shouting their own commands—unneeded commands, for the most part. The Swedish and Finnish cavalry were veteran units themselves, as such things were counted in those days. Within a minute, the scene was one of individual frenzy. Men jumped to the ground to cinch a girth, or checked the ease of a saber’s draw, or changed pyrites in the jaws of a wheel lock, swearing all the while. Cursing their refractory horses and equipment, perhaps; or clumsy mates who impeded them; or their own clumsiness—or, often enough, simply the state of the world. Many—most—took the time as well for a quick prayer.
    The Brownian motion of a real battlefield, nothing more. Logic and order emerged from chaos soon enough. Within five minutes, Banér and his West Gothlanders began their charge.
    The king, in the meantime, had been organizing the heavier forces which would drive home the assault. Four regiments, numbering perhaps three thousand men.
    The Smalanders and East Gothlanders were Swedish. Heavy cuirassiers, in their arms and armor, although the term was mocked by the puny size of their horses. The two Finnish regiments were more lightly armed and armored, but their Russian horses were much superior.
    The Finns, like their mounts, favored the wild Eastern European style of cavalry warfare. What they lacked in discipline they made up for in fervor. They were already screeching their savage battle cry:
Haakkaa päälle!
    
Hack them down!
    Gustav would lead the charge, at the head of his Swedish regiments. He hesitated only long enough to gauge the battle on his left. He could see nothing now. The farmland dust thrown up by thousands of chargers, mixed with billowing gunsmoke, had turned the battlefield into a visual patchwork.
    But he could hear the battle, and it did not take him more than a few seconds to draw the conclusion. Horn—good Horn! reliable Horn!—was holding Tilly at bay.
    He drew his saber and pointed it forward.
“Gott mit uns!”
he bellowed. “Victory!”