George Henty - Won By the Sword - a tale of the Thirty Years' War

MY DEAR LADS,

In my preface to the Lion of the North I expressed a hope that I might some day be able to continue the history of the Thirty Years’ War. The deaths of Gustavus and his great rival Wallenstein and the crushing defeat of the Swedes and their allies at the battle of Nordlingen brought the first period of that war to a close. Hostilities, indeed, never ceased, but the Swedes no longer played the leading part on the Protestant side that they had hitherto occupied. Oxenstiern, the great chancellor of Sweden, saw that the only hope of eventual success lay in engaging France in the struggle, and he and the Duke of Weimar went to Paris and pointed out to Richelieu that unless France intervened, Austria must become the master of all Germany, and as the ally of Spain would have it in her power to completely dominate France. Richelieu perceived the opportunity, made a treaty with the Swedes and Weimar, and engaged to grant large subsidies to the former, and to send an army to cooperate with the latter. Then began the second period of this long and terrible struggle, France now taking the place that Sweden had hitherto occupied, and bearing the brunt of the conflict. She emerged triumphant with her territories largely increased, while Austria was crushed and humiliated, and Spain was dethroned from her position as the dominating power of Europe. The success of France was greatly due to the fact that her armies were led by two of the greatest military geniuses of all times, viz., Conde and Turenne, men of very different types, but equally great as commanders, and equally at the time of which we are speaking devoted to the cause of France. Both were men of extraordinary personal courage, and although one was as prudent and careful of the lives of his troops as the other was impetuous and careless at what cost he won his victories, they worked together with a harmony that could have hardly been expected among men so differently constituted. Although, in the subsequent wars of the Fronde they took different sides, their friendship, except during a short period of alienation, was never shaken, and their admiration for each other’s genius never abated.

Yours sincerely,

G.A. HENTY

A mounted officer, followed by two orderlies, was proceeding at a brisk trot from Paris to St. Denis, in October, 1639, when he came upon a large party of boys, who, armed with sticks, were advancing in something like military order against a wall on the top of a low hill.

“What are you doing?” he asked the lad who appeared to be the leader.

“We are playing at war, sir. We are advancing against the fortress of La Motte. This is the regiment of Turenne.”

“And who are you at other times?” the officer asked with a smile.

“My name is Hector Campbell, sir.”

“Then you are not French?”

“No, sir; my father was an officer in the Scotch regiment. He was killed at the siege of La Rochelle.”

“And who is taking care of you?”

“I live with Angus MacIntosh. He was a sergeant in my father’s company. He was badly wounded at La Rochelle, and not being fit for further service, he took a cabaret near the barracks. The officers are very kind. They allow him a sum for taking care of me. Of course I am often in barracks, and have learned the drill, and I have heard and read about battles and sieges, so I am chosen to command.”

“And so you know something of the battles in which Turenne was engaged?”

“I think I know about them all, sir, both in Holland and on the Rhine, and have seen plans of the battles. Of course this is not at all like La Motte, which was on the top of a high rock, so that when Turenne was ordered to attack with his regiment after the general’s son had failed, he had to pass not only through a heavy fire, but through the huge stones that the enemy hurled down. It was grand; and he did well at all the other sieges. Then, again, there was Saverne. See how he fought there, and stormed the place when even the Swedes, who are good soldiers, had failed. I think he is going to be the greatest of our captains.”

“Turenne is only a learner in the art of war,” the other said gravely.

“I think he has learnt more than any of the rest,” the boy said boldly; “and all the soldiers love him more than any of the other generals, for he takes such care of them, and does not treat them as if they were dirt under his feet, only meant to obey orders, and go and get killed when told.”

“You have heard him very much over praised,” the officer said quietly. “I think that he does his best; but he is a young man yet, not older than I am. His advance has been due to fortune rather than to his own merits.”

“I don’t think so,” the boy said sturdily. “Do you think that he would be a lieutenant general at twenty-eight, and that all the soldiers would speak of him as they do, if it were only fortune? Look how he captured Landrecies and Solre, and drove the Austrians back from Maubeurge, and aided the Duke of Weimar to thrash them at Weilenweir, and stormed the main fort of Breisach! He has been successful in all his enterprises, and now it is said he is to command in Italy, where things have been going on badly. The cardinal would not have chosen him had he not considered that no one could do better than he.”

The officer laughed. “Well, young sir, I see that you are so well acquainted with the sieges and battles of our time that I cannot argue with you.”

“I did not mean that, sir,” the boy said in some confusion. “I was only saying what our soldiers think, and it is natural that I, being only a boy, should make him my hero, for he went to the wars when he was a year younger than I am, and at fourteen carried a musket as a volunteer under Maurice of Nassau, and for five years he was in all the battles in Holland, and raised the first battery that opened on Bois-le-duc.”

“And do you receive no pension as the son of an officer killed in battle?”

“No, sir. When the living soldiers often have to go months without their pay, the sons of dead ones can hardly expect to be thought of. But I don’t care; in two years I shall be old enough to enlist, and I shall go to the frontier and join Hepburn’s Scottish brigade, who are now, they say, in the French service.”

“They are fine soldiers—none better,” the officer said. “But why does not the colonel of your father’s regiment ask for a commission for you?”

“The regiment is not in favour with the cardinal,” the boy replied with a smile. “They are too Protestant for his eminence, and the colonel is not a man to ask favours if he is likely to be refused.”

“Well,” the officer said, “it is clear to me that you are a lad of spirit, and that you have done your best to prepare yourself for your profession as a soldier by studying military history, and I think it hard that, as the son of an officer who died in battle for France, France should have done nothing for you. I have some little influence myself. What is the name of this cabaret that Sergeant MacIntosh keeps?”

“The Scottish Soldier, sir. It is near the gate of the barracks of St. Denis.”

“Do not go out tomorrow afternoon. I will have a talk with him, and maybe I can be of some assistance to you.”

So saying, he touched his horse’s flank with his heel and rode on, while the boys continued their play. The next afternoon the lad remained at home, to the surprise of the sergeant.

“What keeps you in today, Hector? It is rare indeed that you are indoors in the afternoon.”

“An officer came along while we were playing,” the lad said, “and asked me some questions. I told him who I was. He said that he had some influence, and might be able to assist me.”