Had she suspected the real condition of the army, a state of affairs which the King only began to realize when war was at hand, she might have counselled otherwise. But her high opinion of the army of Frederick the Great was confirmed by the confidence of its officers. General Rüchel, who had retaken Frankfort from the French, was so fatuous as to declare that the Prussian army had plenty of field-marshals equal to General Bonaparte. A colonel deplored the fact that the heroic army of the great Frederick should be furnished with cannon, rifles, and swords for the battle with the French, instead of clubs with which “to beat back these dogs.” “Why do we need fortifications?” asked another. “Our fortress is the army, behind whose invincible ranks we can defy the enemy.” Even a few days before the battle, when the Prussian army was virtually surrounded, a Prussian general staff officer declared that the enemy was already cut off by their clever strategy and Napoleon “as certainly ours as if we already had him in this hat.” But what was the real state of affairs?
The fortresses were in bad condition, the commanders were weak dotards, the strategetical points unoccupied, so that in case of retreat the road to the capital was open to the enemy. The superior officers were old and graduates of Frederick’s antiquated school of war, and the younger ones full of patrician insolence. The army itself was not in training, and consisted principally of recruited foreigners. The commander-in-chief was superannuated.
In the conduct of the war, as in the King’s cabinet, there was discord and indecision. The King at length became sadly conscious of this. “It cannot end well,” said he. “There is indescribable confusion; the gentlemen will not believe this, and say that I am too young and do not understand. I hope that I may be wrong.”
But the clear-sighted Prince Louis Ferdinand uttered these sad words three days before the engagement at Saalfeld, in which he fell: “Alas! we are in a bad way, and so is our whole Prussian army; I consider it already lost, but I shall not outlive its fall.”
The Prussian troops were to concentrate in Thuringia under the leadership of the old Duke of Brunswick for a decisive battle against the thus far unconquered one. The previous year, when war seemed imminent, Louise, with her children, had bidden the departing troops a hearty and enthusiastic farewell on the Wilhelmsplatz. Napoleon reproached her with this as though she had been the demon of war. When, in September, 1806, the Queen’s dragoon regiment left Berlin to take the field in Thuringia she received it at the Brandenburg Gate clad in the colors of the regiment, and rode at its head through the streets which it traversed. This also gave her enemies food for comment. But when, on September 21, she even accompanied the King, who was lost without her, by way of Magdeburg and Halle to join the army at Naumburg, Napoleon found even more fault with her. The celebrated politician Gentz, who was Austrian court-councillor at the time, had an interview with the Queen in Erfurt. This temperate statesman had heard so many praises of the high-born lady that he was quite prepared to find them only false flatteries. But in a conversation lasting three-quarters of an hour, she charmed him completely. He could not say enough about the decision and independence which she displayed, the fire and at the same time the wisdom of her language. “And yet, in all that she said she showed such deep feeling that one could not forget for a moment that it was a feminine intellect which attracted one’s admiration.” This man of the world and of courts declared that he had never seen such a combination of dignity, benevolence, and charm as in this wonderful woman.
Louise was most anxious to be assured that public opinion was in favor of the campaign. “I do not ask to give myself courage—for, thank God! that is not necessary!” said she, during the conversation, in which she showed an astonishing knowledge of even the most unimportant events and minute affairs. Her womanly nature manifested itself most touchingly when her eyes would fill with tears at the mention of Austria’s misfortunes. Commenting on the public criticisms of her political conduct, she cried: “God knows that I have never been consulted in public affairs and have never wished to be. Had I ever been asked, I should—I will admit it—have declared for war, as I believed it was necessary. Our condition had become so critical that we were in duty bound, and at all costs, to extricate ourselves; it was most necessary to put an end to the suspicion and reproaches which were heaped upon us, as though the King had not been in earnest in regard to the war all the time. By every principle of honor and therefore of duty, as I understand it, we were compelled to follow that road, apart from any selfish considerations.” The accusation of any partiality for the Russians she denied, and although she did justice to the personal virtues of the Czar Alexander, she did not look upon Russia as the saviour of Europe from the usurper. She sought the principal means of help solely in the close union of all those who bore the German name.
Among those surrounding the King, opinions were divided as to whether or not the Queen should be allowed to go farther. She herself preferred to be at headquarters rather than to hear disquieting rumors at a distance. Since the King had allowed her to accompany him beyond Erfurt, she was resolved not to leave him until he desired it. Headquarters were established in Weimar, October 11, and there the King and Queen received the first bad news. The vanguard had been defeated by the French and their leader, the brave Prince Louis, had fallen at Saalfeld, October 10. Three days later the Queen left Weimar to follow her husband to Auerstädt. On the way she learned that the road was beset by the enemy, and she was obliged to return to Weimar amid the cheers of thousands of eager soldiers, whose valiant spirit she had imbued with fresh life. Here she was urged by General Rüchel no longer to expose herself needlessly to the dangers of war, and to return to Berlin. This was possible only by means of a great detour, in order to be safe from the enemy’s scouting parties. Rüchel designated the road and the stations. The route, which would take four days to traverse, was to be by way of Mühlhausen, Brunswick, Magdeburg, and Brandenburg.
On the morning of October 14 the Queen left Weimar with the Countess Tauentzien. A company of cuirassiers formed their escort for several miles; thick mist enveloped the landscape and the travellers’ hearts were heavy with forebodings. As Louise listened to the distant thunder of cannon she trembled for the husband of her heart and the father of her children. She knew that he would shun no danger in this battle and it deeply affected her that she could not share it with him.
The double battle at Jena and Auerstädt raged all day long. On the road the Queen received only uncertain news, sometimes good and sometimes bad. “I have suffered unutterably,” she declared, “between mountains of hope and abysses of despair, and have learned the meaning of ‘we know not what we should pray for as we ought; but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.’”
Not until the fourth day did a messenger sent by Colonel von Kleist, adjutant of the King, overtake her in the neighborhood of Brandenburg. The rider approached the carriage door and handed the Queen a letter. She opened it quickly, glanced at it, and appeared crushed. The letter contained only the words: “The King is alive; the battle is lost.” Tears streamed from her eyes at this terrible news. The handkerchief, wet with her tears in this hour of distress, which she gave as a remembrance to the Prince of Anhalt, her protector, at his request, is still preserved among the treasures of the royal family, and is certainly not one of the least valuable.