But though Frederick had in every sense held his own, and had won battles such as the world had never yet seen, he had none the less lost ground. His three years’ hard fighting had robbed him of most of his trusted generals and the flower of his army. He had an inimitable knack of making recruits into soldiers, but these were not his old grenadiers, nor could his dead lieutenants be replaced. The Austrian troops were, on the contrary, distinctly improving. Their ranks contained more veterans, for, in their larger standing army, the losses of the Austrians did not decimate their battalions.
The king’s financiering during these years was remarkable. He never ran in debt. He always had money ahead. How he managed to arm, equip, supply, feed, and pay his men on less than eighty-five dollars per man per year, is beyond our comprehension. But he did it, and well too.
As 1759 opened, a cordon of over three hundred and fifty thousand men surrounded Frederick’s one hundred and fifty thousand. The king had, however, interior lines and undivided purpose. His difficulty in raising troops—and he had a press-gang in every country of Europe—obliged him to give up fighting for manœuvring, like Hannibal after Cannæ. He could afford battle only when he must wrench the enemy’s grip from his very throat. He remained in Silesia watching Daun, who induced the Prussians to advance into Brandenburg, by sending Soltikof some reënforcements under Laudon.
Frederick must parry this thrust at his heart. He marched on the allies and met them at Kunersdorf, and, though he had but half their force, he attacked them with his usual impetuous valor. But the king was over-impetuous that day. Ill luck beset him. His combinations would not work. He tore himself to shreds against the entrenchments and artillery of the enemy. He would have victory. Not until he had lost one-half his army, nineteen thousand out of forty-two thousand men, would he desist from repeated, obstinate assaults. He was the last to leave the field. No such stubborn fighting is elsewhere inscribed on the roll of fame. After the battle the king could assemble but three thousand men. The allies had been too roughly handled to pursue (Aug. 12).
For once despair seized poor Frederick. He thought the end had come. But his elasticity came to the rescue. In three days he was himself again. Every one was certain that Prussia was gone beyond rescue. Happily the allies were lax. Dresden was indeed lost, and Frederick was cut off by Soltikof and the Austrians from Prince Henry, who were on the confines of Saxony. But by a handsome series of manœuvres between him and the prince—as beautiful as any on record—he regained touch and reoccupied all Saxony except Dresden. And although he suffered another grievous blow, and again by his own obstinacy, as at Hochkirch, in the capture of twelve thousand men at Maxen, still Daun made no headway, and the end of the fourth year saw the king where he was at the beginning.
The characteristic of 1760 was a series of wonderful manœuvres. Frederick, from Saxony, had to march to the relief of Breslau, threatened by Laudon. He had thirty thousand men. The enemy barred his passage (August) with ninety thousand, and the Russians were near by with twenty-four thousand more. Despite this fearful odds of four to one, despite the unwonted activity of the enemy, Frederick, by unheard-of feats of marching, the most extraordinary schemes for eluding his adversaries, strategic turns and twists by day and night, the most restless activity and untiring watchfulness, actually made his way to Silesia, beat the Austrian right at Liegnitz and marched into Breslau safe and sound, and with martial music and colors flying. No parallel exhibition of clean grit and nimble-footedness can be found. From Breslau as base, Frederick then turned on Daun in the Glatz region.
The Russians and Austrians now moved on Berlin, and while Frederick followed, Daun marched towards Saxony (October). The king by no means proposed to give up this province. To its fruitful fields he was indebted for too much in breadstuffs and war material for a moment peaceably to yield them up. His stubbornness had grown by misfortune. Knowing full well that failure meant the dismemberment of Prussia, he was ready to sacrifice every man in the ranks and every coin in the treasury, and himself fall in his tracks, rather than yield his point. This wonderful man and soldier was made of stuff which, like steel, gains quality from fire and blows.
The Berlin incident proved more bark than bite, and in the battle of Torgau, though Daun and the Imperialists had over one hundred thousand men to Frederick’s forty-four thousand, the king attacked their intrenchments and won a superb victory (Nov. 3).
For 1761, Frederick’s forces dropped to ninety-six thousand men. The enemy had the usual number. This, too, was a year of manœuvres, which are of the greatest interest to the soldier, but need volumes to relate. At the camp of Bunzelwitz, for the first time, Frederick resorted to pure defence. The result of this year left the king where he had been, save the capture of Schweidnitz by General Laudon. Frederick was fighting to keep Silesia, and the close of each year, through good and evil alike, saw him still in possession of the cherished province.
The winter of 1761–2 was one of great bitterness to the king. His health had broken down. On every hand the situation was clearly desperate. No prospect but failure lay before him. He led the life of a dog, as he said. Still the iron-hearted man ceased not for a moment his preparations. He was resolved to die with honor if he could not win. Had the outlook been promising in the extreme, he could not have labored more consistently, even if more cheerfully. “All our wars should be short and sharp,” says he; “a long war is bad for our discipline and would exhaust our population and resources.” The theory of the strategy as well as the battle evolutions of the king was the saving of time by skill and rapidity.