PLAN OF ZORNDORF, AUGUST 25, 1758.
These conditions made the battle fought near Zorndorf on August 25, 1758, one of the bloodiest of the whole war. It was in great part a desperate hand-to-hand struggle, kept up with mutual fury until the Russians were cut to pieces. According to the Prussian histories, Seydlitz, the matchless dragoon, refused point-blank to obey Frederick’s order to advance on the Russian guns. When and where needed, he replied, he would be at hand with his men. “After the battle,” came the King’s message, “you will answer for it with your head.” “After the battle,” answered the imperturbable general, “my head will be at the service of the King.” He justified his insubordination by twice charging at the enemy on his own initiative. He thereby saved the day, and, instead of being cashiered, was embraced by his delighted master. But when the issue had once been decided by sheer rage maintained for ten hours, some of the Prussian infantry showed themselves equally insubordinate and less successful. It seems not the least strange feature of this chaotic death-grapple that in an attack upon an army strongly posted the cavalry should have formed the chief factor in Frederick’s success.
Success, though much qualified, Frederick might indeed fairly claim. Fermor, it is true, bivouacked on the field, fought again, though languidly, next day, sent off bulletins of victory, and retired unmolested a week later. His troops had endured the Prussian whirlwind with a steadfastness beyond all praise. But of the 30,000 killed and wounded nearly two-thirds were his, and Frederick had achieved, though at a great cost, his prime object of securing his dominions on the eastern side.
Against a new foe the King had displayed once more those qualities which readers of his history have by this time learned to regard as characteristic of him. He had been brave, secret, and masterful, swift to plan and to carry out, tireless in body and teeming in brain. He had at the same time proved himself exacting, overbearing, and rash, adroit at supplying the need of the moment rather than far-sighted and sagacious in providing for the future. Though he accepted victory and defeat like a philosopher, there was too much of the despot, both in what he exacted from his troops and in what he expected from his foes. In this, though in this alone, it seemed as though the common infirmity of the overpowerful had at last assailed a Hohenzollern, and that Frederick had lost something of his power of seeing facts as they are. All the torrents of Prussian blood wasted at Prague, at Kolin, and at Zorndorf had not swept away his belief that Prussians led by himself could carry out any order that he chose to give.
It is chiefly these virtues and foibles of the King that shape the story of the remaining months of the campaign. While he was on the banks of the Oder the Austrians and Imperialists had begun the reconquest of Saxony and Silesia. Frederick by speed and cleverness saved both, but his conceit doomed nearly nine thousand of his army to wounds, captivity, or death.
First, by wonderful marches, he snatched Dresden from the jaws of Daun. The cautious general took up a strong position, which barred Frederick’s road to Silesia, where the Austrians were besieging Neisse. Having failed to tempt him to battle, Frederick next stole round his army, but Daun retorted with a similar manœuvre and encamped near Hochkirch with some 65,000 men. On October 10th, Frederick with less than half the number actually insisted upon occupying an untenable position hard by. His generals, among whom were the Young Dessauer, Seydlitz, and Zieten, remonstrated with him in vain. Next day Keith arrived and spoke his mind quite frankly: “If the Austrians leave us quiet in a position like this, they deserve to be hanged.” “It is to be hoped that they fear us more than the gallows,” rejoined the King, and planned a flank attack on Daun, who, he believed, was about to retreat into Bohemia. The result was that before daybreak, on October 14, 1758, the Prussian camp was surprised. Five generals, Keith among them, perished. Frederick’s obstinate foolhardiness cost him more than one-fourth of his army, with more than a hundred guns and much material of war. Kolin, Domstädtl, and Hochkirch, three victories over the King of Prussia within sixteen months, formed a splendid chaplet for a general whose forte was caution. The Pope was said to have rewarded Daun with a consecrated hat and sword.
“It may be safely reckoned,” so the King informed the Berlin public a week later, “that our loss does not exceed 3000 men.... These disasters are sometimes inevitable in the great game of chance which we call war.” The hour of disaster had again proved Frederick superior to the shrewdest blows of Fate. At the moment when the Austrians, creeping through the darkness, began to butcher his men in their tents, he proved himself once more a hero. Disdaining to order a retreat, he extricated his army from its terrible position and formed a new line only half a league to the rear. Daun, who had lost more than 6000 men, entrenched himself on the field, and was soon plying his old trade of circumspectly hanging upon the skirts of the foe. Within ten days of the battle Frederick robbed him of the fruits of victory by marching round him once more. He flung himself between Daun and the besiegers of Neisse, and Silesia was saved.
Daun’s counterstroke was, as was almost inevitable, an invasion of Saxony while Frederick’s back was turned. He alarmed Dresden, but was once more frustrated by Prussian speed. Frederick hurried back in time to save both Saxony and its capital. In mid-December he went into winter quarters at Breslau, master of dominions as broad as when he had quitted the city nine months before.
