7TH OF SEPTEMBER - BREITENFELD

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On a day like today, dashing Swedish ruler Gustavus Adolphus put veteran Catholic warlord Jean de Tilly to rout for the first time in the careers of both, in open battle, in the environs of Leipzig.
It was the 7th of September 1631.
The estate at the edge of the battlefield was called Breitenfeld.

Of course, regular readers of this blog and military history lovers already know all that jazz...

This year, to celebrate the date of such a memorable confrontation, I bring you some hitherto inedit treats:


THE CATHOLIC POV
Though history is written by the winners, worthy ones who have stood defeated are also remembered...
These verses are from the poem "Tilly" by Joseph von Weilen (19th-century Habsburg Austria), dedicated to the Austrian Army (Tilly was a Walloon, and a born Spanish subject, but, after all, he served the Kaiser!) The poem begins with Tilly a Jesuit student leaving college in adolescence, during the reign of Philip II:

In his cell within the college, a young scholar brooding sits,
his thoughts are as dark as his black robe, that of the Jesuits;

On his high brow rests a dark cloud of restlessness and woe,
in his deep blue eyes shines and turns to flame a dreary glow,

His lips are closely pressed --- this youth is valiant and strong;
his sunken cheeks flush with courage and passion to right wrong!

He speaks, and in his hands buries his downfalling, proud head:
"Oh, I have been bereft of peace, no rest lies now ahead!"

"The flames of war blaze all around, the fire sweeps me in!
This glowing heart wants feats, this hand wants arms to combat sin!"

"Ever since Luther shattered Catholic unity's intent,
there has been no decision, e'en after the Council of Trent!"

"The world's weary of bickering, they've all spoken enough!
Now they draw and cross their sharp swords, these times are hard and rough!"

"And, overpowering me, I am drawn into the fray;
instead of a faithful priest, a hero of faith I'll be today!"

He flings off his dark gown and tosses it upon the wall;
in the corner, a rapier of Spanish steel seems to call.

The young scholar thus reaches out, the hilt's in his right hand,
the costly rapier soon hangs on his belt, to take a stand.

A rosary with wooden beads and a dark wooden cross
he kisses soon and wears around his neck 'gainst virtue's loss.

And thus, clad in satin and steel, armed with the cross and sword,
he steps out of the college, to fight for the One True Lord!

To the Duke of Alba, scourge and storm of Philip's Netherlands,
thus the young Count of Tilly arrives, to shield his native lands;

enlisting in a tercio like just another ranker more,
for one who wishes to command must learn to obey before!

And honest, silent, iron-willed, his duty he always tries,
sworn to the Faith and Kaiser: for no third cause he vies!

And from the ranks he is soon uplifted by victory,
and rises high and higher to attain warrior's glory.

...

Yet still in the high place where destiny placed him, he'll feel
no passions, and remain the same dreary hero of steel!

Always humble in prayer, yet cruel in the fray!
Rarely they've seen him smiling, or heard him laughing, nay.

Only in the heat of battle, Ares-like into the frays,
is seen to shine with radiant joy his weather-beaten face.

Yet usually like dreary storm-cloud through the host soars he,
yet from the dark storm-cloud always blaze glory and victory!


Decades later, Tilly is in charge of the League and at the height of his career, a septuagenarian regarded as invincible, yet a younger and more open-minded commander soon arrives to challenge his supremacy...

A bright ray of elation shines in his azure eyes:
saved are the Faith and Kaiser: for no third cause he vies!

Thus, now his brow dries up, and so does his blood-stained steel:
and he thinks in his heart: "I deserve rest now, I feel."

Yet soon the waves are crossed by a fleet from the far North,
led by a king, a hero among heroes, sailing forth!

On Usedom and Rügen, they land upon the shore,
and eagerly, restlessly, Swedish swords they seize, quite sure!

And vict'ry crowns with laurels the banners golden and blue:
the Kaiser's weapons, like reeds in the storm, break through and through!

The old Count of Tilly, warrior brave, won't turn away,
nor, by his side, Count Pappenheim, hot-blooded in the fray!

He wants to take to the field once more and claim the prize,
to weigh his laurels against Sweden's and see who will rise!

On the plains north of Leipzig, by the hall of Breitenfeld,
the unvanquished Tilly's host's encamped, the war council he's held.

Within less than an hour, before his camp stand, now see,
across the Lober rill: those of Sweden and Saxony!

Both armies are wrapped in the cover of the starry night,
everyone rests... but aged Tilly, who wakes by candle-light.

He stands before his camp-bed, arms folded, hands joined in prayer,
his weary head, sunk deep in thought, bent down: his thoughts elsewhere.

"In six-and-thirty battles, the laurel wreath's been mine!
No power has defeated me: nor foe, nor wench, nor wine!"

"Tomorrow, all my lifetime's glory I shall risk once more,
the army of my Kaiser, the cause of my Faith, for sure!"

"Though Altringer, with reinforcements, is not far away:
ere they come to my aid here, I avoid the fight, the fray."

"My silver locks have always known by laurels decked to be:
They can wait, because victory'll find soon a way to me!"

And, as eastward the day sky shines with bright sun of the morn,
from the restless camp Pappenheim storms rashly in the morn.

With cavalry two thousand strong, the wide heathland he'll fill,
to stop the Swedish armies from crossing the Lober rill.

He spurs his steed into their ranks, forgets to think, carefree,
till he's surrounded and o'erpowered by the enemy!

And, like a deer that's been speared through far deeper than the skin
and the more it struggles, the deeper the spearhead gets in,

so Pappenheim, to shield himself, endangers himself more,
into each skirmish he pulls more hosts than i'th'one before!

The snowball of the fray rolls on, and on and on goes round,
until Tilly himself is pulled into it when his host is down.

For, laden, under pressure, he sees no other way out
than rashly summoning his own tercios, ne'er put to rout!

Quickly, he summons rank on rank, so many placed side by side,
but Gustavus's armies, formed in lines, now take their stride!

And Tilly stands among his warriors, gathered from all lands,
riding his pony, taking off his hat with fine gloved hands.

And he takes off his scarlet hat: in autumn's pale sunlight,
how lovely is it when his curly hair shines silver white!

And now he bends his aged head, and spends long time in prayer,
then shouts: "Jesus and Mary!!!", filled with pain, dread, and despair.

And thus, "Jesus and Mary!", echoes the League's battle-cry;
the Swedes, on their side, "Gott mit uns!", raise their call to the sky!

And three cannons are fired at once, the starting-guns, we'd say:
with thunder and lightning sounds the beginning of the fray!

Tilly kisses his crucifix, then rashly raises his head,
and then, leads his tercios to storm, thundering forth ahead!

The tercios clash with the left wing, where stands the Saxon host,
at first strike, the latters cower and yield, lose what they need most!

Now, with all of his forces, they strike the Swedes for the kill,
yet he's forgotten his own cannons, unguarded, on the hill.

Gustavus sees this, and he storms thither at lightning speed:
his own projectiles shatter Tilly's van and rear indeed!

And every tercio, that in storm stood unbroken and strong,
is rumpled by two storms, holds, stumbles, reels: Tilly was wrong!

The League's army, united by warriors' pride and victory,
is now falling apart as bullets pierce those who can flee.

In vain Tilly rides forth on his own to stop their flight:
the wave is even stronger, and tears him into its plight!

And now his face has turned like a dead man's, strangely pale,
the thundering voice of the warrior turns to a sigh, for he must fail.

His pallid lips now writhe, convulsions seize him, disarray:
he storms, to fall in battle, into the thickest of the fray.

"Who has lost all his honour has nought to do but die!"
And two tears mixed with blood are shed, one by each dreary eye!

The teardrops of an aged man, falling down his withered face,
are like glaciers excavating deep vales as their paths they trace.

The true Walloons bring out, into safety, their old Grand-Père,
through the wild throng of fleeing hosts they carve their way with him there.

Like a sacred relic, the aged one they surround and shield,
through friend and foe they force, ten slain each step, yet they don't yield.

From many wounds, Tilly's blood already trickles on the ground;
in the end, deeply unconscious, from his pony he reels down.

And pain and old age force the count to recover in bed,
yet with desire for vengeance he's more ablaze instead!

Just once more he would like to confront Sweden on the field!
Just once more see his banners victorious and the foe yield!

The poem ends, of course with Tilly's last stand at the Lech and his death at the commandant's in Ingolstadt, as he keeps on advising his high officers and allies:

Around Tilly's sickbed, his loved ones are gathered round;
the rough warriors shed tears, yet he keeps calm and looks around.

The crucifix he passionately to his lips will press:
"My Liege, I've always trusted you, thus I will find redress!"

"Hold only Regensburg, and thus, you'll have to feel no dread!"
Thus he addresses the warriors, he turns pale, and --- he's dead!

He's dead! His sword of Spanish steel falls clanging from the wall!
He's dead! His right hand holds the crucifix still, after all!

And like his whole long life had been, so was, as well, his death:
His Kaiser was his last thought and to God was his last breath!


A SNIPPET FROM MY ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF MY OWN 30YW PLAY:
This is the Breitenfeld scene of the script, put into context:

SCENE III. INTERLUDE THE FIRST
In Leipzig, soon, Gustavus's envoys
make allies with Prussia and with Saxony.
Not far, Magdeburg is soon overrun,
children are orphaned, maidens are abused,
even the children are stabbed or far worse...
Their only sin was being Protestants,
and their slayers were bold for what they'd drunk.
Then, th'old Walloon's host heads for Saxony,
whose ruler, disturbed by the Leaguers' raids,
at first frightened, lets th'enemy host in.
And, pretty soon, Leipzig and Halle fall,
surrender to share not Magdeburg's fate.
The King of Swedes reached Saxony too late,
though the Elector, now racked with regret,
turns coat once more to the Protestant side.
Meanwhile, the daring Count of Pappenheim
and the high officers of the great League,
all decades younger than Jean de Tilly,
coax and taunt their septuagenarian lord
to boldly dare give battle the next day.
In the end, under pressure, even though
he'd rather wait for reinforcements then,
the silver-haired Walloon finally yields...

SCENE IV. BREITENFELD
On the vast fields that north of Leipzig lay,
a bloody confrontation now takes place:
for the first time, the Golden King of Swedes
and the silver-haired Count Jean de Tilly
confront each other on the battlefield!
This seventh of September, now and here,
at Breitenfeld, their ranks facing the sun,
will the bold Swedes attain sought victory?
GUSTAVUS (singing): Do not despair, my little band,
though enemies throughout the land
are seeking to destroy you!
They rejoice, hoping you'll fall soon,
but they will sing another tune,
so keep on brave and coy, you!
Let us sing, ere we rush into the fray!
Today, a new age of freedom will begin!
TILLY: Now we've got these heretics! This evening, the Kaiser will receive news of our thirty-seventh victory! (Taking out his rosary from his breastplate, saying a Hail Mary in Latin): Ave Maria gratia plena...
PAPPENHEIM (impatient, pounding his chest): So, shall we attack these frigging heretics or not?
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns! Follow us to victory!
The Swedes strike, recklessly and gallantly,
which does not please the old Count of Tilly.
Such weapons, tactics, are to him unknown.
Yet he's sure that Our Lady for a shield
and decades of experience on the field
will ensure that his tercios still endure.
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns! Follow us to victory!
TILLY (looking through his spyglass): The riders gallop among the running pikemen, like the lasses among the lads at the dance! The king of heretics is mad as a hatter... here rush the infantry and the cavalry together... And little cannons made of leather? This cannot be true! These northerners simply do not understand the noble art of war!
PAPPENHEIM (fiery, bereft of self-control, at the head of the Catholic cavalry): Leave the frigging Swedes to me!! Jesus and Mary!!! (A Swedish cannonball hits him in the head, and he falls unconscious on the battlefield.)
The Swedes ascend the slopes of the high hill
where the League's twelve enormous cannons stand.
Croats retreat, Walloons now take to flight,
and flags are swept away before their eyes.
The silver-haired leader of the Catholic host,
despairing, won't give in that easily.
TILLY (now at the head of his hosts): Forwards! Forwards! Jesus and Mary! Do not retreat! They're just a handful of heretics!
SWEDISH CAVALRY CAPTAIN (hits Tilly in the head with the stock of his pistol): This is for Heidelberg!
SWEDISH LIEUTENANT (stabs Tilly in the side): And this is for Magdeburg!
The wounded count now falls and shuts his eyes.
A few Walloons gather the unconscious form,
pursued by Swedes, relentlessly, boldly.
Soon, one third of those trusty Walloons fall,
while the rest flee into the Leipzig woods,
not before killing those pursuing Swedes.
The Protestants still follow in their wake,
as if pursuing wanted criminals.
Who could e'er say the day would end this way?
Many of those who lost the fray survived,
taken prisoner by the golden King of Swedes.
Yet he's freed them and made them his own men,
sworn to the Swedish nation and its flag.
When the Count of Tilly at last awakes,
after weeks of lingering close to death,
he's crushed by the news of his first defeat.
He thinks Fortune's a lady, after all,
grown weary of men in their seventies,
who has a younger Northern lover found.

SCENE V. SECOND INTERLUDE
Leipzig and Halle soon yield to the Swedes,
and the Marienburg does soon as well.
How many well-attained victories
and won engagements fought for freedom's sake,
then fêted with great revels, song and dance,
and drink: the Protestants should celebrate!
Here's to the King and his high officers!



Plus, here is the corresponding chapter of "Days of Victories":

DAYS OF VICTORIES

A historical tale by Werner von Heidenstam
translated from the Swedish and adapted by Sandra Dermark

II. The Battle of Breitenfeld

After new raids, Tilly was sitting one night in a cot with his generals in council. The smouldering ruins of Magdeburg had finally scared the Saxon Elector off his tankard. Now allied with the Saxons, Gustavus Adolphus was ready for battle. This council would decide whether Tilly should, the very next day, confront the young victor on the open field of battle. Doubting and troubled, the so experienced warlord shook his aged head. The red plume, that hung from his hat downwards on his back, fluttered and flickered, and his stern face was plowed with countless furrows and little wrinkles. Strict and clever, with deeply sunken eyes, he sternly beheld his brothers in arms. But Pappenheim smirked to himself at the old man's anxious carefulness, impatiently pounding his own chest. There was, on his body, not a spot the size of a hand where he didn't have a scar. He was as old as Gustavus Adolphus, and there was a legend in his household that, one day, a scarred Count of Pappenheim on a white steed should defeat a great king. He was burning with impatience to ride his snow-white gelding and test if the prophecy was true.
As he spoke, the sword-like scars on his forehead flared up.

Finally, Tilly gave in. He slowly got up and buttoned his green doublet. Without being aware of it, they had been sitting in the Leipzig morgue, and the dawn began to let its light in through the little windows. As they walked out of the room, they saw that the walls were completely decorated with paintings of craniums, crossbones, and coffins. A gloomy Tilly folded the brim of his hat over his bushy eyebrows and got on his saddle.

They were now on the plains north of Leipzig, and, by a hill not far from the estate of Breitenfeld, Tilly had laid his army in battle array. One of the Croatians, who had lost his horse, was sitting astride on one of his huge heavy cannons. His old-fashioned breastplate lay heavy upon his shoulders, such was its weight! But, quite unexpectedly, he began, after all, to jump with both feet in the air, as he pointed with his sabre.

"There! The Swedes are coming!", he shouted with glee, while skipping higher and higher. "My eyes are sharp, but I can't see that they have any cannons. Neither can I see any matches on their guns, nor any fork rests for them to support their arquebuses. And the gunners are running among the riders, like the lasses among the lads at a dance! I must tell you something..." he said, after having coolly watched them for a moment. "These folks simply don't understand the good old art of war. Yes, they're warriors indeed! But they don't know their own profession. And they must be so bored, or so I have heard! As soon as they have a moment of spare time, they will all stand upright and sing their songs. Pardon me, Holy Mary, but I know more exciting tunes. Ugh! Curses on those herring-eaters!"

The Croatian didn't notice that Tilly was turning pale. The dreaded Titan's seventy-year-old eyes were sharper than his own. Through the spyglass, he beheld the handy flintlocks on the Swedes' muskets, their shorter pikes, and the little light cannons that they had concealed within the brigades. But what kind of cannons were these ones, that did not need more than one or two horses to be harnessed to? Well, they were made of leather. Anyway, dressing in skins and writing on skins were things as old as time. But firing with guns made of skins was just a whim of the Finns' and their Nordic brothers'. No, this was certainly not the way that it should be, whether for a Croatian or for a laurel-crowned, white-haired warlord of the old school. This was a young genius who, with a brand new art of war, rushed into a storm, against his obsolete elders.

Tilly's army was arranged in thirteen massive square tercios. They looked like thirteen large holdfasts, because from every square's perimetre of gunners arose the infantry's eighteen-foot pikes, like palisades. The officers gasped for breath and gave commands:

"Arms on forks!"
"Blow off match!"
"Open pan!", the commands were carefully and decently given.

Sometimes, it would take up to ninety-nine different steps before an arquebus was finally fired, as it tossed forth heavily in its supportive fork rest. That had been the way of fighting ever since the Middle Ages. The autumn sun shone blankly on their uncomfortable iron armours, but it was gradually darkened by clouds and bluish gunsmoke, and the setting grew even more dire. Light and free of movements, the troops of Gustavus Adolphus were arrayed in long lines, and his little cannons began to peal. Pappenheim was already down in the fray, on his white steed, to seek the King in the right wing, where he usually could be found. Seven times did Pappenheim rush into attack, but every time, he was violently thrown back in the heat of furious fighting. In the end, the terrified horses turned around and pulled their riders with them into dizzying flight. Pikes and swords crossed, muskets thundered, and Tilly's redoubtable cannons made the ground quake.

The gunsmoke grew thicker, and the drums drubbed for the soldiers not to lose each other. Forsaken by the Saxons, who had already taken to flight, the Swedes kept on advancing forwards. With the unbent Finns at their head, the eastern Swedes pursued the enemy up the hill, as flames of fire lit up their faces. But could they really be sons of the North? The Croatian who still was sitting on the cannon pensively clutched his head. They were dark of face, as if they had just arisen from the ruins of Magdeburg. Then he saw how one of them stroked his hair, and, where he had laid his hands, his hair turned a fair shade of blond. The gunsmoke had laid itself like wet black paint over their skins and clothes.

A rider, who was constantly surrounded by flashing blades in the thick of the battle, had had his costly lace collar so soiled that it looked like a dirty gray rag. He was a man in the prime of youth. But he closed his eyes a little, as if he were short-sighted. And he was so heavy and so overweight that his horse was panting for breath and full of froth. The rider held his head backwards, with a fluttering green plume in his broad-brimmed hat. His chest was not shielded by any steel breastplate, but only covered in a buff doublet of moose-skin. This man was the King of Sweden.

"Hold tight, my daring boys!", he shouted in a gallantly cheerful voice. "Think of our loved ones at home! One hour more, and victory is ours for years and days beyond our lives!"

"Jesus, Mary!", the Leaguers replied, and, at those words, was heard the fanfare of Tilly's trumpets.

The Croatian seized a knotted whip, a cat-of-nine-tails, in haste. The enormous siege cannon, decorated with coats of arms and images of saints, had sunk into the ground with one of its wheels, and it stood there leaning. Fourteen pairs of horses were harnessed to it. Some of them lay dead, for they had been slain. The others got up on their hind legs at the Croatian's whiplashes. Froth dripped from their mouths, and they lifted their hooves in the dark. But it was impossible to move the obsolete colossus away. The Swedes hasted forth, they took Tilly's cannons, and they threw their fire at his own soldiers.

No one except the commanders could any longer realize what really was going on in that chaos... no one except the superhuman Titans, who could see in the dark and hear everything and know everything.
Tilly was a hair's breadth from being taken prisoner, and he fell, losing consciousness, as blows from the stocks of muskets struck his white-haired head. The bravest of his Walloons encircled him in a square formation, and himself undefeated, though put to rout as a warlord, he was led, as muskets were fired, away from the Swedish ranks.

Thus the great victory at Breitenfeld was won, and the day was coming to an end. The thunderstorm of battle had gradually faded away, and the darkness of night descended, but once more did the king place his weary army in battle array. It was his most precious treasure, and he didn't want to expose it to any ambush.
One day, long ago, when he and his Finns had fallen victim to an ambush, he had stood, after the battle, looking with concern at the slain. He had said: "How many feats should these heroes have carried out, had not my carelessness led to their untimely death!" This experience had made him more careful.
When he had thus carefully prepared himself for every risk, he rode before the regiments and thanked them for a day that never should be forgotten. He embraced serious Horn, and he shook hands with merry Banér. Then, he commanded that each and every one of the soldiers should lay down for the night on the spot where they were.  After having eaten and drunk his fill at the camp follower's, he laid himself in a wooden cart, in which he also had encamped the night before. It was a long time since he had last slept in his own royal bed. He had to spend the nights sometimes in a tent, sometimes in a cart, and the great lords had to lay themselves to sleep on horseback or on a wooden cart like he slept himself. And this adventure would not last mere weeks or months, but the months grouped into years.

Silence lay deeper upon the sleeping army, that lay rank by rank, with their weapons ready, on the trampled ground, and the stars twinkled in the night sky. Did Martin Luther ever dream, at the twilight of his life, that his word should have such defenders?

A lone rider was standing upright a few steps from the lit cart lantern, looking at his sword. The gunner beside him turned his head towards him and said:

"That's a scary blade, shepherd lad! What you're carrying into battle is a really old executioner's sword! A Catherine wheel and a gallows are engraved on the steel!"
"It is", the rider replied. "One night, a weary and heavy-hearted executioner came in rags to my father's cottage, and he warmed himself beside our fire. He took water in his cupped hands and drank heartily, and then he said: 'Many ill people, out of superstition, have believed that they should be healed if they drank from my despicable hands. But that can't help me at all. My illness is rooted deep inside my chest, in my heart of hearts, and it's called melancholy.' We curled ourselves up in our beds of straw, for as long as we could, and, at the break of day, we found out that the executioner had died during the night. For a long time, this dreadful sword was resting on a corner, with no one to dare to touch it, not even my little siblings. But then, war broke out, and I girded it by my side."

After a short break of silence, the rider resumed his tale:
"In the bloody days of old King Charles the Ninth, this sword turned many a Swedish lady into a dowager. I'm thinking about that right now. Nowadays, we don't any longer use our steel on our own countrymen. Do you see who it is, that gentleman who carefully and respectfully, yet as a good friend, lies asleep by the King in that wagon? That's Banér. His father himself was beheaded by the King's father. Now, both the sons are sleeping together like brothers."
"Yes indeed, new times have come for us Swedes", the gunner replied, as he pushed his hands to the nape of his neck and fell fast asleep.

The King had already closed his eyes beside his gallant Banér. His father's old enemies and their descendants had finally forgotten all of the old grudges before his chivalry and sense of justice, becoming his devoted friends.

As soon as the sun had risen, the army marched towards the Leaguers' abandoned camp. There, they found the bags that contained Tilly's whole war treasury, and, in the carts, they discovered the looted spoils of Magdeburg and those from many other raids. And what horses! These steeds were like meant to ride on in the sunny crowd, among captured flags and cannons! The saddles were fit for royalty. It looked empty at home in the little churches and estates in the woods, but from that day onward there would be more splendour.

Thus began a triumphal procession among elated Protestants, who called the King of Sweden their saviour and their leader. At night, they wandered through deep forests, as blazing torches lit the way. Over vineyard-decked hills went the entourage, towards the splendid Catholic Rhineland.
...