TIME TABLE FOR "DAYS OF VICTORIES"

Translated from the Swedish of Werner von Heidenstam - this is an afterword chronology that the source material had.

DAYS OF VICTORIES. A TIME TABLE

1619 - Ferdinand II of the Austrian Habsburgs is crowned Kaiser of the Germanic Empire.
1630 - Gustavus Adolphus sets sail, lands on Pomeranian shores.
1631 - he defeats Tilly at Breitenfeld, storms the Marienburg, takes up winter quarters in the Rhineland.
1632 - he crosses the Lech, takes Munich, stops Wallenstein in his tracks of conquest, follows him afterwards into Saxony, and falls at Lützen on the 6th of November.
1634 - Wallenstein is assassinated.
1640 - Mary Eleanor flees Sweden.
1642 - The future Charles X enlists as a volunteer officer under Torstensson's command and heads into Germanic territories.
1645 - he is appointed commander-in-chief of the entire Swedish military.
1654 - Christina abdicates the throne, and is succeeded by Charles X.

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.
...

CHARACTER ARCS IN "DAYS OF VICTORIES"

Ferdinand II:
Crowned -> determined -> challenged -> threatened -> saved -> suspicious -> deceased.
Wallenstein:
Middling -> risen up -> ambitious -> fallen from grace -> recalled -> victorious -> successful -> betrayed -> killed.
Tilly:
Veteran -> undefeated -> routed -> won't give up -> crushed yet standing up -> deceased.
Gustavus Adolphus:
Crowned -> hopeful -> victorious -> convicted -> waylaid -> defeated -> won't give up -> killed.
Mary Eleanor:
In love -> married -> crowned -> concerned -> intuitive -> brokenhearted -> taking to flight -> returning -> deceased.

DAYS OF VICTORIES VII: ELEANOR AND CHRISTINA

DAYS OF VICTORIES

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

VII. Eleanor and Christina.

Time after time, a heartbroken Mary Eleanor had the lid of the coffin lifted, just to behold his frozen features. Her hero had fought his sunny battle of victory, and he lay now in front of her, bereft of life, in a long shroud of silver brocade. She would have fit in better in earlier times, when faithful ladies knelt by the candle-lit tombs of their beloved knights. The era that she lived in was down-to-earth, with both feet firmly fixed upon the ground, and kettledrums thundered. How could the mature and harsh Swedish lords, with all of their short and straightforward language, understand and show patience towards such a woman, who could neither rule herself nor others? She was too naive and weak for her voice to be heard when it came to the fate of the young great power. All she could do was love and mourn. 
At Nyköpingshus, she had a room completely draped in black velvet. Chairs, tables, ceiling, floor: everything was draped in black. Even the windows were fully draped in black curtains, for not even a ray of daylight to be let in. There she sat, completely dressed in black, by torchlight, and the servants that passed by the door could hear her sobbing. This was the same castle where the Folkungs had starved, and where Charles the Ninth had sighed for nights, pale with heart disease and impending death. Which was the prophecy that the witches had sung at Nyköpingshus, before the massacre, to the old holdfast? "You shall be a home for regrets, and biers, and mourning widows' tears!"

When the coffin was finally earthed in Riddarholmen Church, Mary Eleanor asked, the very next day, if she could get the key to the crypt, for lifting the lid for the last time in forever. But the stern members of the Regency Council threatened her with placing guards at the church door. Still she had, for her keeping, a relic more precious to her than any other: a little gold casket, a keepsake in which she had enclosed the King's embalmed heart. At night, it hung, inside a velveteen purse, from one of her bed-posts. By day, she sat, like she had done before, in her bedchamber draped in black, clutching it on her chest, above her own heart. Persuaded through endless threats, she finally let go of it. Caressing the golden keepsake, she wrapped it in green taffeta, tying it, like a present, with a silken cord. Other hands laid it down on the late King's body, where the heart had been in his life. And there it remains.

Still, she hadn't got through her longing yet. Colourful performers tried to entertain her with songs and jests. A generous soul, she emptied her caskets, scattering jewelry and crown coins into their hands. But her time still was lasting for that long. She talked bitterly about the cold land where she was condemned to stay and mourn, and she decided to leave Sweden for once and for all. Yet the venerable old Chancellor Oxenstierna, the leader of the land, shook his gray head in disapproval.

At her lonely seat of Gripsholm (where the Regent had her confined after claiming Nyköpingshus), a passage through dense woodland led from one of the castle gates to a little bay in Lake Mälaren. 

"I will stay in my bedchamber for six or seven days, reading books and saying my prayers", she explained to her servants one evening, and had them bring enough provisions for a week. Thereafter, she locked the door from the inside, and she was left with the sole company of Fru Ebba, her chambermaid.

Night soon fell, and, while everyone else was sleeping, she silently crept into the garden with her chambermaid, then through the passageway, to a rowboat moored in the lake. On the other side, still within the castle park, they were received, with equal stealth, by some accomplices of theirs, who had been waiting, beneath the oak trees, with saddled steeds for the Queen and her maid. Both women got quickly on their horses, and the whole group of riders hasted forth, galloping, down the road to the Baltic coast. Sometimes, during their flight, they had to stay and have a rest for a while in a farmhouse. Then, the riders whispered to the farmers that the fine lady was a wealthy heiress, who had run away from her parents. "Ah! Her folks were so strict, and she couldn't marry the one she had given her heart to!" Upon saying these words, they looked sorrowfully at her blood-shot eyes, and they pointed to a long-haired young rider, dashing enough to be the man she had eloped with.

Over Gripsholm, the sun rose once more that morning. The Court Preacher placed himself before the locked chamber door, reading the morning prayers aloud, like he ever had done during her penance.
"What has happened? The Lord knows", he finally said, when he had to sit and sing through the whole service all alone, without anyone singing on the other side.

Thus, the courtiers had no other choice than breaching the door. Enraged and shocked, they stood on the threshold, looking at the flies that buzzed in the empty bedchamber. In a fit of restlessness, the Great Gustavus Adolphus's widow, whom the whole world still curiously talked about, had fled her country like a female adventurer, without any longer wishing to live there.

But years went by, and the site of his grave was still frequently dwelled upon by her thoughts.

Finally, she returned once more, to finally sleep for eternity by his side. And thus, a celebrated man's elderly, insignificant, and forgotten widow was carried, bereft of life, through the once more opened crypt door. Among the laurels in that crypt, a little wreath of shy forget-me-nots blooms invisibly upon a faithful heart.

When the Queen Dowager was weeping and sobbing in the black mourning chamber at Nyköpingshus, a little six-year-old girl could often be found sitting by her feet. It was her daughter Christina, her only child, who, after the fray at Lützen, had inherited the crown of great Sweden.

The little one was not allowed to play. Not even to whisper. But she couldn't be constantly crying. It was dreadful to sit in the firelight of torches and candles in the light of day, and hours reached the length of eternity. At first, she sat, full of longing, by the window, wondering if ever once at last a ray of daylight, even though it were a thin and pale one, should find a way in there. But the thick, heavy curtains were well fixed to the windowpanes. Then, she grew accustomed to close her eyes, until, in the end, she was all ears. In the meantime, steps grew closer and then faded outside the door.
But she gradually learned to recognize, even in the distance, a pair of creaking shoes, which always announced a moment of liberation. It was when her tutor came to fetch her for the classes. To avoid the black chamber, she kept on reading as long as possible. As soon as she had finished a book, she reached out for another.

She gradually learned to love her books much more than she loved her toys, and she became so learned that she could already write letters in both German and Latin at the age of ten. Then, she learned language after language, even Greek, for pleasure's sake. On the other hand, she would not even dare to touch a needle or a spool of thread. Then, she went rather for a ride on horseback, through woods and fields, leaping over fences and ditches, so that the farmboys who saw her were left breathless.

Axel Oxenstierna, who marvelled at her talents, came himself every day for a while, to teach her about states and their people. He was the one who had presented her before the Estates of the Realm and let them praise her as their Queen. Into her female hands, he would soon hand over the power over the Swedish realm, which was for him the loveliest one on Earth, and for which her father had given his life.
Through the people went a rush of longing to reach a place of honour in the North, and individuals were proud of serving the common good. Hundreds of donations had been given to Uppsala University. At the colleges, boys were learning their Latin declensions, with -us and -um at the end of certain words. The mines were being cared for. Wallonian smiths turned the steel beneath their hammers, letting sparks fly in all directions. At seven o'clock in the morning, Oxenstierna was already sitting in his office, while, in the German lands, the army was still ready to fight in the long struggle for freedom.
There was not a single perfection that Oxenstierna could not have wished for his curious ward to attain, for her to become the likeness of her father. Thus, he separated Christina from her eerie mother. Worried, he realized that the child took after her mother to an unlikely degree, even though she had inherited her father's genius. Then, he took her to the estate of Stegeborg, leaving her in the care of her aunt Catherine, a most uncommonly clever woman. They generally called her the Countess of the Pfalz, for she was married to a German count who had fled his lands and come to Sweden because of the war. And they had a cheerful and good son, about Christina's age, by the name of Charles Gustavus. During the games they played, both children often whispered to each other that they should, one day, walk down the aisle together as bride and groom.

Eventually, Christina grew up, and Charles began to grow wisps of black peach-fuzz on his upper lip.
Disappointed and heartbroken, he realized that she behaved no longer towards him like she had done before. Hunting horns echoed as the party rode through the forests. That evening, she had been sitting in the saddle since sunrise itself. Her modest gray outfit was the most simple of them all, without any decorations. Her plume flickered and fluttered in the wind, to and fro, on her broad-brimmed cavalier hat, and a dark suntan covered her sharp, lively features. No other lady could have dared to follow her on horseback, and she was pleased to be entirely surrounded by men. With them, she could talk of classical poetry and philosophy, instead of needlework or baking. Suddenly, she reined in her large, shining steed, a gelding with a speckled coat. Charles made haste to lift her from the saddle, but she had already landed on the ground with a quick leap. Her spurs clinked under her skirt-like trousers, and she whipped her brown boots with her riding whip. Shaking her strawberry-blond locks back, she looked at him with cold, shifty eyes:
"Why are you in such a sad mood?"

He bent the knees and made a curtsy, which was a custom for men to do in those days as well, and swept the hat he had taken off along the tall grass. But he gave no reply.
"Do you know what I have been thinking of?", she seriously addressed him. "It must be tough, after all, to get married and then always to have to obey another person. Let others get curious and think what they please. But, Charles, could you keep a secret? I'll never, ever, marry any man!"

He bent his head in silence, and a picnic supper was set for them on the green grass. Horns echoed once more, as servants with tableware and pitchers in their hands stumbled upon the trees' roots. The evening twilight made everything turn darker in the clearing, and soon the time came to return home to court.

Charles Gustavus rode on his own amidst the oak trees. The narrow-shouldered and short boy sat on his horse, swinging, distracted, in rhythm as the steed trotted.
"Why I am in such a sad mood?", he repeated maybe too loudly to himself. "And she dares to ask me that?"
His straight raven hair was neatly combed, kept in a middle part hairstyle, and his cheeks were round and ruddy, like those of a cherub. That was nothing to win a young queen's heart, not even that of such a cool one as Christina. He was too clever not to understand it himself.

Anyway, the thorn in his heart wasn't the one that lay deepest, or the one that hurt the most. There was another, far greater problem that troubled him. His mother was, after all, a Vasa. The blood of House Vasa coursed through his veins, but still, he was seen by Sweden as a foreigner, and even as a stranger. In vain had he prayed to receive some duty at his country's service. The mistrustful lords of the Council always answered: "No". A young, unexperienced maiden would soon seize the royal sceptre, and thus, it was not convenient to make some upstart too powerful. That was what the lords thought. But how could she ever lead a people of warriors? He was born in Sweden. This was his motherland. Filled with pride and ambition, he had listened, like the others, to every message of victory that the army brought from the war front. And he could not serve that country! Then, he would live alone, in ennui and idleness.

He puffed up his thick, rosy lips, looking completely manly and dashing, as his clenched fist broke the pathside branches in a fit of rage. Now, he had made his decision. Like a common volunteer, he should go forth into the war. That could, anyway, not be denied to him. He reminded the readers of a young medieval squire, riding out into the wide world in pursuit of adventures to win his golden knight's spurs. And now, you shall read how this adventure came to an end.

Blood was still dripping on the German plains, where Banér was leading the army towards new victories. Honoured like royalty, he lived among moats and cannons, and a tent was his home. In the end, for three nights in a row, the soldiers thought they had heard a voice which called: "Come, Banér! Come! Now the time is here!" They whispered that they recognized the voice, and that it was his late wife's. But Banér's honey eyes sparkled with defiant joie de vivre, and he replied with a hearty laugh:

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! They're calling for me to win victories to come!"

Laughing, he drained his tankard to the dregs, and he let the cannons thunder. After a while, another cannon storm raged from the Swedish camp: it was such a shot that the local smallfolk ran, afraid, into the nearest churches. But it was only Banér, who had his cannons fired to celebrate that his proposal of marriage had been accepted by a sixteen-year-old countess. The soldiers still remembered the calling voice, and the pale face of the warlord betrayed that his last hour was near. At the end of the day, pursued by the enemy and ablaze with fever, he was carried in a stretcher by his men. He shouted, in the middle of his fever dreams, that none other than Torstensson could take over his sword. For a whole month, amidst the marching ranks one could see a coffin, and there, beneath the black cloth that covered it, the deceased leader was slowly carried home to his land.

Though Torstensson was so broken down by the gout he had caught in prison that he was often carried about in a stretcher, he led the army forth all the way to the very walls of Imperial Vienna. It was under his command that Lieutenant Charles Gustavus made his way up through the ranks. During a skirmish, he received bullets through his hat, coat, and shirt, and his dark hair was torn off only on one side of his head, as if it had received a pretty nasty scissor cut. But he puffed up his cheeks and his lips, and he struck back. This turned Charles into a great example to follow and such a manly man, and the soldiers loved him. He was irate, and it was obvious that he thought of flying higher.
For such a fellow, who, to crown it all, had the Queen herself for a fiancée, rising up was a matter of short time. If she couldn't be his, at least she was willing to give him a royal consolation prize. As Commander-in-Chief of the whole Swedish Army, he was allowed, in old Protestant Nuremberg, to host the flamboyant banquet which finally sealed that peace had been reached with the Kaiser, after thirty years of war. On the middle of the table splashed a fountain of rose water, and, from a window, the golden Lion of the North sprayed out showers of wine over the people, who were all drinking and singing and dancing. When night fell, thirty Swedish gunmen entered the banquet hall, aimed for the ceiling with their muskets and shot salute after salute, until the guests at the table could scarcely see each other through the gunsmoke. In such gunsmoke, a whole era had passed, and, in gunsmoke, the last glass was drained to the blessing of peace and to the German Realm where Protestants would now share equal rights with Catholics.

FINIS.

DAYS OF VICTORIES VI: LÜTZEN

This translation is dedicated to the memory of Gustavus Adolphus Karlsson of Vasa
*Nyköping, Sweden, 9th of September 1594
+ Lützen, Saxony, 6th of November 1632
Ruler, leader, husband, father, lover,
martyr of freedom.
Beloved by friends, admired by foes,
remembered by all,
as long as Sweden and freedom exist.



"Inspired by thirst
For glory, on the field of battle quaffed
 Instead Death's bitter draught."

DAYS OF VICTORIES

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

VI. Lützen

The quid of the question lay now in surprising Wallenstein, whose army was encamped at Lützen, and who, confident that the land would be in peace, had recently sent Pappenheim away with a considerable amount of troops. Men and horses sank deep into the swampy mire, until, late in a November evening, the church tower of Lützen rose, before their eyes, from the vast plains. The road to Leipzig stretched out, lined with earthworks like a high palisade, across the open field. That night, behind these earthworks, turning the ditches into trenches, Wallenstein placed his gunners. The Swedes lay on the muddy plains, and the King went to sleep in an old cart. The generals advised him to find a better resting place, but he replied:
"How could I ever be pleased with any comforts, if I see so many people lacking comforts around me?"

As the sun began to rise, with the red skies of dawn, he didn't want to eat or drink anything for breakfast. Fasting as if it were some ritual, he got on his horse, without his breastplate, dressed in his buff mooseskin doublet and gray overcoat. A thick fog hung upon the plains, but the first song of encouragement echoed already through the ranks. Far up north were the farmsteads of the Swedes. There, the elders and the maidens sat for a rest, laying their work aside, to listen at the gate if someone would ever come with greetings from their sons and sweethearts on the war front.

"Beloved brothers and countrymen!", the King said, reining his horse in before the vanguard of his army. "Now, the day has come, the day on which you will show the world what you have learned during so many campaigns! The enemy we have sought for so long is now right in front of us, no longer intrenched on unreachable heights or within strong fortifications, but out on the open field! You know, indeed, how carefully he avoided our confrontation before. Thus, onward, to fight for freedom, for good fortune and eternal happiness! If you, for this time, let go and yield to the foe, I ensure you that everything will be completely lost, without a chance to be saved, and not a single bone of ours shall return to the land of our birth. But why do you now question the courage of which I have seen so great proof? I know that you are ready to follow me today, unto the bitter end, for our sacred cause!"

Yes, indeed. Their sacred cause, for which they had taken so many heavy steps and waked for so many nights, had not to be sacrificed, whatever the price might be.

In the meantime, the fog had grown so thick that every detachment stood ostensibly on its own, without being able to see the others. Then, the King began to sing his cheerful battle song:

"Do not despair, my little band,

though enemies throughout the land

are seeking to destroy you!

Though o'er our fall they laugh secure,

their triumph shall not long endure,

so keep on brave and coy, you!"

His manly baritone was soon joined by the thousands of voices of the Swedish Army, regiment after regiment, and the meanest private felt happily secure that each and every one of his brothers in arms, on all sides, was ready for battle as well. After another hour or so of waiting, the white disk of the sun began to shine. The fog quickly parted and lifted from the ground, and, immediately, Wallenstein's army could be seen against the backdrop, far to the left, of the burning village of Lützen.

"Jesus, help me to fight today for the glory of Your Holy Name!", the King seriously said, in a loud and clear voice, both his hands clutching the hilt of his sword. "And now, onward!"

Wallenstein, who had the gout and was racked with pain, had been carried around among his soldiers in a sedan chair. He hastily put his foot through a ribbon-wrapped stirrup and swung himself onto the back of his war horse, a stallion.

"Jesus, Mary!", his soldiers shouted their battle-cry.
"Gott mit uns!", echoed the old warcry of the Swedes, as they stormed forth to the road and captured seven of the enemy cannons.

In the distance, by some windmills, a wild confrontation flared up on the edges of both the trenches, and the King rushed thither at the head of his cavalry.

"Follow me, my gallant lads!", he cried, as he thrust the spurs into the flanks of his horse Streiff, unaware that the others, who did not ride that fast steeds, were left behind.

Once more, the sun was veiled by misty darkness, as if by enchantment, and sword thrusts clanked on breastplates and lifted pistols.

"It's nothing, my boys", the King said in a carefree voice when his followers remarked that he was wounded, shot in the left arm, and bleeding.

A pale Gustavus leaned on his saddle against the one closest to him, but then, another bullet struck him in the back, at shoulder-blade height, and he fell unconscious off his steed. His devoted young pageboy, Leubelfingen, himself bleeding from several wounds, was the last one to stay by his side. Ready to die, the youth offered the King his own horse, but he couldn't lift the heavy unconscious form: he could only rest the royal head on his arms.

"Who is the wounded man?" asked the Croatian-accented enemy riders who surrounded them in the gunsmoke.
Leubelfingen kept silence, to receive, in exchange, a rapier stab through his solar plexus. But the King opened his glossy blue eyes and said in a faint voice, with blood on his lips:
"I am the King of Sweden."
Then, from the wild circle thundered the pistol shot that, for ever, quenched his heroic life.

The riders threw themselves over the dead man, taking off his gold chain and clothes. But, in the meantime, with a gaping wound in his throat and an empty saddle, his nutbrown stallion galloped back into the Swedish ranks, where, in the heat of the battle, he still knew that he belonged. The soldiers immediately recognized Streiff, and they realized, full of shock, what had happened. They had recently been thrown back, but, after that moment, they would rather die to the last man than see the sun set over a battlefield where their fallen king lay in the enemy's clutches. 
Duke Bernhard of Weimar, a gallant Protestant, who had always stayed loyal to the Swedes, placed himself at the head of the forth-rushing army.
"The defender of freedom is dead!", he cried. "For me, life is no longer life, if I can't avenge his fall!"

His own left arm soon bled as well, but he didn't mind that at all, and Stålhandske crossed the trenches with his men, Brahe fell with a broken knee, and around him fell the Yellow Brigade, whose members didn't want to survive their king's death. It was of no use that Pappenheim had, in the meantime, come back in time, riding on his white steed, like at Breitenfeld, to seek his royal opponent. After a while, he was carried away, fatally shot in the chest, over down-trodden furrows. Against the setting sun, that once more shed its reddish evening light through the mists, Wallenstein awaited the last attack, his cloak pierced by several bullets. But when night fell, the Swedish soldiers had reached their goal. The dark field, on which the leader lay fallen among so many of his best men, had been conquered.

With torches in their hands, they walked among the slain to find the body of their king. That was a dire wandering. Struck-down horses lifted their heads, staring at the firelight. Wounded, thirsty comrades rose up on their elbows, asking for water. In the end, the soldiers came to a spot which was completely silent. The battle had raged there with all its fury, and the slain ones slept the sleep of death. It was hard to tell a friend from a foe, since many of them had been robbed of their clothes and lay there nearly naked. The sashes, which had been a sign of identification during the battle (green for Swedes and red for Austrians), lay scattered about and downtrodden in the mire. The soldiers looked down, casting light on the pale faces, until, under a heap of slaughtered warriors, they finally found the King's body. Bereaved, they lifted him up from the ground and carried him to Weissenfels, the nearest village that Wallenstein's men had spared. The blood-stained doublet had fallen into enemy hands and been presented to the Kaiser, who for a long time looked at it with tears in his eyes.

Tired of religious conflicts, Wallenstein kept on marching about with his army, as the pain of his gout made him harder and more bitter. In a display of extravagant splendour, full of pomp and circumstance, he travelled in an ornate baroque coach-and-six, at the sound of gilded silver trumpets. And soon, a rumour spread that he was defiantly ready to rise up against his own liege lord. Some of the Kaiser's loyal courtiers seized the Bohemian royal crown and carried it from Prague to Vienna, fearing that he would ceremonially place it on his own head.

At the end of the day, forsaken by nearly everyone, he sat one evening, as usually, consulting the stars. They foretold evil deeds. But he did not want to listen to such a foretelling, and he went to bed, to dream daring dreams of universal peace in the name of freedom of worship. Complete silence had to reign around him as always. When the servant outside the locked door suddenly caught a glimpse of a detachment of soldiers, he laid his finger to his lips, to tell them that they should walk quietly.


"Friend!", their leader replied, "now it's time to make some noise!"
Thus, he knocked violently on the door, and, since it did not open, he breached it like a battering ram. Wallenstein was standing by the table, barefooted, dressed in his night shift. But warfare had taught him how vain it was to waste words on a band of killers. Throughout his life, keeping silence had been the greatest and most mysterious of his skills, and, this time, he kept silent before the door as well.

"Are you a scoundrel?" the leader asked him. "A traitor who secretly betrays his own kaiser? Now you must die!"
Too proud to give excuses, Wallenstein stretched out both his arms. Then, struck in the middle of the chest by the leader's pike, he collapsed upon the floor, dying without a single sound.

Long before that, the King's coffin had been carried across the Baltic, to Nyköping, and placed in a chapel while everything was being prepared for the funeral of state. The members of the Council and the people of Sweden mourned him as honestly as the army, for he had been a great person, as open-minded in the arts of peace as he had been in the arts of war. He hadn't had nearly any enemies at all.

...