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Title: Great captains : A course of six lectures showing the influence on the art of war of the campaigns of Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar, Gustavus Adolphus, Frederick, and Napoleon
Author: Dodge, Theodore Ayrault
Language: English
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By the Same Author
THE CAMPAIGN OF CHANCELLORSVILLE. With Maps.
RIDERS OF MANY LANDS. Profusely illustrated by Remington, and from
photographs of Oriental subjects.
A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF OUR CIVIL WAR. With Maps and Illustrations.
_Students’ Edition._
PATROCLUS AND PENELOPE: A CHAT IN THE SADDLE. _Popular Edition._ With
woodcuts from instantaneous photographs.
GREAT CAPTAINS. With Maps, etc.
Great Captains:
ALEXANDER. A History of the Origin and Growth of the Art of War,
from the Earliest Times to the Battle of Ipsus, B.C. 301; with a
detailed account of the Campaigns of the Great Macedonian. With
237 Charts, Maps, Plans of Battles and Tactical Manœuvres, Cuts of
Armor, Uniforms, Siege Devices, and Portraits. 2 vols.
HANNIBAL. A History of the Art of War among the Carthaginians and
Romans, down to the Battle of Pydna, 168 B.C.; with a detailed
account of the Second Punic War. With 227 Charts, Maps, Plans
of Battles and Tactical Manœuvres, Cuts of Armor, Weapons, and
Uniforms. 2 vols.
CÆSAR. A History of the Art of War among the Romans, down to the End
of the Roman Empire; with a detailed account of the Campaigns of
Caius Julius Cæsar. With 258 Charts, Maps, Plans of Battles and
Tactical Manœuvres, Cuts of Armor, Weapons, and Engines. 2 vols.
GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. A History of the Art of War from its revival after
the Middle Ages to the end of the Spanish Succession War, with a
detailed account of the Campaigns of the great Swede, and the most
famous Campaigns of Turenne, Condé, Eugene, and Marlborough. With
237 Charts, Maps, Plans of Battles and Tactical Manœuvres, Cuts of
Uniforms, Arms, and Weapons. 2 vols.
NAPOLEON. A History of the Art of War, with many Charts, Maps, Plans
of Battles and Tactical Manœuvres, Portraits, Cuts of Uniforms,
Arms, and Weapons.
VOL. I. Includes the period from the beginning of the French
Revolution to the end of the Eighteenth Century, with a detailed
account of the Wars of the French Revolution.
VOL. II. Includes the period from the beginning of the Consulate to
the end of the Friedland Campaign, with a detailed account of the
Napoleonic Wars.
VOL. III. Includes the period from the beginning of the Peninsular
War to the end of the Russian Campaign.
VOL. IV. Includes the period from the battle of Lützen through
Napoleon’s last campaign.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
GREAT CAPTAINS
A COURSE OF SIX LECTURES
_SHOWING THE INFLUENCE ON THE ART OF WAR
OF THE CAMPAIGNS OF_
ALEXANDER, HANNIBAL, CÆSAR,
GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, FREDERICK, AND NAPOLEON
BY
THEODORE AYRAULT DODGE
_Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel United States Army, Retired List. Author of
“The Campaign of Chancellorsville;” “A Bird’s-eye View of
Our Civil War;” “Patroclus and Penelope--A
Chat in the Saddle,” etc., etc., etc._
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
Copyright, 1889
BY THEODORE A. DODGE
_All rights reserved_
TO
John Codman Ropes
IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF
MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP AND HELPFULNESS
AND IN GENUINE APPRECIATION OF HIS
ACUMEN AS A MILITARY CRITIC AND HIS FELICITY AS
AN AUTHOR
THESE PAGES ARE INSCRIBED
WITH CORDIAL ESTEEM
BY THE AUTHOR
PREFACE.
The following lectures were delivered in Boston, under the auspices of
the Lowell Institute, in January, 1889. Their conciseness needs but the
apology of scant time. Little can be said about Alexander or Napoleon
within the limit of an hour. The sketches are of necessity meagre. They
are a summary in part of a larger work, of which the author hopes soon
to begin the publication, in which a volume will be devoted to each
great captain, and mention made of other soldiers who have contributed
to the growth of the art of war. The lectures aim to indicate briefly
what we owe to the great captains, and to draw an intelligible outline
of their careers, which may be filled in by reference to the extended
narratives of others. Historical detail often assumes prominence in the
mind to the exclusion of general form. It is the latter which it is
attempted to portray.
It is generally admitted that Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar, Frederick,
and Napoleon belong in a class by themselves. Some may claim for
Marlborough or Prince Eugene an equality with Gustavus Adolphus. But,
mindful that Gustavus was the first to rescue methodical war from
the oblivion of the Middle Ages, and that he originated the modern
system,--the art appears to owe that to him which entitles him to
greater rank, though, indeed, the achievements of others may have
reached or even exceeded the height of his.
All sources of information have been utilized, from Arrian’s Anabasis
of Alexander to Jomini’s Life of Napoleon. Among quite recent works,
special thanks are due to the exhaustive History of War of Prince
Galitzin, and the Studies of Count von Wartenburg.
CONTENTS
LECTURE I.
PAGE
ALEXANDER 1
LECTURE II.
HANNIBAL 38
LECTURE III.
CÆSAR 73
LECTURE IV.
GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS 107
LECTURE V.
FREDERICK 142
LECTURE VI.
NAPOLEON 178
LIST OF MAPS.
PAGE
PARALLEL ORDER 3
THE BATTLE OF THYMBRA, B.C. 545 4
BEFORE THE BATTLE OF MARATHON 6
THE GREEK MANŒUVRE AT MARATHON 7
THE BATTLE OF LEUCTRA, B.C. 371 9
CONQUESTS OF ALEXANDER, B.C. 334 TO 323 15
THE BATTLE OF THE HYDASPES, B.C. 326 17
HANNIBAL’S FLANK MARCH, B.C. 217 43
THE BATTLE OF CANNÆ, B.C. 216, I 47
THE BATTLE OF CANNÆ, B.C. 216, II 53
CAPUA, B.C. 211 63
GAUL 75
THE CIVIL WAR 89
THE CAMPAIGN OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS IN GERMANY, A.D. 1630–1–2 120
MAP FOR THE SEVEN-YEARS WAR 145
LEUTHEN, DEC. 5, 1757 155
1796 180
THE MARENGO CAMPAIGN 187
THE ULM-AUSTERLITZ CAMPAIGN 189
THE JENA CAMPAIGN 194
THE WATERLOO CAMPAIGN 209
LECTURE I.
ALEXANDER.
The earliest history is but a record of wars. Peace had no events
stirring enough to call for record. It was the conflict of heroes
which inspired the oldest and still greatest of poems. As the more
intelligent peoples were, as a rule, the victors, the march of
civilization followed in the footsteps of war up to very recent times.
The history of war has been carefully recorded for nearly twenty-five
centuries, but the science of war, in a written form, dates back less
than one hundred years.
The art of war owes its origin and growth to the deeds of a few great
captains. Not to their brilliant victories; not to the noble courage
evoked by their ambition; not to their distortion of mechanics and
the sciences into new engines of slaughter; not to their far-reaching
conquests; but to their intellectual conceptions. For war is as
highly intellectual as astronomy. The main distinction between the
one and the other lies in the fact that the intellectual conception
of the general must at once be so put into play as to call for the
exertion of the moral forces of his character, while the astronomer’s
inspiration stops at a purely mental process. What has produced the
great captains is the coexistence of extraordinary intellect and equal
force of character, coupled with events worthy of and calling out these
qualities in their highest expression.
My effort will be to suggest how, out of the campaigns and battles of
the great captains, has arisen what to-day we call the art of war,--not
so much out of the technical details, which are a subordinate matter,
as the general scheme; and to show that, while war is governed by its
rules as well as art, it is the equipment of the individual which
makes an Alexander or a Michael Angelo. Six of these captains stand
distinctly in a class by themselves, far above any others. They are,
in ancient days, Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar,--all within three hundred
years of each other. Then follows a gap of seventeen centuries of
unmethodical war, and we complete the list with Gustavus Adolphus,
Frederick, and Napoleon,--all within two centuries. “The art of war
is the most difficult of all arts, the military reputation in general
the greatest of all reputations,” says Napoleon. The limited number of
great captains proves this true.
The words _campaign_ and _battle_ cover the same ground as _strategy_
and _tactics_. Let me make these plain to you, and I shall have done
with definitions and technicalities. A campaign consists in the
marching of an army about the country or into foreign territory to
seek the enemy or inflict damage on him. Strategy is the complement of
this term, and is the art of so moving an army over a country,--on the
map, as it were,--that when you meet the enemy you shall have placed
him in a disadvantageous position for battle or other manœuvres. One
or more battles may occur in a campaign. Tactics (or grand tactics,
to distinguish the art from the mere details of drill) relates only to
and is coextensive with the evolutions of the battle-field. Strategy
comprehends your manœuvres when not in the presence of the enemy;
tactics, your manœuvres when in contact with him. Tactics has always
existed as common military knowledge, often in much perfection.
Strategy is of modern creation, _as an art which one may study_. But
all great captains have been great strategists.
To say that strategy is war on the map is no figure of speech. Napoleon
always planned and conducted his campaigns on maps of the country
spread out for him by his staff, and into these maps he stuck colored
pins to indicate where his divisions were to move. Having thus wrought
out his plan, he issued orders accordingly. To the general, the map is
a chessboard, and upon this he moves his troops as you or I move queen
and knight.
[Illustration: PARALLEL ORDER]
Previous to Cyrus, about 550 B.C., we have a record of nothing useful
to the modern soldier. Nimrod, Semiramis, Sesostris were no doubt
distinguished conquerors. But they have left nothing for us to profit
by. War was a physical, not an intellectual art, for many centuries.
Armies marched out to meet each other, and, if an ambush was not
practicable, drew up in parallel order, and fought till one gave way.
The greater force could form the longer line and overlap and turn the
other’s flanks. And then, as to-day, a flank attack was fatal; for men
cannot fight unless they face the foe; and a line miles in length needs
time to change its front.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF THYMBRA B.C. 545]
Cyrus is to the soldier the first historical verity. In the battle of
Thymbra, according to Xenophon, where Crœsus outnumbered him more than
two to one and overlapped his flanks, he disposed his troops in so deep
a tactical order of five lines, and so well protected his flanks, that
when Crœsus’ wings wheeled in to encompass him, his reserves in the
fifth line could fall on the flanks of these very wheeling wings. And
as the wheel was extensive and difficult of execution, it produced a
gap between wing and centre,--as Cyrus had expected,--and into this he
poured with a chosen body, took Crœsus’ centre in reverse, and utterly
overthrew him and his kingdom. Cyrus overran in his conquests almost as
great a territory as Alexander.
It is of advantage to see what had been done before Alexander’s
time,--to understand how much Alexander knew of war from others. For
Alexander found war in a crude state and conducted it with the very
highest art. That his successors did not do so is due to the fact that
they did not understand, or were not capable of imitating him.
Cyrus’ successor, Darius I. (B.C. 513), undertook a campaign against
the Scythians north of the Danube, with, it is said, seven hundred
thousand men. The Greek Mandrocles bridged for this army both the
Bosphorus and the Danube, no mean engineering feat to-day.
Shortly after came the Persian invasion of Greece and the battle of
Marathon (490 B.C.). Here occurred one of the early tactical variations
from the parallel order. Miltiades had but eleven thousand men; the
Persians had ten times as many. They lay on the sea-shore in front of
their fleet. To reach and lean his flanks on two brooks running to the
sea, Miltiades made his centre thin, his wings strong, and advanced
sharply on the enemy. As was inevitable, the deep Persian line easily
broke through his centre. But Miltiades had either anticipated and
prepared his army for this, or else seized the occasion by a very
stroke of genius. There was no symptom of demoralization. The Persian
troops followed hard after the defeated centre. Miltiades caused each
wing to wheel inwards, and fell upon both flanks of the Persian
advance, absolutely overwhelming it, and throwing it back upon the main
line in such confusion as to lead to complete victory.
[Illustration: BEFORE BATTLE OF MARATHON]
You must note that demoralization always plays an immense part in
battle. The Old Dessauer capped all battle-tactics with his: “Wenn Du
gehst nicht zurück, so geht der Feind zurück!” (If you don’t fall back,
why, the enemy will fall back.) Whenever a tactical manœuvre unnerves
the enemy, it at once transforms his army into a mob. The reason why
Pickett’s charge did not succeed was that there was no element of
demoralization in the Union ranks. Had there been, Gettysburg might
have become a rebel victory.
The Peloponnesian War shows instances of far-seeing strategy, such as
the seizure of Pylos (B.C. 425), whence the threat of incursions on
Sparta’s rear obliged her to relax her hold on the throat of Athens.
Brasidas was the general who, at this time, came nearest to showing the
moral and intellectual combination of the great soldier. His marches
through Thessaly and Illyria and his defeat of Cleon at Amphipolis were
admirable. He it was who first marched in a hollow square, with baggage
in the centre.
[Illustration: GREEK MANŒUVRE AT MARATHON]
The soldier of greatest use to us preceding Alexander was
unquestionably Xenophon. After participating in the defeat of Cyrus the
Younger by Artaxerxes, at Cunaxa (B.C. 401), in which battle the Greek
phalanx had held its own against twenty times its force, Xenophon was
chosen to command the rear-guard of the phalanx in the Retreat of the
Ten Thousand to the Sea; and it is he who has shown the world what
should be the tactics of retreat,--how to command a rear-guard. No
chieftain ever possessed a grander moral ascendant ever his men. More
tactical originality has come from the Anabasis than from any dozen
other books. For instance, Xenophon describes accurately a charge over
bad ground in which, so to speak, he broke forward by the right of
companies,--one of the most useful minor manœuvres. He built a bridge
on goat-skins stuffed with hay, and sewed up so as to be water-tight.
He established a reserve in rear of the phalanx from which to feed
weak parts of the line,--a superb first conception. He systematically
devastated the country traversed to arrest pursuit. After the lapse of
twenty-three centuries there is no better military textbook than the
Anabasis.
Alexander had a predecessor in the invasion of Asia. Agesilaus, King
of Sparta, went (B.C. 399) to the assistance of the Greek cities of
Asia Minor, unjustly oppressed by Tissaphernes. He set sail with eight
thousand men and landed at Ephesus; adjusted the difficulties of these
cities, and, having conducted two successful campaigns in Phrygia and
Caria, returned to Lacedemon overland.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF LEUCTRA B.C. 371]
Associated with one of the most notable tactical manœuvers--the oblique
order of battle--is the immortal name of Epaminondas. This great
soldier originated what all skilful generals have used frequently
and to effect, and what Frederick the Great showed in its highest
perfection at Leuthen. As already observed, armies up to that time had
with rare exceptions attacked in parallel order and fought until one
or other gave way. At Leuctra (B.C. 371), Epaminondas had six thousand
men, against eleven thousand of the invincible Spartans. The Thebans
were dispirited by many failures, the Lacedemonians in good heart.
The Spartan king was on the right of his army. Epaminondas tried a
daring innovation. He saw that if he could break the Spartan right, he
would probably drive the enemy from the field. He therefore quadrupled
the depth of his own left, making it a heavy column, led it sharply
forward, and ordered his centre and right to advance more slowly, so
as not seriously to engage. The effect was never doubtful. While the
Spartan centre and left was held in place by the threatening attack
of the Theban centre and right, as well as the combat of the cavalry
between the lines, their right was overpowered and crushed; having
defeated which, Epaminondas wheeled around on the flank of the Spartan
centre and left, and swept them from the field. The genius of a great
tactician had prevailed over numbers, prestige, and confidence. At
Mantinæ, nine years later, Epaminondas practised the same manœuvre with
equal success, but himself fell in the hour of victory. (B.C. 362.)
The Greek phalanx was the acme of shock tactics. It was a compact body,
sixteen men deep, whose long spears bristled to the front in an array
which for defence or attack on level ground made it irresistible. No
body of troops could withstand its impact. Only on broken ground was it
weak. Iphicrates, of Athens, had developed the capacity of light troops
by a well-planned skirmish-drill and discipline, and numbers of these
accompanied each phalanx, to protect its flanks and curtain its advance.
Such, then, had been the progress in military art when Alexander
the Great was born. Like Hannibal and Frederick, Alexander owed his
military training and his army to his father. Philip had been a hostage
in Thebes in his youth, had studied the tactics of Epaminondas, and
profited by his lessons. When he ascended the throne of Macedon, the
army was but a rabble. He made and left it the most perfect machine of
ancient days. He armed his phalanx with the sarissa, a pike twenty-one
feet long, and held six feet from the loaded butt. The sarissas of the
five front ranks protruded from three to fifteen feet beyond the line;
and all were interlocked. This formed a wall of spears which nothing
could penetrate. The Macedonian phalanx was perfectly drilled in a
fashion much like our evolutions in column, and was distinctly the
best in Greece. It was unconquered till later opposed by the greater
mobility of the Roman legion. The cavalry was equally well drilled.
Before Philip’s death, in all departments, from the ministry of war
down, the army of Macedon was as perfect in all its details as the
army of Prussia is to-day.
Philip also made, and Alexander greatly improved, what was the
equivalent of modern artillery. The catapult was a species of huge bow,
capable of throwing pikes weighing from ten to three hundred pounds
over half a mile. It could also hurl a large number of leaden bullets
at each fire. It was the cannon of the ancients. The ballista was their
mortar, and threw heavy stones with accurate aim to a considerable
distance. It could cast flights of arrows. Alexander constructed and
was always accompanied by batteries of ballistas and catapults, the
essential parts of which were even more readily transported than our
mountain batteries. These were not, however, commonly used in battle,
but rather in the attack and defence of defiles, positions, and towns.
Alexander’s first experience in a pitched battle was at Chæronea
(B.C. 338), on which field Philip won his election as Autocrator, or
general-in-chief, of the armies of Greece. Here, a lad of eighteen,
Alexander commanded the Macedonian left wing, and defeated the hitherto
invincible Theban Sacred Band by his repeated and obstinate charges
at the head of the Thessalian horse. Philip had for years harbored
designs of an expedition against the Persian monarchy, but did not live
to carry them out. Alexander succeeded him at the age of twenty (B.C.
336). He had been educated under Aristotle. No monarch of his years
was ever so well equipped as he in head and heart. Like Frederick,
he was master from the start. “Though the name has changed, the king
remains,” quoth he. His arms he found ready to hand, tempered in his
father’s forge. But it was his own strength and skill which wielded
them.
The Greeks considered themselves absolved from Macedonian jurisdiction
by the death of Philip. Not so thought Alexander. He marched against
them, turning the passes of Tempe and Kallipeuke by hewing a path
along the slopes of Mount Ossa, and made himself master of Thessaly.
The Amphictyonic Council deemed it wise to submit, and elected him
Autocrator in place of his father.
Alexander’s one ambition had always been to head the Greeks in
punishing the hereditary enemy of Hellas, the Persian king. He had
imbibed the idea of his Asiatic conquests in his early youth, and had
once, as a lad, astonished the Persian envoys to the Court of Pella
by his searching and intelligent questions concerning the peoples and
resources of the East.
Before starting on such an expedition, however, he must once for all
settle the danger of barbarian incursions along his borders. This he
did in a campaign brilliant by its skilful audacity; but on a rumor
of his defeat and death among the savages, Thebes again revolted.
Alexander, by a march of three hundred miles in two weeks across a
mountainous country, suddenly appeared at her gates, captured and
destroyed the city, and sold the inhabitants into slavery. Athens
begged off. Undisputed chief, he now set out for Asia with thirty
thousand foot and five thousand horse. (B.C. 334.)
There is time but for the description of a single campaign and battle
of this great king’s. The rest of his all but superhuman exploits must
be hurried through with barely a mention, and the tracing of his march
on the map. I have preferred to select for longer treatment the battle
of the Hydaspes, for Issus and Arbela are more generally familiar.
Alexander’s first battle after crossing into Asia was at the Granicus,
where he defeated the Persian army with the loss of a vast number
of their princes and generals. Thence he advanced through Mysia and
Lydia, freeing the Greek cities on the way, captured Miletus and
Halicarnassus, and having made himself a necessary base on the Ægean,
marched through Caria and Lycia, fighting for every step, but always
victorious, not merely by hard blows, but by hard blows delivered where
they would best tell. Then through Phrygia to Gordium (where he cut
the Gordian knot), and through Cappadocia to Cilicia. He then passed
through the Syrian Gates--a mountain gap--heading for Phœnicia. Here
Darius got in his rear by passing through the Amanic Gates farther up
the range, which Alexander either did not know, or singularly enough
had overlooked. The Macedonians were absolutely cut off from their
communications. But, nothing daunted, Alexander kept his men in heart,
turned on Darius, and defeated him at Issus, with a skill only equalled
by his hopeful boldness, and saved himself harmless from the results of
a glaring error.
So far (B.C. 333), excepting this, Alexander had taken no step which
left any danger in his rear. He had confided every city and country
he had traversed to the hands of friends. His advance was our first
instance on a grand scale of methodical war,--the origin of strategy.
He continued in this course, not proposing to risk himself in the heart
of Persia until he had reduced to control the entire coast-line of
the Eastern Mediterranean as a base. This task led him through Syria,
Phœnicia,--where the siege of Tyre, one of the few greatest sieges of
antiquity, delayed him seven months,--and Palestine to Egypt. Every
part of this enormous stretch of coast was subjugated.
Having in possession, practically, all the seaports of the then
civilized world, and having neutralized the Persian fleet by victories
on land and at sea, Alexander returned to Syria, marched inland and
crossed the Euphrates and Tigris, thus projecting his line of advance
from the centre of his base. At Arbela he defeated the Persian army in
toto, though they were twenty to his one. Babylon, Susa, Persepolis,
and Pasargadæ opened their gates to the conquerer. But Darius escaped.
It was now the spring of 330 B.C. Only four years had elapsed and
Alexander had overturned the Persian Empire; and though he left home
with a debt of eight hundred talents, he had won a treasure estimated
at from one hundred and fifty millions of dollars up.
[Illustration: CONQUESTS OF ALEXANDER B.C. 334–323]
Alexander now followed Darius through Media and the Caspian Gates
to Parthia, subduing the several territories he traversed. He found
Darius murdered by the satraps who attended him. This was no common
disappointment to Alexander, for the possession of the person of
the Great King would have not only rendered his further conquests
more easy, but would have ministered enormously to his natural
and fast-growing vanity. He pursued the murderers of Darius, but
as he could not safely leave enemies in his rear, he was compelled
to pause and reduce Aria, Drangiana, and Arachosia. Then he made
his way over the Caucasus into Bactria and Sogdiana, the only feat
which equals Hannibal’s passage of the Alps. His eastern limit was
the river Jaxartes, the crossing of which was made under cover of
his artillery,--its first use for such a purpose. The details of all
these movements are so wonderful and show such extraordinary courage,
enterprise, and intelligence, such exceptional power over men, so
true a conception of the difficulties to be encountered, such correct
judgment as to the best means of overcoming them, that if the test
should be the accomplishment of the all but impossible, Alexander would
easily stand at the head of all men who have ever lived. He now formed
the project of conquering India, and, returning over the Caucasus,
marched to the Indus and crossed it. Other four years had been consumed
since he left Persepolis. It was May, B.C. 326.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF THE HYDASPES B.C. 326]
Alexander was in the Punjaub, the land of the five rivers. The Hydaspes
was swollen with the storms of the rainy season and the melting snows
of the Himalayas. The roads were execrable. On the farther side of the
river, a half-mile wide, could be seen Porus, noted as the bravest and
most able king in India, with his army drawn up before his camp and his
elephants and war-chariots in front, ready to dispute his crossing.
The Hydaspes is nowhere fordable, except in the dry season. Alexander
saw that he could not force a passage in the face of this array,
and concluded to manœuvre for a chance to cross. He had learned from
experience that the Indians were good fighters. His cavalry could not
be made to face their elephants. He was reduced to stratagem, and what
he did has ever since been the model for the passage of rivers, when
the enemy occupies the other bank. Alexander first tried to convince
Porus that he intended to wait till the river fell, and carefully
spread a rumor to this effect. He devastated the country, accumulated
vast stores in his camp, and settled his troops in quarters. Porus
continued active in scouting the river-banks, and held all the
crossings in force. Alexander sent parties in boats up and down the
stream, to distract his attention. He made many feints at crossing by
night. He put the phalanx under arms in the light of the camp-fires;
blew the signals to move; marched the horse up and down; got the boats
ready to load. To oppose all this Porus would bring down his elephants
to the banks, order his men under arms, and so remain till daylight,
lest he should be surprised.
After some time Porus began to weary his troops by marching them out in
the inclement weather to forestall attempts to cross; and finding these
never actually made, grew careless, believing that Alexander would,
in reality, make no serious effort till low water. But Alexander was
daily watching his opportunity. He saw that to cross in front of Porus’
camp was still impossible. The presence of the elephants near the shore
would surely prevent the horse from landing, and even his infantry was
somewhat unnerved by them. But he had learned that large reënforcements
were near at hand for Porus, and it was essential to defeat the Indians
before these came to hand.
The right bank, on which lay the Macedonians, was high and hilly.
The left bank was a wide, fertile plain. Alexander could hide his
movements, while observing those of Porus. When he saw that the Indian
king had ceased to march out to meet his feigned crossings, he began to
prepare for a real one, meanwhile keeping up the blind. Seventeen miles
above the camp was a wooded headland formed by a bend in the river
and a small affluent, capable of concealing a large force, and itself
hidden by a wooded and uninhabited island in its front. This place
Alexander connected by a chain of couriers with the camp, and laid
posts all along the river, at which, every night, noisy demonstrations
were made and numerous fires were lighted, as if large forces were
present at each of them. When Porus had been quite mystified as to
Alexander’s intentions, Craterus was left with a large part of the
army at the main camp, and instructed to make open preparations to
cross, but not really to do so unless Porus’ army and the elephants
should move up-stream. Between Craterus and the headland, Alexander
secreted another large body, with orders to put over when he should
have engaged battle. He himself marched, well back of the river and out
of sight,--there was no dust to betray him,--to the headland, where
preparations had already been completed for crossing.
The night was tempestuous. The thunder and rain, usual during the
south-west monsoon, drowned the noise of the workmen and moving troops
and concealed the camp-fires, as well as kept Porus’ outposts under
shelter. Alexander had caused a number of boats to be cut in two for
transportation, but in such manner that they could be quickly joined
for use,--the first mention we have of anything like pontoons. Towards
daylight the storm abated and the crossing began. Most of the infantry
and the heavy cavalry were put over in the boats. The light cavalry
swam across, each man sustaining himself on a hay-stuffed skin, so
as not to burden the horses. The movement was not discovered until
the Macedonians had passed the island, when Porus’ scouts saw what
was doing and galloped off with the news. It soon appeared that the
army had not landed on the mainland, but on a second island. This
was usually accessible by easy fords, but the late rains had swollen
the low water from it to the shore to deep and rapid torrent. Here
was a dilemma. Unless the troops were at once got over, Porus would
be down upon them. There was no time to bring the boats around the
island. After some delay and a great many accidents, a place was found
where, by wading to their breasts, the infantry could get across. This
was done, and the cavalry, already over, was thrown out in front.
Alexander, as speedily as possible, set out with his horse, some five
thousand strong, and ordered the phalanx, which numbered about six
thousand more, to follow on in column, the light foot to keep up, if
possible, with the cavalry. He was afraid that Porus might retire, and
wished to be on hand to pursue.
Porus could see the bulk of the army under Craterus still occupying
the old camp, and knew that the force which had crossed could be but a
small part of the army. But he underestimated it, and instead of moving
on it in force, sent only some two thousand cavalry and one hundred and
twenty chariots, under his son, to oppose it. Porus desired to put off
battle till his reënforcements came up. Alexander proposed to force
battle.
So soon as Alexander saw that he had but a limited force in his front,
he charged down upon it with the heavy horse, “squadron by squadron,”
says Arrian, which must have meant something similar to our line in
_echelon_, while the light horse skirmished about its flanks. The enemy
was at once broken, and Porus’ son and four hundred men were killed.
The chariots, stalled in the deep bottom, were one and all captured.
Porus was nonplussed. Alexander’s manœuvre had been intended to
deceive, and had completely deceived him. He could see Craterus
preparing to cross, and yet he knew Alexander to be the more dangerous
of the two. He was uncertain what to do, but finally concluded to
march against Alexander, leaving some elephants and an adequate force
opposite Craterus. He had with him four thousand cavalry, three hundred
chariots, two hundred elephants, and thirty thousand infantry. Having
moved some distance, he drew up his lines on a plain where the ground
was solid, and awaited Alexander’s attack.
His arrangements were skilful. In front were the redoubtable elephants,
which Porus well knew that Alexander’s cavalry could not face, one
hundred feet apart, covering the entire infantry line, some four miles
long. The infantry had orders to fill up the gaps between the elephants
by companies of one hundred and fifty men. Columns of foot flanked the
elephants. These creatures were intended to keep the Macedonian horse
at a distance, and trample down the foot when it should advance on
the Indian lines. Porus had but the idea of a parallel order, and of
a defensive battle at that. His own cavalry was on the wings, and in
their front the chariots, each containing two mailed drivers, two heavy
and two light-armed men.
When the Macedonian squadrons reached the ground, and the king rode out
to reconnoitre, he saw that he must wait for his infantry, and began
manœuvring with his horse, to hold himself till the phalanx came up.
Had Porus at once advanced on him, he could easily have swept him away.
But that he did not do so was of a part with Alexander’s uniform good
fortune. The phalanx came up at a lively gait, and the king gave it a
breathing-spell, while he kept Porus busy by small demonstrations.
The latter, with his elephants, and three to one of men, simply bided
his time, calmly confident of the result. Alexander yielded honest
admiration to the skill of Porus’ dispositions, and his forethought in
opposing the elephants to his own strong arm, the cavalry.
The Macedonians had advanced with their right leaning on the river.
Despite the elephants, Alexander must use his horse, if he expected
to win. In this arm he outnumbered the enemy. He could not attack in
front, nor, indeed, await the onset of the elephants and chariots. With
the instinct of genius, and confident that his army could manœuvre with
thrice the rapidity of Porus, as well as himself think and act still
more quickly, he determined to attack the Indian left in force. He
despatched Coenus with a body of heavy horse by a circuit against the
enemy’s right, with instructions, if Porus’ cavalry of that wing should
be sent to the assistance of the left, to charge in on the naked flank
and rear of the Indian infantry. He himself with the bulk and flower of
the horse, sustained by the more slowly moving phalanx, made an oblique
movement towards Porus’ left. The Indian king at first supposed that
Alexander was merely uncovering his infantry, to permit it to advance
to the attack, and as such an attack would be playing into Porus’
hands, he awaited results. This, again, was Alexander’s salvation. It
left him the offensive. Porus had not yet perceived Coenus’ march, the
probably rolling ground had hidden it, and he ordered his right-flank
cavalry over to sustain that of the left, towards which flank Alexander
was moving. The phalanx, once uncovered, Alexander ordered forward,
but not to engage until the wings had been attacked, so as to
neutralize the elephants and the chariots.
These dispositions gave the Macedonian line the oblique order of
Epaminondas, with left refused. Alexander had used the same order
at Issus and Arbela. As he rode forward, he pushed out the Daan
horse-bowmen to skirmish with the Indian left, while he, in their
rear, by a half wheel, could gain ground to the right sufficient to
get beyond and about the enemy’s flank, with the heavy squadrons of
Hephæstion and Perdiccas. The Indian horse seems to have been misled
by what Alexander was doing,--it probably could not understand the
Macedonian tactics,--for it was not well in hand, and had advanced out
of supporting distance from the infantry.
Meanwhile Coenus had made his circuit of the enemy’s right, and, the
Indian cavalry having already moved over towards the left, he fell
on the right flank and rear of the Indian infantry and threw it into
such confusion that it was kept inactive during the entire battle.
Then, completing his gallant ride, and with the true instinct of the
_beau sabreur_, Coenus galloped along Porus’ rear, to join the _mêlée_
already engaged on the left. To oppose Coenus as well as Alexander, the
Indian cavalry was forced to make double front. While effecting this,
Alexander drove his stoutest charge home upon them. They at once broke
and retired upon the elephants, “as to a friendly wall for refuge,”
says Arrian.
A number of these beasts were now made to wheel to the left and
charge on Alexander’s horse, but this exposed them in flank to the
phalanx, which advanced, wounded many of the animals, and killed most
of the drivers. Deprived of guidance, the elephants swerved on the
phalangites, but they were received with such a shower of darts that in
their affright they made about-face upon the Indian infantry, to the
great consternation of the latter.
The Indian cavalry, meanwhile, had rallied under the cover of the
elephants, and again faced the Macedonians. But the king renewed his
charges again and again,--it was a characteristic feat of Alexander’s,
from boyhood up, to be able to get numberless successive charges out
of his squadrons,--and forced them back under the brutes’ heels. The
Macedonian cavalry was itself much disorganized; but Alexander’s white
plume waved everywhere, and under his inspiration, Coenus having now
joined, there was, despite disorder, no let-up to the pressure, from
both fronts at once, on Porus’ harassed horse.
The situation was curious. The Macedonian cavalry, inspired by the
tremendous animation of the king, maintained its constant charges. The
Indian cavalry was huddled up close to the infantry and elephants.
These unwieldy creatures were alternately urged on the phalanx and
driven back on Porus’ line. The Macedonian infantry had plenty of
elbow-room, and could retire from them and again advance. The Indian
infantry had none. But finally the elephants grew discouraged at being
between two fires, lifted their trunks with one accord in a trumpeting
of terror, and retired out of action, “like ships backing water,” as
Arrian picturesquely describes it.
Alexander now saw that the victory was his. But the situation was still
delicate; he kept the phalanx in place and continued his charges upon
Porus’ left flank with the cavalry. Finally, Porus, who had been in the
thickest of the fray, collected forty of the yet unwounded elephants,
and charged on the phalanx, leading the van with his own huge, black,
war-elephant. But Alexander met this desperate charge with the
Macedonian archers, who swarmed around the monsters, wounded some, cut
the ham-strings of others, and killed the drivers.
The charge had failed. At this juncture,--his eye was as keen as
Napoleon’s for the critical instant,--Alexander ordered forward the
phalanx, with protended sarissas and linked shields, while himself led
the cavalry round to the Indian rear, and charged in one final effort
with the terrible Macedonian shout of victory. The whole Indian army
was reduced to an inert, paralyzed mass. It was only individuals who
managed to escape.
The battle had lasted eight hours, and had been won against great odds
by crisp tactical skill and the most brilliant use of cavalry. The
history of war shows no instance of a more superb and effective use
of horse. Coenus exhibited, in carrying out the king’s orders, the
clean-cut conception of the cavalry general’s duty, and Alexander’s
dispositions were masterly throughout. His prudent forethought in
leaving behind him a force sufficient to insure his safety in case of
disaster in the battle is especially to be noted.
Craterus and the other detachments now came up, and the pursuit was
intrusted to them. Of Porus’ army, twenty thousand infantry and three
thousand cavalry, including numberless chiefs, were killed, and all the
chariots, which had proved useless in the battle, were broken up. The
Macedonian killed numbered two hundred horse and seven hundred foot.
The wounded were not usually counted, but averaged eight to twelve for
one of killed. This left few Macedonians who could not boast a wound.
Porus, himself wounded, endeavored to escape on his own elephant.
Alexander galloped after on Bucephalus, the horse we all remember
that, as a mere lad, he had mounted and controlled by kindness and by
skilful, rational treatment, when all others had failed to do so, and
who had served him ever since. But the gallant old charger, exhausted
by the toils of the day, fell in his tracks and died, at the age of
upwards of thirty years. Porus surrendered, when he might have escaped.
When brought to Alexander, the king, in admiration of his bravery and
skill, asked him what treatment he would like to receive. “That due to
a king, Alexander!” proudly replied Porus. “Ask thou more of me,” said
Alexander. “To be treated like a king covers all a king can desire,”
insisted the Indian monarch. Alexander, recognizing the qualities of
the man, made Porus his friend, associate, and ally, and viceroy of a
large part of his Punjaub conquests.
The Macedonian king went but a short distance farther into India. His
project of reaching the Ganges was ship-wrecked on the determination
of his veterans not to advance beyond the Hyphasis. He returned to the
Hydaspes, and moved down the river on a huge fleet of two thousand
boats, subduing the tribes on either bank as he proceeded on his way.
In capturing a city of the Malli he nearly met his death.
This episode is too characteristic of the man to pass by unnoticed.
Battles were won in those days by hand-to-hand work, and Alexander
always fought like a Homeric hero. He had formed two storming columns,
himself heading the one and Perdiccas the other. The Indians but weakly
defended the town wall, and retired into the citadel. Alexander at
once made his way into the town through a gate which he forced, but
Perdiccas was delayed for want of scaling-ladders. Arrived at the
citadel, the Macedonians began to undermine its wall, and the ladders
were put in position. Alexander, always impatient in his valor, seeing
that the work did not progress as fast as his own desires, seized a
scaling-ladder, himself planted it, and ascended first of all, bearing
his shield aloft, to ward off the darts from above. He was followed by
Peucestas, the soldier who always carried before the king in battle the
shield brought from the temple of the Trojan Athena, and by Leonnatus,
the confidential body-guard. Upon an adjoining ladder went Abreas, a
soldier who received double pay for his conspicuous valor. Alexander
first mounted the battlements and frayed a place for himself with his
sword. The king’s guards, anxious for his safety, crowded upon the
ladders in such numbers as to break them down. Alexander was left
standing with only Peucestas, Abreas, and Leonnatus upon the wall
in the midst of his enemies; but so indomitable were his strength
and daring that none came within reach of his sword but to fall. The
barbarians had recognized him by his armor and white plume, and the
multitude of darts which fell upon him threatened his life at every
instant. The Macedonians below implored him to leap down into their
outstretched arms. Nothing daunted, however, and calling on every man
to follow who loved him, Alexander leaped down inside the wall and,
with his three companions backing up against it, stoutly held his own.
In a brief moment he had cut down a number of Indians and had slain
their leader, who ventured against him. But Abreas fell dead beside
him, with an arrow in the forehead, and Alexander was at the same
moment pierced by an arrow through the breast. The king valiantly stood
his ground till he fell exhausted by loss of blood, and over him, like
lions at bay, but glowing with heroic lustre, stood Peucestas, warding
missiles from him with the sacred shield, and Leonnatus guarding him
with his sword, both dripping blood from many wounds. It seemed that
the doom of all was sealed.
The Macedonians, meanwhile, some with ladders and some by means of pegs
inserted between the stones in the wall, had begun to reach the top,
and one by one leaped within and surrounded the now lifeless body of
Alexander. Others forced an entrance through one of the gates and flew
to the rescue. Their valor was as irresistible as their numbers were
small. The Indians could in no wise resist their terrible onset, their
war-cry doubly fierce from rage at the fate of their beloved king, who,
to them, was, in truth, a demigod. They were driven from the spot, and
Alexander was borne home to the camp. So enraged were the Macedonians
at the wounding of their king, whom they believed to be mortally
struck, that they spared neither man, woman, nor child in the town.
Alexander’s wounds were indeed grave, but he recovered, much to the
joy of his army. While his life was despaired of, a great deal of
uncertainty and fear was engendered of their situation, for Alexander
was the centre around which revolved the entire mechanism. Without
him what could they do? How ever again reach their homes? Every man
believed that no one but the king could lead them, and how much less in
retreat than in advance!
Alexander’s fleet finally reached the mouth of the Indus. The admiral,
Nearchus, sailed to the Persian Gulf, while Alexander and part of
his army crossed the desert of Gedrosia, Craterus having moved by a
shorter route with another part and the invalids. When Alexander again
reached Babylon, his wonderful military career had ended. In B.C. 323,
he died there of a fever, and his great conquests and schemes of a
Græco-Oriental monarchy were dissipated.
Alexander was possessed of uncommon beauty. Plutarch says that Lysippus
made the best portrait of him, “the inclination of the head a little
on one side towards the left shoulder, and his melting eye, having
been expressed by this artist with great exactness.” His likeness was
less fortunately caught by Apelles. He was fair and ruddy, sweet and
agreeable in person. Fond of study, he read much history, poetry,
and general literature. His favorite book was the Iliad, a copy of
which, annotated by Aristotle, with a dagger, always lay under his
pillow. He was at all times surrounded by men of brains, and enjoyed
their conversation. He was abstinent of pleasures, except drinking.
Aristobulus says Alexander did not drink much in quantity, but
enjoyed being merry. Still, the Macedonian “much” was more than wisdom
dictates. He had no weaknesses, except that he over-enjoyed flattery
and was rash in temper.
Alexander was active, and able to endure heat and cold, hunger and
thirst, trial and fatigue, beyond even the stoutest. He was exceeding
swift of foot, but when young would not enter the Olympic games because
he had not kings’ sons to compete with. In an iron body dwelt both an
intellect clear beyond compare, and a heart full of generous impulses.
He was ambitious, but from high motives. His desire to conquer the
world was coupled with the purpose of furthering Greek civilization.
His courage was, both physically and morally, high-pitched. He actually
enjoyed the delirium of battle, and its turmoils raised his intellect
to its highest grade of clearness and activity. His instincts were
keen; his perception remarkable; his judgment all but infallible. As
an organizer of an army, unapproached; as a leader, unapproachable in
rousing the ambition and courage of his men, and in quelling their
fears by his own fearlessness. He kept his agreements faithfully.
He was a remarkable judge of men. He had the rare gift of natural,
convincing oratory, and of making men hang upon his lips as he spoke,
and do deeds of heroism after. He lavished money rather on his friends
than on himself.
While every inch a king, Alexander was friendly with his men; shared
their toils and dangers; never asked an effort he himself did not
make; never ordered a hardship of which he himself did not bear part.
During the herculean pursuit of Darius,--after a march of four hundred
miles in eleven days, on which but sixty of his men could keep beside
him, and every one was all but dying of thirst,--when a helmetful of
water was offered him, he declined to drink, as there was not enough
for all. Such things endear a leader to his men beyond the telling.
But Alexander’s temper, by inheritance quick, grew ungovernable. A
naturally excitable character, coupled with a certain superstitious
tendency, was the very one to suffer from a life which carried him
to such a giddy height, and from successes which reached beyond the
human limit. We condemn, but, looking at him as a captain, may pass
over those dark hours in his life which narrate the murder of Clitus,
the execution of Philotas and Parmenio, and the cruelties to Bessus
and to Batis. Alexander was distinctly subject to human frailties. His
vices were partly inherited, partly the outgrowth of his youth and
wonderful career. He repented quickly and sincerely of his evil deeds.
Until the last few years of his life his habits were very simple. His
adoption then of Persian dress and manners was so largely a political
requirement, that it can be hardly ascribed to personal motives, even
if we fully acknowledge his vanity.
The life-work of Philip had been transcendant. That of Alexander
surpasses anything in history. Words fail to describe the attributes
of Alexander as a soldier. The perfection of all he did was scarcely
understood by his historians. But to compare his deeds with those of
other captains excites our wonder. Starting with a handful of men
from Macedonia, in four years, one grand achievement after another,
and without a failure, had placed at his feet the kingdom of the
Great King. Leaving home with an enormous debt, in fifty moons he had
possessed himself of all the treasures of the earth. Thence, with
marvellous courage, endurance, intelligence, and skill he completed
the conquest of the entire then known world, marching over nineteen
thousand miles in his eleven years’ campaigns. And all this before he
was thirty-two. His health and strength were still as great as ever;
his voracity for conquest greater, as well as his ability to conquer.
It is an interesting question, had he not died, what would have become
of Rome. The Roman infantry was as good as his; not so their cavalry.
An annually elected consul could be no match for Alexander. But the
king never met in his campaigns such an opponent as the Roman Republic,
nor his phalanx such a rival as the Roman legion would have been. That
was reserved for Hannibal.
Greek civilization, to a certain degree, followed Alexander’s
footsteps, but this was accidental. “You are a man like all of
us, Alexander,” said the naked Indian, “except that you abandon
your home, like a meddlesome destroyer, to invade the most distant
regions, enduring hardship yourself and inflicting it on others.”
Alexander could never have erected a permanent kingdom on his theory
of coalescing races by intermarriages and forced migrations. His
Macedonian-Persian Empire was a mere dream.
Alexander was never a Greek. He had but the Greek genius and
intelligence grafted on the ruder Macedonian nature; and he became
Asiaticized by his conquests. His life-work, as cut out by himself,
was to conquer and then to Hellenize Asia. He did the one, he could
not accomplish the other aim. He did not plant a true and permanent
Hellenism in a single country of Asia. None of his cities have lived.
They were rather fortified posts than self-sustaining marts. As a
statesman, intellectual, far-seeing, and broad, he yet conceived and
worked on an impossible theory, and the immediate result of all his
genius did not last a generation.
What has Alexander done for the art of war? When Demosthenes was asked
what were the three most important qualities in an orator, he replied:
“Action, action, action!” In another sense this might well be applied
to the captain. No one can become a great captain without a mental
and physical activity which are almost abnormal, and so soon as this
exceptional power of activity wanes, the captain has come to a term of
his greatness. Genius has been described as an extraordinary capacity
for hard work. But this capacity is but the human element. Genius
implies the divine spark. It is the personality of the great captain
which makes him what he is. The maxims of war are but a meaningless
page to him who cannot apply them. They are helpful just so far as the
man’s brain and heart, as his individuality, can carry them. It is
because a great captain must first of all be a great man, and because
to the lot of but few great men belongs the peculiar ability or falls
the opportunity of being great captains, that preëminent success in war
is so rarely seen.
All great soldiers are cousins-german in equipment of heart and
head. No man ever was, no man can by any possibility blunder into
being, a great soldier without the most generous virtues of the soul,
and the most distinguished powers of the intellect. The former are
independence, self-reliance, ambition within proper bounds; that sort
of physical courage which not only does not know fear, but which is
not even conscious that there is such a thing as courage; that greater
moral quality which can hold the lives of tens of thousands of men and
the destinies of a great country or cause patiently, intelligently,
and unflinchingly in his grasp; powers of endurance which cannot be
overtaxed; the unconscious habit of ruling men and of commanding their
love and admiration, coupled with the ability to stir their enthusiasm
to the yielding of their last ounce of effort. The latter comprise
business capacity of the very highest order, essential to the care of
his troops; keen perceptions, which even in extraordinary circumstances
or sudden emergencies are not to be led astray; the ability to think
as quickly and accurately in the turmoil of battle as in the quiet of
the bureau; the power to foresee to its ultimate conclusion the result
of a strategic or tactical manœuvre; the capacity to gauge the efforts
of men and of masses of men; the many-sidedness which can respond to
the demands of every detail of the battle-field, while never losing
sight of the one object aimed at; the mental strength which weakens
not under the tax of hours and days of unequalled strain. For, in
truth, there is no position in which man can be placed which asks so
much of his intellect in so short a space as that of the general, the
failure or success, the decimation or security of whose army hangs on
his instant thought and unequivocal instruction under the furious and
kaleidoscopic ordeal of the field. To these qualities of heart and head
add one factor more--opportunity--and you have the great soldier.
Now, Alexander was the first man, the details of whose history have
been handed down to us, who possessed these qualities in the very
highest measure; whose opportunities were coextensive with his powers;
and who out of all these wrought a methodical system of warfare from
which we may learn lessons to-day. Look at what he accomplished with
such meagre means! He alone has the record of uniform success with no
failure. And this, not because he had weak opponents, for while the
Persians were far from redoubtable, except in numbers, the Tyrians, the
tribes beyond the Caucasus, and the Indians, made a bold front and good
fight.
Alexander’s movements were always made on a well-conceived,
maturely-digested plan; and this he kept in view to the end, putting
aside all minor considerations for the main object, but never losing
sight of these. His grasp was as large as his problem. His base for
his advance into the heart of the then known world was the entire
coast-line of the then known sea. He never advanced, despite his
speed, without securing flanks and rear, and properly garrisoning
the country on which he based. Having done this he marched on his
objective,--which was wont to be the enemy’s army,--with a directness
which was unerring. His fertility in ruse and stratagem was unbounded.
He kept well concentrated; his division of forces was always warranted
by the conditions, and always with a view of again concentrating. His
rapidity was unparalleled. It was this which gave him such an ascendant
over all his enemies. Neither winter cold nor summer heat, mountain
nor desert, the widest rivers nor the most elaborate defences, ever
arrested his course; and yet his troops were always well fed. He was
a master of logistics. He lived on the country he campaigned in as
entirely as Napoleon, but was careful to accumulate granaries in the
most available places. He was remarkable in being able to keep the gaps
in his army filled by recruits from home or enlistments of natives, and
in transforming the latter into excellent soldiers. Starting from home
with thirty-five thousand men, he had in the Indian campaigns no less
than one hundred and thirty-five thousand, and their deeds proved the
stuff that was in them.
Alexander’s battles are tactically splendid examples of conception
and execution. The wedge at Arbela was more splendid than Macdonald’s
column at Wagram. It was a scintillation of genius. Alexander saw where
his enemy’s strength and weakness lay, and took prompt advantage of
them. He utilized his victories to the full extent, and pursued with a
vigor which no other has ever reached. He was equally great in sieges
as in battles. The only thing he was never called on to show was the
capacity to face disaster. He possessed every remarkable military
attribute; we can discover in him no military weakness.
As a captain, he accomplished more than any man ever did. He showed
the world, first of all men, and best, how to make war. He formulated
the first principles of the art, to be elaborated by Hannibal,
Cæsar, Gustavus Adolphus, Frederick, and Napoleon. His conditions
did not demand that he should approach to the requirements of modern
war. But he was easily master of his trade, as, perhaps, no one else
ever was. For, as Napoleon says, “to guess at the intentions of the
enemy; to divine his opinion of yourself; to hide from him both your
own intentions and opinion; to mislead him by feigned manœuvres; to
invoke ruse, as well as digested schemes, so as to fight under the best
conditions,--this is, and always was, the art of war.”
LECTURE II.
HANNIBAL.
Two generations after the death of Alexander, the power of the
Mediterranean world was divided between Aryan Rome and Carthage, the
vigorous daughter of Semitic Tyre. Carthage was first on the sea; Rome,
on land. But Rome, always intolerant of powerful neighbors, fell to
quarrelling with her great rival, and at the end of a twenty-three
years’ struggle,--the first Punic War,--imposed her own terms on
defeated Carthage (241 B.C.). There were two parties bred of these
hostilities in Carthage,--the war party, headed by Hamilcar Barca; the
peace party, headed by Hanno. Hamilcar knew that peace with Rome meant
oppression by Rome, and final extinction, and was ready to stake all on
renewing the struggle. But he saw that present war was impossible; that
opposition could only be in the future, and that it must be quietly
prepared for. With a view of doing this, Hamilcar got the consent of
the Carthaginian Senate to attempt the subjugation of Spain, a land of
great natural resources, in conquering and holding which an army could
be created which by and by might again cope with the Italian tyrant.
The Carthaginian fleet had been destroyed. Rome would not permit the
building of a new one. Hamilcar’s army was obliged to march overland
from Carthage along the north coast of Africa and ship across the
strait,--now Gibraltar. This was a bold thing to do, but it succeeded,
and, in a series of campaigns, Hamilcar reduced the southern half
of Spain, and (B.C. 236–227) firmly planted the Carthaginian power
there. So conciliatory as well as vigorous had been his policy, that,
on his death, the native tribes elected Hasdrubal, his son-in-law,
general-in-chief of the allied Carthaginian and Spanish forces, which
then amounted to nearly seventy thousand men and two hundred elephants.
Hasdrubal continued the policy of Hamilcar, and largely increased the
Spanish influence and territory. But as Rome had colonies in northern
Spain, the two powers were sure soon again to clash. In fact, Rome,
after awhile, woke up to this new danger, and notified Carthage that
she would extend her colonies north of the Ebro at her peril.
Hannibal was the son of Hamilcar. His father gave him the best Greek
education, and this the lad’s remarkable intellect readily assimilated.
He trained him to arms under his own eye. Hannibal received his first
schooling as a soldier at the age of nine, in his father’s camps in
Spain, and later his brother, Hasdrubal, made him his chief of cavalry
at the age of twenty-one. A pen-picture by Hannibal’s arch enemy, Livy,
tells us what he then was: “No sooner had he arrived than Hannibal drew
the whole army towards him. The old soldiers fancied they saw Hamilcar
in his youth given back to them; the same bright look, the same fire in
his eye, the same trick of countenance and features. But soon he proved
that to be his father’s son was not his highest recommendation. Never
was one and the same spirit more skilful to meet opposition, to obey
or to command. It was hard to decide whether he was more dear to the
chief or the army. Neither did Hasdrubal more readily place any one at
the head when courage or activity was required, nor were the soldiers
under any other leader so full of confidence and daring. He entered
danger with the greatest mettle, he comported himself in danger with
the greatest unconcern. By no difficulties could his body be tired,
his ardor damped. Heat and cold he suffered with equal endurance; the
amount of his food and drink was gauged by natural needs, and not by
desire. The time of waking and sleeping depended not on the distinction
of day and night. What time was left from business he devoted to rest,
and this was not brought on by either a soft couch or by quiet. Many
have often seen him covered by a short field-cloak lying on the ground
betwixt the outposts and sentinels of the soldiers. His clothing in
no wise distinguished him from his fellows; his weapons and horses
attracted every one’s eye. He was by long odds the best rider, the best
marcher. He went into battle the first, he came out of it the last....
Hannibal served three years under Hasdrubal’s supreme command, and left
nothing unobserved which he who desires to become a great leader ought
to see and to do.”
Hannibal and his brothers had been brought up with an intensity of
hatred of Rome which it is hard to describe. Every schoolboy knows
the anecdote of the lad’s swearing never to make peace with Rome. The
feeling grew with his years. When Hannibal was twenty-four, Hasdrubal
died, and he himself was unanimously elected his successor.
Hamilcar had planned an invasion of Italy by way of the Alps; but
the scheme was left inchoate at his death. Hannibal at once began
definitely to pave the way for such an enterprise by completing the
conquest of Spain. The original conception of crossing the Alps was
Hamilcar’s, just as Philip originally planned the invasion of Asia. But
it was the fertile brain of Hannibal which gave the undertaking birth.
The colossal nature of the plan, its magnificent daring, the boundless
self-confidence and contempt of difficulty and danger which it implies,
no less than the extraordinary manner of its execution, are equalled
only by Alexander’s setting forth--also but a lad--to conquer the
illimitable possessions of the Great King.
In three years (B.C. 221–218) Hannibal had subjugated all Spain,
and after a long siege captured Saguntum. He finally set out, with
fifty thousand foot, nine thousand horse, and thirty-seven elephants,
across the Pyrenees, whence his route was almost as unknown to him
as the Atlantic to Columbus. It is impossible to follow him in this
wonderful march,--the first crossing of the Alps by any but isolated
merchants,--and probably the most daring enterprise ever set on foot.
After toils and dangers impossible to gauge, even by the losses,
Hannibal reached the Po in October, B.C. 218, with but twenty-six
thousand men and a few elephants, less than half the force with
which he had left Spain. With this handful he was to face a nation
capable with its allies of raising seven hundred thousand men; and yet
the event--as well as our knowledge of Hannibal--shows that he had
contemplated even this vast odds.
But Rome was not ready. Hannibal gained numberless confederates among
the Gauls in northern Italy, and that same fall and winter won two
victories over the Romans at the Ticinus and Trebia. Next year (B.C.
217) he again defeated the Romans, by an ambuscade at Lake Trasymene,
killing or capturing their entire army of thirty thousand men. These
three victories were due to the over-eagerness of the Roman generals
to fight, their careless methods, and Hannibal’s skill in handling his
troops and his aptness at stratagem.
The campaign preceding, and the battle of Lake Trasymene, taught
the Romans two valuable lessons. The instruction given the world by
Alexander had not reached self-important, republican Rome, though
Hannibal was familiar enough with the deeds of the great Macedonian.
The Romans knew nothing of war except crude, hard knocks. The first
lesson showed them that there is something in the art of war beyond
merely marching out to meet your enemy and beating him by numbers,
better weapons, or greater discipline.
[Illustration: HANNIBAL’S FLANK MARCH. B.C. 217]
It was thus: The Romans had retired into Etruria. In March, B.C.
217, Hannibal, who was in Liguria, desired to cross the Appenines
and move upon them. There were but two roads he could pursue. The
highway would take him across the mountains, but by a long circuit.
This was the route by which the Consul Flaminius, at Aretium, with
his forty thousand men, was expecting him, and, therefore, the way
Hannibal did not choose to march, for Flaminius could easily block the
mountain roads. The other route was so difficult that Flaminius never
dreamed that Hannibal knew of, or could by any possibility pursue it.
Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps had taught Flaminius nothing of his
daring or his skill. This route lay along the coast to near the mouth
of the Arnus, and thence up the right bank. It ran through an immense
marsh, which, for an army, was all but as difficult an obstacle as the
Alps. But it was the lesser evil, and promised the greater results;
and Hannibal chose it, as Napoleon did the Great St. Bernard in 1800.
No better description of the task can be given than to say that for
four days and three nights the army marched through water where
only the wagons, dead animals, or abandoned packs afforded the men
any chance for rest. But the Carthaginian general reached his goal,
turned Flaminius’ left flank, and cut him off from Rome. Here was the
conception of turning the enemy’s strategic flank as clearly carried
out as ever Napoleon did it. Such was lesson one.
The result of this turning manœuvre was the battle of Lake
Trasymene,--where Hannibal taught the Romans, and us through them, the
second lesson. The Romans had always marched in careless open order,
without any idea of van or rear guard, or of flankers. This Hannibal
knew. He placed his whole army in hiding at both ends of a defile at
Lake Trasymene, through which the Romans must march, in such a manner
that, when he made his attack, it was on an unsuspecting column,--in
front, rear, and one flank; and the lake being on the other flank,
the result was utter annihilation. After this the Romans marched with
proper precautions. Hannibal had inflicted three staggering blows on
his enemy.
But Rome now appointed a Dictator,--Quintus Fabius,--truly surnamed
Maximus, and nicknamed Cunctator, because, recognizing that he was
not able to cope with Hannibal on the battle-field, he wisely chose
to conduct a campaign of delays and small war, the one thing Hannibal
could not afford, but also the one thing the Romans could not tolerate
or understand; for the Romans had always won by crisp fighting. Still,
it was the policy shaped by Fabius which eventually defeated Hannibal,
and next to Hannibal himself, he was the best master the Romans then
had.
It is impossible, even slightly, to touch on many of Hannibal’s
campaigns and battles. I prefer to give a short description of the
battle of Cannæ, which, in its conduct and results, is typical of
Hannibal’s methods. And first, a few words about the organization of
either army.
The Carthaginian discipline was based on the Macedonian idea, and the
formation of the troops was phalangial, that is, in close masses.
But Hannibal’s army contained troops of all kinds, from the Numidian
horseman, whose only clothing was a tiger-skin, on his tough little
runt of a pony, or the all but naked Gaul with his long, curved sword,
to the Carthaginian heavy-armed hypaspist. All these diverse tribes
had each its own manner of fighting, and it required a Hannibal to
keep up discipline or tactical efficiency in such a motley force. The
Roman army, on the contrary, was wonderfully homogeneous, carefully
disciplined, in all parts organized and drilled in the same manner, and
the legion was a body which was the very opposite of the phalanx. It
had much more mobility, the individual soldiers were more independent
in action, and instead of relying on one shock or on defence, the
several lines could relieve each other, and renew a failing battle
three or even four times with fresh troops. After Trasymene, Hannibal
not only armed his men with captured Roman weapons, but modified his
organization somewhat to the legion pattern.
The legion was at this time formed in three lines of maniples (or
companies) placed checkerwise. In front were the hastati, the least
efficient; behind this the principes; and in the rear the triarii,
or veterans. Each maniple was an excellent tactical unit. Each of
these lines could relieve the other, and thus give a succession of
hammer-like blows.
The phalanx we already know, and while it was wonderful for one shock,
it had no reserve, and if demoralization set in, it was gone. The
tendency of formation in ancient days, as now, was towards greater
mobility, and later on the Roman legion in Greece, particularly at
Pydna (168 B.C.), proved that it was superior, if properly handled, to
the phalanx.
In B.C. 216, Æmilius Paulus and Varro were consuls. The former was a
man of high character and attainments; Varro came of plebeian stock,
was overbearing and self-sufficient. The Roman and Carthaginian armies
lay facing each other near the Aufidus, Hannibal backing on Cannæ.
His position here had been the result of an admirable manœuvre. The
consuls commanded on alternate days. There had been a serious combat
on the last day of Varro’s command, in which the Carthaginians had
been outnumbered two to one, and been defeated. This had greatly
elated Varro, and whetted his appetite for battle. He left the troops
at evening in such a manner that next day his associate was badly
placed. Æmilius scarcely wished to withdraw, lest his men should be
disheartened; he could not remain where he was, as he was exposed
to Hannibal’s better cavalry. He took a middle course, on the whole
unwise. He sent a third of his force to the north of the Aufidus, a
trifle up-stream, to sustain some foragers he had there, and make a
secondary camp, from which to annoy Hannibal’s parties in search of
corn. This division of forces was very risky. Hannibal had long been
trying to bring the consuls to battle, and now saw that the moment had
come, for Varro was precipitate, and would probably draw Æmilius into
active measures.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF CANNÆ B.C. 216, I]
Each general made a stirring address to his army. Polybius gives both.
Hannibal’s has the true ring of the great captain. “Let us hasten into
action. I promise you victory, and, the gods willing, I will make my
promise good.” Two days later Hannibal offered Æmilius battle. But
Æmilius declined it, and Hannibal sent his Numidians to the other side
to annoy the Roman foragers. The succeeding day, knowing Varro to be
in command, Hannibal again offered battle, aware that the hot-tempered
Roman would be burning to avenge the yesterday’s taunt. He left eight
thousand men to guard his camp.
There has been much discussion as to which bank of the Aufidus was
the scene of the battle. It seems to me that the plan in the diagram
comes nearest to fitting all the statements, however conflicting, of
the several authorities. Near Hannibal’s camp the Aufidus makes a
bold, southerly sweep. Here Hannibal forded the stream in two columns,
drew up his army, and leaned his flanks on the river-banks so as to
prevent the Romans, with their numerical superiority, from overlapping
them. His front he covered with archers and slingers, so as to hide
his formation from the Roman generals. Varro, as Hannibal anticipated,
thought the Carthaginians were crossing to attack the lesser camp,
and leaving eleven thousand men to guard the larger one, with orders
to attack Hannibal’s camp during the battle, he also crossed and drew
up in the plain opposite the Carthaginians, he and every Roman in the
ranks craving to come to blows with the hated invaders.
Varro also threw out his light troops in advance. He had sixty-five
thousand foot and seven thousand horse, to Hannibal’s thirty-two
thousand foot and ten thousand horse. He could not overlap Hannibal’s
flanks, so he determined to make his line heavier, and seek to crush
him at the first impact. He changed the formation of the maniples so
as to make them sixteen men deep and ten men front, instead of sixteen
men front by ten deep, as usual. This was a grievous error. His men
were unapt to manœuvre or fight well in this unwonted form. He should
have employed his surplus, say twenty-five thousand men, as a reserve
for emergencies. His army was in the usual three lines, fifteen legions
in all, the Roman on the right, the allied on the left. The intervals
between the maniples always equalled their front, and the distance
between the lines the depth of the maniples. The Roman cavalry,
twenty-four hundred strong, was on the right. The allied, forty-eight
hundred strong, on the left. It would have been better massed in one
body. But such was the only formation then known. Æmilius commanded the
right, Varro the left wing.
Hannibal placed on his left, opposite the Roman cavalry, his heavy
Spanish and Gallic horse, eight thousand strong, two-thirds in a
first, and one-third in a second line. This body was strong enough to
crush the Roman horse, and thus cut off the retreat of the legions
to their camps and towards Rome. In other words, Hannibal’s fighting
was to be forced on the Romans’ strategic flank. He had a perfectly
lucid idea of the value of a blow from this direction. On his right,
facing the allied cavalry, were his Numidians, two thousand strong. Of
the infantry, the Spaniards and Gauls were in the centre in alternate
bodies. His best troops, the African foot, he placed on their either
flank. He expected these veterans to leaven the whole lump. The foot
was all in phalanxes of one thousand and twenty-four men each, the
African foot in sixteen ranks, as usual, the Spaniards and Gauls in
ten. Hannibal had been obliged thus to make his centre thin, from
lack of men, but he had seething in his brain a manœuvre by which he
proposed to make this very weakness a factor of success. He had been
on the ground and had seen Varro strengthen the Roman centre. This
confirmed him in his plan.
Hannibal commanded the centre in person, Hanno the right, Hasdrubal the
left, Maharbal the cavalry of the left. Hannibal relied on Maharbal to
beat the Roman cavalry, and then, riding by the rear of the Roman army,
to join the Numidians on the Carthaginian right, like Coenus at the
Hydaspes. His cavalry was superior in numbers, and vastly outranked in
effectiveness the Roman horse.
Hannibal was, no doubt, familiar with Marathon. He proposed to better
the tactics of that day. Remember that Miltiades had opposed to him
Orientals; Hannibal faced Roman legions. His general plan was to
withdraw his centre before the heavy Roman line,--to allow them to
push it in,--and then to enclose them in his wings and fall on their
flanks. This was a highly dangerous manœuvre, unless the withdrawal of
the centre could be checked at the proper time; but his men had the
greatest confidence in him; the river in his rear would be an aid, if
he could but keep his men steady; and in war no decisive result can be
compassed without corresponding risk. Hannibal had fully prepared his
army for this tactical evolution, and rehearsed its details with all
his subordinates. He not only had the knack of making his lieutenants
comprehend him, but proposed to see to the execution of the work
himself.
The Carthaginians faced north, the Romans south. The rising sun was on
the flank of either. The wind was southerly, and blew the dust into the
faces of the Romans. The light troops on either side opened the action,
and fiercely contested the ground for some time. During the preliminary
fighting, Hannibal advanced his centre, the Spanish and Gallic foot,
in a salient or convex order from the main line, the phalanxes on the
right and left of the central one being, it is presumed, in _echelon_
to it. The wings, of African foot, kept their place.
While this was being done, Hannibal ordered the heavy horse on his
left to charge down on the Roman horse in their front. This they
did with their accustomed spirit, but met a gallant resistance. The
Roman knights fought for every inch with the greatest obstinacy, when
dismounted, continuing the contest on foot. The fighting was not
by shocks, it was rather hand to hand. But the weight and superior
training of the Carthaginian horse soon told. They rode down the Romans
and crushed them out of existence. Æmilius was badly wounded, but
escaped the ensuing massacre and made his way to the help of the Roman
centre, hoping there to retrieve the day. On the Carthaginian right the
Numidians had received orders to skirmish with the allied horse and
not come to a decisive combat till they should be joined by the heavy
horse from the Carthaginian left. This they did in their own peculiar
style, by riding around their opponents, squadron by squadron, and by
making numberless feigned attacks. The battle in the centre had not yet
developed results, when Maharbal, having destroyed the Roman cavalry,
and ridden around the Roman army, appeared in the rear of the allied
horse. The Numidians now attacked seriously, and between them, in a few
minutes, there was not a Roman horseman left upon the field alive. The
Numidians were then sent in pursuit, Maharbal remaining upon the field.
While this was going on, the light troops of both sides had been
withdrawn through the intervals, and had formed in the rear and on
the flanks of legion and phalanx, ready to fill gaps and supply the
heavy foot with weapons. This had uncovered Hannibal’s salient. Varro
had committed still another blunder. In the effort to make his line so
strong as to be irresistible, he had ordered his maniples of principes
from the second line forward into the intervals of the maniples of
hastati in first line, thus making one solid wall and robbing the
legionaries of their accustomed mobility, as well as lending them
a feeling of uncertainty in their novel formation. Still, with its
wonted spirit, the heavy Roman line advanced on Hannibal’s salient. The
Carthaginian wings could not yet be reached, being so much refused.
Striking the apex, the fighting became furious. Hannibal’s salient, as
proposed, began to withdraw, holding its own in good style. Varro, far
too eager, and seeing, as he thought, speedy victory before him, was
again guilty of the folly of ordering the third line, the triarii, and
even the light troops, up to the support of the already overcrowded
first and second lines. The Carthaginian centre, supported by its
skirmishers, held the ground with just enough tenacity to whet the
determination of the Romans to crush it. Varro now insanely ordered
still more forces in from his wings to reënforce his centre, already
a mass so crowded as to be unable to retain its organization, but
pressing back the Carthaginians by mere weight of mass. He could not
better have played into Hannibal’s hands. The Romans--three men in the
place of one--struggled onward, but became every moment a more and more
jumbled body. Its maniple formation, and consequent ease of movement,
was quite lost. Still, it pushed forward, as if to certain victory,
and still the Carthaginian salient fell back, till from a salient it
became a line, from a line a reëntering angle or crescent. Hannibal,
by great personal exertions, had in an extraordinary manner preserved
the steadiness and formation of his centre, though outnumbered four to
one. The Carthaginian wings he now ordered slowly to advance, which
all the more edged the Roman centre into the _cul-de-sac_ Hannibal had
prepared. The Roman legionaries were already shouting their eager cry
of victory; but so herded together had they got that there was no room
to use their weapons. Hannibal had kept the Carthaginian centre free
from any feeling of demoralization, and ready at his command to turn
and face the enemy. The wings, by their advance, had hustled the Roman
legions into the form of a wedge without a vestige of maniple formation
left. The decisive moment had come. Hannibal seized it with the eye
of the born soldier. Arresting the backward movement of the centre,
which still had elbow-room to fight, as the Romans had not, he gave
the orders to the wings which they were impatiently awaiting. These
veteran troops, in perfect order, wheeled inward to right and left, on
the flanks of the struggling mass of legionaries. The Roman army was
lost beyond a ray of hope, for, at the same instant, Maharbal, having
finished the destruction of the cavalry, rode down upon its rear. The
cry of victory changed to a cry of terror. Defeat degenerated into mere
slaughter. The Carthaginian cavalry divided into small troops and rode
into the midst of the Roman soldiers, sabring right and left. Some
squadrons galloped around to the flanks and lent a hand to the African
phalanx in its butchery. No quarter was given, or indeed asked. The
Romans died with their faces to the foe. The bloody work continued
till but a handful was left. Livy and Polybius place the killed at
from forty to seventy thousand men. Varro had already escaped with a
mere squad of horse. Æmilius Paullus died, sword in hand, seeking to
stem the tide of disaster. Three proconsuls, two quæstors, twenty-one
military tribunes, a number of ex-consuls, prætors, and ædiles, and
eighty senators, perished with the army.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF CANNÆ B.C. 216, II]
Hannibal’s loss had been barely six thousand men, but he had
annihilated the splendid army of eighty-seven thousand men--the flower
of Rome. It had vanished as if swallowed up in an earthquake. The
battle had been won by crisp tactical skill and the most effective use
of cavalry,--as fine as that at the Hydaspes. It was, indeed, the
gorgeous handling of the cavalry which made the infantry manœuvre
possible.
Few battles in history are more marked by ability on the one side and
crass blundering on the other than the battle of Cannæ. The handling
of the cavalry was quite beyond praise. The manner in which the far
from reliable Spanish and Gallic foot was advanced in a wedge in
_echelon_, and, under the mettlesome attack of the Roman legions, was
first held there, and then withdrawn step by step, until it had reached
the converse position of a reëntering angle and was then steadied
in place by ordering up the light troops into its intervals,--all
this being done under the exultant Roman shouts of victory--is a
simple _chef d’œuvre_ of battle-tactics, due solely to Hannibal’s
magnificent personality; and the advance at the decisive instant of the
African infantry, and its wheel right and left upon the flanks of the
disordered and overcrowded legionaries, caps the master-stroke. The
whole battle, from the Carthaginian standpoint, is a consummate piece
of art, having no superior, few equals in the history of war.
It is usual for historians to blame Hannibal for not at once marching
on Rome after this victory. Let us see what his chances were. We have
no hint of what he himself thought, of what his reasons were for not so
doing. We must content ourselves with collecting a few guesswork items,
and endeavoring to argue as he did.
Two facts are peculiarly prominent in Hannibal’s campaign in Italy.
First, he had opposed to him the troops of the strongest and most
intelligent military power of the world, some of which were, to be
sure, comparatively raw in active duty, but yet trained to war from
their youth, mixed with legionaries of many campaigns, and instinct
with the ardor of fighting for their household gods. It is often
assumed that Hannibal’s troops were veterans, the Romans levies of a
day. During the first three years this was in part true, and defeat
had somewhat drawn the temper of the Roman blade; but throughout the
rest of Hannibal’s campaigns the Roman army was much superior to his
own in all but one quality,--that strange influence which a great man
exercises over men. It will be noticed that whenever the fighting
was on equal terms, from the beginning the Roman soldier gave a good
account of himself. But Hannibal’s victories were won by stratagem,
or by tactical genius and skilful use of his cavalry arm, not by
brute fighting. In the latter act the legionary was fully the equal
of the phalangite. One cannot compare the task of any other great
captain with that of Hannibal. No one ever faced such odds. Secondly,
Hannibal had calculated absolutely upon being able to detach the
allies--the socii--from their fealty. We cannot imagine him to have
set out on his marvellous expedition without having made this the
prime factor in his calculations. Hannibal was no madman. He was a
keen, close calculator. But he would have been insane, indeed, if he
had undertaken his hazardous campaign without such expectation. He was
well justified in reckoning on such defection. There had always been
a good deal of opposition to high-handed Rome among all her allies,
municipal cities, and colonies, and it was a fair assumption that
many, if not most, of them would be glad to free themselves and humble
their proud conqueror and mistress. In this expectation Hannibal had
been entirely disappointed. None of the socii, who were the brawn of
the Roman body, had shown any disposition to meet him otherwise than
with the sword; none of the colonies, except in distant Gaul, had
met him even half way. He had captured towns and territory and had
garrisoned citadels. But the aid he received was not that which enables
a conqueror to hold what he takes except with the strong hand. And
without just such aid, Hannibal could not only not win, but could not
be otherwise than defeated, in his contest with the mighty republic. To
assume that Hannibal did not see all this, and that he was not fighting
against hope almost from the second year, is to underrate this man’s
intellectual ability. No one ever fathomed Hannibal’s purpose. He was
so singularly reticent that Roman historians called him perfidious,
because no one could, from his face or conduct, gauge either his
thought or intention, or calculate upon his acts. He had no Hephæstion
as had Alexander. But no doubt he was keenly alive to the failure, so
far, of his calculation on the disaffection of the allies.
And now, after the overwhelming victory of Cannæ, he had to weigh
not only the strategic and tactical difficulties, but the still more
serious political ones. If the allies, or a good part of them, could
be induced to join his cause, Rome would fall sooner or later. If not,
he could never take Rome, nor permanently injure the Roman cause. The
chances were, in a military sense, all against his capturing Rome by a
_coup de main_. Rome was over two hundred miles distant, well walled,
and with a large force which could be quietly gathered to protect it.
If he failed, the game was lost. It was far wiser for him to still
try to influence the allies, which he could now do with a record of
wonderful victories such as the world had not yet seen. Hannibal was
not a military gambler. He never risked his all on a bare chance, as
some other soldiers have done. He always reckoned his chances closely.
And every reason prompted him not to risk the loss of his all on the
chances of a brilliant march on the enemy’s capital, which had only
its boldness to commend it, and every military reason as well as the
stanch Roman heart to promise failure as its result; for there was no
obsequious satrap to open its gates and welcome the conquering hero,
as it had been Alexander’s fortune to meet. If Hannibal marched on
Rome, he must be prepared to besiege the city; and he had neither siege
equipment, nor were sieges consonant with his peculiar ability. If the
story be true that Maharbal asked of Hannibal, after Cannæ, that he
might march on Rome with five thousand horse, promising that he should
sup in the Capitol in four days, and that on Hannibal’s declining,
Maharbal exclaimed, “Truly, Hannibal, thou knowest how to win a
victory, but knowest not how to use one!” it may tend to show that
Maharbal possessed indeed the daring recklessness of a true general of
cavalry, but it also proves that Hannibal had the discretion, as he had
shown in abundant measure the enterprise, of the great captain.
Hannibal probably at this time harbored the hope that, after this
fourth and overwhelming defeat of the Romans, the allies would
finally see that their interests lay with him. In fact, Capua, the
Samnites, Lucanians, and many cities of Lower Italy did join his cause,
and the unexplained time which he spent in the vicinity of his late
battle-field was no doubt devoted to political questions, the favorable
solution of which could be better brought about by not for the moment
risking his now unquestioned military supremacy.
The institutions and laws which gave Rome strength never demonstrated
her greatness so well as now. The people which had created these
institutions, which had made these laws, never rose superior to
disaster, never exhibited the strength of character of which the whole
world bears the impress, so well as now. The horrible disaster to both
state and society--for there was not a house in which there was not
one dead--by no means changed the determination of the Roman people,
however horrified the cool-headed, however frightened the many. Not
that among the ignorant there was not fear and trembling; but it was
not the ignorant who had made or ruled Rome. The more intelligent and
courageous element spoke with a single voice. The prætors at once
called the Senate together to devise means of defence, and it remained
in constant session. All Rome was in affliction, but this must not
interfere with the necessity of saving the city, and courage must be
outward as well as in the heart. The word _peace_ was forbidden to be
pronounced. Mourning was limited to thirty days. Tears were prohibited
to women in public. New energies were at once put at work. In view
of the alarming circumstances and the impossibility of carrying out
the requirements of the law, the Senate itself made M. Junius Pera
dictator, who chose Titus Sempronius Gracchus as master of cavalry. The
entire male population above seventeen years of age was enrolled. Four
new legions and one thousand horse were added to the city garrison. All
mechanics were set to work to repair weapons. The walls were already
in a state of excellent defence. The Senate purchased and armed eight
thousand slaves and four thousand debtors or criminals, with promise of
freedom and pardon. Naught but stubborn resistance to the last man was
thought of. It was indeed well that Hannibal did not march on Rome.
Cannæ was the last great victory of Hannibal, but the beginning of his
most masterly work. He had up to this moment conducted a brilliant
offensive. There is nothing in the annals of war which surpasses his
crossing of the Alps, his victories at the Ticinus and Trebia, his
march through the Arnus marshes, his victory at Lake Trasymene, his
manœuvres up to Cannæ, and that wonderful battle. But this splendid
record had not helped his cause. Yet, against all hope, he stuck to
his task for thirteen long years more, waiting for reënforcements from
Carthage, or for some lucky accident which might turn the tide in his
favor. Up to Cannæ Fortune had smiled upon him. After Cannæ she turned
her back on him, never again to lend him aid.
Livy asserts that Hannibal’s want of success came from his exposing his
troops to a winter in Capua, where debauch destroyed their discipline.
Many historians have followed this theory. But the soldier who looks
at the remarkable work done by Hannibal from this time on, knows that
nothing short of the most exemplary discipline can possibly account
for it, and seeks his reasons elsewhere. Livy’s statements will bear
watching.
Hannibal soon became too weak to afford the attrition of great battles.
He had sought to impose on the allies by brilliant deeds. He had
failed, and must put into practice whatever system would best carry out
his purpose. From this time on he avoided fighting unless it was forced
upon him, but resorted to manœuvring to accomplish his ends. He seized
important towns, he marched on the Roman communications, he harassed
the enemy with small war. He did the most unexpected and surprising
things. He appeared at one end of southern Italy before the enemy had
any idea that he had left the other. He was teaching the Romans the
trade of war. They were not slow to see wherein Hannibal’s superiority
lay, and profited by it. He educated their best generals, and these now
came to the front.
The Romans raised annually from one hundred and fifty thousand to two
hundred and forty thousand men, of which one-half to two-thirds were
in Hannibal’s own front, and they were of the bone and sinew of Rome.
He himself never had more than thirty-five thousand to forty thousand
effective, and these far from as good. The Carthaginian Senate, under
lead of the Hanno faction, forsook him, nor sent him men nor money,
except one small reënforcement. He was cast on his own resources in
the enemy’s country. While the Roman legions grew in numbers and
experience, his own veterans gradually disappeared and left but a
ragged force behind. And yet, during most of this time, he marched over
the length and breadth of Italy, ravaging and destroying, and not one
nor all the Roman armies could prevent him from acting out his pleasure.
Among all the brilliant lessons in strategy which Hannibal gave the
Romans, there is time but to mention one more. Capua, one of the large
cities of Italy, had embraced Hannibal’s cause as the coming man. But
Hannibal had--in B.C. 211--been crowded back into southern Italy,
and the Romans were besieging Capua. He was called upon for aid. The
Capuans were in sorry plight. Hannibal, who was blockading the citadel
at Tarentum, left this pressing affair to answer their appeal, made a
secret forced march, eluding the four consular legions in Apulia and
at Beneventum, and suddenly appeared before the astonished Roman army
at Capua,--intent on raising the siege. The Capuans and Carthaginians
attacked the Roman lines at the same time, but both recoiled from
superior numbers and entrenched position. Hannibal, seeing that he
could not raise the siege by direct means, tried, for the first time in
the history of strategy, an indirect means, hoping to effect by moral
weight what he could not by weight of men. He marched straight on Rome.
He counted on the proconsuls, from fear for their capital, to raise the
siege of Capua and follow him. He knew he could not capture Rome, where
were forces much larger than his own. But he ravaged the land to its
very gates and filled the city with affright. Hannibal had, however,
taught his pupils much too well. Rome was terribly demoralized, and
called lustily for the proconsuls’ armies to come from Capua to its
aid. But these generals were not to be misled; they by no means relaxed
their grip, and Hannibal lost the game. At an earlier stage of the war
this brilliant movement would certainly have raised the siege of Capua.
[Illustration: CAPUA B.C. 211]
Finally, Hannibal became so reduced in numbers that he was compelled to
remain in the extreme south of Italy. He could not move out of Brutium.
His forces were quite unequal to fighting, or even campaigning. He was
hoping against hope for some kind of recognition from home, some aid
in men and material. He could undertake nothing, but clung to what he
held with a despairing grasp. Weak as he was, however, no Roman consul
chose to come within reach of his arm. His patience and constancy under
these trials, and the dread his name still inspired, show him up in
far greater measure than any of his triumphs. Even Livy, who is full of
depreciation of Hannibal’s abilities, says, “The Romans did not provoke
him while he remained quiet, such power did they consider that single
general possessed, though everything else around him was falling into
ruin,” and is compelled to follow up this statement with a panegyric.
For a dozen years Hannibal had held more or less territory in the midst
of the Roman Empire, far from home and his natural base. His old army
had quite disappeared, and a motley array of the most heterogeneous
materials had taken its place. He had for three or four years past
had nothing which he could oppose to the Roman legions without danger
of--without actual defeat. His troops had often neither pay nor
clothing; rations were scant; their arms were far from good; they must
have foreseen eventual disaster, as did Hannibal. And yet the tie
between leader and men never ceased to hold; the few soldiers he had
were all devotion to his cause. Driven into a corner where he must
subsist his army on a limited area, which he could only hold by forcing
under his standard every man possibly fit for service; among a people
whose greed for gold and plunder was their chief characteristic,--he
was still able not only to keep his phalanxes together, but to subject
them to excellent discipline. The Carthaginians, meanwhile, were only
dreaming of holding on to Spain; their one useful captain, with all his
possibilities, they were blindly neglecting. He was left absolutely to
his own resources. And yet,--it is so wonderful that one can but repeat
it again and again,--though there were several armies of Roman veteran
legions--for nearly all Roman soldiers were veterans now--around him on
every side, such was the majesty which hedged his name, that neither
one singly, nor all together, dared to come to the final conflict with
him, brave and able though their leaders were. Even after the Metaurus,
when the Romans knew what the effect of his brother’s defeat must be
on the _morale_ of Hannibal’s army, if not on himself, this dread of
the very name of Hannibal, even by the best of the Roman generals, is
almost inexplicable. They must each and all have recognized that it
needed but one joint effort to crush out his weakened and depleted
semblance of an army, and yet none of them was apparently willing to
undertake the task. Whatever the Roman historians may tell us about
these years, is not here really a great and stubborn fact, which
testifies to more than a thousand pages penned by his detractors?
Finally, long after Hasdrubal had made his way to Italy, and had been
defeated by the consul Nero, Rome carried the war into Africa, and
Hannibal was recalled from Italy and defeated at Zama by Scipio. It
was, however, neither Scipio nor Zama that defeated Hannibal. The
Carthaginian cause had been doomed years before. It was inanition,
pure and simple, which brought Hannibal’s career to a close,--the lack
of support of the Carthaginian Senate. He all but won Zama, even with
the wretched material he had brought from Italy, and without cavalry,
against the best army Rome had so far had, the most skilful general,
and every fair chance. Had he won Zama, he must have lost the next
battle. The Semitic cause against the Aryan was bound to fail.
This battle ended the war. Hannibal lived nineteen years after the
defeat, for six years in Carthage,--thirteen in exile. Rome never felt
secure until his death.
Hannibal ranks with the few great captains of the world. Alexander,
Cæsar, Gustavus Adolphus, Frederick, Napoleon, alone can stand beside
him. In this galaxy the stars are equal. His self-reliant courage,
which prompted him to undertake the conquest of Italy with twenty
thousand foot and six thousand horse, without a definite base, and with
uncertain confederates, is the mark which stamps the genius--or the
fool. Without the ability and iron resolution to do so vast a thing,
no great man ever accomplished results. Upon such a rock have been
shattered many reputations.
Hannibal had remarkable control over men. Reaching Cisalpine Gaul, it
was but a few weeks before the whole province became his sworn allies,
and they remained true and faithful to his cause, and bore their heavy
burden with cheerful alacrity,--though then, as now, the most unstable
of peoples. Hannibal possessed a keen knowledge of human nature, as
well as an unbounded individual power over men. Unfortunately, only a
few anecdotes remain to us as the portrait of this extraordinary man;
but we cannot doubt that he carried that personal magnetism with him
which lent a wonderful strength to what he said or did.
His victories were as brilliant as any ever won; but on these does
not rest his chief glory. When he won Trebia, Trasymene, Cannæ, he
had opposed to him generals ignorant of the art of war, which art the
genius of Hannibal enabled him to use in a manner beyond all others,
and which his experience in many arduous campaigns had taught him to
the bottom. But Hannibal instructed these same Romans in this very art
of war,--and his later opponents fought him on his own system, and with
wonderful aptness at learning what he had instilled into them with
such vast pains. These scholars of Hannibal, however, able as they
became, never in any sense grew to their master’s stature. They were
strong in numbers and courage, they surrounded him on all sides, they
cut off his reënforcements and victuals, they harassed his outposts
and foragers, they embarrassed his marches,--all in the superb style
he had shown them how to use. But, for all that, though outnumbering
him many to one, not one or several of them could ever prevent his
coming or going, at his own good time or pleasure, whithersoever he
listed, and never was more than a momentary advantage gained over him
in a pitched battle till the fatal day of Zama. Even after Hasdrubal’s
death, his aggressors dared not attack him. Like a pack of bloodhounds
around the boar at bay, none ventured to close in on him for a final
struggle. Even when he embarked for Carthage,--the most dangerous
of operations possible for an army,--it was not attempted to hamper
his progress. Even Scipio, in Italy, seemed by no means anxious to
encounter him,--except at a disadvantage,--and in Africa did not meet
him until he could do so on his own conditions, and under the very best
of auspices.
By some, Scipio has been thought equal to Hannibal. But great
soldier as Scipio was, he falls very far short of the rank attained
by Hannibal. The list of generals of a lesser grade numbers many
great names, among them that of Scipio, linked with commanders like
Brasidas, Epaminondas, Xenophon, Prince Eugene, Turenne, Marlborough,
Montecuculi. But between these and men of the stamp of Hannibal there
is a great gulf fixed.
Like all great captains, Hannibal not infrequently violated what we now
call the maxims of war; but when he did so, it was always with that
admirable calculation of the power or weakness of the men and forces
opposed to him, which, of itself, is the excuse for the act by that man
who is able to take advantage of as well as to make circumstances. All
great captains have a common likeness in this respect.
Napoleon aptly says: “The principles of Cæsar were the same as those
of Alexander or Hannibal: to hold his forces in hand; to be vulnerable
on several points only when it is unavoidable; to march rapidly upon
the important points; to make use to a great extent of all moral means,
such as the reputation of his arms, the fear he inspires, the political
measures calculated to preserve the attachment of allies, and the
submission of conquered provinces.”
Such men have used the maxims of war only so far as they fitted into
their plans and combinations. Success justifies them, but the failure
of the lesser lights who infringe these maxims only proves them to be
maxims indeed.
What has Hannibal done for the art of war? First and foremost he
taught the Romans what war really is; that there is something beyond
merely marching out, fighting a battle, and marching home again. He
showed them that with but a small part of their numerical force, with
less good material, with less good arms, with but a few allies, he
could keep Rome on the brink of ruin and despair for two-thirds of a
generation. He showed them for thirteen years that he could accomplish
more than they could, despite their numbers, and without battle. And
while battle should be always the legitimate outcome of all military
manœuvres, Hannibal taught the Romans that there was something far
higher in war than mere brute weight, and through the Romans he has
taught us.
Hannibal was as typically a fighter as even Alexander, though he
preferred to prescribe his own time and conditions. But all through
Alexander’s campaigns it happened that the results he aimed at could
be accomplished only by hammering. And he had the power to hammer.
Hannibal, on the contrary, found that he could not stand attrition;
that he must save men. Alexander was constantly seeking conquests;
Hannibal, like Frederick, only to keep what he had won, and in doing
this he showed the world the first series of examples of intellectual
war. Alexander’s strategy, in its larger aspect, was as far-seeing
and far-reaching as that of any of the great captains, and he was the
first to show it. But Alexander’s strategic movements had not been
understood, and ran danger of being lost. Hannibal was, probably, the
only man who understood what Alexander had done, and he impressed his
own strategy so thoroughly upon the Romans that it modified their whole
method of waging war. Alexander’s strategy was equally marked. Like
Cæsar’s, his strategic field was the whole known world. But he did not
exhibit that more useful phase of strategy, on a smaller theatre, which
Hannibal has given us.
While Hannibal’s movement into Italy was offensive, the years after
Cannæ partook largely of the defensive. He was holding his own till he
could get reënforcements from home, or the help of the Roman allies.
And yet it was he who was the main-spring which furnished the action,
the centre about which everything revolved. Perhaps there is no surer
test of who is the foremost soldier of a campaign than to determine who
it is upon whose action everything waits; who it is that forces the
others to gauge their own by his movements. And this Hannibal always
did. It made no odds whether it was in his weak or his strong years. It
was Hannibal’s marching to and fro, Hannibal’s manœuvres, offensive or
defensive, which predetermined the movements of the Roman armies.
We know little about the personal appearance of Hannibal. We only know
that in the march through the Arnus swamps he lost an eye. In the
British Museum is an ancient bust of a soldier with but one eye--by
some supposed to be Hannibal. But there is no authentic likeness of the
man. It is improbable that he possessed Alexander’s charm of beauty.
But in all his other qualities, mental and physical, he was distinctly
his equal; and in his life he was simple, pure and self-contained.
Alexander did brilliant things for their own sake. Hannibal always
forgot self in his work. Alexander needed adulation. Hannibal was far
above such weakness. Alexander was open, hasty, violent. His fiery
nature often ran away with his discretion. Hannibal was singularly
self-poised. From his face you could never divine his thought or
intention. So marked was this ability to keep his own counsel, never
to betray his purpose, that the Roman historians talked of deception
when he did unexpected things. But Punic faith was distinctly as good
as Roman faith. The Romans promised and did not perform; Hannibal
never promised. Hannibal’s mind was broad, delicate, clear. His Greek
training made him intellectually the superior of any of the Roman
generals. His conception of operations and discrimination in means were
equalled by his boldness--even obstinacy--of execution.
Hannibal’s influence over men is perhaps his most wonderful trait.
Alexander commanded fealty as a king, as well as won it as a man;
Hannibal earned the fidelity and love of his men by his personal
qualities alone. When we consider the heterogeneous elements of which
his army was composed, the extraordinary hardships it underwent, the
hoping against hope, the struggling against certain defeat and eventual
annihilation, the toils and privation, and remember that there was
never a murmur in his camp, or a desertion from his ranks, and that
eventually he was able to carry his army, composed almost entirely of
Italians, over to Africa on the most dangerous of tasks, and to fight
them as he did at Zama, it may be said that Hannibal’s ability to keep
this body together and fit for work shows the most wonderful influence
over men ever possessed by man.
Alexander always had luck running in his favor. Hannibal is
essentially the captain of misfortune. Alexander was always victorious;
Hannibal rarely so in battle in the last twelve years in Italy.
Alexander fought against a huge but unwieldy opponent, brave, but
without discipline, and top-heavy. Hannibal’s work was against the most
compact and able nation of the world, at its best period, the very type
of a fighting machine. Not that all this in any sense makes Hannibal
greater than Alexander, but it serves to heighten the real greatness of
Hannibal.
Hannibal’s marches were quick, secret, crafty. He was singularly apt
at guessing what his enemy would do, and could act on it with speed
and effect. He was unsurpassed in logistics. The Romans learned all
they ever knew of this branch of the art from Hannibal. Despite the tax
upon him, his men always had bread. He utilized his victories well, but
was not led astray by apparent though delusive chances. As a besieger
Hannibal was not Alexander’s equal. Only Demetrius and Cæsar, perhaps,
were. In this matter Hannibal and Frederick were alike. Both disliked
siege-work.
But as a man, so far as we can know him,--and if he had any vices, his
enemies, the Roman historians, would have dilated upon them,--Hannibal
was perhaps, excepting Gustavus Adolphus, the most admirable of all.
As a captain he holds equal rank with the others. As a distinguishing
mark, we may well call him “The Father of Strategy.”
LECTURE III.
CÆSAR.
Caius Julius Cæsar is the only one of the great captains who trained
himself to arms. Alexander, Hannibal, Gustavus Adolphus, Frederick,
owed their early military training to their fathers, though, indeed,
Frederick’s was but the pipe-clay of war. Napoleon got his in the best
school in France. Every Roman citizen was, to be sure, trained as a
soldier, and Cæsar had had a slight experience in some minor campaigns.
But the drilling of the soldier cannot produce the captain. And Cæsar
began his military career at an age when that of the others--except
Frederick--had ceased.
A comparison of ages is interesting. Alexander made his marvellous
campaigns between twenty-one and thirty-three years of age. Gustavus
Adolphus’ independent military career was from seventeen to
thirty-eight, the last two years being those which entitle him to
rank with the great captains. Hannibal began at twenty-six and never
left the harness till he was forty-five. Napoleon’s wonderful wars
began at twenty-seven and ended at forty-six. Frederick opened his
Silesian struggles at twenty-nine and closed them at fifty-one; the
Seven Years’ War ran from his forty-fifth to his fifty-second year.
Cæsar began at forty-two and ended at fifty-five. Thus the only two
of the great captains whose best work was done near the fifties were
Cæsar and Frederick. Of the others, Hannibal and Gustavus Adolphus
were most admirable in the thirties, Napoleon between twenty-seven
and thirty-nine, Alexander in the twenties. To take the age of each
in the middle of his military career, Alexander and Gustavus were
twenty-seven, Hannibal thirty-six, Napoleon thirty-seven, Frederick
forty, and Cæsar forty-eight. Or, to place each at the height of his
ability, Alexander was twenty-five, Hannibal thirty-four, Gustavus
thirty-seven, Napoleon thirty-nine, Frederick forty-five, Cæsar
fifty-two.
Cæsar’s youth had been that of a young man of the upper-tendom, with a
not unusual mixture of high breeding and vices, and was rather inclined
to be a dandy,--but one of whom Sulla remarked that “it would be well
to have an eye to yonder dandy.” In manhood he can socially be best
described as a thorough man of the world, able and attractive; in
stirring political life always remarkable for what he did and the way
in which he did it.
When Cæsar was forty-two he was chosen Consul and received Gaul as
his province (B.C. 58). Pompey, Crassus and he divided the power of
the Roman state. Cæsar proposed to himself, eventually, to monopolize
it. His reasons do not here concern us. For this purpose he needed a
thorough knowledge of war and an army devoted to his interests. He had
neither, but he made Gaul furnish him both. Let us follow Cæsar in a
cursory way through all his campaigns and see what the grain of the
man does to make the general; for here we have the remarkable spectacle
of a man entering middle life, who, beginning without military
knowledge or experience, by his own unaided efforts rises to be one of
the few great captains. I shall speak more of the Gallic War, because
its grand strategy is not often pointed out.
[Illustration: GAUL]
Cæsar’s object in Gaul was not merely to protect Roman interests. He
needed war to further his schemes of centralization. On reaching the
Province, as was called the territory at that time held by Rome in Gaul
(B.C. 58), he encountered an armed migration of the Helvetii, moving
from the Alps, by way of Geneva, towards the fertile lowlands. This
was a dangerous threat to the Province, and, moreover, to attack this
tribe would serve as initiation to Cæsar and his men. He commanded
the Helvetii to return to their homes, which being refused, he first
outwitted them in negotiations, until he assembled troops, followed,
surprised, and attacked them while crossing the Arar, and annihilated
a third of their force. Then following them up with a cautious
inexperience, but, though making mistakes, with extraordinary foresight
and skill, he finally, in the battle of Bibracte, after grave danger
and against heroic resistance, utterly worsted them, and obliged the
relics of the tribe to obey his mandate. Of the entire body, numbering
three hundred and sixty-eight thousand souls, but one hundred and ten
thousand lived to return home. Thus began what will always be a blot on
Cæsar’s fame as a soldier,--his disregard for human life, however brave
his enemies, however unnecessary its sacrifice. Alexander, on several
occasions, devastated provinces. But in his case the military necessity
was less doubtful; and the number of Alexander’s victims never rises to
the awful sum of Cæsar’s, nor was the law of nations as definite in his
day as it had become fifty years before the Christian era.
Cæsar next moved against Ariovistus, a German chief who was bringing
numbers of his countrymen across the Rhine to seize the lands of the
friendly Gauls. Cæsar saw that to conquer Gaul he must eliminate this
migratory element from the problem; for the Germans would be pouring in
on his flank during any advance he might make into the heart of the
country. Moreover, Cæsar’s actions always sought to forward Cæsar’s
plans; only as a second consideration to protect the Roman territory.
To place Cæsar at the head of the Roman state would best serve the
Commonwealth. War he must have, and anything would serve as _casus
belli_. But, though far from faultless as a statesman, Cæsar grew to be
all but faultless as a soldier, and his present military object, the
conquest of Gaul, he carried out in the most brilliant and methodical
manner.
Cæsar ordered Ariovistus to return across the Rhine. Ariovistus
declined. Cæsar moved by forced marches against him. After a useless
conference, Ariovistus, who was a man of marked native ability,
made a handsome manœuvre around Cæsar’s flank, which the latter
was not quick enough to check, and deliberately sat down on his
line of communications. Cæsar was thunderstruck. He endeavored to
lure Ariovistus to battle, as an outlet to the dilemma, for he was
compromised. But Ariovistus was well satisfied with his position, to
hold which would soon starve the Romans out. Cæsar, not unwilling
to learn from even a barbarian, resorted, after these failures, to
a similar manœuvre around Ariovistus’ flank, which he made with
consummate skill, and regained his line of retreat. Then, having
learned that the German soothsayers had presaged defeat, if Ariovistus
should fight before the new moon, he forced a battle on the Germans,
and, after a terrible contest, defeated them, destroyed substantially
the whole tribe, and drove the few survivors across the Rhine.
Cæsar had shown the decision, activity, courage, and quickness of
apprehension which were his birthright. But underlying these was a
caution bred of lack of that self-reliance which in after years grew
so marked. He made blunders which in later campaigns he would not
have made, nor was he opposed to such forces as he later encountered.
Ariovistus had no great preponderance over Cæsar’s fifty thousand
men. One rather admires in this year’s campaigns the Helvetii and the
Germans for their noble gallantry in facing Roman discipline and so
nearly succeeding in their struggle.
Next year (B.C. 57) Cæsar conducted a campaign against the Belgæ, whose
joint tribes had raised a force of three hundred and fifty thousand
men. By prompt action and concessions he seduced one tribe from the
coalition, and by a well-timed diversion into the land of another,
weakened the aggressiveness of the latter. He had won a number of
Gallic allies. Curiously enough, all his cavalry throughout the war was
native, the Roman cavalry being neither numerous nor good. All told, he
had some seventy thousand men.
The Belgæ attacked him at the River Axona, but by dexterous management
Cæsar held his own, inflicted enormous losses on them, and finally,
from lack of rations, they dispersed, thus enabling Cæsar to handle
them in detail. Many gave in their submission; others were reduced by
force; disunited they were weak.
The Nervii, however, surprised Cæsar at the River Sabis, from ambush,
and came near to annihilating his army. He had forgotten Hannibal’s
lesson of Lake Trasymene. Nothing but stubborn courage and admirable
discipline--the knowledge, too, that defeat meant massacre--saved the
day. Cæsar headed his legionaries with superb personal gallantry, and
his narrow escape made him thereafter much more cautious on the march.
Out of sixty thousand Nervii, barely five hundred were left when the
battle ended. Their fighting had been heroic beyond words. Their defeat
and the capture of a number of cities induced many tribes to submit to
the inevitable.
The best praise of this splendid campaign is its own success. The
energy, rapidity, clear-sightedness, and skill with which Cæsar
divided, attacked in detail, and overcame the Belgian tribes with their
enormous numbers, is a model for study. But he still committed serious
errors, of which the careless march without proper scouting, which led
to the surprise by the Nervii, was a notable example. He was not yet
master of his art.
During the succeeding winter the Belgæ again banded together, and the
Veneti seized some Roman officers seeking corn (B.C. 56). This act
Cæsar considered in the light of a revolt, and determined summarily
to punish. The Veneti were a maritime people, living in what is now
Brittany, whose strongholds could only be reached by sea. Cæsar’s
attempts to attack them by land proved abortive, but his admiral, with
a fleet built for the occasion, worsted the Venetan squadron, and
Cæsar, with needless cruelty and distinct bad policy, put the Senate
to death and sold the tribe into slavery. Cæsar was personally humane.
These acts of extermination are the less pardonable. His lieutenants,
meanwhile, had subdued a part of Aquitania. All Gaul, save only the
tribes opposite the British coast, had, after a fashion, been reduced.
This third year in Gaul redounds to Cæsar’s credit for the general
scheme; to his lieutenants for the detailed campaigns.
The fourth year (B.C. 55) was tarnished by, perhaps, the most gigantic
piece of cruelty ever charged to the score of civilized man. Two German
tribes, the Usipetes and Tencheteri, had been crowded across the Rhine
by the Suevi, the stoutest nation on the eastern bank. These people
Cæsar proposed to chase back across the river. He marched against them,
and was met by a suit for peace. Cæsar alleges treachery, on their
part, in the negotiations, but his own version in the Commentaries does
not sustain him. During what the barbarians deemed an armistice, Cæsar,
by a rapid and unexpected march, fell upon them, and utterly destroyed
the tribes, men, women, and children, whose number himself states at
four hundred and thirty thousand souls. A few thousands escaped across
the river. So indignant were even many of the citizens of Rome,--his
political opponents, to be sure,--that Cato openly proposed to send
Cæsar’s head to the few survivors in expiation. It is impossible to
overlook, in Cæsar’s military character, these acts of unnecessary
extermination.
Cæsar next made a campaign across the Rhine, for which purpose he
built his celebrated bridge. It was a mere reconnoissance in force, of
no strategic value or result. And the same must be said of his first
expedition to Britain, which shortly followed. This was conducted with
so few precautions, and so little knowledge of what he was actually
about, that Cæsar was indebted to simple fortune that he ever returned
to Gaul.
The second British expedition (B.C. 54), in which he encountered
Casivelaunus, was better prepared and more extensive. But though these
invasions of Britain and Germany show wonderful enterprise, they were
of doubtful wisdom and absolutely no general military utility. Apart
from the fact that they were unwarranted by the laws of nations, they
were not required for the protection of the Province. “Cæsar observed
rather than conquered Britain.”
During the succeeding winter Cæsar quartered his troops unwisely far
apart, from scarcity of corn, and relying on the supposed subjection
of the Gauls. This led to an uprising, the destruction of one legion
and the jeopardizing of several others. The error of thus dispersing
his forces was, to an extent, offset by Cæsar’s prodigious activity and
brilliant courage in retrieving his error and succoring his endangered
legions.
In the sixth campaign (B.C. 53), Cæsar again crossed the Rhine, with no
greater result than added fame, and definitely subdued the tribes along
the western borders of this stream. The work of this year was admirable
in every way. At its expiration Cæsar, as usual, returned to Rome.
During his absence the chiefs of the Gallic tribes determined to make
one more universal uprising, surround the legions, and, cutting Cæsar
off from return, to destroy them. The leader of the movement was
Vercingetorix, a young chief of exceptional ability, to whose standard
flocked numberless warriors (B.C. 52). Notified of this danger, Cæsar
hurried to the Province. He found himself in reality cut off from his
legions, and without troops to fight his way through. He must divert
the attention of Vercingetorix to enable him to reach his army. Raising
a small force in the Province, he headed an expedition across the
Cebenna Mountains, which had never yet been crossed in winter, into
the land of the Arverni, which he devastated. Vercingetorix, astounded
at his daring, marched to the rescue. No sooner had he arrived than
Cæsar, with a small escort of picked cavalry, started for his legions,
and, by riding night and day, faster than even news could travel, kept
ahead of danger and reached them safe and sound. He at once opened a
winter campaign, drew together the nearest of his legions and attacked
Vercingetorix’s allies in his rear, capturing and pillaging town after
town. The whole opening was a splendid piece of daring skill and
brilliantly conceived.
Vercingetorix was by far the most able of Cæsar’s opponents in Gaul.
He saw that in the open he could not match the Romans, and began a
policy of small war and defensive manœuvres similar to what Fabius had
practised against Hannibal. This greatly hampered Cæsar’s movements
by cutting off his supplies. Cæsar took Avaricum; but the siege of
Gergovia, which place he reached by cleverly stealing a passage over
the Elaver, was not fortunate. The Gauls ably defended the town, while
Vercingetorix aptly interfered with the Roman work; and by rousing to
insurrection Cæsar’s allies, the Ædui, in his rear, he compelled the
Romans to raise the siege. This was Cæsar’s sole failure in the Gallic
campaigns. He returned to quell the uprising of the Ædui, on whose
granaries he relied for corn, and was joined by the rest of the legions.
Shortly after this the pressure of the over-eager barbarians on
Vercingetorix forced him to give up his sensible policy of small war.
He attacked Cæsar in the open field, in an effort to cut him off from
the Province, on which Cæsar, having regained his legions, now proposed
to base. As always in such cases, discipline prevailed, and the Gauls
suffered defeat; but Vercingetorix managed to withdraw without the
usual massacre. Cæsar then sat down before Alesia, a town on holding
which the barbarians had placed their last stake. Vercingetorix
occupied it with eighty thousand men. Cæsar had fifty thousand
legionaries, ten thousand Gallic horse, and perhaps ten thousand allies.
This siege is one of the most wonderful of antiquity. It equals
Alexander’s siege of Tyre or Demetrius’ siege of Rhodes. The works
Cæsar erected were marvellous in their extent and intricacy. So strong
were his lines that even an army of relief of a quarter of a million
men added to the garrison, was unable to break them. Alesia fell.
Vercingetorix was surrendered to Cæsar and kept for exhibition in his
triumph. Gaul never again rose _en masse_. By alternate generosity and
severity, Cæsar completely reduced it to the Roman yoke.
This seventh year was a brilliant exhibition of Cæsar’s ability in
engineering, strategy, tactics, logistics. His achievements are
unsurpassed. He had taught the Gauls that they were not the equals of
the Roman legions or nation. Still this courageous people was not
subdued. They could see that although Cæsar was able to beat them
wherever they met, he was not able to be in all places at once. They
determined to essay one more uprising in isolated bodies. But this also
failed, and Cæsar’s eighth and last year (B.C. 51) snuffed out all
opposition.
It was no doubt for the good of Europe that Gaul should be brought
under Roman rule. But it is questionable whether, under the law of
nations, as then understood, Cæsar had the right to conquer Gaul.
His duty was merely to defend the Province. Not so, however, thought
Cæsar. All things bent to his ulterior designs. His cardinal motive was
self. But accepting his theory, his purpose was clean-cut and carried
out with preëminent skill. His errors lie more in his political than
military conduct. Strategetically, his course was sound.
The Province, when to Cæsar fell Gaul as one of the triumvirs, was a
species of salient thrust forward into the midst of the country. West
and north of its boundary, the Rhone, lived allied peoples. From the
mountains on the east danger was threatened by a number of restless
tribes. The advantages of this salient were by no means lost on Cæsar,
nor the central position which it afforded. He utilized it in the same
fashion as Napoleon did Switzerland in 1800. His first war, against
the Helvetii, was intended to and resulted in protecting the right
flank of the salient, an absolute essential to safety in advancing into
north or north-west Gaul. From this point, duly secured, northerly, the
Rhine, and the Jura and Vosegus mountains protected in a marked degree
the right of an advancing army, provided the tribes west of this
river were not unfriendly; and it will be noticed that one of Cæsar’s
early efforts was directed to winning the friendship of these tribes
by generous treatment and effective protection against their German
enemies. When he could not so accomplish his end he resorted to drastic
measures. Cæsar thus advanced his salient along the Mosa as far as the
Sabis, and could then debouch from the western watershed of the Mosa
down the valleys of the Matrona and Axona with perfect safety. For,
besides the friendship of the near-by tribes, he always kept strongly
fortified camps among them. The line of the Axona thus furnished him an
advanced base from which to operate against the Belgæ, and from their
territory, once gained, safely move even so far as Britain, if he but
protected his rear and accumulated provisions. Having subdued the Belgæ
he could turn to the south-west corner of Gaul, against Aquitania.
Cæsar thus exemplified in the fullest degree the advantage in grand
strategy of central lines of operation. And his most serious work was
devoted to establishing this central salient by alliance or conquest.
Once gained, this simplified his operations to isolated campaigns.
There is nothing more noteworthy in all military history than Cæsar’s
broad conception of the Gallic problem, nor more interesting than his
self-education. It is true that a soldier is born, but he has also to
be made; and Cæsar made himself more distinctly than the others. He
began with his native ability alone. He went to school as Cæsar in the
Gallic War. He graduated as one of the six great captains. Cæsar was
always numerically weaker than the enemy, but far stronger in every
other quality, especially in self-confidence and capacity for work.
His legionaries would bear anything, and could do anything. They were
very Yankees for ingenuity. Cæsar did not mix Gallic allies with his
legions, as Alexander or Hannibal mixed natives with their phalanxes.
He employed only native bowmen in addition to his native cavalry. He
worked his army well concentrated. If he divided his forces it was but
for a short time, soon to concentrate again. But he improved every
chance to attack the enemy before he had concentrated. Speed of foot,
with Cæsar, stood in place of numbers. His objective was always well
chosen, and was either the most important point, or more commonly, the
army of the enemy.
It was impossible that during this period of schooling, Cæsar should
not make blunders--grave ones; but all his errors bore fruit, and
raised the tone of both consul and legions. One can see, step by step,
how success and failure each taught its lesson; how native ability came
to the surface; how the man impressed his individuality on whatever he
did; and how intelligence led him to apply whatever he learned to his
future policy. No praise is too high for the conduct or moral qualities
of the army. From Cæsar down, through every grade, military virtue was
pronounced. In organization and discipline, ability to do almost any
work, endurance of danger and trial, toughness and manhood, it was
a model to the rest of Rome. And not only his legionaries, but his
auxiliary troops were imbued with the same spirit,--all breathed not
only devotion to Cæsar, but reflected his own great qualities.
Cæsar had some worthy opponents. Vercingetorix, Ariovistus,
Casivelaunus, were, each in his own way, able leaders. That they were
overcome by Cæsar was to be expected. Disciplined troops well led
cannot but win against barbarians. The end could not be otherwise.
And while the Gallic War does not show Cæsar--as the second Punic War
did Hannibal--opposed to the strongest military machine in existence,
it did show him opposed to generals and troops quite equal to most of
those encountered by Alexander. The Gauls must not be underrated. They
were distinctly superior to most uncivilized nations. Some of their
operations, and all of their fighting, call for genuine admiration.
They contended nobly for their independence. Defeat never permanently
discouraged them. Once put down, they again rose in assertion of their
liberty, so soon as the strong hand was removed. They were in no sense
to be despised, and while Cæsar’s army proved superior to them, yet, in
their motives and hearty coöperation, they were more commendable than
Cæsar pursuing his scheme of conquest.
Anarchy in Rome and his disagreement with Pompey brought about the
Civil War; this immediately succeeded the Gallic. Cæsar was ready for
it. Pompey practically controlled the whole power of Rome. Cæsar had
only his twelve legions. But these were veterans used to victory, and
belonged to him body and soul. He could do with them whatever he chose.
Cæsar was the embodiment of success, and fresh legions were sure to
spring up at his approach. Pompey lived on his past fame; Cæsar, on
to-day’s. Pompey had made no preparation; Cæsar was armed and equipped.
Pompey controlled vast resources, but they were not ready to hand.
What Cæsar had was fit. Moreover, Cæsar was shrewd enough to keep the
apparent legal right upon his side, as well as constantly to approach
Pompey with proposals for peace, which, however, he was no doubt aware
Pompey would not accept.
Pompey was a man of ability, but age, as is not uncommon, had sapped
his power of decision. He began by a fatal mistake. Instead of meeting
Cæsar on his native soil, and fighting there for Rome, he moved to
Greece so soon as Cæsar reached his front, and left the latter to
supplant him in the political and armed control of Italy.
Cæsar was wont to push for his enemy as objective, and one would expect
to see him follow Pompey to Greece, for it is a maxim, and maxims are
common sense, first to attack the most dangerous part of your enemy’s
divided forces. But there were seven Pompeian legions left in Spain,
and fearing that these might fall upon his rear, Cæsar concluded to
turn first toward the peninsula, relying on Pompey’s hebetude to remain
inactive where he stood. He knew his man.
[Illustration: CIVIL WAR]
It had taken but sixty days for Cæsar to make himself master of all
Italy. In six weeks after reaching Spain, by a brilliant series of
manœuvres near Ilerda, in which he utilized every mistake Pompey’s
lieutenants made, and without battle, for he wished to be looked on
as anxious to avoid the spilling of Roman blood, he had neutralized
and disbanded the seven legions. This accomplishment of his object by
manœuvres instead of fighting is one of the very best examples of its
kind in antiquity, and is equal to any of Hannibal’s. Meanwhile, Pompey
had not lifted a hand against him. This was good luck; but was it not
fitting that fortune should attend such foresight, activity, and skill?
Cæsar returned to Italy. He was now ready to follow his enemy across
to Epirus. Pompey controlled the sea with his five hundred vessels.
Cæsar had no fleet, and, curiously enough, had neglected, in the past
few months, to take any steps to create one. And yet he determined to
cross from Brundisium to the coast of Greece by sea. It is odd that he
did not rather march by land, through Illyricum, thus basing himself on
his own province; for a large part of his legions was already on the
Padus. But he chose the other means, and when, with half his force, he
had stolen across, Pompey’s fleet dispersed his returning transports,
and so patrolled the seas that he commanded the Adriatic between the
two halves of Cæsar’s army. This was not clever management. Cæsar
was in grave peril, and simply by his own lack of caution. If Pompey
concentrated he could crush him by mere weight. But, nothing daunted,
Cæsar faced his opponent and for many months skilfully held his own.
Finally, Antonius, with the other half, eluded the Pompeian fleet and
reached the coast, where, by an able series of marches, Cæsar made his
junction with him. He even now had but about half Pompey’s force, but
despite this he continued to push his adversary by superior activity
and intelligence, and actually cooped him up in siege-lines near
Dyrrachium. This extraordinary spectacle of Cæsar bottling up Pompey,
who had twice his force (May, 48), by lines of circumvallation sixteen
miles long, borders on the ridiculous, and well illustrates his moral
superiority. But so bold a proceeding could not last. Combats became
frequent, and grew in importance. The first battle of Dyrrachium was
won by Cæsar. The second proved disastrous, but still Cæsar held on.
The third battle was a decisive defeat for Cæsar, but this great
man’s control over his troops was such that he withdrew them in good
condition and courage, and eluded Pompey’s pursuit. In fact, the defeat
both shamed and encouraged his legionaries. Cæsar’s position and plan
had been so eccentric that it was from the beginning doomed to failure.
It was one of those cases where his enterprise outran his discretion.
Cæsar now moved inland, to gain elbow-room to manœuvre. Pompey
followed, each drawing in his outlying forces. The rival armies finally
faced each other at Pharsalus.
Pompey commanded a force sufficient to hold Cæsar at his mercy. So
certain were his friends of victory that already they saw their chief
at the head of the Roman state, and quarrelled about the honors and
spoils. The cry to be led against Cæsar grew among soldiers and
courtiers alike.
Pompey believed that Cæsar’s troops were not of the best; that he
had few Gallic veterans; that his young soldiers could not stand
adversity; that his own cavalry was superior to Cæsar’s; and that with
the preponderance of numbers there could be no doubt of victory. There
was abundant reason for his belief. But one lame premise lay in his
argument. He forgot that he had Cæsar in his front. The great weakness
in Pompey’s army was the lack of one head, one purpose to control and
direct events.
Cæsar, on the other hand, _was_ his army. The whole body was instinct
with his purpose. From low to high all worked on his own method.
He controlled its every mood and act. He was the main-spring and
balance-wheel alike. And he now felt that he could again rely upon his
legions,--perhaps better than before their late defeat. He proposed to
bring Pompey to battle.
The test soon came. In the battle of Pharsalus (Aug. 48) Pompey was, by
tactical ability on Cæsar’s part and by the disgraceful conduct of his
own cavalry, wholly defeated; fifteen thousand of his army were killed
and twenty-four thousand captured. Pompey himself fled to Egypt, where
he was murdered. In eighteen months from taking up arms, Cæsar had made
himself master of the world by defeating the only man who disputed him
this title.
Cæsar now committed one of those foolhardy acts of which several
mar his reputation for wisdom, and from which only “Cæsar’s luck”
delivered him. He followed Pompey to Egypt with but three thousand men,
and attempted to dictate to the Government. In consequence of this
heedless proceeding, he and this handful--he, the man who disposed of
the forces of the whole world--were beleaguered in Alexandria by an
Egyptian army for eight months, until he could procure the assistance
of allies. He was finally rescued by Mithridates, King of Pergamus, and
the Egyptians were defeated at the battle of the Nile.
The months thus wasted by Cæsar’s lack of caution gave the Pompeian
party a breathing-spell and the opportunity of taking fresh root in
Africa. This was what necessitated the two additional campaigns, one
in Africa and one in Spain. Had Cæsar, immediately after Pharsalus,
turned sharply upon Pompey’s adherents; or had he taken four or five
legions with him to Alexandria; or had he put aside the question of the
rule of Egypt by a temporizing policy, and turned to the more important
questions at hand, he would have saved himself vast future trouble.
The force he carried with him was absurdly inadequate. By extreme good
luck alone was he able to seize the citadel and arsenal, and the tower
on the Pharos, and thus save himself from collapse. “There seems to be
nothing remarkable about the campaign,” says Napoleon. “Egypt might
well have become, but for Cæsar’s wonderful good fortune, the very
grave of his reputation.”
Cæsar was now called against Pharnaces, King of Pontus, who, during the
distractions of the Civil War, was seeking to enlarge his territory.
It was this five days’ campaign (Aug. 47) which led Cæsar to exclaim,
“Veni, Vidi, Vici!” And here again he committed the blunder of opening
a campaign with too small a force, and came within an ace of failure.
Fortune saved Alexander in many acts of rashness; she was called on to
rescue Cæsar from many acts of folly.
Cæsar had barely arrived in Rome when his presence was demanded in
Africa to put down the coalition of Pompey’s lieutenants; and for the
fourth time he was guilty of the same imprudence. In his over-ardor
to reach the scene, he gave indefinite orders to his fleet, and once
more landed on the African coast with but three thousand men in his
immediate command, while the enemy had near at hand quadruple the
force, and along the coast, within two or three days’ march, some fifty
thousand men. But again Cæsar’s audacity stood in stead of legions,
and gradually reënforcements came to hand (Dec. 47). Time fails to
follow up this campaign. Full of all that characterizes the great man
and greater captain, it not only excites our wonder, but puzzles us
by alternate hypercaution and intellectual daring. After a series of
movements extending over four months, during which he made constant
use of field fortifications, much in our own manner, Cæsar absolutely
overthrew the Pompeians (Apr. 46) at Thapsus and dispersed the
coalition to the winds. Only the two sons of Pompey in Spain remained
in arms.
An interesting fact in the campaigns of Cæsar, which cannot but
impress itself on every American soldier, is the handiness of Cæsar’s
legionaries in the use of pick and shovel. These entrenching tools,
quite apart from fortifying the daily camp, seemed to be as important
to the soldiers as their weapons or their shields. They often dug
themselves into victory.
Cæsar’s manœuvring and fighting were equally good. The reason for
some of his entrenching in Africa is hard to comprehend. Cæsar was a
fighter in his way, but he often appeared disinclined to fight, even
when his men were in the very mood to command success. He was so clever
at manœuvring that he seemed to desire, for the mere art of the thing,
to manœuvre his enemy into a corner before attack. His pausing at the
opening of the battle of Thapsus has led to the remark, that while he
prepared for the battle, it was his men who won it.
We cannot follow the Spanish campaign, which ended Cæsar’s military
exploits, and which came to an end in the remarkable battle of Munda
(March, 45), of which Cæsar remarked that he had often fought for
victory, but here fought for life. We must treat of the man rather than
events.
Cæsar had the inborn growth of the great captain. In the Civil War
he made fewer errors than in the Gallic. His operations, all things
considered, were well-nigh faultless. He first chose Rome, the most
important thing, as his objective; and in sixty days, by mere moral
ascendant, had got possession of the city. The enemy was on three sides
of him, Spain, Africa, Greece,--he occupying the central position, and
this he was very quick to see. He turned first on Spain, meanwhile
holding Italy against Pompey by a curtain of troops. Spain settled,
he moved over to Epirus with a temerity from which arch luck alone
could save him, and, victorious here, he turned on Africa. There is
no better example in history of the proper use of central lines on
a gigantic scale, though the first recognition of these is often
ascribed to Napoleon. In these splendid operations Cæsar made repeated
errors of precipitancy,--at Dyrrachium, at Alexandria, in Pontus, in
Africa. That, despite these errors, he was still victorious in so
comparatively short a time he owes to his extraordinary ability, his
simply stupendous good fortune, and the weakness of his opponents. In
success he was brilliant, in disaster strong and elastic, and he never
weakened in _morale_. It is adversity which proves the man.
Cæsar’s strategy was broad and far-seeing. His tactics were simple.
There are no striking examples in his battles of tactical formations
like Epaminondas’ oblique order at Leuctra, Alexander’s wedge at
Arbela, Hannibal’s withdrawing salient at Cannæ. Though the military
writers of this age exhibit great technical familiarity with tactical
formations, Cæsar was uniformly simple in his.
From the beginning Cæsar grew in every department of the art of war.
In strategy, tactics, fortification, sieges, logistics, he showed
larger ability at the end of his career than at any previous time. To
his personality his soldiers owed all they knew and all they were.
Remarkable for discipline, _esprit de corps_, adaptiveness, toughness,
patience in difficulty, self-denial, endurance and boldness in battle,
attachment to and confidence in their general, his legionaries were an
equal honor to Cæsar and to Rome, as they were a standing reproach to
Roman rottenness in their splendid soldierly qualities. Pompey’s men
could not compare with them in any sense, and this was because Pompey
had made his soldiers and Cæsar had made his.
It is difficult to compare Cæsar with Alexander or Hannibal. To make
such comparison leads towards the trivial. A few of their marked
resemblances or differences can alone be pointed out and their
elemental causes suggested; every one must draw his own conclusions;
and the fact that the equipment of all great captains is the same will
excuse apparent iteration of military virtues.
In Cæsar we can hardly divorce the ambitious statesman from the
soldier. We are apt to lose sight of the soldier proper. The two
characters are closely interwoven. In the motive of his labors Cæsar is
unlike Alexander or Hannibal. He strove, in Gaul, solely for military
power; after Pharsalus he worked with the ample power so gained.
Hannibal was never anything but a subordinate of the Carthaginian
Senate. He had no political ambition whatever; military success was
his sole aim,--and this on patriotic grounds. Alexander was a monarch
_ab initio_. His inspiration was the love of conquest,--the greed of
territory, if you like,--but as a king.
As a soldier, pure and simple, however, Cæsar is on an equal
level, though his campaigns were markedly colored by his political
aspirations. Hannibal employed state-craft to further his warlike
aims; Cæsar waged war to further his political aims. Alexander had
no political aims. His ambition was to conquer; to make Macedon the
mistress of the world, as he was master of Macedon, and then to weld
his dominions into one body. Rome was already mistress of the world,
and Cæsar aimed to make himself master of Rome. Each had his own motive
as a keynote.
In personal character, Hannibal stands higher than either. His
ambition was purely for Carthage. The man was always merged in the
patriot. He himself could acquire no greatness, rank, or power. His
service of his country after Zama abundantly demonstrates Hannibal’s
lofty, self-abnegating public spirit. What we know of Hannibal is
derived, mostly, from Roman writers, and these are, of necessity,
prejudiced. How could they be otherwise towards a man who for more
than half a generation had humiliated their country as she had never
been humiliated before? But in reading between the lines you readily
discover what manner of soldier and man Hannibal truly was.
In personal attributes there is a divinity which hedges Alexander
beyond all others. Despite his passionate outbursts and their often
lamentable consequences, a glamour surrounds him unlike any hero of
antiquity. But in mind and will, in true martial bearing, all are
alike. The conduct of each is equally a pattern to every soldier.
Alexander and Hannibal, from youth up, led a life of simplicity and
exercise, and their physique, naturally good, became adapted to their
soldier’s work. Cæsar led the youth of a man of the world, and was
far from strong at birth. He did, however, curb his pleasure to his
ambition until he grew easily to bear the fatigue incident to the
command of armies. Throughout life he accomplished a fabulous amount of
work, mental and physical. His nervous force was unparalleled.
Intelligence and character were alike pronounced in all. But Alexander,
perhaps because young, exceeded Cæsar and Hannibal in fire and in
unreasoning enthusiasm. Hannibal possessed far more quiet wisdom, power
of weighing facts, and valor tempered with discretion. In Cæsar we
find an unimpassioned pursuit of his one object with cold, calculating
brain-tissue, and all the vigor of body and soul put at the service of
his purpose to control the power of the Roman State.
In each, the will and intellect were balanced, as they must be
in a great captain. But in Alexander, the will often outran the
intelligence; in Hannibal the intelligence occasionally overruled the
ambition to act; in Cæsar it was now one, now the other bias which
took the upper hand. Alexander was always daring, never cautious.
Hannibal was always cautious, often daring. Cæsar was over-daring and
over-cautious by turns. This is perhaps to an extent due to the ages of
each, already given,--twenty-five, thirty-four, fifty-two.
Each possessed breadth, depth, strength, energy, persistent activity
throughout his entire career, a conception covering all fields, a brain
able to cope with any problem. But in Alexander we find these qualities
coupled with the effervescence of imaginative youth; in Hannibal, with
singular sharpness and the judgment of maturity; in Cæsar, with the
cool circumspection of years, not unmixed with a buoyant contempt of
difficulty. The parts of each were equally developed by education. By
contact with the world, perhaps most in Cæsar, least in Hannibal.
The high intellectuality of each is shown in the art of their plans,
in their ability to cope with difficult problems in the cabinet, and
work them out in the field; and with this went daring, caution, zeal,
patience, nervous equipoise which never knew demoralization. With
each, intelligence and decision grew with the demand. They were never
overtaxed. Strain made them the more elastic. Danger lent them the
greater valor. With each the brain worked faster and more precisely
the graver the test. As good judgment became more essential, the power
rightly to judge increased.
All were equally alert, untiring, vigilant, indomitable. But Alexander
was sometimes carried beyond the bounds of reason by his defiance of
danger. Cæsar’s intellectual powers were more pronounced in action
than his physical. Hannibal was always, in brain and heart, the true
captain; remembering his own necessity to his cause, but remembering
also the necessity to his cause of victory.
All maintained discipline at an equal standard. All fired their
soldiers to the utmost pitch in battle, all encouraged them to bear
privation in the field, and bore it with them. All equally won their
soldiers’ hearts. All obtained this control over men by scrupulous
care of their army’s welfare, courage equal to any test, readiness
to participate in the heat and labor of the day, personal magnetism,
justice in rewards and punishments, friendliness in personal
intercourse, and power of convincing men. In what they said, Alexander
and Hannibal spoke plain truths plainly. Cæsar was a finished orator.
But Cæsar and Alexander were so placed as readily to win the hearts of
their soldiers. That Hannibal did so, and kept the fealty of his motley
crowd of many nationalities throughout thirteen long years of disaster,
is one of the phenomenal facts of history.
Personal indifference or cruelty can not be charged to the score of
any one of them. Each gave frequent proof that he possessed abundant
human kindness. But Alexander was at times guilty of acts of brutality
and injustice. To Hannibal’s score can be put nothing of the kind.
Cæsar by no means lacked the gentler virtues. Some claim for him
sweetness equal to his genius. But he exhibited in the Gallic War a
singularly blunted conscience. Peoples were mere stepping-stones to his
progress. Judging Cæsar solely by his Commentaries, there goes hand in
hand with a chivalrous sense a callousness which is unapproached. He
could be liberal in his personal dealings, and unfeeling in his public
acts; magnanimous and ruthless.
Alexander and Hannibal were ambitious, but nobly so, and generous
withal. Cæsar’s ambition more nearly approached egotism. It was not
honor, but power, he sought. Not that he loved Rome less, but Cæsar
more. He was satisfied with nothing falling short of absolute control.
But Cæsar was not miserly. Gold was only counted as it could contribute
to his success. He was as lavish in the use of money as he was
careless of his methods of getting it. So far as native generosity was
concerned, Cæsar had, perhaps, as much as either of the others.
All three were keen in state-craft. But Alexander was frankly
above-board in his dealings. Hannibal kept his own counsel, making
no promises, nor giving his confidence to any. Cæsar was able, but
underhanded whenever it suited his purpose. He could be more cunning
in negotiation than even Hannibal, because less scrupulous. He could
exert his powers to bring the wavering or inimical to his side in a
most faultless manner.
In accomplishing vast results with meagre means, Alexander apparently
did more than either Hannibal or Cæsar in contending with savage or
semi-civilized tribes. The difference in numbers between Alexander and
the Oriental armies he met was greater, as a rule, than anything Cæsar
had to encounter. Yet on one or two occasions, as at the River Axona
and at Alesia, Cæsar was faced by overwhelming odds. Hannibal was the
only one of the three who contended against forces better armed, better
equipped, more intelligent, and ably led. There is no denying him the
palm in this. Of all the generals the world has ever seen, Hannibal
fought against the greatest odds. Alexander never encountered armies
which were such in the sense the Macedonian army was. Cæsar fought
both against barbarians and against Romans. Not equal, perhaps, in his
contests with the former, to Alexander, he was never taxed with such
opponents as was Hannibal. It is difficult to say that either of the
three accomplished more with slender means than the other. To reduce
them to the level of statistics savors of the absurd.
Each devoted scrupulous care to the welfare of his troops; to feeding,
clothing, and arming them; to properly resting them in winter quarters,
or after great exertions, and to watching their health.
Fortune, that fickle jade, was splendid Alexander’s constant companion
from birth till death. She forsook patient Hannibal after Cannæ, and
thenceforward persistently frowned upon him. She occasionally left
brilliant Cæsar,--but it was for a bare moment,--she always returned
to save him from his follies, and was, on the whole, marvellously
constant to him. Cæsar had to work for his results harder than
Alexander, but in no sense like overtaxed, indomitable Hannibal.
Alexander will always remain essentially the captain of fortune;
Hannibal essentially the captain of misfortune; Cæsar holds a middle
place. But had not Fortune on many occasions rushed to the rescue Cæsar
would never have lived to be Cæsar.
In common, these three great men obtained their results by their
organized system of war, that is, war founded on a sound theory,
properly worked out. To-day war has been reduced to a science which all
may study. Alexander knew no such science, nor Hannibal, nor indeed
Cæsar. What was, even so late as Cæsar’s day, known as the art of
war, covered merely the discipline of the troops, camp and permanent
fortifications, sieges according to the then existing means, and the
tactics of drill and battle. What has come down to this generation,
as a science, is a collection of the deeper lessons of these very men
and a few others, reduced during the past century by able pens to a
form which is comprehensible. Even Napoleon was annoyed at Jomini’s
early publications, lest the world and his opponents should learn his
methods of making war. We must remember that these captains of ancient
times were great primarily, because they created what Napoleon calls
_methodical_ war. It was many centuries before any one understood the
secret of their success. But Gustavus, Frederick, and Napoleon guessed
the secret and wrought according to it; and they made war in a day when
busy brain-tissue could analyze their great deeds for the benefit of
posterity.
Whatever their terms for designating their operations, the great
captains of antiquity always had a safe and suitable base; always
secured their rear, flanks, and communications; always sought the most
important points as objective, generally the enemy himself; and divided
their forces only for good reasons, at the proper moment again to bring
them together. We find in their history few infractions of the present
maxims of war, and only such as a genius is justified in making,
because he feels his ability to dictate to circumstances.
War to these men was incessant labor, never leisure. It was only at
rare intervals that they stopped even to gather breath; and this done,
their work was again resumed with double vigor. Each sought to do that
which his enemy least expected, and looked upon no obstacle as too
great to be overcome. Each was careful in the matter of logistics,
according to the existing conditions. Each was careful to husband his
resources, and each had a far-reaching outlook on the future.
Their battle tactics were alike in suiting the means at disposal to the
end to be accomplished, and in originating new methods of disturbing
the equipoise of the enemy, and thus leading up to his defeat. Each of
them used his victories to the utmost advantage. Even Hannibal, though
after the first few years he was unable to reap any harvest from his
wonderful work, continued his campaign by occasional minor victories,
while awaiting recognition from home. Alexander’s and Cæsar’s victories
were uniformly decisive; from the very nature of the case, Hannibal’s
could not be so.
In field fortification, Cæsar was far in the lead. At a long interval
followed Hannibal. Alexander made little or no use of this method of
compelling victory. In regular sieges, both Alexander and Cæsar stand
much higher than Hannibal, who disliked siege-work, and whose only
brilliant example is the siege of Saguntum. Nor can this compare with
Tyre or Alesia.
What has Cæsar done for the art of war? Nothing beyond what Alexander
and Hannibal had done before him. But it has needed, in the history
of war, that ever and anon there should come a master who could point
the world to the right path of methodical war from which it is so easy
to stray. Nothing shows this better than the fact that, for seventeen
centuries succeeding Cæsar, there was no great captain. There were
great warriors,--men who did great deeds, who saved Europe “from the
civil and religious yoke of the Koran,” as Charles Martel did at Tours,
or England from the craft of Rome and power of Philip, as Howard,
Drake, and Hawkins did in destroying the Invincible Armada,--men who
changed the course of the world’s events. But these were not great
captains, in the sense that they taught us lessons in the art of war.
The result of their victories was vast; but from their manner of
conducting war we can learn nothing. Cæsar is of another stamp. In
every campaign there are many lessons for the student of to-day. In his
every soldierly attribute, intellectual and moral, we find something to
invite imitation. It is because Cæsar waged war by the use of purely
intellectual means, backed up by a character which overshadowed all
men he ever met, that he is preëminent. Conquerors and warriors who
win important battles, even battles decisive of the world’s history,
are not, of necessity, great in this sense. All that Alexander, or
Hannibal, or Cæsar would need in order to accomplish the same results
in our day and generation which they accomplished before the Christian
era, would be to adapt their work to the present means, material, and
conditions. And it is the peculiar qualification of each that he was
able, under any and all conditions, to fuse into success the elements
as they existed, by the choice from the means at hand of those which
were peculiarly suited to the bearings of the time.
Cæsar was tall and spare. His face was mobile and intellectual. He
was abstinent in diet, and of sober habit. As a young man he had been
athletic and noted as a rider. In the Gallic campaigns he rode a
remarkable horse which no one else could mount. He affected the society
of women. His social character was often a contrast to his public
acts. He was a good friend, a stanch enemy, affable and high-bred. As
a writer, he was simple, direct, convincing; as an orator, second to
no one but Cicero. No doubt Cæsar’s life-work was as essential in the
Roman economy as it was admirably rounded. But that he was without
reproach, as he certainly was without fear, can scarcely be maintained.
In leaving Cæsar, we leave the last great captain of ancient times,
and, perhaps, taking his life-work,--which it has been outside my
province to dwell upon,--the greatest, though not the most admirable,
man who ever lived.
LECTURE IV.
GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.
The difference between ancient and modern war is marked, but each is
consistent with its conditions. In ancient days the armies of the
civilized nations were, as a rule, not large. They could generally find
sustenance wherever they moved, and were obliged to carry but a few
days’ victuals with them. Their arms were such as not only to remain
long fit for service, but they were capable of repair upon the spot.
Neither trains to carry provision and munitions of war were essential,
nor were fortified magazines for storing such material indispensable.
The communications of an army had not to be so zealously guarded, for
it could live and fight even if cut off from its base. On the other
hand, battle was of the utmost importance, and the average campaign was
but a march toward the enemy, a fight in parallel order and a victory.
A battle, owing to the short reach of missiles, was of necessity a
more or less hand-to-hand affair. First, the light troops, archers and
slingers, advanced like our skirmishers, and opened the fighting. They
were then withdrawn and the lines of heavy foot advanced to within
javelin-throwing distance. Here they stood and cast their weapons,
with which the light troops kept them supplied. At intervals groups
from the lines closed and the sword was used, or the heavy thrusting
pike. Meanwhile the cavalry, always on the extreme wings, charged the
enemy’s, and if it could defeat it, wheeled in on the flanks of the
infantry, and this was apt to decide the day.
Once engaged, an army could not be withdrawn, as ours can be, under
cover of artillery, whose effective use from a distance over the heads
of the troops will retard or prevent the enemy’s pursuit. Battles
joined had to be fought out to the end. Thus victory to one was wont to
be annihilation to the other. From these simple conditions it resulted
that the art of war among the ancients was confined to tactical values,
or the evolutions of the battle-field, and to fortification and sieges.
The ancient military writings cover no other ground. There was little
conception of what we call strategy,--the art of so moving armies over
the surface of a country, that as great damage may be done to the enemy
as by battle, or at least that the enemy may be so compromised as that
a victory over him shall be a decisive one. Strategy among the ancients
was mere stratagem,--except in the case of the great captains, whose
genius made them instinctively great strategists,--for strategy is the
highest grade of intellectual common sense. But the reasons for their
strategic movements were not understood by the rest of the world, as
we to-day can understand them. Others could not make sound strategic
manœuvres, and saw good in naught but battle.
From the time of Cæsar, there was a gradual decline in the conduct of
war, which he had so highly illustrated, and there is little, from
his age to the invention of gunpowder, which has any bearing of value
on the art to-day. There were great generals, there were victories
which changed the destinies of the world, but there was no method in
war. For many centuries there was scarcely such a thing as an art of
war. One might say that matters had reverted to the old lack of system
antedating Alexander.
After the discovery of gunpowder, however, there was a gradual
revival of scientific, or more properly methodical war, to which
Gustavus Adolphus gave the first intellectual impulse. The conditions
of warfare became completely changed by this great invention in
ballistics. Fire-arms soon got into the hands of both infantry and
cavalry. Artillery took on importance and effectiveness. Armies became
numerically stronger, depots for the needful materials were established
in their rear, and the troops were supplied from these depots. This
gave great importance to fortifying cities and to fortresses, in which
lay the provision and war material; and as rations, ammunition, and
stores had to be constantly brought from these depots to the front,--to
maintain the communications of the armies with these strong places
became a matter of primary importance. For the loss of a great fortress
containing the army’s bread and powder and ball might have as grave
consequences as the loss of a battle,--even graver.
Armies, thus handicapped with heavier trains and with artillery-parks,
had less mobility, and were less fitted for pursuit than the old
troops, which could carry all they needed with them. Victories were
not followed up. Battles became less decisive, and dropped into
disuse. Strategy had not yet grown to be the science to which Gustavus
Adolphus, Frederick, and Napoleon elevated it, and generals had not
learned so to manœuvre as to make battles decisive when won. Modern
war, up to the days of Gustavus, was clumsy and lacking in general
scheme. It was rescued from this condition by the Swedish king.
In antiquity, battle was the head and front of all things, and armies
were nimble and independent. In the seventeenth century, on the
contrary, the construction and preservation of fortresses and depots,
and communications with these, and operations against the enemy’s
fortresses, depots, and communications became the chief study. This
marked difference in system is shown in the military literature of
these periods. Any operations which lay outside of battle, the ancients
ascribed to the genius of the general, assumed that these were subject
to no method and could not be learned; or at best classed them with
mere stratagems. Their object and scope was not understood, nor indeed
considered of much moment. Older military literature does not in any
sense deal with them. Soldiers believed that the whole success of war
was based on courage and hard knocks.
But about the time of the Thirty Years’ War, theorists had discovered
that there were other means, besides battle, of doing harm to the
enemy, and began to reduce such principles as they could extract
from the campaigns of the better generals to a permanent form. Their
work was, however, only partial and scrappy. The most important
document which first saw the light was Frederick the Great’s “General
Principles” or “Instructions” for his officers. This paper, written
before the Seven Years’ War and purposely kept in manuscript for a
number of years, was finally pirated and published in 1753. It is a
noble work. But Frederick’s deeds inspired a yet more important one.
Serving in the Austrian army as captain of light-horse, was a young
Welshman of good education and extraordinary perceptions,--Henry Lloyd.
This man’s inquiring mind was not satisfied with the half-and-half
explanations which the then military books could give him of the
wonderful exploits of the great king, whose marvellous manœuvres he had
so often followed on scouting duty, and from which the Austrian army
so bitterly suffered. He began, with singular critical and analytical
equipoise, to study these and seek reasons for their success. He served
under Ferdinand of Brunswick in the two last campaigns of the Seven
Years’ War, and later was Major-general in the Russian army. He spent
his old age in Belgium. Among other works he wrote a “Military and
Political Memoir,” which contains the important part of his labors. It
was issued in 1780. The ground-work of our modern science of war is
therein laid down. It is the first work except Frederick’s in which
are exhibited in comprehensible form the true principles of conducting
war. It is here first pointed out that intellect and moral forces
combined go to make up the great captain. But what Lloyd says is mainly
applicable to his own times and conditions, and is not exhaustive.
He remarks that the art of war is, like all other art, founded on
well-settled rules, to which alterations can only be made in the
application. He divides it into two parts, the material, which can be
subjected to rules, and another part which one can neither limit nor
teach, and which consists in the ability to apply the rules of the
first part quickly and correctly under rapidly changing and various
circumstances. This is the same distinction which Napoleon draws
between what he aptly calls the terrestrial and the divine in the art.
The divine part, says he, embraces all that comes from the moral forces
of the character and talents, from the power to gauge your adversary,
to infuse confidence and spirit into the soldier, who will be strong
and victorious, feeble and beaten, according as he thinks he is. The
terrestrial part comprises the arms, entrenchments, orders of battle,
all which consists in the mere combination or use of everyday matters.
It is singular that this analysis of the art of the great soldier is
but one hundred years old, that only within three generations has been
recognized its divine part.
The man, however, who has crowned with his acumen the written science
of war is Jomini, who first became known as a young staff-officer
of Marshal Ney’s, and died but twenty years ago. Though he rose to
the highest rank in the Russian service, his career was as military
adviser rather than as commander. His chief value to us lies in his
having collated and so plainly set down the lessons taught by the great
captains, particularly Frederick and Napoleon, that all may now study
them, as during the last century they could not be studied,--were not
even understood. He has enabled us to assimilate the history of war.
Other military students have since written with equal profundity. But
our debt to Jomini is not lessened thereby.
Gustavus Adolphus was born in Stockholm, in 1594, the son of Charles
IX. of Sweden, but at a time when his cousin Sigismund III. occupied
the throne. He was a lad of great personal beauty and strength, and
his naturally bright mind profited well by the careful training he
received. His boyhood showed all the traits of strong earnestness,
clean-cut courage, and deep religious feeling which later characterized
the Champion of the Reformation. Of naturally quick temper, in youth a
blow followed a word; in manhood he acquired exceptional self-control.
His education was largely under the direction of Oxenstiern, who later
became his prime-minister, general, and greatest intimate. He was a
constant reader, an eloquent and persuasive speaker, a poet whose
religious verses are still sung in every household of Sweden. He was
famous in athletics, and was both a noted rider and able swordsman.
The Swedish government was an elective-hereditary monarchy. Sigismund,
a bigoted Catholic, was deposed when Gustavus was ten years old, and
the lad’s father made king. Sigismund retired to Poland, of which
country he was also monarch, and remained thereafter the sworn enemy of
Charles and of Gustavus.
The young prince went through every step of military rank and
training, and at seventeen was declared of age and participated with
distinguished credit, and rare skill and enterprise, in a war with
Denmark. In this same year (A.D. 1611) his father died, and, against
all precedent, Gustavus Adolphus was chosen king. During his reign of
twenty-one years, his people and he were an unit. The world has never
seen a more striking instance of mutual love and confidence, justly
earned, between king and people.
Sweden was at war with Denmark, Russia, and Poland. Gustavus determined
to finish each war, if possible, singly and in turn. From the very
beginning he showed in his military conduct that his intelligence
ranged beyond the conventional method of conducting war, which he
had been taught with so much care. In 1613 he conquered a peace with
Denmark.
In 1614 he began war with Russia, making, meanwhile, a two years’ truce
with Poland. In this year, and the next, he drew the attention of all
Europe to his bold invasion of the Russian territory, at the point
where now stands St. Petersburg, and was for the first time approached
by the Protestants of Germany with a request to aid their cause. In
1617 Gustavus conquered a peace with Russia.
Sigismund would not hear of peace, but under the curious habit of that
day, of conducting war on a sort of picnic system, he did extend the
existing truce for five years. At its expiration, in 1621, active war
began. Gustavus, with twenty-four thousand men, making Livonia his
objective, landed at Riga, took the place, and from thence as a base,
conducted his campaign.
Sigismund represented the Catholic element; Gustavus was the most
prominent Protestant prince, and as such received many urgent petitions
for help from the harassed Protestants of Germany. The eventual
necessity of taking a share in the religious war was clearly foreseen
by Sweden. With the advice and consent of the ministry and people,
Gustavus reorganized the army and created a distinctly national force
of eighty thousand men, and based its discipline and character on the
most intelligent foundation. Sweden thus acquired the first modern
regular military organization. Other nations, as a rule, whenever a war
was imminent, raised troops from the crowds of soldiers of fortune,
with whom all Europe swarmed, and discharged them after its expiration.
The Swedish organization consisted of one-quarter regular troops for
service out of the country, and three-quarters landwehr for the defence
of the Fatherland and for filling gaps in the regulars. Recruitment was
by districts on a well-settled plan of quotas. The troops in service
and the militia were scrupulously drilled and taught, uniformed, well
armed and fed, and regularly paid.
The Polish war lasted until 1629, the campaigns being annual, but
varying in scope. Gustavus invariably took the offensive, and was
habitually successful. He was always head and front of every movement,
full of intelligence, activity, and courage, ran constantly great
personal danger, and suffered from frequent wounds. No character of
modern history exhibits the qualities of the ancient hero so distinctly
as Gustavus Adolphus. Cautious and intelligent to a marked degree in
his campaigns, he was in battle a very Alexander for audacity and
chivalrous bearing. Always in the thickest of the fray, he led his men
in person, and, despite the protests of his generals and suite, could
never be restrained from exposing himself at the point of greatest
importance. He was unwisely reckless of his own safety, though never
losing for a moment his cool calculation or power to gauge the
situation. His army partook his enthusiasm, as it shared his earnest
religious feeling, and was devotedly attached to him as man and king.
In 1628, Wallenstein, the distinguished commander of the Imperial
forces, had won great success in northern Germany, and had laid siege
to Stralsund. The German Protestants again turned with piteous appeals
to Gustavus. The king well knew that sooner or later Protestant Sweden
must, in self-defence, enter the lists against the Catholic Empire, and
threw a Swedish garrison into Stralsund, which, gallantly backed by the
citizens, held the place against Wallenstein’s best efforts.
In the campaign of 1629, the Emperor sent an army to reënforce the
Poles. This the more impelled Gustavus to actively embrace the
Protestant cause. At the end of this campaign, Sigismund, largely under
the influence of Richelieu, was prevailed on to agree to a six years’
truce. France could not openly join the Protestants in their struggle
against the Catholic Emperor, but was glad to see Gustavus do so in
order to check such success by Ferdinand as might disturb the balance
of power.
This truce ended the Swedish-Polish wars, which had lasted eight years
(1621–1629). The king had conducted six campaigns against Poland, and
two against Denmark and Russia. These were to him what the Gallic
campaigns were to Cæsar, a practical school of war, in which both he
could learn his trade, and his army be disciplined and toughened. He
had observed the practical working of his new army organization, and
learned the weak points of the existing system of war. Comparison
showed the advantages of his own conceptions. In the three remaining
years of his life he moulded these into a new art, which pointed the
way back to a system full of intellectual and moral force as well as
more consonant with common Christian charity. The king, during this
period, gleaned varied experience. He learned the habits of different
leaders and armies, and how to adapt his own ways to theirs. His
infantry underwent a good schooling. His cavalry he gradually improved
by imitating the admirable Polish horsemen, and by adding discipline
and _ensemble_ to it. His artillery gave a good account of itself.
Under Gustavus’ careful eye, every branch of the service during these
campaigns grew in efficiency. Equipment, arms, rationing, medical
attendance, drill and discipline, field-manœuvres, camp and garrison
duty, reached a high grade of perfection. Each year added to the skill
and self-poise of the Swedish forces. They were distinctly superior to
any European army of the day.
Not only had Gustavus learned to know his generals and men, but these
had gauged their king. There had arisen between them that mutual
confidence, esteem, and affection which only great souls ever evoke
and keep. And as there was no danger or labor of which Gustavus did
not bear with them his equal part, so the Swedish army saw in its king
a harbinger of victory, a sure protection in disaster. Gustavus’ own
character, his bravery, religious ardor, honesty, and humanity infused
itself into every soldier in the Swedish ranks.
Gustavus Adolphus was now in a position to afford efficient aid to the
German Protestants. The efforts of the latter had been noble, but far
from systematic, and they were fast being driven to the wall. The war
had been marked by barbarities characteristic of religious struggles,
and by the adoption of happy-go-lucky plans of campaign. Armies had
moved into a province, not because it was strategically important,
but because it was rich in plunder. Manœuvres were conducted without
reference to base or communications. There was no aim beyond temporary
expediency in any one’s movements. A fortress would arrest the march of
an army, which would sit down before it without the remotest conception
of whether its capture would have an effect on the general result.
Lack of system was supplemented by religious fanaticism, which made
everything redolent of atrocity. No general but was characterized by
some fearful vice. Gustavus Adolphus was destined to change all this in
a short two years.
As a soldier Gustavus is less noted for his battles than for the
conduct, in 1630, 1631, and 1632, of a campaign on one broad,
intelligent, far-seeing plan, from which he never swerved. This of
itself was an entire novelty in this period of shallow operations. In
lieu of detailing one of his manœuvres, I will give a hasty sketch of
his entire plan of campaign in Germany. This was the first crisply
strategic series of operations since the days of Cæsar.
It was clear that if the Emperor overcame the Protestants of Germany
he would turn on Sweden. To await attack was the preference of the
Swedish ministry. But Gustavus pointed out the advantages of an
immediate offensive war in Germany. The struggle would be kept from
Swedish territory. The Emperor would not gain so much headway as to lay
Sweden open to an exhausting war. They owed a duty to their oppressed
Protestant brethren. He convinced his people and gained their support.
He took with him fifteen thousand men. This number he expected to, and
did in fact, largely increase in Germany by recruitment and the aid of
Protestant allies.
Gustavus landed in Rügen in June, 1630. He added five thousand men
of the Stralsund garrison to his army, and took possession of all
the islands at the mouths of the Oder. He then captured Stettin and
extended his grasp right and left along the coast. He proposed to base
himself on the Baltic, as Alexander had done on the Mediterranean.
He took and garrisoned many seaboard towns and others lying not far
inland. His army, reënforced by German allies and recruitment, soon
rose to twenty-five thousand men, and he established a firm footing
on the Oder, which river was an excellent line for operations into
the heart of Germany. The imperial Field Marshal Conti, who had ten
thousand men in his front, was unable to interfere with his operations.
Garrisoning Stettin, Gustavus moved into Mecklenburg to encourage its
Protestant princes, further secure his base, increase his supplies and
forces, and gain active allies. He relied on collecting seventy to
eighty thousand men. Count Tilly had been put in supreme command of the
Imperial forces, in place of Wallenstein, against whom the Catholic
princes had conceived a marked prejudice. This resulted in disbanding
a large part of Wallenstein’s soldiers, who considered themselves
only in his personal service, and left Ferdinand for the nonce but
unimportant armies to oppose to the Swedish advance.
[Illustration: CAMPAIGN OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS IN GERMANY, 1630–1–2]
Having substantially rescued Mecklenburg from the Imperialists,
Gustavus left a force to operate there and returned to Stettin,
purposing to move with the main army up the Oder (Dec., 1630). The
end of the year was at hand. The Imperial army in his front was in
no condition for a winter campaign, either from habit, discipline,
or equipment. For this very reason Gustavus moved against it, his
own troops being well clad and equipped, and inured to cold. He soon
drove the enemy back to the line of the Warta, and then sat down in
an entrenched camp at Bärwalde till he could recruit his army up to
a standard equal to larger operations. The Protestant Elector of
Brandenburg meanly refused his help to the cause, but Catholic France
subsidized the king, and the Protestants called an assembly at Leipsic
to agree on new measures of defence.
Tilly now appeared on the scene, thirty-four thousand strong. The king
had but twenty-five thousand men and would not risk a battle, neither
would Tilly assault the Bärwalde camp. But Gustavus had a better
scheme in his head. He planned to draw Tilly into Mecklenburg, and
then quickly return and capture the enemy’s line on the Warta. He made
forced marches into that province, fell on the Imperialists and again
defeated them. Tilly, alarmed, followed with twenty-four thousand men.
Gustavus, by occupying the direct road, had compelled Tilly to resort
to a long circuit. When Tilly was fairly on the way, Gustavus moved
rapidly and secretly back to Stettin, advanced on Frankfort, took it
after a seventeen days’ siege, and thus broke up the enemy’s line.
The Warta fully protected his left flank in advancing into Germany.
Gustavus had completely baffled his adversary. But Tilly took bitter
revenge by the capture of Magdeburg, which, though it cannot perhaps be
charged to Tilly himself, was given up to sack, and suffered a horrible
fate at the hands of his unbridled soldiery. Gustavus had been unable
to cross neutral Brandenburg to its assistance.
The barbarous treatment of Magdeburg enraged instead of disheartening
the Protestants. Two able allies, Hesse Cassel and Saxony, joined the
king’s train. And by able manœuvring, restless energy, and clear-headed
method he swept Pomerania and Mecklenburg of Imperial troops.
The pusillanimous conduct of the Elector of Brandenburg, under the plea
of neutrality, finally constrained Gustavus to dictate terms to him. He
marched on Berlin and compelled the Elector to allow free passage to
the Swedes over his territory, as well as to refrain from damaging the
Protestant cause, if he would not help it.
Thus in one year from his landing in Germany, Gustavus had occupied
Pomerania and Mecklenburg, and had neutralized Brandenburg (June,
1631). By holding the lines of the Havel, the Spree, and the Oder, he
controlled all the territory to the confines of Poland and Silesia, and
with a sufficiency of reënforcements he could safely advance on central
Germany.
Tilly invaded Hesse Cassel. Gustavus tried a diversion to lure him away
from his new ally. Count Pappenheim opposed him at the Elbe. Gustavus
stole a clever march on him, crossed and went into an entrenched camp
near Werben. These entrenched camps, it will be perceived, were a
feature of this period which Gustavus still affected. They continued in
use until he himself in part, and Frederick wholly, demonstrated that
entrenchments could be taken by vigorous assault. At this time it was
considered the height of foolhardiness to attack entrenchments.
Tilly vacated Hesse Cassel and moved on the Swedish camp. Gustavus
had but ten thousand men there; Tilly had twenty-seven thousand; but
the king waylaid Tilly’s isolated cavalry, handled it roughly, and
returned safely to camp. Tilly, despite his excess of force, did not
care to risk an assault. Large reënforcements soon reached both armies.
Gustavus’ diversion had accomplished all he sought. By defending
the line of the Elbe and Havel, he prevented Tilly from making any
compromising advance.
Tilly was ordered to Saxony. The cruelties here perpetrated by his
troops made the Elector all the better ally. He offered Gustavus the
support of his army of eighteen thousand men. The king again crossed
the Elbe, at Wittenberg, and joined the Saxons at Düben. This gave
him a force of forty thousand men, of which twelve thousand were
cavalry. Tilly had arrived at Leipsic, and promptly advanced to meet
Gustavus with thirty-two thousand under the colors. But, at the battle
of Breitenfeld, he suffered a stinging defeat, with the loss of six
thousand men.
Tilly’s soldiers were in action much what their commander was,--a
stiff, dense, unwieldy mass, still hide-bound in the Spanish school,
which won its way by mere weight of men in the old phalangial manner.
The Swedes were quite a different body. Gustavus had reduced the number
of their firing-ranks to three, placed reliance on their individual
intelligence, which was marked, and had drilled his musketeers, as
well as his gunners, to fire as much more rapidly than the enemy, as
Frederick’s men with their iron ramrods, or the Prussians of this
generation with their needle-guns. In this, his first great battle, the
result was, despite the ignominious flight of the Saxons, predetermined
by the condition of the respective armies and their leaders. Here, as
on all occasions, the king, in personal conduct, was an Alexander in
audacity; a Cæsar in intelligence.
Gustavus Adolphus had been only fourteen months in Germany, but he had
by his broad, prescient, cautious, and well-digested scheme, crowned
by the victory of Breitenfeld, completely changed the prospects of the
Protestants. He had got a firm footing in northern Germany, where he
now held most of the strong places. He had secured his communications
with Sweden by the possession of the sea. He had grown in strength by
his treaties with Hesse Cassel and Saxony, and by accessions of troops
from all quarters. He had gained enormously in moral weight, and his
army in _aplomb_ and confidence. His operations had been slow and
cautious,--though rapid when measured by the times,--but they had been
sure, and were justified by the event. The late victory had placed him
on a totally different footing. The Catholic party no longer looked
down on the “Snow-king,” as Wallenstein had jeeringly called him.
The Imperial army had lost in spirit and organization that which he
had gained. Its present retreat to the Weser opened the heart of the
Emperor’s possessions to the king’s advance. The former’s authority had
received its first severe blow, and the Protestants of north and west
Germany, lately cowed into submission, now rose and joined Gustavus’
standard. These fourteen months had shifted the moral superiority from
the Catholic to the Protestant cause. But the work was far from ended.
It required the same wise and cautious action, coupled with vigor and
intelligence, to complete what had been so well begun.
The advisers of Gustavus strongly urged an advance on Austria,
believing that such a course would bring Ferdinand to terms. But so
far Gustavus’ successes had come from a systematic plan of campaign
which embraced the whole of Germany in its scope. He had secured each
step and had risked nothing unnecessarily. He saw the chances pointed
out, but he also saw that if he advanced south, his right rear would
be threatened by Tilly, who had, after his defeat, retired toward the
Rhenish provinces and there made a new base. The king preferred his
own plan of first gaining a firm footing in western Germany. He held
interior lines and saw that he could operate against his enemies in
detail. To complete his plan would secure him from the lower Elbe to
the middle and upper Rhine, and he could then turn against Bavaria and
Austria from the west, as his advisers would now have him do from the
north, and with distinctly better effect. Meanwhile the Saxons could
operate towards Silesia and Bohemia to secure Gustavus’ left in his
advance, and Hesse Cassel could hold head against Tilly on Gustavus’
right. The scheme was wise and far-sighted, took into calculation all
the political and military elements of the situation, and was based on
broad, sound judgment. For seventeen hundred years, no one had looked
at war with so large an intelligence.
It may be said that war is a game of risks. But to play a gambler’s
game was not Gustavus’ _forte_. When the occasion demanded, he could
disregard every danger. What he has taught us is method, not temerity.
His mission was to abolish the Quixotism of his day.
The Saxon Elector, with a mixed army over twenty thousand strong,
accordingly marched into Bohemia and Silesia (Oct., 1631) and pushed
the Imperialists back from Prague on Tabor. Everything promised
success. But all at once the Elector appeared to lose heart, arrested
his advance, and opened negotiations with the Emperor, who, seeing that
threats had not succeeded, had tried conciliation. This part of the
operation was nullified.
Gustavus moved to Würzburg. Franconia joined the Protestant cause as
Thuringia had already done. Tilly, having recovered from his late
defeat, and his present position being no threat to Gustavus, marched
southerly. With allies he collected over fifty thousand men and
proposed to seek battle. But the Elector of Bavaria, fearful for his
territory, kept Tilly on the defensive.
Gustavus was now firmly established on the Main, and in Thuringia and
Franconia, and he presently moved down the river to fully secure the
Rhineland, leaving a sufficient force opposite Tilly in Franconia. His
men marched along both banks with the baggage on boats. He crossed the
Rhine, took Mainz and transformed it into an allied fortress.
Germany was metamorphosed. The allies had one hundred and fifty
thousand men in the field. Recruiting was lively. All Protestants
were united in sentiment, purpose, and efforts. France was helpful
in keeping the Catholic princes along the Rhine in a condition of
neutrality, while Gustavus lay in a central position between the
Emperor and these same princes. Bavaria was an uncertain element. The
Emperor had a total of but eighty thousand men, and of these the bulk
were protecting the Danube instead of carrying desolation into the
Protestant territory.
Gustavus now concentrated on the middle Main to the number of
forty-five thousand men and marched on Nürnberg, where he was received
with enthusiasm. Tilly crossed the Danube and took up a position over
against Rain, behind the Lech, with forty thousand effective. From
Nürnberg Gustavus marched to Donauwörth, also crossed the Danube and
sent out a detachment to take Ulm.
The king was daring at the proper time. His whole campaign so far
had been cautious and systematic, neglecting no point in his general
scheme. He was now face to face with the army he had driven from
northern and western Germany, and was ready for battle. He could not
draw Tilly from his entrenched camp; and he determined to impose on
him by boldly crossing the river in his front and attacking it,--then
simply an unheard-of proceeding. He believed that the moral advantage
to be gained by a stroke of audacity would more than compensate for
the danger, and danger was to Gustavus an incentive. He erected a
battery of seventy-two guns on the left bank of the Lech, opposite
Rain, and under cover of its fire set over a portion of the troops
in boats, built in two days a bridge and a bridge-head, led over the
infantry, and sent the cavalry up stream to ford the river above the
enemy’s position (April, 1632).
Tilly and the Elector of Bavaria sought too late to interrupt these
fearless proceedings. They issued from their camp with a select body
of troops and attacked the Swedes, who were backing on the Lech. But
the crossfire of the admirably posted Swedish batteries was severe; the
Swedish infantry held its own, and the cavalry rode down upon their
flank. In this obstinate combat Tilly was mortally wounded. His second
in command suffered a like fate. The Imperial troops lost heart and
took refuge within their breastworks. Oncoming darkness forestalled
pursuit. But Gustavus had gained his object. The Imperial army had lost
_morale_ and organization, and his own had gained in abundant measure.
This is the first instance of forcing the passage of a wide and rapid
river in the teeth of the enemy.
The Elector retired to Ratisbon. The Swedes took possession of many
towns in Bavaria, including Munich. But the country population was so
hostile that a permanent occupation seemed a waste of energy; Gustavus
retired to Ingolstadt.
A disturbing element now arose in a curious suspicion of the ulterior
motives of Gustavus. Both Protestants and Catholics--Germans
alike--began to fear that the king might be tempted by his successes
to make himself autocrat of Germany. This feeling soon begot a
half-heartedness among the king’s supporters. Richelieu feared that
Gustavus, instead of Ferdinand, was reaching a point which might
make him dangerous to France. The Emperor, meanwhile, went back
to Wallenstein, who had been so successful before his deposition
from command. Wallenstein made hard terms, but he was a power which
could no longer be disregarded. Ferdinand, to gain his aid, gave him
uncontrolled authority over the army he should raise and all its
operations.
Wallenstein began recruiting. He soon had forty thousand men. The
Catholics grew braver when the reconciliation of Wallenstein and the
Emperor became known. This, added to the suspicions of the allies,
constrained Gustavus to cease his successful offensive for a cautious
holding of what he already had.
Wallenstein marched into Bohemia, the Saxons offering no resistance,
and took Prague. He then moved to Bavaria and joined the Elector.
Seeing that Wallenstein by this manœuvre had gained a position from
which he might endanger his communications with northern Germany,
Gustavus marched summarily on Nürnberg, which was the “cross-roads” of
that section of the country, to head Wallenstein off from Saxony, and
ordered his outlying detachments to concentrate there. He had under
his immediate command but one-third of Wallenstein’s total, and could
not assume the offensive. But he would not abandon southern Germany
until driven from it. He entrenched a camp near the town. Despite
superior numbers, Wallenstein did not attack. He could not rise above
the prejudice of the day. He deemed hunger a more efficient ally than
assault. He sat down before Nürnberg (July, 1632). The small-war
indulged in generally ran in favor of the king, who patiently awaited
reënforcements, having provided two months’ provisions for his army and
the town. Oxenstiern meanwhile collected thirty-eight thousand men and
advanced to the aid of his chief. Gustavus marched out to meet him.
Wallenstein did not interfere. The king was prepared for battle should
he do so. It was a grave military error that Wallenstein took no means
to prevent this junction.
Soon after Gustavus had received his reënforcements, he determined to
bring Wallenstein to battle, for famine had begun to make inroads in
Nürnberg and in both camps. He accordingly marched out and drew up in
the enemy’s front, but Wallenstein could not be induced to leave his
entrenchments (Aug., 1632). Failing in this, the king at last resorted
to an assault on the Imperial fortifications. But after a gallant
struggle he was driven back with a loss of two thousand men. He has
been blamed for this assault. He deserves rather the highest praise for
his effort to show the world that gallantry and enterprise are among
the best characteristics of war. After him, Frederick proved that good
troops can more often take entrenchments than fail. His grenadiers
were accustomed to assault works held by two to one of their own
number,--and take them, too, under the king’s stern eye.
After ten weeks of this futile struggle, and much loss on both
sides, Gustavus, fairly starved out by want of rations and of battle,
determined to regain his communications with northern Germany. He left
five thousand men in Nürnberg, and marching past Wallenstein’s camp
unchallenged, moved to Würzburg. He had but twenty-four thousand men
left. Wallenstein, who again neglected an admirable chance of falling
on Gustavus’ flank, soon after marched to Bamberg with the relics of
his army, reduced to about the same number (Sept., 1632).
Learning that Wallenstein had left Nürnberg, Gustavus, in the belief
that his opponent would seek repose for a period, marched back to the
Danube to resume the thread of his own work. The Nürnberg incident
had interrupted, not discontinued his general plan. Wallenstein, as
he had anticipated, sat quietly in Bamberg. He had shown singular
disinclination to come to blows with the king, and exhibited far less
activity, though, in truth, Wallenstein was both a distinguished and
able soldier.
On other fields the Swedes and allies were generally successful, but
finally thirty thousand Imperialists concentrated in Saxony, and
Wallenstein joined them and took Leipsic. Gustavus (Sept., 1632) feared
for his Saxon alliance, without which he could scarcely maintain
himself. He again put off the prosecution of his general scheme, to go
where lay the most imminent danger. Oxenstiern again advised a summary
march on Vienna, but Gustavus wisely rejected the advice. At that day
Vienna had not its importance of 1805. The king left a suitable force
in Bavaria (Oct., 1632), marched northward and entrenched a camp at
Naumberg. Wallenstein turned to meet him. His evident duty was to
concentrate and attack. But, according to the idea of that day, he
parcelled out his army in detachments, sending Pappenheim to Halle
while he marched to Merseburg. The Imperial general had blundered
into a cardinal position in the midst of the allies. The Swedes,
twenty-seven thousand strong, were at Naumberg, the Saxons, with
eighteen thousand, at Torgau, and ten thousand allies were marching up
the left bank of the Elbe. Wallenstein’s manifest operation was to fall
on each of these forces singly--on Gustavus first, as the strongest.
But he appeared to lose both head and heart when facing Gustavus.
He grew weaker as Gustavus grew more bold. He made no use of his
advantage, even if he comprehended it.
The king had got possession of the crossing of the Saale, but
Wallenstein stood between him and the Saxons. Gustavus’ generals
advised a manœuvre to join these allies, but the king was instinct with
mettle, and determined upon action.
The ensuing battle of Lützen has little which is remarkable, beyond
the fiery ardor which ended in the death of Gustavus Adolphus. It
was a battle in simple parallel order, but the better discipline of
the Swedish army and the greater mobility of its organization showed
as marked superiority over Wallenstein’s masses as the Roman legion,
for the same reason, had shown over the Macedonian phalanx eighteen
centuries before. The Swedes won the victory, but they lost their king,
and Germany its protector and champion.
As is the case with all great captains, Gustavus Adolphus gave the
impulse to every action while on the theatre of operations of the
Thirty Years’ War. For many centuries war had been conducted without
that art and purpose which Alexander, Hannibal, and Cæsar so markedly
exhibited. But in the operations of the Swedish king we again find the
hand of the master. We recognize the same method which has excited
our admiration in the annals of the noted campaigns of antiquity, and
from now on we shall see generals who intelligently carry forward what
Gustavus Adolphus rescued from the oblivion of the Middle Ages.
The operations of the king, from his appearance in Germany, showed
his exceptional genius for war. He had no military guide, except his
study of the deeds of the ancients, for modern war up to his day had
altogether lacked depth and directness. During the first fourteen
months, he secured his foothold in the northern coast provinces,
in a most clear-witted and orderly manner. Every circumstance was
against him. He had weak forces to oppose to the Emperor’s might.
The half-hearted, fear-ridden Protestants yielded him little aid and
comfort; yet he reached his goal, step by step, seizing and holding
strong places at key points, and accumulating supplies where he could
count on their safety. But once, during his entire German campaign,--at
Nürnberg,--was he out of rations, and this without ravaging the
country. He carefully secured his communications with the base he
had established and with Sweden, and never manœuvred so as to lose
them. He gradually strengthened himself with allies and recruits.
Unlike the armies of the day, who behaved as if the populations of
the countries they traversed were of less consequence than the beasts
of the field, Gustavus dealt with them in a spirit of kindliness and
Christian charity which won them over to his side. He kept his troops
under strict discipline, and by supplying all their wants and paying
them regularly, could rightfully prohibit marauding and plunder. He
understood how to avoid battle with an enemy too strong to beat, how to
lead him astray on the strategic field, how to manœuvre energetically
against an enemy, his equal or inferior in strength; how to make the
tactical mobility of his troops and his own ardor on the battle-field
tell; how to improve victory; and how to heighten and maintain the
morale of his troops under victory and defeat alike.
When, by his cautious and intelligent plan, the king stood firmly
planted between the sea, the Oder, and the Elbe, with flanks and rear
well guarded, he at once altered his conduct. He crossed the Elbe and
boldly attacked the enemy, adding to his strength by beating him;
and, leaving the allies to protect his flanks and communications, he
advanced with spirit and energy. In thirty days he had established
himself firmly on the Main; in little over four months more he had
moved down the Main, and had possessed himself of or neutralized the
whole middle Rhine; and in twelve weeks thence had crossed the Danube,
beaten the enemy at the Lech, and occupied almost all Bavaria. Thus
in less than nine months (Sept., 1631 to June, 1632) he had overrun a
much larger territory than he had previously gained in fourteen, and
had added vastly to his standing. He had been bold and decisive, and
yet never lacking in the method and caution which were his guide. He
had established himself as firmly in southern Germany as previously in
northern.
At the height of his reputation and success, he was now ready to attack
Austria from the west. But the policy of France changed, his allies
became suspicious, and Wallenstein moved toward his rear. The scene
changed. Gustavus had no longer the security of whole-hearted allies to
connect him with Sweden, and his policy at once shifted to the cautious
one he had first shown. The thing for him to consider, if he was to be
thrown on his own resources, was first and foremost his communications.
With forces inferior to Wallenstein’s, he acted on the defensive. With
the accessions which made his army equal to Wallenstein’s, he again
went over to an offensive at that day startling in its audacity. This
failing, and provision having given out, he moved, not to Bavaria, but
to the Main, to protect his line of retreat, which naturally traversed
Hesse Cassel. So soon as Wallenstein retired to Bamberg, Gustavus,
leaving a lieutenant to observe him, felt at liberty to take up his
old thread in Bavaria. He had gauged his opponent aright. When again
Wallenstein, by his Saxon affiliations, threatened, and this time more
seriously, the king’s allies, and remotely the security of his advanced
position, Gustavus again resorted to decisive operations. His march to
Saxony and his attack on the enemy at Lützen were equally bold, rapid,
and skilful.
Herein is a peculiarly intelligent adaptation of work to existing
conditions. From the king’s landing to the passage of the Elbe, while
securing his base, a cautious, but by no means indecisive policy; from
crossing the Elbe to Nürnberg, while moving upon the enemy, a singular
quickness and boldness, but by no means lacking in intelligent and
methodical caution; from Nürnberg to Lützen an alternation from caution
to boldness as circumstances warranted. After Cæsar’s day, Gustavus was
the first who firmly and intelligently carried through a campaign on
one well considered, fully digested, broad, and intelligent plan, and
swerved therefrom only momentarily and partially to meet exigencies
which could not be foreseen. The advice of his most trusted aides was
often opposed to what he did; but they could not see as far as he saw.
Each variation had its definite object, which attained, the general
plan was at once resumed. There was an entire freedom from blind
subservience to the rules of war as then laid down; an intelligent
sequence and inter-dependence of movement on a plan elastic enough
to meet unexpected obstacles; these produced a perfectly systematic
whole, in which the unity of plan was never disturbed; and with this
broad scheme went hand in hand a careful execution of detail upon which
depended the success of the whole. His occupation remained firm; his
victualling was sufficient to his needs; his movements accomplished
what he sought.
In pursuance of his cautious plan he neglected no essential fortress or
city; he held the passages of important rivers by erecting bridge-heads
or occupying towns; he kept upon his line of operations suitable
detachments, or met descents upon it by a prompt movement towards the
enemy. He so managed the division of his forces as not to endanger his
strength nor to lose the ability to concentrate. He used his allies
for the work they could best perform. He kept the main offensive in his
own hands, generally so ordering that his lieutenants should act on the
defensive, unless they outnumbered the enemy, and then made them push
with vigor. He uniformly did the right thing at the right moment.
The secret of Gustavus’ success lay in his breadth of plan, in his
constancy to the work cut out, and in his properly adapting boldness or
caution to the existing circumstances. As with Alexander, Hannibal, and
Cæsar, it was the man himself whose soul illumined his work; and this
man had those transcendent qualities which produce incomparable results
in war, whenever they coexist with great events. Equal as monarch and
soldier, he united in his one person the art of both. His nation and
army were devoted to him soul and body. His motives were the highest
and purest which have ever inspired a great captain; his pursuit of
them was steadfast and noble, open-handed and above-board, prudent and
intrepid. In weighing his intelligence, sound judgment, strong will,
elevated sentiment, energy and vigilance, he is properly put in the
highest rank. But though his record cannot perhaps vie with the others
in the brilliancy of his tactics, in the splendor of his victories,
in extent of conquest, in immensity of ambition, in the surmounting
of all but impossible natural or artificial barriers, in resisting
overwhelming disaster with heroic constancy,--still, if we look at the
man, upon the results of what he did, at the purposeless and barbarous
nature of war as conducted up to his day; if we weigh the influence
of his short campaigns upon all modern war, and consider how his
nobility of character and his life-work has made toward civilization,
we cannot rate Gustavus Adolphus too high. His pointing out the
importance of key-points in holding a country; the value of feeding an
army by careful accumulation of supplies, instead of by ravaging every
territory it enters; the advantage of a carefully drawn plan extending
over the entire theatre of operations; and the propriety of waging war
in a more Christian and civilized spirit,--marks the first step towards
the modern system. Gustavus Adolphus must be called the father of the
modern art of war; and is acknowledged as the one of all others who
re-created systematic, intellectual war, and stripped war of its worst
horrors.
After his death, his lieutenants tried fruitlessly to carry on his
methods. They retained a part of what he gave them; in many things they
slid back into the old ruts; and war (except with masters like Turenne,
Prince Eugene, and Marlborough) resumed its character of isolated
raids, until Frederick once more elevated it and stamped upon it a
permanence which it cannot now lose.
Among his enemies, during the remainder of the Thirty Years’ War there
was nothing but the extremity of barbarous methods, over which it is
well to draw a veil.
Gustavus Adolphus was tall, handsome, and strong. In his later years
he grew so heavy that none but well-bred horses of great bone and
endurance could carry him. But he rode fast and far. His bearing was
noble, full of simple complaisance, and genuine. His quick mind robbed
work of effort; his ideas were clear, and he expressed them crisply
and in happy words; his voice was rich, his manner convincing.
A remarkable memory served to retain the names and merits of his
subordinate officers and numberless worthy men. He maintained stern
discipline in a just and kindly spirit. His religious fervor was as
honest as his courage was high-pitched. The Bible was his constant
companion and guide. He began all his acts with unaffected prayer,
and ended with thanksgiving. The Christian virtues never resided in a
more princely soul. He was sober, of simple habit, and upright life.
Towering over all around him in mind and heart, and inflexible withal,
he was yet modest and ready to weigh the opinions of others. A tireless
worker, he demanded equal exertion from his officials and aides. But
in his intercourse with all men were kingly condescension and dignity
joined. He was more than monarch,--he was a man.
What has Gustavus Adolphus done for the art of war? In a tactical
sense, many things. Before him, not a few noted generals had introduced
improvements naturally growing out of the introduction of gunpowder.
Gustavus made various changes towards greater mobility. The cumbrous
armies of the day were marshalled in battalia, which were huge, dense
squares or phalanxes of deep files of musketeers and pikemen mixed,
awkward and unwieldy. The recruiting of the day assembled many men
of many minds, and the three arms worked at cross-purposes. Gustavus
began by reducing the pikemen to one-third the entire infantry, and
later (1631) formed whole regiments of musketeers alone. He lightened
the musket, did away with the crutch-rest, till then used in firing,
introduced wheel-locks, paper cartridges, and cartridge-boxes. He
taught his men a much quicker manual of aims. The times and motions
of loading and firing had been some one hundred and sixty; Gustavus
reduced them to ninety-five, which sounds absurdly slow to us to-day.
But his men none the less vastly exceeded the enemy in rapidity of
fire. He lightened the guns of his artillery, and made the drill of
other arms conform to its manœuvres, so that his whole army worked with
one purpose. His batteries became active and efficient. In the Thirty
Years’ War he generally had a preponderance of artillery over the
Imperialists.
To secure better fire, Gustavus reduced his musketeers to six ranks,
which to fire closed into three. This it was which principally gave
it so much greater nimbleness of foot. The troops were well armed and
equipped, and uniformed for the first time. Few wagons were allowed per
regiment, and effectual discipline prevailed. Severe regulations were
enforced. The behavior of the Swedish troops was the marked reverse of
that of Wallenstein’s and Tilly’s forces. Service and seniority alone
secured promotion; nepotism was unknown. The force Gustavus created was
the first truly national regular army.
So much for discipline and tactics, which, in themselves, are of minor
value. But what has given Gustavus Adolphus unfading reputation as a
captain is the conduct, for the first time in the Christian era, of
a campaign in which the intellectual conception overrides the able,
consistent, and at times brilliant execution. From a mere contest of
animal courage he had raised war at one step to what it really should
be, a contest in which mind and character win, and not brute force.
Little wonder that Gustavus, landing at Rügen to attack the colossal
power of the German Empire with his 15,000 men, should have excited
the laughter of his enemies, and have provoked Wallenstein to exclaim
that he would drive him back to his snow-clad kingdom with switches.
It appeared like Don Quixote riding at the windmills. But his action
was in truth founded on as substantial a calculation as Hannibal’s
march into Italy, and was crowned with abundant results. The method of
his work could not but win. And Gustavus did one thing more. He showed
the world that war could be conducted within the bounds of Christian
teachings; that arson, murder, rapine, were not necessary concomitants
of able or successful war; that there was no call to add to the
unavoidable suffering engendered of any armed strife, by inflicting
upon innocent populations that which should be borne by the armies
alone. In both these things he was first and preëminent, and to him
belongs unqualifiedly the credit of proving to the modern world that
war is an intellectual art; and the still greater credit of humanizing
its conduct.
LECTURE V.
FREDERICK.
While Frederick II., or as Prussians love to call him “Friedrich der
Einzige,” had been brought up by a military martinet, and had gone
through every step by which a Hohenzollern must climb the ladder
of army rank, he had, in youth, exhibited so little aptitude for
the pipe-clay of war, that few suspected how great his military
achievements were to be. But Prince Eugene, then the greatest living
soldier, whom young Frederick joined with the Prussian contingent in
1733, is said to have discovered in him that which he pronounced would
make him a great general. Frederick had been a keen student of history,
and there is nothing which trains the high grade of intellect and the
sturdy character which a good leader must possess as birthright, as
does the study of the deeds of the great captains, for out of these
alone can that knowledge be gleaned, or that inspiration be caught,
which constitutes the value of the art. The camp and drill-ground,
however essential, teach but the handicraft, not the art, of war.
We all know how Frederick’s youth was passed: how his father sought to
mould him into the ramrod pattern of a grenadier, and how he avoided
the system by constant subterfuge. He was an intelligent, attractive
lad, witty and imaginative, and possessed a reserve of character
which grew abreast with his father’s harshness. As we know, Frederick
William’s brutality finally culminated in an attempt to punish by
death the so-called desertion of his son, to which his own cruelty
and insults had impelled him. The succeeding years of retirement were
full of active work, and no doubt gave Frederick the business training
which in after life made him so wonderful a financier, as well as the
opportunity for study; and perhaps the tyranny of his father added to
his constancy and self-reliance as well as to his obstinacy, than which
no character in history ever exhibited greater. Frederick William,
before his death, understood his son’s make-up. Frederick ascended the
throne in 1740, and from that day on he was every inch a king.
Frederick had certain hereditary claims to Silesia, in the validity
of which he placed entire confidence, though no doubt his belief was
colored by the desirability of this province as an appanage of the
Prussian crown. Maria Theresa was in the meshes of the Pragmatic
Sanction imbroglio. Frederick determined to assert his claims. He was,
thanks to his father, equipped with an army drilled, disciplined, and
supplied as none since Cæsar’s day had been, unconquerable if only the
divine breath were breathed into it, and a well-lined military chest.
Giving Austria short shrift, he marched across the border and in a few
weeks inundated Silesia with his troops. From this day until 1763, when
it was definitely ceded to him, Frederick’s every thought was devoted
to holding this province. Nothing could wrest it from his grasp.
His first campaign, however, brought him near discomfiture.
Field-Marshal Neipperg quite out-manœuvred Frederick, who, under the
tutelage of old Field-Marshal Schwerin, had failed to carry out his own
ideas, and cut him off from his supply-camp at Ohlau. Seeking to regain
it, the Prussian army ran across the Austrians at Mollwitz (April
10, 1741). Here, but for the discipline of the Prussian infantry,
the battle would have been lost, for the Prussians were tactically
defeated. But these wonderful troops, drilled to the highest grade of
steadiness, had no idea of being beaten. To them rout and disaster on
all sides were as nothing. They stood their ground like a stone wall,
and their five shots to two of the enemy’s finally decided the day. The
young king had been hurried off the field by Schwerin when defeat was
imminent.
This campaign taught Frederick that in war he must rely only on
himself. He never after allowed one of his generals to hamper his
movements. Counsel was neither asked nor volunteered. Frederick was
distinct head of the Army and State.
[Illustration: MAP FOR SEVEN YEARS’ WAR.]
In the second campaign the king advanced, with the French and Saxons,
in the direction of Vienna. But these allies proved weak, and Frederick
was fain to abandon his project. Prince Charles made his way around
the king’s right flank and threatened his supplies. But Frederick took
prompt advantage of this manœuvre, and at the battle of Chotusitz
(May 17, 1742) inflicted a stinging defeat on the Austrians. This ended
the First Silesian War. Silesia became a Prussian province.
Frederick had learned good lessons. He had gained self-poise, and a
knowledge of the hardships of war, the meannesses of courts, and the
fact that he could trust no one but himself and his devoted legions.
He was disenchanted. War was no longer a glory, but a stern, cold,
fact. He had, however, won his point, and he proposed to maintain it,
though he must give up the delights of his attractive French Court
for the labors of his thoroughly German camp. He had found that his
own conceptions of war ranged beyond the stereotyped routine of the
Prussian army, though this indeed was not to be underrated. Silesia
became valuable to Prussia beyond the wildest dreams of its worth by
Austria, and, being allied by religion with North Germany, had every
reason to remain satisfied and faithful.
It is generally assumed that great captains are fond of war for war’s
sake, or for the lust of conquest. While often true, it was not so
with Frederick. To none of the great captains was war so heartily
distasteful. Not one was so fond of the pursuits of peace. The king had
as marked a liking for the pleasures of literature, music, art, the
companionship of clever men, and intellectual friction of all kinds,
as any monarch who ever reigned. He cordially hated the hardships
and mental strain of war. But Frederick would listen to no peace
which should not leave him in possession of Silesia. His naturally
inflexible nature could entertain no other idea. And for this he would
fight if he must.
During the two years’ peace which ensued, Frederick prepared for
the war which he knew must occur whenever Maria Theresa felt strong
enough to attempt to reconquer her lost province. He was abundantly
ready for it when it came in 1744. Austria had as allies England,
Saxony, Sardinia, and some of the lesser German States. Frederick had
France, the Emperor, the Elector Palatine, and Hesse Cassel. As usual,
Frederick opened with a sharp offensive. Prague was taken, and from
here, the French agreeing to neutralize Prince Charles, who was in the
Rhine country, the king undertook a second operation toward Vienna
(Sept., 1744). But this was equally unlucky. The French were shiftless.
Field-Marshal Traun was joined by Prince Charles, and the two drove
Frederick from his purpose. Traun would not come to battle, but worried
the king by restless manœuvring. The Prussians were fortunate to reach
Silesia without a serious disaster. Frederick had this time learned
that confederates were like broken reeds, and that he himself was his
own best ally. With the wonderful frankness which characterized him,
the king acknowledged the ability of Traun, and the good lessons he had
learned from this opponent.
Elate Prince Charles, early next year (1745), invaded Silesia with
seventy-five thousand men and descended upon its fertile plains with
flying colors, intending to march on Breslau. The king made no attempt
to stop his crossing the mountains. “If you want to catch a mouse,
leave the trap open,” quoth he, and lay in wait for him, with an
equal force, behind Striegau Water. This time he was managing his
own affairs. Prince Charles camped near Hohenfriedberg, unsuspicious
of his vicinity (June 4). Silently, all night long, and with such
precautions that he was not discovered, Frederick marched his men
across the stream. His plan was perfectly worked out. Every man and
officer had his orders by heart. Daylight had no sooner dawned than,
with a tactical beauty of precision which reads like the meter of a
martial poem, Frederick struck the Saxon left. Blow succeeded blow;
battalion after battalion was hurled upon the enemy with a rapidity
and certainty and momentum which the world had never yet seen. By
eight o’clock--barely breakfast-time--the Saxons and Austrians were
utterly overthrown. They had lost nine thousand killed and wounded,
seven thousand prisoners, seventy-six standards, and sixty-six
guns. Frederick’s whole performance--his first--had bordered on the
marvellous.
The king followed the Austrians across the mountains. By careless
detachments and small-war his forces fell to eighteen thousand men.
Prince Charles had nearly forty thousand. Frederick was about to retire
to Silesia, when Prince Charles surprised him, and appearing in rear of
his right flank at Sohr, actually cut him off from his line of retreat.
The prince had bagged his game. But not so thought Frederick, though
his army stood with its back to the enemy. “They are two to one of us,
but we will beat them yet, meine Kinder! You shall see!” exclaimed
the king, and ordered a change of front of the army by a right wheel
of over one-half circle, under a fire of artillery enfilading the
whole line. Fancy an army doing such a thing to-day! The manœuvre was
completed in perfect order. Not a man left the ranks unless shot down.
The line came into oblique order opposite the Austrian left. And no
sooner in place than the king flung his squadrons and regiments up
the heights against the Austrians, who stood curiously watching the
strange evolution. So audacious and skilful was the whole affair, and
so brilliant the Prussian fighting, that the king inflicted another
telling defeat, with loss of eight thousand men, twenty-two guns, and
twelve flags, on the Austrian army (Sept. 30). After some manœuvring,
during the winter peace was made, and Frederick kept Silesia. This was
the Second Silesian War.
Such was Frederick’s apprenticeship. He emerged from it the best
tactician the world has ever seen. As a strategist he had yet made no
great mark.
The First and Second Silesian wars were succeeded by a ten years’
peace, which Frederick used to the best advantage in military
preparations. His army became the one perfect machine of Europe.
In 1756 came the Seven Years’ War. Maria Theresa had resolved to regain
Silesia at any cost. We can barely glance at the leading events of each
year. In 1756 Frederick had Field-Marshal Brown opposed to him. He took
Dresden, and defeating Brown at Lobositz, he captured the Saxon army at
Pirna (October). The year’s end saw Saxony under Frederick’s control.
The campaign was in every sense deserving its success.
In 1757, France, Russia, and Sweden made common cause with Austria.
England was Frederick’s one reliance, and aided him with money and
an observation-army in Hanover. No less than one hundred millions of
population were arrayed against his scant five millions, including
Silesia. The allies put four hundred and thirty thousand men on foot,
Frederick one hundred and fifty thousand. Always first in the field
and retaining the offensive, Frederick advanced on Prague in three
large concentric columns, setting the sixth of May for meeting there
and beating the Austrians. So accurate were his calculations and their
execution by his lieutenants, that in the bloody battle of Prague, on
the very day set, he drove Prince Charles and Field-Marshal Brown into
the city and sat down before it.
But Field-Marshal Daun was not far off with an army of relief of
sixty thousand men. To meet this serious threat, Frederick, from his
lines at Prague, could barely detach thirty-four thousand, and in the
battle of Kolin (June 18), by a series of _contretemps_, in part due
to the king’s hasty temper,--though he had attacked and handled Daun
so roughly that the latter actually gave the order of retreat,--he was
finally beaten and obliged to raise the siege. But Frederick shone in
reverse far higher than in success. From not only the field of battle
but from the siege-lines of Prague he retired deliberately, without a
symptom of flurry, and unopposed.
He was none the less in a desperate strait. He had but seventy
thousand men available. In his front were the victorious Austrians,
one hundred and ten thousand strong, elate and confident. On his left
were approaching one hundred thousand Russians, and these not only
threatened Berlin, but an Austrian raiding party actually took the
suburbs. On his right, a French and Imperial army of sixty thousand
threatened Dresden. The king’s case was forlorn. But he utilized to
the full his central position. Turning on the French, and marching one
hundred and seventy miles in twelve days,--a remarkable performance at
that date,--he reached their vicinity at Rossbach, beyond the Saale.
Soubise outnumbered Frederick nearly three to one. But in a simply
exquisite manœuvre the king took advantage of the enemy’s error in
trying to cut him off by a wide flank march, fell upon their head of
column, and in a bare half-hour disgracefully routed them, with loss of
eight thousand men, five generals, and four hundred officers, seventy
guns, and numberless flags (Nov. 5). Having performed which feat, he at
once turned his face toward Silesia, whence came alarming rumors.
During his absence disaster had piled on disaster. The Duke of Bevern,
left in command, had been driven back to Silesia, and the Austrians had
captured Breslau and Schweidnitz, and proclaimed Silesia again part
of Her Imperial Majesty’s dominions. There is something so heroic,
so king-like, about Frederick’s conduct in the ensuing campaign,
which culminated in the battle of Leuthen, that I cannot refrain from
enlarging upon it, as typical of the man.
As the king proceeded on his way, the news of what had happened
gradually reached his ears. There had been, God wot, enough already
to tax Frederick’s manliness, and such great misfortunes were fit to
overwhelm him. But the king’s mettle was indomitable. There was not
an instant of pause or hesitation. The greater the pressure, the more
elastic his mood and his method. And he had the rare power of making
his lieutenants partake of his buoyant courage. Nothing was ever lost
to Frederick till he had played his final card. He would rather die
with his last grenadier at the foot of the Austrian lines than yield
one inch of Silesia. His men marched in light order, leaving the heavy
trains behind, and making no stops to bake the usual bread. The king
rationed his army on the country. This was not the first instance, but
it had been rare, and but partially done, and was a novelty in war. It
is curious that so clear-sighted a man as Frederick did not expand the
method, so important a factor in speed. But at that day, to sustain an
army by foraging in an enemy’s country would have been considered an
infraction of the laws of nations. The distance from Leipsic, nearly
one hundred and eighty miles, was covered in fifteen days. At Parchwitz
he met the troops brought from Breslau by Ziethen, some eighteen
thousand men. This increased Frederick’s force to thirty-two thousand
under the colors.
The king determined to attack Prince Charles whenever and wherever he
should meet him. He called together his general officers and made them
one of those stirring speeches which lead captive the heart of every
soldier: “You know, Meine Herrn, our disasters. Schweidnitz and Breslau
and a good part of Silesia are gone. The Duke of Bevern is beaten.
There would be nothing left but for my boundless trust in you and your
courage. Each of you has distinguished himself by some memorable act.
These services I know and remember. The hour is at hand. I shall have
done nothing if I do not keep Silesia. I intend, in spite of all the
rules of art, to seek Prince Charles, who has thrice our strength,
and to attack him wherever I find him. It is not numbers I rely on,
but your gallantry and whatever little skill I myself possess. This
risk I must take or everything is lost. We must beat the enemy, or
perish every one of us before his guns. Tell my determination to your
officers, and prepare the men for the work to be done. I demand of you
and them exact obedience. You are Prussians, and will act as such.
But if any one of you dreads to share my dangers, he may now have his
discharge without a word of reproach.” The king paused. A murmur and
the soldier’s look of pride were his answer. “Ah! I knew it,” said the
king, “not one of you would desert me. With your help victory is sure!”
After a few more words the king added, “I demand again exact obedience.
The cavalry regiment which does not on the instant, on orders given,
dash full plunge into the enemy, I will unhorse and make a garrison
regiment. The infantry battalion which, meet it what may, pauses but an
instant shall lose its colors and sabres, and I will cut the trimmings
from its uniform. And now, goodnight. Soon we shall have beaten the
enemy, or we shall never meet again.”
Having learned of the approach of the Prussian army, Prince Charles,
relying on his vast preponderance of forces, left his intrenched camp
at Breslau and marched out to meet the king. He felt certain of
victory, as how could he otherwise? Had not Frederick been beaten at
the last encounter and his territory overrun? He imagined that he
would stand on the defence along the Katzbach. He little knew this
iron-hearted king.
The Austrian van, with the bread bakery, was sent to Neumarkt. In his
own advance, Frederick ran across this outpost and bakery and captured
it. It was on a Sunday, and furnished the men a holiday dinner. He was
glad to learn that the enemy had come out to meet him. Prince Charles,
surprised at the Neumarkt incident, lost heart and retired to receive
battle in front of Schweidnitz Water. The Austrian army was posted at
Leuthen, extending from Nypern to Sägeschütz. The villages in its front
were prepared for defence.
The king broke up from Neumarkt long before day. He was advancing
by his right, in four columns, on the straight road toward Breslau.
Prince Charles lay across his path (Dec. 5). In Frederick’s mind was
nothing but the firm determination he had expressed to his officers.
He proposed to attack the enemy on sight, and under any conditions. In
boldness alone for him lay safety, and he never doubted himself or his
men.
[Illustration: LEUTHEN DEC. 5, 1757.]
Riding with the vanguard, as was his wont in an advance, the king
ran across a cavalry outpost at Borne. Quickly surrounding it, he
captured almost the entire body. The few who escaped carried confused
tidings back to Prince Charles, who believed the king’s party to be
only scouts. From here Frederick rode to the Scheuberg, from whence
he could see the Austrian line, and gauge its strength. Careful to
occupy this hill and a range of knolls running south from it and
parallel with the Austrian line, the king speedily perfected his plan
of battle. He was never at a loss. His vanguard he sent beyond Borne to
engage the enemy’s attention. He knew the ground well. On the Austrian
right it was swampy and unsuited to manœuvring. On their centre and
left it was open and firm. The Austrian position, in two lines, had
been well chosen, but, almost five miles long, was open to be broken
by well-concentrated columns. Nadasti held the left, Lucchesi the
right. Frederick filed his entire army off the main road in columns
of platoons to the right, behind the swelling hills, and ployed his
four columns of advance into two, which would thus become the first
and second lines when the column should wheel to the left into line.
Upon doing this they were to advance in echelon and obliquely upon
the Austrian left flank. On good manœuvring ground and with Prussian
troops, the king felt confident that he could strike a formidable blow
to the enemy.
Frederick’s officers and men had become familiar with this oblique
order of attack, from the frequency of its use on the drill-ground and
in battle. Its origin was Epaminondas’ manœuvre at Leuctra, but the
details the king himself had introduced. The cumulative effect of the
impact, acquiring power as every additional battalion came into line,
was apt to impose strongly upon the enemy. And at the actual point of
contact Frederick would have the larger force, though outnumbered three
to one.
Prince Charles occupied Leuthen belfry. He could not see beyond the
Scheuberg hills. The Prussian cavalry here he assumed to be the
Prussian right wing, as it extended some distance south of the main
road. The attention of Lucchesi was particularly called to the Prussian
van of horse, and he conceived that the Austrian right was to be
attacked in overwhelming numbers. He sent for reënforcements. These
were denied him by Daun, who was second in command; but the request was
repeated so urgently that Daun, finally convinced, moved the bulk of
the cavalry and part of the reserve from the Austrian left over to the
right, an operation requiring nearly two hours. Here was an unfortunate
blunder to begin with. To read aright your enemy’s intentions savors of
the divine.
The king’s columns soon emerged from the shelter of the Scheuberg
hills, opposite the strongly posted Austrian left. To the distant
observer they appeared a confused mass, without form or purpose. But
the king well knew how certainly, at the proper moment, his perfectly
drilled battalions would wheel into line. Eye-witnesses state that
the movement was conducted as if on parade; that the heads of columns
remained absolutely even, and that the echeloning of the line was
done at exact intervals. Each battalion followed the one on its right
at a distance of fifty paces. The line was not only oblique from its
echeloned character, but was formed at an angle to the Austrian front
as well. The Austrian left was thrown back in a crochet. It was the
salient of line and crochet which was to be the centre of attack. The
manœuvre had lasted two hours. The Austrians had not budged.
It was one P.M. A battery of ten heavy guns was placed opposite the
abatis which protected the Austrian left and shortly broke this down.
Ziethen headed his cavalry for an attack upon the extreme left of the
enemy, to complement that of the main line. Lest his own right should
be turned, he reënforced it with some infantry troops. Nadasti had been
weakened by the removal of his cavalry, but nothing daunted, he sallied
out without waiting for Ziethen’s shock, and all but countered the
Prussian blow. But though the Prussian horse, charging uphill, for a
moment wavered, the infantry on its right was undisturbed. Nadasti was
hustled back.
While the cavalry was thus advancing to the assault, the batteries
posted by the king to sustain the attack of his infantry delivered an
effective fire. Under its cover the Prussian regiments, despite the
abatis which, now quite levelled, still retained them under fire, after
a sanguinary struggle, broke the salient at its apex, while Ziethen
turned its extreme left. The crochet was thus taken in double reverse,
a battery of fourteen guns was captured, and the main line of the enemy
was outflanked. It was barely two o’clock, but the left wing of the
Austrians had been completely broken.
Prince Charles, alarmed, hurried troops and guns from the centre to the
assistance of Nadasti; but the more came up the greater the confusion.
Ziethen was taking whole regiments prisoners. Seeing that all efforts
to rally the left were useless, and that Nadasti could probably retreat
upon the centre while the Prussians were gathering for a second blow,
the prince made a desperate effort to form a new line at Leuthen.
Lucchesi moved forward by a left wheel. Nadasti fell back as best he
might. Prince Charles posted a strong force in Leuthen churchyard as a
_point d’appui_.
The Prussian army was now advancing almost north. The new Austrian line
lay at right angles to its first position, and, as drawn, encircled
the village. The Prussians, within half an hour, attacked them in this
new position. A bitter contest ensued around the churchyard and some
windmills on the hills beyond. The Austrian line was badly mixed up. In
places it was thirty to one hundred men deep, and the Prussian guns cut
great furrows through the mass. Still the resistance was so stubborn
that Frederick was compelled to put in his last man.
Meanwhile Lucchesi, whose misconception had caused the defeat of the
Austrian left, debouched with his cavalry upon the Prussian left, which
was engaging the enemy on the west of Leuthen. This diversion was well
intentioned and came near to being fatal. But the Prussian squadrons
left by the king on the Scheuberg hills, emerging from their hiding
when the Austrians had somewhat passed, fell smartly upon their flank
and rear. Lucchesi was killed and his cavalry scattered; the flank of
the enemy’s new line was thus taken in reverse, and the position soon
made untenable. Prince Charles was compelled again to beat a hasty
retreat.
A third stand was attempted at Saara, but to no effect. The defeated
Austrians poured pell-mell over the bridges spanning Schweidnitz Water.
The Prussian cavalry followed them some distance.
In this astonishing victory, which was won in three hours, the Prussian
loss was six thousand two hundred killed and wounded out of thirty
thousand men. The Austrians, out of over eighty thousand men, lost ten
thousand in killed and wounded, and twelve thousand prisoners on the
field of battle, fifty-one flags, and one hundred and sixteen guns.
Within a fortnight after, nearly twenty thousand more men, left by
Prince Charles at Breslau, were taken prisoners.
Prince Charles crossed the mountains and reached Königsgrätz with a
force of but thirty-seven thousand men, of whom twenty-two thousand
were invalided. So much alone was left of the proud army which was to
give the _coup de grace_ to doughty Frederick.
By this victory, whose like had not been seen since Cannæ, and
which is, tactically considered, distinctly the most splendid of
modern days, Frederick rescued himself from immediate disaster, and
earned a winter’s leisure in which to prepare for the still desperate
difficulties before him. The most threatening matter was the Russian
army; the one comfort a subsidy from England. Pitt was clear-sighted in
his help to the king.
Frederick is by no means as distinguished a strategist as Napoleon, but
he is a more brilliant tactician. He was not a conqueror; he was a king
defending his territory. While theoretically on the defensive, he kept
the initiative and was always the attacking party. Surrounded as he was
by enemies, his strategy was confined to selecting the, for the time,
most dangerous opponent and making an uncompromising onslaught upon
him. During the Seven Years’ War he was placed somewhat as was Napoleon
in the campaign around Paris, in 1814, and flew from one margin of his
theatre of operations to the other. But Frederick won; Napoleon lost.
It was Frederick’s fortitude, unmatched save by Hannibal, which carried
him through.
In 1758, true to his custom, Frederick took the field before the enemy
and surprised him by a march into Moravia and a sudden siege of Olmütz.
But Frederick, like Hannibal, was never happy in his sieges. This one
was interrupted by Daun from Königsgrätz, and ended in the capture of
one of Frederick’s convoys by the active partisan chieftain Laudon.
Frederick was forced to retire, but he did so deliberately and with all
his trains. One of the most remarkable qualities of the king was the
dread he inspired, even in defeat. As the Romans avoided Hannibal, so
the Austrians never ventured to attack Frederick in disaster. Napoleon
by no means rose superior to misfortune in the manner of Frederick.
In this instance the enemy attempted no pursuit, and to Daun’s utter
consternation, instead of retreating on Silesia from whence he had
come, Frederick made a forced march around the Austrian flank, captured
and established himself in Daun’s own fortified camp, and there feasted
his men on Daun’s supplies. He had absolutely checkmated the Austrian
general. This turning of the tables almost provokes a smile. (July.)
From Königsgrätz, however, Frederick was soon called against the
Russians, who had advanced as far into Prussian territory as Frankfurt.
He marched rapidly northward, met the enemy at Zorndorf, and by a
beautiful movement around their position established himself on their
communications. Then with his thirty thousand men he boldly assailed
the fifty thousand Russians strongly entrenched on Zorndorf heights
(August 25). The Russians have always been stubborn fighters, but
they now met a man who would not take less than victory. There ensued
one of those horrible butcheries which these tenacious troops have so
often suffered rather than yield. Frederick won the day, but it was
with a loss of ten thousand four hundred killed and wounded out of his
thirty thousand men,--more than one-third,--in a few hours, while the
Russians lost twenty-one thousand men and one hundred and thirty guns.
Frederick, however, from sheer exhaustion, allowed the Russians to
retire without pursuit, and singularly enough he neglected to seize
the Russian wagon-camp, which was absolutely under his hand. This was
an undoubted error; but he had eliminated the most grievous danger from
his problem, which was all he had in view.
He was now obliged to hurry back to draw Daun away from Dresden.
This he accomplished; but Daun still stood athwart his path to
Silesia, which the king must reach to relieve the siege of Neisse. In
endeavoring to elude the enemy he ran across him at Hochkirch, and,
in one of his not unusual fits of unreasonable obstinacy, sat down in
a recklessly bad position within a mile of the Austrian front. Here
he remained four days. “The Austrians deserve to be hanged if they
do not attack us here,” said grim Field-Marshal Keith. “They fear us
worse than the gallows,” replied the king. But just as Frederick was
preparing a new flank march, Daun, who had ninety thousand men, fell
upon the Prussian army of less than forty thousand, and, despite the
best of fighting, fairly wrested a victory and one hundred guns from
the king (Oct. 14). For all which Frederick retired from the field in
parade order--merely shifted his ground, as it were--and again camped
within four miles of the battle-field. “The marshal has let us out
of check; the game is not lost yet,” quoth he. From here, within a
few days, Frederick made another of his wonderful turning movements,
and this time actually seized the road to Silesia. Thus in spite of a
defeat and of numbers he had gained his point. The Austrians raised the
siege of Neisse at the mere rumor of his approach, and this campaign of
marvellous marches left the king in possession of all that for which
he had been contending.
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.
The death of the Czarina and accession of Peter III. gave Frederick
a breathing-spell. This lasted but a short while, when the death of
Peter again changed the current. But the war from now on languished,
and there finally came about a peace on the “as-you-were” principle.
Frederick kept Silesia (1763).
Frederick had not been a strong boy, but in early manhood he had
gained in physique. His life with troops had lent him a robustness
of constitution equal to any drain or strain, and his wonderful
determination drove him to ceaseless activity. Later in life he was
troubled with gout. Even when seventy-three years old, and clinging to
life by a mere thread, he never ceased daily, hourly work. His efforts
were all for the good of Prussia, and his subjects recognized what he
had done for the fatherland. Zimmermann, the Hanoverian physician, thus
describes him in his old age:--
“He is not of tall stature, and seems bent under his load of laurels
and his many years of struggle. His blue coat, much worn like his body,
long boots to above the knees, and a white snuff-besprinkled vest, gave
him a peculiar aspect. But the fire of his eyes showed that Frederick’s
soul had not grown old. Though his bearing was that of an invalid, yet
one must conclude from the quickness of his movements and the bold
decisiveness of his look, that he could yet fight like a youth. Set
up his unimportant figure among a million of men, and every one would
recognize in him the king, so much sublimity and constancy resided in
this unusual man!”
And the same writer says of his palace:--
“At Sans Souci there reigned such quiet that one might notice every
breath. My first visit to this lonely spot was of an evening in the
late fall. I was indeed surprised when I saw before me a small mansion,
and learned that in it lived the hero who had already shaken the world
with his name. I went around the entire house, approached the windows,
saw light in them, but found no sentry before the doors, nor met a
man to ask me who I was or what I craved. Then first I understood the
greatness of Frederick. He needs for his protection not armed minions
or firearms. He knows that the love and respect of the people keep
watch at the doors of his modest abode.”
Frederick’s military genius was coupled with absolute control of his
country’s resources. Though Gustavus Adolphus was both general and
king, he was not an autocrat. The constitution of Sweden prescribed
his bounds. In ancient days, only Alexander stood in the position of
Frederick, and Cæsar, during the latter portion of his campaigns.
Hannibal was always limited in his authority. Alexander, working in a
far larger sphere, had personal ambitions and a scope which Frederick
lacked, yet each worked for the good of his country. Frederick was
not a conqueror. He fought to defend his possessions. His military
education was narrow; his favorite studies and occupations essentially
peaceful. But from history he had sucked the ambition to make more
powerful the country which owed him allegiance, and he had digested the
deeds of the great commanders as only a great soldier can. Unconscious
of his own ability, necessity soon forced him to show what he was
worth. Like the Romans, he laid down one rule: Never wait for your
opponent’s attack. If you are on the defensive, let this be still of
an offensive character in both campaigns and battles. This rule he
followed through life.
Frederick most resembled Hannibal. He possessed Hannibal’s virtue,--the
secret of keeping a secret. He never divulged his plans. From the start
he was a captain, and so he remained to the end. How did he learn his
trade? Alexander and Hannibal learned theirs under Philip and Hamilcar
in Greece and Spain. Cæsar taught himself in Gaul; Gustavus Adolphus,
in Denmark, Russia, and Poland. But Frederick had had no opportunities,
except to learn the pipe-clay half of the art of war. His five years’
retirement after his court-martial must have done for him more than
any one ever knew. The fertility of his intelligence, and his power of
applying what he learned, were the foundation of his skill. His first
campaign advanced him more than a life of war does the greatest among
others. The First Silesian War was a school out of which Frederick
emerged the soldier he always remained.
That Frederick was not a warrior for the sake of conquest was well
shown in his moderation after the First Silesian War. He demanded only
his rights, as he understood them. And after the Second Silesian,
and the Seven Years’ War, he asked no more than he got at the peace
of Dresden, when he might have made far greater claims. Indeed,
Frederick’s whole life showed his preference for the arts of peace.
After the glamour of the first step had vanished, war was but his duty
to Prussia.
Frederick had assimilated the theory of war from the history of
great men; but its study was never a favorite pursuit. He was a
born soldier. As Cæsar taught himself from ambition, so Frederick
taught himself from necessity. What he did had not a theoretical but
an essentially practical flavor. He rose to the highest intellectual
and characteristic plane of the art, not by imitation of others, but
by native vigor. Frederick had by heart the lesson of Leuctra and
Mantinæa, but it required genius to apply the oblique order as he did
it at Leuthen. No man has ever so perfectly done this. No one in modern
times has had such troops.
Frederick placed war among the liberal arts. Perhaps the least
straight-laced of any captain, he held that only broad principles can
govern it; that the use of the maxims of war depends on the personality
of the soldier and the demands of the moment. His “Instructions” to his
generals set out Frederick’s whole art. It is full of simple, common
sense; apt rules, practical to the last degree. But it was the man who
made them so fruitful. Just because they do represent the man they are
interesting in this connection.
Frederick is the first writer on the military art who goes to the root
of the matter. He always wrote profusely,--most plentifully in bad
French verse,--but his “Instructions” are admirable throughout. At the
head of the paper stands this motto: “Always move into the field sooner
than the enemy;” and this was his course in campaign and battle alike.
He asked of the enemy a categorical _yes_ or _no_ to his ultimatum,
and upon _no_ struck an instant blow. So novel was Frederick’s quick
decisiveness that he was at first looked upon in Europe as a rank
disturber of the peace. But his was only the old Roman method revamped.
Underlying this rule was the good of Prussia. This motive he ground
into his men’s souls. He demanded as a daily habit extraordinary
exertions. His men must perform the unusual at all times. And “from
highest officer to last private, no one is to argue, but to obey,” says
he. A habit of obedience supplanted fear of punishment. The king’s
zeal flowed down through every channel to the ranks. He was himself
notoriously the hardest-worked man in Prussia, and his men appreciated
the fact.
Next in importance to discipline comes the care of the troops. In
his day subsistence tied armies down to predetermined manœuvres.
Frederick carried his rations with him, and in his rapid movements made
requisitions on the country, as Napoleon, a generation later, did more
fully.
Then follows the study of topography. Positions were to Frederick only
links in a chain, or resting places, but he ably utilized the lay of
the land in his battles. He taught his generals, wherever they might
be, to look at the surrounding country and ask themselves, “What should
I do if I was suddenly attacked in this position?” He enunciated many
maxims scarcely known at his day. “If you divide your forces you will
be beaten in detail. If you wish to deliver a battle bring together as
many troops as possible.” Frederick did not try to keep everything, but
put all his energy into the one important matter. His was no hard and
fast system. He did what was most apt. His battle plans were conceived
instantly on the ground. What was intricate to others was simple to him
and to the Prussian army. Frederick held Hannibal up as a pattern.
“Always,” said the king, “lead the enemy to believe you will do the
very reverse of what you intend to do.”
Minor operations are clearly treated of. In general the _motif_ of
these “Instructions” is attack and initiative. “Prussians,” said he,
“are invariably to attack the enemy.” Close with him even if weaker.
Make up for weakness by boldness and energy. He opposed passive
defence. Every one of his battles was offensive. He complained, indeed,
that he had to risk much all his life.
Frederick’s irrepressible courage under misfortune is equalled in
history only by Hannibal’s. Fortune was not his servant as she was
Alexander’s and Cæsar’s. He thanked himself for his good luck, or
rather his successes were due to the fact that he made use of good luck
when he had it, and threw no chances away. The magnificence of his
warlike deeds is traceable almost solely to his own mental power and
remarkable persistency. No danger or difficulty ever, in the remotest
degree, changed his purpose or affected his reasoning power. It was
this kept the ascendant on his side.
Despite sternest discipline, Frederick was familiar with his men,
who knew him as Vater Fritz, and bandied rough jokes with him. “The
Austrians are three to one of us, and stoutly entrenched,” said the
king, riding the outposts before Leuthen. “And were the devil in
front and all around them, we’ll hustle them out, only thou lead us
on!” answered a brawny grenadier. “Good-night, Fritz.” He gained such
personal love from his men that it seems to have been transmitted as a
heritage of the Hohenzollerns. He spurred his men to the most heroic
efforts, the most extraordinary feats of daring and endurance. As the
complement to this quality, he infused in his enemies a dread of his
presence. He utilized the mistakes they made and led them into still
others, less from any system than by doing the right thing at the right
moment. Strict rules aid only the minds whose conceptions are not
clear, and whose execution lacks promptness. Rules were as nothing to
Frederick. He observed them, not because they were rules, but because
they were grounded on truths which his own mind grasped without them.
He broke them when there was distinct gain in so doing. His operations
against six armies surrounding him was based on his own maxim, that
“Whoso attempts to defend everything runs danger of losing everything,”
and he turned from one to the other, risking much to gain much. This
idea of Frederick’s was a novel one in his century, whose warfare
consisted in an attempt to protect and hold everything by fortresses
and partial detachments. In working out this idea he is unapproached.
Frederick never allowed his enemies to carry out their own plans.
His movements imposed limitations upon them. He impressed his own
personality on every campaign. To carry his victuals with him enabled
him to outmanœuvre them, for his enemies relied exclusively on
magazines established beforehand. He could select his routes according
to the exigencies of the moment, while they must keep within reach of
their depots.
Tactically, Frederick stands highest of all soldiers. Strategically he
was less great. In strategic movements, his brother, Prince Henry,
did occasional work worthy to be placed beside the king’s. Tactically,
no one could approach him. His method of handling the three arms was
perfect.
Gustavus Adolphus had given new impulse to systematic, intelligent war.
But what he did was not understood. His imitators jumbled the old and
new systems. They placed too much reliance on fortresses and magazines,
and on natural and artificial obstacles; they made strained efforts
to threaten the enemy’s communications; they manœuvred for the mere
sake of doing something and apart from any general plan; they avoided
decisive movements and battles.
Frederick, by making his armies less dependent on magazines, acquired
a freer, bolder, and more rapid style. The allies aimed to parcel out
Prussia. Frederick met them with decision. Surrounded on all sides
by overwhelming numbers, he was compelled to defend himself by hard
knocks. And his individual equipment as well as the discipline of his
army enabled him to do this with unequalled brilliancy. In all history
there is no such series of tactical feats as Frederick’s.
Each captain must be weighed by the conditions under which he worked.
We cannot try Alexander by the standard of Napoleon. While Napoleon’s
battle tactics have something stupendous in their magnificence,
Frederick’s battles, in view of numbers and difficulties, are
distinctly finer. Frederick’s decisiveness aroused fresh interest in
battle. Manœuvres now sought battle as an object, while sieges became
fewer and of small moment.
All Europe was agog at Frederick’s successes, but no one understood
them. Lloyd alone saw below the surface. As Gustavus had been
misinterpreted, so now Frederick. Some imitated his minutiæ down to the
pig-tails of his grenadiers. Some saw the cure-all of war in operations
against the enemy’s flanks and rear. Some saw in detachments, some in
concentration, the trick of the king. Only Lloyd recognized that it all
lay in the magnificent personality of the king himself, that there was
no secret, no set rule, no legerdemain, but that here again was one of
the world’s great captains. The imitators of Frederick caught but the
letter. The spirit they could not catch. Until two generations more had
passed, and Lloyd and Jomini had put in printed form what Frederick and
Napoleon did, the world could not guess the riddle.
His own fortresses were of importance to Frederick because his enemy
respected them. But he paid small heed to the enemy’s. He could strike
him so much harder by battle, that he never frittered away his time
on sieges, except as a means to an end. The allies clung to their
fortified positions. Frederick despised them, and showed the world that
his gallant Prussians could take them by assault.
This period, then, is distinguished for the revival of battles, and of
operations looking towards battle. Of these Frederick was the author.
Battles in the Seven Years’ War were not haphazard. Each had its
purpose. Pursuit had, however, not yet been made effective so to glean
the utmost from victory. No single battle in this period had remarkable
results. Frederick’s battles were generally fought to prevent some
particular enemy from penetrating too far into the dominions of
Prussia. In this they were uniformly successful. But in the sense of
Napoleon’s battles they were not decisive. The superior decisiveness
of Napoleon’s lay in the strategic conditions and in his superiority
of forces. No battles--as battles--could be more thoroughly fought out
than Frederick’s; no victories more brilliant.
Frederick not only showed Europe what speed and decision can do in
war, but he made many minor improvements in drill, discipline, and
battle-tactics. He introduced horse-artillery. His giving scope to such
men as Seydlitz and Ziethen made the Prussian cavalry a model for all
time. He demonstrated that armies can march and operate continuously,
with little rest, and without regard to seasons. Light troops grew in
efficiency. War put on an aspect of energetic purpose, but without the
ruthless barbarity of the Thirty Years’ War.
No doubt Napoleon, at his best, was the greater soldier. But Napoleon
had Frederick’s example before him, as well as the lessons of all other
great captains by heart. Napoleon’s motive was aggressive; Frederick’s,
pure defence. Hence partly the larger method. But Frederick in trial or
disaster was unspeakably greater than Napoleon, both as soldier and man.
In the forty-six years of his reign Frederick added sixty per cent.
to the Prussian dominion, doubled its population, put seventy million
thalers in its treasury, and created two hundred thousand of the best
troops in existence. Prussia had been a small state, which the powers
of Europe united to parcel out. He left it a great state, which all
Europe respected, and planted in it the seed which has raised its kings
to be emperors of Germany. This result is in marked contrast to what
Napoleon’s wars did for France.
Whoever, under the sumptuous dome of the Invalides, has gazed down
upon the splendid sarcophagus of Napoleon, and has stepped within the
dim and narrow vault of the plain old garrison church at Potsdam,
where stand the simple metal coffins of Frederick the Great and of
his father, must have felt that in the latter shrine, rather than the
other, he has stood in the presence of the ashes of a king.
Whatever may be said of Frederick’s personal method of government, or
of the true Hohenzollern theory that Prussia belonged to him as an
heritage to make or to mar as he saw fit, it cannot be denied that he
was true to the spirit of his own verses, penned in the days of his
direst distress:--
“Pour moi, menacé du naufrage,
Je dois, en affrontant l’orage,
Penser, vivre et mourir en Roi.”
LECTURE VI.
NAPOLEON.
The career of Napoleon Bonaparte is so near to our own times and so
commonly familiar, that it is not essential to describe any of those
operations which were, within the memory of some men yet living, the
wonder and dread of Europe. In certain respects Napoleon was the
greatest of all soldiers. He had, to be sure, the history of other
great captains to profit by; he had not to invent; he had only to
improve. But he did for the military art what constitutes the greatest
advance in any art, he reduced it to its most simple, most perfect
form; and his and Frederick’s campaigns furnished the final material
from which Jomini and his followers could elucidate the science; for it
has taken more than two thousand years of the written history of war to
produce a written science of war.
I shall not touch upon Napoleon’s life as statesman or lawgiver, nor on
his services in carrying forward the results of the Revolution toward
its legitimate consequence,--the equality of all men before the law. In
these rôles no more useful man appears in the history of modern times.
I shall look at him simply as a soldier.
Napoleon’s career is a notable example of the necessity of coexistent
intellect, character, and opportunity to produce the greatest success
in war. His strength distinctly rose through half his career, and as
distinctly fell during the other half. His intellectual power never
changed. The plan of the Waterloo campaign was as brilliant as any
which he ever conceived. His opportunity here was equal to that of
1796. But his execution was marred by weakening physique, upon which
followed a decline of that decisiveness which is so indispensable to
the great captain. It will, perhaps, be interesting to trace certain
resemblances between the opening of his first independent campaign in
1796, and his last one in 1815, to show how force of character won him
the first and the lack of it lost him the last; and to connect the two
campaigns by a thread of the intervening years of growth till 1808, and
of decline from that time on.
When Napoleon was appointed to the command of the Army of Italy he
had for the moment a serious problem. In this army were able and more
experienced officers of mature powers and full of manly strength, who
looked on this all but unknown, twenty-seven years old, small, pale,
untried commander-in-chief, decidedly askance. But Napoleon was not
long in impressing his absolute superiority upon them all. They soon
recognized the master-hand.
The army lay strung out along the coast from Loano to Savona, in a
worse than bad position. The English fleet held the sea in its rear,
and could make descents on any part of this long and ill-held line. Its
communications lay in prolongation of the left flank, over a single
bad road, subject not only to interruption by the English, but the
enemy, by forcing the Col di Tenda, could absolutely cut it off from
France. The troops were in woful condition. They had neither clothing
nor rations. They were literally “heroes in rags.” On the further side
of the Maritime Alps lay the Austrian general, Beaulieu, commanding a
superior army equally strung out from Mount Blanc to Genoa. His right
wing consisted of the Piedmontese army under Colli at Ceva; his centre
was at Sassello; with his left he was reaching out to join hands with
the English at Genoa. Kellerman faced, in the passes of the Alps, a
force of twenty-five thousand Sardinians, but for the moment was out of
the business.
[Illustration: 1796.]
Napoleon spent but few days in providing for his troops, and then
began to concentrate on his right flank at Savona. He knew that his
own position was weak, but he also divined from the reports brought in
from the outposts that the enemy’s was worse. From the very start he
enunciated in his strategic plan the maxim he obeyed through life: Move
upon your enemy in one mass on one line so that when brought to battle
you shall outnumber him, and from such a direction that you shall
compromise him. This is, so to speak, the motto of Napoleon’s success.
All perfect art is simple, and after much complication or absence of
theoretical canons from ancient times to his, Napoleon reduced strategy
down to this beautifully simple, rational rule.
Nothing in war seems at first blush so full of risk as to move into the
very midst of your enemy’s several detachments. No act in truth is so
safe, if his total outnumbers yours and if you outnumber each of his
detachments. For, as always seemed to be more clear to Napoleon and
Frederick than to any of the other great captains, you can first throw
yourself upon any one of them, beat him and then turn upon the next.
But to do this requires audacity, skill, and, above all, tireless legs.
And success is predicated in all cases on the assumption that God is on
the side of the heaviest battalions.
So Napoleon, who was very familiar with the topography of Italy, at
once determined to strike Beaulieu’s centre, and by breaking through
it, to separate the twenty-five thousand Piedmontese in the right wing
from the thirty-five thousand Austrians in the left wing, so that he
might beat each separately with his own thirty-seven thousand men.
Beaulieu’s reaching out toward Genoa facilitated Napoleon’s manœuvre,
for the Austrian would have a range of mountains between him and his
centre under Argenteau, whom he had at the same time ordered forward
on Savona via Montenotte. Napoleon’s manœuvre was strategically a
rupture of Beaulieu’s centre. Tactically it first led to an attack
on the right of Argenteau’s column. The details of the manœuvre it
would consume hours to follow. Suffice it to say that by a restless
activity which, barring Frederick, had not been seen in war since the
days of Cæsar, Napoleon struck blow after blow, first upon Argenteau,
throwing him back easterly, then on Colli, throwing him back westerly,
absolutely cut the allies in two, fought half a dozen battles in scarce
a greater number of days, and in a short fortnight had beaten the enemy
at all points, had captured fifteen thousand prisoners, fifty guns, and
twenty-one flags.
Still the problem was serious. Beaulieu, if active, could shortly
concentrate one hundred thousand men. Napoleon must allow him not a
moment of breathing spell. He issued a proclamation to his troops
which sounds like the blare of a trumpet. It set ablaze the hearts of
his men; it carried dread to his enemies, and Napoleon followed it up
by a march straight on Turin. Alarmed and disconcerted, the King of
Sardinia sued for peace. Napoleon concluded an armistice with him, and
thus saw himself dis-embarrassed of the enemy’s right wing and free to
turn on the left under Beaulieu. His columns were at once launched on
Alexandria, and by his skilful manœuvres and unparalleled alertness he
soon got the better of the Austrians. He had at a stroke made himself
the most noted general of Europe. The rest of the campaign was equally
brilliant and successful.
Napoleon had shown his army that he commanded not by the mere
commission of the Directory, but by the divine right of genius. He had
not only taken advantage of every error of his opponents, but had so
acted as to make them commit errors, and those very errors of which
he had need. His army had been far from good. But “I believe,” says
Jomini, “that if Napoleon had commanded the most excellent troops he
would not have accomplished more, even as Frederick in the reversed
case would not have accomplished less.”
We recognize in this first independent campaign of Napoleon the heroic
zeal of Alexander, the intellectual subtlety of Hannibal, the reckless
self-confidence of Cæsar, the broad method of Gustavus, the heart of
oak of Frederick. But one fault is discoverable, and this, at the time,
was rather a virtue,--Napoleon underrated his adversary. By and by this
error grew in the wrong direction, and became a strong factor in his
failures.
Through the rest of this campaign, which numbered the victories of
Lodi, Castiglione, Bassano, Arcole, the most noteworthy thing except
his own personal diligence is the speed with which Napoleon manœuvred
his troops. To state an instance: from September 5 to September 11,
six days, Napoleon’s men fought one pitched battle and two important
combats and marched, Masséna eighty-eight miles, Augereau ninety-six
miles, and the other corps less distances. He was far from being
uniformly lucky. He had many days of serious backsets. But whenever
luck ran in his favor, he seized it and made it useful; when against
him, he gamely strove to stem its tide. If Fortune frowned, he wooed
her unceasingly till she smiled again.
The campaign which began in April, 1796, really lasted till April,
1797. Napoleon pushed the Austrians out of Italy and well back towards
Vienna. His triumphs culminated in the brilliant victory of Rivoli,
and his success at the truce of Leoben. At Rivoli, with thirty
thousand men, Napoleon defeated the enemy and captured twenty thousand
prisoners. The men who had left Verona and fought at San Michele on
the 13th of January, marched all night to Rivoli, there conquered on
the 14th, and again marching to Mantua, some thirty miles, compelled
Provera to lay down his arms on the 15th. Napoleon could rightfully
boast to have equalled Cæsar in speed of foot.
The men of the Revolution had cut loose from eighteenth century methods
of warfare by rising en masse and putting the personal element into the
scale. But it was reserved for Napoleon to substitute a new method for
the old. From Nice to Leoben he showed the world what modern war can
do. He made himself independent of magazines, as Frederick had done
but rarely. With a smaller army he always had more men at the point
of contact. This was Napoleon’s strongest point. He divined what his
enemy would do, not from his tent but from the saddle, seeing with his
own eyes and weighing all he saw and heard. He was every day and all
day long in motion; he rode unheard-of distances. He relied on no one
but himself, as, with his comparatively small army, he could well do;
and correctly seeing and therefore correctly gauging circumstances, he
had the courage to act upon his facts. He sought battle as the result
of every manœuvre. The weight of his intellect and his character were
equally thrown into all he did. And his abnormal ambition drove him
to abnormal energy. In this his first campaign and in one year, with
moderate forces, he had advanced from Nice to within eighty miles of
Vienna, and had wrung a peace from astonished Austria.
Napoleon next undertook the Egyptian campaign. His ambition had grown
with success. But matters in France were not in a condition of which
he could personally avail, and he believed he could increase his
reputation and power by conquests in the East. His imagination was
boundless. Perhaps no great soldier can be free from imagination, or
its complement, enthusiasm. Napoleon had it to excess, and in many
respects it helped him in his hazardous undertakings. At this time he
dreamed himself another Alexander conquering the Eastern world, thence
to return, as Alexander did not, with hordes of soldiers disciplined
by himself and fanatically attached to his person, to subjugate all
Europe to his will. The narration of this campaign of sixteen months
may be made to sound brilliant; its result was miscarriage. It is full
of splendid achievements and marred but by one mishap,--the siege of
Acre. But the total result of the campaign was failure to France,
though gain to Napoleon, who won renown, and, abandoning his army when
the campaign closed, returned to Paris at a season more suited to his
advancement. Napoleon’s military conduct in this campaign shows the
same marvellous energy, the same power of adapting means to end, of
keeping all his extraordinary measures secret, the better to impose on
the enemy by their sudden development, the same power over men. But the
discipline of the army was disgraceful. The plundering which always
accompanied Napoleon’s movements--for, unlike Gustavus and Frederick,
he believed in allowing the soldier freedom beyond bounds if only he
would march and fight--was excessive. The health of the army was bad;
its deprivations so great that suicide was common to avoid suffering
which was worse. And yet Napoleon, by his unequalled management, kept
this army available as a tool, and an excellent one.
Napoleon now became First Consul. The campaign of 1800 was initiated
by the celebrated crossing of the Alps. This feat, of itself, can no
more be compared, as it has been, to Hannibal’s great achievement,
nor indeed to Alexander’s crossing the Paropamisus, than a Pullman
excursion to Salt Lake City can be likened to Albert Sidney Johnston’s
terrible march across the Plains in 1857. Napoleon’s crossing was
merely an incident deftly woven into a splendid plan of campaign. From
Switzerland, a geographical salient held by them, the French could
debouch at will into Italy or Germany. Mélas, the Austrian general
in Italy, had his eyes fixed upon Masséna in Genoa. A large reserve
army was collected by Napoleon in France, while Moreau pushed toward
the Danube. Mélas naturally expected that the French would issue from
Provence, and kept his outlook towards that point. When Napoleon
actually descended from the Great St. Bernard upon his rear, he was
as badly startled as compromised. This splendid piece of strategy was
followed up with Napoleon’s usual restless push, and culminated in the
battle of Marengo. This was at first a distinct Austrian victory, but
good countenance, Mélas’ neglect to pursue his gain, and Napoleon’s
ability to rally and hold his troops until absent Dessaix could rejoin
him, turned it into an overwhelming Austrian defeat. And Napoleon, by
the direction given to his mass, had so placed Mélas that defeat meant
ruin. He was glad to accept an armistice on Napoleon’s own terms.
[Illustration: MARENGO CAMPAIGN]
This superb campaign had lasted but a month, and had been characterized
by the utmost dash and clearness of perception. Again Napoleon’s one
mass projected on one properly chosen line had accomplished wonders.
Napoleon once said to Jomini, “The secret of war lies in the secret
of communications. Keep your own and attack your enemy’s in such a
way that a lost battle may not harm you, a battle won may ruin your
adversary. Seize your enemy’s communications and then march to battle.”
Napoleon’s success came from study of the situation. His art was
founded on an intimate knowledge of all the facts, coupled with such
reasoning power as enabled him to gauge correctly what his enemy was
apt to do. Without the art the study would be useless. But the art
could not exist apart from study.
After Marengo there were five years of peace. These and the four years
between Wagram and the Russian campaign were the only two periods of
rest from war in Napoleon’s career. Succeeding this came the memorable
Austerlitz campaign. Napoleon had had for some months three of his best
officers in Germany studying up topography, roads, bridges, towns, in
the Black Forest region and toward the Tyrol and Bohemia. To thus make
himself familiar with the status was his uniform habit.
[Illustration: ULM-AUSTERLITZ CAMPAIGN]
Napoleon, now Emperor, was at Boulogne, threatening and perhaps at
times half purposing an invasion of England. He commanded the best
army he ever had. The Austrians, not supposing him ready, inundated
Bavaria with troops, without waiting for their allies, the Russians,
and marched up the Danube to the Iller, under Field-Marshal Mack.
Napoleon put an embargo on the mails, broke up from Boulogne at
twenty-four hours’ notice, and reached the vicinity of the enemy with
an overwhelming force before Mack was aware of his having left the
sea. His line of march was about Mack’s right flank, because this was
the nearest to Boulogne and gave him a safe base on the confederate
German provinces. So well planned was the manœuvre, so elastic in its
design for change of circumstances, that it fully succeeded, step
for step, until Mack was surrounded at Ulm and surrendered with his
thirty thousand men. Here again we find the Napoleonic rule fairly
overwhelming Mack with superior numbers. Except in 1796 and 1814,
Napoleon always had more men than the enemy on the field at the proper
time. “They ascribe more talent to me than to others,” he observed,
“and yet to give battle to an enemy I am in the habit of beating, I
never think I have enough men; I call to my aid all that I can unite.”
The chart herewith given of the grand manœuvre of Ulm is so simple
as to suggest no difficulties of execution. But there is probably
nothing in human experience which taxes strength, intellect, judgment,
and character to so great a degree as the strategy and logistics of
such a movement, unless it be the tactics of the ensuing battle. The
difficulties are, in reality, gigantic.
Napoleon headed direct for Vienna, and on the way absolutely lived on
the country. “In the movements and wars of invasion conducted by the
Emperor, there are no magazines; it is a matter for the commanding
generals of the corps to collect the means of victualling in the
countries through which they march,” writes Berthier to Marmont.
Napoleon took Vienna and marched out towards Brünn, where the Austrians
and Russians had concentrated. Here he was far from secure, if equal
talent had been opposed to him; but he took up a position near
Austerlitz, from which he could retreat through Bohemia, if necessary,
and, calmly watching the enemy and allowing several chances of winning
an ordinary victory to pass, he waited, with an audacity which almost
ran into braggadocio, for the enemy to commit some error from which
he could wrest a decisive one. And this the allies did, as Napoleon
divined they would do. They tried to turn his right flank and cut him
off from Vienna. Napoleon massed his forces on their centre and right,
broke these in pieces, and won the victory of which he was always most
proud. Napoleon’s conduct here showed distinctly a glint of what he
himself so aptly calls the divine part of the art.
There is always a corresponding danger in every plan which is of the
kind to compass decisive results. In this case Napoleon risked his
right wing. But to judge how much it is wise to risk and to guess just
how much the enemy is capable of undertaking is a manifestation of
genius.
The era of the great battles of modern war dates from Austerlitz.
Marengo was rather two combats than one great battle. Frederick’s
battles were wonders of tactics and courage, but they differ from the
Napoleonic system. In Frederick’s battles the whole army was set in
motion for one manœuvre at one time to be executed under the management
of the chief. If the manœuvre was interrupted by unforeseen events,
the battle might be lost. In Napoleon’s system, the centre might be
broken and the wings still achieve victory; one wing might be crushed
while the other destroyed the enemy. A bait was offered the enemy by
the exhibition of a weak spot to attract his eye, while Napoleon fell
on the key-point with overwhelming odds. But in this system the control
passed from the hand of the leader. All he could do was to project a
corps in a given direction at a given time. Once set in motion, these
could not readily be arrested. Such a system required reserves much
more than the old method. “Battles are only won by strengthening the
line at a critical moment,” says Napoleon. Once in, Napoleon’s corps
worked out their own salvation. He could but aid them with his reserves.
There is a magnificence of uncertainty and risk, and corresponding
genius in the management of the battles of Napoleon; but for purely
artistic tactics they do not appeal to us as do Frederick’s. The
_motif_ of Alexander’s battles is more akin to Napoleon’s; that of
Hannibal’s, to Frederick’s.
It has been said that Napoleon never considered what he should do
in case of failure. The reverse is more exact. Before delivering a
battle, Napoleon busied himself little with what he would do in case of
success. That was easy to decide. He busied himself markedly with what
could be done in case of reverse.
Like all great captains, Napoleon preferred lieutenants who obeyed
instead of initiating. He chafed at independent action. This was
the chief’s prerogative. But as his armies grew in size he gave his
marshals charge of detail under general instructions from himself.
Dependence on Napoleon gradually sapped the self-reliance of more than
one of his lieutenants, and though there are instances of noble ability
at a distance from control, most of his marshals were able tacticians,
rather than great generals. Napoleon grew impatient of contradiction
or explanation; and he sometimes did not learn or was not told of
things he ought to know. He was no longer so active. Campaigning was a
hardship. His belief in his destiny became so strong that he began to
take greater risks. Such a thing as failure did not exist for him. His
armies were increasing in size, and railroads and telegraphs at that
day did not hasten transportation and news. The difficulties he had to
contend with were growing fast.
These things had the effect of making Napoleon’s military plans more
magnificent, more far-reaching. But all the less could he pay heed
to detail, and from now on one can, with some brilliant exceptions,
perceive more errors of execution. In the general conception he was
greater than ever, and this balanced the scale. His ability to put all
his skill into the work immediately in hand was marvellous. But with a
vast whole in view, the parts were, perhaps of necessity, lost sight of.
The campaigns of 1806 and 1807 were in sequence. To move on the
Prussians, who, under the superannuated Duke of Brunswick, were
concentrated in Thuringia, Napoleon massed on his own right,
disgarnishing his left, turned their left,--in this case their
strategic flank, because the manœuvre cut them off from Berlin and
their allies, the Russians,--and with overwhelming vigor fell on the
dawdling enemy at Jena and Auerstädt. The Prussians had remained
stationary in the art of war where they had been left by Frederick, and
had lost his burning genius.
It was at the outset of this campaign that Jomini handed in to Marshal
Ney, his chief, a paper showing what Napoleon must necessarily do if
he would beat the Prussians and cut them off from their approaching
allies. He alone had divined the strategic secrets of the Emperor.
In this campaign we plainly see the growth of risk commensurate within
the magnitude of plan, but we also recognize the greater perfection
of general intuitions, the larger plan and method. Details had to be
overlooked, but the whole army was held in the Emperor’s hand like a
battalion in that of a good field officer. In forty-eight hours his
two hundred thousand men could be concentrated at any one point. And
the very essence of the art of war is to know _when_ you may divide,
to impose on the enemy, subsist, pursue, deceive, and to know _how_ to
divide so that you may concentrate before battle can occur.
[Illustration: JENA CAMPAIGN]
Again Napoleon had carried out his principle of moving on one line
in one mass on the enemy, and a few great soldiers began to see that
there was a theory in this. Jomini first grasped its full meaning and
showed that only battle crowns the work. Without it a general is merely
uncovering his own communications. Victory is essential to the success
of such a plan. Napoleon pushed restlessly in on the enemy. “While
others are in council, the French army is on the march,” quoth he.
In the Austerlitz and Jena campaigns, Napoleon’s manœuvre was so
admirably conceived that he kept open two lines of retreat, which he
could adapt to the enemy’s evolutions,--at Austerlitz via Vienna and
Bohemia, at Jena still more secure lines on the Rhine and on the Main
or Danube. This is a distinct mark of the perfection of the plans.
The succeeding Friedland campaign has several items of interest. At
his first contact with the Russians, Napoleon, instead of sticking to
his uniform plan of one mass on one line, tried to surround his enemy
before he knew where the tactical decision of the campaign would come.
Result, a thrust in the air by one corps, another did not reach the
appointed place, a third met unexpected and superior forces, and the
enemy broke through the net. Napoleon seemed to be experimenting. The
captain of 1796, Ulm, Jena, is for the moment unrecognizable.
The Russians attacked Napoleon in his winter-quarters, and the bloody
and indecisive battle of Eylau resulted, where for the first time
Napoleon met that astonishing doggedness of the Russian soldier, on
which Frederick had shattered his battalions at Kunersdorf. Later came
the victory of Friedland. Napoleon’s order for this day is a model for
study. Every important instruction for the battle is embraced in the
order; details are left to his lieutenants. Only the time of launching
the first attack is reserved to the chief. But the strategy of the
Friedland campaign was not so crisp. The true manœuvre was to turn the
Russian left, their strategic flank, and throw them back on the sea.
Napoleon turned their right to cut them off from Königsberg. It was
mere good luck that Friedland ended the campaign. Even after defeat
the enemy could have escaped.
In the Spanish campaign of the winter of 1807–8, Napoleon reverted to
his 1796 manœuvre of breaking the enemy’s centre. But Napoleon had
undertaken what could not be accomplished,--the subjugation of Spain.
His own strategy and the tactics of his marshals were both brilliant
and successful; he could have compelled a peace, had such been the
object. But to subdue a people fanatically fighting for their homes,
in a mountainous country, is practically impossible by any means short
of extermination. It was in the political, not the military, task that
Napoleon failed.
While Napoleon was struggling in Spain, Austria deemed the occasion
good again to assert herself. This gave Napoleon an opportunity of
leaving to his lieutenants a game he already saw he could not win, but
in which he had achieved some brilliant openings, and hurry to fields
on which he felt a positive superiority. His army and allies were
already on the scene.
Berthier was in charge, and to him Napoleon had given full and explicit
instructions. But Berthier, though a good chief of staff, had no
power to grasp a strategic situation. By not obeying orders, he had,
by the time Napoleon arrived, muddled the problem, and instead of
concentrating behind the Lech, had got Davout’s corps pushed out to
Ratisbon, where it was liable to be cut off. Napoleon was in perilous
case. But by a beautiful and rapid series of manœuvres, in which he cut
the enemy in two, he wrought victory out of threatening defeat. He was
justly proud of this. “The greatest military manœuvres that I have
ever made, and on which I most flatter myself, took place at Eckmühl,
and were immensely superior to those of Marengo or other actions which
preceded or followed them.” It is the rapidity and suddenness of these
manœuvres which distinguished them from 1805. There was a regular plan.
Here a constant series of surprises and changes.
In making his plans, Napoleon never began by “What can the enemy do?”
but he first sought to place his army in the best position, and then
asked, “What now can the enemy do?” This gave him the initiative. But
his plan was always elastic enough to bend to what the enemy might do.
He never made plans colored by the enemy’s possibilities. He chose
his own plan intelligently, according to the geography, topography,
and existing conditions, and made it elastic enough to be equal to
the enemy’s. “The mind of a general should be like the glass of a
telescope in sharpness and clearness, and never conjure up pictures.”
The elasticity of Napoleon’s Eckmühl plan is well shown by his ability
to turn threatening disaster into brilliant success.
During all these days, Napoleon was tremendously active. He was
personally at the important points. He hardly ate or slept. His body
was governed entirely by his will. The soldier of 1796 was again
afoot. But he was well and hearty. The lapse he now made is all the
more singular. The Archduke Charles had been beaten at Eckmühl and
was retiring into Ratisbon to cross the Danube; Napoleon neglected to
pursue. They say he was persuaded by his marshals that the troops were
too tired. For the first time in his life he succumbed to an obstacle.
“Genius consists in carrying out a plan despite obstacles, and in
finding few or no obstacles,” he once said.
Failure to pursue may come from the difficulty of leaving one’s
magazines, as in Frederick’s era, or because the captain is exhausted,
as well as the troops. But if the captain wants to pursue, the troops
can always do so. If the enemy can fly, the victor can follow. Some
part of the army is always in condition to march.
Jomini says that if Napoleon had here pursued like the Prussians after
Waterloo, it would have greatly modified the campaign. As it was, the
Archduke made good his escape. Napoleon had broken in between the two
wings of the Austrian army, but he had not crippled the one before
turning against the other. So that when he reached Vienna on the heels
of the left, he found ready to meet him the right wing, which he ought
to have crushed beyond so quick recovery at Ratisbon. This failure
to pursue is the first symptom of a habit which from now on is more
observably of not utilizing every advantage.
Then followed the crossing of the Danube at Lobau and the battles
around Aspern and Essling, which terminated with defeat and great loss.
The Archduke was on hand, received in overwhelming numbers that part
of the French army which crossed; the bridges were broken behind the
French; and a disastrous retreat to Lobau followed.
Napoleon’s difficulties were growing apace with the size of his
armies, and he was now opposed by abler men. But it also seems as if
occasional fits of apathy or impatience of exertion were growing on
him. His splendid energy at Eckmühl did not continue. Details received
less personal attention. He was more rarely at the front. He began
to rely on the eyes of others more than, with his ancient vigor, he
would have done--despite his dictum that “a general who sees through
the eyes of others will never be in condition to command an army as it
should be commanded.” Until battle actually opened, he lacked his old
enthusiasm. After the first gun he was himself again. But his method of
conducting war was no longer so crisp as of yore. He was more daring
than careful; he relied on his luck, and strove to cover errors of
omission by stupendous blows. He was suffering from not having about
him a well-educated, properly selected staff, each member drilled in
his specific duties. Till now Napoleon had been his own staff; but
with lessening activity, he had no one on whose eyes and judgment he
could rely. “The general staff is so organized that one cannot see
ahead at all by its means,” said he in the next campaign. Still it
must constantly be borne in mind that one hundred and fifty thousand
men cannot be commanded as readily as forty thousand. And Napoleon’s
breadth of view, his power of grasping the _tout ensemble_, were still
present in greater measure; and when he chose he could summon up all
his old spirit.
Succeeding this defeat were the skilful preparations for a new crossing
and battle, the putting over from Lobau of one hundred and fifty
thousand men and four hundred guns in one night, and the victory of
Wagram. Truly a marvellous performance! The strength of mind and
constancy displayed by Napoleon on Lobau recalls the elastic courage
of Alexander when, cut off from his communications, he turned upon the
Persians at Issus. But after Wagram the Austrians retired in good order
and Napoleon did not pursue. It was no doubt a difficult task, but with
the inspiration of his earlier days he would certainly have pushed the
Archduke home,--or lost the game. He forgot the principles which had
made him what he was, in not following up the retreat. To other and
even great generals this criticism could not apply, but Napoleon has
created a measure by which himself must be tried and which fits but a
limited group. In 1805 he said, “One has but a certain time for war.
I shall be good for it but six years more; then even I shall have to
stop.” Was Napoleon’s best term drawing to a close? Or was it that the
Archduke Charles was not a Würmser or a Mack?
In Napoleon’s battles, tactical details are made to yield to strategic
needs. Frederick generally chose his point of attack from a strictly
tactical standpoint. Napoleon did not appear to consider that there
were such things as tactical difficulties. He always moved on the enemy
as seemed to him strategically desirable, and with his great masses he
could readily do so. The result of Napoleon’s battles was so wonderful,
just because he always struck from such a strategic direction as to
leave a beaten enemy no kind of loophole. But Napoleon would have been
more than human if his extraordinary successes had not finally damaged
his character. It is but the story of Alexander with a variation. In
the beginning he was, after securing strategic value, strenuous to
preserve his tactical values. By and by he began to pay less heed to
these; stupendous successes bred disbelief in failure; carelessness
resulted, then indecision. Those historians who maintain that Napoleon
succumbed solely to the gigantic opposition his status in Europe had
evoked, can show good reasons for their belief, for Napoleon’s task
was indeed immense. But was he overtaxed more than Hannibal, Cæsar, or
Frederick?
In the Russian campaign (1812) Napoleon’s original idea was to turn
the Russian right, but finding the Russian position further north than
he expected, he resorted to breaking the Russian centre. It here first
became a question whether the rule of one mass on one line, distinctly
sound with smaller armies, will hold good with the enormous armies of
1812 or of modern days; whether the mere manœuvre may not become so
difficult of execution as to open the way to the destruction of the
entire plan by a single accident. Certainly its logistics grow to a
serious problem with a force beyond two hundred thousand men, and it
seems probable that when armies much exceed this figure, the question
of feeding, transportation, and command, even with railroads and
telegraph, make concentric operations more available. And the fact that
even Napoleon could not, in the absence of a thoroughly educated staff
and perfectly drilled army, obtain good results from the handling of
such enormous forces, gives prominence to the value of the Prussian
idea of placing greater reliance on an army drawn from the personal
service of the people and made perfect in all its details from the
ranks up, than on the genius of a single general.
The entire plan of the Russian campaign was consistent and good. The
Bonaparte of 1796 would probably have carried it through, despite its
unprecedented difficulties. But its execution was seriously marred
by the absence of Napoleon at the front, and the want of his ancient
decisiveness. To be sure he had nearly half a million men to command
and feed; but he was no longer the slim, nervously active, omnipresent
man. He was corpulent, liked his ease, and shunned bad weather. This
want appears in his long stay in Wilna, his failure to put his own
individuality into the details of the advance; his now relying on his
lieutenants, whom he had never trained, and some of whom were unable,
to rely on themselves. Napoleon began to draw his conclusions, not
from personal observation, but from assumed premises. He had from the
beginning the habit of underrating the enemy’s forces. It now grew to
be a rule with him to take one-third off from what the enemy really
had and double his own forces, in order to encourage his subordinates.
This exaggerated reckoning could not but lead to evil. There is none
of Frederick’s straightforward dependence on his own brain and his
army’s courage. The king’s frankness stands out in high relief against
Napoleon’s simulation.
But we must constantly bear in mind that Napoleon led an army of
unprecedented size, made up of different nationalities, in a limitless
territory, and that his difficulties were enormous. It should be noted
that Alexander’s largest army in the field numbered one hundred and
thirty-five thousand men; Hannibal’s less than sixty thousand; Cæsar’s
about eighty thousand; Gustavus’ never reached eighty thousand men;
Frederick had to parcel out his forces so that of his one hundred and
fifty thousand men he rarely could personally dispose of more than
fifty thousand in one body. Napoleon carried three hundred and sixty
thousand men into Russia. This is not a final measure of the task, but
it stakes out its size.
Some of Napoleon’s Russian manœuvres are fully up to the old ones.
The manner of the attempt to turn the Russian left at Smolensk and
seize their communications so as to fight them at a disadvantage, is
a magnificent exhibition of genius. But at the last moment he failed.
The _spirit_ of his plan was to seize the communications of his
opponent and force him to fight; the _letter_ was to seize Smolensk.
When he reached Smolensk, the Russians had retired to the east of the
city. Napoleon apparently overlooked the _spirit_ of his plan, and
though he could easily have done so, he did not cut the Russians off
by a tactical turning movement. He was not personally where he needed
to be,--on the right,--but remained at his headquarters. It may be
claimed that the commander of so huge an army must necessarily remain
at central headquarters. It is rather true that his administrative
aide should be there, and he at the point of greatest importance.
At Smolensk, theoretically and practically, this was the right, and
operations at this point were intrusted to by no means the best of
his subordinates. Napoleon’s intellect was still as clear as ever. It
was his physique and his power of decision which were weakening. Even
allowing the utmost to all the difficulties of the situation, if tried
by the rule of 1796 or 1805, this seems to be indisputable.
When Napoleon did not bring on a battle at Smolensk, the Russian
campaign had become a certain failure. For it was there settled that
he could not reach Moscow with a force sufficient to hold himself. He
had crossed the Niemen with three hundred and sixty-three thousand men.
At Moscow he could have no more than one hundred thousand. Arrived at
Smolensk he was called on to face retreat, which was failure; or an
advance to Moscow, which was but worse failure deferred,--almost sure
annihilation. This seems clear enough from the military standpoint.
But Napoleon advanced to Moscow relying largely on the hope that the
Russians would sue for a peace. For this dubious hope of the statesman,
Napoleon committed an undoubted blunder as a captain. It is hard to
divorce the statesman from the soldier. All great captains have relied
on state-craft, and properly so. But such was the purely military
syllogism.
Much has been written about Napoleon’s failure to put the guard in
at Borodino. Under parallel conditions at an earlier day, he would
certainly have done so. That he did not is but one link more in the
growing chain of indecisiveness. But had he done so, and won a more
complete victory, would it have made any eventual difference? Smolensk
was his last point of military safety. Even had he been able to winter
in Russia, it is not plain how spring would have bettered his case,
in view of the logistic difficulties and of the temper of the Russian
emperor and people. Time in this campaign was of the essence.
Once or twice on the terrible retreat, Napoleon’s old fire and decision
came to the fore, but during the bulk of it he was apparently careless
of what was happening. He habitually left to his generals all but the
crude direction of the outlying corps. The contrast between Napoleon in
this disaster and Napoleon after raising the siege of Acre, or after
the defeat at Aspern and Essling, is marked. He did not oppose his old
countenance to misfortune.
After this campaign, in which the grand army of half a million men
was practically annihilated, Napoleon showed extraordinary energy in
raising new troops, and actually put into the field, the succeeding
spring, no less than three hundred and fifty thousand men. They were
not the old army, but they were so many men. Napoleon understood this:
“We must act with caution, not to bring bad troops into danger, and
be so foolish as to think that a man is a soldier.” He had thirteen
hundred guns. “Poor soldiers need much artillery.” The lack of good
officers was the painful feature. The few old ones who were left were
ruined by bad discipline. The new ones were utterly inexperienced.
In the campaign of 1813, Napoleon showed all his old power of
conception. The intellectual force of this man never seemed overtaxed.
But the lack of resolution became still more marked. He began by
winning two battles,--Lützen and Bautzen,--in which he freely exposed
himself and worked with all his old energy, to lend his young troops
confidence. He was then weak enough to enter into an armistice with the
allies. This was a singularly un-Napoleonic thing to do. He had turned
the enemy’s right and was strategically well placed. It was just the
time to push home. If the reasons he alleged--want of cavalry and fear
of the dubious position of Austria--were really the prevailing ones,
Napoleon was no longer himself, for his wonderful successes hitherto
had come from bold disregard of just such things.
Napoleon here shows us how often fortune is of a man’s own making. So
long as he would not allow circumstances to dictate to him, fortune was
constant. When he began to heed adverse facts, we see first indecisive
victories, then half successes, and by and by we shall see failure and
destruction.
The operations about and succeeding Dresden show a vacillation
which contrasts with the intellectual vigor. For the first time
Napoleon conducted a defensive campaign. He studied his chances of
an offensive, and cast them aside for reasons which would not have
weighed a moment with him in 1805. And yet the defensive against his
concentrically advancing enemies was no doubt the best policy. It
shows Napoleon’s judgment to have been better than ever. After this
brilliant victory Napoleon ordered a pursuit--which he ought to have
made effective--across the Erzgebirge, but without issuing definite
instructions. Sickness forbade the personal supervision he had expected
to give; troops intended to sustain the advanced corps were diverted
from this duty by a sudden change of purpose. Here was, as Jomini says,
“without contradiction, one of Napoleon’s gravest faults.” But Napoleon
had got used to seeing things turn in his favor, until he deemed
constant personal effort unnecessary. Decreasing strength had limited
his activity; great exertion was irksome. The immediate result of this
ill-ordered operation was the destruction of a corps; the secondary
result, the re-encouragement of the allies, whose _morale_ had been
badly shaken by three defeats, and whose main army he should have
followed into Bohemia and broken up. The grand result was loss of time,
which to Napoleon was a dead loss, a new advance of the allies, and the
battle of Leipsic. During all this time, while Napoleon’s execution
was weak compared to his old habit, his utterances and orders showed
the clearest, broadest conception of what was essential. But he was no
longer the man who used to gallop forty to sixty miles a day to use his
eyes. Even at Leipsic he exhibited at times his old power; when defeat
was certain he lapsed into the same indifference he had shown on the
Russian retreat.
Nothing now, in a military sense, could save Napoleon, except to
concentrate all his forces into one body and manœuvre against the
allies with his old vigor. But the Emperor Napoleon could not bear
to give up Italy, Belgium, Spain, as General Bonaparte had given up
Mantua to beat the enemy at Castiglione; and he committed the grievous
mistake of not concentrating all his forces for the defence of France.
The campaign around Paris is a marvel of audacious activity, though
indeed it did not bring up any of the larger intellectual problems of
Marengo, Ulm, or Jena. If Napoleon had done half as good work with
the larger army he might have had, there is scarce a doubt but that
he would have gone far towards peace with honor. As it was, he was
crushed by numbers. But no words can too highly phrase his military
conduct, within its limits, in this brief campaign. There is but one
mistake,--the underrating of his enemy, the misinterpretation of
manifest facts.
The Waterloo campaign (1815), as already said, bears marked resemblance
to that of 1796. The details of Waterloo are so well known that only
the reasons will be noted which appear to make Napoleon’s first so
great a success and his last so great a failure.
At the beginning of June, Napoleon had available for Belgium, where
he proposed to strike the allied forces, one hundred and ten thousand
foot, and thirteen thousand five hundred horse. In Belgium were
Wellington, covering Brussels with ninety-five thousand men, and
Blucher lying from Charleroi to Namur with one hundred and twenty-four
thousand. Napoleon was superior to either; inferior to both together.
He chose against these allied armies the same offensive manœuvre he
had employed against Beaulieu and Colli,--a strategic breaking of
their centre, so as to separate them and attack each one separately.
The controlling reasons were the same. The allies were of different
nationalities, and each had a different base, as well as varying
interests. If cut in two they no doubt would retire eccentrically, of
which Napoleon could take immediate advantage. The key to the whole
problem was the exhibition by him of foresight, boldness, and rapid
action. The plan could not be better.
He concentrated on Charleroi. From here led two pikes, one to Brussels,
which was Wellington’s line of advance and retreat, one to Liège,
which was Blucher’s. Wellington and Blucher were connected by the
Namur-Nivelles road, which cut the other pikes at Quatre-Bras and near
Ligny. In order to push in between the allies to any effect, Napoleon
must seize on both these points.
[Illustration: WATERLOO CAMPAIGN]
The French army broke up June 15th at 3 A.M. Napoleon was full of
eagerness and early in the saddle. The French advanced with slight
opposition to Quatre-Bras, and forced the Prussians back to Fleurus.
Napoleon remained in the saddle all day, then retired to Charleroi
overcome with a fatigue which seemed to paralyze his mental faculties.
He could no longer conquer sleep as of old. His bodily condition was
bad, and even the necessity of present success was unable to evoke
persistent effort. There is a singular difference between Napoleon at
this time and grim old Frederick in 1759 suffering from gout. The king
never gave up for an instant his restless work. Disease and pain could
not subdue his obstinate diligence. The emperor’s ailments overcame
his zeal. Here began those little lapses of unused time whose addition,
in four days, sufficed to bring Napoleon to the end of his career. The
plan of campaign was as brilliantly thought out and begun as that of
1796, and with equal vigor would have equally succeeded. Wellington
and Blucher had foreseen the manœuvre, and agreed to concentrate for
mutual support at Quatre-Bras and Ligny. But Wellington, instead of
holding Quatre-Bras, gave Nivelles as the rallying-point. Not even
Würmser or Mack could have made an error more in Napoleon’s favor, for
this separated him from Blucher instead of gaining him his support.
Napoleon had the chance to strike Blucher singly. Wellington had not
yet assembled. Napoleon should have reached Quatre-Bras and Ligny on
the 15th, as he could easily have done, or at a very early hour on the
16th. But no orders even were issued till nearly 9 A.M. of the 16th.
In his old days, Napoleon would have been at the outposts at daylight,
have gauged the situation with his own eyes and his incomparable power
of judgment, and would have attacked at an early hour. But he did not
reach the ground till noon nor finish his reconnoissance till 2 P.M.
Ney had been sent to Quatre-Bras.
Despite delays, however, part of Napoleon’s plan did succeed.
Wellington was prevented from joining Blucher, and Blucher was beaten
and fell back in disorder. Now Napoleon’s object was so to manœuvre as
to keep the allies apart. This could be done only by immediate pursuit.
He must push on after Blucher relentlessly, so as to throw him off in
an easterly direction, where he could observe him with a small force,
while he should dispose of Wellington singly. And the more Wellington
should manage to push back Ney, the graver danger he would run.
Nothing was done about the pursuit of Blucher on the night of 16th
to 17th. Next morning Napoleon leisurely visited the battle-field of
Ligny and conversed with his officers about indifferent things. None of
the old-time drive was manifest. It was again noon before he ordered
Grouchy in pursuit of the Prussians, while he himself would turn
against the English. Grouchy got off about 2 P.M. No one knew at that
time whether Blucher had retired on Namur or Wavre. In earlier days
Napoleon would have ascertained this fact with his own eyes, _for it
was the one fact to make no mistake about_. Whether to ascertain this
was the duty of the staff or the general is immaterial. That Napoleon
did not do so may not have been his fault; but it was his misfortune.
Great captains have won success by personal activity and by relying
only on themselves in critical matters. In estimating a great soldier,
one must number all his errors of omission and commission. No general
may shelter himself behind the lapse of a subordinate. He must stand or
fall by what he himself does or fails to do.
But the fate of the campaign was already sealed. Blucher had had the
night of the 16th to 17th, and the morning of the 17th, and he had used
the respite well. He boldly threw up his own base on Liège and marched
on Wavre to rejoin Wellington. Napoleon had assumed that Blucher would
retire along his line of communications. He desired him to do this,
and erroneously calculated on his having done so. The object of
breaking the allied centre, the sundering of the allies so as to beat
them in detail, had been forfeited by the sixteen or eighteen hours of
unnecessary delays after the battle of Ligny.
The battle of Waterloo itself has been so fully and ably discussed from
this rostrum, and Grouchy’s part of the failure so clearly explained,
that I will go no further. It seems clear that the battle was lost on
the day preceding it. If Blucher did not join Wellington by one means
he would by another, when Napoleon gave him so many hours leeway.
Nothing but the old activity in following up his initial success
could possibly have enabled Napoleon to fight Wellington and Blucher
separately,--and if they joined they were sure to beat him. Had he
kept right on, he would have beaten Wellington, and Blucher would
have retired. His difficulties here were not great. He was successful
in his early steps, and failed in later ones. The explanation of the
whole matter lies in the fact that Napoleon’s physical powers and moral
initiative had waned. His intellect was unimpaired, but his character
had lost its native quality.
No man should be subject to criticism for inability to do his best
work when suffering from disease. It is not intended to criticise
in this sense. _La critique est facile; l’art est difficile._ The
motto of these lectures is that coexistent intellect, character, and
opportunity go to make the great captain. We see Napoleon for twelve
years possibly the greatest soldier who ever lived. We then see his
successes lessen. It was not from declining intellect. It was partly
lesser opportunity,--that is, greater difficulties,--partly loss of
activity and decisiveness,--or, in other words, character,--proceeding
from weakening physique or decrease of moral strength. There may be
room for doubt whether failing health alone, or failing health combined
with waning character, caused the indecisiveness. It descends into
a question of nomenclature. Of the bald fact there can be no doubt.
Napoleon at Waterloo was not as great as Napoleon at Austerlitz.
The secret of Napoleon’s power lay in his clear eye for facts, his
positive mind. Carlyle says: “The man had a certain, instinctive,
ineradicable feeling for reality, and did base himself upon fact so
long as he had any basis.” Napoleon said of himself that he was most of
a slave of all men, obliged to obey a heartless master, the calculation
of circumstances and the nature of things. Coupled with this were a
reliance on facts, rare capacity for divination, and an immense power
of imagination. But finally the latter overran the other qualities. His
successes convinced him that he could do anything; he forgot what his
success had been grounded on, and he began to neglect facts. “It is not
possible” is not French, said he. This is the best of maxims construed
one way,--the worst, if misconstrued. Napoleon believed himself able to
accomplish all things, until his accuracy of judgment was lost in his
refusal to look facts in the face. He ceased to be slave of the nature
of things. He deserted belief in facts for belief in his destiny.
Finally facts became for him not what they were, but what he wished
them to be. He refused credit to what did not suit his theory of how
things ought to turn.
Napoleon had what rarely coexists,--an equally clear head on the map
and in the field. On the map he was able in both theory and practice.
His theories are text-books; his letters are treatises. No higher
praise can be spoken than to say that every one of Napoleon’s fourteen
campaigns was, in a military sense, properly planned.
Napoleon showed the value of masses in strategy as well as tactics. In
former times the worth of troops was of greater value than numbers.
To-day worth of itself is less essential than it was. Napoleon founded
his calculations on the equality of thousands. It is he who collated
all that was done by the other great captains, clothed it in a dress
fit for our own days, and taught the modern world how to make war in
perfect form.
Strategy will always remain the same art. Its uses are to-day varied
by railroads, telegraphs, arms of precision. What was not allowable
in the Napoleonic era can be undertaken now with safety. But all this
has only modified, it has not changed strategy. The tendency of modern
armies is toward better organization. Ramrod discipline is giving
way to dependence on the individuality of officers and men, and to
instruction in doing what at the moment is the most expedient thing.
But every great soldier will be great hereafter from the same causes
which have made all captains what they were; in conducting war he
will be governed by the same intellectual and moral strength which
they exhibited, and will do, as they always did, what befits the time,
unfettered by rules and maxims, but with a broad comprehension of their
true value.
Napoleon is so close to this generation that he sometimes appears to us
gigantic beyond all others. He certainly moulded into shape the method
in use to-day, which the Prussians have carried forward to its highest
development by scrupulous preparation in every department, personal
service, and the teaching of individuals to act with intelligent
independence. That Napoleon was always intellectually the equal, and,
in the first part of his career in the moral forces, the equal of any
of the captains, cannot be denied. But we must remember that because
Napoleon wrought in our own times we can the better appreciate what he
did, while our more meagre knowledge of the others makes it impossible
to see as clearly the manner in which, to accomplish their great deeds,
they must have patterned their means to the work to be done. “The most
important qualities of an army leader,” says Jomini, “will always be
a great character or constitutional courage, which leads to great
determinations; _sang froid_ or bodily courage which conquers danger;
learning appears in third line, but it will be a strong help.”
Napoleon exhibited these qualities in full measure up to 1808, and
comes close to being, at his best, the greatest of the captains. He
failed to exhibit the moral power in as great measure thereafter. It
was not years, for Cæsar and Frederick were older when they showed
these same qualities in the highest degree. That Napoleon lost activity
and decisiveness, and thereby forfeited success, is no reproach. No
man can keep his faculties beyond a certain period. He lacked that
equipoise which enables a man to stand success. He did not last as
the others lasted; and proved that only so long as a man retains the
highest grade of character can he remain a great captain. At the same
time it is but fair to repeat that the conditions under which Napoleon
worked gradually became more difficult; that the allies learned from
him as the Romans did from Hannibal, and made fewer mistakes as the
years went on; that he was not always able to retain about him the most
efficient of his marshals; that he commanded vastly larger armies than
the other captains. His task was larger accordingly.
Napoleon’s strategy shows a magnificence in conception, a boldness in
execution, and a completeness and homogeneity not shown by any other
leader. The other captains can only stand beside him because they
builded so that he might add; they invented so that he might improve.
But while Napoleon reached a height beyond the others, they did not
show the decrease of genius which he showed.
Too little time is left to draw a satisfactory comparison between
Napoleon and his peers in arms. In Frederick we recognize a man of
higher standard than Napoleon reached. Not merely because Frederick
was, of all the captains, the only one who, with vastly smaller
forces, attacked troops equal to his own and defeated them right and
left,--in other words, because he was typical tactician, the typical
fighter,--but because he was steadfast in victory and defeat alike;
because he was so truly a king to his people as well as a soldier;
because he so truly merged his own self in the good of Prussia.
Napoleon flared like a comet. Frederick burned like a planet or a fixed
star,--less brilliant, less startling, but ever constant. Frederick at
the close of his life was the same great man. Napoleon had burned out
his lamp. Frederick never waned. Years or infirmity never changed his
force or determination, or limited his energies. Moreover, Frederick,
like Hannibal, was greater in disaster than in success. Napoleon
succumbed to disaster. Frederick and Hannibal alone held themselves
against overwhelming civilized armies. They were stronger, more able,
more determined, more to be feared the more misfortune crowded upon
them. We instinctively couple Napoleon’s genius with his greatest
success; we couple Hannibal’s or Frederick’s with their direst
disasters. Alexander and Gustavus never looked real disaster in the
face, as Frederick before Leuthen, or Hannibal after the Metaurus.
Nor indeed did Cæsar. But Cæsar opposed wonderful countenance to
threatening calamity.
Looking at Napoleon and Gustavus, it is perhaps impossible to compare
them. Gustavus was immeasurably above all the others in purity of
character, and their equal in force and intellect. To him we owe the
revival of intellectual war, lost for seventeen centuries; and on
what he did Frederick and Napoleon builded. Napoleon is nearer akin
to Cæsar. Perhaps, take them all in all, as soldiers, statesmen,
law-givers, Cæsar and Napoleon are the two greatest men. But they
sink below the rest in their motives and aspirations. Neither ever
lost sight of self; while Alexander’s ambition was not only to conquer
the East, but to extend Greek civilization; the motive of Hannibal
and Frederick was patriotic, and that of Gustavus love of country
and religion. Three of the captains were kings from the start. Their
ambition was naturally impersonal. Of the other three, Hannibal alone
worked from purely unselfish motives.
Nor can we compare Napoleon with Hannibal. In his successes Napoleon is
equally brilliant, more titanic; in his failures he falls so far below
the level of this great pattern of patient, never-yielding resistance
to adversity as to be lost. To Alexander fighting semi-civilized
armies, Napoleon can only be likened in his Egyptian campaigns, and in
this he in no sense rises to the height of the Macedonian. Napoleon’s
genius was most apparent on the familiar fields of Europe.
In intellectual grasp, all six great captains stand side by side.
In enthusiastic activity and in all the qualities which compel good
fortune, Alexander stands clearly at the head. No one but Frederick has
perhaps so brilliant a string of tactical jewels as Hannibal, while
in a persistent unswerving struggle of many years to coerce success
against the constantly blackening frowns of Fortune, Hannibal stands
alone and incomparable. Cæsar was a giant in conception and execution
alike, and stands apart in having taught himself in middle life how to
wage war, and then waging in it a fashion equalled only by the other
five. Gustavus will always rank, not only as the man who rescued
intellectual war from oblivion, but as the most splendid character, in
nobility of purpose and intelligence of method, which the annals of
the world have to show. Frederick is not only the Battle Captain who
never blenched at numbers, but truly the Last of the Kings,--king and
priest, in the history of mankind. Napoleon carries us to the highest
plane of genius and power and success, and then declines. We begin by
feeling that here is indeed the greatest of the captains, and we end by
recognizing that he has not acted out the part. No doubt, taking him in
his many-sidedness, Cæsar is the greatest character in history. It may
not unfairly be claimed that Napoleon follows next, especially in that
he preserved for Europe many germs of the liberty which was born of the
blood of the Revolution. Cæsar was the most useful man of antiquity;
Napoleon comes near to being the most useful man of modern times. But
neither Cæsar nor Napoleon appeal to us as do splendid, open-hearted
Alexander; patient, intrepid, ever-constant Hannibal; the Christian
hero, Gustavus; and daring, obstinate, royal Frederick.
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.
Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs
and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support
hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to
the corresponding illustrations.
Page 85: “He went to school as Cæsar” was originally printed as “He
went to school to Cæsar.”
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