Marjorie Bowen

“VoilÀ la piÈce finie, allons souper.”—MÉgret at Fredrikssten.

THE King of Sweden was in his camp before Fredrikssten, the fortress that protected Frederikshald, the town that was considered the Key of Norway.

This was the second expedition against Norway that the King had undertaken since his return from Turkey, both in the dead of winter, to the astonishment of Europe; it seemed that it would have been more reasonable for him to remain and defend his bankrupt kingdom menaced on all sides, in a state of siege and reduced to using leather money; but Karl never did the reasonable thing nor what other men expected of him.

None of his ancient success had attended him in his fresh campaigns against his enemies; Stralsund, after a long siege and desperate battles in which the King fought hand-to-hand with his foes, had been taken by assault, and Karl had escaped across the half-frozen Baltic to Karlskrona, leaving among the dead in the burning town Grothusen, During, and Dahldorf, three faithful friends of his exile.

His enemies now included the King of Prussia, who had bought Stettin and a part of Pomerania from the King of Denmark, and the Czar and the King of England who had purchased the rest of Sweden’s spoils, Breme and Verden, from the astute Frederic, who was not slow to turn his conquests into ready cash.

Peter retained his own booty; this consisted of Riga, Livonia, Ingria, Carelia, Vasa, Finland, the Isles in the Baltic, some of which were not twelve leagues from Stockholm.

By his victory of Aland he had demolished the Swedish fleet, and led captive to his new fort of Kronstadt the flagship of EhrenskÖld, the Swedish Admiral.

But more bitter to the peculiar temperament of Karl than these successes of his great rival, was the ruin of Holstein-Gottorp, which he had taken under his protection since the beginning of the war, and the reinstatement of Augustus in Poland, with the consent of all the guarantees of the treaty of Altranstadt.

He forbade Stanislaus to conclude the advantageous treaty the good-natured Elector offered, and give the Pole, who had thus to forfeit his ancient estates and position, for the empty title of King, the Duchy of Deux-Ponts which was in his gift. To replace Stanislaus on the Polish throne, and to rescue the estates of his nephew whom he also intended to make his heir, was now the chief end of the King’s policy.

Of the state of his people he cared little; he had put on enormous taxes, debased the coinage, called up all the fit men, strained every resource to continue his ruinous wars; during two winter campaigns he had watched his soldiers die of cold among the snows of Norway, with the same insensibility as he had seen them die amid the ice of the Ukraine.

Baron GÖrtz, the only one of his ancient friends left to him, was now his Prime Minister, and pursued a fantastic foreign policy, but too attractive to the strange spirit of the King.

The Swede by means of deep and complicated intrigues, and with the help of Cardinal Albuoni, Primate of Spain, sought to put the Stuart Pretender on the throne of England, in place of that Elector of Hanover who had outraged Karl by his bargain with Denmark.

These dangerous intrigues had been discovered in England and the Swedish ambassador arrested, but Baron GÖrtz still persisted in his scheme, and Karl continued to support him; his design was now to draw Peter into a secret alliance with Karl, that should place Europe at the feet of Russia and Sweden.

The Czar, ever eager for material advantage, and indifferent to mere glory, was disposed to listen to a plan that would silence his most obstinate foe, and Karl, no politician, and interested in nothing but war, was ready to forego, at least for the moment, his design to dethrone Peter, if he could secure vengeance against those foes whom he despised and hated more than he did Peter—the Kings of Poland, Denmark, and England.

To besiege Norway in winter, and wrest this prize from the Danes, was more pleasing to his character than to attack in Germany, or to remain on the defensive at home; and Baron GÖrtz had assured him that Peter would not attack in his absence.

The Czar indeed was glutted with conquest, and was always wise enough to not undertake more than he could with safety perform.

Karl had with him the Prince of Hesse-Cassel, who had lately married his sister; this professional soldier had lately been serving the States-General, and was regarded by the King as a good general, but he gave him little confidence and no affection.

This Prince was with the King when the Swedish camp was being laid down before the heights of Fredrikssten, and Karl, in high spirits at the thought of the approaching struggle, spoke with him in a more friendly spirit than was his wont.

“Ah, Prince,” he said, “when we have taken Frederikshald, Norway will be ours.”

“How long does your Majesty think to take in subduing Norway?” asked the German courteously.

“I should have taken it last year,” replied the King, “but for the provisions.”

He had made the same mistake he had made in the Ukraine—that of moving his army too far from his base, and had had to return to Sweden with starving troops.

“Six months,” he added; “then, at last, I shall see Stockholm again—a pity Count Piper is not here to hear me say that,” he smiled.

It was eighteen years since he had seen his capital, to which he did not intend to return till he was triumphant.

“Let us go and look at the trenches—these engineers are very slow,” continued Karl; he called an officer and bade him fetch M. MÉgret, the French engineer who was conducting the siege.

It was a bitter night but cloudless; there was no moon; the stars glimmered hard and clear as if cut from crystal in the dark sky.

Everyone but the King was muffled in mantles and furs; Karl wore his plain uniform with black cravat and top-boots.

He had now completely recovered from his sickness—the sickness engendered by a soft life—and was at the height of his great strength and perfect hardihood; he had filled out to the proportions of a Viking, could live on bread and water, go without food for days, sleep on the ground in midwinter with no covering but his cloak, and no pillow save one of straw.

It was this strength of body, this fortitude of soul, this stern, austere life, that made him so respected and feared, that neither in court nor camp did anyone dare to murmur at the misfortunes he had brought on Sweden.

M. Hesse-Cassel took his leave to return to his own quarters, and Karl awaited the coming of M. MÉgret.

He was impatient to take Fredrikssten and to proceed into Norway, and he thought that the works were not as advanced as they should be.

He walked up and down the little tent, his step ringing on the frozen ground, his breath clear before him in the frosty air.

As M. MÉgret entered he raised his head; the Frenchman looked at him and thought, “If the Czar could see you now he would not be too secure,” so redoubtable did Karl appear with his magnificent make, his noble inflexible face, his cold air of power.

“M. MÉgret,” he said, “I should like to see your works.”

The engineer bowed and followed the King out of the tent.

The soldiers were desperately laboring in the starlight.

“They work slowly, sire, because the ground is so frozen and rocky,” remarked M. MÉgret, “but the place will be taken in eight days.”

“We shall see,” replied Karl.

He entered the trenches accompanied by his aide-de-camp Siquier and the engineer; they had no lights, but now and then there was a dull glow from a bomb cast by the enemy; mingled in the sound of the cannon was the rattle of pick and spade on the hard ground.

The King continually complained as he advanced from trench to trench of the backwardness of the work.

“You would make me take as long to gain Fredrikssten,” he said, “as I mean to use for the whole of Norway.”

So splendid was his quiet presence that these words did not sound boastful from the lips of a king of broken fortunes; looking at him the officers forgot the lost provinces, the brass money, the starving populace, and remembered only Narva and Klissow.

The King continued to move rapidly from one portion of the works to another; he was now joined by the captains of the trenches.

An intermittent firing came from the fortress, the red light of the cannon showing now and then in the cold night.

Occasionally there was the whistle of a musket-ball as the Norwegian sentries fired at the Swedes working in the dark.

The King reached an angle of a boyau in the finished portion of the entrenchment; he paused, wishing to observe how far the parallel was advanced, and mounting the fire-step rested his elbows on the parapet and watched his soldiers moving, crouching, running, digging among the dislodged fragments of rock and the heaps of frozen earth; here and there the starlight showed dully a patch of snow; the noise of the hurried labor was continuous; despite the random cannonade from Fredrikssten the Swedes were carrying their works up to the very glacis of the fort, and they occupied the entire terre-plein. Above the northern sky showed clear as water agleam with cold stars that palpitated in the pale colorless night; a bitter wind swept these frozen heights, and nature’s stillness reigned above the horrid sounds of war.

Karl looked across the bent figures of his soldiers to the great fort on the summit of the rocks. M. Siquier who was close behind him called out to him not to expose himself, for his head and shoulders showed above the earthworks which were directly opposite to one of the cannon on the advanced fortification of Fredrikssten; the Norwegians could be observed moving round this battery. Karl looked over his shoulder and smiled; without speaking he returned to his observation; his silence conveyed extraordinary arrogance, vitality, and power.

Suddenly he put his hand to his sword and gave a great sigh.

“Sire!” cried M. Siquier.

Karl remained motionless, standing like a sentinel with his sword half drawn from the scabbard, facing the dark heights.

As the aide-de-camp mounted beside him he fell forward on the frozen earth, his haughty head suddenly bowed face downwards on the parapet. A stray musket-ball had entered his left temple; when M. Siquier touched him he was already dead.

THE END.