John Ingham couldn't leave Berlin as soon as he arrived. He had just begun his work. Now that the seeds of discord had been planted, they needed to be watered and given a good environment to grow quickly!
In the following days, he continued to move between neighborhoods, uttering a word here and there that would end up in a listening ear. This word would become a sentence, then a paragraph, and finally a pamphlet. Gradually, rumors spread and grew in the city, eventually attracting the attention of the authorities. Naturally, they didn't like the unrest, especially at this moment.
Even though the negotiations were progressing well, there were many complex points to address. Some required more than one discussion because they were so sensitive.
The pressure on them, as well as on the foreign diplomats, suddenly increased when they began to be questioned about what they were promising. Nothing was final, yet there were already whispers, even in the servants' quarters, that they were giving up territories, strongholds, planning to reduce the size of the armies, and so on.
Some even dared to say that Berlin would be occupied for several years by enemy armies and open to looting for three or four days! It was a scandal! Never had such a thing been considered!
His Highness, outraged by these rumors, had been forced to issue a denial distributed throughout the capital, accompanied by his promise to do everything possible to ensure that the people of Prussia were as little affected as possible by this still-developing treaty.
Despite all his efforts, the rumors did not die down.
***
Far away, in the north of the kingdom, in a village near the Russian front line, all was quiet. Each army was resting or trying to do so in preparation for the resumption of hostilities in the spring.
Karl Wilhelm Finck von Finckenstein's brother, Friedrich Ludwig, was five years his senior. They had the same narrow nose and thin mouth, which was slightly protruding. Unlike Karl, Friedrich was a soldier through and through. He was a cavalry officer and currently held the rank of division general. He commanded the Tenth Dragoons Regiment when he was injured fighting the Russians in the northeast of the kingdom during the summer. Fortunately, those savages had not exploited their victory by sinking their teeth deep into their beautiful country.
They had lost many men in that battle, at Groß-Jägersdorf, but it was predictable given the disparity in forces. They were only twenty-five thousand, while the enemy numbered nearly seventy thousand! This overwhelming difference would have made many a commander retreat, but not them! They were Prussians, and a true Prussian never retreats before any enemy or any challenge. On the contrary, the more insurmountable the obstacle seems, the greater their desire to conquer!
That day, while they had lost between four and five thousand brave men, those cursed Russians lost nearly six thousand! They were not pursued by the enemy, a mistake if not a fault in Friedrich's view, which had allowed them to retreat in good order.
During the winter, it had been quiet because the enemy commander, a man named Apraxin, had hurriedly withdrawn to the capital. A strange rumor had apparently begun to circulate even in the camp, suggesting that Empress Elizabeth was dying. This rumor quickly proved false, and poor Apraxin, who had sought to climb higher in the hierarchy at the Russian imperial court, found himself accused of corruption and cowardice in the face of the Prussian enemy.
It was false, but that didn't matter. It was just politics, and this man had the misfortune of being on the losing side. Here, the chancellor Bestuzhev-Ryumin.
None of this interested Friedrich much. Politics bored him deeply. He far preferred the simplicity of war, much more straightforward and far cleaner than what happened in the sordid corridors of palaces.
Here, at least, I know who my enemies are, and I know what I must do to them. A good saber or musket strike, and the problem is solved! I really don't know how my brother puts up with all that. The lies, the corruption, the little arrangements, the underhanded tricks.
Just then, on January 30th, he received a letter from his younger brother, Karl.
Sitting comfortably by a good wood fire, he was surrounded by a few officers to whom he would entrust his life without hesitation.
"Let's see what he has to say. Oh, it's dated the 21st. It took a while to get here. What?!"
His loud cry immediately drew the attention of all the cavalrymen who had taken shelter from the cold and were discussing the war. Most sported fine mustaches, and unlike the cuirassiers, they didn't wear shiny armor. Their clothes, simple, resembled those worn by the infantry.
Ignoring all these stares, he continued reading the letter, which was very different from what he usually received.
"This… This is a joke?! This can't be true!"
"Bad news, sir?" finally asked a man with a face disfigured by a deep scar running from his left jaw to his right temple, a souvenir from his first battle at Kesselsdorf.
"Bad?! Bad?! Catastrophic, yes! If I didn't recognize my brother's handwriting, I'd swear someone was making fun of me! Bastard politicians are negotiating secret agreements with our enemies, sacrificing our kingdom for positions, monopolies, and money!"
"How?! How dare they betray the kingdom! If this is true, they should all be beheaded! No, they don't deserve such a favor! They should be hanged and then thrown to the pigs!"
"We can't let them get away with this!"
"Gustav is right! It would be a betrayal of us, the soldiers, and all those who have fallen so far, not just since the beginning of this war! We've all shed our blood to make this kingdom powerful!"
All the officers agreed. But as soldiers, they couldn't act as they pleased. Their kingdom was known for the quality of its army, and that came from an immense respect for order and discipline.
"I'm going to write one or two letters. Quiet, the rest of you. I need peace."
"To whom will you write, sir?" asked another officer, whose mustache was so thick it seemed to want to devour his mouth.
"To someone I have a great deal of respect for and who, I'm sure, will know what to do. Lieutenant-General von Zieten."
A deathly silence fell over the room to the point that the soft crackling of the wood fire seemed deafening. They all knew that illustrious name. He was a great man, a brave among the brave who had nothing left to prove to anyone. It was only a matter of time before he became a full general.
This man will know what to do, and his hand will not tremble. Such is his nature. No matter the enemy, he will not sheathe his saber as long as he breathes.
All the officers present had heard rumors about this man. He was hot-blooded, proud, courageous, ready to fight to the end for his convictions, even if it meant breaking a few orders. If such a man were involved and what their chief had said was true, even in part, many heads would roll.
"I believe that in the same region as him, there is another general of great talent who could be useful to us. I'll write him a letter as well."
"Really?" asked the scarred cavalryman. "Who do you have in mind?"
"The Duke of Brunswick-Bevern. He's an honest man. Like von Zieten, according to the latest reports, he was defending the south of the kingdom against the Austrians. I'm sure he will be just as outraged as we are when I tell him what my brother has reported. We must act quickly!"
***
Almost a week later, in Lübben, an insignificant village seventy kilometers south of Berlin, the inhabitants were surprised to see a new group of Prussian officers arriving. All of them were resplendent in their magnificent gold-embroidered uniforms, mounted on their powerful warhorses. It was like witnessing a military parade. Their coats were of various colors, with one of them even draped in a wild animal skin over his shoulders!
He wasn't tall, yet he exuded a powerful martial aura that made those who accidentally met his eagle-like gaze tremble. His eyebrows, thinned with age, drooped, giving him either a sad or contemptuous expression. His eyes, large like those of a startled animal, seemed to peer deep into you, reading your innermost thoughts. His lips, pink and full like a woman's, formed a slight smile, though it seemed hollow.
The men accompanying him radiated a similar beastly strength, making the whole group resemble a pack of hungry wolves.
Their horses, exhausted after such a long journey, steamed in the cold Prussian countryside air. Their muscles, stretched to the extreme, made them even more impressive.
With terrifying agility, the riders halted their beasts near a large establishment, mostly made of wood, which stood two stories high. Several other horses, no less majestic than theirs, were patiently waiting nearby, attended to with the utmost care by a small group of boys, the eldest of whom couldn't have been older than fifteen.
When these children saw the new group arrive, they couldn't help but step back a few paces. The one who was clearly their leader, the man with the animal skin, was undoubtedly the most intimidating of the lot. Not one dared to look these cavalrymen, armed with very long sabers adorned with gold and silver, in the eye.
From the outside, still partially frozen though it was already February, fragments of conversations could be heard. The discussions seemed particularly heated, and curses were so colorful that many sailors would be surprised.
The old Hans Joachim von Zieten, without a hint of hesitation, forcefully pushed the door open, without caring if anyone was behind it. Immediately, the talking ceased. It was as if a very strict teacher had just entered his classroom.
The Prussian officers, who had been insulting each other moments earlier, calmed down and sat in their places, their faces pale.
Even though he hadn't reached the highest rank in His Majesty's army, and was rapidly approaching sixty years of age, his reputation was solid enough that these senior officers treated him with respect. To look down on him, both literally and figuratively, could be fatal. After all, he was known, among other things, for his numerous duels. The fact that he was still alive was proof of his abilities. Furthermore, over the years, he had not been idle. He had fought in the War of Polish Succession as well as the First and Second Silesian Wars.
His steps, heavy as if he were wearing full armor, echoed on the rustic wooden floor, whose uneven planks creaked loudly like the hull of an old ship.
"Lord von Zieten, it is an honor. Thank you for coming," said Friedrich Ludwig Finck von Finckenstein to the new arrival, bowing deeply.
"Hmm, it is only right. It is my duty to rush to the kingdom's aid when it is in danger. But I did not expect the enemy to be so close to Berlin. I thought I would find them only at the border."
"As did we all, my lord. Please, have a seat. We, um... we had just begun."
Von Zieten looked at the men already present one by one and recognized them all.
Von Finckenstein, de la Motte-Fouqué, and Brunswick-Bevern. Good. These are trustworthy men.
He removed his heavy fur coat and casually placed it on the back of a modest wooden chair reserved for him at the head of the table. Underneath, he wore his lieutenant-general cavalry uniform. While his breeches were as black as night, his hussar jacket was as red as blood and adorned with numerous golden cords. Prominently displayed on his chest were two high Prussian honors. The first was the blue and gold cross of the Pour le Mérite, and the second was the insignia he had received from the king, signifying that he had joined the very exclusive circle of the Order of the Black Eagle.
This last decoration was his greatest pride. Naturally, he deserved it. He had received it after the Battle of Prague last May, a great victory, though costly. The Duke of Brunswick-Bevern had also been there, as well as at Kolin, a disaster.
Despite the large fire that had been burning in the hearth for hours, it was still a bit cold in the vast room, occupied only by carefully selected military officers. As soon as the door was opened, the heat escaped.
"Gentlemen," began von Finckenstein, "time is of the essence. According to my brother, who remained in Berlin, our enemies make significant progress every day. If we delay too long, a shameful peace will be signed, condemning our kingdom. The very life of our sovereign and his brother, His Highness Prince Henry, are at risk. We must speak frankly."
The Duke of Brunswick-Bevern placed his large hands heavily on the modest wooden table, occupied by a few bottles, cups, and empty plates, exerting unnecessary force on it.
"The situation you have described is critical. We have all fought so much for His Majesty and Prussia, it is impossible for us to stand by while they conspire to destroy it! A peace can be signed, but only if the terms are acceptable! If what you have reported is true, the kingdom will be bled dry and torn apart! This is high treason!"
"Yes, yes, enough with the obvious. We must decide what needs to be done," said Heinrich August de la Motte-Fouqué in a grave voice that matched his very advanced age.
"Isn't it obvious?!" cried Brunswick-Bevern, pounding the table with his fist. "We must march on Berlin and bring down these enemies of the kingdom!"
"Hmm, what is the situation in Berlin?" asked von Zieten calmly, fixing his steely gaze on von Finckenstein.
"Not good, I fear," replied the officer, his expression dark. "The people are becoming very restless, and my brother fears this will push the negotiators to hasten the talks. According to rumors..."
"Rumors are what they are," von Zieten cut in coldly, with a frightening calm. "We must rely on concrete facts. How far along are the negotiations?"
"I-I think half the work is done."
"Good, that gives us a little time," he murmured as if speaking to himself. "Your option, Lord Duke of Brunswick-Bevern, is interesting, but it would be a risky gamble. We could easily be labeled as rebels, which would stifle our voices. They would discredit us and continue to work towards signing this peace that we do not want—at least not until our kingdom is in a better position. It cannot get any worse, anyway. So, we need a few victories."
The officers looked at each other around the table. Achieving a victory sounded so easy when spoken by this man.
"Where should we strike? To the north? The Russians are not weak adversaries. Or to the south? But the Austrians are very numerous and formidable. Or to the west, where the French and Imperials are."
"Hmm," the lieutenant-general mused, bringing a large hand, crossed with thick veins, to his fine mustache. "Perhaps we should strike at the French. I've heard that the army of Prince de Soubise was nearly annihilated by His Majesty's army despite its clear numerical superiority."
"But they have since been reinforced! My lord, I urge you to choose another target!" said la Motte-Fouqué nervously.
"And we will be reinforced as well. Are not Messrs. von Seydlitz, von Brunswick-Lüneburg, and Keith in the field? I believe they are causing our enemies quite a lot of trouble. With them, we will certainly have the means to inflict heavy losses on them. As soon as the news reaches Berlin, the negotiations will surely be paused while they try to understand what is happening. Even better, they will end if we manage to free His Majesty and His Highness!"
One by one, the officers submitted and accepted this decision. They were, of course, aware of the risk involved. They could not afford to fail, for a defeat would not only cost them the support of the people but also plunge them further into despair. Prussia's enemies might even demand a higher price in exchange for peace!
"For Prussia!"
"And for the king!"