Frederick the Great and the Seven Years' War

by Herbert J. Redman

  On water, at least, the Danes seemed already preparing ships for some contingency or another. That was not surprising. Denmark was first and foremost a naval power. The country “commissioned ten battleships and four frigates … [although] these ships lay idle in Copenhagen Harbour.”21 Two of the battleships, the Dannemark and the Dronning Louise, boasted 70 guns apiece. Four others, the Oldenborg, the Sejer, the Island, and the Stormar, had 60 guns each. Other vessels boasted 50 guns apiece, and, one, the Møen, had 40 guns. Danish naval power was similar to that of Sweden’s. However, the Danish fleet was nowhere near ready to deploy for any immediate action, in the end much like the Danish army. For another, any benefits that Denmark might derive from joining in the war were patently unclear. Not only to the Danes themselves as a nation, but to the other interested parties of Europe.

  Nor was this the extent of the possible disturbing scenarios and developments. At best, from the Prussian viewpoint, the possible entry by Turkey into active military operations would cause concern only for the periphery of both the Austrian and the Russian Empires; even in Frederick’s often fanciful reasoning, he could never picture Turkish armies marching to join his in Central/Western Europe. Now Chancellor Kaunitz probably could. On a side note, the only “soldiers” ever received by Frederick directly from the Turkish court were a team of camels, and even these failed to arrive before November 1762.22 Long after the stalemated outcome of the war was no longer in doubt.

  In the meantime, in early 1761, utter exhaustion was a general trend, on parade for everyone to see at all the courts of the big military powers of Europe. The Austrians were sure displaying their share. The Battle of Torgau had been a bitter pill to swallow back in Vienna, and, during the winter of 1760–1761, there were a number of unmistakable symptoms the whitecoats were tiring of the war yet more and more.23 Even Maria Theresa might have begun to wonder if Silesia were worth all of this effort. There were other problems. The French were overtaxed as well. At the end of the 1760 Campaign, the French king made the insightful, if depressing, observation: “‘We have no money, no resources, no soldiers, no generals, and no ministers.’”24 A stark reminder of the statement’s veracity was this observation on the state of the French navy: “‘The year 1761 saw only a few single ships leave her [France’s] ports, and all of them were captured.’”25 The English appeared, by this point in the conflict, to have won the sea fight with the French; almost by default. Even though French privateers were still at large. Alas, the enterprising entrepreneurs of France were not quite done yet. The latter would in time come to play a larger rôle in the war than anyone had ever suspected in that winter of 1760–1761.

  Meanwhile, Prussia, too, was not immune to the rigors of the war, but her king had an iron will. He was not yet ready to give up the ghost. Another perplexing question or two now rears their collective heads in the equation. What of that once formidable bluecoat force? How had the bluecoat military fared, after so many exhausting, and debilitating, battles and campaigns? A number of lost generals and fine units gone, and so forth? Was there still the will to fight on within the troubled ranks of the Prussian host? These were serious enquiries, and they could only be answered and sifted through by the rigors of a campaign and all that it entailed.

  Indeed, although the Prussian army maintained its numbers with surprising strength, the overall quality of those men had suffered a sad decline. On paper, the total for 1761 was 127,000 men.26 In practice, it was much less impressive. For example, the number of Free Battalions, which in 1760 had stood at 11, was abruptly increased to 25 for 1761.27 Thus, although some 104,000 men were ready to take the field when the Campaign 1761 unfolded, none other than the king pronounced they were unfit to show to the enemy, even in terms of the best units, except at a distance.28

  A rather curious phenomenon was taking place at one and the same time. While the Prussian infantry had commenced the war as possibly the best trained cadres of the eighteenth century, they had slowly declined by this stage to the point where shame, sadly, was all too often a key ingredient to their makeup. That much was certainly correct. It is also safe to assert that the Prussian cavalry, while it may have often suffered heavy losses during campaigning seasons, actually improved in quality as hostilities wore on. The reasons seem equally obvious. The Prussian service boasted the likes of commanders like the flashy General Seydlitz, once described as almost “poured into his uniform” by contemporaries,29 the “Green” Kleist, crusty old Ziethen, and others of like ilk. There was enough diversity and apparent excitement for the Prussian horse to attract the best recruits available in most cases. While this was going on, the weaker elements among all three cavalry types were naturally being culled from the ranks by attrition and similar causes. No less a qualified observer than Ambassador Mitchell, in March, 1761, made such an observation.30 The whole process was inevitable. As a consequence, the mounted arm of Prussia near the end of the war was just as competent in quality, and may even have been superior, to that nation’s prewar cavalry—which had itself been among the very best in Europe. This was no mean feat in the heady days of this debilitating war. Another reality was confronting the aggressive Prussian monarch. The hard-nosed offensive minded king had been forced finally, with the Campaign of 1761, to go over to a strict defensive style of warfare.31 Even in areas where the weak Imperialist Army was operating.32 It was clear enough the Prussians, at last, were truly reaching the ‘bottom of the barrel.’ Even the measures to equip the army with basics for the new campaign were becoming ever more desperate and convoluted. For instance, there was a shortage of muskets—to the tune of about 11,000 units—that realistically could not be found in Prussia. The desired quantity then “had to be bought secretly in Holland.”33 This was just a single example, one among many. Sometimes it must have seemed like the only commodities not in short supply for Frederick were trouble and woe.

  Out of the chute, though, there did remain some bright spots. We have already observed the altercation at a glance between Prince Ferdinand’s army and the French enemy in February, 1761. This was possible only because Frederick had dispatched reinforcements to help out. As early as January 28, Ferdinand had written to his brother about his plan to move against the French in mid-winter, which scheme he hoped would help sow confusion and much trouble in the French forces ensconced in their winter quarters.34 Under the most favorable possible outcome, the enemy would be driven back to positions along the Main River area, which was a goal even of the ruler, set out in his History of the Seven Years’ War.35 To help expedite this ambition, if possible, the king was asked to provide some solid formations of reinforcements to help out with the program. The suggestion was by no means unwelcome.

  Frederick, only too eager for a diversion for his own troops, accordingly dispatched some 20 squadrons of horse (about 5,000 cuirassiers and hussars, under Major-General Syburg’s command) to join the Prussians already near Langensalza. This fresh blood sure proved indispensable in helping start the offensive, and a number of those squadrons would distinguish themselves in the adventure at hand. The Allied offensive did enjoy an initial success, and Syburg, on February 14, came up to join General Spörken. The next day, the allies locked horns with the Franco-Saxon corps of Saxon Lt.-Gen. Friedrich Christoph Sölms-Wildenfels. In the resulting altercation, Sölms’ command was compelled to withdraw. This forced Broglie to recoil upon Fulda and thereabouts, before new reinforcements tipped the balance of power back once more towards an unsteady equilibrium of sorts. Then, in March, the reinvigorated French would counterattack and reclaim most of the territory surrendered to Ferdinand and his cohorts in the earlier offensive.

  Meanwhile, some of the Prussian units sent by Frederick and acting under Syburg’s direction earned some distinction at Langensalza. For instance, the 8th Cuirassiers (Seydlitz’s own) “captured three Saxon battalions and three cannon.”36 The 11th Cuirassiers (Major-General Joachim Christian von Bandemer), led by Colonel von Lölhoffel, captured “two Saxon battalions and
six grenadier companies at Langensalza.”37 Nor were the honors confined to the cuirassiers. The 2nd Hussars (Ziethen’s own), Prittwitz’s First Battalion, “took the Saxon Guard and a grenadier battalion prisoner,” along with seizing three cannon and a battle standard.38 The king himself put the trophies/captives for the units he had sent to Ferdinand’s command at “sixty officers, three hundred men, and five pieces of artillery.”39 All things considered, Ferdinand’s command had a time of the matter.40 Even though Frederick himself with his own army was trying to avoid battles, especially large ones, “as far as possible throughout the year 1761.”41

  As for the chief antagonist of the Prussians, the Austrians, even after so many campaigns, their aims were unclear and even the basic issue of who was to exercise the chief command of the whitecoats remained unsettled until relatively late in the campaign plans. In this respect, then, the Prussian king might still possess a measure of so-called “luck.” Neither Lacy nor Laudon could garner sufficient influence to assume the supreme command of the Austrian army even at this point,42 although Maria Theresa ever so briefly thought of bringing back the unfortunate Prince Charles of Lorraine, who had been socked away in the Netherlands ever since the debâcle at Leuthen.43 Daun spent much of the winter convalescing from the serious wound inflicted upon him at Torgau. Thus there was some degree of question whether even that gentleman would be able to resume his duties on time. In the interim, General O’Donnell, ever since Torgau, had wielded command in the absence of Daun.44

  An Austrian army that prized professionalism and honored seniority over merit, had few options for the chief command that would be universally acceptable. There was a bit of wrestling with the problem, but ultimately Marshal Daun emerged once more, after a suitable interval, as the only genuine candidate for the job after all, with the qualifier, urged on by Maria Theresa, that Laudon should be given a larger army this time around with a clear directive to enable him to operate virtually as an independent command. It was thus clear to all concerned, even if Daun would ultimately be once again vested with the supreme Austrian command, it was only through the auspices of the likes of Laudon that decisive action might be forthcoming.45

  Marshal Daun had also alienated the neighbors from the East by some off-handed remarks he had made regarding the usefulness of the Russians as allies, so Russian commanders for the most part balked at having to get anywhere near the man, let alone work in conjunction with him.46 In some ways, then, Marshal Daun’s latest commission might be considered detrimental to the “cause.” This was an opinion shared by most everyone who looked in upon the whole situation carefully. For starters, Daun’s first campaign considerations, formulated in February, relied upon a set of very limited objectives. Some of which ran counter to the aspirations of the Austrian High Command itself.47

  Indeed, the marshal harbored no illusions in sending more troops to Silesia. And one of the conditions under which Daun was leading the Austrian armies at all was his insistence on not being called upon for any major offensive operations. To the point, if the marshal’s writings are any indication, he may have thought the war was as good as lost already anyway.48 Daun was even perfectly willing to reduce the size of Laudon’s strike force in Silesia in order to strengthen the main army quartering in Saxony. This scheme, if approved, would leave Laudon with a detachment of only some 20,000 men, which would effectively squash any plans of trying to wrestle Silesia from the increasingly desperate Prussians, and, at the same time, end any hope of rendezvousing with the Russians in order to either overrun Silesia or to conduct further campaign operations in that sphere. The net result would be Laudon would be left with little more than a holding force to safeguard the Austrian frontier facing Silesia; which would be unable to counteract any earnest Prussian designs, assuming the enemy were so capable at this point. The latter commander reacted with predicable resentment to all of this and protested that reducing the forces in Silesia left the potential for real trouble.49

  In the end, as it worked out, with the intervention of Kaunitz himself, Laudon managed to keep his full strength for the coming campaign, and then some more. This was decided at a pivotal meeting of the Habsburg’s Privy Conference, held on February 21, 1761. In attendance were Prince Charles, Prince Liechtenstein, Count Corfiz Anton Ulfeld, General Carl Anton Alt-Colloredo, Field Marshal Khevenhüller, Carl Paul Battyany, Neipperg, and, of course, Kaunitz.50

  If that were not serious enough, the state of Austrian finances, which were all-important in the attempt to finally win the war, were in an almost constant flux. By the time of the new campaign, the “All Purpose” ministry of Haugwitz & Company had been largely scrapped, and a number of smaller agencies were being set up to handle the country’s most pressing monetary issues. Furthermore, the “war taxes” by this point were debilitating, and only by pluck and sheer will does it appear that the Austrian Empire managed to field a nearly full strength complement for its army in 1761, approximately 218,053 men and 59,664 horses for the field armies.51 By contrast, as we already know, the Prussian king had “nothing to stand in his way—no Ministry of War as in France, no Hofskriegsrath as in Austria.”52 In all of Prussia, Frederick only answered to one person: himself. Surely this was the chief reason why his recruiters and “tax collectors” could run roughshod all over Saxony almost with impunity.

  Meanwhile, the various avenues of possible Austrian plans of campaign may have waffled, but their allies from the East, the Russians, were early on determined to get the new campaign off on the right foot. They had a new commander for their field army, in the person of Marshal Alexander Borisovich Buturlin (although Soltikov would stay in field command until Buturlin could put in his appearance at the front). As for the latest Russian commander, Buturlin was described as “one of the last surviving ‘fledglings’ of Peter the Great … [having] seen more service than any other officer in the army.”53 However, Buturlin apparently also was a lover of strong drink; that, “he could not pass a tavern without going into it with his grenadier boon-companions.”54 In an army that always travelled with a good supply of ‘spirits,’ this is hardly surprising. We might point out, though, this was a characteristic not uncommon, even among the “genuine” European commanders, like the Austrians.

  Besides all of this, we should also note, quite a large number of the greencoats were unhappy over the replacement of the laid-back Soltikov by Buturlin.55 This was, in part, because the greencoats had not entirely withdrawn from Prussian territory with the conclusion of Campaign 1760. It came down to basics. Buturlin would be unable to arrive and personally be set to assume active command for weeks, while Soltikov was already physically in the theater of war. There may have been more to the matter than this. A tale made the rounds to the effect that Buturlin lacked even the basic understanding of a soldier, as well as possibly being outright dense. Apparently “at a council of war Lieutenant General Zakhar Cherneyshev handed him [i.e., Buturlin] a map upside down to see if he would take any notice.”56 The ‘notorious amateur’ did not spot the discrepancy. The quality of commanders again comes to mind here. We are hard pressed to think that Frederick himself would have tolerated an army leader of that “caliber” even at this stage of the war.

  Meanwhile, the war continued to produce events that stretched far beyond the immediate area in which they originally occurred. Totleben, for example, kept marauding patrols of light troops rampaging through Pomerania throughout the winter; which move also served to help keep the Prussians off-balance. And this would not be the last word on the subject, as it turned out. In a mocking twist, Buturlin would turn out to be even more lethargic in the long run as a field commander than Soltikov had ever been.57 The latter had not exactly been the energetic leader himself.

  One of the nagging difficulties confronting the Allies was this questionable effectiveness of a couple of the key Russian commanders. We have already observed Totleben’s uncertain loyalty to the cause,58 while Buturlin himself held some serious reservations about the motives of hi
s Austrian counterparts, most especially of Daun. In addition, there was the energy factor that was not yet realized. “If Soltikoff [sic] had been slow and difficult to move, Boutourlin [sic] was still slower and still more difficult.”59 As the Austrians would presently find out, much to their chagrin. Frederick, indeed, even went to the expedient of attempting to bribe key personnel at the Russian court in order to “keep its forces ‘inactive’ during the coming campaign.”60 Considering the relative lethargic approach taken by the greencoats and the vast distances involved, the king might just as well have saved the trouble.

  Nevertheless, May 7, after unexplained delays in the finalization, the new Russian general campaign plan was unceremoniously presented to the Austrian command. Maria Theresa immediately embraced the concept as one likely to bear fruit. Much of the Russian determination, in fact, may have derived from the limited Russian participation in the campaign just concluded, and their aims were looking plainer. As a measuring device of sorts, total Russian casualties were said to have been 2,851 for the whole of Campaign 1760.61 And, by the time the Campaign of 1761 opened, the Russian High Command no longer had to try to figure out how to cope with their great adversary, Frederick the Great. The Prussian’s best efforts had been met and turned back, although the cost of Zorndorf and Kunersdorf had been high indeed. Indeed, serious consideration was given early on to a joint operation with the Swedes, chiefly aimed at seizing control of the formidable port of Stettin if possible, but the dilatory nature of any military operations connected to the Swedish army really nipped any such plans in the bud. The Swedes could not undertake to capture Stettin by themselves in any case, for “the lack of a siege train and engineers made it unrealistic … [to attack Stettin] which lay on the eastern flank of any Swedish advance into Brandenburg.”62

  This program had been given a look at in the first place because the Russians were becoming progressively more leery of their Austrian allies, and were less willing to try to work with them. Ultimately, after some significant hesitation, Buturlin overrode the scheme of a joint operation with the Swedes, and instead opted to take up a campaign in Silesia in cooperation with Laudon; whom the greencoats knew already would be the Austrian commander in that vicinity. A move viewed by many, including Czarina Elizabeth, as far less risky and more likely to be fruitful.63 One that could force Frederick’s hand, in a way different and more far reaching than any move on Stettin ever could.