On
September 7, 1631, fifteen months after he had landed in Germany, he
met Tilly face to face at Breitenfeld, a village just north of
Leipzig. The Emperor's host in its brave show of silver and plumes
and gold, the plunder of many campaigns under its invincible leader,
looked with contempt upon the travel-worn Swedes in their poor,
soiled garb. The stolid Finns sat their mean but wiry little horses
very unlike Pappenheim's dreaded Walloons, descendants of the
warlike Belgae of Gaul who defied the Germans of old in the forest of
the Ardennes and joined Caesar in his victorious march. But Tilly
himself was not deceived. He knew how far this enemy had come and
with what hardships cheerfully borne; how they had routed the
Russians, written laws for the Poles in their own land, and
overthrown armies and forts that barred their way. He would wait for
reinforcements; but his generals egged him on, said age had made him
timid and slow, and carried the day.
The King slept in an empty cart the night before the battle and
dreamed that he wrestled with Tilly and threw him, but that he tore
his breast with his teeth. When all was ready in the morning he rode
along the front and told his fusiliers not to shoot till they saw
the white in the enemy's eyes, the horsemen not to dull their
swords by hacking the helmets of the Walloons: "Cut at their horses
and they will go down with them.
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