Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/The maiden of Lüneburg
THE MAIDEN OF LÜNEBURG.
In the spring of 1813 the French occupied a large portion of the north of Germany. The spirit of the nation was roused against the invaders, and a determined effort was made to drive them from the country. Allied with those German powers who dared to oppose Napoleon, Russian troops fought side by side with the soldiers of the Fatherland against the hated French.
Early in March, the Russian Colonel Tettenborn was sent from Berlin to expel the French from Hamburg and to protect Lübeck. He found the enemy retreating towards the west, and that, among other places, they had evacuated the little town of Lüneburg. Tettenborn continued his march. Meantime the French General Morand, reinforced by St. Cyr, turned back to Lüneburg. The Allies sent General von Dörnberg to protect the town. Within three hours’ march of Lüneburg, he learnt that Morand had re-occupied the place the preceding day with a force of thrice his strength.
Von Dörnberg waited a day for reinforcements, and advanced on the 2nd of April, at noon, to the attack. Believing the assaulting column stronger than it really was, Morand hastily retreated from the town by one issue—the New Gate—as the Allies entered it by another. The opposing forces encountered in the streets, and after a sanguinary skirmish the French were driven out. After the fight Morand learned the real weakness of the victors, and determined to retrieve his error. Detaching portions of his force to penetrate the town at other assailable points, with gallant but rash impetuosity, the French commander in person attacked the New Gate at three in the afternoon. The post was defended by Russian and Prussian guns, with a few Cossacks, while Prussian Jägers and Fusiliers were thrown out in advance.
The engagement was hotly sustained, and the Gate gallantly held. Though the Prussian loss was heavy, the French made no sensible impression for upwards of an hour. After that time the fire of the defenders began to slacken, then nearly ceased. A murmur ran through the ranks. Their ammunition was fast becoming exhausted, and by some unaccountable oversight no more cartridges were at hand. Skilled soldiers like the French soon perceived something was wrong, and prepared to take advantage of the fault. Their fire grew hotter than ever. The skirmishers hardly deigned to avail themselves of the shelter of the trees that lined the road, but picked off the Prussians with impunity. The eyes of the men turned in mute appeal towards their officers, who were gradually making up their minds to check further advance by a desperate charge of the bayonet, then slowly to retreat.
But the German mind, generally, takes a long time in making up, and before the worthy Prussians had accomplished the task, help came to them from an unexpected quarter, as the sequel will show.
When the alerte was beaten in the town before Von Dörnberg’s advance, the inhabitants hastily closed their shops and houses, and took up safe positions. Their hearts beating with mingled fear and hope, they heard the roar of cannon and the rattle of musketry come nearer and nearer,—bullets struck into the walls and roofs, bricks and tiles began to fall, rockets hurtled past, troops thronged into the town.
A tradesman in the main thoroughfare allowed several of his neighbours to take refuge in the vaulted cellar under his shop. Among these were a widow named Stegen and her daughter Johanna. The latter is described as a girl of twenty-two,—tall, strong, and active; of fair complexion, with handsome features, and the auburn hair that appears seamed with threads of gold. Like most of her countrywomen Johanna was an ardent patriot and a vehement enemy to the French; but, unlike others of her sex, she was an utter stranger to fear. She had intended joining the Jägers, disguised in men’s clothes, upon the previous day, and had gained her mother’s consent; but the widow had lost several sons in the war, and her heart failed her when the time came.
Had Johanna Stegen carried out her intention, she would have done no more than other German women in that stirring time.
History tells of a girl of twenty one from Potsdam, Eleonora Prochaska, who joined the Lützow regiment of foot in the name of Renz, and fell bravely lighting in September 1813, in an engagement on the Göhrde. Dorothea Sawosch entered the West Prussian Landwehr cavalry, exchanged into the infantry after a fall from her horse, and served in its ranks until the close of the war. Charlotte Krüger fought in the Kolberg regiment, and gained promotion as a non-commissioned officer. A lady, known subsequently as Frau Scheinemann, served with Hellwig’s Hussars throughout the War of Liberation. A native of Stralsund, the wife of a ship-captain, made the campaign under the name of Karl Petersen, became a sergeant, was twice wounded, and decorated with the Iron Cross of the first class.
Unable, as she thought, to participate actively in the defence of Lüneburg, Johanna’s whole heart went out towards her countrymen and their allies. As soon as the tumult of the conflict in the streets had in some degree subsided, she left the trembling women in the cellar, and posted herself at a window in the shop-door to observe the progress of the fight. Presently came a squadron of Russian hussars at full gallop round the corner of the street in pursuit of the flying French. They were guided by a sturdy butcher of Lüneburg on horseback, armed with a reeking sabre. The hussars were followed by Cossacks. Johanna could remain inactive no longer. Seizing a jug of “schnapps” and a glass, she mounted on a bench before the door, and distributed the welcome refreshment to officers and men.
The cavalry passed, but return to her friends after the excitement of the scene was impossible to Johanna. All ideas of personal danger and timidity were swallowed up in the strength of her desire to see the discomfiture of the foe. So on, past signs of disorder and flight, past cast-away arms and portions of uniforms, past wounded and dying men, writhing in agony and shrieking for water, past heaps of slain in all imaginable attitudes, past the corpse of the Saxon private who was quartered in her mother’s house, and who had breakfasted gaily with them in the morning.
As Johanna approached the New Gate, the firing showed her the engagement was still in progress. To observe it the better, she made for a slight elevation on the left, called the Kalkberg (lime-hill) within the barriers of the town. Upon her way hither she passed two men in a dry ditch prising off the heads of a number of barrels in the hope of booty. In its stead they find cartridges, and eke they swear. French cartridges, reported universally to contain poisoned bullets. The men abandoned their discovery in disgust, and the girl pursued her way. Upon the Kalkberg she found a veteran who had served in the Seven Years’ War, and was now living in Lüneburg. The old man lent Johanna his field-glass, and explained to her the object of the manœuvres they beheld. They saw Morand’s flying troops halted and led back to attack the New Gate; followed its gallant defence with lively interest; noticed with apprehension the Prussian fire slacken, and the French massing for assault. The veteran communicated to Johanna his fear that ammunition was growing short, and finding the tide of battle begin to roll towards the Kalkberg, descended from his post and advised Johanna to make the best of her way home.
Slowly and unwillingly the girl retraced her steps through a side street towards the New Gate, but had not gone far before she noticed an old man of her acquaintance sitting upon an ammunition-waggon abandoned during the French retreat.
“Why, Müller, what are you doing here?” she asked in surprise.
“Been looking for something good, my girl,” was the reply. “Find nothing but cartridges.”
Cartridges! The word strikes out a thought, as flint brings sparks from steel. The very thing needed to carry on the fight. A supply here; a store in the barrels in the ditch; our men short of ammunition, retreating, beaten! Now to afford them help.
“Quick, Müller!” cried Johanna. “Fill my apron with cartridges. I’ve plenty more in front. Our men are coming that way. Oh! victory shall be ours yet!”
Fired by her enthusiasm, the old man tremulously filled Johanna’s apron with the precious load. The brave girl grasped the corners of the garment in her teeth, and hurried away to empty it near the barrels. Again and again, with glowing eyes and rapid feet, she hastened upon her devoted task. Meantime the fight came nearer. Bullets began to whistle around the pair, Müller lost heart and beat a retreat, counselling Johanna to follow his example. But she was not so easily terrified. Alone now, she clambered upon the waggon and filled her apron unassisted, carrying it off to augment her store without heeding the more rapid spatter of the leaden hail.
On a sudden, midway with a load, she found herself between two bodies of troops. A light rain falling, the men wore their overcoats, and she was unable to distinguish friend from foe. While hesitating what to do, she was reached by a company of Prussian Jägers, rushing with levelled bayonets to take the French in flank. Johanna ran on a few steps beside the leading officer, asking whether the French would get the town again.
The officer told her gruffly to be off about her business, but added—
“Stop! What have you got there that seems so heavy?”
“Cartridges.”
“Cartridges! And we without a ball! Whence?”
“Out of the waggon, there; and I’ve got a heap more in the ditch behind.”
“Halt, men!” came next, with a mighty Prussian oath.
In a moment four soldiers were emptying Johanna’s apron by their officer’s command, and distributing its contents among their comrades. She hurried on to the ditch amid the hurras of the Jägers, showed them the supply, then ran back to the ammunition-waggon for more. Hotter grows the French fire, but the Prussians respond to it now with cheerfulness and vigour. Grape and round shot begin to take their victims, and let out many a hardy fellow’s life. But Johanna never falters in her self-appointed task. Holding her apron with her teeth, she pushes the cartridges into the breasts of the Jägers’ uniforms to distribute her prizes the quicker. Friends fall beside her, but she never stops. The enemy come closer, but she feels no fear. During one of her trips a Saxon officer gallops out upon her from an adjacent garden with uplifted sabre. Seeing her danger, a Cossack rushes past her with levelled lance, and stretches the Saxon on the ground. The unintelligible jargon of her rescuer first shows the girl the peril she has escaped.
By the aid of the ammunition furnished by Johanna Stegen, the French were kept at a distance until reinforcements could be brought up from within the town. Then, as dusk was drawing in, a combined charge, in which Morand was badly wounded and taken, scattered the assailants irretrievably, and the day was won.
Johanna had been wonderfully preserved in the midst of the dangers to which she was exposed. Her clothes were riddled with bullets. A grapeshot passed through her dress while she was stooping to pick up some fallen cartridges. As she supplied a Jäger with ammunition, the man fell forward, badly hit, into her arms. She carried him to the ditch, tore off her neckerchief to bind his wound, and set out again to the waggon.
After the battle, the Maiden of Lüneburg in her shot-torn clothes, blackened with smoke and powder, was carried in triumph by the townsfolk round the market-place; then she went quietly home to her mother. The old woman scolded her heartily for her imprudence, and having done that much homage to duty, cried over the girl for her patriotism.
Next day, when the Prussian commander inquired after the heroic girl, none of his men knew where she was to be found. One Jäger only was able to describe her appearance, adding that she had red hair. This led to her discovery. For during the next few days there were other duties to perform. Wounded and prisoners had to be nursed, tended, and waited upon; lint was to be furnished, provisions obtained and prepared, a hospital to be extemporised; and Johanna lent eager assistance in these charitable tasks. While occupied among the wounded prisoners, she was noticed by a huge Saxon sergeant. The man’s eyes blazed with fury, and he dashed at her with an imprecation, calling out:
“Here, comrades! This is the devil on whom sixteen of our men spent all their bullets yesterday without hitting her. ’Twas she cost our brave officer his life, for he’d sworn to cut her down.”
The prison-guards came to the rescue, and freed the girl from his grasp.
The troubles of the Maiden of Lüneburg and of her native town were not by any means ended with the French repulse. The day after the engagement the Allies evacuated Lüneburg, and crossed the Elbe to Boitzenburg to give battle to Davoust. The French Marshal declined the engagement, but despatched Montbrun with 6000 men to punish the Lüneburgers. He entered the town late on the night of the 4th, passed the next day in searching for arms, and arrested 106 of the chief citizens. The threatening movements of the Allies compelled Davoust to call in all his strength, and Montbrun left Lüneburg again upon the 9th.
The war went on. The Allies gained a battle upon the 6th of April, but lost another on the 2nd of May, and with it the temporary command of the country. Once more the French re-occupied unfortunate Lüneburg, surrounding it with palisades, deepening the ditches, throwing up earth-works, and barricading the gates, as if they did not intend to be dislodged in a hurry. The invaders instituted a veritable Reign of Terror in the luckless town. One poor girl, suspected as a spy, was scourged to death in the market-place. All citizens and inhabitants thought to be disaffected were imprisoned or fined.
It may be supposed that under such harsh rule the part taken by Johanna Stegen in the repulse of the 2nd of April would not remain unpunished. Her mother kept her carefully concealed in a loft attached to the house, and it was generally believed she was no longer in the town. Constant inquiries and frequent searches proved unavailing for her discovery. Among the few acquainted with her hiding-place was a neighbour, who proposed to Widow Stegen to let Johanna spend the day with his daughter.
“It would be a change for the poor girl,” said the worthy man, “and hearten her up a bit.”
Frau Stegen consenting, Johanna hurried across the street upon her visit next morning before dawn. At noon, the good man of the house, standing according to simple German custom smoking his pipe before the door, hastily called the girls, and showed three gendarmes turning in to search Frau Stegen’s house. The fellows examined the old mother severely, trying to extract her daughter’s whereabouts, declaring from the clothes and so forth they discovered the girl could only just have left the place. Frau Stegen kept firm, and the gendarmes in revenge searched all the houses in the street, including that of the friendly neighbour. By rare good fortune, they forgot to look in the hen-house, where the fugitive was concealed.
It was evident, after this, there was no safety in Lüneburg for Johanna. Watched and guarded as the place now was, however, it was anything but easy to get out of the town. Still, the attempt must be made. Her mother accompanied her next night to the outer wall, where they parted. Johanna waited until all was quiet, managed to scale the wall and to pass the ditch, but was stopped by the palisades. She climbed them at last, after many fruitless efforts, balanced herself upon the top, and jumped. As ill luck would have it, her dress caught in the sharpened points and tore, the noise attracting the attention of the sentry singing on the wall. His rapid challenge echoed through the night. Sustaining her weight upon her hands, the girl clung breathlessly to the palisades, not daring to move a muscle. The sentry listened a minute, peered out into the darkness, saw nothing, contentedly shouldered his musket again, and resumed his walk and his song.
This danger surmounted, Johanna made for Natendorf, a village five miles from Lüneburg, where a friend was the pastor’s wife. With these kind people she abode four weeks, enjoying rest, happiness, and quiet.
An old woman from Lüneburg came one day begging into the parsonage. She recognised Johanna with surprise, but was friendly, even to obsequiousness. The woman was well treated, feasted, and sent away with presents of food and money, vowing by all her hopes of salvation not to betray a syllable. She may have been sincere. It is charitable to hope she was. But if she did not plainly denounce Johanna to the French, she did the next thing to it. She talked about her discovery, and the story soon reached the ears of the authorities.
Apprehending treachery, Johanna had already determined to quit the house. The entreaties of her friends were unable to stifle the foreboding of approaching danger. She left, and turned again towards Lüneburg—for where else could she go? She was hardly clear of the premises when she heard the clank of accoutrements; and, slipping rapidly behind a hedge, saw gendarmes riding up towards the parsonage.
Now it happened that at that period there were only two women, residents of Lüneburg, who had reddish hair,—Johanna Stegen and a younger female of indifferent character, well known to the French officials. As Johanna was hastening that morning along the high road, she snddenly perceived this latter girl with three douaniers a little distance on in front. In that level district it was impossible to think of evading them. Johanna hastily concealed her hair—whose colour was so conspicuous—beneath a white handkerchief, took her light straw hat in her hand, and passed the party boldly with a rapid step. The female recognised her immediately.
“Why, that’s Johanna Stegen!” she exclaimed.
Rattle flew the sabres of the gendarmes from their sheaths. The sabre to a French gendarme is like the staff to an English policeman: he feels twice as big a man with the symbol of authority in his hand.
Johanna no sooner heard the ominous sound than she set off at the top of her speed, and the chase began. Over hedge and ditch, across fields, through a wood where the fugitive lost her shoes and hurried on with bleeding feet, along the high-road again, the flight continued for full six miles, until, coming to the bridge across a little stream, the poor hunted girl in her despair resolved to end her misery at once. She had already swung over the balustrade, and was on the point of letting go her hold with a prayer to be forgiven, when, looking back, she saw that her pursuers were even more exhausted than herself, and had halted by the wayside for breath. The sight gave her fresh courage. She set off again upon the Lüneburg road, passing vehicles and footgoers, none of whom chose to understand the shouts of her pursuers to stop the runaway.
She had got close to the town before she recollected it would be running into the lion’s jaws to enter it in broad daylight. She turned rapidly off the road, and making for a well-known farm close at hand, burst into the kitchen with the cry, “Oh, help! help! Save me from the French!”
The inmates at first refused assistance. They paid no heed to her despairing entreaties, declaring they would not get into trouble for a stranger, until at last the girl was recognised by the mistress, attracted by the noise.
“Good heaven!” cried the farmer’s wife. “Why, surely, it’s Johanna! This way, girl. Follow me!”
She raised the flap of the cellar extending beneath the kitchen, hurried the fugitive down a ladder, and hid her underneath a cask. A basket and some cloths were thrown over the trap, and all resumed their occupations. The pursuers rushed in, with some comrades picked up on the road, and demanded Johanna. Immense astonishment and protestations of utter ignorance of any such person.
“She came in here, I know!” said one of the gendarmes. “We’ll unearth her. Comrades, search the house.”
The men dispersed all over the farm, and searched it from top to bottom, without success. Nobody dreamt of the out-of-sight out-of-mind cellar trap, and Johanna was saved.
“She must have escaped through the adjoining garden,” suggested the girls.
The gendarme instinct gorged the bait in a jiffey, and rushed off in pursuit.
At two in the afternoon Johanna, bathed in perspiration from her protracted flight, had been concealed in the ice cold cellar. At nine in the evening the inhabitants of the farmhouse first ventured to release her from durance. They found her shaking in every limb from exhaustion and frost like a person in a violent ague. A little refreshment and some hot soup restored her for the time. After a short rest an old shepherd accompanied her, near midnight, to assist her in crossing the palisades and entering the town. With his help she found it an easy task, which says little for the vigilance of the French. Dawn was just stealing into the sky when the fugitive reached her mother’s house, with some difficulty succeeding in obtaining entrance without attracting the notice of the neighbours, and was finally at rest.
This last adventure, happening in the middle of July, was the termination of Johanna’s romantic trials. The French held the town until September, but were too much occupied in making head against the disasters which befel their arms in rapid succession to think of hunting up Johanna.
On September 18th General Tettenborn entered Lüneburg with a large force of Cossacks. Four days later the Russian commander heard of Johanna’s bravery, and caused her to be brought before him. Varnhagen von Ense, present at the interview, testifies:—“When the French again became masters of Lüneburg, she had been forced to go into hiding. Afterwards she was exposed to threats and dangers from the enemy, and even from many of her countrymen, until the remembrance of her daring gradually died away. But Tettenborn gave orders to seek Johanna, and invited her to his table, where he presented her to his guests as a worthy sister-in-arms. Her behaviour now was just as simply modest as it had previously been unaffectedly brave. That she might not be again exposed to vengeance or contumely, she was subsequently sent under favourable circumstances and with advantageous prospects to Berlin.”
The advantageous prospects consisted of the situation of companion to the lady of Major von Reiche, in whom the Maiden of Lüneburg found a warm friend and kind patroness. While in Berlin Johanna broke a blood-vessel, in consequence, said the physicians, of the shock to her constitution of the rapid change of temperature suffered during her escape upon the 13th July. She lay long at death’s door, but ultimately recovered, and accompanied Frau von Reiche to Paris in 1810.
Two years afterwards the Maiden of Lüneburg married Wilhelm Hindersin, a volunteer Jäger of good family, whose acquaintance she made at the house of her patroness. Their eldest son is the head of the Stettin bank, another a lithographer at St. Petersburg.
Twice subsequently the malady from which Johanna suffered in Berlin returned, leaving each time the seeds of disease, which ultimately developed into a disorder terminating fatally in 1842. Her husband died last year, and from his account the details of this little history have been compiled.
It is pleasant to reflect that the savour of noble deeds survives long after their doers have crumbled into dust. The body of Johanna Stegen is where the mortal remains of all of us will be in few or many years, but her immortal part—her memory—will go down to posterity as that of a brave-hearted, good woman, who risked her life for her country.