THE DELUGE.
Vol. II.
THE DELUGE.
An Historical Novel
OF
POLAND, SWEDEN, AND RUSSIA.
A SEQUEL TO
“WITH FIRE AND SWORD.”
BY
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
_AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM
THE POLISH BY_
JEREMIAH CURTIN.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
Vol. II.
BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1915.
_Copyright, 1891_, by Jeremiah Curtin.
Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
THE DELUGE
CHAPTER I.
The war with cannon was no bar to negotiations, which the fathers
determined to use at every opportunity. They wished to delude the enemy
and procrastinate till aid came, or at least severe winter. But Miller
did not cease to believe that the monks wished merely to extort the
best terms.
In the evening, therefore, after that cannonading, he sent Colonel
Kuklinovski again with a summons to surrender. The prior showed
Kuklinovski the safeguard of the king, which closed his mouth at once.
But Miller had a later command of the king to occupy Boleslav,
Vyelunie, Kjepits, and Chenstohova.
“Take this order to them,” said he to Kuklinovski; “for I think that
they will lack means of evasion when it is shown them.” But he was
deceived.
The prior answered: “If the command includes Chenstohova, let the
general occupy the place with good fortune. He may be sure that the
cloister will make no opposition; but Chenstohova is not Yasna Gora, of
which no mention is made in the order.”
When Miller heard this answer he saw that he had to deal with diplomats
more adroit than himself; reasons were just what he lacked,—and there
remained only cannon.
A truce lasted through the night. The Swedes worked with vigor at
making better trenches; and on Yasna Gora they looked for the damages
of the previous day, and saw with astonishment that there were none.
Here and there roofs and rafters were broken, here and there plaster
had dropped from the walls,—that was all. Of the men, none had fallen,
no one was even maimed. The prior, going around on the walls, said with
a smile to the soldiers,—
“But see, this enemy with his bombarding is not so terrible as
reported. After a festival there is often more harm done. God’s care is
guarding you; God’s hand protects you; only let us endure, and we shall
see greater wonders.”
Sunday came, the festival of the offering of the Holy Lady. There was
no hindrance to services, since Miller was waiting for the final
answer, which the monks had promised to send after midday.
Mindful meanwhile of the words of Scripture, how Israel bore the ark of
God around the camp to terrify the Philistines, they went again in
procession with the monstrance.
The letter was sent about one o’clock, not to surrender; but to repeat
the answer given Kuklinovski, that the church and the cloister are
called Yasna Gora, and that the town Chenstohova does not belong to the
cloister at all. “Therefore we implore earnestly his worthiness,” wrote
the prior Kordetski, “to be pleased to leave in peace our Congregation
and the church consecrated to God and His Most Holy Mother, so that God
may be honored therein during future times. In this church also we
shall implore the Majesty of God for the health and success of the Most
Serene King of Sweden. Meanwhile we, unworthy men, while preferring our
request, commend ourselves most earnestly to the kindly consideration
of your worthiness, confiding in your goodness, from which we promise
much to ourselves in the future.”
There were present at the reading of the letter, Sadovski; Count
Veyhard; Horn, governor of Kjepitsi; De Fossis, a famous engineer; and
the Prince of Hesse, a man young and very haughty, who though
subordinate to Miller, was willing to show his own importance. He
laughed therefore maliciously, and repeated the conclusion of the
letter with emphasis,—
“They promise much to themselves from your kindness; General, that is a
hint for a contribution. I put one question, gentlemen: Are the monks
better beggars or better gunners?”
“True,” said Horn, “during these first days we have lost so many men
that a good battle would not have taken more.”
“As for me,” continued the Prince of Hesse, “I do not want money; I am
not seeking for glory, and I shall freeze off my feet in these huts.
What a pity that we did not go to Prussia, a rich country, pleasant,
one town excelling another.”
Miller, who acted quickly but thought slowly, now first understood the
sense of the letter; he grew purple and said,—
“The monks are jeering at us, gracious gentlemen.”
“They had not the intention of doing so, but it comes out all the
same,” answered Horn.
“To the trenches, then! Yesterday the fire was weak, the balls few.”
The orders given flew swiftly from end to end of the Swedish line. The
trenches were covered with blue clouds; the cloister answered quickly
with all its energy. But this time the Swedish guns were better
planted, and began to cause greater damage. Bombs, loaded with powder,
were scattered, each drawing behind it a curl of flame. Lighted torches
were hurled too, and rolls of hemp steeped in rosin.
As sometimes flocks of passing cranes, tired from long flying, besiege
a high cliff, so swarms of these fiery messengers fell on the summit of
the church and on the wooden roofs of the buildings. Whoso was not
taking part in the struggle, was near a cannon, was sitting on a roof.
Some dipped water from wells, others drew up the buckets with ropes,
while third parties put out fire with wet cloths. Balls crashing
rafters and beams fell into garrets, and soon smoke and the odor of
burning filled all the interior of buildings. But in garrets, too,
defenders were watching with buckets of water. The heaviest bombs burst
even through ceilings. In spite of efforts more than human, in spite of
wakefulness, it seemed that, early or late, flames would embrace the
whole cloister. Torches and bundles of hemp pushed with hooks from the
roofs formed burning piles at the foot of the walls. Windows were
bursting from heat, and women and children confined in rooms were
stifling from smoke and exhalations. Hardly were some missiles
extinguished, hardly was the water flowing in broken places, when there
came new flocks of burning balls, flaming cloths, sparks, living fire.
The whole cloister was seized with it. You would have said that heaven
had opened on the place, and that a shower of thunders was falling;
still it burned, but was not consumed; it was flaming, but did not fall
into fragments; what was more, the besieged began to sing like those
youths in the fiery furnace; for, as the day previous, a song was now
heard from the tower, accompanied by trumpets. To the men standing on
the walls and working at the guns, who at each moment might think that
all was blazing and falling to ruins behind their shoulders, that song
was like healing balsam, announcing continually that the church was
standing, that the cloister was standing, that so far flames had not
vanquished the efforts of men. Hence it became a custom to sweeten with
such harmony the suffering of the siege, and to keep removed from the
ears of women the terrible shouts of raging soldiery.
But in the Swedish camp that singing and music made no small
impression. The soldiers in the trenches heard it at first with wonder,
then with superstitious dread.
“How is it,” said they to one another, “we have cast so much fire and
iron at that hen-house that more than one powerful fortress would have
flown away in smoke and ashes, but they are playing joyously? What does
this mean?”
“Enchantment!” said others.
“Balls do not harm those walls. Bombs roll down from the roofs as if
they were empty kegs! Enchantment, enchantment!” repeated they.
“Nothing good will meet us in this place.”
The officers in fact were ready to ascribe some mysterious meaning to
those sounds. But others interpreted differently, and Sadovski said
aloud, so that Miller might hear: “They must feel well there, since
they rejoice; or are they glad because we have spent so much powder for
nothing?”
“Of which we have not too much,” added the Prince of Hesse.
“But we have as leader Poliorcetes,” said Sadovski, in such a tone that
it could not be understood whether he was ridiculing or flattering
Miller. But the latter evidently took it as ridicule, for he bit his
mustache.
“We shall see whether they will be playing an hour later,” said he,
turning to his staff.
Miller gave orders to double the fire, but these orders were carried
out over-zealously. In their hurry, the gunners pointed the cannons too
high, and the result was they carried too far. Some of the balls,
soaring above the church and the cloister, went to the Swedish trenches
on the opposite side, smashing timber works, scattering baskets,
killing men.
An hour passed; then a second. From the church tower came solemn music
unbroken.
Miller stood with his glass turned on Chenstohova. He looked a long
time. Those present noticed that the hand with which he held the glass
to his eyes trembled more and more; at last he turned and cried,—
“The shots do not injure the church one whit!” And anger, unrestrained,
mad, seized the old warrior. He hurled the glass to the earth, and it
broke into pieces. “I shall go wild from this music!” roared he.
At that moment De Fossis, the engineer, galloped up. “General,” said
he, “it is impossible to make a mine. Under a layer of earth lies rock.
There miners are needed.”
Miller used an oath. But he had not finished the imprecation when
another officer came with a rush from the Chenstohova entrenchment, and
saluting, said,—
“Our largest gun has burst. Shall we bring others from Lgota?”
Fire had slackened somewhat; the music was heard with more and more
solemnity. Miller rode off to his quarters without saying a word. But
he gave no orders to slacken the struggle; he determined to worry the
besieged. They had in the fortress barely two hundred men as garrison;
he had continual relays of fresh soldiers.
Night came, the guns thundered unceasingly; but the cloister guns
answered actively,—more actively indeed than during the day, for the
Swedish camp-fires showed them ready work. More than once it happened
that soldiers had barely sat around the fire and the kettle hanging
over it, when a ball from the cloister flew to them out of the
darkness, like an angel of death. The fire was scattered to splinters
and sparks, the soldiers ran apart with unearthly cries, and either
sought refuge with other comrades, or wandered through the night,
chilled, hungry, and frightened.
About midnight the fire from the cloister increased to such force that
within reach of a cannon not a stick could be kindled. The besieged
seemed to speak in the language of cannons the following words: “You
wish to wear us out,—try it! We challenge you!”
One o’clock struck, and two. A fine rain began to fall in the form of
cold mist, but piercing, and in places thickened as if into pillars,
columns and bridges seeming red from the light of the fire. Through
these fantastic arcades and pillars were seen at times the threatening
outlines of the cloister, which changed before the eye; at one time it
seemed higher than usual, then again it fell away as if in an abyss.
From the trenches to its walls stretched as it were ill-omened arches
and corridors formed of darkness and mist, and through those corridors
flew balls bearing death; at times all the air above the cloister
seemed clear as if illumined by a lightning flash; the walls, the lofty
works, and the towers were all outlined in brightness, then again they
were quenched. The soldiers looked before them with superstitious and
gloomy dread. Time after time one pushed another and whispered,—
“Hast seen it? This cloister appears and vanishes in turn. That is a
power not human.”
“I saw something better than that,” answered the other. “We were aiming
with that gun that burst, when in a moment the whole fortress began to
jump and quiver, as if some one were raising and lowering it. Fire at
such a fortress; hit it!”
The soldier then threw aside the cannon brush, and after a while
added,—
“We can win nothing here! We shall never smell their treasures. Brr, it
is cold! Have you the tar-bucket there? Set fire to it; we can even
warm our hands.”
One of the soldiers started to light the tar by means of a sulphured
thread. He ignited the sulphur first, then began to let it down slowly.
“Put out that light!” sounded the voice of an officer. But almost the
same instant was heard the noise of a ball; then a short cry, and the
light was put out.
The night brought the Swedes heavy losses. A multitude of men perished
at the camp-fires; in places regiments fell into such disorder that
they could not form line before morning. The besieged, as if wishing to
show that they needed no sleep, fired with increasing rapidity.
The dawn lighted tired faces on the walls, pale, sleepless, but
enlivened by feverishness. Kordetski had lain in the form of a cross in
the church all night; with daylight he appeared on the walls, and his
pleasant voice was heard at the cannon, in the curtains, and near the
gates.
“God is forming the day, my children,” said he. “Blessed be His light.
There is no damage in the church, none in the buildings. The fire is
put out, no one has lost his life. Pan Mosinski, a fiery ball fell
under the cradle of your little child, and was quenched, causing no
harm. Give thanks to the Most Holy Lady; repay her.”
“May Her name be blessed,” said Mosinski; “I serve as I can.”
The prior went farther.
It had become bright day when he stood near Charnyetski and Kmita. He
did not see Kmita; for he had crawled to the other side to examine the
woodwork, which a Swedish ball had harmed somewhat. The prior asked
straightway,—
“But where is Babinich? Is he not sleeping?”
“I, sleep in such a night as this!” answered Pan Andrei, climbing up on
the wall. “I should have no conscience. Better watch as an orderly of
the Most Holy Lady.”
“Better, better, faithful servant!” answered Kordetski.
Pan Andrei saw at that moment a faint Swedish light gleaming, and
immediately he cried,—
“Fire, there, fire! Aim! higher! at the dog-brothers!”
Kordetski smiled, seeing such zeal, and returned to the cloister to
send to the wearied men a drink made of beer with pieces of cheese
broken in it.
Half an hour later appeared women, priests, and old men of the church,
bringing steaming pots and jugs. The soldiers seized these with
alacrity, and soon was heard along all the walls eager drinking. They
praised the drink, saying,—
“We are not forgotten in the service of the Most Holy Lady. We have
good food.”
“It is worse for the Swedes,” added others. “It was hard for them to
cook food the past night; it will be worse the night coming.”
“They have enough, the dog-faiths. They will surely give themselves and
us rest during the day. Their poor guns must be hoarse by this time
from roaring continually.”
But the soldiers were mistaken, for the day was not to bring rest.
When, in the morning, officers coming with the reports informed Miller
that the result of the night’s cannonading was nothing, that in fact
the night had brought the Swedes a considerable loss in men, the
general was stubborn and gave command to continue cannonading. “They
will grow tired at last,” said he to the Prince of Hesse.
“This is an immense outlay of powder,” answered that officer.
“But they burn powder too?”
“They must have endless supplies of saltpetre and sulphur, and we shall
give them charcoal ourselves, if we are able to burn even one booth. In
the night I went near the walls, and in spite of the thunder, I heard a
mill clearly, that must be a powder-mill.”
“I will give orders to cannonade as fiercely as yesterday, till sunset.
We will rest for the night. We shall see if an embassy does not come
out.”
“Your worthiness knows that they have sent one to Wittemberg?”
“I know; I will send too for the largest cannons. If it is impossible
to frighten the monks or to raise a fire inside the fortress, we must
make a breach.”
“I hope, your worthiness, that the field-marshal will approve the
siege.”
“The field-marshal knows of my intention, and he has said nothing,”
replied Miller, dryly. “If failure pursues me still farther, the
field-marshal will give censure instead of approval, and will not fail
to lay all the blame at my door. The king will say he is right,—I know
that. I have suffered not a little from the field-marshal’s sullen
humor, just as if ’tis my fault that he, as the Italians state, is
consumed by _mal francese_.”
“That they will throw the blame on you I doubt not, especially when it
appears that Sadovich is right.”
“How right? Sadovich speaks for those monks as if he were hired by
them. What does he say?”
“He says that these shots will be heard through the whole country, from
the Carpathians to the Baltic.”
“Let the king command in such case to tear the skin from Count Veyhard
and send it as an offering to the cloister; for he it is who instigated
to this siege.”
Here Miller seized his head.
“But it is necessary to finish at a blow. It seems to me, something
tells me, that in the night they will send some one to negotiate;
meanwhile fire after fire!”
The day passed then as the day previous, full of thunder, smoke, and
flames. Many such were to pass yet over Yasna Gora. But the defenders
quenched the conflagrations and cannonaded no less bravely. One half
the soldiers went to rest, the other half were on the walls at the
guns.
The people began to grow accustomed to the unbroken roar, especially
when convinced that no great damage was done. Faith strengthened the
less experienced; but among them were old soldiers, acquainted with
war, who performed their service as a trade. These gave comfort to the
villagers.
Soroka acquired much consideration among them; for, having spent a
great part of his life in war, he was as indifferent to its uproar as
an old innkeeper to the shouts of carousers. In the evening when the
guns had grown silent he told his comrades of the siege of Zbaraj. He
had not been there in person, but he knew of it minutely from soldiers
who had gone through that siege and had told him.
“There rolled on Cossacks, Tartars, and Turks, so many that there were
more under-cooks there than all the Swedes that are here. And still our
people did not yield to them. Besides, evil spirits have no power here;
but there it was only Friday, Saturday, and Sunday that the devils did
not help the ruffians; the rest of the time they terrified our people
whole nights. They sent Death to the breastworks to appear to the
soldiers and take from them courage for battle. I know this from a man
who saw Death himself.”
“Did he see her?” asked with curiosity peasants gathering around the
sergeant.
“With his own eyes. He was going from digging a well; for water was
lacking, and what was in the ponds smelt badly. He was going, going,
till he saw walking in front of him some kind of figure in a black
mantle.”
“In a black, not in a white one?”
“In black; in war Death dresses in black. It was growing dark, the
soldier came up. ‘Who is here?’ inquired he—no answer. Then he pulled
the mantle, looked, and saw a skeleton. ‘But what art thou here for?’
asked the soldier. ‘I am Death,’ was the answer; ‘and I am coming for
thee in a week.’ The soldier thought that was bad. ‘Why,’ asked he, ‘in
a week, and not sooner? Art thou not free to come sooner?’ The other
said: ‘I can do nothing before a week, for such is the order.’”
“The soldier thought to himself: ‘That is hard; but if she can do
nothing to me now, I’ll pay her what I owe.’ Winding Death up in the
mantle, he began to beat her bones on the pebbles; but she cried and
begged: ‘I’ll come in two weeks!’ ‘Impossible.’ ‘In three, four, ten,
when the siege is over; a year, two, fifteen—’ ‘Impossible.’ ‘I’ll come
in fifty years.’ The soldier was pleased, for he was then fifty, and
thought: ‘A hundred years is enough; I’ll let her go.’ The man is
living this minute, and well; he goes to a battle as to a dance, for
what does he care?”
“But if he had been frightened, it would have been all over with him?”
“The worst is to fear Death,” said Soroka, with importance. “This
soldier did good to others too; for after he had beaten Death, he hurt
her so that she was fainting for three days, and during that time no
one fell in camp, though sorties were made.”
“But we never go out at night against the Swedes.”
“We haven’t the head for it,” answered Soroka.
The last question and answer were heard by Kmita, who was standing not
far away, and he struck his head. Then he looked at the Swedish
trenches. It was already night. At the trenches for an hour past deep
silence had reigned. The wearied soldiers were seemingly sleeping at
the guns.
At two cannon-shots’ distance gleamed a number of fires; but at the
trenches themselves was thick darkness.
“That will not enter their heads, nor the suspicion of it, and they
cannot suppose it,” whispered Kmita to himself.
He went straight to Charnyetski, who, sitting at the gun-carriage, was
reading his rosary, and striking one foot against the other, for both
feet were cold.
“Cold,” said he, seeing Kmita; “and my head is heavy from the thunder
of two days and one night. In my ears there is continual ringing.”
“In whose head would it not ring from such uproars? But to-day we shall
rest. They have gone to sleep for good. It would be possible to
surprise them like a bear in a den; I know not whether guns would rouse
them.”
“Oh,” said Charnyetski, raising his head, “of what are you thinking?”
“I am thinking of Zbaraj, how the besieged inflicted with sorties more
than one great defeat on the ruffians.”
“You are thinking of blood, like a wolf in the night.”
“By the living God and his wounds, let us make a sortie! We will cut
down men, spike guns! They expect no attack.”
Charnyetski sprang to his feet.
“And in the morning they will go wild. They imagine, perhaps, that they
have frightened us enough and we are thinking of surrender; they will
get their answer. As I love God, ’tis a splendid idea, a real knightly
deed! That should have come to my head too. But it is needful to tell
all to Kordetski, for he is commander.”
They went.
Kordetski was taking counsel in the chamber with Zamoyski. When he
heard steps, he raised his voice and pushing a candle to one side,
inquired,—
“Who is coming? Is there anything new?”
“It is I, Charnyetski,” replied Pan Pyotr, “with me is Babinich;
neither of us can sleep. We have a terrible odor of the Swedes. This
Babinich, father, has a restless head and cannot stay in one place. He
is boring me, boring; for he wants terribly to go to the Swedes beyond
the walls to ask them if they will fire to-morrow also, or give us and
themselves time to breathe.”
“How is that?” inquired the prior, not concealing his astonishment
“Babinich wants to make a sortie from the fortress?”
“In company, in company,” answered Charnyetski, hurriedly, “with me and
some others. They, it seems, are sleeping like dead men at the
trenches; there is no fire visible, no sentries to be seen. They trust
over much in our weakness.”
“We will spike the guns,” said Kmita.
“Give that Babinich this way!” exclaimed Zamoyski; “let me embrace him!
The sting is itching, O hornet! thou wouldst gladly sting even at
night. This is a great undertaking, which may have the finest results.
God gave us only one Lithuanian, but that one an enraged and biting
beast. I applaud the design; no one here will find fault with it. I am
ready to go myself.”
Kordetski at first was alarmed, for he feared bloodshed, especially
when his own life was not exposed; after he had examined the idea more
closely, he recognized it as worthy of the defenders.
“Let me pray,” said he. And kneeling before the image of the Mother of
God, he prayed a while, with outspread arms, and then rose with serene
face.
“Pray you as well,” said he; “and then go.”
A quarter of an hour later the four went out and repaired to the walls.
The trenches in the distance were sleeping. The night was very dark.
“How many men will you take?” asked Kordetski of Kmita.
“I?” answered Pan Andrei, in surprise. “I am not leader, and I do not
know the place so well as Pan Charnyetski. I will go with my sabre, but
let Charnyetski lead the men, and me with the others; I only wish to
have my Soroka go, for he can hew terribly.”
This answer pleased both Charnyetski and the prior, for they saw in it
clear proof of submission. They set about the affair briskly. Men were
selected, the greatest silence was enjoined, and they began to remove
the beams, stones, and brick from the passage in the wall.
This labor lasted about an hour. At length the opening was ready, and
the men began to dive into the narrow jaws. They had sabres, pistols,
guns, and some, namely peasants, had scythes with points downward,—a
weapon with which they were best acquainted.
When outside the wall they organized; Charnyetski stood at the head of
the party, Kmita at the flank; and they moved along the ditch silently,
restraining the breath in their breasts, like wolves stealing up to a
sheepfold.
Still, at times a scythe struck a scythe, at times a stone gritted
under a foot, and by those noises it was possible to know that they
were pushing forward unceasingly. When they had come down to the plain,
Charnyetski halted, and, not far from the enemy’s trenches, left some
of his men, under command of Yanich, a Hungarian, an old, experienced
soldier; these men he commanded to lie on the ground. Charnyetski
himself advanced somewhat to the right, and having now under foot soft
earth which gave out no echo, began to lead forward his party more
swiftly. His plan was to pass around the intrenchment, strike on the
sleeping Swedes from the rear, and push them toward the cloister
against Yanich’s men. This idea was suggested by Kmita, who now
marching near him with sabre in hand, whispered,—
“The intrenchment is extended in such fashion that between it and the
main camp there is open ground. Sentries, if there are any, are before
the trenches and not on this side of it, so that we can go behind
freely, and attack them on the side from which they least expect
attack.”
“That is well,” said Charnyetski; “not a foot of those men should
escape.”
“If any one speaks when we enter,” continued Pan Andrei, “let me
answer; I can speak German as well as Polish; they will think that some
one is coming from Miller, from the camp.”
“If only there are no sentries behind the intrenchments.”
“Even if there are, we shall spring on in a moment; before they can
understand who and what, we shall have them down.”
“It is time to turn, the end of the trench can be seen,” said
Charnyetski; and turning he called softly, “To the right, to the
right!”
The silent line began to bend. That moment the moon lighted a bank of
clouds somewhat, and it grew clearer. The advancing men saw an empty
space in the rear of the trench.
As Kmita had foreseen, there were no sentries whatever on that space;
for why should the Swedes station sentries between their trenches and
their own army, stationed in the rear of the trenches. The most
sharp-sighted leader could not suspect danger from that side.
At that moment Charnyetski said in the lowest whisper; “Tents are now
visible. And in two of them are lights. People are still awake
there,—surely officers. Entrance from the rear must be easy.”
“Evidently,” answered Kmita. “Over that road they draw cannon, and by
it troops enter. The bank is already at hand. Have a care now that arms
do not clatter.”
They had reached the elevation raised carefully with earth dug from so
many trenches. A whole line of wagons was standing there, in which
powder and balls had been brought.
But at the wagons, no man was watching; passing them, therefore, they
began to climb the embankment without trouble, as they had justly
foreseen, for it was gradual and well raised.
In this manner they went right to the tents, and with drawn weapons
stood straight in front of them. In two of the tents lights were
actually burning; therefore Kmita said to Charnyetski,—
“I will go in advance to those who are not sleeping. Wait for my
pistol, and then on the enemy!” When he had said this, he went forward.
The success of the sortie was already assured; therefore he did not try
to go in very great silence. He passed a few tents buried in darkness;
no one woke, no one inquired, “Who is there?”
The soldiers of Yasna Gora heard the squeak of his daring steps and the
beating of their own hearts. He reached the lighted tent, raised the
curtain and entered, halted at the entrance with pistol in hand and
sabre down on its strap.
He halted because the light dazzled him somewhat, for on the camp table
stood a candlestick with six arms, in which bright lights were burning.
At the table were sitting three officers, bent over plans. One of them,
sitting in the middle, was poring over these plans so intently that his
long hair lay on the white paper. Seeing some one enter, he raised his
head, and asked in a calm voice,—
“Who is there?”
“A soldier,” answered Kmita.
That moment the two other officers turned their eyes toward the
entrance.
“What soldier, where from?” asked the first, who was De Fossis, the
officer who chiefly directed the siege.
“From the cloister,” answered Kmita. But there was something terrible
in his voice.
De Fossis rose quickly and shaded his eyes with his hand. Kmita was
standing erect and motionless as an apparition; only the threatening
face, like the head of a predatory bird, announced sudden danger.
Still the thought, quick as lightning, rushed through the head of De
Fossis, that he might be a deserter from Yasna Gora; therefore he asked
again, but excitedly,—
“What do you want?”
“I want this!” cried Kmita; and he fired from a pistol into the very
breast of De Fossis.
With that a terrible shout and a salvo of shots was heard on the
trench. De Fossis fell as falls a pine-tree struck by lightning;
another officer rushed at Kmita with his sword, but the latter slashed
him between the eyes with his sabre, which gritted on the bone; the
third officer threw himself on the ground, wishing to slip out under
the side of the tent, but Kmita sprang at him, put his foot on his
shoulder, and nailed him to the earth with a thrust.
By this time the silence of night had turned into the day of judgment.
Wild shouts: “Slay, kill!” were mingled with howls and shrill calls of
Swedish soldiers for aid. Men bewildered from terror rushed out of the
tents, not knowing whither to turn, in what direction to flee. Some,
without noting at once whence the attack came, ran straight to the
enemy, and perished under sabres, scythes, and axes, before they had
time to cry “Quarter!” Some in the darkness stabbed their own comrades;
others unarmed, half-dressed, without caps, with hands raised upward,
stood motionless on one spot; some at last dropped on the earth among
the overturned tents. A small handful wished to defend themselves; but
a blinded throng bore them away, threw them down, and trampled them.
Groans of the dying and heart-rending prayers for quarter increased the
confusion.
When at last it grew clear from the cries that the attack had come, not
from the side of the cloister, but from the rear, just from the
direction of the Swedish army, then real desperation seized the
attacked. They judged evidently that some squadrons, allies of the
cloister, had struck on them suddenly.
Crowds of infantry began to spring out of the intrenchment and run
toward the cloister, as if they wished to find refuge within its walls.
But soon new shouts showed that they had come upon the party of the
Hungarian, Yanich, who finished them under the very fortress.
Meanwhile the cloister-men, slashing, thrusting, trampling, advanced
toward the cannons. Men with spikes ready, rushed at them immediately;
but others continued the work of death. Peasants, who would not have
stood before trained soldiers in the open field, rushed now a handful
at a crowd.
Valiant Colonel Horn, governor of Kjepitsi, endeavored to rally the
fleeing soldiers; springing into a corner of the trench, he shouted in
the darkness and waved his sword. The Swedes recognized him and began
at once to assemble; but in their tracks and with them rushed the
attackers, whom it was difficult to distinguish in the darkness.
At once was heard a terrible whistle of scythes, and the voice of Horn
ceased in a moment. The crowd of soldiers scattered as if driven apart
by a bomb. Kmita and Charnyetski rushed after them with a few people,
and cut them to pieces.
The trench was taken.
In the main camp of the Swedes trumpets sounded the alarm. Straightway
the guns of Yasna Gora gave answer, and fiery balls began to fly from
the cloister to light up the way for the home-coming men. They came
panting, bloody, like wolves who had made a slaughter in a sheepfold;
they were retreating before the approaching sound of musketeers.
Charnyetski led the van, Kmita brought up the rear.
In half an hour they reached the party left with Yanich; but he did not
answer their call; he alone had paid for the sortie with his life, for
when he rushed after some officer, his own soldiers shot him.
The party entered the cloister amid the thunder of cannon and the gleam
of flames. At the entrance the prior was waiting, and he counted them
in order as the heads were pushed in through the opening. No one was
missing save Yanich.
Two men went out for him at once, and half an hour later they brought
his body; for Kordetski wished to honor him with a fitting burial.
But the quiet of night, once broken, did not return till white day.
From the walls cannon were playing; in the Swedish positions the
greatest confusion continued. The enemy not knowing well their own
losses, not knowing whence the aggressor might come, fled from the
trenches nearest the cloister. Whole regiments wandered in despairing
disorder till morning, mistaking frequently their own for the enemy,
and firing at one another. Even in the main camp were soldiers and
officers who abandoned their tents and remained under the open sky,
awaiting the end of that ghastly night. Alarming news flew from mouth
to mouth. Some said that succor had come to the fortress, others
asserted that all the nearer intrenchments were captured.
Miller, Sadovski, the Prince of Hesse, Count Veyhard, and other
superior officers, made superhuman exertions to bring the terrified
regiments to order. At the same time the cannonade of the cloister was
answered by balls of fire, to scatter the darkness and enable fugitives
to assemble. One of the balls struck the roof of the chapel, but
striking only the edge of it, returned with rattling and crackling
toward the camp, casting a flood of flame through the air.
At last the night of tumult was ended. The cloister and the Swedish
camp became still. Morning had begun to whiten the summits of the
church, the roofs took on gradually a ruddy light, and day came.
In that hour Miller, at the head of his staff, rode to the captured
trench. They could, it is true, see him from the cloister and open
fire; but the old general cared not for that. He wished to see with his
own eyes all the injury, and count the slain. The staff followed him;
all were disturbed,—they had sorrow and seriousness in their faces.
When they reached the intrenchment, they dismounted and began to
ascend. Traces of the struggle were visible everywhere; lower down than
the guns were the overthrown tents; some were still open, empty,
silent. There were piles of bodies, especially among the tents;
half-naked corpses, mangled, with staring eyes, and with terror
stiffened in their dead eyeballs, presented a dreadful sight. Evidently
all these men had been surprised in deep sleep; some of them were
barefoot; it was a rare one who grasped his rapier in his dead hand;
almost no one wore a helmet or a cap. Some were lying in tents,
especially at the side of the entrance; these, it was apparent, had
barely succeeded in waking; others, at the sides of tents, were caught
by death at the moment when they were seeking safety in flight.
Everywhere there were many bodies, and in places such piles that it
might be thought some cataclysm of nature had killed those soldiers;
but the deep wounds in their faces and breasts, some faces blackened by
shots, so near that all the powder had not been burned, testified but
too plainly that the hand of man had caused the destruction.
Miller went higher, to the guns; they were standing dumb, spiked, no
more terrible now than logs of wood; across one of them lay hanging on
both sides the body of a gunner, almost cut in two by the terrible
sweep of a scythe. Blood had flowed over the carriage and formed a
broad pool beneath it. Miller observed everything minutely, in silence
and with frowning brow. No officer dared break that silence. For how
could they bring consolation to that aged general, who had been beaten
like a novice through his own want of care? That was not only defeat,
but shame; for the general himself had called that fortress a
hen-house, and promised to crush it between his fingers, for he had
nine thousand soldiers, and there were two hundred men in the garrison;
finally, that general was a soldier, blood and bone, and against him
were monks.
That day had a grievous beginning for Miller.
Now the infantry came up and began to carry out bodies. Four of them,
bearing on a stretcher a corpse, stopped before the general without
being ordered.
Miller looked at the stretcher and closed his eyes.
“De Fossis,” said he, in a hollow voice.
Scarcely had they gone aside when others came, this time Sadovski moved
toward them and called from a distance, turning to the staff,—
“They are carrying Horn!”
But Horn was alive yet, and had before him long days of atrocious
suffering. A peasant had cut him with the very point of a scythe; but
the blow was so fearful that it opened the whole framework of his
breast. Still the wounded man retained his presence of mind. Seeing
Miller and the staff, he smiled, wished to say something, but instead
of a sound there came through his lips merely rose-colored froth; then
he began to blink, and fainted.
“Carry him to my tent,” said Miller, “and let my doctor attend to him
immediately.”
Then the officers heard him say to himself,—
“Horn, Horn,—I saw him last night in a dream,—just in the evening. A
terrible thing, beyond comprehension!”
And fixing his eyes on the ground, he dropped into deep thought; all at
once he was roused from his revery by the voice of Sadovski, who cried:
“General! look there, there—the cloister!”
Miller looked and was astonished. It was broad day and clear, only fogs
were hanging over the earth; but the sky was clear and blushing from
the light of the morning. A white fog hid the summit itself of Yasna
Gora, and according to the usual order of things ought to hide the
church, but by a peculiar phenomenon the church, with the tower, was
raised, not only above the cliff, but above the fog, high,
high,—precisely as if it had separated from its foundations and was
hanging in the blue under the dome of the sky. The cries of the
soldiers announced that they too saw the phenomenon.
“That fog deceives the eye!” said Miller.
“The fog is lying under the church,” answered Sadovski.
“It is a wonderful thing; but that church is ten times higher than it
was yesterday, and hangs in the air,” said the Prince of Hesse.
“It is going yet! higher, higher!” cried the soldiers. “It will vanish
from the eye!”
In fact the fog hanging on the cliff began to rise toward the sky in
the form of an immense pillar of smoke; the church planted, as it were,
on the summit of that pillar, seemed to rise higher each instant; at
the same time when it was far up, as high as the clouds themselves, it
was veiled more and more with vapor; you would have said that it was
melting, liquefying; it became more indistinct, and at last vanished
altogether.
Miller turned to the officers, and in his eyes were depicted
astonishment and a superstitious dread.
“I acknowledge, gentlemen,” said he, “that I have never seen such a
thing in my life, altogether opposed to nature: it must be the
enchantment of papists.”
“I have heard,” said Sadovski, “soldiers crying out, ‘How can you fire
at such a fortress?’ In truth I know not how.”
“But what is there now?” cried the Prince of Hesse. “Is that church in
the fog, or is it gone?”
“Though this were an ordinary phenomenon of nature, in any event it
forebodes us no good. See, gentlemen, from the time that we came here
we have not advanced one step.”
“If,” answered Sadovski, “we had only not advanced; but to tell the
truth, we have suffered defeat after defeat, and last night was the
worst. The soldiers losing willingness lose courage, and will begin to
be negligent. You have no idea of what they say in the regiments.
Besides, wonderful things take place; for instance, for a certain time
no man can go alone, or even two men, out of the camp; whoever does so
is as if he had fallen through the earth, as if wolves were prowling
around Chenstohova. I sent myself, not long since, a banneret and three
men to Vyelunie for warm clothing, and from that day, no tidings of
them.”
“It will be worse when winter comes; even now the nights are
unendurable,” added the Prince of Hesse.
“The mist is growing thinner!” said Miller, on a sudden.
In fact a breeze rose and began to blow away the vapors. In the bundles
of fog something began to quiver; finally the sun rose and the air grew
transparent. The walls of the cloister were outlined faintly, then out
came the church and the cloister. Everything was in its old place. The
fortress was quiet and still, as if people were not living in it.
“General,” said the Prince of Hesse, with energy, “try negotiations
again, it is needful to finish at once.”
“But if negotiations lead to nothing, do you, gentlemen, advise to give
up the siege?” asked Miller, gloomily.
The officers were silent. After a while Sadovski said,—
“Your worthiness knows best that it will come to that.”
“I know,” answered Miller, haughtily, “and I say this only to you, that
I curse the day and the hour in which I came hither, as well as the
counsellor who persuaded me to this siege [here he pierced Count
Veyhard with his glance]. You know, however, after what has happened,
that I shall not withdraw until I turn this cursed fortress into a heap
of ruins, or fall myself.”
Displeasure was reflected in the face of the Prince of Hesse. He had
never respected Miller over-much; hence he considered this mere
military braggadocio ill-timed, in view of the captured trenches, the
corpses, and the spiked cannon. He turned to him then and answered with
evident sarcasm,—
“General, you are not able to promise that; for you would withdraw in
view of the first command of the king, or of Marshal Wittemberg.
Sometimes also circumstances are able to command not worse than kings
and marshals.”
Miller wrinkled his heavy brows, seeing which Count Veyhard said
hurriedly,—
“Meanwhile we will try negotiations. They will yield; it cannot be
otherwise.”
The rest of his words were drowned by the rejoicing sound of bells,
summoning to early Mass in the church of Yasna Gora. The general with
his staff rode away slowly toward Chenstohova; but had not reached
headquarters when an officer rushed up on a foaming horse.
“He is from Marshal Wittemberg!” said Miller.
The officer handed him a letter. The general broke the seal hurriedly,
and running over the letter quickly with his eyes, said with confusion
in his countenance,—
“No! This is from Poznan. Evil tidings. In Great Poland the nobles are
rising, the people are joining them. At the head of the movement is
Krishtof Jegotski, who wants to march to the aid of Chenstohova.”
“I foretold that these shots would be heard from the Carpathians to the
Baltic,” muttered Sadovski. “With this people change is sudden. You do
not know the Poles yet; you will discover them later.”
“Well! we shall know them,” answered Miller. “I prefer an open enemy to
a false ally. They yielded of their own accord, and now they are taking
arms. Well! they will know our weapons.”
“And we theirs,” blurted out Sadovski. “General, let us finish
negotiations with Chenstohova; let us agree to any capitulation. It is
not a question of the fortress, but of the rule of his Royal Grace in
this country.”
“The monks will capitulate,” said Count Veyhard. “Today or to-morrow
they will yield.”
So they conversed with one another; but in the cloister after early
Mass the joy was unbounded. Those who had not gone out in the sortie
asked those who had how everything had happened. Those who had taken
part boasted greatly, glorifying their own bravery and the defeat they
had given the enemy.
Among the priests and women curiosity became paramount. White habits
and women’s robes covered the wall. It was a beautiful and gladsome
day. The women gathered around Charnyetski, crying “Our deliverer! our
guardian!” He defended himself particularly when they wanted to kiss
his hands, and pointing to Kmita, said,—
“Thank him too. He is Babinich,[1] but no old woman. He will not let
his hands be kissed, for there is blood on them yet; but if any of the
younger would like to kiss him on the lips, I think that he would not
flinch.”
The younger women did in fact cast modest and at the same time enticing
glances at Pan Andrei, admiring his splendid beauty; but he did not
answer with his eyes to those dumb questions, for the sight of these
maidens reminded him of Olenka.
“Oh, my poor girl!” thought he, “if you only knew that in the service
of the Most Holy Lady I am opposing those enemies whom formerly I
served to my sorrow!”
And he promised himself that the moment the siege was over he would
write to her in Kyedani, and hurry off Soroka with the letter. “And I
shall send her not empty words and promises; for now deeds are behind
me, which without empty boasting, but accurately, I shall describe in
the letter. Let her know that she has done this, let her be comforted.”
And he consoled himself with this thought so much that he did not even
notice how the maidens said to one another, in departing,—
“He is a good warrior; but it is clear that he looks only to battle,
and is an unsocial grumbler.”