According to the wish of his officers, Miller began negotiations again.
There came to the cloister from the Swedish camp a well-known Polish
noble, respected for his age and his eloquence. They received him
graciously on Yasna Gora, judging that only in seeming and through
constraint would he argue for surrender, but in reality would add to
their courage and confirm the news, which had broken through the
besieged wall, of the rising in Great Poland; of the dislike of the
quarter troops to Sweden; of the negotiations of Yan Kazimir with the
Cossacks, who, as it were, seemed willing to return to obedience;
finally, of the tremendous declaration of the Khan of the Tartars, that
he was marching with aid to the vanquished king, all of whose enemies
he would pursue with fire and sword.
But how the monks were mistaken! The personage brought indeed a large
bundle of news,—but news that was appalling, news to cool the most
fervent zeal, to crush the most invincible resolution, stagger the most
ardent faith.
The priests and the nobles gathered around him in the council chamber,
in the midst of silence and attention; from his lips sincerity itself
seemed to flow, and pain for the fate of the country. He placed his
hand frequently on his white head as if wishing to restrain an outburst
of despair; he gazed on the crucifix; he had tears in his eyes, and in
slow, broken accents, he uttered the following words:—
“Ah, what times the suffering country has lived to! All help is past:
it is incumbent to yield to the King of the Swedes. For whom in reality
have you, revered fathers, and you lords brothers, the nobles, seized
your swords? For whom are you sparing neither watching nor toil, nor
suffering nor blood? For whom, through resistance,—unfortunately
vain,—are you exposing yourselves and holy places to the terrible
vengeance of the invincible legions of Sweden? Is it for Yan Kazimir?
But he has already disregarded our kingdom. Do you not know that he has
already made his choice, and preferring wealth, joyous feasts; and
peaceful delights to a troublesome throne, has abdicated in favor of
Karl Gustav? You are not willing to leave him, but he has left you, you
are unwilling to break your oath, he has broken it; you are ready to
die for him, but he cares not for you nor for any of us. Our lawful
king now is Karl Gustav! Be careful, then, lest you draw on your heads,
not merely anger, vengeance, and ruin, but sin before heaven, the
cross, and the Most Holy Lady; for you are raising insolent hands, not
against invaders, but against your own king.”
These words were received in silence, as though death were flying
through that chamber. What could be more terrible than news of the
abdication of Yan Kazimir? It was in truth news monstrously improbable;
but that old noble gave it there in presence of the cross, in presence
of the image of Mary, and with tears in his eyes.
But if it were true, further resistance was in fact madness. The nobles
covered their eyes with their hands, the monks pulled their cowls over
their heads, and silence, as of the grave, continued unbroken; but
Kordetski, the prior, began to whisper earnest prayer with his pallid
lips, and his eyes, calm, deep, clear, and piercing, were fixed on the
speaker immovably.
The noble felt that inquiring glance, was ill at ease and oppressed by
it; he wished to preserve the marks of importance, benignity,
compassionate virtue, good wishes, but could not; he began to cast
restless glances on the other fathers, and after a while he spoke
further:—
“It is the worst thing to inflame stubbornness by a long abuse of
patience. The result of your resistance will be the destruction of this
holy church, and the infliction on you—God avert it!—of a terrible and
cruel rule, which you will be forced to obey. Aversion to the world and
avoidance of its questions are the weapons of monks. What have you to
do with the uproar of war,—you, whom the precepts of your order call to
retirement and silence? My brothers, revered and most beloved fathers!
do not take on your hearts, do not take on your consciences, such a
terrible responsibility. It was not you who built this sacred retreat,
not for you alone must it serve! Permit that it flourish, and that it
bless this land for long ages, so that our sons and grandsons may
rejoice in it.”
Here the traitor opened his arms and fell into tears. The nobles were
silent, the fathers were silent; doubt had seized all. Their hearts
were tortured, and despair was at hand; the memory of baffled and
useless endeavors weighed on their minds like lead.
“I am waiting for your answer, fathers,” said the venerable traitor,
dropping his head on his breast.
Kordetski now rose, and with a voice in which there was not the least
hesitation or doubt, spoke as if with the vision of a prophet,—
“Your statement that Yan Kazimir has abandoned us, has abdicated and
transferred his rights to Karl Gustav, is a calumny. Hope has entered
the heart of our banished king, and never has he toiled more zealously
than he is toiling at this moment to secure the salvation of the
country, to secure his throne, and bring us aid in oppression.”
The mask fell in an instant from the face of the traitor; malignity and
deceit were reflected in it as clearly as if dragons had crept out at
once from the dens of his soul, in which till that moment they had held
themselves hidden.
“Whence this intelligence, whence this certainty?” inquired he.
“Whence?” answered the prior, pointing to a great crucifix hanging on
the wall. “Go! place your finger on the pierced feet of Christ, and
repeat what you have told us.”
The traitor began to bend as if under the crushing of an iron hand, and
a new dragon, terror, crawled forth to his face.
Kordetski, the prior, stood lordly, terrible as Moses; rays seemed to
shoot from his temples.
“Go, repeat!” said he, without lowering his hand, in a voice so
powerful that the shaken arches of the council chamber trembled and
echoed as if in fear,—“Go, repeat!”
A moment of silence followed; at last the stifled voice of the visitor
was heard,—
“I wash my hands—”
“Like Pilate!” finished Kordetski.
The traitor rose and walked out of the room. He hurried through the
yard of the cloister, and when he found himself outside the gate, he
began to run, almost as if something were hunting him from the cloister
to the Swedes.
Zamoyski went to Charnyetski and Kmita, who had not been in the hall,
to tell them what had happened.
“Did that envoy bring any good?” asked Charnyetski; “he had an honest
face.”
“God guard us from such honest men!” answered Zamoyski; “he brought
doubt and temptation.”
“What did he say?” asked Kmita, raising a little the lighted match
which he was holding in his hand.
“He spoke like a hired traitor.”
“That is why he hastens so now, I suppose,” said Charnyetski. “See! he
is running with almost full speed to the Swedish camp. Oh, I would send
a ball after him!”
“A good thing!” said Kmita, and he put the match to the cannon.
The thunder of the gun was heard before Zamoyski and Charnyetski could
see what had happened. Zamoyski caught his head.
“In God’s name!” cried he, “what have you done?—he was an envoy.”
“I have done ill!” answered Kmita; “for I missed. He is on his feet
again and hastens farther. Oh! why did it go over him?” Here he turned
to Zamoyski. “Though I had hit him in the loins, they could not have
proved that we fired at him purposely, and God knows I could not hold
the match in my fingers; it came down of itself. Never should I have
fired at an envoy who was a Swede, but at sight of Polish traitors my
entrails revolt.”
“Oh, curb yourself; for there would be trouble, and they would be ready
to injure our envoys.”
But Charnyetski was content in his soul; for Kmita heard him mutter,
“At least that traitor will be sure not to come on an embassy again.”
This did not escape the ear of Zamoyski, for he answered: “If not this
one, others will be found; and do you, gentlemen, make no opposition to
their negotiations, do not interrupt them of your own will; for the
more they drag on, the more it results to our profit. Succor, if God
sends it, will have time to assemble, and a hard winter is coming,
making the siege more and more difficult. Delay is loss for the enemy,
but brings profit to us.”
Zamoyski then went to the chamber, where, after the envoy’s departure,
consultation was still going on. The words of the traitor had startled
men; minds and souls were excited. They did not believe, it is true, in
the abdication of Yan Kazimir; but the envoy had held up to their
vision the power of the Swedes, which previous days of success had
permitted them to forget. Now it confronted their minds with all that
terror before which towns and fortresses not such as theirs had been
frightened,—Poznan, Warsaw, Cracow, not counting the multitude of
castles which had opened their gates to the conqueror; how could Yasna
Gora defend itself in a general deluge of defeats?
“We shall defend ourselves a week longer, two, three,” thought to
themselves some of the nobles and some of the monks; “but what farther,
what end will there be to these efforts?”
The whole country was like a ship already deep in the abyss, and that
cloister was peering up like the top of a mast through the waves. Could
those wrecked ones, clinging to the mast, think not merely of saving
themselves, but of raising that vessel from under the ocean?
According to man’s calculations they could not, and still, at the
moment when Zamoyski re-entered the hall, Kordetski was saying,—
“My brothers! if you sleep not, neither do I sleep. When you are
imploring our Patroness for rescue, I too am praying. Weariness, toil,
weakness, cling to my bones as well as to yours; responsibility in like
manner weighs upon me—nay, more perhaps, than upon you. Why have I
faith while you seem in doubt? Enter into yourselves; or is it that
your eyes, blinded by earthly power, see not a power greater than the
Swedes? Or think you that no defence will suffice, that no hand can
overcome that preponderance? If that is the case your thoughts are
sinful, and you blaspheme against the mercy of God, against the
all-might of our Lord, against the power of that Patroness whose
servants you call yourselves. Who of you will dare to say that that
Most Holy Queen cannot shield us and send victory? Therefore let us
beseech her, let us implore night and day, till by our endurance, our
humility, our tears, our sacrifice of body and health, we soften her
heart, and pray away our previous sins.”
“Father,” said one of the nobles, “it is not a question for us of our
lives or of our wives and children; but we tremble at the thought of
the insults which may be put on the image, should the enemy capture the
fortress by storm.”
“And we do not wish to take on ourselves the responsibility,” added
another.
“For no one has a right to take it, not even the prior,” added a third.
And the opposition increased, and gained boldness, all the more since
many monks maintained silence. The prior, instead of answering
directly, began to pray.
“O Mother of Thy only Son!” said he, raising his hands and his eyes
toward heaven, “if Thou hast visited us so that in Thy capital we
should give an example to others of endurance, of bravery, of
faithfulness to Thee, to the country, to the king,—if Thou hast chosen
this place in order to rouse by it the consciences of men and save the
whole country, have mercy on those who desire to restrain, to stop the
fountain of Thy grace, to hinder Thy miracles, and resist Thy holy
will.” Here he remained a moment in ecstasy, and then turned to the
monks and nobles: “What man will take on his shoulders this
responsibility,—the responsibility of stopping the miracles of Mary Her
grace. Her salvation for this kingdom and the Catholic faith?”
“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!” answered a number of
voices, “God preserve us from that!”
“Such a man will not be found!” cried Zamoyski.
And those of the monks in whose hearts doubt had been plunging began to
beat their breasts, for no small fear had now seized them; and none of
the councillors thought of surrender that evening.
But though the hearts of the older men were strengthened, the
destructive planting of that hireling had given forth fruits of poison.
News of the abdication of Yan Kazimir and the improbability of succor
went from the nobles to the women, from the women to the servants; the
servants spread it among the soldiers, on whom it made the very worst
impression. The peasants were astonished least of all; but experienced
soldiers, accustomed to calculate the turns of war in soldier fashion
only, began to assemble and explain to one another the impossibility of
further defence, complaining of the stubbornness of monks, who did not
understand the position; and, finally, to conspire and talk in secret.
A certain gunner, a German of suspected fidelity, proposed that the
soldiers themselves take the matter in hand, and come to an
understanding with the Swedes touching the surrender of the fortress.
Others caught at this idea; but there were those who not only opposed
the treason resolutely, but informed Kordetski of it without delay.
Kordetski, who knew how to join with the firmest trust in the powers of
heaven the greatest earthly adroitness and caution, destroyed the
secretly spreading treason in its inception.
First of all he expelled from the fortress the leaders of the treason,
and at the head of them that gunner, having no fear whatever of what
they could inform the Swedes regarding the state of the fortress and
its weak sides; then, doubling the monthly wages of the garrison, he
took from them an oath to defend the cloister to the last drop of their
blood.
But he redoubled also his watchfulness, resolving to look with more
care to the paid soldiers, as well as the nobles, and even his own
monks. The older fathers were detailed to the night choirs; the
younger, besides the service of God, were obliged to render service on
the walls.
Next day a review of the infantry was held. To each bastion one noble
with his servants, ten monks and two reliable gunners were detailed.
All these were bound to watch, night and day, the places confided to
them.
Pan Mosinski took his place at the northeastern bastion; he was a good
soldier, the man whose little child had survived in a miraculous
manner, though a bomb fell near its cradle. With him Father Hilary
Slavoshevski kept guard. On the western bastion was Father Myeletski,
of the nobles Pan Mikolai Kryshtoporski, a man surly and abrupt in
speech, but of unterrified valor. The southeastern bastion was occupied
by Charnyetski and Kmita, and with them was Father Adam Stypulski, who
had formerly been a hussar. He, when the need came, tucked up his
habit, aimed cannon, and took no more heed of the balls flying over his
head than did the old sergeant Soroka. Finally, to the southwestern
bastion were appointed Pan Skorjevski and Father Daniel Ryhtalski, who
were distinguished by this, that both could abstain from sleep two and
three nights in succession without harm to their health or their
strength.
Fathers Dobrosh and Malahovski were appointed over the sentries.
Persons unfitted for fighting were appointed to the roofs. The armory
and all military implements Father Lyassota took under his care; after
Father Dobrosh, he took also the office of master of the fires. In the
night he had to illuminate the walls so that infantry of the enemy
might not approach them. He arranged sockets and iron-holders on the
towers, on which flamed at night torches and lights.
In fact, the whole tower looked every night like one gigantic torch. It
is true that this lightened cannonading for the Swedes; but it might
serve as a sign that the fortress was holding out yet, if, perchance,
some army should march to relieve the besieged.
So then not only had designs of surrender crept apart into nothing, but
the besieged turned with still greater zeal to defence. Next morning
the prior walked along the walls, like a shepherd through a sheepfold,
saw that everything was right, smiled kindly, praised the chiefs and
the soldiers, and coming to Charnyetski, said with radiant face,—
“Our beloved leader, Pan Zamoyski, rejoices equally with me, for he
says that we are now twice as strong as at first. A new spirit has
entered men’s hearts, the grace of the Most Holy Lady will do the rest;
but meanwhile I will take to negotiations again. We will delay and put
off, for by such means the blood of people will be spared.”
“Oh, revered father!” said Kmita, “what good are negotiations? Loss of
time! Better another sortie to-night, and we will cut up those dogs.”
Kordetski (for he was in good humor) smiled as a mother smiles at a
wayward child; then he raised a band of straw lying near the gun, and
pretended to strike Pan Andrei with it on the shoulders: “And you will
interfere here, you Lithuanian plague; you will lap blood as a wolf,
and give an example of disobedience; here it is for you, here it is for
you!”
Kmita, delighted as a schoolboy, dodged to the right and to the left,
and as if teasing purposely, repeated: “Kill the Swedes! kill, kill,
kill!”
And so they gave comfort to one another, having ardent souls devoted to
the country. But Kordetski did not omit negotiations, seeing that
Miller desired them earnestly and caught after every pretext. This
desire pleased Kordetski, for he divined, without trouble, that it
could not be going well with the enemy if he was so anxious to finish.
Days passed then, one after another, in which guns and muskets were not
indeed silent, but pens were working mainly. In this way the siege was
prolonged, and winter was coming harsher and harsher. On the Carpathian
summits clouds hatched in their precipitous nests storms, frost, and
snows, and then came forth on the country, leading their icy
descendants. At night the Swedes cowered around fires, choosing to die
from the balls of the cloister rather than freeze.
A hard winter had rendered difficult the digging of trenches and the
making of mines. There was no progress in the siege. In the mouths not
merely of officers, but of the whole army, there was only one
word,—“negociations.”
The priests feigned at first a desire to surrender. Father Dobrosh and
the learned priest Sebastyan Stavitski came to Miller as envoys. They
gave him some hope of agreement. He had barely heard this when he
opened his arms and was ready to seize them with joy to his embraces.
It was no longer a question of Chenstohova, but of the whole country.
The surrender of Yasna Gora would have removed the last hope of the
patriots, and pushed the Commonwealth finally into the arms of the King
of Sweden; while, on the contrary, resistance, and that a victorious
resistance, might change hearts and call out a terrible new war. Signs
were not wanting. Miller knew this, felt what he had undertaken, what a
terrible responsibility was weighing on him; he knew that either the
favor of the king, with the baton of a marshal, honors, a title, were
waiting for him, or final fall. Since he had begun to convince himself
that he could not crack this “nut,” he received the priests with
unheard-of honor, as if they were embassadors from the Emperor of
Germany or the Sultan. He invited them to a feast, he drank to their
honor, and also to the health of the prior and Pan Zamoyski; he gave
them fish for the cloister; finally, he offered conditions of surrender
so gracious that he did not doubt for a moment that they would be
accepted in haste.
The fathers thanked him humbly, as beseemed monks; they took the paper
and went their way. Miller promised the opening of the gates at eight
of the following morning. Joy indescribable reigned in the camp of the
Swedes. The soldiers left the trenches, approached the walls, and began
to address the besieged.
But it was announced from the cloister that in an affair of such weight
the prior must consult the whole Congregation; the monks therefore
begged for one day’s delay. Miller consented without hesitation.
Meanwhile they were counselling in the chamber till late at night.
Though Miller was an old and trained warrior, though there was not,
perhaps, in the whole Swedish army a general who had conducted more
negotiations with various places than that Poliorcetes, still his heart
beat unquietly when next morning he saw two white habits approaching
his quarters.
They were not the same fathers. First walked Father Bleshynski, a
reader of philosophy, bearing a sealed letter; after him came Father
Malahovski, with hands crossed on his breast, with drooping head and a
face slightly pale.
The general received them surrounded by his staff and all his noted
colonels; and when he had answered politely the submissive bow of
Father Bleshynski, he took the letter from his hand hastily and began
to read.
But all at once his face changed terribly: a wave of blood flew to his
head; his eyes were bursting forth, his neck grew thick, and terrible
anger raised the hair under his wig. For a while speech was taken from
him; he only indicated with his hand the letter to the Prince of Hesse,
who ran over it with his eyes, and turning to the colonels, said
calmly,—
“The monks declare only this much, that they cannot renounce Yan
Kazimir before the primate proclaims a new king; or speaking in other
words, they will not recognize Karl Gustav.”
Here the Prince of Hesse laughed. Sadovski fixed a jeering glance on
Miller, and Count Veyhard began to pluck his own beard from rage. A
terrible murmur of excitement rose among those present.
Then Miller struck his palms on his knees and cried,—
“Guards, guards!”
The mustached faces of four musketeers showed themselves quickly in the
door.
“Take those shaven sticks,” cried the general, “and confine them! And
Pan Sadovski, do you trumpet for me under the cloister, that if they
open fire from one cannon on the walls, I will hang these two monks the
next moment.”
The two priests were led out amid ridicule and the scoffing of
soldiers. The musketeers put their own caps on the priests’ heads, or
rather on their faces to cover their eyes, and led them of purpose to
various obstacles. When either of the priests stumbled or fell, an
outburst of laughter was heard in the crowds; but the fallen man they
raised with the butts of muskets, and pretending to support, they
pushed him by the loins and the shoulders. Some threw horse-dung at the
priests; others took snow and rubbed it on their shaven crowns, or let
it roll down on their habits. The soldiers tore strings from trumpets,
and tying one end to the neck of each priest, held the other, and
imitating men taking cattle to a fair, called out the prices.
Both fathers walked on in silence, with hands crossed on their breasts
and prayers on their lips. Finally, trembling from cold and insulted,
they were enclosed in a barn; around the place guards armed with
muskets were stationed.
Miller’s command, or rather his threat, was trumpeted under the
cloister walls.
The fathers were frightened, and the troops were benumbed from the
threat. The cannon were silent; a council was assembled, they knew not
what to do. To leave the fathers in cruel hands was impossible; and if
they sent others, Miller would detain them as well. A few hours later
he himself sent a messenger, asking what the monks thought of doing.
They answered that until the fathers were freed no negotiations could
take place; for how could the monks believe that the general would
observe conditions with them if, despite the chief law of nations, he
imprisoned envoys whose sacredness even barbarians respect?
To this declaration there was no ready answer; hence terrible
uncertainty weighed on the cloister and froze the zeal of its
defenders.
The Swedish army dug new trenches in haste, filled baskets with earth,
planted cannon; insolent soldiers pushed forward to within half a
musket-shot of the walls. They threatened the church, the defenders;
half-drunken soldiers shouted, raising their hands toward the walls,
“Surrender the cloister, or you will see your monks hanging!”
Others blasphemed terribly against the Mother of God and the Catholic
faith. The besieged, out of respect to the life of the fathers, had to
listen with patience. Rage stopped the breath in Kmita’s breast. He
tore the hair on his head, the clothing on his breast, and wringing his
hands, said to Charnyetski,—
“I asked, ‘Of what use is negotiation with criminals?’ Now stand and
suffer, while they are crawling into our eyes and blaspheming! Mother
of God, have mercy on me, and give me patience! By the living God, they
will begin soon to climb the walls! Hold me, chain me like a murderer,
for I shall not contain myself.”
But the Swedes came ever nearer, blaspheming more boldly.
Meanwhile a fresh event brought the besieged to despair. Stefan
Charnyetski in surrendering Cracow had obtained the condition of going
out with all his troops, and remaining with them in Silesia till the
end of the war. Seven hundred infantry of those troops of the royal
guard, under command of Colonel Wolf, were near the boundary, and
trusting in stipulations, were not on their guard. Count Veyhard
persuaded Miller to capture those men.
Miller sent Count Veyhard himself, with two thousand cavalry, who
crossing the boundary at night attacked those troops during sleep, and
captured them to the last man. When they were brought to the Swedish
camp, Miller commanded to lead them around the wall, so as to show the
priests that that army from which they had hoped succor would serve
specially for the capture of Chenstohova.
The sight of that brilliant guard of the king dragged along the walls
was crushing to the besieged, for no one doubted that Miller would
force them first to the storm.
Panic spread again among the troops of the cloister; some of the
soldiers began to break their weapons and exclaim that there was help
no longer, that it was necessary to surrender at the earliest. Even the
hearts of the nobles had fallen; some of them appeared before Kordetski
again with entreaties to take pity on their children, on the sacred
place, on the image, and on the Congregation of monks. The courage of
the prior and Pan Zamoyski was barely enough to put down this movement.
But Kordetski had the liberation of the imprisoned fathers on his mind
first of all, and he took the best method; for he wrote to Miller that
he would sacrifice those brothers willingly for the good of the church.
Let the general condemn them to death; all would know in future what to
expect from him, and what faith to give his promises.
Miller was joyful, for he thought the affair was approaching its end.
But he did not trust the words of Kordetski at once, nor his readiness
to sacrifice the monks. He sent therefore one of them, Father
Bleshynski, to the cloister, binding him first with an oath to explain
the power of the Swedes and the impossibility of resistance. The monk
repeated everything faithfully, but his eyes spoke something else, and
concluding he said,—
“But prizing life less than the good of the Congregation, I am waiting
for the will of the council; and whatsoever you decide I will lay
before the enemy most faithfully.”
They directed him to say: “The monks are anxious to treat, but cannot
believe a general who imprisons envoys.” Next day the other envoy of
the fathers came to the cloister, and returned with a similar answer.
After this both heard the sentence of death. The sentence was read at
Miller’s quarters in presence of the staff and distinguished officers.
All observed carefully the faces of the monks, curious to learn what
impression the sentence would make; and with the greatest amazement
they saw in both a joy as great, as unearthly, as if the highest
fortune had been announced to them. The pale faces of the monks flushed
suddenly, their eyes were filled with light, and Father Malahovski said
with a voice trembling from emotion,—
“Ah! why should we not die to-day, since we are predestined to fall a
sacrifice for our Lord and the king?”
Miller commanded to lead them forth straightway. The officers looked at
one another. At last one remarked; “A struggle with such fanaticism is
difficult.”
The Prince of Hesse added: “Only the first Christians had such faith.
Is that what you wish to say?” Then he turned to Count Veyhard. “Pan
Veyhard,” said he, “I should be glad to know what you think of these
monks?”
“I have no need to trouble my head over them,” answered he, insolently;
“the general has already taken care of them.”
Then Sadovski stepped forward to the middle of the room, stood before
Miller, and said with decision: “Your worthiness, do not command to
execute these monks.”
“But why not?”
“Because there will be no talk of negotiations after that; for the
garrison of the fortress will be flaming with vengeance, and those men
will rather fall one upon the other than surrender.”
“Wittemberg will send me heavy guns.”
“Your worthiness, do not do this deed,” continued Sadovski, with force;
“they are envoys who have come here with confidence.”
“I shall not have them hanged on confidence, but on gibbets.”
“The echo of this deed will spread through the whole country, will
enrage all hearts, and turn them away from us.”
“Give me peace with your echoes; I have heard of them already a hundred
times.”
“Your worthiness will not do this without the knowledge of his Royal
Grace?”
“You have no right to remind me of my duties to the king.”
“But I have the right to ask for permission to resign from service, and
to present my reasons to his Royal Grace. I wish to be a soldier, not
an executioner.”
The Prince of Hesse issued from the circle in the middle of the room,
and said ostentatiously,—
“Give me your hand. Pan Sadovski; you are a gentleman, a noble, and an
honest man.”
“What does this mean?” roared Miller, springing from his seat.
“General,” answered the Prince of Hesse, “I permit myself to remark
that Pan Sadovski is an honorable man, and I judge that there is
nothing in this against discipline.”
Miller did not like the Prince of Hesse; but that cool, polite, and
also contemptuous manner of speaking, special to men of high rank,
imposed on him, as it does on many persons of low birth. Miller made
great efforts to acquire this manner, but had no success. He restrained
his outburst, however, and said calmly,—
“The monks will be hanged to-morrow.”
“That is not my affair,” answered the Prince of Hesse; “but in that
event let your worthiness order an attack on those two thousand Poles
who are in our camp, for if you do not they will attack us. Even now it
is less dangerous for a Swedish soldier to go among a pack of wolves
than among their tents. This is all I have to say, and now I permit
myself to wish you success.” When he had said this he left the
quarters.
Miller saw that he had gone too far. But he did not withdraw his
orders, and that same day gibbets wore erected in view of the whole
cloister. At the same time the soldiers, taking advantage of the truce,
pushed still nearer the walls, not ceasing to jeer, insult, blaspheme,
and challenge. Whole throngs of them climbed the mountain, stood as
closely together as if they intended to make an assault.
That time Kmita, whom they had not chained as he had requested, did not
in fact restrain himself, and thundered from a cannon into the thickest
group, with such effect that he laid down in a row all those who stood
in front of the shot. That was like a watchword; for at once, without
orders, and even in spite of orders, all the cannons began to play,
muskets and guns thundered.
The Swedes, exposed to fire from every side, fled from the fortress
with howling and screaming, many falling dead on the road.
Charnyetski sprang to Kmita: “Do you know that for that the reward is a
bullet in the head?”
“I know, all one to me. Let me be—”
“In that case aim surely.”
Kmita aimed surely; soon, however, he missed. A great movement rose
meanwhile in the Swedish camp, but it was so evident that the Swedes
were the first to violate the truce, that Miller himself recognized in
his soul that the besieged were in the right.
What is more, Kmita did not even suspect that with his shots he had
perhaps saved the lives of the fathers; but Miller, because of these
shots, became convinced that the monks in the last extremity were
really ready to sacrifice their two brethren for the good of the church
and the cloister.
The shots beat into his head this idea also, that if a hair were to
fall from the heads of the envoys, he would not hear from the cloister
anything save similar thunders; so next day he invited the two
imprisoned monks to dinner, and the day after he sent them to the
cloister.
Kordetski wept when he saw them, all took them in their arms and were
astonished at hearing from their mouths that it was specially owing to
those shots that they were saved. The prior, who had been angry at
Kmita, called him at once and said,—
“I was angry because I thought that you had destroyed the two fathers;
but the Most Holy Lady evidently inspired you. This is a sign of Her
favor, be rejoiced.”
“Dearest, beloved father, there will be no more negotiations, will
there?” asked Kmita, kissing Kordetski’s hands.
But barely had he finished speaking, when a trumpet was heard at the
gates, and an envoy from Miller entered the cloister.
This was Pan Kuklinovski, colonel of the volunteer squadron attached to
the Swedes. The greatest ruffians without honor or faith served in that
squadron, in part dissidents such as Lutherans, Arians,
Calvinists,—whereby was explained their friendship for Sweden; but a
thirst for robbery and plunder attracted them mainly to Miller’s army.
That band, made up of nobles, outlaws, fugitives from prison and from
the hands of a master, of attendants, and of gallows-birds snatched
from the rope, was somewhat like Kmita’s old party, save in this, that
Kmita’s men fought as do lions, and those preferred to plunder, offer
violence to noble women, break open stables and treasure chests. But
Kuklinovski himself had less resemblance to Kmita. Age had mixed gray
with his hair. He had a face dried, insolent, and shameless. His eyes,
which were unusually prominent and greedy, indicated violence of
character. He was one of those soldiers in whom, because of a turbulent
life and continuous wars, conscience had been burned out to the bottom.
A multitude of such men strolled about in that time, after the Thirty
Years’ War, through all Germany and Poland. They were ready to serve
any man, and more than once a mere simple incident determined the side
on which they were to stand.
Country and faith, in a word all things sacred, were thoroughly
indifferent to them. They recognized nothing but war, and sought in it
pleasure, dissipation, profit, and oblivion of life. But still when
they had chosen some side they served it loyally enough, and that
through a certain soldier-robber honor, so as not to close the career
to themselves and to others. Such a man was Kuklinovski. Stern daring
and immeasurable stubbornness had won for him consideration among the
disorderly. It was easy for him to find men. He had served in various
arms and services. He had been ataman in the Saitch; he had led
regiments in Wallachia; in Germany he had enlisted volunteers in the
Thirty Years’ War, and had won a certain fame as a leader of cavalry.
His crooked legs, bent in bow fashion, showed that he had spent the
greater part of his life on horseback. He was as thin as a splinter,
and somewhat bent from profligacy. Much blood, shed not in war only,
weighed upon him. And still he was not a man wholly wicked by nature;
he felt at times nobler influences. But he was spoiled to the marrow of
his bones, and insolent to the last degree. Frequently had he said in
intimate company, in drink; “More than one deed was done for which the
thunderbolt should have fallen, but it fell not.”
The effect of this impunity was that he did not believe in the justice
of God, and punishment, not only during life, but after death. In other
words, he did not believe in God; still, he believed in the devil, in
witches, in astrologers, and in alchemy. He wore the Polish dress, for
he thought it most fitting for cavalry; but his mustache, still black,
he trimmed in Swedish fashion, and spread at the ends turned upward. In
speaking he made every word diminutive, like a child; this produced a
strange impression when heard from the mouth of such a devil incarnate
and such a cruel ruffian, who was ever gulping human blood. He talked
much and boastingly; clearly he thought himself a celebrated personage,
and one of the first cavalry colonels on earth.
Miller, who, though on a broader pattern, belonged himself to a similar
class, valued him greatly, and loved specially to seat him at his own
table. At that juncture Kuklinovski forced himself on the general as an
assistant, guaranteeing that he would with his eloquence bring the
priests to their senses at once.
Earlier, when, after the arrest of the priests, Pan Zamoyski was
preparing to visit Miller’s camp and asked for a hostage, Miller sent
Kuklinovski; but Zamoyski and the prior would not accept him, as not
being of requisite rank.
From that moment, touched in his self-love, Kuklinovski conceived a
mortal hatred for the defenders of Yasna Gora, and determined to injure
them with all his power. Therefore he chose himself as an
embassy,—first for the embassy itself, and second so as to survey
everything and cast evil seed here and there. Since he was long known
to Charnyetski he approached the gate guarded by him; but Charnyetski
was sleeping at the time,—Kmita, taking his place, conducted the guest
to the council hall.
Kuklinovski looked at Pan Andrei with the eye of a specialist, and at
once he was pleased not only with the form but the bearing of the young
hero, which might serve as a model.
“A soldier,” said he, raising his hand to his cap, “knows at once a
real soldier. I did not think that the priests had such men in their
service. What is your rank, I pray?”
In Kmita, who had the zeal of a new convert, the soul revolted at sight
of Poles who served Swedes; still, he remembered the recent anger of
Kordetski at his disregard of negotiations; therefore he answered
coldly, but calmly,—
“I am Babinich, former colonel in the Lithuanian army, but now a
volunteer in the service of the Most Holy Lady.”
“And I am Kuklinovski, also colonel, of whom you must have heard; for
during more than one little war men mentioned frequently that name and
this sabre [here he struck at his side], not only here in the
Commonwealth, but in foreign countries.”
“With the forehead,” said Kmita, “I have heard.”
“Well, so you are from Lithuania, and in that land are famous soldiers.
We know of each other, for the trumpet of fame is to be heard from one
end of the world to the other. Do you know there, worthy sir, a certain
Kmita?”
The question fell so suddenly that Pan Andrei was as if fixed to the
spot. “But why do you ask of him?”
“Because I love him, though I know him not, for we are alike as two
boots of one pair; and I always repeat this, with your permission,
‘There are two genuine soldiers in the Commonwealth,—I in the kingdom,
and Kmita in Lithuania,’—a pair of dear doves, is not that true? Did
you know him personally?”
“Would to God that you were killed!” thought Kmita; but, remembering
Kuklinovski’s character of envoy, he answered aloud: “I did not know
him personally. But now come in, for the council is waiting.”
When he had said this, he indicated the door through which a priest
came out to receive the guest. Kuklinovski entered the chamber with him
at once, but first he turned to Kmita: “It would please me,” said he,
“if at my return you and none other were to conduct me out.”
“I will wait here,” answered Kmita. And he was left alone. After a
while he began to walk back and forth with quick steps; his whole soul
was roused within him, and his heart was filled with blood, black from
anger.
“Pitch does not stick to a garment like evil fame to a man,” muttered
he. “This scoundrel, this wretch, this traitor calls me boldly his
brother, and thinks he has me as a comrade. See to what I have come!
All gallows-birds proclaim me their own, and no decent man calls me to
mind without horror. I have done little yet, little! If I could only
give a lesson to this rascal! It cannot be but that I shall put my
score on him.”
The council lasted long in the chamber. It had grown dark. Kmita was
waiting yet.
At last Kuklinovski appeared. Pan Andrei could not see the colonel’s
face, but he inferred from his quick panting, that the mission had
failed, and had been also displeasing, for the envoy had lost desire
for talk. They walked on then for some time in silence. Kmita
determined meanwhile to get at the truth, and said with feigned
sympathy,—
“Surely, you are coming with nothing.—Our priests are stubborn; and,
between you and me, they act ill, for we cannot defend ourselves
forever.”
Kuklinovski halted and pulled him by the sleeve. “And do you think that
they act ill? You have your senses; these priests will be ground into
bran,—I guarantee that! They are unwilling to obey Kuklinovski; they
will obey his sword.”
“You see, it is not a question of the priests with me,” said Kmita,
“but of this place, which is holy, that is not to be denied, but which
the later it is surrendered the more severe must the conditions be. Is
what men say true, that through the country tumults are rising, that
here and there they are slashing the Swedes, and that the Khan is
marching with aid? If that is true, Miller must retreat.”
“I tell you in confidence, a wish for Swedish broth is rising in the
country, and likely in the army as well; that is true. They are talking
of the Khan also. But Miller will not retreat; in a couple of days
heavy artillery will come. We’ll dig these foxes out of their hole, and
then what will be will be!—But you have sense.”
“Here is the gate!” said Kmita; “here I must leave you, unless you wish
me to attend you down the slope?”
“Attend me, attend me! A couple of days ago you fired after an envoy.”
“Indeed! What do you mean?”
“Maybe unwillingly. But better attend me; I have a few words to say to
you.”
“And I to you.”
“That is well.”
They went outside the gate and sank in the darkness. Here Kuklinovski
stopped, and taking Kmita again by the sleeve, began to speak,—
“You, Sir Cavalier, seem to me adroit and foreseeing, and besides I
feel in you a soldier, blood and bone. What the devil do you stick to
priests for, and not to soldiers? Why be a serving lad for priests?
There is a better and a pleasanter company with us,—with cups, dice,
and women. Do you understand?”
Here he pressed Kmita’s arm with his fingers. “This house,” continued
he, pointing with his finger to the fortress, “is on fire, and a fool
is he who flees not from a house when ’tis burning. Maybe you fear the
name of traitor? Spit on those who would call you that! Come to our
company; I, Kuklinovski, propose this. Obey, if you like; if you don’t
like, obey not—there will be no offence. General Miller will receive
you well, I guarantee that; you have touched my heart, and I speak thus
from good wishes. Ours is a joyous company, joyous! A soldier’s freedom
is in this,—to serve whom he likes. Monks are nothing to you! If a bit
of virtue hinders you, then cough it out. Remember this also, that
honest men serve with us. How many nobles, magnates, hetmans! What can
be better? Who takes the part of our little Kazimir? No man save
Sapyeha alone, who is bending Radzivill.”
Kmita grew curious; “Did you say that Sapyeha is bending Radzivill?”
“I did. He is troubling him terribly there in Podlyasye, and is
besieging him now in Tykotsin. But we do not disturb him.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the King of Sweden wants them to devour one another. Radzivill
was never reliable; he was thinking of himself. Besides, he is barely
breathing. Whoever lets himself be besieged is in a fix, he is
finished.”
“Will not the Swedes go to succor him?”
“Who is to go? The king himself is in Prussia, for there lies the great
question. The elector has wriggled out hitherto; he will not wriggle
out this time. In Great Poland is war, Wittemberg is needed in Cracow,
Douglas has work with the hill-men; so they have left Radzivill to
himself. Let Sapyeha devour him. Sapyeha has grown, that is true, but
his turn will come also. Our Karl, when he finishes with Prussia, will
twist the horns of Sapyeha. Now there is no power against him, for all
Lithuania stands at his side.”
“But Jmud?”
“Pontus de la Gardie holds that in his paws, and heavy are the paws, I
know him.”
“How is it that Radzivill has fallen, he whose power was equal to that
of kings?”
“It is quenching already, quenching—”
“Wonderful are the ordinances of God!”
“The wheel of war changes. But no more of this. Well, what? Do you make
up your mind to my proposition? You’ll not be sorry! Come to us. If it
is too hurried to-day, think till to-morrow, till the day after, before
the heavy artillery comes. These people here trust you evidently, since
you pass through the gate as you do now. Or come with letters and go
back no more.”
“You attract others to the Swedish side, for you are an envoy of
Sweden,” said Kmita; “it does not beseem you to act otherwise, though
in your soul who knows what you think? There are those who serve the
Swedes, but wish them ill in their hearts.”
“Word of a cavalier!” answered Kuklinovski, “that I speak sincerely,
and not because I am filling the function of an envoy. Outside the gate
I am no longer an envoy; and if you wish I will remove the office of
envoy of my own will, and speak to you as a private man. Throw that
vile fortress to the devil!”
“Do you say this as a private man?”
“Yes.”
“And may I give answer to you as to a private man?”
“As true as life I propose it myself.”
“Then listen, Pan Kuklinovski,” Here Kmita inclined and looked into the
very eyes of the ruffian. “You are a rascal, a traitor, a scoundrel, a
crab-monger, an arch-cur! Have you enough, or shall I spit in your eyes
yet?”
Kuklinovski was astounded to such a degree that for a time there was
silence.
“What is this? How is this? Do I hear correctly?”
“Have you enough, you cur? or do you wish me to spit in your eyes?”
Kuklinovski drew his sabre; but Kmita caught him with his iron hand by
the wrist, twisted his arm, wrested the sabre from him, then slapped
him on the cheek so that the sound went out in the darkness; seized him
by the other side, turned him in his hand like a top, and kicking him
with all his strength, cried,—
“To a private man, not to an envoy!”
Kuklinovski rolled down like a stone thrown from a ballista. Pan Andrei
went quietly to the gate.
The two men parted on the slope of the eminence; hence it was difficult
to see them from the walls. But Kmita found waiting for him at the gate
Kordetski, who took him aside at once, and asked,—
“What were you doing so long with Kuklinovski.”
“I was entering into confidence with him,” answered Pan Andrei.
“What did he say?”
“He said that it was true concerning the Khan.”
“Praise be to God, who can change the hearts of pagans and make friends
out of enemies.”
“He told me that Great Poland is moving.”
“Praise be to God!”
“That the quarter soldiers are more and more unwilling to remain with
the Swedes; that in Podlyasye, the voevoda of Vityebsk, Sapyeha, has
beaten the traitor Radzivill, and that he has all honest people with
him. As all Lithuania stands by him, except Jmud, which De la Gardie
has taken.”
“Praise be to God! Have you had no other talk with each other?”
“Yes; Kuklinovski tried afterward to persuade me to go over to the
Swedes.”
“I expected that,” said the prior; “he is a bad man. And what did you
answer?”
“You see he told me, revered father, as follows: ‘I put aside my office
of envoy, which without that is finished beyond the gates, and I
persuade you as a private man.’ And I to make sure asked, ‘May I answer
as to a private man?’ He said, ‘Yes’—then—”
“What then?”
“Then I gave it to him in the snout, and he rolled down hill.”
“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!”
“Be not angry, father; I acted very carefully, and that he will not say
a word about the matter to any man is certain.”
The priest was silent for a time, then said; “That you acted honestly,
I know. I am only troubled at this, that you have gained a new enemy.
He is a terrible man.”
“One more, one less!” said Kmita. Then he bent to the ear of the
priest. “But Prince Boguslav, he at least is an enemy! What is such a
Kuklinovski? I don’t even look back at him.”