Now the terrible Arwid Wittemberg made himself heard. A famous officer
brought his stern letter to the cloister, commanding the fathers to
surrender the fortress to Miller. “In the opposite event,” wrote
Wittemberg, “if you do not abandon resistance, and do not yield to the
said general, you may be sure that a punishment awaits you which will
serve others as an example. The blame for your suffering lay to
yourselves.”
The fathers after receiving this letter determined in old fashion to
procrastinate, and present new difficulties daily. Again days passed
during which the thunder of artillery interrupted negotiations, and the
contrary.
Miller declared that he wished to introduce his garrison only to insure
the cloister against bands of freebooters. The fathers answered that
since their garrison appeared sufficient against such a powerful leader
as the general himself, all the more would it suffice against bands of
freebooters. They implored Miller, therefore, by all that was sacred,
by the respect which the people had for the place, by God and by Mary,
to go to Vyelunie, or wherever it might please him. But the patience of
the Swedes was exhausted. That humility of the besieged, who implored
for mercy while they were firing more and more quickly from cannons,
brought the chief and the army to desperation.
At first Miller could not get it into his head why, when the whole
country had surrendered, that one place was defending itself; what
power was upholding them; in the name of what hopes did these monks
refuse to yield, for what were they striving, for what were they
hoping?
But flowing time brought more clearly the answer to that question. The
resistance which had begun there was spreading like a conflagration. In
spite of a rather dull brain, the general saw at last what the question
with Kordetski was; and besides, Sadovski had explained
incontrovertibly that it was not a question of that rocky nest, nor of
Yasna Gora, nor of the treasures gathered in the cloister, nor of the
safety of the Congregation, but of the fate of the whole Commonwealth.
Miller discovered that that silent priest knew what he was doing, that
he had knowledge of his mission, that he had risen as a prophet to
enlighten the land by example,—to call with a mighty voice to the east
and the west, to the north and the south, _Sursum corda!_ (Raise your
hearts) in order to rouse, either by his victory or his death and
sacrifice, the sleeping from their slumber, to purify the sinful, to
bring light into darkness.
When he had discovered this, that old warrior was simply terrified at
that defender and at his own task. All at once that “hen-house” of
Chenstohova seemed to him a giant mountain defended by a Titan, and the
general seemed small to himself; and on his own army he looked, for the
first time in his life, as on a handful of wretched worms. Was it for
them to raise hands against that mysterious and heaven-touching power?
Therefore Miller was terrified, and doubt began to steal into his
heart. Seeing that the fault would be placed upon him, he began himself
to seek the guilty, and his anger fell first on Count Veyhard. Disputes
rose in the camp, and dissensions began to inflame hearts against one
another; the works of the siege had to suffer therefrom.
Miller had been too long accustomed to estimate men and events by the
common measure of a soldier, not to console himself still at times with
the thought that at last the fortress would surrender. And taking
things in human fashion, it could not be otherwise. Besides, Wittemberg
was sending him six siege guns of the heaviest calibre, which had shown
their force at Cracow.
“Devil take it!” thought Miller; “such walls will not stand against
guns like these, and if that nest of terrors, of superstitions, of
enchantment, winds up in smoke, then things will take another turn, and
the whole country will be pacified.”
While waiting for the heavier guns, he commanded to fire from the
smaller. The days of conflict returned. But in vain did balls of fire
fall on the roofs, in vain did the best gunners exert superhuman power.
As often as the wind blew away the sea of smoke, the cloister appeared
untouched, imposing as ever, lofty, with towers piercing calmly the
blue of the sky. At the same time things happened which spread
superstitious terror among the besiegers. Now balls flew over the whole
mountain and struck soldiers on the other side; now a gunner, occupied
in aiming a gun, fell on a sudden; now smoke disposed itself in
terrible and strange forms; now powder in the boxes exploded all at
once, as if fired by some invisible hand.
Besides, soldiers were perishing continually who alone, in twos or in
threes, went out of the camp. Suspicion fell on the Polish auxiliary
squadrons, which, with the exception of Kuklinovski’s regiment, refused
out and out every cooperation in the siege, and showed daily more
menacing looks. Miller threatened Colonel Zbrojek with a court-martial,
but he answered in presence of all the officers: “Try it, General.”
Officers from the Polish squadrons strolled purposely through the
Swedish camp, exhibiting contempt and disregard for the soldiers, and
raising quarrels with the officers. Thence it came to duels, in which
the Swedes, as less trained in fencing, fell victims more frequently.
Miller issued a severe order against duels, and finally forbade the
Poles entrance to the camp. From this it came that at last both armies
were side by side like enemies, merely awaiting an opportunity for
battle.
But the cloister defended itself ever better. It turned out that the
guns sent by Pan Myaskovski were in no wise inferior to those which
Miller had, and the gunners through constant practice arrived at such
accuracy that each shot threw down an enemy. The Swedes attributed this
to enchantment. The gunners answered the officers that with that power
which defended the cloister it was no business of theirs to do battle.
A certain morning a panic began in the southwestern trench, for the
soldiers had seen distinctly a woman in a blue robe shielding the
church and the cloister. At sight of this they threw themselves down on
their faces. In vain did Miller ride up, in vain did he explain that
mist and smoke had disposed themselves in that form, in vain besides
was his threat of court-martial and punishment. At the first moment no
one would hear him, especially as the general himself was unable to
hide his amazement.
Soon after this the opinion was spread through the whole army that no
one taking part in the siege would die his own death. Many officers
shared this belief, and Miller was not free from fears; for he brought
in Lutheran ministers and enjoined on them to undo the enchantment.
They walked through the camp whispering, and singing psalms; fear,
however, had so spread that more than once they heard from the mouths
of the soldiers: “Beyond your power, beyond your strength!”
In the midst of discharges of cannon a new envoy from Miller entered
the cloister, and stood before the face of Kordetski and the council.
This was Pan Sladkovski, chamberlain of Rava, whom Swedish parties had
seized as he was returning from Prussia. They received him coldly and
harshly, though he had an honest face and his look was as mild as the
sky; but the monks had grown accustomed to see honest faces on
traitors. He was not confused a whit by such a reception; combing
briskly his yellow forelock with his fingers, he began:—
“Praised be Jesus Christ!”
“For the ages of ages!” answered the Congregation, in a chorus.
And Kordetski added at once; “Blessed be those who serve him.”
“I serve him,” answered Sladkovski, “and that I serve him more
sincerely than I do Miller will be shown soon. H’m! permit me, worthy
and beloved fathers, to cough, for I must first spit out foulness.
Miller then—tfu! sent me, my good lords, to you to persuade you—tfu!—to
surrender. But I accepted the office so as to say to you: Defend
yourselves, think not of surrender, for the Swedes are spinning thin,
and the Devil is taking them by the eye.”
The monks and the laity were astonished at sight of such an envoy. Pan
Zamoyski exclaimed at once: “As God is dear to me, this is an honest
man!” and springing to him began to shake his hand; but Sladkovski,
gathering his forelock into one bunch, said,—
“That I am no knave will be shown straightway. I have become Miller’s
envoy so as to tell you news so favorable that I could wish, my good
lords, to tell it all in one breath. Give thanks to God and His Most
Holy Mother who chose you as instruments for changing men’s hearts. The
country, taught by your example and by your defence, is beginning to
throw off the yoke of the Swedes. What’s the use in talking? In Great
Poland and Mazovia the people are beating the Swedes, destroying
smaller parties, blocking roads and passages. In some places they have
given the enemy terrible punishment already. The nobles are mounting
their horses, the peasants are gathering in crowds, and when they seize
a Swede they tear straps out of him. Chips are flying, tow is flying!
This is what it has come to. And whose work is this?—yours.”
“An angel, an angel is speaking!” cried monks and nobles, raising their
hands toward heaven.
“Not an angel, but Sladkovski, at your service. This is nothing!—Listen
on. The Khan, remembering the kindness of the brother of our rightful
king, Yan Kazimir, to whom may God give many years! is marching with
aid, and has already passed the boundary of the Commonwealth. The
Cossacks who were opposed he has cut to pieces, and is moving on with a
horde of a hundred thousand toward Lvoff, and Hmelnitski _nolens
volens_ is coming with him.”
“For God’s sake, for God’s sake!” repeated people, overcome as it were
by happiness.
But Pan Sladkovski, sweating and waving his hand, with still more vigor
cried,—
“That is nothing yet! Pan Stefan Charnyetski, with whom the Swedes
violated faith, for they carried captive his infantry under Wolf, feels
free of his word and is mounting. Yan Kazimir is collecting troops, and
may return any day to the country and the hetmans. Listen further, the
hetmans, Pototski and Lantskoronski, and with them all the troops, are
waiting only for the coming of the king to desert the Swedes and raise
sabres against them. Meanwhile they are coming to an understanding with
Sapyeha and the Khan. The Swedes are in terror; there is fire in the
whole country, war in the whole country—whosoever is living is going to
the field!”
What took place in the hearts of the monks and the nobles is difficult
of description. Some wept, some fell on their knees, other repeated,
“It cannot be, it cannot be!” Hearing this, Sladkovski approached the
great crucifix hanging on the wall and said,—
“I place my hands on these feet of Christ pierced with a nail, and
swear that I declare the pure and clean truth. I repeat only: Defend
yourselves, fail not; trust not the Swedes; think not that by
submission and surrender you could insure any safety for yourselves.
They keep no promises, no treaties. You who are closed in here know not
what is passing in the whole country, what oppression has come, what
deeds of violence are done,—murdering of priests, profanation of
sanctuaries, contempt of all law. They promise you everything, they
observe nothing. The whole kingdom is given up as plunder to a
dissolute soldiery. Even those who still adhere to the Swedes are
unable to escape injustice. Such is the punishment of God on traitors,
on those who break faith with the king. Delay!—I, as you see me here,
if only I survive, if I succeed in slipping away from Miller, will move
straightway to Silesia, to our king. I will fall at his feet and say:
Gracious King, save Chenstohova and your most faithful servants! But,
most beloved fathers, stand firm, for the salvation of the whole
Commonwealth is depending upon you.”
Here Sladkovski’s voice trembled, tears appeared on his eyelids, but he
spoke further. “You will have grievous times yet: siege guns are coming
from Cracow, which two hundred infantry are bringing. One is a
particularly dreadful cannon. Terrible assaults will follow. But these
will be the last efforts. Endure yet these, for salvation is coming
already. By these red wounds of God, the king, the hetmans, the army,
the whole Commonwealth will come to rescue its Patroness. This is what
I tell you: rescue, salvation, glory is right here—not distant.”
The worthy noble now burst into tears, and sobbing became universal.
Ah! still better news was due to that wearied handful of defenders, to
that handful of faithful servants, and a sure consolation from the
country.
The prior rose, approached Sladkovski, and opened wide his arms.
Sladkovski rushed into them, and they embraced each other long; others
following their example began to fall into one another’s arms, embrace,
kiss, and congratulate one another as if the Swedes had already
retreated. At last the prior said,—
“To the chapel, my brethren, to the chapel!”
He went in advance, and after him the others. All the candles were
lighted, for it was growing dark outside; and the curtains were drawn
aside from the wonder-working image, from which sweet abundant rays
were scattered at once round about. Kordetski knelt on the steps,
farther away the monks, the nobles, and common people; women with
children were present also. Pale and wearied faces and eyes which had
wept were raised toward the image; but from behind the tears was
shining on each face a smile of happiness. Silence continued for a
time; at last Kordetski began,—
“Under thy protection we take refuge, Holy Mother of God—”
Further words stopped on his lips, weariness, long suffering, hidden
alarms, together with the gladsome hope of rescue, rose in him like a
mighty wave; therefore sobbing shook his breast, and that man, who bore
on his shoulders the fate of the whole country, bent like a weak child,
fell on his face, and with weeping immeasurable had strength only to
cry: “O Mary, Mary, Mary!”
All wept with him, but the image from above cast brightest rays.
It was late at night when the monks and the nobles went each his own
way to the walls; but Kordetski remained all night lying in the chapel
in the form of a cross. There were fears in the cloister that weariness
might overpower him; but next morning he appeared on the bastions, went
among the soldiers and the garrison, glad and refreshed, and here and
there he repeated,—
“Children, the Most Holy Lady will show again that she is mightier than
siege guns, and then will come the end of your sorrows and torments.”
That morning Yatsek Bjuhanski, an inhabitant of Chenstohova, disguised
as a Swede, approached the walls to confirm the news that great guns
were coming from Cracow, but also that the Khan with the horde was
approaching. He delivered a letter from Father Anton Pashkovski, of the
monastery at Cracow, who, describing the terrible cruelty and robbery
of the Swedes, incited and implored the fathers of Yasna Gora to put no
trust in the promises of the enemy, but to defend the sacred place
patiently against the insolence of the godless.
“There is no faith in the Swedes,” wrote Father Pashkovski, “no
religion. Nothing divine or human is sacred and inviolate for them. It
is not their custom to respect anything, though guarded by treaties or
public declarations.”
That was the day of the Immaculate Conception. Some tens of officers
and soldiers of the allied Polish squadrons besought with most urgent
requests Miller’s permission to go to the fortress for divine service.
Perhaps Miller thought that they would become friendly with the
garrison, carry news of the siege guns and spread alarm; perhaps he did
not wish by refusing to cast sparks on inflammable elements, which
without that made relations between the Poles and the Swedes more and
more dangerous: ’tis enough that he gave the permission.
With these quarter soldiers went a certain Tartar of the Polish
Mohammedan Tartars. He, amid universal astonishment, encouraged the
monks not to yield their holy place to vile enemies, considering with
certainty that the Swedes would soon go away with shame and defeat. The
quarter soldiers repeated the same, confirming completely the news
brought by Sladkovski. All this taken together raised the courage of
the besieged to such a degree that they had no fear of those gigantic
cannons, and the soldiers made sport of them among themselves.
After services firing began on both sides. There was a certain Swedish
soldier who had come many times to the wall, and with a trumpet-like
voice had blasphemed against the Mother of God. Many a time had the
besieged fired at him, but always without result. Kmita aimed at him
once, but his bow-string broke; the soldier became more and more
insolent, and roused others by his daring. It was said that he had
seven devils in his service who guarded and shielded him.
He came this day again to blaspheme; but the besieged, trusting that on
the day of the Immaculate Conception enchantments would have less
effect, determined to punish him without fail. They fired a good while
in vain; at last a cannon ball, rebounding from an ice wall, and
tripping along the snow like a bird, struck him straight in the breast
and tore him in two. The defenders comforted themselves with this and
cried out: “Who will blaspheme against Her another time?” Meanwhile the
revilers had rushed down to the trenches, in panic.
The Swedes fired at the walls and the roofs; but the balls brought no
terror to the besieged.
The old beggarwoman, Konstantsia, who dwelt in a cranny of the cliff,
used to go, as if in ridicule of the Swedes, along the whole slope,
gathering bullets in her apron, and threatening from time to time the
soldiers with her staff. They, thinking her a witch, were afraid she
would injure them, especially when they saw that bullets did not touch
her.
Two whole days passed in vain firing. They hurled on the roof ship
ropes very thickly steeped in pitch; these flew like fiery serpents;
but the guards, trained in a masterly manner, met the danger in time. A
night came with such darkness that, in spite of the fires, tar barrels,
and the fireworks of Father Lyassota, the besieged could see nothing.
Meanwhile some uncommon movement reigned among the Swedes. The squeak
of wheels was heard, men’s voices, at times the neighing of horses, and
various other kinds of uproar. The soldiers on the walls guessed the
cause easily.
“The guns have come surely,” said some.
The officers were deliberating on a sortie which Charnyetski advised;
but Zamoyski opposed, insisting, with reason, that at such important
works the enemy must have secured themselves sufficiently, and must
surely hold infantry in readiness. They resolved merely to fire toward
the north and south, whence the greatest noise came. It was impossible
to see the result in the darkness.
Day broke at last, and its first rays exposed the works of the Swedes.
North and south of the fortress were intrenchments, on which some
thousands of men were employed. These intrenchments stood so high that
to the besieged the summits of them seemed on a line with the walls of
the fortress. In the openings at the top were seen great jaws of guns,
and the soldiers standing behind them looked at a distance like swarms
of yellow wasps.
The morning Mass was not over in the church when unusual thunder shook
the air; the window-panes rattled; some of them dropped out of the
frames from shaking alone, and were broken with a sharp shiver on the
stone floor; and the whole church was filled with dust which rose from
fallen plaster.
The great siege guns had spoken.
A terrible fire began, such as the besieged had not experienced. At the
end of Mass all rushed out on the walls and roofs. The preceding storms
seemed innocent play in comparison with this terrible letting loose of
fire and iron.
The smaller pieces thundered in support of the siege guns. Great bombs,
pieces of cloth steeped in pitch, torches, and fiery ropes were flying.
Balls twenty-six pounds in weight tore out battlements, struck the
walls of buildings; some settled in them, others made great holes,
tearing off plaster and bricks. The walls surrounding the cloister
began to shake here and there and lose pieces, and struck incessantly
by new balls threatened to fall. The buildings of the cloister were
covered with fire.
The trumpeters on the tower felt it totter under them. The church
quaked from continuous pounding, and candles fell out of the sockets at
some of the altars.
Water was poured in immense quantities on the fires that had begun, on
the blazing torches, on the walls, on the fire balls; and formed,
together with the smoke and the dust, rolls of steam so thick that
light could not be seen through them. Damage was done to the walls and
buildings. The cry, “It is burning, it is burning!” was heard oftener
amid the thunder of cannon and the whistle of bullets. At the northern
bastion the two wheels of a cannon were broken, and one injured cannon
was silent. A ball had fallen into a stable, killed three horses, and
set fire to the building. Not only balls, but bits of grenades, were
falling as thickly as rain on the roofs, the bastions, and the walls.
In a short time the groans of the wounded were heard. By a strange
chance three young men fell, all named Yan. This amazed other defenders
bearing the same name; but in general the defence was worthy of the
storm. Even women, children, and old men came out on the walls.
Soldiers stood there with unterrified heart, in smoke and fire, amid a
rain of missiles, and answered with determination to the fire of the
enemy. Some seized the wheels and rolled the cannon to the most exposed
places; others thrust into breaches in the walls stones, beams, dung,
and earth.
Women with dishevelled hair and inflamed faces gave an example of
daring, and some were seen running with buckets of water after bombs
which were still springing and ready to burst right there, that moment.
Ardor rose every instant, as if that smell of powder, smoke, and steam,
that thunder, those streams of fire and iron, had the property of
rousing it. All acted without command, for words died amid the awful
noise. Only the supplications which were sung in the chapel rose above
the voices of cannon.
About noon firing ceased. All drew breath; but before the gate a drum
was sounded, and the drummer sent by Miller, approaching the gate,
inquired if the fathers had had enough, and if they wished to surrender
at once. Kordetski answered that they would deliberate over the
question till morning. The answer had barely reached Miller when the
attack began anew, and the artillery fire was redoubled.
From time to time deep ranks of infantry pushed forward under fire
toward the mountain, as if wishing to try an assault; but decimated by
cannon and muskets, they returned each time quickly and in disorder
under their own batteries. As a wave of the sea covers the shore and
when it retreats leaves on the sand weeds, mussels, and various
fragments broken in the deep, so each one of those Swedish waves when
it sank back left behind bodies thrown here and there on the slope.
Miller did not give orders to fire at the bastions, but at the wall
between them, where resistance was least. Indeed, here and there
considerable rents were made, but not large enough for the infantry to
rush through.
Suddenly a certain event checked the storm.
It was well toward evening when a Swedish gunner about to apply a
lighted match to one of the largest guns was struck in the very breast
by a ball from the cloister. The ball came not with the first force,
but after a third bound from the ice piled up at the intrenchment; it
merely hurled the gunner a number of yards. He fell on an open box
partly filled with powder. A terrible explosion was heard that instant,
and masses of smoke covered the trench. When the smoke fell away it
appeared that five gunners had lost their lives; the wheels of the
cannon were injured, and terror seized the soldiers. It was necessary
to cease fire for the time from that intrenchment, since a heavy fog
had filled the darkness; they also stopped firing in other places.
The next day was Sunday. Lutheran ministers held services in the
trenches, and the guns were silent. Miller again inquired if the
fathers had had enough. They answered that they could endure more.
Meanwhile the damage in the cloister was examined and found to be
considerable. People were killed and the wall was shaken here and
there. The most formidable gun was a gigantic culverin standing on the
north. It had broken the wall to such a degree, torn out so many stones
and bricks, that the besieged could foresee that should the fire
continue two days longer a considerable part of the wall would give
away.
A breach such as the culverin would make could not be filled with beams
or earth. The prior foresaw with an eye full of sorrow the ruin which
he could not prevent.
Monday the attack was begun anew, and the gigantic gun widened the
breach. Various mishaps met the Swedes, however. About dusk that day a
Swedish gunner killed on the spot Miller’s sister’s son, whom the
general loved as though he had been his own, and intended to leave him
all that he had,—beginning with his name and military reputation and
ending with his fortune. But the heart of the old warrior blazed up
with hatred all the more from this loss.
The wall at the northern bastion was so broken that preparations were
made in the night for a hand-to-hand assault. That the infantry might
approach the fortress with less danger, Miller commanded to throw up in
the darkness a whole series of small redoubts, reaching the very slope.
But the night was clear, and white light from the snow betrayed the
movements of the enemy. The cannons of Yasna Gora scattered the men
occupied in making those parapets formed of fascines, fences, baskets,
and timbers.
At daybreak Charnyetski saw a siege machine which they had already
rolled toward the walls. But the besieged broke it with cannon fire
without difficulty; so many men were killed on that occasion that the
day might have been called a day of victory for the besieged, had it
not been for that great gun which shook the wall incessantly with
irrestrainable power.
A thaw came on the following days, and such dense mists settled down
that the fathers attributed them to the action of evil spirits. It was
impossible to see either the machines of war, the erection of parapets,
or the work of the siege. The Swedes came near the very walls of the
cloister. In the evening Charnyetski, when the prior was making his
usual round of the walls, took him by the side and said in a low
voice,—
“Bad, revered father! Our wall will not hold out beyond a day.”
“Perhaps these fogs will prevent them from firing,” answered Kordetski;
“and we meanwhile will repair the rents somehow.”
“The fogs will not prevent the Swedes, for that gun once aimed may
continue even in darkness the work of destruction; but here the ruins
are falling and falling.”
“In God and in the Most Holy Lady is our hope.”
“True! But if we make a sortie? Even were we to lose men, if they could
only spike that dragon of hell.”
Just then some form looked dark in the fog, and Babinich appeared near
the speakers.
“I saw that some one was speaking; but faces cannot be distinguished
three yards away,” said he. “Good evening, revered father! But of what
is the conversation?”
“We are talking of that gun. Pan Charnyetski advises a sortie. These
fogs are spread by Satan; I have commanded an exorcism.”
“Dear father,” said Pan Andrei, “since that gun has begun to shake the
wall, I am thinking of it, and something keeps coming to my head. A
sortie is of no use. But let us go to some room; there I will tell you
my plans.”
“Well,” said the prior, “come to my cell.”
Soon after they were sitting at a pine table in Kordetski’s modest
cell. Charnyetski and the priest were looking carefully into the
youthful face of Babinich, who said,—
“A sortie is of no use in this case. They will see it and repulse it.
Here one man must do the work.”
“How is that?” asked Charnyetski.
“One man must go and burst that cannon with powder; and he can do it
during such fogs. It is best that he go in disguise. There are jackets
here like those worn by the enemy. As it will not be possible to do
otherwise, he will slip in among the Swedes; but if at this side of the
trench from which the gun is projecting there are no soldiers, that
will be better still.”
“For God’s sake! what will the man do?”
“It is only necessary to put a box of powder into the mouth of the gun,
with a hanging fuse and a thread to be ignited. When the powder
explodes, the gun—devil I wanted to say—will burst.”
“Oh, my son! what do you say? Is it little powder that they thrust into
it every day, and it does not burst?”
Kmita laughed, and kissed the priest on the sleeve of his habit.
“Beloved father, there is a great heart in you, heroic and holy—”
“Give peace now!” answered the prior.
“And holy,” repeated Kmita; “but you do not understand cannon. It is
one thing when powder bursts in the butt of the cannon, for then it
casts forth the ball and the force flies out forward, but another if
you stop the mouth of a gun with powder and ignite it,—no cannon can
stand such a trial. Ask Pan Charnyetski. The same thing will take place
if you fill the mouth of a cannon with snow and fire it; the piece will
burst. Such is the villanous power of powder. What will it be when a
whole box of it explodes at the mouth? Ask Pan Charnyetski.”
“That is true. These are no secrets for soldiers,” answered
Charnyetski.
“You see if this gun is burst,” continued Kmita, “all the rest are a
joke.”
“This seems impossible to me,” said Kordetski; “for, first, who will
undertake to do it?”
“A certain poor fellow,” said Kmita; “but he is resolute, his name is
Babinich.”
“You!” cried the priest and Charnyetski together.
“Ai, father, benefactor! I was with you at confession, and acknowledged
all my deeds in sincerity; among them were deeds not worse than the one
I am now planning; how can you doubt that I will undertake it? Do you
not know me?”
“He is a hero, a knight above knights,” cried Charnyetski. And seizing
Kmita by the neck, he continued: “Let me kiss you for the wish alone;
give me your mouth.”
“Show me another remedy, and I will not go,” said Kmita; “but it seems
to me that I shall manage this matter somehow. Remember that I speak
German as if I had been dealing in staves, wainscots, and wall plank in
Dantzig. That means much, for if I am disguised they will not easily
discover that I am not of their camp. But I think that no one is
standing before the mouth of the cannon; for it is not safe there, and
I think that I shall do the work before they can see me.”
“Pan Charnyetski, what do you think of this?” asked the prior, quickly.
“Out of one hundred men one might return from such an undertaking; but
_audaces fortuna juvat_ [fortune favors the bold].”
“I have been in hotter places than this,” said Kmita: “nothing will
happen to me, for such is my fortune. Ai, beloved father, and what a
difference! Ere now to exhibit myself, and for vainglory, I crawled
into danger; but this undertaking is for the Most Holy Lady. Even
should I have to lay down my head, which I do not foresee, say yourself
could a more praiseworthy death be wished to any man than down there in
this cause?”
The priest was long silent, and then said at last,—
“I should try to restrain you with persuasion, with prayers and
imploring, if you wished to go for mere glory; but you are right: this
is a question affecting the honor of the Most Holy Lady, this sacred
place, the whole country! And you, my son, whether you return safely or
win the palm of glory, you will gain the supreme happiness,—salvation.
Against my heart then I say, Go; I do not detain you. Our prayers, the
protection of God, will go with you.”
“In such company I shall go boldly and perish with joy.”
“But return, soldier of God, return safely; for you are loved with
sincerity here. May Saint Raphael attend you and bring you back,
cherished son, my dear child!”
“Then I will begin preparations at once,” said Pan Andrei, joyfully
pressing the priest. “I will dress in Swedish fashion with a jacket and
wide-legged boots. I will fill in the powder, and do you, father, stop
the exorcisms for this night; fog is needful to the Swedes, but also to
me.”
“And do you not wish to confess before starting?”
“Of course, without that I should not go; for the devil would have
approach to me.”
“Then begin with confession.”
Charnyetski went out of the cell, and Kmita knell down near the priest
and purged himself of his sins. Then, gladsome as a bird, he began to
make preparations.
An hour or two later, in the deep night, he knocked again at the
prior’s cell, where Pan Charnyetski also was waiting.
The two scarcely knew Pan Andrei, so good a Swede had he made himself.
He had twirled his mustaches to his eyes and brushed them out at the
ends; he had put his hat on one side of his head, and looked precisely
like some cavalry officer of noted family.
“As God lives, one would draw a sabre at sight of him,” said
Charnyetski.
“Put the light at a distance,” said Kmita; “I will show you something.”
When Father Kordetski had put the light aside quickly, Pan Andrei
placed on a table a roll, a foot and a half long and as thick as the
arm of a sturdy man, sewn up in pitched linen and filled firmly with
powder. From one end of it was hanging a long string made of tow
steeped in sulphur.
“Well,” said he, “when I put this flea-bane in the mouth of the cannon
and ignite the string, then its belly will burst.”
“Lucifer would burst!” cried Pan Charnyetski. But he remembered that it
was better not to mention the name of the foul one, and he slapped his
own mouth.
“But how will you set fire to the string?” asked Kordetski.
“In that lies the whole danger, for I must strike fire. I have good
flint, dry tinder, and steel of the best; but there will be a noise,
and they may notice something. The string I hope will not quench, for
it will hang at the beard of the gun, and it will be hard to see it,
especially as it will hide itself quickly in burning; but they may
pursue me, and I cannot flee straight toward the cloister.”
“Why not?” asked the priest.
“For the explosion would kill me. The moment I see the spark on the
string I must jump aside with all the strength in my legs, and when I
have run about fifty yards, must fall to the ground under the
intrenchment. After the explosion I shall rush toward the cloister.”
“My God, my God, how many dangers!” said the prior, raising his eyes to
heaven.
“Beloved father, so sure am I of returning that even emotion does not
touch me, which on an occasion like this ought to seize me. This is
nothing! Farewell, and pray the Lord God to give me luck. Only conduct
me to the gate.”
“How is that? Do you want to go now?” asked Charnyetski.
“Am I to wait till daylight, or till the fog rises? Is not my head dear
to me?”
But Pan Andrei did not go that night, for just as they came to the
gate, darkness, as if out of spite, began to grow light. Some movement
too was heard around the great siege gun.
Next morning the besieged were convinced that the gun was transferred
to another place.
The Swedes had received apparently some report of a great weakness in
the wall a little beyond the bend near the southern bastion, and they
determined to direct missiles to that spot. Maybe too the prior was not
a stranger to the affair, for the day before they had seen old Kostuha
(Konstantsia) going out of the cloister. She was employed chiefly when
there was need of giving false reports to the Swedes. Be that as it
may, it was a mistake on their part; for the besieged could now repair
in the old place the wall so greatly shaken, and to make a new breach a
number of days would be needed.
The nights were clear in succession, the days full of uproar. The
Swedes fired with terrible energy. The spirit of doubt began again to
fly over the fortress. Among the besieged were nobles who wished to
surrender; some of the monks too had lost heart. The opposition gained
strength and importance. The prior made head against it with
unrestrained energy, but his health began to give way. Meanwhile came
reinforcements to the Swedes and supplies from Cracow, especially
terrible explosive missiles in the form of iron cylinders filled with
powder and lead. These caused more terror than damage to the besieged.
Kmita, from the time that he had conceived the plan of bursting the
siege gun, secreted himself in the fortress. He looked every day at the
roll, with heart-sickness. On reflection he made it still larger, so
that it was almost an ell long and as thick as a boot-leg. In the
evening he cast greedy looks toward the gun, then examined the sky like
an astrologer. But the bright moon, shining on the snow continually,
baffled his plan.
All at once a thaw came; clouds covered the horizon, and the night was
dark,—so dark that even strain your eyes you could see nothing. Pan
Andrei fell into such humor as if some one had given him the steed of
the Sultan; and midnight had barely sounded when he stood before
Charnyetski in his cavalry dress, the roll under his arm.
“I am going!” said he.
“Wait, I will speak to the prior.”
“That is well. Kiss me, Pan Pyotr, and go for the prior.”
Charnyetski kissed him with feeling, and turned away. He had hardly
gone thirty steps when Kordetski stood before him in white. He had
guessed that Kmita was going, and had come there to bless him.
“Babinich is ready; he is only waiting for your reverence.”
“I hurry, I hurry!” answered the priest. “O Mother of God, save him and
aid him!”
After a while both were standing at the opening where Charnyetski left
Kmita, but there was no trace of him.
“He has gone!” said the prior, in amazement.
“He has gone!” repeated Charnyetski.
“But, the traitor!” said the prior, with emotion, “I intended to put
this little scapular on his neck.”
Both ceased to speak; there was silence around, and as the darkness was
dense there was firing from neither side. On a sudden Charnyetski
whispered eagerly,—
“As God is dear to me, he is not even trying to go in silence! Do you
hear steps crushing the snow?”
“Most Holy Lady, guard thy servant!” said the prior.
Both listened carefully for a time, till the brisk steps and the noise
on the snow had ceased.
“Do you know, your reverence, at moments I think that he will succeed,
and I fear nothing for him. The strange man went as if he were going to
an inn to drink a glass of liquor. What courage he has in him! Either
he will lay down his head untimely, or he will be hetman. H’m! if I did
not know him as a servant of Mary, I should think that he has—God give
him success, God grant it to him! for such another cavalier there is
not in the Commonwealth.”
“It is so dark, so dark!” said Kordetski; “but they are on their guard
since the night of your sortie. He might come upon a whole rank before
he could see it.”
“I do not think so. The infantry are watching, that I know, and watch
carefully; but they are in the intrenchment, not before the muzzles of
their own cannon. If they do not hear the steps, he can easily push
under the intrenchment, and then the height of it alone will cover
him—Uf!”
Here Charnyetski puffed and ceased speaking; for his heart began to
beat like a hammer from expectation and alarm, and breath failed him.
Kordetski made the sign of the cross in the darkness.
A third person stood near the two. This was Zamoyski.
“What is the matter?” asked he.
“Babinich has gone to blow up the siege gun.”
“How is that? What is that?”
“He took a roll of powder, cord, and flint, and went.”
Zamoyski pressed his head between his hands.
“Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary! All alone?”
“All alone.”
“Who let him go? That’s an impossible deed!”
“I. For the might of God all things are possible, even his safe
return,” said Kordetski.
Zamoyski was silent. Charnyetski began to pant from emotion.
“Let us pray,” said the prior.
The three knelt down and began to pray. But anxiety raised the hair on
the heads of both knights. A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour,
an hour as long as a lifetime.
“There will be nothing now!” said Charnyetski, sighing deeply.
All at once in the distance a gigantic column of flame burst forth, and
a roar as if all the thunders of heaven had been hurled to the earth;
it shook the walls, the church, and the cloister.
“He has burst it, he has burst it!” shouted Charnyetski.
New explosions interrupted further speech of his.
Kordetski threw himself on his knees, and raising his hands, cried to
heaven, “Most Holy Mother, Guardian, Patroness, bring him back safely!”
A noise was made on the walls. The garrison, not knowing what had
happened, seized their arms. The monks rushed from their cells. No one
was sleeping. Even women sprang forth. Questions and answers crossed
one another like lightnings.
“What has happened?”
“An assault!”
“The Swedish gun has burst!” cried one of the cannoneers.
“A miracle, a miracle!”
“The largest gun is burst!”
“That great one!”
“Where is the prior?”
“On the wall. He is praying; he did this.”
“Babinich burst the gun!” cried Charnyetski.
“Babinich, Babinich! Praise to the Most Holy Lady! They will harm us no
longer.”
At the same time sounds of confusion rose from the Swedish camp. In all
the trenches fires began to shine. An increasing uproar was heard. By
the light of the fires masses of soldiers were seen moving in various
directions without order, trumpets sounded, drums rolled continually;
to the walls came shouts in which alarm and amazement were heard.
Kordetski continued kneeling on the wall.
At last the night began to grow pale, but Babinich came not to the
fortress.