The bursting of the gigantic culverin had really a crushing effect upon
Miller, for all his hopes had rested hitherto on that gun. Infantry
were ready for the assault, ladders and piles of fascines were
collected; but now it was necessary to abandon all thought of a storm.
The plan of blowing up the cloister by means of mines came also to
nothing. Miners brought in previously from Olkush split, it is true,
the rock, and approached on a diagonal to the cloister; but work
progressed slowly. The workmen, in spite of every precaution, fell
frequently from the guns of the church, and labored unwillingly. Many
of them preferred to die rather than aid in the destruction of a sacred
place.
Miller felt a daily increasing opposition. The frost took away the
remnant of courage from his unwilling troops, among whom terror was
spreading from day to day with a belief that the capture of the
cloister did not lie within human power.
Finally Miller himself began to lose hope, and after the bursting of
the gun he was simply in despair; a feeling of helplessness and
impotence took possession of him. Next morning he called a council, but
he called it with the secret wish to hear from officers encouragement
to abandon the fortress.
They began to assemble, all wearied and gloomy. In silence they took
their places around a table in an enormous and cold room, in which the
steam from their breaths stood before their faces, and they looked from
behind it as from behind a cloud. Each one felt in his soul exhaustion
and weariness; each one said to himself: “There is no counsel to give
save one, which it is better for no man to be the first to give.” All
waited for what Miller would say. He ordered first of all to bring
plenty of heated wine, hoping that under the influence of warm drink it
would be easier to obtain a real thought from those silent figures, and
encouragement to retreat from the fortress.
At last, when he supposed that the wine had produced its effect, he
spoke in the following words—
“Have you noticed, gentlemen, that none of the Polish colonels have
come to this council, though I summoned them all?”
“It is known of course to your worthiness that servants of the Polish
squadron have, while fishing, found silver belonging to the cloister,
and that they fought for it with our soldiers. More than ten men have
been cut down.”
“I know; I succeeded in snatching a part of that silver from their
hands, indeed the greater part. It is here now, and I am thinking what
to do with it.”
“This is surely the cause of the anger of the Polish colonels. They say
that if the Poles found the silver, it belongs to the Poles.”
“That’s a reason!” cried Count Veyhard.
“For my mind, it is a strong reason,” said Sadovski; “and I think that
if you had found the silver you would not feel bound to divide it, not
only with the Poles, but even with me, a Cheh.”
“First of all, my dear sir, I do not share your good will for the
enemies of our king,” answered the count, with a frown.
“But we, thanks to you, must share with you shame and disgrace, not
being able to succeed against a fortress to which you have brought us.”
“Then have you lost all hope?”
“But have you any yourself to give away?”
“Just as if you knew; and I think that these gentlemen share more
willingly with me in my hope, than with you in your fear.”
“Do you make me a coward, Count Veyhard?”
“I do not ascribe to you more courage than you show.”
“And I ascribe to you less.”
“But I,” said Miller, who for some time had looked on the count with
dislike as the instigator of the ill-starred undertaking, “shall have
the silver sent to the cloister. Perhaps kindness and graciousness will
do more with these surly monks than balls and cannon. Let them
understand that we wish to possess the fortress, not their treasures.”
The officers looked on Miller with wonder, so little accustomed were
they to magnanimity from him. At last Sadovski said,—
“Nothing better could be done, for it will close at once the mouths of
the Polish colonels who lay claim to the silver. In the fortress it
will surely make a good impression.”
“The death of that Kmita will make the best impression,” answered Count
Veyhard. “I hope that Kuklinovski has already torn him out of his
skin.”
“I think that he is no longer alive,” said Miller. “But that name
reminds me of our loss, which nothing can make good. That was the
greatest gun in the whole artillery of his grace. I do not hide from
you, gentlemen, that all my hopes were placed on it. The breach was
already made, terror was spreading in the fortress. A couple of days
longer and we should have moved to a storm. Now all our labor is
useless, all our exertions vain. They will repair the wall in one day.
And the guns which we have now are no better than those of the
fortress, and can be easily dismounted. No larger ones can be had
anywhere, for even Marshal Wittemberg hasn’t them. The more I ponder
over it, the more the disaster seems dreadful. And to think that one
man did this,—one dog! one Satan! I shall go mad! To all the horned
devils!”
Here Miller struck the table with his fist, for unrestrained anger had
seized him, the more desperately because he was powerless. After a
while he cried,—
“But what will the king say when he hears of this loss?” After a while
he added: “And what shall we do? We cannot gnaw away that cliff with
our teeth. Would that the plague might strike those who persuaded me to
come to this fortress!”
Having said this, he took a crystal goblet, and in his excitement
hurled it to the floor so that the crystal was broken into small bits.
This unbecoming frenzy, more befitting a peasant than a warrior holding
such a high office, turned all hearts from him, and soured good-humor
completely.
“Give counsel, gentlemen!” cried Miller.
“It is possible to counsel, but only in calmness,” answered the Prince
of Hesse.
Miller began to puff and blow out his anger through his nostrils. After
a time he grew calm, and passing his eyes over those present as if
encouraging them with a glance, he said,—
“I ask your pardon, gentlemen, but my anger is not strange. I will not
mention those places which, when I had taken command after Torstenson,
I captured, for I do not wish, in view of the present disaster, to
boast of past fortune. All that is done at this fortress simply passes
reason. But still it is necessary to take counsel. For that purpose I
have summoned you. Deliberate, then, and what the majority of us
determine at this council will be done.”
“Let your worthiness give us the subject for deliberation,” said the
Prince of Hesse. “Have we to deliberate only concerning the capture of
the fortress, or also concerning this, whether it is better to
withdraw?”
Miller did not wish to put the question so clearly, or at least he did
not wish the “either—or,” to come first from his mouth; therefore he
said,—
“Let each speak clearly what he thinks. It should be a question for us
of the profit and praise of the king.”
But none of the officers wished more than Miller to appear first with
the proposition to retreat, therefore there was silence again.
“Pan Sadovski,” said Miller after a while, in a voice which he tried to
make agreeable and kind, “you say what you think more sincerely than
others, for your reputation insures you against all suspicion.”
“I think, General,” answered the colonel, “that Kmita was one of the
greatest soldiers of this age, and that our position is desperate.”
“But you were in favor of withdrawing from the fortress?”
“With permission of your worthiness, I was only in favor of not
beginning the siege. That is a thing quite different.”
“Then what do you advise now?”
“Now I give the floor to Count Veyhard.”
Miller swore like a pagan.
“Count Veyhard will answer for this unfortunate affair,” said he.
“My counsels have not all been carried out,” answered the count,
insolently. “I can boldly cast responsibility from myself. There were
men who with a wonderful, in truth an inexplicable, good-will for the
priests, dissuaded his worthiness from all severe measures. My advice
was to hang those envoy priests, and I am convinced that if this had
been done terror would have opened to us before this time the gates of
that hen-house.”
Here the count looked at Sadovski; but before the latter had answered,
the Prince of Hesse interfered: “Count, do not call that fortress a
hen-house, for the more you decrease its importance the more you
increase our shame.”
“Nevertheless I advised to hang the envoys. Terror and always terror,
that is what I repeated from morning till night; but Pan Sadovski
threatened resignation, and the priests went unharmed.”
“Go, Count, to-day to the fortress,” answered Sadovski, “blow up with
powder their greatest gun as Kmita did ours, and I guarantee that, that
will spread more terror than a murderous execution of envoys.”
The count turned directly to Miller: “Your worthiness I thought we had
come here for counsel and not for amusement.”
“Have you an answer to baseless reproaches?” asked Miller.
“I have, in spite of the joyousness of these gentlemen, who might save
their humor for better times.”
“Oh, son of Laertes, famous for stratagems!” exclaimed the Prince of
Hesse.
“Gentlemen,” answered the count, “it is universally known that not
Minerva but Mars is your guardian deity; but since Mars has not favored
you, and you have renounced your right of speech, let me speak.”
“The mountain is beginning to groan, and soon we shall see the small
tail of a mouse,” said Sadovski.
“I ask for silence!” said Miller, severely. “Speak, Count, but keep in
mind that up to this moment your counsels have given bitter fruit.”
“Which, though it is winter, we must eat like mouldy biscuits,” put in
the Prince of Hesse.
“This explains why your princely highness drinks so much wine,” said
Count Veyhard; “and though it does not take the place of native wit, it
helps you to a happy digestion of even disgrace. But no matter! I know
well that there is a party in the fortress which is long desirous of
surrender, and that only our weakness on one side and the superhuman
stubbornness of the prior on the other keep it in check. New terror
will give this party new power; for this purpose we should show that we
make no account of the loss of the gun, and storm the more vigorously.”
“Is that all?”
“Even if it were all, I think that such counsel is more in accordance
with the honor of Swedish soldiers than barren jests at cups, or than
sleeping after drinking-bouts. But that is not all. We should spread
the report among our soldiers, and especially among the Poles, that the
men at work now making a mine have discovered the old underground
passage leading to the cloister and the church.”
“That is good counsel,” said Miller.
“When this report is spread among the soldiers and the Poles, the Poles
themselves will persuade the monks to surrender, for it is a question
with them as with the monks, that that nest of superstitions should
remain intact.”
“For a Catholic that is not bad!” muttered Sadovski.
“If he served the Turks he would call Rome a nest of superstitions,”
said the Prince of Hesse.
“Then, beyond doubt, the Poles will send envoys to the priests,”
continued Count Veyhard,—“that party in the cloister, which is long
anxious for surrender will renew its efforts under the influence of
fear; and who knows but its members will force the prior and the
stubborn to open the gates?”
“The city of Priam will perish through the cunning of the divine son of
Laertes,” declaimed the Prince of Hesse.
“As God lives, a real Trojan history, and he thinks he has invented
something new!” said Sadovski.
But the advice pleased Miller, for in very truth it was not bad. The
party which the count spoke of existed really in the cloister. Even
some priests of weaker soul belonged to it. Besides, fear might extend
among the garrison, including even those who so far were ready to
defend it to the last drop of blood.
“Let us try, let us try!” said Miller, who like a drowning man seized
every plank, and from despair passed easily to hope. “But will
Kuklinovski or Zbrojek agree to go again as envoys to the cloister, or
will they believe in that passage, and will they inform the priests of
it?”
“In every case Kuklinovski will agree,” answered the count; “but it is
better that he should believe really in the existence of the passage.”
At that moment they heard the tramp of a horse in front of the
quarters.
“There, Pan Zbrojek has come!” said the Prince of Hesse, looking
through the window.
A moment later spurs rattled, and Zbrojek entered, or rather rushed
into the room. His face was pale, excited, and before the officers
could ask the cause of his excitement the colonel cried,—
“Kuklinovski is no longer living!”
“How? What do you say? What has happened?” exclaimed Miller.
“Let me catch breath,” said Zbrojek, “for what I have seen passes
imagination.”
“Talk more quickly. Has he been murdered?” cried all.
“By Kmita,” answered Zbrojek.
The officers all sprang from their seats, and began to look at Zbrojek
as at a madman; and he, while blowing in quick succession bunches of
steam from his nostrils, said,—
“If I had not seen I should not have believed, for that is not a human
power. Kuklinovski is not living, three soldiers are killed, and of
Kmita not a trace. I know that he was a terrible man. His reputation is
known in the whole country. But for him, a prisoner and bound, not only
to free himself, but to kill the soldiers and torture Kuklinovski to
death,—that a man could not do, only a devil!”
“Nothing like that has ever happened; that’s impossible of belief!”
whispered Sadovski.
“That Kmita has shown what he can do,” said the Prince of Hesse. “We
did not believe the Poles yesterday when they told us what kind of bird
he was; we thought they were telling big stories, as is usual with
them.”
“Enough to drive a man mad,” said the count.
Miller seized his head with his hands, and said nothing. When at last
he raised his eyes, flashes of wrath were crossing in them with flashes
of suspicion.
“Pan Zbrojek,” said he, “though he were Satan and not a man, he could
not do this without some treason, without assistance. Kmita had his
admirers here; Kuklinovski his enemies, and you belong to the number.”
Zbrojek was in the full sense of the word an insolent soldier;
therefore when he heard an accusation directed against himself, he grew
still paler, sprang from his place, approached Miller, and halting in
front of him looked him straight in the eyes.
“Does your worthiness suspect me?” inquired he.
A very oppressive moment followed. The officers present had not the
slightest doubt were Miller to give an affirmative answer something
would follow terrible and unparalled in the history of camps. All hands
rested on their rapier hilts. Sadovski even drew his weapon altogether.
But at that moment the officers saw before the window a yard filled
with Polish horsemen. Probably they also had come with news of
Kuklinovski, but in case of collision they would stand beyond doubt on
Zbrojek’s side. Miller too saw them, and though the paleness of rage
had come on his face, still he restrained himself, and feigning to see
no challenge in Zbrojek’s action, he answered in a voice which he
strove to make natural,—
“Tell in detail how it happened.”
Zbrojek stood for a time yet with nostrils distended, but he too
remembered himself; and then his thoughts turned in another direction,
for his comrades, who had just ridden up, entered the room.
“Kuklinovski is murdered!” repeated they, one after another.
“Kuklinovski is killed! His regiment will scatter! His soldiers are
going wild!”
“Gentlemen, permit Pan Zbrojek to speak; he brought the news first,”
cried Miller.
After a while there was silence, and Zbrojek spoke as follows,—
“It is known to you, gentlemen, that at the last council I challenged
Kuklinovski on the word of a cavalier. I was an admirer of Kmita, it is
true; but even you, though his enemies, must acknowledge that no common
man could have done such a deed as bursting that cannon. It behooves us
to esteem daring even in an enemy; therefore I offered him my hand, but
he refused his, and called me a traitor. Then I thought to myself, ‘Let
Kuklinovski do what he likes with him.’ My only other thought was this:
‘If Kuklinovski acts against knightly honor in dealing with Kmita, the
disgrace of his deed must not fall on all Poles, and among others on
me.’ For that very reason I wished surely to fight with Kuklinovski,
and this morning taking two comrades, I set out for his camp. We come
to his quarters; they say there, ‘He is not at home.’ I send to this
place,—he is not here. At his quarters they tell us, ‘He has not
returned the whole night.’ But they are not alarmed, for they think
that he has remained with your worthiness. At last one soldier says,
‘Last evening he went to that little barn in the field with Kmita, whom
he was going to burn there.’ I ride to the barn; the doors are wide
open. I enter; I see inside a naked body hanging from a beam. ‘That is
Kmita,’ thought I; but when my eyes have grown used to the darkness, I
see that the body is some thin and bony one, and Kmita looked like a
Hercules. It is a wonder to me that he could shrink so much in one
night. I draw near—Kuklinovski!”
“Hanging from the beam?” asked Miller.
“Exactly! I make the sign of the cross,—I think, ‘Is it witchcraft, an
omen, deception, or what?’ But when I saw three corpses of soldiers,
the truth stood as if living before me. That terrible man had killed
these, hung Kuklinovski, burned him like an executioner, and then
escaped.”
“It is not far to the Silesian boundary,” said Sadovski.
A moment of silence followed. Every suspicion of Zbrojek’s
participation in the affair was extinguished in Miller’s soul. But the
event itself astonished and filled him with a certain undefined fear.
He saw dangers rising around, or rather their terrible shadows, against
which he knew not how to struggle; he felt that some kind of chain of
failures surrounded him. The first links were before his eyes, but
farther the gloom of the future was lying. Just such a feeling mastered
him as if he were in a cracked house which might fall on his head any
moment. Uncertainty crushed him with an insupportable weight, and he
asked himself what he had to lay hands on.
Meanwhile Count Veyhard struck himself on the forehead. “As God lives,”
said he, “when I saw this Kmita yesterday it seemed as if I had known
him somewhere. Now again I see before me that face. I remember the
sound of his voice. I must have met him for a short time and in the
dark, in the evening; but he is going through my head,—going—” Here he
began to rub his forehead with his hand.
“What is that to us?” asked Miller; “you will not mend the gun, even
should you remember; you will not bring Kuklinovski to life.”
Here he turned to the officers. “Gentlemen, come with me, whoso wishes,
to the scene of this deed.”
All wished to go, for curiosity was exciting them. Horses were brought,
and they moved on at a trot, the general at the head. When they came to
the little barn they saw a number of tens of Polish horsemen scattered
around that building, on the road, and along the field.
“What men are they?” asked Miller of Zbrojek.
“They must be Kuklinovski’s; I tell your worthiness that those
ragamuffins have simply gone wild.”
Zbrojek then beckoned to one of the horsemen,—
“Come this way, come this way. Quickly!”
The soldier rode up.
“Are you Kuklinovski’s men?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the rest of the regiment?”
“They have run away. They refused to serve longer against Yasna Gora.”
“What does he say?” asked Miller.
Zbrojek interpreted the words.
“Ask him where they went to.”
Zbrojek repeated the question.
“It is unknown,” said the soldier. “Some have gone to Silesia. Others
said that they would serve with Kmita, for there is not another such
colonel either among the Poles or the Swedes.”
When Zbrojek interpreted these words to Miller, he grew serious. In
truth, such men as Kuklinovski had were ready to pass over to the
command of Kmita without hesitation. But then they might become
terrible, if not for Miller’s army, at least for his supplies and
communication. A river of perils was rising higher and higher around
the enchanted fortress.
Zbrojek, into whose head this idea must have come, said, as if in
answer to these thoughts of Miller: “It is certain that everything is
in a storm now in our Commonwealth. Let only such a Kmita shout,
hundreds and thousands will surround him, especially after what he has
done.”
“But what can he effect?” asked Miller.
“Remember, your worthiness, that that man brought Hovanski to
desperation, and Hovanski had, counting the Cossacks, six times as many
men as we. Not a transport will come to us without his permission, the
country houses are destroyed, and we are beginning to feel hunger.
Besides, this Kmita may join with Jegotski and Kulesha; then he will
have several thousand sabres at his call. He is a grievous man, and may
become most harmful.”
“Are you sure of your soldiers?”
“Surer than of myself,” answered Zbrojek, with brutal frankness.
“How surer?”
“For, to tell the truth, we have all of us enough of this siege.”
“I trust that it will soon come to an end.”
“Only the question is: How? But for that matter to capture this
fortress is at present as great a calamity as to retire from it.”
Meanwhile they had reached the little barn. Miller dismounted, after
him the officers, and all entered. The soldiers had removed Kuklinovski
from the beam, and covering him with a rug laid him on his back on
remnants of straw. The bodies of three soldiers lay at one side, placed
evenly one by the other.
“These were killed with knives.”
“But Kuklinovski?”
“There are no wounds on Kuklinovski, but his side is roasted and his
mustaches daubed with pitch. He must have perished of cold or
suffocation, for he holds his own cap in his teeth to this moment.”
“Uncover him.”
The soldier raised a corner of the rug, and a terrible face was
uncovered, swollen, with eyes bursting out. On the remnants of his
pitched mustaches were icicles formed from his frozen breath and mixed
with soot, making as it were tusks sticking out of his mouth. That face
was so revolting that Miller, though accustomed to all kinds of
ghastliness, shuddered and said,—
“Cover it quickly. Terrible, terrible!”
Silence reigned in the barn.
“Why have we come here?” asked the Prince of Hesse, spitting. “I shall
not touch food for a whole day.”
All at once some kind of uncommon exasperation closely bordering on
frenzy took possession of Miller. His face became blue, his eyes
expanded, he began to gnash his teeth, a wild thirst for the blood of
some one had seized him; then turning to Zbrojek, he screamed,—
“Where is that soldier who saw that Kuklinovski was in the barn? He
must be a confederate!”
“I know not whether that soldier is here yet,” answered Zbrojek. “All
Kuklinovski’s men have scattered like oxen let out from the yoke.”
“Then catch him!” bellowed Miller, in fury.
“Catch him yourself!” cried Zbrojek, in similar fury.
And again a terrible outburst hung as it were on a spider-web over the
heads of the Swedes and the Poles. The latter began to gather around
Zbrojek, moving their mustaches threateningly and rattling their
sabres.
During this noise the echoes of shots and the tramp of horses were
heard, and into the barn rushed a Swedish officer of cavalry.
“General!” cried he. “A sortie from the cloister! The men working at
the mine have been cut to pieces! A party of infantry is scattered!”
“I shall go wild!” roared Miller, seizing the hair of his wig. “To
horse!”
In a moment they were all rushing like a whirlwind toward the cloister,
so that lumps of snow fell like hail from the hoofs of their horses. A
hundred of Sadovski’s cavalry, under command of his brother, joined
Miller and ran to assist. On the way they saw parties of terrified
infantry fleeing in disorder and panic, so fallen were the hearts of
the Swedish infantry, elsewhere unrivalled. They had left even trenches
which were not threatened by any danger. The oncoming officers and
cavalry trampled a few, and rode finally to within a furlong of the
fortress, but only to see on the height as clearly as on the palm of
the hand, the attacking party returning safely to the cloister; songs,
shouts of joy, and laughter came from them to Miller’s ears.
Single persons stood forth and threatened with bloody sabres in the
direction of the staff. The Poles present at the side of the Swedish
general recognized Zamoyski himself, who had led the sortie in person,
and who, when he saw the staff, stopped and saluted it solemnly with
his cap. No wonder he felt safe under cover of the fortress cannon.
And, in fact, it began to smoke on the walls, and iron flocks of cannon
balls were flying with terrible whistling among the officers. Troopers
tottered in their saddles, and groans answered whistles.
“We are under fire. Retreat!” commanded Sadovski.
Zbrojek seized the reins of Miller’s horse. “General, withdraw! It is
death here!”
Miller, as if he had become torpid, said not a word, and let himself be
led out of range of the missiles. Returning to his quarters, he locked
himself in, and for a whole day would see no man. He was meditating
surely over his fame of Poliorcetes.
Count Veyhard now took all power in hand, and began with immense energy
to make preparations for a storm. New breastworks were thrown up; the
soldiers succeeding the miners broke the cliff unweariedly to prepare a
mine. A feverish movement continued in the whole Swedish camp. It
seemed that a new spirit had entered the besiegers, or that
reinforcements had come. A few days later the news thundered through
the Swedish and allied Polish camps that the miners had found a passage
going under the church and the cloister, and that it depended now only
on the good-will of the general to blow up the whole fortress.
Delight seized the soldiers worn out with cold, hunger, and fruitless
toil. Shouts of: “We have Chenstohova! We’ll blow up that hen-house!”
ran from mouth to mouth. Feasting and drinking began.
The count was present everywhere; he encouraged the soldiers, kept them
in that belief, repeated a hundred times daily the news of finding the
passage, incited to feasting and frolics.
The echo of this gladness reached the cloister at last. News of the
mines dug and ready to explode ran with the speed of lightning from
rampart to rampart. Even the most daring were frightened. Weeping women
began to besiege the prior’s dwelling, to hold out to him their
children when he appeared for a while, and cry,—
“Destroy not the innocent! Their blood will fall on thy head!”
The greater coward a man had been, the greater his daring now in urging
Kordetski not to expose to destruction the sacred place, the capital of
the Most Holy Lady.
Such grievous, painful times followed, for the unbending soul of our
hero in a habit, as had not been till that hour. It was fortunate that
the Swedes ceased their assaults, so as to prove more convincingly that
they needed no longer either balls or cannon, that it was enough for
them to ignite one little powder fuse. But for this very reason terror
increased in the cloister. In the hour of deep night it seemed to some,
the most timid, that they heard under the earth certain sounds, certain
movements; that the Swedes were already under the cloister. Finally, a
considerable number of the monks fell in spirit. Those, with Father
Stradomski at the head of them, went to the prior and urged him to
begin negotiations at once for surrender. The greater part of the
soldiers went with them, and some of the nobles.
Kordetski appeared in the courtyard, and when the throng gathered
around him in a close circle, he said,—
“Have we not sworn to one another to defend this holy place to the last
drop of our blood? In truth, I tell you that if powder hurls us forth,
only our wretched bodies, only the temporary covering, will fall away
and return to the earth, but the souls will not return,—heaven will
open above them, and they will enter into rejoicing and happiness, as
into a sea without bounds. There Jesus Christ will receive them, and
that Most Holy Mother will meet them, and they like golden bees will
sit on her robe, and will sink in light and gaze on the face of the
Lord.”
Here the reflection of that brightness was gleaming on his face. He
raised his inspired eyes upward, and spoke on with a dignity and a calm
not of earth:—
“O Lord, the Ruler of worlds, Thou art looking into my heart, and Thou
knowest that I am not deceiving this people when I say that if I
desired only my own happiness I would stretch out my hands to Thee and
cry from the depth of my soul: O Lord! let powder be there, let it
explode, for in such a death is redemption of sins and faults, for it
is eternal rest, and Thy servant is weary and toil worn over-much. And
who would not wish a reward of such kind, for a death without pain and
as short as the twinkle of an eye, as a flash in the heavens, after
which is eternity unbroken, happiness inexhaustible, joy without end.
But Thou hast commanded me to guard Thy retreat, therefore it is not
permitted me to go. Thou hast placed me on guard, therefore Thou hast
poured into me Thy strength, and I know, O Lord, I see and feel that
although the malice of the enemy were to force itself under this
church, though all the powder and destructive saltpetre were placed
there, it would be enough for me to make the sign of the cross above
them and they would never explode.”
Here he turned to the assembly and continued: “God has given me this
power, but do you take fear out of your hearts. My spirit pierces the
earth and tells you; Your enemies lie, there are no powder dragons
under the church. You, people of timid hearts, you in whom fear has
stifled faith, deserve not to enter the kingdom of grace and repose
to-day. There is no powder under your feet then! God wishes to preserve
this retreat, so that, like Noah’s ark, it may be borne above the
deluge of disasters and mishap; therefore, in the name of God, for the
third time I tell you, there is no powder under the church. And when I
speak in His name, who will make bold to oppose me, who will dare still
to doubt?”
When he had said this he was silent and looked at the throng of monks,
nobles, and soldiers. But such was the unshaken faith, the conviction
and power in his voice that they were silent also, and no man came
forward. On the contrary, solace began to enter their hearts, till at
last one of the soldiers, a simple peasant, said,—
“Praise to the name of the Lord! For three days they say they are able
to blow up the fortress; why do they not blow it up?”
“Praise to the Most Holy Lady! Why do they not blow it up?” repeated a
number of voices.
Then a wonderful sign was made manifest. Behold all about them on a
sudden was heard the sound of wings, and whole flocks of small winter
birds appeared in the court of the fortress, and every moment new ones
flew in from the starved country-places around. Birds such as gray
larks, ortolans, buntings with yellow breasts, poor sparrows, green
titmice, red bulfinches, sat on the slopes of the roofs, on the corners
over the doors, on the church; others flew around in a many-colored
crown above the head of the prior, flapping their wings, chirping sadly
as if begging for alms, and having no fear whatever of man. People
present were amazed at the sight; and Kordetski, after he had prayed
for a while, said at last,—
“See these little birds of the forest. They come to the protection of
the Mother of God, but you doubt Her power.”
Consolation and hope had entered their hearts; the monks, beating their
breasts, went to the church, and the soldiers mounted the walls.
Women scattered grain to the birds, which began to pick it up eagerly.
All interpreted the visit of these tiny forest-dwellers as a sign of
success to themselves, and of evil to the enemy.
“Fierce snows must be lying, when these little birds, caring neither
for shots nor the thunder of cannon, flock to our buildings,” said the
soldiers.
“But why do they fly from the Swedes to us?”
“Because the meanest creature has the wit to distinguish an enemy from
a friend.”
“That cannot be,” said another soldier, “for in the Swedish camp are
Poles too; but it means that there must be hunger there, and a lack of
oats for the horses.”
“It means still better,” said a third, “that what they say of the
powder is downright falsehood.”
“How is that?” asked all, in one voice.
“Old people say,” replied the soldier, “that if a house is to fall, the
sparrows and swallows having nests in spring under the roof, go away
two or three days in advance; every creature has sense to feel danger
beforehand. Now if powder were under the cloister, these little birds
would not fly to us.”
“Is that true?”
“As true as Amen to ‘Our Father!’”
“Praise to the Most Holy Lady! it will be bad for the Swedes.”
At this moment the sound of a trumpet was heard at the northwestern
gate; all ran to see who was coming.
It was a Swedish trumpeter with a letter from the camp. The monks
assembled at once in the council hall. The letter was from Count
Veyhard, and announced that if the fortress were not surrendered before
the following day it would be hurled into the air. But those who before
had fallen under the weight of fear had no faith now in this threat.
“Those are vain threats!” said the priests and the nobles together.
“Let us write to them not to spare us; let them blow us up!”
And in fact they answered in that sense.
Meanwhile the soldiers who had gathered around the trumpeter answered
his warnings with ridicule.
“Good!” said they to him. “Why do you spare us? We will go the sooner
to heaven.”
But the man who delivered the answering letter to the messenger said,—
“Do not lose words and time for nothing. Want is gnawing you, but we
lack nothing, praise be to God! Even the birds fly away from you.”
And in this way Count Veyhard’s last trick came to nothing. And when
another day had passed it was shown with perfect proof how vain were
the fears of the besieged, and peace returned to the cloister.
The following day a worthy man from Chenstohova, Yatsek Bjuhanski, left
a letter again giving warning of a storm; also news of the return of
Yan Kazimir from Silesia, and the uprising of the whole Commonwealth
against the Swedes. But according to reports circulating outside the
walls, this was to be the last storm.
Bjuhanski brought the letter with a bag of fish to the priests for
Christmas Eve, and approached the walls disguised as a Swedish soldier.
Poor man!—the Swedes saw him and seized him. Miller gave command to
stretch him on the rack; but the old man had heavenly visions in the
time of his torture, and smiled as sweetly as a child, and instead of
pain unspeakable joy was depicted on his face. The general was present
at the torture, but he gained no confession from the martyr; he merely
acquired the despairing conviction that nothing could bend those
people, nothing could break them.
Now came the old beggarwoman Kostuha, with a letter from Kordetski
begging most humbly that the storm be delayed during service on the day
of Christ’s birth. The guards and the officers received the beggarwoman
with insults and jeers at such an envoy, but she answered them straight
in the face,—
“No other would come, for to envoys you are as murderers, and I took
the office for bread,—a crust. I shall not be long in this world; I
have no fear of you: if you do not believe, you have me in your hands.”
But no harm was done her. What is more, Miller, eager to try
conciliation again, agreed to the prior’s request, even accepted a
ransom for Bjuhanski, not yet tortured quite out of his life; he sent
also that part of the silver found with the Swedish soldiers. He did
this last out of malice to Count Veyhard, who after the failure of the
mine had fallen into disfavor again.
At last Christmas Eve came. With the first star, lights great and small
began to shine all around in the fortress. The night was still, frosty,
but clear. The Swedish soldiers, stiffened with cold in the
intrenchments, gazed from below on the dark walls of the unapproachable
fortress, and to their minds came the warm Scandinavian cottages
stuffed with moss, their wives and children, the fir-tree gleaming with
lights; and more than one iron breast swelled with a sigh, with regret,
with homesickness, with despair. But in the fortress, at tables covered
with hay, the besieged were breaking wafers. A quiet joy was shining in
all faces, for each one had the foreboding, almost the certainty, that
the hours of suffering would be soon at an end.
“Another storm to-morrow, but that will be the last,” repeated the
priests and the soldiers. “Let him to whom God will send death give
thanks that the Lord lets him be present at Mass, and thus opens more
surely heaven’s gates, for whoso dies for the faith on the day of
Christ’s birth must be received into glory.”
They wished one another success, long years, or a heavenly crown; and
so relief dropped into every heart, as if suffering were over already.
But there stood one empty chair near the prior; before it a plate on
which was a package of white wafers bound with a blue ribbon. When all
had sat down, no one occupied that place. Zamoyski said,—
“I see, revered father, that according to ancient custom there are
places for men outside the cloister.”
“Not for men outside,” said Father Agustine, “but as a remembrance of
that young man whom we loved as a son, and whose soul is looking with
pleasure upon us because we keep him in eternal memory.”
“As God lives,” replied Zamoyski, “he is happier now than we. We owe
him due thanks.”
Kordetski had tears in his eyes, and Charnyetski said,—
“They write of smaller men in the chronicles. If God gives me life, and
any one asks me hereafter, who was there among us the equal of ancient
heroes, I shall say Babinich.”
“Babinich was not his name,” said Kordetski.
“How not Babinich?”
“I long knew his real name under the seal of confession; but when going
out against that cannon, he said to me: ‘If I perish, let men know who
I am, so that honorable repute may rest with my name, and destroy my
former misdeeds.’ He went, he perished; now I can tell you that he was
Kmita!”
“That renowned Lithuanian Kmita?” cried Charnyetski, seizing his
forelock.
“The same. How the grace of God changes hearts!”
“For God’s sake. Now I understand why he undertook that work; now I
understand where he got that daring, that boldness, in which he
surpassed all men. Kmita, Kmita, that terrible Kmita whom Lithuania
celebrates.”
“Henceforth not only Lithuania, but the whole Commonwealth will glorify
him in a different manner.”
“He was the first to warn us against Count Veyhard.”
“Through his advice we closed the gates in good season, and made
preparations.”
“He killed the first Swede with a shot from a bow.”
“And how many of their cannon did he spoil! Who brought down De
Fossis?”
“And that siege gun! If we are not terrified at the storm of to-morrow,
who is the cause?”
“Let each remember him with honor, and celebrate his name wherever
possible, so that justice be done,” said Kordetski; “and now may God
give him eternal rest.”
“And may everlasting light shine on him,” answered one chorus of
voices.
But Pan Charnyetski was unable for a long time to calm himself, and his
thoughts were continually turning to Kmita.
“I tell you, gentlemen, that there was something of such kind in that
man that though he served as a simple soldier, the command of itself
crawled at once to his hand, so that it was a wonder to me how people
obeyed such a young man unwittingly. In fact, he was commander on the
bastion, and I obeyed him myself. Oh, had I known him then to be
Kmita!”
“Still it is a wonder to me,” said Zamoyski, “that the Swedes have not
boasted of his death.”
Kordetski sighed. “The powder must have killed him on the spot.”
“I would let a hand be cut from me could he be alive again,” cried
Charnyetski. “But that such a Kmita let himself be blown up by powder!”
“He gave his life for ours,” said Kordetski.
“It is true,” added Zamoyski, “that if that cannon were lying in the
intrenchment, I should not think so pleasantly of to-morrow.”
“To-morrow God will give us a new victory,” said the prior, “for the
ark of Noah cannot be lost in the deluge.”
Thus they conversed with one another on Christmas Eve, and then
separated; the monks going to the church, the soldiers, some to quiet
rest, and others to keep watch on the walls and at the gates. But great
care was superfluous, for in the Swedish camp there reigned unbroken
calm. They had given themselves to rest and meditation, for to them too
was approaching a most serious day.
The night was solemn. Legions of stars twinkled in the sky, changing
into blue and rosy colors. The light of the moon changed to green the
shrouds of snow stretching between the fortress and the hostile camp.
The wind did not howl, and it was calm, as from the beginning of the
siege it had not been near the cloister.
At midnight the Swedish soldiers heard the flow of the mild and grand
tones of the organ; then the voices of men were joined with them; then
the sounds of bells, large and small. Joy, consolation, and great calm
were in those sounds; and the greater was the doubt, the greater the
feeling of helplessness which weighed down the hearts of the Swedes.
The Polish soldiers from the commands of Zbrojek and Kalinski, without
seeking permission, went up to the very walls. They were not permitted
to enter through fear of some snare; but they were permitted to stand
near the walls. They also collected together. Some knelt on the snow,
others shook their heads pitifully, sighing over their own lot, or beat
their breasts, promising repentance; and all heard with delight and
with tears in their eyes the music and the hymns sung according to
ancient usage.
At the same time the sentries on the walls who could not be in the
church, wishing to make up for their loss, began also to sing, and soon
was heard throughout the whole circuit of the walls the Christmas
hymn:—
“He is lying in the manger;
Who will run
To greet the little stranger?”
In the afternoon of the following day the thunder of guns drowned again
every other sound. All the intrenchments began to smoke simultaneously,
the earth trembled in its foundations; as of old there flew on the roof
of the church heavy balls, bombs, grenades, and torches fixed in
cylinders, pouring a rain of melted lead, and naked torches, knots and
ropes. Never had the thunder been so unceasing, never till then had
such a river of fire and iron fallen on the cloister; but among the
Swedish guns was not that great gun, which alone could crush the wall
and make a breach necessary for assault.
But the besieged were so accustomed to fire that each man knew what he
had to do, and the defence went in its ordinary course without command.
Fire was answered with fire, missile with missile, but better aimed,
for with more calmness.
Toward evening Miller went out to see by the last rays of the setting
sun the results; and his glance fell on the tower outlined calmly on
the background of the sky.
“That cloister will stand for the ages of ages!” cried he, beside
himself.
“Amen!” answered Zbrojek, quietly.
In the evening a council was assembled again at headquarters, still
more gloomy than usual. Miller opened it himself.
“The storm of to-day,” said he, “has brought no result. Our powder is
nearly consumed; half of our men are lost, the rest discouraged: they
look for disasters, not victory. We have no supplies; we cannot expect
reinforcements.”
“But the cloister stands unmoved as on the first day of the siege,”
added Sadovski.
“What remains for us?”
“Disgrace.”
“I have received orders,” said the general, “to finish quickly or
retreat to Prussia.”
“What remains to us?” repeated the Prince of Hesse.
All eyes were turned to Count Veyhard, who said: “To save our honor!”
A short broken laugh, more like the gnashing of teeth, came from
Miller, who was called Poliorcetes. “The Count wishes to teach us how
to raise the dead,” said he.
Count Veyhard acted as though he had not heard this.
“Only the slain have saved their honor,” said Sadovski.
Miller began to lose his cool blood. “And that cloister stands there
yet, that Yasna Gora, that hen-house! I have not taken it! And we
withdraw. Is this a dream, or am I speaking in my senses?”
“That cloister stands there yet, that Yasna Gora!” repeated word for
word the Prince of Hesse, “and we shall withdraw,—defeated!”
A moment of silence followed; it seemed as though the leader and his
subordinates found a certain wild pleasure in bringing to mind their
shame and defeat.
Now Count Veyhard said slowly and emphatically: “It has happened more
than once in every war that a besieged fortress has ransomed itself
from the besiegers, who then went away as victors; for whoso pays a
ransom, by this same recognizes himself as defeated.”
The officers, who at first listened to the words of the speaker with
scorn and contempt, now began to listen more attentively.
“Let that cloister pay us any kind of ransom,” continued the count;
“then no one will say that we could not take it, but that we did not
wish to take it.”
“Will they agree?” asked the Prince of Hesse.
“I will lay down my head,” answered Count Veyhard, “and more than that,
my honor as a soldier.”
“Can that be!” asked Sadovski. “We have enough of this siege, but have
they enough? What does your worthiness think of this?”
Miller turned to Veyhard “Many grievous moments, the most grievous of
my life, have I passed because of your counsels, Sir Count; but for
this last advice I thank you, and will be grateful.”
All breasts breathed more freely. There could be no real question but
that of retreating with honor.
On the morrow, the day of Saint Stephen, the officers assembled to the
last man to hear Kordetski’s answer to Miller’s letter, which proposed
a ransom, and was sent in the morning.
They had to wait long. Miller feigned joyousness, but constraint was
evident on his face. No one of the officers could keep his place. All
hearts beat unquietly. The Prince of Hesse and Sadovski stood under the
window conversing in a low voice.
“What do you think?” asked the first; “will they agree?”
“Everything indicates that they will agree. Who would not wish to be
rid of such terrible danger come what may, at the price of a few tens
of thousands of thalers, especially since monks have not worldly
ambition and military honor, or at least should not have? I only fear
that the general has asked too much.”
“How much has he asked?”
“Forty thousand from the monks, and twenty thousand from the nobles,
but in the worst event they will try to reduce the sum.”
“Let us yield, in God’s name, let us yield. If they have not the money,
I would prefer to lend them my own, if they will let us go away with
even the semblance of honor. But I tell your princely highness that
though I recognize the count’s advice this time as good, and I believe
that they will ransom themselves, such a fever is gnawing me that I
would prefer ten storms to this waiting.”
“Uf! you are right. But still this Count Veyhard may go high.”
“Even as high as the gibbet,” said the other.
But the speakers did not foresee that a worse fate than even the gibbet
was awaiting Count Veyhard.
That moment the thunder of cannon interrupted further conversation.
“What is that? firing from the fortress!” cried Miller. And springing
up like a man possessed, he ran out of the room.
All ran after him and listened. The sound of regular salvos came indeed
from the fortress.
“Are they fighting inside, or what?” cried Miller; “I don’t
understand.”
“I will explain to your worthiness,” said Zbrojek, “this is Saint
Stephen’s Day, and the name’s day of the Zamoyskis, father and son; the
firing is in their honor.”
With that shouts of applause were heard from the fortress, and after
them new salvos.
“They have powder enough,” said Miller, gloomily. “That is for us a new
indication.”
But fate did not spare him another very painful lesson.
The Swedish soldiers were so discouraged and fallen in spirit that at
the sound of firing from the fortress the detachments guarding the
nearest intrenchments deserted them in panic.
Miller saw one whole regiment, the musketeers of Smaland, taking refuge
in disorder at his own quarters; he heard too how the officers repeated
among themselves at this sight,—
“It is time, it is time, it is time to retreat!”
But by degrees everything grew calm; one crushing impression remained.
The leader, and after him the subordinates, entered the room and
waited, waited impatiently; even the face of Count Veyhard, till then
motionless, betrayed disquiet.
At last the clatter of spurs was heard in the antechamber, and the
trumpeter entered, all red from cold, his mustaches covered with his
frozen breath.
“An answer from the cloister!” said he, giving a large packet wound up
in a colored handkerchief bound with a string.
Miller’s hands trembled somewhat, and he chose to cut the string with a
dagger rather than to open it slowly. A number of pairs of eyes were
fixed on the packet; the officers were breathless. The general unwound
one roll of the cloth, a second, and a third, unwound with increasing
haste till at last a package of wafers fell out on the table. Then he
grew pale, and though no one asked what was in the package, he said,
“Wafers!”
“Nothing more?” asked some one in the crowd.
“Nothing more!” answered the general, like an echo.
A moment of silence followed, broken only by panting; at times too was
heard the gritting of teeth, at times the rattling of rapiers.
“Count Veyhard!” said Miller, at last, with a terrible and ill-omened
voice.
“He is no longer here!” answered one of the officers.
Again silence followed.
That night movement reigned in the whole camp. Scarcely was the light
of day quenched when voices of command were heard, the hurrying of
considerable divisions of cavalry, the sound of measured steps of
infantry, the neighing of horses, the squeaking of wagons, the dull
thump of cannon, with the biting of iron, the rattle of chains, noise,
bustle, and turmoil.
“Will there be a new storm in the morning?” asked the guards at the
gates.
But they were unable to see, for since twilight the sky was covered
with clouds, and abundant snow had begun to fall. Its frequent flakes
excluded the light. About five o’clock in the morning all sounds had
ceased, but the snow was falling still more densely. On the walls and
battlements it had created new walls and battlements. It covered the
whole cloister and church, as if wishing to hide them from the glance
of the enemy, to shelter and cover them from iron missiles.
At last the air began to grow gray, and the bell commenced tolling for
morning service, when the soldiers standing guard at the southern gate
heard the snorting of a horse.
Before the gate stood a peasant, all covered with snow; behind him was
a low, small wooden sleigh, drawn by a thin, shaggy horse. The peasant
fell to striking his body with his arms, to jumping from one foot to
the other, and to crying,—
“People, but open here!”
“Who is alive?” they asked from the walls.
“Your own, from Dzbov. I have brought game for the benefactors.”
“And how did the Swedes let you come?”
“What Swedes?”
“Those who are besieging the church.”
“Oho, there are no Swedes now!”
“Praise God, every soul! Have they gone?”
“The tracks behind them are covered.”
With that, crowds of villagers and peasants blackened the road, some
riding, others on foot, there were women too, and all began to cry from
afar,—
“There are no Swedes! there are none! They have gone to Vyelunie. Open
the gates! There is not a man in the camp!”
“The Swedes have gone, the Swedes have gone!” cried men on the walls;
and the news ran around like lightning.
Soldiers rushed to the bells, and rang them all as if for an alarm.
Every living soul rushed out of the cells, the dwellings, and the
church.
The news thundered all the time. The court was swarming with monks,
nobles, soldiers, women, and children. Joyful shouts were heard around.
Some ran out on the walls to examine the empty camp; others burst into
laughter or into sobs. Some would not believe yet, but new crowds came
continually, peasants and villagers.
They came from Chenstohova, from the surrounding villages, and from the
forests near by, noisily, joyously, and with singing. New tidings
crossed one another each moment. All had seen the retreating Swedes,
and told in what direction they were going.
A few hours later the slope and the plain below the mountain were
filled with people. The gates of the cloister were open wide, as they
had been before the siege; and all the bells were ringing, ringing,
ringing,—and those voices of triumph flew to the distance, and then the
whole Commonwealth heard them.
The snow was covering and covering the tracks of the Swedes.
About noon of that day the church was so filled with people that head
was as near head as on a paved street in a city one stone is near
another. Father Kordetski himself celebrated a thanksgiving Mass, and
to the throng of people it seemed that a white angel was celebrating
it. And it seemed to them also that he was singing out his soul in that
Mass, or that it was borne heavenward in the smoke of the incense, and
was expanding in praise to the Lord.
The thunder of cannon shook not the walls, nor the glass in the
windows, nor covered the people with dust, nor interrupted prayer, nor
that thanksgiving hymn which amid universal ecstasy and weeping, the
holy prior was intoning—
“Te Deum laudamus.”