THE BANNER UNFURLED.
The excitement of the people of Zulawce rose steadily as the Easter sun
was sinking to its rest. The cottages stood forsaken; the community had
gathered beneath the linden. The men were fully armed and many a fierce
threat was uttered against the "villain in the iron closet"; but the
peasants seemed fully resolved to take no part whatever in the coming
work of revenge. None of the inmates or dependents of the manor-house
were present. The under-steward, Boleslaw, had ordered the gates to be
closed, addressing his men in the courtyard. "Let us not act
foolishly," he said. "There is no doubt but that Taras will come, since
the report of the iron closet is so fully believed in; but he will not
harm us, if we open the doors to him to let him see that there is no
such thing as an iron closet in the place, and that the mandatar is not
with us. Our only fear is that the peasantry may grow revengeful, and
attack us when he is gone. Let us be ready to resist them, but we will
not fight Taras."
Nor had any of Anusia's people joined the public gathering; her orders
had been sufficient. She herself was sitting in the large family-room,
holding little Tereska on her lap, while her boys pressed close to her
with an indefinable fear. The children dared not speak, for the mother
seemed sunk in that strange stupor which had kept her to the bed of
sickness but lately.
Father Leo and the little popadja found her thus. A greeting was
exchanged, but conversation would not flow. It was impossible to talk
of indifferent matters, and they shrank from touching upon that which
filled their hearts. So they sat silent, a red light streaming in
through the windows; for the sun, like a glowing ball of fire, was
sinking behind the fir-covered uplands.
"How red it looks," whispered little Wassilj, pointing to the parting
glory.
"It forbodes blood," said Halko, under his breath.
"Blood," echoed the poor mother with staring eyes, pressing her
children closer.
Father Leo could bear it no longer. He went near to her, taking her
hand gently. "Anusia," he said, "do _you_ believe----?"
"What do I know," she interrupted him, sharply. "Am I of the avenger's
band? I am a widow, anxious to keep the peace for my children's sake."
Leo paced the room. "That is well," he said, presently. "I wish all the
people were like you. They say they will not join him, but I fear their
own wild disposition will be too much for them."
Anusia made no answer, and he sat down again in silence. Thus they
continued, amid the sinking shadows, in the darkening room.
But suddenly they started, and the children gave a cry of alarm. There
had been a tapping at the window which overlooked the garden. It was
the window to the west catching the last glimmer of light; no one
outside was visible, but as they gazed a hand was lifted cautiously
from below, once more tapping the pane.
"It is father!" cried the children, and the pope rose.
"Hush, children," said Anusia, in a whisper, but so impressively that
they forthwith obeyed. "Please keep quiet, Father Leo. It is not Taras,
but his messenger ... sit still ... I am his wife and must answer when
he calls."
Another tap, and Anusia glided from the room. They heard the outer door
creak on its hinges, and knew she was in the garden.
The children fell to sobbing, but the popadja put her arms round them,
beginning to say her prayers, good soul. Leo had risen, listening
intently; but not a sound was heard till the firm footstep of the
returning woman fell on their ear. She entered, carrying a lamp in her
hand. They could see her face; the old look of icy calm had once more
settled on it.
"Is it good news?" questioned Leo, eagerly.
"Yes--that is to say in some respects." She smiled bitterly. "Anyhow,
pope, you will be able to do a good service to your parishioners."
"I am most willing--what is it?"
"Go and tell them to go home quietly, for their own sakes."
"I have told them, and tried my best already. Will you tell me what
Taras----?"
"No," she said, fiercely; "I must have intercourse with him--I am his
wife; but no one else shall, if I can prevent it. Try yet again, pope;
for God's sake, do!"
Father Leo saw his wife home, and hastened to join his expectant
parishioners. But the people insisted they must see Taras storm the
castle; he was doing it as their own avenger; how should they forbear?
The long hours of waiting, and the quantity of spirits which had been
consumed, had but added to their excitement; exhortation availed not,
and with a sigh the pope desisted.
It was between ten and eleven in the evening. Away in the district town
the mandatar was about to undergo the graceful process of kneeling to
the Countess Wanda. The night lay deep and still on mountain and plain.
A strange sound broke on the stillness, indistinct at first, but
gaining in force. It was as though a mighty waterfall somewhere in the
distance had suddenly begun to roar.
"Hark!" cried a hundred voices, "what is it?" "He is coming!" exclaimed
the butcher. "No; listen!" said another.
The noise grew perceptibly, as though volumes of water were being added
to that far-off cataract. The upland echoes awoke in response, and it
was difficult to say whence the sound proceeded.
"A host of them coming from the mountains!" decided one, presently.
"No, from the plains--listen!" cried another.
It was like a low rumble of thunder, in the direction of the river
unmistakably. The very ground began to vibrate, and the dull noise ever
and anon was broken by the quick, sharp sound of a trumpet.
"Horsemen!" a voice cried suddenly. "The hussars! Save yourselves."
"No, stay," burst in another; "who should forbid our standing here
quietly? Save yourselves!" and the cry was taken up repeatedly; "these
hussars are worse than the devil!"
But the people seemed nailed to the spot, some pushing this way, some
that; the enclosing darkness, the state of semi-drunkenness most were
in, and a knowledge that a squadron of soldiers was bursting upon them,
robbed them of all self-possession.
"Go to your homes," the pope kept crying, despairingly. He had caught
hold of the torch which served to illumine the inn, and wildly urged
the people. But it seemed too late. Already the first of the soldiers,
four horsemen in advance of the troop, had reached the place, pulling
up their steeds at the near sight of the heaving, howling mass of
villagers. Two of the hussars lifted their pistols, firing into the
air.
The shots hit no one, but took full effect on the excited minds,
producing a wild panic in some, rousing rage and defiance in others.
"Save yourselves," was heard again. "We are not going to be killed like
sheep; take to your guns, men!" roared others, and bloodshed appeared
unavoidable.
The imminent danger inspired Father Leo with an unwonted power. He
forced a way through the people with his right arm, some falling back
before the blazing torch in his left, and thus he got to the head of
the crowd just as the body of soldiers galloped up the street, led by
an officer, sword in hand. It was Captain Mihaly; and at the sight of
the pale man in priestly dress, standing with a flaring torch between
the approaching horse and the overtaken crowd, he called to his men to
stop. The troop halted almost face to face with the people.
"Surrender!" exclaimed the officer.
But Father Leo lifted his hands. "Sir captain," he cried in German, his
voice rising above the turmoil behind him, "this is not the band of
Taras, but only the people of this village; they will disperse at
once."
"Then the bandit is not among you?"
"No!"
"But your people seem to be waiting for him--to assist him, I daresay."
"No; it is their curiosity only."
"I'll teach them better, then! Tell them I give them five minutes'
grace, after which time my men will have leave to cut down any one
about the streets at this late hour."
The pope repeated the orders in the people's own language; shrieks and
curses were the answer. But, even though they might have been willing,
most of the people could not at once free themselves from the
struggling crowd, and some refused to stir, in sheer defiance if not
for love of fight. The pope kept urging, but in vain. A few only
escaped; the confusion was no wise diminished.
The captain's patience appeared exhausted. The word was given, the
trumpet sounded, and, brandishing their sabres, the hussars charged the
crowd, which fell back amid a deafening tumult of shrieks and groans
and efforts of resistance. Father Leo was flung against the inn, his
head striking the door-post so violently that he staggered bleeding and
stunned with the blow. He was unable to see what happened, for the
darkness seemed denser than before, but the sounds which fell on his
ear filled him with dismay. He had suffered much of late, but trouble
seemed culminating now.
He could not quite tell how long it lasted; the noise decreased, the
hussars making their way towards the farms; presently there was
silence, save for the groans of some who evidently had been hurt in the
fray. His own head was bleeding and his limbs felt heavy, but he shook
off the lethargy, and pushing open the door of the inn called for help.
There was no answer. Some few had taken refuge in the parlour, and the
innkeeper's family were hiding in corners; the pope had to repeat his
calling, and then only a lad appeared with a rushlight in his trembling
hand.
The pope made his way into the house, conjuring the frightened people
to lend him their assistance. A couple of torches were lighted and
reluctant help was given. Matters outside were not quite so bad as
Father Leo had anticipated. Five only were lying there, more or less
severely wounded: four villagers and one of the hussars. The latter
evidently was in the worst plight, a bullet, in an almost hand-to-hand
encounter, had gone through his shoulder. Father Leo saw to him first,
ordering him to be moved into the inn. An old man was attended to next,
he had a sabre-cut on his forehead. The other three were women who had
fallen beneath the hoofs of the horses, but were not badly hurt.
Leo set himself to bind up the wounds as well as he could, aided by
Avrumko and Maxym Bobra, a soldier on furlough; and while they were
thus occupied the troop of horsemen were heard returning. A trumpet
sounded. "The signal for dismounting," whispered Maxym to the pope, and
almost immediately the door of the inn parlour was flung open. The
officer entered, followed by some half-dozen of his men.
"Bring out torches and some faggots!" he cried to the innkeeper,
turning to give a look at the wounded.
The pope met him. "Captain," he said modestly, "it might be well to
send a messenger to Zablotow, the doctor is badly needed."
"Got our own surgeon," was the gruff reply; and, having given orders
for the military Esculapius to attend, the officer stood over the
wounded soldier.
"Nice sort of 'curiosity' this on the part of your peaceful sheep," he
said, presently. But Father Leo forbore answering, busying himself
about the sufferers.
The surgeon entered, examined the wounds, and prepared to dress them.
"The peasant will get over it," he said; "but this man of ours will
hardly do so, a bullet having pierced his lung."
"Then the churls shall pay for it, by Jove!" returned the officer with
rising passion; "and so shall you, sir pope--you have deceived me!"
Leo looked him in the face quietly. "I shall be ready to answer
for anything to-morrow," he said; "I will now go along the village
street--there may be other sufferers."
The captain somehow felt disarmed. "You are bleeding yourself, your
reverence," he said more gently, almost abashed.
But Father Leo turned away in silence, leaving the inn with Maxym Bobra
and one or two other men.
The village, which but lately had been the scene of so wild an uproar,
lay still as death; a number of soldiers had settled round a watch fire
outside the inn, a similar guard being stationed in front of the manor
house. The lurid flames rising from these two spots were the only
lights visible. The sentries patrolling the village with cocked pistols
found no cause of alarm. Neither did good Father Leo, for no one seemed
to require his aid except a woman lying terror-stricken at her own
cottage door.
He went home, poor Fruzia receiving him with a cry of horror at the
sight of his pale, blood-stained countenance. But she, whom lesser
troubles would readily overpower, now recovered herself, courageously.
"I will not murmur," the faithful wife was saying, with trembling lips,
hastening to dress his wound, "you have but done your duty." Nor did
she raise the slightest objection on his declaring he would sit up
through the night. "I must indeed," he added, "I sadly fear we shell
hear of farther trouble; some wounded or dying man may send for me."
And so it proved. In the small hours of the morning a messenger arrived
begging him to take the sacrament to the smithy, since Marko had not
many minutes to live. He made all possible speed, but death was before
him; the towering giant who but a few hours before had spoken so
manfully, would never lift his chirping voice again. He had been
foremost among those who opposed the soldiers, a sabre-cut had disabled
him, and as he endeavoured to drag himself home after the fray a bullet
caught him in the back, inflicting his death-wound. He reached the
smithy, but only to die. Father Leo offered what consolation he could
to the bereaved widow, who in tearless grief held fast the dead man's
hand. "Peace!" she replied, gloomily: "there is but one comfort left; I
shall know how to use his gun, and the hour of reckoning will come."
Such, indeed, was the frame of mind of most of the people when the good
pope in the early morning went his round of the cottages. Few of the
villagers had been wounded or hurt, but one and all were burning with
resentment. And the strange quiet, blending with their wrath, appeared
to him more alarming than the turbulent anger he was accustomed to. "We
have suffered wrong," they said, "and we shall pay it back. We cannot
do so without a leader, but we may trust Taras. If we waited for him in
vain last night, it was no doubt because the mandatar evidently is not
at the house--he would have shown his cowardly face under the
protection of the military if he were hiding in the place! But no
matter, Taras will now be coming for our sakes."
On the afternoon of Easter Monday a body of infantry relieved the
hussars, the officer in command proving himself both judicious and
kind. On learning from the pope how matters stood, he readily promised
to spare the villagers as much as possible; and since the manor house,
the protection of which was the main object, offered plenty of room, he
would have the men quartered there--all but a few, at least, he added,
whom, according to special instructions, he would have to billet on
Taras's farm. "I am sorry," he said, "to make acquaintance of this
man's family in so unpleasant a way, for it went to one's heart to hear
him speak of them."
"Do you know Taras?" inquired Father Leo, wonderingly.
"Yes. I am Captain Stanczuk, and acted as interpreter when he was
admitted to the Emperor's presence at Vienna."
The peasants looked on with a savage gloom as the "Whitecoats" made
themselves at home in the village, their anger blazing forth when they
learned that the officer actually was the son of a Podolian pope.
Anusia received her uninvited guests after a similar fashion, treating
the officer, first to a withering look, and then to her utmost
contempt. The captain had come in person, hoping to smooth matters, but
the woman seemed beyond conciliation.
Yet she trembled visibly when Father Leo whispered to her that her
visitor was the same captain who had assisted Taras at Vienna, and a
deep flush overspread her face.
"What is it?" inquired the pope, surprised. "He is not likely to harm
you, seeing he was kind to Taras."
"Yes, yes," she groaned; "I am all the more sorry for him." But her
lips closed, and the old stony expression settled on her face.
That same evening the two who on the previous day had opposed each
other so strenuously concerning the attitude to be adopted by the
village--Wassilj, the butcher, and Hritzko Pomenko--went from farm to
farm, from cottage to cottage, evidently of one mind. "On account of
the Whitecoats there can be no general meeting," they said; "but we ask
you individually, Are you satisfied that tomorrow morning we should
start for the mountains, to call hither Taras in the name of the
community, for the avenging of this wrong? And do you pledge yourselves
to help him?" Every one of the peasants assented, most of them readily,
and some for very fear of the prevailing opinion. The horizon hung
heavy with bursting clouds.
But the pope only heard of it when the two had started on the Tuesday,
and the good man found himself in a painful plight. Should he inform
the captain, causing more stringent measures to be adopted against the
village, besides being the means of bringing two honest men to grievous
punishment? Should he keep silence and let the mischief be done? He
came to see that, of the two evils, this latter certainly was the
worst, and therefore imparted to the officer what was brewing, but
without mentioning names.
The captain smiled. "I know all about it," he said, "and more than you
tell me. That corporal, Constantino Turenko, has been before you,
embellishing his report, no doubt, with even more than the truth. But
let me assure your reverence that my measures have been taken with the
utmost circumspection; I hardly needed such information to be prepared
for any exigency. I shall not have recourse to harsh treatment; and
though that corporal has taken it upon himself so to advise me, I shall
not prohibit the public funeral of the smith to-day."
But this mournful occasion brought no cause of disturbance. Nearly all
the village attended, and Father Leo would fain have poured out his
heart had the widow not begged him to forego the usual discourse. "My
husband shall indeed have a funeral sermon by and by," she said, "not
in words, but in gun-shots."
On the evening of this day, also, two men went the round of the
village, Alexa Sembrow and Wilko Sembratowicz. "It has been announced,"
they said, "that to-morrow we have to expect a man of the law to take
our deposition with regard to Taras's speech. Now Taras himself has
desired us to make it known, but we consider the transactions of the
general assembly are no lawyer's business, and we propose to refuse
information. Do you agree?" which they all did, none having the
slightest compunction on this point.
Whilst the inhabitants of Zulawce were thus preparing to circumvent the
law after their own fashion, Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, the district
commissioner, with his office-clerk behind him, was being driven
towards the contumacious parish. He was seated in an open car, an armed
constable on either side of him, but nowise at his ease; indeed, so
harassed was his appearance, that the simple country folk by the
roadside, unable to guess at his position by his looks, kept wondering
what so respectable an individual could have done to be taken to prison
for! A coward every inch of him, he certainly did not show to advantage
with an escort of constables about him.
Nor did the rising sun of another day enhance his spirits; for was he
not approaching that desperate village? his craven imagination
conjuring up the most lively scenes of the regiment being murdered to a
man by that awful Taras. He quite gasped with relief on beholding some
of the soldiers patrolling by the Pruth, and their leader, a sergeant,
assured him, somewhat surprised, that the regiment, so far, was alive
and the people tolerably quiet.
This account seemed cheering, and he fell to determining his mode of
action. He would try, in the first place, to bully Anusia; for if the
mandatar's advice in this respect was illegal, it was nevertheless
useful, and this was not a case to stickle for technical correctness,
when positively one's life was in danger, the amiable man said to
himself. He instructed his driver, therefore, to put him down near
Taras's farm; and, to the astonishment of the constables, he went on
his errand alone. The beating of his heart was known to himself only.
"No doubt she is a termagant of a woman," he murmured, but face her he
must.
He was fortunate in finding her alone in the common sitting-room. She
gave a searching look at the man, who entered her presence with an
uncertain step.
"I am the district commissioner," Kapronski stammered.
"I am aware of the fact," said Anusia. "What may be your pleasure?"
Her manner was not exactly calculated to rouse any latent courage;
nevertheless he gathered himself up with an effort, saying hastily: "I
am the bearer of a message from the Board of magistrates. Your husband
is a miscreant. Unfortunately we cannot just lay our hands on him; but
you and your children and this farm are within our reach. If Taras
dares hurt a hair of my head--of my head, do you hear?--or anybody
else's, your property will be confiscated, and you shall answer for him
to the law. We know you have communication with him; so just send him
word!"
The woman had listened quietly--almost with indifference. "Yes, yes,"
she muttered, when he had finished, "I understand you! All right," she
added aloud, "your message shall be delivered."
"Soon?"
"At once."
With this comfortable assurance Kapronski made all possible speed to
regain his car. "So far, so good," he said, rejoicing, "a reasonable
woman after all! I wonder if I had better have the place watched to
find out how Taras is being communicated with; it might be an easy mode
of discovering his whereabouts, and a feather in my cap with the Board.
But perhaps I had better not disturb the woman in sending so sensible a
message!" And therewith he ordered his driver to take him to the
judge's next.
But Jewgeni, unequal to the mental conflict of deciding whether his
valiant brother or the will of the parish should prevail, had settled
the question by beating his retreat to the public house at Zablotow.
Constantine, however, was at home, and readily dictated to the
commissioner's clerk a towering heap of invectives against all
authority, whether in heaven or on earth, declaring such to be a
faithful report of Taras's speech. But he was the only witness
forthcoming; what further deposition Kapronski could procure was more
amusing than valuable. Red Schymko, for instance, invited him politely
to be seated, and then harangued him for an hour concerning Taras's
personal appearance; but when desired to give his version of the speech
in question, he protested with voluble regrets that his memory had
failed him from the day he was born, and never a word could he
remember. Most of the peasants, however, spurned the idea of thus
humbugging the commissioner, flatly declaring they were no tell-tales.
The day passed, and although Kapronski had obtained nothing beyond the
corporal's deposition, he decided, with the approach of evening, that
he had better return now to those who had sent him. There was no time
to be lost, if he meant to pass the most dangerous part of the way
before nightfall.
The road from Zulawce to Zablotow runs at first along the Pruth, in a
northerly direction, making a sudden bend eastward and traversing the
plain. The commissioner's car had reached this bend, and daylight was
fast vanishing, when one of the constables suddenly rose from his seat,
giving a searching look across the river.
"What is it?" cried Kapronski, clutching the man's arm; he was
short-sighted, and could not see for himself.
"Some dozen horsemen," replied the constable, "Huzuls by the look of
them--just bursting from yonder cover and making for the ford."
The commissioner could now distinguish the dark figures approaching.
"Let us return," he gasped.
"Impossible," declared the constables. "They will have crossed the
river before we could out-flank them." Then to the driver: "Make what
speed you can to Zablotow."
And the car shot on quick as lightning, passing the fields of
Debeslawce. But the sound of hoofs was carried after them; the horsemen
had crossed the ford and were coming on in a quick gallop. The distance
between them was fast lessening, and voices could be distinguished. The
commissioner had closed his eyes, well-nigh swooning.
"Stop!" cried the men in pursuit. "Stop, or we shall fire!"
"Drive on!" urged the constables. But the car stopped, the coachman
dropping the reins. "I have not undertaken to be killed like a dog," he
muttered. "Besides, there is no escaping this Taras!"
Another moment and the horsemen were on the spot, surrounding the
commissioner's party with pointed pistols. A dark-complexioned fellow,
lithe and graceful, with the look of an eagle, appeared to be the
leader. "Hand over your muskets," he ordered the constables, and they
obeyed.
"You may take yourselves off, then; it is not you we want, only this
gentleman of the quill. Be so good as to descend, Mr. Commissioner."
"For pity's sake," whined Kapronski.
"We are not going to kill you," said the eagle-eyed leader, with a look
of disdain. "Our orders are to take you to our captain, Taras, who
wishes to speak to you. He would have come himself had it been worth
his while. Have the goodness, then, to descend."
Seeing a pistol pointed at him, the commissioner could not but rise,
yet his feet would not carry him, and he had to be lifted to the
ground.
"Are you able to ride?" inquired the leader of the troop, beckoning at
the same time to one of his men, who was holding a small, shaggy horse
by the bridle. "Taras is sure to regret that he cannot place a carriage
at your disposal, but this animal won't throw you."
The commissioner groaned.
"Lift him into the saddle," commanded the leader, "and strap him fast.
Two of you take him between you."
It was done. The eagle-eyed chief nodded approvingly, and, turning to
the constables and the clerk, he wished them good evening and a happy
journey.
They drove on gladly enough, and, looking back presently, could see the
mounted Huzuls disappearing in the shadows, the wretched commissioner
in their midst.