That happy night, full of omens of victory, was followed by August
26,--the day most important in the history of that war. In the
castle they expected some great effort on the part of the Turks.
In fact, about sunrise there was heard such a loud and mighty
hammering along the left side of the castle as never before.
Evidently the Turks were hurrying with a new mine, the largest of
all. Strong detachments of troops were guarding that work from a
distance. Swarms began to move in the trenches. From the multitude
of colored banners with which the field on the side of Dlujek had
bloomed as with flowers, it was known that the vizir was coming
to direct the storm in person. New cannon were brought to the
intrenchments by janissaries, countless throngs of whom covered the
new castle, taking refuge in its fosses and ruins, so as to be in
readiness for a hand-to-hand struggle.
As has been said, the castle was the first to begin the converse
with cannon, and so effectually that a momentary panic rose in the
trenches. But the bimbashes rallied the janissaries in the twinkle
of an eye; at the same time all the Turkish cannon raised their
voices. Bombs, balls, and grapeshot were flying; at the heads of
the besieged flew rubbish, bricks, plaster; smoke was mingled
with dust, the heat of fire with the heat of the sun. Breath was
failing in men’s breasts; sight left their eyes. The roar of guns,
the bursting of bombs, the biting of cannon-balls on the rocks,
the uproar of the Turks, the cries of the defenders, formed one
terrible concert which was accompanied by the echoes of the cliffs.
The castle was covered with missiles; the town, the gates, all the
bastions, were covered. But the castle defended itself with rage;
it answered thunders with thunders, shook, flashed, smoked, roared,
vomited fire, death, and destruction, as if Jove’s anger had borne
it away,--as if it had forgotten itself amid flames; as if it
wished to drown the Turkish thunders and sink in the earth, or else
triumph.
In the castle, among flying balls, fire, dust, and smoke, the
little knight rushed from cannon to cannon, from one wall to
another, from corner to corner; he was like a destroying flame.
He seemed to double and treble himself: he was everywhere. He
encouraged; he shouted. When a gunner fell he took his place, and
rousing confidence in men, ran again to some other spot. His fire
was communicated to the soldiers. They believed that this was
the last storm, after which would come peace and glory; faith in
victory filled their breasts. Their hearts grew firm and resolute;
the madness of battle seized their minds. Shouts and challenges
issued every moment from their throats. Such rage seized some that
they went over the wall to close outside with the janissaries
hand-to-hand.
The janissaries, under cover of smoke, went twice to the breach in
dense masses; and twice they fell back in disorder after they had
covered the ground with their bodies. About midday the volunteer
and irregular janissaries were sent to aid them; but the less
trained crowds, though pushed from behind with darts, only howled
with dreadful voices, and did not wish to go against the castle.
The kaimakan came; that did no good. Every moment threatened
disorder, bordering on panic. At last the men were withdrawn; and
the guns alone worked unceasingly as before, hurling thunder after
thunder, lightning after lightning.
Whole hours were spent in this manner. The sun had passed the
zenith, and rayless, red, and smoky, as if veiled by haze, looked
at that struggle.
About three o’clock in the afternoon the roar of guns gained such
force that in the castle the loudest words shouted in the ear were
not audible. The air in the castle became as hot as in a stove. The
water which they poured on the cannon turned into steam, mixing
with the smoke and hiding the light; but the guns thundered on.
Just after three o’clock, the largest Turkish culverines were
broken. Some “Our Fathers” later, the mortar standing near them
burst, struck by a long shot. Gunners perished like flies. Every
moment it became more evident that that irrepressible castle was
gaining in the struggle, that it would roar down the Turkish
thunder, and utter the last word of victory.
The Turkish fire began to weaken gradually.
“The end will come!” shouted Volodyovski, with all his might, in
Ketling’s ear. He wished his friend to hear those words amid the
roar.
“So I think,” answered Ketling. “To last till to-morrow, or longer?”
“Perhaps longer. Victory is with us to-day.”
“And through us. We must think of that new mine.”
The Turkish fire was weakening still more.
“Keep up the cannonade!” cried Volodyovski. And he sprang among
the gunners, “Fire, men!” cried he, “till the last Turkish gun is
silent! To the glory of God and the Most Holy Lady! To the glory of
the Commonwealth!”
The soldiers, seeing that the storm was nearing its end, gave forth
a loud shout, and with the greater enthusiasm fired at the Turkish
trenches.
“We’ll play an evening kindya for you, dog brothers,” cried many
voices.
Suddenly something wonderful took place. All the Turkish guns
ceased at once, as if some one had cut them off with a knife. At
the same time, the musketry fire of the janissaries ceased in the
new castle. The old castle thundered for a time yet; but at last
the officers began to look at one another, and inquire,--
“What is this? What has happened?”
Ketling, alarmed somewhat, ceased firing also.
“Maybe there is a mine under us which will be exploded right away,”
said one of the officers.
Volodyovski pierced the man with a threatening glance, and said,
“The mine is not ready; and even if it were, only the left side of
the castle could be blown up by it, and we will defend ourselves in
the ruins while there is breath in our nostrils. Do you understand?”
Silence followed, unbroken by a shot from the trenches or the
town. After thunders from which the walls and the earth had
been quivering, there was something solemn in that silence, but
something ominous also. The eyes of each were intent on the
trenches; but through the clouds of smoke nothing was visible.
Suddenly the measured blows of hammers were heard on the left side.
“I told you that they are only making the mine,” said Pan Michael.
“Sergeant, take twenty men and examine for me the new castle,”
commanded he, turning to Lusnia.
Lusnia obeyed quickly, took twenty men, and vanished in a moment
beyond the breach. Silence followed again, broken only by groans
here and there, or the gasp of the dying, and the pounding of
hammers. They waited rather long. At last the sergeant returned.
“Pan Commandant,” said he, “there is not a living soul in the new
castle.”
Volodyovski looked with astonishment at Ketling. “Have they raised
the siege already, or what? Nothing can be seen through the smoke.”
But the smoke, blown by the wind, became thin, and at last its veil
was broken above the town. At the same moment a voice, shrill and
terrible, began to shout from the bastion,--
“Over the gates are white flags! We are surrendering!”
Hearing this, the soldiers and officers turned toward the town.
Terrible amazement was reflected on their faces; the words died on
the lips of all; and through the strips of smoke they were gazing
toward the town. But in the town, on the Russian and Polish gates,
white flags were really waving. Farther on, they saw one on the
bastion of Batory.
The face of the little knight became as white as those flags waving
in the wind.
“Ketling, do you see?” whispered he, turning to his friend.
Ketling’s face was pale also. “I see,” replied he.
And they looked into each other’s eyes for some time, uttering
with them everything which two soldiers like them, without fear
or reproach, had to say,--soldiers who never in life had broken
their word, and who had sworn before the altar to die rather than
surrender the castle. And now, after such a defence, after a
struggle which recalled the days of Zbaraj, after a storm which had
been repulsed, and after a victory, they were commanded to break
their oath, to surrender the castle, and live.
As, not long before, hostile balls were flying over the castle, so
now hostile thoughts were flying in a throng through their heads.
And sorrow simply measureless pressed their hearts,--sorrow for
two loved ones, sorrow for life and happiness; hence they looked
at each other as if demented, as if dead, and at times they turned
glances full of despair toward the town, as if wishing to be sure
that their eyes were not deceiving them,--to be sure that the last
hour had struck.
At that time horses’ hoofs sounded from the direction of the town;
and after a while Horaim, the attendant of the starosta, rushed up
to them.
“An order to the commandant!” cried he, reining in his horse.
Volodyovski took the order, read it in silence, and after a time,
amid silence as of the grave, said to the officers,--
“Gracious gentlemen, commissioners have crossed the river in a
boat, and have gone to Dlujek to sign conditions. After a time they
will come here. Before evening we must withdraw the troops from the
castle, and raise a white flag without delay.”
No one answered a word. Nothing was heard but quick breathing.
At last Kvasibrotski said, “We must raise the white flag. I will
muster the men.”
Here and there the words of command were heard. The soldiers began
to take their places in ranks, and shoulder arms. The clatter of
muskets and the measured tread roused echoes in the silent castle.
Ketling pushed up to Pan Michael. “Is it time?” inquired he.
“Wait for the commissioners; let us hear the conditions! Besides, I
will go down myself.”
“No, I will go! I know the places better; I know the position of
everything.”
“The commissioners are returning! The commissioners are returning!”
The three unhappy envoys appeared in the castle after a certain
time. They were Grushetski, judge of Podolia, the chamberlain
Revuski, and Pan Myslishevski, banneret of Chernigoff. They came
gloomily, with drooping heads; on their shoulders were gleaming
kaftans of gold brocade, which they had received as gifts from the
vizir.
Volodyovski was waiting for them, resting against a gun turned
toward Dlujek. The gun was hot yet, and steaming. All three greeted
him in silence.
“What are the conditions?” asked he.
“The town will not be plundered; life and property are assured to
the inhabitants. Whoever does not choose to remain has the right to
withdraw and betake himself to whatever place may please him.”
“And Kamenyets?”
The commissioners dropped their heads: “Goes to the Sultan forever.”
The commissioners took their way, not toward the bridge, for
throngs of people had blocked the road, but toward the southern
gate at the side. When they had descended, they sat in the boat
which was to go to the Polish gate. In the low place lying along
the river between the cliffs, the janissaries began to appear.
Greater and greater streams of people flowed from the town, and
occupied the place opposite the old bridge. Many wished to run to
the castle; but the outgoing regiments restrained them, at command
of the little knight.
When Volodyovski had mustered the troops, he called Pan Mushalski
and said to him,--
“Old friend, do me one more service. Go this moment to my wife,
and tell her from me--” Here the voice stuck in the throat of the
little knight for a while. “And say to her from me--” He halted
again, and then added quickly, “This life is nothing!”
The bowman departed. After him the troops went out gradually. Pan
Michael mounted his horse and watched over the march. The castle
was evacuated slowly, because of the rubbish and fragments which
blocked the way.
Ketling approached the little knight. “I will go down,” said he,
fixing his teeth.
“Go! but delay till the troops have marched out. Go!”
Here they seized each other in an embrace which lasted some time.
The eyes of both were gleaming with an uncommon radiance. Ketling
rushed away at last toward the vaults.
Pan Michael took the helmet from his head. He looked awhile yet on
the ruin, on that field of his glory, on the rubbish, the corpses,
the fragments of walls, on the breastwork, on the guns; then
raising his eyes, he began to pray. His last words were, “Grant
her, O Lord, to endure this patiently; give her peace!”
Ah! Ketling hastened, not waiting even till the troops had marched
out; for at that moment the bastions quivered, an awful roar
rent the air; bastions, towers, walls, horses, guns, living men,
corpses, masses of earth, all torn upward with a flame, and mixed,
pounded together, as it were, into one dreadful cartridge, flew
toward the sky.
* * * * *
Thus died Volodyovski, the Hector of Kamenyets, the first soldier
of the Commonwealth.
* * * * *
In the monastery of St. Stanislav stood a lofty catafalque in the
centre of the church; it was surrounded with gleaming tapers, and
on it lay Pan Volodyovski in two coffins, one of lead and one of
wood. The lids had been fastened, and the funeral service was just
ending.
It was the heartfelt wish of the widow that the body should rest in
Hreptyoff; but since all Podolia was in the hands of the enemy, it
was decided to bury it temporarily in Stanislav, for to that place
the “exiles” of Kamenyets had been sent under a Turkish convoy, and
there delivered to the troops of the hetman.
All the bells in the monastery were ringing. The church was filled
with a throng of nobles and soldiers, who wished to look for the
last time at the coffin of the Hector of Kamenyets, and the first
cavalier of the Commonwealth. It was whispered that the hetman
himself was to come to the funeral; but as he had not appeared so
far, and as at any moment the Tartars might come in a chambul, it
was determined not to defer the ceremony.
Old soldiers, friends or subordinates of the deceased, stood in
a circle around the catafalque. Among others were present Pan
Mushalski, the bowman. Pan Motovidlo, Pan Snitko, Pan Hromyka, Pan
Nyenashinyets, Pan Novoveski, and many others, former officers of
the stanitsa. By a marvellous fortune, no man was lacking of those
who had sat on the evening benches around the hearth at Hreptyoff;
all had brought their heads safely out of that war, except the man
who was their leader and model. That good and just knight, terrible
to the enemy, loving to his own; that swordsman above swordsmen,
with the heart of a dove,--lay there high among the tapers, in
glory immeasurable, but in the silence of death. Hearts hardened
through war were crushed with sorrow at that sight; yellow gleams
from the tapers shone on the stern, suffering faces of warriors,
and were reflected in glittering points in the tears dropping down
from their eyelids.
Within the circle of soldiers lay Basia, in the form of a cross,
on the floor, and near her Zagloba, old, broken, decrepit, and
trembling. She had followed on foot from Kamenyets the hearse
bearing that most precious coffin, and now the moment had come when
it was necessary to give that coffin to the earth. Walking the
whole way, insensible, as if not belonging to this world, and now
at the catafalque, she repeated with unconscious lips, “This life
is nothing!” She repeated it because that beloved one had commanded
her, for that was the last message which he had sent her; but in
that repetition and in those expressions were mere sounds, without
substance, without truth, without meaning and solace. No; “This
life is nothing” meant merely regret, darkness, despair, torpor,
merely misfortune incurable, life beaten and broken,--an erroneous
announcement that there was nothing above her, neither mercy nor
hope; that there was merely a desert, and it will be a desert which
God alone can fill when He sends death.
They rang the bells; at the great altar Mass was at its end. At
last thundered the deep voice of the priest, as if calling from
the abyss: “_Requiescat in pace!_” A feverish quiver shook Basia,
and in her unconscious head rose one thought alone, “Now, now,
they will take him from me!” But that was not yet the end of the
ceremony. The knights had prepared many speeches to be spoken at
the lowering of the coffin; meanwhile Father Kaminski ascended the
pulpit,--the same who had been in Hreptyoff frequently, and who in
time of Basia’s illness had prepared her for death.
People in the church began to spit and cough, as is usual before
preaching; then they were quiet, and all eyes were turned to the
pulpit. The rattling of a drum was heard on the pulpit.
The hearers were astonished. Father Kaminski beat the drum as if
for alarm; he stopped suddenly, and a deathlike silence followed.
Then the drum was heard a second and a third time; suddenly the
priest threw the drumsticks to the floor of the church, and
called,--
“Pan Colonel Volodyovski!”
A spasmodic scream from Basia answered him. It became simply
terrible in the church. Pan Zagloba rose, and aided by Mushalski
bore out the fainting woman.
Meanwhile the priest continued: “In God’s name, Pan Volodyovski,
they are beating the alarm! there is war, the enemy is in the
land!--and do you not spring up, seize your sabre, mount your
horse? Have you forgotten your former virtue? Do you leave us alone
with sorrow, with alarm?”
The breasts of the knights rose; and a universal weeping broke out
in the church, and broke out several times again, when the priest
lauded the virtue, the love of country, and the bravery of the dead
man. His own words carried the preacher away. His face became pale;
his forehead was covered with sweat; his voice trembled. Sorrow for
the little knight carried him away, sorrow for Kamenyets, sorrow
for the Commonwealth, ruined by the hands of the followers of the
Crescent; and finally he finished his eulogy with this prayer:--
“O Lord, they will turn churches into mosques, and chant the Koran
in places where till this time the Gospel has been chanted. Thou
hast cast us down, O Lord; Thou hast turned Thy face from us, and
given us into the power of the foul Turk. Inscrutable are Thy
decrees; but who, O Lord, will resist the Turk now? What armies
will war with him on the boundaries? Thou, from whom nothing in
the world is concealed,--Thou knowest best that there is nothing
superior to our cavalry! What cavalry can move for Thee, O Lord, as
ours can? Wilt Thou set aside defenders behind whose shoulders all
Christendom might glorify Thy name? O kind Father, do not desert
us! show us Thy mercy! Send us a defender! Send a crusher of the
foul Mohammedan! Let him come hither; let him stand among us; let
him raise our fallen hearts! Send him, O Lord!”
At that moment the people gave way at the door; and into the church
walked the hetman, Pan Sobieski. The eyes of all were turned to
him; a quiver shook the people; and he went with clatter of spurs
to the catafalque, lordly, mighty, with the face of a Cæsar. An
escort of iron cavalry followed him.
“Salvator!” cried the priest, in prophetic ecstasy.
Sobieski knelt at the catafalque, and prayed for the soul of
Volodyovski.
EPILOGUE.
More than a year after the fall of Kamenyets, when the dissensions
of parties had ceased in some fashion, the Commonwealth came forth
at last in defence of its eastern boundaries; and it came forth
offensively. The grand hetman, Sobieski, marched with thirty-one
thousand cavalry and infantry to Hotin, in the Sultan’s territory,
to strike on the incomparably more powerful legions of Hussein
Pasha, stationed at that fortress.
The name of Sobieski had become terrible to the enemy. During the
year succeeding the capture of Kamenyets the hetman accomplished so
much, injured the countless army of the Padishah to such a degree,
crushed out so many chambuls, rescued such throngs of captives,
that old Hussein, though stronger in the number of his men, though
standing at the head, of chosen cavalry, though aided by Kaplan
Pasha, did not dare to meet the hetman in the open field, and
decided to defend himself in a fortified camp.
The hetman surrounded that camp with his army; and it was known
universally that he intended to take it in an offensive battle.
Some thought surely that it was an undertaking unheard of in the
history of war to attack a superior with an inferior army when the
enemy was protected by walls and trenches. Hussein had a hundred
and twenty guns, while in the whole Polish camp there were only
fifty. The Turkish infantry was threefold greater in number than
the power of the hetman; of janissaries alone, so terrible in
hand-to-hand conflict, there were eighty thousand. But the hetman
believed in his star, in the magic of his name,--and finally in
the men whom he led. Under him marched regiments trained and
tempered in fire,--men who had grown up from years of childhood in
the bustle of war, who had passed through an uncounted number of
expeditions, campaigns, sieges, battles. Many of them remembered
the terrible days of Hmelnitski, of Zbaraj and Berestechko; many
had gone through all the wars, Swedish, Prussian, Moscovite, civil,
Danish, and Hungarian. With him were the escorts of magnates,
formed of veterans only; there were soldiers from the stanitsas,
for whom war had become what peace is for other men,--the ordinary
condition and course of life. Under the voevoda of Rus were fifteen
squadrons of hussars,--cavalry considered, even by foreigners,
as invincible; there were light squadrons, the very same at the
head of which the hetman had inflicted such disasters on detached
Tartar chambuls after the fall of Kamenyets; there were finally the
land infantry, who rushed on janissaries with the butts of their
muskets, without firing a shot.
War had reared those veterans, for it had reared whole generations
in the Commonwealth; but hitherto they had been scattered, or in
the service of opposing parties. Now, when internal agreement
had summoned them to one camp and one command, the hetman hoped
to crush with such soldiers the stronger Hussein and the equally
strong Kaplan. These old soldiers were led by trained men whose
names were written more than once in the history of recent wars, in
the changing wheel of defeats and victories.
The hetman himself stood at the head of them all like a sun, and
directed thousands with his will; but who were the other leaders
who at this camp in Hotin were to cover themselves with immortal
glory? There were the two Lithuanian hetmans,--the grand hetman,
Pats, and the field hetman, Michael Kazimir Radzivill. These two
joined the armies of the kingdom a few days before the battle, and
now, at command of Sobieski, they took position on the heights
which connected Hotin with Jvanyets. Twelve thousand warriors
obeyed their commands; among these were two thousand chosen
infantry. From the Dniester toward the south stood the allied
regiments of Wallachia, who left the Turkish camp on the eve of the
battle to join their strength with Christians. At the flank of the
Wallachians stood with his artillery Pan Kantski, incomparable in
the capture of fortified places, in the making of intrenchments,
and the handling of cannon. He had trained himself in foreign
countries, but soon excelled even foreigners. Behind Kantski stood
Korytski’s Russian and Mazovian infantry; farther on, the field
hetman of the kingdom, Dmitri Vishnyevetski, cousin of the sickly
king. He had under him the light cavalry. Next to him, with his own
squadron of infantry and cavalry, stood Pan Yendrei Pototski, once
an opponent of the hetman, now an admirer of his greatness. Behind
him and behind Korytski stood, under Pan Yablonovski, voevoda of
Rus, fifteen squadrons of hussars in glittering armor, with helmets
casting a threatening shade on their faces, and with wings at their
shoulders. A forest of lances reared their points above these
squadrons; but the men were calm. They were confident in their
invincible force, and sure that it would come to them to decide the
victory.
There were warriors inferior to these, not in bravery, but in
prominence. There was Pan Lujetski, whose brother the Turks had
slain in Bodzanoff; for this deed he had sworn undying vengeance.
There was Pan Stefan Charnyetski, nephew of the great Stefan,
and field secretary of the kingdom. He, in time of the siege of
Kamenyets, had been at the head of a whole band of nobles at
Golemb, as a partisan of the king, and had almost roused civil
war; now he desired to distinguish himself with bravery. There
was Gabriel Silnitski, who had passed all his life in war, and
age had already whitened his head; there were other voevodas and
castellans, less acquainted with previous wars, less famous, but
therefore more greedy of glory.
Among the knighthood not clothed with senatorial dignity,
illustrious above others, was Pan Yan, the famous hero of Zbaraj, a
soldier held up as a model to the knighthood. He had taken part in
every war fought by the Commonwealth during thirty years. His hair
was gray; but six sons surrounded him, in strength like six wild
boars. Of these, four knew war already, but the two younger had to
pass their novitiate; hence they were burning with such eagerness
for battle that their father was forced to restrain them with words
of advice.
The officers looked with great respect on this father and his sons;
but still greater admiration was roused by Pan Yarotski, who, blind
of both eyes, like the Bohemian king[31] Yan, joined the campaign.
He had neither children nor relatives; attendants led him by the
arms; he hoped for no more than to lay down his life in battle,
benefit his country, and win glory. There too was Pan Rechytski,
whose father and brother fell during that year.
There also was Pan Motovidlo, who had escaped not long before from
Tartar bondage, and gone to the field with Pan Myslishevski. The
first wished to avenge his captivity; the second, the injustice
which he had suffered at Kamenyets, where, in spite of the
treaty and his dignity of noble, he had been beaten with sticks
by the janissaries. There were knights of long experience from
the stanitsas of the Dniester,--the wild Pan Rushchyts and the
incomparable bowman, Mushalski, who had brought a sound head out
of Kamenyets, because the little knight had sent him to Basia with
a message; there was Pan Snitko and Pan Nyenashinyets and Pan
Hromyka, and the most unhappy of all, young Pan Adam. Even his
friends and relatives wished death to this man, for there remained
no consolation for him. When he had regained his health, Pan
Adam exterminated chambuls for a whole year, pursuing Lithuanian
Tartars with special animosity. After the defeat of Pan Motovidlo
by Krychinski, he hunted Krychinski through all Podolia, gave him
no rest, and troubled him beyond measure. During those expeditions
he caught Adurovich and flayed him alive; he spared no prisoners,
but found no relief for his suffering. A month before the battle he
joined Yablonovski’s hussars.
This was the knighthood with which Pan Sobieski took his position
at Hotin. Those soldiers were eager to wreak vengeance for the
wrongs of the Commonwealth in the first instance, but also for
their own. In continual battles with the Pagans in that land soaked
in blood, almost every man had lost some dear one, and bore within
him the memory of some terrible misfortune. The grand hetman
hastened to battle then, for he saw that rage in the hearts of his
soldiers might be compared to the rage of a lioness whose whelps
reckless hunters have stolen from the thicket.
On Nov. 9, 1674, the affair was begun by skirmishes. Crowds of
Turks issued from behind the walls in the morning; crowds of Polish
knights hastened to meet them with eagerness. Men fell on both
sides, but with greater loss to the Turks. Only a few Turks of
note or Poles fell, however. Pan May, in the very beginning of the
skirmish, was pierced by the curved sabre of a gigantic spahi; but
the youngest son of Pan Yan with one blow almost severed the head
from that spahi. By this deed he earned the praise of his prudent
father, and notable glory.
They fought in groups or singly. Those who were looking at the
struggle gained courage; greater eagerness rose in them each
moment. Meanwhile, detachments of the army were disposed around
the Turkish camp, each in the place pointed out by the hetman. Pan
Sobieski, taking his position on the old Yassy road, behind the
infantry of Korytski, embraced with his eyes the whole camp of
Hussein; and on his face he had the serene calmness which a master
certain of his art has before he commences his labor. From time to
time he sent adjutants with commands; then with thoughtful glance
he looked at the struggle of the skirmishers. Toward evening Pan
Yablonovski, voevoda of Rus, came to him.
“The intrenchments are so extensive,” said he, “that it is
impossible to attack from all sides simultaneously.”
“To-morrow we shall be in the intrenchments; and after to-morrow
we shall cut down those men in three quarters of an hour,” said
Sobieski, calmly.
Night came in the mean while. Skirmishers left the field. The
hetman commanded all divisions to approach the intrenchments in
the darkness; this Hussein hindered as much as he could with guns
of large calibre, but without result. Toward morning the Polish
divisions moved forward again somewhat. The infantry began to throw
up breastworks. Some regiments had pushed on to within a good
musket-shot. The janissaries opened a brisk fire from muskets. At
command of the hetman almost no answer was given to these volleys,
but the infantry prepared for an attack hand-to-hand. The soldiers
were waiting only for the signal to rush forward passionately. Over
their extended line flew grapeshot with whistling and noise like
flocks of birds. Pan Kantski’s artillery, beginning the conflict
at daybreak, did not cease for one moment. Only when the battle
was over did it appear what great destruction its missiles had
wrought falling in places covered most thickly with the tents of
janissaries and spahis.
Thus passed the time until midday; but since the day was short,
as the month was November, there was need of haste. On a sudden
all the trumpets were heard, and drums, great and small. Tens of
thousands of throats shouted in one voice; the infantry, supported
by light cavalry advancing near them, rushed in a dense throng to
the onset.
They attacked the Turks at five points simultaneously. Yan
Dennemark and Christopher de Bohan, warriors of experience, led
the foreign regiments. The first, fiery by nature, hurried forward
so eagerly that he reached the intrenchment before others, and
came near destroying his regiment, for he had to meet a salvo from
several thousand muskets. He fell himself. His soldiers began to
waver; but at that moment De Bohan came to the rescue and prevented
a panic. With a step as steady as if on parade, and keeping
time to the music, he passed the whole distance to the Turkish
intrenchment, answered salvo with salvo, and when the fosse was
filled with fascines passed it first, under a storm of bullets,
inclined his cap to the janissaries, and pierced the first banneret
with a sabre. The soldiers, carried away by the example of such a
colonel, sprang forward, and then began dreadful struggles in which
discipline and training vied with the wild valor of the janissaries.
But dragoons were led quickly from the direction of Taraban by
Tetwin and Doenhoff; another regiment was led by Aswer Greben and
Haydepol, all distinguished soldiers who, except Haydepol, had
covered themselves with great glory under Charnyetski in Denmark.
The troops of their command were large and sturdy, selected from
men on the royal domains, well trained to fighting on foot and
on horseback. The gate was defended against them by irregular
janissaries, who, though their number was great, were thrown
into confusion quickly and began to retreat; when they came to
hand-to-hand conflict they defended themselves only when they could
not find a place of escape. That gate was captured first, and
through it cavalry went first to the interior of the camp.
At the head of the Polish land infantry Kobyletski, Jebrovski,
Pyotrkovchyk, and Galetski struck the intrenchments in three
other places. The most tremendous struggle raged at the main
gate, on the Yassy road, where the Mazovians closed with the
guard of Hussein Pasha. The vizir was concerned mainly with that
gate, for through it the Polish cavalry might rush to the camp;
hence he resolved to defend it most stubbornly, and urged forward
unceasingly detachments of janissaries. The land infantry took the
gate at a blow, and then strained all their strength to retain it.
Cannon-balls and a storm of bullets from small arms pushed them
back; from clouds of smoke new bands of Turkish warriors sprang
forth to the attack every moment. Pan Kobyletski, not waiting till
they came, rushed at them like a raging bear; and two walls of men
pressed each other, swaying backward and forward in close quarters,
in confusion, in a whirl, in torrents of blood, and on piles of
human bodies. They fought with every manner of weapon,--with
sabres, with knives, with gunstocks, with shovels, with clubs, with
stones; the crush became at moments so great, so terrible, that men
grappled and fought with fists and with teeth. Hussein tried twice
to break the infantry with the impact of cavalry; but the infantry
fell upon him each time with such “extraordinary resolution” that
the cavalry had to withdraw in disorder. Pan Sobieski took pity at
last on his men, and sent all the camp servants to help them.
At the head of these was Pan Motovidlo. This rabble, not employed
usually in battle and armed with weapons of any kind, rushed
forward with such desire that they roused admiration even in the
hetman. It may be that greed of plunder inspired them; perhaps
the fire seized them which enlivened the whole army that day. It
is enough that they struck the janissaries as if they had been
smoke, and overpowered them so savagely that in the first onset
they forced them back a musket-shot’s length from the gate. Hussein
threw new regiments into the whirl of battle; and the struggle,
renewed in the twinkle of an eye, lasted whole hours. At last
Korytski, at the head of chosen regiments, beset the gate in force;
the hussars from a distance moved like a great bird raising itself
lazily to flight, and pushed toward the gate also.
At this time an adjutant rushed to the hetman from the Eastern side
of the camp.
“The voevoda of Belsk is on the ramparts!” cried he, with panting
breast.
After him came a second,--
“The hetmans of Lithuania are on the ramparts!”
After him came others, always with similar news. It had grown dark
in the world, but light was beaming from the face of the hetman.
He turned to Pan Bidzinski, who at that moment was near him, and
said,--
“Next comes the turn of the cavalry; but that will be in the
morning.”
No one in the Polish or the Turkish army knew or imagined that the
hetman intended to defer the general attack till the following
morning. Nay, adjutants sprang to the captains with the command to
be ready at any instant. The infantry stood in closed ranks; sabres
and lances were burning the hands of the cavalry. All were awaiting
the order impatiently, for the men were chilled and hungry.
But no order came; meanwhile hours passed. The night became as
black as mourning. Drizzling rain had set in at one o’clock in the
day; but about midnight a strong wind with frozen rain and snow
followed. Gusts of it froze the marrow in men’s bones; the horses
were barely able to stand in their places; men were benumbed. The
sharpest frost, if dry, could not be so bitter as that wind and
snow, which cut like a scourge. In constant expectation of the
signal, it was not possible to think of eating and drinking or
of kindling fires. The weather became more terrible each hour.
That was a memorable night,--“a night of torture and gnashing of
teeth.” The voices of the captains--“Stand! stand!”--were heard
every moment; and the soldiers, trained to obedience, stood in the
greatest readiness without movement, and patiently.
But in front of them, in rain, storm, and darkness, stood in equal
readiness the stiffened regiments of the Turks. Among them, too,
no one kindled a fire, no one ate, no one drank. The attack of all
the Polish forces might come at any moment, therefore the spahis
could not drop their sabres from their hands; the janissaries stood
like a wall, with their muskets ready to fire. The hardy Polish
soldiers, accustomed to the sternness of winter, could pass such
a night; but those men reared in the mild climate of Rumelia, or
amid the palms of Asia Minor, were suffering more than their powers
could endure. At last Hussein discovered why Sobieski did not begin
the attack. It was because that frozen rain was the best ally of
the Poles. Clearly, if the spahis and janissaries were to stand
through twelve hours like those, the cold would lay them down on
the morrow as grain sheaves are laid. They would not even try to
defend themselves,--at least till the heat of the battle should
warm them.
Both Poles and Tartars understood this. About four o’clock in
the morning two pashas came to Hussein,--Yanish Pasha and Kiaya
Pasha, the leader of the janissaries, an old warrior of renown and
experience. The faces of both were full of anxiety and care.
“Lord!” said Kiaya, first, “if my ‘lambs’ stand in this way till
daylight, neither bullets nor swords will be needed against them.”
“Lord!” said Yanish Pasha, “my spahis will freeze, and will not
fight in the morning.”
Hussein twisted his beard, foreseeing defeat for his army and
destruction to himself. But what was he to do? Were he to let his
men break ranks for even a minute, or let them kindle fires to warm
themselves with hot food, the attack would begin immediately. As it
was, the trumpets were sounded at intervals near the ramparts, as
if the cavalry were just ready to move.
Kiaya and Yanish Pasha saw only one escape from disaster,--that
was, not to wait for the attack, but to strike with all force on
the enemy. It was nothing that he was in readiness; for though
ready to attack, he did not expect attack himself. Perhaps they
might drive him out of the intrenchments; in the worst event defeat
was likely in a night battle, in the battle of the morrow it was
certain.
But Hussein did not venture to follow the advice of the old
warriors.
“How!” said he; “you have furrowed the camp-ground with
ditches, seeing in them the one safeguard against that hellish
cavalry,--that was your advice and your precaution; now you say
something different.”
He did not give that order. He merely gave an order to fire from
cannon, to which Pan Kantski answered with great effect instantly.
The rain became colder and colder, and cut more and more cruelly;
the wind roared, howled, went through clothing and skin, and froze
the blood in men’s veins. So passed that long November night,
in which the strength of the warriors of Islam was failing, and
despair, with a foreboding of defeat, seized hold of their hearts.
At the very dawn Yanish Pasha went once more to Hussein with advice
to withdraw in order of battle to the bridge on the Dniester and
begin there the game of war cautiously. “For,” said he, “if the
troops do not withstand the onrush of the cavalry, they will
withdraw to the opposite bank, and the river will give them
protection.” Kiaya, the leader of the janissaries, was of another
opinion, however. He thought it too late for Yanish’s advice,
and moreover he feared lest a panic might seize the whole army
immediately, if the order were given to withdraw. “The spahis with
the aid of the irregular janissaries must sustain the first shock
of the enemy’s cavalry, even if all are to perish in doing so. By
that time the janissaries will come to their aid, and when the
first impetus of the unbelievers is stopped, perhaps God may send
victory.”
Thus advised, Kiaya and Hussein followed. Mounted multitudes of
Turks pushed forward; the janissaries, regular and irregular,
were disposed behind them, around the tents of Hussein. Their
deep ranks presented a splendid and fear-inspiring spectacle. The
white-bearded Kiaya, “Lion of God,” who till that time had led
only to victory, flew past their close ranks, strengthening them,
raising their courage, reminding them of past battles and their own
unbroken preponderance. To them also, battle was sweeter than that
idle waiting in storm and in rain, in wind which was piercing them
to the bone; hence, though they could barely grasp the muskets and
spears in their stiffened hands, they were still cheered by the
thought that they would warm them in battle. With far less desire
did the spahis await the attack, because on them was to fall its
first fury, because among them were many inhabitants of Asia Minor
and of Egypt, who, exceedingly sensitive to cold, were only half
living after that night. The horses also suffered not a little,
and though covered with splendid caparisons, they stood with heads
toward the earth, puffing rolls of steam from their nostrils. The
men with blue faces and dull eyes did not even think of victory.
They were thinking only that death would be better than torment
like that in which the last night had been passed by them, but best
of all would be flight to their distant homes, beneath the hot rays
of the sun.
Among the Polish troops a number of men without sufficient clothing
had died before day on the ramparts; in general, however, they
endured the cold far better than the Turks, for the hope of victory
strengthened them, and a faith, almost blind, that since the hetman
had decided that they were to stiffen in the rain, the torment
must come out infallibly for their good, and for the evil and
destruction of the Turks. Still, even they greeted the first gleams
of that morning with gladness.
At this same time Sobieski appeared at the battlements.
There was no brightness in the sky, but there was brightness on his
face; for when he saw that the enemy intended to give battle in the
camp he was certain that that day would bring dreadful defeat to
Mohammed. Hence he went from regiment to regiment, repeating: “For
the desecration of churches! for blasphemy against the Most Holy
Lady in Kamenyets! for injury to Christendom and the Commonwealth!
for Kamenyets!” The soldiers had a terrible look on their faces, as
if wishing to say: “We can barely restrain ourselves! Let us go,
grand hetman, and you will see!”
The gray light of morning grew clearer and clearer; out of the
fog rows of horses’ heads, forms of men, lances, banners, finally
regiments of infantry, emerged more distinctly each moment. First
they began to move and advance in the fog toward the enemy, like
two rivers, at the flanks of the cavalry; then the light horse
moved, leaving only a broad road in the middle, over which the
hussars were to rush when the right moment came.
Every leader of a regiment in the infantry, every captain, had
instructions and knew what to do. Pan Kantski’s artillery began
to speak more profoundly, calling out from the Turkish side also
strong answers. Then musketry fire thundered, a mighty shout was
heard throughout the whole camp,--the attack had begun.
The misty air veiled the view, but sounds of the struggle reached
the place where the hussars were in waiting. The rattle of arms
could be heard, and the shouting of men. The hetman, who till
then had remained with the hussars, and was conversing with Pan
Yablonovski, stopped on a sudden and listened.
“The infantry are fighting with the irregular janissaries; those in
the front trenches are scattered,” said he to the voevoda.
After a time, when the sound of musketry was failing, one mighty
salvo roared up on a sudden; after it another very quickly. It was
evident that the light squadrons had pushed back the spahis and
were in presence of the janissaries.
The grand hetman, putting spurs to his horse, rushed like lightning
at the head of some tens of men to the battle; the voevoda of Rus
remained with the fifteen squadrons of hussars, who, standing in
order, were waiting only for the signal to spring forward and
decide the fate of the struggle. They waited long enough after
that; but meanwhile in the depth of the camp it was seething and
roaring more and more terribly. The battle seemed at times to
roll on to the right, then to the left, now toward the Lithuanian
armies, now toward the voevoda of Belsk, precisely as when in time
of storm thunders roll over the sky. The artillery-fire of the
Turks was becoming irregular, while Pan Kantski’s batteries played
with redoubled vigor. After the course of an hour it seemed to the
voevoda of Rus that the weight of the battle was transferred to the
centre, directly in front of his cavalry.
At that moment the grand hetman rushed up at the head of his
escort. Flame was shooting from his eyes. He reined in his horse
near the voevoda of Rus, and exclaimed,--
“At them, now, with God’s aid!”
“At them!” shouted the voevoda of Rus.
And after him the captains repeated the commands. With a terrible
noise that forest of lances dropped with one movement toward
the heads of the horses, and fifteen squadrons of that cavalry
accustomed to crush everything before it moved forward like a giant
cloud.
From the time when, in the three days’ battle at Warsaw, the
Lithuanian hussars, under Prince Polubinski, split the whole
Swedish army like a wedge, and went through it, no one remembered
an attack made with such power. Those squadrons started at a trot,
but at a distance of two hundred paces the captains commanded: “At
a gallop!” The men answering, with a shout, “Strike! Crush!” bent
in the saddles, and the horses went at the highest speed. Then
that column, moving like a whirlwind, and formed of horses, iron
men, and straightened lances, had in it something like the might
of an element let loose. And it went like a storm, or a raging
river, with roar and outburst. The earth groaned under the weight
of it; and if no man had levelled a lance or drawn a sabre, it was
evident that the hussars with their very weight and impact would
hurl down, trample, and break everything before them, just as a
column of wind breaks and crushes a forest. They swept on in this
way to the bloody field, covered with bodies, on which the battle
was raging. The light squadrons were still struggling on the wings
with the Turkish cavalry, which they had succeeded in pushing to
the rear considerably, but in the centre the deep ranks of the
janissaries stood like an indestructible wall. A number of times
the light squadrons had broken themselves against that wall, as a
wave rolling on breaks itself against a rocky shore. To crush and
destroy it was now the task of the hussars.
A number of thousand of muskets thundered, “as if one man had
fired.” A moment more the janissaries fix themselves more firmly
on their feet; some blink at sight of the terrible onrush; the
hands of some are trembling while holding their spears; the
hearts of all are beating like hammers, their teeth are set,
their breasts are breathing convulsively. The hussars are just on
them; the thundering breath of the horses is heard. Destruction,
annihilation, death, are flying at them.
“Allah!” “Jesus, Mary!”--these two shouts meet and mingle as
terribly as if they had never burst from men’s breasts till that
moment. The living wall trembles, bends, breaks. The dry crash of
broken lances drowns for a time every other sound; after that,
is heard the bite of iron, the sound, as it were, of thousands
of hammers beating with full force on anvils, as of thousands of
flails on a floor, and cries singly and collectively, groans,
shouts, reports of pistols and guns, the howling of terror.
Attackers and attacked mingle together, rolling in an unimaginable
whirl. A slaughter follows; from under the chaos blood flows, warm,
steaming, filling the air with raw odor.
The first, second, third, and tenth rank of the janissaries are
lying like a pavement, trampled with hoofs, pierced with spears,
cut with swords. But the white-bearded Kiaya, “Lion of God,” hurls
all his men into the boiling of the battle. It is nothing that
they are put down like grain before a storm. They fight! Rage
seizes them; they breathe death; they desire death. The column
of horses’ breasts pushes them, bends, overturns them. They open
the bellies of horses with their knives; thousands of sabres cut
them without rest; blades rise like lightning and fall on their
heads, shoulders, and hands. They cut a horseman on the legs, on
the knees; they wind around, and bite like venomous worms; they
perish and avenge themselves. Kiaya, “Lion of God,” hurls new
ranks again and again into the jaws of death. He encourages them
to battle with a cry, and with curved sabre erect he rushes into
the chaos himself. With that a gigantic hussar, destroying like a
flame everything before him, falls on the white-bearded old man,
and standing in his stirrups to hew the more terribly, brings down
with an awful sweep a two-handed sword on the gray head. Neither
the sabre nor the headpiece forged in Damascus are proof against
the blow; and Kiaya, cleft almost to the shoulders, falls to the
ground, as if struck by lightning.
Pan Adam, for it was he, had already spread dreadful destruction,
for no one could withstand the strength and sullen rage of the man;
but now he had given the greatest service by hewing down the old
hero, who alone had supported the stubborn battle. The janissaries
shouted in a terrible voice on seeing the death of their leader,
and more than ten of them aimed muskets at the breast of the
cavalier. He turned toward them like dark night; and before other
hussars could strike them, the shots roared, Pan Adam reined in
his horse and bent in the saddle. Two comrades seized him by the
shoulders; but a smile, a guest long unknown, lighted his gloomy
face, his eyeballs turned in his head, and his white lips whispered
words which in the din of battle no man could distinguish.
Meanwhile the last ranks of the janissaries wavered.
The valiant Yanish Pasha tried to renew the battle, but the
terror of panic had seized on his men; efforts were useless. The
ranks were broken and shivered, pushed back, beaten, trampled,
slashed; they could not come to order. At last they burst, as an
overstrained chain bursts, and like single links men flew from one
another in every direction, howling, shouting, throwing down their
weapons, and covering their heads with their hands. The cavalry
pursue them; and they, not finding space sufficient for flight
singly, gather at times into a dense mass, on whose shoulders ride
the cavalry, swimming in blood. Pan Mushalski, the bowman, struck
the valiant Yanish Pasha such a sabre-blow on the neck that his
spinal marrow gushed forth and stained his silk shirt and the
silver scales on his armor.
The irregular janissaries, beaten by the Polish infantry, and a
part of the cavalry which was scattered in the very beginning
of the battle, in fact, a whole Turkish throng, fled now to the
opposite side of the camp, where there was a rugged ravine some
tens of feet deep. Terror drove the mad men to that place. Many
rushed over the precipice, “not to escape death, but death at
the hands of the Poles.” Pan Bidzinski blocked the road to this
despairing throng; but the avalanche of fugitives tore him away
with it, and threw him to the bottom of the precipice, which after
a time was filled almost to the top with piles of slain, wounded,
and suffocated men.
From this place rose terrible groans; bodies were quivering,
kicking one another, or clawing with their fingers in the spasms
of death. Those groans were heard until evening; until evening
those bodies were moving, but more and more slowly, less and less
noticeably, till at dark there was silence.
Awful were the results of the blow of the hussars. Eight thousand
janissaries, slain with swords, lay near the ditch surrounding the
tents of Hussein Pasha, not counting those who perished in the
flight, or at the foot of the precipice. The Polish cavalry were in
the tents; Pan Sobieski had triumphed. The trumpets were raising
the hoarse sounds of victory, when the battle raged up again on a
sudden.
After the breaking of the janissaries the vizir, Hussein Pasha,
at the head of his mounted guards and of all that were left of
the cavalry, fled through the gate leading to Yassy; but when the
squadrons of Dmitri Vishnyevetski, the field hetman, caught him
outside and began to hew without mercy, he turned back to the
camp to seek escape elsewhere, just as a wild beast surrounded in
a forest looks for some outlet. He turned with such speed that
he scattered in a moment the light squadron of Cossacks, put to
disorder the infantry, occupied partly in plundering the camp, and
came within “half a pistol-shot” of the hetman himself.
“In the very camp,” wrote Pan Sobieski, afterward, “we were
near defeat, the avoidance of which should be ascribed to the
extraordinary resolution of the hussars.”
In fact, the pressure of the Turks was tremendous, produced
as it was under the influence of utter despair, and the more
terrible that it was entirely unexpected; but the hussars, not
cooled yet after the heat of battle, rushed at them on the spot,
with the greatest vigor. Prusinovski’s squadron moved first,
and that brought the attackers to a stand; after it rushed Pan
Yan with his men, then the whole army,--cavalry, infantry,
camp-followers,--every one as he was, every one where he was,--all
rushed with the greatest rage on the enemy, and there was a battle,
somewhat disordered, but not yielding in fury to the attack of the
hussars on the janissaries.
When the struggle was over the knights remembered with wonder
the bravery of the Turks, who, attacked by Vishnyevetski and the
hetmans of Lithuania, surrounded on all sides, defended themselves
so madly that though Sobieski permitted the Poles to take prisoners
then, they were able to seize barely a handful of captives. When
the heavy squadrons scattered them at last, after half an hour’s
battle, single groups and later single horsemen fought to the last
breath, shouting, “Allah!” Many glorious deeds were done, the
memory of which has not perished among men. The field hetman of
Lithuania cut down a powerful pasha who had slain Pan Rudomina,
Pan Kimbar, and Pan Rdultovski; but the hetman, coming to him
unobserved, cut off his head at a blow. Pan Sobieski slew in
presence of the army a spahi who had fired a pistol at him. Pan
Bidzinski, escaping from the ravine by some miracle, though bruised
and wounded, threw himself at once into the whirl of battle, and
fought till he fainted from exhaustion. He was sick long, but after
some months recovered his health, and went again to the field, with
great glory to himself.
Of men less known Pan Rushchyts raged most, taking off horsemen
as a wolf seizes sheep from a flock. Pan Yan on his part worked
wonders; around him his sons fought like young lions. With sadness
and gloom did these knights think afterward of what that swordsman
above swordsmen, Pan Michael, would have done on such a day, were
it not that for a year he had been in the earth resting in God
and in glory. But others, taught in his school, gained sufficient
renown for him and themselves on that bloody field.
Two of the old knights of Hreptyoff fell in that renewed battle,
Pan Motovidlo and the terrible bowman, Mushalski. A number of balls
pierced the breast of Motovidlo simultaneously, and he fell as an
oak falls, which has come to its time. Eye-witnesses said that
he fell by the hand of those Cossack brothers who under the lead
of Hohol had struggled to the last against their mother (Poland)
and Christendom. Pan Mushalski, wonderful to relate, perished by
an arrow, which some fleeing Turk had sent after him. It passed
through his throat just in the moment when, at the perfect defeat
of the Pagans, he was reaching his hand to the quiver, to send
fresh, unerring messengers of death in pursuit of the fugitives.
But his soul had to join the soul of Didyuk, so that the friendship
begun on the Turkish galley might endure with the bonds of
eternity. The old comrades of Hreptyoff found the three bodies
after the battle and took farewell tearfully, though they envied
them the glorious death. Pan Adam had a smile on his lips, and calm
serenity on his face; Pan Motovidlo seemed to be sleeping quietly;
and Pan Mushalski had his eyes raised, as if in prayer. They were
buried together on that glorious field of Hotin under the cliff on
which, to the eternal memory of the day, their three names were cut
out beneath a cross.
The leader of the whole Turkish army, Hussein Pasha, escaped on
a swift Anatolian steed, but only to receive in Stambul a silk
string from the hands of the Sultan. Of the splendid Turkish army
merely small bands were able to bear away sound heads from defeat.
The last legions of Hussein Pasha’s cavalry gave themselves into
the hands of the armies of the Commonwealth. In this way the field
hetman drove them to the grand hetman, and he drove them to the
Lithuanian hetmans, they again to the field hetman; so the turn
went till nearly all of them had perished. Of the janissaries
almost no man escaped. The whole immense camp was streaming with
blood, mixed with snow and rain. So many bodies were lying there
that only frost, ravens, and wolves prevented a pestilence, which
comes usually from bodies decaying. The Polish troops fell into
such ardor of battle that without drawing breath well after the
victory, they captured Hotin. In the camp itself immense booty was
taken. One hundred and twenty guns and with them three hundred
flags and banners did Pan Sobieski take from that field, on which
for the second time in the course of a century the Polish sabre
celebrated a grand triumph.
Pan Sobieski himself stood in the tent of Hussein Pasha, which was
sparkling with rubies and gold, and from it he sent news of the
fortunate victory to every side by swift couriers. Then cavalry and
infantry assembled; all the squadrons,--Polish, Lithuanian, and
Cossack,--the whole army, stood in order of battle. A Thanksgiving
Mass was celebrated, and on that same square where the day previous
muezzins had cried: “La Allah illa Allah!” was sounded “Te Deum
laudamus!”
The hetman, lying in the form of a cross, heard Mass and the hymn;
and when he rose, tears of joy were flowing down his worthy face.
At sight of that the legions of knights, the blood not yet wiped
from them, and while still trembling from their efforts in battle,
gave out three times the loud thundering shout:--
“Vivat Joannes victor!”
Ten years later, when the Majesty of King Yan III. (Sobieski)
hurled to the dust the Turkish power at Vienna, that shout was
repeated from sea to sea, from mountain to mountain, throughout the
world, wherever bells called the faithful to prayer.
* * * * *
Here ends this series of books, written in the course of a number
of years and with no little toil, for the strengthening of hearts.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “With Fire and Sword,” page 4.
[2] The bishop who visited Zagloba at Ketling’s house, see pages
121-126.
[3] A celebrated bishop of Cracow, famous for ambition and success.
[4] A diminutive of endearment for Anna. Anusia is another form.
[5] One of the chiefs of a confederacy formed against the king, Yan
Kazimir, by soldiers who had not received their pay.
[6] The story in Poland is that storks bring all the infants to the
country.
[7] This refers to the axelike form of the numeral 7.
[8] Diminutive of Barbara.
[9] Diminutive of Krystina, or Christiana.
[10] Drohoyovski is Parma Krysia’s family name.
[11] A diminutive of Anna, expressing endearment.
[12] To place a water-melon in the carriage of a suitor was one way
of refusing him.
[13] “Kot” means “cat,” hence Basia’s exclamations are, “Scot,
Scot! cat, cat!”
[14] In Polish, “I love” is one word, “Kocham.”
[15] In the original this forms a rhymed couplet.
[16] That is let me kiss you.
[17] Injured his head.
[18] The Tsar’s city,--Constantinople.
[19] Zagloba refers here to Pavel Sapyeha, voevoda of Vilna, and
grand hetman of Lithuania.
[20] Poland.
[21] God is merciful! God is merciful.
[22] The territory governed by a pasha, in this case the lands of
the Cossacks.
[23] The Commonwealth.
[24] That means as tall as a stove. The tile or porcelain stores of
eastern Europe are very high.
[25] A barber in that age and in those regions took the place of a
surgeon usually.
[26] Each nearly equal to five English miles.
[27] A hot drink made of gorailka, honey, and spices.
[28] Motovidlo’s words are Russian in the original.
[29] See note after introduction.
[30] Hero.
[31] More likely Yan Zisca, the great leader of the Hussites.