No need to dwell upon Ian's efforts to enlist as a volunteer in the
Tsar's army. Thousands and thousands of loyal Britons were being
snubbed by their own government in the same way just then. Briton's
rulers had even less excuse for their behavior than Russia, who at least
had a large standing army to draw upon.
Russia needed no men, he was told. Perhaps, after many years, she would
call on men over thirty to help her. But then, the war would be over in
a few months. After being refused by the officer in charge of the
military depot at Kutno, he went to Warsaw, hoping to find Roman, who
knew a few Russians and might help him. But he learned at the Hotel
Europe that the impetuous young man had left for St. Petersburg several
days ago and omitted to say when he was coming back. Ian soon found out
that his only chance of fighting would be with the Cossacks, to whom
they were sending volunteers for the cavalry. To those whom he begged
for admission he pointed out that he could ride straight and shoot
straight, was sound as a nut and willing to do anything. One grizzled
old Cossack colonel, reared on mare's milk, bred in the saddle, with not
a spare ounce of flesh on his bones, gave his ample figure a keen and
contemptuous glance.
"To the devil with riding gentlemen squires!" were his words, spoken in
that strange Russian of the Don; but his tone said: "To the devil with
all Poles!" He repeated his glance and asked:
"Can you ride without your saddle now?"
"I can."
"And without your bridle?"
"Yes."
The gruff warrior sought his eyes, which firmly met the gaze and with
hostility, too; none have hated one another more bitterly for centuries
than Pole and Cossack.
"And spring on the mare's back when she's galloping?"
"I've not done that lately," admitted the squire.
"H'm. I thought not from your belly. You can shoot, you say. Bears,
perhaps?"
"Bears, yes. And quail on the wing. And wild fowl at dawn. And men,
too, when they insult me," retorted Ian, his temper fast slipping out of
control.
The Cossack grinned. This sort of talk he liked. He had wondered
whether the Pole would give as good as he got. His manner thawed
slightly, as he said:
"Well, you've the pigeon-colored eyes of men who shoot straight. But
you're too fat for a Cossack, and too old."
"You're fifty if you're a day," said Ian.
"Wrong for you. I'm only forty-five. But I've had a hard life, which
I'm used to. You, my gentleman, have always had a soft bed to sleep on
and rich food to feed on. That's why your stomach is too big for your
years."
Ian suddenly felt very much ashamed of his spare flesh. Over and over
again he had promised himself he would go to Marienbad and get rid of
it. But that was out of the question now. So he said eagerly:
"I'll get thin soon enough campaigning. Look here, Colonel, you and I
bear no love to one another. We've a good many old scores to pay off."
"You're right about that," admitted the other with a grin. "And the
fault's not always been on the Cossack side, either."
"But just now we've got to beat the Prussians," argued Ian. "And you'll
want all the men you can get to do it. I've been in their country and
know it."
The Cossack gave a hoarse guffaw.
"Russia has enough sons to beat the world," he cried. "We'll be in
Berlin before the New Year and I'll promise you my men won't leave much
of their fine shops and their light beer. And on my way I'll call in on
your house and give you some loot to prove it. Meanwhile, do you go home
and look after your lady mother and your peasants."
This, delivered in the various accents of the Holy Russian Empire, and
in varying tones, according to the state of culture of the particular
officer who gave it, was the answer which greeted Ian everywhere he
went. He was too old and too heavy. Bitter thought, when he felt young,
strong, enthusiastic and capable as any Cossack of holding his own with
horse and gun. There were, he was told, plenty of younger, fitter men
than he. The Prussians would be utterly destroyed without his help.
His grain, his horses and his peasants were worth more than his blood.
This was the result of two days' begging, waiting in ante-rooms,
listening to more or less personal remarks, rubbing shoulders with men
who were his enemies of centuries and who were, he thought, childishly
optimistic about the war. As he told the Cossack of the Don, he knew
Prussia. And he dreaded to think of how many towns would be captured,
how many women and children butchered, before Berlin loot found its way
to Ruvno....
There was nothing to be done but go home and follow the old colonel's
advice. No need to add that everybody in Ruvno, and the women
especially, welcomed him with fervor and relief. He made preparations
for the war, laying in a large stock of grain, potatoes and other
provisions which would keep. He feared a food shortage before long.
Ruvno had good cellars, vaulted and spacious. They had been built in a
time when people quarreled with their neighbors even more violently than
they do nowadays, and laid siege to one another's houses. They were
swept and aired under Zosia's and Martin's supervision. Then Ian had
most of his stores bricked up in them, as his forbears did with their
good wines, entering the list in their cellar-book and only opening the
best vintage for weddings, christenings, funerals or the celebration of
some great victory, according to the period of history. The Ruvno
cellar-book went back to 1539, and he was very proud of it.
He worked hard during these days of preparation, seeking to relieve the
smart of refusal. Too old and too fat; what a thing to have on his
mind! He confided his feelings to nobody, not even to the Countess, who
was busy housing refugees and improvising a hospital. Minnie he had
forgotten; Vanda he avoided. Between them rose the figure of Joseph, in
his Prussian helmet and gray service coat. _He_ was with their enemies.
Both felt the moment must come when they would open their passionate
thoughts to each other about him; and both tacitly postponed it.
Meanwhile, Vanda helped her aunt and Minnie to prepare wards and
nurseries for the wounded and homeless.
He kept several people busy for the next few days, getting in his
supplies from his various farms and entering them, not in the old
cellar-book, but on a piece of strong paper, showing exactly how the
household could reach various stores bricked up in different parts of
the cellars, which covered as much ground as the big rambling house
itself.
This done, he had to decide where to hide the list, so that, supposing
Muscovites or Prussians made search for food, they would not find it.
For he had little confidence in Russian troops either. A hungry warrior
has no scruples as to whom he robs. Experience had taught him that, of
the two kinds of oppression against his race, the Prussian was worse
than the Russian; it had more method, persistency and callousness,
beating anything the Russian could do, because the Russian is not
orderly, nor has he a long memory. Ian knew, too, what rumors were
afloat; that petty Russian bureaucrats were saying that the Poles would
side with the invaders and Polish recruits refuse to fight. Such talk,
though a tissue of lies, might put Russian troops against Polish houses.
So he made up his mind to hide the food list and ... his family jewels.
He wanted to send the latter to Moscow with the plate and pictures; but
his mother refused to let them go.
"We may want them," she argued. "I hope we sha'n't; but you never know.
They will enable us to live and to help others live for the rest of our
lives if we have to bolt."
Ian had never thought of the possibility of leaving Ruvno. Privately,
he meant to stop there even if the Germans came. Only thus would he be
able to save his property. He had already heard enough tales of the
neighborhood to know that an empty house is soon a smoking ruin and an
abandoned farm appropriated by somebody else. He would send his mother
and Vanda away and see things through alone. Minnie he would get rid of
beforehand. But there was no reason why he should not humor his mother
in this matter of the jewels. Time enough to tell the truth when real
danger came. So he said nothing. Father Constantine suggested putting
them in the chapel, under a stone which they would take out of the floor
and replace so that nobody would be any the wiser.
"Prussians don't respect churches," said the Countess.
"And suppose the chapel should get burnt," remarked Vanda.
Father Constantine shuddered at the thought. He loved the little chapel
better than any part of Poland, and this is saying a great deal.
"The only place is where everybody goes," said Vanda.
"The horse pond," suggested Ian jokingly.
"Yes," she rejoined seriously, "I vote for the horse pond."
"And ruin the jewels," protested her aunt.
"Vanda is right," said Ian. "All the soldiers who come use the horse
pond. They won't think of looking for loot there. We should have to
dig on the side furthest from the paddock wall, as that may be
destroyed."
"Yes," said Vanda, "something like that."
"A brilliant idea," said Ian, "but it has a great drawback."
"Which is?"
"How are you going to dig it up if we want to bolt? All the soldiers in
the place would see and there's an end to the jewels."
Nobody said anything for a moment; they were floored. Father
Constantine spoke first.
"There is the high-road," he said in a detached way he had.
"Well?" said Ian.
"The troops won't make trenches in that, because it forms one of the
lines of communication between Warsaw and Prussia. If we make a hole,
lined with cement and moss, put some sausages over the jewels, with hard
earth between, they ought to be safe. For anybody who found the
sausages wouldn't go further down. We mustn't choose a spot near trees,
for they will get felled and the ground torn up around them."
"There are two versts without trees, after you pass the windmills," said
Vanda.
"And no peasants about to pry on you," added Ian.
So the Ruvno jewels were taken out of their caskets and sewn into
waterproof bags. The girls helped the Countess to make them, for none
of the servants, not even Martin, the old butler, knew anything of the
plan. He was to be trusted, but Ian and his mother agreed it was better
not to let him know; he could then quite truthfully spread the report
that the jewels had gone with the plate. For so he and the upper
servants were told. In the washleather bags they put very fine sawdust,
too.
Ian and the old priest dug the hole and lined it with cement, taking
advantage of the bright moon to do it. Then the jewels were put in.
They had a discussion about putting pearls there, but could not ask an
expert, being cut off from Warsaw again. Ian said the damp might spoil
them; his mother that she would rather the damp had them than think they
were round the fat neck of some German _frau_; so they made the bag as
thick as possible and put the most valuable pearls into a small thermos
flask which Ian found among his hunting tackle. You must remember that
the nearest jeweler's shop was twenty versts from Ruvno and might have
been a thousand for all the good it was, since the Germans were there
and the Russian troops between it and them. So they had to manage with
the primitive things they found at home. Besides, as Father Constantine
said, their object was to have the stones packed in as small a compass
as possible, because if they wanted them at all during the war it would
be to escape with.
Whilst preparing one hole they decided it would be better to divide the
treasure into two parts, so that if for some reason or other they could
not safely get to one they would have some chance with the other. So
Ian and Father Constantine set to work on another hole, on the road to
the east of the house, whereas the first was on the west, for so goes
the road from Warsaw to Plovk, and thence follows the river Vistula into
Prussia. They had to work quickly, for the moon was on the wane, and
they could not be seen digging by the wayside at night. Even as it was,
they were often interrupted by troops and supplies passing. One night,
just as they were about to cement the second hole, a _sotnia_ of
Cossacks took it into their heads to bivouac near the secret spot, so
they hastily covered it up and slunk home again, carrying the little
sack of cement on their backs. They looked back and saw two Cossacks
searching on the very spot where they had been working. This showed how
careful they must be. At last, however, the two holes were filled with
straw and moss, then the bags with the jewels, with earth beaten down,
potatoes, sausages and more loose rubbish. The jewels were well at the
bottom and several layers away from the food. This done, the women were
taken--after dark--to the spots until they knew exactly where to find
the treasure; and each learned by heart how many paces one hole was from
the ditch and the other from the bend in the road that came a few
hundred yards after you passed the windmill. _That_ has been shot down
long ago; but they had all passed the place and visited the spot so
often that they could find the treasure blindfolded. The two men
covered up the tops so well that none could tell the ground had been
disturbed twenty-four hours after they had finished.
So much for the jewels. They now had to find a place for the little
plan that would enable them to get food supplies. There was not so much
secrecy about this, there could not be, for both the butler and
housekeeper had to know where to get things. By this time they had heard
quite enough about the soldiers to be sure that if they were hungry and
thought there was food about they would try to get it. But the Grand
Duke Nicolai Nicolawitch had his troops well in hand; only the Prussians
ordered their men to loot as much as they pleased; and who could tell
how soon they might come?
Ian had ordered a good stock of foodstuffs to be left in the huge
storeroom, to satisfy any looters that that was all they had. If that
went, they could fall back on bricked-up supplies; if it were let alone,
so much the better. But the stores in the cellar had been bricked up in
six different parts; the place underneath the house was a labyrinth of
passages and small cellars. Ian was for destroying the written list
when they had learnt the geography of the food, and knew the Prussians
were upon them. Till then, it might be kept in the chapel; for they
knew that the Russians, even the most savage of the Cossacks, would
respect holy ground. Vanda said nothing, but learnt the contents off by
heart, going down into the cellars with Zosia and Martin, plan in hand,
till they all three soon knew where everything was bricked up. This set
Minnie to work, for Vanda, who seemed to her childish in far-off days of
peace, had developed nowadays. Little by little she, too, learned the
mystery of the cellars; so another detail, and a most important one, as
things turned out, was mastered. In the storeroom were lists of the
food put there, nailed inside the huge cupboards and headed: "Complete
List of Foodstuffs in Hand." This little trick was an idea of Ian's.
Later on, when it seemed certain they could not escape a visit from
William's troops, he had the old Tokay unbricked and put in one of the
open cellars. Minnie asked him why he was going to give them such good
wine.
"Because they know it is here," he answered. "I don't want them to set
about looking for it. Some old German professor called once with
introductions and asked if he might see the cellar-book. Like an ass, I
let him. His essay came out in some German review with extracts from my
cellar-book."
Meanwhile, all the able-bodied men, except only sons and supporters of
widows, had been called to the colors. Before going off, the men
trooped into the hall, kissed the Countess' hand and had her blessing
and her promise that neither wife nor child should want so long as Ruvno
could help them. And Father Constantine, who had taught them all their
catechism and their prayers, said a prayer. And then they marched away,
singing hymns which have been heard on every battlefield in which Poles
took part since Christianity came into Poland, and swinging their sturdy
arms; for so the Russians teach their soldiers to march....
They went down the shady avenue and along the hot, dusty road to the
depot, five miles off. And at their head rode Ian and Father
Constantine, to give them a send-off. Long after they were out of sight
the three women could hear their voices, the men singing in unison, and
the wives or sweethearts, who could keep up with them by running
alongside, chiming in with their shrill tones; and Minnie thanked God
that Ian, if he was to die, would die with her in his beloved Ruvno....
And as she watched them disappear into the fields of death and glory a
great sadness came over her; for she knew that between yesterday and all
the days to come in her life lay a deep abyss; that life itself would
never be the same again; that a scale of pleasant illusions had fallen
from her eyes and she must now face hard, unwelcome facts and live a
fuller, sterner life than she had ever dreamed of; and the thought that
the old order had left them all, on this great battlefield, forever,
made her feel that she had lost somebody very very dear to her; and so
the tears came into her eyes, though she tried very hard to swallow
them.
As the voices died in the distance, they heard a long, dull roar. She
looked at the Countess, who was fighting her tears, too.
"Heavy guns," she remarked. "In the Kalisz direction."
Their new life had begun.
V
Father Constantine had never much of an opinion about the Kaiser and his
eldest son. A couple of years before the war he was obliged to take a
cure for his old bones in a little town on the Baltic, where the humble
folk are still Poles and Catholics. He looked upon the Crown Prince's
face many times, for the Kaiser had banished him to the little town,
where he swaggered in his blue and silver uniform, leering at the pretty
women and sneering at the old ones. And he noted that those eyes were
full of evil, though he little dreamed it was God's will to give his
wicked passions play in Belgium and France. All the Prussians in that
town used to cringe to him; but Father Constantine took no notice, so
that at last a Prussian subaltern, in a gorgeous uniform like his
master's stopped him in the street and said he would be punished if he
continued to ignore the Crown Prince when he passed him. But the old
man never did salute the Crown Prince, because he knew how he and his
father persecuted little Polish children, having them flogged for not
saying their prayers in German, and dragging them from the steps of the
altar at their first communion, to prison. He told this to the gaudy
officer, whose Teutonic blue eyes blazed with rage. He quite expected
to be arrested or at least taken back to the Russian frontier by a
couple of German policemen. But nothing happened: they left him alone.
But Father Constantine thought they might meet again, for war brings
people together in a curious way; and if the Crown Prince should come to
Ruvno he was ready to tell him what he thought of his evil actions, even
if he were hanged for it. Once in his life, at least, said Father
Constantine, he should hear the truth about himself, for he was always
surrounded by parasites and sycophants, who praised everything he did.
Father Constantine not only talked about these things but set them in
his diary; his old head could not keep its thoughts on one thing, even
on paper, and he found how hard it was to pick out the most important
things he had seen in two months' war, having learned the habit of
wandering on in his diary about all kinds of matters. But he felt
lonely without it; and hoped, too, that one day he might be the humble
means of telling the world what happened in a country house in Poland
during the Great War. Besides, he argued, when some foreigner realizes
what Poland bears, he, whether he were French, English or American,
would understand that Poland, having endured so much, must be saved,
because it is against the laws of God and man to tear a country into
three parts and put each under foreign domination, making father fight
against son, brother against brother.
Ever since Ian and he had left the Ruvno men at the Kutno depot, he had
heard the ceaseless roar of heavy guns day and night. By night he saw
them flash around when walking out by the windmill for a little fresh
air after leaving the wards. He saw the come and go of large armies and
small detachments, of baggage trains, artillery, field hospitals, of war
accessories whose very names he ignored but which he declared Beelzebub
alone could have conceived. The Countess had given rest, shelter and
food to Cossacks of the Urals, who think horse flesh better than capon,
and to wild Siberians, who look as shaggy as their little horses and who
are infidels, but whom no hardships can dishearten. They slept outside,
or in the farm stables. And a pretty mess they made. Poor Ian used
strong words when he saw what the first batch had done; but he grew used
to it. In the house they had fops of the Imperial Bodyguard, who threw
away the soft life of Petrograd, a very wicked city, so the priest said,
to sleep in ditches and eat tinned meat. And they were quite cheerful
about it, for some came back wounded, and the old priest talked to them.
It shocked him to rub shoulders with all these Russians at first. But
they were friendly and would vow with strange oaths that Poland must
regain her liberty after the war. Sometimes he wondered if he would be
there to see that glorious day, or if Ruvno would be standing by then.
Even now, poor Ian was half ruined, after only two months of war. His
forests, once the pride of Ruvno, had either been cut down for military
purposes or burned by shell fire. So far, those near the house were
spared; but they were not of great value; it broke his heart to see the
stumps and scorched trunks for versts around, and the priest's, too. He
had watched some of these forests being planted, years before Ian was
born or thought of. They had been tended with great care and grew into
the best timber in that part of Poland. Even the Tsar's forests, which
began near Ruvno's boundary, were no better. One morning, an old Jewish
factor who used to do errands for the house when there was a town they
could send to, came up--God knows how these Jews got about--and told
them that the Prussians had cut down two hundred square versts of the
Tsar's forest land north of Plock and sent the lumber down the Vistula
into Prussia. Ian expected they would do the same with his property
when they had the chance.
The autumn crops, especially potatoes, suffered terribly from the
movements of so many troops, though Ian had to own that the Grand Duke
saw that they were spared as much as possible. But even he could not be
everywhere at once, nor think of an acre of sugar beet when he wanted to
drive back the Prussians. Father Constantine dreaded the Cossacks. He
saw them at work in 1863, though he had no record of it in his diary,
because they burned down his home and all it contained in the spring of
1864. However, these were old doings, and many Russians who passed
through Ruvno told him they regretted what happened then as deeply as he
did. Ian managed to gather in a good deal of the Ruvno grain, but the
peasants in most of the villages round had not enough potatoes to keep
body and soul together during the winter.
One afternoon late in September, the priest was in the home-forest
burying a Polish sapper who had died of wounds the night before. He had
just planted the wooden Cross in the sapper's grave when he saw a big,
dirty Cossack coming towards him. This man had a reddish beard, his
shaggy cap and high boots smelt of earth, pitch and a rough life. He
had seen many like him and knew the look of a man who has been fighting
from that of one who is only going to fight. He could not define the
difference, but it was there, stamped in their faces. Mud stuck to him,
though it was not the mud which said this Cossack had come from the
battle line. What with dirt and sunburn he was as black as the pieces
of oak Ian had pulled from the river, where it lay for centuries, to
make house wainscot of.
"Good-day, priest," he began. Father Constantine noted that he had the
good manners to speak Polish.
"Good-day, my son." His merry eyes belied his savage-looking red beard.
There was something familiar about him, too. "I've seen you before; but
where?"
"Ah--where?" he guffawed, and sat on the grave, thereby smoothing the
parts that lazy Vitold had left all knobbed. Father Constantine felt
for his glasses, remembered that he had left them on the window-sill in
the sacristy, and peered at the new-comer helplessly. If any man had
told him three months earlier, that he would be quietly watching a
Cossack seated on a Catholic's grave and splitting his sides, Father
Constantine would have called that man a liar. But war, as he admitted,
changes even an old man's point of view, especially if he happen to be
in the thick of it.
"If you have something to laugh at, tell it me," he said, tired of
seeing the stranger enjoy a joke he knew nothing of.
"Laugh!" he cried. "Why, I could laugh for a week, just to see Ruvno
again. And you not knowing me, after all the wallopings you've given
me, too."
This made Father Constantine think. He did thrash a Cossack once, but
it was in 1863, and this man was young.
"Not in 1863?" he asked doubtfully.
"No--more like '93," and the Cossack laughed again.
"I've only walloped village boys lately. And we'd no Cossacks in these
parts before the war."
"How about Ian?" he asked.
"Count Ian, you mean," said the Father with dignity. He hated these
democratic ways the Russian soldiers had of saying "thee" and "thou" to
everybody.
"And Roman Skarbek," he went on, unabashed.
"Skarbek?"
"Don't you remember how you walloped us when we ate up all the cherries
Aunt Natalie's housekeeper had thrown out of the vodka bottle? Lord,
how drunk we were!" and he grinned, being tired of laughing, I suppose.
Then the priest remembered the story and recognized him. It was Roman
Skarbek himself, the young man who won a fortune at Monte Carlo but
could not win Vanda.
"What do you mean, coming here dressed like a savage?" he asked angrily,
for it annoyed him that the trick had succeeded, all through his having
left his glasses in the sacristy. "Don't you know what's due to a Pole
and a Christian?"
"Aren't Cossacks Christians?" retorted Roman in that pleasant way which
always made the Father forgive his boyish deviltries sooner that he
ought. "Come, Father, be just."
"Well," he admitted, "some of them are. But why be a Cossack when you
can help it?"
"Can't help it. Being a volunteer, they made me a Cossack."
"Before this war I detested the very sight of their tall caps and with
good reason," said the Father. "But such is the power of Prussian
brutality that Poles now fight side by side with wild children of the
steppes to drive the soldier of the anti-Christ out of our country.
Where have you been?"
"In Masuria," and Roman told him some of his experiences, adding that he
had come to Ruvno with Rennenkampf, for a few hours.
"Well, I'm glad you've killed a few Germans. But you had better cut off
that red beard before you go to the Countess."
As he got on his feet the priest was glad to see he had finished
Vitold's work with the sods. He liked the graves to look neat.
"Aunt won't mind the beard. Let's go to her."
He whistled to his horse, which was browsing near by, and walked towards
the house. He asked about Vanda, whether she was anxious for Joseph,
how she looked, what she was doing. The priest answered truthfully,
though it made him sorry to see the shadow come into Roman's face when
he realized that she thought still of Joseph with great love.
"And yet, she hates the Prussians, and he is fighting with them, I
suppose," he remarked, hotly.
The Father, almost as hotly, explained that, as he knew, several
thousands more Poles were with the Prussian armies, through no fault of
their own but because they had the bad fortune to be German and Austrian
subjects. Roman agreed that many could not cut away from Germany, but
Joseph had gone back when ordered.
"Like one of the herd all Germans are," he added.
As they passed the windmill, that stood just before you turn into the
high road on the way to Ruvno from the forest, Szmul, a Jewish factor,
stopped them. His cunning eyes shone with excitement.
"Oh, have you heard that great things are happening in Ruvno?" he cried,
spreading out his hands in the way Jews have and twisting his mouth
about.
"What things?" asked the priest. "Have they driven the Prussians out of
Kalisz?"
"No, the Prussians are still at Kalisz. But the great General
Rennenkampf has deigned to come to Ruvno."
"We know that."
He looked disappointed, because he took pride in carrying gossip from
one village to another. And the Jews always knew the latest news and
spread it like wildfire.
"Anything more?" asked Roman.
Szmul made him a deep reverence. You would have thought this
dirty-looking man in Cossack uniform was the Grand Duke at least; but
that was Szmul's way.
"Oh--yes, General," Szmul knew he was only a lieutenant. "And I'm sure
neither of you know it." He threw his arms about, so Father Constantine
told him they were in a hurry.
"Well, look over there." He pointed westwards, where the blackened
stumps of a forest bordered one of Ian's fish-ponds.
"Well, there's nothing new there. Be quick and tell your news if you
have any, for we're off to the house."
"Out there, by the fish-pond, they've caught a spy," he said
importantly. "He refuses to say who he is. He was caught cutting wires,
and burning the toes of Jewish children."
"He may have been cutting wires but he wasn't burning Jewish children's
toes," said Father Constantine sternly. "The Prussians have sins enough
on their heads without you inventing more. You know as well as I do
that there are no children, Jew or Catholic, within two versts of those
fish-ponds."
"But," he protested, "they have caught a spy, and if he wasn't roasting
the toes of Jewish children it's only because he hadn't the chance. I
saw him being taken into the big house, and they say His Excellency
General Rennenkampf is going to shoot him with his own hands to-morrow
morning. He'd be shot now, only they hope to find out more about the
enemy if they keep him a bit."
"Rennenkampf won't shoot him, but I hope to," said Roman as they passed
on.
He and the priest parted outside the gates, one to vespers, the other to
seek the Countess and Ian. Father Constantine excused himself from the
Countess' table that evening; he preferred to eat in his room when Great
Russians were in the house. Besides, he had much to do and knew the
General liked to sit over his meals. On his way to the Countess'
boudoir, which was used as an office in connection with the little
hospital, he met Roman again.
"That Jew was right, Father," he threw over his shoulder. "The spy is
here, and my men are to have the shooting of him to-morrow at daybreak."
Father Constantine had a busy hour with Ian's agent, a surgeon and some
refugees who came in from a village ten versts off. All these people
now walked in and out of the Countess' boudoir, once a sacred spot, as
if it were a mill. He and the agent had disposed of the last fugitive
and he was going up to the wards when a Russian corporal blundered in.
"What do you want in here?" he asked sharply. It annoyed him to see
these louts use his patroness' room as a passage.
He said something in Russian; Father Constantine had made a point, all
his life, not to speak that language, but he understood that an officer
upstairs had asked for a priest.
"Tell him I'll see him to-morrow."
The man saluted, grinned and said:
"He will be dead to-morrow."
Then the priest remembered the spy they had caught: it was he. The
wards would have to wait. He sent a message up to Vanda and told the
soldier to take him to the condemned man.
They made their way through the broad passages and landings which were
blocked with wounded waiting for treatment, and up a winding stair which
led to the turret. It was silent as the tomb till they disturbed an owl
and some rats, and almost as dark. Father Constantine had not been up
there since Ian was a boy and kept pets which could not stop outside in
the winter. He remembered one winter when Roman and Joseph kept a young
dog fox up there in the hopes of taming it. But it was never even
friendly and when the first signs of spring came through the chinks of
its prison, it gnawed the staple from its chain and made off into the
fields. He felt glad that this Prussian prisoner would not get away so
easily.
Two sentries stood at the top. They unlocked the door at a sign from
the corporal and let him into the turret chamber.
It was small and dirty. A straw mattress lay upon the unswept floor;
and some broken food. An old packing-case served as table. A candle,
thrust into the neck of an empty champagne bottle, gave a feeble light
and aft air of sordid debauchery, out of keeping with the place and
circumstances. The prisoner sat on one end of the packing-case, his
back to the door. He was writing the last letter of his life, and so
intent that he took no notice of their entrance.
The priest dismissed his guide with a nod. He saluted, went out, and
shut the door noisily after him: and still the man did not turn round.
This was all very well, but Father Constantine was wanted below, in the
wards, where others were under sentence of death, though not at the
hands of Rennenkampf.
"You asked for a priest," he began in his mother tongue, though he knew
German, too.
The prisoner rose and faced him. As the old man looked upon him his
heart stood still in fear and his knees shook.
"Mother of God! Joseph Skarbek!" he gasped.
And he must die as a spy!
And his own brother was to shoot him!
These thoughts rushed across his brain. They stood looking at each
other, both speechless. Joseph Skarbek, whom he had taught and scolded
and loved with Ian and Roman, who was to marry Vanda, had come to Ruvno,
not to claim his bride, but to spy. When he found tongue it was for
reproach.
"How dare you come here like this?" he cried angrily, because great fear
always made him furious, and he was aghast at the tragedy which had thus
fallen upon his dear ones. His next thought was that none of them,
neither Roman, the Countess, Ian nor Vanda must know this hideous
secret, up in the turret chamber. He must find Rennenkampf, tell him
the tale, plead with him that this prisoner be shot, if die he must, by
another man's orders, and not Roman's. There was no time to be lost.
"Wait," he said. "I'll be back soon."
Joseph grasped his arm as he made for the door, and he saw how haggard
his face was and how wild his eyes. Calm, self-contained Joseph had
vanished; he was the incarnation of tragedy.
"For the love of God don't tell them," he muttered huskily.
"I'm not mad."
"Then where are you going?"
"To the chapel--for the Sacred Vessels."
He hastily prayed God to forgive him for using His Vessels to hide the
truth; but could not tell the boy the real reason for his sudden
departure. Outside, he had to explain to the sentries, who said they
supposed it would be all right, only he must bring a permit if he wanted
to go into the room again.
It took him some time to find an officer, who said that Rennenkampf had
left Ruvno half an hour ago.
"But somebody must be in charge," he said, for the place swarmed with
troops.
"I am," he snapped. He was a hard-faced, battered-looking man, hated
the Poles and believed every Catholic priest a Jesuit, bent on his
neighbor's destruction for the benefit of his Order. Father Constantine
stated his case, after he had promised to respect the confidence. He
yawned through most of the story; but when he heard that Roman Skarbek
had been ordered to shoot his own brother, his narrow eyes flashed with
rage.
"A Pole has no business to fight against us!" he cried.
"Colonel, there are several million Poles in Germany and Austria not
through any fault of..."
He stamped his feet.
"Don't argue, priest! I won't have it. This Polish Count could have
blown his brains out when they told him to fight us--and spy on us.
I'll make an example of him. Eh, God, I will!"
"You gave me your word of honor to respect my secret," said the other,
looking into the depths of his narrow eyes till he had to drop them. He
thought for a moment.
"True," he growled. "I did give you my honorable word. But I will not
cancel General Rennenkampf's order. This young volunteer will take his
men out to shoot his traitor brother. It will be a lesson to him, and
to all Poles."
And all eloquence was without avail, though Father Constantine pleaded
earnestly with him. But war had turned this already hard man into
adamant.
"No and no, and yet once more no!" he said with a calm that was worse
than his rage. He even grumbled at a request for a pass to show the two
guards; but gave it at last.
As the priest left he met the Countess and she kept him some time. Then
he had to go to the chapel. As he felt his way up the turret stairs,
determined to stop with Joseph till the end, he heard steps behind.
Somebody was coming up with an electric torch; he waited, rather than
bruise his shins in the dark.
"Who's there?" His heart sank; it was Roman's voice.
"Go back!" he ordered. "I forbid you to come up here."
But he came up, put his arm around the old man and helped him up the
stairs. "I know all," he said.
"All about what?"--this hoping against hope that Roman meant something
else.
"About Joe, up in there."
"That narrow-eyed Muscovite told you. I suppose he scrupled not to
break word to a priest."
The only thing left was to try and comfort these poor brothers. Whilst
in the chapel, he had nursed hopes of saving Roman from the agony of
seeing Joseph die. Now, all was lost; his brain was in a whirl and he
felt, for the hundredth time since August, that old age is a terrible
thing when you want to help the young and strong.
Roman went into the turret chamber first. He did not rush to his
brother and weep; what he said was:
"You're writing to Her."
Joseph looked up at the familiar voice.
"Roman!" was all he said; but his haggard face flushed from ear to ear.
"Yes." He touched his Cossack's clothes. "I am on the other side."
And it seemed to the priest that this impulsive and turbulent young man
had put Poland's greatest sorrow into those few simple words--brother
fighting against brother, flesh against flesh, not of free will, but
because a wicked old cynic called Frederick and an ambitious German
wanton who usurped the Russian throne divided Poland between them more
than a century ago.
"On the other side," repeated Joseph bitterly. He, too, was suffering.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, showing them a square of dirty
white doth sewn on to the front of his tunic.
"No."
"The Prussian way of branding Polish conscripts. Easier to shoot us if
we try to desert."
"Such is the way of Prussians," said Father Constantine. They stood
there looking at one another as though they were three strangers at a
loss for something to say. Father Constantine put the Sacred Vessels on
the floor and waited. Joseph, he reflected, had all night in which to
make his peace with God, Who understands these tribulations, and why
they are laid upon us. As for himself, he felt very old and of small
account by the side of these stalwart boys, each worth ten of a worn-out
priest too infirm to fight, and fit only to watch the young and the
stalwart die before their time. Joseph spoke first; his thoughts still
ran upon Vanda.
"You'll be able to marry her now," he remarked hoarsely. "Make her
happy."
"I'll do my best," said Roman.
At the time Father Constantine knew not what he meant, for years dull
the mind as well as the eye. He looked so peaceful despite the
overhanging sorrow, that he began to wonder if the boy thought the prize
of winning Vanda was worth all this.
Joseph took up his sheet of paper and tried to dry the ink at the candle
flame. The priest noticed there was a fresh wound on his wrist.
"Let me see your hand," he said.
"It doesn't matter--now." He smiled nervously. Then: "Do _they_ know
I'm here?"
"No," answered Roman. "They must never know."
"Never." Another pause: the candle scorched his raw wound, and he
muttered something.
"How did you know?" he asked Roman.
"Never mind how." He went near his brother, much reproach in his voice.
"Oh, why did you do it, Joe? What in the world induced you to put on
this?" He tugged angrily at the Prussian uniform.
"Because there, in Germany, we were a herd ... and I little thought what
this war was going to be." Then he turned to the priest, lowering his
voice. "And I know, too, in the bottom of my heart, that I went with
the herd because it seemed better to die fighting than to be shot for
not going on. Oh, the misery of it all!"
"My child, God is merciful."
"I have explained what I could, as clearly as I can, here," he went on,
more quietly. "To Vanda."
"But explain it now, to me," his brother insisted.
Joseph sighed. "It is too long and too late. See that she gets this
without knowing I have been here." He swallowed a lump in his throat
and went on: "I did what I thought best." He looked round the little
room, and his voice broke. "To spend my last night here, a prisoner, in
Ian's house, so near her and yet so..." His voice refused to come.
Roman was pacing the floor in that impatient way he had. Suddenly he
stopped, and said with decision:
"There's not a moment to lose!"
"I have the night before me," remarked Joseph, looking first at the
Sacred Vessels, then at the priest "We must wait till midnight, in any
case."
"I don't mean that," said Roman. "You must escape." He had lowered his
voice: they talked in whispers now. Joseph's eyes were alight with
sudden hope.
"Yes, but how?" asked Father Constantine.
"We change clothes," answered Roman, and he began to undress. "You and
the Father leave the room together, Joe dressed in my things. In the
dark the men won't know it isn't me. Go down to the chapel together."
He handed his high Russian boots to Joseph, who was taking off his own,
somewhat reluctantly.
"Well, but how about you?" he objected.
"Never mind me. Father Constantine will hide you in the chapel."
"I know of a place where nobody will think to look for him," said the
priest.
"But what are you going to do?" asked Joseph, still at his first boot.
"Wait till the men outside have fallen asleep. Then I take off that
Prussian uniform you've got on and sneak past them. I know every corner
of this place, which they don't."
Joseph was not satisfied. "You'll be locked in," he objected. Roman
pulled out some nippers.
"I've got these. The lock is old. So hurry up, or we'll have the men
in, wondering why Father Constantine is still here. I wouldn't plan
this if it wasn't safe."
Joseph obeyed.
"How long am I to keep him in the chapel?" asked the priest.
"Till the rest of the Russians leave. We're off at dawn to-morrow. Ian
can keep him quiet in one of the cellars for a day or two till the spy
affair blows over, then you must go and fight for us. Promise?"
"I promise," answered Joseph. Roman did not seem satisfied.
"Swear it," he insisted, holding up his fingers.
Joseph swore; then they embraced, in the Polish way.
"That's right," said Roman, smiling and happy again. "I thought we'd
find some way out of this muddle." He glanced at Father Constantine.
It took some time to persuade Joseph that Roman would get out all right.
Indeed, the priest, too, had fears about it; guards, he said, sleep with
their eyes open. But Roman was so enthusiastic and hopeful, so
thoroughly master of the situation that he inspired the others with his
optimism. Besides, the priest knew he was thinking of to-morrow
morning; and the power of the secret they shared overcame his
objections.
They changed clothes at last, Joseph putting the Cossack's cap well over
his eyes. Then they embraced again. Joseph began to talk of gratitude;
but Roman cut him short.
"I'll see you soon, I hope. Meanwhile, marry Vanda and fight for us."
"I will. Oh, Roman, you're heaping coals of fire on my head."
"Fiddlesticks! Now, be off, and show a brazen face."
Roman had put on the Prussian clothes far quicker than Joseph had taken
them off, and before the others left, threw himself on the straw
mattress, his back to the door. The brothers were much the same height
and build, and Roman had shaved his red beard before sitting down to
supper with the Countess and Rennenkampf that night. His face was
darker than Joseph's, though he had washed; but the light was so bad and
the guards so indifferent and unsuspecting that Father Constantine felt
almost easy in his mind when a sentry looked in as he let them out.
"He's got his passport," he remarked, nodding towards the mattress.
"German swine."
He saluted Joseph, who strode downstairs, clanking his spurs and
carrying himself as straight as you please. In one of the corridors they
passed a cornet, who called out to him; but he strode on, muttering
something between his teeth. Father Constantine noticed that the
subaltern was going up to the turret. After his visit the sentries
would probably doze. Roman knew what he was doing, anyway.
It was nearly three when, at last, the priest threw himself into a chair
in the sacristy. He could not leave the chapel precincts while Joseph
lay hiding there. Not that he hoped to be any good, supposing that the
Russians took it into their heads to look there for their quarry; but he
felt he would be in a fever of apprehension if he went to his rooms.
With some trouble and many precautions he had managed to hide Joseph
under the altar of a side chapel, dedicated to the Mother of God of
Czenstochova. The altar was there temporarily, the Countess having
ordered a marble one last time she was in Rome; the war had stopped its
arrival, and only the other day she had said how sorry she was not to
get it sooner. And now, it looked as if the wooden altar was to save
Joseph's life. Its back was hollow, and there he hid.
The priest could not sleep, tired though he felt. His mind was full of
trouble. Suddenly, he remembered that the narrow-eyed Muscovite knew
the story of Joseph's arrest and would suspect him when he heard of the
escape, would search the chapel. But then he comforted himself with the
thought that even _he_ would not order his men to pull out an altar. He
was not a Prussian. After that, he began to worry about Roman. How
could he get past those guards? The more he thought about it the clearer
it seemed that he had run his head into certain danger. Not only would
he be caught, but all his dear ones would be dragged into the trouble;
that Muscovite would punish every inmate of Ruvno in his rage. Such
were his thoughts as night gradually left the sacristy.
At last he fell into a troubled doze. He was awakened by the sound of
musket shots coming through the open window. With vague fears he
hurried into the garden. A young subaltern was enjoying the last of the
Countess' roses; all was quiet.
"Reminds me of Monte Carlo," he remarked.
"What were those shots?"
He turned his head towards a tall pine, where smoke, blue in the air,
still lingered.
"Only a German." He plucked a large red rose, heavy with dew, saluted
and walked off, whistling.
With shaking knees the old man staggered to the stretch of sward upon
which Prince Mniszek killed Ian's father, years ago. Under the pine lay
a huddled form. Somebody had thrown a blanket over it. He drew it
aside and knelt before the body. The film of death had covered his
eyes. His wounds were horrible. But it was Roman, dressed in the
Prussian uniform, the one white patch of cloth stained with blood....
Had he been caught? Did he, when he sent Joseph down, know that this
was the only way to save him? Or did the thought of Vanda's happiness
urge his sacrifice? The priest remembered his anxiety that Joseph
should promise to fight against Prussia, his insistence for a solemn
oath. Did he think that, since one of them must die, better he, rather
than the man Vanda loved? Who shall look into his heart, one of the
bravest and truest that ever beat? Father Constantine puzzled his
brains many times, but found no answer. And he could not ask anybody to
help, because he alone knew that Roman Skarbek, and no Prussian spy, lay
under the pine tree in the rose garden.
He never even found that subaltern, who must have gone off while he was
weeping over Roman's remains. A couple of soldiers came up to take them
away. He could not bear the thought of their burying him in a ditch,
wanted him to lie amongst the trees and the other soldiers, where he had
been the day before, laughing and joyous because he found Ruvno safe in
the midst of the storm.
"Leave him to me. He was a Catholic," he pleaded. They looked at each
other.
"We've orders to bury him."
"Then take him over there," he pointed to the home forest.
"Too far," said one. "We're off this minute."
As they dug a hasty grave for him he went for Holy Water, and gave him
Christian burial. And much later, when he could control his face, he
told the Countess that the German who had been shot in the Garden was a
Catholic; so they put up one of the wooden Crosses such as you can see
by the thousand in Poland to-day. And when there was nobody about he
used to pray for his soul. And sometimes, in the very early morning, he
would take the portable altar out there, and say a Mass for Roman
Skarbek.
And because the burden of his secret was worse than his heart could
bear, he sat up all night when the household thought him asleep and set
it down in his diary.