The inmates of Ruvno thought they had witnessed all the wrack and
vicissitudes of war; of advancing armies, entrenched armies, foraging
armies, looting armies; of wounds, pollution and death. They had yet to
see a retreating army.
By July the Russians were in full retreat.
Day and night they went by. Cursing, sweating, bleeding, limping;
hungry, thirsty, weary, their eyes aglow with the smouldering fires of
rage, disappointment and all the bitterness of recession; without haste,
without hope they tramped past, to fall back upon the Nieman, the Pripet
and the Dnieper, leaving Poland to the Prussian Antichrist.
At times, some of them stood to give fight, covering the retreat of the
armies' bulk. Then, though these battles of despair were far from
Ruvno, the ground shook under them, a very earthquake; the few trees
left were stript of their leaves till it looked as though winter and not
August, were upon them. The Russians had no ammunition; the rumbling
and shaking came from their enemies. And this is why there were
smouldering fires in the tired soldiers' eyes; it was a nightmare to try
and beat off a modern army with lances, rifle-butts and sticks. One
morning a lot of soldiers halted in the village. Having exhausted what
water there was, for a drought had been added to the peasants' troubles,
some sought the house. Ian went out to them. One, a giant with blue
eyes, fever-bright and dry, was holding forth to the servants in a
frenzy of impotent rage. His uniform was in tatters, his boots a mass
of torn leather, held together God knows how. His dirty blouse was open
to the chest, where the blood had clotted on a stale wound. In his hand
was a stout oaken club, which he waved about as he shouted and swore.
"What could I do with this? Tell me, what could I do? A stick to beat
off the German swine. Son of a dog, what could I do? Never a rifle
since we left the Lakes. My knife gone, too." He meant his bayonet.
"Mother of God, to think of it! Not a hundred rounds to the whole
regiment! But I killed three dog's sons with it!" He wildly struck the
air; all fell back in terror of their lives. "See! like this. One!
Two! Three! Smashing in their skulls like I hammer the horseshoes on
the anvil at home. Look at their dog's blood on it--look ye, and
tremble!"
Father Constantine, who had come out, insisted on dressing his wound,
and found two others, only half healed. But he was built like Hercules,
this blacksmith from a village of Tula; they could tell he was in a high
fever; some men march a couple of days and more in such a state, the kit
on their backs, and none the worse for it in the end. For these sons of
Rus are hardened from their birth and as strong as the beasts they tend
at home. He was indignant with the old priest for bringing out some
simple remedies.
"What are you doing, _Pop_?" he shouted. "The surgeon dressed it last
night, or last week, I forget when. I tore it off me. How can I bear
the feel of rags in this nightmare? I'll go naked to the day of
Judgment, by God I will."
And he proceeded to strip, flinging his ragged garments to right and
left, as the wild Cossacks do when they have had too much _vodka_ and
dancing. The maids rushed off in horror; but another giant, his
comrade, managed to calm him and cover his huge, brawny body, where the
muscles stood out as hard as iron under skin white as a woman's; for the
Russians of his part are fair. Father Constantine gave him a cooling
draught and did what he could for his wounds, which must have smarted
terribly under the iodine; but he never groaned. He was lying on his
back now, breathing heavily, eyes closed, hands clasping the club with
all the strength of fever.
"He'll kill us if he keeps it," observed his comrade, whose head was
encased in dirty bandages. "He has been mad with fever since last
sunset ... but we can't find room in an ambulance for him and he lays
out whenever we try to take it away."
"I'll lay out at all the ministers when I get to Petrograd!" bawled the
patient, springing up and upsetting the Father. Worse than that, he
sent over the bottle of iodine, too, and they were very short of it.
"Son of a dog, I'll have them all, crush their skulls like walnuts. The
war minister first, for sending us sticks instead of guns ... and then
the intendant, for these boots." Here he flung one across the yard,
where it stuck on to the well-handle. "I'll murder every dog's son of
them--by God, I will, till we clean Russia of thieves and swine."
And so he went on, raving at everybody and everything, till he had
shouted himself tired. Then he lay down in the shade of the stables and
slept uneasily. Ian wanted to send him to bed, which was the only fit
place for him. The officer in charge demurred, said he did not think
the man was ill enough to risk being found here by the enemy, who could
not be kept off more than a few days. He had orders to retreat with as
few losses as possible. When Ian finally gained his point, promising to
send him on by the first ambulance that passed, the man himself refused
to stop behind. He wasn't going to leave his comrades; he didn't trust
priests ... this one had burned him with poison and tried to take away
his only weapon, so that he would not even be able to crack German
skulls when they came up.
They watched them march off; the giant, quieter now, staggered between
two limping comrades who helped him along, though they had all their
work cut out to put one sore foot before the other. When they reached
the bend in the road they began to sing, in unison, as Russians do. And
Father Constantine's heart went out to those brave, simple souls, and he
prayed that they might reach the Nieman in safety.
At first this was the only army Ruvno saw--a host of men, way-worn but
strong. But soon came the vanguard of another legion, a ghastly,
straggling horde of old men, women and children, fleeing before the
invaders. Some of them carried a kettle--all that remained of their
worldly goods; others had harnessed skinny, starving nags to their long,
narrow carts, piled with bedding, a quilt or two, a table or a stool.
Here and there could be seen a sack of potatoes or buckwheat between the
wooden bars; but this was rare indeed, because these unhappy people had
nothing left in barn or cellar. And the women. They trailed on with
their little ones; with children who could walk or toddle, with infants
in arms, with babes at the breast, with babes yet unborn, destined to
see the first light of a tempestuous world from the roadside, whilst
jostling humanity passed indifferently by, benumbed with a surfeit of
ordeal and pain. The household could do little for these poor wretches.
In one group of misery they saw a priest--a young man he was. Father
Constantine chided him.
"Why did you let them leave their homes?" he asked. "Can't you see half
of them are doomed to die in the ditch?"
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at his questioner with the dull
eyes of a man steeped in despair.
"What could I do?" was his wail. "The Russians drove us out of house
and home."
"The Prussians, you mean," corrected Ian.
"I mean what I say. The Cossacks burnt the grain in the fields. Then
they set fire to the village." He cursed them with unpriestly words,
but even Father Constantine had not the will to stop him.
"If there had been one cottage left, one sack of buckwheat, I could have
persuaded them to stop," he concluded. "But the sight of the burning
fields and the charred walls of their homes filled them with panic. All
our younger men are in the army, and we had only the scorched earth
left. If we ever reach Warsaw we shall get somewhere to lay our heads
and a sup to put in our mouths."
Ian gave them some food for their journey, for that other retreating
army paid these unfortunates no attention. They had two young mothers
in the house. One Vanda found in the ditch outside the paddock. Ian cut
down the household rations for these fugitives, because his stock had
run low, and the horde came on unceasingly. He had ordered fresh
supplies from Warsaw nearly a month back; but there was no hope of
getting them now. His new grain was ready to cut, and he set about it
in haste, lest bad luck befall it.
Two days later, the stream of humanity still passed by. Many halted to
beg for food, water. Ian gave both, though he could only afford the
water, for his generosity of the last few days diminished the stores in
an alarming way. So he had to harden his heart and give far less. The
country for versts round was being laid waste. Every group of refugees
told the same tale of destruction and ruin. On this particular morning
passed some peasants of Stara Viesz. They told a ghastly story. They
were cutting the crops when the Cossacks came up and began firing the
grain as it stood in the fields. The reapers turned upon them with
their scythes; a fierce fight followed. The Cossacks, having spent all
their ammunition on the Germans, had but their spears left--and the
peasants got the best of it, beating off the destroying _sotnia_, who
left dead and wounded amongst the corn. But much of the grain was burnt
and some of the cottages caught fire, for a strong east wind was
blowing. The villagers who now passed had nothing left. Those lucky
enough to save field or hut remained behind.
"If we can only reach Warsaw we shall be saved," said their spokesman.
They had one cart left, for four families. Three had been abandoned
because the horses dropped dead upon the road.
They all looked to Warsaw as a haven of rest and plenty. And an officer
told Ian the Grand Duke had decided not to defend that city, but to
evacuate it and leave it to the Prussians. This news was so bad that he
had not the courage to tell it them. After all, they would not go back
to their ruined homes. Ian and the priest used all their eloquence in
trying to persuade them to it. But they refused. Terror was upon them.
Perhaps they were right; why go back to starvation?
"Why don't the Russians give us food? They made us leave our homes,"
was the cry on everybody's lips. Ian could not answer them. So helpless
did he feel that the temptation came to shut himself up in the top story
rather than see suffering which he could not relieve. And he, too,
asked himself why the Russians drove these peasants from their homes.
What was the good of it? Those who did not die on the road would only
swell the beggar population of Moscow and Petrograd; for they were
destitute, though war found them prosperous men, with land and savings,
too. These sad, ragged, homeless crowds would only stir up discontent
in Russia. And the farms and holdings they had been forced to leave
would give the Prussians room to put their own colonists. He was
relieved to see that very few priests were among the refugees. When he
or Father Constantine asked a panic-stricken group where their priest
was the answer always came:
"He would not leave those who stopped behind."
Again anxiety haunted the House. There was Joseph. He had given no
sign for a month. He had been so emphatic in his last letters about
sending word when Vanda ought to leave that they almost gave him up as
dead. But though there was no longer any doubt that the Germans would
be in Ruvno before long she refused to leave. Neither Ian nor the
Countess insisted. The retreat had come so unexpectedly that they found
themselves cut off from Warsaw, the only road to Russia left open,
without a day's notice. There were no trains but for the army, and few
enough for that. Ian had not a pair of horses left capable of taking
her twelve versts, let alone to Warsaw; and he doubted if she could get
away from there. Minnie was kept by the same reasons, that is, devotion
to Ruvno and fear of sharing the fate of those fugitives they saw pass
night and day. Then there was Roman. So many Cossacks went by but Ian
vainly sought his face amongst them. Some remembered Roman well; but
they had not seen him for months, they said. One thought he had been
taken prisoner in Masuria; another, who seemed to have known him better
than the rest, said he was reported missing as far back as last October.
Ian questioned Father Constantine when he heard this, asking exactly
what happened that night when Joseph escaped to the chapel. The old man
repeated his story and said:
"Ian, I can tell you no more. Our little family is broken up. God
knows when it will be reunited. Perhaps not till death binds us
together."
Then, perhaps more pressing than all, was anxiety about the crops. It
was quite possible the Cossacks would fire them before they left. Some
were cut; but most of them still stood, not ready for harvest. And Ian,
watching the Cossacks' lack of fodder for their horses, trembled for the
fate of his haystacks and barns, where there was hay. The retreating
army grew fiercer, more and more antagonistic towards the civil
population of the country it had to abandon. The officers could keep in
their men when they liked; but the officers themselves were often at
little pains to hide their hostility, though the majority treated Ian
and his property with consideration. But a retreating army is rougher
and more turbulent than an advancing, or entrenched army. God forgive
them! They knew all the wretchedness of failure. Rage and
disappointment had hold of them. Some Cossacks stopped in Ruvno; they
were those who remembered Roman Skarbek. They kept mostly to the
village, but Ian wished they would go. One night their commander told
him that the Prussians would be there very soon, and it was time to make
up his mind as to what he was going to do. Ian told him he had long ago
made up his mind to stay. But he called up the chief men from the
village, a deputation chosen by the rest. The message he sent was for
service in the chapel; though he did have the service, the real purpose
was to discuss the situation; but the Cossacks looked askance at him
when they heard he had decided to stay in Ruvno, so he had to be
careful. They kept watch day and night from the church tower in the
village, either to direct the Russian fire on the Prussians or else to
watch for their coming. Several times they warned the villagers to
leave before their homes were razed to the ground. Some peasants were
for taking their advice and going to Warsaw. Hence the meeting.
"The time has come for you to make up your minds," he said when he had
them all in the little sacristy. "Are you going to leave your land and
follow the retreating army, or to stop here and stick to your fields?"
"What is the House going to do?" asked the _soltys_, or head of the
village community.
"We stop here so long as there is a roof over us."
A murmur of approval greeted this. Ian went on:
"But I don't want you to be guided by what I and the Lady Countess are
doing. You know what is going on as well as I do."
"Ay. All the devils have taken the Muscovites," said a voice.
"Thousands of peasants, once rich, like yourselves, pass on their way to
Warsaw," said Ian.
"Please, my lord Count," put in the _soltys_, "it's Siberia and not
Warsaw they are going to. The Cossacks down in the village are talking
a lot about it. The Russian government is offering the fugitives land
in Siberia and work in the mines. It's not fair. This has been our land
for centuries, long before the Russians came here at all. And I, for
one, and my three young sons, are for stopping here. They can but burn
our crops and cottages. Haven't the Cossacks done that?"
A low growl of anger filled the room. The old man went on:
"But when they've burnt the crops and our huts and stacks they've done
their worst. They can't take away the land, even if they bring all the
carts they've got. The land remains. And I remain. For I'd rather
starve through another winter on my own soil than have the biggest farm
they can give me in Siberia."
They talked a lot, arguing and disputing, as peasants do. But you
cannot hurry them, so Ian and the priest waited for them in the chapel.
After an hour, when each had had his say, Baranski came out.
"Well, what have you decided?" Ian asked with secret anxiety. It is no
joke to be left in a big place like Ruvno without any peasants.
"Sir," answered the _soltys_, who had followed Baranski, "we have
decided that each man may take his choice, and that the man who takes
his family from Ruvno, to join that poor starving mob on the road
outside, is stupid and a fool. If God wills that we shall die, we can
die here. We have two months yet of warm weather, and the crops, thank
God, are not so bad, considering the trenches we've had put upon us. We
can mend up our cottages and prepare for the winter. The Muscovites are
retreating as hard as they can. So I don't see that there'll be any
more battles in this part for some time. We can plow and sow in the
autumn as usual. That's how most of us think. The others can go, if
they like."
Next day Ian heard that the majority had decided to stop. The sight of
those refugees haunted them.