When Ian broke down--there by the road--the Countess was thankful to God
for it. Only the need of helping him recover courage took her through
that night and the days which followed. For next to him she loved
Ruvno.
The peasants were rushing past wildly; the sight of the old House, so
stable for centuries and the pivot round which their lives had always
worked, dismayed them more than the memory of those helpless fugitives
they had seen pass lately. So they made a stampede up the road, towards
distant Warsaw.
"Father Constantine!" cried the Countess. "He's being carried with
them."
Ian was up in an instant, and off with the crowd. He knew enough of war
by now to fear that if once the old man got away from them they would
never see him again, dead or alive. When fugitives block the road, and
especially at night, progress is slow, confusion great; thousands of
children had been separated from their parents during that hasty retreat
at the beginning of the war, in December and, presumably, now. Ian did
his best to rally his peasants, shouting that they were safe in the road
and would probably be able to return to the village in the morning. But
they, poor things, were heedless of him as of the wind. Panic filled
their hearts and made them deaf, blind, fiercely obstinate. Their one
thought was to put as many versts as possible between themselves and
Ruvno's downfall. But he found the priest, very tired with the
hustling; indeed, only his indomitable spirit kept him from sinking to
the ground. Together they returned to where he had left the women.
"We must talk things over," he said. He was master of himself again,
but harder, more bitter than he ever felt before; and some of the
acrimony that sank into his soul that night remained with him always.
"We can't go back," said the Countess. "Not even to find shelter
amongst the wreckage. Von Senborn would kill you. Where shall we go?"
She looked around at the desolation lighted by the moon and choked a
sob. She must bear up for her boy's sake.
"We must find the jewels," said Vanda.
"We're destitute without them," returned Ian.
"Think of it!" cried his mother. "And a year ago people envied us."
Ian hated to leave what had been his home. Only his fears for the
others prevented him from proposing to them to creep back and live in
the open rather than desert it. He knew they would need no persuasion;
but dared not risk it for them.
For the moment, he vainly tried to calm the peasants. At least, when he
had shouted himself hoarse without avail, the stream passed onwards.
Even old Martin disappeared, and they were left alone, whilst the cries
and shouts of the fugitives died away in the darkness. They were near
the bend of the road, where stood the old windmill before a shell set it
on fire. Just beyond it they could, in happier days, catch a glimpse of
the House. He always looked forward to seeing it when he came home
after being in Warsaw or abroad. He and Vanda, as children, shouted for
joy when they came to it. And now, when there was no home to go back
to, they turned their steps towards that bend....
I can't tell you what it looked like. The moon was still high enough to
light up its devastation. A dark mass showed where home had been. The
House was absolutely leveled to the ground; here and there, higher
mounds of wreckage stood above the general ruin. The Countess lost her
self-control when she realized that all had gone; for loud as was the
noise when von Senborn's men blew it up, she still harbored a faint hope
that a wing or story might be saved. But there was nothing, nothing,
nothing. Ian bit his lips and the tears ran down his cheeks; but he was
silent. They still wept for this ruin when they heard another
explosion, or rather series of explosions, not so terrific as the first
but powerful enough to be appalling. This time the Germans had
destroyed the home-farm and outbuildings, then the stud. The little
group stood rooted to the spot, though Ian, at least, would fain have
hidden his eyes from this horrid sight. The thought that those
barbarians, in less than an hour, wrecked all which it took his race
centuries to build and improve maddened him. He thought of all the care
and time and money he and his mother alone had spent on the place, to
say nothing of those who went before and loved Ruvno even as he loved
it. It was his life, the care of that which lay in wreckage. How would
he shake down into a new existence, amongst strangers, an exile, a
ruined man at thirty-five through no fault of his own? In a modest way
he knew what a good administrator he was; how he had improved the
estate, and how he took its welfare to heart he realized fully but now.
And his mother? What could she do with the rest of her days? Oh, it is
hard to be uprooted in after years; the old tree cannot bear
transplanting, even if you put care to it; the trunk is too stiff, the
branches wither, the tree dies in new soil. And she had been torn up
roughly, by the strongest and deepest root, cast into a ditch, to die of
a broken heart, in a foreign land. He had yet to learn that the thought
of him would give her courage to live; but she knew he still wanted her
and she could help him to endure.
And so they watched and wept and shook impotent fists at those
barbarians, whose dark figures still moved amongst the ruins of home,
their teeth chattering with the chill, huddled together like the waifs
they were for a little warmth and comfort, with not a blanket nor a
crust between them. Fires had broken out in the ruins and Ian thought
of the library, of those old books and parchments which could not be
replaced. They never knew how long they sat thus; but the Prussians
ceased to move about. Ian felt as if nothing could make him close his
eyes again. When the flames had given place to columns of smoke Father
Constantine struggled to his feet. They had ceased to weep, even to
curse their foes; the silence of despair was upon them.
"Children," he said quietly, "let us say a prayer together."
He held up the old malachite Crucifix he had taken from the sacristy.
Afterwards the Countess was wont to say that the prayers saved her
reason, though they did bring back the tears, and in floods. But
supplication drew the poison of despair from all their hearts; they let
God, Whom they had reproached aloud just before, back into their souls;
and he gave them strength to endure. Ian, too, was all the better for
it; his first outburst over, he had had another and another, not of
grief but of rage, whenever he heard a fresh explosion and saw flames
consume yet one more building of Ruvno. Vanda and Minnie, too, were the
quieter afterwards. The Father reminded them, in his simple intimate
way, in the tones they had heard over the supper-table, as well as in
the little chapel, that this was not the first time that their dear
Poland had been laid waste by fierce enemies; that the Lord Jesus
watches over the weak and heavily stricken; that the Prussians, though
they destroy homes and even bodies, cannot kill souls! He used such
simple words of consolation, of faith and Christian courage, that they
all felt new strength in them to drink the bitter cup--to the dregs, if
need be.
They were still on their knees by the roadside and Father Constantine
was giving the Benediction when they heard the clatter of horses' hoofs
coming down from the direction of Kutno. The Countess' first thought
was to crouch in the ditch, for she had grown suspicious of all
travelers; but the horseman, riding low and fast on his horse's neck,
had a drawn revolver and with it covered Ian, who appeared to be
nearest.
"A step and I shoot you!"
He spoke the German of the Russians who learn a few words on the
battlefield and in the trenches.
Probably they would have heard and seen nothing more of him, but his
horse, with a neigh of pain and yet of affection, dropped.
"Dead," he muttered, this time in Russian. Slipping off the poor
beast's back, he began to caress it, using those endearing words even
the wildest Cossacks have for their horses, whom they love, calling him
his beloved Sietch, his little dove, his only friend, his brother. And
there were tears in his voice which moved the spectators, now so well
acquainted with grief.
He took no notice of them; said they two must part, but he would not
leave his good friend by the road, like a dog, but would put him into a
ditch or trench, and cover him with earth, lest the vultures picked his
tired, faithful body. He looked about, evidently for a grave, and saw
the desolate little group.
"Russian?" he asked.
"Polish," answered Ian.
"Running away, too?"
Ian told him, shortly, what they had run away from.
"Am I near Kosczielna?"
"Ten versts."
"Ah--do we hold it?"
"You do not. But you've killed nearly all the Prussians who held it
last night."
"Warsaw is still ours?"
"So far. But Prussians hold this road as far as the river--perhaps
farther."
He was thoughtful for a moment. He looked the wildest figure, capless,
bootless, his long dark hair blowing in the night breeze.
"To get to Warsaw is useless," he muttered at last.
"Then how can we escape ... where can we go?" put in the Countess.
He pulled his long Cossack forelock and gave an awkward bow.
"Madam, we must strike the Vistula and make for Grodno, or Vilno."
"What? Tramp four hundred versts?" She was horrified. "We haven't as
much as a horse, let alone a cart."
"Four hundred versts," he repeated. "I did not know. I don't see how
we are to reach Warsaw before it is German." He turned to Ian. "Do
you, sir, help me lay my little horse in its grave. Then we can
decide."
Hastily they put it into a trench, and the Cossack kicked earth over it,
telling his story, meanwhile, in odd, broken Polish, of which he was
very proud. He had been captured by the Prussians not far from Ruvno,
and taken to the Vistula, he was not clear where, to be sent by water
into Germany. But their boat was shelled by the Russians and wrecked.
Like all Cossacks he was an expert swimmer and he swam up against the
tide, got ashore near a wood and struck the high road from Thorn to
Warsaw. He had been riding since early morning and Sietch was already
much tried when they were captured.
But for all his advocating the Grodno route, he seemed loathe to leave
his new friends and strike out done when he saw that they were bent upon
trying to get to Sohaczev. I think the knowledge, gathered from their
talk amongst themselves, that Ian knew every by-way and short-cut to
that town--for much of the way lay on his own land--impressed him.
"I am strange to this country," he explained. "I might not find the
river, to strike across country into Lithuania, and four hundred versts
is a long way."
"You will come up with your friends once you cross the river," said Ian.
"The Russians still held the right bank of the Vistula, this evening."
"Have you no horses?" he asked.
Vanda told him that Ruvno and its contents lay under a wreckage of brick
and stone. Ian turned to his mother.
"I am for pushing on to Warsaw," he said. "Neither of us can tramp four
hundred versts within three weeks. We must trust to our luck to find
the Grand Duke in Sohaczev. Von Senborn said this morning that he was
there, waiting for the rest of his army to come up."
"Very well," she said, putting her arm in his. "If only I could see the
Grand Duke, he'd send us to Warsaw by hook or by crook. War changes
many things, but it doesn't kill the convenience of having powerful
friends."
"Will he go with us?" asked Vanda, meaning the Cossack.
"I hope not," whispered her aunt.
"They are wild people at the best," said the Father, speaking English.
"If he joins us he'll see your jewels taken from the earth."
"Besides," said Ian, "if the Prussians catch us alone they may give us a
pass to Warsaw--God knows, we're harmless beggars, even to them. But to
have an escaped prisoner--only--how to tell him?"
"Well--are we going to start?" asked the Cossack. Nobody answered.
He was no fool, for he guessed the reasons why they greeted his proposal
in stony silence. I suppose he thought a woman would be soft-hearted,
so addressed himself to the Countess, giving one of his awkward bows.
"Madam," he said, "I know you think me a savage Cossack, given to
pilfering and all sorts of wildness. But I am a good Cossack, of the Don
Troop, coming of many atamans. My name is Ostap Hovodsky; my mother is
an Efremov. We serve the Tsar with our own horses, uniforms and arms;
we are warriors and farmers, but neither Huns nor Prussians. You need
not fear for any treasure you may have about you for your journey. As
to this"--he threw down his pistol--"it has been in the water and I have
had no ammunition for a week. And this," he tore off his ragged coat
and threw it into the ditch. "I spit upon it. I always meant to change
it the moment I could find a dead man to pilfer. This is no place for
Cossack uniforms. I'll walk in my shirt, or without it, rather than
make you anxious. If you want my company you will not regret it. From
your looks I see you are not used to make your way through deserted
battlefields. You will find me useful, and I shall be glad to know the
nearest way to report myself to Nicolai Nicolaievitch."
"I will take you with pleasure," said Ian, who felt confidence in him
after this little speech. "But there are others."
"I, too," agreed Minnie, who naturally did not share the Polish aversion
to Cossacks.
"I believe you'll be our friend," said Vanda.
"I have known good Cossacks," said Father Constantine, "and I think you
are one of them."
The Countess said no more, so it was settled that Ostap, as he insisted
on their calling him, should go with them. He thanked them, and then,
of a sudden, took the initiative, and became their leader.
"You have no pick?" he asked.
They looked at each other in consternation. It was true. In his haste
to leave the house Ian had forgotten to bring a spade, to dig up the
jewels.
"Where do the Prussians lie now?" he asked again. Ian took him up the
bank by the windmill site and showed him, so far as he knew, where they
had occupied Ruvno soil.
"Very well. I'll go for a pick, or a shovel."
"You'll be captured if you do," said Father Constantine. "They have
sentries."
"Never mind. We must have a few things. Do you all wait here and I'll
be back very soon. If you hear a very long whistle you'll know I am
taken and then you must fend for yourselves. Otherwise, wait."
"I'll come, too--" said Ian.
"Can you walk on your belly?"
"I can try."
"That's no good. You learn it early or not at all. And you cannot take
a pannikin or water-bottle from a sleeping man's side without waking
him. Even the Prussians can't do that. I'm safer alone."
And he disappeared, after taking up the bridle which had been on
Sietch--the only harness he had.
The moon had waned and darkness was upon them. To save time they moved
to the spot where Ian and the Father had buried half of the jewels last
summer. They put the rest in the lane which ran to the east of the
house. During the momentary lulls when safe from prying eyes, Ian had
been in the habit of going to see if they were safe and none the worse
for lying underground. When the windmill was destroyed they were
anxious about them. But on clearing away the debris he found them safe
and sound in kind Mother Earth, who never deserts men, if only they know
how to tend and love her as she requires. He and his mother thought
more and more about them as their forests were ruined and fields ceased
to bear; for with them they could not only live, had they to bolt, till
the war would be over; but later on they hoped to come back and repair
some at least of the damage done to Ruvno.
But in all their talks of the dim future they had never dreamed of such
utter ruin as now faced them. For the Russians appeared to do well after
driving foes from the very gates of Warsaw, and everybody was full of
hope till a couple of weeks back.
They had all learnt by heart how many paces north and west of the
windmill was the hole, so did not foresee much trouble in finding it.
It seemed hours before Ostap came back, and they began to fear he had
been captured and could not even whistle to warn them. At last,
however, a faint whistle came from the road below. Ian went to meet
him.
He always knew the Cossacks for pilferers, but never thought the night
would come when he and his family would be glad to share a Cossack's
booty. Ostap had lived up to the traditions of his people, which
includes a genius for finding the thing they want and making the most of
an awkward situation. He struggled under the weight of many things,
slung on his back by means of Sietch's bridle. He had a pick, which he
handed to Ian.
"Do you dig," he said. "And I will divide these things among us."
He had found what remained of the Prussians' feast, so rudely
interrupted by shells from Kosczielna. He had three huge loaves of rye
bread, brandy, which the Countess insisted on Father Constantine's
having some of, three tins of preserved food (it was too dark to read
the labels) and cheese. He had boots for himself, taken, he said, from
a dead trooper, and a jersey from the same source. The women shuddered
at the thought of wearing clothes stripped from a corpse, but he was
quite pleased with them. Then he had a water-bottle, three nose-bags
and two horse-cloths. These were a good deal torn, but Vanda and
Minnie, in light frocks, were very glad of them.
"Only three loaves," he said regretfully. "But I ate the other on the
spot. I heard you say you had had supper and I had touched no food for
twenty-four hours. These nose-bags will do to carry the food in, one
for the priest and one each for us men."
Quickly he distributed his booty in the three nosebags.
"There," he said when it was done. "We shall not have a feast, but at
least something to put in our stomachs. Mine was empty before I went
over to them. They are all sleeping like the dead they lie by, except
the wounded, who groan and yell." He turned to the Countess. "And
where can I fill this water-bottle without getting poisoned, my Lady?"
"We shall pass a spring soon after we start for Sohaczev."
"My God, but I've a thirst. Is there nothing nearer?"
"Only the House supply," she answered sadly. "And that must be under
the ruins."
Meanwhile, Ian and the two girls were working their hardest, Ian
loosening the earth with the pick and helping to shovel it up. This
they did with their hands, having nothing else. The Countess helped,
too, but they all insisted on the Father resting before his long tramp.
His seventy-odd years could ill withstand the experiences of the past
twelve months. His rheumatism had grown worse, and the wound he took in
the winter, during the kitchen fight, never properly healed. A surgeon
Ian had called in said it would take years before the skin hardened over
the bone. They did manage to get a kind of cap, of aluminum, to protect
the skull. But whereas a quiet life and comfort would have done him
good, all they could give him that year was worry and hardship.
Ostap looked on but did not offer to help dig up the "treasure" as he
called it. He did say how sorry he was not to have found a spade as
well as a pick; but that was all. He did not want them to suspect of a
desire to pilfer their jewels.
The three worked hard for some time, then Vanda got up to stretch her
legs, cramped by the posture.
"We haven't hit the right spot," she said.
"I believe you're right," agreed Ian. "We've not struck cement even."
"If only we had another pick," sighed Minnie. "We'd get on quicker."
"What are they saying?" Ostap asked the priest.
"They are short of a pick."
Despite protests he disappeared; whilst Ian was still measuring the
paces, he came back, not with a pick but a spade. Ian, seeing the girls
were exhausted with work and anxiety, asked him to use it.
"Ah--you trust me," said the Cossack. "I'll help with pleasure."
They set to work again; silence holding the little group. Even the
talkative Ostap did not speak.
"Cement!" Ian said suddenly.
He had said it so many times only to find stones that the others took no
notice. However, he and Ostap plodded on--and at last Ian held up a
small object.
"The thermos bottle," he said, giving it to his mother.
In the dark she and the girls opened it, counting the black pearls.
They were intact.
"Work carefully now," Ian warned Ostap. "The rest are in waterproof
packets--we shall miss them."
"It's so dark," complained the priest. "Can't we use my electric
torch?"
"Not if you want to be alive to-morrow," said Ostap bluntly. "Their
sentries are watching."
And they fumbled on. The moon had set long ago, so they worked very
slowly. But at last, after feeling every clod of earth near where they
found the thermos bottle, they came upon a waterproof packet. It
contained Minnie's pearls.
"Only one more, Ostap," said Ian. "It was put near this. We sha'n't be
long."
In a few moments he found it; it held half of the famous Ruvno emeralds,
worth many thousand roubles. Ostap did not ask what was in the packet,
but remarked:
"Oh, God, it's wonderful how little room treasure takes up. Now do you
all, ladies, secure them well about your persons; and we must be off."
"Thank God, we have them at last," said the Countess. "We shall be able
to keep the wolf from the door." She spoke thus, afraid that he would
have an idea of the treasure's real value. For she did not trust him
yet. Hastily they put the pearls about their persons, while Ostap
strolled a few paces away.
"And now for the lane," said Ian. "We'll find that easier."
They had to make a big detour to reach it, for it was madness to go near
the Prussians, as the Countess pointed out. Even as it was they heard
the groans as some wounded men very near at hand. Once, Ian stumbled
over a softish stiff body, in the darkness. He examined it as well as he
could, fearing it might be one of his own household. But the dead man's
helmet told its tale. They left it lying there, walking as silently as
they could, Ian leading the way, because he knew every inch of the
ground. Every now and again some noise from the Prussian camp made them
stand still, in terror that they were discovered. But they were all
false alarms. Many of von Senborn's men were in their last long sleep,
and the rest so tired that it would have taken more noise than these
poor waifs made on the grass to awake them. Their horror was great when
they finally arrived at the top of the lane where Ian had buried the
remainder of the emeralds and his mother's rings. It was blocked with
the wreckage of his once prosperous stud farm.
"We're ruined," whispered the Countess. "None of us can get through
that."
"I'll get over," said Ostap, when the situation was explained to him.
"But you must tell me where the treasure lies."
"I'll come with you," said Vanda.
"Nonsense!" This from Ian. "I'll go."
She put her hand on his arm.
"You're too heavy. You'll bring down a lot of the ruins, wake the
sentries and we shall be done."
"It's not safe," he said, squeezing her hand.
"It is," she whispered. "I can climb like a cat. Do let me."
He made no further objection. In silence he watched her climb the
ruins. Ostap was wonderful. He made not the faintest noise, reached the
top of the ruins, which were like those made by an earthquake, then took
Vanda in his arms and stepped as noiselessly down the other side with
her. It seemed a long time elapsed after their dark figures
disappeared. Then they arrived unexpectedly over the far end of the
ruins.
"Well?" asked Ian anxiously.
"Hopeless," she answered.
"The spot where your treasure lies is under twenty feet of brick and
rubbish," said Ostap.
"Can't we clear it?"
"Not without waking some Prussians. We heard their snores."
"Oh, Ostap," said the poor Countess, forgetting her suspicion in her
anxiety, "you are so clever--surely you can help us. I'll come--and
we'll all lift the debris away brick by brick, with our hands,
silently."
"I cannot, my lady. Look!" He pointed eastward. "Daylight would
overtake us. Besides, the ruins are very heavy. It can't be done
without risking your jewels and your lives."
"Yes, he is right, Aunt," said Vanda sadly.
They were all disappointed and loath to give up the search. The
Countess wept a little at the thought of leaving so much wealth behind.
Ostap, who had been silent about the other jewels, did his best to
comfort them now.
"Your treasure is safer here than in a Moscow bank," he said. "The
Prussians will not touch it, for who would think to scrape under this
horse farm? And when we have come back and cleared the earth of the
enemy, you can dig for them in peace, and you will have money with which
to build up your home. In Russia, neither bread nor meat is lacking and
you can very well live on what you dug up near the high road. Let us
go. The night passes, and darkness is now our best friend."
He was right. What good to linger weeping over their misfortunes? With
heavy hearts they turned away and set out across the trench-furrowed
fields to Sohaczev.