necessary to move immediately before the Russian spies could give the
alarm; so that by daybreak the following morning the countess’
carriage, escorted by my flying column, started on the road to the
frontier. Fortunately, we were not molested on the way, and, when we
arrived at about a quarter of a mile from Myszkow, I halted my
soldiers, and, putting on the ordinary dress of a civilian, I
accompanied the ladies to the station and busied myself with their
passports, tickets, and baggage with all the feverish anxiety of one
who strove to forget the terrible ordeal through which I had yet to
pass before I should be able to rejoin them. When the train came up I
brought the ladies out on the platform, and, having procured a special
compartment for them, made them get into it with the children. Then at
last I could breathe freely. No one had discovered them—they were safe!
“Adieu!” I exclaimed, as I shook hands with them at the carriage-door.
“You are now out of danger, for which I thank God with my whole heart.
You will tell the count that I have fulfilled my promise to him, will
you not? And you will not forget me?” I added with a faltering voice.
They looked at me as if stupefied. “But, Mika,” exclaimed the countess,
“we cannot go without you! You must be joking. It is not possible for
you to stay behind. What on earth is there to detain you?”
“You forget,” I replied as calmly as I could, “my promise to the dying
general; my vow to remain with his troops until replaced, if he would
only grant me this escort; Poland, which I have sworn to defend.”
“But this is dreadful!” murmured the poor countess. “How can we enjoy
our liberty, purchased at such a price?”
Mme. de I—— said nothing. She was as white as a sheet; her hand
tightened on mine, and she fixed her eyes on me as if she were turned
into stone. More fully than the countess did she realize the full peril
of the position. I was broken-hearted; but, fearing lest this scene
should attract the attention of the officials or of any Russian spies,
I left the carriage-door under pretence of having forgotten something.
When I returned the train was already moving out of the station. The
countess rushed to the window and wrung my hand convulsively for the
last time. She could not speak. My eyes followed the receding train
with a feeling of despair in my heart. It was carrying off all I loved
best on earth, and I was alone. All of a sudden I heard my name called
out with a cry of anguish from the carriage, and then, I think, for a
moment I lost consciousness, as if struck by lightning, and remained
motionless and stunned. Till that moment I had not realized the full
bitterness of the sacrifice. I woke from this kind of stupor to hear
voices in hot dispute behind me. I turned round and saw a Polish
soldier, covered with dust and in a tattered uniform, struggling with
two of the porters of the railroad, who were trying to stop him.
“What do you want to do?” I exclaimed. “Who are you looking for?”
“Michael the Sombre,” replied the soldier.
“I am the man,” I replied quietly, drawing him aside out of the station
to a part of the road where we could talk without being heard.
“O sir! make haste,” the poor fellow cried. “Generals O——, De la Croix,
and Zaremba are fighting at Koniec-Pol and are being overwhelmed by the
superior forces of the enemy. If they be not reinforced by two o’clock
they will all be cut to pieces.”
I instantly sent off a messenger to General Chmielinski to warn him of
the danger; and then, without giving myself time to put on my uniform,
I buckled my sword over my black coat, and galloped as hard as I could
to the scene of action. I divided my squadron into three columns, and
sent each, under the command of an officer, in three different
directions. The Russian sentinels consequently gave the alarm on three
sides at once, and the Russians, fancying themselves surrounded by a
large force, were seized with an uncontrollable panic and fled in the
direction of Shepca; Chmielinski’s column, advancing exactly in that
direction, met them, and the three infantry companies of which they
were composed were literally cut to pieces. During the charge a ball
had passed through my boot and wounded me in the right leg. Father
Benvenuto was at my side in a moment and had me removed to Chezonstow,
where the good Mother Alexandra, of whom I have before spoken, was at
the head of the ambulance. She gave me up her own cell and would allow
no one but herself to nurse me. During my illness a division arose
among my troops. They dispersed; some went home, others joined a corps
under the orders of Langewiecz, while the remainder followed Norbut.
When sufficiently recovered from my wound, finding I was still too lame
for active service, I accepted a mission for the Central Polish
Committee at P——, but was unable to obtain my release. From thence I
started for N——, where I made my will and a general confession, and
then started again for the front, having my passport drawn up under the
name of Michael L——. This time I enlisted as a common soldier under the
orders of General Sokol. After the first engagement I was appointed
quartermaster and interpreter to a French officer, Ivon Amie, _dit_ De
Chabrolles. On the next brush we had with the enemy I was promoted to
be sub-lieutenant for having rescued the national flag from a Russian.
Between Secemin and Rudnick we were attacked by six hundred Russians
with two field-pieces. We were only two hundred and fifty men, with no
cannon. Chabrolles, in his mad zeal, rushed forward, pistol in hand,
and fired straight at the men who were loading their guns at only
twenty paces off. Then he turned to give an order, and the enemy’s fire
(both pieces being pointed in his direction) carried off part of his
shoulder. Regardless of his wound, he cheered on his men by word and
deed, and they were on the point of capturing the guns when a Cossack
thrust him through and through with his lance. I was by Chabrolles’
side and fired at his adversary, who fell before he had had time to
draw out his weapon. This sad office devolved upon one of our own men.
Chabrolles, when falling, gave me his hand. “My brother,” he said
faintly, “if you get back to France go to Paris and see my mother. She
is at 37 Rue Clerc au Gros Caillou. Tell her that her son has died as a
brave Christian should die.” Unable to reply, I tore my crucifix out of
my breast and presented it to him. He made a last effort, kissed it
with fervor, made the sign of the cross, and expired, his eyes raised
to heaven.
Our detachment was then entirely defeated. In vain I tried to rally our
men; they fled in the utmost disorder. With a few braver spirits than
the rest I managed, at least, to protect our retreat. I was just
beginning to congratulate myself on our escape when a Cossack, with his
lance at rest, rode straight at me. I had fired off my last pistol.
With one hand I seized my sword to parry the charge; with the other I
pressed my crucifix to my breast. The lance turned aside, went through
the sleeve of my uniform and out at my back without touching my flesh.
If I never believed in a miracle I should at this moment, when I
realized that I was really unhurt, although death had seemed so
inevitable. In this terrible fight we lost, besides Chabrolles, Major
Zachowski and Captains Piotraszkiewicz and Krasmicki. At the close of
the day I was promoted to be lieutenant of the Uhlans.
One day I was ordered to convey some arms and ammunition to a distant
outpost, and loaded the bottom of a britzska with about twenty guns and
swords and fifty revolvers. I was in plain clothes, and my orderly,
Badecki, acted as coachman. The road was supposed to be quite safe.
Judge, then, of our fright when we discovered a large body of Russian
cavalry riding directly towards us. It was too late to think of beating
a retreat. A shudder passed through me; for it was the worst kind of
death which threatened us—not a glorious one on the field of battle,
but a slow torture, or else to be hanged on the nearest tree. I prayed
with my whole heart for deliverance, and felt that the hand of God
alone could save us. After this moment of recollection calm again fell
upon me and my presence of mind returned. The officer who commanded the
corps came up a few seconds after and asked me who I was and where I
was going. I replied “that I was the German tutor of Princess Ikorff (a
Russian lady), and that I was going to Kielce to buy books.” My story
was confirmed by my Berlin accent; and as at this moment the Prussians
were in odor of sanctity with their brethren, the Russians, the officer
simply bowed and let us pass without interruption or suspicion. But the
last Cossack of the band drew near to the carriage-door. “Noble Sir!”
he exclaimed in that cringing voice which is natural to the race, “give
me some kopecks to drink your health.” In the state of excitement I was
in I did not think of what I was doing, and threw him three ducats
instead of kopecks. The poor fellow was so amazed that he hastened to
show his gratitude after the Cossack fashion—that is, by kissing my
feet—and calling me by every imaginable title: prince, duke, etc. This
was a terrible moment for me. The guns were under my feet, only hidden
by a slight covering of hay, the least displacement of which would have
exposed them. God, in his mercy, did not allow it, and my Cossack,
after a thousand obeisances and calling down on my head every blessing
from St. George and St. Nicholas, left me and rejoined his companions.
I arrived at my destination without further alarms, my heart filled
with thankfulness to Him who had so mercifully preserved us from the
worst of deaths.
About the beginning of September Gen. Iskra was attacked by a strong
corps, and I was sent off to his relief with about one hundred men. The
Russians were repulsed; but we lost in this skirmish our Italian
doctor, M. Vigani, and M. Loiseau, a French officer of artillery.
During the night the Russians, having received reinforcements, returned
to the attack. We were too few in numbers and too exhausted to attempt
to fight, and retreated on Pradla. During this retreat my horse, which
belonged to a private in the corps, made a false step and fell. I had
fired the last barrel of my revolver, and one of my legs had got
doubled up under my horse, which made me powerless. At this moment a
Cossack galloped straight at me. I felt that my last hour was come, and
recommended my soul to God.
“Yield thyself, rebel!” he cried out in bad Polish.
“A Frenchman dies, but never yields,” I replied.
My enemy hesitated for a moment, and then lowered his sword, which he
had already raised to cut me down.
“Listen,” he said: “In the Crimea a Frenchman who had me at his mercy
spared my life; for his sake I will spare thine. But give me all the
money thou hast.”
I threw my purse to him, which contained about twenty roubles. The
Cossack helped me to rise, and then said:
“Now fly for thy life; for my comrades are at hand, and they will not
spare thee!”
During the whole war this was the only instance of humanity I ever
heard of on the part of the Cossacks, and I gladly record it here.
The following day Princess Elodie C—— came to the camp, at the head of
a deputation of Polish ladies, to thank me for my devotion to the cause
of Poland.
One day I was sitting, sadly enough, under a pine-tree. My troops,
silent and sombre, were warming themselves by a great fire. For two
days we had eaten nothing. As for me, I was thinking of the absent, and
felt terribly lonely. When I looked up I saw two beautiful, intelligent
heads watching me, as if saying: “Are we, then, nothing to you—we who
have shared all your sufferings and dangers?” They were my two only
friends and companions: Al-Mansour, my Arab horse, and Cæsar, my
faithful Newfoundland dog. I got up and caressed them both. “O my best
friends!” I exclaimed, “you will be with me till death, and if you
survive me you will mourn for me more than any one else.” And as I
kissed them my eyes filled with tears. Al-Mansour laid his head on my
shoulder, and Cæsar licked my hand. They were my only comfort. One
minute after a courier arrived to beg for reinforcements. Gen.
Iċzioranski was fighting `c at Piaskowa-Scala. I whistled to Cæsar, who
was an excellent bearer of despatches, and would even fight to defend
them, and fastened a note under his collar. Then, showing him the
direction he was to take, I cried: “Hie quickly, Cæsar! and return as
soon as you can.” And the dog started off like a shot.
We mounted and galloped to Piaskowa-Scala. The action was short, and we
managed to free Iċzioranski, who was surrounded on all sides. At the
very moment when the Russians were giving way Al-Mansour bounded with
me up in the air, gave a terrible cry, and fell. I had hardly time to
get my feet out of the stirrups. He had been shot by a ball in the
chest. The poor beast had a moment of convulsion, and then turned his
beautiful, soft eyes towards me, as if to implore my help; then his
legs stiffened and he trembled again all over. I bent over him and
passed my hand through his thick and beautiful mane, calling him for
the last time; and then ... I covered my face with both hands and
sobbed like a little child. Al-Mansour had been a real friend to me. I
had had him when quite young and unbroken; I had trained him entirely
myself, and from Breslau to Warsaw I defy any one to have found a more
beautiful or intelligent animal. I alone could ride him; he never would
allow any one else on his back. For four years I had ridden him every
day. The countess had given him to me, and I had brought him with me to
the camp. Alas! he was no longer the splendid beast which used to
excite the admiration of everybody in the castle stables. Fatigue and
privations of all kinds had reduced him to a skeleton, so that his old
grooms would not have known him again. I only loved him the more; and
it used almost to break my heart when I saw him, for want of hay, oats,
or even straw, eating the bark of trees to deaden the pangs of his
hunger. He loved me as much as I loved him. I used to talk to him, and
he understood me perfectly and answered me after his fashion. Although
people who read this may laugh at me, it was yet a fact, which I am
ready to maintain, that when I was wounded Al-Mansour had tears in his
eyes; and nothing on earth will ever efface his memory from my heart.
Another anecdote which I must relate here refers to a lad—a very
child—whom I had in my squadron, and whose name was Charles M——. At
fifteen years of age he was a perfect marvel of cleverness, and had
received, besides, an excellent education. He was born in Paris, his
father being a Polish exile, and his mother, after twenty years’
residence in France, still yearned for the arid plains and marshes of
Poland. “_Boze è Polska_!” (God and Poland)—those were the first words
she taught her boy to pronounce; and Charles could never separate his
worship of one from the other. This double love, strengthened by all
the surroundings of his childhood, became in him a kind of fanaticism.
When the insurrection broke out in Poland Charles was a boarder in the
Polish college of Batignolles. He was just fifteen. From that moment
his life became a continual fever. To go to Poland to fight, and, if
necessary, to die for the soil of his fathers were the thoughts which
took such possession of the lad that they became irresistible. He saved
from his pocket-money and from whatever he gained in prizes the sum
necessary for the journey, and, when he thought he had enough, he
escaped from the college, leaving a note to explain his intentions,
and, after many difficulties, arrived at the camp.
I was then in command of the second squadron of Uhlans, under Gen.
Sokol. Charles came straight to me to be enrolled. I flatly refused to
accept him, saying he was too young and too weak to bear arms.
“What does it matter if one’s arm be weak,” he exclaimed, “if hatred
for our oppressors drive my blows home? It is true that I have only the
height of a child, but in my love for Poland I have the heart of a man,
and I will fight like a man!”
I remained inflexible. At that moment the general came into my tent and
asked what was the question in dispute. I told him. After a moment or
two of reflection he turned to me and said:
“You must accept him. I am apt to judge of character by people’s heads;
and this one is filled with indomitable energy and courage.”
Charles was consequently enlisted, to his intense joy. I got him a
little pony, and arms proportioned to his size, and he fought by my
side like a lion in every encounter.
After the fight at Piaskowa-Scala we returned to the camp, having
fortunately found some provisions. The night was so dark that we were
obliged to light torches, which the soldiers carried at certain
distances. Passing before a pine-tree, the new horse I was riding
suddenly shied and nearly threw me. I looked to see what had frightened
him, and discovered a black object hanging from a branch of the tree. I
called a soldier to bring his torch, that we might find out what it
was. The light fell on the hanging form; it was my dear dog, Cæsar. On
the trunk of the tree was fastened a paper with this inscription: “We
hang the dog until we can hang his master.” I was thunderstruck.
Al-Mansour, Cæsar, both my friends in one day, perhaps at the very same
hour! “Nothing, then, is left to me!” I exclaimed with bitterness,
feeling that my poor dog was quite cold—“nothing, not even those poor
faithful beasts who loved me so much.”
“Yes,” said a voice in my ear, “a countryman is left to you, and, if
you will, a friend!”
I turned round; it was little Charles, who was holding out his hand to
me with looks full of sadness and sympathy. I pressed the child’s hand.
“Charles!” I exclaimed, “we will try and avenge them.” And spurring my
horse, I left the fatal spot far behind me in a few minutes.
A day or two later we went to join the larger corps of General
Chmielinski at the camp at Tedczyjowa. When I say “camp” I make a
mistake. None existed; we had only a few miserable tents and hardly any
baggage. The men slept by parties of ten in the woods, on the cold
ground, with such coverings or sheepskins as they could get together;
many had only cloth cloaks. At break of day the _réveil_ sounded,
ordinarily at the entrance of some glade where the vedettes could
embrace a wide space. At the first bugle sound the soldiers emerged
from the forest. The men were gentle and sad. The indomitable and calm
energy of their souls was reflected on their faces, though blanched
with cold and worn with hunger and sufferings of every description.
They had a kind of interior brightness in their look that cast over
them a sort of sacred halo, before which I believe the veriest sceptic
would have bowed with reverence. These men were all possessed with one
idea: to die for their faith and their country. Nothing else, indeed,
was left for them. The struggle was becoming more hopeless every day,
and they knew it; yet they never dreamt of giving it up. The roll-call
over and the sentries relieved, Father Benvenuto came in the midst of
us, and every knee was bowed before the sacred sign he bore—the sign of
our redemption. There was indeed something glorious in that prayer in
the open air, joined in audibly by all those men, united in one thought
and in one wish, who were fighting with the certainty of eventual
defeat, but who only asked of God the grace not to falter or turn back
from the path which duty and the love of their country had marked out
for them, albeit that path might have no issue but exile or death.
Happy were those who fell in battle! They went at once to swell the
glorious army of martyrs. The others, when not hanged, chained in a
long and mournful procession, were sent to Siberia after that terrible
word of farewell addressed to fathers and mothers, and wives and
children, gathered sobbing by the roadside: “_Do nie widzenia!_”—Never
to meet again. Many of these poor fellows were fastened to an iron bar,
sometimes ten of them together, and carried off in the direction of
Kiew. Those who survived the horrors of the march or the lash of their
drivers were taken across Greater Russia. A “soteria,” or company, of
Cossacks surrounded these innocent men on every side as they toiled on
and on, loaded with chains and treated worse than the vilest criminals.
The lance and the whip were the only answer to pleas of exhaustion or
sickness. A resigned silence was the sole refuge from the brutality of
their escort, whose only orders were _not to spare the blood of those
Polish dogs_. Any complaint brought down a hailstorm of blows on the
unfortunate victims, even when not followed by death. Truly, the
sufferings endured by the Poles will never be known till the day when
all things shall be revealed.
When we arrived at the camp we found that Father Benvenuto had preceded
us by four or five hours. He had been commissioned to receive about one
hundred volunteers who had arrived that morning from Galicia. The
greater part of them were dressed in the gray _kontusz_ (or Bradenburg
greatcoat), with the large leathern girdle of a _géral_ (a
mountaineer). On their heads they wore the _roqatka_ (a kind of square
cap, something like the _czapka_ of the Lancers). They generally had a
common fowling-piece with two barrels, and a little hatchet in their
waistbands. Each had a canvas bag and a hunting-pouch. These might be
considered as the flower of the flock. They were mostly students from
Lemberg and Cracow. Others were peasants dressed in short tunics with
scythes in their hands. These were the _kopynicry_ (or mowers),
half-soldiers, half-peasants, and famous in all the struggles of
Poland. Besides these there were men of every age and condition of
life, but all animated with the same patriotic spirit: citizens,
villagers, Catholics, Protestants, Jews even, some wearing black coats,
others workmen’s blouses. Their arms were as varied as their costumes:
parade swords, sabres blunted in the great wars with Napoleon, old
muskets of Sobieski’s days, halberds, and even old French weapons. Some
had only hunting-knives and sticks. This curious assemblage of
discordant elements, which anywhere else would have seemed grotesque,
assumed under the circumstances an imposing, and even a touching,
character.
At the extreme end of the glade Father Benvenuto was praying before a
great Christ stretched on his cross. When he rose he fastened an
amaranth and white flag (which was the Polish banner) to the end of a
lance. This flag bore on one side the picture of Notre Dame de
Czenstochowa, the patroness of Poland; on the other a Lithuanian
cavalier with the white eagle. He fixed the lance in the ground before
the cross, and then made a sign to the volunteers to lay down their
arms and draw near. When each had taken his place the good priest
remained for a moment in silent prayer and recollection. His thin
cheeks with their prominent cheekbones, his long white beard, his
forehead furrowed with wrinkles and glorious wounds, and his tall and
commanding figure gave him an appearance of energy, strength, and
majesty which impressed the beholders with deep and affectionate
veneration.
“Brothers!” at last he said, “it is a holy and yet a fearful cause to
which you are about to devote yourselves. It is one beyond mere vulgar
or animal courage; and before you enroll yourselves in our
ranks—before, in fact, you engage yourselves any further in the
matter—it is right you should know and fully realize what awaits you
and what is expected of you.”
The patriots listened respectfully, their heads bare, standing before
the crucifix and the banner. Around them, and as if to protect them,
stretched the virgin forests, those fortresses of the Polish
insurgents, while the sun shed its pale rays over the whole scene.
“What you have to expect,” continued the good father, “is this: You
will suffer daily from hunger, for we have no stores; you will have to
sleep on the bare ground, for we have no tents; you will have to march
more often with bare feet than with shoes and stockings; you will
shiver with cold under clothes which will be utterly insufficient to
protect you from the rigors of this climate. If you are wounded, you
will fall into the hands of the Muscovites, who will torture you. If
you are afraid and refuse to go forward, your own comrades have orders
to shoot you.”
“We are prepared for everything,” they replied simply.
The good father continued: