have no leave in our ranks, except to go to the mines of Siberia or to
death. Have you reconciled yourselves to God? I can only lead you to
death and prepare you to meet it. Are you ready to die for your
country?” He paused, and then added: “There is still time to draw back.
I can facilitate your return to your homes. Weigh the matter well
before you decide.”
“No, no!” they exclaimed with one voice, “we will not turn back. We
wish to fight to-day, to-morrow—when you will—but to fight and die for
our country. A cheer for Poland! Another cheer for our Mother!”
“My brethren,” began the venerable priest again, “do not give way to
illusions. You are lost if you imagine that you can conquer the enemy
in a few months. Woe be to us all if we forget that it is a giant’s
struggle in which we are engaged, and that a whole generation must
perish before we can expiate the sins of our fathers! Therefore I ask
you again: Are you ready to march to battle, knowing that in the end
you _must_ be defeated, that you _must_ be overpowered by numbers, and
that you have nothing to hope for either in victory or
defeat—_nothing_, not even glory, which lays its crowns of laurel on
the graves of the brave?”
Here his voice faltered; but, mastering his emotion, the venerable old
man, lifting his eyes to heaven and stretching out his hands towards
the crucifix, exclaimed with almost superhuman enthusiasm: “O my God!
thou who knowest the hearts of all men, give to these thy servants the
spirit of courage, self-sacrifice, and faith. Blot out the memory of
our beloved Warsaw from their hearts, and with it the remembrance of
their mothers, their sisters, their betrothed! Let them henceforth see
naught but the glorious army of martyrs and their mother Poland, torn
and blood-stained. Let their ears be closed to all whispers of home,
and be open only to hear the laments of the widows and orphans, the
groans from the depth of the dungeons, the cries which the east wind
brings us across Muscovy from the Siberian mines! May they have but one
thought, one wish, one will—to pursue and annihilate this Russian
vampire, which for nearly a century has fastened on the breasts of our
Virgin of Poland, and has become drunk with her tears and with her
blood!”
“May God hear and grant thy prayer!” replied the volunteers with one
voice. “What thou willest we will; what thou commandest we will do.
Lead us to death or to torture; we will not shrink from either.”
A look of deep joy lit up for a moment the old man’s face and made him
seem as one inspired. He blessed the banner, and then gave out the
Polish national hymn, _Boze cós Polske przesz tak licznie wieki_, of
which the following is an English translation:[182]
I.
O God! who gave Poland her wonderful dower
Of faith through long ages, of strength and of glory,
And now spreadst that faith like a shield o’er an hour
The saddest and darkest of all in her story
CHORUS.
Great God! to thine altars we suppliants come;
Give us back the blest freedom of faith, hearth, and home.
II.
O thou who, in pity, and touched by her fall,
Still strengthenst thy children to fight in thy name.
And showeth the world, ‘midst her sorrow and thrall,
The deeper her suffering, the brighter her fame;
III.
O God! whose all-powerful arm can o’erthrow
The proudest of kingdoms, like huts built on sand,
Avert from thy children these dark clouds of woe.
Raise the hopes of the Poles; give them back their dear land.
IV.
Give back to old Poland her bright days of yore,
To her fields and her cities the blessings of peace.
Give plenty, give freedom, give joy as before;
Oh! cease to chastise us and fill us with grace.
V.
O merciful God! by thy marvellous might
Keep far from us slaughter and war’s fierce despair;
‘Neath the sway of the angel of peace and of light
Let all be united in love and in prayer.
Great God! to thine altars we suppliants come;
Give us back the blest freedom of faith, hearth, and home.
The soldiers, kneeling, repeated this in chorus, and, rising, gave
another cheer for Poland. Then Gen. Chmielinski, who was standing to
the right of Father Benvenuto, turned to them and said: “Now, my
children, go and rest and recruit your strength. You will need it all;
for the enemy we have to fight is strong and numerous, and many among
us will appear before God to-morrow.”
The soldiers did as they were bid, and prepared themselves to pass the
night as comfortably as they could, feeling that it was indeed the last
many would spend on earth. I was going to do the same when I was sent
for by Gen. Sokol, whom I found talking over plans with Gen.
Chmielinski. “Lieut. L——,” he said to me, “we are very anxious for
exact information as to the amount of the Russian force. Are you
tired?”
“Yes, but not enough to refuse a perilous mission. What is there to be
done?”
“To go with a picked body of men on whom you can rely, and reconnoitre
the Russian strength and position; but, for heaven’s sake, be very
prudent. You know the full extent of the danger.”
“Yes. Thanks for having chosen me,” I replied; and, bowing to the two
officers, I withdrew and told Badecki to have my horse saddled
immediately. Whilst I was looking to the loading of my pistols young
Charles M—— came up.
“Lieutenant,” he exclaimed, “you are going to reconnoitre the Russian
army?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Will you let me go with you?”
“No, my boy. To-morrow’s fight may be a serious one, for which you will
need all your strength.”
The poor little fellow made a wry face, but went and lay down again at
the foot of a tree. I only took with me Badecki and an old soldier
named Zeromski, who had distinguished himself in the campaign of 1830.
He had an austere and severe countenance, which, however, brightened
into the sweetest and gentlest smile possible when you spoke to him. He
was as laconic as a Spartan and kept himself always aloof; but under
fire his bravery was heroic, and almost amounted to rashness. His
comrades had nicknamed him _Stalowy-serce_ (heart of steel).
We reconnoitred the enemy’s position without being discovered, and were
returning towards the edge of the camp, when my horse stumbled against
the root of a tree and fell on one knee. My orderly, Badecki, looked at
me anxiously, shook his head, coughed, sighed, and turned uneasily in
his saddle.
“What on earth is the matter, Badecki?” I exclaimed. “One would think
you were sitting on a wasp’s nest.”
“Lieutenant,” he answered, sighing, “it is because your horse stumbled
just now.”
“Well, and what is that to you?” I replied.
“Don’t you know, lieutenant, that if a horse stumbles before a battle
it forebodes misfortune to his rider? I always remarked that in the
campaign of 1830.”
“Oh! you believe that, do you?” I said, smiling. “And you,
Zeromski—have you remarked it too?”
“No, I have not done so myself, but I have been always told so.”
Arrived at the camp, I hastened to give in my report to General Sokol.
He thanked me warmly, and added:
“Now is your opportunity, lieutenant, to win your captain’s epaulets.”
“Yes, general, or a good sabre-cut. I hope it may be one or the other.”
Sokol laughed and said:
“It is certain that, if these unlicked cubs of Russians are as numerous
as you say, they will give us trouble.”
Leaving the general’s quarters, I went and wrapped myself up in my
bear-skin, and, throwing myself under a tree, fell asleep in a moment.
I was completely worn out with fatigue.
Only two hours later, however, I was awakened by the sentries being
relieved. The day had just dawned. The first thing which recurred to my
memory was Badecki’s words. I had a sort of presentiment that they
would turn out to be true. After a few moments of fervent prayer I took
out my pocket-book and made a slight sketch of the spot where the
battle would most likely be fought, and where, perhaps, that very night
they would dig my grave. I wrote a few lines with the sketch, folded
them up, and directed it.
Scarcely had I made my last preparations in this way than our advanced
posts gave the signal that the enemy was approaching. It was part of
the army of Gen. C——, and consisted of two battalions of infantry,
several _soterias_ of Cossacks and dragoons, and four pieces of
artillery. They numbered upwards of three thousand men. We had only
twelve hundred, many of whom were but raw recruits.
Very soon every soul was on the alert and armed. Father Benvenuto was
the first to appear.
“My children!” he cried, “many amongst us will fall this day. You are
all, thank God! prepared for whatever may be his will. Kneel, and I
will give you all a last absolution and benediction.”
Every one knelt with the venerable priest, who prayed for a few minutes
in a low voice and commended us all to God. Then, rising, he added with
emotion:
“My children, I absolve you and bless you all, in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
“Amen!” we all responded, and rose filled with fresh strength and
courage.
“Let every one of you do his duty,” continued he; “that is all I will
say at this moment to patriots who wish to free our dear and holy
Poland or die in the attempt.”
The men went silently to take each his place in the ranks. Gen. Zaremba
was to assume the chief command that day.
“What will do us the most mischief and paralyze our operations,” he
said, “are those field-pieces. If they had not those cannon we should
win.”
Count S——, captain of artillery, came forward. “If you will give me
leave, general, I will go and spike their guns. Are there two hundred
men amongst you who will follow me to certain death? Let them make the
sacrifice of their lives for the safety of all.”
Nearly a thousand men volunteered for this terrible service, though
they knew perfectly well that, in all probability, not one would return
alive.
“Well,” exclaimed the general, “we are twelve hundred men; let us draw
lots.”
A few minutes later the two hundred, favored by fate and their own
heroism, separated themselves from the rest and gathered round their
intrepid leader, forming what might well be called the _phalanx of
death_. Charles M—— burst into tears at not having been one of those
selected.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said to him; “to-day we shall all be equally
favored.”
The general then disposed of his small force in the best manner he
could. He desired no one to fire a single shot till the enemy was
within one hundred paces. Those among the sharpshooters and zouaves who
had breech-loaders were to reserve their second shots till those who
had only single-barrelled guns were reloading. In the event of
confusion or defeat I was ordered with my Uhlans to charge the
fugitives, always taking care to double back with my column behind the
fusileers. These dispositions having been made, and distinct orders
given to each corps, we all remained at our posts in silence, awaiting
the enemy’s approach. On they came, in the well-known serried masses of
the Russian troops, and not a shot was fired till they arrived at the
appointed distance. Then, with a shout and a sharp cry, the signal was
given, our men fired, and upwards of one hundred Russians fell. So
unprepared were they for this sudden discharge that the men behind the
front rank fell back, in spite of the efforts of their officers, and,
scattering to the right and left, became the victims of my Uhlans or
were cut to pieces by the scythes of the _kopinicry_. Then the Russians
in their turn fired, and twenty of our Poles fell. This was the moment
chosen by Count S—— and his two hundred heroes to dash in amidst the
Russian artillery and try and silence their cannon. Passing through the
Russian ranks like a flash of lightning, the count and my brave old
Zeromski succeeded in spiking two of their field-pieces. Whilst ramming
in his gun a ball broke the count’s arm; the next took off his head.
Zeromski had his head broken by the butt-end of a musket, and fell at
the very moment when he had succeeded in spiking a gun to the cry of
“_Niech zeja Polske_!” (Hurrah for Poland!)
We could not look on in cold blood and see the horrible massacre of
these two hundred. Comrades and all with one accord threw themselves
into the enemy’s ranks. The voice of our officers fell on dead ears; we
were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with equal fury on both sides. Now
and then, when our Poles gave way before superior numbers, the Russian
artillery had time to load their remaining guns, and when our poor
fellows came back to the charge they were simply mowed down before the
heavy fire that opened upon them. But still no one thought of
self-preservation, only how to deal the hardest blows. All strategy or
tactics had become impossible, and officers and men alike fought inch
by inch for their lives. From the first moment when the fighting had
become general I was attacked by a quartermaster of dragoons. We both
fought with swords; but I was so exhausted that I could hardly keep my
saddle, and all I could do was to try and parry the strokes of my
adversary. All of a sudden a violent cramp seized my right arm; but at
that critical moment I heard the voice of little Charles behind me:
“Hold on for a minute longer!” he cried; and, galloping with his pony
across a heap of dead, he fired off his pistol close to the head of my
enemy, who dropped without a word. But at the same instant I saw the
heroic child stagger and turn deadly white; a ball had struck him in
the chest.
“Adieu, lieutenant! Adieu, brother!” he murmured, as he slipped off his
horse to the ground. “My poor mother! How she will cry! My Lord and my
God, have mercy upon me!”
Those were his last words. I bore him on my shoulders, and carried him
out of the field of battle, and laid him down under a tree. I put my
hand on his heart; it had ceased to beat. The generous child had died
to save me. He had a beautiful smile on his face, and two tears
glistened on his cheeks. I closed his eyes, and, kissing his forehead,
said: “Sleep in peace, my brave boy! If I survive this day I will carry
these tears to your poor mother.”
I called two of the pioneers, and told them to dig a separate grave for
poor Charles, that his body might not fall into the enemy’s hands; and
then, jumping on the horse of a Cossack who had just been killed, I
threw myself again into the fray. All my strength had come back. I
fought like one possessed; and this over-excitement lasted till I felt
the cold steel going through me. A Cossack had thrust his lance into my
left breast. I lifted up my heart to God for one moment, and then fell,
pressing my crucifix convulsively. My orderly, seeing me fall, carried
me off rapidly to a carriage which was already full of wounded men.
Thanks to Father Benvenuto, who never ceased watching over me, I came
back to life again and met the loving and sisterly eyes of Mother
Alexandra, who again insisted on my sharing her cell. I was in great
danger for five days, and, if I did not sink under my sufferings, it
was owing to the devoted care of which I was the object. One night my
secret was well-nigh discovered. Mother Alexandra had been called away
to some other patient and had left me to the care of a young sister. My
fever ran high, and, being delirious, I tore off the bandages from my
wound and threw them away. Frightened at my state, the sister luckily
ran to fetch Mother Alexandra, exclaiming: “Come as quickly as you can;
the lieutenant is dying!” She flew back to me, and remained alone by my
bedside. Her presence calmed me at once, and I allowed her to bandage
me up again and stop the blood, which had burst out in streams from the
wound.
In the same house we had forty-five wounded from this battle, wherein
the Poles had displayed prodigies of valor. The Russian loss was very
great, and if they were not altogether crushed, it was owing to their
numerical superiority. As it was, they retired in good order, for we
had not sufficient men to follow them in their retreat. When I was
allowed to go out of my cell I went to see my comrades. I helped the
sisters in dressing their wounds, and, when my strength would allow me,
I used to read aloud to them as we sat round the stove. At the end of a
month, out of forty-five wounded thirty-two were convalescent.
At the end of six weeks I felt myself strong enough to bear the motion
of a horse, and so accepted a mission for my old general, who, by the
orders of the Central Committee, came to take the command of the forces
in the place of General Iskra, who had been condemned to death for high
treason. As ill-luck would have it, on this occasion my usual
good-fortune deserted me and I fell into the hands of a Russian patrol,
who seized me, tied my hands behind my back, and marched me off to the
little town of Kielce. As I was still very weak and walked with
difficulty, they accelerated my march by blows from the butt-ends of
their muskets. At Kielce I was taken straight to the headquarters of
Gen. C——. All Polish soldiers who had fallen into the hands of this
brute since the beginning of the war had been hanged. From the window,
close to which I had been placed, I could see the gibbet, with two
shapeless bodies hanging from it on which birds of prey were already
feasting. The sight filled me with horror, and feeling sure this time
that my last hour was at hand, I recommended my soul to God, made a
fervent act of contrition, and prepared myself as well as I could to
die.
The general came in for the usual interrogatory, and frowned when he
looked at me.
“You are from the rebel army?” he exclaimed in bad Polish.
“I do not know any rebels,” I replied proudly. “I am of the army of
the Crusaders.” (We called the war a Crusade, and all of us wore a
white cross sewed on our uniforms.)
At this reply General C——’s face darkened and, with a furious gesture,
he made a step toward me. “Do you know,” he cried, “to what fate you
have exposed yourself by falling into my hands?”
“Yes, perfectly,” I replied, turning my head in the direction of the
dead bodies.
“And you are not afraid?”
“No. I belong to a nation which does not know the feeling.”
“Yet you are very pale.”
“Oh!” I replied eagerly, “do not think it is from fear. Six weeks ago I
was wounded in an engagement with your troops, and to-day I have gone
out for the first time.”
Here the Muscovite smiled.
“What is your age? Nineteen? Do you know that there are very few Poles
as young as you are who would face death in this way without a
shudder?”
“But I am not a Pole; I am French.”
“Do you speak the truth?”
“I never lie,” I replied, presenting him my man’s passport.
He examined it carefully.
“This saves you,” he said at last, beginning to be almost civil. “We
have not yet the right to hang the French, even though they may have
fought with the rebel troops. I shall send you with an escort across
the frontier of Silesia; but if ever you again set foot on Russian soil
you will be hanged without mercy and without shrift.”
I was sent out of his presence, escorted by two Cossacks, thoroughly
unlicked bears, who had orders to shoot me on the least suspicious
movement on my part. I had the pleasure of these gentlemen’s society in
a third-class carriage during the whole journey from Myszkow to
Szczakowa—that is, for four mortal hours. You can imagine, therefore,
that I did not breathe freely till I had stepped out of the carriage
and found myself once more on Silesian soil, released from their
attentions.
I felt now that my vow had been kept and my promise fulfilled. I had
shed my blood for Poland, and any further effort on my part would have
been worse than useless.
I determined, therefore, to rejoin the countess and her children, who
were at that moment at the waters of Altwasser. I pass over the joy of
our reunion. We soon went on to Dresden for the winter, and once more
that happy family were together, though in exile.
I heard soon after that Father Benvenuto had been struck by a ball in
the heart at the battle of Swientz-Krszysz, at the very moment when he
was lifting up the crucifix to bless his soldiers. The memory of this
saint will be for ever revered in Poland, and in the hearts of all
those who had the happiness of knowing him. With his heroic death I
close my account of this episode in a war which, however mistaken on
the part of those who first conceived so hopeless an attempt, was
carried on to the last with a faith, a courage, and a patriotism that
deserve to be immortalized in the history of any country, and will
redound to the eternal honor of this persecuted and unhappy people.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE LATE DR. T. W. MARSHALL.
The _renaissance_ of English Catholic literature has been a growth of
the last quarter of a century. From the time when Dr. Newman became a
convert to the church there has been a continual stream of the most
ardent Catholic literature, didactic, controversial, and devotional. Of
devotional works we need hardly speak at all, since they are much the
same in all Catholic countries, and are mostly modelled on one spirit
of one faith. Of works which are didactic it is superfluous to say
anything, for all teachers of the Catholic faith teach the same thing.
But of works which are controversial it is desirable to take notice,
because they indicate the peculiar spirit of the age, the nature of the
anti-Catholic opposition, and the growth or the decay of old
prejudices. There is probably no literature in any country in the world
which is so full of original lines of pure controversy as that of the
modern English school of Catholic converts. Nor is there any difficulty
in accounting for this fact. When we remember that English converts
have stepped across that huge gulf which divides old-fashioned
Protestantism from Catholicity; that they have brought with them from
the “Establishment” the most perfect knowledge of all the arguments
which can be devised against the acceptance of “the faith”; that they
are often highly educated men, who have been as “intellectually” as
they have been “spiritually” converted—we should be surprised if they
did not sometimes write controversy with both a newness and a richness
of intuition.
For example, let us take the great Dr. Newman, whose vast stores of
digested learning often sparkle or are sweetened with delicious touches
of the perception of the humorous—a boon to his readers which is not
only due to his wit but to the drolleries of the old heresy which he
has left. Or let us take Dr. Faber—that “poet of Catholic dogmas,” as a
Protestant lady has described him—and note the exquisite appreciation
with which he contrasts Catholic truths with their denial or their
imitation in Protestantism. These two writers could not have written as
they have done unless they had been brought up as Protestants. They
might have been equally luminous and profound; they might have wanted
nothing of Catholic science; but their appreciation of contrast, which
is one of the essentials of humor, could not have been nearly so
developed.
Yet, delightful as it would be to dwell on the rich gifts of these two
writers—the profound Newman and the poetical Faber—it is with reference
to another writer that we would say something at this time—to one who
has but recently passed away. Dr. T. W. Marshall, who twice visited the
United States, and who gained great repute as a lecturer, was among the
most gifted of the controversialists—in some senses he was unique—who
have contributed to English Catholic literature. We are not speaking of
his learning, though this was considerable; nor of his reasoning power,
though this, too, was very striking; for there are many English
Catholic writers who, both in learning and in reasoning, may be
esteemed to have surpassed Dr. Marshall; but we are speaking of him as
a “pure controversialist,” as one who made controversy his sole
pursuit, or who, at least, will be always remembered as a polemic, and
this both as a speaker and as a writer. Now, in the capacity of a
polemic—of a “popular” polemic—we have affirmed that Dr. Marshall was
unique; and let us indicate briefly in what respects.