THE FIGHT FOR THE GOLD
Of late Mr. Gerzson Satrakovics had invented for himself a peculiar sort
of pastime.
He had renounced bear hounds and grey hounds and all other kinds of
dogs, he did not care a jot when partridge shooting began, but he hung
up his gun on a nail and began regularly visiting one after another the
session courts of the counties of Arad, Biehar and Temes, in all of
which he was a justice of the peace, and moving resolutions.
The object of these resolutions was to induce the three counties to
endeavour with their united strength, and in conjunction with the
Transylvanian counties of Hunyad, Fehér and Zarand, to extirpate the
robber bands that had so long been terrorizing the whole district. He
compiled lists of the atrocities perpetrated in the various localities
and connected them all with the name of one particular robber, the
notorious "Fatia Negra." He produced convincing proofs of the existence
of a combination extending from the depths of the dungeons to the
summits of the mountains which was held together by the magic influence
of this one man and he left no stone unturned to bring him to book.
He, naturally, became quite a laughing stock for his pains, and his
acquaintances could not for the life of them understand what had come to
the man.
"Why, old fellow!" said Count Kengyelesy to him one day, after he had
been indulging in an unusually fiery philippic at Quarter Sessions,
"why, old fellow, what sort of venom have you swallowed that makes you
perorate so savagely against this worthy Fatia Negra. If anybody has
cause to complain against him it is I, for he relieved me of 1,000
ducats on the high road, and so cleverly did the rascal manage it, that
I cannot find it in my heart to bear him any ill-will. But what have you
got to do with him I should like to know? What is all this cock and bull
story you keep on spouting out concerning organized robber bands and
mysterious chieftains? Is it your ambition, my friend, to become public
prosecutor?"
"Yes, it is, and public prosecutor I will be, too. I want six counties
to place their armed constabulary at my beck and call, and if they do,
I'll wager that I'll so purify all these Alpine regions that the robbers
will not have a single lurking hole left."
"Rubbish! Don't make a fool of yourself. Besides, they say that Fatia
Negra has flown to America."
"Newspaper lies. He is here, I know he is."
"And suppose he is, what harm can he do? This band has been cut off to
the very last man. They have all been sentenced heavily, the older men
to twenty years penal servitude, the younger men to penal servitude for
life. I had it from Hátszegi himself who was the president of the mixed
commission that tried them, and signed the judgment himself. The whole
fraternity is now sitting in chains in the trenches of Gyula Fehérvár
and we have seen the last of it."
"What guarantee have you of that?"
"What guarantee?--why the security of the whole region ever since. Why,
everyone there can now sleep with open doors and if you yourself were to
lie dead drunk in the public thoroughfare you would not have your money
stolen from your pocket any more."
Squire Gerzson protested vehemently against the assumption that he was
in the habit of sprawling tipsily on the king's high road.
"I'll tell you," said he, "why everything is so secure just now. The
confiscated gold of Fatia Negra is still at Gyula Fehérvár, as a forfeit
to the crown, and, sooner or later, must be sent to Vienna. Fatia Negra
is _not_ dead, his robber band has _not_ been captured and does _not_
sit in irons at Gyula Fehérvár, and the present tranquillity and
imagined security suit their plans nicely. The band now pretends to have
vanished, but just you wait till the gold is sent under convoy from
Gyula Fehérvár to Vienna--and you will see some fun."
"How do you know that?"
"I know it sir, because I know that this man, this brazen faced,
iron-fisted man is not such a chicken-hearted creature as to allow a
half-million or so to be snatched from him without stirring every nerve
and muscle to try and win it back again. For I know that hitherto he has
always triumphed over the power of the law and has always escaped from
the most dangerous ambushes."
"Well, all I can say is that I do not understand what you have to do
with this worthy man."
* * * * *
The falsely coined gold pieces deposited at Gyula Fehérvár, had, after
the trial was over, to be sent to Hungary to be recoined. The precious
consignment filled two post-wagons and was of the estimated value of a
million and a half. Four and twenty Uhlans were told off to escort it.
This was a more than sufficient protection for the most costly treasure
at ordinary times. Moreover, in Hungary, cavalry has always inspired the
mob with terror. During the disturbances at the time of the cholera
outbreak, two squadrons of Hussars were easily able to quell the whole
riot. It was impossible to calculate how many robbers and peasants the
four and twenty Uhlans were capable of coping with. So, at least, the
county magistrates believed.
The soldiers were commanded by a lieutenant, the post-wagons were under
the charge of an official accountant and a comptroller. All the
postillions were provided with pistols and it was strictly ordered that
the wagons were not to travel on the high-road after six o'clock. There
was no lack of precaution, anyhow!
Now when the post wagons had reached the celebrated Bridge of Piski,[45]
lo, there and then, face to face, four and twenty horsemen came, riding
towards them from the opposite side of the bridge and the five and
twentieth was Fatia Negra.
[Footnote 45: It was here that a small band of Hungarians under Czsez
and Kureny held a whole Austrian army at bay on Feb. 9, 1849.--_Tr._]
All the four and twenty had black crape wound round their faces, their
clothes had the lining turned outwards and they were well provided with
swords, csákánys[46] and muskets. Fatia Negra himself rode a vigorous
black stallion and held in his hand a broad, naked sword.
[Footnote 46: Hooked axes.]
The horse of the Uhlan lieutenant took fright at the sight of the black
faces and began to rear, it was as much as his rider could do to prevent
him from springing over the parapet of the bridge.
Fatia Negra and his band halted in the centre of the bridge and did not
budge from the spot.
The lieutenant was a brave soldier, who never lost his presence of mind;
he tightened the reins of his plunging horse and turning towards
Black-Mask, exclaimed: "Who are you, what do you want, and why do you
block up the bridge?"
A deep, thundrous manly voice replied to him from afar: "I am Fatia
Negra. The treasure which you have with you is mine,--it has been stolen
from me. I now want to have it back again. I have brought hither a man
to every man of yours, we are as strong as you. I meet you openly in the
light of day. Give me back my gold or you shall have a taste of my
iron."
The lieutenant, who was one of the best swordsmen and one of the bravest
heroes in the regiment, did not think twice about accepting the
challenge, but put spurs to his steed and fell upon the adventurer who
awaited him in the middle of the bridge.
He encountered a terrible antagonist. Fatia Negra warded every blow and
countered instantly; the young officer was thrown into confusion by the
superior dexterity of his opponent, and it was only a soldier's sense of
honour that induced him to continue an attack which was bound to end
fatally for himself: practised fencers always know at once whether they
can vanquish their antagonist or not. At the same time it was really
surprising that Fatia Negra did not immediately take advantage of his
strength and skill. He seemed to be sparing his enemy, nay, he even
retreated before him step by step.
Meanwhile the _melée_ on the bridge had become general. The lancers
hastened to the assistance of their leader, the black masks slashed away
at them with their csákánys, and soon there were very few among the
combatants who had not received a lance thrust or a csákány blow. The
adventurers were forced by the lancers to the opposite end of the
bridge, when the miller, who lived in the mill beside the bridge,
thrust his head out of the window and shouted: "Take care, soldiers! the
beams of the bridge have been sawn through!"
Was this the fact? Was it the plan of the adventurers to entice the
horses on to the bridge in order that it might break down beneath their
weight?--or was the miller also an accomplice and only shouted this
because the soldiers were gaining the upperhand? In either case the
warning cry had a magical effect upon the pursuers, for they immediately
turned back in alarm and strove to reach their own end of the bridge
again.
And now they perceived what a two fold trap the cunning adventurers had
set for them, for whilst the lancers had been fighting with the mounted
robbers, a large band of footpads armed with firearms had surrounded the
post wagons in their rear, disarmed the postillions and were now engaged
in attempting to overturn the wagons into the ditch by the roadside.
The lancers dashed towards the wagons and freed them in a moment from
the hands of the mob which, on their appearance, dispersed among the
brushwood by the roadside from whence they began firing.
Not far from the bridge was a _csárdá_, and there the cavalry and the
post-wagons sought a refuge. And indeed they needed it. The number of
the footpads armed with guns was about a couple of hundred; they
enfiladed the whole road and, more than that, it was easy to perceive
that some of the tall roadside poplars had been sawn through beforehand
so that they might be made to fall down and thus make it impossible for
the post wagons across the road behind the backs of the soldiers, to
force their way through.
The soldiers had, indeed, no reason to fear that the rabble, nine-tenths
of which had no professional knowledge of the art of war, would boldly
storm the _csárdá_, for in such a case the soldiers would know how to
defend themselves vigourously, well provided as they were with carbines;
but they were well aware of one thing, to wit, that if they allowed
themselves to be surprised after nightfall they were lost, for the
robbers could then set fire to the house over their heads and burn them
alive.
For their lives they cared nothing; it is a soldier's business to die;
but how to save the enormous sum of money intrusted to them--that was
the problem. Four and twenty horsemen in a solid mass might, with a
desperate effort, cut their way through a mob, despite every obstacle,
but to take the heavy wagons along with them was impossible, for the
road in front was barred by the mob; the bridge and the road behind by
the felled poplars.
Fortunately, the officer in command had read the history of Napoleon's
Russian campaign and he recollected how the guard on one occasion had
saved the military chest from the Cossacks when the wagon, from want of
horses, had to be left behind. He now applied his knowledge
practically.
The ducats were taken out of the post-wagons and distributed among the
soldiers; knapsacks, cartridge-boxes, belts and shakos were filled with
the treasure; not a cent was left in the wagons, yet they nailed down
the chests inside them carefully that it might take all the longer to
break them open. Then they mounted the postilions and the civilians on
the spare horses, hastily threw open the gates and the whole band rushed
into the courtyard.
A sharp volley poured in upon them from every side; some of them were
wounded, but none mortally, for their assailants either fired from afar
or aimed badly. And this was well, for every dead man among them would
have been worth 100,000 guldens.
Fatia Negra and his horsemen stood close at hand with their loaded
muskets pointed in their hands, but they did not fire.
"Let the lancers run if they like!" cried Fatia Negra. "Give all your
attention to the wagons!"
The cavalry soon escaped from the mob of sharpshooters, leaped over the
barriers and began galloping rapidly back to Széb safe and sound. And
they had need to haste, for it was easy to foresee that as soon as the
cry of victory behind their backs had changed into a cry of fury, it
would be a sign that Fatia Negra's band was rushing after them.
And, indeed, scarce a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when they could
perceive clouds of dust whirling up behind them which proved that the
audacious adventurers, after discovering the fraud, were actually in
pursuit.
What unheard of audacity! In broad daylight, on the King's highway,
within the borders of a highly civilized, well-organized state, a troop
of adventurers dares to attack an equal number of trained soldiers. Gold
must have turned the heads of the men who had the audacity to do such a
thing! Yet they did it.
The soldiers saw the cloud of dust behind their backs gradually draw
nearer, the neutral ground between gradually diminished, the fellows
were capitally mounted, there could be no doubt of that.
The lieutenant ordered his men to halt and face the foolhardy bandits.
He arranged them two deep and spread them out so that they extended
right across the road. He himself stood in the centre a little in
advance of the rest; the civilians were in the rear.
Presently single shapes were discernible through the approaching cloud
of dust. The robbers were galloping along in no regular order with
intervals of from ten to twenty yards between each one of them.
More than a thousand yards in front of his comrades galloped Fatia
Negra. His splendid English thoroughbred, as if it would outstrip the
blast which whirled the dust aloft, flew along with him and seemed to
share the blind fury of his master who waved his flashing sword above
his horse's head and bellowed at his opponents from afar like a wild
beast.
"We'll seize the fellow before his companions come up," said the
lieutenant to his men. "Cut him down from his horse and capture him
alive."
"Hurrah!" roared the lonely horseman, now only a yard off.
"Hurrah!"--the next moment he was in the midst of them.
And now began a contest which, had it been recorded in the chronicles of
the Crusades, would have been regarded as an act of heroism that only
awaited immortality from a poet great enough to sing it. Fatia Negra,
alone and surrounded, fought single-handed in the midst of the hostile
band. His light sword flashing in his hand like lightning, never stayed
to parry but attacked incessantly. Handless swords and headless shakos
flew around him in the air and whithersoever his horse turned its head,
an empty space gaped before him, every antagonist retreating before him.
So close was the _melée_ that the soldiers stood in each other's way and
could not use their firearms for fear of shooting their comrades. The
lieutenant was the only man who did not avoid him. Like a true soldier
who considers wounds an honour, he did not trouble himself to recollect
that his adversary was superior to him both in strength and skill, but
strove incessantly to urge his horse towards him. Twice he struck the
fellow but he did not seem to feel the blow. Once he dealt him a skilful
thrust in the side, but the sword bent nearly double without entering
his body. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Fatia Negra--he must have put on a coat
of mail beneath his jacket--and the same instant he countered so
savagely that if the lieutenant had not dodged his head, he must have
lost it. As it was the sword pierced through his shako and out poured
the gold pieces by thousands on to the highroad.
At the sight of the shower of gold pieces, Fatia Negra roared like a
demon. What he had done hitherto was a mere joke--now the battle began
in grim earnest.
"Down with your heads, down with your headpieces!" he thundered, and
with the fury of a lion he flung himself on his opponents, everyone of
whom wore on his head the dangerous magnet which irresistibly attracted
his flashing sword.
He himself was invulnerable. Neither sword nor lance could penetrate his
shirt of mail. And meanwhile his companions were rapidly galloping up.
Now another shako flew into the air and the horse's hoofs trampled the
falling ducats in the mud.
"Shoot down his horse!" cried the voice of the post-office functionary
from the rear, and the same instant three pistol shots resounded. At the
third, which struck him full in the chest, the animal reared high in the
air. Fatia Negra, perceiving the danger, and before the horse had time
to fall and crush him, leaped from the saddle on to the ground.
And now he attacked the enemy on foot. He was blind now. He saw nothing
before him but blood and ducats--he was drunk with both.
All at once he observed that he was alone, and, fighting the air--he no
longer felt the contact of swords, or skulls or human bodies. After the
officer had been wounded, the post-office functionary took the command
and concluded it advisable not to await the arrival of the whole robber
band. It was his duty to save the money. He ordered the soldiers to turn
back and make the best of their way to Szászvár, the money that had been
already spilt was given up for lost. It was of no use for mere men to
attempt to grapple with such a devil incarnate as Fatia Negra.
"After them, after them!--Give me a horse!" roared Fatia Negra to his
comrades as they came galloping up, whereupon they all leaped from their
nags, not so much indeed for the sake of giving him a mount as for the
sake of grabbing the scattered heaps of ducats.
"Let that alone; it won't run away" cried the adventurer. "The bulk of
it is galloping in front of us--follow me!"
And at that, without waiting their decision, he seized one of the
horses, swung himself into the saddle and dashed after the lancers.
Nobody followed him. The robbers were wise enough to perceive that if
they left lying here these thousands of ducats, actually won, in order
to run after ten times as many which they had still to catch, (not to
mention the broken heads which they were sure to get into the bargain),
the loafing members of the confraternity who were following behind them
on foot, would pocket the booty nicely at their ease, so they stayed
where they were, with the comfortable persuasion that Fatia Negra would
be sure to turn back when he perceived he was alone.
He, however, never gave them a thought, but putting spurs to his horse,
pursued the soldiers. In vain. He had no longer a blood horse beneath
him and was unable to overtake the bearers of the lost treasure. Nor did
they halt again to give him anything to do. Looking back from time to
time, they saw how a single horseman was galloping after them, with his
sword blade firmly gripped between his teeth, and a shuddering
recollection of the old nursery tales of nether-world monsters came over
them.
The solitary horseman pursued them right up to the toll-house of
Szászvár, and even when he gave up the pursuit the toll-man saw him for
a long time trotting round about the outskirts of the town shaking his
fist and shouting imprecations. Once or twice he drew near enough to
fire his pistols through the doors and windows of the toll-house, and so
great was the spell of terror surrounding the person of the terrible
adventurer that nobody ventured outside the city wall to try and
capture him; nay, the burgesses even remained under arms in the streets
all night guarding the principal entrances for fear lest Fatia Negra and
his band might take it into their heads to formally besiege the place,
and, had it only depended upon his will to do so, he would assuredly
have made the attempt.
But it never came to that. On returning to the place of combat Fatia
Negra found his horsemen still searching in the mud and darkness for the
lost ducats, and made an attempt to reorganize his band, which did,
indeed, do a little maurauding on its own account; but when the news
reached him, through one of his paid spies, that four hundred infantry
with a cannon had reached Szászvár from Szeb--the very word "a connon"
had such an effect upon the robbers that they scattered in every
direction as if a tempest had dispersed them. Next morning there was not
a trace of them anywhere.