The answer from Adrianople was to the effect that the Swedes were to
leave Bender at all costs and that all who resisted were to be forcibly
ejected, and, if need be, slain.
Their commands were not at all to the liking of the Khan or Ismail
Pasha, both of whom had come to like Karl, a type admirable in the eyes
of a Mussulman, and M. Fabrice again tried his talents as mediator.
All these efforts, like so many others, proved fruitless, and for the
same reason--the inflexibility of Karl.
Even Baron Görtz thought the King went too far, and he knew, better than
any man, the real cause of Karl’s bitter obstinacy.
And this was the treaty of Pruth.
When, after years of dreary waiting, the endless intrigues of
Poniatowski had at last succeeded in causing the Porte to declare war on
Russia, Karl had believed that his patience was rewarded and that his
downfall would be avenged.
And it seemed as if fortune was again favoring him; Peter, marching into
Turkey as recklessly as Karl had marched into the Ukraine, found himself
on the banks of the Pruth, isolated, outnumbered, without provisions or
stores, in a position as desperate as that in which Karl had found
himself at Poltava.
So terrible was the prospect, so certain seemed defeat, slavery, the
triumph of his defeated rival, and the failure of his own life’s work,
that the Czar fell into a state of despair which brought on a fearful
attack of convulsions.
While he was thus helpless a council of war was called at which
Katherina presided.
By the advice of this ignorant but astute woman, now roused from her
usual placidity, all the available treasure in the camp was gathered
together and sent as a present to the Grand Vizier in command of the
Turkish army, together with a demand to know his terms of peace.
The result of this was the treaty of Pruth or Ialciu, by which Peter
ceded all the advantages he had gained in his previous war with Turkey,
including the town of Azov, and agreed to withdraw his troops from
Poland and to renew the tribute to the Tartars that he had long ceased
to pay. In return he was allowed to retire with his army, cannon, flags,
and baggage, furnished with food by the Turks, and Karl, hastening to
the battle and hoping to find the Czar as he had been himself before
Poltava, found that the Russians had retreated untouched.
Nor had Poniatowski, who was with the vizier, been able to obtain a
single advantage for his master in the signing of the peace, beyond an
article by which Peter engaged not to trouble the return of Karl to his
dominions, should he choose to come through Russia.
Karl, who had ridden fifty leagues from Bender, swum the Pruth at the
risk of his life, and dashed through the Muscovite encampment, had been
driven beyond his usual control at the news which he received on
entering Poniatowski’s tent.
In a cold fury he went to face the vizier, but received no satisfaction
from the calm Turk, who, having as he believed secured his master’s
interests, cared little for the rage of the fugitive King of Sweden.
“I have the right,” he said, “to make war and peace.”
“But you had the whole Russian army in your power!” cried Karl.
“Our law,” replied Mahomet Baltadgi, “tells us to give peace to our
enemies when they demand our mercy.”
“And does it order,” retorted Karl, “that you make bad treaties when
you might make good ones? Do you not know that you could have led the
Czar prisoner to Constantinople?”
The vizier replied gravely and dryly in words that Karl never forgot.
“We cannot shelter all the Kings of Europe in Turkey.”
The King, turning with disdainful haste, caught his spur in the Turk’s
long robe, purposely tore it with an angry movement of his foot, and
galloped back to Bender, blacker despair in his heart than there had
been after Poltava.
He then resolved that he would not leave Turkey until he had secured the
punishment of Mahomet Baltadgi and another army with which to march
against Peter.
The vizier took care that his plaints and protests should not reach the
Sultan; all letters from Bender were intercepted on the road, but after
a while Karl’s hopes were flattered by the Porte which became indignant
at the behavior of the Czar. The Keys of Azov did not arrive, the
tribute was not paid, and Poniatowski was able to convey to the Sultan
the news that Muscovite troops were still in Poland.
Peter, however, had soon accommodated matters with the Porte, and
Mahomet Baltadgi was more resolute than ever in insisting on the removal
of the man whom he now knew to be his enemy.
He obtained from Vienna a safe-conduct for Karl if he chose to return
through the territories of the Empire, and he put galleys at his
disposal if he wished to go by sea.
But Karl, bitter and humiliated, had been from the first resolute not to
be chased from Turkey, but to leave at his own convenience.
He had been confirmed in this attitude by the discovery of a
correspondence between the Khan of the Tartars and General Fleming, the
minister of Augustus of Saxony, in the ambiguous phrasing of which he
and Baron Görtz had thought they had discovered a design to deliver
Karl to the Saxons on his return.
M. Fabrice had satisfied himself that the Khan spoke the truth when he
denied these allegations, but Karl was not to be convinced.
The express having arrived from Adrianople, the predictions of M.
Fabrice and the English minister having failed, and Karl being still
inflexible, there remained now but to expect an assault of the Tartars
and janissaries.
The King had already entrenched his 300 troops and disposed his
household for the defense of his house.
Müllern, with Karl’s secretary, the clergy and the other ministers were
to defend the chancellor’s house; Baron Fieff was to command the little
garrison of cooks and servants and grooms in the house of Grothusen.
The King assigned to every one his post, and promised rewards to those
who should conduct themselves bravely.
The Turks came to the attack with ten pieces of cannon, but Grothusen
rode out to meet them, unarmed and bareheaded, and appealed to these
janissaries, who had so often enjoyed Swedish bounty, to desist from
this attack on helpless and brave men, and to grant a delay of three
days in which to ascertain if in reality the orders of the Sultan were
so severe.
These words produced a revolt among the janissaries, who swore to accord
the three days to the King, and rushed in a tumult to the Pasha of
Bender, declaring that the orders of the Sultan were forged.
Despite the protests of the Khan, Ismail Pasha postponed the assault
till the next day, and drawing aside sixty of the oldest janissaries
showed them the positive order of the Sultan, at the same time telling
them to go peaceably to Karl and request his departure, offering
themselves as his escort; so anxious was Ismail Pasha to avoid hurting
Karl or any of his suite.
While these veterans were proceeding, armed only with the white wands
they bore in times of peace, to the King’s camp, M. Fabrice, who could
not now come to see the King in his state of siege, sent him a letter by
the hands of a Turk, enclosing one from Poniatowski, then at
Constantinople.
Baron Görtz took this dispatch to the King who was then (it was an early
hour of the morning) alone in his chamber.
A great sadness filled the heart of this faithful friend as he looked at
the King.
Karl, despite his strength and pride and obstinacy, was in a piteous
position.
There was something heartrending, almost ridiculous in the King’s
attitude; this useless heroism, this futile defiance--all that had been
splendid at Poltava was pitiful at Bender.
And all the more so because Karl saw neither the pathos nor the tragedy
of his situation, and disposed his cooks and grooms, his pastors and
clerks, with as much gravity as he had disposed his veteran troops
before Varsovia or Klissow.
Yet he was more moved than Grothusen had ever seen him, save in the
Turkish camp at Pruth. Something of the old Viking fury that could only
be satisfied by an orgy of blood was upon him, apart from his real
conviction that it would be dishonor to depart peaceably; he lusted to
fight.
A warrior by birth, inclination, and training, these four years of
idleness had been almost unendurable to his fierce spirit.
He longed to draw his sword once more and feel that atmosphere of
excitement and peril that was the breath of life to him.
Added to this he was deeply angry with the Turks; no one could tell the
bitterness of his disappointment in having failed to achieve a Turkish
army to lead against Peter.
And the news from Europe could hardly have been worse; all his enemies
had attacked his estates during his absence, Augustus was once more
King of Poland, and Russia occupied the place Sweden had so lately held
as Arbiter of the North.
All these reflections weighed on Grothusen as he addressed the King.
“Sire, there is a party of janissaries on their way to your Majesty, and
I beseech you to listen to them.”
Karl looked up as if he had been startled from a reverie.
Without replying he took the letter from M. Fabrice, broke the seal, and
read the enclosure from Count Poniatowski.
The intrepid Pole had fallen into disfavor with the Sultan after Karl’s
imprudent demand for more money and was not permitted to be with the
Court, then at Adrianople; he had, however, managed to keep in touch
with affairs, and he now wrote to inform the King that it was but too
true that Ahmed had ordered the Khan to proceed to extremity if Karl
refused to move from Bender.
In impassioned words of love and respect Poniatowski implored the King
to relinquish his mad design of resistance, to think no more of
assistance from Turkey, and to return to his own country, trusting to
his own genius to retrieve his fortunes.
The King put down the letter and rose.
“All, all so ready to persuade me to my own dishonor!” he exclaimed.
He was deeply moved, and his eyes showed dark in a pale face as he flung
back his head and stared at Grothusen.
“On my soul,” cried that nobleman, “these Turks mean no dishonor.”
“Have you not yourself seen,” returned Karl, “the letters to the Khan
from Count Fleming? I believe they mean to sell me to Augustus.”
“I am sure, sire,” replied Grothusen, with some heat, “they do not. I
know truth when I see it, and I am convinced that the Khan and Ismail
Pasha are acting as honorable men.”
“Very well, then,” said Karl, “I also will act as an honorable man. I
refuse to be forced to do what I would not do willingly.”
“You know that this may mean your life, sire, which is sacred to your
people? That all your friends, servants, and guards, so long faithful to
you, and looking to you for protection, will be either massacred or
taken into slavery?”
“Grothusen,” replied the King coldly, “if you fear to share my fortunes,
join the Poles and Cossacks who have gone to Bender.”
At this cruel remark the Swede flushed hotly all over his fair face.
“That you are beyond reason, sire, does not mean that I am beyond
loyalty.”
“No,” replied the King more gently, “I have no doubt as to your
loyalty--nor as to that of any with me.”
“The generals are in despair, sire.”
“They have rusted too long--like my sword,” remarked the King briefly.
“Have you any other news, Grothusen?”
He spoke as if he would dismiss the subject of their present position,
and Grothusen endeavored to follow his humor, though indeed there was no
subject on which he could speak that would be particularly pleasing to
either.
“M. Müllern had an express this morning to say that King Stanislaus was
still on his way to the Turkish frontier.”
“He is my friend,” replied Karl. “Were he not I should call him weak and
foolish.”
In truth, the inflexibility of the King of Sweden had for some time been
forced by the pliability of the man whom he had made King of Poland.
Stanislaus, faithful as Karl to an ancient friendship, had, on being
driven from the Polish throne, gone to Pomerania to defend the dominions
of his benefactor.
After many vicissitudes he had resolved to abandon the crown that was
the real cause of contention between Karl and his enemies, and by
admitting the claim of Augustus to pave the way for a peace for Sweden.
To this end he had written to Karl several times begging him to leave
him in retirement, and not for his already lost cause to risk blood,
treasure, or his own advantages.
In acting thus the generous Pole showed that he did not know the man
with whom he dealt; Karl was merely angry at this self-sacrifice; he was
haughtily decided never to permit Augustus to keep the throne of Poland,
and equally to never permit Stanislaus to resign it; he had never, in
the dreariest, most hopeless hours of his exile relinquished the dream
of unthroning the Czar, and the chivalrous withdrawal of Stanislaus
Leczinski from the combat merely irritated the indomitable Swede.
Learning his humor, but still convinced of the wisdom of his own
decision, Stanislaus had decided to come himself to Bender to inform
Karl of the state of Europe and the desirability of his resigning the
crown of Poland.
It was this journey, that the Pole was making incognito, that Grothusen
now referred to.
It was not a happy change of subject, for it vexed Karl almost as much
as that of the deputation of the janissaries.
“He too comes to dissuade me from what I have already set my mind on,”
remarked the angry King. “Well, let him come. If I meet him, I shall
tell him that if he will not be King of Poland, I can find another who
will.”
He walked up and down the room, slowly and in a controlled manner, but
the heaving of his bosom, the pallor of his face, and the dark flash in
the eyes usually so cold, told that he was angry in no common fashion.
He suddenly stopped before his friend.
“And you, Grothusen!” he exclaimed, “you too would wish to see me a
laughing-stock for the Czar--turned from this country at his pleasure.”
His emotion overpowered him as he mentioned his chief enemy; he turned
to the window and leant his sick head against the mullions.
Peter Alexievitch!
That name was the cause of all his wrath and soreness, all his stubborn
pride and deep fury; the Czar, the only man who had been worthy of his
steel--the man who had defeated him--the man, who, through what Karl
considered the baseness of Mahomet Baltadgi, had escaped vengeance on
the banks of the Pruth.
In many bitter ways had Peter made Karl feel the sting of defeat.
Piper, Rehnsköld, Wurtemberg, and other ministers and generals, famous
and glorious for their part in Karl’s great victories, his close
companions for ten years, had marched in chains, two by two, through the
streets of St. Petersburg, following the barbaric triumph with which the
Czar impressed his people.
And the Muscovite ambassadors at Constantinople had flourished with
Swedish slaves, the heroes of Klissow and Poltava, in their train.
And Karl had the humiliation of knowing that the rest of his veterans,
the flower of the army, were working as slaves in Siberia or teaching
their masters their native handicrafts.
Every way Peter was prosperous; his navy rode the waters of the gulf of
Riga and the gulf of Finland; his armies spread all over the Baltic
Provinces, and held Poland at their mercy; his ambassadors were received
at every Court; the arts and sciences grew apace in Russia.
It was no wonder that his name inspired with despair the proud young
warrior who had thought to dethrone him in a year.
“Do you think,” he suddenly asked aloud, “that I shall leave Turkey till
I secure the punishment of Mahomet Baltadgi?”
He now hated this man, who had snatched his patiently waited-for
vengeance from him, almost as much as he hated Peter Alexievitch.
“Count Poniatowski does his best----” began Grothusen.
“Cease to weary me with that useless talk,” interrupted Karl fiercely.
Grothusen looked mournfully at the strong noble face; he felt an
overwhelming pity for this life that was so strong and brave and
steadfast, and so lonely and so thwarted, for this nature that had
greatly dared, greatly achieved, and then had to endure the humiliation
of complete failure.
Karl was not lovable, but in that moment his friend yearned over him as
if he had been a woman.
Before either could speak again Baron Görtz entered.
The sixty janissaries, white-bearded veterans, unarmed and on foot, had
arrived.
They sent the most humble, most respectful message to the King.
If he would only leave Bender they would themselves escort him anywhere
he wished, even to Adrianople, so that he might put his case to the
Sultan.
“I will not see them,” said the King.
“Sire, I fear they will never leave until you have spoken with them,”
replied Görtz.
The King gave a deep sigh and rang the bell; Frederic the valet, who had
held him on his horse at Poltava, appeared.
“Go to these old Turks,” commanded Karl, “and bid them leave my house,
or else,” he sought for the worst insult one could give a Mohammedan, “I
will send my soldiers to cut off their beards.”