It was morning!
The fitful, pale light fell on faces sleepy and worn with a long
restless night. The soldiers were sleeping in discomfort on the seats,
some with their heads thrown forward, others with their noses in the
air. The dawn was rising and flooding all the world with crimson
light. The air was fresh and keen. The soldiers awoke. The morning
rays were drawing away shadows and mist into some region unknown.
Alas! and where was now Pognebin, where Great and Little Kzrywda,
where Mizerów? Everything was strange and different. The summits of
the hills were overgrown with trees; in the valleys were houses hidden
under red roofs, with dark crucifixes on the white walls,--beautiful
houses like mansions, covered with vines. Here, churches with spires,
there, factory chimneys with wreaths of purple smoke. There were only
straight lines, level banks, and fields of corn. The inhabitants
swarmed like ants. They passed villages and towns, and the train went
through a number of unimportant stations without stopping. Something
must have happened, for there were crowds to be seen everywhere. When
the sun slowly began to appear from behind the hills, one or two of
the soldiers commenced saying a prayer aloud. Others followed their
example, and the first rays of splendour fell on the men's earnest,
devout faces.
Meanwhile the train had stopped at a larger station. A crowd of people
immediately surrounded it: news had come from the seat of war.
Victory! Victory! Telegrams had been arriving for several hours.
Everyone had anticipated defeat, so when roused by the unexpected
news, their joy knew no bounds. People rushed half-clad from their
houses and their beds, and ran to the post-office. Flags were waving
from the roofs, and handkerchiefs from everyone's hands. Beer, tobacco
and cigars were carried to the carriages. The enthusiasm was
unspeakable; everyone's face was beaming. 'Die Wacht am Rhein' filled
the air continuously like a tempest. Not a few were weeping, others
embraced one another. The enthusiasm animating the crowd imparted
itself to the gallant soldiers, their courage rose, and they too began
to sing. The carriages trembled with their strong voices, and the
crowd listened in wonder to their unintelligible songs. The men from
Pognebin sang:
'Bartoszu! Bartoszu! never lose hope!'
'The Poles, the Poles!' repeated the crowd by way of explanation,
and, gathering round the carriages, admired their soldierly bearing,
and added to their joy by relating anecdotes of the remarkable courage
of these Polish Regiments.
Bartek had unshaven cheeks, which, in addition to his yellow
moustache, goggle-eyes, and large bony face, made him look terrifying.
They gazed at him as at some wild beast. These, then, were the men who
were to defend Germany! Such were they who had just disposed of the
French! Bartek smiled with satisfaction, for he too was pleased that
they had beaten the French. Now they would not go to Pognebin, they
would not make off with Magda, nor capture his land. So he smiled, but
as his cheek hurt him badly, he made a grimace at the same time, and
did certainly look terrifying. Then, displaying the appetite of a
Homeric warrior, he caused pea-sausages and pints of beer to disappear
into his mouth as into a vacuum. People in the crowd gave him cigars
and pence, and they all drank to one another.
'There's some good in this German nation,' he said to Wojtek, adding
after a moment, 'and you know they have beaten the French!'
But Wojtek, the sceptic, cast a shadow on his joy. Wojtek had
forebodings, like Cassandra:
'The French always allow themselves to be beaten at first, in order to
take you in, and then they set to until they have cut you to pieces!'
Wojtek did not know that the greater part of Europe shared his
opinion, in general, and in particular now.
They travelled on. All the houses were covered with flags. They
stopped a long while at several of the stations, because there was a
block of trains everywhere. Troops were hastening from all sides of
Germany to reinforce their brothers in arms. The trains were swathed
in green wreaths, and the Lancers had decorated their lances with the
bunches of flowers given them on the way. The majority of these
Lancers also were Poles. More than one conversation and greeting was
heard passing from carriage to carriage:
'How are you, old fellow, and where is God Almighty leading you?'
Meanwhile to the accompaniment of the train rumbling along the rails,
the well-known song rang out:--
'Flirt with us, soldiers! dears!'
Cried the girls of Sandomierz.
And soon Bartek and his comrades caught up the refrain:--
Gaily forth the answer burst:
'Bless you, dears! but dinner first!'
As many as had gone out from Pognebin in sorrow were now filled with
enthusiasm and spirit. A train which had arrived from France with the
first batch of wounded, damped this feeling of cheerfulness, however.
It stopped at Deutz, and waited a long time to allow the trains
hurrying to the seat of war to go by. The men were marched across the
bridge _en route_ for Cologne. Bartek ran forward with several others
to look at the sick and wounded. Some lay in closed, others in open
carriages, and these could be seen well. At the first glance our
hero's heart was again in his mouth.
'Come here, Wojtek,' he cried in terror. 'See how many of our
countrymen the Frenchmen have done for!'
It was indeed a sight! Pale, exhausted faces, some darkened by
gunpowder or by pain, or stained with blood. To the sounds of
universal rejoicing these men only responded by groans. Some were
cursing the war, the French and the Germans. Parched lips called every
moment for water, eyes rolled in delirium. Here and there, amongst the
wounded, were the rigid faces of the dead, in some cases peaceful,
with blue lines round their eyes, in others contorted through the
death struggle, with terrifying eyes and grinning teeth. Bartek saw
the bloody fruits of war for the first time, and once more confusion
reigned in his mind. He seemed quite stupefied, as, standing in the
crowd, with his mouth open, he was elbowed from every side, and
pomelled on the neck by the police. He sought Wojtek's eyes, nudged
him, and said,
'Wojtek, may Heaven preserve us! It's horrible!'
'It will be just the same with you.'
'Jesu! Mary! That human beings should murder one another like this!
When a fellow kills another the police take him off to the magistrate
and prison!'
'Well, but now whoever kills most human beings is to be praised. What
were you thinking of, Blockhead: did you think you would use gunpowder
as in the manoeuvres, and would shoot at targets instead of people?'
Here the difference between theory and practice certainly stood out
clearly. Notwithstanding that our friend Bartek was a soldier, had
attended manoeuvres and drill, had practised rifle shooting, had
known that the object of war was to kill people, now, when he saw
blood flowing, and all the misery of war, it made him feel so sick and
miserable he could hardly keep himself upright. He was impressed anew
with respect for the French; this diminished, however, when they
arrived at Cologne from Deutz. At the Central Station they saw
prisoners for the first time. Surrounding them was a number of
soldiers and people, who gazed at them with interest, but without
hostility. Bartek elbowed his way through the crowd, and, looking into
the carriage, was amazed.
A troop of French infantry in ragged cloaks, small, dirty, and
emaciated, were packed into the carriages like a cask of herrings.
Many of them stretched out their hands for the trifling gifts
presented to them by the crowd, if the sentinels did not prevent them.
Judging from what he had heard from Wojtek, Bartek had had a wholly
different impression of the French, and this took his breath away. He
looked to see if Wojtek were anywhere about, and found him standing
close by.
'What did you say?' asked Bartek. 'By all the Saints! I shouldn't be
more surprised if I had lost my head!'
'They must have been starved somehow,' answered Wojtek, equally
disillusioned.
'What are they jabbering?'
'It's certainly not Polish.'
Reassured by this impression, Bartek walked on past the carriages.
'Miserable wretches!' he said, when he had finished his review of the
Regulars.
But the last carriages contained Zouaves, and these gave Bartek food
for further reflection. From the fact that they sat huddled together
in the carriages, it was impossible to discover whether each man were
equal to two or three ordinary men; but, through the window, he saw
the long, martial beards, and grave faces of veteran soldiers with
dark complexions and alarmingly shining eyes. Again Bartek's heart
leapt to his mouth.
'These are the worst of all,' he whispered low, as if afraid they
might hear him.
'You have not yet seen those who have not let themselves be taken
prisoner,' replied Wojtek.
'Heaven preserve us!'
'Now do you understand?'
Having finished looking at the Zouaves, they walked on. At the last
carriage Bartek suddenly started back as if he had touched fire.
'Oh, Wojtek, Lord help us!'
There was the dark--nearly black--face of a Turco at the open window,
rolling his eyes so that the whites showed. He must have been wounded,
for his face was contorted with pain.
'But what's the matter?' asked Wojtek.
'That must be the Evil One, it's not a soldier. Lord have mercy on my
sins!'
'Look at his teeth!'
'May he go to perdition! I shan't look at him any longer.'
Bartek was silent, then asked after a moment:
'Wojtek?'
'Yes?'
'Mightn't it be a good thing to cross oneself before anyone like
that?'
'The heathen don't understand anything about the holy truth.'
The signal was given for taking their seats. In a few moments the
train was moving. When it grew dusk Bartek continually saw before him
the Turco's dark face with the terrible white of his eyes. From the
feeling which at the moment animated this Pognebin soldier, it would
not have been possible to foretell his future deeds.