The particular share he took at first in the pitched battle of
Gravelotte, merely convinced Bartek of this fact,--that in war there
is plenty to look at, but nothing to do. For at the commencement he
and his regiment were told to order arms and wait at the bottom of a
hill covered by a vineyard. The guns were booming in the distance,
squadrons of cavalry charged past near at hand with a clatter which
shook the earth; then the flags passed, then Cuirassiers with drawn
swords. The shells on the hill flew hissing across the blue sky in the
form of small white clouds, then smoke filled the air and hid the
horizon. The battle seemed like a storm which passes through a
district without lasting long anywhere.
After the first hours, unusual activity was displayed round Bartek's
regiment. Other regiments began to be massed round his, and in the
spaces between them, the guns, drawn by plunging horses, rushed along,
and, hastily unlimbered, were pointed towards the hill. The whole
valley became full of troops. Commands were now thundered from all
sides, the Aides-de-Camps rushed about wildly, and the private
soldiers said to one another:
'Ah! it will be our turn now! It's coming!' or enquired uneasily of
one another,
'Isn't it yet time to start?'
'Surely it must be!'
The question of life and death was now beginning to hang in the
balance. Something in the smoke, which hid the horizon, burst close at
hand with a terrible explosion. The deep roar of the cannon and the
crack of the rifle firing was heard ever nearer; it was like an
indistinct sound coming from a distance,--then the mitrailleuse became
audible. Suddenly the guns, placed in position, boomed forth until the
earth and air trembled together. The shells whistled frightfully
through Bartek's company. Watching they saw something bright red, a
little cloud, as it might be, and in that cloud something whistled,
rushed, rattled, roared, and shrieked. The men shouted: 'A shell! A
shell,' and at the same moment this vulture of war sped forward like a
gale, came near, fell, and burst! A terrible roar met the ear, a crash
as if the world had collapsed, followed by a rushing sound, as before
a puff of wind! Confusion reigned in the lines standing in the
neighbourhood of the guns, then came the cry and command 'Stand
ready!' Bartek stood in the front rank, his rifle at his shoulder, his
head turned towards the hill, his mouth set,--so his teeth were not
chattering. He was forbidden to tremble, he was forbidden to shoot. He
had only to stand still and wait! But now another shell burst,--three,
four, ten. The wind lifted the smoke from the hill: the French had
already driven the Prussian battery from it, had placed theirs in
position, and now opened fire on to the valley. Every moment from
under cover of the vineyard they sent forth long white columns of
smoke. Protected by the guns, the enemy's infantry continued to
advance, in order to open fire. They were already half way down the
hill and could now be seen plainly, for the wind was driving the smoke
away. Would the vineyard prove an obstacle to them? No, the dark caps
of the infantry were advancing. Suddenly they disappeared under the
tall arches of the vines, and there was nothing to be seen but
tricolour flags waving here and there. The rifle fire began fiercely
but intermittently, continually starting in fresh and unexpected
places. Shells burst above it, and crossed one another in the air. Now
and then cries rang out from the hill, which were answered from below
by a German 'Hurrah!' The guns from the valley sent forth an
uninterrupted fire; the regiment stood unflinching.
The line of fire began to embrace it more closely, however. The
bullets hummed in the distance like gnats and flies, or passed near
with a terrible whizz. More and more of them came:--hundreds,
thousands, whistling round their heads, their noses, their eyes, their
shoulders; it was astonishing there should be a man left standing.
Suddenly Bartek heard a groan close by: 'Jesu!' then 'Stand ready!'
then again 'Jesu!' 'Stand ready!' Soon the groans went on without
intermission, the words of command came faster and faster, the lines
drew in closer, the whizzing grew more frequent, more uninterrupted,
more terrible. The dead covered the ground. It was like the Judgment
Day.
'Are you afraid?' Wojtek asked.
'Why shouldn't I be afraid?' our hero answered, his teeth chattering.
Nevertheless both Bartek and Wojtek still kept their feet, and it did
not even enter their heads to run away. They had been commanded to
stand still and receive the enemy's fire. Bartek had not spoken the
truth; he was not as much afraid as thousands of others would have
been in his place. Discipline held the mastery over his imagination,
and his imagination had never painted such a horrible situation as
this. Nevertheless Bartek felt that he would be killed, and he
confided this thought to Wojtek.
'There won't be room in Heaven for the numbers they kill,' Wojtek
answered in an excited voice.
These words comforted Bartek perceptibly. He began to hope that his
place in Heaven had already been taken. Re-assured with regard to
this, he stood more patiently, conscious only of the intense heat, and
with the perspiration running down his face. Meantime the firing
became so heavy that the ranks were thinning visibly. There was no one
to carry away the killed and wounded; the death rattle of the dying
mingled with the whizz of shells and the din of shooting. One could
see by the movement of the tricolour flags that the infantry hidden by
the vines was coming closer and closer. The volleys of mitrailleuse
decimated the ranks; the men were beginning to grow desperate.
But underlying this despair were impatience and rage. Had they been
commanded to go forward, they would have gone like a whirlwind. It was
impossible to merely stand still in one spot. A soldier suddenly threw
down his helmet with his whole force, and exclaimed:
'Curse it! One death is as good as another!'
Bartek again experienced such a feeling of relief from these words
that he almost entirely ceased to be afraid. For if one death was as
good as another, what did anything matter? This rustic philosophy was
calculated to arouse courage more rapidly than any other. Bartek knew
that one death was as good as another, but it pleased him to hear it,
especially as the battle was now turning into a defeat. For here was a
regiment which had never fired a single shot, and was already half
annihilated. Crowds of soldiers from other regiments which had been
scattered, ran in amongst and round theirs in disorder; only these
peasants from Pognebin, Great and Little Krzywda, and Mizerów still
remained firm, upholding Prussian discipline. But even amongst them a
certain degree of hesitation now began to be felt. Another moment and
they would have burst the restraint of discipline. The ground under
their feet was already soft and slippery with blood, the stench of
which mingled with the smell of gunpowder. In several places the lines
could not join up closely, because the dead bodies made gaps in them.
At the feet of those men yet standing, the other half lay bleeding,
groaning, struggling, dying, or in the silence of death. There was no
air to breathe in. They began to grumble:
'They have brought us out to be slaughtered!'
'No one will come out of this!'
'Silence, Polish dogs!' sounded the officer's voice.
'I should just like you to be standing in my shoes!'
'Where is that fellow?'
Suddenly a voice began to repeat:
'Beneath Thy Shadow....'
Bartek instantly took it up:
'We flee, O holy Son of God!'
And soon on that field of carnage a chorus of Polish voices was
calling to the Defender of their nation:
'Of Thy favour regard our prayers.'
while from beneath their feet there came the accompaniment of groans:
'Mary! Mary!' She had evidently heard them, for at that moment the
Aide-de-Camps came galloping up, and the command rang forth: 'Arms to
the attack! Hurrah! Forward!' The crest of bayonets was suddenly
lowered, the column stretched out into a long line and sprang towards
the hill to seek with their bayonets the enemy they could not discover
with their eyes. The men were, however, still two hundred yards from
the foot of the hill, and they had to traverse that distance under a
murderous fire. Would they not perish like the rest? Would they not be
obliged to retreat? Perish they might, but retreat they could not, for
the Prussian commander knows what tune will bring Polish soldiers to
the attack. Amid the roar of cannon, amid the rifle fire and the
smoke, the confusion and groaning, loudest of all sounded the drums
and trumpets, playing the hymn at which every single drop of blood
leapt in their veins. 'Hurrah!' answered the Macki[6] 'as long as we
live!' Frenzy seized them. The fire met them full in the face. They
went like a whirlwind over the prostrate bodies of men and horses,
over the wrecks of cannon. They fell, but they went with a shout and a
song. They had already reached the vineyard and disappeared into its
enclosure. Only the song was heard, and at times a bayonet glittered.
On the hill the firing became increasingly fierce. In the valley the
trumpets kept on sounding. The French volleys continued faster and
faster,--still faster,--and suddenly--
Suddenly they were silent.
Down in the valley that old wardog, Steinmetz, lighted his clay pipe,
and said in a tone of satisfaction:
'You have only to play to them! The daredevils will do it!'
And actually in a few moments one of the proudly waving tricolours was
suddenly raised aloft, then drooped, and disappeared.
'They are not joking,' said Steinmetz.
Again the trumpets played the hymn, and a second Polish regiment went
to the help of the first. In the enclosure a pitched battle with
bayonets was taking place.
And now, oh Muse, sing of our hero, Bartek, that posterity may know
of his deeds! The fear, impatience, and despair of his heart had
mingled into the single feeling of rage, and when he heard that music
each vein stood out in him like cast iron. His hair stood on end, his
eyes shot fire. He forgot everything that had made up his world; he no
longer cared whether one death was as good as another. Grasping his
rifle firmly in his hands, he leapt forward with the others. Reaching
the hill he fell down for the tenth time, struck his nose, and,
bespattered with mud and the blood flowing from his nose, ran on madly
and breathlessly, catching at the air with open mouth. He stared
round, wishing to find some of the French in the enclosure as quickly
as possible, and caught sight of three standing together near the
flags. They were Turcos. Would Bartek retreat? No, indeed; he could
have seized the horns of Lucifer himself now! He ran towards them at
once, and they fell on him with a shout; two bayonets, like two deadly
stings, had actually touched his chest already, but Bartek lowered his
bayonet. A dreadful cry followed,--a groan, and two dark bodies lay
writhing convulsively on the ground.
At that moment the third, who carried the flag, ran up to help his two
comrades. Like a Fury, Bartek leapt on him with his whole strength.
The firing flashed and roared in the distance, while Bartek's hoarse
roar rang out through the smoke:
'Go to Hell!'
And again the rifle in his hand described a fearful semi-circle, again
groans responded to his thrusts. The Turcos retreated in terror at the
sight of this furious giant, but either Bartek misunderstood, or they
shouted out something in Arabic, for it seemed to him that their thick
lips distinctly uttered the cry: 'Magda! Magda!'
'Magda will give it you!' howled Bartek, and with one leap he was in
the enemy's midst.
Happily at that moment some of his comrades ran up to his assistance.
A hand to hand fight now took place in the enclosure of the vineyard.
There was the crack of rifles at close quarters, and the hot breath of
the combatants sounded through their nostrils. Bartek raged like a
storm. Blinded by smoke, streaming with blood, more like a wild beast
than a man, and regardless of everything, he mowed down men at each
blow, broke rifles, cracked heads. His hands moved with the terrible
swiftness of a machine sowing destruction. He attacked the Ensign, and
seized him by the throat with an iron grip. The Ensign's eyes turned
upwards, his face swelled, his throat rattled, and his hands let the
pole fall.
'Hurrah!' cried Bartek, and, lifting the flag, he waved it in the air.
This was the flag raised aloft and drooping, which Steinmetz had seen
from below.
But he could only see it for half a second, for in the next--Bartek
had trampled it to shreds. Meanwhile his comrades were already rushing
on ahead.
Bartek remained alone for a moment. He tore off the flag, hid it in
his breast pocket, and, having seized the pole in both hands, rushed
after his comrades.
A crowd of Turcos, shouting in a barbarous tongue, now fled towards
the gun placed on the summit of the hill, the Macki after them,
shouting, pursuing, striking with butt-end and bayonet.
The Zouaves, who were stationed by the guns, received the first men
with rifle fire.
'Hurrah!' shouted Bartek.
The men ran up to the guns, and a fresh struggle took place round
these. At that moment the second Polish regiment came to the aid of
the first. The flag pole in Bartek's powerful hands was now changed
into a kind of infernal flail. Each stroke dealt by it opened a free
passage through the close lines of the French. The Zouaves and Turcos
began to be seized with panic, and they fled from the place where
Bartek was fighting. Within a few moments Bartek was sitting astride
the gun, as he might his Pognebin mare.
But scarcely had the soldiers had time to see him on this, when he was
already on the second, after killing another Ensign who was standing
by it with the flag.
'Hurrah, Bartek!' repeatedly exclaimed the soldiers.
The victory was complete. All the ammunition was captured. The
infantry fled, and after being surrounded by Prussian reinforcements
on the other side of the hill, laid down their arms.
Bartek captured yet a third flag during the pursuit.
It was worth seeing him, when exhausted, covered with blood, and
blowing like a blacksmith's bellows, he now descended the hill
together with the rest, bearing the three flags on his shoulder. The
French? Why, what had not he alone done to them! By his side went
Wojtek, scratched and scarred, so he turned to him and said:
'What did you say? Why, they are miserable wretches; there isn't a
scrap of strength in their bones! They have just scratched you and me
like kittens, and that's all. But how I have bled them you can see by
the ground!'
'Who would have known that you could be so brave!' replied Wojtek, who
had watched Bartek's deeds, and began to look at him in quite a
different light.
But who has not heard of these deeds? History, all the regiment and
the greater number of the officers. Everybody now looked with
astonishment at this country giant with the flaxen moustache and
goggle eyes. The Major himself said to him, 'Ah, you confounded Pole!'
and pulled his ear, making Bartek grin to his back teeth with
pleasure. When the regiment stood once more at the foot of the hill,
the Major pointed him out to the Colonel, and the Colonel to Steinmetz
himself.
The latter noticed the flags, and ordered that they should be taken
charge of; then he began to look at Bartek. Our friend Bartek again
stood as straight as a fiddle string, presenting arms, and the old
General looked at him and shook his head with pleasure. Finally he
began to say something to the Colonel; the words 'non-commissioned
officer' were plainly audible.
'Too stupid, Your Excellency!' answered the Major.
'Let us try,' said His Excellency, and turning his horse, he
approached Bartek.
Bartek himself scarcely knew what was happening to him: it was a thing
unknown in the Prussian Army for the General to talk to a Private! His
Excellency was the more easily able to do this, because he knew
Polish. Moreover this Private had captured three flags and two guns.
'Where do you come from?' enquired the General.
'From Pognebin,' answered Bartek.
'Good. Your name?'
'Bartek Slowik.'
'Mensch,' explained the Major.
'Mens!' Bartek tried to repeat.
'Do you know why you are fighting the French?'
'I know, Your Excellency.'
'Tell me.'
Bartek began to stammer, 'Because, because--' Then on a sudden
Wojtek's words fortunately came into his mind, and he burst out with
them quickly, so as not to get confused: 'Because they are Germans
too, only worse villains!'
His Excellency's face began to twitch as if he felt inclined to burst
out laughing. After a moment, however, His Excellency turned to the
Major, and said:
'You are right, Sir.'
Our friend Bartek, satisfied with himself, remained standing as
straight as a fiddle string.
'Who won the battle to-day?' the General asked again.
'I, Your Excellency,' Bartek answered without hesitation.
His Excellency's face again began to twitch.
'Right, very right, it was you! And here you have your reward.'
Here the old soldier unpinned the iron cross from his own breast,
stooped and pinned it on to Bartek. The General's good humour was
reflected in a perfectly natural way on the faces of the Colonel, the
Majors, the Captains, down to the non-commissioned officers. After the
General's departure the Colonel for his own part presented Bartek with
ten thalers, the Major with five, and so on. Everyone repeated to him
smilingly that he had won the battle, with the result that Bartek was
in the seventh heaven.
It was a strange thing: the only person who was not really satisfied
with our hero was Wojtek.
In the evening, when they were both sitting round the fire, and when
Bartek's distinguished face was bulging as much with pea sausage as
the sausage itself, Wojtek ejaculated in a tone of resignation:
'Oh Bartek, what a blockhead you are, because--'
'But why?' said Bartek, between his bites of sausage.
'Why, man, didn't you tell the General that the French are Germans?'
'You said so yourself.'
'And what of that?--'
Wojtek began to stammer a little--'Well, though they may be Germans,
you needn't have told him so, because it's always unpleasant--'
'But I said it about the French, not about them....'
'Ah, because when....'
Wojtek stopped short, though evidently wishing to say something
further; he wished to explain to Bartek that it is not suitable when
among Germans to speak evil of them, but somehow his tongue became
entangled.