A little while later the Royal Prussian Mail brought the following
letter to Pognebin:
May Jesus Christ and His Holy Mother be praised.
DEAREST MAGDA! What news of you? It is all right for you to
be able to rest quietly in bed at home, but I am fighting
horribly hard here. We have been surrounding the great fort
of Metz, and there was a battle, and I did for so many of the
French that all the Infantry and Artillery were astonished.
And the General himself was astonished, and said that I had
won the battle, and gave me a cross. And the officers and
non-commissioned officers respect me very much now, and
rarely box my ears. Afterwards we marched on further, and
there was a second battle, but I have forgotten what the town
was called; there also I seized and carried off four flags,
and knocked down one of the biggest Colonels in the
Cuirassiers, and took him prisoner. And as our regiment is
going to be sent home, the Sergeant has advised me to ask to
be transferred and to stay on here, for in war it is only
sleep you do not get, but you may eat as much as you can
stand, and in this country there is wine everywhere, for they
are a rich nation. We have also burnt a town and we did not
spare even women or children, nor did I. The church was burnt
on purpose, because they are Catholics, and very wicked
people. We are now going on to the Emperor himself, and that
will be the end of the war, but you take care of the cottage
and Franek, for if you do not take care of it, then I will
beat you till you have learnt what sort of a man I am. I
commend you to God.
Bartlomiej Slowik.
Bartek was evidently developing a taste for war, and beginning to
regard it as his proper trade. He felt greater confidence in himself,
and now went into battle as he might have gone to his work at
Pognebin. Medals and crosses covered his breast, and although he did
not become a non-commissioned officer, he was universally regarded as
the foremost Private in the regiment. He was always well disciplined,
as before, and possessed the blind courage of the man who simply takes
no account of danger. The courage actuating him was no longer of the
same kind as that which had filled him in his first moments of fury,
for it now sprang from military experience and faith in himself. Added
to this his giant strength could endure all kinds of fatigue, marches,
and overstrain. Men fell at his side, he alone went on unharmed, only
working all the harder and developing more and more into the stern
Prussian soldier. He now not only fought the French, but hated them.
Some of his other ideas also changed. He became a soldier-patriot,
blindly extolling his leaders. In another letter to Magda he wrote:
Wojtek is divided in his opinion, and so there is a quarrel
between us, do you understand? He is a scoundrel, too,
because he says that the French are Germans, but they are
French, and we are Germans.
Magda, in her reply to both letters, set about abusing him with the
first words that came into her head.
Dearest Bartek (she wrote), married to me before the holy
Altar! May God punish you! You yourself are a scoundrel, you
heathen, going with those wretches to murder half a nation of
Catholics. Do you not understand, then, that those wretches
are Lutherans, and that you, a Catholic, are helping them?
You like war, you ruffian, because you are able now to do
nothing but fight, drink, and illtreat others, and to go
without fasting; and you burn churches. But may you burn in
Hell for that, because you are even proud of it, and have no
thought for old people or children. Remember what has been
written in golden letters in the Holy Scriptures about the
Polish nation, from the beginning of the world to the
Judgment Day,--when God most High will have no regard for
sluggards,--and restrain yourself, you Turk, that I may not
smash your head to pieces. I have sent you five thalers,
although I have need of them here, for I do not know which
way to turn, and the household savings are getting short. I
embrace you, dearest Bartek.
MAGDA.
The moral contained in these lines made little impression on Bartek.
'The wife does not remember her vows,' he thought to himself, 'and is
meddling.' And he continued to make war on the aged. He distinguished
himself in every battle so greatly, that finally he again came under
the honoured notice of Steinmetz. Ultimately when the shattered Polish
regiment was sent back into the depths of Germany, he took the
sergeant's advice of applying for leave to be transferred, and stayed
behind. The result of this was that he found himself outside Paris.
His letters were now full of contempt for the French. 'They run away
like hares in every battle,' he wrote to Magda, and he wrote the
truth. But the siege did not prove to his taste. He had to dig or to
lie in the trenches round Paris for whole days, listening to the roar
of the guns, and often getting soaked through. Besides, he missed his
old regiment. In the one to which he had been transferred as a
volunteer, he was surrounded by Germans. He knew some German, having
already learnt a little at the factory, but only about five in ten
words; now he quickly began to grow familiar with it. The regiment
nicknamed him 'the Polish dog,' however, and it was only his
decorations and his terrifying fists which shielded him from
disagreeable jokes. Nevertheless, he earned the respect of his new
comrades, and began little by little to make friends with them. Since
he covered the whole regiment with glory, they ultimately came to look
upon him as one of themselves. Bartek would always have considered
himself insulted if anyone called him German, but in thinking of
himself in distinction to the French he called himself 'ein
Deutscher.' To himself he appeared entirely distinct, but at the same
time he did not wish to pass for worse than others. An incident
occurred, nevertheless, which might have given him plenty to reflect
upon, had reflection come more easily to this hero's mind. Some
Companies of his regiment had been sent out against some volunteer
sharpshooters, and laid an ambush for them, into which they fell. But
the detachment was composed of veteran soldiers, the remains of some
of the foreign regiments, and this time Bartek did not see the dark
caps running away after the first shots. They defended themselves
stubbornly when surrounded, and rushed forward to force their way
through the encircling Prussian soldiery. They fought so desperately
that half of them cut their way through, and knowing the fate that
awaited captured sharpshooters, few allowed themselves to be taken
alive. The Company in which Bartek was serving therefore only took two
prisoners. These were lodged overnight in a forester's house, and the
next day they were to be shot. A small guard of soldiers stood outside
the door, but Bartek was stationed in the room under the open window
with the prisoners, who were bound.
One of the prisoners was a man no longer young, with a grey moustache,
and a face expressing indifference to everything; the other appeared
to be about twenty-two years of age. With his fair moustache yet
scarcely showing, his face was more like a woman's that a soldier's.
'Well, this is the end of it,' the young man said after a while, 'a
bullet through your head--and it's all over!'
Bartek shuddered until the rifle in his hand rattled; the youth talked
Polish.
'It is all the same to me,' the second answered in a gruff voice, 'as
I live, all the same! I have lived so long, I have had enough.'
Bartek's heart beat quicker and quicker under his uniform.
'Listen, then,' the older man continued, 'there is no help for it. If
you are afraid, think about something else, or go to sleep. Enjoy what
you can. As God loves me, I don't care!'
'My mother will grieve for me,' the youth replied low; and, evidently
wishing to suppress his emotion, or else to deceive himself, he began
to whistle. He suddenly interrupted this, and cried in a voice of deep
despair, 'I did not even say good-bye!'
'Then did you run away from home?'
'Yes. I thought the Germans would be beaten, so there would be better
things coming for Poland.'
'And I thought the same. But now--'
Waving his hand, the old man finished speaking in a low voice, and his
last words were overpowered by the roar of the wind. The night was
dark. Clouds of fine rain swept past from time to time; the wood close
by was black as a pall. The gale whistled round the corners of the
room, and howled in the chimney like a dog. The lamp, placed high
above the window to prevent the wind from extinguishing it, threw a
flood of bright light into the room. But Bartek, who was standing
close to it under the window, was plunged in darkness.
And it was perhaps better the prisoners should not see his face, for
strange things were taking place in this peasant's mind. At first he
had been filled with astonishment, and had stared hard at the
prisoners, trying to understand what they were saying. So these men
had set out to beat the Germans to benefit Poland, and he had beaten
the French, in order that Poland might benefit! And to-morrow these
two men would be shot! How was that? What was a poor fellow to think
about it? But if only he could hint it to them, if only he could tell
them that he was their man, that he pitied them! He felt a sudden
catch in his throat. What could he do for them? Could he rescue them?
Then _he_ would be shot! Good God! what was happening to him? He was
so overcome by pity that he could not remain in the room.
A strange intense longing suddenly came upon him till he seemed
somewhere far off at Pognebin. Pity, hitherto an unknown guest in his
soldier's heart, cried to him from the depth of his soul: 'Bartek,
save them, they are your brothers!' and his heart, torn as never
before, cried out for home, for Magda, for Pognebin. He had had
enough of the French, enough of this war, and of battles! The voice
sounded clearer and clearer: 'Bartek, save them!' Confound this war!
The woods showed dark through the open window, moaning like the
Pognebin pines, and even in that moan something called out, 'Bartek,
save them!'
What could he do? Should he escape to the wood with them, or what? All
his Prussian discipline recoiled in aversion at the thought. In the
Name of the Father and the Son! He need but cross himself at it!
He,--a soldier, and desert? Never!
All the while the wood was moaning more loudly, the wind whistling
more mournfully.
The elder prisoner suddenly whispered, 'That wind--like the Spring at
home.'
'Leave me in peace!' the young man said in a Pognebin voice.
After a moment, however, he repeated several times:
'At home, at home, at home! God! God!'
Deep sighs mingled with the listening wind, and the prisoners lay
silent once more.
Bartek began to tremble feverishly. There is nothing so bad for a man
as to be unable to tell what is amiss with him. It seemed to Bartek as
if he had stolen something, and were afraid of being taken in charge.
He had a clear conscience, nothing threatened him, but he was
certainly terribly afraid of something. Indeed, his legs were
trembling, his rifle had grown dreadfully heavy, and something--like
bitter sobs--was choking him. Were these for Magda, or for Pognebin?
For both, but also for that younger prisoner whom it was impossible to
help.
At times Bartek fancied he must be asleep. All the while the storm
raged more fiercely round the house, and the cries and voices
multiplied strangely in the whistling of the wind.
Suddenly every hair of Bartek's head stood on end under his helmet.
For it seemed as if somewhere from out of the dark, rain-clad depths
of the forest somebody were groaning, and repeating: 'At home, at
home, at home!'
Bartek started back, and struck the floor with the butt end of his
rifle to wake himself. He regained consciousness somehow and looked
up. The prisoners lay in the corner, the lamp was burning brightly,
the wind was howling,--all was in order.
The light fell full on to the face of the younger prisoner--a child's
or girl's face. As he lay there with closed eyes, and straw under his
head, he looked as if he were already dead.
Never in his life had Bartek been so wrung with pity! Something
distinctly gripped his throat, and an audible cry was wrung from his
breast.
At that moment the elder prisoner turned wearily on to his side, and
said, 'Good-night, Wladek.' Silence followed. An hour passed.
The wind played like the Pognebin organ. The prisoners lay silent.
Suddenly the younger prisoner, raising himself a little by an effort,
called, 'Karol?'
'What?'
'Are you asleep?'
'No.'
'Listen! I am afraid. Say what you like, but I shall pray.'
'Pray, then.'
'Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom
come.'
Sobs suddenly interrupted the young prisoner's words, yet the broken
voice was still heard: 'Thy--will--be--done!'
'Oh Jesu!' something cried in Bartek, 'Oh Jesu!'
Impossible! He could stand it no longer.--Another moment, and
exclaiming 'Lord, I am only a man!' he had leapt through the window
into the wood. Let come what may! Suddenly measured steps were heard
echoing from the direction of the hall: it was the patrol, the
Sergeant with it. They were changing the guard!
Next day Bartek was drunk all day from early morning. The following
day likewise....
But fresh advances, fighting, and marches took place during the days
following, and I am glad to say that our hero regained his
equilibrium. A certain fondness for the bottle, in which it is always
possible to find pleasure and at times forgetfulness, remained with
him after that night, however. For the rest, in battle he was more
terrible than ever; victory followed in his wake.