ARGUMENT
Of the dangers arising from the disorderly conduct of a
camp—Unexpected succour—The gloomy situation of the gentry—The
visit of the Bernardine, collecting alms, is an omen of
rescue—Major Plut by excessive gallantry draws down a storm upon
himself—A pistol shot, the signal for combat—The deeds of
Sprinkler; the deeds and dangers of Maciek—Bucket by an ambuscade
preserves Soplicowo—Reinforcements of cavalry; attack on the
infantry—The deeds of Thaddeus—Duel of the leaders interrupted by
treason—The Seneschal by a decisive manœuvre inclines the scales
of combat—Bloody deeds of Gerwazy—The Chamberlain as a magnanimous
victor.
And they snored in so sound a sleep that they were not wakened by the
gleam of lanterns and the entry of some dozens of men, who fell upon the
gentry as wall spiders, called mowers, upon drowsy flies; scarcely does
one of them have time to buzz before the grim master encircles it around
with long legs and strangles it. The sleep of the gentry was still sounder
than the sleep of flies: not a one buzzed; all lay as if lifeless, though
they were seized by strong arms, and thrown about like straw when it is
bound into sheaves.
Bucket alone, whose head was strongest at a banquet of all those in the
district; Bucket, who could drink two butts of mead before his tongue
faltered and his legs tottered—Bucket, though long had he feasted and
deeply did he slumber, still gave a sign of life; he blinked with one eye,
and saw!—real nightmares! two dreadful faces directly above him, and each
had a pair of mustaches. They breathed upon him, and touched his lips with
their mustaches, and flourished about four hands like wings. He was
terrified, and wanted to cross him self, but he tried in vain to stir his
arm; his right arm seemed pinned to his side. He strove to move his
left—alas! he found that the spirits had wrapt him tight as a babe in
swaddling bands. He was terrified still more frightfully; immediately he
closed his eyes and lay without breathing; he grew cold and was near to
death.
But Sprinkler made an effort to defend himself, too late! For he was
already bound fast in his own belt. However, he twisted himself about and
leapt up with such a spring that he fell back on the breasts of the
sleeping men and rolled over their heads; he tossed like a pike, when it
writhes on the sand, and roared like a bear, for he had strong lungs. He
roared: “Treachery!” At once the whole company awoke and answered in
chorus: “Treachery! Violence! Treachery!”
The cry went echoing to the mirror room, where slept the Count, Gerwazy,
and the jockeys. Gerwazy awoke, and in vain struggled to free himself, for
he was tied fast at full length to his own sword; he looked about, and saw
by the window armed men, in short, black helmets and green uniforms. One
of them, girt with a scarf, held a sword, and with its point directed his
company of men, whispering: “Bind! Bind!” Around him lay the jockeys, tied
up like sheep; the Count was sitting unbound but without arms, and by him
stood two private soldiers with bare bayonets—Gerwazy recognised them:
alas! the Muscovites!!!
Often had the Warden been in like distress, often had he felt ropes on his
arms and legs; and yet he had freed himself, for he knew a way of breaking
bands: he was very strong and trusted in himself. He planned to save
himself by silence; he closed his eyes as if he were asleep, slowly
stretched out his arms and legs, held his breath, and contracted his belly
and his chest to the utmost; then suddenly he grew short, puffed himself
out, and doubled up: as a serpent, when it hides its head and tail in its
coils, so Gerwazy became short and thick instead of long. The cords
stretched and even creaked, but did not break! From very shame and terror
the Warden turned over and hid his angry face upon the floor; closing his
eyes he lay senseless as a log.
Then the drums began to roll, at first slowly, then with a rumble that
became ever faster and louder; at this signal the Muscovite officer gave
orders to lock up the Count and the jockeys in the hall, under guard, but
to take the gentry out into the yard, where the other company was
stationed. In vain Sprinkler fumed and struggled.
The staff was stationed in the yard, and with it many armed gentry, the
Podhajskis, Birbaszes, Hreczechas, Biergels, all friends or kinsmen of the
Judge. They had hastened to his relief when they heard of the attack upon
him, the more eagerly since they had long been at odds with the
Dobrzynskis.
Who had summoned the battalion of Muscovites from the villages? Who had
gathered so quickly the neighbours from the hamlets? Was it the Assessor
or Jankiel? As to this there were various rumours, but no one knew with
certainty either then or later.
Already the sun was rising, and showed blood-red; its blunt edge, as if
stripped of beams, was half visible and half hidden in the black clouds,
like a heated horseshoe in the charcoal of a forge. The wind was rising,
and it drove on the clouds from the east, crowded and jagged as blocks of
ice; each cloud as it passed over sprinkled cold rain; behind it rushed
the wind and dried the rain again; after the wind again a damp cloud flew
by; and thus the day by turns was cold and drizzly.
Meanwhile the Major had given orders to drag up the beams that were drying
near the yard, and in each beam to cut with an axe semicircular notches;
into these notches he thrust the legs of the prisoners and closed them
with another beam. The two logs, nailed together at the ends, fastened
upon the legs like the jaws of a bulldog; with cords they tied the arms of
the gentry still more tightly behind their backs. The Major for their
further torment had already had their caps pulled from their heads, and
from their backs their cloaks, their kontuszes, and even their
jackets—even their tunics. Thus the gentry, fastened in the stocks, sat in
a row, chattering their teeth in the cold and the rain, for the drizzle
kept increasing. In vain Sprinkler fumed and struggled.
Vainly the Judge interceded for the gentry, and vainly Telimena joined her
entreaties to the tears of Zosia, that they should have more regard for
the captives. Captain Nikita Rykov, to be sure—a Muscovite but a good
fellow—allowed himself to be mollified; but this was of no avail, since he
himself had to obey Major Plut.160
This Major, by birth a Pole from the little town of Dzierowicze, according
to report, had been named Plutowicz in Polish, but had changed his name;
he was a great rascal, as is usually the case with Poles that turn
Muscovites in the Tsar’s service. Plut, with his pipe in his mouth and his
hands on his hips, stood in front of the ranks of soldiers; when people
bowed to him, he turned up his nose, and in answer, as a sign of his
wrathful humour, he puffed out a cloud of smoke and walked towards the
house.
But meanwhile the Judge had been appeasing Rykov, and likewise taking
aside the Assessor. They were consulting how to end the affair out of
court, and, what was still more important, without interference from the
government. So Captain Rykov said to Major Plut:—
“Major, what do we want of all these captives? If we send them up for
trial, there will be great trouble for the gentry of the district, and no
one will give you any reward for it, sir. I tell you, Major, it will be
better to settle the matter quietly; the Judge will have to reward you for
your pains, and we will say that we came here on a visit: thus the goats
will be whole and the wolf will be full. There is a Russian proverb: ‘All
can be done—with caution!’ and another proverb, ‘Roast your own meat on
the Tsar’s spit,’ and a third proverb, ‘Harmony is better than discord.’
Tie the knot tight and put the ends in the water. We will not make a
report, so that nobody will find out. ‘God gave hands to take with’—that
is a Russian proverb.”
When he heard this the Major rose and exploded with wrath:—
“Are you mad, Rykov? This is the Imperial service, and service is not
friendship, you idiotic old Rykov! Are you mad? Shall I discharge rebels!
In these warlike times! Ha, my Polish friends, I’ll teach you rebellion!
Ha, you rascally Dobrzynski gentlemen; O, I know you—let the rascals
soak!” (And he guffawed, as he looked out of the window.) “Why, that same
Dobrzynski who is sitting with his coat on—hey, take off his coat!—last
year at the masked ball started that squabble with me. Who began it?
He—not I. I was dancing, and he yelled, ‘Turn the scoundrel out!’ Since I
was just then under investigation for stealing from the regimental
treasury, I was much embarrassed; but what business was it of his? I was
dancing the mazurka, and he shouted from behind, ‘Scoundrel!’ The gentry
after him cried ‘Hurrah!’ They insulted me. Well? The beggarly gentleman
has fallen into my claws. I said to him: ‘See here, Dobrzynski, the goat
will come to the butcher’s waggon!’ Well, Dobrzynski, switches are cut for
you, you see!”
Then he bent over and whispered into the Judge’s ear:—
“Judge, if you want to have this matter hushed up, a thousand rubles cash
for each head. A thousand rubles, Judge, that’s my last word.”
The Judge tried to bargain, but the Major would not listen; once more he
stalked about the room and puffed out clouds of smoke, like a squib or a
rocket. The women followed him, imploring and weeping.
“Major,” said the Judge, “even if you go to law, what will you gain? There
has been no bloody battle here, and no wounds; for their eating of hens
and geese they will pay fines according to the statute. I shall not make
complaint against the Count; this was only an ordinary squabble between
neighbours.”
“Judge,” said the Major, “have you read the Yellow Book?”161
“What yellow book?” asked the Judge.
“A book,” said the Major, “that is better than all your statutes, and in
it every other word is halter, Siberia, the knout; the book of
martial law, now proclaimed throughout all Lithuania: your tribunals are
now on the shelf. According to martial law, for such pranks you will at
the very least be sent to hard labour in Siberia.”
“I appeal to the Governor,” said the Judge.
“Appeal to the Emperor if you want to,” said Plut. “You know that when the
Emperor confirms decrees, he often by his grace doubles the penalty.
Appeal, and perhaps in case of need, my dear Judge, I shall get a good
hold on you too. Jankiel, a spy whom the government has long been
tracking, is a frequenter of your house and the tenant of your tavern. I
may now put every one of you under arrest at once.”
“Arrest me?” said the Judge. “How do you dare without orders?”
And the dispute was becoming more and more lively, when a new guest rode
into the farmyard.
A strange throng was coming in. In front, like a courier, ran an immense
black ram, whose brow bristled with four horns, two of which were decked
with bells and curled about his ears, and two jutted out sidewise from his
forehead and were hung with small, round, tinkling brass balls. After the
ram came oxen and a flock of sheep and goats; behind the cattle were four
heavily loaded waggons.
All divined that Father Robak, the Alms-Gatherer, had arrived. So the
Judge, knowing his duty as host, took his stand on the threshold, to
welcome the guest. The Monk rode on the first wain, his face half hidden
by his cowl; but they immediately recognised him, for, when he passed the
prisoners, he turned his countenance towards them and made a sign to them
with his finger. And the driver of the second wain was equally well known,
old Maciek, the Switch, disguised as a peasant. The gentry began to shout
as soon as he appeared; he said only “Idiots!” and imposed silence by a
gesture. On the third waggon was the Prussian, in a torn overcoat; and Zan
and Mickiewicz rode on the fourth.
Meanwhile the Podhajskis and the Isajewiczes, the Birbaszes, Wilbiks,
Biergels, and Kotwiczes, seeing the Dobrzynskis under so severe
constraint, began slowly to cool down from their former wrath; for the
Polish gentry, though beyond measure quarrelsome and eager for fighting,
are nevertheless not vindictive. So they ran to old Maciej for counsel. He
stationed the whole crowd about the waggons and told them to wait.
The Bernardine entered the room. They hardly recognised him, though he had
not changed his clothes—his bearing was so different. He was ordinarily
gloomy and thoughtful, but now he held his head high, and with a radiant
mien, like a jolly monk, he laughed long before he began to talk:—
“Ha! ha! ha! ha! My respects, my respects! Ha! ha! ha! Excellent,
first-class! Officers, some people hunt by day, but you by night! The
hunting was good; I have seen the game. Pluck, pluck the gentry, peel them
well; bridle them, for the gentry sometimes kick! I congratulate you,
Major, that you have caught the young Count; he is a fat morsel, a rich
fellow, a young man of old family; don’t let him out of the cage without
getting three hundred ducats for him; and when you have them, give some
three-pence for my monastery and for me, for I always pray for your soul.
As I am a Bernardine, I am very anxious about your soul! Death pulls even
staff-officers by the ears. Baka162 wrote well—that Death seizes on
sinners at dinners, and on silken frocks she often knocks, and monks’
cowls she slashes like satin sashes, and the curb of girls she raps like
shoulder-straps. Mother Death, says Baka, like an onion, brings tears from
the dears she embraces, and fondles alike both the baby that drowses and
the rake that carouses! Ah! ah! Major, to-day we live and to-morrow we
rot; that only is ours which to-day we eat and drink! Judge, doesn’t it
seem to you time for breakfast? I take my seat at the table, and beg all
to be seated with me. Major, how about some stewed beef and gravy?
Lieutenant, what’s your idea? Should you like a bowl of good punch?”
“That’s a fact, Father,” said two officers; “it’s time to be eating, and
to drink the Judge’s health!”
The household, gazing at Robak, marvelled whence he had got such a bearing
and such jollity. The Judge at once repeated the orders to the cook; they
brought in a bowl, sugar, bottles, and stewed beef. Plut and Rykov set to
work briskly; and so greedily did they feed and so copiously did they
drink, that in a half hour they had eaten twenty-three plates of the
stewed beef and emptied an enormous half bowl of punch.
So the Major, full and merry, lolled in his chair, took out his pipe,
lighted it with a bank note, and, wiping the breakfast from his lips with
the end of a napkin, turned his laughing eyes on the women, and said:—
“Fair ladies, I like you as dessert! By my major’s epaulets, when a man
has eaten breakfast, the best relish after the stewed beef is chatting
with such fair ladies as you fair ladies! I tell you what: let’s have a
game of cards, of vingt et un or whist; or shall we start a mazurka? Hey,
in the name of three hundred devils, why, I am the best dancer of the
mazurka in the whole yager regiment!”
Thereupon he leaned forward closer to the ladies, and puffed out smoke and
compliments by turns.
“Let’s dance!” cried Robak. “When I have finished my bottle, though a
monk, I occasionally tuck up my gown, and dance a bit of a mazurka! But
you see, Major, we are drinking here and the yagers are freezing there in
the yard. Sport is sport! Judge, give them a keg of brandy; the Major will
permit it; let the bold yagers have a drink!”
“I might beg the favour,” said the Major, “but you are not forced to grant
it.”
“Judge,” whispered Robak, “give ’em a keg of spirits.”
And thus, while the merry staff tippled in the mansion, outside the house
there began a drinking bout among the troops.
Captain Rykov drained cup after cup in silence; but the Major drank and at
the same time paid court to the ladies, and the ardour for dancing
continually increased within him. He threw aside his pipe and seized
Telimena’s hand; he was eager to dance, but she ran away; so he went up to
Zosia, and bowing and tottering invited her to open the mazurka.
“Hey you, Rykov, stop pulling at your pipe! Put away your pipe; you play
the balalaika well. You see that guitar there; go, get the guitar and give
us a mazurka! I, the Major, will lead out in the first couple.”
The Captain took the guitar and began to tune it; Plut again urged
Telimena to dance:—
“On the word of a Major, madam, I am not a Russian if I lie! May I be the
son of a bitch if I lie! Ask, and all the officers will bear witness, all
the army will tell you that in the second army, ninth corps, second
division of infantry, fiftieth yager regiment, Major Plut is the foremost
dancer of the mazurka. Come on, young lady! Don’t be so skittish, for I
shall punish you in officer’s fashion.”
So saying he jumped up, seized Telimena’s hand, and imprinted a broad kiss
on her white shoulder; but Thaddeus, darting in from the side, slapped his
face. The kiss and the blow resounded together, one after the other, as
word after word.
The Major was dumbfounded, rubbed his eyes, and, pale with wrath, shouted,
“Rebellion, a rebel!”—and, drawing his sword, rushed to run him through.
Then the Monk took a pistol from his sleeve, and cried: “Shoot, Thaddeus,
aim for the bull’s eye.” Thaddeus at once seized it, aimed, and shot; he
missed, but he deafened and scorched the Major. Rykov started up with his
guitar, crying, “Rebellion! rebellion!” and made for Thaddeus; but from
the other side of the table the Seneschal swung his arm with a left-hand
motion, and a knife whistled through the air between the heads of the
company and struck before they saw it flash. It struck the bottom of the
guitar and pierced it through and through; Rykov dodged and thus escaped
death, but he was frightened; with a cry of “Yagers! Rebellion! In God’s
name!” he drew his sword, and, defending himself, he retreated to the
threshold.
Then on the other side of the room many of the gentry poured in through
the windows with swords, Switch at their head. In the hall Plut and Rykov
behind him were calling the soldiers; already the three nearest the house
were running to their aid; already three glittering bayonets were gliding
through the door, and behind them there were bent forward three black
helmets. Maciek stood by the door with his switch raised on high, and,
squeezing close to the wall, lay in wait for them as a cat for rats; then
he struck a fearful blow. Perhaps he would have felled three heads, but
the old man either had poor eyesight, or else he was too much wrought up;
since, before they put forward their necks, he smote on their helmets, and
stripped them off; the switch, falling, clinked on the bayonets.—The
Muscovites started back, and Maciek drove them out to the yard.
There the confusion was still worse. There the partisans of the Soplicas
vied with each other in setting free the Dobrzynskis by tearing apart the
beams. Seeing this, the yagers seized their arms and made for them; a
sergeant rushed ahead and transfixed Podhajski with a bayonet; he wounded
two others of the gentry and was shooting at a third; they fled: this was
close to the log in which Baptist was fastened. He already had his arms
free and ready for fight; he rose, lifted his hand with its long fingers
and clenched his fist; and from above he gave the Russian such a blow on
the back that he knocked his face and temples into the lock of his
carbine. The lock clicked, but the powder, moist with blood, did not
catch; the sergeant fell on his arms at the feet of Baptist. Baptist bent
down, seized the carbine by the barrel, and, brandishing it like his
sprinkling-brush, lifted it aloft; he whirled it about and straightway
smote two privates on the shoulders and gave a corporal a blow on the
head; the rest, terrified, recoiled in dismay from the log: thus Sprinkler
sheltered the gentry with a moving roof.
Then they pulled apart the logs and cut the cords; the gentry, once free,
descended upon the waggons of the Alms-Gatherer, and from them procured
swords, sabres, cutlasses, scythes, and guns. Bucket found two
blunderbusses and a bag of bullets; he poured some of these into his own
blunderbuss; the other gun he loaded in the same way and gave over to
Buzzard.
More yagers arrived, fell into disorder, and knocked against one another;
the gentry in the tumult could not cut and slash; the yagers could not
shoot, for they were fighting hand to hand. Like tooth on tooth, steel on
steel clashed and snapped; bayonet broke on sabre and scythe on sword
hilt; fist met fist and arm met arm.
But Rykov, with a part of the yagers, ran up to where the barn adjoined
the fence; there he made a stand and called to his soldiers that they
should stop so disorderly a fight, since, without having a chance to use
their weapons, they were falling beneath the fists of the enemy. Angry
that he himself could not fire, for in the press he could not distinguish
Muscovites from Poles, he shouted, “Fall in” (which means form in line);
but his command could not be heard in the midst of the shouting.
Old Maciek, who was not good at hand to hand combat, retreated, clearing a
place before him to the right and to the left; now with the tip of his
sabre he sheared a bayonet from a gun barrel as a wick from a candle; now
with a slashing blow from the left he cut or stabbed. Thus the cautious
Maciek retired to the open field.
But an old corporal, who was the instructor of the regiment, a great
master of the bayonet, pressed upon him with the utmost obstinacy; he
gathered himself together, bent down, and grasped his carbine with both
hands, holding the right on the lock and the left at the middle of the
barrel; he dodged and skipped, and at times crouched down; he let go with
his left hand, and thrust forward the weapon with his right, like the
sting from the jaws of a serpent; and again he withdrew it and rested it
on his knees; and thus dodging and jumping he pressed upon Maciek.
Old Maciek appreciated the skill of his adversary, and with his left hand
adjusted his spectacles on his nose; with his right he held the hilt of
his switch close to his breast, and withdrew, following the motions of the
corporal with his eyes; he himself tottered on his legs as though he were
drunk. The corporal pressed on the more quickly; sure of his triumph, and
in order the more easily to reach his retiring foe, he arose and stretched
forward his right arm at full length, pushing forward his carbine; he made
such an effort in thrusting with his heavy weapon, that he even leaned
forward. Maciek shoved the hilt of his sword just under the spot where the
bayonet is set upon the gun barrel, and knocked up the weapon; then,
suddenly lowering his switch, he wounded the Muscovite in the arm, and
again, with a slash from the left, cut through his jaw. Thus fell the
corporal, the finest fencer among the Muscovites, a cavalier of three
crosses and four medals.
Meanwhile, near the logs, the left wing of the gentry was already near
victory. There fought Sprinkler, visible from afar, there Razor hovered
around the Muscovites; the latter slashed at their waists, the former
pounded their heads. As a machine that German workmen have invented and
that is called a thrasher, but is at the same time a chopper—it has chains
and knives, and cuts up the straw and thrashes the grain at the same
time—so did Sprinkler and Razor work together, slaughtering their enemies,
one from above and the other from below.
But Sprinkler now abandoned sure victory and ran to the right wing, where
a new danger was threatening Maciek. Eager to avenge the death of the
corporal, an ensign was attacking him with a long spontoon—the spontoon is
a combination of pike and axe, now discarded, and employed only in the
fleet, but then it was used also in the infantry. The ensign, a young man,
ran nimbly back and forth; whenever his adversary beat the weapon to one
side, he retired; Maciek, not being able to drive off the young man, was
obliged merely to defend himself without inflicting wounds. Already the
ensign had given him a slight wound with the spear; already, raising the
halberd aloft, he was collecting himself for a blow. Baptist was unable to
reach him in time, but stopping half way, he whirled his weapon, and cast
it under the feet of his enemy; he broke a bone, and the ensign
immediately dropped the spontoon from his hands. He staggered; Baptist
rushed on him, and after him a throng of gentry, and after the gentry the
Muscovites from the left wing ran up in disorder, and the battle raged
around Sprinkler.
Baptist, who had lost his arms in defence of Maciek, almost paid for that
service with his life; for two strong Muscovites fell on him from behind,
and twisted four hands at once into his hair; bracing their feet, they
pulled as on springy cables, hitched to the mast of a barge. In vain
Sprinkler struck out blindly behind him; he tottered—but suddenly he saw
that Gerwazy was fighting close by; he shouted, “Jesus Maria! the
penknife!”
The Warden, hearing Baptist’s cry, knew that he was in mortal terror; he
turned back, and plunged the sharp steel blade between the head of Baptist
and the hands of the Muscovites. They withdrew, uttering piercing cries,
but one hand, more firmly entwined in the hair, remained hanging and
spurted forth blood. Thus an eagle, when it buries one talon in a hare,
catches with the other at a tree, in order to hold back the beast; but the
hare, pulling, splits the eagle in two; the right talon remains on the
tree in the forest; the left, covered with blood, the beast bears away to
the fields.
Sprinkler, free once more, cast his eyes about, stretched out his hands,
sought for a weapon, shouted for a weapon; meanwhile he brandished his
fists, standing his ground manfully, but keeping close to the side of
Gerwazy, until he caught sight of his son Buzzard in the press. Buzzard
with his right hand was aiming a blunderbuss, and with his left was
pulling after him a great club, a fathom long, armed with flints and knobs
and knots.163 (No one could have lifted it except Baptist.) Baptist, when
he saw his darling weapon, his sprinkling-brush, seized it, kissed it,
jumped into the air for joy, whirled it over his head and straightway
moistened it.
What deeds he then performed, what disasters he spread abroad, it were
vain to sing, for none would believe the Muse: even so they did not
believe the poor woman in Wilno, who, standing on the summit of the holy
Ostra Gate, saw how Deyov, the Muscovite general, coming on with a
regiment of Cossacks, was already opening the gate, and how a single
burgher, named Czarnobacki, killed Deyov and routed a whole regiment of
Cossacks.164
Suffice it to say, that things came to pass as Rykov had foreseen; the
yagers in the crowd yielded to the power of their foes. Twenty-three
rolled slain on the ground, thirty and more lay groaning with frequent
wounds, many fled and hid in the garden, the hops, or along the river;
some took refuge in the house under the protection of the women.
The victorious gentry ran with a cry of joy, some to the casks, others to
tear booty from the enemy; Robak alone did not share their exultation.
Hitherto he had not fought himself (for the canons forbid a priest to take
part in combat), but as an experienced man he had been giving counsel, had
run about the battlefield in all directions, and with his glance and his
arm had urged on and guided those who were fighting. And now he shouted
for them to assemble around him, attack Rykov, and complete the victory.
Meanwhile by a messenger he informed Rykov that if he would lay down his
arms he would preserve his life; but, in case the surrender of arms were
delayed, Robak gave orders to surround the remnant and cut them down.
Captain Rykov was far from asking quarter. Gathering about him half a
battalion, he shouted, “Ready!” Immediately the line seized their carbines
and the arms rattled; they had long since been loaded. He shouted, “Aim!”
and the barrels glittered in a long row. He shouted, “Fire in turn!” and
one report followed another; one man shot, another loaded, a third
clutched his musket. One could hear the whistling of bullets, the rattle
of locks, the clink of ramrods; the whole line seemed to be a moving
reptile, which moved a thousand glittering legs at the same time.
To be sure, the yagers were drunk with strong liquor; they aimed poorly
and missed their mark; few inflicted wounds and hardly a single one killed
his man: however, two of the Maciejs were already wounded, and one of the
Bartlomiejs had fallen. The gentry replied but sparingly from their few
guns, and were eager to attack the enemy with swords; but the older men
restrained them: each moment the bullets whistled, struck, and forced the
gentry to retreat—soon they would have cleared the yard; already they
began to ring on the windows of the house.
Thaddeus, who by his uncle’s orders had remained in the house to protect
the women, hearing how the battle was becoming ever fiercer and fiercer,
ran out, and after him rushed the Chamberlain, to whom Thomas had at last
brought his sabre; he hurriedly joined the gentry and took his place at
their head. He ran forward, raising his weapon, and the gentry moved after
him. The yagers, letting them come near, poured upon them a hail of
bullets; Isajewicz, Wilbik, and Razor fell wounded; then the gentry were
checked by Robak on one side and Maciej on the other. The gentry cooled in
their ardour, glanced about, and retired; the Muscovites saw this, and
Captain Rykov planned to give the final blow, to drive the gentry from the
yard and seize the mansion.
“Form for the attack!” he cried. “Charge bayonets! Forward!”
Immediately the line, levelling their gun barrels like poles, bent down
their heads, moved on and quickened their step; in vain the gentry
endeavoured to check them from in front and shot from the side; the line
passed over half the yard without resistance. The Captain, pointing with
his sword to the door of the mansion, shouted:—
“Surrender, Judge, or I will order your house to be burned!”
“Burn it,” cried the Judge, “and I will roast you in that fire!”
O mansion of Soplicowo! if thy white walls are still whole and glitter
beneath the lindens; if a throng of the neighbouring gentry still sit at
the Judge’s hospitable board, they surely often drink the health of
Bucket, for without him Soplicowo would to-day be no more!
Bucket had so far given few proofs of valour. Though he was the first of
the gentry to be freed from the stocks, and though he had straightway
found in the waggon his darling bucket, his favourite blunderbuss, and
with it a pouch of bullets, he did not care to fight. He said that he did
not trust himself when dry, and so he went to a cask of spirits standing
near, and, using his hand as a spoon, dipped up a stream into his lips.
Only when he had well warmed and strengthened himself did he adjust his
cap, take up his bucket from his knees, ram home a charge, sprinkle the
pan, and gaze at the battlefield. He saw that a glittering wave of
bayonets was smiting and dispersing the gentry, and he swam to meet that
wave; he bent down and dived through the dense grass, across the centre of
the yard, until he paused in ambush where the nettles were growing; with
gestures he summoned Buzzard.
Buzzard, who was on guard at the mansion, was standing with his
blunderbuss by the threshold, for in that mansion dwelt his dear Zosia,
whom he loved eternally (though she had scorned his courtship), and in
whose defence he was glad to perish.
The line of yagers was already entering the nettles, on the march, when
Bucket touched the trigger, and from the broad mouth of his blunderbuss
let fly a dozen chopped bullets into the midst of the Muscovites; Buzzard
let fly another dozen, and the yagers fell into confusion. Dismayed by the
ambuscade, the line folded back into a disorderly mass, retreated, and
abandoned the wounded; Baptist finished their slaughter.
The barn was already far off; fearing a long retreat, Rykov made for the
garden fence, and there checked his fleeing company in its course. He drew
them up, but changed their formation; instead of a line he made a
triangle, with its point to the front and its base protected by the garden
fence. He did well, for the cavalry descended on him from the castle.
The Count, who had been in the castle under the guard of the Muscovites,
when his terrified guards had dispersed, had mounted his followers, and
hearing shots, was leading his cavalry into the firing line, himself at
their head, with his steel raised aloft. At once Rykov cried, “Platoon
fire!” A fiery thread flew along over the locks, and from the black
levelled barrels three hundred bullets whistled. Three riders fell
wounded, and one lay dead. The Count’s steed fell, and the Count with it;
with a cry the Warden ran to the rescue, for he saw that the yagers had
aimed at the last of the Horeszkos—though in the female line. Robak was
nearer, and covered the Count with his body; he received the bullets in
his stead, drew him from under his horse, and led him away; but the gentry
he bade disperse, take better aim, spare vain shots, and hide behind the
fences, the well, and the walls of the stable. The Count and his cavalry
had to wait a more fitting season.
Thaddeus comprehended Robak’s plans and carried them out splendidly,
seeking cover behind the wooden well; and, since he was sober and was a
fine shot with his fowling piece (for he could hit a gold coin thrown in
the air), he did terrible execution on the Muscovites, picking out their
chiefs; with his first shot he at once killed the sergeant-major. Then
with his two barrels, one after the other, he mowed down two sergeants,
aiming now at the gold lace, now at the middle of the triangle, where
stood the staff. Thereupon Rykov grew angry and chafed, he stamped his
feet and bit the hilt of his sword.
“Major Plut,” he cried, “what will come of this? Soon not one of us will
be left here to give orders!”
So Plut shouted at Thaddeus in great wrath:—
“Shame on you, you Pole, for hiding behind a plank shelter; don’t be a
coward, come out into the open and fight honourably, as a soldier should.”
To this Thaddeus replied:—
“Major, if you are so bold a knight, why do you hide behind a company of
yagers? I am not afraid of you—come out from behind the fence; you have
had your face slapped, but still I am ready to fight with you! Why all
this bloodshed? The quarrel was between us two; so let the pistol or the
sword settle it. I give you your choice of weapons, from a cannon to a
pin. Otherwise, I will shoot you and your men like wolves in a cave.”
So saying, he shot, and aimed so well that he hit the lieutenant by
Rykov’s side.
“Major,” whispered Rykov, “go out and fight a duel with him, and take
vengeance on him for what he did some time ago. If anybody else kills that
young gentleman, then, Major, you see that you will not wash off your
disgrace. You must coax out that gentleman into the field; if you can’t
kill him with a carbine, you may with a sword. Old Suvorov used to say,
‘Rifles are trifles, but hand arms are grand arms.’ Go out into the field,
Major, for he is shooting at us; look, he is aiming now.”
“Rykov, my dear friend,” replied the Major, “you are a fine boy with a
sword; go out yourself, brother Rykov—or, I tell you what, we will send
one of our lieutenants. I, the Major, I cannot desert the soldiers; to me
belongs the command of the battalion.”
Rykov, hearing this, lifted his sword and went out boldly; he ordered the
firing to cease and waved a white handkerchief. He asked Thaddeus what
weapon he preferred; after discussion, they agreed on swords. Thaddeus had
no weapon; while they were looking for swords, the Count rushed out armed
and interrupted the negotiations.
“Pan Soplica,” he shouted. “begging your pardon, you challenged the Major!
I have a grudge of longer standing against the Captain; he has broken into
my castle”—“Please say our castle,” interrupted Protazy—“at the head of
a band of robbers,” the Count concluded. “He—I recognised Rykov—tied up my
jockeys; I will punish him as I punished the brigands beneath the crag
that the Sicilians call Birbante-Rocca.”
All became silent, and the firing ceased; the armies gazed eagerly at the
meeting of their leaders. The Count and Rykov advanced, standing sidewise,
threatening each other with the right hand and the right eye; then with
their left hands they uncovered their heads and bowed courteously—it is
the custom of men of honour, before proceeding to murder, first to
exchange greetings. Their swords were already crossed and had begun to
clash. The knights, each lifting one foot, bent their right knees, and
jumped forward and back by turns.
But Plut, seeing Thaddeus in front of his line, had a quiet consultation
with Corporal Gont, who passed for the best shot in the company.
“Gont,” said the Major, “you see that rascal there; if you will put a
bullet into him right under the fifth rib I’ll give you four silver
rubles.”
Gont cocked his carbine and bent over the lock; his faithful comrades
sheltered him with their cloaks. He aimed, not at the rib, but at the head
of Thaddeus; he shot and hit the centre of his hat, close to his mark.
Thaddeus whirled about, then Sprinkler rushed on Rykov, and after him the
gentry, crying “Treason!” Though Thaddeus shielded him, Rykov barely
managed to retreat and find refuge in the centre of his ranks.
Again the Dobrzynskis and the other Lithuanians vied with one another in
pressing forward, and, despite the former disagreements of the two
factions, they fought like brothers, each urging on his comrade. The
Dobrzynskis, seeing how a Podhajski was prancing before the line of yagers
and slashing them with his scythe, shouted joyfully: “Long live the
Podhajskis! Forward, brother Lithuanians! hurrah! hurrah for Lithuania!”
And the Skolubas, seeing how the valiant Razor, despite his wound, was
dashing on with his sabre raised aloft, cried: “Hurrah for the Macieks!
long live the Masovians!” Inspiring one another with courage, they ran
upon the Muscovites; in vain Robak and Maciek tried to restrain them.
While they were thus smiting the company of yagers from the front, the
Seneschal abandoned the battlefield and went into the garden. By his side
strode the cautious Protazy, to whom the Seneschal was quietly issuing
orders.
In the garden, close to the fence against which Rykov had supported his
triangle, stood a large old cheese house, built of lattice work made of
beams nailed across one another, like a cage. In it there shone many
scores of white cheeses; around them bunches of sage, bennet, cardoon, and
wild thyme hung drying, the entire herb apothecary shop of the Seneschal’s
daughter. The cheese house was some twenty feet square, but it rested only
on a single great pillar, like a stork’s nest. The old oaken pillar
slanted, for it was already half decayed, and threatened to fall. The
Judge had often been advised to destroy the age-worn structure, but he
always said that he preferred to repair it rather than to destroy it, or
even to rebuild it. He kept postponing the task to a more convenient
season, and in the meantime bade put two props under the pillar. The
structure, thus strengthened, but still not firm, looked over the fence at
Rykov’s triangle.
Toward this cheese house the Seneschal and the Apparitor walked silently,
each armed with an immense pole, as with a pike; after them the
housekeeper stole through the hemp, with the scullion, a small but very
strong lad. Arriving at the spot, they rested their poles against the
rotted top of the pillar, and, clinging to the ends, pushed with all their
might, as when boatmen with long poles push from the bank into the deep
water a barge that has grounded on a reef.
The pillar snapped, and the cheese house tottered and fell with its load
of beams and cheeses on the triangle of Muscovites; it crushed, wounded,
and killed; where the ranks had just now been standing lay beams, corpses,
and cheeses white as snow, stained with blood and brains. The triangle was
shattered into bits, and now in the centre of it the sprinkling-brush
thundered, the razor flashed, and the switch slashed; from the mansion
rushed a throng of gentry, and the Count from the yard gate sent his
cavalry against the scattered fugitives.
Now, only eight yagers with a sergeant at their head still defended
themselves; the Warden ran against them, but they boldly stood their
ground and aimed nine musket barrels straight at the brow of the Warden;
he flew to meet the shot, brandishing the blade of his penknife. The Monk
saw it, and ran across Gerwazy’s path; he fell and tripped Gerwazy. They
fell at the very moment when the platoon fired; hardly had the bullets
whistled over him, when Gerwazy rose, and jumped up into the smoke. He
straightway sheared off the heads of two yagers; the rest fled in
confusion, the Warden chased and slashed them. They ran across the yard,
Gerwazy on their track; they rushed into the door of a shed standing open,
and Gerwazy entered the shed at their heels. He vanished in the darkness,
but did not quit fighting, for through the door could be heard groans,
yells, and frequent blows. Soon all became silent; Gerwazy came out alone,
with a bloody sword.
Now the gentry had won the field; they pursued, slashed, and stabbed the
dispersed yagers. Rykov alone remained, and cried that he would not lay
down his arms; he was still fighting, when the Chamberlain went up to him,
and, raising his sabre, said in an impressive tone:—
“Captain, you will not soil your honour by accepting quarter; unhappy, but
valiant knight, you have given ample proof of your daring: now abandon
hopeless resistance; lay down your arms, before we disarm you with our
sabres. You will preserve life and honour; you are my prisoner.”
Rykov, overcome by the dignity of the Chamberlain, complied, and gave over
to him his naked sword, bloody to the hilt, saying:—
“Brother Poles, woe is me that I did not have even a single cannon!
Suvorov said well: ‘Remember, comrade Rykov, never to attack the Poles
without cannon!’ Well! The yagers were drunk, the Major let them drink!
Ah, Major Plut! He has played sad tricks to-day. He will answer for them
to the Tsar, for he was in command. I will be your friend, Chamberlain.
There is a Russian proverb, Chamberlain, ‘Who loves well, shoves well!’
You are good at a bottle and good at a battle—but stop playing your rough
jokes on my yagers.”
Hearing this, the Chamberlain raised his sabre and, through the Apparitor,
proclaimed a general pardon; he gave orders to tend the wounded, to clear
the field of troops, and to disarm and imprison the yagers. They searched
long for Plut; he had buried himself deep in a nettle bush and lay there
as if dead; at last he came out when he saw that the battle was over.
Thus ended the last foray in Lithuania.165