“Come out here, some one, — hold the horse!”
The old man jumped out quickly. A moment of silence followed, then to those waiting in the barn came the following conversation, —
“Is that you, Kyemlich? What the thunder! art mad, or an idiot? It is night, Miller is asleep. The guard will not give admission; they say that no officer went away. How is that?”
“The officer is waiting here in the barn for your grace. He came right away after you rode off; he says that he missed your grace.”
“What does all this mean? But the prisoner?”
“Is hanging.”
The door squeaked, and Kuklinovski pushed into the barn; but before he had gone a step two iron hands caught him by the throat, and smothered his cry of terror. Kosma and Damian, with the adroitness of genuine murderers, hurled him to the ground, put their knees on his breast, pressed him so that his ribs began to crack, and gagged him in the twinkle of an eye.
Kmita came forward, and holding the pitch light to his eyes, said, —
“Ah! this is Pan Kuklinovski! Now I have something to say to you!”
Kuklinovski’s face was blue, the veins were so swollen that it seemed they might burst any moment; but in his eyes, which were coming out of his head and bloodshot, there was quite as much wonder as terror.
“Strip him and put him on the beam!” cried Kmita.
Kosma and Damian fell to stripping him as zealously as if they wished to take the skin from him together with his clothing.
In a quarter of an hour Kuklinovski was hanging by his hands and feet, like a half goose, on the beam. Then Kmita put his hands on his hips and began to brag terribly.
“Well, Pan Kuklinovski,” said he, “who is better, Kmita or Kuklinovski?” Then he seized the burning tow and took a step nearer. “Thy camp is distant one shot from a bow, thy thousand ruffians are within call, there is thy Swedish general a little beyond, and thou art hanging here from this same beam from which ’twas thy thought to roast me. — Learn to know Kmita! Thou hadst the thought to be equal to Kmita, to belong to his company, to be compared with him? Thou cut-purse, thou low ruffian, terror of old women, thou offscouring of man. Lord Scoundrel of Scoundrelton! Wry-mouth, trash, slave! I might have thee cut up like a kid, like a capon; but I choose to roast thee alive as thou didst think to roast me.”
Saying this, he raised the tow and applied it to the side of the hanging, hapless man; but he held it longer, until the odor of the burned flesh began to spread through the barn.
Kuklinovski writhed till the rope was swinging with him. His eyes, fastened on Kmita, expressed terrible pain and a dumb imploring for pity; from his gagged lips came woful groans; but war had hardened the heart of Pan Andrei, and there was no pity in him, above all, none for traitors.
Removing at last the tow from Kuklinovski’s side, he put it for a while under his nose, rubbed with it his mustaches, his eyelashes, and his brows; then he said, —
“I give thee thy life to meditate on Kmita. Thou wilt hang here till morning, and now pray to God that people find thee before thou art frozen.”
Then he turned to Kosma and Damian. “To horse!” cried he, and went out of the barn.
Half an hour later around the four riders were quiet hills, silent and empty fields. The fresh breeze, not filled with smoke of powder, entered their lungs. Kmita rode ahead, the Kyemliches after him. They spoke in low voices. Pan Andrei was silent, or rather he was repeating in silence the morning “Our Father,” for it was not long before dawn.
From time to time a hiss or even a low groan was rent from his lips, when his burned side pained him greatly. But at the same time he felt on horseback and free; and the thought that he had blown up the greatest siege gun, and besides that had torn himself from the hands of Kuklinovski and had wrought vengeance on him, filled Pan Andrei with such consolation that in view of it the pain was nothing.
Meanwhile a quiet dialogue between the father and the sons turned into a loud dispute.
“The money belt is good,” said the greedy old man; “but where are the rings? He had rings on his fingers; in one was a stone worth twenty ducats.”
“I forgot to take it,” answered Kosma.
“I wish you were killed! Let the old man think of everything, and these rascals haven’t wit for a copper! You forgot the rings, you thieves? You lie like dogs!”
“Then turn back, father, and look,” muttered Damian.
“You lie, you thieves! You hide things. You wrong your old father, — such sons! I wish that I had not begotten you. You will die without a blessing.”
Kmita reined in his horse somewhat. “Come this way!” called he.
The dispute ceased, the Kyemliches hurried up, and they rode farther four abreast.
“And do you know the road to the Silesian boundary?” asked Pan Andrei.
“O Mother of God! we know, we know,” answered the old man.
“There are no Swedish parties on the road?”
“No, for all are at Chenstohova, unless we might meet a single man; but God give us one!”
A moment of silence followed.
“Then you served with Kuklinovski?” asked Kmita.
“We did, for we thought that being near we might serve the holy monks and your grace, and so it has happened. We did not serve against the fortress, — God save us from that! we took no pay unless we found something on Swedes.”
“How on Swedes?”
“For we wanted to serve the Most Holy Lady even outside the walls; therefore we rode around the camp at night or in the daytime, as the Lord God gave us; and when any of the Swedes happened alone, then we — that is — O Refuge of sinners! — we—”
“Pounded him!” finished Kosma and Damian.
Kmita laughed. “Kuklinovski had good servants in you. But did he know about this?”
“He received a share, an income. He knew, and the scoundrel commanded us to give a thaler a head. Otherwise he threatened to betray us. Such a robber, — he wronged poor men! And we have kept faith with your grace, for not such is service with you. Your grace adds besides of your own; but he, a thaler a head, for our toil, for our labor. On him may God—”
“I will reward you abundantly for what you have done,” said Kmita. “I did not expect this of you.”
The distant sound of guns interrupted further words. Evidently the Swedes had begun to fire with the first dawn. After a while the roar increased. Kmita stopped his horse; it seemed to him that he distinguished the sound of the fortress cannon from the cannon of the Swedes, therefore he clinched his fist, and threatening with it in the direction of the enemies’ camp said, —
“Fire away, fire away! Where is your greatest gun now?”
CHAPTER V.
The bursting of the gigantic culverin had really a crushing effect upon Miller, for all his hopes had rested hitherto on that gun. Infantry were ready for the assault, ladders and piles of fascines were collected; but now it was necessary to abandon all thought of a storm.
The plan of blowing up the cloister by means of mines came also to nothing. Miners brought in previously from Olkush split, it is true, the rock, and approached on a diagonal to the cloister; but work progressed slowly. The workmen, in spite of every precaution, fell frequently from the guns of the church, and labored unwillingly. Many of them preferred to die rather than aid in the destruction of a sacred place.
Miller felt a daily increasing opposition. The frost took away the remnant of courage from his unwilling troops, among whom terror was spreading from day to day with a belief that the capture of the cloister did not lie within human power.
Finally Miller himself began to lose hope, and after the bursting of the gun he was simply in despair; a feeling of helplessness and impotence took possession of him. Next morning he called a council, but he called it with the secret wish to hear from officers encouragement to abandon the fortress.
They began to assemble, all wearied and gloomy. In silence they took their places a
round a table in an enormous and cold room, in which the steam from their breaths stood before their faces, and they looked from behind it as from behind a cloud. Each one felt in his soul exhaustion and weariness; each one said to himself: “There is no counsel to give save one, which it is better for no man to be the first to give.” All waited for what Miller would say. He ordered first of all to bring plenty of heated wine, hoping that under the influence of warm drink it would be easier to obtain a real thought from those silent figures, and encouragement to retreat from the fortress.
At last, when he supposed that the wine had produced its effect, he spoke in the following words —
“Have you noticed, gentlemen, that none of the Polish colonels have come to this council, though I summoned them all?”
“It is known of course to your worthiness that servants of the Polish squadron have, while fishing, found silver belonging to the cloister, and that they fought for it with our soldiers. More than ten men have been cut down.”
“I know; I succeeded in snatching a part of that silver from their hands, indeed the greater part. It is here now, and I am thinking what to do with it.”
“This is surely the cause of the anger of the Polish colonels. They say that if the Poles found the silver, it belongs to the Poles.”
“That’s a reason!” cried Count Veyhard.
“For my mind, it is a strong reason,” said Sadovski; “and I think that if you had found the silver you would not feel bound to divide it, not only with the Poles, but even with me, a Cheh.”
“First of all, my dear sir, I do not share your good will for the enemies of our king,” answered the count, with a frown.
“But we, thanks to you, must share with you shame and disgrace, not being able to succeed against a fortress to which you have brought us.”
“Then have you lost all hope?”
“But have you any yourself to give away?”
“Just as if you knew; and I think that these gentlemen share more willingly with me in my hope, than with you in your fear.”
“Do you make me a coward, Count Veyhard?”
“I do not ascribe to you more courage than you show.”
“And I ascribe to you less.”
“But I,” said Miller, who for some time had looked on the count with dislike as the instigator of the ill-starred undertaking, “shall have the silver sent to the cloister. Perhaps kindness and graciousness will do more with these surly monks than balls and cannon. Let them understand that we wish to possess the fortress, not their treasures.”
The officers looked on Miller with wonder, so little accustomed were they to magnanimity from him. At last Sadovski said, —
“Nothing better could be done, for it will close at once the mouths of the Polish colonels who lay claim to the silver. In the fortress it will surely make a good impression.”
“The death of that Kmita will make the best impression,” answered Count Veyhard. “I hope that Kuklinovski has already torn him out of his skin.”
“I think that he is no longer alive,” said Miller. “But that name reminds me of our loss, which nothing can make good. That was the greatest gun in the whole artillery of his grace. I do not hide from you, gentlemen, that all my hopes were placed on it. The breach was already made, terror was spreading in the fortress. A couple of days longer and we should have moved to a storm. Now all our labor is useless, all our exertions vain. They will repair the wall in one day. And the guns which we have now are no better than those of the fortress, and can be easily dismounted. No larger ones can be had anywhere, for even Marshal Wittemberg hasn’t them. The more I ponder over it, the more the disaster seems dreadful. And to think that one man did this, — one dog! one Satan! I shall go mad! To all the horned devils!”
Here Miller struck the table with his fist, for unrestrained anger had seized him, the more desperately because he was powerless. After a while he cried, —
“But what will the king say when he hears of this loss?” After a while he added: “And what shall we do? We cannot gnaw away that cliff with our teeth. Would that the plague might strike those who persuaded me to come to this fortress!”
Having said this, he took a crystal goblet, and in his excitement hurled it to the floor so that the crystal was broken into small bits.
This unbecoming frenzy, more befitting a peasant than a warrior holding such a high office, turned all hearts from him, and soured good-humor completely.
“Give counsel, gentlemen!” cried Miller.
“It is possible to counsel, but only in calmness,” answered the Prince of Hesse.
Miller began to puff and blow out his anger through his nostrils. After a time he grew calm, and passing his eyes over those present as if encouraging them with a glance, he said, —
“I ask your pardon, gentlemen, but my anger is not strange. I will not mention those places which, when I had taken command after Torstenson, I captured, for I do not wish, in view of the present disaster, to boast of past fortune. All that is done at this fortress simply passes reason. But still it is necessary to take counsel. For that purpose I have summoned you. Deliberate, then, and what the majority of us determine at this council will be done.”
“Let your worthiness give us the subject for deliberation,” said the Prince of Hesse. “Have we to deliberate only concerning the capture of the fortress, or also concerning this, whether it is better to withdraw?”
Miller did not wish to put the question so clearly, or at least he did not wish the “either — or,” to come first from his mouth; therefore he said, —
“Let each speak clearly what he thinks. It should be a question for us of the profit and praise of the king.”
But none of the officers wished more than Miller to appear first with the proposition to retreat, therefore there was silence again.
“Pan Sadovski,” said Miller after a while, in a voice which he tried to make agreeable and kind, “you say what you think more sincerely than others, for your reputation insures you against all suspicion.”
“I think, General,” answered the colonel, “that Kmita was one of the greatest soldiers of this age, and that our position is desperate.”
“But you were in favor of withdrawing from the fortress?”
“With permission of your worthiness, I was only in favor of not beginning the siege. That is a thing quite different.”
“Then what do you advise now?”
“Now I give the floor to Count Veyhard.”
Miller swore like a pagan.
“Count Veyhard will answer for this unfortunate affair,” said he.
“My counsels have not all been carried out,” answered the count, insolently. “I can boldly cast responsibility from myself. There were men who with a wonderful, in truth an inexplicable, good-will for the priests, dissuaded his worthiness from all severe measures. My advice was to hang those envoy priests, and I am convinced that if this had been done terror would have opened to us before this time the gates of that hen-house.”
Here the count looked at Sadovski; but before the latter had answered, the Prince of Hesse interfered: “Count, do not call that fortress a hen-house, for the more you decrease its importance the more you increase our shame.”
“Nevertheless I advised to hang the envoys. Terror and always terror, that is what I repeated from morning till night; but Pan Sadovski threatened resignation, and the priests went unharmed.”
“Go, Count, to-day to the fortress,” answered Sadovski, “blow up with powder their greatest gun as Kmita did ours, and I guarantee that, that will spread more terror than a murderous execution of envoys.”
The count turned directly to Miller: “Your worthiness I thought we had come here for counsel and not for amusement.”
“Have you an answer to baseless reproaches?” asked Miller.
“I have, in spite of the joyousness of these gentlemen, who might save their humor for better times.”
“Oh, son of Laertes, famous for stratagems!” exc
laimed the Prince of Hesse.
“Gentlemen,” answered the count, “it is universally known that not Minerva but Mars is your guardian deity; but since Mars has not favored you, and you have renounced your right of speech, let me speak.”
“The mountain is beginning to groan, and soon we shall see the small tail of a mouse,” said Sadovski.
“I ask for silence!” said Miller, severely. “Speak, Count, but keep in mind that up to this moment your counsels have given bitter fruit.”
“Which, though it is winter, we must eat like mouldy biscuits,” put in the Prince of Hesse.
“This explains why your princely highness drinks so much wine,” said Count Veyhard; “and though it does not take the place of native wit, it helps you to a happy digestion of even disgrace. But no matter! I know well that there is a party in the fortress which is long desirous of surrender, and that only our weakness on one side and the superhuman stubbornness of the prior on the other keep it in check. New terror will give this party new power; for this purpose we should show that we make no account of the loss of the gun, and storm the more vigorously.”
“Is that all?”
“Even if it were all, I think that such counsel is more in accordance with the honor of Swedish soldiers than barren jests at cups, or than sleeping after drinking-bouts. But that is not all. We should spread the report among our soldiers, and especially among the Poles, that the men at work now making a mine have discovered the old underground passage leading to the cloister and the church.”
“That is good counsel,” said Miller.
“When this report is spread among the soldiers and the Poles, the Poles themselves will persuade the monks to surrender, for it is a question with them as with the monks, that that nest of superstitions should remain intact.”
“For a Catholic that is not bad!” muttered Sadovski.
“If he served the Turks he would call Rome a nest of superstitions,” said the Prince of Hesse.
“Then, beyond doubt, the Poles will send envoys to the priests,” continued Count Veyhard,— “that party in the cloister, which is long anxious for surrender will renew its efforts under the influence of fear; and who knows but its members will force the prior and the stubborn to open the gates?”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 173
