With Fire and Sword

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “Well, if only he doesn’t reward me too soon.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in the camp?”

  “I thought it would be safer with the army.”

  “It is. You will see that there is no great trouble. We are accustomed to this fighting, and custom is second nature. But here is the Sluch and Vishovati Stav already.”

  In fact the waters of Vishovati Stav, divided from the Sluch by a long dam, glittered in the distance. The army halted at once along the whole line.

  “Is this the place so soon?” asked Zagloba.

  “The prince will put the army in line,” said Skshetuski.

  “I don’t like a throng; I tell you, I don’t like a throng.”

  “Hussars on the right wing!” was the command which came from the prince to Pan Yan.

  It was broad daylight. The fire had grown pale in the light of the rising sun, whose golden rays were reflected on the points of the lances, and it appeared as though above the hussars a thousand lights were gleaming. After its lines were arranged, the army concealed itself no longer, and began to sing in one voice, “Hail, O ye gates of salvation!” The mighty song resounded over the dewy grass, struck the pine grove, and sent back by the echo, rose to the sky. Then the shore on the other side of the dam grew black with crowds of Cossacks. As far as the eye could reach regiment followed regiment,—mounted Zaporojians armed with long lances, infantry with muskets, and waves of peasants armed with scythes, flails, and forks. Behind them was to be seen, as if in fog, an immense camp or movable town. The creaking of thousands of wagons and the neighing of horses reached the ears of the prince’s soldiers. But the Cossacks marched without their usual tumult, without howling, and halted on the other side of the dam. The two opposing forces looked at each other for some time in silence.

  Zagloba, keeping all the time close to Skshetuski, looked on that sea of people and muttered,—

  “Lord, why hast thou created so many ruffians? Hmelnitski must be there with his mob and their vermin. Isn’t that an outbreak, tell me? They will cover us with their caps. Ah! in the old time it was so pleasant in the Ukraine! They are rolling on, rolling on! God grant that the devils may roll you in hell, and all that is coming on us! May the glanders devour you!”

  “Don’t swear. To-day is Sunday.”

  “True, it is Sunday. Better think of God. ‘Pater noster, qui es in cœlis’—No respect to be looked for from these scoundrels—’Sanctificetur nomen tuum’—What is going to be done on that dam?—’Adveniat regnum tuum’—The breath is already stopped in my body—’Fiat voluntas tua’—God choke you, you Hamans! But look! what is that?”

  A division formed of a few hundred men separated from the dark mass and pushed forward without order toward the dam.

  “That is a skirmishing-party,” said Skshetuski. “Our men will go out to them directly.”

  “Has the battle begun, then, already?”

  “As God is in heaven!”

  “May the devil take them!” Here the ill-humor of Zagloba was beyond measure. “And you are looking at it as a theatre in carnival time!” cried he, in disgust at Skshetuski; “just as if your own skin were not in peril.”

  “I told you that we are used to it.”

  “And you will go to the skirmish too, of course?”

  “It is not very becoming for knights of picked regiments to fight duels with such enemies. No one does that who stands on dignity; but in these times no one thinks of dignity.”

  “Our men are marching already!” cried Zagloba, seeing the red line of Volodyovski’s dragoons moving at a trot toward the dam.

  They were followed by a number of volunteers from each regiment. Among others went the red Vershul, Kushel, Ponyatovski, the two Karvichi, and Pan Longin Podbipienta from the hussars. The distance between the two divisions began to diminish rapidly.

  “You will see something,” said Skshetuski to Zagloba, “Look especially at Volodyovski and Podbipienta. They are splendid fighters. Do you see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, look at them! You will have something to enjoy.”

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  When the warriors drew near each other, they reined in their horses and opened in mutual abuse.

  “Come on! come on! We will feed the dogs with your carrion right away!” cried the prince’s soldiers.

  “Your carrion is not fit even for dogs!” answered the Cossacks.

  “You will rot here on the dam, you infamous robbers!”

  “For whom it is fated, that one will rot; but the fish will pick your bones soon.”

  “To the dung-heaps with your forks, you trash! Dung-forks are fitter for you than sabres.”

  “If we are trash, our sons will be nobles, for they will be born of your girls.”

  Some Cossack, evidently from the Trans-Dnieper, pushed forward, and placing his palms around his mouth, cried with a loud voice: “The prince has two nieces; tell him to send them to Krívonos.”

  It grew dim in Volodyovski’s eyes when he heard this blasphemy, and he spurred his horse on to the Zaporojian.

  Skshetuski, on the right wing with his hussars, recognized him from a distance, and cried to Zagloba: “Volodyovski is rushing on! Volodyovski! Look there! there!”

  “I see!” said Zagloba. “He has already reached him. They are fighting! One, two! I see perfectly. It is all over. He is a swordsman, plague take him!”

  At the second blow the Cossack fell to the ground as if struck by lightning, and fell with his head to his comrades, as an evil omen to them.

  Then a second sprang forward, in a scarlet kontush stripped from some noble. He fell upon Volodyovski a little from the flank, but his horse stumbled at the very moment of the blow. Volodyovski turned, and then could be seen the master; for he only moved his hand, making a light, soft motion,—invisible, so to speak,—but still the sabre of the Zaporojian sprang up, flew into the air. Volodyovski seized him by the shoulder, and pulled him with his horse toward the Polish side.

  “Save me, brothers!” cried the prisoner.

  He offered no resistance, knowing that in case he did he would be thrust through that moment. He even struck his horse with his heels to urge him on; and so Volodyovski led him as a wolf leads a kid.

  In view of this, a couple of tens of warriors rushed out from both sides of the river, for no more could find place on the dam. They fought in single combat, man with man, horse with horse, sabre with sabre; and it was a wonderful sight, that series of duels, on which both armies looked with the greatest interest, drawing auguries from them of the future success. The morning sun shone upon the combatants, and the air was so transparent that even the faces might be seen from both sides. Any one looking from a distance would have thought that it was a tournament or games. But at one moment a riderless horse would spring from the tumult; at another, a body would tumble from the dam into the clear mirror of the water, which splashed up in golden sparks and then moved forward in a circling wavelet farther and farther from shore.

  The courage of the soldiers in both armies grew as they beheld the bravery of their own men and their eagerness for the fight. Each sent good wishes to its own. Suddenly Skshetuski clasped his hands and cried,—

  “Vershul is lost; he fell with his horse. Look! he was sitting on the white one.”

  But Vershul was not lost, though he had indeed fallen with his horse; for they had both been thrown by Pulyan, a former Cossack of Prince Yeremi, then next in command to Krívonos. He was a famous skirmisher, and had never left off that game. He was so strong that he could easily break two horseshoes at once. He had the reputation of being invincible in single combat. When he had thrown Vershul he attacked a gallant officer, Koroshlyakhtsits, and cut him terribly,—almost to the saddle. Others drew back in fear. Seeing this, Pan Longin turned his Livonian mare against him.

  “You ar
e lost!” cried Pulyan, when he saw the foolhardy man.

  “It can’t be helped,” answered Podbipienta, raising his sabre for the blow.

  He had not, however, his Zervikaptur, that being reserved for ends too important to permit its use in desultory combat. He had left it in the hands of his faithful armor-bearer in the ranks, and had merely a light blade of blue steel engraved with gold. Pulyan endured its first blow, though he saw in a moment that he had to do with no common enemy, for his sword quivered to the palm of his hand. He endured the second and the third blow; then, either he recognized the greater skill of his opponent in fencing, or perhaps he wished to exhibit his tremendous strength in view of both armies, or, pushed to the edge of the dam, he feared to be thrown into the water by Pan Longings enormous beast. It is enough that after he had received the last blow he brought the horses side by side, and seized the Lithuanian by the waist in his powerful arms.

  They grasped each other like two bears when they are fighting for a female. They wound themselves around each other like two pines which, having grown from a single stump, intertwine till they form but one tree. All held breath and gazed in silence on the struggle of the combatants, each one of whom was considered the strongest among his own. You would have said that both had become one body, for they remained a long time motionless. But their faces grew red; and only from the veins which swelled on their foreheads, and from their backs bent like bows, could you suspect under that terrible quiet the superhuman tension of the arms which crushed them.

  At length both began to quiver; but by degrees the face of Pan Longin grew redder and redder and the face of the Cossack bluer and bluer. Still a moment passed. The disquiet of the spectators increased.

  Suddenly the silence was broken by a hollow, smothered voice: “Let me go—”

  “No, my darling!” Something gave a sudden and terrible rattle, a groan was heard as if from under the ground, a wave of black blood burst from Pulyan’s mouth, and his head dropped on his shoulder.

  Pan Longin lifted the Cossack from his seat, and before the spectators had time to think what had happened, threw him on his own saddle and started on a trot toward Skshetuski’s regiment.

  “Vivat!” cried the Vishnyevetski men.

  “Destruction!” answered the Zaporojians.

  Instead of being confused by the defeat of their leader, they attacked the enemy the more stubbornly. A crowded struggle followed, which the narrowness of the place made the more venomous; and the Cossacks in spite of their bravery would certainly have yielded to the greater skill of their opponents, had it not been that suddenly the trumpets from the camp of Krívonos sounded a retreat.

  They withdrew at once; and their opponents, after they had stopped awhile to show that they had kept the field, withdrew also. The dam was deserted; there remained on it only bodies of men and horses, as if in testimony of that which would be,—and that road of death lay black between the two armies,—but a light breath of wind wrinkled the smooth surface of the water and sounded plaintively through the leaves of the willows standing here and there above the banks of the pond.

  Meanwhile the regiments of Krívonos moved like countless flocks of starlings and plover. The mob went in advance, then the regular Zaporojian infantry, companies of cavalry, Tartar volunteers, and Cossack artillery, and all without much order. They hurried before the others, wishing to force the dam by countless numbers, and then inundate and cover the army of the prince. The savage Krívonos believed in the fist and the sabre, not in military art. Therefore he urged his whole power to the attack, and ordered the regiments marching from behind to push on those in front, so that they must go even if against their will. Cannon-balls began to plunge into the water like wild swans and divers, causing no damage however to the prince’s troops, by reason of the distance. The torrent of people covered the dam and advanced without hindrance. A part of that wave on reaching the river sought a passage, and not finding it turned back to the embankment, and marched in such a dense throng that, as Osinski said afterward, one might have ridden on horseback over their heads, and so covered the embankment that not a span of free earth remained.

  Yeremi looked on this from the high shore, his brows wrinkled, and from his eyes flashed malicious lightning toward those crowds. Seeing the disorder and rush of the regiments of Krívonos, he said to Makhnitski,—

  “The enemy begin with us in peasant fashion, and disregarding military art, come on like beaters at a hunt, but they will not reach this place.”

  Meanwhile, as if challenging his words, the Cossacks had come to the middle of the embankment. There they paused, astonished and disquieted by the silence of the prince’s forces. But just at that moment there was a movement among these forces, and they retreated, leaving between themselves and the embankment a broad half-circle, which was to be the field of battle.

  Then the infantry of Koritski opened, disclosing the throats of Vurtsel’s cannon, turned toward the embankment, and in the corner formed by the slough and the embankment shone among the thickets along the bank the muskets of Osinski’s Germans.

  It was clear in a moment to military men on whose side the victory must be. Only a mad leader like Krívonos could rush to battle on conditions according to which he could not even pass the river in case Vishnyevetski wished to prevent him.

  But the prince permitted part of his enemy’s army to cross the embankment so as to surround and destroy it. The great leader took advantage of the blunders of his opponents, who did not even consider that it was impossible to reinforce his men on the other bank, except through a narrow passage over which no considerable number of men could be sent at one time; practised soldiers therefore looked with wonder at the action of Krívonos, who was not forced by anything to such a mad undertaking.

  He was forced by ambition alone and a thirst for blood. He had learned that Hmelnitski, in spite of the preponderance of power under Krívonos, fearing the result of a battle with Yeremi, was marching with all his forces to his aid. Orders came not to deliver battle; but for that very reason Krívonos determined to deliver it.

  Having taken Polónnoe, he got the taste of blood, and did not like to divide it with any one; therefore he hastened. He would lose half of his men,—well, what of that! With the rest he would overwhelm the slender forces of the prince and cut them to pieces. He would bring the head of Vishnyevetski as a present to Hmelnitski.

  The billows of the mob had reached the end of the embankment, passed it, and spread over the half-circle abandoned by Yeremi’s army. But at this moment the concealed infantry of Osinski opened upon them in the flank, and from the cannon of Vurtsel there bloomed out long wreaths of smoke, the earth trembled from the roar, and the battle began along the whole line.

  Clouds of smoke concealed the shores of the Sula, the pond, the embankment, and even the field itself, so that all was hidden, save at times the scarlet, glittering uniforms of the dragoons, and the crests gleaming over the flying helmets, as everything seethed in that terrible cloud. The bells of the town were ringing, and mingled their sad groans with the deep bellowing of the guns. From the Cossack camp regiment after regiment rolled on to the embankment.

  Those who crossed and reached the other side of the river extended in the twinkle of an eye into a long line and rushed with rage on the prince’s regiments. The battle extended from one end of the pond to the bend in the river and the swampy meadows, which were flooded that rainy summer.

  The mob and the men of the lower country had to conquer or perish, having behind them water, toward which they were pushed by the infantry and cavalry of the prince.

  When the hussars moved forward, Zagloba, though he had short breath and did not like a throng, galloped with the others, because in fact he could not do otherwise without danger of being trampled to death. He flew on therefore, closing his eyes, and through his head there flew with lightning speed the thought, “Stratagem is nothing, stratagem
is nothing; the stupid win, the wise perish!” Then he was seized with spite against the war, against the Cossacks, the hussars, and every one else in the world. He began to curse, to pray. The wind whistled in his ears, the breath was hemmed in his breast. Suddenly his horse struck against something; he felt resistance. Then he opened his eyes, and what did he see? Scythes, sabres, flails, a crowd of inflamed faces, eyes, mustaches,—and all indefinite, unknown, all trembling, galloping, furious. Then he was transported with rage against those enemies, because they are not going to the devil, because they are rushing up to his face and forcing him to fight. “You wanted it, now you have it,” thought he, and he began to slash blindly on every side. Sometimes he cut the air, and sometimes he felt that his blade had sunk into something soft. At the same time he felt that he was still living, and this gave him extraordinary hope. “Slay! kill!” he roared like a buffalo. At last those frenzied faces vanished from his eyes, and in their places he saw a multitude of visages, tops of caps, and the shouts almost split his ears. “Are they fleeing?” shot through his head. “Yes!” Then daring sprang up in him beyond measure. “Scoundrels!” he shouted, “is that the way you meet a noble?” He sprang among the fleeing enemy, passed many, and entangled in the crowd began to labor with greater presence of mind now.