With Fire and Sword

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  Vershul ordered the attendant serving at the table to go out, and after a moment’s reflection began,—

  “I can imagine that for Skshetuski secrecy is important, therefore I did not speak before the servant. Pan Yan has taken advantage of a favorable time, for we are sure of peace till spring, and according to my calculation he has gone to seek the princess, who is in Bogun’s hands.”

  “Bogun is no longer in the world,” said Zagloba.

  Zagloba related now for the third or fourth time everything as it was, for he told it always with delight. Vershul, like Pan Longin, could not wonder sufficiently at the event; at last he said,—

  “Then it will be easier for Pan Yan.”

  “The question is, Will he find her? Did he take any men?”

  “No, he went alone, with one Russian, a servant, and three horses.”

  “He acted wisely, for in that region the only help is in stratagem. To Kamenyets he might go with a small squadron perhaps; but in Ushitsi and Mogileff Cossacks are surely stationed, for there are good winter quarters in those places, and in Yampol, where their nest is, it is necessary to go either with a division or alone.”

  “And how do you know that he went specially in that direction?” asked Volodyovski.

  “Because she is secreted beyond Yampol, and he knows it; but there are ravines, hollows, and reeds there so numerous that even for one knowing the place well, it is difficult to find the way, and what would it be for one not knowing? I used to go for horses to Yagorlik, and to lawsuits. I know all about the place. If we were together, perhaps we could succeed; but for him alone—I have doubts. I have doubts, unless some chance indicates the road to him, for he will not be able to make inquiries.”

  “Then did you wish to go with him?”

  “Yes. But what shall we do now, Pan Michael? Follow him or not?”

  “I rely on your prudence.”

  “H’m! He went ten days ago—we cannot come up with him; and besides he asked us to wait here. God knows too what road he took. Maybe through Ploskiroff and Bar along the old highway, and maybe through Kamenyets Podolsk. It is a hard question.”

  “Remember, besides,” said Vershul, “that these are only suppositions. You are not sure that he went after the princess.”

  “That’s it, that’s it!” said Zagloba. “Perhaps he went merely to get informants somewhere, and then return to Zbaraj; for he knows that we were to go with him, and that he might expect us at this time, since it is the most favorable. This is a difficult question to settle.”

  “I should advise you to wait about ten days,” said Vershul.

  “Ten days are nothing; we should either wait or not wait at all.”

  “I think we should not wait; for what shall we lose if we move at once? If Skshetuski does not find the princess, God may favor us,” said Volodyovski.

  “You see, Pan Michael, we must not overlook anything in this case. You are still young and want adventures,” said Zagloba; “but here is this danger: if he is looking for her by himself, and we look for her by ourselves, some suspicion will be easily roused in the people there. The Cossacks are cunning, and afraid that some one may find out their plans. They may have a secret understanding with the Pasha of the boundary near Khotím, or with the Tartars beyond the Dniester about a future war,—who knows? They will be watchful of strangers, particularly of strangers inquiring the way. I know them. It is easy to betray yourself, and then what?”

  “The greater the reason to go. Skshetuski may fall into some difficulty where help would be required.”

  “That is true too.”

  Zagloba fell into such deep thought that his temples quivered; at last he roused himself, and said: “Taking everything into consideration, it will be necessary to go.”

  Volodyovski drew a deep breath with satisfaction. “And when?”

  “When we have rested about three days, so that body and soul may be fresh.”

  Next day the two friends began to make preparations for the road, when unexpectedly on the eve of their journey Tsiga, a young Cossack, Skshetuski’s attendant, arrived with news and letters for Vershul. Hearing of this, Zagloba and Volodyovski hurried to the quarters of the commandant, and read the following:—

  “I am in Kamenyets, to which the road through Satanoff is safe. I am going to Yampol with Armenian merchants whom Pan Bukovski found for me. They have Tartar and Cossack passes for a free journey to Akerman. We shall go through Ushitsi, Mogileff, and Yampol with silk stuffs, stopping at all places along the road wherever there are living people. God may aid me in finding what I seek. Tell my comrades, Volodyovski and Zagloba, to wait for me in Zbaraj if they have nothing else to do; for by this road which I travel it would be impossible to go in a larger company by reason of deep distrust in the minds of Cossacks who winter in Yampol on the Dniester as far as Yagorlik, where they keep their horses in the snow. What I cannot do alone we three could not do, and I can pass more readily for an Armenian. Thank them, Pan Kryshtof, from the heart’s soul for their resolution, which I shall not forget while I live; but I was not able to wait, since every day was a torment to me, and I could not know whether they would come, and it is the best time now to go when all the merchants are travelling with goods. I send back my trusty attendant whom you will care for, as I have no need of him; but I am afraid of his youth, lest he might say something somewhere. Pan Bukovski vouches for these merchants; says they are honest, and I think they are, believing as I do that everything is in the hands of the high God, who if he wishes will show his mercy to us, and shorten our sufferings.”

  Zagloba finished the letter, and looked at his comrades; but they were silent, till at length Vershul said,—

  “I knew he went there.”

  “And what are we to do?” asked Volodyovski.

  “What?” said Zagloba, opening his arms, “We have nothing to go for. It is well that he is with merchants, for he can look in everywhere, and no one will wonder. In every country-house there is something to be bought, for half the Commonwealth has been plundered. It would be difficult for us, Pan Michael, to go beyond Yampol. Skshetuski is as black as a Wallachian, and can pass easily for an Armenian, but they would know you at once by your little oat-colored mustaches. In peasant disguise it would be equally difficult. There is no use for us there, I must confess, though I am sorry that we shall not put our hands to freeing that poor young lady. But we did a great service to Skshetuski when we killed Bogun; for if he were alive, then I would not guarantee the health of Pan Yan.”

  Volodyovski was very much dissatisfied. He had promised himself a journey full of adventures, and now there was left to him a long and tedious stay at Zbaraj. “We might go as far as Kamenyets.”

  “What should we do there, and on what should we live?” asked Zagloba. “It’s all one to what walls we fasten like mushrooms. We must wait and wait, for such a journey may occupy Skshetuski long. While a man moves he is young [here Zagloba dropped his head in melancholy on his breast]; he grows old in inaction, but it is hard. Let him get on without us. To-morrow we will offer a solemn prayer for his success. We killed Bogun; that is the main thing. Give orders to have your horses unpacked, Pan Michael! We must wait.”

  In fact, on the morrow began for the two friends long and dreary days of waiting, to which neither drinking nor dice could lend variety, and they dragged on without end. Meanwhile a severe winter had begun. Snow covered the ramparts of Zbaraj, and the whole land, in a shroud three feet thick. Beasts and wild birds approached the dwellings of men. Day after day came the cawing of crows and ravens, in flocks without number. All December passed; then January and February. Of Skshetuski there was not a sound.

  Volodyovski went to Tarnopol to seek adventures. Zagloba was gloomy, and insisted that he was growing old.

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  The commissioners sent by the Commonwealth to negotiate with Hmelnitski forc
ed their way through the greatest difficulties to Novoselki, and there halted, waiting an answer from the victorious hetman, who was stopping at that time in Chigirin. They were gloomy and depressed; for death had threatened them continually during the whole journey, and difficulties increased at every step. Day and night they were surrounded by crowds of the populace, made wild to the last degree by slaughter and war, and who were howling for the death of the commissioners. From time to time they met bands, commanded by no one, formed of robbers or wild herdsmen, without the least idea of the laws of nations, but hungry for blood and plunder. The commissioners had, it is true, a hundred horse as attendants, led by Pan Bryshovski; besides this, Hmelnitski himself, foreseeing what might meet them, sent Colonel Donyéts, with four hundred Cossacks; but that escort might easily prove inadequate, for the throngs of wild men were increasing in number each hour, and assuming a more threatening attitude. If one of the convoy or the attendants separated, even for a moment, from the company, he perished without a trace. They were like a handful of travellers surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves; and thus passed for them whole days, weeks, till at the stopping-place in Novoselki it appeared to all that their last hour had come. The convoy of dragoons and the escort of Donyéts, from evening on, fought a regular battle for the life of the commissioners, who, repeating the prayers for the dying, committed their souls to God. The Carmelite Lentovski gave them absolution, one after another, while outside the window with the blowing of the wind came terrible shouts, the report of shots, hellish laughter, the clatter of scythes, and shouts of “Death to them!” and demands for the head of the voevoda Kisel, who was the main object of their rage.

  It was an awful night, and long, for it was a winter night. Kisel rested his head on his hands, and sat motionless for many hours. It was not death that he feared; for since he left Gushchi he was so exhausted, tortured, deprived of sleep, that he would have extended his hands with gladness to death; but endless despair was covering his soul. He as a Russian in blood and bone first took upon himself the rôle of pacifier in that unexampled war; he came forth everywhere, in the Senate and in the Diet, as the most ardent partisan of negotiations; he supported the policy of the chancellor and the primate; he condemned most powerfully Yeremi, and he did this in good faith, for the sake of the Cossacks and the Commonwealth; and he believed, with all his ardent spirit, that negotiations and compromises would smooth everything, would pacify, would unite; and just then, in that moment when he was bringing the baton to Hmelnitski and concessions to the Cossacks, he doubted all. He saw with his own eyes the vanity of his efforts; he saw beneath his feet a vacuum and a precipice.

  “Do they want nothing but blood, do they care for no other freedom than the freedom of plunder and burning?” thought the voevoda in despair, and he stifled the groans which were tearing asunder his noble breast.

  “The head of Kisel, the head of Kisel! Death to him!” was the answer of the crowds.

  And the voevoda would have offered them as a willing gift that white and battered head, were it not for the remnant of his belief that it was necessary to give them and all the Cossacks something more,—rescue was immediately necessary for them and the Commonwealth. Let the future teach them to ask for the something more. And when he thought thus, a certain ray of hope and consolation lighted up for a moment that darkness which despair created in his mind, and the unfortunate old man said to himself that that mob was not the whole body of Cossacks,—not Hmelnitski and his colonels,—with whom negotiations would begin.

  But can these negotiations be lasting while half a million of peasants stand under arms? Will they not melt at the first breath of spring, like the snows which at that moment covered the steppes? Here again came to the voevoda the words of Yeremi: “Kindness may be shown to the conquered alone.” Here again his thoughts fell into darkness, and the precipice yawned beneath his feet.

  Meantime midnight was passing. The shouting and shots had decreased in some degree; the whistle of the wind rose in their place, the yard was filled with a snowdrift; the wearied crowds had evidently begun to disperse to their houses; hope entered the hearts of the commissioners.

  Voitsekh Miaskovski, a chamberlain from Lvoff, rose from the bench, listened at the window to the drifting of the snow, and said,—

  “It seems to me that with God’s favor we shall live till morning.”

  “Perhaps too Hmelnitski will send more assistance, for we shall not reach our journey’s end with what we have now,” said Pan Smyarovski.

  Pan Zelenski, the cup-bearer from Bratslav, smiled bitterly: “Who would say that we are peace commissioners?”

  “I have been an envoy more than once to the Tartars,” said the ensign of Novgrodek, “but such a mission as this I have not seen in my life. The Commonwealth endures more contempt in our persons than at Korsún and Pilavtsi. I say, gentlemen, let us return, for there is no use in thinking of negotiations.”

  “Let us return,” repeated as an echo Pan Bjozovski, the castellan of Kieff; “there can be no peace; let there be war!”

  Kisel raised his lids and fixed his glassy eyes on the castellan. “Jóltiya Vodi, Korsún, Pilavtsi!” said he, in hollow tones.

  He was silent, and after him all were silent. But Pan Kulchinski, the treasurer of Kieff, began to repeat the rosary in an audible voice; and Pan Kjetovski, master of the chase, seized his head with both hands, and repeated,—

  “What times, what times! God have mercy upon us!”

  The door opened, and Bryshovski, captain of the dragoons of the bishop of Poznania, commander of the convoy, entered the room.

  “Serene voevoda,” said he, “some Cossack wants to see the commissioners.”

  “Very well,” answered Kisel; “has the crowd dispersed?”

  “The people have gone away; they promised to return to-morrow.”

  “Did they press on much?”

  “Terribly, but Donyéts’ Cossacks killed a number of them. To-morrow they promise to burn us.”

  “Very well, let that Cossack enter.”

  After a while the door was opened, and a certain tall, black-bearded figure appeared at the threshold of the room.

  “Who are you?” asked Kisel.

  “Yan Skshetuski, colonel of hussars of Prince Vishnyevetski, voevoda of Rus.”

  The castellan Bjozovski, Pan Kulchinski, and the master of the chase Pan Kjetovski sprang from their seats. All of them had served the past year under the prince at Makhnovka and Konstantinoff, and knew Skshetuski perfectly. Kjetovski was even related to him.

  “Is it true, is it true? Is this Pan Skshetuski?” repeated they.

  “What are you doing here, and how did you reach us?” asked Kjetovski, taking him by the shoulder.

  “In peasant’s disguise, as you see,” said Skshetuski.

  “This,” cried Bjozovski to Kisel, “is the foremost knight in the army of the voevoda of Rus; he is famous throughout the whole army.”

  “I greet him with thankful heart,” said Kisel, “and I see that he must be a man of great resolution, since he has forced his way to us.” Then to Skshetuski he said: “What do you wish of us?”

  “That you permit me to go with you.”

  “You are crawling into the jaws of the dragon, but if such is your wish we cannot oppose it.”

  Skshetuski bowed in silence.

  Kisel looked at him with astonishment. The severe face of the young knight, with its expression of dignity and suffering, struck him. “Tell me,” said he, “what causes drive you to this hell, to which no one comes of his own accord?”

  “Misfortune, serene voevoda.”

  “I have made a needless inquiry,” said Kisel. “You must have lost some of your relatives for whom you are looking?”

  “I have.”

  “Was it long since?”

  “Last spring.”

  “How is that, and you
start only now on the search? Why, it is nearly a year! What were you doing in the mean while?”

  “I was fighting under the voevoda of Rus.”

  “Would not such a true man as he give you leave of absence?”

  “I did not wish it myself.”

  Kisel looked again at the young knight, and then followed a silence, interrupted by the castellan of Kieff.

  “The misfortunes of this knight are known to all of us who served with the prince. We shed more than one tear over them, and it is the more praiseworthy on his part that he preferred to serve his country while the war lasted instead of seeking his own good. This is a rare example in these times of corruption.”

  “If it shall appear that my word has any weight with Hmelnitski, then believe me I shall not spare it in your cause,” said Kisel.