Zagloba and Volodyovski dropped at once into the vortex of army life. They had barely appeared on the square when they were surrounded by officers of various regiments, interrupting one another in their inquiries for news. At sight of the Tartar captives, confidence entered the hearts of the curious. “The Tartars are plucked! Tartar prisoners! God gave a victory!” repeated some. “The Tartars are here, and Burlai with them!” cried others. “To arms! To the walls!” The news flew through the camp, and Kushel’s victory was magnified along the road. An increasing throng gathered around the prisoners. “Kill them! What are we to do with them?” Questions fell thick as flakes in a snow-storm. Kushel would give no answer, and went with a report to the quarters of Firlei, the castellan of Belsk. Volodyovski and Zagloba were greeted at once by their acquaintances of the Russian squadron; but they escaped as well as they could, for they were in haste to see Pan Yan.
They found him in the castle with Zatsvilikhovski, two Bernardine priests of the place, and Pan Longin Podbipienta. Skshetuski grew a little pale on seeing them, and half closed his eyes, for he was reminded of too much to see them without pain; still he gave a calm and even joyful greeting, inquired where they had been, and was satisfied with the first convenient answer. Since he looked on the princess as dead, he wished for nothing, hoped for nothing, and not the slightest suspicion entered his soul that their long absence related to her. They made no mention of the object of their journey, though Pan Longin looked first on one and then on the other with an inquiring glance, sighed, and turned in his place, wishing to read even a shadow of hope on their faces. But both were occupied with Pan Yan, whom Volodyovski seized by the shoulders repeatedly; for his heart grew soft at the sight of that old and trusty friend, who had passed through so much and lost so much that he had almost nothing to live for.
“We shall have all the old comrades together again,” said he to Skshetuski, “and you will be happy with us. A war too will come, I see, such as has not been yet, and with it great delights for every soldier soul. If God gives you health, you will lead the hussars many a time to come.”
“God has already returned me my health, and I wish nothing more for myself than to serve while my service is needed.”
Skshetuski was in fact well, for youth and his sturdy strength had conquered the illness within him. Grief had bitten his spirit, but it could not bite his body. He had merely grown spare and pallid, so that his forehead, cheeks, and nose seemed formed of church wax. The former austerity had settled firmly on his face, and there was in it the rigid repose that we note in the visage of the dead. An increasing number of silver threads wound through his dark beard. In other regards he differed in nothing from the rest of men, except, contrary to soldier custom, he avoided crowds, noise, and drinking. He conversed more readily with monks, to whose discourse on the life of the cloister and the life to come he listened with eagerness; but he performed his service with diligent care, for the expected siege occupied him equally with all the others.
Soon conversation touched on this subject, for no one in the camp, castle, and town thought of aught else. Old Zatsvilikhovski asked about the Tartars and Burlai, with whom he had an acquaintance of ancient date.
“That’s a great warrior,” said he. “It is too bad that he should rise against the country with others. We served together at Khotím. He was still a youth, but already gave promise of ripening into an uncommon man.”
“But he is from the Trans-Dnieper, and leads men of that region,” said Skshetuski. “How is it, father, that he is now marching from the south, from the direction of Kamenyets?”
“It seems,” answered the old man, “that Hmelnitski fixed winter quarters for him there on purpose, since Tugai Bey remained on the Dnieper, and that great murza has a hatred for him from former times. No one has cut up the Tartars like Burlai.”
“And now he will be a comrade to them?”
“Yes,” said Zatsvilikhovski, “such are the times. But Hmelnitski will watch and keep them from devouring each other.”
“When do they expect Hmelnitski here, father?” asked Volodyovski.
“Any day. But who can tell? The commanders should send out scout after scout; but they do not. I was barely able to prevail on them to send Kushel to the south and Piglovski to Cholganski Kamen. I wished to go myself, but there are counsels without end. They should send also the secretary of the Crown with some squadrons. They would better hurry, lest it be too late. God give us the prince at the earliest moment, or we shall be met by disgrace like that of Pilavtsi.”
“I saw those soldiers as we rode through the square,” said Zagloba, “and I think there are more fools among them than good men. They should be market-boys, not comrades to us who are enamoured of glory, esteeming it beyond our own lives.”
“What are you talking about?” blurted out the old man. “I do not belittle your bravery, though once I was of another mind. But all the knights here are the first soldiers that the Commonwealth has ever had. Only a head is needed,—a leader! Lantskoronski is a good skirmisher, but no general; Firlei is old, and as to the cup-bearer, he and Prince Dominik made a reputation for themselves at Pilavtsi. What wonder that no one wants to obey them! A soldier will shed his blood freely if sure that he will not be destroyed without need. But now, instead of thinking of the siege, they are disputing about positions.”
“Are there provisions enough?” asked Zagloba, in alarm.
“Not so many as are necessary; but we are still worse off for provender. If the siege should last a month, there will be only shavings and stones for the horses.”
“There is still time to get provender,” said Volodyovski.
“Then go and tell them so. God give us the prince! I repeat.”
“You are not the only one who is sighing for him,” interrupted Pan Longin.
“I know that,” answered the old man. “Look out on the square! All at the walls look with longing eyes toward Old Zbaraj; others in the town have climbed the towers; and if any one cries in a joke, ‘He is coming,’ they are mad with joy. A thirsty stag is not so eager for water as we for the prince. Oh, if he could only get here before Hmelnitski! But I think he must have been delayed.”
“We too pray, whole days at a time, for his coming,” said one of the Bernardines.
The prayers and wishes of all the knighthood were soon to gain their object, though the following day brought still greater fears and was full of ominous prophecies. On Thursday, July 8, a terrific storm raged over the town and the freshly raised ramparts of the camp. Rain fell in torrents. A part of the earthworks was swept away. Gnyezna and the two ponds overflowed. In the evening lightning struck the infantry under command of Firlei, castellan of Belsk, killed a number of men, and tore the banner to pieces. This was considered of evil omen,—an evident sign of the anger of God, the more since Firlei was a Calvinist. Zagloba proposed that a deputation be sent to him with the request and prayer to become a Catholic, “for there could be no blessing of God for an army whose leader was living in disgusting errors hateful to Heaven.” Many shared this opinion; and only the dignity of the castellan’s person and the command prevented the sending of the deputation. But their courage fell all the more. The storm raged without interruption. The bulwark, though strengthened with stones, willows, and stakes, became so soft that the cannon began to sink. They were obliged to put planks under the howitzers, mortars, and even under the eight-pounders. In the deep ditches the water roared to the height of a man. Night brought no rest. The storm drove to the east new gigantic piles of clouds which, concentrating and discharging with terrific noise in the heavens, cast out on Zbaraj their whole stock of rain, thunder, and lightning. Only the servants remained in the tents at the camp; soldiers, officers, and commanders, with the exception of the castellan of Kamenyets, took refuge in the town. If Hmelnitski had come with the storm, he would have taken the camp without a blow.
Next day it was a
little better, though rain was still falling. About five o’clock in the afternoon the wind drove away the clouds, the blue sky opened above the camp, and in the direction of Old Zbaraj a splendid seven-colored rainbow was shining. The mighty arc with one arm extended beyond Old Zbaraj, while the other, seeming to drink in the moisture of the Black Forest, glittered, changed, and played on the background of fleeing clouds. That moment confidence entered all hearts. The knights returned to the camp and stood on the slippery bulwark to gladden their eyes with the sight of the rainbow. Immediately they began to talk loudly and to guess what this favorable sign might announce, when Volodyovski, standing with others over the very ditch, covered his panther eyes with his hand and cried,—
“Troops are coming from under the rainbow!”
There was a stir as if a whirlwind had moved the human mass, and then a sudden murmur. The words “Troops are coming!” flew like an arrow from one end of the rampart to the other. The soldiers began to crowd and push, gathering in groups. Murmurs rose and fell; still all hands rested above the eyes; all eyes were turned, strained with effort, into the distance; hearts were throbbing; and all, holding the breath in their breasts, were suspended between hope and fear. Then something began to sway, and swayed still more definitely, and rose out of the distance, and approached still nearer, and became still more distinctly visible, till at last the banners, flags, and bunchuks appeared, later a forest of streamers. The eyes doubted no longer,—it was an army. Then one gigantic shout rose from the breasts of all, a shout of inconceivable joy,—
“Yeremi! Yeremi! Yeremi!”
The oldest soldiers were simply seized with frenzy. Some threw themselves from the ramparts, waded through the ditch, and hurried on foot through the water-covered plain to the advancing regiments; others rushed to their horses; some laughed; others wept, placing their hands together and crying: “Our father is coming,—our savior, our chief!” It might have seemed that the siege was raised, Hmelnitski finished, and the victory won.
Meanwhile the regiments of the prince had drawn so near that the banners could be distinguished. In advance came, as usual, the light regiments of the prince’s Tartars, the Cossacks, and the Wallachians, after them Makhnitski’s foreign infantry, then the cannon of Vershul, the dragoons, and the heavy hussar regiments. The rays of the sun reflected on their armor and on the points of their upraised lances. All marched in unusual splendor, as if the halo of victory were around them.
Skshetuski, standing with Pan Longin on the ramparts, recognized from afar his own squadron, which he had left in Zamost, and his faded cheeks colored a little; he drew several deep breaths, as if he had thrown some great weight from his breast, and his eyes grew glad; for days of superhuman toil were near him too, as well as heroic struggles which heal the heart better than all, and hurl down painful memories deeper and deeper somewhere into the bottom of the soul.
The regiments continued to approach, and barely a thousand yards separated them from the camp. The officers too had hurried up in order to witness the entrance of the prince; the three commanders also, and with them Pan Pshiyemski, Pan Konyetspolski, Pan Marek Sobieski, starosta of Krasnostav, Pan Korf, and all the other officers, as well of Polish as foreign command. All shared in the universal joy; and especially Lantskoronski, one of the commanders, who was more a knight than a general, but enamoured of military glory. He stretched his baton in the direction from which Yeremi was coming, and called in a voice so loud that all heard him,—
“There is our supreme chief, and I am the first to give him my command and my office.”
The regiments of the prince began to enter the camp. They were three thousand men in all; but the courage of the garrison increased by a hundred thousand, for they were the victors from Pogrébische, Nyemiroff, Makhnovka, and Konstantinoff. Then acquaintances and friends greeted one another. After the light regiments Vershul’s artillery came in at last with difficulty, bringing twelve cannon. The prince, who had sent his regiments from Old Zbaraj, entered after sunset. All that was living assembled to greet him. The soldiers, taking lamps, candles, torches, bits of pitch-pine, surrounded the prince’s steed and barred his advance. The horse was caught by the bridle, so that the warriors might sate their eyes with the sight of the hero; they kissed his garments, and almost bore him away on their shoulders. The excitement rose to that degree that not only soldiers of his own regiments but of foreign companies declared they would serve three months without pay. The throng became denser each moment, so that he was unable to move a step. He sat then on his white steed, surrounded by the soldiery as a shepherd by his flocks, and there was no end to shouts and applause. The evening was calm and clear, thousands of stars glittered in the dark sky, and then appeared favorable omens. Just as Lantskoronski approached the prince to deliver the baton into his hand, one of the stars, torn away from the sky and drawing after it a stream of light, fell with a noise, and was quenched in the direction of Konstantinoff, from which Hmelnitski had to come. “That is Hmelnitski’s star!” shouted the soldiers. “A miracle! a miracle!” “An evident sign!” “Vivat Yeremi victor!” repeated a thousand voices. Then Lantskoronski approached and gave a sign with his hand that he wanted to speak. Immediately there was silence, and he said,—
“The king gave me this baton, but into your more worthy hands do I yield it, wishing to be first to obey your orders.”
“And we are with him,” repeated two other commanders.
Three batons were extended to the prince; but he drew back his hand, saying, “It was not I that gave them, and I will not receive them.”
“Let there be a fourth with the three,” said Firlei.
“Vivat Vishnyevetski! vivat the commanders!” shouted the knights. “We will die together!”
At that moment the prince’s steed raised his head, shook his purple-stained mane, and neighed mightily, so that all the horses in the camp answered him in one voice.
This too was considered prophetic of victory. The soldiers had fire in their eyes; their hearts were hot with thirst for battle; the quiver of eagerness ran through their bodies. The officers shared the universal ecstasy. Prince Ostrorog wept and prayed. Lantskoronski and the starosta of Krasnostav began first to wave their sabres, encouraging the soldiers, who, running to the edge of the rampart and stretching out their hands in the darkness, shouted in the direction from which they expected the enemy,—
“Come on, dog-brothers! You will find us ready for you!”
That night no man slept in the camp, and till daybreak there was thunder of shouts with the rushing to and fro of lamps and torches.
In the morning Pan Serakovski, secretary of the Crown, came with a scouting-party from Cholganski Kamen, and brought news that the enemy were twenty-five miles from the camp. The party had a battle with a superior force of Tartars, in which the two Mankovskis and Pan Oleksich had fallen, with a number of good soldiers. The informants brought in declared that behind this body the Khan and Hmelnitski were marching with all their forces. The day passed in waiting and preparations for defence. The prince, having taken the command, without further delay put the army in order; he showed each part where to stand, how to defend itself, and how to give succor to the rest. The best spirit reigned in the camp, discipline was restored, and instead of the former confusion, antagonism of authority, and uncertainty, accuracy and order were everywhere present. Before mid-day all were in their places. The pickets thrown out before the camp reported at intervals what was doing in the neighborhood. The camp attendants despatched to the adjacent villages brought in provisions and forage, whatever was yet to be found. Soldiers standing on the ramparts chatted merrily and sang, and they passed the night slumbering by the fires, sabre in hand, with the same readiness as if the assault might begin at any moment.
At daylight something dark began to appear in the direction of Vishnyovets. The bells in the town rang en alarm, and in the camp the prolonged plaintive sound of th
e trumpets roused the soldiers to wakefulness. The infantry regiments mounted the ramparts, the cavalry took position in the intervals, ready to rush forward at the signal of attack, and through the whole length of the ditch ascended slender streaks of smoke from the lighted matches.
At this moment the prince appeared on his white steed. He was in silver armor, but without a helmet. Not the least concern was visible on his forehead, but gladness shone out of his eyes and his face.
“We have guests, gentlemen, we have guests!” he repeated, riding along the ramparts.
Silence followed, and then could be heard the waving of banners, which the light breath of air now raised and now wound around the staffs. Meanwhile the enemy came so near that it was possible to take them in with the eye.
This was the first wave; not Hmelnitski himself, with the Khan, but a reconnoitring party made up of thirty thousand chosen Tartars, armed with bows, muskets, and sabres. Having captured fifteen hundred men sent out for provisions, they went in a dense mass from Vishnyovets; then, stretching out in a long crescent, they began to ride around from the opposite side toward Old Zbaraj.
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