With Fire and Sword

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “We have sacrificed ourselves,” said Skshetuski.

  “But couldn’t we let him know?” asked Zagloba.

  “If there could be found a man of such virtue as to undertake to steal through,” said the starosta, “he would win immortal glory in his lifetime,—he would be the savior of the whole army, and would avert defeat from the fatherland. Even if the general militia has not all appeared yet, perhaps the nearness of the king might disperse the rebellion. But who will go, who will undertake it, since Hmelnitski has so possessed every road and exit that a mouse could not squeeze through from the camp? Such an undertaking is clear and evident death!”

  “But what are stratagems for?—and one is now entering my head.”

  “What is it, what is it?” asked the starosta.

  “This. Every day we take prisoners: bribe one of these; let them feign escape from us, and run to the king.”

  “I must mention this to the prince,” said the starosta.

  Pan Longin fell into deep thought; his brows were covered with furrows, and he sat a whole hour in silence. Suddenly he raised his head, and spoke with his usual sweetness: “I will undertake to steal through the Cossacks.”

  The knights, hearing these words, sprang from their seats in amazement. Zagloba opened his mouth, Volodyovski’s mustaches quivered, Skshetuski grew pale; and the starosta, striking himself on the breast, cried: “Would you undertake to do this?”

  “Have you considered what you say?” asked Pan Yan.

  “I considered it long ago,” answered the Lithuanian; “for this is not the first day that the knights say that notice must be given the king of our position. And I, hearing this, thought to myself: ‘If the Most High God permits me to fulfil my vow, I will go at once. I am an obscure man; what do I signify? What harm to me, even am killed on the road?’”

  “But they will cut you to pieces, without doubt!” cried Zagloba, “Have you heard what the starosta says,—that it is evident death?”

  “What of that, brother? If God wishes, he will carry me through; if not, he will reward me in heaven.”

  “But first they will seize you, torture you, give you a fearful death. Have you lost your reason, man?” asked Zagloba.

  “I will go, anyhow,” answered the Lithuanian, mildly.

  “A bird could not fly through, for they would shoot it from their bows. They have surrounded us like a badger in his hole.”

  “Still I will go!” repeated the Lithuanian. “I owe thanks to the Lord for permitting me to fulfil my vow.”

  “Well, look at him, examine him!” said Zagloba, in desperation. “You would better have your head cut off at once and shoot it from a cannon over the tabor, for in this way alone could you push through them.”

  “But permit me, my friends,” said Pan Longin, clasping his hands.

  “Oh, no; you will not go alone, for I will go with you,” said Skshetuski.

  “And I with you both!” added Volodyovski, striking his sword.

  “And may the bullets strike you!” cried Zagloba, seizing himself by the head. “May the bullets strike you with your ‘And I,’ ‘And I,’ with your daring! They have not had enough of blood yet, not enough of destruction, not enough of bullets! What is doing here is not sufficient for them; they want more certainty of having their necks twisted. Go to the dogs, and give me peace! I hope you will be cut to pieces.” When he had said this he began to circle about in the tent as if mad. “God is punishing me,” cried be, “for associating with whirlwinds instead of honorable, solid men. It serves me right.” He walked through the tent awhile longer with feverish tread; at last he stopped before Skshetuski; then, putting his hands behind his back and looking into his eyes, began to puff terribly: “What have I done that you persecute me?”

  “God save us!” exclaimed the knight. “What do you mean?”

  “I do not wonder that Podbipienta invents such things; he always had his wit in his fist. But since he has killed the three greatest fools among the Turks he has become the fourth himself—”

  “It is disgusting to hear him,” interrupted the Lithuanian.

  “And I don’t wonder at him,” continued Zagloba, pointing at Volodyovski. “He will jump on a Cossack’s bootleg, or hold to his trousers as a burr does to a dog’s tail, and get through quicker than any of us. The Holy Spirit has not shone upon either of the two; but that you, instead of restraining their madness, should add excitement to it, that you are going yourself, and wish to expose us four to certain death and torture,—that is the final blow! Tfu! I did not expect this of an officer whom the prince himself has esteemed a valiant knight.”

  “How four?” asked Skshetuski, in astonishment. “Do you want to go?”

  “Yes!” cried Zagloba, beating his breast with his fists, “I will go. If any of you go, or all go together, I will go too. My blood be on your heads! I shall know next time with whom to associate.”

  “Well may you!” said Skshetuski.

  The three knights began to embrace him; but he was angry in earnest, and puffed and pushed them away with his elbows, saying: “Go to the devil! I don’t want your Judas kisses.” Then was heard on the walls the firing of cannon and muskets. “There it is for you, go!”

  “That is ordinary firing,” remarked Pan Yan.

  “Ordinary firing!” repeated Zagloba, mocking him. “Well, just think this is not enough for them. Half the army is destroyed by this ordinary firing, and they turn up their noses at it.”

  “Be of good cheer,” said Podbipienta.

  “You ought to keep your mouth shut, Botvinia. You are most to blame; you have invented an undertaking which if it is not a fool’s errand then I’m a fool.”

  “But still I’ll go, brother,” said Pan Longin.

  “You’ll go, you’ll go; and I know why. Don’t exhibit yourself as a hero, for they know you. You have virtue for sale, and are in a hurry to take it out of camp. You the worst among knights, not the best,—simply a drab, trading in virtue. Tfu! an offence to God,—that’s what you are. It is not to the king you want to go, but you would like to snort through the villages like a horse through a meadow. Look at him! There is a knight with virtue for sale! Vexation, vexation, as God is dear to me!”

  “Disgusting to hear him!” cried the Lithuanian, thrusting his fingers in his ears.

  “Let disputes rest,” said Skshetuski, seriously. “Better let us think about this question.”

  “In God’s name,” said the starosta, who had listened hitherto with astonishment to Zagloba, “this is a great question, but we can decide nothing without the prince. This is no place for discussion. You are in service and obliged to obey orders. The prince must be in his quarters; let us go to him and see what he will say to your offer.”

  “I agree to that,” answered Zagloba; and hope shone in his face. “Let us go as quickly as possible.”

  They went out and crossed the square on which already the balls were falling from the Cossack trenches. The troops were at the ramparts, which at a distance looked like booths at a fair, so overhung were they with many-colored clothing sheepskin coats, packed with wagons, fragments of tents, and every kind of object which might become a shelter against the shots which at times ceased neither day nor night. And now above those rags hung a long bluish line of smoke, and behind them ranks of prostrate red and yellow soldiers, working hard against the nearest trenches of the enemy. The square itself was like a ruin; the level space was cut up with spades, or trampled by horses; it was not made green by a single grass-blade. Here and there were mounds of earth freshly raised by the digging of walls and graves; here and there lay fragments of broken wagons, cannon, barrels, or piles of bones, gnawed, and whitening before the sun. Bodies of horses were nowhere visible, for each one was removed immediately as food for the soldiers; but everywhere were piles of iron,—mostly cannon-balls, red from rust, which fell every da
y on that piece of land. Grievous war and hunger were evident at every step. On their way our knights met greater or smaller groups of soldiers,—some carrying wounded or dead, others hurrying to the ramparts to relieve their overworked comrades. The faces of all were black, sunken, overgrown with beard; their fierce eyes were inflamed, their clothing faded and torn; many had filthy rags on their heads in place of caps or helmets; their weapons were broken. Involuntarily came the question. What will happen a week or two later to that handful hitherto victorious?

  “Look, gentlemen,” said the starosta; “it is time to give notice to the king.”

  “Want is showing its teeth, like a dog,” said the little knight.

  “What will happen when we have eaten the horses?” asked Skshetuski.

  Thus conversing, they reached the tents of the prince, situated at the right side of the rampart, before which were a few mounted messengers to carry orders through the camp. Their horses, fed with dried and ground horse-flesh and excited by continual fire, reared restively, unable to stand in one place. This was the case too with all the cavalry horses, which in going against the enemy seemed like a herd of griffins or centaurs going rather by air than by land.

  “Is the prince in the tent?” asked the starosta of one of the horsemen.

  “Yes, with Pan Pshiyemski,” answered the orderly.

  The starosta entered first without announcing himself, but the four knights remained outside. After a while the canvas opened, and Pshiyemski thrust out his head. “The prince is anxious to see you,” said he.

  Zagloba entered the tent in good humor, for he hoped the prince would not expose his best knights to certain death; but he was mistaken, for they had not yet bowed when he said,—

  “The starosta has told me of your readiness to issue from the camp, and I accept your good will. Too much cannot be sacrificed for the country.”

  “We have only come for permission to try,” said Skshetuski, “since your Highness is the steward of our blood.”

  “Then you want to go together?”

  “Your Highness,” said Zagloba, “they want to go, but I do not. God is my witness that I have not come here to praise myself or to make mention of my services; and if I do mention them, I do so lest some one might suppose that I am afraid. Pan Skshetuski, Volodyovski, and Podbipienta of Myshekishki are great knights; but Burlai, who fell by my hand (not to speak of other exploits), was also a famous warrior, equal to Burdabut, Bogun, and the three heads of the janissaries. I mean to say by this that in knightly deeds I am not behind others. But heroism is one thing, and madness another. We have no wings, and we cannot go by land; that is certain.”

  “You will not go then?” said the prince.

  “I have said that I do not wish to go, but I have not said that I will not go. Since God has punished me with their company, I must remain in it till death. If we should be hard pressed, the sabre of Zagloba will be of service yet; but I know not why death should be put upon us four, and I hope that your Highness will avert it from us by not permitting this mad undertaking.”

  “You are a good comrade,” answered the prince, “and it honorable on your part not to wish to leave your friends; you are mistaken in your confidence in me, for I accept your offer.”

  “The dog is dead!” muttered Zagloba, and his hands dropped.

  At that moment Firlei, castellan of Belsk, entered the tent. “Your Highness, my people have seized a Cossack who says that they are preparing an assault for to-night.”

  “I have received information too,” answered the prince. “All is ready, only let our people hurry with the ramparts.”

  “They are nearly finished.”

  “That is well! We will occupy them in the evening.” Then he turned to the four knights. “It is best to try after the storm, if the night is dark.”

  “How is that?” asked Firlei; “are you preparing a sally?”

  “The sally in its own order,—I will lead it myself; but now we are talking about something else. These gentlemen undertake to creep through the enemy and inform the king of our condition.”

  The castellan was astonished, opened his eyes, and looked at the knights in succession. The prince smiled with delight. He had this vanity,—he loved to have his soldiers admired.

  “In God’s name!” said the castellan; “there are such hearts then in the world? As God lives, I will not dissuade you from the daring deed.”

  Zagloba was purple from rage; but he said nothing, he only puffed like a bear. The prince thought awhile, then said,—

  “I do not wish, however, to spend your blood in vain, and I am not willing that all four should go together. One will go first; if the enemy kill him, they will not delay in boasting of it, as they have once already boasted of the death of my servant whom they seized at Lvoff. If they kill the first, the second will go; afterward in case of necessity the third and the fourth. But perhaps the first will pass through; in such an event I do not wish to expose the others to a useless death.”

  “Your Highness,” interrupted Skshetuski.

  “This is my will and command,” said Yeremi, with emphasis. “To bring you to agreement, I say that he shall go first who offered himself first.”

  “It was I!” cried Pan Longin, with a beaming face.

  “To-night, after the storm, if it is dark,” added the prince. “I will give no letters to the king; you will tell what you have seen,—merely take a signet-ring as credential.”

  Podbipienta took the signet-ring and bowed to the prince, who caught him by the temples and held him awhile with his two hands; then he kissed him several times on the forehead, and said in a voice of emotion,—

  “You are as near to my heart as a brother. May the God of Hosts and our Queen of Angels carry you through, warrior of the Lord! Amen!”

  “Amen!” repeated Sobieski, the castellan of Belsk, and Pan Pshiyemski.

  The prince had tears in his eyes, for he was a real father to the knights. Others wept, and a quiver of enthusiasm shook the body of Pan Podbipienta. A flame passed through his bones; and rejoiced to its depth was his soul, pure, obedient, and heroic, with the hope of coming sacrifice.

  “History will write of you!” cried the castellan.

  “Non nobis, non nobis, sed nomini tuo, Domine, da gloriam (Not to us, not to us, but to thy name, Lord, give the glory),” said the prince.

  The knights issued from the tent.

  “Tfu! something has seized me by the throat and holds me,” said Zagloba; “and it is as bitter in my mouth as wormwood, and there they are firing continually. Oh, if the thunders would fire you away!” said he, pointing to the smoking trenches of the Cossacks. “Oh, it is hard to live in this world! Pan Longin, are you really going out? May the angels guard you! If the plague would choke those ruffians!”

  “I must take farewell of you,” said Podbipienta.

  “How is that? Where are you going?” asked Zagloba.

  “To the priest Mukhovetski,—to confess, my brother. I must cleanse my sinful soul.”

  Pan Longin hastened to the castle; the others returned to the ramparts. Skshetuski and Volodyovski were silent, but Zagloba said,—

  “Something holds me by the throat. I did not think to be sorrowful, but that is the worthiest man in the world. If any one contradicts me, I’ll give it to him in the face. Oh, my God, my God! I thought the castellan of Belsk would restrain the prince, but he beat the drums still more. The hangman brought that heretic! ‘History,’ he says, ‘will write of you.’ Let it write of him, but not on the skin of Pan Longin. And why doesn’t he go out himself? He has six toes on his feet, like every Calvinist, and he can walk better. I tell you, gentlemen, that it is getting worse and worse on earth, and Jabkovski is a true prophet when he says that the end of the world is near. Let us sit down awhile at the ramparts, and a go to the castle, so as to console ourselves with the compan
y of our friend till evening at least.”

  But Pan Longin, after confession and communion, spent whole time in prayer. He made his first appearance at the storm in the evening, which was one of the most awful, for the Cossacks had struck just when the troops were transporting their cannon and wagons to the newly raised ramparts. For a time it seemed that the slender forces of the Poles would fall before the onrush of two hundred thousand foes. The Polish battalions had become so intermingled with the enemy that they could not distinguish their own, and three times they closed in this fashion. Hmelnitski exerted all his power; for the Khan and his own colonels had told him that this must be the last storm, and that henceforth they would only harass the besieged with hunger. But after three hours all attacks were repulsed with such terrible losses that according to later reports forty thousand of the enemy had fallen. One thing is certain,—after the battle a whole bundle of flags was thrown at the feet of the prince; and this was really the last great assault, after which followed more difficult times of digging under the ramparts, capturing wagons, continual firing, suffering, and famine.