Found only in the navy presently
But still in use then by the infantry).
Each time the youthful ensign’s deft attack
Was parried by his rival, he’d fall back.
Old Maciej, finding that he was too slow,
Covered himself but could not wound his foe.
The ensign had already made him bleed;
Now the spontoon rose over Maciej’s head.
Sprinkler, too far to make it, stopped half way
And hurled his cudgel at the ensign’s thigh.
Bone crunched; the ensign dropped his poleax, reeled;
Sprinkler and the massed gentry took the field.
The Russians from the left charged in a mob;
A roiling battle formed round Sprinkler’s club.
From saving Maciej, Sprinkler was unarmed.
It nearly cost his life, for he was stormed
By two big brawny Muscovites; the pair
With four strong sets of fingers grabbed his hair.
Heels dug in hard, they hauled like sailors tugging
At the resilient cordage of the rigging.
Sprinkler in vain lashed blindly out behind;
He tottered—then saw Gerwazy, sword in hand,
Close by him. “Jackknife! Lord above!” he roared.
The Steward heard his distress; hoisting his sword,
He turned around and sliced its slim steel blade
Between the Russians’ hands and Sprinkler’s head.
They backed away with ghastly cries; one hand,
However, tangled in the hair, remained,
Dangling and spouting blood. In just this way
A hawk, one talon fastened in its prey—
A hare—will latch the other to a tree;
The hare, though, in its struggle to be free,
Will rip the bird apart; one claw will stay
In the bark; the bloodied other’s borne away.
Freed, Sprinkler sought his club—stretched out his hand,
Called for it as he cast his eyes around,
Swinging his fists meanwhile, feet planted wide,
Prudently sticking by Gerwazy’s side.
Then, in the middle of the fray he spied
His son, Simp, right hand leveling his gun
And dragging behind him with the other one
A massive six-foot length of wood, engrafted
With flints and knobs (Sprinkler alone could lift it).
Seeing his precious club, he was so glad
He grabbed it, kissed it, swung it overhead
And right away he colored it with blood.
What he did then, what triumphs he achieved,
The muse can’t sing—she wouldn’t be believed,
Like the pauper woman on Ostra Brama’s tower
In Vilna, seeing the Russan brigadier
Deyov lead in his Cossack regiments
And open up the Gate, when all at once
One Czarnobacki, a lone citizen,
Killed Deyov, and drove the Cossacks from the town.
Anyway, it was as Rykov had foreseen:
Fighting so close, his soldiers could not win.
Twenty-three dead were strewn across the ground;
Thirty-odd wounded men lay there and moaned.
Many had fled in this or that direction;
Some sought the house and the womenfolk’s protection.
The gentry, uttering whoops of victory,
Went drinking, or despoiled their enemy.
Robak alone took no part in their glee.
He himself hadn’t fought (monks never can)
But, knowing certain things, he’d coached the men,
Advising, moving about, with voice or hand
Encouraging, or giving a command;
Now he was calling for the group en masse
To strike at Rykov, clinching their success.
Meanwhile, by messenger he sent a word
To Rykov: if he surrendered he’d be spared,
Whereas, if they so much as hesitated,
He’d have them surrounded and annihilated.
Rykov, though, asked no quarter. Making a stand
With half his men, he shouted the command:
“To arms!” Guns clattered all along the line,
Loaded already, waiting for the sign.
“Aim!”—All the barrels glinted, gun by gun.
“Fire singly!” Each gun thundered, one by one.
One gun was being fired, one aimed, one loaded;
Bullets were whizzing, locks clicked, ramrods thudded.
The line looked like a thousand-legged beast
Whose limbs all moved at once, and never ceased.
The men were worse than tipsy, it was true.
Their aim was poor; they wounded but a few,
Killed fewer—although two Maciejs had been harmed,
And one of the Barteks fell. The gentry, armed
With a few harquebuses, rarely fired back.
They wanted to take their swords to the attack.
Their elders stayed them though—the bullets whirred,
Dispersing danger; soon they’d clear the yard.
Even the manor’s windows had been hit.
The Judge had told Tadeusz to stay put
And mind the ladies; yet, hearing the din,
He ran out, followed by the Chamberlain,
Whom Tomasz had brought his saber in the end.
The Chamberlain hurried over, took command
And charged, sword raised; the gentry followed suit.
The Russians let them, then began to shoot.
Isajewicz, Wilbik fell; Razor was struck.
Old Maciej and the friar flanked the pack.
The gentry paused, then started to withdraw;
Zeal cooling, they glanced about. The Russians saw.
Rykov imagined one last strike—a stunner
To drive the gentry off, and take the manor.
“Fix bayonets!” he called. “Attack formation!
Forward!” Heads down, guns bristling in profusion,
The line moved, its momentum gathering.
In vain the gentry stopped, fired from each wing—
The line crossed half the courtyard undefied.
Sword pointing at the house door, Rykov cried:
“Give in, Judge! Or I’ll have your manor burned!”
“Do, and you’ll fry as well!” the Judge returned.
O Soplicowo Manor! If even now
Your white walls gleam beneath a linden bough;
If the surrounding gentry still are able
To gather round the Judge’s genial table,
No doubt they often drink to Watering Can—
If not for him, the place would long be gone!
He’d shown few signs of courage up till now.
Though the first rescued from the stocks, and though
He’d quickly found his cherished blunderbuss,
With shot, inside the cart, nevertheless
He wouldn’t fight—to trust himself, he’d say,
He needed sustenance. He made his way
Toward the vat of spirit, cupped his palm
And drank; once he was fortified and warm
He straightened his cap, picked up his Watering Can,
Rammed home a cartridge, swiftly primed the pan,
And eyed the battleground. He saw a flow
Of bayonets driving the gentry to and fro.
He dived beneath this wave, and dodged and veered
Through the tall grass in the middle of the yard
To the nettle patch; here he took up position
And waved to Simp to join him in his mission.
Simp
stood by the doorway with his gun
For his beloved Zosia was within.
She’d spurned him, true, but Simp still loved her madly
And, to protect her, he’d have perished gladly.
The Russians reached the nettles—and right then
Watering Can fired. The muzzle of his gun
Spat out a dozen balls; Simp loosed twelve more,
Bringing confusion to the Russian corps.
Stunned by this trap, their line collapsed; confounded,
They pulled back. Sprinkler finished off the wounded.
The barn was far; fearing a long retreat,
Rykov ran to the fence, planted his feet
And stopped the soldiers in their disarray.
He formed them once again, but differently:
He made a triangle, sharp end at the head,
Sides propped against the fence. Good thing he did:
Down from the castle cavalry now sped.
The Russians had had the Count there under guard.
When they ran off, he mounted up his men
And led them toward the gunfire sounding then,
Sword raised above his head. As they drew near,
Suddenly Rykov cried: “Platoon one, fire!”
A fiery streak went skipping from lock to lock:
Three hundred balls sped from the barrels’ black.
Three men were hurt; one died. The Count’s horse fell;
He tumbled off. The Steward with a yell
Ran forward, seeing the Russians’ sights applied
To the last Horeszko (though on the distaff side).
Robak was closer; he pulled the young Count out.
But, leading him to safety, he was shot.
He ordered the gentry to spread out, not fritter
What bullets they still had—to take aim better,
Find wall or fence or well to shelter them.
The Count and his men he told to bide their time.
Grasping the monk’s intentions to the full,
Tadeusz stood, screened by the wooden well
And, being sober and an expert shot
(He’d hit a tossed-up penny just like that)
He caused great grief. He aimed at senior men—
With his first shot he killed a sergeant, then
Two more, one with each barrel. He drew a bead
On shoulder straps, or on the men who led
Inside the triangle. Rykov fumed and roared,
Stomped his feet, bit the handgrip of his sword.
“Major!” he called. “What now? If this goes on
Soon our entire command will all be gone!”
So Plut called to Tadeusz furiously:
“You should be ashamed to hide behind a tree,
Young man! Come out, fight like a gentleman,
A soldier.” Tadeusz shouted back: “Explain,
Major, if you are such a fearless knight
Why hide behind your soldiers out of sight?
Let’s leave the yard—I’m not afraid of you.
I slapped your face, I’ll gladly fight you too!
Why so much bloodshed? This is our dispute,
Us two; let sword or pistol sort it out.
Choose your arms: from howitzer to pin.
Or else be killed like wolves inside their den.”
With this he loosed a shot, and aimed so well
That the lieutenant next to Rykov fell.
“Major,” said Rykov softly, “go and fight.
Avenge his insult to you—put it right.
If someone else should kill the man, your name—
You follow, sir—will always bear the shame.
That fellow there, he needs to be lured out
And stopped—with sword if not with rifle shot.
‘Bullets for pullets—only steel is real,’
Suvorov used to say. Sir, fight the duel,
Or we’ll all die—see, he’s taking aim again!”
“Dear Rykov,” responded Plut, “since you’re so keen
On swordsmanship, you fight the duel, my friend.
Or let’s find a lieutenant we can send.
After all, I’m commanding officer,
I can’t desert my men—that much is clear.”
So Rykov stepped boldly out with the command
“Cease fire!,” sword raised, and white kerchief in hand.
He asked Tadeusz which weapon he preferred.
After some talk, they settled on the sword.
Yet before a sword for Tadeusz could be brought
The Count came, armed, and the duel came to nought.
“Mr. Soplica! With respect,” he called,
“You challenged the Major, whereas I’ve long held
A grudge against the Captain, who invaded
My castle” (“Say, ‘our castle,’” the Steward persuaded).
“Him and his band of thieves—I knew the man—
They tied my jockeys up,” the Count went on.
“I’ll punish him as I did the banditry
At Rocca Birbante, down in Sicily.”
The shooting stopped, a silence fell. Each side
Watched curiously as their commanders vied.
The Count and Rykov stood there sideways on,
Right hand and eye defying the other man.
Each with his left hand quickly doffed his hat
And bowed politely (an act of honor, that—
Before the killing had to come the greeting).
The swords already crashed and clashed in meeting;
The knights, foot raised and right knee bent, were dancing
Back and forth, now retreating, now advancing.
But Plut, seeing Tadeusz out in front,
Was speaking softly with Gefreiter Gont,
Considered the regiment’s best shot of all.
“Gont,” said the Major, “if you can put a ball
Beneath the fifth rib of that villain there,
Four silver rubles will be yours, you hear?”
Gont cocked his gun and gripped the lock, concealed
Behind the cloaks his loyal comrades held.
He fired not at the heart but at the head,
And hit—but got Tadeusz’s hat instead.
Tadeusz spun around; now Sprinkler struck
At Rykov; the gentry, yelling: “It’s a trick!,”
Attacked. Tadeusz screened Rykov, who then ran
And, barely making it, rejoined his men.
Once more Dobrzyńskis and Lithuanians warred;
Now though, despite their former disaccord,
They fought like brothers, spurring one another.
Seeing Podhajski working up a lather,
His long scythe slashing through the Russian lines,
Dobrzyńskis cried: “Go, Lithuanians!”
“Long live our brothers the Podhajskis!” sounded.
And the Skołubas, seeing brave Razor wounded
Yet brandishing his sword, were heard to call:
“Up with the Maciejs, long live every Pole!”
Cheering each other, they charged the enemy.
Robak and Maciej checked them—fruitlessly.
When this full-on attack began, the Warden
Moved from the battleground into the garden.
Cautious Protazy followed, listening intently
To the commands the Warden murmured faintly.
There in the garden, very near the fence
Where Rykov’s wedge now faced the Poles’ advance,
A large old cheese shed stood; its open walls
Were made of beams lashed lattice-wise, like grilles.
Inside gleamed numerous white rounds of cheese,
While outside,
sprigs of herbs dried in the breeze.
Sage, holy thistle, thyme—right here, you see,
The Warden’s wife had her home pharmacy.
Up top, the shed was six yards wide in all;
It rested on a single thick oak pole
Like a stork’s nest. The pole was half decayed
Because of which it slanted to one side,
Threatening collapse. The Judge’s friends declared
That he should pull it down, but he preferred,
He said, repair or renovation
In cases such as these, to demolition—
And put the job off till another time;
He had two props built in the interim.
Thus braced, but rickety, the cheese shed leaned
Right by the fence where Rykov made his stand.
Warden and Bailiff crept toward the shed,
Each armed with an enormous spearlike rod.
Through the tall flax the cook followed along,
The cook’s boy too—diminutive but strong.
They hooked the rods in the pillar’s rotten top,
Braced themselves, and with all their might pushed up
Like raftsmen stuck on shallows in their craft
Pushing against the bank to free the raft.
The pole snapped; the shed swayed; cheeses and wood
Came crashing on the Russians where they stood.
Soldiers were hurt, crushed, killed; where ranks had been,
Wood, bodies, snow-white cheeses now lay strewn,
Spattered with blood and brains. The triangle shattered;
The Sprinkler raged there now, the Razor glittered,
The Twig lashed; the massed gentry stormed ahead.
The Count sent horsemen after those who fled.
Only eight soldiers still were in the fight,
Led by a sergeant. The Steward came in sight;
Nine barrels boldly aimed right at his head.
The Steward charged them, whirling Jackknife’s blade.
Seeing this, Robak ran up too, outstripped him
And tumbling over by Gerwazy, tripped him.
Both men went down just as the Russians fired.
The volley crashed; at once Gerwazy stirred,
Jumped in the smoke, and smashed two soldiers’ heads.
They ran; aching to rip them both to shreds,
The Steward chased them both across the yard.
They slipped into the barn; pursuing hard,
Gerwazy followed. Inside there was no light
And yet, unseen, the Steward kept up the fight:
Blows thick and fast were heard; a scream; a groan;
Then silence, and the Steward emerged alone,
Sword dripping blood.
The gentry had the field;
They chased the fleeing jaegers, hacked, impaled.
Pan Tadeusz Page 25
