by Leo Perutz
“Surgeon,” he demanded, “what time of night is it?”
“Your time is up,” Feuerbaum broke in before the surgeon could reply. “Eternity beckons you, Captain, so direct your gaze toward God. You can hope for no mercy on earth, being so soon to enter the realm of Death, but God is compassionate. Confess, therefore, and acknowledge your sins.”
“Eating meat in Lent when I was still a lad,” Black Ibitz said in a low, mournful voice,–that was the first of my sins.”
But that was not what the surgeon and Feuerbaum itched to hear.
“You also stole, robbed, cheated, and amassed much property,” Feuerbaum said accusingly, and smote his breast as if standing before the Eucharist in church. “For God’s sake, Captain, be mindful of your salvation.”
“Yes,” Black Ibitz pursued, “I robbed and stole. I lived on the sweat and blood of the poor.”
“So now confess where you hid their money!” Feuerbaum insisted. “Confess before it’s too late, or you’ll be lost to the Devil for ever more, body and soul. Confess!”
“No, you rogue, not to please the likes of you!” gasped Black Ibitz, sitting bolt upright. “Rather than tell you, you scoundrel, I’d sooner the Devil . . .”
His voice died away. He had caught sight of the thief, who was standing in the doorway, and fancied in his delirium that the Devil had come to fetch him.
“There he is, there he is!” he cried. “Why didn’t you keep a better watch on the door and window? Black Kaspar is standing there, ready to take me.”
The girl saw the thief and dropped her spoonful of muscatel in alarm.
“Who are you?” chorused the surgeon and Feuerbaum. “What do you want?”
“I wish to speak with your captain,” the thief began, but Black Ibitz, summoning up his last reserves of strength, had risen from the bed of straw and was tottering toward him in sheepskin coat and red slippers.
“Leave me be, sir!” he implored with frenzied gaze and chattering teeth. “I’m devout, I’m devout–I said three Paternosters but an hour since! There are others here in plenty, villains to a man, so why must I be the one to go?”
In mortal terror he flung open the door and pointed to his men.
“See, there are enough of them. Take them, they’re yours. Take them, all of them, but leave me in peace!”
At that he again lost consciousness and collapsed. The girl dragged him back to his makeshift bed and wiped the sweat from his brow. The thief stood there, temporarily at a loss, then turned and went out, closing the door behind him.
It was light by now. The fires in front of the hut were going out and a pale, chill sun had risen above the pine trees. The thief drew his coat more tightly about him. He listened for a moment, but all was quiet inside the hut. Then he addressed the robbers who had gathered round him.
“You heard that. Black Ibitz appointed me your captain in his stead and bade me take you away from here.”
The robbers murmured and laughed among themselves.
“You simpleton,” one of them called out, “where will you take us, pray? To Onion Land, where fools grow wise and lambs slaughter butchers? Don’t you know the straits we’re in? The dragoons are upon us. How are we to escape them without horses? We’re harried and exhausted.”
“We shall make them welcome,” said the thief. “Stand firm and fear naught. By the time we’re done, not a man of them will wish to pursue us.”
“Captain,” said Wryneck, “why are you of such good cheer?”
“For a very good reason,” the thief replied. “Mark this: I carry beneath my coat an arcanum so powerful that all I do must turn out well. Follow me, and good fortune will descend on you like manna from heaven.”
“I, too, think it better to defend ourselves,” cried Wryneck, already half won over. “If we surrender to the Bloody Baron, we’ll end like sloes of which the cook says, ‘One part boiled, one part stewed.’ Those of us who aren’t hanged will be branded on the forehead and sentenced for life to the Venetian galleys.”
“If only we had sufficient muskets,” said one of the band, “we wouldn’t fear the Bloody Baron for all his power.”
“What need have you of muskets?” the thief said laughingly. “A thick stick is better–it never misses. Mark this too: I don’t consider the dragoons true soldiers. They can stand guard and dig trenches and build bridges–yes, they’re masters with shovel and spade. When it comes to fighting, however, you’ll find them fainter-hearted than old women.”
“What of the hussars you made so much of?” Wryneck demanded. “Where are they?”
“Be patient awhile and I’ll fetch them,” the thief told him. Producing an empty poacher’s sack from under his coat, he walked off and disappeared among the trees.
He returned with the bulging sack slung over his shoulder. He had previously, while walking through the woods, discovered a hornets’ nest in a hollow tree not far away, and this was what the sack now held.
“Here they are, my little hussars,” he said, holding the sack in the warmth that rose from the embers of one of the fires. “They’ll soon be awake. Then they’ll sing the Bloody Baron a song he never heard before.”
A faint hum filled the air. The old nag tethered to the tree pricked up its ears, lashed out in all directions, and tried to gallop off.
The robbers, who had grasped what their new captain had in mind, were seized with enthusiasm. Eager to defeat the Bloody Baron and his dragoons in battle, they began to outshout each other.
“We’ll settle their hash!”
“We’ll put them to sleep!”
“I’ll douse the Bloody Baron’s light for him!”
“We’ll pick them off like wild duck!”
Just then a sentry came running out of the trees and announced that the dragoons, over a hundred strong, were riding across the fields from two directions. Another babble of excited cries went up.
“To arms, comrades! The enemy’s at hand!”
“Slow-matches ready, muskets loaded with three balls!”
“Up and at them!”
“Aim at the belly, not the head!”
“I’ll fire into the midst of them, then I’ll not miss!”
“Be still!” commanded the thief. “Comrades, I’ll go on ahead–I want a word with the Bloody Baron first. When you hear me say ‘fox’–that’s the signal–blaze away, and those without muskets fall on the dragoons with your cudgels. Now forward, and acquit yourselves like men. If anyone fears to join us, let him stay behind.”
“With your permission, Captain,” said Wryneck, “none of us will stay behind.”
“In God’s name, then,” said the thief, and slung the poacher’s sack over his shoulder.
The Bloody Baron was riding through the sparse pinewoods at the head of his advance guard when, in the pale, snowy light of dawn, he caught sight of the robbers whom he had come to capture advancing toward him in a body along the forest path that led to the Fox’s Earth. Although some of them carried muskets, he assumed that they were ready and willing to surrender on any terms. Unaware that they had taken new heart, he was about to spur his charger into a gallop and bear down on them when a voice hailed him from overhead.
“Stay where you are, sir! Ride no further or it’ll end in tears.”
The captain of dragoons looked up and saw a man perched high in the branches of a fir tree, swinging his legs as if he knew of no better place in the world. On his lap lay a bulging sack.
The captain rode up to the tree with his pistol cocked.
“Come down and let us see who you are, fellow, or I’ll put a bullet through your hide.”
“Why should I come down? I’m comfortable where I am.” The thief laughed. “My advice to you, sir, is to wheel your horse and ride off. It would be safer.”
“I know you now, fellow,” cried the captain. “Of all the scoundrels God created, you’re the most abject. I knew you were one of Ibitz’s crew, but what I owed you yesterday I’ll pay you today in good
round coin. Choose the tree you wish to hang from.”
“You’re cooking your fish before they’re caught,” the thief said scornfully. “Heed what I say, sir–I mean you well. Retire in good time or you’ll do so quicker than you care to.”
Meanwhile, the main body of the dragoons had caught up with their captain and gathered around him, just as the thief had intended. He wanted them to form a solid mass.
One of them spurred his horse to the foot of the tree.
“Come down and let me flay you alive, fellow,” he called. “I’ll sell your hide to the regimental drummer for ten kreuzers.”
“I’ll shake you down, little man,” shouted another. “I’ll lay you across my shoulders and run to Hungary without pausing for breath.”
“If you and your captain are so brave and strong,” jeered the thief, “why don’t you drive the Turks from Constantinople? I’m only one against many, but I warn you: spoon up your porridge too fast and you’ll burn your tongue!”
“Damn your eyes!” thundered the captain, losing patience. “Come down from that tree!”
“Are you really so eager to be off, sir?” the thief said calmly. “I’m in no hurry. First I must bid your horse adieu.”
“That’s enough!” the captain roared. “Right wheel! Open order! Prepare to attack! And you, come down and give yourself up or I fire!”
And he raised his pistol and took aim at the thief while his men formed up for the attack.
“Let every fox look to his skin!” the thief cried, so loudly that the forest rang with the words: he had given his comrades the prearranged signal.
The captain fired, hitting him in the shoulder, just as he tossed the hornets’ nest into the midst of the dragoons.
All that could be heard at first was a faint humming and buzzing. The dragoons cocked their heads and listened, not knowing what to make of it. All at once a horse leapt skyward like a jack-in-a-box. Another horse abruptly shyed and lashed out. Its steel-shod hoofs scythed the air and thudded into human flesh. There was a curse, an angry shout, and a scream of agony from the injured man. The captain, who guessed what was afoot, bellowed at his men to spread out, but his voice was quickly drowned by the pandemonium that erupted all around him.
The horses in the middle of the serried ranks tried to bolt when the hornets attacked them. They reared, plunged, and fell on top of riders pitched from their saddles. An indescribable din filled the forest: whinnies, cries of pain, oaths, conflicting orders, unheeded words of command, musket and pistol shots, and the reverberation of all this clamour. A disciplined body of men had transformed itself into a jumble of horseflesh and hoofs, of shouting, groaning, cursing dragoons who clung to their horses’ manes or were dragged along by their stirrups, of carbine barrels and whirling sabres, of contorted faces and hands clutching empty air. Such was the turmoil into which the robbers emptied their muskets.
The dragoons were past holding, past taking orders. With or without their riders, horses scattered and careered off through the pine woods, soaring over bushes and undergrowth in their frenzied urge to escape. The few dragoons who struggled to their feet and tried to re-form were attacked with cudgels and musket butts.
The Bloody Baron, who now had his horse under control, wheeled it around in the hope of rallying his men, but it was too late: the robbers had already scattered them. Seeing that the day was lost, he spurred his charger into a gallop and rode off cursing. The thief bade him a mocking adieu from his perch in the tree.
“What, sir, no fond farewells? Why be off at such a breakneck pace? You’ll lame your horse.”
The battle was over. It only remained for the robbers to catch the riderless horses. The thief slid gingerly down his tree and stood leaning against the trunk. His wound was beginning to pain him and blood was seeping through his shirt and coat. In the distance, the Bloody Baron’s trumpeter sounded the call to muster. Amid the pools of blood on the ground lay wounded dragoons, horses writhing in their death-throes, and pieces of broken harness, and littering the trampled snow, quiescent and numb with cold, were the true heroes of the hour: the hornets.
When the robbers had caught enough horses they mounted up, hoisted their wounded captain into the saddle, and rode back to the Fox’s Earth with jubilant cries and much waving of hats.
The surgeon, who was standing outside the door of the charcoal-burner’s hut when they reached the clearing, gaped at the sight of his comrades trotting along on horseback.
“A miracle!” he cried. “Is it really you? I’d never have believed it. The only way I thought we’d meet again was wolf-and-fox fashion, dangling from the skinner’s pole. Dismount and we’ll drain a glass together. Then take your spades and shovels. Black Ibitz is dead and in need of burying.”
The thief stood in his stirrups.
“A Paternoster and an Ave Maria and God rest his soul, that’s all we’ve time for. We must leave here at once. Those who wish to follow me, mount up; those who wish to remain here, remain.”
The men began to mutter, but his angry voice quelled them.
“I’m your captain now, and I demand your obedience! The Bloody Baron is mustering his men for a fresh assault. We must go. You’ve seen for yourselves how swiftly the wheel of fortune turns.”
At noon they halted at an inn not far from the Polish border, where they knew they would be safe. The thief lay stricken with fever in the hay-loft, the surgeon having bandaged his wound. Wryneck had remained at his side, but the remainder of his new comrades sat below in the tap-room drinking Polish brandy and making din enough to be heard a mile off.
“Captain,” said Wryneck, who was crouching beside him in the straw, “are you really so sick? You groan as if your life were ebbing away.”
“I’ve lost too much red gravy,” the thief replied with a faint smile. “I’m sick enough. Were I sicker I’d die, no doubt, but I don’t intend to do so. I mean to seek my fortune and I’ll have it come what may. Even if it were chained to the firmament, I’d make it mine.”
He tried to sit up, only to sink back into the straw.
“Those men carousing and feasting below,” he said, “they’re making a din like frogs in springtime, but fate is hard on their heels. They give no thought to the executioner’s rope and wheel. We must leave here. Tell me the name of each and what he does best, and I’ll tell you which of them will go with us and which remain behind.”
“Me you already know,” Wryneck began his tally. “My name is Wryneck.”
“Yes,” said the thief, “I know you. You were my companion in Magdeburg Gaol, where the bread was made of ground pea-straw. You’ll come with me.”
“And I’ll be a good comrade to you,” Wryneck assured him, “till the soul quits my body and I’m buried in barren ground.”
“Go on, go on!” urged the thief. “Who’s next? What is his name and what can he do?”
“There’s Crooked Michel–he’s good when it comes to a scrimmage. He can hold his own against any three men with pistol, sword and dagger.”
“Shooting and sword-fighting only lead to trouble,” the thief murmured. “Him I’ve no use for–him I’ll leave behind.”
“Whistling Boy,” Wryneck pursued. “He can run well–he’s as fast on his feet as any hare or hound.”
“Let him run where he pleases, then, I won’t keep him,” the thief said firmly. “Cover me over with straw, I’m as cold as charity.”
“Mad Matthes,” Wryneck continued. “When it comes to wielding a sabre, he’s the best.”
But the thief’s thoughts had strayed. The wound spell! If only he could remember the wound spell! Pain had gripped him again with such ferocity that he felt as if his life were draining away with his blood. There was a wound spell so magically powerful that it could staunch blood, but it eluded him. He racked his brains in a vain attempt to recall the words.
“Mad Matthes,” Wryneck repeated. “He doesn’t know the meaning of fear and will cover any retreat. Do you hear me, Captain?”
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“Yes, I hear you,” the thief said with his teeth chattering. “If he’s ignorant of fear, he’s ignorant of caution too. Let him go his own way–I’ve no use for him.”
“Then there’s Owlface, who needs no sleep. He can go without sleep for a week.”
“What good is that?” the thief grumbled. “Don’t you have anyone who can solder and file keys or take the imprint of locks in wax?”
“Feuerbaum,” said Wryneck. “No lock is too strong for him and none too ingenious.”
“Let him come with us, then.” The thief emitted a faint groan. “It burns like fire!” he muttered to himself. “God forbid it should turn gangrenous . . .”
“Next, Veiland,” said Wryneck. “He has ears like a fox. He can hear a horse whinny three hours’ march away, dogs bark and cocks crow at two leagues, and people talking at once.”
“He’ll make a good lookout,” the thief declared. “I’ll take him with me.”
“Before I forget,” Wryneck went on, “there’s Tinsmith Hannes. He’s so strong, he can break down any door by charging it with his shoulder.”
“That’s no use to us,” said the thief. “He’ll only make a noise, and I’m no friend of noise. Can’t you think of anyone better?”
“The Brabanter. He can disguise himself in a trice as a farmer, a waggoner, a grocer, or a student.”
“He’s the man for us, then,” said the thief. “Good intelligence is always useful.”
“He can also speak French,” Wryneck added.
“Then he’s salt on my soup,” the thief exclaimed. “He shall teach me it so that I can pass for a nobleman.”
“A nobleman?” Wryneck looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Is that the fever talking?”
“No, I’m quite myself,” the thief replied. “That makes five of us, and five are enough. Go down and tell the other three–”
“But what of the rest?” Wryneck broke in. “What of Klaproth and Afrom and Red Konrad and Gallowsmeat and Sainted Jonas? We swore to remain together and never part.”
