Here he turned to the assembly and continued: “God has given me this power, but do you take fear out of your hearts. My spirit pierces the earth and tells you; Your enemies lie, there are no powder dragons under the church. You, people of timid hearts, you in whom fear has stifled faith, deserve not to enter the kingdom of grace and repose to-day. There is no powder under your feet then! God wishes to preserve this retreat, so that, like Noah’s ark, it may be borne above the deluge of disasters and mishap; therefore, in the name of God, for the third time I tell you, there is no powder under the church. And when I speak in His name, who will make bold to oppose me, who will dare still to doubt?”
When he had said this he was silent and looked at the throng of monks, nobles, and soldiers. But such was the unshaken faith, the conviction and power in his voice that they were silent also, and no man came forward. On the contrary, solace began to enter their hearts, till at last one of the soldiers, a simple peasant, said, —
“Praise to the name of the Lord! For three days they say they are able to blow up the fortress; why do they not blow it up?”
“Praise to the Most Holy Lady! Why do they not blow it up?” repeated a number of voices.
Then a wonderful sign was made manifest. Behold all about them on a sudden was heard the sound of wings, and whole flocks of small winter birds appeared in the court of the fortress, and every moment new ones flew in from the starved country-places around. Birds such as gray larks, ortolans, buntings with yellow breasts, poor sparrows, green titmice, red bulfinches, sat on the slopes of the roofs, on the corners over the doors, on the church; others flew around in a many-colored crown above the head of the prior, flapping their wings, chirping sadly as if begging for alms, and having no fear whatever of man. People present were amazed at the sight; and Kordetski, after he had prayed for a while, said at last, —
“See these little birds of the forest. They come to the protection of the Mother of God, but you doubt Her power.”
Consolation and hope had entered their hearts; the monks, beating their breasts, went to the church, and the soldiers mounted the walls.
Women scattered grain to the birds, which began to pick it up eagerly.
All interpreted the visit of these tiny forest-dwellers as a sign of success to themselves, and of evil to the enemy.
“Fierce snows must be lying, when these little birds, caring neither for shots nor the thunder of cannon, flock to our buildings,” said the soldiers.
“But why do they fly from the Swedes to us?”
“Because the meanest creature has the wit to distinguish an enemy from a friend.”
“That cannot be,” said another soldier, “for in the Swedish camp are Poles too; but it means that there must be hunger there, and a lack of oats for the horses.”
“It means still better,” said a third, “that what they say of the powder is downright falsehood.”
“How is that?” asked all, in one voice.
“Old people say,” replied the soldier, “that if a house is to fall, the sparrows and swallows having nests in spring under the roof, go away two or three days in advance; every creature has sense to feel danger beforehand. Now if powder were under the cloister, these little birds would not fly to us.”
“Is that true?”
“As true as Amen to ‘Our Father!’”
“Praise to the Most Holy Lady! it will be bad for the Swedes.”
At this moment the sound of a trumpet was heard at the northwestern gate; all ran to see who was coming.
It was a Swedish trumpeter with a letter from the camp. The monks assembled at once in the council hall. The letter was from Count Veyhard, and announced that if the fortress were not surrendered before the following day it would be hurled into the air. But those who before had fallen under the weight of fear had no faith now in this threat.
“Those are vain threats!” said the priests and the nobles together.
“Let us write to them not to spare us; let them blow us up!”
And in fact they answered in that sense.
Meanwhile the soldiers who had gathered around the trumpeter answered his warnings with ridicule.
“Good!” said they to him. “Why do you spare us? We will go the sooner to heaven.”
But the man who delivered the answering letter to the messenger said, —
“Do not lose words and time for nothing. Want is gnawing you, but we lack nothing, praise be to God! Even the birds fly away from you.”
And in this way Count Veyhard’s last trick came to nothing. And when another day had passed it was shown with perfect proof how vain were the fears of the besieged, and peace returned to the cloister.
The following day a worthy man from Chenstohova, Yatsek Bjuhanski, left a letter again giving warning of a storm; also news of the return of Yan Kazimir from Silesia, and the uprising of the whole Commonwealth against the Swedes. But according to reports circulating outside the walls, this was to be the last storm.
Bjuhanski brought the letter with a bag of fish to the priests for Christmas Eve, and approached the walls disguised as a Swedish soldier. Poor man!-the Swedes saw him and seized him. Miller gave command to stretch him on the rack; but the old man had heavenly visions in the time of his torture, and smiled as sweetly as a child, and instead of pain unspeakable joy was depicted on his face. The general was present at the torture, but he gained no confession from the martyr; he merely acquired the despairing conviction that nothing could bend those people, nothing could break them.
Now came the old beggarwoman Kostuha, with a letter from Kordetski begging most humbly that the storm be delayed during service on the day of Christ’s birth. The guards and the officers received the beggarwoman with insults and jeers at such an envoy, but she answered them straight in the face, —
“No other would come, for to envoys you are as murderers, and I took the office for bread, — a crust. I shall not be long in this world; I have no fear of you: if you do not believe, you have me in your hands.”
But no harm was done her. What is more, Miller, eager to try conciliation again, agreed to the prior’s request, even accepted a ransom for Bjuhanski, not yet tortured quite out of his life; he sent also that part of the silver found with the Swedish soldiers. He did this last out of malice to Count Veyhard, who after the failure of the mine had fallen into disfavor again.
At last Christmas Eve came. With the first star, lights great and small began to shine all around in the fortress. The night was still, frosty, but clear. The Swedish soldiers, stiffened with cold in the intrenchments, gazed from below on the dark walls of the unapproachable fortress, and to their minds came the warm Scandinavian cottages stuffed with moss, their wives and children, the fir-tree gleaming with lights; and more than one iron breast swelled with a sigh, with regret, with homesickness, with despair. But in the fortress, at tables covered with hay, the besieged were breaking wafers. A quiet joy was shining in all faces, for each one had the foreboding, almost the certainty, that the hours of suffering would be soon at an end.
“Another storm to-morrow, but that will be the last,” repeated the priests and the soldiers. “Let him to whom God will send death give thanks that the Lord lets him be present at Mass, and thus opens more surely heaven’s gates, for whoso dies for the faith on the day of Christ’s birth must be received into glory.”
They wished one another success, long years, or a heavenly crown; and so relief dropped into every heart, as if suffering were over already.
But there stood one empty chair near the prior; before it a plate on which was a package of white wafers bound with a blue ribbon. When all had sat down, no one occupied that place. Zamoyski said, —
“I see, revered father, that according to ancient custom there are places for men outside the cloister.”
“Not for men outside,” said Father Agustine, “but as a remembrance of that young man whom we loved as a son, and whose soul is looking with pleasure upon us because we keep him in eternal mem
ory.”
“As God lives,” replied Zamoyski, “he is happier now than we. We owe him due thanks.”
Kordetski had tears in his eyes, and Charnyetski said, —
“They write of smaller men in the chronicles. If God gives me life, and any one asks me hereafter, who was there among us the equal of ancient heroes, I shall say Babinich.”
“Babinich was not his name,” said Kordetski.
“How not Babinich?”
“I long knew his real name under the seal of confession; but when going out against that cannon, he said to me: ‘If I perish, let men know who I am, so that honorable repute may rest with my name, and destroy my former misdeeds.’ He went, he perished; now I can tell you that he was Kmita!”
“That renowned Lithuanian Kmita?” cried Charnyetski, seizing his forelock.
“The same. How the grace of God changes hearts!”
“For God’s sake. Now I understand why he undertook that work; now I understand where he got that daring, that boldness, in which he surpassed all men. Kmita, Kmita, that terrible Kmita whom Lithuania celebrates.”
“Henceforth not only Lithuania, but the whole Commonwealth will glorify him in a different manner.”
“He was the first to warn us against Count Veyhard.”
“Through his advice we closed the gates in good season, and made preparations.”
“He killed the first Swede with a shot from a bow.”
“And how many of their cannon did he spoil! Who brought down De Fossis?”
“And that siege gun! If we are not terrified at the storm of to-morrow, who is the cause?”
“Let each remember him with honor, and celebrate his name wherever possible, so that justice be done,” said Kordetski; “and now may God give him eternal rest.”
“And may everlasting light shine on him,” answered one chorus of voices.
But Pan Charnyetski was unable for a long time to calm himself, and his thoughts were continually turning to Kmita.
“I tell you, gentlemen, that there was something of such kind in that man that though he served as a simple soldier, the command of itself crawled at once to his hand, so that it was a wonder to me how people obeyed such a young man unwittingly. In fact, he was commander on the bastion, and I obeyed him myself. Oh, had I known him then to be Kmita!”
“Still it is a wonder to me,” said Zamoyski, “that the Swedes have not boasted of his death.”
Kordetski sighed. “The powder must have killed him on the spot.”
“I would let a hand be cut from me could he be alive again,” cried Charnyetski. “But that such a Kmita let himself be blown up by powder!”
“He gave his life for ours,” said Kordetski.
“It is true,” added Zamoyski, “that if that cannon were lying in the intrenchment, I should not think so pleasantly of to-morrow.”
“To-morrow God will give us a new victory,” said the prior, “for the ark of Noah cannot be lost in the deluge.”
Thus they conversed with one another on Christmas Eve, and then separated; the monks going to the church, the soldiers, some to quiet rest, and others to keep watch on the walls and at the gates. But great care was superfluous, for in the Swedish camp there reigned unbroken calm. They had given themselves to rest and meditation, for to them too was approaching a most serious day.
The night was solemn. Legions of stars twinkled in the sky, changing into blue and rosy colors. The light of the moon changed to green the shrouds of snow stretching between the fortress and the hostile camp. The wind did not howl, and it was calm, as from the beginning of the siege it had not been near the cloister.
At midnight the Swedish soldiers heard the flow of the mild and grand tones of the organ; then the voices of men were joined with them; then the sounds of bells, large and small. Joy, consolation, and great calm were in those sounds; and the greater was the doubt, the greater the feeling of helplessness which weighed down the hearts of the Swedes.
The Polish soldiers from the commands of Zbrojek and Kalinski, without seeking permission, went up to the very walls. They were not permitted to enter through fear of some snare; but they were permitted to stand near the walls. They also collected together. Some knelt on the snow, others shook their heads pitifully, sighing over their own lot, or beat their breasts, promising repentance; and all heard with delight and with tears in their eyes the music and the hymns sung according to ancient usage.
At the same time the sentries on the walls who could not be in the church, wishing to make up for their loss, began also to sing, and soon was heard throughout the whole circuit of the walls the Christmas hymn: —
“He is lying in the manger;
Who will run
To greet the little stranger?”
In the afternoon of the following day the thunder of guns drowned again every other sound. All the intrenchments began to smoke simultaneously, the earth trembled in its foundations; as of old there flew on the roof of the church heavy balls, bombs, grenades, and torches fixed in cylinders, pouring a rain of melted lead, and naked torches, knots and ropes. Never had the thunder been so unceasing, never till then had such a river of fire and iron fallen on the cloister; but among the Swedish guns was not that great gun, which alone could crush the wall and make a breach necessary for assault.
But the besieged were so accustomed to fire that each man knew what he had to do, and the defence went in its ordinary course without command. Fire was answered with fire, missile with missile, but better aimed, for with more calmness.
Toward evening Miller went out to see by the last rays of the setting sun the results; and his glance fell on the tower outlined calmly on the background of the sky.
“That cloister will stand for the ages of ages!” cried he, beside himself.
“Amen!” answered Zbrojek, quietly.
In the evening a council was assembled again at headquarters, still more gloomy than usual. Miller opened it himself.
“The storm of to-day,” said he, “has brought no result. Our powder is nearly consumed; half of our men are lost, the rest discouraged: they look for disasters, not victory. We have no supplies; we cannot expect reinforcements.”
“But the cloister stands unmoved as on the first day of the siege,” added Sadovski.
“What remains for us?”
“Disgrace.”
“I have received orders,” said the general, “to finish quickly or retreat to Prussia.”
“What remains to us?” repeated the Prince of Hesse.
All eyes were turned to Count Veyhard, who said: “To save our honor!”
A short broken laugh, more like the gnashing of teeth, came from Miller, who was called Poliorcetes. “The Count wishes to teach us how to raise the dead,” said he.
Count Veyhard acted as though he had not heard this.
“Only the slain have saved their honor,” said Sadovski.
Miller began to lose his cool blood. “And that cloister stands there yet, that Yasna Gora, that hen-house! I have not taken it! And we withdraw. Is this a dream, or am I speaking in my senses?”
“That cloister stands there yet, that Yasna Gora!” repeated word for word the Prince of Hesse, “and we shall withdraw, — defeated!”
A moment of silence followed; it seemed as though the leader and his subordinates found a certain wild pleasure in bringing to mind their shame and defeat.
Now Count Veyhard said slowly and emphatically: “It has happened more than once in every war that a besieged fortress has ransomed itself from the besiegers, who then went away as victors; for whoso pays a ransom, by this same recognizes himself as defeated.”
The officers, who at first listened to the words of the speaker with scorn and contempt, now began to listen more attentively.
“Let that cloister pay us any kind of ransom,” continued the count; “then no one will say that we could not take it, but that we did not wish to take it.”
“Will they agree?” asked the Prince of Hesse.
“I will lay down my head,” answered Count Veyhard, “and more than that, my honor as a soldier.”
“Can that be!” asked Sadovski. “We have enough of this siege, but have they enough? What does your worthiness think of this?”
Miller turned to Veyhard “Many grievous moments, the most grievous of my life, have I passed because of your counsels, Sir Count; but for this last advice I thank you, and will be grateful.”
All breasts breathed more freely. There could be no real question but that of retreating with honor.
On the morrow, the day of Saint Stephen, the officers assembled to the last man to hear Kordetski’s answer to Miller’s letter, which proposed a ransom, and was sent in the morning.
They had to wait long. Miller feigned joyousness, but constraint was evident on his face. No one of the officers could keep his place. All hearts beat unquietly. The Prince of Hesse and Sadovski stood under the window conversing in a low voice.
“What do you think?” asked the first; “will they agree?”
“Everything indicates that they will agree. Who would not wish to be rid of such terrible danger come what may, at the price of a few tens of thousands of thalers, especially since monks have not worldly ambition and military honor, or at least should not have? I only fear that the general has asked too much.”
“How much has he asked?”
“Forty thousand from the monks, and twenty thousand from the nobles, but in the worst event they will try to reduce the sum.”
“Let us yield, in God’s name, let us yield. If they have not the money, I would prefer to lend them my own, if they will let us go away with even the semblance of honor. But I tell your princely highness that though I recognize the count’s advice this time as good, and I believe that they will ransom themselves, such a fever is gnawing me that I would prefer ten storms to this waiting.”
“Uf! you are right But still this Count Veyhard may go high.”
“Even as high as the gibbet,” said the other.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 175