After the first hours, unusual activity was displayed round Bartek’s regiment. Other regiments began to be massed round his, and in the spaces between them, the guns, drawn by plunging horses, rushed along, and, hastily unlimbered, were pointed towards the hill. The whole valley became full of troops. Commands were now thundered from all sides, the Aides-de-Camps rushed about wildly, and the private soldiers said to one another:
‘Ah! it will be our turn now! It’s coming!’ or enquired uneasily of one another,
‘Isn’t it yet time to start?’
‘Surely it must be!’
The question of life and death was now beginning to hang in the balance. Something in the smoke, which hid the horizon, burst close at hand with a terrible explosion. The deep roar of the cannon and the crack of the rifle firing was heard ever nearer; it was like an indistinct sound coming from a distance, — then the mitrailleuse became audible. Suddenly the guns, placed in position, boomed forth until the earth and air trembled together. The shells whistled frightfully through Bartek’s company. Watching they saw something bright red, a little cloud, as it might be, and in that cloud something whistled, rushed, rattled, roared, and shrieked. The men shouted: ‘A shell! A shell,’ and at the same moment this vulture of war sped forward like a gale, came near, fell, and burst! A terrible roar met the ear, a crash as if the world had collapsed, followed by a rushing sound, as before a puff of wind! Confusion reigned in the lines standing in the neighbourhood of the guns, then came the cry and command ‘Stand ready!’ Bartek stood in the front rank, his rifle at his shoulder, his head turned towards the hill, his mouth set, — so his teeth were not chattering. He was forbidden to tremble, he was forbidden to shoot. He had only to stand still and wait! But now another shell burst, — three, four, ten. The wind lifted the smoke from the hill: the French had already driven the Prussian battery from it, had placed theirs in position, and now opened fire on to the valley. Every moment from under cover of the vineyard they sent forth long white columns of smoke. Protected by the guns, the enemy’s infantry continued to advance, in order to open fire. They were already half way down the hill and could now be seen plainly, for the wind was driving the smoke away. Would the vineyard prove an obstacle to them? No, the dark caps of the infantry were advancing. Suddenly they disappeared under the tall arches of the vines, and there was nothing to be seen but tricolour flags waving here and there. The rifle fire began fiercely but intermittently, continually starting in fresh and unexpected places. Shells burst above it, and crossed one another in the air. Now and then cries rang out from the hill, which were answered from below by a German ‘Hurrah!’ The guns from the valley sent forth an uninterrupted fire; the regiment stood unflinching.
The line of fire began to embrace it more closely, however. The bullets hummed in the distance like gnats and flies, or passed near with a terrible whizz. More and more of them came: — hundreds, thousands, whistling round their heads, their noses, their eyes, their shoulders; it was astonishing there should be a man left standing. Suddenly Bartek heard a groan close by: ‘Jesu!’ then ‘Stand ready!’ then again ‘Jesu!’ ‘Stand ready!’ Soon the groans went on without intermission, the words of command came faster and faster, the lines drew in closer, the whizzing grew more frequent, more uninterrupted, more terrible. The dead covered the ground. It was like the Judgment Day.
‘Are you afraid?’ Wojtek asked.
‘Why shouldn’t I be afraid?’ our hero answered, his teeth chattering.
Nevertheless both Bartek and Wojtek still kept their feet, and it did not even enter their heads to run away. They had been commanded to stand still and receive the enemy’s fire. Bartek had not spoken the truth; he was not as much afraid as thousands of others would have been in his place. Discipline held the mastery over his imagination, and his imagination had never painted such a horrible situation as this. Nevertheless Bartek felt that he would be killed, and he confided this thought to Wojtek.
‘There won’t be room in Heaven for the numbers they kill,’ Wojtek answered in an excited voice.
These words comforted Bartek perceptibly. He began to hope that his place in Heaven had already been taken. Re-assured with regard to this, he stood more patiently, conscious only of the intense heat, and with the perspiration running down his face. Meantime the firing became so heavy that the ranks were thinning visibly. There was no one to carry away the killed and wounded; the death rattle of the dying mingled with the whizz of shells and the din of shooting. One could see by the movement of the tricolour flags that the infantry hidden by the vines was coming closer and closer. The volleys of mitrailleuse decimated the ranks; the men were beginning to grow desperate.
But underlying this despair were impatience and rage. Had they been commanded to go forward, they would have gone like a whirlwind. It was impossible to merely stand still in one spot. A soldier suddenly threw down his helmet with his whole force, and exclaimed:
‘Curse it! One death is as good as another!’
Bartek again experienced such a feeling of relief from these words that he almost entirely ceased to be afraid. For if one death was as good as another, what did anything matter? This rustic philosophy was calculated to arouse courage more rapidly than any other. Bartek knew that one death was as good as another, but it pleased him to hear it, especially as the battle was now turning into a defeat. For here was a regiment which had never fired a single shot, and was already half annihilated. Crowds of soldiers from other regiments which had been scattered, ran in amongst and round theirs in disorder; only these peasants from Pognębin, Great and Little Krzywda, and Mizerów still remained firm, upholding Prussian discipline. But even amongst them a certain degree of hesitation now began to be felt. Another moment and they would have burst the restraint of discipline. The ground under their feet was already soft and slippery with blood, the stench of which mingled with the smell of gunpowder. In several places the lines could not join up closely, because the dead bodies made gaps in them. At the feet of those men yet standing, the other half lay bleeding, groaning, struggling, dying, or in the silence of death. There was no air to breathe in. They began to grumble:
‘They have brought us out to be slaughtered!’
‘No one will come out of this!’
‘Silence, Polish dogs!’ sounded the officer’s voice.
‘I should just like you to be standing in my shoes!’
‘Where is that fellow?’
Suddenly a voice began to repeat:
‘Beneath Thy Shadow....’
Bartek instantly took it up:
‘We flee, O holy Son of God!’
And soon on that field of carnage a chorus of Polish voices was calling to the Defender of their nation:
‘Of Thy favour regard our prayers.’
while from beneath their feet there came the accompaniment of groans: ‘Mary! Mary!’ She had evidently heard them, for at that moment the Aide-de-Camps came galloping up, and the command rang forth: ‘Arms to the attack! Hurrah! Forward!’ The crest of bayonets was suddenly lowered, the column stretched out into a long line and sprang towards the hill to seek with their bayonets the enemy they could not discover with their eyes. The men were, however, still two hundred yards from the foot of the hill, and they had to traverse that distance under a murderous fire. Would they not perish like the rest? Would they not be obliged to retreat? Perish they might, but retreat they could not, for the Prussian commander knows what tune will bring Polish soldiers to the attack. Amid the roar of cannon, amid the rifle fire and the smoke, the confusion and groaning, loudest of all sounded the drums and trumpets, playing the hymn at which every single drop of blood leapt in their veins. ‘Hurrah!’ answered the Macki ‘as long as we live!’ Frenzy seized them. The fire met them full in the face. They went like a whirlwind over the prostrate bodies of men and horses, over the wrecks of cannon. They fell, but they went with a shout and a song. They had already reached the vineyard and disappeared into its enclosure. Only the song was
heard, and at times a bayonet glittered. On the hill the firing became increasingly fierce. In the valley the trumpets kept on sounding. The French volleys continued faster and faster, — still faster, — and suddenly —
Suddenly they were silent.
Down in the valley that old wardog, Steinmetz, lighted his clay pipe, and said in a tone of satisfaction:
‘You have only to play to them! The daredevils will do it!’
And actually in a few moments one of the proudly waving tricolours was suddenly raised aloft, then drooped, and disappeared.
‘They are not joking,’ said Steinmetz.
Again the trumpets played the hymn, and a second Polish regiment went to the help of the first. In the enclosure a pitched battle with bayonets was taking place.
And now, oh Muse, sing of our hero, Bartek, that posterity may know of his deeds! The fear, impatience, and despair of his heart had mingled into the single feeling of rage, and when he heard that music each vein stood out in him like cast iron. His hair stood on end, his eyes shot fire. He forgot everything that had made up his world; he no longer cared whether one death was as good as another. Grasping his rifle firmly in his hands, he leapt forward with the others. Reaching the hill he fell down for the tenth time, struck his nose, and, bespattered with mud and the blood flowing from his nose, ran on madly and breathlessly, catching at the air with open mouth. He stared round, wishing to find some of the French in the enclosure as quickly as possible, and caught sight of three standing together near the flags. They were Turcos. Would Bartek retreat? No, indeed; he could have seized the horns of Lucifer himself now! He ran towards them at once, and they fell on him with a shout; two bayonets, like two deadly stings, had actually touched his chest already, but Bartek lowered his bayonet. A dreadful cry followed, — a groan, and two dark bodies lay writhing convulsively on the ground.
At that moment the third, who carried the flag, ran up to help his two comrades. Like a Fury, Bartek leapt on him with his whole strength. The firing flashed and roared in the distance, while Bartek’s hoarse roar rang out through the smoke:
‘Go to Hell!’
And again the rifle in his hand described a fearful semi-circle, again groans responded to his thrusts. The Turcos retreated in terror at the sight of this furious giant, but either Bartek misunderstood, or they shouted out something in Arabic, for it seemed to him that their thick lips distinctly uttered the cry: ‘Magda! Magda!’
‘Magda will give it you!’ howled Bartek, and with one leap he was in the enemy’s midst.
Happily at that moment some of his comrades ran up to his assistance. A hand to hand fight now took place in the enclosure of the vineyard. There was the crack of rifles at close quarters, and the hot breath of the combatants sounded through their nostrils. Bartek raged like a storm. Blinded by smoke, streaming with blood, more like a wild beast than a man, and regardless of everything, he mowed down men at each blow, broke rifles, cracked heads. His hands moved with the terrible swiftness of a machine sowing destruction. He attacked the Ensign, and seized him by the throat with an iron grip. The Ensign’s eyes turned upwards, his face swelled, his throat rattled, and his hands let the pole fall.
‘Hurrah!’ cried Bartek, and, lifting the flag, he waved it in the air.
This was the flag raised aloft and drooping, which Steinmetz had seen from below.
But he could only see it for half a second, for in the next — Bartek had trampled it to shreds. Meanwhile his comrades were already rushing on ahead.
Bartek remained alone for a moment. He tore off the flag, hid it in his breast pocket, and, having seized the pole in both hands, rushed after his comrades.
A crowd of Turcos, shouting in a barbarous tongue, now fled towards the gun placed on the summit of the hill, the Macki after them, shouting, pursuing, striking with butt-end and bayonet.
The Zouaves, who were stationed by the guns, received the first men with rifle fire.
‘Hurrah!’ shouted Bartek.
The men ran up to the guns, and a fresh struggle took place round these. At that moment the second Polish regiment came to the aid of the first. The flag pole in Bartek’s powerful hands was now changed into a kind of infernal flail. Each stroke dealt by it opened a free passage through the close lines of the French. The Zouaves and Turcos began to be seized with panic, and they fled from the place where Bartek was fighting. Within a few moments Bartek was sitting astride the gun, as he might his Pognębin mare.
But scarcely had the soldiers had time to see him on this, when he was already on the second, after killing another Ensign who was standing by it with the flag.
‘Hurrah, Bartek!’ repeatedly exclaimed the soldiers.
The victory was complete. All the ammunition was captured. The infantry fled, and after being surrounded by Prussian reinforcements on the other side of the hill, laid down their arms.
Bartek captured yet a third flag during the pursuit.
It was worth seeing him, when exhausted, covered with blood, and blowing like a blacksmith’s bellows, he now descended the hill together with the rest, bearing the three flags on his shoulder. The French? Why, what had not he alone done to them! By his side went Wojtek, scratched and scarred, so he turned to him and said:
‘What did you say? Why, they are miserable wretches; there isn’t a scrap of strength in their bones! They have just scratched you and me like kittens, and that’s all. But how I have bled them you can see by the ground!’
‘Who would have known that you could be so brave!’ replied Wojtek, who had watched Bartek’s deeds, and began to look at him in quite a different light.
But who has not heard of these deeds? History, all the regiment and the greater number of the officers. Everybody now looked with astonishment at this country giant with the flaxen moustache and goggle eyes. The Major himself said to him, ‘Ah, you confounded Pole!’ and pulled his ear, making Bartek grin to his back teeth with pleasure. When the regiment stood once more at the foot of the hill, the Major pointed him out to the Colonel, and the Colonel to Steinmetz himself.
The latter noticed the flags, and ordered that they should be taken charge of; then he began to look at Bartek. Our friend Bartek again stood as straight as a fiddle string, presenting arms, and the old General looked at him and shook his head with pleasure. Finally he began to say something to the Colonel; the words ‘non-commissioned officer’ were plainly audible.
‘Too stupid, Your Excellency!’ answered the Major.
‘Let us try,’ said His Excellency, and turning his horse, he approached Bartek.
Bartek himself scarcely knew what was happening to him: it was a thing unknown in the Prussian Army for the General to talk to a Private! His Excellency was the more easily able to do this, because he knew Polish. Moreover this Private had captured three flags and two guns.
‘Where do you come from?’ enquired the General.
‘From Pognębin,’ answered Bartek.
‘Good. Your name?’
‘Bartek Słowik.’
‘Mensch,’ explained the Major.
‘Mens!’ Bartek tried to repeat.
‘Do you know why you are fighting the French?’
‘I know, Your Excellency.’
‘Tell me.’
Bartek began to stammer, ‘Because, because—’ Then on a sudden Wojtek’s words fortunately came into his mind, and he burst out with them quickly, so as not to get confused: ‘Because they are Germans too, only worse villains!’
His Excellency’s face began to twitch as if he felt inclined to burst out laughing. After a moment, however, His Excellency turned to the Major, and said:
‘You are right, Sir.’
Our friend Bartek, satisfied with himself, remained standing as straight as a fiddle string.
‘Who won the battle to-day?’ the General asked again.
‘I, Your Excellency,’ Bartek answered without hesitation.
His Excellency’s face again began to twitch.
‘Right
, very right, it was you! And here you have your reward.’
Here the old soldier unpinned the iron cross from his own breast, stooped and pinned it on to Bartek. The General’s good humour was reflected in a perfectly natural way on the faces of the Colonel, the Majors, the Captains, down to the non-commissioned officers. After the General’s departure the Colonel for his own part presented Bartek with ten thalers, the Major with five, and so on. Everyone repeated to him smilingly that he had won the battle, with the result that Bartek was in the seventh heaven.
It was a strange thing: the only person who was not really satisfied with our hero was Wojtek.
In the evening, when they were both sitting round the fire, and when Bartek’s distinguished face was bulging as much with pea sausage as the sausage itself, Wojtek ejaculated in a tone of resignation:
‘Oh Bartek, what a blockhead you are, because—’
‘But why?’ said Bartek, between his bites of sausage.
‘Why, man, didn’t you tell the General that the French are Germans?’
‘You said so yourself.’
‘And what of that?—’
Wojtek began to stammer a little— ‘Well, though they may be Germans, you needn’t have told him so, because it’s always unpleasant—’
‘But I said it about the French, not about them....’
‘Ah, because when....’
Wojtek stopped short, though evidently wishing to say something further; he wished to explain to Bartek that it is not suitable when among Germans to speak evil of them, but somehow his tongue became entangled.
CHAPTER V
A little while later the Royal Prussian Mail brought the following letter to Pognębin:
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 662