Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  calling for his soldiers to make a stand,

  to halt their helter-skelter defense,

  which forced them to attack by hand.

  Unable to shoot throughout the dense crowd,

  nable to tell Pole from Moscovite,

  he commanded, “Fall in!” yelling quite loud,

  but in the uproar his voice was too slight.

  Maciek was poor at hand-to-hand combat.

  He swung his sword first to the left then right,

  tried to retreat, clearing a space that

  would let him escape. His slashing saber

  sheared a bayonet from a gun barrel,

  like a wick from a candle, without labor,

  and he rushed to the field through the sorrel.

  There he was attacked by an old corporal,

  the regiment’s bayonet instructor,

  who snatched his gun by the lock and barrel,

  dodging, leaping, crouching, the target before

  him, until one hand let go of the gun

  the other thrusting forward like the tongue

  from a viper’s jaw, its victim to stun.

  Pulling it back, jabbing again, he stung.

  Old Maciek realized the skill of his foe;

  he adjusted his glasses to his nose,

  and gripping the hilt of his sword below,

  withdrew, staggering from earlier blows,

  like a drunkard — his eyes were still tracking

  the Corporal’s moves, so sure and confident.

  To catch him the Corporal was attacking

  furiously, a way that almost sent

  him tumbling, for the weight of his musket,

  thrust far in front, made it hard to balance.

  Maciek recovered, struck the bayonet

  with his sword — soon as he had the chance,

  lowered it and slashed the Corporal’s hand

  and cut his jaw. Among the Russian losses,

  now count the finest fencer in the land,

  once decorated with medals and crosses.

  By the dismantled stocks, the brave left flank

  was close to victory. The Baptist raged

  further off, driving them back to the streambank.

  Meanwhile, the Razor was also engaged,

  one arm swinging below and one above,

  like some machine devised by German brains,

  a chaffcutter with spikes and knives that move

  to cut the hay and likewise thresh the grains.

  The Baptist and Razor slaughtered in concert;

  one struck above and one inflicted hurt.

  but the Baptist abandoned his victory

  and rushed to the flank where Maciek faced danger.

  Avenging the Corporal’s death, so gory,

  a young ensign attacked with unchecked anger —

  with a spontoon, half-pike and half-hatchet,

  a footsoldier’s weapon no longer used.

  though Maciek tried, his aim was still confused;

  the unscathed ensign inflicted a wound,

  raising his broadaxe to strike once again.

  To stop him, the Baptist circled around

  his club. The ensign gave a cry of pain

  when it struck his ankle and cracked the bone.

  He dropped his weapon and staggered about.

  The Baptist lunged, but he was not alone;

  a band of nobles joined him with a shout;

  Moscovites followed like stampeding cattle;

  around the Baptist raged a fierce battle.

  The Baptist lost his sword defending Maciek,

  and almost lost his life for his service,

  for strong Moscovites sprung to his neck.

  In his hair, their hands were ensnared like lice;

  they pinned his legs, then stretched them to the side,

  like spring-cables on the mast of a barge.

  The Baptist shook and railed and blindly tried

  to fight. Spotting Gervazy in mid-charge,

  he called: “Jesus, Mary, use your penknife!”

  Recognizing the Baptist’s plea for life,

  the Warden lowered his damascened blade

  between the Baptist’s head and Russian hands.

  The screaming soldiers fled, but one hand stayed

  firmly ensnared, dangling from the strands

  of hair, streaming blood. Just like an eagle

  that digs one of its claws into a hare

  and one into a tree — the hare will pull,

  cleaving the bird in two — until the pair

  of claws breaks off — one remains in the tree,

  one carried off to the fields in the hare.

  The Baptist cast his eyes around, now free,

  and stretched his arms, trying to find his club,

  calling for it, still close to Gervazy,

  until he saw his son amid the mob:

  with one arm the Sack was aiming his gun,

  the other dragging a club six feet long,

  with flints and gnarled knobs and knots, a weapon

  lifted only by the Baptist’s strong

  arm. When he saw his trusted Baptizer,

  he grabbed it, kissed it, even leapt for joy.

  Musket and sword, pike, helmet, and visor

  are useless when the Baptist wields his toy,

  moistens its hands and whirls it round his head.

  The deeds that followed, the havoc he wrought,

  the number of Moscovites lying dead,

  would surely be doubted unless he fought

  in front of witnesses, with poets to sing.

  Yet, once in Vilno, a poor lady saw

  a similar and miraculous thing:

  from the Ostra gate, she would not withdraw

  when a troop of Cossacks entered the town,

  and a single brave burgher fought them off;

  the entire regiment was mowed down

  with the Moscovite General Deyov.

  Enough to say that when Rykov came to

  most of his men already had surrendered:

  twenty-three of them that the Baptist slew

  were scattered in the yard and dismembered,

  and thirty more were howling in sharp pain.

  Some had escaped to hide in the orchard;

  some by the river or the hops or grain,

  some to the ladies makeshift hospital ward.

  Victorious nobles rushed to the kegs,

  or stripped their foes of prizes and booty.

  Only Father Robak declined the dregs,

  for Cannon Law outlined his duty,

  forbidding combat. He’d given advice,

  even ordered the nobles with his glance,

  for he knew the art of war and its price.

  He did his part, though he carried no lance.

  He called the Polish nobles together;

  to secure victory, they’d strike Rykov,

  who had been informed by a messenger —

  if his men laid down arms, he would get off

  with his life, but if they tried to delay,

  he’d given his men the order to slay.

  But Captain Rykov would not be pardoned:

  he stood in the center of his battalion,

  “To arms!” he shouted, as his voice hardened.

  His men lined up and each one raised his gun

  with a clamor, for they were all loaded.

  “Aim.” The barrels were glowing in the sun.

  “Fire in turn.” In succession they exploded;

  bullets whizzed and locks clicked and ramrods shoved —

  the line advanced like a huge amphibian,

  as hundreds of glistening legs now moved.

  Yet soldiers were still drunk from strong liquor;

  their aim was poor, they had wounded a few

  but killed no one, though now the fire was thicker

  and their shots had inflicted wounds on two

  Maciek
s, and killed one of the Bartholomews.

  The nobles were reluctant to shoot back;

  they thought they would be less likely to lose

  by fighting with swords to halt the attack.

  The older ones restrained them in the fire;

  they couldn’t hold their ground and left the yard.

  Bullets whizzed by, forcing them to retire,

  and soon were tapping the windowpanes hard.

  Tadeusz, remaining inside the manor,

  guarding the ladies at his uncle’s command,

  hearing the gunshot’s increasing banter,

  rushed outside to take part in the last stand.

  The Chamberlain followed right in his tracks,

  after his servant brought him his broadsword.

  They joined the nobles to fend off attacks.

  The Russians let them approach and then poured

  a flood of bullets. Isajewicz was hit.

  The Razor and Wilblik were badly harmed,

  but halted the advance. First Maciek quit,

  then Robak, their ardor quickly disarmed.

  The Moscovite army watched their retreat;

  Captain Rykov set his sights on the stormed

  manor, planning the battle’s final defeat.

  “Fix bayonets,” he ordered, “form a line.

  “Forward!” The line of barrels, like antlers

  on stags with lowered heads, went at his sign.

  The nobles halt, shoot back, and then disperse.

  The Russian attack met no resistance

  crossing its path; the Captain by the door.

  “Surrender!” he shouted with insistence.

  “Or else I’ll burn this manor to the floor.”

  “Burn it,” said the Judge, “ and with it, you’ll fry.”

  Oh, Soplica manor, if your white walls

  still shine within lindens that grow sky high,

  If nobles still gather inside your halls

  to enjoy the Judge’s hospitality,

  to Bucket’s health they would certainly toast —

  without his deeds, and his vitality,

  the manor’d be destroyed, the Judge a ghost.

  At first, Bucket had shown few signs of courage,

  though he was first to be freed from the stocks,

  first to find his gun in the cart’s storage —

  his own blunderbuss, hidden under rocks,

  with a bullet pouch. But he wasn’t anxious

  to fight, not trusting his aim when sober;

  so he took a mug full of spirits,

  and drank to nourish his upcoming labor.

  He adjusted his hat, picked up his gun,

  ramrod, cartridges, and primed the forelock,

  surveying the grounds and the damage done.

  He saw the nobles’ vain attempt to block

  wave upon wave of advancing bayonet.

  He rushed over to the dense underbrush,

  and lay in wait, concealed in the thicket,

  motioning to Sack to join his ambush.

  The Sack stood on the porch with his musket

  defending the manor where his beloved,

  Zosia stayed. Though she held him in contempt,

  he’d die for her, so that his love be proved.

  Soon the Moscovites renewed their attempt

  to seize the manor. The Bucket waited

  till they approached; aimed and pulled the trigger;

  at once the gun muzzle saturated

  the air with bullets. From the side, a bigger

  round ripped the air, as the Sack fired his gun.

  Startled soldiers fled, leaving their wounded,

  which the Baptist disposed of, one by one.

  Trying to reach the barn, Rykov, hounded

  by bullets, found refuge — the garden fence.

  He halted his fleeing men by the hedge,

  and changed formation for a new offence,

  two sides which protected, to form a wedge,

  pointing to the castle, now defended

  by a cavalry which had just descended.

  The Count, locked in the castle, under guard,

  escaped, and with his men, mounted horses

  and rode, amid gunfire, straight through the yard,

  himself, the head of the charging forces.

  From raised black barrels, a fiery thread flew;

  hundreds of bullets whizzed, some of them hit.

  Three riders fell, one corpse lay in the dew;

  the Count’s horse went down, taking him with it.

  The Warden called for help; soldiers too aim,

  about to finish off the last Horeszko —

  when, from the other side, Father Robak came,

  shielding him with his back, ducking below

  the fire. He dragged him from his horse,

  receiving a wound, giving the command

  to disperse, for the fire was getting worse.

  “Aim well and save your shots for our last stand;

  take cover by the fence, the wall, the barn;

  the Count’s cavalry must await its turn.”

  Tadeusz knew what Robak had in mind,

  and expertly executed his plan.

  Sober and alert, he fired from behind

  the well, as Moscovite soldiers ran,

  for he could hit a coin thrown in the air

  with his double-barrel. He singled out

  the officers giving them a scare,

  proving his skillful aim without a doubt,

  and hitting a sergeant-major’s gold patch.

  The Captain stamped his foot in rage and fumed.

  He bit his sword. “Major, we’ve met our match —

  unless we get rid of him we are doomed.”

  Plut yelled to Tadeusz, “You are a Pole;

  I think it’s cowardly to shoot and hide;

  come out and fight like an honorable soul,

  Like a soldier.” But Tadeusz replied,

  “If you yourself are such a gallant knight,

  why do you hide behind your own soldiers?

  I’m not a coward, but perhaps you’re right,

  the fire’s not out and the ash only smolders,

  you’ve only been stunned — I’m prepared to kill.

  Why this bloodshed; the dispute’s between us;

  pistols or swords, it won’t be settled till

  we duel. Cannons or pins, what’s to discuss?

  I’ll pick you off like a wolf in a den.”

  Tadeusz shot, striking Rykov’s men.

  “Major,” whispered Rykov, “agree to duel;

  avenge yourself on damage to your name;

  if someone else kills him, you’ll be the fool,

  never able to erase the shame.

  First coax the gentleman into the field,

  either musket or sword, it’s all the same.

  Suvorov said, in the end they all yield;

  A gun can stun, but a fight can prove might.”

  But the Major replied, “you may be right,

  yet countless foes with your sword have been maimed;

  I command this battalion, I can’t leave

  my men.” So Captain Rykov boldly went;

  he raised his sword to wave a white kerchief.

  He asked Tadeusz to choose his weapon,

  agreed on swords, though Tadeusz had none.

  The Count called out as they all searched for one.

  “Soplica,” he said, “I beg your pardon;

  you may have challenged the Major, but I

  have good reasons to deal with this Captain.

  I saw him storm my castle — he shall die.”

  “Rather say,” Protazy broke in, “our castle.”

  “I saw him lead the brigands,” said the Count,

  ignoring him. “He tied up my vassals,

  just like on Sicily’s Birbante Mount,

  I’ll punish him for causing this riot.”

&
nbsp; Russians and Poles became very quiet,

  eager to learn which leader would collapse.

  The Count and Rykov then approached each other,

  staring, bowing, and removing their caps —

  for even one about to kill his brother

  must observe etiquette. So their swords clashed,

  fencers meeting to the shouts of en-garde.

  They bent their knees, slid forward and back, crashed

  and then withdrew — jabbing and thrusting hard.

  Major Plut consulted with Sergeant Gont,

  the finest shot in the whole regiment,

  seeing Tadeusz unguarded in front.

  “You see this scoundrel, who has cruelly sent

  your comrades to the grave — if you could aim

  under the fifth rib, you’ll get a reward,

  four silver rubles and a lot of fame.”

  So Gont cocked his rifle and inched forward;

  concealed beneath his comrade’s cloaks he fired,

  not at the ribs, but right between the eyes.

  He missed his mark; perhaps he was too tired.

  Tadeusz spun to hear the nobles’ cries

  of “treachery!” The Baptist attacked Rykov;

  Tadeusz sought cover in the garden.

  The Russians barely managed to run off,

  finding refuge in back of their own men.

  So once again, all Lithuanians

  fought like brothers, urging each other on,

  forgetting their disputes and their factions.

  Seeing Podhajski wielding his weapon,

  swinging his scythe by the line of Russians,

  Dobrzynskis cheered with joy, “Vivat Podhajski!

  Fight on brothers of Lithuania!”

  Seeing the frightened Moscovites now flee

  from the gallant Razor’s sword, Skoluba

  yelled, “Vivat the Mazovian’s attack!”

  They fought with zeal, as though they’d been inspired;

  in vain, Robak and Maciek called them back.

  But while they stormed the Russian line and fired,

  the Seneschal had left the battlefield

  and snuck to the garden with Protazy —

  Cautiously, his new plan was revealed.

  In the garden a great old cheesehouse stood

  above the fence where Rykov’s men assembled.

  It was constructed of thin strips of wood

  nailed together — a birdcage it resembled —

  but a place where blocks of white cheese were stored.

  Bunches of sage, thistle, thyme, and cardoon

  hung from the top to dry, the herbs adored

  by his daughter and kept for her apothecary.

  The cheesehouse was almost twenty feet square,

  though a single post supported it very

  precariously, as though it hung in air

  like a stork’s nest. And this ancient oak post

  tilted, for it was almost rotted through,