The Deluge- Volume 2

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “Then, your highness, free that soldier, and I will go on my word where you command.”

  “I may fall to-morrow; I care nothing for treaties touching the day after.”

  “I implore your highness for that man. I—”

  “What will you do?”

  “I will drop my revenge.”

  “You see, Pan Kmita, many a time have I gone against a bear with a spear, not because I had to do so, but from desire. I am glad when some danger threatens, for life is less dull for me. In this case I reserve your revenge as a pleasure; for you are, I must confess, of that breed of bears which seek the hunter themselves.”

  “Your highness,” said Kmita, “for small mercies God often forgives great sins. Neither of us knows when it will come to him to stand before the judgment of Christ.”

  “Enough!” said the prince. “I compose psalms for myself in spite of the fever, so as to have some merit before the Lord; should I need a preacher I should summon my own. You do not know how to beg with sufficient humility, and you go in round-about ways. I will show you the method myself: strike to-morrow in the battle on Sapyeha, and after to-morrow I will let out the soldier and forgive you your sins. You betrayed Radzivill; betray now Sapyeha.”

  “Is this the last word of your highness? By all the saints, I implore you!”

  “No! Devil take you! And you change in the face—But don’t come too near, for, though I am ashamed to call attendants—look here! You are too bold!”

  Boguslav pointed at a pistol-barrel peeping from under the fur with which it was covered, and looked with sparkling eyes into Kmita’s eyes.

  “Your highness!” cried Kmita, almost joining his hands in prayer, but with a face changed by wrath.

  “You beg, but you threaten,” said Boguslav; “you bend your neck, but the devil is gnashing his teeth at me from behind your collar. Pride is gleaming in your eyes, and in your mouth it sounds as in a cloud. With your forehead to the Radzivill feet when you beg, my little man! Beat with your forehead on the floor, then I will answer.”

  Pan Andrei’s face was as pale as a piece of linen; he drew his hand over his moist forehead, his eyes, his face; and he spoke with such a broken voice, as if the fever from which the prince suffered had suddenly sprung upon him.

  “If your highness will free for me that old soldier, I am ready to fall at your feet.”

  Satisfaction gleamed in Boguslav’s eyes. He had brought down his enemy, bent his proud neck. Better food he could not give to his revenge and hatred.

  Kmita stood before him with hair erect in his forelock, trembling in his whole body. His face, resembling even in rest the head of a hawk, recalled all the more an enraged bird of prey. You could not tell whether at the next moment he would throw himself at the feet, or hurl himself at the breast of the prince. But Boguslav not taking his eyes from him, said,—

  “Before witnesses! before people!” And he turned to the door. “Hither!”

  A number of attendants, Poles and foreigners, came in; after them officers entered.

  “Gracious gentlemen!” said the prince, “behold Pan Kmita, the banneret of Orsha and envoy of Pan Sapyeha, who has come to beg a favor of me, and he wishes to have all you gentlemen as witnesses.”

  Kmita tottered like a drunken man, groaned, and fell at Boguslav’s feet. The prince stretched his feet purposely so that the end of his riding-boot touched the forehead of the knight.

  All looked in silence, astonished at the famous name, as well as at this,—that he who bore it was now an envoy from Pan Sapyeha. All understood, too, that something uncommon was taking place.

  The prince rose, and without saying a word passed into the adjoining chamber, beckoning to two attendants to follow him.

  Kmita rose. His face showed no longer either anger or rapacity, merely indifference and insensibility. He appeared unconscious of what was happening to him, and his energy seemed broken completely.

  Half an hour passed; an hour. Outside the windows was heard the tramp of horses’ feet and the measured tread of soldiers; he sat continually as if of stone.

  Suddenly the door opened. An officer entered, an old acquaintance of Kmita’s from Birji, and eight soldiers,—four with muskets, four without firearms,—with sabres.

  “Gracious Colonel, rise!” said the officer, politely.

  Kmita looked on him wanderingly. “Glovbich!” said he, recognizing the officer.

  “I have an order,” answered Glovbich, “to bind your hands and conduct you beyond Yanov. The binding is for a time, then you will go free; therefore I beg you not to resist.”

  “Bind!” answered Kmita.

  And he permitted them to tie him. But they did not tie his feet. The officer led him out of the room and on foot through Yanov. Then they advanced for about an hour. On the road some horsemen joined them. Kmita heard them speaking in Polish; the Poles, who served with Boguslav, all knew the name of Kmita, and therefore were most curious to know what would happen to him. The party passed the birch grove and came to an open field, on which Pan Andrei saw a detachment of the light Polish squadron of Boguslav.

  The soldiers stood in rank, forming a square; in the middle was a space in which were two foot-soldiers holding horses harnessed to draw, and some men with torches.

  By the light of the torches Pan Andrei saw a freshly sharpened stake lying on the ground with the large end fastened in a great log.

  A shiver passed through Kmita involuntarily. “That is for me,” thought he; “Boguslav has ordered them to draw me on the stake with horses. He sacrifices Sakovich to his vengeance.”

  But he was mistaken; the stake was intended first for Soroka.

  By the quivering flames Pan Andrei saw Soroka himself; the old soldier was sitting there at the side of the log on a stool, without a cap and with bound hands, guarded by four soldiers. A man dressed in a short shuba without sleeves was at that moment giving him in a shallow cup gorailka, which Soroka drank eagerly enough. When he had drunk, he spat; and since at that very moment Kmita was placed between two horsemen in the first rank, Soroka saw him, sprang from the stool and straightened himself as if on military parade.

  For a while they looked the one at the other. Soroka’s face was calm and resigned; he only moved his jaws as if chewing.

  “Soroka!” groaned Kmita, at last.

  “At command!” answered the soldier.

  And again silence followed. What had they to say at such a moment? Then the executioner, who had given Soroka the vodka, approached him.

  “Well, old man,"‘ said he, “it is time for you!”

  “And you will draw me on straight?”

  “Never fear.”

  Soroka feared not; but when he felt on his shoulder the hand of the executioner, he began to pant quickly and loudly. At last he said,—

  “More gorailka!”

  “There is none!”

  Suddenly one of the soldiers pushed out of the rank and gave a canteen,—

  “Here is some; give it to him.”

  “To the rank!” commanded Glovbich.

  Still the man in the short shuba held the canteen to Soroka’s mouth; he drank abundantly, and after he had drunk breathed deeply.

  “See!” said he, “the lot of a soldier after thirty years’ service. Well, if it is time, it is time!”

  Another executioner approached and they began to undress him.

  A moment of silence. The torches trembled in the hands of those holding them; it became terrible for all.

  Meanwhile from the ranks surrounding the square was wrested a murmur of dissatisfaction, which became louder each instant: “A soldier is not an executioner; he gives death himself, but does not wish to see torture.”

  “Silence!” cried Glovbich.

  The murmur became a loud bustle, in which were heard single words: “Devils!” “
Thunders!” “Pagan service!”

  Suddenly Kmita shouted as if they had been drawing him on to the stake,—

  “Stop!”

  The executioner halted involuntarily. All eyes were turned to Kmita.

  “Soldiers!” shouted Pan Andrei, “Prince Boguslav is a traitor to the king and the Commonwealth! You are surrounded, and to-morrow you will be cut to pieces. You are serving a traitor; you are serving against the country! But whoso leaves this service leaves the traitor; to him forgiveness of the king, forgiveness of the hetman! Choose! Death and disgrace, or a reward to-morrow! I will pay wages, and a ducat a man,—two ducats a man! Choose! It is not for you, worthy soldiers, to serve a traitor! Long life to the king! Long life to the grand hetman of Lithuania!”

  The disturbance was turned into thunder; the ranks were broken. A number of voices shouted,—

  “Long life to the king!”

  “We have had enough of this service!”

  “Destruction to traitors!”

  “Stop! stop!” shouted other voices.

  “To-morrow you will die in disgrace!” bellowed Kmita.

  “The Tartars are in Suhovola!”

  “The prince is a traitor!”

  “We are fighting against the king!”

  “Strike!”

  “To the prince!”

  “Halt!”

  In the disturbance some sabre had cut the ropes tying Kmita’s hands. He sprang that moment on one of the horses which were to draw Soroka on the stake, and cried from the horse,—

  “Follow me to the hetman!”

  “I go!” shouted Glovbich. “Long life to the king!”

  “May he live!” answered fifty voices, and fifty sabres glittered at once.

  “To horse, Soroka!” commanded Kmita.

  There were some who wished to resist, but at sight of the naked sabres they grew silent. One, however, turned his horse and vanished from the eye in a moment. The torches went out. Darkness embraced all.

  “After me!” shouted Kmita. An orderless mass of men moved from the place, and then stretched out in a long line.

  When they had gone two or three furlongs they met the infantry pickets who occupied in large parties the birch grove on the left side.

  “Who goes?”

  “Glovbich with a party!”

  “The word?”

  “Trumpets!”

  “Pass!”

  They rode forward, not hurrying over-much; then they went on a trot.

  “Soroka!” said Kmita.

  “At command!” answered the voice of the sergeant at his side.

  Kmita said nothing more, but stretching out his hand, put his palm on Soroka’s head, as if wishing to convince himself that he was riding there. The soldier pressed Pan Andrei’s hand to his lips in silence.

  Then Glovbich called from the other side,—

  “Your grace! I wanted long to do what I have done to-day.”

  “You will not regret it!”

  “I shall be thankful all my life to you.”

  “Tell me, Glovbich, why did the prince send you, and not a foreign regiment, to the execution?”

  “Because he wanted to disgrace you before the Poles. The foreign soldiers do not know you.”

  “And was nothing to happen to me?”

  “I had the order to cut your bonds; but if you tried to defend Soroka we were to bring you for punishment to the prince.”

  “Then he was willing to sacrifice Sakovich,” muttered Kmita.

  Meanwhile Prince Boguslav in Yanov, wearied with the fever and the toil of the day, had gone to sleep. He was roused from slumber by an uproar in front of his quarters and a knocking at the door.

  “Your highness, your highness!” cried a number of voices.

  “He is asleep, do not rouse him!” answered the pages.

  But the prince sat up in bed and cried,—

  “A light!”

  They brought in a light, and at the same time the officer on duty entered.

  “Your highness,” said he, “Sapyeha’s envoy has brought Glovbich’s squadron to mutiny and taken it to the hetman.”

  Silence followed.

  “Sound the kettle-drums and other drums!” said Boguslav at last; “let the troops form in rank!”

  The officer went out; the prince remained alone.

  “That is a terrible man!” said he to himself; and he felt that a new paroxysm of fever was seizing him.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  It is easy to imagine Sapyeha’s amazement when Kmita not only returned safely himself, but brought with him a number of tens of horsemen and his old servant. Kmita had to tell the hetman and Oskyerko twice what had happened, and how it had happened; they listened with curiosity, clapping their hands frequently and seizing their heads.

  “Learn from this,” said the hetman, “that whoso carries vengeance too far, from him it often slips away like a bird through the fingers. Prince Boguslav wanted to have Pole’s as witnesses of your shame and suffering so as to disgrace you the more, and he carried the matter too far. But do not boast of this, for it was the ordinance of God which gave you victory, though, in my way, I will tell you one thing,—he is a devil; but you too are a devil! The prince did ill to insult you.”

  “I will not leave him behind in vengeance, and God grant that I shall not overdo it.”

  “Leave vengeance altogether, as Christ did; though with one word he might have destroyed the Jews.”

  Kmita said nothing, and there was no time for discussion; there was not even time for rest. He was mortally wearied, and still he had determined to go that night to his Tartars, who were posted in the forests and on the roads in the rear of Boguslav’s army. But people of that period slept soundly on horseback. Pan Andrei simply gave command then to saddle a fresh horse, promising himself to slumber sweetly on the road.

  When he was mounting Soroka came to him and stood straight as in service.

  “Your grace!” said he.

  “What have you to say, old man?”

  “I have come to ask when I am to start?”

  “For what place?”

  “For Taurogi.”

  Kmita laughed: “You will not go to Taurogi, you will go with me.”

  “At command!” answered the sergeant, striving not to show his delight

  They rode on together. The road was long, for they had to go around by forests, so as not to fall into Boguslav’s hands; but Kmita and Soroka slept a hundred fold, and came to the Tartars without any accident.

  Akbah Ulan presented himself at once before Babinich, and gave him a report of his activity. Pan Andrei was satisfied. Every bridge had been burned, the dams were cut; that was not all, the water of springtime had overflowed, changing the fields, meadows, and roads in the lower places into muddy quagmires.

  Boguslav had no choice but to fight, to conquer or perish; it was impossible for him to think of retreat.

  “Very well,” said Kmita; “he has good cavalry, but heavy. He will not have use for it in the mud of to-day.”

  Then he turned to Akbah Ulan. “You have grown poor,” said he, striking him on the stomach with his fist; “but after the battle you will fill your paunch with the prince’s ducats.”

  “God has created the enemy, so that men of battle might have some one to plunder,” said the Tartar, with seriousness.

  “But Boguslav’s cavalry stands in front of you.”

  “There are some hundreds of good horses, and yesterday a regiment of infantry came and intrenched itself.”

  “But could they not be enticed to the field?”

  “They will not come out.”

  “But turn them, leave them in the rear, and go to Yanov.”

  “They occupy the road.”

  “Then we must think o
f something!” Kmita began to stroke his forelock with his hand: “Have you tried to steal up to them? How far will they follow you out?”

  “A furlong, two,—not farther.”