With Fire and Sword Page 21

  The boats moved along the shores of the Dnieper to Kudák, going farther and farther from the armies of the crown.

  At last one night the thunder of cannon was heard. Barabash slept without waking. Flick, who was sailing ahead, entered the scout-boat and repaired to Krechovski.

  “Colonel,” said he, “those are the cannon of Kudák! What are we to do?”

  “Stop your boats. We will spend the night in the reeds.”

  “Apparently Hmelnitski is besieging the fortress. In my opinion we ought to hurry to the relief.”

  “I do not ask you for opinions, but give orders. I am the commander.”

  “But, Colonel—”

  “Halt and wait!” said Krechovski. But seeing that the energetic German was twitching his beard and not thinking of going away without a reason, he added more mildly: “The castellan may come up to-morrow morning with the cavalry, and the fortress will not be taken in one night.”

  “But if he does not come up?”

  “Well, we will wait even two days. You don’t know Kudák. They will break their teeth on the walls, and I will not go to relieve the place without the castellan, for I have not the right to do so. That is his affair.”

  Every reason seemed to be on Krechovski’s side. Flick therefore insisted no longer, and withdrew to his Germans. After a while the boats began to approach the right bank and push into the reeds, that for a width of more than forty rods covered the river, which had spread widely in that part. Finally the plash of oars stopped; the boats were hidden entirely in the reeds, and the river appeared to be wholly deserted. Krechovski forbade the lighting of fires, singing of songs, and conversation. Hence there fell upon the place a quiet unbroken save by the distant cannon of Kudák.

  Still no one in the boats except Barabash slept. Flick, a knightly man and eager for battle, wished to hurry straight to Kudák. The Cossacks asked one another in a whisper what might happen to the fortress. Would it hold out or would it not hold out? Meanwhile the noise increased every moment. All were convinced that the castle was meeting a violent assault.

  “Hmelnitski isn’t joking; but Grodzitski isn’t joking, either,” whispered the Cossacks. “What will come tomorrow?”

  Krechovski was probably asking himself the very same question, as, sitting in the prow of his boat, he fell into deep thought. He knew Hmelnitski intimately and of old. Up to that time he had always considered him a man of uncommon gifts, to whom only a field was wanting to soar like an eagle; but now Krechovski doubted him. The cannon thundered unceasingly; therefore it must be that Hmelnitski was really investing Kudák.

  “If that is true,” thought Krechovski, “he is lost. How is it possible, having roused the Zaporojians and secured the assistance of the Khan, having assembled forces such as none of the Cossack leaders has hitherto commanded, instead of marching with all haste to the Ukraine, rousing the people and attaching to himself the town Cossacks, breaking the hetmans as quickly as possible, and gaining the whole country before new troops could come to its defence, that he, Hmelnitski, an old soldier, is storming an impregnable fortress, capable of detaining him for a whole year? And is he willing that his best forces should break themselves on the walls of Kudák, as a wave of the Dnieper is dashed on the rocks of the Cataracts? And will he wait under Kudák till the hetmans are reinforced and surround him, like Nalivaika at Solonitsa?”

  “If he does, he is a lost man,” repeated Krechovski once more. “His own Cossacks will give him up. The unsuccessful assault will cause discontent and disorder. The spark of rebellion will go out at its very birth, and Hmelnitski will be no more terrible than a sword broken at the hilt. He is a fool! Therefore,” thought Krechovski, “to-morrow I will land my Cossacks and Germans on the bank, and the following night will fall on him unexpectedly, when he is weakened by assaults. I will cut the Zaporojians to pieces, and throw down Hmelnitski bound at the feet of the hetman. It is his own fault, for it might have been otherwise.”

  The unbridled ambition of Krechovski soared on the wings of a falcon. He knew well that young Pototski could not arrive on the following night by any possibility. Who, then, was to sever the head of the hydra? Krechovski! Who was to put down the rebellion which might wrap the whole Ukraine in a terrible conflagration? Krechovski! The old hetman might be angry for a while that this had taken place without the participation of his son; but he would soon get over that, and meanwhile all the rays of glory and the favors of the king would descend on the conqueror’s head. No! It would be necessary, however, to divide the glory with old Barabash and with Grodzitski.

  Krechovski scowled darkly; but suddenly his face grew bright. “They will bury that old block Barabash in the ground to-morrow or next day. Grodzitski, if he can only remain at Kudák to frighten the Tartars from time to time with his cannon, will ask for no more. Krechovski alone will remain. If he can only become hetman of the Ukraine!”

  The stars twinkled in the sky, and it appeared to the colonel that those were the jewels in his baton; the wind sounded in the reeds, and it seemed to him the rustling of the hetman’s standard. The guns of Kudák thundered unceasingly.

  “Hmelnitski has given his throat to the sword,” continued the colonel in thought, “but that is his own fault. It might have been otherwise. If he had gone straight to the Ukraine, it might have been otherwise. There all is seething and roaring; there lies powder, only waiting for a spark. The Commonwealth is powerless, but it has forces in the Ukraine; the king is not young, and is sickly. One battle won by the Zaporojians will bring incalculable results.”

  Krechovski covered his face with his hands, and sat motionless. The stars came down nearer and nearer, and settled gradually on the steppe. The quail hidden in the grass began to call. Soon the day would break.

  At last the meditations of the colonel became strengthened into a fixed purpose. Next day he would strike Hmelnitski and grind him in the dust. Over his body he would go to wealth and dignities. He would be the instrument of punishment in the hands of the Commonwealth, its defender, in the future its dignitary and senator. After victory over the Zaporojians and the Tartars they would refuse him nothing.

  Still, they had not given him the starostaship of Lita. When he remembered this, Krechovski clenched his fists. They had not given him this, in spite of the powerful influence of his protectors the Pototskis, in spite of his military services, simply because he was a new man and his rival drew his origin from princes. In that Commonwealth it was not enough to be a noble, it was necessary to wait till that nobility was covered with must like old wine, till it was rusty like iron.

  Hmelnitski alone could introduce a new order of things, to which the king himself would become favorable; but the unfortunate man had preferred to beat out his brains against the walls of Kudák.

  The colonel gradually grew calm. They had refused him the starostaship,—what of that? They would strive all the more to recompense him, especially after his victory,—after quenching the rebellion, after freeing the Ukraine from civil war, yes, the whole Commonwealth! They would refuse him nothing; then he would not need even the Pototskis.

  His drowsy head inclined upon his breast, and he fell asleep, dreaming of starostaships, of dignities, of grants from the king and the Diet.

  When he woke it was daybreak. In the boats all were still sleeping. In the distance the waters of the Dnieper were gleaming in a pale, fugitive light. Around them reigned absolute stillness. It was the stillness that roused him. The cannon of Kudák had ceased to roar.

  “What is that?” thought Krechovski. “The first attack is repulsed, or maybe Kudák is taken?”

  But that was unlikely. No; the beaten Cossacks were lying somewhere at a distance from the fortress, licking their wounds, and the one-eyed Grodzitski was looking at them through the port-hole, aiming his guns anew. To-morrow they would repeat the storm, and again break their teeth. The day had now come. Krechovski roused
the men in his own boat, and sent a boat for Flick. Flick came at once.

  “Colonel,” said Krechovski, “if the castellan does not come before evening, and if the storm is repeated during the night, we will move to the relief of the fortress.”

  “My men are ready,” answered Flick.

  “Issue powder and balls to them.”

  “I have done so.”

  “We land during the night and go by the steppe in the greatest quiet. We will come upon them with a surprise.”

  “Gut! sehr gut! But mightn’t we go on a little in the boats? It is twenty miles to the fortress,—rather far for infantry.”

  “The infantry will mount Cossack horses.”

  “Gut! sehr gut!”

  “Let the men lie quietly in the reeds, not go on shore; make no noise, kindle no fires, for smoke would betray us. We must not be revealed.”

  “There is such a fog that the smoke will not be seen.”

  Indeed the river, the inlet overgrown with reeds, in which the boats were hidden, and the steppe were covered as far as the eye could see with a white, impenetrable fog. But it was only the beginning of day; so the fog might rise and uncover the expanse of the steppe.

  Flick departed. The men in the boats woke gradually. Krechovski’s commands to keep quiet and take the morning meal without tumult were made known. No person going along the shore or sailing in the middle of the river would have even imagined that in the adjoining thicket several thousand men were hidden. The horses were fed from the hand, so that they should not neigh. The boats, covered with fog, lay tied up in the reeds. Here and there only passed a small two-oared boat carrying biscuits and commands; with this exception, the silence of the grave reigned everywhere.

  Suddenly in the reeds, rushes, and shore-grass all around the inlet were heard strange and very numerous voices, calling,—

  “Pugú! pugú!”

  Then quiet. “Pugú! pugú!”

  And again silence, as if those voices, calling on the banks, waited for an answer.

  But there was no answer. The calling sounded a third time, but more quickly and impatiently.

  “Pugú! pugú!”

  This time from the side of the boats was heard in the middle of the fog the voice of Krechovski,—

  “But who is there?”

  “A Cossack from the meadows.”

  The hearts of the Cossacks hidden in the boats beat unquietly. That mysterious call was well known to them. In that manner the Zaporojiana made themselves known to one another in their winter quarters; in that way in time of war they asked to conference their brothers, the registered and town Cossacks, among whom were many belonging in secret to the Brotherhood.

  The voice of Krechovski was heard again; “What do you want?”

  “Bogdan Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman, announces that his cannon are turned on the Poles.”

  “Inform the Zaporojian hetman that ours are tamed to the shore.”

  “Pugú! Pugú!”

  “What more do you want?”

  “Bogdan Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman, invites his friend Colonel Krechovski to a conference.”

  “Let him give hostages.”

  “Ten kuren atamans.”

  “Agreed.”

  That moment the shores of the inlet bloomed with Zaporojians as if with flowers; they stood up from the grass in which they had been hidden. From the steppe approached their cavalry and artillery, tens and hundreds of their banners, flags, and bunchuks. They marched with singing and beating of kettledrums. All this was rather like a joyful greeting than a collision of hostile forces.

  The Cossacks on the river answered with shouts. Meanwhile boats came up bringing the kuren atamans. Krechovski entered one of the boats and went to the shore. There a horse was given him, and he was conducted immediately to Hmelnitski.

  Seeing him, Hmelnitski removed his cap, and then greeted him cordially.

  “Colonel,” said he, “my old friend and comrade! When the hetman of the crown commanded you to seize me and bring me to the camp, you did not do it, but you warned me so that I might save myself by flight; for that act I am bound to you in thankfulness and brotherly love.”

  While saying this he stretched out his hand kindly; but the swarthy face of Krechovski remained cold as ice. “Now, therefore, after you have saved yourself, worthy hetman, you excite rebellion!”

  “I go to ask reparation for the wrongs inflicted on myself, on you, on the whole Ukraine, with the charter of Cossack rights granted by the king in my hand, and with the hope that our merciful sovereign will not count it evil in me.”

  Krechovski looked quickly into the eyes of Hmelnitski, and asked with emphasis: “Have you invested Kudák?”

  “I? Do you think I have lost my mind? I passed Kudák without a shot, though the old blind man celebrated it with guns. I was hurrying not to Kudák, but to the Ukraine, and to you, my old friend and benefactor.”

  “What do you wish, then, of me?”

  “Come a little way in the steppe, and we will talk.”

  They spurred their horses, and rode on. They remained about an hour. On returning, the face of Krechovski was pale and terrible. He took quick farewell of Hmelnitski, who said,—

  “There will be two of us in the Ukraine, and above us the king, and no man else.”

  Krechovski turned to the boats. Old Barabash, Flick, and the elders waited for him with impatience. “What’s going on? What’s going on?” he was asked on every side.

  “Come out on the shore!” answered Krechovski, with a commanding voice.

  Barabash raised his sleepy lids; a certain wonderful fire was gleaming in his eyes. “How is that?” asked he.

  “Come to the shore; we yield!”

  A wave of blood rushed to the pale and faded face of Barabash. He rose from the kettle on which he had been sitting, straightened himself up, and suddenly that bent and decrepit old man was changed into a giant full of life and power.

  “Treason!” roared he.

  “Treason!” repeated Flick, grasping after the hilt of his rapier.

  But before he could draw it Krechovski’s sabre whistled, and with one blow Flick was stretched on the ground. Then Krechovski sprang into the scout-boat standing there, in which four Zaporojians were sitting with oars in their hands, and cried: “To the boats!”

  The scout-boat shot on like an arrow. Krechovski, standing in the centre of it, with his cap on his bloody sabre, his eyes like flames, cried with a mighty voice,—

  “Children, we will not murder our own. Long life to Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman!”

  “Long life!” repeated hundreds and thousands of voices.

  “Destruction to the Poles!”

  “Destruction!”

  The roar from the boats answered the shouts of the Zaporojians on land. But many men in the boats did not know what was going on till the news spread everywhere that Krechovski had gone over to the Zaporojians. A regular furor of joy seized the Cossacks. Six thousand caps flew into the air; six thousand muskets roared. The boats trembled under the feet of the brave fellows. A tumult and uproar set in. But that joy had to be sprinkled with blood; for old Barabash preferred to die rather than betray the flag under which he had served a lifetime. A few tens of the men of Cherkasi declared for him, and a struggle began, short but terrible,—like all struggles in which a handful of men, asking not quarter but death, defend themselves in a mass. Neither Krechovski nor any one of the Cossacks expected such resistance. The lion of other days was roused in the old colonel. The summons to lay down his arms he answered with shots; and he was seen, with baton in hand and streaming white hair, giving orders with a voice of thunder and the energy of youth. His boat was surrounded on every side. The men of those boats which could not press up jumped into the water, and by swimming or wading among the reeds, and then
seizing the edge of the boat, climbed it with fury. The resistance was short. The faithful Cossacks of Barabash, stabbed, cut to pieces, torn asunder with hands, lay dead in the boat. The old man with sabre in hand defended himself yet.

  Krechovski pushed forward toward him. “Yield!” shouted he.

  “Traitor! destruction!” answered Barabash, raising his sabre to strike.

  Krechovski drew back quickly into the crowd. “Strike!” cried he to the Cossacks.

  It seemed that no one wished to raise his hand first on the old man. But unfortunately the colonel slipped in blood and fell. When lying he did not rouse that respect or that fear, and immediately a number of lances were buried in his body. The old man was able only to cry: “Jesus, Mary!”