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  They passed at length that unfortunate village, and breathed the fresh air of the field. But traces of destruction extended farther. It was the first half of July. The grain was almost ripe, for an early harvest was looked for. But entire fields were partly burned, partly trampled, tangled, trodden into the earth. It might have been thought that a hurricane had passed over the land. In fact, the most terrible of all hurricanes had passed,—civil war. The soldiers of the prince had seen more than once rich neighborhoods ruined by Tartar raids; but such a storm, such mad destruction, they had never seen. Forests were burned as well as grain. Where fire had not devoured the trees the bark and leaves were swept from them by a tongue of fire; they were scorched by its breath, smoked, blackened, and the tree-trunk stuck up like a skeleton. The voevoda of Kieff looked, and could not believe his eyes. Maidyanóe, Zbar,—villages, houses,—nothing but burned ruins! On one side and another the men had run off to Krívonos; the women and children had been taken captive by that part of the horde which Vershul and Volodyovski had crushed out. On the earth a wilderness; in the air flocks of ravens, crows, jackdaws, and vultures, which had flown hither, God knows whence, to the Cossack harvest. Fresher traces of the passage of troops were seen each moment. From time to time they came upon broken wagons, bodies of cattle and men not yet decayed, broken cups, brass kettles, bags of wet flour, ruins still smoking, stacks of grain recently begun and left unfinished.

  The prince urged his regiments on to Hmelnik without drawing breath. The old voevoda seized himself by the head, repeating sadly,—

  “My Makhnovka, my Makhnovka! I see we shall not come in time.”

  Meanwhile news was brought to Hmelnik that Makhnovka was besieged, not by old Krívonos himself, but by his son with several thousand men, and that it was he who had committed such inhuman devastations along the road. The place was already taken, according to accounts. The Cossacks on capturing it had cut to pieces the nobles and the Jews, and taken the women of the nobles to camp, where a fate worse than death awaited them. But the castle, under the leadership of Pan Lyeff, held out yet. The Cossacks stormed it from the Bernardine monastery, in which they had put the monks to death. Pan Lyeff, using all his strength and powder, gave no hope of holding out longer than one night.

  The prince therefore left the infantry, the guns, and the main strength of the army, which he ordered to go to Bystrika, and galloped on to the relief with the voevoda, Pan Kryshtof, Pan Aksak, and two thousand soldiers. The old voevoda was for delay, for he had lost his head.

  “Makhnovka is lost! We shall arrive too late! We would better leave it, defend other places, and provide them with garrisons.”

  But the prince would not listen to him. The under-judge of Bratslav urged the advance, and the troops rushed to the fight.

  “Since we have come thus far, we will not leave without blood,” said the colonels; and they went on.

  About two miles and a half from Makhnovka a few riders, moving as fast as their horses could carry them, halted in front of the troops. It was Pan Lyeff and his companions. Seeing him, the voevoda of Kieff guessed at once what had happened.

  “The castle is taken!” he cried.

  “It is!” answered Pan Lyeff; and that moment he fainted, for he was cut with swords, was shot through, and had lost much blood. But the others began to tell what had taken place. The Germans on the wall were cut down to the last man, for they preferred to die rather than yield. Pan Lyeff had forced his way through the thick of the mob and the broken gates. In the rooms of the tower a few tens of nobles were defending themselves; to those speedy succor should be given.

  The cavalry swept on with all speed. Soon the town and castle were visible on a hill, and above them a dense cloud of smoke from the fire which had already begun. The day was coming to an end. The sky was flushed with gigantic golden and purple lights, which the troops mistook at once for a conflagration. By these flashes the Zaporojian regiments could be seen, and dense masses of a mob rushing through the gates to meet the Polish troops,—the more confidently since no one in the town knew of the approach of Yeremi. It was supposed that the voevoda of Kieff alone was marching with succor. It was evident that vudka had blinded them entirely, or the recent capture of the castle had inspired them with immeasurable insolence; for they descended the hill boldly, and only when they had reached the plain did they form for battle, which they did with great readiness, thundering with their drums and trumpets. In view of this a shout of joy went up from every Polish breast, and the voevoda of Kieff had an opportunity to admire a second time the discipline of Vishnyevetski’s troops. Halting in view of the Cossacks, they formed at once in battle-array, the heavy cavalry in the centre, the light horse at the wings, so that there was no necessity of manœuvres, they could begin on the spot.

  “Oh, Pan Kryshtof, what men!” said the voevoda. “They fell into order at once; they could give battle without a leader.”

  But the prince, like a provident chief, flew, with baton in hand, between the companies, examined, and gave final orders. The evening twilight was reflected on his silver armor, and he was like a bright flame flying between the ranks, he alone glistening amid the dark armor.

  Three regiments formed the centre of the foremost line. The first of these was led by the voevoda of Kieff himself, the second by young Pan Aksak, the third by Pan Kryshtof Tishkyevich; after these, in the second line, were the dragoons under Baranovski, and finally the gigantic hussars of the prince, led by Pan Yan. Vershul, Kushel, and Ponyatovski occupied the wings. There were no cannon, for Vurtsel had remained in Bystrika. The prince galloped to the voevoda, motioned with his baton, and said,—

  “Do you begin, because of the injustice done you!”

  The voevoda in turn waved his hand; the soldiers bent in their saddles and moved on. It was evident at once by his style of leadership that the voevoda, though heavy and dilatory,—for he was bent with age,—was an experienced and valiant soldier. To spare his troops he did not start them at the highest speed, but led them slowly, quickening the march as he approached the enemy. He went himself in the front rank, with baton in hand; his attendant merely carried his long and heavy sword, but not heavy for the hand of the old voevoda. The mob on foot hurried with scythes and flails against the cavalry, in order to restrain the first impetus and lighten the attack for the Zaporojians. When they were separated by only a few tens of yards, the people of Makhnovka recognized the voevoda by his gigantic stature and corpulence, and began to cry out,—

  “Hi! serene great mighty voevoda, the harvest is near; why don’t you order out your subjects? Our respects, serene lord! We will perforate that stomach of yours.”

  They sent a shower of bullets on the cavalry, but without harm, for the horses were going like a whirlwind and struck mightily. The clatter of flails and the sound of scythes were heard on the armor; then cries and groans. The lances opened a way in the dense mass of the mob, through which the infuriated horses rushed like a tempest, trampling, overturning, mashing. And as on the meadow when a rank of mowers advance, the rich grass disappears before them and they go on swinging the handles of their scythes, just so did the broad avalanche of the mob contract, melt, disappear, pushed by the breasts of horses. Unable to keep their places, they began to waver. Then thundered the shout, “Save yourselves!” and the whole mass, throwing down scythes, flails, forks, guns, rushed back in wild dismay on the Zaporojian regiments behind. But the Zaporojians, fearing lest the fleeing throng should disorder their ranks, placed their lances against them; the mob, seeing this resistance, rushed with a howl of despair to both sides, but were immediately hurled back by Kushel and Ponyatovski, who had just moved from the wings of the prince’s division.

  The voevoda, now riding over the bodies of the mob, was in the front of the Zaporojians and rushed toward them. They too rushed at him, wishing to answer momentum with momentum. They struck each other like two waves going in opposite directions, whi
ch when they meet form a foaming ridge. So horses rose before horses, the riders like a wave, the swords above the wave like foam. The voevoda discovered that he was not working with a mob now, but with stern and trained Zaporojian warriors. The two lines pressed each other mutually, bent, neither being able to break the other. Bodies fell thickly, for there man met man, and steel struck steel. The voevoda himself, putting his baton under his belt, and taking the sword from his attendant, worked in the sweat of his brow, puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows. And with him the two Senyuts, the Kyerdéis, the Boguslavskis, the Yelovitskis, and the Polubinskis wriggled as if in boiling water.

  But on the Cossack side the fiercest of all was Ivan Burdabut, the lieutenant-colonel of the Kalnik regiment, a Cossack of gigantic strength and stature. He was the more terrible because he had a horse which fought as well as its master. More than one man reined in his steed and drew back so as not to meet that centaur spreading death and desolation. The brothers Senyut sprang at him; but the horse caught in its teeth the face of Andrei the younger and mashed it in the twinkle of an eye. Seeing this, the elder brother, Rafal, struck the beast above the eyes; he wounded, but did not kill it, for the sabre hit the great bronze button on the forehead of the horse. At that moment Burdabut plunged a weapon under the beard of Senyut, and deprived him of life. So fell the two brothers, and lay in their gilded armor in the dust, under the hoofs of horses; but Burdabut rushed on like a flame to more distant ranks, and struck in a flash the attendant of Prince Polubinski, a sixteen-year-old stripling, whose right shoulder he cut off together with the arm. Seeing this, Pan Urbanski, wishing to avenge the death of a relative, tired at Burdabut in the very face, but missed,—only shot away his ear and dashed him with blood. Terrible then was Burdabut with his horse, both black as night, both covered with blood, both with wild eyes and distended nostrils, raging like a tempest. And Pan Urbanski did not escape death; for like an executioner, Burdabut cut off his head with a blow, and the head of old Jitinski in his eightieth year, and the heads of the two Nikchemnis, each with one stroke. Others began to draw back with terror, especially as behind the Cossack gleamed a hundred Zaporojian sabres, and a hundred lances, already moistened in blood.

  The furious chief saw at last the voevoda, and giving an awful shout of joy, hurried toward him, hurling down horses and riders in his path. But the voevoda did not retreat. Trusting in his uncommon strength, puffing like a wounded wild boar, he raised the sword above his head and urging on his horse rushed to Burdabut. His end would have come without doubt,—and Fate had already caught in her shears the thread of his life, which she afterward cut in Okra—had not Silnitski, his sword-bearer, hurled himself like lightning on the Cossack and seized him by the waist before his sword was satisfied. While Burdabut was putting him aside, the Kyerdéis shouted, summoning assistance for the voevoda; several tens of people sprang forth at once, and separated him from Burdabut. Then a stubborn fight set in. But the wearied regiments of the voevoda began to yield to greater Zaporojian strength, draw back, and break ranks, when Pan Kryshtof, under-judge of Bratslav, and Pan Aksak hurried up with fresh regiments. True, new Cossack regiments rushed in at that moment to the fight; but still below stood the prince, with the dragoons of Baranovski and the hussars of Skshetuski, who had taken no part as yet in the action.

  Then the bloody conflict raged anew. Darkness had already fallen, but flames had caught the outer houses of the town. The fire lighted the field of struggle, and both lines, Polish and Cossack, were seen distinctly pounding each other at the foot of the hill; the colors of the standards could be seen, and even the faces of the men. Vershul, Ponyatovski, and Kushel had already been in fire and action; for having finished with the mob, they struck the Cossack wings, which under their pressure began to move toward the hill. The long line of combatants bent its ends toward the town, and began to extend out more and more; for when the Polish wings advanced, the centre, pressed by superior Cossack power, retreated toward the prince. Three new Cossack regiments went to break it; but at that moment the prince pushed on Baranovski’s dragoons, and these raised the strength of the combatants.

  The hussars alone remained with the prince. From a distance they seemed like a dark grove growing straight from the ground,—a terrible avalanche of iron men, horses, and lances. The breeze of evening stirred the banners above their heads, and they stood quietly, not fretting for battle before the issue of command; patient, for trained and experienced in many a fight they knew that their portion of blood would not miss them. The prince, in his silver armor, with gilded baton in hand, strained his eyes toward the battle; and on the left wing Skshetuski, standing a little sideways at the end,—being lieutenant, his sleeve was rolled up on his shoulder,—with arm bare to the elbow, and holding in his powerful hand a broadsword instead of a baton, waited calmly for the order.

  The prince shaded with his left hand his eyes from the glare of the burning. The centre of the Polish half-circle retreated gradually toward him, overborne by superior power which was not long kept back by Pan Baranovski,—the same who had razed Nyemiroff. The prince saw, as if on his hand, the heavy work of the soldiers. The long lightning of sabres raised itself above the black line of heads, then vanished in the blows. Riderless horses dropped out of that avalanche of combatants, and neighing ran along the plain with floating mane; the flames of the burning for a background, they were like beasts of hell. The red banner floating for a time over the throng fell suddenly to rise no more; but the eye of the prince ran along the line of combat as far as the hill toward the town, where at the head of two picked regiments stood young Krívonos, waiting the moment to hurl himself on the centre and break the weakened ranks of the Poles.

  At length he started, running with a terrible shout straight on the dragoons of Baranovski; but the prince was waiting for that moment too.

  “Lead on!” cried he to Skshetuski.

  Skshetuski raised his broadsword, and the iron host shot past.

  They did not run long, for the line of battle had approached them considerably. Baranovski’s dragoons opened to the right and left with lightning speed to clear a way for the hussars against the Cossacks. The hussars swept through this pass with their whole momentum against the victorious companies of Krívonos.

  “Yeremi! Yeremi!” shouted the hussars.

  “Yeremi!” repeated the whole army.

  The terrible name contracted the hearts of the Zaporojians with a shudder of fear. In that moment they learned for the first time that it was not the voevoda of Kieff who was leading, but the prince himself. Besides, they were unable to resist the hussars, who crushed them with their weight as falling walls crush people standing beneath. The only safety for them was to open toward both sides, let the hussars through, and then strike them on the flanks; but those flanks were already guarded by the dragoons and light horse of Vershul, Kushel, and Ponyatovski, who, having dislodged the Cossack wings, pushed them to the centre. Now the form of battle changed, for the light regiments became as it were the two sides of a street, along the centre of which flew the hussars with wild impetus, driving, breaking, pushing, overturning men and horses; and before them fled bellowing and howling the Cossacks to the hill and the town. If the wing of Vershul had been able to join the wing of Ponyatovski, the Cossacks would have been surrounded and cut to pieces; but neither Vershul nor Ponyatovski could make the junction by reason of the exceeding rush of fugitives, whom they struck, however, at the flanks till their arms grew weak from cutting.

  Young Krívonos, though valiant and furious, when he understood that his own inexperience had to meet such a leader as the prince, lost presence of mind and fled at the head of others to the town. Pan Kushel, who was nearsighted, standing at the flank, saw the fugitive, urged on his horse, and gave the young leader a sabre-stroke in the face. He did not kill him, for his helmet turned the sword-edge; but he sprinkled him with blood and deprived him still more of courage. He came near paying for the deed
with his life, for that moment Burdabut turned on him with the remnant of the Kalnik regiment.

  Twice had Burdabut tried to make head against the hussars, but, twice pushed back and beaten by a power as if supernatural, he was obliged to give way with the rest. At last, having collected his men, he determined to strike Kushel on the flank and burst through his dragoons to the open field; but before he could break them the road to the town and the hill was so packed with people that a quick retreat became impossible. The hussars, in view of this press of men, restrained their onset, and having broken their lances, began to hew with swords. Then there was a struggle, confused, disorderly, furious, merciless, seething in the press, uproar, and heat, amid the steam from men and horses. Body fell upon body, horses’ hoofs sank in the quivering flesh. At points the masses were so dense that there was no room for sabre-strokes; so they fought with the hilts, with knives, with fists. Horses began to whine. Here and there voices were heard: “Mercy, Poles!” These voices grew louder, increased, outsounded the clash of swords, the bite of iron on the bones of men, the groans and the terrible death-rattle of the perishing. “Mercy, mercy!” was heard with increasing plaintiveness; but mercy shone not above that avalanche of stragglers as the sun above a storm; only the flames of the town shone above them.