Tales by Polish Authors

They travelled on. All the houses were covered with flags. They stopped a long while at several of the stations, because there was a block of trains everywhere. Troops were hastening from all sides of Germany to reinforce their brothers in arms. The trains were swathed in green wreaths, and the Lancers had decorated their lances with the bunches of flowers given them on the way. The majority of these Lancers also were Poles. More than one conversation and greeting was heard passing from carriage to carriage:

'How are you, old fellow, and where is God Almighty leading you?'

Meanwhile to the accompaniment of the train rumbling along the rails, the well-known song rang out: —

'Flirt with us, soldiers! dears!'
Cried the girls of Sandomierz.

And soon Bartek and his comrades caught up the refrain: —

Gaily forth the answer burst:
'Bless you, dears! but dinner first!'

As many as had gone out from Pognębin in sorrow were now filled with enthusiasm and spirit. A train which had arrived from France with the first batch of wounded, damped this feeling of cheerfulness, however. It stopped at Deutz, and waited a long time to allow the trains hurrying to the seat of war to go by. The men were marched across the bridge en route for Cologne. Bartek ran forward with several others to look at the sick and wounded. Some lay in closed, others in open carriages, and these could be seen well. At the first glance our hero's heart was again in his mouth.

'Come here, Wojtek,' he cried in terror. 'See how many of our countrymen the Frenchmen have done for!'

It was indeed a sight! Pale, exhausted faces, some darkened by gunpowder or by pain, or stained with blood. To the sounds of universal rejoicing these men only responded by groans. Some were cursing the war, the French and the Germans. Parched lips called every moment for water, eyes rolled in delirium. Here and there, amongst the wounded, were the rigid faces of the dead, in some cases peaceful, with blue lines round their eyes, in others contorted through the death struggle, with terrifying eyes and grinning teeth. Bartek saw the bloody fruits of war for the first time, and once more confusion reigned in his mind. He seemed quite stupefied, as, standing in the crowd, with his mouth open, he was elbowed from every side, and pomelled on the neck by the police. He sought Wojtek's eyes, nudged him, and said,

'Wojtek, may Heaven preserve us! It's horrible!'

'It will be just the same with you.'

'Jesu! Mary! That human beings should murder one another like this! When a fellow kills another the police take him off to the magistrate and prison!'

'Well, but now whoever kills most human beings is to be praised. What were you thinking of, Blockhead: did you think you would use gunpowder as in the manœuvres, and would shoot at targets instead of people?'

Here the difference between theory and practice certainly stood out clearly. Notwithstanding that our friend Bartek was a soldier, had attended manœuvres and drill, had practised rifle shooting, had known that the object of war was to kill people, now, when he saw blood flowing, and all the misery of war, it made him feel so sick and miserable he could hardly keep himself upright. He was impressed anew with respect for the French; this diminished, however, when they arrived at Cologne from Deutz. At the Central Station they saw prisoners for the first time. Surrounding them was a number of soldiers and people, who gazed at them with interest, but without hostility. Bartek elbowed his way through the crowd, and, looking into the carriage, was amazed.

A troop of French infantry in ragged cloaks, small, dirty, and emaciated, were packed into the carriages like a cask of herrings. Many of them stretched out their hands for the trifling gifts presented to them by the crowd, if the sentinels did not prevent them. Judging from what he had heard from Wojtek, Bartek had had a wholly different impression of the French, and this took his breath away. He looked to see if Wojtek were anywhere about, and found him standing close by.

'What did you say?' asked Bartek. 'By all the Saints! I shouldn't be more surprised if I had lost my head!'

'They must have been starved somehow,' answered Wojtek, equally disillusioned.

'What are they jabbering?'

'It's certainly not Polish.'

Reassured by this impression, Bartek walked on past the carriages. 'Miserable wretches!' he said, when he had finished his review of the Regulars.

But the last carriages contained Zouaves, and these gave Bartek food for further reflection. From the fact that they sat huddled together in the carriages, it was impossible to discover whether each man were equal to two or three ordinary men; but, through the window, he saw the long, martial beards, and grave faces of veteran soldiers with dark complexions and alarmingly shining eyes. Again Bartek's heart leapt to his mouth.

'These are the worst of all,' he whispered low, as if afraid they might hear him.

'You have not yet seen those who have not let themselves be taken prisoner,' replied Wojtek.

'Heaven preserve us!'

'Now do you understand?'

Having finished looking at the Zouaves, they walked on. At the last carriage Bartek suddenly started back as if he had touched fire.

'Oh, Wojtek, Lord help us!'

There was the dark – nearly black – face of a Turco at the open window, rolling his eyes so that the whites showed. He must have been wounded, for his face was contorted with pain.

'But what's the matter?' asked Wojtek.

'That must be the Evil One, it's not a soldier. Lord have mercy on my sins!'

'Look at his teeth!'

'May he go to perdition! I shan't look at him any longer.'

Bartek was silent, then asked after a moment:

'Wojtek?'

'Yes?'

'Mightn't it be a good thing to cross oneself before anyone like that?'

'The heathen don't understand anything about the holy truth.'

The signal was given for taking their seats. In a few moments the train was moving. When it grew dusk Bartek continually saw before him the Turco's dark face with the terrible white of his eyes. From the feeling which at the moment animated this Pognębin soldier, it would not have been possible to foretell his future deeds.

CHAPTER IV

The particular share he took at first in the pitched battle of Gravelotte, merely convinced Bartek of this fact, – that in war there is plenty to look at, but nothing to do. For at the commencement he and his regiment were told to order arms and wait at the bottom of a hill covered by a vineyard. The guns were booming in the distance, squadrons of cavalry charged past near at hand with a clatter which shook the earth; then the flags passed, then Cuirassiers with drawn swords. The shells on the hill flew hissing across the blue sky in the form of small white clouds, then smoke filled the air and hid the horizon. The battle seemed like a storm which passes through a district without lasting long anywhere.

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.